head of you is a low flat-topped pyramid with a building--a Teocallis, a temple--atop it. There are a number of people milling about, and you find yourself, by chance, close to a couple of them. One is a man, the other is a young boy, evidently his son. The sun is bright and hot, and they have taken shelter in the shade of the pyramid's staircase, sitting on the ground with their backs against the wall.
"And in a little while, we will go up the pyramid's steps and go inside," the man is saying. "The overseer will take a little blood from your ear. It will hurt some, but you must give no sign. This blood shall serve to strengthen Mixcoatl. Everyone in the city will draw their blood this day."
"What will happen then, papa?" the boy asks eagerly, apparently not at all disturbed about the prospect of someone cutting his ear. You wonder if he really understands. He's very young, about five or so.
"After all the arrows are made, the hunters will be chosen; and tomorrow, they will hunt the deer. Then we shall feast. Afterwards, the man who has been named Mixcoatl and the woman who is called Yeuatlicue will give their service in the temple. It is a most solemn occasion, my son."
"Why do they have to give their service?"
"To give the Teotl Mixcoatl and Yeuatlicue the strength they'll need in the days to come. But enough. Come now. We must go to the Teocallis."
"Yes, papa," the boy says, climbing to his feet and taking his father's hand. Together they begin to mount the stairs. At a little distance, you follow them. The pyramid is low and broad, the climb is short; at the top you enter the Teocallis, and you find it to be a larger building than you'd imagined it to be when you were looking up at it from below. Across the back, opposite the entrance, is a raised stagelike area, open to the outside and close to the edge of the pyramid, where it would be visible from below. At one side there is a beaded curtain, creating a sizable "backstage" space shielded from the view of the audience. At each end of the stage are stone braziers, and a silent Indian wearing only a maxtlatl--a white, tied loincloth--stands guard over each. The floor in front of the stage is tiered, a series of steps rising toward the back, allowing everyone to have a clear view of the stage.
A long line of children and parents stretches across the floor. At the center of the stage a man whose body is painted black cuts tiny nicks in the ears of the children, then daubs the blood onto their temples; if any drips it is collected in a wooden tub. The children, stoic, are silent as their ears are cut, though a few of the younger ones show their pain with grimaces, some exaggerated, and weep as they move away.
Behind the priest is a large rock, shaped only by nature, its surface carved with odd patterns. On beyond this is an open area, and in the center of it is a precisely-carved piece of stone, shaped like a truncated cone, between three and four feet tall, its round flat top seven or eight inches in diameter. Set on a platform so that it rises above the rock, it's clearly visible from the floor. You do not have to ask what this stone is for.
Down on the sunken floor itself, alongside the lines of patient children, a group of men are busily engaged in the manufacture of arrows. They are carefully cutting reed shafts according to a model they have, and they are taking great pains to insure that all the shafts are of the same length--and they are unusually small, only about eighteen or twenty inches in length. Others are chipping out flint arrowheads from prepared cores, and others still are fastening the arrowheads to the shafts with pitch and twine. Yet another group is fletching the shafts, which completes their manufacture. The uniformity of the finished products is quite amazing; each is exactly like the next. As they're completed, they're tied into bundles of twenty each, carried up to the stage, and added to the piles already there. The men must have been at it since sunrise at least, considering the quantity of arrows on the stage.
For several hours, nothing else happens. You become somewhat bored with watching the arrows being made and watching the seemingly endless chain of children waiting to be bloodied. You quit watching for awhile.
But, after a while, a young woman comes up and taps you on the shoulder. "What are you doing, Nahui Malinalli?" she demands. You frown at her; somehow, you understand that that's your name. "Aren't you planning to offer blood?" You start to answer, but she doesn't give you a chance. Pulling you to your feet, she steers you toward the line. The children are now gone, and a similar chain of adults has replaced them. It isn't long before you step up onto the stage yourself. Expertly, the black-painted priest nicks your ear; there's a small pain, not much. He then daubs dots of blood on your temples, and you're done. You return to watching; the other young woman, who seems to know you somehow, stays with you. She asks you if you're ready for the "choosing." You don't know what she's talking about, but you nod your head anyhow. She worries if she'll be chosen, but she seems to consider it a foregone conclusion that you will be.
After what seems like an endless time, the line of people thins out and stops, and this seems to be a signal to the arrow-makers. They finish their last bundles of twenty, tie them up, and put away their manufacturing paraphernalia. Then they begin to string bows, which have been made at some previous time. When they'd done forty, they stop this as well, they carry them on the stage and lay them out in neat rows. As hunting or combat bows they look very inefficient; they're less than thirty inches long, too short to put much power behind the little arrows.
Most of the arrowmakers leave, and they are replaced by a group of young men who seem to be in a competitive mood. You and your friend remain, watching. From the stage they each take a bow, and the arrowmakers remaining set up the thick leaves of a maguey plant as a target. When this is done, the young men begin shooting at it. It's obviously a sort of tournament; whenever someone hits the leaf, he steps to the right, while anyone who misses steps to the left, returns his bow, and departs the building. This continues until the group has been culled to the ten best marksmen, each of whom are then given four of the short bows and several bundles of arrows. Considering the small bows, they are remarkably good archers; the distance involved is a good seventy-five feet. Many times during the competition, an arrow hit the leaf but didn't have the force to pierce it. Such cases seemed to have been counted as hits, though.
