"meztli" by Cassidy elaine

1

Meztli

                I was not the one to cry into the night when I was born. It was the nurse who cried out, most likely in surprise, for I was an unusual sight to behold.

                Of all the people in Naultec, my home city, my mother was the worst person to give birth to a strange child. Her strict heart for tradition was rumored and respected throughout our village, and everyone knew she would not waver, not even for her own child.

                So what was so wrong with me that my own mother would sob at the sight of her daughter? It was the iztac, the white. My hair, my wretched hair, so blindingly white a dove could nest in it and appear gray as rock. The shock had nearly killed my mother, my father would say every time he recounted it by my bed mat as a child. I would laugh then, not quite understanding the grave truth of it and giggle even harder when he described the way my mother fainted very dramatically when I opened my eyes for the first time. My pale, blue eyes.

                Now, at 12 years, I know why people give me strange glares. Some look thoroughly interested, but most despise me like a parasite.

                It was quite obvious to me at a young age that I was different from everyone else. My hair and eyes with their light, opaque hues are a thick contrast to the raven black hair and eyes of my society. I blend with my people’s honey warm skin painted on by the sun, but I am odd and they believe I am a curse. My mother believes them. I believe them.

                After my mother had gotten over the sheer surprise, she took me to Ooska, the pahtli, medicine priest. He is a special servant of the Ajaw, ruler over Naultec. Ooska receives his wealth from the community like the four royal families under the Ajaw. My mother took me to him knowing of his great power and connection to the gods. But to her distress, his counsel did nothing to remove my defect.

                So now my mother keeps me inside as often as she can, to my utter distaste, and makes me wear a scarf over my hair, even on the hottest, humid days. She did decide to have another baby, but only after praying daily to the gods for a normal child.

                Tepin was born last year when I was 11. She is perfectly normal, and perfectly spoiled and pampered by my mother. As for my father, he loves me despite my affliction and I trust him more than anyone. There are times that I think he is embarrassed by me though, as if I am only his daughter when nobody is looking.

*

The heat feels thick on my skin as I loll on my rug and stare through the darkness at the thatch roof. When I catch a whisper of a star between the fronds of the dry plumes I sit up, letting my hair down from its scarf.

Mother told me to never take it off and to soak it in cool water if it got too hot, but I often get away with pulling it off at night. I watch it now, crumpled on the floor, as if it will leap at me should I move. My head feels numb with heat and I wrap my luminescent sheet of hair around my hand and pull it away from the back of my neck. Sweat soaks into my shirt so it sticks clammily to my back, not helping to keep me cool.

I narrow my eyes until they adjust to the blackness. The moon is full and her belly is just visible through the small, square window.

                 My sister snores quietly close by, her small chest rising and falling. I sit motionless for a long time, watching my parents sleep. My mother suddenly extends her hefty, work-puckered hands towards Tepin’s tiny body and when her fingers slip under the baby she pulls her into her substantial chest. I feel my eyes burn at the sight of Tepin’s swirl of dark hair settle into the hollow of my mother’s throat.

                My mother held me like that only once. It was the first time I came home crying because a man who lived nearby had called me a demon that should be sent back to the evil gods of the underworld. I had scampered away from his dark stare and into my mother’s bosom where she held me tenderly. It had ended quickly though, for my scarf was sliding from my crown and she released me so she could adjust it and warn me to be more careful.

                As I watch them now, my heart aches in my chest. I pull angrily at the whiteness of my hair, as if my touch would suddenly turn it black. The moon’s gaze latches onto the strands, making them glow in my dark fingers. I glance again at my sister being cradled and crawl nimbly onto my knees, so as not to wake them. The mat feels rough on my skin and I carefully pull myself to my feet, scuttle out the door, and stretch into the night.

                I pad, barefoot, along the narrow path away from our hut and weave my way through the fronds that reach towards me like beseeching hands edged with moonlight. Despite my efforts, the branches lick noisily at my thighs and I feel them through the thin fabric of my skirt and against my exposed calves.

                When I pass the bulk of huts, I release my hair from my twisting fingers so it falls softly against my back, the long locks dangle all the way to my waist.

                The only good thing about my mother’s strict tradition is that, despite my coloring, women wear their hair very long and braid it when they are married. I almost laugh as I stride through the foliage and see it tumble down my shoulders like an unstoppable spill of milk. My hair will never be braided, for I will never marry. But along with the laugh comes a coldness in my belly.

