Among the Reeds
Tepin wriggled his toes into the soft clay at the water’s edge. Palms swayed lazily overhead in the warm breeze and sunlight speckled his skinny arms. The air was filled with the hum and buzz of insect noise. Black clouds of tiny bugs hovered above the river like flocking birds, and water-striders traced vanishing patterns upon its surface. Something rustled in the ground cover, and he turned his head in time to notice a family of small reptiles scurry out from the forest floor in search of their next meal. Tepin rested his chin on knobbly knees and heaved a contented sigh. Alone, at last.
A skink clawed its way up his legs, coming to a rest on his knees, and he laughed. “That tickles!”
Its eyes swivelled with curiosity, and its pale blue tongue darted out, tasting the air. Tepin mirrored the little creature, sticking out his own, and smiled. He adored lizards, and they seemed quite fond of him, too. The wind carried with it the distant sound of laughter from further upstream, and what sounded like his own name, but he thought little of it. He was much too mesmerised by his find, and desired a closer look.
Tepin proffered a cupped hand to the skink. “Come on, cuetzpalli, don’t be shy.” After a moment’s hesitation, it clambered aboard. “There you go,” he cooed. Its eyes were hard and fiery, and its scales shimmered and shifted colour in the noon sun. He took great care handling the lizard, and even greater care admiring it, soaking up every detail he could.
“Tepin!”
Tepin shrieked, first in alarm, then in searing pain. He flapped his hand about in a panic. From the tips of his fingers dangled the skink, its razor-sharp teeth embedded in his soft flesh.
The chimes and bones around Tēya’s neck rattled as she threw her head back in laughter.
“Help!” cried Tepin, staring up at her haughty face.
“As you wish, lizard boy,” she said with a smile, clutching her belly. Tēya knelt down beside him and wrapped her hand around the skink’s belly. She gave it a gentle tug, but it squirmed at her touch and bit down harder.
Tepin yelped in agony. “What are you doing? Get it off already!”
“This should do it, little one,” she said, licking her lips in concentration. She pinched the skink at the base of its neck and prized it off. It writhed in her grip, hissing through a mouthful of blood. She regarded it with disgust, hissed back at it, and tossed it over her shoulder.
She sat down and fished a hand into one of the brown leather pouches secured at her waist, before popping something into her mouth. “I wish I knew what you saw in those things,” she said, chewing and shaking her head.
“I don’t know… I like them, and they—”
“Hand,” she demanded, spitting a greenish-brown mush into her palm.
“…They like me. They’re my friends. Ow!”
“Friends wouldn’t bite each other, Tepin,” she said, dabbing the wound with the paste.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “They might… If they get scared.”
She nodded her head thoughtfully. “They might. But even so, you’re not a lizard, little one.”
“Am, too!” cried Tepin, bearing his teeth and clawing the air with invisible talons.
Tēya laughed. “Hold still, please.” She gestured to the river’s edge, where several skinks were tanning themselves on rocks, just beyond a skirt of yellowing reeds. “See? Lizards spend time with their own kind. This is true of all the beasts of the forest.”
Tepin was silent for a moment and stared at the ground. “Then, what am I?” he asked, his small voice cracking.
She lifted his chin with a fingertip, feathering his tear-stained cheeks with her thumb. “You’re a proud son of the Jaguar, Tepin,” she said, her mouth curving into a broad smile. “And the children of the Jaguar never get scared.” She gave his wound one final inspection. “There! All better.”
The little boy wiggled his finger and looked up at her with a half-smile.
“Come,” she said cheerily, holding out her hand. “Let’s go visit your brothers and sisters.”
He gave a slight nod and grabbed hold. Together, they began walking upstream, in the direction of the distant laughter.
Tepin and Tēya walked hand-in-hand beside the river for a time. It was by no means a long journey—at least, it wasn’t intended to be. But it became increasingly clear to Tēya that her young companion was quite unlike other children. Most younglings would’ve kicked up a fuss, but not Tepin. He was fascinated—by everything. She could scarcely take two steps before feeling the familiar tug at her wrist, and their trek was once more at a standstill. A litany of attractions littered their path, each one more captivating than the last. A dome-shaped mound of clay overrun with ruby-red ants. A large bird whose long, tapering beak contained all the colours of the rainbow. The drunken dance of a bumblebee as it doddered between brightly-coloured flowers. The severed tail of a lizard he insisted on keeping, even as it thrashed in his grip. She’d humoured him as best she could, hiding her irritation behind weak smiles, but as Tepin began stuffing the tail into his pouch, she could feel her patience dry up.
“Really, Tepin… You’re keeping that?”
He tightened the drawstring of the pouch and gave it a little pat when he was done. “Only to give it back to him,” he stated at last.
Tēya palmed away the sweat from her brow and sighed. The sun was at its highest point now. “Tepin, they often lose their tails, but they grow back eventually. There’s no need—”
The little boy’s mouth became a hard line, and he crossed his arms in defiance.
Tēya glared at him. “What?”
“If I found something you lost, I would give it back to you.”
Tēya rolled her eyes. She should’ve known better than to argue with children, let alone this particular child. “You’re so strange, little one,” she said, conceding.
“It shouldn’t be strange to be kind.”
Tēya almost chuckled at the simple wisdom of the boy. “Who told you that? It was one of the elders, wasn’t it… When they’ve had too much jagube, they get a little”—she twirled a finger at her temple and stuck out her tongue. “You know?”
“No, no one told me.”
“Are you su—”
The wind laughed once more, louder this time.
“We’re nearly there,” Tēya surmised. “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing his hand.
Beneath the Mire
Tepin and Tēya followed the distant voices until they’d lost sight of the river. The sun’s strength was beginning to fail, staining the sky a deep shade of blue as it fell. A gentle breeze, far cooler than before, brought relief to their inflamed skin. But it brought something else with it, too—something that stopped the little boy in his tracks. “What is that, sister?” he asked in between sniffs.
The smell was strange yet familiar. It reminded him of something he’d once discovered on one of his adventures—a small rodent with its feet clasped together, baking in the heat. He was used to seeing them on sticks, roasting on an open flame until they shone pink and tender. This odour was much stronger, and he blinked back tears as they strode further into the stench.
Tēya rolled her eyes and pushed ahead. “Come on,” she said, waving him forward. She’d grown tired of his questions, and saw no reason to stop.
When Tepin caught up to Tēya, she was standing atop a small, sandy hill. “We’re here,” she announced.
Tepin joined her and found himself staring down into a chalky clearing in the forest the shape of a half-moon.
Tēya laid a hand on her small companion’s shoulder. “Looks like fun, doesn’t it?”
A dozen or so children were at play below, with no adult to stop them—laughing and yelling as they ran about the place, kicking up dust in their wake.
Tepin grunted a response, his attention elsewhere. The scene was nothing unusual, but Tepin still felt odd at the sight. The patch-turned-playground itself had caught his attention. The endless sprawl of the forest came suddenly to a halt here, as if it dared not venture further. Instead, it grew around the circular patch of dry, cracked earth. It was a wasteland in the centre of a verdant jungle, like an oasis’ perfect opposite. The clearing was hemmed in on one side by what he took to be the river, but it looked different to his eyes. The surface was covered in vast islands of spongy moss and tufted shrubs, and what water he could spy beneath was thick and murky.
Tēya sensed his unease. “Do you not want to play with the others, little one? You’ll have fun, I promise.”
He met her gaze for a moment, before looking back. “Did something scare the forest, sister?”
“Tepin, we should really head down now. I promised their parents I’d keep an eye on them, and we’ve taken long enough to get here.”
“Sister, please,” he insisted, pointing.
Tēya relented, crouching down beside him and squinting into the distance.
“It looks like something ate a piece of the forest, and now it’s scared to grow back.” Tepin made a snapping mouth of his hand. “See?”
