Negotiations With God

by R W Sowrider

  Fortunately, the highly-esteemed High Priest Franco was able to find a solution with the help of his spiritual confidant, Lady Sak Kuk, who lived on the outskirts of Palenque.

  Reading the stars that burned so brightly above them, they were able to determine that not only was it her 12-year-old son, Pakal, who was fated to lead them, but that he would usher in a period of great prosperity.

  Upon taking the throne, another thorny issue cropped up. Only Gods could be kings, and since Pakal was not a direct descendant of his divine predecessor, how could they be certain of his divinity?

  Fortunately, High Priest Franco and Lady Sak Kuk were once again able to find a solution, this time with the aid of ancient mystical texts.

  From atop the awe-inspiring stone pyramid that served as the base of the Temple of the Sun, young King Pakal made a public declaration informing his subjects that his mother, Lady Sak Kuk, was the human form of the Goddess of Fertility.

  Since Pakal was the son of a Goddess, Pakal too must therefore be a God.

  Problem solved.

  Mazuma—God of the Harvest, Nature, & Spoken Word…Not To Be Confused With Spoken Word Poetry, Wh ich Is An Abomination And Those Doing It Will Get Their Just Desserts, And Not Like Ice Cream Desserts, But More Like Listening To One Of Their Own Shitty Spoken Word Performances Over And Over For Eternity—was amused.

  Even Akna—Goddess of Fertility, Stone Temples, and Wheels To Be Used Only For Toys, Definitely Not For Construction Or Any Other Utilitarian Purpose—got a kick out of it.

  ***

  On the night of his wedding, almost a decade after Pakal’s coronation, Rowen paused in the doorway of his bedroom to muster up the confidence to consecrate his marriage to his vibrant, young bride.

  There was a certain ambivalence that he needed to overcome before making the first big step in his adult life.

  Rowen was born an only child to a pair of honest, hard-working farmers. Both of them had been born into farming families before him and while no one ever believed that his strikingly beautiful mother was working class when she was young, no one ever thought that his brawny, reticent father could be anything else.

  Nonetheless, once their marriage had been arranged, they pledged themselves to one another and lived in harmony as they dutifully worked the land, growing corn and sunflower seeds.

  While his mother was for the most part kind and caring, she could also be overbearing. She did her damndest to be a good, God-fearing woman, and would have nothing less for her son.

  The only time she ever hit him was when she caught him masterbating, his head full of sinful, lustful thoughts. She slapped him so hard that from that day on, just the thought of masterbating gave him a migraine .

  The night of the incident, she visited Father Franco and set up a meeting for Rowen for the very next morning. Father Franco, whom she had known closely since she was a little girl, was happy to help.

  While Rowen would grow to love and respect Father Franco and cherish his time as an altar boy, he had never been so nervous and afraid as he was that morning. To him, Father Franco was the intimidating figure ferociously preaching virtue to his assembly at temple each week. Rowen had been caught sinning. Surely, his comeuppance would be hellfire and brimstone.

  Rowen had never seen his mother so agitated as she was when waiting for him to finish breakfast that morning.

  Desperate to stave off the meeting for as long as possible, Rowen ate in slow motion, his insides turning. But the longer it took, the more anxious and upset his mother became.

  He would never forget the sound of her fingernails tapping impatiently on the table that morning. It was rhythmic and violent. Her pinky striking first followed in quick succession by her ring, middle, and index fingers.

  Ta-ta-ta-tap!

  Ta-ta-ta-TAP!

  TA-TA-TA-TAP!

  The sound grew louder and more fierce with each passing moment as she glared at her son, grinding her teeth.

  “Let’s go already!” she finally screamed.

  Rowen gulped apprehensively and reluctantly followed his mother. It was time to take his medicine.

  Fortunately for Rowen, the meeting was not nearly as bad as he had feared. It was simply decided that he would become one of Father Franco’s assistants. The revered priest would take Rowen under his wing and show him the way.

