James Axler – Deathlands

Heads began to turn, and Ryan looked back toward the village, seeing the three prisoners being brought out by an escort of warriors.

The men were dancing in a ponderous ritual, two steps to the front and then one to the side, one back and one more to the other side, then two strides forward. The whole cycle was repeated to the slow beating of a slack-skinned drum, feet rising and falling in the endless rhythm of those beneath the earth, rising and falling. Living and death. Partly living.

To his great surprise, Ryan saw that the two Jaguar warriors were also dancing, following the pattern of the others, faces impassive, unsmiling. Their hands and feet were free, and sweat glistened on their bodies.

The swarthy slaver, still wearing the blood-soaked shirt that masked the deep wound to his stomach, was not participating gladly in the ceremony.

His hands had been tied behind his back, his feet dragging furrows through the dirt. Two warriors hauled him along between them while a third walked behind, keeping the prisoner moving with a spear tipped with the black stone.

He fought and struggled all the way, crying out in a strange, guttural way, with no words audible among the stream of tortured sound.

At a gesture from Itzcoatl, one of the junior priests strode forward and stopped in front of the white man.

He held a small tube in his hands and poured something into it from a pouch at his waist, lifting it and blowing into the prisoner’s face.

Ryan saw that it was a pale powder, and it had the effect of calming the man.

“Drug?” he whispered to Mildred.

“That stuff they call yauhtli . Indian hemp. Narcotic. Takes away a little of the pain. Takes a lot of the fear and anxiety from the poor bastard. Helps him to go more gently into the endless night.”

Now the dancers were nearly on top of them, heading toward the foot of the pyramid. At an unseen signal, all of the ordinary natives bowed down, foreheads touching the dew-slick grass. The priests and elders stood where they were.

In the sway of movement, Ryan found himself pushed against the chief, who turned to him.

“This is dedicated to Huehueteotl, who is the god of fire. That is why” He gestured to the blazing piles of logs all around them and on top of the pyramid.

“The Jaguar people? They seem to be going willingly to their deaths.”

Itzcoatl nodded. “Right on, my friend. They have also been given yauhtli , which”

“I know,” Ryan said. “Makes the pain less painful.”

“And it helps to go with the ritual.”

Now the dancers had reached the foot of the pyramid and were performing a complicated interweaving step, circling around and around, in and out, hypnotically. The drums were beating faster, and the trumpets had been replaced by the delicate, warbling note of the pipes.

Then they began to climb. As the men moved higher, they rose from the grayness of dusk into the last rays of the sun, which painted them scarlet and gold, catching the brilliant glitter of their necklaces and earrings, glinting off the polished stone of the daggers.

“By the Three Kennedys!” Doc whispered. “This is like being transported in a time machine, back, far back into the sixteenth century. And beyond. We are witnessing a ceremony that no white man could have seen for hundreds of years. It was believed long lost.”

“They going to chill them, Dad?”

“Think so, Dean. But whatever happens, you’re not to move or cry out. Understand? Our livesall of our lives could depend on not behaving stupe.”

“Sure, Dad.”

The dancers were more than halfway up the side, climbing row after row of the steep steps with fluid ease. The wounded slaver seemed much more passive, waiting at the bottom, half supported by his guards.

A large log fell into the heart of the nearest fire, raising a flare of dazzling flames.

“Dark night!” J.B. exclaimed, taken by surprise. The light showed the white prisoner more clearly, revealing the reason for his inability to call out properly for help, showing the waggling stump of his amputated tongue, raw and bleeding.