The Goldsmith's Daughter by Tanya Landman Read Free Book Online Page A

duration than the ball of fire, and caused much hardship.
    After the harvest, when the chinampa fields lay stripped and bare and the maize was dried and stored for winter, a high wind sprang up from a sky that had been perfectly clear and still. In moments it had lashed the lake into a boiling frenzy, stirring up a great wave and driving it towards the city.
    I knew nothing of its approach. It was so unexpected, so sudden, that no one had time to give warning. Only when I heard Mayatl’s scream of alarm did I turn to see a wall of water surging from the street into our kitchen, picking up reed mats as though they were leaves, sweeping aside cooking vessels, dousing the brazier and pushing it into the courtyard, through my father’s chamber and into the workshop beyond. Mayatl stood unmoving, stiff with shock. Wading through the waist-high flood, I seized her hand and pulled her awkwardly up the stairs to the roof. My father – drenched, the necklet he had been working on still clasped in his fist – joined us. From our vantage point we could see that the wave had washed over the fields and destroyed the mud-brick walls of the peasants’ dwellings across the canal. While we watched, the water rushed on towards the heart of the city, where my brother would be sitting at his classes.
    It was a dreadful sight, but even more dreadful were the words my father then uttered.
    â€œAnd now it seems Tlaloc is also roused to anger.”
    â€œBut why?” I whispered. “What can have so displeased him?”
    My father did not answer me directly, but spoke aloud the thoughts in his head that filled my own heart with foreboding. “First we had fire; now comes a flood. I fear the earth itself is becoming unmade…”
    Deeply alarmed though we were by this incident, our own house was built of stone so it suffered little real damage. Mitotiqui came home from the calmecac in a canoe, bobbing into our courtyard with a smile upon his face as if the episode was nothing more than a prank played by the gods for their own amusement. His levity grated on my father. We were uncomfortable that night, and the nights that followed, for we had to sleep on the roof amongst the beehives and potted herbs. But our physical discomfort seemed small and insignificant beside the tension that crackled between father and son.
    Each portent, each strange happening, each untimely occurrence, was answered by our priests with ever greater sacrifices, for the gods were angered and might perhaps be soothed with blood. The numbers of slaves the traders brought to market grew, and they could be seen daily being led through the streets to the principal temple, where their hearts were given up to appease the gods. We were urged to increase our private devotions: priests went about the city punishing those they considered less than pious; and in every household, men drew their own blood before their shrines. My father could be seen each morning at dawn pricking his flesh with cactus thorns and smearing our idols until red almost blotted out the gleaming gold.
    These zealous prayers seemed answered. The flood was followed by a time of calm, and yet the general unease continued. Men stood at every street corner gnawing their lips, and passing women stared fearfully at the ground, their faces creased with anxiety. For at heart we all knew that if the fifth age were truly drawing to a close, no amount of prayer or sacrifice could stop it.
    In the great square of Tlaltelolco, each incident had been greeted with dismay and fearful speculation.
    But one day Mayatl brought home a tale tucked neatly amongst the fresh vegetables to which I could give no credence. Setting her basket down, she declared, “They say floating temples have been seen!”
    â€œFloating temples?” My incredulous gasp gave her great satisfaction. Her eyes gleamed with the delight of knowing something I did not. “How can such a thing be possible? Where