Thirteen multihued masked mummers, impersonating water gods, tooted animal and fish-shaped pottery piccolos and terra cotta ocarinas. Highly-prized orange seashells embellished their sumptuous guises.
Orange was the colour believed to ward off evil spirits.
Six unusually tall instrumentalists dressed in bright robes of scarlet and saffron blew heartily on elongated wooden trumpets tied with ebony ribbons.
Black symbolized the west, the Place of Death and Transformation.
One pot-bellied, turbaned dwarf trumpeter played an oversized conch shell, incised with vermilion cinnabar glyphs, with exceptional skill and éclat. His stirring melody reached out, touching the audience with bewitching strength of its harmonic beauty.
It was a concerto for dawning.
All performers and priests ached from ritual purging, bloodletting, and drugging they underwent earlier that morning to physically and spiritually purify themselves for special religious services. Deep within the innermost sacrosanct chamber of Temple of Foliated Cross in the North Acropolis, located on northern side of the plaza. After the floor had been swept clean and evil spirits expelled, Vision Quest began. Hallucinogenic enemas were administered. Next, stingray spines, obsidian blades, bone knives, jade lancets, thorn-encrusted rope, and other consecrated implements were used to pierce various parts of their anatomy: ears, lips, tongue, nose, elbows, and especially the dangling one. Preferred methods were to pull thorn-lined rope through the tongue or perforate the penis with a stingray spine, allowing the blood to splatter on the strips of cotton cloth and bark paper - a stiff, cloth like paper made from felted bark of the fig tree - neatly arranged in polychrome ceramic plates. Afterwards, some of the bloodstained strips were pulled through earlobes and tied around their hair, wrists and ankles. Saturated cloths were burned in a Yum Cimil, God of Death, effigy brazier, because blood had to be transformed into smoke before the gods could consume it.
Crowding into the Great Plaza, mesmerizing music drew people together. Warriors, merchants, artisans, fortune-tellers, concubines, officials, shamans, scribes, priests, traders, farmers, peasants, slaves, children, foreign dignitaries, spies, and members of the royal family commingled. Faithful gazed upward at magnificent Temple of Giant Jaguar, supported by nine huge, sloping, plastered terraces. Nine is a sacred numeral and number of levels in the Underworld. On corners of each level were large effigy incensarios, incense burners, of exalted ltzamna, belching holy smoke. Balls of sacramental pom were burning, emitting clouds of smell. Dark, twisting, fragrant columns of copal incense drifted up as messages to the gods.
Mighty Itzamna was creator, inventor of writing and books, patron of science and learning, lord of earth and heavens, lord of day and night. Lord Sun and Jaguar God of the Underworld, whose spotted hide symbolized sky wanderers; stars were manifestations of him.
Housing the stone shrine, 260 feet above the main plaza, a sculpted, corbel arch formed the doorway, representing earth as a monster with wide yawning jaws ready to swallow setting sun and remainsof the dead. Its lofty roof comb formed a 30-foot tall visage of glaring Jaguar God of Night, painted in turquoise, cobalt blue, yellow ochre, brown, and scarlet. Vivid crimson coloured the towering, stepped pyramid.
Red represented Dawn, rising in the east, Place of Light and Regeneration and Blood.
Blood was the glue that held their universe together and ensured that heavens would rotate forever. Sacrifice and bloodletting served both to nourish and sustain gods and to communicate with them. Life flowed from death.
War had been created as a means of providing Sun with fresh blood and hearts. Warfare is passion inflamed by the Sun. Courageous warriors and valiant knights contemplated death in battle with serenity. Knights of the Sun were trained and conditioned to long for death by glass blade. “May he savour the fragrance, sweetness of death by obsidian blade” was their prayer.
There is nothing like death in war,
nothing like flowery death
so precious to the Giver of Life:
Far off I see it: my heart yearns for it!
The Paradise of the Sun.
Dead warriors, would sing war songs, as they accompanied Sun to the zenith of his journey. Then privileged souls would be turned into revered hummingbirds. Returning to sip from flowers of heaven and earth.
