She has become the goddess...

After eating each night we would watch dramatic performances of past myths and battles. By midnight, we were watching the older girls dancing seductively, parading slowly down the main street of the village as if out of an ancient storybook. They were followed patiently by several musicians banging long drums with their hands in a throbbing rhythm and blowing low-toned horns, torches lighting their way. The women wore colorful feathered headdresses bursting with gold and green that sprung out from their dark locks like fireworks. Colorful headbands decorated with gold scales and beads wrapped around their foreheads. Their faces and arms sparkled with golden body paint.  

They wore skimpy tops decorated with more feathers and beaded animal skins that barely covered their breasts. Wide belts of shimmering stones and feathers hung from their rotating hips and jostled around when they danced as if alive. Layers of anklets made from small shells were tied around their lower calves and raddled like maracas with each high-stepping move they made, shaking and whirling with the music.

At the center of the stage area stood two muscular men dressed in showy costumes of little more than fringed loin cloths dangling between their powerful legs.  Colorful cloaks hung from their necks. The light of the large fires reflected off their oiled arms causing all the girls to sigh with desire. Both men wore identical, elaborate headdresses that looked like large golden cubes suspended above their scalps.

“That’s the feast symbol in their headdress,” said Yoatl, referring to the orange swirl with golden eyes and beams like sunlight painted in the center of their headbands. He was very good at pointing out all the details to me. “We call it the ilhuitl.” He pronounced it il-wee-tal.

“What does ilhuitl mean?”

“Feast day.”

“Oh.” I smiled which caused Yoatl to giggle.

The two men wore loose netted cloaks with black lining and white and red circles along the edges. The cloaks were decorated with shells and were tied over their left shoulders like capes. They hung down the front of the men nearly to their knees exposing their strong legs built like the sturdy trunks of palm trees.  

The dancing girls finally arrived at the center stage, passing amongst the audience. One of the girls nearly stepped on my plate with her painted feet and left a green feather in my cup of atole. The girls surrounded the two men and began dancing closely with them, rubbing up against them as the rhythms grew faster and more pronounced. A beautiful, young girl with the largest headdress moved between the two men, eyeing both of them as if demanding their approval and obedience. Her legs were strong and lean, her pronounced bosom covered teasingly by golden corn silk and strings of beads. Her skin glistened with sultry body paint and her seductive eyes were outlined with dark shadow.

“She has become the goddess Xilonen,” said Yoatl. “The goddess of farming. She represents the harvesting of the corn.”

I watched entranced as the young girl danced elegantly and with increasing energy around the stone floor. I noticed one of the darkly clad temple priests slowly making his way towards the stage carrying a pole in his hands with a long sickle blade at the end. I suddenly grew very nervous for some reason. The drums beat faster, growing more ferocious. The girl began spinning rapidly, then stopped and began to twist her upper body before slowly flailing her arms up and down as if she were a field of wheat blowing harshly in the breeze. Her body was alive and vigorous, but her face appeared sullen. I could see tears streaming down her cheeks, smearing her eyeliner.

The thumping drums beat faster, like the pounding of stampeding buffalo. I was transfixed by the dancing and pulsing rhythm, the energy level building to what would be an incredible crescendo. The girl representing Xilonen moved out to the edge of the stage and began weaving between the other girls. They were dancing more slowly and holding large bouquets of yellow flowers in their hands almost like pom-poms.

The long-haired priest in the dark cloak stepped onto the other side of the stage, the black obsidian blade held close to his chest. His hair was shaved along the sides of his head, but it had grown long and thick at the top. His face was lean and darkened with makeup. His eyes were cold and lifeless. He watched the lead girl closely, like a hawk zeroing in on a tasty prairie dog.        

The girl continued dancing among the other women. She then moved out into the open, close to where the priest stood. She gesticulated rich and worshipful motions as the priest tightened his grip on the sickle. The drums pounded louder. The musicians began moaning like a mournful chorus. The priest raised the sickle high.

“What’s he gonna do?” I asked Yoatl, terror rising in my throat.

He didn’t answer.

The other dancers cleared away. I watched mortified as the priest swung the obsidian blade through the air . . . and sliced off the girls’ head in one savage stroke. 

-- from Conquest of Mexico: To Follow the Cross

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