by R W Sowrider
“Well, I guess he’s got us there, hon,” the husband of the hysterical woman said. “Maybe we should just head home and get dinner going.”
“No Matter What,” the mother cried, staring into her child’s eyes. “Do Not Cry! If You Don’t Cry, They Can’t Sacrifice You!”
High Priest Franco smiled bitterly. “Okay, thank you very much, ma’am. Guards, please escort her away.”
As the mother was led down the steep stairs, High Priest Franco looked the 5-year-old girl in the eye with what appeared to be great sympathy. “My child,” he said. “Our time is near.”
The child eyed him back defiantly, determined not to cry.
“Gentlemen,” High Priest Franco called out. “Positions, please.”
Rowen’s heart fluttered. He’d been an altar boy since he was a teen, but this was the first time he’d be able to live up to the true sense of the title. He was thrilled.
He did his best, though, to look composed and to maintain a straight face as he jumped into action, skillfully pinning the child’s left knee to the altar. He could not have been more proud to put his strength to use for something so meaningful.
Rowen looked at the other three altar boys and sensed that the same emotions were surging through them.
Franco dangled the hallowed obsidian dagger before the child’s eyes. “I’m afraid that I must plunge this into your heart.”
Tears welled up in the child’s eyes, but despite the terrifying knife and an intimidating glare from High Priest Franco, not a single tear dropped.
Recognizing that a sneak attack may be necessary to jar the tears, High Priest Franco suddenly pinched the young girl on the arm.
As this too provided no results, High Priest Franco looked the child in the eye and sighed a deep sigh of regret. “Since we can’t get any tears from you, I guess we’ll have to let you live.”
A gleam of hope appeared in the child’s eyes.
High Priest Franco put a hand on Rowen’s shoulder. “But you won’t be going back to your family. You’ll be spending the rest of your life as the daughter of our faithful servant Rowen here.”
Before High Priest Franco had even finished his sentence, tears streamed down the poor child’s cheeks.
***
While Rowen and three other altar boys held the 5-year-old down, High Priest Franco, covered from head to toe in ceremonial black paint, plunged the sacrificial obsidian knife into the screaming child’s chest.
Blood spurted everywhere.
While looking the dying child dead in the eye, High Priest Franco allowed her blood to squirt all over his face. When she ceased to move, he mopped up her blood with his flowing black locks.
As the crowd in witness held its collective breath, he split open the child’s rib cage and tore out her steaming, limp heart.
“Mazuma!” High Priest Franco cried, holding the heart above his head while looking skyward. “An offering for You!”
He then dropped the heart into the ever-burning fire by the side of the altar as everyone in attendance fell to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the ground.
** *
Mazuma, watching through an orb in Verixion with a cup of crimson ambrosia in hand, was pleased.
***
By the time Rowen reached his home after the ceremony, it was raining.
The harvest that year was good.
After another sacrifice the following year, the harvest was even better.
And the year after that, the Palenquen state coffers began filling up at an unprecedented pace.
“I don’t understand why you’re still praying to Him,” Father Franco said to Rowen one day while Rowen was praying at the Temple of the Sun after finishing up his duties.
Rowen turned toward Father Franco in utter confusion.
“It was I who invoked Mazuma for rain and bountiful harvests, right?” Father Franco said.
Rowen nodded.
“Mazuma then followed through, right?”
“Right.”
“In other words, I tell the Gods what to do and they do it.
“I say, ‘Make it rain,’ and it rains.
“I say, ‘Grant us a bountiful harvest,’ and we receive a bountiful harvest.
“I say, ‘Give me a wife without wrinkles and saggy boobs,’ and I get a wife without wrinkles and saggy boobs, right?”
Rowen nodded.
“I control the Gods,” Father Franco said, looking off into space. “I’m like a God of the Gods. The Gods’ God .
“I’m the most powerful being in the universe.”
***
Mazuma, who happened to catch the conversation from Verixion, was displeased.
Without the need to see anything further, He created the storm of all storms to punish Franco, Palenque, and anyone impudent enough to live in the region from that day on. Much later, people would call it, El Niño.
***
Rowen woke with a start, his head pounding like never before.
His hands were sticky.
He looked down at them and was horrified to see smatterings of dried blood.
Instinctively, he rose from bed, exited his room and his home, and began walking toward the Temple of the Sun.
He felt an overwhelming sense of panic as the events of the prior day slowly came back.
The horrible day had begun with the funeral of his beloved wife.
He remembered standing quietly in the front row as her body was laid to rest.
He remembered insisting on being alone afterward. And hurrying to The Soggy Cactus.
He remembered ordering a row of seven shots of mezcal to shoot in between beers.
He shuddered as he recalled almost puking during the first few shots, but they had gone down much easier after that.
He remembered a girl sitting next to him when there were only a couple shots left standing.
“She must have been quite a woman,” the girl had said as he stared bleakly into his mug of beer.
“She was,” Rowen had replied, somehow managing to hold himself together. “She was hard-working and feisty. She darn near raised our children by herself.”