When the ten had been selected, they sit down with their bundles of arrows and began to paint the shafts, each man using a different color pattern of rings. They also paint these same patterns on their bows. When the painting is done, they each take one bow and one bundle of arrows to the stage, where they are first censed by a black-painted priest, then placed in a brazier and, with considerable ceremony, burnt.
After this, everyone except the silent guards of the braziers and the black-painted men leaves the building. For a little while nothing happens; but, just you're beginning to think that perhaps the day's proceedings are over, a group of young women enters the building and sits down as a group in the middle of the sunken floor; you and your friend join them. She looks a little guilty, and when one asks her where the two of you have been, she confesses that you've been watching the "hunters" compete, which evidently you were not really supposed to do. Two more men, both with their bodies painted black, also come in; they sit on the stage, seemingly waiting for something. After another short hiatus, another man comes in. His face is also painted black, but he wears a headdress and heavy black robes that clearly mark him as some sort of leader. You hear someone address him as "Xolotl." He's carrying a wrapped bundle with him, which he deposits on the stone altar.
All eyes are on him as he turns to face you and your group. "The men are at the hunt," he says solemnly. His voice is deep and impressive, he's clearly experienced at public speaking. "Tomorrow, ten of you shall be Mixcoacihuatl. Is there anyone here by other than their own free will?"
The girls look around at each other, but no one says anything; evidently no one is. In your case, you haven't the slightest notion what he's talking about, but, since none of the others speak up, you don't either.
"Good," Xolotl says, after giving you ample time for a response. He steps down from the stage and passes among the group; there are probably thirty or forty of you there, and he carefully looks each of you in the face. Then he passes among you again, and as he goes he begins touching certain women on the shoulder. Whoever is touched looks delighted, and she bounds up to the stage. After a while, your friend is touched; she looks amazed but happy, and she runs to the stage. The next shoulder touched is yours, and you join her there at a run. Two more are chosen, making ten; once they've been selected, the others, looking crestfallen, get up and shuffle out of the building.
Xolotl comes back to the stage, and all ten of you gather closely around him. "You," he says, looking around at all your faces, "are the chosen ones, the honored ones, the Mixcoacihuatl, the women of Mixcoatl; tomorrow, you will become the deer." When he says this you recall what the man was saying to his young son, about how the deer would be hunted, and you think it's obvious enough that those young men you watched competing were competing for the right to be the hunters. On the other hand, those bows and arrows they were using were so small the whole thing cannot be serious. Dismissing your concerns, you continue to pay attention to what Xolotl is saying. Pausing, he studies your faces carefully; his eyes are very piercing. "Here, in this place, in the Teocallis, you will become the deer." He gestures toward the door. "When those are opened, you will run through them. Run quickly! Hide yourselves! Do not let yourselves be found, the hunters and the people of the city will be running about, seeking you. You must not let them find you, you must not let them catch you!" You smile; sort of, you think, like a game of hide-and-seek. It sounds like fun.
Xolotl pauses again, staring fixedly at one of the women. You look at her face too; she looks a little fearful. "And yet," the black-robed man goes on, "some of you will be found, some will be taken." He holds up four fingers. "Four will they be, four that will be found, four that will be taken." He takes something out a little pouch at his belt; all you saw was a flash of green, then he's cupped it in his hands. He shows it to the girl who looks afraid, and the look of fear fades from her eyes.
"It could be any of you," he says, looking around again. "Any. You should assume when you run from here that you will be taken, be prepared for it." Continuing, he tells you what to say if you are "taken." To be sure, he has you all recite the lines back, one at a time. After he's sure you all know the lines, his eyes focus on yours and stay there, and again he falls silent. After a moment, he opens his hands and shows you the thing he showed the other girl.
It's a piece of flint, elliptical in shape and six inches long, pointed at each end. In color it's jade green. You look at it; the light glints off it oddly, makes strange patterns. You blink, and by then he's closed his hands over it again.
Finally his talk appears to be over, and he walks away. You, along with the ten others, leave. All the others are smiling, they seem very happy. You remain with your friend; you yawn, it's getting late and you're feeling tired, and you're sure that the day's festivities are over. Your friend leads you out, asking you if anything is wrong; you say no, you're just sleepy. She stares at you.
"I cannot imagine," she says, "how you can think of sleeping now! But come, come to my home. If you want to sleep you can sleep there!" You go with her, she shows you where you can sleep, and you do. The next morning, when you arise, you're hungry--but your friend tells you that a fast is in effect until the "fiesta" later today, at which time there will be plenty of food. She then leads you back to the Teocallis.
