The Sacrifice Game

(58)

“You’re going to keep the yellow tamale, the red,

And the black and the white one,” I said. “You won’t give me those.”

There was a ten-beat pause.

Gotcha. This statement is false, you bastard.

“Then take and eat,” he said.

I took the blue tamale and put it through the mask’s mouth and into my real one. I chewed it up. It was fine. Earth felt the wound. I swallowed-ow.

Blue liquid sprayed over me. The baby ocelots or cubs or whatever they were-of course they were people, but not only hadn’t I heard them come in, but I was losing track of what things looked like-were blowing ink into the cuts in my genitals. Sizzling sounds rose up in the little room. Outside I could hear giant birch-bark kazoos imitating the gurgling sounds of birth. One of my ears popped, and suddenly my head was filled with a luscious comforting smell, like movies and sleepovers. A stone bell tolled twice, the signal for me to slit open Six Murmuring’s abdomen. I did. Someone handed me a smaller flint scalpel and I reached in and up, far, far in, and finally found her heart, and, with difficulty, cut it out.

They lifted me up and spun me around and around, rubbing ashes in over the ink, cutting off my costume and weaving me into a new one, strapping wide ribbons around my ankles and wrists, uncording and combing and re-cording my hair. And change the oil, too, I thought. Finally they draped Six Murmuring’s skin over my shoulders. Somehow, while time had raced around me, she’d been sacrified, flayed, hastily tanned, and cut and sewn into a crude manto. A hand fed me a tamale with part of her ground heart inside, and as I swallowed it the uay of a hero, the grandson of One Ocelot, raised his head inside me, shook the ichor out of his hair in a cloud of garnet beads, and looked around. There was another pop and another and then more all around. It wasn’t my ears, I thought, maybe it was the stone rending itself asunder molecule by molecule or something, and then I realized it was corn popping, pouring out of the heated pots. I faced the mouth-door. Some of the cubs had ball scoops and were shoveling the blue-white molecules out through the opening like snow, down the steps and into the breeze. From below it would have looked like the mul’s cat-head was foaming at the mouth. Cool air coiled around me. I stepped outside, into the big blue-green room of the zero level, and even though I kept telling myself not to get carried away, that it was just an act, I really felt that I was being born out of a wound in the pericardium of the sky.

I watched the white blossoms falling down and away onto the living surface of the city, every visible facet sprouting people like buds on a branch. Infinite focus pressed in on me, the expectation of the human cornrows of bloods and pledges and dependents all sorted into their levels, all staring at me, or rather at the costume that was wearing me, emphasized perspectivally at the apex like Christ’s head at the vanishing point of Leonardo’s Last Supper, acquiring the power of the converging mass of the city, the biomass, the constellations of mountains, the earth and the ocean, and the twenty-two layers of the universe. I felt like a mother spider with thousands of children I wanted to let feed on my own body. Every surface was garlanded with people and I could see into the eyes of every one of them. I stepped to the edge of the threshold stone and stood. The people answered my rebirth with a vast sort of happy vocalized hiss, drawn out on and on, longer than the ovation for an opera diva’s farewell. It was both a welcome and a collective oath of allegiance, or more specifically what we called a “breath gift,” theoretically, at least, as binding as a blood gift. Each person was breathing one of his, or, in a few cases, her, souls into me.

“Our younger brothers, younger cousins,” I said,

I need all of your help in planting me,

In seeding me, 1 Turquoise Ocelot.”

It was the closest an ahau would come to a populist invocation, since I was asking for a sanctification-or more accurately a “speech gift”-from each individual. The mouth of my mask, I guess like the much earlier ancient-Greek kind, was carved to work as a small megaphone, so my voice carried and echoed before the human echoers picked it up. But I wasn’t satisfied with the tone. It was still too reedy. To really lead a mystery cult you have to have The Voice. Orpheus, Manson, Jones, Koresh, Applegate… and just to give them their due credit, 9 Fanged Hummingbird and 2 Jeweled Skull, had beautiful voices. Anyway the crowds answered all together, like a Greek chorus. Which I guess was also a ritual thing before it turned into a stage device.

“ Kimak kimak,” they said. It was like saying “Gladly” or “Of course.”

