Secret of the Moon Conch, page 13
“I can’t believe that I am both standing at my school and standing in this river in your time all at once,” he says, reaching down to run his fingertips through the water. “You have brought magic to my life, Sitlali. Magic and so much more.”
He takes my other hand in his, gazing at me with those beautiful dark eyes.
My heart palpitates, and my knees weaken, and I am mush. Then, without warning, he lets himself fall backward into the meander, pulling me with him. We hit the water with a splash, and I’m immediately soaked, clothes and all.
“Calizto!” I shout, sputtering as I thrash about in the shallow end. “I wasn’t planning to jump into the Río Bravo just yet!”
He pulls me to my feet. The water reaches our waists now.
Calizto adjusts his netted bag, slinging the conch on his back. Then he draws me close, pulling down gently on the strap of the canvas bag where I’ve stored my version of the shell. I feel it slide into the small of my back just as this boy I’m falling for steps so close to me I can feel his breath on my neck.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he rasps, voice husky with need, “unless you object.”
My heart is beating so fast that I can’t catch my breath enough to form words. So, I push him. As he falls back into the river, I run out of the water, but I don’t get far. Calitzo catches up to me and, laughing, I wrap my arms around him.
He reaches up and pushes a wet strand of hair off my face before he traces my lips with his thumbs. “May I?” he asks. “Kiss you?”
I nod and close my eyes as his face draws closer. His lips are soft, a feathery sensation, as he brushes them gently over mine. But then, as I sigh, a sort of hunger overcomes him, and he groans, puts his arm around my waist, and pulls me closer. I put my hand against his neck and melt into him, wanting more than the sweet taste of bread and honey that lingers on his breath. Five hundred years, and a kiss worth waiting for, makes it all disappear. Because with my eyes closed, nothing else exists. Nothing else matters, except the two of us, clinging to each other, as we slide down and lie on the soft grass under our feet.
I giggle when I open my eyes, take a breath, and find a twig tangled in his hair chig. I pull it off and toss it aside, before I pull his head down for more of his hungry kisses. The churn of the rolling river, gliding over pebbles and rocks, fades away, and the shivering of leaves in the mesquites around us become silent when Calizto traces the line of my cheek all the way down, past my neck, and along the hem of my wet blouse.
All I hear is the accelerated beating of my heart as it comes to life and roars against my eardrums. I reach up and tug at the piece of cloth that holds his hair up, and it comes tumbling over, weighed down by its wetness. I run my fingers through his dark, moist locks. “It’s longer than mine,” I whisper, as I stroke it, push it out of his face.
Calizto mutters something in Nahuatl, passionate words I do not catch, before he leans over me and kisses me intimately. His tongue nudges gently, urging me to caress him, to run my hands down his muscular body, to use my fingers and palm to massage his naked back.
After a while, lying on my back along the riverbank, the conch pressed against my ribs, I shudder as a delicious sigh leaves my lips. Calizto kisses the curve of my neck as his hands slip under my wet T-shirt and work their way up. I grip his strong shoulders, cling to him. Release another shuddering breath.
Am I ready for this?
His hand reaches the bottom of my bra, and he slips a finger under the elastic, stretching it, as if trying to figure out what this thing is that’s keeping him from exploring the rest of me.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I mutter, pushing at his hard chest gently but firmly as I sit up. “Too fast. Let’s pump the brakes on this, okay?”
“Brakes?” he asks, a quizzical look on his handsome face. “Is that what you call that pliable cloth?”
“No,” I say. “That’s what we call stop. Pause. You know, retreat?”
“Oh. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.” He swallows heavily, clearly embarrassed, and slowly stands. “I . . . I apologize, Sitlali. I allowed myself to get . . . caught up in the moment.”
“It’s not that I wasn’t enjoying it. Just that . . . I think we should take things a little slower, okay?”
He glances around at the surrounding in his own time, looking at his school now that we’re not touching.
