The Bully

The bell for third period had already sounded. It amazed Zammie how quickly the hallways switched from mass hysteria to empty solitude between classes. One moment the locker-lined halls were filled with a couple hundred middle-schoolers, the next they’re as empty as a canteen in the desert.

Usually Zammie would have already been in class himself at this point, but he just arrived at school from a rough teeth cleaning at the dentist. He turned one of the vacant corners and saw four peers standing near the lockers on the other side of the white-tiled hallway. 
     A small boy had his back against the blue lockers while three larger boys hovered over him like a trio of night club bouncers. Two of the boys were holding the smaller boy by the arms while the third brute was talking to him with his finger in his face. Zammie recognized the smaller boy. His name was Joseph Suna. His dad was Japanese and his mom was Thai, Asian immigrants like his own parents. Joseph was the quintessential outcast at school. Too smart for his own good. Too small for his age. A dark bowl cut encircled his head, and his brown pants stopped short at his ankles. The kid had no chance. The big red-haired boy’s name was Marvin. Zammie didn’t know him personally, but he heard enough urban legends to stay clear of Marvin at all cost.

“I asked you nicely, Joseph,” said Marvin. “Didn’t I ask you nicely?”

Joseph couldn’t speak. His chin quivered like a ribbon tied to a fan.

“I told you if you talked to her again you’d be punished, you little bitch.”

Without a moment’s hesitation Big Marvin punched Little Joseph right in the stomach. A whimper escaped from Joseph’s mouth and he doubled over, his knees buckled and the other two boys let go of him so he could fall to the floor.

Zammie froze in the hallway. One of the boys spotted him and pointed.

“Look!”

The red-haired boy looked at Zammie and in a flash started walking towards him. Zammie’s heart began racing but he kept his feet planted. He didn’t want to show fear, but his bladder felt like it was about burst open like a tomato in a microwave.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” growled Marvin, approaching Zammie like a slobbering pitbull.

Zammie tried to speak, but his jaws wouldn’t cooperate.

“You didn’t see nothin’, did ya?” said Marvin, now right on top of Zammie, freckles and all.

Zammie didn’t respond. But he did see something. Something that made him both sick to his stomach and angry at the same time.

Marvin stepped closer. “Say ‘no,’ you little bitch.”

“No,” said Zammie, frightened and fuming.

“Say ‘no I didn’t see nothing’.”

“I … didn’t see anything.” Sudden shame washed over him.

“Smart ass.” Marvin stepped closer to Zammie, looking down at him, his baloney breath filtering out in hot waves. Small acne pustules convalesced around the corners of his mouth like tiny soap bubbles. “You’re name’s Zammie, right?”

Zammie nodded his head, almost proud that Marvin would know who he was.

“If you tell anyone, Zammie, then we’ll find you. Believe it. And you won’t like what we’ll do to you.”

Zammie glanced at Marvin’s two stooges. They were bad news: greasy hair, see-through mustaches, dull eyes. Kids that didn’t amount to much after graduation. If they even graduated.

Zammie had always told himself if he was ever bullied or pushed around he would stand up for himself. If he ever saw someone else being bullied or pushed around he would stand up for them. Well, here he was. And he couldn’t move a muscle. Putting up as much fight the last mushy fruit loop in a bowl of cold cereal.

Marvin turned away from Zammie, motioned to his two minions, and the three of them walked quickly down the hall and turned a corner, probably off to find someone else to harass. Zammie exhaled and rushed over to where Joseph was trying to stand up again.

“Are you okay? Why did they do that?”

Joseph tried taking a couple deep breaths. He was in the 7^th grade like Zammie, but he was only ten years old whereas most of the other 7^th graders were twelve or just turning thirteen.  He had been pushed ahead two classes in elementary school by his parents. They believed their gifted child needed the additional challenge of more advanced academics. What they hadn’t taken into consideration was the increased interactions with kids much larger and much less passive than him.

“I’m fine,” he said. Zammie noticed large tears falling from his eyes.

“What’d you do to piss off Marvin?” asked Zammie.

“Nothing … I’ve gotta go to class.”