Tēya was unconvinced. It looked much the same as it always had. In truth, she’d never known a time when it hadn’t looked this way, and the thought of questioning it had never occurred to her. Neither had it occurred to the wizened elders of her tribe, for whom it seemed every blade of grass held some infinitely grander story. Tēya shook her head, and was about to dismiss the question when she saw in it an opportunity and changed tack. She stroked her chin in mock-thought and allowed her eyes to dart back and forth as if giving it serious consideration, before turning to face him. “You know, Tepin” she began. “I’ve actually never noticed that before… You might just be on to something.”
“Really?” Awe had transformed the boy’s face.
Tēya nodded and stared off into the distance, trying her best to remain engaged. “But what could have done this? It must’ve been very large.”
“That’s what I also thought!” Tepin said proudly.
“Tell you what, little one,” she said sidling up to him. “Let’s go ask the others. Maybe they’ll know something we don’t. How about that?”
“Okay!” Tepin couldn’t contain his excitement, and began hopping from one foot to the other.
They shuffled down the sandy hill together, the grains, still warm from the midday sun, stinging their feet. Once they’d reached the bottom, Tepin sped off towards the noisy pack of children. Tēya didn’t bother calling after him, deciding to spare her throat—and her aching feet—the trouble. She’d fulfilled her duty, as far she saw it, and Tepin wasn’t the only child in her care. He could be someone else’s problem for the time being, she thought, and strolled towards the edge of the forest. There, a group of young girls were taking refuge from the heat.
***
Yāōtl was taller than the others—stronger, too—but not by much. His head was shaved, save for a ragged strip that ran down the centre, and bands of fluttering feathers hugged his glistening forearms. Stone plugs weighed down his lobes, flopping about his neck as he ran.
He scooped up the ball in one fluid motion and sped off, leaving his playmates choking on dust. His temples throbbed to the beat of his heart, and droplets of sweat clung to his brow. The boundary line was in sight—just a few metres more. Out of the corner of his eye he spied a figure gaining on him, and another appeared just ahead to block him off. He clutched the sun-dried fruit firm to his gut and willed his legs into a sprint, weaving from side to side as he pushed ever onward. After a moment, he snuck a look behind and smiled. The figure had slowed and was shrinking from view. He whipped his head back to find a pair of burly arms fixing to tackle him to the ground. With cat-like grace, he shifted his weight to one foot and dashed out of reach, but not before driving his elbow into his opponent’s face. The boy staggered from the blow. His eyes rolled back in his head and his body folded like a banana leaf, crashing to the ground. The others rushed over to his body, hurling abuse as they went. Yāōtl sped on, imagining they cheered for him. He cleared the line with a tumble and lay on his back until his breathing found a steady rhythm once more. He rose as the others beckoned him over, and whipped his weary legs into a trot.
The boys, some no older than ten, greeted him with a scowl when he arrived. They gestured angrily to their friend on the floor, who’d begun to stir.
Yāōtl walked over to him, clutching his side. “Better luck next time,” he said, holding out his hand.
Hual waved it away and staggered to his feet. “Get off.” His one eye was sealed shut, and he spoke as if through an extra set of teeth.
“Are you alright? You took a nasty fall there.”
Hual snorted and massaged his jaw. “Spare me, Yāōtl. You know what you did.”
Yāōtl looked dumbfounded. “Win, you mean? Come now, Hual, don’t be a sore loser. I won fair and square, let’s not kid ourselves.”
“No, you didn’t—you never do. Playing fair simply isn’t in your nature, neither is honesty.”
Yāōtl looked him up and down, a look of pity on his face. “And winning clearly isn’t in yours.”
Hual spat out a gobbet of blood onto the dirt. “At least I play by the rules, Yāōtl. You do your best to break them. It’s a wonder anyone plays with you, and I’m a fool for expecting anything less.”
“It’s my game, isn’t it? The rules are mine to break if I choose. Perhaps you’d have better luck picking flowers with the girls—there’s a game you can’t lose.”
Hual rolled his shoulders and took a wobbly step forward. Before taking another, a friend laid a hand on his arm.
“Come on, Hual. It’s not worth it, you know that,” he said, trying to turn him away.
“You should listen to your friend while you’ve still got your wits,” said Yāōtl, tapping his temple with a finger.
Hual shrugged off the hand and stomped towards Yāōtl, stopping inches from his face, their eyeballs practically touching. Hual lurched his neck forward in a feint. Yāōtl shut his eyes out of instinct, nearly tripping over himself as he reeled.
Hual’s lips, sealed with dried blood and spit, were wrenched open in hearty laughter. Others joined in, and Hual began to walk away. Yāōtl’s face flushed with embarrassment, and then rage. His eyes flickered back and forth, searching for someone to offload on.
“Excuse me? Does this belong to you?”
A small boy, with an equally small voice, stood in front of Yāōtl, holding above his head a large, dried guanabana.
***
Tēya batted aside an overhanging palm leaf as she passed under the canopy. She couldn’t help but smile as the shadows enrobed her, soothing the sting in her skin. She greeted the girls warmly, one by one. “Xōcoh, Necā, Tapa.”
The girls were sprawled out on the forest floor, napping, overcome with drowsiness from the heat.
Tēya placed her hands on her hips and scowled. “Has the sun drained you of all manners?”
Tapa turned in her sleep, while the others sat up and rubbed their eyes.
Tēya tutted and dropped something in Xōcoh’s lap, a bulging leather pouch with crude stitching. “Here,” she said, lying down beside them. “Fresh water from the river south—not that you deserve it.”
Without a word, Xōcoh brought the pouch to her lips and squeezed out a thin stream into her parched mouth.
“Water?” slurred Tapa, stirring.
Necā, now fully awake, snatched the pouch from an unsuspecting Xōcoh. “Elders first,” she cried as she took off into the jungle. Xōcoh, the youngest of the trio, began sobbing. Necā took two steps before being tackled to the ground.
“And I’m the eldest.” cried Tapa. Necā withdrew her arms and legs like a frightened tortoise, shielding the sack. Tapa beat out a rhythm on her back with her bare fists when she refused. “Give it here!”
Tēya groaned and cocked an eye at the miscreants. “That’s enough!” she bellowed.
The young girls were stunned. A shower of leaves fell as birds scattered in the treetops. In the distance, the boys craned their necks in confusion. Even Xōcoh’s tears dried up for a moment.
“There’s more than enough for all of you, and if you insist on behaving like boys and not sisters, I will drink it all myself,” she spat.
Necā regarded Tapa’s hand warily before taking it and dusting herself off. The girls bowed their heads in shame and mumbled out apologies as they passed the pouch around. They drank their fair share from the battered container and handed it back to Tēya, before settling on the ground once more. They sat in silence for a time and stared out across the breadth of the clearing, watching the boys prance across the barren field as their game resumed. The girls were afraid to make eye contact, let alone pass the time with idle chit chat.
Tēya wiped her mouth and tossed the empty pouch aside. “Why aren’t you playing with the others?” she asked, breaking the silence.
Tapa smiled weakly and stabbed the ground with a stick. “It’s too hot.”
Tēya snorted. “That’s never stopped you girls before. What’s going on?”
“It’s Yāōtl. We never play when he’s around.”
“The high priest’s son?”
Necā grunted. “He’s a cheat,” she said, finding her voice again.
Tēya frowned. “What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t play by the rules,” said Tapa.
“No, never. He changes them when he’s losing,” added Necā. “And if anyone challenges him, he gets angry and hurts them.”
Tēya squinted into the distance. A great number of children were at play, their tiny bodies glinting in the sunlight as they darted about. “Are you sure? It seems like harmless fun to me, and besides, all your friends are out there. Why don’t you join?”
