The square before the royal palace was so adorned with flowers that it resembled a garden. All day long people had whispered rumors about the presentation of the offering to Xochipilli. For hours now, they had been gathering in the square and along the planned route of the procession. The air was thick with tense anticipation.
Suddenly, above the murmur of the crowd, the solemn sound of the huehuetl drums rang out. Their beat reached both mortals and gods. The ceremony had begun. From the palace, people began to emerge.
At the front walked the king: mighty, proud, unshaken. He was robed in richly embroidered maxtlatl and cloak, a towering feathered headdress, and gold. At his side walked the high priest of Xochipilli, clothed in garments embroidered with flowers, a splendid plume, and much golden jewelry.
Between them walked a youth dressed in simple white, with painted markings on his face. Many in the crowd began to whisper—surely this was the chosen offering for Xochipilli.
Behind them came four young girls in white dresses, flowers in their hair.
They advanced in rhythm with the drums until they reached the platform.
The king stepped forward, lifted his hands to the heavens, and spoke.
"People of our city, hear my voice—the voice of your king."
All listened intently, expecting something solemn. The rumors had stirred the crowd, and the air quivered with expectation.
"As you all know, the rainy season draws to its close. The flowers are in full bloom, and our fields will soon be ready for harvest. By the grace of the gods, we shall live in peace for another year. In Xochi Huetzi, we give thanks to the gods for the blessings of this year and ask for prosperity in the next—celebrating joy, dance, music, and offering sacrifice to the gods."
The listeners pictured the holiday in their minds—street stalls filled with food, gatherings with friends, splendid ceremonies. But they were waiting for more. The rumors had filled their ears too long.
"Listen closely, for I bring you grievous news."
The crowd stilled. Something important was coming.
"You have all heard the rumors of the offering chosen for Xochi Huetzi. It is this youth."
The king pointed to the young man in white, standing a little behind him.
"His name is Tlacotzin, and he is an extraordinarily gifted musician. His talent is so great that it moves the heart of all who hear him. He has been chosen by Xochipilli himself to give his heart. Yet he is no ordinary offering. With him comes a special meaning."
The king drew breath and continued.
"Many omens and visions pointed to him. Yet the last of them is especially troubling."
The crowd wondered—what could it be? What was so dire?
"The vision received by the great servant of Xochipilli in the ritual of questioning revealed a terrible threat looming over our community."
Anxious murmurs spread. The visions of priests were messages from the gods themselves. If the vision spoke of danger, it was grave indeed.
"The vision showed a dead world, devoid of life and joy. Without doubt, a great famine threatens us."
Fear rippled through the crowd, but the king pressed on.
"The gods, however, have shown us how to avert this fate."
He pointed to the young musician beside him.
"The key to our survival is Tlacotzin. His heart can give Xochipilli the strength to turn aside the shadow of famine. He has agreed to give his life for our future."
The king bowed his head in sorrow.
"Many desire that Tlacotzin remain with us in the mortal world—his friends, the maidens who opened their hearts to him, the great servant of Xochipilli for whom he is as a son. Even I, your king, wish Tlacotzin could stay. But we cannot be ruled by what we desire, forgetting all others."
He straightened, drawing a small obsidian blade.
"You have heard the rumor that the great servant of Huehuecoyotl suddenly behaved like a true sage. This is no rumor, but truth. Under the power of Tlacotzin's music, Huehuecoyotl indeed became as a sage. Such is the strength of his gift. I swear it upon my own blood."
At that, the king nicked his hand and let his blood fall upon the stones at his feet.
A gasp swept through the crowd. None could doubt his words about Tlacotzin's talent.
"Show your support for this young man, whose sacrifice will secure the future of our city. Today begins his road to the gods."
The procession began from the palace toward the temple. At the front walked the king and Cuathli. Behind them came Tlacotzin, and in his wake the acolytes.
Music rose along the way.