Joseph picked up his backpack from the other side of the hallway and ran off as quick as his little feet would carry him. One of his laces was undone. Zammie was left alone both confused with what had just happened and disappointed in his response to it.

-- from Conquest of Mexico: To Follow the Cross

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Hiroshima Aftermath

Dr. Mizuno was a young eye specialist who had only been working at the hospital for a month. He now found himself offering whatever first aid help he could as he moved tirelessly through the cramped, stinking hallways filled with burn victims. He wanted desperately to run out of the hospital and escape these horrible scenes of pain and tragedy, but his sense of duty kept him where he was. He carried a stack of bandages under his arm along with a couple bottles of Mercurochrome. The Mercurochrome was a simple antiseptic good for minor cuts or scrapes. He put bandages, compresses, and saline solution on the more ghastly burn wounds. Some of the people were scalded through layers of muscle. One man’s eyes had melted out. Many of them were swelling with fluid into grotesque and inhuman features. Mercurochrome and saline solution was all he could offer.

His short hair was disheveled and his face was filthy with dust and sweat. He had borrowed a pair of glasses from a nurse because his own pair had been blown off his face during the explosion. He had been standing outside his office on the second floor of the hospital when he saw a bright flash in the hallway. A few seconds later a burst of violent energy ran through the building, shattering all of the windows and shooting the glass shards like shrapnel throughout the various rooms. Many of the patients who filled the beds near the windows were sliced to ribbons from the intense power of the flying glass.

“Excuse me, sir, are you a doctor?”

Dr. Mizuno turned around and saw a young boy and girl standing behind him. They looked amazingly healthy, and they didn’t look Japanese. His first guess was that they were Filipino which took him by surprise. Why would Filipinos be in Hiroshima? They only foreigners he knew of nearby were either Germans or Koreans.

“Yes.”

“We brought some sick people over from the park across the river. They are lying out in the grass. Is there anyone here who can help bring them inside?”

Dr. Mizuno felt his heart sink. He was surrounded by nothing by victims, yet more and more were coming. Would this ever stop?

“I’m sorry, but I have to tend to these people here.”

“But they’re very sick,” said Kyla. “Is there anything we can do for them?”

“Maybe we can have some of those bandages? Then we can tend to them ourselves,” said Zammie.

Dr. Mizuno was encouraged by the will of these children. He handed them a few of the square bandages and a bottle of saline. “Here. I deputize you both as official nurses. Dab a little liquid on the bandage then place it on the wounds. There’s not enough for everyone, but help as many people as you can.” In order to save as many lives as possible, Dr. Mizuno had chosen to help the less injured first. That was what his training had taught him. It felt like a cruel decision to make but he knew many of the people who entered the hospital were beyond hope, and he only had a finite amount of medical supplies available.

The children took the bandages and the small bottle of saline. “Yes, doctor. Thank you, doctor,” they said.

-- from Killing for Country

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The Fat Chief and His Tears

Cortés turned to Marina. His breath was short, his face dark with fury. “Doña Marina, tell these chiefs that their idols must come down immediately. At this very moment. Either they do it, or we will.”

Marina hesitated. She was nervous, concerned about pushing the matter. She finally turned to the Fat Chief to give him the message.

“Now, be prepared to fight if they attempt to stop us,” Cortés said to Alvarado and the rest of his captains.

When the caciques heard the demand from Cortés they grew visibly irate. They quickly began giving commands for their armed guards to rush up the pyramid steps towards the temple. They would protect their precious idols to the death. It was a stance that suited Cortés just fine.

“I want soldiers up those steps now!” ordered Cortés, his raging voice loud and bellicose like an uncoiled dragon. “Don’t let a single Indian stand in your way!”

Alvarado and Ordaz called several foot soldiers to attention. Some of the men had been lounging around the courtyard, sipping wine to help digestion. Even in a relaxed setting, however, Cortés always made sure the men were clothed and armed and ready for any attack. Most even slept in their boots and armor which didn’t help their already rank body odor.

Within seconds, a pack of nearly two dozen infantry men and most of Cortés’s top lieutenants, Alvarado, Leon and Olid among them, were huffing their way up the temple steps.