Then, smiling again, he turns back to me.
I try not to think of what we might’ve just ended up doing because it’s something I’ve never done before. Though when I look at him, I can’t seem to think of anything else than the deliciousness of what he started, the fire he kindles in me. “What?”
“I would like to take you on a tour of the canals of Tenochtitlan,” he says. “Would you be keen on that?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Calizto
Day 10-Water of the Year 3-House (June 18, 1521)
Second and Third Afternoon Watch (2 p.m. to 6 p.m.)
I take Sitlali’s hand, and she connects to my time, where I guide her to the remaining canoe and head northwest along a slanting canal.
As I row, Sitlali sits across from me, hand resting on my knee. I let the boat glide for a while as she marvels at the gleaming white stucco of the walls of the canal, rising about the height of a man above the water. Tall trees cast afternoon shadows across us as we move slowly and silently out of Zoquiyapan.
“What do you think?”
“Amazing,” she says in awe. “Never in a million years did I imagine that one day I would get to enjoy the beauty of Tenochtitlan.”
“What remains of it.”
“My teachers spoke of its canals, but I never expected to see one close up.”
“Broad enough for Spanish brigantines, so the Tlaxcaltecah have kept it free of debris and the dead. But we’re moving past the boroughs they occupy.” I turn my head toward the northwest. Above the line of trees, the twin temples of the Great Pyramid are visible. “That way lies the ceremonial center. Those are the shrines of Tlaloc and Huitzilopochtli, highest point in the city.”
I set down the oars for a while, and we lie back in the canoe, basking in the afternoon sun, letting it dry our hair and clothes as we drift in and out of a pleasant nap, fingers interlaced.
For a moment, I forget that war is raging in most parts of this city.
A light breeze blows across us. The water laps gently against the hull. Perhaps the goddess herself stills the world for us.
A half watch of peace. One hour, just the two of us. Content. Together.
Sitlali jerks beside me, as if startled in her sleep. I notice the air is filled with the cackling and squawking of hundreds of birds. Other animals respond with roars and cries.
“What in the world was that?” Sitlali says, sitting up.
I blink drowsiness from my eyes. “Ah. The aviary and the zoo. Lord Moteuczoma had them built behind his palace, across the canal. He collected creatures from far and wide, strange species not found in Anahuac.”
“How amazing they must be!”
“Would you like to see them? I can take you.”
Sitlali’s eyes go wide with delight. “Would you? Really?”
In answer, I point up ahead, where the canal starts to straighten, turning due north. “You’ll see a wharf on our left soon, with stairs leading out of the canal. We’ll disembark there.”
Reaching the spot, I tie off the canoe and climb the stairway onto a broad boulevard. Ahead, I can make out the long bridge that crosses the wide east–west canal used for transporting items to and from Moteuczoma’s palace and gardens.
Nearby sits a half-submerged building.
“What’s that?” Sitlali asks.
“A temazcalli, a sweat lodge.”
“Ugh. Where I am, you don’t need help to sweat.”
“There’s also a pool of fresh water inside where we could bathe and relax.”
I can feel the ambivalent hesitation roiling in her heart.
“I . . . I think we’ve had enough water for one day, Calizto. Let’s . . . just go straight to the aviary, okay?”
Suppressing a laugh, I take Sitlali’s hand and walk toward the sound of birds. We cross the long bridge as I point to our left.
“You can see the ceremonial plaza from here, and beside it, on the other side of the aqueduct, stands the Palace of Moteuczoma.”
Sitlali takes a deep breath. “So much gleaming white and luxurious green! And all those colorful murals! I would’ve never guessed it was this beautiful.”
For a moment, I’m surprised the enemy isn’t camped at the Southern Gate, just beyond the palace. But perhaps Cortés has retreated to reorganize.
We come at last to the aviary, sprawling beside the zoo. Hundreds of men and women once attended to the animals’ needs, but now no one stops me as I open the gate and pull Sitlali inside.
