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Sometimes I spit them out together to let them fight to the death, devour one another, only to be reborn [eclipse]. Her image began to undulate like a mirage, her skin shuddered slightly, like a shedding snake. A moan. That voice. What do you see? Symbols to the Lady of Earth, Tlaltecuhtli, the squatting tlamatlquiticitl or midwife, the primordial crust, the one with eyes in my feet and jaws at every joint. I want my side of the story recorded by a priestess. That is why I called you. Can you remember it? I will be a wife, perhaps a queen, breeder of warriors. My father will never agree. No one disobeys my father. And my marriage will secure his Triple Alliance.

Your father fears me. Your father fears you, for that matter. My cuticles need stimulating. And the two of them were flying all over, making plans and decisions about a visionary race of humans they were charged with creating. All very epic, you know? But they had nothing really, till they spotted me. You see, the Gods needed to be needed, and served, and fed, so they had to have humans. For humans, they needed a world. Everything they tried fell down through the nothingness into my snapping jaws. As you see, I have a fine set of jaws at every joint. Can you imagine? They did not understand. Only Ometeotl understands me because I came into existence the moment he split himself in two.

Before that, I was part of Him. At the moment I was ejected into the light of duality, I became the currency, the negotiation. And that makes me, the way I see it, the only thing of real value under the Fifth Sun. Otherwise, they had nothing but a hollow universe full of their ideas. Tezcatlipoco, Jaguar, and Quetzacoatl, Feathered Serpent, were playing ball. I was in the mood for a little entertainment, so I introduced myself to the meddlesome brothers. I swam up to the surface of the primordial sea where Tezcatlipoca was dangling his silly foot to entice me. I wanted a closer look. I was smug with the knowledge that I was the raw material for their dream of humankind and they were in dire straits.

I snapped it right off; tasted like black licorice. Now, that Lord Tezcatlipoca has to go limping and spinning around his own axis until this day [Big Dipper]. The self-satisfied twins, Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca were merciless. In the form of two great serpents, black and white, they encircled my body and wrenched me in two, heaving my chest up to form the vault of heaven forming all 13 levels starting low with the clouds and ending high up in the undivided Ometeotl. As I lay sobbing and panting after the ordeal of being split, crown to toe, the Lord and Lady of Duality were horrified by the bare cruelty of their sons. The Gods all descended, offering me gifts and magical powers that no other being possessed: the power to bear jungles full of fruit and seeds; spurt water, lava and ash; to germinate corn and wheat and every single secret substance needed to bring forth, nourish and heal the human beings who would walk upon me.

Such is my power; such is my lot. They say I am insatiable because they hear me moaning. Well, you try being constantly in the throes of labour. But I never hold back. I give my abundance as endlessly as time. But I think she licked me it has not ended yet, nor have my mysteries. From butterfly to baboon, they all have their own delectable flavor. Yet, it is true, a most delicious essence lives in the blood of human beings.

Humans are tiny universes, seeds of infinity, containing a particle of all things on the earth and sky and light they receive as a birthright from Ometeotl. Microcosmic tidbits. But the sounds, they just come through me to bring the world forth, to hum the trees and rivers, mountains and corn into being. My groans are a song of birth, not of death. Just as Ometeotl gives to each newly born human a precious name and a tonali, a personal day sign which accompanies all who enter this plane of suffering, I sacrifice myself to sustain and grow their little bodies. My song vibrates through all substances and strata of the earth and invigorates them. Midwives, tlamatlquiticitl, perform their duties in my name and supplicate their great squatting Mother Tlaltachutl to guide them.

The power to give forth is the gift given me by all the Gods. It is to recompense me for my suffering. Her image began to cloud again, like the shedding snake. Tlaltachutli spoke no more. Precious feather, precious necklace… You have come to arrive on earth, where your relatives, your kin, suffer fatigue and exhaustion; where it is hot, where it is cold, and where the wind blows; where there is thirst, hunger, sadness, despair, exhaustion, fatigue, pain.

