Jaguar Princess by Clare Bell

from the hearth and sprinkle it over the bad lines, but she lost a few good ones as well. With trembling fingers, she made the eyes, but they seemed to glare at her, accusing her for her clumsiness.
    She backed away, a teardrop spilling down her face to land on another tile, making a gray splotch. Six-Wind was wrong. She didn’t have any great talent. She had failed to make Smoking Mirror as he should be. Angrily she snapped her scribe stick in two. She was just an infant, scratching in the dust as she had done long ago at her village. For an instant she wanted to wipe out the drawing, but something in the figure forbade it. Instead, she turned and ran from the hearthside to her small room with its bed of rushes. She flung herself down and wept in a way she never had before, not even when she had been abused as a slave. At last, still sobbing, she fell asleep.
    She was woken by shrill cries that rang along the hallway. Sitting up, she wiped crusted tears from her face. Howls and lamentations were coming from the kitchen.
    “It is an omen,” one voice cried. “Cactus Eagle is not yet in his shroud, yet the image of the Mocker appears, graven on our very hearth! One-Death is among us!”
    Another voice joined the clamor. “Send for the high priest who oversees all the calmecacs. Only his magic is strong enough to stand against this!”
    And then came a voice that Mixcatl recognized as Speaking Quail. “Wait. Is it not possible that this has another explanation? The image is the same as in the sacred book I use to teach the boys.”
    “But what young whelp could have drawn this? It is by a masterful hand. No, Speaking Quail. There is more at work here than the skill of a scribe. Do you see how it is done among the soot of the hearth? What better place to strike at a household than at the place of the life-giving fire?”
    “That may be.” said Speaking Quail firmly, but quietly. “Yet I will question my students. Until we rule out a human agency, we should not invoke a divine one. Cover the tile so that the women may prepare the morning meal without seeing or disturbing the image.”
    In her room nearby, Mixcatl heard the voices and huddled, her arms about her knees. She noticed a black smear of soot on her hand and quickly wiped it off. She remembered her drawing. Was it that which frightened them so? Smudged and muddled as it was?
    She got to her feet, meaning to creep out of her room before the priests left their discovery at the hearthside. But she was too late. She heard the slap-slap of sandals behind her. She couldn’t help a quick glance back and she caught Speaking Quail’s eye. She saw his eyes widen and his step falter for just a beat before he matched pace with the other priests. She feared that just then he had recalled her long-ago intrusion into his class and her heart thudded with fear. If he connected the incident with Smoking Mirror on the hearth, she would be killed for sacrilege.
    Quickly she began her duties. How could anyone even begin to think that a lowly dull little slopjar carrier had anything to do with the image on the hearth? And why were they all so upsetby it, badly done as it was? She tossed her head, flipping her black bangs from her eyes. She should have rubbed it out, destroyed it. Even now, she could run into the kitchen and sweep her hand across the tile.
    But she knew she couldn’t do that either. She had made the image. She could not bring herself to obliterate it. And what if someone caught her in the act? Then they would know without a doubt. The best thing she could do now was go about her regular routine and keep her hands from trembling too much.
    There were few pots to empty. Students and teachers alike had spent the night in the courtyard, praying. Now they were clustered about Cactus Eagle’s quarters, wailing and lamenting. The sound carried through the whole school. Mixcatl bit her lip. Did this mean that the old man was dead? Had she hastened his death by making a