A forest spreads before us, trees of every sort, some as tall as a small pyramid. Over the top of them a vast net has been spread, letting in air and sunlight, but keeping the birds from flying away.
They are everywhere, raucous and colorful, flitting from branch to branch, filling the air in a sudden explosion of brilliant motion.
Sitlali leans into me, her face beaming. “It’s beautiful, Calizto.”
“Yes.” I look into her face, the only beauty that matters.
Nearby is a pond, a bench at its edge. We sit side by side, my right hand entwined with her left, each of us gripping the moon conch, mirror images. Sitlali smiles at me, rests her head upon my shoulder.
“Thank you for this,” she whispers, watching ducks and swans weave in and out among flamingos and roseate spoonbills. “How can such an amazing place still be standing? Why haven’t the Mexica raided it, eaten the birds?”
I rest my chin against the top of her head, relishing the faint scent of flowers. “It belongs to the emperor, Sitlali. Long ago the people of this city made a pact with the nobility—protect us, let us live long lives, free of suffering and wandering. In return, we give you ownership of everything. No one would dare raid this aviary. It would violate our way of life.”
I feel her thumb gently rubbing my wrist. My mouth goes dry. My blood thunders in my veins.
“What is this symbol? These three burns on your wrist. Stars?”
“Yes. The Fire Drill constellation.”
“Ah. We call it Orion’s Belt in my time. What does it mean?”
“When the world was young, there were only stars in the sky. The gods needed a bonfire in Teotihuacan, the holy city on high. Two would sacrifice themselves to bring light to the world. So the gods took the staff of Quetzalcoatl and began to drill, spinning it back and forth. A spark leapt forth, then another, then a third. And with that last, the flame burst forth. The gods set the sparks among the folds of heaven to honor them. When I was thirteen, ready to enter the telpochcalli, my father drilled fire one evening, and with the glowing stick burned this pattern into my wrist. It marked me as a man in awe of heaven.”
Sitlali lifts her head from my shoulder, looking at me expectantly, her lips slightly parted, teeth glowing white against the setting sun. I lean toward her, drawn by something more immediate than the moon conch, more basic yet profound. Her eyes close, and this time she moves her head closer as well.
I can barely breathe when our lips touch again. Popocatepetl itself seems to erupt in my very heart. Her mouth is an intoxicating blend of sweet and tart, like a mango brined with salt, like pungent chocolate drizzled with honey.
For a moment, everything else recedes, just as it did beside the river in her time. All that exists is the unending cosmos of my being and the single star, burning hotly in its center.
Nocitlalin.
My Sitlali.
Mine.
And suddenly I know the name of this feeling.
Not need. Not relief. Not friendship.
Love.
Before I can grapple with the realization, there comes a distant explosion.
I feel her pulling away. No, I want to beg. Why now, you cruel gods? What have you sent to ruin this moment?
“Calizto!” Sitlali gasps, shuddering. “Look!”
Flames in the sky to the west.
I let go of Sitlali’s hand, drop the conch into its netted bag, turn to the nearest tree, and start to climb.
“I can’t see it anymore!” Sitlali cries. “What’s going on?”
Even from here I can make out the destruction. Another volley slams into the ceremonial center, smashing temples and statues.
“The Palace of Axayacatl is in flames! A Spanish brigantine has come from the west up the broadest canal and is firing on the buildings around the Sacred Precinct!”
The birds go wild, slamming against the netting, screeching. A quetzal comes flying right at me, its beak wide in fear.
I slide down the tree. Sitlali leaps to her feet, pointing at the gate behind her.
“If they’ve come from the west, then they must be heading east!”
The bridge we just crossed. Over a canal broad enough for a brigantine.
“Run, Calizto! Run!”
Before I can obey, the world explodes around me.