                The waterfall gushes like a melody from the moss encrusted rocks. Plants shiver from its forceful spray and mist surges over me, peeling away the heat that crackles on my skin.

                I look around first, and then feel silly because no one comes to my waterfall but me. I wonder, as I wade in to my shoulders, if I am the only one who has seen it. The path is complicated, mostly because there isn’t one, and the water that pumps through isn’t apparent to anyone who lives nearby. Besides, my people have the river for water and travels aim in the other direction towards the more populated portion of the city where the Ajaw lives.

                I sink to the rocky bottom; my eyes open to the clear water churning from the fall. A silvery fish rumors against my arm with its tail. It’s hard to see anything with the deep shadows, but the moon’s watchfulness morphs the silver fishes’ arched spines into pockets of light within the murk.

                I stay under until my lungs cry out to me and I rise from the coolness until I feel the night’s hot breath in my face again. This is the time when the jungle talks to itself. Birds coo their love songs from the branches and frogs call upon each other in a glut of dialects while the crick of insects beckons the moon from her perch.

                I wave my fingers in the moon’s last moments before she dips into another world. She shares my name, Meztli.

                Just before her glowing crown gives way to the morning, I feel a tingle in my fingertips. I look at the water, swirling in its unkempt way as it rummages the earth, not looking for anything in particular. It shapes around my hand as I let my palms kiss the surface. I take a deep breath and the water swells like a frog’s throat, lifting me.

                Frightened, I scramble towards the rocks and hitch onto one, trying to keep my grip on its slimy surface. But, just as soon as it arose, the water settles back into its natural rhythm. I release the rock and turn around in the water, as if some explanation were there. The tingling in my fingers is gone and I feel my heart beat a little quickened.

                “You’re tired Meztli,” I assure myself aloud. Who doesn’t have a vivid imagination late at night?

                Dripping with sweet droplets of water, I slink back to my rug.

                Mother’s arms are no longer around Tepin as I lower myself to the floor. Hopefully I will be dry by morning, I think, curling into a ball. I look across the sleeping bodies of my family and finally take in Tepin, whose eyes are wide open and on me. I jolt at her piercing stare and suddenly feel vulnerable. I remember my hair, which is plastered to my back with wetness. I snatch the scarf from the floor, tie it around my hair, and turn away from Tepin’s eyes.

                I wake to mother’s familiar morning rant of how the chores need to be done. I want to go help father with caring for the maize and squash in the fields, but I am not allowed to go outside unless mother says so. I watch her move through the hut with a purposeful step.

Her braids, which swing back and forth over her spacious rump, are shiny in the morning sunlight and her strong arms easily hoist heavy pots and bowls outside, across the room, to the neighbor’s. I wonder what grand-mother thought when she named her Eleuia, meaning wish. Had she been a child they had prayed long for from the gods? Or was it the resolute set of my mother’s shapely lips that made grand-mother sure that her child would do as she wished? I smile at the thought. My grand-mother was probably so obsessive with my mother that she would give her the comfiest mat or the freshest roots for supper.

                I take a step back as a pot is thrust into my arms. I look up at my mother with her stern lips and soft eyes.

                “Take these to Ooska.”

                I peer inside briefly to see some fresh gourds and savor a hidden smile for the errand. When my gaze returns on mother, her eyebrows are dangerously steep. “Hurry! And make sure your hair is covered. If you see anyone, keep your eyes down. I would go myself but I have the baby to tend and some washing to do.”

                “Yes mother.” I bow, as custom, awkward with the enormous pot in my arms.

                She nods in approval and I hurry out the door, my bare feet slapping the soft earth towards the ocean.

                I gasp as a boy jaunts into the path in front of me. My heart nearly claws its way into my throat when I recognize Ollin standing in front of me. He seems to be more handsome every time I see him. His garb is fairer than other boys’, a token of his wealthy family. I blush ridiculously and direct my eyes to the ground.

2

Ollin

                “Ollin hurry up!” my friend, Amal, calls ahead of me.

            “Coming!” I shout; my voice cracks into a high pitch and I slap a hand over my mouth in embarrassment. Luckily, no one has noticed and I am left to sprint after my friends’ scruffy dark heads.