“Zammie, get back here!” yelled out Aguilar when he saw me wandering too close to the temple.

“You should stay down here, Zammie,” said Bernal Díaz . He was a few steps ahead looking down at me. “This could be dangerous.”

“I just wanna watch,” I said.

“Listen to Father Aguilar. This is a soldier’s business.”

I knew he was right, but I was anxious to see up close what the Spaniards would do with those blood-soaked statues. I backed away from the foot of the pyramid, craning my neck as I watched the soldiers lumbering their way to the summit, climbing higher into the evening sky.

By that time there were growing crowds of apprehensive Cempoallans gathering in the streets that surrounded the temple. Some were crying out for us to stop. Some were simply crying. I imagined myself in their position. How would I or my parents react if we saw a band of outsiders running through the nave of our church threatening to smash the altar and tear up the chancel? I glanced at Father Olmedo. A look of anguish covered his face that let me know his thoughts were probably something similar.

“Why do you want to destroy our gods?” I heard The Trembler ask Cortés. He was trying to be strong, showing signs of anger towards the Spaniard, but tears were falling from his eyes that reminded me of a sad child. I suddenly imagined him as a little boy, a little fat boy who pouted when he didn’t get his way. “If your men desecrate our gods then our entire people will perish! We will all be dead! What good will that do you?”

Cortés watched his men making their steep ascension while Marina translated the chief’s message. He grew stern towards the Fat Chief, showing no sign of fear or uncertainty in his expression. “Tell him that if he does not order his men to bring down those idols at once, I will order my men to roll them off the edge!”

Marina translated the message to the Fat Chief. Cortés looked over at me with a questioning nod as Marina spoke. Her translation sounded fair to me so I nodded to the General. She also embellished a line about Moctezuma returning to punish the Cempoallans which was a nice added touch. That really made the Fat Chief think deeply about which path he would choose.

Cortés was only curious about Marina’s translations when it dealt with religious teaching or political tension. Otherwise he seemed to trust her without having to check in with me. In general, his trust of her had been growing over the past several days. The more Spanish she spoke, the more he seemed to trust her. Olmedo and Aguilar had been working with her constantly for a few weeks now doing total immersion lessons. She was a bright woman and was picking up on it quickly. She once told me she believed Spanish to be the language of love. I asked her then if that was simply because Cortés spoke Spanish. She smiled and looked away which pretty much confirmed my answer.

“We can no longer consider you our friends and brothers,” continued Cortés. “Instead you will become our mortal enemies. We have given you true advice and you have spurned it. I see your own men now armed with clubs. This is stubborn behavior, Chief Chicomacatl, and your people will pay for their stubbornness with their lives unless you command them to stand down.”  

Cortés wasn’t about to relent. He knew he had the advantage. The Indian men were at the top of the temple already. They had the high ground and were armed with their clubs spiked with obsidian, but the Toledo steel knew no equal in this part of the world. The superior position of the Indians would be quickly surmounted by the Spaniards once they reached the top. Alvarado halted the soldiers once they were close to the platform at the summit. He looked back towards Cortés, some sixty feet down, awaiting his final order.

“We are unworthy to approach our gods in the manner you ask,” said the Fat Chief. The anger he had shown earlier had melted away like butter in the sun. It had been replaced with panic and distress. His face turned a dark red. I was afraid his rising blood pressure was about to kill him by causing his own heart to explode. The other chiefs advising him were even less decisive on what to do. “And it’s true we cannot challenge you,” he continued, “so if you are to overthrow our gods understand it will be done without our consent.”

Marina translated the concession to Cortés. One of the Fat Chief’s servants yelled up the side of the temple ordering the Indian soldiers to stand down and allow the Spaniards to complete their blasphemous work. Within seconds there were nearly fifty Spanish soldiers running along the top level of the temple. They pushed over every one of the squat stone idols they could find.

The idols had been carved out of thick rocks in the frightening images of their many gods. They stood anywhere from two to ten feet tall, both male and female. Some had the heads of dragons or snakes and some looked like hideous half-man half-dog creatures. It made no difference to our soldiers. They pushed the statues over where they stood, rolled them to the edge of the temple landing and then over the side. The statues began tumbling down the stairs or rolling down the steep inclines that led up to the temple peak. When they hit the stone floor at the foot of the temple they smashed into a thousand pieces, some exploding on impact like busted China.