PART TWO
WANING MOON
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sitlali
June 18–19, 2019
Afternoon and Night
I barely have time to register Calizto’s kiss before he pushes me away at the same time that he flings the netted bag with the moon conch into a nearby bush.
I love you, I want to say, but I don’t.
I can’t.
Our perfect day is over when our connection breaks, and I am instantly thrown back in time, back to the river’s edge. Startled, I sit up, open my eyes, and see the sunset bouncing off the surface of the Río Bravo.
I call out, “Calizto? Are you all right?”
He doesn’t speak. But, in my mind, I see him sprinting into a hasty run, reaching down and grabbing the conch as he takes off. He escapes the explosions and the fire and jumps into the canal. Sunlight bounces off the surface of the water, and I blink, confused, as one becomes the other and I am back in Piedras Negras, staring at the waters of the Río Bravo in my time.
“Hey, girl!”
Someone calls from behind me, and I turn around and see two young men coming toward me. Their smiles are friendly, but my guard comes up immediately.
“You going in for a dip?”
I grab my mochila and quickly stand up. “No,” I say. “I’m not.”
I start to leave, but the first boy stands in my way. “Oh, come on,” he says. “It’s not too late for a swim, is it, Ramiro? Or were you thinking of crossing over?”
“We can help you,” Ramiro says. “Lalo and I can transport you tonight, if you like.”
“I have to go,” I say, and I turn and move away from them.
When Lalo grabs my arm, I pull myself loose and push him away. My mochila slaps against my hips, and my tennis shoes pound hard against the packed ground as I run along the river’s edge, until I come to a clearing where a family is packing up to leave.
Catching my breath in quick gulps, I walk up to them and mouth the words, “Help me, please,” to the mother. She looks behind me at the two boys who have stopped chasing me and are watching us from twenty yards away.
“Where were you?” the mother asks.
“Back there,” I say, pointing beyond the boys.
The father, who was busy moving something around inside his truck, raises his head, peeks up at us, and frowns. Then he straightens up and fixes his gaze on the two young men lingering by the river’s edge.
“Can I help you?” he calls out.
Ramiro shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “We were just leaving.”
“Good,” the father says.
As the two boys turn away, I look over at the father. “God bless you. You have no idea . . . I was so scared.”
The father’s eyes narrow. “I suppose you need a ride,” he says, and I nod. “I can take you as far as López Mateo.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He hauls up his youngest, a chubby little girl with two missing front teeth, and puts her in the cabin. A whistle tells the three little boys by the river that it’s time to go, and they run up and climb into the back of the truck.
I climb up and scoot in beside them.
As we make our way down the road, I clutch the conch inside the bag and call out to Calizto in my mind.
Where are you? I ask, because I can see him and Ofirin, bobbing in the water. Behind them is the retention wall of the canal, crumpled and blackened. Floating around them are bits of smoldering wood, the remains of the bridge. I can hear shouting and the pounding of running feet. That peaceful row of palace gardens has become a war zone.
Apologies. The Spaniards are still firing. The prime minister’s palace is aflame. I’ve found Ofirin, but we must search for Ayotochtli.
Yes, yes. Go, I say.
I watch him and Ofirin slip underwater and swim around the brigantine that is anchored in the canal shelling the ceremonial center to pieces, and my heart breaks.
True to his word, the father drops me off in front of the Plaza de las Culturas in downtown Piedras Negras. Because I have a phone call to make, I cross the street and walk quickly past the Aztec, Olmec, and Maya monuments, back to the hostel.
As soon as I get in, I ask Doña Sofía if I can try my madrina again. She dials the number and goes to the kitchen to fix dinner while I make my call.
“Hello?” My madrina Tomasa’s voice is foreign to me. I have only seen her a handful of times in my life. And it suddenly strikes me that I am being rude by not asking but telling her that I am going to her house. What if she can’t accommodate me? She has no reason to take me in. Not really. It’s not like I’m her real daughter. The thought paralyzes me.