Prisoners expected to be sacrificed. Escape never considered because cowardice was scorned. Cowards would travel down the road to Xibalba, a devil-infested, foul smelling realm in the Underworld where damned suffered everlasting cold, hunger, weariness, torment and grief.
Nineteen captive Mexica (May-shee-ka) soldiers, sedated with peyote, stripped and tortured unmercifully; fingernails ripped out, horribly mutilated, and painted, head to toe, Mayan Blue. Slowly, awkwardly, Blue naked, escorted by guards and priests, calmly climbed 260 steps, number of days in the Tzolkin (Sacred Calendar), to top of temple to meet their destiny in the “House of the Sun”. Showing no fear, resigned to fate. Some carried flowers and sniffed them, nonchalantly, waiting.
“We go, we walk along a very narrow road on earth. On this side is an abyss, on that side is an abyss. One goes, one walks, only in the middle.... until one slips.”
But their faces did not die; they passed them on to their children and grandchildren.
Four chacs, respectable old men randomly chosen as aides and clad in long, white, cotton cloaks, grasped the victim’s arms and legs, securely stretching him on his back, hunched over the circular convex carved rock altar that was bedaubed with Mayan Blue.
Stolid nacom, Blue-painted executioner, adeptly slashed open ribs just below the left breast with a sacrificial knife; a wooden handle carved in likeness of two intertwined serpents held a blade of finely chipped flint. He plunged his hand in chest cavity and yanked out a beating, steaming, dripping heart, holding it high over his head for Lord Sun to see. He declared, “You are our master in the Sky. Lord Sun, you shed your light on us. Never can we pay for your blessings which you give to us. Everything is the Sun; no way can we pay you. All moons, all years, all days, all winds, all lives, take their course and pass away.”
Pulsating organ was given to chilan, “He of the Sun,” on a golden platter. The officiating priest used it like a paintbrush and anointed the malefic idol, “the Sun-Faced One”, with fresh blood before tossing the heart on a hot charcoal grill sitting on stone belly of Chacmool: a roughhewn lapis lazuli and rubicund manlike figure reclining on his elbows with legs drawn up at a sharp angle, head turned sun wards, with inset pieces of polished bone representing the white of the eyes and the fingernails and toenails.
One by one, nineteen hearts sizzled.
Sun effigy had a very broad, wicked face, terrible unearthly cerise eyes, and a fiendish grin displaying rows of big, black, sharp obsidian teeth inlaid with emeralds. So many precious stones, so much gold “sweat of the Sun”, and so many pearls stuck to him with paste that his whole body and head was covered with them. He was girdled with vibrant feathered snakes made of jewels and silver “Tears of the Moon”; one hand held a mighty war club, in the other a life-size, sparkling ruby heart.
Snakes revered as symbols of lightning. Obsidian and flint were made when lightning strikes the earth.
All walls and floor, splashed and caked with dried blood, were black. Sweet scent of incense pervaded the shrine but could not mask a gruesome stench. Rays of sunlight illuminated the macabre scene. Priests chanted,
ltzamna, the creator,
he acts above, he follows his path.
‘Not in vain did I adorn myself
with yellow plumes,
for I am the one who caused
the sun to shine.
Singsong, eerily, echoed across vast expanse of plastered limestone plaza, stone palaces and temples.
Chacs cast bleeding, still-quivering corpse down steep stairway.
Bouncing and tumbling to Great Plaza below; accompanied by cheers from assembled multitude. Waiting at base of steps, lower-ranking priests in black robes skinned and butchered bodies. Uncut hair, tied back with cotton cord, matted and caked stiff with human blood.
Captive warriors welcomed martyrdom. Highly prized meat distributed to nobles. Consuming flesh absorbed strength and courage. Cooking pots were already prepared with tomatoes, peppers and flesh-of-gods psilocybin mushrooms. Hands and feet were reserved for chilan.
Severed heads added to gruesome display of numerous leering trophies, lining colossal rectangular sapodilla wood skull rack, next to ball court.