You walk inside, and you follow her up onto the stage and to the area behind the curtain. A number of priests, all dressed in robes and their faces painted black, are on the stage, waiting silently, their arms crossed across their chests. There are four young men there, also priests to judge from their long hair and black-painted faces, but wearing only loincloths. Out on the floor, people are coming in in large groups, arraying themselves around the stepped area of the floor. Finally, as if in response to some silent signal, two door-keepers go to the large doors and close them. Evidently, everyone who is coming in is in.
Mounting the stage, Xolotl picks up the bundle he'd brought the previous day and faces the audience, which falls silent in response. He folds back the cloth and shows them four arrows. "The arrows of Mixcoatl," he says in a strong, solemn voice. They don't look much different from the ones that you've seen being made, except that these have hardwood, not reed, shafts.
"We will go to the east, we will shoot an arrow," Xolotl says with a chanting cadence. "We will go to the center, toward Mictlan, and we will shoot again. We will go toward Huitzlampa, and we will shoot again. We will go to the fields of flowers and we shall shoot again. When our arrows have been shot we will have found that we have struck the real thing, the real thing."
As he chants, two more men wearing only cotton loincloths set up drums on the left edge of the stage. As Xolotl finishes, they began a soft rhythm. "THEY were the Chichimecs!" Xolotl continues, the first word being accented by a sharp strike on the drum. "THEY were our forefathers! THEY learned the ways of Mixcoatl, of Itzpapalotl, of Quilaztli, of Yeuatlicue, of Xiuhnel, of Mimich! WE will do them honor! WE will shoot our arrows! WE will hunt the deer!"
The drumming dies down to a quiet background as Xolotl replaces the four unwrapped arrows on the altar. Now, as he steps to the side, the other nine young women and four men who've been hiding behind the curtain with you come out, walking slowly in single file. You of course join them, falling in at the end of the line. They array themselves on either side of the rock in the center, the men on the right, the women on the left, and you take your place on the left as well. For a short time you just stand there, while the drums play and the audience gazes at you.
Then one of the black-painted priests steps up in front of you. "Disrobe now," he says simply.
You stare at him, but your friend--and all the other girls--are quickly stripping off their blouses and skirts. You've come too far to back out now; you're a little hesitant but you follow suite. The four young men remove their loincloths as well; when all of you are naked you line up as if presenting yourselves to the onlookers, letting them look you over. While you stand there, the priest who gave the command walks to the rear of the stage and gathers up some pieces of fur; at first you think they might be blankets.
But then, when he brings them back and distributes them to you and the others, it becomes obvious that they're deerskin costumes. Each has a buck or doe head attached, as was appropriate to the sex of the wearer--but you have no idea how to put it on. One of the painted men comes by to help you. First, he guides your arms into loose sweater-like sleeves, then he lays the main part of the costume over your back. Lacings hang at your sides, and he ties these in front; one pair above your breasts, one below, and one across your stomach. There are no legs of any sort on the outfit, but there's a beltlike strap hanging from the back below a broad "tail" that hangs as far as your knees. The priest reaches through and grabs this strap, pulling it up between your legs, being very casual about touching you intimately. He then ties it to another after looping the front one around the ties across your belly. Finally, when the body costume is in place, he pulls the head, which is missing the lower jaw, down over your forehead like a helmet.
The drum rhythms come up to a higher volume. The other nine girls--and the four men who've dressed as "stags"--begin cavorting about the stage as if they really are deer, drawing laughter from the audience. One of the men gets down on his hands and knees and noses around the stage as if searching for grass. A girl runs off the stage and across the sunken floor, leaping into the air with amazing agility, as if just for the pleasure of it. Laughing, you join in, nosing at the floor as well. One of the "stags" comes up in front of you. Grinning, he leans his head forward and touches the nose of his deer-mask against yours. You laugh and push back, and in a moment you are rubbing "noses" vigorously.
But somehow, it isn't just a game. There's some smell--not at all unpleasant, something coming from the costumes, you hazard--and it seems to be having an effect on you. In a second you realize, with shock, that it's having an effect on the young man, too. He's getting an erection; his penis, refusing to be denied, is pushing out alongside the belt that holds his costume in place. You freeze for a moment, not knowing quite what you're supposed to do. It's surely obvious enough that you're supposed to be acting like a deer, though, and so you turn around, you stick your butt up and wiggle it at him, all the while grinning at him over your shoulder. You're imagining that he might "mount" you as a stag would mount a doe, and simulate a mating.
But, almost before you know what's happening, the young man has used his teeth to push your "tail" aside and he's biting at the knot holding the belt between your legs. Your eyes fly wide open; his efforts are bringing his lips into contact with your vaginal lips. He uses his tongue, too, and in trying to get the knot undone his tongue runs around behind it and right over your clitoris. You don't know what to do, so you hold still and let him do what he wishes--although the action of his tongue and lips are having enough effect to cause you to squirm involuntarily with pleasure.
Soon, he actually does get the knot untied, without ever using his hands. You cannot believe it; you remain as you are, stunned. The young man comes up on his knees, scoots close to you, and leans over your back. You relax a little; he isn't going to do anything else, you tell yourself, he's holding his arms stiffly down by your sides, like a deer's front legs. As you assumed, a simulated mating.
