Having decided that you will, you get in line. A few moments later, one of the servers fills your bowl with the steaming mixture, which, except for the added corn and the fact that the meat is in fried chunks rather than ground, very much resembles chili. Your cup is filled with an orange liquid; you taste it gingerly and find that it's a fruit juice, it tastes a lot like pineapple juice but isn't.

You stare at the stew, wondering what you're supposed to use for a spoon; there's nothing like that available. Looking around, you see that the other people are using the tortillas, doubled-over, to scoop out the mix. You take a few tortillas from the stack, find yourself a place to sit, and dip out some of the mix. After blowing on it to cool it, you take a bite.

You did get it cool, you're sure enough of that, but there's so much hot pepper in it it feels like it's tearing out the inside of your mouth. No one else even seems to notice; you force yourself not to react, you chew the bite. The taste is not just excellent, it's exquisite; it doesn't really taste like pork, as you'd believed, but it isn't like beef or venison either, it's a whole new taste, somewhere on the spectrum midway among those three. Very delicate, very succulent. You eat more, and more yet, and your bowl begins to grow empty. You can hear a couple sitting near you talking, they are explaining to a small child with them that the spirits of the goddesses of the deer--the Mixcoacihuatl--entered the bodies of the deer-women as they were dying, or, as they put it, as they were "giving their service." Therefore, they tell the child, she is not eating the flesh of the women who died, but rather the flesh of the goddesses themselves, who died along with the women, and that she is communing with those goddesses by eating the food. That concept--eating the flesh of the deity to commune with him or her--is certainly not unfamiliar to you and you nod, but otherwise you pay little attention.

As you continue to eat, though, you notice that something is beginning to happen to you, something that took place gradually. The stew is dense and it lays rather heavily in your stomach; you can feel it there, and you can feel the heat from the pepper there as well. It's somewhat like heartburn but it's far from unpleasant; mentally you refer to it as "heartwarming," and you laugh at your own joke.

Then, as you near the bottom of your bowl, you realize it's more than that. For some reason, the food seems to be almost hallucinogenic. You are certain you can feel some energy, something like a pulse of liquid, moving out from your stomach in all directions, flowing through you. You can even feel it moving through your fingertips and through the hairs on your head. The main center of it is in your belly but not quite in your stomach; it's lower, behind your navel. You become aware that there are three more centers, as well; one near your heart, one at your groin, and one in your head.

You look down at yourself, and you blink. For a moment you were sure you could see some fiberlike things, brightly colored in a shade that has personal significance to you, almost like fine long tentacles, emerging from your navel. When you blinked they disappeared and things now look ordinary, but if you look away and then back you can catch a glimpse of them again. You also imagine that everyone who's in the Teocallis with you has similar fibers, and when you glance at someone he or she momentarily looks egg-shaped, egg-shaped with bunches of fibers sprouting from four places. You're fascinated by this effect; if you blink or move your eyes quickly it seems like the whole room is completely full of these fibers, bright ribbons of multicolored light flowing and twisting all over the place. They even run out the door, and, without intending to, you allow your consciousness to follow one out.

Suddenly, the Teocallis is gone. You are out in some wild place, running free; you can feel the wind rushing past you as you run, faster than you've ever run before or ever imagined. It's incredibly exhilarating. You glance around, you look down; your feet look strange and it takes a moment for you to realize you have four of them, and they're hooved. Alongside you and behind you are deer, running with you, speeding over some open green field, running for the pure joy of running...

Then, abruptly, you stop running. There is an animal there, standing in front of you, and you recognize it, you recognize it from dreams you had when you were a small child. It looks at you with gentle eyes, and it speaks to you, speaks with a voice you haven't been able to hear since you were three or so, a voice silenced by the world you've lived your life in, that voice you were told, in a thousand subtle ways, did not exist. But it exists now, and it knows you, it knows you intimately, it says things to you you can't imagine you're hearing, they're so very personal... You feel like crying openly and you do. It doesn't bother you, the loss of this was so profound, so tragic, and now for the first time since you were a toddler you have a connection to it again. Spellbound, you listen to the animal's words. You listen and it tells you how you can reach this place again, it tells you who and what you are, and you know, as it speaks, that in fact this animal is you...

And, just as suddenly as it began, the vision ends. You are back in the Teocallis with a nearly-empty bowl of chili in your lap. Tears are falling from your eyes, your chest is heaving, and you feel like you're choking. Several people have noticed, but none of them are laughing. They know, these people, they understand. They understand a great deal of what you have at this point only an inkling of. You finish the chili and the juice and set the bowl and cup aside. You are filled, and it hasn't been only your stomach that received nourishment...