It was understood that midwives who ushered in the new souls had a direct line to the Deities, in the same way the Kings had, which explained their both using the title, tlatoani. Smart, But why were the midwives speaking now, as if I was being born? It was only later that I understood: I was being reborn, into the service of the Goddess. I was fully awake before the voices of the midwives stopped. I went to the forest, as instructed, and made a small fire to the crocodile goddess who had soothed me so tenderly in my dream.

I chanted to her a song my mother had sung to me when I was an infant on her breast. I felt the goddess listening, undulating under me. To honor her, I painstakingly drew two eyes on the two soles of my feet, just like the ones all over her body, with ink we made from tree bark and copper shavings. With the maguey thorn I pricked my fingertips, lips and earlobes and poured my small libation on the fire. After the exertion of my own small blood-letting ritual, I fainted into a light sleep.

It was the first time I had made the cuts myself. It would not be the last. I dreamt the goddess had swallowed me and I was being pushed out from between her two main eyes. My feet seemed to be wounded in the process and I woke from the pain, only to find them covered in blood. The two eyes I had drawn had been carved into my skin while I slept by a hand that was not mine. I looked around the forest.. I began to cry, not from confusion or pain, despite my bloodied soles, but from the sheer awe and power of Tlaltachutli to put her mark upon me. In a daze, I rubbed the wounds with hot ashes from the fire to clean them, and wrapped both feet tightly in cotton cloth so I could walk home despite the throbbing.

By the time I arrived home it was nightfall and the cuts had dried. I looked for you in the forest where you go? He looked at me deeply and something told him that things were not the same. He kneeled and opened the cloth binding my feet and, upon finding the death eyes glaring out from under my tiny feet, he touched the ground with his forehead, his face white as bleached linen. After that, he often prayed fervently before his idol of Coatlique, whose clawed feet were covered with eyes. My father got me special skin sandals as soon as the wounds healed, and told me not to show anyone. He, who was always looking to turn the workings of the Divine to the advantage of his people.

Without this indispensable partnering, the Sun could not cross the ballroom of the sky and humanity would perish in darkness. Bloodletting was a direct vehicle for transformation and the means for union with the Divine. Depending on the type of sacrifice, different forms of union were manifested. In this context, violence was the single most noble, great-hearted and enduring gesture possible.

Its giant inhabitants were devoured by jaguars. In the third incarnation of the world, Blue Tlaloc became the Rain Sun. They say, some winged things survived. Some finned creatures survived. In this current, fifth incarnation of the world, the gods held a meeting. Things had ended poorly thus far. What God would sacrifice himself to make this Fifth Sun? No one volunteered. In the darkened world, a great fire provided the only light. At long length, little Nanahuatzin, the lame, leper God, offered himself up, and leapt courageously into the flames. His hair and skin crackled as he fainted in agony. The humbled Gods bowed their heads, and Nanahuatzin resurrected himself as the sun, just above the eastern horizon.

The Gods rejoiced. But sickly, little Nanahuatzin did not have the strength for the long journey. One by one, the other Gods sliced open their chests and offered up the pure pulsating vitality of their hearts, then cast their glorious bodies into the fire, their skin and golden ornaments melting like wax in the lapping flames, before the Fifth Sun was able to ascend. And that was the first day.

The immolated Gods would have to be resurrected. And the sun would need boundless quantities of blood to stay in orbit. For these tasks, humans as yet uncreated , would owe unremitting penance to their makers, particularly to the Sun, known then as Tonatiuh. Much later on, when the War God, Huitzilopochtli, reached down to guide the Mexcia people, he became exalted above all other gods, and took over the post of the Sun. His appetite was exponentially greater. It fell to humans to crank the cogs of the cosmos.

