sight.
He saw himself, suffering, wrapped in the crimson ribbons of his own life’s fluids. He saw a great eagle, with wings that blotted out the sky, swoop down and clutch him in its golden talons and bear him aloft. The world lay before him like an unrolled blanket: a vista of dry hills and craggy, windswept peaks dotted with ocotillo cactus and the sacred maguey whose roots could be pounded to a mash and fermented into pulque.
Fire Giver saw every hidden spring and every shaded tinaja where bees hovered above pools of collected rainwater. Down through the shimmering light the eagle soared until it alighted upon a peculiar mountain whose eroded slopes had been sculpted to resemble a crouched jaguar. In the folds of the mountain’s front paws, beneath the volcanic stone head, burned a pyre beside an altar, a place of final sacrifice.
And when the last weapon had been pressed to his tortured flesh the high priest cried out and collapsed. Striker and Young Serpent caught him and lowered him to the ground and began to remove the thorns.
Fire Giver did not stir until the morning sun climbed above the weathered mountains to the north. Then the high priest opened his eyes, rose, and walked along the ridge until he came to a pool of rainwater that filled a cavity in the stone beneath an overhanging ledge of eroded rock. He lowered his face into the cool shallows and drank till his belly felt about to burst. When he straightened, Young Serpent and Striker were standing behind him. Striker carried the high priest’s robes and Young Serpent the priest’s quilted armor. Both men appeared anxious to learn, yet were loath to pressure the high priest or ask an unseemly question of one who was the shadow of a god.
“I saw a mountain like a sleeping jaguar. It waits there.” The high priest pointed to the north. “We must go and find the sleeping jaguar. There we will feed Tezcatlipoca what he most desires. And when the Smoking Glass tells us, we will return to our people. And the spotted sickness will be no more.” Fire Giver gingerly slipped into his robes and armor and led the way back along the ridge to the place of his suffering. Another couple of warriors waited, holding a young Comanche brave between them. He struggled, to no avail, in their grasp. He moaned and pleaded, for the brave knew what was coming. There had been others before him. He was the last of the captives.
The two warriors forced the Comanche over on his back and stretched him across the smoothest slab of rock they could find. Striker and Young Serpent immediately stepped forward and grabbed their victim’s arms, while the other two men held his legs. The remaining warriors began to drum their clubs and axes upon feather-decorated wicker shields covered with toughened hide. Striker and the other three soldiers bent their victim backward, bowing his chest outward from the pressure. His eyes wide with terror, the hapless brave watched as Fire Giver drew the tecpatl from his corded belt. This was the sacrificial knife. Its blade was eight inches of serrated obsidian, the hilt inlaid with gold in the form of a warrior with shield, atlatl, and spears. The warrior’s features were an animalistic caricature peering through the jaws of his jaguar headdress.
It was the arch sorcerer, the shaper of the world, the god of darkness. Fire Giver placed the tip of the blade over the chest of the Comanche and, with a strength and skill born of gruesome practice, hammered the blade downward and ripped open the chest cavity. He reached in and plucked out the still-beating heart of the dying man and held it aloft as an offering to the savage deity of this ancient race.
Then the drumming ceased.
The ground beneath the makeshift altar was dark with blood.
It was only the beginning.
Chapter Six
B EN MCQUEEN WOKE THAT same morning haunted by dream images that clung to him like the webs of a spider. Entangled and yet defiant, he fought his way out of the nightmare and sat
He saw himself, suffering, wrapped in the crimson ribbons of his own life’s fluids. He saw a great eagle, with wings that blotted out the sky, swoop down and clutch him in its golden talons and bear him aloft. The world lay before him like an unrolled blanket: a vista of dry hills and craggy, windswept peaks dotted with ocotillo cactus and the sacred maguey whose roots could be pounded to a mash and fermented into pulque.
Fire Giver saw every hidden spring and every shaded tinaja where bees hovered above pools of collected rainwater. Down through the shimmering light the eagle soared until it alighted upon a peculiar mountain whose eroded slopes had been sculpted to resemble a crouched jaguar. In the folds of the mountain’s front paws, beneath the volcanic stone head, burned a pyre beside an altar, a place of final sacrifice.
And when the last weapon had been pressed to his tortured flesh the high priest cried out and collapsed. Striker and Young Serpent caught him and lowered him to the ground and began to remove the thorns.
Fire Giver did not stir until the morning sun climbed above the weathered mountains to the north. Then the high priest opened his eyes, rose, and walked along the ridge until he came to a pool of rainwater that filled a cavity in the stone beneath an overhanging ledge of eroded rock. He lowered his face into the cool shallows and drank till his belly felt about to burst. When he straightened, Young Serpent and Striker were standing behind him. Striker carried the high priest’s robes and Young Serpent the priest’s quilted armor. Both men appeared anxious to learn, yet were loath to pressure the high priest or ask an unseemly question of one who was the shadow of a god.
“I saw a mountain like a sleeping jaguar. It waits there.” The high priest pointed to the north. “We must go and find the sleeping jaguar. There we will feed Tezcatlipoca what he most desires. And when the Smoking Glass tells us, we will return to our people. And the spotted sickness will be no more.” Fire Giver gingerly slipped into his robes and armor and led the way back along the ridge to the place of his suffering. Another couple of warriors waited, holding a young Comanche brave between them. He struggled, to no avail, in their grasp. He moaned and pleaded, for the brave knew what was coming. There had been others before him. He was the last of the captives.
The two warriors forced the Comanche over on his back and stretched him across the smoothest slab of rock they could find. Striker and Young Serpent immediately stepped forward and grabbed their victim’s arms, while the other two men held his legs. The remaining warriors began to drum their clubs and axes upon feather-decorated wicker shields covered with toughened hide. Striker and the other three soldiers bent their victim backward, bowing his chest outward from the pressure. His eyes wide with terror, the hapless brave watched as Fire Giver drew the tecpatl from his corded belt. This was the sacrificial knife. Its blade was eight inches of serrated obsidian, the hilt inlaid with gold in the form of a warrior with shield, atlatl, and spears. The warrior’s features were an animalistic caricature peering through the jaws of his jaguar headdress.
It was the arch sorcerer, the shaper of the world, the god of darkness. Fire Giver placed the tip of the blade over the chest of the Comanche and, with a strength and skill born of gruesome practice, hammered the blade downward and ripped open the chest cavity. He reached in and plucked out the still-beating heart of the dying man and held it aloft as an offering to the savage deity of this ancient race.
Then the drumming ceased.
The ground beneath the makeshift altar was dark with blood.
It was only the beginning.
Chapter Six
B EN MCQUEEN WOKE THAT same morning haunted by dream images that clung to him like the webs of a spider. Entangled and yet defiant, he fought his way out of the nightmare and sat
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