Chilan descended the gory staircase followed by priests carrying banners and canopies. At the bottom, removed his holy vestments and donned skin, “garment of gold”, of the boldest sacrifice, becoming “Our Lord the Flayed One”, god of fertility whose ritual signaled beginning of spring.
Solemnly, he recited,
We have come only to sleep
We have come only to dream.
It is not true, no, it is not true
That we have come to live on earth.
As at every spring the grass is renewed,
So do we too acquire form.
Our hearts puts out shoots, grows green.
Our body begets a few flowers
And then lies withered.
“Our Lord the Flayed One” began to dance, leaving bloody footprints among bystanders. Inspired, they joined him in varicoloured procession flowing with the rhythm.
Bloodletting gave birth to the gods, bringing them into existence in human time and space. When dressed in grotesque costume of “Our Lord the Flayed One”, chilan was a vessel that gave flesh to god by ritual action. Sacred being could, through ritual, become them all.
Shrill, eagle-bone whistles cut the air instantly, dancing stopped. Eagle, bird of Sun, demanded attention.
A sacrificial victim, painted in black and white strips, with appointed wicker cap on head, was led to middle of Great Plaza. A large stake erected on a raised platform. “Our Lord the Flayed One” began to lead prisoner and warriors, daubed red and black, armed with bows and arrows, in solemn dance around the stake to accompaniment of whistles and drums. While dancing, others lashed captive to stake. Warriors continued to dance and stare at him. The foul priest, wearing flayed skin, approached stabbing victim with an arrow in parts of shame. Collecting blood in a gourd for later use as an offering. Taking it to different temples, smearing walls, lintels, thresholds, and baleful idols with it. After making a sacred sign to the dancers, one after another, archers began to shoot at bound man’s heart, which had been marked beforehand with a red cross, symbol of “tree of life”, revered ceiba supporting the heavens. Frenzy overcame them. The abused target became a hedgehog of arrows.
Thousands of spectators from far and near lined man-made canyon of buildings and occupied every available space to witness final rites of Tying of the Year Bundle, conclusion of a 52-year period. A sculptured stele was erected in the plaza to commemorate end of Calendar Round. Splendid monument was engraved in glyphs with royal titles of the ruler.
Great Sun, Lord of Lords, Keeper of the Mat, Lord of the Bundle, Mirror of his People, Captor of Stormy Sky, Prince of Tikal, Son of Mighty Pacal, Great Lord Bird Jaguar, and the date: 9 Baktuns, 17 Katuns, 12 Tuns, 13 Uinals, 14 Kins, 5 Ix, 7 Zac, December 14, A.D. 783.
People believed the world would end at close of one of these periods. When “blood shall descend from the tree and the stone, and heaven and earth and sea shall burn.”
Numbers and colours played an important part in their lives, destinies, and superstitions. They could be fatal.
Lord and Lady Jaguar Paw watched the savage grandeur of liturgies from acropolis of royal palace, overlooking the vast plaza and temples with other military leaders, knights, royalty, and families. He wore necklace of jaguar claws and coral beads, jaguar kilt, and short, sleeveless, azure shirt and leather sandals, a paladin of noble mien. His bronze face etched with ruggedness. Multiple scars marked old battle wounds from 15 successful campaigns. He had seen 47 tuns pass. Changes in weather made his aches and pains worse. He felt his age. Remembered what his wise grandfather, True Jaguar, told him: “You can’t erase time.” His fighting prowess and knowledge of strategy in warfare was unsurpassed. He was still a man to be reckoned with; five feet, six inches of tough and smart. He radiated dangerous charisma.
His gorgeous wife attired in a long, loose purple dress, encircled by a belt of gems. She was cross-eyed, a desirable trait, and her forehead was flattened, mark of beauty. Her silky, raven hair was braided with morning- glories. Lady Jaguar Paw was most stunning women in the empire.