It only takes a second for you to realize you've underestimated him. The head of his penis pushes hard against your vulva, and you're already wet from the stimulation of his lips and tongue. Without using his hands he guides his erection to the right place and he pushes it right into you. Once he's in, he starts moving his hips back and forth rapidly, sliding his erection in and out. You don't move, you can't without causing a scene--and, in a way, you don't want to. What he's doing might be embarrassing--you're quite sure the two of you really do look like rutting animals--but it isn't at all unpleasant. The audience thinks it's hilarious. They laugh and applaud.
Finally--a little quickly as far as you're concerned--he stiffens against your hips and fires his semen inside you. You stand up, slowly, unsteadily; his semen runs out of your vagina and trickles down the inside of your right leg. One of the priests comes to you and refastens your belts.
Even though he was quick, you might've had an orgasm. You, of course, know the answer to that.
As soon as your costume has been fixed, two of the black-painted men go to the doors and fling them open again.
This was the signal, you haven't forgotten. Neither have any of the other girls; while the "stags" remain on the stage, all ten of you bolt for the door. In an instant you're outside, running down the stairs and into the streets. Once there you scatter in all directions, each one of you running as fast as you can. You find yourself alone. Remembering Xolotl's instruction to "hide," you locate a patch of thick bushes that seems to offer an admirable hiding place. On your hands and knees you slither into it, making sure that you're completely concealed.
Your hiding place isn't that far from the pyramid, and, from cover, you see the townspeople come flooding down the stair. Once in the street they begin running about, looking into houses, beating the bushes with thin sticks. This business of beating the bushes wasn't really something you'd counted on, and you cringe down as a number of people, mostly women and children, begin beating at the patch of bushes you're hiding in. At first, you think you can hold your position, your doe costume offers you some camouflage.
But then one of the thin sticks they're using hits the backs of your thighs. It's like a caning, and, without thinking, you yelp and jump.
The women and children being pointing at you and yelling that a "doe" has been found. You cannot stay here; as quickly as you can you disengage from the bushes and run off through the streets. The crowd pursues you, and over your shoulder you see one of the "hunters," carrying the tiny toylike bows and arrows, joining them. You run faster, outdistancing the crowd. Ahead of you is a patch of the large, thick-leafed, and formidably-thorned maguey plants; you're sure you can lose your pursuers in there. Or maybe, you tell yourself, you can make them think you did; those thorns look really dangerous, you really aren't sure you want to run in there. You duck behind a house and try to hide under a little lean-to, but almost immediately you're spotted and they're after you with those sticks again. Now you don't have a choice, it's the magueys or nothing. As you approach them, you hear something hit the ground behind you; over your shoulder you see that the hunter has fired one of the little arrows at you. It fell hopelessly short. Laughing, you run on.
But, just as you turn the corner to head into the maguey patch, you run into some trouble. The long tails waving behind your deer-costume wave right onto one of the big heavy thorns that terminate each of the maguey leaves. You're jerked to a stop, almost losing your footing, and the force of your sudden stop pops the straps over and under your breasts. You yank at the costume but only succeed in tangling it in more of the thorns and in breaking the remaining straps. Remembering Xolotl's admonition not to allow yourself to be caught, you can only see one solution. You turn, pull your arms out of the loose sleeves, and then run on, naked, leaving the costume hanging on the plant. A quick glance over your shoulder tells you the archer gained several strides on you while you were getting free from the costume; you speed up, turn another corner--
And come to an abrupt halt. You've run into an area where the big plants grow thickly but where there's a little clearing among them, a clearing with only one entrance; you've accidentally trapped yourself. You look around, you see the archer entering. You don't have good choices; you either have to run very close to him or risk much of your skin among the heavy thorns. Your skin is gleaming with the sweat of the chase; you keep moving around, not letting him get his bow aimed at you. Keeping to the center of the broad entranceway to the natural trap, he approaches you slowly. The rest of the group remains outside, watching. Some are yelling encouragement to the archer, some to you. He strings one of the little arrows on his bow, but you can't really imagine he intends to shoot you with that toylike thing.
He does loose an arrow at you, though. You see it coming, you twist your body sideways and avoid it. It strikes a maguey leaf behind you and remains there, deeply imbedded, vibrating. You hardly notice; playing the game fully now you wait for him to fire again. Moving like a gymnast, you jump and twist away, avoiding the arrow. But, in doing so, you come down somewhat off-balance--and facing the wrong way. Seconds after you regain your balance you feel a sudden blow to your back, followed by a light stinging pain.
You stop, you look back over your shoulder. You can't believe it--there's an arrow sticking in your back! It isn't deeply imbedded--even the flint point is not fully buried--but a little trickle of blood runs down below it. You aren't sure if you should pull it out or leave it alone, and in the end all you do is flutter your hands. It isn't terribly painful, but it does sting, it is a distraction. You look back at the archer; by now he's fitting another arrow to his string. The crowd is roaring, cheering him on.
