The Goldsmith's Daughter by Tanya Landman Page B

on our necks. We turned, expecting at last to find her.
    We saw nothing.
    The cries began again – so near that it sounded as though the woman stood between us. But Mitotiqui and I were utterly alone. And then she moved on, gliding impossibly across the water, her voice fading as she drifted far away towards the eastern shore.
    We could not then doubt that this was a sign sent by the gods: a warning of some great evil to come. And there beside the lake, my brother and I clung to each other for support, as we had done when we were children.
    My father had slept through the wailing that had roused Mitotiqui and me from our slumbers. But the streets were awash with anxious mutterings, and by the time we returned to our house they had inevitably reached his ears. He sat in the kitchen with Mayatl, cupping a vessel of warm broth in his hands that seemed more for comfort than nourishment, for he did not drink it.
    â€œIt signals something,” he muttered. “We have offended the gods.”
    He looked at me and his eyes pierced mine. I knew his meaning. As soon as day dawned he would banish me from his workshop. I felt the pressure of the loom on my back; saw the threads stretching before me. I could not return to that entrapment!
    At that moment, I saw that I was no longer the discarded, dried-out husk I had once considered myself to be. As my skill had grown, so had my heart, my soul. I had become entire and whole, and as distinct and separate as my brother. I could not now lose myself!
    Feeling Mitotiqui’s gaze upon me, I chose my words carefully. “It cannot be so, Father,” I said. “Surely no one in our city has caused this omen. There is some greater reason. Perhaps the gods warn us of the strangers who are amongst the Maya.”
    â€œPerhaps,” he conceded, shivering. But he would not meet my eyes.
    We returned to our beds and spoke of the unseen woman no more.
    Despite my father’s misgivings, I finished the figurine. I was eloquent in my pleading, and at last he yielded to my persuasion. Some compulsion drove me forward, and, believing it was the hand of fate, I convinced myself that I was powerless against it. But in reality it was my own stubbornness that steered me – the same stubbornness that had made me live, despite Pachtic’s conviction that I was stillborn. The stubbornness that set my will against that of the gods.
    The stubbornness that would lead me to disaster.
    When my father judged we had made sufficient goods, we took them to market. He summoned a boatman for the purpose; though the distance was short we did not want to carry items of such value openly through the streets.
    We left before sunrise, climbing into the canoe as girls carrying baskets of warm tortillas sped towards temples to take food to the priests. My figurine was amongst the gold and silverware piled high in several baskets and covered with cloths. These were set carefully in the middle of the vessel. My father sat at the head, and I at the rear, beside the boatman. I was to accompany him as a helper – a fetcher and carrier. At all times I had to keep my eyes cast down. No one should suspect I was anything more than an assistant, brought to help him with the most menial of tasks.
    We reached the busy canal as dawn broke and the conch blasts rang forth. Here we joined the jostle of canoes that sought space to tie up and unload their cargoes. A steward of the council directed our boatman to a clear stretch where a porter waited, and here we disembarked. Once we were ashore, the same steward briefly inspected our wares and allotted a pitch where we might sell them.
    It was near to that of Popotl, who greeted my father warmly, like an old friend. “Oquitchli! I have fine gems for you today. Obsidian as black as Mictlan; emeralds as green as a quetzal’s feathers; turquoises as blue as the spring sky.”
    â€œI am sure they are all fine stones,” replied my father. “But