2. The First Giving
Lake Texcoco, Mexico, 1325
Amid tall shoreline reeds, under a blaze of stars that spanned a moonless midnight sky, Cimatl waited, standing almost motionless
on a small flat rock at the lake's very edge. He shivered slightly and continuously in the chill that had come with night in this tropical high valley. To his ears that listened persistently for the strange sounds of certain gods, there came now only the cries of nightbirds, croaking of amphibians, an occasional splash of a jumping fish. But Cimatl did not falter on this third night of his vigil. Last night at midnight, when the Sun's great jealous eye was farthest from the world, he had been briefly, tantalizingly rewarded by the rush of great wings overhead, and for one moment he had seen a shape far larger than any bird pass swift against the stars.
This vigil by night was necessary because their age-long and faithful worship of the Sun had not saved Cimatl's people from the terrible dangers that now seemed certain to overwhelm them. Two generations past, their long flight from the north had ended in this land-ended in sheer exhaustion, not success. Except for this stretch of swampy lakeshore, disdained by other nearby tribes, they were still landless. New persecutions threatened, as terrible as those that had driven their grandfathers from the north, and there seemed no place left to flee. The Tenocha had been unable even to attach themselves as vassals to a stronger tribe, and thus gain some measure of protection.
By day, Cimatl and the other priests of the Tenocha continued to beseech the Sun for help; but by night Cimatl, fasting and desperate, had as a last resort begun this other, secret worship.
Here amid tall reeds, the darkness of midnight seemed the deepest. And now, as on the two previous nights, Cimatl began to chant a litany to the gods of darkness whose names were terrible to speak. As his voice rose up, he heard, as on the preceding midnight, wings that could not be those of any ordinary bird beating at some great distance-beating so fast they made a steady roaring, like the wind in great tree branches.
Cimatl threw back his head and saw a looming shape too large for any bird. Amid a sudden rush of air that rattled reeds about him on all sides, he stumbled in his chant. When unexpected light stabbed down, it was so violent against the entrenched darkness that Cimatl was completely blinded at first. The terrible idea smote him that this might be the very eye of the Sun, returned in midnight anger at his servant's faithlessness, and his heart failed him momentarily. But even as he cowered against the burning wrath to come, the light dimmed. His eyes could start to see again, and no, this small light was not the Sun. It seemed to issue from the belly of some hovering god of eagles, from whose belly also there was being let down some kind of a large burden on a string or cord.
Around Cimatl, a mad pattern of reed shadows danced. His vision gradually gained strength against the artificial glare. The light was strongest directly beneath the hovering eagle-god, where it shone full upon another flat rock. On this a huge snake coiled, drawn perhaps from mud and water by some faint sun-warmth still lingering in the stone.
Cimatl saw that the burden being lowered on a cord, directly above the snake, was of the size and shape of man, but garbed like no man he had ever seen, in a peculiar suit that covered nearly all the skin. In one gloved hand of the suspended figure, a short lance flared once with orange fire. On the rock below, the snake's head vanished with a puff of steam and stringy splattering. The serpent's body, thick as an arm, writhed there until the man-shape stood beside it and with one booted foot shoved it away into the reeds and water.
In the air above, the roar of wings held steady. The man-shape raised its face and looked toward the medicine man. Long hair of black, with golden ornaments. Red daggers drawn on its chest. "Cimatl!"
The priest bent down and hid his eyes in awe.
"Cimatl, the favor you have asked the gods of night is granted you. Greatness shall be your people's lot, from this night forward."
After the voice had been silent for a few moments, Cimatl dared to squint timidly toward the speaker. In one gloved hand, the god was holding something out to him. Cimatl eagerly plunged off his own rock into the shallows. A stump of broken reed stabbed into his foot, but he did not yet feel the wound. Something dying thrashed in mud; the Snake of Time was still alive, but with its head had gone its power to strike. Meanwhile, in droning triumph, the Eagle of the Night maintained its place above. In his exaltation, Cimatl strove to miss not a symbol, not a nuance, of this mighty vision. One quick glance upward against the light showed him a symbolic dagger, red as blood, limned on a smooth gray flank.
Then he held his eyes downcast, for he was standing now before the man-shaped god, who still held something out for him to take. Groping at the edge of his averted vision, the priest carefully received in both hands a small weight of metal.
The son of the Night-Eagle was speaking to him again: "With this gift you shall become a mighty nation. See that you keep it hidden. Let only your First Speaker dare to put it on his face, and that in secrecy. Do not mention it in your songs, when you shall come to sing them, or show it in your sculptures when you come to carve. Let no one know of it except your inner priesthood."
Cimatl wanted to speak his transcendent gratitude, but could not find his voice. He managed to make a violent gesture of assent, both his hands locked on the gods' gift as if they might crush it in their zeal. Abruptly, then, the almost-blinding lights were gone. A few words were spoken nearby, in some inhuman-sounding tongue, as if the visiting deities exchanged banal comments between themselves. Then suddenly the wings were beating louder, casting down a gale. Cimatl was left in darkness, temporarily blind again, able only to listen until the rush of wings had receded, vanished into the sky.
Cimatl turned away then from the lake. Trying to chant his gratitude, he staggered amid unseen obstacles toward the distant fire-specks marking the Tenocha camp. His eyes gradually retuned themselves once more to starlight and he began to see his way. He felt pain now from his injured foot, but pain did not matter. Nothing mattered, save the gift he held in his hands.
He could see now that it was of metal and crystal, a leather thong strung through holes in its outer flanges. Let only your First Speaker dare to put it on his face . . . with this gift you shall become a mighty nation . . . Not a word of that solemn charge would Cimatl ever forget.
The Mask now in his hands had no high cheekbones, nor mouth or chin, nor was it gold. It was not much more than a large pair of goggles. A century would pass before the Mixtec slaves encased it in a gold model of a smiling face. They were to work for the secret pleasure of Cimatl's successor as First Speaker of the Aztec-Tenocha, who by then had become the lords of most of Mexico.