  While Rowen’s mother would occasionally nag him about going to temple, there really was no need. Rowen actually found comfort in his religious service.

  He found peace and purpose.

  He felt a certain satisfaction in sacrifice, a serenity in the routine, and a harmony in the communal spirit. There was not much else he needed from life.

  Above all, he loved listening to and learning from Father Franco, who in turn took a liking to young Rowen.

  “When we are born,” Father Franco said. “We incur a debt to the Gods for the gift of life.”

  Rowen nodded.

  “How is it that we can pay this debt back? Not only for life at birth, but for the sun shining, for the crops growing, and for all the other blessings that sustain our life?”

  “Through sacrifice,” Rowen replied. For as long as he could remember, his hard-working parents had extolled the virtues of sacrifice.

  “That’s right. But what can we mere mortals give that has any value at all?”

  Rowen tilted his head, at a loss for a suitable answer.

  “The most sacred thing we have to offer is our own blood. There is nothing more precious than human blood and nothing more sacred than spilling it. That’s why it hurts so much, and why it should never be done in vain, but only with holy intention. By spilling our own blood – by sacrificing it – we repay the debt incurred at creation and in turn the Gods bestow upon us sun, and rain, and crops.”

  Rowen savored each lesson and quickly learned to love the weekly ritual of bloodletting.

  He enjoyed the sting of the prick, the sight of the crimson liquid dripping from the wound, and the sense of satisfaction born from contribution.

  Further, the fact that it was performed by every member of the community, regardless of their status, gave Rowen an enormous sense of belonging and pride. Just as a lowly farmer like himself engaged in sacrifice for the long life of his beloved rulers, so too did the king and queen slice their tongues and prick their genitals for their subjects.

  ***

  In contrast to his occasionally overbearing mother, Rowen’s father was relatively laid back. He was generally quiet and kept to himself, working the field for as long as the sun was in the sky, and only reprimanding Rowen when he neglected his chores.

  Even his avocation entailed great exertion. It took a lot of hard work to maintain a farm of bees from which to make a sweet honey wine.

  And even when he partook in the intoxicating beverage, he made sure never to do so in excess.

  “It is okay to consume wine,” he often said. “But we must never be consumed by it.”

  “What does that mean?” Rowen once asked.

  “It means that drinking honey wine is like playing with fire.”

  “How so?”

  “Because if you drink too much, you will black out, lose your mind, and wake up next to a coyote who will chew your arm off.”

  Rowen never quite understood the warning but it nevertheless left a great impression. Not only did he make sure to drink only in moderation, he seemed to follow in his father’s footsteps in just about every way.

  ***

  As was customary, Rowen’s parents arranged his wedding. Which is to say, his mother arranged his wedding.

  Capitalizing on her good reputation, she managed to land Rowen a bride from the upper echelon of the working class, who not unlike herself was renowned for her beauty and strength .

  On the morning that Rowen first met his bride-to-be, just a week before the wedding, he felt almost as nervous as the day he met with Father Franco.

  But upon catching his first glimpse of Serita, and hearing h
er voice for the first time, he felt as if his heart had been pierced. It was like magic.

  Rowen’s mother too instantly adored the young beauty.

  However, there was one small setback.

  Serita’s reputation for strength was not for the kind used to husk corn, as Rowen’s mother had anticipated, but rather for expressing her own opinion.

  “That guy skeezes me out,” Serita said when the topic of the High Priest Franco came up.

  Rowen’s mother could not hide the shock from her face. “Come again?”

  “He’s so sketchy.”

  “How so?”

  “He handpicked some random kid to be king so that he could pull the strings from behind the scene.”

  “King Pakal is not just some random kid, he’s a God.”

  “Really?! And how is it that we know he’s a God?”

  Rowen’s mother was again taken aback. “What do you mean?! His mother is a Goddess. He was born a God.”

  “Yeah, but how do we know that she’s a Goddess?”

