Thomas Harlan: House of Reeds

Hadeishi tapped the comm pane closed and slumped back in his chair. I am suddenly so tired.

The air throbbed with violent sound, the heavy beat of a thousand drums making the floor jump under prince Tezozуmoc's feet. The young Mйxica noble pushed through a crowd of gaily ornamented men and women. Feathered headdresses brushed against his face, brilliant paints and jewels flashed at his eyes. The sound grew louder, the basso droning of conch trumpets piercing the thunder of the dance-drums. An arched doorway appeared above the masked heads of the revelers, filled with a pulsating red light. The prince whooped, changing course, shoving aside writhing bare arms gleaming with sweat and scented oil. His bodyguards fell behind, trapped by the chattering mob.

Countless voices were singing, a hoarse, bellowing roar:

So it has been said by the Lord of the World,

Huitzilopochtli,

Only a subject,

Only a mortal was.

Tezozуmoc's long coat snagged on a woman's emerald-encrusted snake-bodice, and he let the heavy, armor-reinforced leather garment fall away. Heated air flushed against newly bared skin, and the prince felt a rush of relief. He was glad to be out of the chill winter air and into comfortable heat. Strobing lights blazed on his chest and shoulders, making vertical stripes of red and orange paint blaze. Turquoise bracelets shimmered at his wrists. He pressed through the arch, long-fingered hands trailing across the exposed bellies of two girls writhing to the all-encompassing sound.

For an instant, standing at the top of a tall staircase, vaulted roof booming overhead with the roar of the crowd, staring down at the surging mass of painted, feathered, jeweled humanity dancing below, the prince felt alive – transported, wrenched free from his miserable skin, elevated even beyond the humming buzz of the oliohuiqui coursing through his blood – and he threw back his head in a long, wailing howl.

The priests were singing:

A magician,

A terror,

A stirrer of strife,

A deceiver,

A maker of war,

An arranger of battles,

A lord of battles.

The sound was lost in the throbbing beat, the countless flutes, braying horns, the shaking roar of rattles and gourds. On the floor of the ancient Catholic cathedral, a line of four hundred dancers began to circulate, horned masks bobbing, powdered feet stamping, stiff arms thrown up in the stylized motions of the ancient barbarians. Tezozуmoc grasped the shoulders of two revelers – were they Italians? Beneath their feathered mantle-cloaks and elaborate masks, who could tell? – and leapt up onto the balustrade of the staircase. Marble polished to glass by hundreds of years of use slipped under his bare feet, making the prince stagger and lurch for balance.

A flush of heat surged through him, morning-glory extract mixing with adrenaline, and the vast chamber spun around. The prince laughed queasily, trim brown arms reaching out. Balance returned, helped by a forest of hands reaching up to grasp his legs. Countless gleaming eyes stared up at him in surprise, every face hidden behind fantastical masks.

"I run!" he screeched, swinging his head round. "I run!"

Against the antics of the four hundred dancers, the red-masked priests droned with one voice:

And of him it was said

That he hurled

His flaming serpent,

His fire stick;

Which means war,

Blood and burning;

Throwing his arms wide, Tezozуmoc sprang down the marble banister, nimble feet light on ancient, moss-corroded stone. Within a breath he lost control and, unable to stop, plunged headlong into the close-packed crowd. At the same moment, a veritable forest of maroon banners sprang up from the revelers. The drums rattled to a crescendo as the circle of dancers at the middle of the vast floor fell to hands and knees. A brawny man – nearly seven feet tall, dyed blue from head to toe, his shoulders and arms covered with a coat of glued iridescent feathers – sprang up, raising a curling, snapping banner bearing an azure hummingbird. Muscles flexing, he whirled the banner around his head with great speed. As he did, another man – no more than a youth – darted from the crowd, racing counterclockwise around the ring of fallen dancers. Like the prince, he was painted with vertical red and orange stripes.

The blare of horns and conch trumpets faded away, and now only a single massive beat of the drums punctuated the chanting of the priests:

And when his festival was celebrated,

Captives were slain,

Washed slaves were slain,

The merchants washed them.

Tezozуmoc crashed into one banner, tearing the cloth from the hands of a startled celebrant, then into another. His cry of pain was lost in a tumult of sound as the banner-men raised a mighty shout, shaking their flags violently. The prince scrabbled at the hard-muscled bodies tangled around him, kicking fruitlessly, narrow chest heaving with effort. He could see nothing but a forest of bare, dyed legs and the strobing flash of arc lights on the distant ceiling. Someone kicked him in the side and his own mask slipped sideways, blinding him.

"Ahh…curst peasants! Get off!"

The booming rattle of the drums began to pick up, and the voices of the priests melded into one thundering roar of sound:

And thus he was arrayed:

With headdress of green feathers,

Holding his serpent torch,

Girded with a belt,

Bracelets upon his arms,

Wearing turquoises,

As a master of messengers.

A hand reached down, seizing his wrist, and Tezozуmoc felt himself dragged to his feet.

"You're strong…" the prince started to exclaim, stripping away his sweat-soaked mask. Then he stopped, surprised.

An oval-faced girl wearing little more than long glossy black hair smiled up at him. Her mouth was moving, but he couldn't hear anything, only the crushing thunder of drums and horns and a thousand hoarse voices shouting their praises of red-and-black-faced Christ the Warrior. Tezozуmoc shook his head, grinning, and pulled her close. Her hip rubbed across his thigh, slippery with oil. To his delight, she pressed close, nails scraping his chest and back. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head, lips pressed to his ear.

"Isn't it bad luck to have two of the same god at the festival?" he heard – a strong, breathy voice with an indefinable accent. Not a Mйxica girl, then. Tezozуmoc felt a flash of disappointment, immediately lost in a surge of desire as her tongue flicked against his earlobe.

"There's another Painal the Runner here?" he asked, confused, turning to put lips to her ear.

"Of course," she laughed, slim body undulating against his. Oddly, her skin felt almost glassy under the oil. "Doesn't Raising-the-Banners celebrate his race around the Valley to summon the allies of the Mйxica to battle? Isn't this his festival?"

"Yes…" Tezozуmoc said, blushing. His face crumpled a little. "It is. I just thought…"

"A prince should be able to come in any costume he wants," she breathed, caressing his face with one hand. Oil and paint smeared across his cheekbone. "Do you like girls?"

"What do you think?" The prince replied, chagrin washing away, and thrust himself against her. His heart was beating faster, almost as fast as the hands of the drummers on deer hide. His skin felt hot, hotter than the bitter, smoky air.

"You do!" The girl laughed, drawing away, pulling him with her, hands clasped tight around his wrists. Again, Tezozуmoc was surprised by the strength of her grip, but before he could follow the thought a cloud of other girls, all silvered hair and glossy, scale-painted skin, emerged from the surging, dancing crowd.