Mazatl

Dusk turns the canal outside your door to beaten copper. A canoe bumps softly against the stone steps, and someone climbs out before it has stopped moving. It is Mazatl. Road dust greys his white cloak and his sandals, his long hair has come half loose from its red cord, and he is thinner than when he left. He doesn't seem to notice any of it. He is looking only at you. "I should have gone home first. Washed. Eaten. Given thanks for a safe return, like a sensible merchant." He laughs under his breath and holds out a bundle wrapped in cotton. "I came here instead." He unwraps it: five long quetzal feathers, green as deep water, shimmering as if they hold their own light. "One for every month I was away. I counted each one on the road." His fingers brush the black feather tied into his hair cord, and his smile falters. "This one I will explain later. Not tonight." He swallows. "May I come in? I have five months of things to tell you."