Brian D'Amato - The Sacrifice Game

“Waak’al, waak’al,” the chanter shouted. The word meant “explode,” that is, a great-goal. The Harpy partisans went wild with a special hiss-cheer you used on big points. It wasn’t that stupid Mexican trilling thing, though, like they encourage you to do at tequila bars in the States. It was more like ten thousand panicked crows. The boot-stamping sloshed welcomely over to the Ocelots’ side.

“Halach tun Kot, lahka tunob Kotob, wasak tunob Bolomob,” the chanter called,

“Harpy Great-goal, 2 Ocelots, 4 Harpies.”

Maybe we’re okay, I thought. The invisibles scurried in to clean up and replace the jars. The Magister flashed his hand-mirror and the fourth serve fell. Red Beak got it and shot. Miss. Emerald Immanent trapped the ball, took two dribbles up the south wall, “bok pak bok pak,” and shot, BOK.

Miss. Too high. I would have made that. Goddamnit, lemme out there. The ball arced up over the stands and a Harpy spectator, as per custom, deflected it back down -

But something was wrong, the guy in the Harpy stands should have passed the ball to us, but instead he’d deflected it the wrong way, back toward the Ocelots. Emerald Immanent leisurely repositioned himself, got the rebound, and shot again. He hit the peg.

“BOK T’UN WAAK’A!” “Great-goal! 6 Ocelots, 4 Harpies.”

On the Harpy side the sort-of-boos coalesced into “keechtikob, keechtikob, keechtikob,” “ s pies, spies, spies.” Whoever’d batted the ball in the wrong direction was getting pretty badly torn up. Even if he swore that it was a mistake there was no way they’d believe he hadn’t been turned by the Ocelots.

Still, it wouldn’t work twice.

On the next serve Hun Xoc got the tip but Emerald Immanent and Emerald Howler charged on him so fast he passed the ball back to 5–5. The pass overshot and 5–5 missed it. The ball hit the red bank and bounced over our zone down into the trench, about to go out. 5–5 leaned out to make a save and got the ball back in the air, but he was off-balance and fell onto the white, out of the Harpy Zone, which gave the Ocelots a point without a goal. The umpire signaled and the cantor started to call out the new score “7 Ocelots, 4-”

But before he’d finished he was cut off by the sound of oiled skin chalkboard-screeching on the clay-packed surface and then a bone-snap as Emerald Immanent’s yoke collided with 5–5’s upper body. Then, before I could see anything, both teams had bunched into a scrum over the two of them and the drivers were already pulling them apart. Emerald Immanent had made it look like a mistake, but of course he’d charged at 5–5 and checked him the instant 5–5 was out of the red zone.

Everyone pulled apart. 5–5 was sort of sliding along the red bank, leaving a dark stringy bileish trail. The percussionists had mimicked the sound of fighting and now they were using maracas and notched sticks like bear calls to imitate the sound of blood spraying out of an artery and splattering on the ground.

The hell of it was that touching an opposing player wasn’t a foul unless it was a definite attack. And naturally the umpires didn’t call this one. The offending player was supposed to go through all kinds of apologies or be ready to fight. Emerald Immanent was already running through his mea culpa in a sarcastic tone. 5–5 was trying to say something, too, but when he realized you couldn’t understand what he was saying through his mouthful of bloody mush, he started signing that he wanted to stay in the ball game. Hun Xoc was walking him off the court at this point but 5–5 was resisting and just to humor him Teentsy Bear told Hun Xoc to let his brother go and back away. 5–5 took one half-step and then fell forward on his face, rolling over on his yoke like a canoe on pavement, with his lower right leg bent bassackward. On the other side of the court the Ocelots laughed and imitated the fall.

“7 Ocelots, 4 Harpies,” the cantor said again.

The untouchables swept up with their round handleless brooms and sprinkled oil and pigment onto the surfaces. Two of our invisibles carried 5–5 off, back through our end zone to the offering table. His leg swung in a circular motion, like his knee was a ball-and-socket joint. Shit, I thought. He didn’t look good.

Teentsy Bear calmed everyone down and sent in Red Cord as our new zonekeeper. The fifth serve came down fast and our side wasn’t quite together. The Ocelots got an easy goal.

“8 Ocelots, 4 Harpies.”

They changed balls for the next serve and each team had a little time to retreat behind the end zone and huddle. One of our ball surgeons came up and told us 5–5 was dying and 2 Jeweled Skull had given word that he was going to be considered the first sacrifice of the ball game.

We all looked at each other. Nobody broke their hard-ass face.

Damn.

Another misconception about the Mesoamerican hipball game is that the losing team got sacrificed. Or at least that wasn’t usual. What actually happened was that different offerings followed the match on each side. In general the losing side would see its defeat as a sign that their gods weren’t happy with them and they needed more gifts to the gods, so they’d sacrifice some people to them. The winning side might sacrifice a few of the people to their gods, just to say thank-you. Sometimes it was opposing players, if they’d been playing for each other’s lives, but otherwise the offerings were just thralls or whatever human stakes had been put on the table. But sometimes the losing team would be so mad they’d end up killing the winning team, especially if the losers were more powerful. Whatever happened, only the gods always came out on top.

I said something-I forget what-to Hun Xoc. You weren’t supposed to be able to see anything in his face but I knew him so well I thought I could see a lot. And it wasn’t just anger, it wasn’t all boiled down to violence like I think I talked about a long time ago. There was anger there, but there was this big aquifer under it of just plain surprised sadness there, that childlike disappointment that the world was such a ghastly place.

The team was passing around a wide, shallow basin with a faecaloid pile of cigar stubs smoldering in the center. I rubbed my thumbs in the ashes.

“Great One Harpy,

Now protect us,

Guard our goal zone,

Please, Great Harpy,”

I whispered, and marked four ascending dextral streaks over each of my nipples-which were dyed blue, and just barely exposed over the mass of my ball yoke and hip padding-to signify that my presumably debilitating grief over 5–5 had already burned out and I was ready to be an instrument of his revenge.

“Chun!”

At the first bounce of the next serve, Emerald Immanent got the tip back to Emerald Howler. Howler dribbled once and passed it back to Emerald Immanent. He shot. A miss. 5–5’s replacement set the ball up for Hun Xoc, who took a long shot. Miss. “P’uchik bok, pak, bok, bok BOK.” The ball was getting back into its counterclockwise orbit. Emerald Immanent shot and missed high. There was a “Baat” back to the Harpies, a good one this time. Red Beak shot but missed. Emerald Snapper picked up the ball and passed to Emerald Immanent but Hun Xoc was there to intercept the pass and knocked it back over the line toward our end zone. He undershot but Red Cord dove forward on one knee and just before the ball hit the red floor he made a spectacular save, the Willie Mays catch of the day, sending the ball high up to Red Beak. He set up for a shot but Emerald Howler was there and checked him and quicker than you could see everyone had mashed into a ball again, and the drivers were separating them, but then somehow Emerald Snapper was still dribbling and Emerald Immanent was out of the scrum, got the ball, and hit the peg.