“Sounds like she was amazing,” the girl had said.
“She was. And not one complaint from her even when our fortunes turned.”
“Times have been tough.”
“You don’t know the half. When we got married and King Pakal was in his prime, everything came easy. But once the Gods deserted us, we barely had enough to live. Every day for the last three decades has been a struggle.”
“I know it’s been difficult,” the girl had said, sympathetically.
“But at least we had each other. Times were bad, but as long as we were together, it was all good. And then all of a sudden … she’s gone. Not moving. Not breathing. Dead. Gone forever.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that.”
He recalled being on the verge of tears. “She’s the only woman I’ve ever known. She’s my heart and soul. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.”
“You really loved her, didn’t you?” the girl had said, compassionately placing a hand on top of his.
“I’ve not once thought of anyone else but her.”
“You’re such a good man,” she had said, smiling at him. “I wish I was lucky enough to have a husband like you.”
“Oh, I’m not so good. Father Franco, that’s who’s good. His sacrifices were what brought our entire civilization prosperity.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“But he grew arrogant. I tried not to grow arrogant. All I’ve ever tried to be is faithful and humble, and to be respectful of the Gods.”
“Just from our conversation, I can tell that you were. And I can tell that you are a good soul. ”
“I have certainly tried to be. But I don’t care nothing about myself. All I care about is Serita. It didn’t matter whether we lived in a time of everything or a time of nothing, I was just happy to be with her. There’s
not one thing in this world I wouldn’t sacrifice just to be with her.”
Rowen recalled that around this time he began hearing a customer somewhere behind him drumming their fingers on a table. Rowen was trying to have a serious conversation with the lovely young girl, but the tapping was breaking his concentration.
Ta-ta-ta-tap.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he had said. “How do you continue on without your reason for being?! How do you breathe when the air has been sucked out of your world?! How do you keep on living when your heart’s missing?!”
“You are such a sweetheart,” the girl had said, clutching his hand with both of hers. “I love you.”
Rowen remembered looking up at the girl and in addition to the frustration he was feeling from the person tapping behind him – Ta-ta-ta-Tap – suddenly his head was aching.
He downed his second to last shot of mezcal.
“Take it easy, honey,” the girl had said, light-heartedly.
Ta-Ta-Ta-TAP.
Rowen slugged down the remainder of his beer, slammed his last shot and, … and that’s when things got blurry.
“Can we get out of here?” he had asked.
“Sure,” she had said, before polishing off her own drink. “Best to get you home.”
Somehow, they had determined that her home was on the way to his, so they headed there first.
He remembered parts of the walk. His drunkenness surging. Her delicate hand holding his. His headache swelling .
When they arrived at her home, he remembered eyeing her lips. Cherry red. Moist. Puckered up, beckoning him.
While deep down, he knew it wasn’t right, he decided to surrender to the young girl’s desire. He planted a kiss on her lush lips.
She had pulled away instantly. “What are you doing?!”
He was confused.
She had looked confused, too. But that look had quickly turned into disgust.
Then there was a feeling welling up inside of him. He had never felt anything so strong before. But what was it?
Was it rejection?
Was it rage?
Was it shame?
Even now he couldn’t quite place it, but it had been overwhelming.
He had kissed her again.
She had slapped him. “Stop it, you filthy old man!”
That feeling inside him burned hotter and hotter. He was seething.
He had slapped her back. No. It was a closed fist. He had punched her.
“How dare you?!” he had snarled, standing over her body, now slumped on the ground. “Youuuu!!!!!!!!”
He remembered pulling her dress up and ripping off her underpants.
He remembered the feeling of being inside her. Warm. Pleasurable. But not like Serita.
He remembered growing more and more angry when he was done.
What did you make me do?!!!!!!!
He remembered picking up a large rock.
And he remembered the feeling as it crushed her skull.
It had shattered so easily.
** *
The whole harrowing episode had come into focus as Rowen reached the top of the stone steps to the Temple of the Sun.
In the back of his mind, he heard Father Franco’s words.
“There is nothing more sacred than spilling blood … it must never be done in vain.”
Rowen looked at the smatterings of blood on his hands and on his pants. He felt the burning sensation of rape in his crotch.
Knowing what must be done, he nodded solemnly to himself, bent his knees, and leapt off the top of the steep stone steps.
He died when his neck snapped the first time his head collided with the stone steps, but his lifeless, old body continued to tumble, the majority of his bones snapping, until he came to a bloody stop on the grass below.
Verixion VII
Rowen awoke in Delemor’s chamber with an intense feeling of déjà vu.
In a daze, he looked around the room and was struck by the light reflecting brilliantly off the gold walls, silver sculptures, and diamond chandeliers, as well as the way it illuminated the mist flowing over the floor.
He began to feel a sense of serenity as the breathtaking magnificence of the scene washed over him.
But it all came to a screeching halt when the radiant divinity across the table came into view, staring at him with his slit pupil eyes and his jagged teeth jutting randomly out of his long, leathery snout.
Delemor!