The Fat Chief could barely stand to see it happen. I saw fresh tears rolling down his chubby cheeks like leaking oil. Some of the other chiefs standing with him wept as well. Others moaned in prayer asking the gods for forgiveness, beseeching their compassion.

-- from Conquest of Mexico: To Follow the Cross

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Disgusting animals.

Frederick and Edith ran back to the room and ushered everyone out the back door of the house. They stepped out into the cold night air where they saw two other trembling Jewish families with children huddled together. They were watching the synagogue burning to a black crisp. The gray stones that made up the walls would soon be the only remnants left of the structure that had been built nearly one hundred years earlier.

“Where do we go?” asked Edith.

“These people are animals,” said Grandpa. “Maybe Herschel made the right decision after all.”

“The children don’t even have clothes, Frederick,” said Edith. “They’ll freeze out here.”

None of the children had much clothing on. The girls were all wearing night gowns and Zammie had on his green shorts and his white shirt.

“We can go to the hospital. They’ll give us shelter for the night there,” said Frederick.

“The Catholic hospital?” asked Grandpa. “It’s on the other side of the woods!”

“Exactly. It’s away from here.”

The temperature continued to drop, and they needed to find shelter soon. Frederick led both his family and the other two families they met towards a dark wooded area on the other side of the village.

Zammie couldn’t help but look back at the burning town center as they scrambled towards the trees. He saw one man being thrown out of a second story window and landing with a thud on the cobblestone street. A lorry driver was being directed by another officer to drive his truck into different shop windows, smashing the glass and destroying the storefronts.  A pile of Torah scrolls and prayer books were burning in the middle of the square. All sorts of furniture had been pulled out of the houses and the synagogue by soldiers and boys and were being set on fire in the road. Marga’s favorite bakery where their Friday Sabbath bread was bought was engulfed in flames. A grand piano was pushed out onto a third story balcony and then tipped over the ledge by four cheering boys. The piano fell majestically through the air for a second before smashing into a million pieces when it crashed on the street below. Even after its demolition, the piano chords vibrated with a sonorous and melancholy tone.

“He’s dead,” said Frederick.

Zammie’s attention snapped back from the village to the group. They had just entered the forest when Grandpa noticed someone tied up to a tree. Frederick checked the man’s vitals and gave his verdict. The women and children stood back in horror.

“Disgusting animals,” said Grandpa. “Unconscionable.”

The young man from the village had been tied up to a large tree with rope. He had then been executed. There were several bullet wounds in his chest and one in his head. Zammie guessed he had probably been one of the first people to try and stop the burning of the synagogue. 

-- from Killing for Country

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We got stowaways!

Just then there were three sharp knocks on the wood plank at the front of the wagon.

“Oh! That’s the signal, children,” said Harriet. She sprang up and gave three knocks back on the plank.

“What signal?” asked Kyla.

“Someone’s comin’,” said Harriet. “We need to hide ourselves in case it’s a slave-catcher.”

Harriet pulled at one of the planks that made up the floor of the wagon bed and it lifted up. She slid the false floor plank to the side revealing a small compartment below.

“Quick, hide in here! Lay down flat!”

The two cousins dropped down into the tight compartment and Harriet laid down beside them before pulling the plank back over for cover. Zammie couldn’t see anything in the darkness, but he could hear more horses galloping towards them. Daniel slowed the wagon down. The sounds of additional horses could be heard stomping and snorting around the wagon. The light of lanterns filtered through the cracks in the wood.

“Awful late to be travelling alone, ain’t it?” said one of the horsemen.

“Agreed,” said Daniel. “Tryin’ to get home before the missus gets angry.”

Kyla felt like she was in a coffin. She was crammed tightly between Harriet and Zammie and the thin dust from the wood of the wagon was tickling her nose.

“You haven’t seen any runaways on your journey, have ya?” asked one of the horsemen.

“Not tonight,” answered Daniel. “You missin’ slaves?”

“Not us, but a couple of the local farmers are.”

