The Gravity Myth

The God of Blood Pt. I

I was born within the last years of the Mexica's long journey to the fertile land. Many generations had passed in the three centuries since our people left the Seven Caves. Or Aztlan, or Chicomoztoc, or any number of places that the tribal elders claimed we originated from. No one could completely agree.

Only one would have been around to remember the true past. The witch, Malinalxochitl, and she was even more untrustworthy than generations of oral history. It was her fault that we wandered as long as we did. You see, Malina never wanted us to arrive at the fertile lands, she sought to lead us astray until we surrendered and retreated to her home she was so loath to leave.

Her brother, Huitzilopochtli -- God of war, thunderstorms, and sun -- led our people by signs. The priests interpreted these signs, and made a sacrifice to Huitzilopochtli every day, in thanks.

Malina abhorred the sacrificial practices. Some say it was because they were presented to her brother and not herself, as it was in our homeland. She plagued the Mexica's journey at every turn, sending forth snakes, spiders, and every manner of horror from the jungles.

Worse yet was the retaliation from neighboring tribes, seeking vengeance for the ones we abducted for our daily sacrifices. If only they could have seen that it was for the benefit of us all, for they too were helped by the rains and the sun! Fortunately, with Huitzilopochtli on our side, the Mexica were fierce warriors. We were able to fend off the attacks, at least until we could resume our trek to the promised land once more.

When I was a boy, Malina convinced a high priest to falsely read the signs, and reverse our course. Some say that she seduced him, and their offspring would be Copil, the traitor. For several more years we traveled back North. Each time home was just over a mountain, across a river, or through a forest to the next clearing.

Eventually, even the high priest tired of Malina's trickery. He begged Huitzilopochtli's forgiveness, and turned the caravan South again. But our God gave us no new signs, and Malina called upon us a plague of venomous scorpions.

Hundreds fell ill by dawn, and their fever dream cries could be heard throughout the encampment. It was bedlam.

The high priest took a handful of Teohuatzin, the echelon of priests below him, into the forest to attempt to commune with Huitzilopochtli and regain his favor. He also took dozens of temple apprentices, including myself, to search for food and herbs in aid of the afflicted. We left the priests in a copse of Ceiba trees to conduct their ceremony, pushing deeper into the jungle to forage.

We filled our bags with medicines; Itztuahyatl to reduce fevers, Epazotl to clear the airways, and Coanenepilli to fight the poisons. Others gathered ingredients to make pozole, squash, chia seeds, anything we knew was edible.

Guatemac, my best friend since childhood, came running up to me with his hands behind his back and a giant smile across his face.Before I could say anything, he turned away from the others, and produced a pheasant in his grasp.

"Eztli, look what I've caught! Just enough for the two of us. We'll roast it on the embers once we've camped and the rest have gone to sleep."

Guatemac loosened his grip and the bird began to squawk, causing some of the nearby apprentices to look in our direction. With swift hands he wrung the pheasant's neck, then looked up into the trees as if the noise had passed overhead.

A rustling of leaves came from a tree directly in front of us, causing us to stiffen in anticipation. A lean, grizzled coyote loped out from around the tree. It was sickly, its ribs jutting out from loose skin, patchy gray hair springing in tufts from its body. It whined softly and lay at our feet. The coyote looked up at us, then looked away before closing its eyes, its labored breathing mixing with the sounds of the young men scavenging the woods.