The Trials of Tizoc

By Frank Newton

In this work of historical fiction, an Aztec boy, Tizoc, is fascinated by a magnificent royal cape on display in his small village. He disobeys his father by going to view the cape, and he accidentally destroys this priceless object. In punishment, the boy's entire family is cast into slave bondage and his parents are slated for sacrifice at the Great Temple in the Aztec capital city, Tenochtitlan. Frantic to rescue his parents from death, Tizoc is aided by an elderly man who once was a temple priest in the capital. Tizoc and his friends journey to Tenochtitlan and take a desperate gamble in the hope of saving Tizoc's parents from their impending sacrifice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Newton
• Release date: Mar 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996168809

Frank Newton

Frank Newton, Ph.D., earned his doctorate in cultural anthropology at UCLA. In addition to conducting fieldwork in Central America, he worked for a time as a high school teacher. His experience as a teacher made him keenly aware that few novels for young readers have been written about pre-Columbian society. To enhance middle- and high-school students' understanding of Aztec culture, and to help teachers provide instruction on pre-Columbian life, he created this historical novel about an Aztec youth.

Book preview

The Trials of Tizoc

An Aztec boy in a world of trouble

by Francisco Newton, Ph.D.

Graphics by Jose Vasquez

The Trials of Tizoc

Published by Francis Newton at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Francis Newton

ISBN: 978-0-9961688-0-9

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are re-reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Prologue - Arrival of Brother Antonio

Chapter 1 - A scary morning

Chapter 2 - Uncle Mazatl

Chapter 3 - The legend of Popocá

Chapter 4 - The Rainbow Cape

Chapter 5 - The cape is sold… and worse

Chapter 6 - Run, Tizoc!

Chapter 7 - The tree of death

Chapter 8 - A helping hand

Chapter 9 - The Chueco's secret

Chapter 10 - Flight and fight

Chapter 11 - On Lake Chalco

Chapter 12 - City marvels

Chapter 13 - Healing Coyotl

Chapter 14 - Priest Ihuicatl

Chapter 15 - A real surprise

Chapter 16 - An old enemy

Chapter 17 - Making plans

Chapter 18 - Setting a trap

Chapter19 - Settling an old score

Chapter 20 - Run once more

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

I sat outside the doorway of my little thatched house, in the cool quiet of a winter dawn. The whole village was gray and silent. Nothing stirred in my dusty yard, as the air was too cold for beetles or bees to be buzzing about. Even my chickens had sense enough to stay snug in the old avocado tree beside my hut.

I should have had been in bed, too, but I was anxious for the sun to rise. I’m sure I looked no better than a lizard perched on a stone, waiting for the sun's golden rays to warm its tired, old bones.

Unfortunately, our sun god, Huitzilopochtli, no longer seems to shine brightly on the slopes of my hillside village. I suspect that Huitzilopochtli doesn’t have time to waste on a withered old farmer. Or could it be that Huitzilopochtli is just getting old and tired like me? Perhaps he can no longer muster the radiance he once displayed so boldly – back before his people were beaten down by the Spaniards, the new masters of our world.

As these questions rolled around my brain, I nodded off to sleep until I was startled awake by a boisterous gaggle of children. They laughed and chattered as they scampered up the stony path that runs by my house. My best guess was that they were going up to the milpas to tend patches of winter corn. Or maybe they were heading higher up the mountainside to the pine forest to hunt rabbits, like I used to do as a child.

So I was totally surprised when the children didn’t continue up the path but turned instead into my yard. Like an unruly herd of dusty brown goats, they rushed in, dodging the nopal cactus that fences my yard from the road. They quickly surrounded me, babbling some astonishing news.

Uncle! Uncle… there’s a padre coming! A priest! A young priest.

Each of their excited voices piped up a different piece of the news as they all jabbered at once. He’s coming to see you, uncle! Why is a priest coming, uncle? He’s almost here!

A Spanish priest heading my way? I looked carefully into their wide-eyed faces, sensing their simple amazement and feeling just as puzzled as they. Well, children, I said, trying to calm them down, let’s go take a look at this wonder.

I walked stiffly to the edge of my yard, which offers me a good overlook of the yellow-brown slopes that sweep down to Lake Chalco. And indeed, as the children had said, not too far down the hillside was a young friar trudging his way slowly up the steep, stony path.

A couple more children were showing him the way, all the while teasing and giggling about the man, who was huffing and puffing loudly. His heavy friar’s robe clearly showed signs of the dust and sweat from his long climb up from the lakeshore town of Chalco, where the nearest church is located.

A shiny pink bald spot crowned his head, framed by a circle of black hair. His brown robe was cinched at the waist by a long, white knotted rope that swished and swung as he walked. And his thin, pale shins protruded rudely below the robe, as did his soft, pink-white feet that were shod in thick leather sandals.

He didn’t appear too impressive to me; still, I was intrigued. I couldn’t imagine why he would be coming all this way to see me. So I went back to my chair and waited.

Señor Tizoc? the padre eventually called out in a wheezy voice. He clearly was winded. But he was polite and spoke in my native Nahuatl, which was a pleasant surprise. I am Brother Antonio. Are you Tizoc?

I appreciated his courtesy of waiting in the path. Too often the Spanish just bluster in wherever they wish, reminding us that they rule our world.

Yes, I am Tizoc, I replied in Spanish. Please come in and rest, young padre. I told one of the children to go fetch him a cup of water.

