Deliverance
“You must complete the ritual.” The man says, as he limps into the dark hut, dragging his battered and broken body along just barely. A trail of fresh blood paints his footsteps like a shadow attached to his corporeal form.
Ahua reluctantly follows, fighting the primal urge to step away and escape from this repugnant scene, that is both the wounded man and the morbid hut. He has not been allowed inside before - there is no window or any crevice, the door’s been locked shut since the beginning of his recollection, and both father and the tribe elders have ordained it blasphemy to interlope at all.
The twilights of dusk barely illuminates the interior. Ahua has envisioned all kinds of eldritch and aberrant scenes when this day finally comes, yet to his surprise or dismay - he isn’t sure - all he finds within are a throne and three tables, all made of dull, rough stone. His instincts drive him to search every nook and corner for what can be construed as danger - yet there is nothing extraordinary to be found; there is just cold, dark emptiness that surrounds him.
“Close the door.” His father orders.
“But…”
“Close the door.” Before he can even let out a cry of reluctance, the man states his orders again. There is no anger in his tone, no disappointment, no annoyance… no emotion at all.
Ahua does so. The door is closed shut, breaking all light from the outside. The hut is enveloped in darkness once again. There is a brief silence, quickly broken by sounds of searching and manipulating. Chants hastily made in words utterly foreign and primal to Ahua lights a candle, lighting the room with a flickering fire.
The man does all this with an obvious lack of practice, reaching into the pouch on his belt to his right with his left hand, taking out one component at a time. His right arm is nothing more than a severed mess, cut off by the maw of some… creature. There are medicinal pastes applied to the stump, but fresh, crimson blood still spews out onto the earth with every stretch and turn of his body.
Ahua averts his gaze from the agonizing injury. He doesn’t understand. How can someone still keep their composure in such a state? He has witnessed agony before: warriors brought back from the dense, suffocating jungle that surrounds the village, crying and screaming in pain, begging for their lives, or a quick, merciful end. Yet this man, father, stands with frightening resoluteness in front of him, in possibly his last breath. He doesn’t understand him.
A few more candle is lit. The man places them with meticulousness on the tables surrounding the throne. Ahua watches, attempting to decipher the underlying patterns that doctrines his actions, yet to no avail.
He finally sits down on the throne, slowly posing his back straight against the back of the throne. A piece of humerus, broken from the larger bone and barely attached to what remains of him by tendons, dangles and swings slightly against his movement, yet his posture is straight and steel.
“Come here.” He calmly orders, once again.
Ahua does so. He knows what is coming, and what he is supposed to do. He does not want to do it. The ritual is taught to him, time and time again since cognition is formed, with no regard as to whether he find it horrifying or not.
He takes over the pack father is holding in his hands. The weight drags him off balance slightly - he is not expecting such a heavy package from a man at the brink of death.
“Go on.” He rests his remaining arm on the throne.
The room falls into silence again. Ahua looks up from the pack to his father, who expresses no attention toward his gaze. He simply stares forward, towards the darkness that candlelights fail to reach. Reluctantly and hesitantly, Ahua reaches out to untie the ropes binding the pack close. He is well aware of what is inside.
Yet the sight still sends shivers down his whole spirit. He whimpers fearfully. These are skulls. Bleached dry of life by age and time, leaving only runes and patterns unknown engraved onto them.
His hands are shaking. The skulls clank together, as if cackling at his incompetence. Reaching into the pack, Ahua takes one out, and places the skull behind one of the candles. He only dares to observe with the corner of his eye, one glimpse at a time - the sockets of the lifeless, bleached skull seems to stare back at his sight.
The man exhales. It may be a sigh. “Answer me.” He asks, “Do you fear Death?”
Ahua nods. He’s unsure of father really can see him.
The man continues either way. “Do not fear. Death is simply the end of one life, just like Birth the beginning. It is the basic principles of nature. As servant to the Three-Eyed Nightcrawler, you should understand.”
Ahua shivers at the name, but his actions do hasten, whether out of resolution or fear. One by one, skulls are taken out of the pack and placed onto the table.
He looks back at father. The man’s stature has not moved at all. He stays silent. Blood drips down his severed arm, splashing onto the rough stone of the throne, staining it in dark, crimson hue.
“I, I can’t do it. I shouldn’t do it.” Ahua blurts out. The final skull is held in his hand, staring at him emptily, laughing at him silently. He expects the same cold, emotionless order to once again quell his dissent.
But the man simply turns his gaze towards him, waiting for him to finish.
“You’ve…” Ahua continues, “You’ve taught me this, mother have taught me this, others have taught me this, that…”
His voice lowers, quickly down to barely a whisper. “That… it is such a cruel thing to… to kill.”
For a moment, he sees understanding in father’s eyes. But his gaze does not soften, and his voice does not soften.
“Ahuatotli.” He states calmly, “Your hands will take many lives, and deliver them to the Three-Eyed Nightcrawler. Just like mine. And just like those of our ancestors before us.”
There is no response.
The man’s voice is stern. “Understand that the confines of morality is irrelevant in the face of survival.”
An eerie howl erupts from the distance, breaking the silence placed upon the hut. Ahua looks up to father, who meets his sight with unchanging, ever resolute gaze. The sun has set, and night is upon them. Past is the point of no return.
He opens his mouth, but words do not come out. Turning around, he carefully delivers the final skull to its place on the table. His hands are shaking uncontrollably.
A voice whispers into his ears. Followed by another. And another. And another. It is a cacophony of dissonant whispers, exploding against his mind and spirit. The flickering candle flames change and shift, as a crimson hue descends upon the room.
The man chants. The language is foreign, yet the whispers resonate with it, drilling knowledge and meaning into his brain.
“Xbeltz’aloc, your faithful servant calls. His hands have delivered Death to many, given Birth to many more. He has answered your challenge.”
On each skull placed upon the table, deathly red lights begin to shine in the shape of three diamonds, two in the eye sockets, and one in the middle of the forehead. The man murmurs with the last draw of breath.
“Xbeltz’aloc, DELIVER ME.”
Crimson light erupts from his eyes and forehead. The whispers rise into screams, cries, shouts. Primal howls ebb and flow around the hut and around them, like a parade of nocturne shades. Ahua grabs the curved obsidian dagger from father’s hands, and stabs it into him.
Everything falls silent. The howls, the whispers, the screams, the laughters. There is only the grueling sound of flesh being torn apart.
Ahua holds the skull up, and places it behind the last empty spot behind a lit candle. Blood and viscera still stains the skull and his hands. All of the crimson diamonds shine in harmony with the silent night. His eyes has many colors, be it fear, regret, doubt, sadness; yet the childish innocence is lost forever.
Aug 15, 2023. West Lafayette, Indiana.