People gazed upon Tlacotzin with awe and pity. They cast flowers beneath his steps, many whispering prayers.
Tlacotzin walked on with head held high and face unmoved. To the eye, he was the very image of calm acceptance of his fate.
But it was only a mask.
Within him stormed grief. Tlacotzin knew he must die to secure his loved ones' safety. Yet he did not want to die. He wanted to keep tending the temple gardens, to help Cuathli, to trade greetings with other temple aides, to tell Itzcoatl about life in the temple. Most of all, he wanted to remain with Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel.
His heart bled, ready to shatter like a ritual vessel filled with offerings.
Yes, he walked in the procession—but not to die today. There was still time before the festival. Time in which he would be prepared for the sacrifice.
Thinking of the acolytes filled him with guilt. Because of him, their hearts would break. He loved them, but hated to see them suffer. He pitied Cuathli most of all—the high priest who had been like a father to him. He had comforted him in doubt, given him work and hope, defended him. He could not have wished for a better guardian. And now Cuathli, against his will, must kill him, offering his heart to Xochipilli for the city's survival.
Why must those he loved suffer so?
The weight crushed him. He was ready to lower his head and weep, when suddenly he heard a voice. A voice he had not heard in years, yet could never mistake.
"Don't cry. Keep your back straight, eyes forward. What did I always tell you about how to behave in a procession?"
The voice, the tone—it was his father, Tenoch.
"I must walk tall and unshaken, head high, even when it is hard."
"Exactly. A shame you never went on campaign. Every man should. Otherwise how would you win a girl?"
He smiled. Yes, it was his father.
"Father, but I do have girls. They walk right behind me."
"Girls? You mean all four of them?"
He smiled again and nodded.
"And how do you—ow!"
"Beloved, we are in a procession. Tlacotzin must keep focus. And you should not pounce on girls like a dog on food—even if they like him."
Tlacotzin smiled once more. How often had he seen this? His mother Malinali scolding his father in just this way.
"Meya is an extraordinary cook. Nenetzi crafts beautiful things. Xilonen is the most open and sincere. And Izel, though she seems cold, can find the answer to any question."
He longed to introduce his beloveds to his parents. But they no longer belonged to the mortal world. He could only tell of them.
"You have found remarkable girls, Tlacotzin."
"It was music that brought us together. Mother—you taught me the flute. And father, you always supported us."
He recalled with joy the days when they sat together—his mother teaching him to play, his father listening proudly.
The burden on his heart lightened.
At last they reached the pyramid, so adorned with flowers it seemed itself a sacred garden. The scent of blossoms was familiar. He remembered moments here, working with the girls.
Now he must ascend with the king and Cuathli. He felt two hands on his back, gently urging him upward. He began to climb the steps.
He stood atop the pyramid—where the worlds of mortals and gods meet most closely. Beside him was the king, highest servant of the gods, guardian of cosmic order. At his side, Cuathli, high servant of Xochipilli and his foster father.
He turned toward the crowd. From the pyramid stretched a breathtaking view. Most wondrous of all, the people below seemed to blend with the sacred garden, forming a single living design.
The youth raised his flute to his lips and played. A sorrowful, piercing melody. He told of his longing to live with those he loved, yet his readiness to die for their good and the community's plenty.
The people below listened, deeply moved. Many could not hold back tears. Why must someone so extraordinary be given up, for them to survive? None could answer. None could find another way. They could only offer him their silent support.
When the melody ended, Cuathli spoke to him. His voice was steady, firm.
"Tlacotzin, from this moment you bear the title of Flower of Xochipilli. This is the symbol of your new station."
He placed in his hands a finely carved bone flute, a tlapitzalli. Tlacotzin had once only dreamed of such an instrument when he played on the streets.
He received it with a bow to the high priest. Then the three of them bowed toward the statue of Xochipilli and prayed. Turning, they beheld the setting sun, descending into Mictlan—the land of the dead.