The girls looked at each other. “We’re not allowed—none of the girls are.” Xōcoh started whimpering again. Tapa reached out a hand to comfort the young one, before continuing. “The boys, especially the younger ones, don’t have a choice,” said Tapa. “If they say no, he hurts them anyway.”
Tēya could feel her anger mounting with every passing second. Yāōtl was much like his father Cuāuhtl, high priest and beloved adviser to the emperor, but lacked his better qualities—wisdom, courage, and leadership. By fate or chance, his worst traits had trickled down to his insufferable son—trickery, selfishness, boundless vanity. She rose to her feet without realising it and readied to leave, her face swollen with rage. “Stay here,” she commanded. They didn’t dare move an inch.
As Tēya left the forest behind, she felt the desire to look back, and peered over her shoulder. She finally understood what Tepin meant, in his own way. The forest did look scared, tormented by some invisible horror, ready to uproot itself and flee with newly-sprouted legs. Tēya dropped to her knees and examined the ground. Its uneven surface hinted at trailing roots, and the trees themselves seemed to grow at an odd angle, away from the area. Was the patch getting larger, or was the forest retreating into itself? Surely neither, she told herself. Just Tepin’s imagination getting the better of him—it wouldn’t be the first time. Tepin! The realisation finally hit her. She was so desperate to get rid of the boy, to check in on the others, that she’d all but forgotten about him. She cursed out loud and broke into a sprint.
Tepin peered into the bottomless murk and slapped a hand to his mouth. The stench was unbearable, and the sight ghastly to behold. This was no river but a bog, a watery tomb where all living things ensnared in it would surely die. Black ooze dripped from branches, their gnarled forms like outstretched hands, begging to be wrenched free. Dozens of fish bobbed on its roiling surface, their eyes staring back unblinking, covered in flies. Large bubbles burst with a loud pop at the surface, releasing plumes of yellow smoke. It wasn’t long before Tepin’s vision blurred with tears, forcing him to look away.
“Are you sure?” Tepin asked, coughing into his hand. “It doesn’t seem safe.”
“Of course it is, boy. We play this game often. It’s one of our favourites.”
Tepin looked past him, into the faces of the other children. They couldn’t bring themselves to look him in the eye, and whispered amongst themselves. He pointed at them. “The others don’t seem to want to play. They look scared.”
Yāōtl stared down at them and waved Tepin closer. “I think they’re just jealous,” he said, his hand cupped to his mouth.
“Jealous? Of what?”
Yāōtl drew a finger to his lips. “Quiet…” He dropped to his knees so that they were the same height. “Not everyone gets to play, you see. Only the older boys are allowed, and I decide who. It’s a special game.”
The boy grew silent for a moment, mulling it over. The other children barely took notice of him, and had never thought to include him in their fun. Yet here was an older boy, nearly an adult, that not only wanted to play with him, but had promised to satisfy his curiosity if he did. If he were to turn him down, he might never know the truth. In his mind, it was decided.
“And if I play with you… you’ll tell me what happened to the forest?” Tepin asked.
“That was our arrangement, wasn’t it? I always keep my promises, boy, you can ask the others.” Yāōtl turned and glowered at them, and they started nodding furiously. “See? Do we have a deal?” he asked, rising to his feet.
Tepin raised a brow at him. “Swear it.”
“Really?” he chuckled. “You’re an odd one.”
Tepin folded his arms.
“Alright, fine.” Yāōtl’s expression turned serious and he placed a hand over his heart. “I swear it.”
“Okay, I’m in.”
***
It wasn’t long before Tēya crossed paths with Hual. She found him seated on the ground, a short ways from the other children. Quite unlike him, she thought, the boy rarely kept to himself. She noticed his posture—his head knocked to his chest, and his hands clasped around it, gripping it steady. He swayed back and forth like a mother rocking her newborn to sleep.
Tēya crouched down beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hual?”
He flinched at her touch and scrambled backwards on his hands and feet.
“Hual! It’s alright, it’s me, Tēya.”
He paused, and she watched the panic drain from his bloodshot eyes as they fell upon her. That’s when she noticed his torso caked with dried blood, the gash at his cheek that refused to close, and the socket sealed in black. She carefully took his head in her hands. “What happened to you? Who did this?”
Hual began to tell of how he came to be injured, but no sooner did the question leave her lips had an answer proposed itself. An answer she knew, but feared, to be true. She roused him to his feet and slung her arm about his shoulders. She turned her pouches out in search of something to ease his pain, but found nothing. She decided it best to return to the village, where he could be properly treated. With any luck, they’d make it back before the sun’s power was spent and the cool blanket of night shrouded everything in shadow. She was plagued with doubt about the trip ahead, and wrestled with the thought of leaving Tepin to his own devices.
They came to a stop at the edge of the clearing, and Tēya looked back. “Hual, you didn’t see a small boy there, did you?”
A twist of teeth and tongue crept up his shaded features. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, I’m afraid.”
Tēya thought a moment. It was little use. However she phrased the question, Hual or anyone else wouldn’t know of whom she spoke. Tepin spent every waking moment with lizards, not boys his age, and even his parents had given up worrying after him. He had no friends to speak of, save her. In all likelihood, after discovering his kin possessed neither scales nor feathers, he probably wearied of them and went off in search of a lazy stream to marvel at.
“Never mind,” she said, finally, and the two pressed on through the soft vegetation. She’d have to come back for him, and trek through the pitch-black jungle alone.
***
The game was simple: make it to one end and back—and don’t fall in. Simple enough, and yet just as dangerous. Tepin looked on as Yāōtl demonstrated. Rocky outcrops dotted the surface of the bog, spanning ever outward in a long line. Some were smooth and broad, some half-submerged in rancid water, or else covered in slippery lichen. All of them were smaller and further apart than the last, until only a distant spike of crumbling stone remained of the final obstacle. For once, a game whose rules even Yāōtl couldn’t break, unless he wished to cheat death itself.
The agile teen made quick work of the circuit, leaping from rock to rock with a confidence that grew with every hurdle—as did his showmanship. He made as if about to topple over and slide at times, or fall short of his target by a hair, always inches away from plunging into the water. But he recovered every time. The crowd watched on as if bewitched, gasping in unison with every stumble, cheering every time he pulled through. It was more than a simple demonstration—it was a performance. In a game where breaking the rules meant certain death, Yāōtl had managed to cheat all the same—only it was his audience he cheated, whose emotions he toyed with for his own entertainment. Tepin would’ve been impressed were he not battling confusion. He sat with his back to the ridge and fished the lizard tail from his pocket, turning it over and over in his hands as he thought. He couldn’t figure out what was so special about the game. Straightforward and difficult, but not special in any way. Tepin was having second thoughts. The noise, the crowds, the unbearable smell—it was all beginning to wear on him. He’d always puzzled everything out himself, so why should this be any different? Before he could dwell any further on the matter, a hand slapped him on the shoulder.
“Got it?”
Tepin blinked away his thoughts. Yāōtl towered above him, grinning from ear to ear.
“I think I’ll be going now,” he said, rising to his feet.
“I guess you’ll never know why the forest is scared, then.”
Tepin sighed and returned the skink’s tail to his pouch with the utmost care, patting it twice. “That’s alright. Well done on winning,” he said, and turned to walk away.
But for once, winning simply wasn’t enough for Yāōtl. He tore the pouch from Tepin’s waist, and the young boy’s loincloth fell around his ankles. The crowd erupted around him in a chorus of laughter, battering his senses.
Yāōtl added his cackle to the rest of them. “What’s the matter, lizard boy?”
