‘I don’t need to,’ I whispered. ‘I know what it is.’
Whoever shames me
Knows me quite ill
You are my fathers
My priesthood
My jaguar serpents …
Of course, I did look in the parcel. I waited until the next song was about to begin, when my young neighbour raised his trumpet to his lips and produced a blast of sound that made all the grown-ups clap their hands over their ears and screw their faces up painfully and sent some of the smaller children scurrying for safety behind their mothers’ backs, and I was sure no one was paying attention to me.
I did not bother unwrapping it. I just worried at the hole the knife had made until it slipped out into my palm.
It shone. Someone had cleaned and polished it, removing all trace of the dried blood and bringing up the blade’s dull glint until it was as bright as the moon. I tested it with my thumb and grimaced when I felt how sharp it was. Whoever had been looking after this knife had known what he was about.
The song began. I barely heard it. I looked from the gleaming blade in my hands to the fire and from the fire, with the flames’ glare still in my eyes, to the faces of my family, some solemn, some frowning in concentration, one or two bobbing as sleep threatened to win through in spite of the singing and the trumpet calls. I raised my eyes, following the glowing sparks and tendrils of smoke as they rose into the sky, hiding the stars in imitation of the clouds we were trying to encourage.
My son was alive, I thought, gripping his knife fiercely. No one else in Mexico would know how to maintain a bronze knife so well.
The first thing I felt was a pang of terror. To know Nimble was alive was to know how much danger he was in. For a moment, all I could see was a vision of the Otomies stalking the boy, drawing the net of my master’s vengeance around him.
Then I pushed the vision aside. I told myself that my son was alive, and he must have sent the knife to me as a message. But what kind of message?
Then it occurred to me to wonder how he had got the knife back. It had passed through several pairs of hands since he had last possessed it: to my knowledge they included his deceased lover, Shining Light’s, Kindly’s, my own, the chief of the merchants’ parish, Howling Monkey’s, and Lily’s.
How many of the lights I could see in the air above me were stars and how many floating embers? I found myself wondering this, even while I was trying to guess what chain of eventsmight have worked to reunite my son and his most precious possession, and leave him with the freedom to send it to me. Sometimes, I knew, it helped, when you had a difficult problem to solve, to turn your mind to an easier one, and so I made myself watch the little dancing orange lights and try to spot the still, pale, flickering points among them.
I went on counting sparks, listening to the singing and feeling the weight of the knife in my palm, until I passed into the land of dreams.
While I was there, it all seemed to come together: all the little things I had seen and heard, in the days since the knife had first been passed to me, all bloody and wrapped in its bundle. By the time I woke up, I thought I knew everything: who had killed Idle and Skinny and why, where the costume was, where Marigold had gone, and the solution to the most important mystery of all — what had become of my son.
It all seemed so simple and so obvious then that I hardly knew whether to laugh or weep with frustration at my own stupidity, for not working it all out sooner.
As it turned out, I got some of it right. If I had only paid closer attention to what Kindly the merchant and Angry the master featherworker had told me, and been a little less susceptible to Morning Glory seeds, I might have got it all.
‘Wake up!’
A slap struck my cheek and forced my head sideways.
‘Come on!’ snarled a voice, very close to my ears. ‘Wake up!’
I blinked, clearing the fog from my eyes and bringing my father’s face into focus. It was twisted with rage.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked groggily. I found I was lying down. I propped myself up on my elbows.
‘You fell asleep during the vigil,’ my mother told me reproachfully.
‘I told you we shouldn’t have let him stay,’ rasped my father. ‘Now look what he’s done. What will the gods do to us all now? Suppose the whole city is plunged into drought, or the crops are blighted, or the lake floods or nobody can light their fires, and it’s down to us?’
‘Oh, shut up,’ replied my mother. ‘It’s not the gods I’m worried about, it’s him!’ She glanced at the young priest, who was looking intently at his conch-shell as if he were wondering how he could get it to blow louder next time. ‘We’re really sorry about this,’ my mother continued, her tone somewhere between threatening and wheedling. ‘It’s never happened before. We didn’t know our son was going to be here, you know.’
‘He’s not going to be here any longer, either,’ my father added.
The young man muttered something about how it did not matter, it happened all the time.
I thought it was time I said something. ‘I’m sorry I fell asleep. If you knew what had happened to me yesterday …’
‘I don’t care what happened to you!’ my father snapped. ‘I’d rather see you being eaten by vultures than littering my courtyard!’
‘Oh, thanks!’
My family had gathered around me the way a crowd of stall-holders in the marketplace might surround a suspected thief. As I looked from one to another, the thoughts that had assembled themselves in my head while I had been asleep came back to me, and I felt a broad grin starting to spread itself, unbidden, across my face.
That earned me another open-handed blow from my father. This one was so hard it left my ears ringing.
‘Think this is funny, do you?’ he shouted. ‘You miserable slave, get out of my house! Get out, now!’
I stood up. My legs wobbled a little but in a moment I was towering over my father, who was still stooped in a position from where he could deliver repeated blows to the face of a man lying in front of him. His knee would not allow him to kneel.
As he straightened himself, moving slowly to spare his elderly spine, I realized what an advantage I had over him. His back was to the fire. One good shove and he would be in it.
I took one step towards him and held out my arm.
He was plainly used to having something to grab hold of while he pulled himself upright: one of his other sons, presumably, or perhaps one of his grandchildren by now. He took my arm instinctively before he remembered who it belonged to.
I seized his wrist with my free hand, pulled hard and twisted, and spun the old man around until he was facing the fire, tottering on his good leg while his bad one was doubled uselessly and painfully under him. He squawked in alarm.
‘Yaotl!’ my mother screamed. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Let me go!’ the old man cried. ‘Glutton, the rest of you — get him off me!’
‘Don’t move!’ I shouted. ‘Remember how you used to hold us over burning chillies and make us breathe the smoke for the smallest thing, Father?’ I took another step forward, shoving him towards the fire while taking great care not to let him fall in it. ‘Care to find out what it was like?’
He started to cough. ‘Help!’ he cried hoarsely.
It suddenly seemed to occur to my brother Glutton that he ought to do something. He got up and started to lumber towards me, but he had to circle the bonfire and sidestep the hired priest first, and by the time he had done that, Handy was in his way
‘Wait a moment,’ Handy said.
‘But he’s my father!’
‘And the other one’s your elder brother. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,’ the big man added, with more conviction that I could have managed.