I quickly learned that Brother Antonio had an easy way about him. Spanish priests often talk to us like children, but Brother Antonio showed a great deal of respect. We soon got into a pleasant conversation, and eventually he arrived at the point of his visit.

The people of your village... your kin… they tell me that you have a fine, strong memory and that you had great adventures as a young man.

Oh, that was long ago, I said. A different time, a different world. No one cares about those times anymore. I’m surprised they even remember or mention those days.

"Yes, they do remember… and I happen to care very much about those days. I want to learn what it was like back then. You were in Tenochtitlan, they tell me, before the days when Cortes and his men arrived."

I was there the very day Cortes arrived, I said, perhaps a bit too proudly. The memory is clear in my mind, for it was one of the most exciting and frightening days of my life.

His eyes widened, genuinely impressed.

I noticed that the children had become as silent as ants, gathering closely around us. Their large, black eyes turned toward the priest when he spoke, then fixed on my lips when I responded, as if drinking in every word we uttered. I think they were amazed to see us conversing as equals, for usually the Spaniards only bark commands or complaints at my people, if they choose to speak to us at all.

And you saw the great temple with your own eyes? the priest asked.

I paused to reflect as old memories stirred. I even went inside the great temple, and down into its secret passages. But then…, I hesitated as some painful memories suddenly bubbled up. Your people tore the temple down, stone by stone, to build their own church. And they killed nearly all our priests. Why should you care now?

Yes, the church seems harsh sometimes, he said softly, but not all of us are proud of all the things my people have done. They have destroyed many of the old writings of your people, too. So, it is hard now to know what your world was really like… the way it was before my people came here.

Yes, you have destroyed a great deal, I said, with a bitterness I always feel when I think of that destruction and terrible loss. We were a great people once. Seeing us now, no wonder you can’t imagine what our world was like.

But that’s why I’ve come here to see you, he said, earnestly. You, señor Tizoc, are like a library… a living library of the past. You are so very lucky to have lived in that time.

Lucky? I scoffed. Yet, that one word – luck – touched something inside me. Old feelings stirred, like leaves lifted by a gust of wind. To let those leaves settle back down, I suddenly stood and walked over to a spot in my yard that held a special recollection for me.

Luck… it’s odd that you should choose that particular word, padre, I finally said.

Why odd?

There was a time when the idea of luck was the most important thing in my life. I was obsessed with the thought of luck, you see, because I was sure I didn’t have any.

No luck? He looked puzzled.

I was born with a curse. My people said I only caused bad luck.

And are you still unlucky, Tizoc?

Now, THAT is a good question! I said, suddenly feeling that perhaps this young priest wasn’t such a bad person to tell my story to.

I looked around again to gather my thoughts. Rising immediately above me was the awesome peak of volcano Popocatepetl, my mountain home… crowned, as usual, with a curling puff of grayish smoke. Then looking north, I saw the sweeping saddle of rocky land that leads up to the neighboring volcano, Iztacciuatl… the Sleeping Lady, with her lovely, white mantle of snow.

A flood of powerful memories poured into my heart and mind, which made me turn and look deeply into the dark, earnest eyes of the young priest. Do you really want to hear my story?

More than anything, he assured me.

And what will you do with my story?

I will write it down to make my people better understand your people… your world before we came and selfishly changed so much of it.

Well then… the answer to your question about whether I’m lucky or not begins right here, on this very spot of ground.

Brother Antonio settled himself down on a large stone in the yard. The children, too, huddled around, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. Clearly, they wanted to hear the story. So now I had an audience, and I couldn’t very well disappoint. Taking a deep breath, I plunged into my tale.

It’s one of my earliest and clearest memories. I was standing on this very spot in the yard, beside my father. I was no more than 10 or 12 years old. And it was a cold, dark morning in winter... a particularly frightening morning that I can't easily forget.

Chapter 1

It was the worst day of my life, I said to Brother Antonio and the children. Just to show how bad it was, it began with a nightmare – and the nightmare was probably the best part of that awful day!

In the dream, I could hear the insects that lived in the walls and roof of my thatched house. I clearly heard the click-clack of crawling scorpions and cockroaches, the whirr of beetle wings, and the dusty skittering of lizard feet. The sound was ordinary enough at first. But then… somehow the sounds grew louder and crystalized into a raspy, scary voice.

Run, Tizoc! the voice whispered to me. Run!"

Why? I trembled.

You are the unlucky one, Tizoc! the voice snapped. Run away before it’s too late! The voice grew more demanding.

Where?

"Run to the old tree. You know the one. Run to the tree of Mictlan."

Mictlan? Brother Antonio suddenly spoke up, interrupting my story.

"Mictlantecuhtli, I explained, is our God of Death. And Mictlan is the underworld where he is the lord and master.

In a tree? he puzzled, ... the God of Death?

No, he doesn’t live in a tree! I snapped. Just wait and I’ll explain.

Sorry for the interruption.

Anyway... when I was little, my Uncle Mazatl would taunt me about this evil tree, telling me he would leave me there some night and the demons would devour me. So when the insect voice told me to run to that tree of Mictlan, I got very scared and I yelled out ‘No!’ I yelled so loudly that I woke myself up from the dream.

That’s when I heard a real voice… a human voice calling to me in the darkness. It was the frightened voice of my mother.

Run, Tizoc! she was crying. Get up, my son, and run!

I was very confused. I wondered if I was still dreaming or really awake. I just lay