Human ears had to check the pulse of the rivers, the heartbeat of the earth; human voices had to whisper to the spirits and modulate the rhythms of the planets and stars. And each and every minute wheel, tick and flow, sacred and mundane, had to be copiously oiled with the blood of man because life was not a given. Xiuhpopocatzin speaks rembering her 11th year, : During the reign of Itzcoatl, his advisor, Tlacaelel, destroyed much of the Mexica written history, to exalt and install Huitzilopochtli in the position of the former Sun.

Tlacalael burned the books. My own father, in his service as Cihuacoatl, to the emperor, was empowered with the guiding vision and authority in all matters of strategy. He gave the order but it was I who heard the voices of our ancestors from the Place of the Reeds [Toltecs], the sighs of Quiche and Yukatek [Mayans], the moans Rubber People [Olmecs] lodged in our collective memory — complaining. To him we owe the new growth on the corn as well as the blight should he be angry that year. On Mt. Tlaloc, the men sacrificed to the mighty God of rain by spilling the blood of a weeping young boy.

Then the cave was sealed and guarded. Due penance for the all-needed rain. It was said that Tlaloc was touched by the earnest tears of a child and sent the rains. Without our sacred knowledge, all is extinguished in the darkness of ignorance. I wondered how my father could justify it with his own sacred duty to advise the King in service of the Gods? The Mexica people would burn forever in the glory of his light. What do men know about birth? I could see my words cut into him. Why did I always fight? After all, he was a noble and selfless warrior. When Tlalacael tried to silence the old stories contained in the codices, perhaps he overlooked the fact that you cannot bury voices. The knowledge is still in the heads and hearts and songs of the old folks, the shamans, the diviners, the midwives, and the dead.

If we should not gather it up, it would accuse us before our lord. Punish him! My head hurt. I wanted the voices to stop. I wanted to do something to appease the ancestors whose precious gifts, the history we recorded in our sacred books, had been usurped by a more convenient myth. In Tenochtitlan, during the fourth month, when all the Lords of agriculture were appeased, we also honored our tender patron, Chalchiuhtlicue, the presiding deity of Fourth Sun, and the beneficent Goddess of flowing water, who so lovingly tended the water, streams and rivers. In a ritual of three parts, each year, the priests and youths chose a perfect tree from the forests away from the city. It had to be an enormous, cosmic tree, whose roots grabbed the underworld and whose finger branches touched the 13 heavenly levels.

In the second part of the ritual, this monolithic tree was carried by a hundred men into the city and erected in front of Templo Mayor, the greatest pyramid in Tenochtitlan. Above the main staircase, on the highest level of the pyramid, were shrines to Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc, Gods of war and rain. There, the tree was a magnificent offering from nature herself, for Lord Tlaloc. The girl and I brushed by each other. We were in different canoes but close enough to hold hands. She was clearly a peasant but had been fattened on llama flesh and intoxicated with cocoa and grain spirits; I could see the alcohol glazing her pretty eyes. We were of nearly the same age.

Our reflections merged in the water and imperceptibly smiled at one another. The chanting began as I gazed deeply into the lake beneath us. As if on cue, a sort of whirlpool formed on the surface, the opening the priests had been seeking. I was certain I heard the laughter of loving water mother, Chalhciuhtlicue, Jade Skirt, her hair swirling about her head as if beckoning us to the other world, the watery region beyond the water.

The voices stopped. The sole sound was the ringing inside me. The old priest was chanting and praying tenderly to the Goddess who so loves humanity that she gives us rivers and lakes, but I heard no sound coming from his moving lips. After a long moment, he let go. The feathered child floated in the whirlpool for a final spin and slipped gently under the surface, welcomed by the other side. After her, the giant tree that had been cut in the mountains and erected in front of Templo Mayor before it was floated out to pantitlan, was fed down the whirlpool and accepted.