He aims carefully, then feints to your right with the bow, the direction you're facing. You jump--too soon. He gets off a good clean shot, right at you, and you gasp--but the arrow misses you completely. He looks frustrated, he hesitates a little. This is your chance, you tell yourself, while he's confused. Taking a deep breath, you run right at him, intending to flash by before he can get another arrow ready. But he's much quicker than you expected. Just as you reach him he gets the arrow on the string and, without aiming, fires.
He doesn't miss. You feel a sharp blow to your lower belly, followed by a strong deep pain. You gasp, you stumble; you keep running but as you do you look down at yourself and you gasp again. There's another arrow buried in your body, piercing your belly, just inside the joint of your leg. This one is far inside you, several inches deep, and blood is already flowing out. Still you run on; as you go the shallowly-buried arrow in your back strikes a maguey leaf and falls out, but you can feel the one in your belly working around inside you as you run. It's hurting you--not nearly so badly as you might've expected it to, but badly enough to slow you down. Even so, forcing yourself, you run on.
"I am sorry for hurting you," he says formally as you run by. But a moment later he shoots at you again--and misses again.
But now you're free from your trap, and the chase is on again. The crowd, still laughing and yelling, follows along behind you; you see a cornfield ahead, you run to it and run alongside it, glancing down the rows as you go by, trying to find a place to lose yourself in there.
But the archer overtakes you before you get a chance. Twice he fires at you, and his second shot hits you in the back of your right thigh. You can feel the blood welling out; your leg doesn't want to work right, you stumble and this time, you lose your balance and fall. The crowd closes on you quickly, but they only make a half circle, they are careful to give you an escape route if you manage to run.
The archer moves in close as you struggle to your feet. The pain in your thigh isn't severe until you try to stand, but you push yourself anyhow. The absurdity of the whole situation, trying to get up and run with two arrows sticking in your body--and the fact that the two little tiny arrows are, in fact, sticking in you--suddenly strikes you as morbidly funny. You laugh, even as you wince with the pain. The archer hold his fire while you struggle, and after a moment, you do succeed in getting up.
On your feet again, you start to run once more, but the arrow in your thigh hampers you considerably, much more so than the one in your gut. The best you can manage is a limping trot. Once you're moving, the archer runs past you, whirls around, and fires another arrow at you from very close range.
You see, hear, and feel it hit--just above your navel, and it forces its way deep into your body. Blood surges out but there isn't much pain; you just feel suddenly weak. You drop to your knees, looking at the arrow sticking in you and knowing that again, serious damage has been done. Again the hunter waits for you. After a moment, you force yourself to your feet, and, turning away, start off again--at a walk this time, the best you can manage.
He does not show you mercy. You hear his bowstring twang again, and instantly there's a blinding pain in your left knee. You scream, you grab at it, and your leg crumples under you. Looking, you see that he's shot you squarely in the back of your knee, and the arrowhead appears to be lodged against the bones, right in the joint. There's little bleeding compared to the other wounds you've taken, but the pain when you move the leg is incredible. Even so, you try to get up, try to push yourself onward again. This time, though, it's hopeless. You might be able to force yourself to disregard the pain, bad as it is, but your left leg just will not hold you up. Sitting on the ground, you look up at the hunter--"your" hunter, you find yourself thinking. He seems to be waiting for you to say or do something, and you remember what Xolotl said to you, you remember the lines you learned.
"I can run no more, my Chichimec," you quote. As you speak you become acutely aware of the arrows in your belly, of the serious damage they're likely to have done inside you. Forgetting about the one in your knee, you hold them with your hands. "I am yours, as you will."
That was what he was waiting for. He nods, he slings the bow on his shoulder, and again apologizes, with every evidence of sincerity, for hurting you. He waves a hand at the crowd; two women and a man step out, and, along with the archer, they each take one of your wrists and ankles. Gently, making sure the arrows sticking in your body don't hit anything, they lift you, face-up. As your left leg is fully extended the pain in your knee explodes momentarily, then fades back dramatically. They start off, carrying you back in the direction of the Teocallis. You let your head hang back and it bobs up and down gently as they walk.
One of the women helping to carry you seems to know you. "I thought you were going to make it past him, Nahui Malinalli," she says. "That was quick thinking. He was just a little quicker."
"He was, yes," you say. "I still can't quite believe he was that quick!"
"He was even quicker," the woman says with a grin and an arched eyebrow, "that the young priest-stag on the stage!"
At this, you laugh--but new shards of jagged pain rip through your abdomen as it bounces, and you can feel fresh blood welling up and dripping off your side. Your laughter ceases. Turning your head, you look up at the archer who brought you down.
He's a strong-looking man, his arms are smoothly but not excessively muscled. Although you don't, you feel you know him somehow; you can sense his warmth, his caring ways, his quick and incisive mind, his sense of humor, his affectionate nature. There is a connection between the two of you, something powerful, and when he catches your eye you can see that he feels it too.
But they continue on, they carry you directly to the Teocallis and take you inside. As soon as you're in you can see that they've now erected a wooden frame of some sort up on the stage; the top beam has four large wooden hooks attached to it. They carry you up on the stage. Once you're there, you're deposited gently on the floor in a sitting position. You look up at your hunter, but before you can say anything one of the black-painted men comes over and asks you to hold out your wrists. You obey, and he ties a short length of rope around both of them, leaving a connecting loop about a foot long between them.
