The sound pierced my torpor, and I realised it was a voice I knew, calling my name. Xilonen released me; I became aware of the dampness of the ground, crawling up my legs; of the light of the stars above.

Of Huchimitl, who stood before the main doors, her mask glimmering in the cold light. It was an effort to raise my head and look at her.

"He is not Yours," she said, anger in her voice.

Xilonen laughed. "He offered himself. Freely, to undo the great wrong your husband did to me."

"He is not Yours," Huchimitl repeated.

"Whose would he be?" Xilonen asked, mocking. "Yours? You could not hold him."

"No." Huchimitl's voice was toneless. Calmly, she walked forward, until she stood before Xilonen. "If a life has to be sacrificed, let it be mine."

"Yours?" Xilonen laughed. "You denied yourself to Me all those years. You hid yourself from My face, cowering in your house, for fear that others would catch a glimpse of you and be forever marked. And you think you are a worthy sacrifice?"

I could not speak. I could not drag myself upwards, to shut Huchimitl's mouth before she said the irreparable. I could just remain where I was. Watching. Listening. Unable to affect anything.

Huchimitl's voice, when she spoke next, was very quiet. "You made me a worthy sacrifice," she said. "You removed me from the human world." And slowly, deliberately, reached upwards with both hands, and took away her mask.

I heard it clatter to the ground. But it mattered little. I had thought it hid the ruins of the curse, that it would be the face of some monster, painful to look at.

In a way, it was worse.

There was a face, under the mask. It was no longer human. Every feature, transfigured, gleamed with a merciless light. The skin was the colour of burnished copper; the eyes shone like emeralds. The cheekbones were high, ruddy in the starlight, the lips parted to reveal blinding-white teeth, each like a small sun, perfect, searing. If it was beauty, it was the kind that would burn away your eyes: nothing ever meant for human minds to hold or comprehend. My eyes had started to water with that mere sight, and I knew I would be blinded if I had to endure it for much longer. No wonder Huchimitl had not been able to bear that face.

Xilonen turned to stare at Huchimitl, Her head cocked as if admiring Her creation.

"Am I not beautiful?" Huchimitl asked, throwing her head back. Even that mere gesture was alluring. I could not look away, even though my eyes kept burning, burning as if someone had thrown raw chilli powder into my face. "Am I not desirable?"

Xilonen did not answer. Huchimitl came closer, hands outstretched, and laid her fingers on the goddess' arm. Even I felt the thrill that raced through Xilonen, making the whole world shudder.

"My life for my son's, and his beloved war-son's," Huchimitl said. "Is that not a worthy bargain?"

Xilonen stared at her. She said, at last, "You are not amusing any more. You have accepted My gift."

Huchimitl cocked her head, in a gesture reminiscent of her creator. "Perhaps," she said. "Do we have a bargain?" She gestured towards me, contemptuous. "He is nothing." And this time I knew she was lying.

Xilonen smiled at last, and the feeling of that smile filled the courtyard like a ray of sunlight. "Yes, he is nothing. But do not think you have fooled me into thinking you do not care either." She laughed. "Nevertheless... we have a bargain."

The light around Huchimitl grew stronger and stronger, sharpening her features. I kept on looking, even though I knew that my eyesight would be forever dimmed. I kept on looking as she and the goddess vanished from the courtyard, taking away the unearthly light. I thought that, at the last, Huchimitl looked towards me, and that her lips mouthed some words. Perhaps, "I am sorry." Perhaps, "I love you." Something, anything to help me bear the grief that now burnt through me.

The buildings were adobe, no longer stark white or wavering; the feeling of oppression had disappeared. I pushed myself to my feet, and met Mazahuatl's gaze. The young warrior was standing in the doorway, staring at the place where his mother had disappeared. Even with the memory of Xilonen's light clouding my sight, I could tell his dark aura had vanished. I could guess that Citli would walk to his sacrifice and join the Sun God in the heavens, and that Mazahuatl would receive his promotion.

I did not care.

"Mother?" Mazahuatl asked.

"Remember her," I said.

I made my unsteady way through the courtyard, passed the gates, and found myself in a deserted street. It was not seemly that a priest for the Dead should grieve, or have regrets. It was not seemly to cry, either.

I stood alone in the street, staring at the stars, and saw them slowly blur as tears ran down my cheeks.

Safe, Child, Safe

First published in Talebones, Winter 2009 issue I knew something was wrong with the child as soon as his father brought him to me.

He was perhaps four, five years old, and everything about him was high-born Mexica: his tunic of cotton embroidered with leaping deer; his skin the colour of cacao bean; his hair as dark as congealed blood. He lay on the reed mat in my temple, shivering; his feverish eyes turned to me and yet did not see me.

That was not what made the hairs on my nape rise.

No, what made me pause was what I saw clinging to his hands and feet: a green, pulsing aura that brought with it the smell of rotting leaves and mouldy earth. The aura of Mictlan, the underworld.

Living things did not have the aura. Dead things, yes, but then they should have been in the underworld, not here among mortals. And with dead things the aura wrapped the whole body, not just the extremities.

I looked up at the father, who for the whole duration of my examination had stood in a corner, dwarfed by the frescoes of Tezcatlipoca, God of War and Fate. His face was pale. Yaotl of the Atempan calpulli clan, he had said his name was, when he marched into my temple with the arrogance of successful warriors. Now he looked more hesitant a perhaps he saw the very real worry in my face.