The aged priest, with that hand that slit throats as painlessly as feathers brush across a cheek, snatched me up by one wet ankle and lifted me carefully back on board. He barely rocked the canoe. He still gripped me by one foot, to make sure I could not dive in again. He chanted, without moving his eyes from the water until he uttered the last syllable, and the whirlpool, which he had opened with his power, receded back into the calm lake surface. The Goddess was gratified. Immediately after, there was a gasp and my foot was dropped with a clatter of oars into the canoe. The people in all the little boats which had rowed out to Pantitlan with us stared out at the sound through the torch-lit dark. With lightning speed, he knelt, wrapped my feet in a skin, and forbade anyone present to utter a sound, with his terrifying glare.

He would understand this was the work of the Goddess. He quickly shot a look at Tlacaelel, assessing if my father already knew. Serpent woman that he was, of course he knew. We traveled home in silence, except for the voices of the ancients which were calmer now. I was shivering. I was eleven that year. When we got home my father grabbed me by the hair, which was nearly down to my knees by then.

I had upset the ritual, and revealed my secret eyes. I did not know for which one I would be punished. I could feel his rage through his grip, but my hair was wet and slick, and I knew my father would never dare hurt me, so I tried to pull free. I knew my hair especially scared him and used that to my advantage. I stood my ground, glaring at my father, whom every man feared. I, even as a child not as high as his chest, was unafraid. Do you want me to live an ordinary life and suffer in Mictlan after I die of old age?

I was ready for another fight but I was unprepared for a display of emotion. His eyes were filled with tears. I could see he cried for concern for me. Look at all the progress our embattled people have made. We had no homeland, no food, no place to rest our children before our patron God, Huitzilopochtli, led us here to the Island of Texcoco, where we saw the great omen of the eagle eating a serpent, atop a cactus plant, and made our flourishing city here on this inhospitable marshy island. That is why the eagle and cactus is the symbol on our Tenochtitlan flag, because we were chosen by Huitzilopochtli and guided to this spot to prosper.

The mission is serving creation, serving our Gods and our people well. We maintain the universe through our sacrifices. And in turn, we, who have created the grand Triple Alliance of Nahuatl peoples, have become very powerful and very great. Our neighbors all pay us tribute in skins of animals, cocoa beans, essences, precious feathers, and spices, and we let them govern themselves freely. In exchange, they understand that they must do their part to sustain our God.

Our enemies fear us but we do not wage war with them or take their land. And our citizens prosper; from nobility to peasants, all have a good education, fine clothing and plentiful food and places to live. Sacrificing yourself to escape them is not a noble deed. Your ears are tuned towards them more than most. I used to hear them, too, but less and less now. You can guide them. Only burned for show, for the masses, for whom sacred knowledge only confuses and complicates their simple lives. Why can I not give what we ask so many others to give to our Gods?

Have you not noticed that they tell their secrets to only a few? Do you suppose they would be happy if I let you die? Nothing was beyond him for he was beyond everything, even good and evil. I did not entirely trust him, nor could I live without the mirror he held to the world, just for me to gaze into. If he was thought weak or sick, his kingdom was vulnerable to enemy attack, and his land subject to drought or blight. The body of the ruler was not just a metaphor for his kingdom but an actual microcosm. For this reason, there are ancient, well-documented traditions of king-killing, practiced in civilizations as far apart as Egypt and Scandinavia, Mesoamerica, Sumatra and Britain.

The more completely the earthly king could embody the Godly presence and consciousness, the more auspicious and successful the sacrificial outcome. At the first sign of decline, or after a predetermined term which usually coincided with an astronomical or solar cycle or event , the king would promptly take his own life or allow himself to be killed. His body would be dismembered and eaten in a sanctifying — rather than cannibalistic — ritual act or dispersed throughout the kingdom to protect crops and people Frazer, J.

This ultimate act of benediction assured the king the status of divine immortality, both on earth and in the afterlife, and, more immediately, his sacrifice was an absolute requirement for the well-being of his subjects. Over time, as the global consciousness degenerated towards materialism as it continues to do till this day , and the sacred rituals lost much of their power and purity. In Tenochtitlan, during the month of Toxcatl, dryness, a captive slave was turned into the God Tezcatlipoca and sacrificed at high noon — decapitated, dismembered, his flayed skin worn by the priest, and his flesh ritually distributed and eaten by the nobles. One year earlier, as a blemishless warrior, he competed against hundreds of men, to be chosen as the ixiptla, God-for-a-year.