Then he and the archer pull you to a standing position, and the priest asks you to lift your arms high over your head. Again you obey; they then pick you up and lift you toward the wooden hook. You can understand what they're trying to do, and you help them, you maneuver the loop onto the hook. They release your weight gradually, but when they let you go you're left dangling from your wrists. Then, the other three from the group who carried you in leave; two of them pause to pat your hip affectionately. You smile at them as they go, but your legs and your belly are hurting and already your wrists and arms are starting to do the same; your smile is strained and doesn't last long.
You close your eyes, you relax your body. Very quickly, your hands begin to tingle and then grow numb; the rough rope that's supporting you seems extremely tight around your wrists. Soon enough this discomfort distracts you from the now-dull pain from the arrows remaining in your abdomen and legs.
You feel a cool touch on your lips. Opening your eyes, you see that your hunter is holding a little pottery jar full of water to your mouth; you open your lips and sip some. It's wonderfully cool and refreshing. He touches your cheek lightly with his fingertips. His eyes are soft, gentle.
"What is your name, hunter?" you ask him. "I am called Nahui--"
"No names," he interrupts sharply. "You are Mixcoacihuatl, a deer of Mixcoatl. Nothing more. You have no name, not now. I am a hunter, an archer, that's all. I have no name either."
You sigh. "I don't understand what's happening to me," you confide. "I was trying to escape, I truly was, but for some reason I'm glad I didn't... I don't understand..."
"It was your tonalli, your destiny, to be taken," he tells you. "You knew that, I think." He caresses your face again. "Do not worry, all is as it should be..."
You don't answer, you just gaze at his eyes. He's crying, crying for your pain...
A short time later, another group comes in, bringing another captive. This one is much less severely injured; she has only one arrow in her leg, in her calf. But her ankle is twisted at an odd angle, obviously broken. You surmise that she probably fell when she was struck by the arrow and broke the bone, and thus she'd been unable to run. That seems to be the key, and you find yourself wondering why you hadn't thought of this sooner, why you didn't just fall down after the first arrow had struck you. You'd be in a lot better shape now if you had.
As they hang the second woman on the frame, a third girl is brought in. She's much worse off than you or the other girl; her body is pierced by at least a dozen arrows in various places. She seems to be only half-conscious as they hang her up. In both cases, the archers that had downed them stay with them, attending to their needs, treating them very tenderly.
A half hour passes, and finally another captive arrives. She's been hit by only two arrows, but one of them is buried deeply in her chest. The end of it is splintered and covered with soil as if she fell on it. She's definitely not conscious, her head rolls to the side and blood runs from the corner of her mouth as they hang her up. The archer offers her water, but she's unresponsive; the only indication that she's alive is the ragged jerking motion of her breathing. Like yourself, all of the captives have at some point discarded their deerskin costumes; all are completely naked.
From outside, you hear someone calling in a loud voice, saying the hunt was over. You've assumed that was the case, since there are only four hooks. There's a long pause while the townspeople, followed by the archers and the remaining deer impersonators, come back in. A few of these still have their costumes on. They enter cautiously, as though they think this might be a ruse, until they see the four hanging on the rack. Then they relax and mingle with the others. Two of the impersonators, you notice, are themselves wounded; one girl has an arrow standing in her thigh, another has one in her hip and another between her ribs. You watch these two; they seat themselves on the floor and rather casually go about pulling the arrows out of their bodies. After removing the arrow from her hip herself, the girl who'd been hit twice asks a young man to help her with the one piercing her chest. Holding her with his left hand, he carefully pulls the arrow--which was deeply buried--straight out. She groans a little as it comes; once it's free blood foamy with air streams down her side. She leans against the young man after he lays the arrow aside, her breathing labored and blood pooling around her hips. She makes no effort whatever to tend the wound or stop the bleeding. The townspeople keep filtering in; a couple pause to pat the wounded girls on their backs or shoulders as they pass them.
When the audience is in and has settled down, one of the black-painted men unwraps some new objects from a white cloth. They're little jade figurines, each in the shape of a human in a crouching posture, except that the head is that of a deer. He hands one to your hunter and one to each of the other successful archers. Then he stands in front of you and the other three captives and addresses you, apologizing once again for your pain. Your hunter stands at your side as he gives his speech. He explains to you how it was necessary, going through a long speech about how the deer was identical to the maize and how that was identical to man, to the villagers.
"And more," he says, "We honor the memory of the Teotl Xiuhnel and Mimich, they who with Mixcoatl and Itzpapalotl defeated the Mimixcoa, they who hunted the deer, they who were successful hunters!" Once again, the black-painted man who shot you with the ceremonial arrows comes to stand in front of you, again examining each one carefully. He gives a sign, and the four men dressed as stags take positions behind each girl--including you. You feel the "stag's" hands grab your waist; he holds you tightly, steadying you.
