Free Jaguar Princess by Clare Bell

protested, thinking of Speaking Quail and Six-Wind. When she tried to tell Latosl, he waved her away impatiently and there was a look on his face as if he had said more than he should have.
    He leaped back aboard the barge and pushed off, leaving Mixcatl with unanswered questions. Who were the “ugly ones” and what did he mean by those words? She shrugged as she scrubbed out the empty containers and returned them to their places. She should not worry about what Latosl said. He was only a barge boy, after all, and she had other things to think about.
    Even though Mixcatl thought she had dismissed Latosl from her mind, she found herself on the stone quay behind the school when the barge pulled in the following morning. She watched as he poled the boat, admiring and envying his skill. His copper skin glowed in the brilliant sunlight. His limbs were sinewy and he moved with a controlled grace that seemed unusual for one of his age or class.
    The black mark on his upper lip reminded her of the black patch on a puma’s muzzle just behind the whiskers. The way he moved and his graceful spareness made Mixcatl think of the long-legged cat of the mountains. The Aztecs called the puma Red Dog, as if they had no interest in distinguishing the wily and secretive animal from their own yapping curs. Mixcatl felt her lip curl in scorn. Her own language had a better name for the puma, the right name, the one the cat would answer to.
    And then she caught herself. How did she know these things? The only time she had seen a live puma was in the marketplace, in a cage. The imprisoned beast was starved and mangy, not at all like the animal in the wild. There were more images in Mixcatl’s head of beasts she knew she had never seen; the red-gold coat of the puma, the spotted rosettes of the jaguar, the blue-gray of the jaguarundi, the markings of the ocelot. Where had they come from, she wondered, and as she pondered, Latosl sprang out of the refuse barge.
    “So, you are here again,” said the boatboy with a grin as he dumped the first slop jar.
    “Can I help you?” Mixcatl asked.
    “You look strong. Try lifting that one.” Latosl pointed to a smaller clay vessel at the end of the row. Mixcatl seized the jar and hoisted it, carried it to the end of the quay and put one foot on the barge.
    “Ai, no I It’s not moored,” Latosl yelped in dismay, but Mixcatl was already straddling a widening gap between boat and quay. She had managed to shove the jar aboard, but the distance was too great now for her to jump back to the dock or scramble onto the barge. Her legs would only spread so wide. Latosl was trying to counter the barge’s drift with his pole, but the boat was heavy and stubborn. With a dismayed cry, Mixcatl fell into the canal.
    She went right down to the bottom, her toes sinking in among the cold slimy waterweed. With a panicked kick, she launched herself to the surface, gasped a breath and sank again. This time she flailed and kicked, fighting to stay afloat, but it was no use. She felt herself being dragged under again, her mouth filling with water, drowning her scream.
    Something bumped her. Something straight, smooth and growing right out of the water like a tree. Latosl’s barge pole. She grabbed it, hugged it and struggled to climb hand over hand out of the water, or at least to the surface, where she could regain her breath.
    The pole started to slant and Mixcatl clung with all her strength, shuddering with a fear she did not understand. The pole ground against the boat’s hull. She felt herself being lifted, squinted out of one closed eye and saw the boatboy dragging the pole and her over the side of the barge. At last she felt his hands close about her arms and she was swung onto the deck.
    She collapsed and lay in a sodden puddle, giving thanks for the dry deck, the warm sunlight and the air that entered so easily into her lungs instead of choking and drowning her. While she rested, she felt Latosl poling his boat