As the meal is ending, something new begins happening; all eyes turn to the doorway, and two people come in and walk through the crowd in stately procession. One, a woman, is heavily dressed in colorful garments that appeared to made primarily of paper. On her arm she carries a large basket. The other, a man, is dressed in a fur garment much like a kilt. He wears a feathered headdress and he carries a full-sized bow, some arrows, and an empty basket. His body has been painted, from head to foot and including his face, with narrow vertical white stripes. Around his eyes and mouth are black circles. Slowly, these two make their way up to the stage.

"We greet the Lord Mixcoatl and the Lady Yeuatlicue!" cries the black-painted man on the stage. "We bid you welcome!"

Moving slowly, with measured steps, the couple climb onto the stage and stand facing the audience. The black-painted man steps up behind Mixcoatl, cuts off a lock of his hair, and hands it to him. Once that has been done, the two of them move to the fire and crouch beside it. The man puts his bow, his arrows, and his basket into it, along with the cut hair; finally his beautiful headdress goes in, the feathers crisping in the flames. When he has burnt everything he has except for his kilt, Yeuatlicue begins putting her things into the fire. She takes various weaving implements from her basket and tosses them in; a spindle whorl, a spinning frame, some unspun cotton, some thread. Then she starts taking off her beautiful paper costume and putting it in the fire, piece by piece, continuing until she is wearing only a little cotton skirt. Finally, the couple stands up and removes their last garments; in unison they cast them into the fire and turn to face the audience. Both of them are absolutely perfect physical specimens. They stand there for a moment; then Yeuatlicue turns away and walks toward the stone with the carvings on it. She kneels down and holds her head close to the rock; Mixcoatl steps up beside her, lifts her long black hair, and winds it up around his left hand.

Then he extends his right hand, palm up, and one of the priests lays a fresh obsidian knife in it. He does not leave it there; he merely touches it to Mixcoatl's palm. He takes it away and steps up on the other side of Yeuatlicue. Kneeling quietly, she glances from one to the other. The priest holds the knife up high, for everyone to see, and there is another pause, another sense of anticipation--after which Mixcoatl strikes Yeuatlicue's head sideways against the stone--gently, not nearly hard enough to really hurt her--four times. Releasing her hair, he steps away. The priest takes his place, winding up her hair and pulling her head back.

With a deliberate motion, the priest slips the obsidian knife under her chin and lays the edge against her throat. She remains still, and he draws it across, very lightly, very delicately--too lightly, it seems, to cut her skin. But, when you look again, you can see that the blade has sunk in deep, almost halfway through her neck. She trembles and blinks her eyes rapidly, her mouth slightly open. The priest guides her head toward the rock, and a red flood from her throat washes over it, covering it, running onto the stage. With obvious effort, she keeps herself up on her hands and knees as long as possible, letting her life's blood soak the carved stone. When her strength finally fails her, when she sags against the rock, the priest who still holds her thick black hair supports her. He holds her there as she blinks, as the pupils of her eyes expand, as she struggles to breathe but cannot. Finally she becomes still, and the flow of blood from her throat slows suddenly.

The black-painted man examines the girl; when the blood has almost stopped flowing, he cuts into her neck again, and now he keeps cutting until her head comes free in his hand. Allowing her body to fall limply to the floor, he hands the head to the Mixcoatl impersonator, who holds it up by the hair, as if it were a trophy.

In formal tones, "Mixcoatl" begins addressing the audience, telling them the story of the Teotl Mixcoatl, Xiuhnel, and Mimich, of the two-headed deer that turned into two women, and of the woman who was called Chimalma. After the story was finished, Mixcoatl, still carrying his trophy, walks to the altar stone, sits down on it, and places Yeuatlicue's severed head in his lap. The black-painted man comes to stand beside him and holds the bloody knife up for all to see. Mixcoatl leans back and four priests catch his wrists and ankles; they stretch him over the stone, being careful to ensure that the head remains balanced on his body--as he's tipped over, the man holding the knife moves the head up to his belly, turning it so it's facing him, as if she's to witness his sacrifice. A fifth priest holds his head and pulls it back.

And the first priest stabs his knife into the man's chest, driving the blade in deeply. Mixcoatl grunts as the priest cuts downward, then twists the knife; you can hear it grating against his ribs. The knife is then pulled out, and the priest thrusts his hand into the welling blood. Mixcoatl groans a little as the priest twists his hand, tearing the heart loose, and groans again as it's wrenched from his chest. He lives long enough to turn his head, to see his bloody heart lifted on high.

But he doesn't last long enough to see it burned atop the stone where Yeuatlicue was bled. No one moves or speaks as the heart is consumed by the fire; the aroma of burning blood and flesh wafts through the Teocallis.

At last, the drummers cease their rhythm, and one of the black-painted men steps forth with a formal-sounding announcement to the effect that the ceremony of Quecholli has ended. You must leave; you must go elsewhere now.