Jaguar Princess by Clare Bell Page B

glimpsed that day in the courtyard. He laid the two figures side by side. Except for the fact that the girl’s drawing was done in a single color of brown paint and the figure in the book was brightly hued, the two were similar. Mixcatl could see some flaws in her painting, but Speaking Quail reacted in amazement.
    “Where did you leam this? Were you given schooling?”
    Mixcatl shook her head. The only thing she remembered was the veined hand laying brushstrokes on rough paper. She didn’t know who that hand even belonged to. Her grandmother?
    “I bought you,” said Speaking Quail, running a hand distractedly through his tangled hair. “I have responsibility for you. But if I had known…why didn’t you tell me?”
    Mixcatl had no answer. Until she saw the book, she herself hadn’t known. But would Speaking Quail believe that?
    “Well, one thing is clear. We must bring the truth into the open. Cactus Eagle’s funeral rites will not be marred by rumors that an evil sign appeared out of nowhere to disturb his journey to theunderworld.”
    Mixcatl looked up at him. Dare she ask the question that had been troubling her since she heard of the old man’s death? “Did my picture make him die?”
    “No, child. He was very old. Everyone knew that his end would come soon, although they did not want to accept it.” A corner of Speaking Quail’s mouth twitched. “But because of that, we still have a problem. I don’t believe that what you did harmed him or will cast any evil influences over his spirit, but there are other priests who would be quick to see otherwise.”
    “If we are the only ones who know, then why tell the others?” asked Six-Wind.
    Speaking Quail pointed to the brush that Mixcatl still held. “Because such an extraordinary talent and memory is a gift that can not lie unused. And it will not, even if she has to scratch in the dirt outside. Do I speak the truth, little scribe?”
    Mixcati closed her eyes. She knew that she could not keep from drawing any more than she could stop breathing or eating or making water. Slowly she nodded.
    “Will you go before an assembly of the calmecac and show them the truth behind the tile-painting?” Speaking Quail asked the girl. Again she nodded.
    Six-Wind had been looking more and more worried as Speaking Quail questioned Mixcatl. “Honorable teacher, won’t they just kill her?” he burst out. “Even if the priests believe that the work is by her hand, they might argue that some evil influence possessed her.”
    “There is that chance,” agreed Speaking Quail. “But by the same token it could be said that such a child might be blessed by the gods. Was it not Plumed Serpent himself who brought us the art of setting down the sacred hymns and histories in books? Should we kill a slave-child for having that art? No. That is how I will argue.”
    “You are a teacher of literature, not oratory,” said Six-Wind softly.
    “My tongue is not as quick nor as flowery as that of some, but it will serve.” Speaking Quail gave Mixcatl and Six-Wind a tired smile. “Besides, if the judgment goes against her, I will suffer too. I brought her among us.”
    Six-Wind took a shaky breath, then straightened his shoulders. “I’ll stand by you. If any teacher has made me see what is right, it has been you. Speaking Quail.”
    The tutor clapped him on the shoulder and Mixcatl could see that the boy’s allegiance made his eyes shine brighter. She felt a sudden surge of hope. With two such friends beside her, perhaps she had a chance.
    “I think you should be apprenticed to the priests who keep records,” said Speaking Quail to Mixcatl. “They can teach you far more about the art of glyph-painting than I or anyone else here.”
    Her heart began to beat fast. To be among others who had the same talent and who would share it with her. It seemed like a dream beyond anything she could hope for.
    But she also felt a new hunger. To know about those figures in the sacred books