The Demon of the Air

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Blood lay on the steps near the summit of the Great Pyramid, the afternoon’s flowing over the morning’s, the fresh over the dry. My bare foot struck it with a wet slap and came up again with a sound like cotton tearing.

Two temples crowned the pyramid: the war-god’s on the right and the rain-god’s on the left. This evening the blood seeping down the steps belonged to the war-god. It was the Festival of the Raising of Banners, when something more than the usual shuffling lines of anonymous captives awaited the Fire Priest and his flint knife. Today, the merchants, the long-distance traders known as Pochteca, presented their gifts to the god: beautiful dancers, the pick of the slaves in the market, trained for months to make their last day on Earth a flawless masterpiece.

“You’ve seen more sacrifices than I have, Yaotl. Did you ever see one like this before?” The man climbing beside me had a gruff voice made gruffer by the effort of lugging our burden up the side of the pyramid. He had a solid, useful look that went with his name, Momaimati, which meant One Skilled with his Hands or, as I thought of him, “Handy.”

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