In the morning Tlacotzin awoke in his cell within the ritual prison. Once, he would have risen full of strength and ready for new tasks, eager to greet another day of work in the temple garden. How wonderful it would be to tend flowers again, joking and flirting with Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel—Xilonen provoking him boldly while Izel scolded her, and he, Meya, and Nenetzi laughing at the scene.
He would never know that again.
He wanted to crawl under his blanket and hide. After a moment he told himself it was childish and would help nothing. At Xochi Huetzi he must die by the hand of his foster father, so that those he loved might live in prosperity. He knew it perfectly well—he wished for their happiness—but he still wanted to be with them.
He hoped at least breakfast would be as before. How wrong he was.
When he had lived alone in a hut, he ate little more than tortillas and bean tamales, sometimes a soup, with water and atole. He remembered those flavors dimly, but always with the loneliness that clung to them.
As a temple aide, he ate with the other low-ranking servants. The temple cook had talent, and a meal among companions was heartening. There were more vegetables and fruit, which helped.
Now he sat in a quiet wing of the residence on an agave mat at a low table with Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel. He noticed Nenetzi wore no ornaments; in fact, all of them were in plain white dresses.
Cuathli spoke.
"Listen to me. Until the festival you will keep a special ritual fast. You may eat nothing beyond what we give you. Yes, I know it is hard."
Here he glanced at Xilonen, whose head had lowered.
"Your meal is not simply to sate hunger; it is part of the rite that prepares you to meet Xochipilli."
Temple attendants brought bowls of flower-scented water to wash their hands. Then the priests set platters before them.
Tlacotzin was surprised by what he saw: roasted amaranth with chia seeds, grilled prickly-pear fruit, and cacao atole. It was shocking—costly fare, even if the portions were modest.
"As I said," Cuathli continued, "this meal is not only to feed you. Its foods have purifying properties, chosen with care."
He threw Tlacotzin a knowing look, as if he had read his thoughts.
"We begin with prayer. Your first bite you will offer to Xochipilli upon this small altar. Then eat slowly, contemplating its meaning. The plants that yielded these grains and fruits grew by the grace of the gods. The gods spend their strength to sustain mortal life. We must give offerings that they may continue to uphold our world."
The last words came with palpable pain. All knew why.
They prayed. As instructed, Tlacotzin thanked Xochipilli for life and joy brought to the living world, and for the chance to offer his heart so that such blessings might continue. After placing the first morsel on the altar, they ate—quietly, slowly—reflecting on how their food existed by the gods' favor.
When they finished, their group was ritually censed with copal incense. Then they climbed the pyramid.
The ascent was to accustom them to the nearness of the rite and help them accept it. There they said a prayer like the one at the meal and offered flowers woven in the shape of a heart.
Next came meditation in the garden, while Tlacotzin played the bone flute. Cuathli had already told him he must compose the melody to be played at the ritual, but nothing would come. He wanted to bury his head in his hands—but that would help nothing. He had to create a melody, the last of his life… about what? Until now, melodies had come to him of their own accord.
He looked at the flowers. Their petals were so delicate. He longed to tend them again, to prepare them for ritual. Now he was as they were—nurtured and readied for the rite. He was the Flower of Xochipilli.
Then came the midday meal.
Afterward they went to the preparation chamber. Strangely, Cuathli and the other male priests were absent. With them were Citalli and several attendants.
"Tlacotzin, Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, Izel," Citalli began, "we must speak of the most difficult element of the rite. I do not mean the offering of the heart. What do you think it is?"
They swallowed hard. What could be harder than that?
"It is the ritual act."
They stared at her.
"That can't be difficult," Xilonen said.
"You are very sure of yourself, Xilonen—and that is good."
Xilonen braced herself for the blow of some terrifying aura, but felt none. Relief stole over her.
"Cuathli has told me that you and Izel have already grown… better acquainted with Tlacotzin. And you, Meya, Nenetzi?"
All of them flushed. Meya and Nenetzi nodded, hands rising to cover their mouths.
"Congratulations," Citalli said evenly. "And where will this most important rite take place?"
Izel met her gaze.
"That's obvious—"
A shiver shot through her; she cried out.
"On top of the sacred pyramid?! Before the entire city?!"
A chill ran through them all. The girls—and Tlacotzin—reddened to the ears, folding in on themselves and covering their private parts.
"That is what I meant." Citalli smiled gently. "You must do it naked, all together, before the whole city."
Her eyes pierced them; they felt a faint prick, like a thorn.
"Understand this: the act is not for pleasure, but for the transmission of energy. Xochipilli will take the energy of your rapture and send it into the earth to ensure its fertility."
She looked from one to the next.
"You will undress atop the sacred pyramid and join in love."
They stared at her pleadingly, ready to die of shame on the spot.
"The first step is to accustom you to nakedness in the presence of strangers, so it will not agitate you. Second—what is the largest number you have joined with at once?"
Blushing, Tlacotzin raised three fingers. Until now he had been with Izel and Xilonen together after his birthday feast, and afterward with the girls one by one.
"That is the next element. It may seem unusual, but one man finds it very hard to satisfy four girls. First you must grow used to nakedness; then we will practice union. Undress—and do not cover yourselves."
Her last words left no room for protest. Lips pressed tight, they slowly disrobed until they stood bare, hunching in vain to shield themselves from others' eyes.
"I know it is difficult," Citalli said, "but you must stand straight, hands at your sides."
Xilonen exploded:
"You're not planning to sell us at the market, are you?!"
They all burst into nervous laughter—Xilonen last of all. Tlacotzin managed a small smile. If Xilonen could joke, perhaps things were under control—assuming they did not die of embarrassment.
Afterward they went to the temazcal for purification in the steam lodge. Heat and the scent of herbs let them relax; sweat and warmth seemed to wash the day's burdens away. Yet they were still not allowed to dress—the steam was their only veil.
After purification and supper, each was taken a different way for meditation and contemplation.
Tlacotzin returned to the preparation chamber with the techcatl stone and stood before Cuathli, who was censing him with incense while the attendants looked on. When he had been purified for the second time that day, a need to unburden himself welled up.
"It all feels unreal," he said. "As if it were a bad dream—or happening to someone else."
Cuathli's face fell. He set his hands upon Tlacotzin's shoulders.
"Sadly, it is true."
"My life has changed so much—and this is only the first day."
A tear pricked his eye. He remembered starting as a temple aide—how shocking that change had been after the hut. He longed to feel that same lightness of heart again, not this crushing weight. It was as if a stone, not a heart, lay in his chest. He wanted to return to the simple daily round—serving lightly as an aide, playing his flute for those he loved and for any who asked. But it was impossible. He was the Flower of Xochipilli, and his fate was set.
Cuathli broke into his thoughts.
"Tlacotzin, now you will practice mastery over your fear. Breath control is the key. You must govern your breathing. Keep it steady and fix your mind upon it."
Tlacotzin nodded slightly before they laid him on the stone again. He tried to focus with all his might on the rhythm of his breath. It went tolerably well—but one thought kept returning.
He longed for something that would let his heart feel light as a flower again, and not heavy as stone.