The emperor of Tenochtitlan who was also a human representative of Tezcatlipoca understood that this God impersonator was a death-surrogate for the king. After painstaking preparation and training, the slave-God was let to roam the countryside. The entire kingdom showered him with gifts, food and flowers,worshipped him as the God incarnate and received his blessings. In his final month he was given four virgins, daughters from noble families, to be his wives for 20 days before being killed.

In this manner, the entire life-drama of a god-king was summarily enacted. Each step in the year-long preparation had to be achieved unconditionally to ensure the power of all-important ritual. When I was 16, chaste as sand, I carried the seed of God in my belly. I will tell you what happened. But the end of his story was written before the beginning. So I will tell you the last part first:. My love would be the Savior Hero in the great ceremony of Toxcatl. The obsidian blade would take his head shimmering with feathers, just as the Pleiades merged with the midday Sun, exactly above, opening up the channel to heaven.

His soul would soar up to join the Sun in its marvellous flight across the sky each morning; and the kingdom would increase and flourish under the greatness of his legacy. His sacrifice would be scrupulously accomplished and, with no delay, a new Tezcatlipoca would be chosen and trained for the following year. I loved him upon sight, first as a slave; I loved him each dawn as he trained in the temple courtyard; I loved him as a lover, as a husband, as the father of my child; but I loved him by far the most as the God into which he transformed, before my eyes, out my arms. Lord Tezcatlipoca, whose abode was the North Pole star, was the Lord of rejuvenation, resuscitation. Our king-for-a-year, servant and master of the four quadrants of the universe, Jaguar God with blackened skin and a golden stripe across his face…but he was not only like that.

I went with my father, the day they chose him, the new recruit from among the hundreds of slaves and captured warriors vying for the honor of being chosen. When I reached my 14th year, I left home to be trained by the old priestesses, but my father,Tlalcalael, often sent for me on matters of important ritual. On that morning, I trailed behind him and his men and surveyed the shining field. So much bare skin, braided and beaded glistening hair, rippling tattooed arms. I was sixteen and all-eyes. We were to choose the voice of God for that year, the touch of the Divine upon the earth to nourish and enlighten the people. All the warriors were given swords, clubs, drums and flutes and commanded to fight, to run, to play music.

He faced North, the direction of Tezcatlipoca, and of death, and blew a note so pure and low that the ancient crocodile of the earth, Tlaltecuhtli, vibrated and groaned, her thighs quivered between the tree roots. Her voice, the voice of the ancient One, groaned in my ear. Such an extraordinary year was that. I watched our chosen one, from the shadows, our protégée-God, adorned with human and animal skins, gold and turquoise obsidian, garnets, garlands and hair-loops of iridescent feathers, tattoos, and ear spools.

They took him as a brazen youth and trained him to be a God, not just in dress and form, but in truth. I was carrying water from the well in the courtyard, as the court magicians taught him the secret symbols and gestures of dancing, walking, and erotica. It was I, unseen, who swooned in hiding when his flute-playing floated up so exquisitely that the Gods themselves joined in the conversation.

He inhabited the body of my shining beloved as a hand moves inside a glove. I was hopelessly in love when he was still a captive and then a struggling spiritual initiate, but when he fully incarnated the Dark Jaguar God himself, he was the soul of the earth to me. After the period of training, my love was ordered to walk the kingdom, wandering where he pleased, trailed after by hordes of young men and women, exalted, entreated, engaged and feasted by all he passed.

He had four young boys attending to his every inhalation and another four fanning his exhale. His heart was exuberant and overflowing; he wanted for nothing, and passed his days puffing on his smoking tube, pulling flower blossoms from thin air and singing the quarters of the cosmos into harmony on his four flutes. But by night he would return to rest in the temple, and I would see him gaze into his smoky mirror and wonder about the limitations and darkness of human existence.