Tepin gulped down the lump forming in his throat and drew his lower lip between his teeth in a snarl. He leapt at Yāōtl, pushing off hard against his bent knee. He thrust his one hand to the sky, just grazing the pouch with his fingers. His other he balled into a tiny fist and struck out, connecting with the prominent lump in Yāōtl’s throat. They fell hard, landing on top of one another. Yāōtl gasped for breath, while Tepin used his whole body to wrestle the pouch from the older boy’s vice-like grip. The teen shoved him off with a kick to the chest, and for a moment, they were both prone on the floor, struggling to breathe. Yāōtl got to his feet first and set off at a sprint towards the ridge, the little boy close behind. Atop the muddy incline, Yāōtl cocked his arm back and threw.
“No!” Tepin screamed, but it was too late.
He watched in horror as the pouch sailed through the air, landing on the surface of the bog with a plop. Tepin raced to the ridge and leapt to the first rock in an attempt to pluck it from the surface. He hoisted himself over the edge and made a panicked grab at the bag, but it was just beyond his grasp. Tepin screamed out in anguish as it was swallowed up by the forbidding waters of the wretched, stinking bog, never to be retrieved again.
“Oh, what a pity.”
Tepin raised his tear-soaked cheeks to find Yāōtl standing on the embankment, a triumphant grin on his face, his voice as thick with mockery as the bog-water that sloshed around them.
“That wasn’t a very nice game now, was it? And to think, this could all have been avoided if you’d simply kept your promise. There’s a lesson to be learnt here, and I intend to teach you.”
Tepin looked pleadingly into his eyes.
“On your feet, now.”
***
Tepin arched his back in a long stretch. “Again?”
“Again,” said Yāōtl.
The little boy breathed out a sigh and gazed up at the darkening sky. The first stars had emerged from hiding, like tiny jewels embroidered in pale purple silk. “Look, I think I’ve learnt my lesson, and I really should be getting home. Nantli’s making tam—”
“Again, damn it!”
Yāōtl’s game wasn’t going as planned. For hours now, the boy had cleared every hurdle with an ease that made his face prickle. Worse still, he seemed almost to be enjoying himself, quite having forgotten about the pouch of prized goods he’d torn from him earlier. He watched on alone, cursing bitterly beneath his breath. The other children had fled in favour of a warm meal in the comfort of their homes, and he spared a curse for them, too. The evening’s chill had wormed its way into his skin, and his stomach growled its emptiness. It was starting to feel like he was being punished, not Tepin. This couldn’t go on.
“Stop, stop, stop. You’re doing it all wrong,” he said, waving his hands in frustration. “Horribly wrong.”
“What? I am? Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“Consider it a kindness you didn’t deserve. Now comes the real test.”
Tepin raised a brow at him. “I thought it was a special game, not a test.”
“Good, so there’s nothing wrong with your ears after all, yet you can’t follow simple instructions.” Yāōtl began hopping one-legged, steadying himself with see-sawing arms.
Tepin scratched his head. “I don’t understand.”
Yāōtl snorted. “Of course not, you’re hopeless. Like this, watch.” He crouched low on one leg and kicked off. He tilted hard to one side as he landed and had to brace himself with a palm.
“Like this?” Tepin followed suit, his landing a little more self-assured. “I think I’ve got it,” he said, flashing a smile.
Yāōtl glowered at him. “Oh yeah?” Without warning, he sprang into the air and vaulted over two slabs in quick succession. “Beat that,” he blurted out between ragged breaths.
Never a game, and no longer a test, it was a race—one Yāōtl had no intention of losing. But no sooner had Yāōtl regained his breath than Tepin whistled past his dumbstruck face. He spat into the water and tore after him.
Tepin gripped the short spine of stone with his toes and pivoted about to look back. A thin layer of mist had blanketed the surface of the bog, and it shone a pale grey in the moonlight. A voice rang out and he nearly lost his footing.
“Lizard boy!”
Tepin narrowed his eyes to find Yāōtl cutting a path through the sheet of cloud towards him, leaping from stone to stone with both feet. He shook his head at the sight. Cheater. His eyes darted from darkness to darkness in search of an escape, but the only path available now lay behind the older boy.
“End of the line,” Yāōtl taunted.
The grey waters below began to writhe, and Tepin felt warmth creep up his face. The perch he sat atop listed to one side with a sudden groan. He leapt off as it disappeared beneath the mire, and landed inches from Yāōtl.
The older boy walked forward, his nostrils flaring with rage. “I’ve been thinking,” he began with a lick of his lips. “What happens to little lizard boys when they hit water?”
Tepin gulped and felt the hair on his arms stand on end as he drew closer.
“Do they sink?” Yāōtl took another step forward and wrapped a tattooed hand around Tepin’s throat. “Or float? Let’s find ou—”
Yāōtl shrieked as a jet of hot, foul-smelling smoke burst from the surface of the bog, hitting him squarely in the face.
Tepin pushed him aside, ducked beneath his flailing limbs, and began wriggling through his open legs. A moan escaped Tepin’s lips as the older boy seized him and wailed on his back with his bare fists, but he managed to squeeze himself through. Without looking, he leapt to the nearest rock.
“Get back here, you little worm!” Yāōtl staggered after him in the pitch dark, his eyes sealed shut.
Unwilling to waste his only opportunity, Tepin made haste across the waters, ignoring every sound but the throb of his heart at his temples. He’d clambered up the embankment and rolled down to the other side when a shrill scream rent the air.
“Tepin, help!”
Tepin looked back to find Yāōtl clinging to the sunken rock face, his body half-submerged in muck, screaming his name between mouthfuls of rancid bog-water. A deep thrumming, like the swell and crack of pitch-black rain clouds, drowned out his name. Tepin gazed up to find not a single cloud in the sky. “I’m done playing games, Yāōtl,” Tepin called out. “Give it up, already.”
“This isn’t a game, I promise!”
“I’m going home,” said Tepin, turning to leave.
“This isn’t a ga—” The boy’s head was jerked underwater for a moment, only to pop up a second later with a wet, sucking noise.
“Yāōtl?”
“Tepin, please! There’s something in here, help me! Tep—”
“Yāōtl!”
The little boy’s jaw hung open at what he saw next. The roiling waters had taken form, rising up and out in a tall column of churning sludge. Once it reached its full height, it curled and crashed down on Yāōtl, dragging his body down with it. Tepin backed away slowly, a strangled cry at his throat, and ran for the forested ridge.
Beyond the Palms
For the first time in his young life, Tepin was lost—hopelessly so. Where children his age whiled away their days in the sun with friends, every minute he could spare he’d spent alone in the forest. He’d come to know it intimately. There wasn’t a lazy stream he hadn’t played in, a tree he’d left unclimbed, or a plant whose name he couldn’t recite from memory. It was his second home, if not his true one. When he was sad, the shroud of leaves cradled him; when he felt like running, it gave him winding paths to rove; and when he felt like flying, it lifted him up towards the canopy, to where the leaves fluttered wildly against the breeze. He’d spent so much time there, his nantli used to jest that she wasn’t his mother at all.
“The forest raised you. All I did was bring you into the world, my child… But even I’m not so sure of that. You may have ripened on the branch and dropped to the floor when it was time I’d found you.”
Her voice brought a smile to his face. He opened his eyes, half expecting to see her sitting at the foot of his bed, her eyes flickering in the firelight and a mug of steaming cacao in her lap. But the image faded and his vision swam with inky blackness. The forest had grown dark and unforthcoming, and Tepin no longer recognised his home. It was foreign to his every sense. The trees stood closer together then, inches apart as if huddling for warmth. He strained his ears for familiar sounds but heard nothing. The soft burble of water, the gentle creak of swaying branches, the birds that roosted noisily in the treetops—it had all vanished, replaced by an oppressive stillness that turned his blood cold. A musty smell perfumed the woods, drawing the air tighter around him, and he found it difficult to breath. Fear—that’s what it was, and the forest reeked of it. He nestled himself in a tree’s hollow and rocked back and forth on hugged knees, wishing himself elsewhere.