            I look back briefly at my hut, a large home compared to many of the other villagers, and contemplate running back to  tell my mother of our exploit out on the canoes with Amal’s father. I think better of it. If she finds I am meeting with those of lesser blood, I’m done for.

            Our bare feet gather dirt from the moist earth as we dart over rocks, leap over fruit bushes, and dodge men and women carrying bushels of crop and babies in slings.

            I’ve finally caught up with Amal when he stops in front of me. I skid into him and shove him angrily. “Oy! What was that for?”

            He doesn’t reply; his eyes are fixed on someone walking down the road towards the beach. Her head is tilted down, almost dipping into the enormous pot she’s carrying. I don’t recognize her at first, but then she looks out towards the ocean and I see the opaqueness of her eyes and her chin, which comes to a point below her full lips, shaped like her mother’s. She doesn’t see the boys stopped in their tracks ahead of her and on the hillside as she looks intently down her small, squashed nose. Amal leans towards me and whispers an idea in my ear. My stomach nearly falls through to my toes and when he moves away I feel my face flush.

            “I dare you,” he adds, “If you don’t I will not take you on our canoe.” A devilish gleam is in his eye and I know he means it. I already feel guilty, but I so want to ride in the canoe. Will Amal be my friend if I wimp out? Amal’s other friends, two scrawny boys who will become farmers like their fathers, laugh behind their fingers with the secret.

            “Why don’t you do it?” I blurt, warily watching the girl come closer. I can see the fringe of her downcast eyelashes, so white against the brown apples of her cheeks.

            Amal only sniggers at my request. “He’s too scared.”

            “Fine,” I resign, preferring to make a fool of someone other than myself. My throat is suddenly dry, but I swallow and leap onto the road in front of her. Amal and his friends stay hidden in green bushes and ferns that arch their backs beneath the trees.

            “Hello Meztli,” I breathe, trying to sound confident though my chest is nearly vibrating from my spastic heart beat.

            Her eyes are already wide and on me, but my shock is most likely greater because of the blueness that bores into me.

            She bites her lip and looks at the bottom of her pot. A strand, whiter than the ocean foam, is loose from her scarf and I find I can’t take my eyes off it. I reach for it and she flinches. I see her eyes flicker up at me like a frightened animal before her gaze returns to the gourds in the pot.

            “Here,” I offer, “Let me help you with that.”

            She shakes her head, “I’m fine, and it’s not too heavy.”

            Her voice catches me off guard. It is soft and a little shaky, like a ripple in water.

            “No, let me help you.” I take the pot and she doesn’t fight it. She keeps her eyes pinned to the ground and I follow her down the path towards the medicine man’s temple.

            “You are taking these to Ooska?” I ask, hoping she will open up more.

            She nods and I see the free strand of white bob near her shoulder where it curls in towards her throat.

            I realize that I want to see her hair as badly as my friends do. The secrecy of the scarf makes it so intriguing.

            We are near the steps of the temple home and I face her, the weight of the pot in my arms. She fixes her eyes on it. I set it on the ground and take a risky step towards her. She is suddenly flustered, but she doesn’t say anything. Her eyes move from the pot to me and then finally stay on me, but she looks scared. Not of me, but something I don’t understand.

            I stand close enough to only have to reach out and touch her hair. With trembling fingers I move to feel the stray strand. This time, she doesn’t flinch, but looks steadily at me.

            “You’re beautiful,” I whisper, taking the strand between my fingers. I suddenly feel my face go hot. I mean it, and I hope my friends don’t realize that. The tress feels silky and forbidden.

            She stares in horror at it as I twirl it fondly in my fingers, but she doesn’t move, only stares.

            I swoop in towards her and hook her around the waist so her nose is only inches from mine. I can see the flecks of silver in her blue eyes as I brush my lips ever so slightly against hers. I feel her startled, ragged breath on my chin.

            How could I do this? But it is too late. I reach up and pull the scarf from her hair.

            The blinding white locks topple down her shoulders and across her face. I step away and hold my hands up defensively; it feels as if a rock is lodged between my chest and throat.

            Her hurt is apparent in her eyes and the tight line of her lips. My friends laugh mercilessly from behind me and emerge from the bushes. They clap me on the back as if I had just caught the biggest fish.

            I feel sick but manage a half-smile. Meztli seems to be in a dream or haze as she bends over, picks up her scarf, and takes the pot in to Ooska.