  “Because King Pakal declared it.”

  “And why should we listen to him?”

  “Because he’s the king.”

  “But if he wasn’t a God, he wouldn’t be king.”

  “But he is a God because his mother is a Goddess.”

  “But she wouldn’t be a Goddess if he hadn’t declared so as king.”

  Rowen’s father butt in to ease the rising tension. “I think we’re all getting a little confused here. How about we just leave politics out of our first meeting, enjoy a little honey wine, and get to know young Serita’s thoughts on raising corn and children. ”

  The minor disagreement between Rowen’s mother and Serita hardly registered with him as he sat in silence, spellbound by his beautiful bride-to-be, lustful thoughts of their first night running guiltily through his head.

  ***

  Looking now into his bedroom at his enchanting newlywed wife, Rowen shook his head as if to clear away all ambivalence and fear, and crossed through the doorway to consummate his marriage.

  ***

  With a ruthless glint in his eye, High Priest Franco lifted a jagged obsidian knife high in the air and in a flash plunged it into the chest of a crying 5-year-old whose horrific screams came to a shocking halt.

  ***

  For the first two decades after King Pakal took the throne, Palenque had prospered as predicted. The state’s coffers filled with gold and with crops, while its citizens enjoyed an unprecedented age of abundance and stability.

  Likewise, Rowen and his family delighted in overflowing hauls of corn, sunflower seeds, and honey wine.

  While Rowen’s mother and Serita had bickered about when to have children and how to raise them, for the most part, the whole family lived in bliss as Rowen and Serita were blessed with two adorable children.

  This was before a great drought set in.

  There wasn’t too much concern after the first poor harvest, but as the reserves dwindled due to consecutive years of little to no crops, a sense of panic settled in.

  Upon heated deliberation by the Council of Priests, it was determined that a more sacred sacrifice was necessary to end the drought.

  “Something must be done to halt this devastating disaster,” Father Franco said to Rowen one day.

  Even though Rowen was a head-of-household with a family of his own to take care of, because of his religious devotion, he had maintained his role as one of Father Franco’s altar boys.

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” Rowen replied.

  “In order to end such a deadly drought, an equally drastic sacrifice must be made.”

  Rowen nodded.

  Father Franco sighed as he struggled to utter his next sentence. “The time has come to offer up one of our children.”

  The news came as a shock to Rowen, but nonetheless he replied without hesitation. “It would be an honor. Which one would you like, the girl or the boy?”

  Father Franco was surprised at Rowen’s eagerness and responded reflexively. “The girl is still a virgin, right?”

  “She’s five.”

  “…”

  “Yes, she’s still a virgin.”

  Father Franco shook his head, dismissing the idea. “You are a great man.”

  Rowen was delighted by the praise. Up until that moment, the kindest compliment he had ever received was that he wasn’t as stupid as he looked. “Thank you, High Priest,” he replied, bowing his head.

  “But even more than that, you are a farmer. Which is to say, you are working-class scum. Only a physically perfect child from one of the very finest families in our community would do for such an important sacrifice. I am hesitant to say it, but one of your children would only be an insult to the Gods.”

  Rowen nodded in agreement.

  ** *

  “I don’t understand what you’re so angry about,” Rowen said to Serita. “I was only trying to help.”

  “I’m angry because you suggested that one of our children be killed.”

  “Not killed, sacrificed.”

  “Are you trying to say there’s a difference?”

  “What he means,” Rowen’s mother chimed in. “Is that for the good of mankind, he offered to make the greatest sacrifice imaginable. An extremely noble notion, if I may say so myself.”

  For the most part, Rowen and Serita were simpatico, hardly ever quarrelling. But every once in a while, Rowen did something that was absolutely unthinkable to Serita.

  In those cases, matters were always made worse when his mother was around.

  Further, whenever his mother and Serita got into it, since his mother had made the correct decision in having him become an altar boy and in choosing him the perfect mate, despite some deep-seated animosity toward her, Rowen somewhat ironically tended to side with his mother.