His thoughts drifted to home, to warm walls of curved stone, and the snap and hiss of flames licking dry wood. Of his parents, his tetahnantli. His nantli kneeling in the kitchen, her hair damp at her temples as she toiled. The rush of steam as she heaved the lid of a clay pot aside to reveal a dozen or so plump parcels lying dormant inside. She’d scoop the still-warm tamales in her broad arms and carry them to the table, where she’d find his tahtli snoring in the corner, his lips stained milky-white with sour octli. A wooden spoon would fly across the room, barely missing his head.
“Tahtli!” she’d say in that voice that spelt trouble, her hands firmly at her hips.
Tepin chuckled. She’s mad now, pata. You’d better get up. Without warning, the scene began to shrink from view, until it was but a dim speck in a sea of blackness.
“Tepin!”
Yāōtl’s face flashed before his eyes, his pale skin loosely draped across his skull. His mouth hung open in a frozen scream, even as he spoke, and tears welled up in his pleading eyes. “You did this!” he rasped as Tepin turned away, and reached out. “Look at me!” Tepin felt the icy touch of swollen digits wrap around his throat.
“Tepin, look at me.”
He knew that voice. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the presence of light, but sure enough, it was her. “Tēya!”
Tēya set the torch to one side and swaddled him in her arms. “We’ve been searching high and low for you! Your parents have been worried sick.”
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out between choked sobs.
She stroked the back of her hand against his cheek. “No, I’m sorry, Tepin. I shouldn’t have left you. I’ll explain later, okay?” Before Tepin could respond, she’d turned away and called back the way she’d come. “Found him!”
Specks of flame danced like fireflies between the trees, drawing nearer. Moments later, three bulky figures stood before them. Tepin thought them beasts at first, birds of a sort that had learned to walk like humans. They were covered from head to toe in feathers, and their heads were enclosed in great golden helms shaped like the beaks of giant eagles. They brandished long, tapering spears and broad shields, each one engraved with leering faces and intricate geometric patterns.
“Damn, just the small one,” said one of them. “It will do little to ease the worry in Cuāuhtl’s heart to see this one returned.” He turned and gestured to the other warriors. “Come, we cannot linger here.”
“Wait,” said Tepin. “What—who are you?”
One of the trio planted his spear in the ground and stepped forward, tucking his helmet into the crook of his arm. “We are eagle warriors, boy, the winged fury and sharpened talons of the emperor.”
“Eagle warriors? Are we being attacked? What’s going on?”
The elite soldier chuckled. “Hush, boy. The shaman’s son has gone missing. He fears something has happened to him, and we scour the earth at his breath, his word.”
“You haven’t seen Yāōtl, have you, Tepin?” asked Tēya. She watched as the question drained the blood from his face, and a distant look took root in his eyes. “It’s okay,” she cooed, drawing him closer to her bosom and rubbing his back.
The eagle warrior shifted uneasily. “Some darkness has touched him, the same that haunts this place. I can feel it,” he said, gazing up in the dim light. “I fear for Yāōtl.”
“Wherever he is, he’s probably making someone’s life a misery,” she spat, turning to the eagle warrior.
“You’ll get your pretty tongue cut out with talk like that. He’s one of us, girl, and even if he wasn’t, I have my orders.” With that, he plucked his spear from the ground and slipped his bulky helm over his head.
Tēya nodded solemnly. “No, you’re right.”
The eagle warriors bade them farewell, and she watched as their torches went out one by one as they fled into the forest to continue their search. She picked up her own and draped a blanket over Tepin’s shoulders. “Come, let’s get you home.”
***
“I’m done,” said Tepin, pushing his plate to one side.
“You’ve hardly touched your food, pilli.”
“I’m not hungry, pata,” he said, even as his stomach groaned.
Tahtli licked his chops, overturning the plate onto his own with childish glee. “More for me.”
Nantli slapped his hand away. “Pig! We’re keeping some for later. This is where drinking all the time gets you—a layabout by day, and a ravenous fool by night.”
“If you weren’t so hard on me, I wouldn’t have to drink so much,” he said with a wry smile, and ducked as a wooden spoon grazed his bald head.
“How I married the village idiot, I’ll never know.” She rested her chin on her palm and sighed. “If my nonan were still around, I’d never hear the end of it.”
Tepin’s mouth couldn’t keep from quirking up.
His father slapped a hand over his mouth in surprise and pointed. “Did you see that?” he said, nudging his wife with an elbow. “He smiled! What a relief. I was starting to think an impostor had joined us for dinner.”
Tepin laughed—they all did.
“Now if only we could do something about this,” he said, gesturing to the plate piled high with untouched food. All mirth drained from tahtli’s face, and his tone turned grave. “Why won’t you eat, son?”
Tepin shrugged and lowered his head.
His father leaned back, resting his steepled fingers on his paunch. “Tepin, what happened out there?”
But the boy said nothing, and stared off into nothingness.
His mother shook her head and rose from her seat. “There he goes again… Head in the clouds,” she said, gathering up crockery in her arms. “Tepin, answer your father, please. We have a right to know why you’re home so late.”
“It’s okay, Malintzin,” said the boy’s father, holding up a hand. “Tepin, please. You can tell us.”
“Behind the forest, at the clearing. That’s where I was.”
“By the bog?”
Tepin nodded, shifting uneasily on his seat.
His father stiffened in his chair and leaned forward. “Tepin… I told you not to go there. We both did.”
“I know, pata,” said the boy, his eyes still downcast.
“Did something happen at the bog?”
Tepin nodded.
“Did you see something?”
“I’m not sure what I saw.”
“Was the high priest’s son involved?”
Tepin slowly raised his head and nodded once more, and tears streamed down his cheeks. “It’s all my fault,” he sobbed. “I left him there.”
At that, his father curled round to Tepin’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “No, it’s not. Come with me and I’ll explain” he said, steering him to his bed.
Tepin wriggled into the soft folds of his blanket, and his mother shortly appeared in the doorway to hand him a steaming mug of bitter cocoa. Once he was settled, his father took a deep breath and began to speak.
“Many, many lifetimes ago, long before you were born, the sun disappeared beyond the mountains and never rose again, covering the world in shadow. After a time, the snake god decided to reignite the sun, but found he couldn’t do it on his own. He needed help, and so slithered across the starry night in search of a torchbearer, until eventually he found one. He put his faith in one of his siblings, the goddess we call the woman in the jade skirt. She accepted, and brought light to the world once more. When the sun rose that day, our ancestors, simple farmers, woke to the sound of rain. Thinking little of it, they set out to tend their tall fields of maize, as they always did. As they worked, black clouds gathered, blocking out the sun and covering the world in darkness. Great flashes of light, like a hundred tiny suns, rolled across the sky, and the earth was covered in water. Soon enough, the farmers’ fields were waterlogged, their food spoilt, and their homes swept away with raging rivers that flowed into an endless sea.”
“You’re scaring him,” said his nantli.
His tahtli stopped, noticing that his son had disappeared from sight. “Should I go on, little one?”
A tiny voice spoke from deep within the shivering blanket and a pair of wary eyes peeked out to regard him. “Yes, please,” said Tepin.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Please. I want to know.”
Tahtli reached out a hand to pat what he took to be Tepin’s head. “Alright. Now, where was I… Ah, yes. Without food or shelter, our ancestors were left with little choice but to adapt—and fast. Quick learners they were, for soon they weaved for themselves small boats from floating palm leaves. But a man cannot survive without food—well, perhaps only in your case,” he said with a wink, before continuing. “Soon, small nets and gut were cobbled together from the same plant. The fish they caught at first were small, no bigger than rats—barely enough to feed a man, and certainly not an entire village. Soon enough, their hunger drove them beneath the waves, where the fish were half the size of a man. Our ancestors rejoiced. At last, no one would go without food or shelter…”
His father paused to clear his throat and move the coals around. “And for a time, this was enough…”
A groan issued from within the warm bundle, but his father pressed on.