Such a heavy weight it must have been — to be given the vision of the creators, even briefly. One night, I was sweeping the temple floors when I saw him kneeling in the dark. His eight attendants, just little boys, were fast asleep in a pile on the floor. I nearly fell over him in the dark. You who have the voices near you. What do they say, long-haired girl? The very thing one must not ask.

The very thing I kept wondering about, but would never, ever ask, about his harrowing end, looming so near to him. He laughed. He knew I did not mean to hurt him. He was not making fun of me. I am the most alive I have ever been, but half of me is beyond life while the other half is beyond death. In the minds of the people, the king was also Tezcatlipoca. My Tezcatlipoca was the one who died each year for the enduring king. As such; the two were nearly one, reflections in a mirror, interchangeable. But that time, his eyes looked through me to other dimensions, like the full God he had become. The time of Toxcatl arrived, the fifth month of our month calendar round.

I was nearly The head priestess called me to her. Although I was a priestess, not living with my family, and had renounced my noble status, they chose me as the fourth wife. Perhaps they did this because I was the first born daughter in the royal line of Tenochtitlan kings, or, more likely it was because I was so obviously in love with him, they feared I would die. I fasted for three days and bathed in the sacred springs, sprinkled my own blood generously into the fire pit, rubbed flower oils into my hair now down past my knees , and adorned my legs and wrists with paint and jewels and feathers.

I visited the Ahuehuete forest and made sacrifices to Mother Tlaltecuhtli. The four earth goddesses of Xochiquetzal, Xilonen, Atlatonan and Huixtocihuatl were called up from the earth, and down from their heavenly abode, to bless us, as the four given wives of the Chosen One. We were mere girls who became women overnight; no sooner women than wives; no sooner wives than Goddesses. Our world was turned on end as we five children, or five young women and a young man, or five Gods in human form, enacted the ancient rituals on which the continuation of the universe depended.

The 20 days of my marriage, during the month of Toxcatl, passed in a strange dream. The five of us abandoned ourselves to forces way beyond our limited existence, intoxicated with the sensual extravagance of the moment and the emptiness of eternity. It was a time of total surrender, absolution, dissolution within and inside each other and the godly presences. On our last midnight, the night before we were all to be parted, drunk on rich black cocoa, chanting, and endless lovemaking, we followed Him outside, hand in hand in hand.

The women playfully braided my hair in four, each took a fat strand and pretended to wheel around me, like the four pola voladores taking their 13 death-defying turns in mid-air. Just like those men, suspended far above the earth and spinning, we understood the frailty and the interconnectedness of all life. We laughed until we cried. I opened my braids and fanned my hair out on the dry earth, and the five of us lay down upon it like a bed.

Our husband lay in the middle, like the pollen-drenched center of a flower, and we four women spread around him, naked as petals, watching the stars. Look to the North and gaze at the brightest star; push all other thoughts away. I will be with you, centered in the Northern sky, still, watching, never setting. Soon, the other wives saw the vision also: all the northern stars spun into fast orbits, rotating around the center point above the horizon, creating a whirling pattern like a spinning top. For, unless you bring your double with you into the underworld, you will not return. He, Ometeotl, the One creator, ground the bone fragments and mixed them with the spit and blood of the Gods to form his most perfect creation — humankind.

They were afraid humans would stop serving their lords and masters if they thought themselves equals. Tonight my beloved sisters and wives can watch the sky as the Gods see it. We have decided to die with you, Jaguar Lord. You have my seed within you now, to bloom and invigorate the noble bloodline, to deify the flesh of all men. The path laid out for you is to stay and tend that tiny spark until it becomes a flame and then you will feed the fire of your race. After four years in the service of the Sun, I will be the hummingbird who comes to visit at the windows of my sons and daughters. We lay on our backs, on the wide, soft circle of my hair. He reached for his flute at the same moment that I slipped the obsidian knife out from His belt, so he never felt it.

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