“Ah, bounty hunters,” said Daniel.

Zammie could hear one of the horses trotting around the wagon to the rear.

“Mind if we check the contents of your wagon, sir?” asked the rider of the horse.

“You won’t find a thing back there,” said Daniel.

“We’ll check anyway if ya don’t mind,” said the first rider.

Zammie heard the wagon gate open. Then he heard boot steps clunking on the plank just inches above his head.

“Anything?” asked the first rider from the road.

Zammie held his breath to keep from making any noise at all.

Then it happened…

“Ha-choo!”

Zammie’s eyes went big. Kyla had sneezed.

“What was that?” asked the first rider.

“What have we here?” said the rider in the wagon.

Kyla felt the blood drain out of her face when she heard the man grasping for the niche in the false floor plank above them. A second later the plank was lifted and tossed away. The light of the lantern filled the thin compartment in which the three of them were hiding.

“We got stowaways!” said the man.

TIME TRIP ADVENTURE 2

A RIDE ON THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD

Available at Amazon.com!

Get away you witch!

“You silly girl.” Eloxo’s face softened, tilting gently to one side, she looked at me as if looking at a dying bird. “You can’t escape from the Emperor. You can’t escape from Tenochtitlán.”

“Sure we can—“

“This is the will of our gods, Kyla,” said Acol. “It is the will of Huitzilopochtli.” He pronounced the long name as Weetz-ee-loh-POCHT-lee. “Any choice has been taken from us long ago.”

“Our choice was taking you in,” said Eloxo, her anger returning. “I treated you as a daughter. You ate like a queen with us. You were given the best clothes I could make.”

“Itzel,” I said, trying to peer through the cell shadows for her. “Are you there?”

I heard a soft voice in the darkness. “Yes, Kyla.”

“You believe me, don’t you? You know I couldn’t mastermind this.”

I heard the gentle tap of bare feet stepping on wet stones. Itzel then appeared in the light of the torch. I shuttered when I saw her face. The left side of her mouth was puffy and bruised. Her left eye nearly swollen shut. The eye brow was dark and bulbous like a small eggplant. Instead of being white and vibrant, the sclera of her eye was maroon and oozy from shattered blood vessels. Dried blood was smeared along her cheek and across her jawline.

“Itzel! What happened?”

“She tried to run,” said her mother. “This is what happens when you try to escape this place.”

“But what happened?” I asked again.

“We had a hearing in the court yesterday,” said Itzel, sounding like she had cotton stuffed under her tongue. “When it was over we were moved from one cell to another. I think we’ve been to at least three since we arrived. When we were being moved to this one, I saw an opportunity to escape.” She paused for a moment to swallow, wincing as she did. “We were in a long line with other prisoners. The rope on my neck was loose and I knew I could slip out of it if I wanted. We passed through the marketplace where some of the other prisoners were taken for sale. When the guards weren’t looking, I slipped out of the noose and ran off. I did my best to mix in with the crowds, not drawing any attention to myself. Trying to just look like another citizen. Hoping they wouldn’t notice I was gone.”

She leaned in closer to the bars, staring at me from under her puffy brow. “The people in the market saw me. They snitched. Women yelled for the guards to come get me. I ran through the crowds, pushing my way past the sellers and animals and food stands. But no one would help me. I felt like the entire city was against me. They tried to slow me down while making way for the guards. I clawed my way as far as I could go, nearly making it past the walls south of the palace. But the people just stared at me as the guards moved in closer. I begged for help, but…it’s hopeless, Kyla.”

“And they hit you?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“I fought with the guards. My family will accept their fate, Kyla, but I will not.”

“Accept it or not, your fate is what will happen,” said Eloxo, turning to her daughter. “The gods do not care what you accept. It will change nothing.”

“What do you mean, Itzel? What is your fate?” I asked.

Itzel winced again as she swallowed and licked her lips. “Sacrifice.”

“No. You can’t die! That’s not fair!”

“It is nothing but fair, you silly girl,” said Eloxo. “Why don’t you just leave us be.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would they sacrifice all of you for that offense? That can’t be the correct punishment.”

