You are the substitute, the surrogate of Tloque Nahuaque, the lord of the near and far.
You are the seat [the throne from which he rules], you are his flute [the mouth from which he speaks],
he speaks within you,
he makes you his lips, his jaws, his ears…
He also makes you his fangs, his claws,
for you are his wild beast, you are his eater of people, you are his judge.
—The Florentine Codex, Book VI, 42R
CHAPTER 1 THE OBREGI MOUNTAINS
YEAR 315 OF THE SUN
(10 YEARS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)
O Sun! You cast cruel shadow
Black char for flesh, the tint of feathers
Have you forsaken mercy?
—From
Collected Lamentations from the Night of Knives Today he would become a god. His mother had told him so.
“Drink this,” she said, handing him a cup. The cup was long and thin and filled with a pale creamy liquid. When he sniffed it, he smelled the orange flowers that grew in looping tendrils outside his window, the ones with the honey centers. But he also smelled the earthy sweetness of the bell-shaped flowers she cultivated in her courtyard garden, the one he was never allowed to play in. And he knew there were things he could not smell in the drink, secret things, things that came from the bag his mother wore around her neck, that whitened the tips of her fingers and his own tongue.
“Drink it now, Serapio,” she said, resting a hand briefly against his cheek. “It’s better to drink it cold. And I’ve put more sweet in it this time, so you can keep it down better.”
He flushed, embarrassed by her mention of his earlier vomiting. She had warned him to drink the morning’s dose quickly, but he had been hesitant and sipped it instead, and he had heaved up some of the drink in a milky mess. He was determined to prove himself worthy this time, more than just a timid boy.
He grasped the cup between shaking hands, and under his mother’s watchful gaze, he brought it to his lips. The drink was bitter cold, and as she had promised, much sweeter than the morning’s portion.
“All of it,” she chided as his throat protested and he started to lower the cup. “Else it won’t be enough to numb the pain.”
He forced himself to swallow, tilting his head back to drain the vessel. His stomach protested, but he held it down. Ten seconds passed, and then another ten. He triumphantly handed the empty cup back.
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