“Topan, Mictlān”
“That which is above us, that which is below us” -Nahuatl expression
In the Aztec kingdom wise men wrote poems of doubt, of uncertainty, of mournfulness at the shortness of life and inevitably of death. They wrote these thoughts in red and black ink on the pages of large, cumbersome books. They also told us of the gods and goddesses, facets of Ōmoteōl, the creator of all.
The Nahua people, indigenous to Mexico, viewed the cosmos as divided into four quadrants, perpetually in harmony or struggle with one another. The eastern portion incubates life, so it glows red and emits warmth. The west, land of women, is gentle and soft white. The south, beside the sun, is a deep blue. A rabbit dwells there, spontaneous and shifting directions quickly. This is where unpredictability brews.
The north is likened to the barren night desert. They claimed it gleamed in absolute darkness like flint. The mysteries of the north are hardest to penetrate. This is where the dead go. There are fields of ghostly flowers, once living but plucked by maidens and sentenced to wilt in vases. Others were killed by frost.
Mictlāntēcutli, lord of the underworld, gathers the pale and papery blossoms there for his bride, Mitecacihuatl. He grasps the withered stems with his bony hands, glancing upwards. Above, humanity makes offerings. Sometimes the skeletal gods below can hear the rumblings of the Mexica dancing, dying, fighting, loving.
On earth, a blazing orange sun haloes the pyramids. A young body is splayed on a convex slab, lying in wait for the priest’s flint blade to bear down. It cracks the ribs of the sacrificed and they are ripped open. Blood spills maximally on the stone. The sun gulps the life given.
Xolotl’s bark echoes across the cavernous nothingness. Mictlāntēcutli peers down at the dog beside him. Xolotl is also a God. He lords over fire and lightning, those born with disease and deformities, running on all fours through the heavens, around earth, down to the dank caves of hell. He chases buoyant, glowing orbs—souls—bound for Mictlān, leading them through its nine rungs.
“I know, Xolotl. I know,” Mictlāntēcutli sighs, scratching the pup behind his ear.
Xolotl has no eyes—he wept them out when his divine siblings sacrificed themselves to the sun. A pang of grief pierces his little canine heart every time another life is given to him. Mictlāntēcutli senses sadness in the empty sockets.
Mictlān is not where all the dead go. Fallen warriors and human sacrifices go to the east, where it blazes red. Women are not denied glory, either. Those who meet a bloody end not on the battlefield but in the birthing bed journey to the heavenly light of the west. Mictlāntēcutli spoke.
“Mortals are afraid of the dark. They fear the unknown. They seek answers and pray so they might better control their fate. It is the force which drives them. The eagle and jaguar warriors wield spears and daggers of obsidian pieces nestled into wood, striking down strangers and dragging them into prisons. For their troubles they can take concubines into their bedchambers, drink pulque—agave wine only given to nobles—and dine with royals. If they do not return home alive, their souls are welcomed to the eastern blaze as heroes.
In crowds, onlookers are awed by the knights in their lavish headdresses. The teal of resplendent quetzal feathers, striking against their silken black hair, inspires children so they dream of becoming captors. When they come of age, they drag prisoners to the priests to be killed. Priests hold the slippery muscle, a still beating heart, up to the sky. These rituals are undertaken, for good or for ill, in deep, abiding, obsessive, love of light. They are tributes to the sun.
In the anatomy of this kind of intense adoration there is always fear that what is loved will vanish. If there is anything that can poison pleasure, its preoccupation with when it will end. Xolotl, all of these acts so we will not reign over earth! They fear an apocalyptic ending means perpetual night.
Within every warrior, fighting for honor and remembrance, to uphold the order of empire, is a frightened little boy. He fears the dark, he fears chaos, he fears being no one. He desperately seeks the light of the eastern quadrant, hoping to die with a weapon in his hand to give his life meaning. The last things he hears are cries of suffering and the last thing he feels is terror.
His consciousness fades as dawn to dusk. He wonders what if he had chosen differently. What if he had chosen to be surrounded by the laughter of friends and family. What if he had chosen laying in the arms of the beloved he forsook for valor. So, while the sacrificed are certainly victims, I cry too, at the wasted life of warmongers.”
Xolotl barked again. Mictlāntēcutli saw his wife nearing.
“Here comes my darling now.”
Mictecacihautl is radiant. Having once been a sacrifice herself, her muscles are skinless, raw, exposed sinews and tendons, a byproduct of being flayed. Owls, spiders, bats, serpents, a menagerie of nocturnal creatures, follow her. Her jaw is wide and between her parted lips galaxies and constellations can be seen. Comets dance around her tonsils, interstellar black holes linger at her canine teeth and molars. Mictecacihuatl’s mouth is the entrance for stars. When dawn breaks they have to slumber and take rest inside the Queen of the Underworld. She is able to speak and be silent at once, her tongue being the bed to all the splendor of night.
Mictlāntēcutli offers her the bouquet. In return she gives a smile that would make an astronomer blush. The king and queen settle beneath a barren tree, Xolotl at their feet. Although the king strikes fear into the living, he is gentle beside his companion. He listens to her soundless voice, thinking contentedly of how the brutes on earth turn cold at the thought of them. They are friends to many others, though. They tend to the souls of the sickly who were not well enough to bludgeon the innocent and win the favor of either royals or the heavens. The value of life is not lost on those frail in body, their days being numbered from the onset.
Mictecacihautl’s song is sweet as she admires the dead roses in her hands. Her lyrics are odes to poets, artists, writers, and musicians. She adores them. Magicians capable of enchanting the atmosphere, shifting its mood according to their will. She talks of how jade shatters and gold is crushed. The spirits and souls who pass them pause, listening to her refrain on dignity ending in desecration and noble names soon forgotten.
Can prestige or honor be held in a palm, used as legal tender to buy back all the memories never made, she asks? Soldiers fight for kings who decompose and rot like any other man. Empires fall and fade, no matter how boastful, how brimming their strong boxes are with tariffs and tithes. Mighty militaries turn to dust.
The scent of copal as its smoke fades into the ether, the soft touch of moss and cool water, notes that disappear into the distance—if human days are filled only with witnessing, of losing one’s self to awe—they would be days well spent. Nothing is stable and lasting, with a single exception. Mictecacihuatl’s mouth is agape, as always, because of the necessity of this position to house the nightly universe. Mictlāntēcutli steals a kiss from her. When they part, he coughs, hiccuping a star. Amor eterno.
LVX,
Alejandra
Thank you for reading this issue of A Tiny Compass. I am so grateful for your time and attention. I’ll be back in the classroom soon, but you can always find me here . Mictecacihautl’s song draws on Aztec codices translated from the title below.
León-Portilla, Miguel. Aztec Thought And Culture. Translated by Jack Emory Davis. University of Oklahoma Press, 1963.
Upcoming events:
1/31 Femme Night hosted by Doomvana.
2/13 Sex Magick: The History and Practice of Ritual Intimacy