“It’s not punishment, Kyla,” said Acol, finally speaking up again. “Our punishment will be the selling of our home to Cipactli.”

“Then why are you being killed?”

“We don’t know—“ said Acol.

“They say the Emperor has been seeing visions,” said Itzel, interrupting her grandfather. “Frightening visions of death from outsiders.”

“Outsiders like you,” said Eloxo, pointing her accusatory finger.

“Why are you so mad at me?” I was getting fed up with Eloxo’s bitterness. “If all of this is really predestined by the gods then why do you blame me? Why not blame them?”

“Because you are their instrument!” Eloxo nearly lunged at me through the bars. “I couldn’t see it before, but it’s all so clear now. You are their servant, their vessel. You are part of their plan.”  

“That’s crazy talk, Eloxo!” I wanted to grab her by the hair and shake her head. “You were so nice to me before! Why have you turned on me like this?” This woman’s worse than Noxo, I thought.

I was so wrapped up in what Eloxo was telling me that I hadn’t even noticed the prison guard standing next to us. He was whispering something to Yolo behind me.

“More guards will be here soon, Kyla,” said Yolo. “We have to go.”

“Not without them,” I said, tears beginning to dampen my cheeks. I wasn’t sure if they were tears of anger or tears of sorrow. “Itzel, Yao. Come with me!”

“No!” said Eloxo, pushing her daughter back with her arm. “None of us will go with you, you witch.”

“But we’ll die here if we stay!” said Itzel. The shadows cast from the torch splashed a creepy copper mask across her distended face.

“Anyone who goes with her will die!” said Eloxo, pointing at me. “She is a witch!”

Itzel looked at me, tears streaming down her face. Yoatl and Acol stood like statues, avoiding eye contact, seemingly beaten down by Eloxo, completely resigned to their destiny.

“You cannot take them, Kyla,” said Yolo. “We must leave now.”

“Leave us to our fate,” said Eloxo. “You have done enough as it is. I pray that our lives will cover the blood-debt you have cursed us with.”

She reached out through the bars and grabbed me by the huipilli. Her eyes looked wide and crazed like a street woman begging for a midday fix.

“I will be in the afterlife soon, Kyla. I will be on my way to Mictlan. And from there, my spirit will haunt your dreams. I will stalk you for the rest of your days until you die. Then you will also return to Mictlan where you belong. And I will be waiting for you.”

-- from Conquest of Mexico: To Follow the Cross

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What made the Nazis so smart?

Herschel walked outside the hotel into the cool, early morning air and took in a deep breath of Paris. For a brief moment he wondered how many more such breaths he had left to take in his life. He walked along the sidewalk to the first open café he found and ordered a dark roast coffee and a butter croissant. He did his best to savor every bite, but he was too anxious to finish the pastry. He was a bundle of nerves. His brain was filled with thoughts of his parents and their current state of de facto imprisonment. He also thought of brown Nazi uniforms and their pompous arrogance; thinking they knew what was best for everyone. What made them so smart? How did they know what was best for everyone else? And how could someone as small as he get their attention and make them listen?

He had received a postcard from his mother a few days earlier. In it she had described their dreadful condition in the Polish refugee camp and it had filled his eyes with warm tears. He prayed daily for God’s inspiration for some action he could do that would help bring attention to the plight of his family in particular and the Jewish people in general. His young mind ran rampant with emotion, but he tried his best to think clearly. In the end he felt he had made the best decision possible given the limited means available.

After breakfast he continued his walk and found a small gun shop a few blocks further down the street. The sun was now up and the shop had just opened. Herschel looked at the small handguns in the glass case near the front counter.

The shop owner said something to Herschel in French, but Herschel didn’t know exactly how to respond. He noticed the yellowed, handwritten price tag on a small 6.35mm revolver. He pointed at the gun and the shop owner pulled it out of the glass case. He had some limited experience with small firearms, and this one looked similar to some of the guns he had seen in the detective movies he watched. Plus the price was right. He also picked out a box of bullets. The total came to 235 francs which nearly cleaned him out. 

Herschel put the gun and the box of ammo in his coat pocket and made his way towards the metro station.

-- from Killing for Country

Now available at Amazon!

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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