“Eat, fish, sleep—months passed this way, until every day resembled the one before it and the future looked certain. With too much time on their hands, the villagers became restless. More than that, they began to tire of life, and mourned the world that once was. The hills and valleys, the winding paths and nesting birds—they wept for it all, and thought the gods had abandoned them. Until, one day, the fishermen thought up a way to pass the time.
“They challenged each other to plunge deeper and deeper into the ocean, to gather as many fish as they could. Eventually, the waters were barren of life, and the fishermen, having spent so long in the water, had started to resemble fish themselves. Gills appeared at their throats, their fingers fanned out like fins, and they soon forgot their former lives—and their partners on the surface.
“Their wives, as hungry as they were impatient, decided they’d waited long enough and dove in after them. They combed the waters for hours, but found little, save for a few measly fish. They’d first deal with their hunger before resuming their search, they decided. They hauled their catch onto their floating homes and began gutting the fish one by one, unaware that they were killing their husbands. They were consumed with guilt when they’d realised their mistake, and threw themselves overboard as a sacrifice to the woman in the jade skirt. The goddess took pity on them and tried to save them, but something got to them first—her minion, Cipactli, a creature so large even the oceans could barely contain it. The creature hadn’t eaten in weeks, and devoured them with relish, disobeying its master. As punishment, the water goddess pursed her lips and blew the oceans away in a single breath. When the wind died down, all that remained were the rivers, lakes, and streams we see today.”
“Still filling his head with nonsense, are we?” Tepin’s nantli stood in the doorway. “It’s getting late, my love. Let the boy sleep, will you.”
“In a minute. We’re nearly finished.”
She stooped to kiss them both on the cheek before leaving.
“And what about Cipactli, pata?” asked Tepin in a whisper.
“Ah, well. That’s where it gets interesting. Once the storm had passed, she found the mighty Cipactli. He was flopping around on his belly like a sardine, begging for mercy as he choked. There wasn’t an ocean big enough for him, then, and so she decided to shrink him down. When he was small enough for her liking, she picked him up and tossed him into the smelliest, filthiest swamp she could find. There he was to remain, to live out the rest of the age and every age to come, until his debt was paid.” His father drained the last of the bitter drink and rolled his stiffened neck once or twice.
“Thanks for the story, pata.”
“Story? It’s no story, Tepin. You must keep your distance from that place.”
“So, Cipactli lives in the bog?”
“I can’t be sure, son, but this isn’t the first time something like this happened. Just promise me you won’t go back.”
“I won’t.”
His father breathed a sigh. “Good, good. Do you have any questions?”
“No, pata.”
He chuckled and rose from the bed. “Well, that’s a first.” He leaned over Tepin and planted a kiss on the warm bundle. “Goodnight, son.”
“Goodnight.”
But Tepin couldn’t sleep that night, couldn’t shut out the noise in his head long enough for rest to take hold. He wanted to believe his father, that what happened to Yāōtl hadn’t been his fault, and that some ancient creature had devoured him, just as he’d done the villagers—that there was nothing he could’ve done to save him. With all his heart, he wanted to believe that. Until the morning light shone pale through his window, he tossed and turned. Finally, he threw off the covers and got dressed. He had to see it for himself, he decided, and slipped out the door.
Above the Sky
Tepin hadn’t thought anyone would’ve been awake at this hour, but the village was swarming with guards. These weren’t the soldiers he’d grown accustomed to seeing, either, not the usual rank-and-file troops. Their bodies were covered in plumage, their heads swallowed up by metal beaks. He’d come across them in the forest with Tēya just the night before. Eagle warriors, the emperor’s personal guard. While many soldiers aspired to join their ranks, even the most fearsome peasant would be rejected. Only those of noble birth could become eagle warriors. Tepin understood then what the captain had meant when he mentioned that Yāōtl “was one of them”. He wasn’t referring to just anyone. If it wasn’t for Tēya, they may well have continued their search without sparing him a second thought. For them, the son of a retired farmer—and a perpetually drunk one, at that—simply wasn’t worth their time.
The faint rustle of leaves caught a soldier’s attention, and he rammed the end of his spear into the quivering thicket Tepin had vanished into. But even the most adept tracker would’ve met their match in the young boy, who moved unseen through the dense foliage.
He soon found himself hurtling across the clearing and staring down into the bog. There was something different about it. The waterline had receded, and rocks he’d leapt across not a day ago were gone, along with the nose-wrinkling scent of decay. Even the water looked a shade clearer to his eyes, possibly good enough to drink.
Something caught his eye. He hopped down to take a look, his feet sinking into the muddy bank. He plucked it from the water and held it up, paying little attention to the shadow stretching across the water’s surface. Tepin’s eyes widened. “Cipactli?” he said out loud. A voice responded and Tepin froze.
“Looking for something? Or, should I say, someone…”
Tepin turned to find the eagle warrior captain staring down at him. He was slapping a length of braided rope against his palm and smiled knowingly.
***
Tepin awoke to find himself staring into the hollow sockets of a grimacing skull, floating before him in darkness.
“Explain yourself, boy—and well,” it said, snapping its brittle jaws together in time with the words. When no response came, the skull leaned to one side as if studying him. “Come, now, don’t be shy,” it said. Golden-ringed fingers curled around it, beating out an impatient rhythm against bone.
“I—”
“Speak up!” the skull cried, dashing itself against the stone floor. A dozen sconces flickered into life and a gaunt face leered out at him.
Tepin’s head sunk to the floor in a low bow.
The high priest sat back down on a creaking, high-backed throne of polished bone and braced a hand to his teetering headpiece. He wore a towering crown of gold, resplendent with in-laid jewels and striking patterns. It was so heavy that it listed to one side, fixing his face in a permanent scowl. His arms disappeared into the deep sleeves of his blood-red robes, and a staff, carved into the form of a coiling snake, lay upon his lap. He tugged at the golden collar around his neck, out of which fanned a multitude of feathers, and cleared his throat. “I’ll ask you one more time. Where is my son?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy, raising his trembling head.
Cuāuhtl staggered to his feet and hobbled over, leaning with both hands on the hissing serpent head. “No?” The high priest nodded to someone behind Tepin and a whip spiralled out from the shadows, tearing into the boy’s back. “How about now?”
Tepin winced but shook his head. “N-no.”
“How strange.” The high priest’s hands disappeared into the yawning folds of his robe for a moment. “Then how exactly did you find this?” In his spindly fingers he twirled Yāōtl’s feathered armband.
Tepin said nothing.
“No? Did that do nothing to jog your memory?”
“Please let me go. I don’t know where your son is.”
“Captain?” the high priest called out.
“Your grace?” the captain responded.
“It seems there’s been an error. You’ve caught the wrong boy. They all look alike these days, don’t they… Help him out of his binds and take him back to his parents.”
“At once,” said the captain, and the chamber fell quiet for a moment. He started to snicker, as did the high priest, and soon enough, uproarious laughter was echoing off the stone walls of the dimly lit room.
The high priest nodded to the shadows once more, a sardonic smile playing about his lips as the whip tore another rut into Tepin’s back.
“You’ve wasted enough of my time, boy,” he said above Tepin’s screams of pain, and snapped his fingers. “Guards—”
Before Tepin could be dragged away, he blurted out a single word. “Cipactli!”
The high priest wrenched his face closer. “What did you say?”
“Cipactli! He took Yāōtl! I couldn’t—”
“Enough!” the high priest bellowed, slapping him hard across the face. “I thought I told you not to waste my time,” he said, massaging his hand. “The world-monster didn’t live past the fourth age, foolish boy. It is from his flesh that the world—and not the one inside your tiny head—was remade. No, my son was not taken by such a creature. It is impossible.”
