The day had come. The festival of Xochi Huetzi began.
From the moment the sun left Mictlan thanks to Huitzilopochtli's victory and set out on its journey across the sky under Tonatiuh's guidance, the celebrations commenced.
Musicians played joyful melodies, and people tossed them cacao beans again and again. From the pulquerías and the stalls of street cooks wafted a marvelous aroma: the scent of pozole soup, grilled corn, fried tortillas with all manner of toppings. When you smelled it all, you had no choice—you simply had to taste it. In secluded spots along the walls, people sipped pulque and gossiped, listening to the music and watching the crowd.
Young boys flocked to young girls like hummingbirds to flowers. Families strolled with their children. Elders told the young about days long past.
In the squares, people danced to the rhythm of the music. The young savored every moment. The old watched them and remembered when they themselves were young.
Yet the festival was not limited to mortals and their affairs.
Priests began to raise prayers to the gods and offer the first sacrifices. From the tops of pyramids rose coils of sacrificial smoke that carried mortals' gifts to the gods. When the sound of the huehuetl drums rang out, mortals would answer the call and gather beneath the pyramids to thank the gods for the past year and to ask for favors in the year to come.
Everyone, however, awaited the ceremony that would take place the next day, when the young musician would become a guardian spirit.
For now, the chosen one stayed in the residence of Xochipilli's priests in the company of those closest to him.
As evening slowly approached, Tlacotzin sat down to his last meal. He was closing the affairs of his mortal life. Tonight, as the sun set, the final stage of his journey to the spirit world would begin.
For now, though, he ate slowly with his loved ones. They all assured him they were parting without pain, but he knew they were trying to comfort him. What else could they say?
Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel—girls so wonderful he would not have dared ask even for one such girl. Yet all of them wanted to be with him, even though he was to die.
He recalled all the moments they had shared: how he first saw them upon waking, how they worked together, how they stayed with him even after he was chosen to die.
His foster father, Cuathli—the one who found him and cared for him as his own. Now he would take on the role of spiritual guardian when Tlacotzin departed. Tlacotzin felt sorrow that tomorrow a very heavy duty would fall upon him. But neither of them could do anything about it. He had to follow the commands of the gods, for the good of the entire city.
Citalli—should he think of her as a mother or an older sister? Given her age, probably an older sister. He remembered what she had been and what she was now. He could not have wished for anyone better as his high priestess: strong and fearsome, yet at the same time feminine and gentle.
Itzcoatl—his best friend. If not for him, Tlacotzin would have looked like Mecatl: a person without a future, deprived of everything. The only things that could have happened to him were slavery or sacrifice. There was a touch of irony in it—he would become a sacrifice, but would not die steeped in despair. Unfortunately, Itzcoatl still had those bonds around his heart. Tlacotzin did have an idea how to help him.
He looked at the table. There was pozole soup made with white corn, his favorite bean tamales, and a small amount of pulque. Everything was adorned with pink orchid flowers. Tomorrow, when he became a guardian spirit, that flower would be his symbol.
Everything tasted so good. He wanted this to be an ordinary family meal. They laughed—and then… for a moment he drifted into youthful daydreams.
When they finished, he took out his old flute and played. It was the first melody he had ever played for them. He played not as a future guardian spirit, but as a young boy saying farewell to those he loved most.
At last evening came.
He stood before his pyramid and tomb, dressed as in the old days: a simple white maxtlatl, no body paint, his mother's amulet the only adornment. At his sides stood his betrothed in their simple dresses. Citalli and Cuathli were already waiting at the top. This was the final farewell to mortality.
Behind them, the sun was setting. It was entering Mictlan, to return at dawn. Like the sun, he would undergo a symbolic death as a man that night, to return in the morning already as one who was half guardian spirit.
A crowd had gathered on the plaza before him. There were many of them. All had enjoyed themselves today and tasted the sweetness of life. Now it was time for bitterness. Many had already heard Tlacotzin's music during the presentations and the ceremonies that marked his passage. Now they would hear his music for the last time as a mortal.
