Random Prompts #2 - Magnetic Central American

As second random prompt, I got Magnetic Central American. I did try to invent something funny, but this story’s tone eventually turned much more brutal than I expected.

My greatest regret is the lack of depth of the characters, mostly because time ran out, but… I can only get better at it, right? 👀

Balam was just seventeen, a strong youngster with the huge will to live common of his age. Though in those days he was feeling an emotion much stronger than the others: anger, for that great unfairness. He had been chosen for the yearly Mayan bloodletting because of his name, which meant jaguar, the greatest warrior.

The ritual consisted in the slow removal of a person’s skin, using a wooden knife with an extremely sharp blade made of obsidian. The dermis had to be stripped while the victim was alive because it symbolized the god Xipe Totec being born again from death. Of course, the sufferer had to remain conscious for the whole time. Or tried, at least.

The boy had attended several festivals in the past, and was always shocked by the violence. He couldn’t show any frailty, but the spectacle made him feel sick. Each time, the victim tried to stay silent and focused, grateful for being chosen for that role. Every time, though, loud screams of pain exploded after a while.

The shaman, raising the macuahuitl, first made a slight cut on the outer forearm, and slight red rivulets started flowing. Then, after two other light slits, perpendicular to the first, proceeded to take off the skin like gloves. The red flesh pulsed while the victim clumsy tried to stay still. After the hands, it was time for the back: the leather was spread like a pair of wings, and eventually cut away on the shoulders. Almost anyone resisted until that point. The chest was another thing. A long cut was made from below the Adam’s apple to the navel, then it was slowly torn apart. This was where many fainted because the fat tissues sometimes were hard to detach, and the long knife was needed. The victims that resisted, showing a staggering threshold of pain, always fell off when both of their wrists were broken to represent the god’s — the wooden part of the knife was used for this, swung as a mace on the reddish flesh. Eventually, with the help of a couple of men to hold up the passed out, the shaman would make a final wound on the scalp, and removed the dermis from around the whole head. The skinned body, laying in a huge puddle of blood, was placed on an altar, sitting like Xipe Totec in the holy depictions, and let die slowly.

At the first lights of dawn, the shaman approached the shed where Balam was kept. He took a piece of the sacred burned wood and started drawing celestial signs with the piece of charcoal on the boy’s body.

“Do not fear, young warrior. After the travel, your body will be renewed.” While tracing the lines on the skin, the K’uk’ul Tz’ikin could feel something unfamiliar below the epidermis. There was something powerful in him — much more evident than in the past warriors. That was a good sign: the cycle of life would finally return to normality after the poor harvest of the past year, after the god Xipe Totec will be pleased by that blood offering.

Deep in his heart, Balam knew that wasn’t his destiny. He felt fear, sure, a wave of panic washed over him when later he was brought to the top of the main building of Tazumal, the great pyramid of gods. It was one of the largest temples ever built, where the greatest Mayan rituals were celebrated. Anyway, the boy was calm because he somehow knew that the sharp, black blade would not reach his skin.

It was a clear day, he could see up to the mountains to both North and South. The large paved roads, the sacbeob, were full of people coming to celebrate his death. At the base of the monument, thirty meters below him, they must have been five hundred at least.

He was standing next to the altar waiting for the K’uk’ul Tz’ikin, the feathered bird which would have guided him in his travel towards death. In other words, his slayer.

The shaman was already in the room placed on the top of the pyramid, painting his face and torso to get prepared for the ritual. When he approached Balam, he avoided the boy’s gaze. The old man had told him before that ‘pain is temporary; pride is eternal’, but the youngster’s eyes had a flame inside that unsettled him.

They were alone on the great balcony; two other novices were standing in the inner room. The K’uk’ul Tz’ikin approached the stairs and, while kneeling before the Sun, started reciting a prayer for the gods. Then Balam lost consciousness. Or better, he was still standing on his own feet, but he lost control of his body. It was a sensation he had felt just once in his life, about ten year before, when he got lost in the forest.

He had been sent to get some neem leaves, but he couldn’t remember where was the clearing where the plant grew. After more than an hour spent wandering around, he got lost. He was both afraid and angry, like in that exact moment. Suddenly, he heard a voice, “K’uxi’ in k’i’ik’, ch’ak.” Let me drive you, son. Then his legs started moving without him to command them. They knew the way home, he thought without feeling any fear, and he reached the field with no hesitation. He just trusted his legs. He never knew what happened, and eventually forgot about it. Now, the same sensation entangled his own body, not just the legs. His flesh and bones stopped moving according to his thoughts; he was a spectator, not much different from the hundreds down there.

He started walking towards the shaman, about ten meters away. Seeing him moving, the crowd gasped in awe. Puzzled by the rumble, the old man turned around and saw Balam in front of him: he looked much taller now, and his eyes –perfectly white, almost shining– were gazing at him. The boy wasn’t tied, there was never been the necessity. The man tried to get up on his feet, but before he could understand what was happening, the youngster kicked him in the shoulder. Hard. He fell on the great stone steps of the temple, but luckily he could grab to a protrusion, and stop the fall. The two assistants came out as they heard screams raising from the audience, but in the meantime Balam reached the macuahuitl, which the shaman had dropped. The black obsidian stones were sharp as razors.

There was indeed a light in Balam’s eyes. He whispered, “Nimitz mictlā, nimitz tlālōtl.” I am life, I am death, but nobody heard that. The shaman had climbed the stairs, panting, just to see a fast swing and the heads of the two men falling on the ground. He gulped, shocked in front of such blasphemy. After slaughtering the two kids of about his age, he stopped and looked down. Following his gaze, he seemed to ponder the blood puddle at his feet. He kneeled, reaching the viscous liquid still gushing out of the cut throats.

As he went down, the shaman approached, looking for the right words to calm him down. The boy was transfigured into a tlatikpak, an actual warrior, but that behavior was impudent at least. As he stepped closer, mentally praising Xipe Totec, his eyes widened. In front of him there was the most incredible event he had seen: the red blood was flowing towards the boy’s left hand and up his arm. The red river crossed his shoulders and soaked the macuahuitl. The weapon attracted the fluid; it… it was magnetic. Balam was keeping the blade raised vertically towards the sky, whispering inaudible words. The blood kept climbing his body and disappeared between the wood and the obsidian. Eventually, all the fluid was drained, a few small spots still moving on the floor like liquid mercury.

The boy rose, his eyes now clearly shining their own light –they were on the shaman–, and slowly lifted the macuahuitl. The two were quite distant, the old man was impossible to hit, but his instinct made him retreat. After a couple of steps, though, he felt that moving was suddenly difficult. His body was so heavy! He tried to shift his weight away from the boy, but his limbs were stuck.

Balam was perfectly still, his arm lifted. After a while, the old man started moving towards him with clumsy steps. His body was fighting with his mind, which was commanding it to run away. He had no control over his body. A headache started to grow, more and more, until the pressure before his eyes became intolerable. Suddenly, a strong pain stung him. His vision blurred, and a huge black spot appeared in his vision field. His right eye had popped out, and a blood rivulet was flowing midair towards the sword. He opened his mouth to scream, but no words came out, only other red fluid flying to reach the wooden weapon.

In a matter of seconds, his drained body slumped to the ground, as a huge red spiral disappeared between Balam’s fingers. He stepped towards the stairs, and the crowd cried once more: at the top of the pyramid there wasn’t a young man, but a god. A wrathful god. He couldn’t feel anything, but the thirsty obsidian blades were guiding him. As he descended the large steps, keeping the weapon raised, the screams grew in intensity, as thousands of red strands soared in the air.

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