  So whenever there was an argument, it was generally two against one.

  “Even if we were fortunate enough to be in the aristocracy,” Rowen’s mother said. “Your children are not attractive enough to be chosen. Their heads are too round. If they had taken more after our side of the family, why I’m certain they would have perfectly oblong heads to help our cause.”

  “Our cause?!” Serita repeated, incredulously. “Our cause is not to have our children murdered, it’s to give them an opportunity to live a long and happy life.”

  “How can they possibly have a happy life if they’ve got nothing to eat?!”

  Rowen clutched Serita by the shoulders and repeated what he had learned from Father Franco. “We are the chosen people. It is us who are destined to maintain this world. We must do everything in our power to ensure that the sun is able to make its way across the sky, and to ensure that the earth has enough nourishment to bear crops, and to ensure that our women have enough sustenance to bear children. The only way we can do this is by blood offerings. And times of great need call for great sacrifice. The only way we can survive is by offering up a human heart. The sun literally feeds off of it.”

  Serita was once again incredulous. “Literally ? You’re saying that that’s how the sun continues to exist? By drinking human blood and eating human hearts that have been tossed into a fire on top of a stone temple on Earth?”

  “Yes,” Rowen’s mother said, nodding. “Literally.”

  “Really?! The sun eats human hearts?! Despite being way up in the sky all day? And despite not having hands to scoop it, or a mouth to put it in, or a stomach to digest it?”

  “You don’t know that. It might just be that it’s too far away for us to see its face and gullet.”

  “Regardless of whether the sun literally eats hearts or not, in the end, we’re still throwing someone’s heart in a fire. Offering up blood is one thing, but is it really necessary to take a life?”

  Rowen made an expression of tremendous gravity. “With great power, comes great responsibility.”

  Serita countered with an expression of do-you-even-think-before-you-shit-words-out-of-your-mouth? “Do
you seriously not see the irony, here? You are literally killing people – extinguishing their lives – so that we may create more people. It’s insane.”

  “Is it?! Is it so insane to sacrifice one child, albeit an extremely good-looking one, for the benefit of the entire civilization?”

  “Even if it weren’t completely nuts, why kids?” Serita glanced at Rowen’s mother. “Why can’t we sacrifice one of our beloved elders?”

  “Because there is nothing more sacred than one of our young. And because Rain, one of Mazuma’s beloved children, is still a child. Just like we would sacrifice an adult for an adult God, we must sacrifice a child for a child God. It’s what pleases them.”

  “And I suppose that because child God’s cry, we must also make the poor sacrificial children cry?!”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous,” Rowen replied, sighing and shaking his head. “It’s because the tears of children bring down the tears of the sky. Rain.”

  “It’s crazy,” Serita replied, clutching her head. “It makes no sense. There’s no way that life works this way.”

  “It’s part of our culture because it works,” Rowen’s mother said, sharply. “Besides, do you have a better idea for how to make the sun rise, how to make rain fall from the sky, and how to make food grow?”

  “...”

  “I didn’t think so. So keep your condescending, smart-ass comments to yourself!”

  ***

  As throngs of Palenquins looked on from the stone steps of the Temple of the Sun and the field below, King Pakal blessed the child who would serve as a sacrifice to the Gods.

  “Oh man ,” Rowen thought to himself as he witnessed the sight from behind the altar. “That could have been my daughter getting her forehead touched by our divine King Pakal. ”

  “Please!” the gorgeous mother of the gorgeously egg-headed child cried from the upper steps of the pyramid. “Don’t take our child! If a sacrifice must be done, why not take it from a family willing to give it up?”

  A silence hung over the crowd.

  The woman looked at Rowen. “Like one of his children. We’ve all heard that he would be more than happy to make the sacrifice.”

  “That’s part of the problem,” High Priest Franco said, taking his place in front of the altar. “It ain’t much of a sacrifice.”