“But my pata said—”
“Ah, so that’s who it was. That’s who filled your head with drivel. You could no longer content yourself with whispering your secrets to the plants; the guilt had become too much. You ran to him and confessed. He heard you out, but knew not what to do, so he soothed the ache in your heart with lies.”
Tepin struggled against his restraints. “It’s not my fault!”
“It’s all so clear now—so painfully clear.”
The high priest tore off his robes and cast aside his walking stick, bearing his wiry body in the torchlight. There was scarcely an inch of his body that wasn’t covered with scars, each one as deep and determined as the last.
“What are you doing?” asked Tepin.
One of the guards knelt before him, proffering a knife of black obsidian.
Cuāuhtl held a finger to his lips, before testing the point of the blade with his thumb. “Preparing.”
Preparing for what?
Slow and steady, the high priest ran the blade across the length of his chest. His eyes rolled back in equal parts pain and ecstasy. Blood flowed freely from the gash, forming a crimson puddle at his feet. All the while, a deep thrumming issued from his throat, a chant in a language far more ancient than Tepin could understand. The knife clattered to the floor and the high priest’s eyes flickered open. As if he’d plucked the thought from Tepin’s mind, he answered.
“A sacrifice.”
Below the Waves
“Move!”
Tepin had lingered a second too long, and winced as an elbow caught him between the shoulder blades, knocking the air from his lungs. It felt like he’d been climbing all his life, and was no closer to reaching the top of the temple.
“I haven’t got all day, boy,” the captain said, “unlike you.”
When he felt his legs might give way beneath him, he staggered over the final step and collapsed on the floor. Not a moment later, he was jerked to his feet by a guard, and an arm was slung about his torso. Tepin was about to thank him for saving him the trouble when he recalled why he was there in the first place. This was where he was going to die, and he knew precisely how. In his short life, he’d seen it play out hundreds of times.
When the moment came, the villagers would flock in their hundreds to watch, shepherded by a shrill sound that could chill marrow. One by one, the convicts would be laid out on the rounded stone dias, and one by one, their still-beating hearts would be torn from their chests. To complete the ritual, their heads would be cleaved from their necks and tossed down the temple steps, into the baying crowd below. The cycle would repeat until blood flowed like water and the smell of iron clung to your skin. There was no point in arguing, begging, or pleading. The high priest’s decision was final. Once condemned, no one was spared.
But despite it all, Tepin had managed to find something worth appreciating about the moment. Minutes from crossing over the threshold, he stared out in wonderment at the panorama of his home. From atop the temple, he could see everything. The village below was impossibly small, its inhabitants like ants as they went about their daily tasks. The forest looked endless, its leaves shimmering in the blazing sun with a vibrancy he’d never seen before. Beyond the lush greenery were the rolling hills and grassy trails he’d walked countless times before. He drew his gaze further and further out, until only the soft shadows of the mountains were visible on the horizon, towering above the clouds. Behind him lay the ocean, a perfect mirror of the azure sky. He savoured the salty air and strained his ear for the faintest sound of crashing waves.
His reverie was shattered when two figures mounted the final step, their hands clasped. The high priest followed close behind. If not for the guard propping him up, Tepin would’ve crumpled to the floor from shock. “Nana! Pata!” he screamed.
“Tepin!” they cried out, hobbling towards him with outstretched arms.
“Get back!” A guard wedged himself between Tepin and his parents, and held a whip above his head. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Rage coursed through Tepin at the sight of his shackled parents. Now more beast than boy, he strained against his binds and writhed like a serpent in his captor’s grip. There was little the guard could do but carry him to the other side of the platform. But Tepin wasn’t about to go quietly, and lashed out with what little energy he had left. He buried his elbow in the guard’s throat, crushing his windpipe. Tepin clattered to the floor, looking up in time to see his captor disappear over the edge. He screamed as he rolled down the endless steps, until his head split open with an audible crack and his body disappeared into the gathering crowd of villagers.
“Bind him!” commanded the high priest.
Tepin felt a bicep curl around his neck as two guards tied his feet and hands together.
“You’ll be begging for death before I’m done with you,” Cuāuhtl whispered into his ear as he was lifted up.
He didn’t have the strength to resist anymore, and spared one final look at his parents’ horrified faces while the guards set about lashing him to the dias. Tears came to his eyes, and he mouthed an apology to them. The high priest brushed off his hands and straightened his tunic, before walking to the edge of the platform to address his audience. It had begun.
The words with which Tepin had grown so familiar sounded strange in that moment. They were distant and muffled, little more than a murmur. He couldn’t hear his parents’ panicked cries, nor taste the salt on the breeze, and the rope that irritated his hands was quite forgotten. As if a valve had been tightened within his mind, all sensation slowed to a ponderous drip, and then stopped entirely. Tepin had retreated into himself, until all he was left with was a visual of his body, floating through an infinite void. It was there that he left a simple message.
You helped me once before. Please, help me again.
Tepin gasped awake and the world of sensation rushed in, overwhelming him. His eyes seared with pain, his lungs burned as if he’d just taken his first breath, and his limp extremities prickled.
A blurry Cuāuhtl hovered above him and tapped him on the cheek. “I want you awake for this,” he whispered, raising the obsidian dagger high above his head, aiming for the boy’s heart.
But the stroke never fell. A sound like rolling thunder rang out, and the high priest gazed up in alarm and confusion at the cloudless sky. Seconds later, a scream erupted from him and he vanished. Something had struck the temple, tearing clean through the masonry, taking the high priest with it and covering the boy’s body in pink mist. Moments later, several more thunderclaps boomed in the distance, and the villagers began to scream and scatter. Tepin’s parents rushed forward to where he lay and cut his bonds with Cuāuhtl’s knife. They helped him to his feet and started to descend the steep steps, but turned back.
“Wait! I have to see what’s going on.” Tepin couldn’t help himself, and peered over the wall. He knew that sound. It was Cipactli—it had to be, he thought. It wasn’t.
From the forested ridge at the southern end of the village charged hundreds of soldiers with a tremendous cry. They were clad in shining steel plate draped with crimson cloth, and carried long poles topped with two blades. The one was narrow and pointy, and the other broad and curved like the black teeth of the macuahuitl.
Tepin watched as eagle warriors descended on the scene, beating their shields and screaming battle cries of their own. The forces were about to clash when, at the last second, the eagle warriors halted their charge. Something had spooked them, and they soon broke formation. They were already fleeing by the time Tepin glimpsed what made them scatter.
Yet more soldiers had emerged from the woods, but they weren’t your usual rank-and-file infantry. They sat atop muscular, four-legged beasts as tall as two men or more, and wielded both sword and spear. They looked nothing like men at all, their entire bodies encased in gleaming armour as they pressed forward. Tepin watched with morbid curiosity as they chased the fleeing eagle warriors down, either running them through, or else impaling them at the end of their spears. Whoever survived the onslaught was brutally dispatched by row upon row of simple, sword-wielding soldiers.
Tepin had just managed to tear himself away from the grisly scene when the ground shook beneath him with the sound of another thunderclap, raining down pebble-sized fragments of stone around him. He looked around for his parents, but they were already making their way down the steps. He called to them above the tumult, but they disappeared into the throng of anxious villagers.
The soldiers were beginning to stream past the steep walls of the temple, penetrating deeper and deeper into the village. Tepin watched as the eagle warriors struggled to contain them. Ordinary civilians didn’t stand a chance, it taking little more than a single swing of the sword to fell them. The eagle warriors didn’t fare much better. In the forest, where cover was plentiful, they may have stood a chance, but not out in the open.