Then your hunter reaches around behind you and grabs the arrow piercing your thigh. There's a sudden flash of bright pain as he starts pulling it back and out. You cannot help groaning; you can feel the arrowhead very clearly now, tearing through your leg. A moment later it comes free and you feel the hotness of blood streaming down your thigh and calf. Somehow, the blood flowing out seems to dull the pain, seems to make it more bearable.
The one in your knee is next. There's yet another bright flash of pain when he first tugs at it, but then it's gone. You hardly feel the rest of the removal; in fact, you can hardly feel your left leg from mid-thigh down at all. Now, he studies the ones sticking in your belly. Again, formally, he apologizes for hurting you. Then he grabs the arrow piercing you down low, near your hip, the first one you took, and starts pulling on it.
The pain flares again. You moan and tremble; in ways this doesn't really hurt as bad as the removal of the one from your thigh, but you can feel the arrowhead in your gut, sliding through your intestines and cutting them further as it comes; it feels like he's pulling your insides out. Oddly, pain flares in your armpits, as well. Then this arrow is free, and it's followed by a spurt of blood; again, as your blood flows, the pain dulls. Moving on, the hunter then grabs the one piercing you near your navel and pulls on it.
This one is worse, a lot worse. Again you feel as if you're being pulled inside out; you feel like screaming at him to leave it where it is. You don't do that, but you groan loudly, toss your head, and grind your teeth. You look down just as it pops free, and it does, in fact, bring a nondescript and bloody piece of your insides out with it, clinging to it. More blood flows; you can hear it pittering onto the floor below you. You're beginning to feel cold, the dizziness increases, and so does the sense of unreality, but, once again, the pain itself seems to be slipping into the background. You close your eyes, you try to relax again.
The priest comes by, holding the hardwood arrows Xolotl had brought in. Your archer stands aside. He brings the point of one close to your body, and you wonder if he's going to pierce you with it; but he merely soaks the flint tip in your freely-flowing blood, turning it over and over so that it's completely covered. You watch as he does the others. In the case of the girl with the broken ankle, he has trouble getting enough; but the other two, like you, are bleeding profusely, and he has no problems with them.
The unconscious woman in particular was bleeding very badly; the arrow that had struck her thigh seems to have cut an artery, since the blood was spouting out from there, spraying the archer with red droplets. As the other arrow is pulled from her chest, she sighs deeply, opens her eyes and moves her head. Then a rippling shudder runs down her body, her eyes drop closed again, and she slowly relaxes. The archer attending her stretches up to her, holding her head and putting his face close to hers. It looks like he's about to kiss her; but he doesn't. When her breathing finally stops, he pulls away and holds the jade figurine close to his own face. Then he puts it on the floor in front of her limp body.
As the painted man replaces the now-bloody arrows alongside the stone altar, your hunter, along with the other archers and the "stags," continue their ministrations of the three girls who still live. The "stag" and your hunter, working together, start wiping the blood from your body with a soft cloth, using water from a jug to wash your blood-and-sweat stained body down. After a while, you find yourself beginning to revive somewhat under this treatment. The men tending you are openly crying, and sometimes they let out a very real-sounding wails. There's nothing you could say to them, nothing you can think of; you merely smile at them as much as you can. Which isn't much; you've lost a good bit of blood, and a lot of your strength has gone with it. There isn't very much pain now, just muted dull aches. You turn your head, watching the other activities.
As the priests return and begin waving their censers in front of the captives, two of the men in white loincloths go about building a fire on a set of flat stones apparently laid out for that purpose. The black-painted men put their censers aside and give a signal to your hunter and to the other archers and "stags". The two attending you stand on either side of you, hold your body by your ribcage, and lift you up. Your hunter looks up at your hands; again you cooperate, removing the rope from the hook. They then stand you on the floor, supporting you when you wobble, and untie your hands. Glancing around, you notice that the two whose captive has died are having considerable problems with her body, but finally they manage to get her off the rack.
Then, you and the other three girls, including the dead one, are then taken to the edge of the stage, where you stand supported by your hunter, who's holding your right arm, and your "stag," who's holding your left. A line is formed, and you're in front. The dead woman is at the rear, behind the girl with the broken ankle. The archers and "stags" encourage all the girls, you included, to try to stand on their own. You try, and, although your left leg is very weak, you manage. So does the girl with the broken ankle. Only the badly wounded woman--and of course, the dead one--are unable to comply.
As you wait in the line, the drummers begin beating out a rhythm, and the priests throw herbs into the burning braziers. At this point there is a pause, as if to allow an anticipation to develop. You begin to feel a little strange; it's as if the air in the place has become thicker. You glance up, and you could swear that the ceiling is higher than it was--and the captives seem to be almost glowing. There is no movement, there is no sound except for the drumming.
Suddenly, one of the priests walks toward the stone altar. Four others join him, arraying themselves around it. The first stands on the back side of it, looking over it, and makes a beckoning motion toward you.
You know what awaits you there, you've heard enough about these people and their ways, you have no illusions. At first, your fear threatens to overwhelm you; you fear the pain, you fear the unknown of death. You do understand that this is a religious ceremony, but this is not your religion.
