This time the swords rose and fell, cutting open a massive wound in each prisoner’s chest. The black blades, smoking in the cool evening, were dropped and each priest reached into the cavity and wrenched out the living, beating heart.
Dean’s face was as white as ivory and he was swallowing hard, fighting for control, desperate not to let his father down in front of the entire tribe.
Now the sun was almost done with its day’s journey, its last bright rays touching the tableau on top of the pyramid, the three dripping hearts held aloft to catch the light.
The natives around Ryan and the others cried out in a single word, which sounded like the name of their fire god, Huehueteotl.
Itzcoatl turned to Ryan. “It went well, did it not?” he asked, as calm as if he’d been watching a pie bake at a Kansas summer picnic.
“It was” Ryan was aware that the scar that seamed down his face from his good eye to the corner of his mouth was flaming with his anger. With the greatest effort he controlled his rage, keeping his voice calm and neutral. “Yeah, it was interesting, Chief.”
“There is more.”
“What?”
“The bodies will be brought down after the hearts are thrown into the fires. And the priests will build new fires in the empty bodies, where the hearts lived. This will be the final way of giving them to the fire god. He will be pleased and wars will go well. We will be warmed in the cold.”
“And the crops’ll grow,” Mildred said. “Long as the creeks don’t rise.”
Itzcoatl looked puzzled. “No. This is not for the growing gods. That will come when we” He stopped as though his tongue had been running away with him.
“When?” Ryan asked.
“When we are ready.”
“Well, forgive me, Chief, but we’ve had a busy day and we’ve seen most of your service. Think we’ll all go on back to our huts now.”
“It is not over,” the chief insisted stubbornly. “You stick around.”
“No.”
“There is food after.”
“More rat’s brains,” Jak said.
“Yes, if you want them,” Itzcoatl replied eagerly. “We thought you did not like them.”
“I don’t,” the teenager replied.
“Then what ?” The smile disappeared. “Have we done something shitty and offended you, Jak? Was it me? Or another? Give us your command.”
“No. Nobody.”
“They will be punished. The spines of the agave cactus will be pushed into their flesh and then set on fire. Or they will be strangled. Or stoned to dying. Or we will pluck out their eyes.”
“I said not. Look, we’re tired and we’ve had enough. All right?”
“If the gods wish it so.”
Ryan nodded. “They do, Chief. They surely do. Can you send some of that atolli stuff to our huts, along with water? And we’ll manage just fine.”
“But the lighting of the fires in the bodies is the hottest potato, Ryan.”
“No, Chief. Thanks a lot, but I reckon not. Thanks anyway. Some other time.”
Ryan turned on his heel and led the others back toward the center of the village and their huts.
Chapter Nineteen
Ryan awakened early, disturbed by the first fragile tendrils of dawn sunshine peeking through holes in the thatched roof of their hut.
He had slept well, though there’d been a disturbing dream about losing handfuls of jack in a room that was burning. Everywhere he looked for the money would burst into flames, scorching his fingers, making him jump back to safety.
He and Krysty had made slow, gentle love during the night, bringing each other to a shuddering climax with the skill of long practice.
Now she lay by him, hair spread across the woven blanket like living fire.
Outside, he could hear the sounds of a community rising to meet the day.
Women pounded grain and readied the mixture to make the breakfast tortillas. A dog barked sharply, once, and somewhere in the village a baby was crying. Fires had been lit, and lazy coils of smoke drifted through the beaded doorway of the hut.
The acrid smell of the smoke and the cooking of meat brought back the jarring memory of the ritual sacrifices the previous evening.