Tlacotzin stepped onto the first stair of his temple and called Itzcoatl to him.
The young noble knelt before him.
"Stand, my friend."
Itzcoatl rose with slight reluctance, as if he did not feel worthy to stand.
"I owe you much. Don't deny it. If not for you, I would likely be a despairing slave by now—if I were alive at all. Only thanks to you was I able to go on. I've come all the way here. I have found a new family I would never have dared to dream of. Though my life is ending, I am no longer afraid. I am ready to die for those I love."
He looked into his eyes and smiled warmly.
"I saved your life when you fell into the river. You kept me from sinking into despair. In my eyes we are even, but your honor won't let you accept that, and so there is something I want from you."
Itzcoatl looked as if something had suddenly lifted his spirit.
"I don't know when or where, but the time will come when you take your first captive. When that time comes, bring him to my temple to present him to me. Then help him through his fate, so that he can accept it with a light heart. That is the task I leave you."
Itzcoatl looked surprised. After a moment he bowed and said,
"I accept this sacred mission with gratitude. When I take my first captive—no matter who he is—I will bring him to you, present him to you, and prepare him so that he accepts his fate with a light heart."
Tlacotzin smiled. The cords around Itzcoatl's heart had not vanished, but they had loosened. He trusted that now, with a purpose, his friend would manage.
The drums sounded. Tlacotzin turned and began to climb the steps of the pyramid. After a moment he and his betrothed reached the top. As he ascended, he looked at the sacrificial stone—his sacrificial stone. At dawn the first hearts would be laid upon it. He felt guilty. He knew it was necessary, but he felt guilty that someone would be weeping the next evening.
He turned toward the crowd and looked. He smiled in surprise. From up here, the city's residents seemed to blend perfectly with the sacred garden.
He spread his arms and spoke:
"People of the city, I, Tlacotzin, end my journey as a mortal today. I was born in this city among you, and I lived here. For the past year I lived in darkness, and if not for a true friend, I doubt I would still be among the living. Yet because of that I found a new family, and I am grateful for every moment of joy and sorrow I shared with them. Though I greatly wish to remain with you all, tomorrow I will give my heart to Xochipilli—not out of duty, but because I desire to protect everyone in this city. Anyone who comes here seeking help will be heard by me. If I can help, I will. I have never felt special. I have always felt like a simple musician, and that is how I wish to bid you farewell."
Tlacotzin drew his ritual bone flute and began to play.
At first he played a sorrowful melody that told of his life in darkness. Then he played of his new life as a low-ranking temple servant, of how his betrothed bestowed their love upon him. His music rang with gratitude for every bit of warmth he had received. The music grew solemn and sad when he was chosen as an offering, but became ever more tranquil in rhythm with his preparations. He ended on a note of acceptance and a plea for solace for all who would lose someone tomorrow.
He bowed as he used to in the market. The crowd applauded—just as they did in the market. It was like a soothing balm to him.
He felt Cuathli's hand upon him. His face was as usual, but his eyes hid a great sorrow. Tlacotzin nodded, and they set off toward his tomb.
They descended for a time before entering the antechamber. Tlacotzin remembered how the chief architect had praised his tomb. Now he saw it had not been without reason: beautiful carvings of orchids, lovely murals on the walls showing his journey from poor musician to guardian spirit. It was a beautiful hall. Beyond lay the chamber of gifts; the chamber for the thirteen hearts to be offered during the temple's consecration; the chamber for offerings; and the chamber for him—and for his brides when their time came.
This time, however, he was to be here alone. He sat on a mat facing the entrance.
Cuathli knelt before him.
"I should speak as a priest, but I will speak as a father."
"Xochipilli will understand. If need be, I'll explain it to him."
They smiled at each other.
"This is your last night. Try to devote it to meditation, and do not fall asleep."
Tlacotzin nodded. They left him amid the curls of incense and the light of lamps.
Tlacotzin pondered everything he had experienced so far: the meaning of his offering and of those that would be made; why he had been chosen. To that last question he could not find an answer. He would ask Xochipilli when he met him. Before him lay a whole night of meditation.