A royal messenger carrying ceremonial jade war club forced his way through packed throng of sightseers. He knelt before Jaguar Paw and delivered green jadeite message. The stony order was received. It meant urgent warrior’s business. Jaguar Paw had to report to the prince, Great Lord Bird Jaguar, without delay. Something extraordinary had happened!
Jaguar Paw mused,
If perchance we take root in the earth:
We are not here for always,
But only tarry for a short while.
Though it be of jade it will be shattered,
Though it be of gold it will break,
Though it be of quetzal feathers it will come apart.
Nothing lasts forever on this earth,
But is only here for a little while.
Where can we go
Where death does not exist?
But for this shall I live weeping?
Even princes are born to die.
That was his sixteenth poem in a collection of war poetry. He must be purehearted. His spirit must be unsoiled. Death was salvation.
Cold heaviness of Stone of Heaven in his hand helped clear senses. Jungle sickness still bothered him. He shook it off. Duty called. He was Military Keeper of the Mat, guardian of the land.
The mat was a royal symbol of authority and unity. Lords were thought of as being interwoven like a mat with those whom they represented.
“I am another yourself,” was Mayan code of honour.
December 14, 1967:
Sargeant Mayan splashed water on his face, trying to snap back to reality. For five nights in succession, jungle fever ravaged his body and mind with cycles of uncontrollable shivering, intense fever, sweating, and finally hallucinations. He should have reported the illness to medic but didn’t want to leave his squad, a man short, in a bad situation. Jaguar Paw dreamed of distant past, thousand years ago. Sometimes he saw great rearing snake, Vision Serpent, a warrior or god emerging from its open mouth. His people called it “Vision Quest”, chance to listen to ancestor or god speak words of power. The dark voice was getting stronger.
Huitzilopochtli,
Only a subject,
Only a mortal was.
A magician,
A terror,
A stirrer of strife, A deceiver,
A maker of war,
An arranger of battles,
A lord of battles;
And of him it was said
That he hurled
His flaming serpent,
His fire stick;
Which means war,
Blood and burning;
And when his festival was celebrated,
Captives were slain,
Washed slaves were slain,
The merchants washed them.
And thus he was arrayed:
With headdress of quetzal feathers,
Holding his serpent torch,
Girded with a belt,
Bracelets upon his arms,
Wearing turquoises,
As a master of messengers.
&nb
sp; Mexica (Hymn to Huitzilopochtli)
Fear of Falling – by Adrian Hallchurch
‘This is completely crazy,’ said Stan, the leaner and darker of the two men.
‘A little,’ said Ted, thick-set, bearded and greying blonde, and a couple of years older than his climbing buddy.
‘It’s crazy.’
‘Just a little. But we’ll be ok.’
‘It’s madness.’
‘Maybe.Maybe not.’
Stan looked at his friend and cursed him under his breath. He wondered how the hell they’d got into this crazy mess. Ted avoided Stan’s grey eyes and continued to examine the cliff face below, trying to find a safe route down the mountain. The view stretched for miles and, even in their predicament, Stan could not ignore its outstanding beauty. The yellows and reds of the autumn trees eventually giving way to the clear blue of the sky, the river a frothing white ribbon running through the forest. Thisendless beautykept Stan coming back to the mountains. Always with Ted.Ted was the real climber. He’d been in the mountains all his life and understood them. Stan was just the passenger on the journey. It had always been that way, and Stan had grown to trust Ted to be at the wheel. That made it even worse that they found themselves in this desperate situation, with no way down. At least the sun still had a couple of hours left for the day, though they would need the light to walk through the forest when they reached the bottom.The trees were packed tightly and it would take too long to follow the river the whole way.
Stan could see that Ted was having trouble working out a way down. He’d better work it out. From what Stan could see, it looked impossible. The hillside sloped down at an angle of at least 80 degrees, and was laced with uneven rocks. There wasn’t much scrub to hold onto. One of them would slip and fall. Probably it would be him. He would crack his head even before he hit the bottom, hundreds of feet below. He would die on that hillside.
Fall - A Collection of Short Stories (Almond Press Short Story Contest) Page 8