Rowen was flooded with memories of his last life.
“You fuck! You lied to me!”
Delemor hardly reacted at all, merely raising his eyebrows. “Why Rowen, whatever do you mean?”
“We had a deal,” Rowen snarled. “You said that I could be a good person.”
“And you were. I mean, you had one of them religious sticks up your ass, but I allowed you to be exactly how you wanted to be.”
“I raped and murdered someone.”
“Oh. You mean that,” Delemor replied, sheepishly. “My bad. The thing is, you could not have been more boring so Dionysus and I decided to add a little spice to your life. A little kick to release all that pent-up emotion you let build in the name of being a good person. Honestly, I didn’t realize you’d rape and kill someone. That’s kinda on you.”
Rowen was livid. “No way! I’m not taking responsibility for that. We made a deal that I would be a good person. In no way, shape, or form did I sign on for anything even close to that. That’s on you guys. You owe me. ”
“Alright, alright, Jeez. Settle down, would ya? Or are you intending to rape and kill me, too?”
Rowen glared at Delemor, who smiled guiltily back at him.
“Just kidding,” Delemor said, leaning back in his throne and crossing his arms over his hairy, muscular chest. “I tell you what. I’ll throw you a bone in the next negotiations. That’ll square us up, no?”
Rowen couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “I have to go back?! I lived that last life perfectly. I was a good, honest, God-fearing man. What more could I do?”
Delemor scrunched his face into an I-hate-to-be-the-bearer-of-bad-news look. “Ummmm … you did kinda rape and kill a lovely young woman.”
“That was because of you!”
“Come on now, Rowen. Let’s not start pointing fingers about who caused who to rape and …”
Rowen couldn’t stop himself from butting in. “You caused me to rape and kill that girl. It’s cut and dry.”
“Let’s be civil about this, shall we? And let’s not forget, you chose to kill yourself. Weren’t you taught something about spilling blood? And something about taking your own life?”
Rowen cringed. He felt as if the ground beneath his feet had been ripped out from underneath him.
“There now,” Delemor said, patronizingly. “You see how you scum.”
Rowen glared at him indignantly. After all that he had done, how could Delemor call him scum? If anyone here was scum, it was Delemor.
As he scowled at the resplendent deity, he felt that Delemor looked a little different than before. Perhaps Delemor had always looked this way and he had never noticed, but one of Delemor’s sapphire eyes had no life to it, as if it were made of glass. And the skin on Delemor’s muscular human-like body looked blotchy and cracked. Further, Delemor seemed to be omitting some kind of noxious vapor from every pore in his body.
“Quit staring at me, you abomination!” Delemor barked.
Rowen heard the hissing of Delemor’s serpent tail.
“Avert your eyes or suffer the fangs of righteous indignation!”
Rowen immediately averted his eyes to the floor.
“That’s better,” Delemor said as the hissing ceased. “Now, since I’m still in a generous mood and am happy to make that last little bit of buffoonery up to you, how about you scurry down to the bathing facility and wash that repulsive stink off so we can discuss your next life.”
Rowen nodded slowly, stood up quietly, and without a wor
d made his way out of the chamber.
As he lathered his body with crimson suds, he was once again befuddled by his situation.
It seemed that the harder he tried to be good, the worse he got burned.
While he contemplated his next move, he once again came face to face with a bizarre scene.
On the highest pine cluster of the miniature evergreen tree, he saw a cartoon version of himself with long, wavy blonde hair wearing a stars-and-stripes headband and aviator sunglasses. He was slurping down a pint of dark beer while surrounded by scantily-clad Asian beauties vying for his attention with fistfuls of cash.
“Iziza preegu oma,” the cartoon called to him, slurring its speech.
“Huh?” Rowen replied.
The cartoon version of himself furrowed its eyebrows in anger. “I zaid, thiz iza pree gu omen!”
“Ooooooh, a pretty good omen.”
“Zwhat I zaid. A pree gu omen.”
“Yeah … Right … I guess so.”
As Rowen eyed the very drunk, very curious, somewhat adorable version of himself in wonder, he heard the familiar voice of Aphrodite. “Care for a drink?”
“Yes, thank you,” Rowen replied somewhat meekly, spinning slowly around.
“You seem a little off,” the gorgeous deity said.
“There’s just no way to win,” Rowen said as he accepted the rejuvenating beverage.
“That may be so.”
“What should I do?”
“Do whatever it is that you wanna do.”
“I’m not even sure what that is.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Aphrodite said, encouragingly. “Just give yourself a chance.”
Rowen nodded, then polished off the remainder of the divine drink.
“Come on,” Aphrodite said. “Let’s take a dip.”
Rowen finished rinsing off and followed Aphrodite into the soothing water.
Before long, they drifted to an elliptical island with an expansive grass field enclosed by a ring of white sand.
They apparently arrived in the middle of a polo match where a team of fearsome warriors in fur hats was doing battle with a team of formidable combatants in feathered headdresses.
Watching from the sideline beach were four figures sitting atop white, red, black, and pale horses, respectively.