After a few skirmishes, the lightly-armoured infantry were easy enough to pick off, but just as they’d managed to even the odds, some new threat would pose itself. Tepin watched in horror as a thirty-strong group of eagle warriors led by the captain of the royal guard piled into the throng of infantry, only for a separate enemy detachment to emerge at their flank. They held long, thin tubes and were busy filling them with something. They didn’t look like any weapons he’d ever seen—hardly weapons at all. When they were done, they balanced the slender instruments on forked hooks in the ground and hugged them tight.
Tepin raised his head to get a better look, but a series of deafening cracks forced him back down. When he peered over again, smoke was billowing from the narrowest point of the tubes and two thirds of the captain’s force lay prone on the ground, clutching gaping wounds in their sides. No matter their number, they all met the same end—hacked to pieces by an array of weaponry they’d never seen nor understood.
The enemy soldiers had flooded the village at that point, and began to corral unarmed civilians, both the young and old, at the end of spears and swords. Some fought back with their bare fists, some with rocks and crude weapons of their own. They ultimately fared no better than the soldiers, and succumbed to the endless tide of silver and crimson.
It was hopeless. Tepin sunk to his knees on the steps of the temple, bereft. A small group of spear-men had spotted him and were mounting the steps. For a moment, he felt it didn’t matter—none of it did anymore. If he resisted, he’d perish. If not, he’d be captured and live as a slave. He decided then and there that he’d rather die. He gathered up what loose debris he could throw and bounded back up the steps, all the way to the upper terrace, to make his final stand.
Tepin unleashed volley after volley of stones at the approaching spear-men. Most of them landed wide of their target, or were batted away by their heavy shields, but others struck true. Every so often, they’d hit their helmets with a satisfying clink, sending them tumbling down the steps. It may have only prolonged the inevitable, but it brought a smile to his face all the same. Soon enough, he’d run out of things to throw, and scoured the platform for a weapon of any kind. His eyes lit up as he spotted the high priest’s dagger. He clutched it to his chest and scrambled into the corner as the spear-men bore down on him, mounting the last few steps to the upper platform. They approached him with their shields raised and their spears down-turned. He seemed more caged animal than boy then, hurling every abuse he could at them while waving the knife about with murderous intent. One soldier stepped forward and removed his helmet, his spear and shield clattering to the floor. His companions looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, but slowly backed off. They began speaking to each other in a tongue Tepin didn’t recognise.
“What are you doing, Roderigo? Are you insane?”
“Silencio, Juarez. Can’t you see he’s but a child?”
“Child or no, he means us harm,” said the other.
“And we don’t, Diego?” snapped Roderigo. “No, we’re taking this one alive.”
With that, Roderigo held up his hand in a gesture of peace. “No tricks, see?” he said, slowly extending it. “Give me the knife.”
Tepin drew back into his corner and stabbed out at the proffered hand.
“Coño!” Roderigo pulled back with a yelp and closed his mouth on the wound. The other two wheezed with laughter. “Shut up and hold him steady.”
Diego and Juarez took up their shields in both hands and moved to hem him in.
“No!” Tepin screamed through manic swipes, until his knife was firmly wedged in Diego’s shield, missing the Spaniard’s eyeball by a hair.
They tossed their shields aside, freeing up their hands, and grappled him to the floor. “Got him, capitán!” But no response came.
“Probably bled out from that flesh-wound,” sneered Juarez.
Diego looked back to find Roderigo frozen in place and staring off into the distance, a puddle of urine slowly collecting at his feet.
“Capitán?”
Nothing Capitán Roderigo could’ve said would’ve done the sight justice.
Hearing the screech and crack of timber, Tepin scrambled to his feet to peer through a crack in the masonry.
A creature of unspeakable size was clearing a path through the woods before them, flattening trees like cattails as it stomped towards the village. Towering high above the canopy, the soldiers had to take a step back and crane their necks to take in its full immensity. It parted the tree-line like a green curtain, revealing itself in all its horror. If the terrible beast bore a resemblance to any living creature, it looked most like a crocodile, one that had just emerged from centuries of sleep in a swamp—but even that falls short of capturing its hideous appearance. From tapering snout to thrashing tail, it was covered in thick, interlocking scales that shone dark green beneath the filth. Sharp, bony protrusions ran down the length of its back in diamond-shaped rows, and Tepin was immediately reminded of the rocky platforms he’d leapt between for Yāōtl’s amusement. Its hulking, dreadful form was supported by short, muscular legs, each one ending in a webbed foot from which curled sharp talons.
It paused for a moment and scraped a clawed hand across its pale, ribbed belly, removing tufts of moss and sprawling lichen. It swayed its massive, mud-encrusted head back and forth, peppering buildings and villagers both with mud and ooze. It opened its eyes, the nictitating film drawing back, and putrid yellow orbs leered out. The monster wrenched open its gaping maw to reveal row upon row of conical teeth, and its pale blue tongue darted out to lick the air. Jets of foul smoke erupted from crater-like nostrils at the tip of its long snout, and the membranous sack of skin beneath its jaws began to quiver and inflate as it drew breath. A loud, baleful cry erupted from its breast, sending a tremor through the temple, shaking loose stone and bursting eardrums. A warm stench, like rotten fish, followed as it lumbered forward to the terrified screams of villagers and soldiers alike.
A horn sounded behind Tepin, and he watched as a hail of iron balls screamed through the air, hitting the creature in the belly. The shots rebounded off his hide, only serving to irritate the beast. It dragged a bulky claw through lines of dazed infantry. Most of them died on impact, or were tossed into the sky, landing a great distance away. The three soldiers spared a glance back at Tepin, before racing down the steps to join the others in retreating.
As the soldiers fled in panic, the beast-men rode ahead in tight formation, their swords raised, spurring their frightened mounts into a gallop toward the colossus. Puffs of smoke filled the air as the tube-soldiers offloaded into the beast. They hacked and slashed at its haunches, but with every swipe their swords blunted and chipped, until their blades were ground down to the hilt. The monster seemed not to notice the men at its feet, until one of them plunged their sword deep into the soft flesh between its scales. A howl rent the air and the creature brought down a webbed foot upon the company, turning both beast and man to paste. The remaining soldiers were flung from their rearing mounts and fled with the rest of their kin to the shoreline. Dragging its ponderous tail behind it, the creature bounded after them.
Cowed by the beast’s sheer presence, the villagers had fled past their homes and into the trampled forest, but began to emerge as its whipping tail disappeared from view. Tepin raced down the steps as it passed the creaking temple, joining the villagers in chasing after it as it disappeared beyond the steep hills to the beach.
The soldiers were fleeing for their lives, many of them falling over themselves to reach the shoreline. Hundreds of ships were at anchor on the crystal-clear waters. The soldiers had piled into tens of smaller boats and were paddling frenziedly to reach them. He couldn’t see the beast anywhere, but he did notice an oily black pool of scum and slime rise to the surface. An inky shadow broke off from the dark stain, and the ships began to buffet as waves rose and broke with its approach. The smaller boats began to topple over and sink as a column of salty water shot into the sky, before crashing down on the remaining vessels. The beast raised its emerald-green bulk above the tides and seized one of the larger ships in its hefty claws. The ship’s wooden hull screamed in protest as the creature tugged on either end, before snapping it clean in two. It lifted both halves high above its gaping maw and shook the ruptured craft, until men began to fall into it. One by one, every boat and every soldier met the same grisly end. By the afternoon, nothing remained of the fleet but floating wreckage and drowning men. With the threat vanquished, the beast looked back at the villagers brave enough to follow and observe the destruction.
“Tepin?” said a voice, squeezing the boy’s hand.
“Yes?”
“Is that Cipactli?” asked his father with a frown.
“I’m not sure, pata.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing much. I just asked for help,” he said, and his parents smiled back at him.