“ Xtalan,” I said four times to the four directions. “We thank you” or “we will remember you.”

“ Oxlahun ueceb uchic yn uecic, ” the crowd chanted. The formula was as ingrained as a Hail Mary had been for me in the twentieth century:

“Now still our breath is yours, your sap is ours,

We are your roots, you are our trunk, you branch

Out to the unrevealed four thousandfold…”

Each voice was individually pitched to its caste and its clan and its place in the clan, so that you could almost pick each individual voice-loop out of the wall of pitched breath.

Of course, the whole thing was an exchange of obligations. We-I mean, we hotshots-threw these big parties to pay the Morlocks back for all the shit they had to go through, but then we also had to keep making each new party even bigger and wilder than the last one so that it would put them under more of an obligation to us. In Kaminaljuyu and some of the other cities the royals were more blatant about it, begging the public to help them out of debt and even sending out collection boxes. Koh and I had tried to be more circumspect. We’d be making offerings in the name of all the clans and their dependents, and then the clans would show how grateful they were by sending their adders to play in the city-wide Sacrifice Game, as a wedding- and seating-gift to us. And then we’d reciprocate by seeding the k’atun. Which meant reading the game, using it to divine what the weather would be and where to settle people and how to lay out the fields and everything else, and, incidentally, reaffirming or redistributing the various clans’ rights and privileges-hunting rights, shares in the irrigation systems, hereditary dress and regalia, client villages, clans of thralls, and much more besides. On my own end, the offerings had to go down right or I’d lose a lot of popular confidence. To put it mildly. I had to show I could do the job.

The central zocalo had filled up since the masque but now a troupe of twenty terror-clowns whirled out into it and cleared the spectators away with a jerky choosing dance, creeping up on a spectator as though if they caught him they’d offer him as a sacrifice, and then as he got away turning and leaping at another. The bacabs’ oblationers followed them out into the floor, four of them from each of the five clans, each team trailing a long blue rope. They were elect elders, unmasked but weighted down with ornament, and they stomped out in converging spirals, sucking energy out of the earth with a sort of springy flat-footedness. Rigid white fabric wings extended from their thighs, like dragonflies’ wings, and as the spirals contracted into spins the centrifugal force pulled blood out of cuts in their hips until the white had all gone red. It was a pretty showy way to make a blood offering. They clustered in a circle in the center of the zocalo, crushing their limp red wings between them, and reeled the ropes in after them. Meanwhile the Porcupine Clown had worked his way into the line like the fool in a morris dance, dancing along with them and then suddenly braking and disrupting their rhythm. He grabbed the lead oblationer’s position and led the line off its course, like Charlie Chaplin with that parade in Modern Times. The crowd loved it. Porcupine was the only real clown allowed in the zocalo during the gifts or the City Game. Koh had ordered him not to actually mess up anything, but just to relieve some of the tension for the spectators.

Finally the old men got their act together and brought the first gift to the base of the mul. It was from the Snuffler House, who had backed 9 Fanged Hummingbird before all the unpleasantness and so owed me the first gift. And more. Big-time. I’ll deal with you guys later, I thought. They unwrapped the gold cloth and presented him to me. From what I could see from way up here he was an appropriately beautiful full-blood boy just heading into puberty. The ocelot-ancestor personifiers did this thing where they made these big “surprise” reactions, like they were noticing him for the first time, and then closed in around the teenager and started dancing around him like “We’re going to eat you, we’re going to eat you,” or whatever, and then they sprang at him and covered him up, twitching their tails above them in slow increments, mimicking cats nibbling their live food. Next there was a blast from a clay kazoo and my nacom walked out and into the orange-and-black tangle. The ocelots turned and backed off, like they were relinquishing their food to the leader of the pride, and the nacom took the prisoner’s rope and led him to the stairs. Four invisibles fell into line after them and the little procession started up toward me. The chant was segueing into a sort of fugue, as familiar to us as “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” is to American preschool classes, but it had a sort of haunting expectant interrogatory half-melody. Which I guess isn’t very specific, but it’s tough to describe music anyway. And now there were teasers prodding screamer captives too-different captives-somewhere I couldn’t see, and the screams made it more like a burning than any kind of singing. But they gave it a completeness, like you needed the pain at the edge of the chord.