On the other hand, you know what's expected of you--and you understand, belatedly, that you've volunteered yourself for this by presenting yourself for selection by Xolotl; you recall him asking if there was anyone who wasn't here of her own free will, and you didn't speak up then. You look down at your body, at the again-bleeding holes where the arrows pierced you. You did not beg for mercy then, you played their game, by their rules. Taking a moment more, you look back at your hunter. You wonder what he'd think of you if you were to beg--and even as you do you know you don't have to wonder, you know he'd be terribly disappointed in you.
Finally, you look back at the girls in line behind you. They do not look afraid, they merely look excited--and proud. You are to be the first, you know you should set an example for them. Like it or not, you're one of them...
Turning your head back, you look toward the altar--the sacrificial altar you once would have called "dark" and "horrible." It does not look like that to you at all now, it looks right, it beckons to you itself. You make your decision--you will continue on the path you've started. Feeling about the same as you might feel if you were the bride taking the first step down the aisle at a conventional wedding, you take a careful step forward.
The archer and the "stag" release your arms; after the archer has picked up the little deer-idol, they take your hands. Of your own volition, by your own choice, you start walking toward the stone. Although you're limping badly, you cover the distance without substantial support; the archer and the "stag" merely walk along beside you, holding your hands. When you reach the stone, you sit down on it. You just sit there for a few seconds, looking out over the audience, considering what you're doing, thinking about what's about to happen to you, fighting your panic. You look at the two priest standing near your feet, waiting patiently for you. No one rushes you; you are allowed to set the pace yourself. Finally, you lift your feet, and the two priests take hold of your ankles and start tipping you backward. You reach your hands out to the two behind you, and they grab your wrists. You feel yourself being pulled off the altar, and you lock your knees, keeping your legs straight; you feel your back come to rest atop the altar stone, and at that time your "stag" cups his hands under your chin. It seems to you like such a group effort, you, the four priests holding your limbs, your "stag," your archer, the sacrificer--all of you equals, all working together... Your "stag" leans over you slightly, and your hunter, holding the little deer-idol, does the same, both of them looking down into your wide eyes. You feel very close to them, especially your hunter, the man who brought you here to die. You aren't sure you've ever felt so close to a man in your life. You look back at them, still fighting your fear but not letting them see it, your chest heaving as you wait.
Then the priest standing behind the stone lifts his hands from behind it, holding one of the tecpatls, the black obsidian sacrificial knives. You only get a glimpse of it before your "stag" pulls your head back again, too far for you to see it.
But, a moment later, you feel a violent impact against your left breast. Your body jerks, and you grunt loudly. There is pain, but more than that, there's pressure, heavy hard pressure against and within your chest. You imagine that the blade, for some reason, failed to pierce your skin.
The "stag" holding your head seems to sense what you're thinking, and he lifts your head quickly, letting you see. To your absolute amazement, four or five inches of the thick heavy blade are buried in your chest, cleanly piercing your left breast. Blood is surging and bubbling up around it already.
Then the "stag" pulls your head back again and the priest, using a short sawing motion, pulls the knife downward between two of your ribs. This you do feel, although to call it painful wouldn't be accurate; it feels heavy, it feels huge, but it also feels like it's sliding through your flesh very gently, very wetly. All you can compare it to, the only point of reference you have, is the feeling of a man's erection sliding in and out of your vagina. You can feel your blood rushing out, it surges up in your throat too, as he cuts through your left lung.
You can't see what he's doing, but you feel him take the knife out and then push it back in, near the center of the incision. Then he turns it, scraping it against your ribs and pushing them apart. This is painful, there isn't a question about it. You can't prevent your arms and legs from jerking, from fighting against the restraining hands. But, very quickly, that's over; he pulls the knife out with his left hand and, simultaneously, he thrusts his right into the surging blood, driving it on deep into your chest. Your eyes fly wide open, and you give voice to a little bubbling grunt; as his hand is going in, the comparison to the erection going into your vagina is even more apt.
But then you feel a massive, overwhelming, crushing pain in the center of your chest, as if an immense weight is bearing down on the middle of your breastbone. It lasts only a second; then it's gone, totally, and the man pulls his hand back out, holding in it your still-beating heart. For a moment he hold it over you, showing it to you. It writhes in his hand, blood spouts from the torn connection, you feel the droplets showering you. Then he deposits it, reverentially, in a carved bowl sitting beside the altar.
You are, incredibly, still conscious. You feel utterly empty, as if the whole center of your body is gone; and you find yourself making a comparison here with childbirth. Your legs stretch out hard, your toes curling stiffly back. There's something else, too, something undefinable, something here with you, within you... but you don't have time to work out what that might be. The "stag" lifts your head slightly, glances at the archer meaningfully, and he leans close over your face, his lips near yours. You breathe out, long and slow, your final breath, and he inhales it. He then picks up the little deer-idol and blow the air into its face. As he does, your world is spinning away, you feel impossibly cold, darkness is closing in on you from all sides. For an instant you fight to stay, but that's futile. You surrender to the blackness.