An Acceptable Offering

Peeka slipped through the dense underbrush, the broad leaves of tropical plants sliding over his sweat slicked skin as buzzing, biting bugs hounded his trail. He tried to ignore their droning, knowing that they would not bite him through the sap of the maytu plant he had smeared on his naked body.

The rains had finally ceased and the waterways were dropping to their usual levels but it had left a denseness to the air, thick and heavy in the lungs. But the oppressive moisture was not the only thing that arrived with the passing of the rains.

A holy emissary had arrived yesterday from the great city, a three day walk into the sunrise and an unforgiving trek with no options for beasts of burden. The forest here was wild and dangerous and yet the group of five had emerged with no signs of hardship. Their bright-red wraps were clean and tidy, not a single bead or feather out of place. It had been quite the stir to see them pop from the trees.

They were the reason that Peeka was now hunting for something to offer them. Something worthy to present to men of their status. The moderate sized lizard he had in his woven bag would not be looked upon favourably. Instead, he hoped to catch a capybara, a stocky, meaty feed, or better still, one of the monkeys that lived in the canopies. They would not fill the belly but the mischievous creatures were tasty and, given their elusive nature, a rarity. He would easily gain their approval with a monkey.

A rustle in the undergrowth caught Peeka’s attention and he moved forward cautiously. He barely noticed the mud squelching between his splayed toes as his focus honed in on the sound, his poison tipped arrow at the ready. The animal-gut string of his bow pressed against his calloused fingers, biting deeper as he drew back. The wood creaked slightly startling a raspy bark from the creature.

Peeka sighed internally. A capybara would still bring him favour.

The arrow flew blindly into the foliage, splitting broad leaves along its passage. A heavy thwack and a short, sharp squeal, told Peeka his aim was true. Upon parting the foliage, he found his prize, the arrow had pierced through the eye and into the brain. Grinning with satisfaction, he pulled the arrow from the socket with a juicy pop. The gods had blessed him with a perfect aim. Even when he was unable to see his target, his arrows still found their mark.

His pride was still etched on his face as he returned to his village. Without hesitation Peeka presented the stocky rodent to the emissaries.

“Grand Cutthla,” Peeka addressed the leader of the small group as he prostrated himself on the ground. The scent of damp earth filling his nostrils. “I bring you these humble offerings to celebrate Setakka and the honour of your presence.”

Peeka had never heard of Setakka before the arrival of the Grand Cutthla and his companions. The great calendar of their ancestors had spoken of this day, the priests had informed the tribe, and they had been selected to give offerings that would grant the people continued prosperity. The holy men had followed the stars to find his small tribe and it was a great honour to be chosen.

But Peeka was a hunter not a holy man. His knowledge did not extend beyond the gifts the gods had granted him but he was grateful for his talents and would happily accept any task that the gods required of him.

“A generous offering, young hunter,” the Grand Cutthla replied, waving his hand to indicate he should add his meat to the mound of food that had grown at his side. “You and your kin should be proud of your efforts. Qeztlaca will be pleased.”

“Thank you. It is a great honour to be chosen. What else can we do to please Qeztlaca?”

The priest grinned at Peeka, the man’s sharpened teeth stained red from chewing shekat. It unnerved him slightly, like a little worm coiling in his gut. The priests were fearsome looking men. The bone shards that pierced their ears and nose had been carved to match the intricate tattoos that covered their bodies. They were so unlike the markings of his tribe, delicate swirling patterns that would require a finesse none in his tribe were capable of. His people preferred large dark bands peppered with the raised lumps of scar tissue created from slivers of excised flesh.

Peeka pushed the uneasy feeling aside. These holy men, in all their brutal beauty, had chosen them to honour the gods and had graciously accepted their meagre offerings of meat, fruit and beads. The sensation Peeka felt had no place at this joyous occasion.

“You have done enough.” The priest looked about the village, assessing all those that bustled about before him. His eyes narrowed and Peeka turned to see his gaze had settled on a group of small children playing. “Are all your people here? The sun is high and I sense it is almost time. We must begin the ritual soon.”

“All are here. I was the last to return, Grand Cutthla.”

“And the sacrifice?”

“That privilege has fallen to Keemu. He will be the tribute.”

“Then fetch him.” The priest waved him off. “We will begin.”

Peeka bowed again to the group and hurried off in search of Keemu. He envied his tribesman. To have the gods call you home was the dream of many and to have them call you before old age claimed you, meant you were desired by them. It was an elevation of status that none would pass up.

He found Keemu being preened by the tribe’s women. He had feathers braided into his hair and tied to his biceps. The ceremonial loincloth covered his genitals while a large fan-shape, beaded weaving covered his pectorals.

“It’s time,” Peeka said as the women finished smearing red paint across Keemu’s brow. The man looked solemn. He knew what was to come. He knew it would hurt.

A fire had been lit in the centre of the gathering space. The priests etched symbols into the dirt, their voices low as they chanted. A bowl of liquid was being passed amongst the tribe, each member, adult and child alike, partaking before handing it to the next person. Peeka felt a spicy warmth spread through his body as the liquid slid down his throat. His head started to buzz and there was an odd pulling sensation as though his consciousness was trying to leave his body.

A lesser priest held his hand out to Keemu, beckoning him forward from the gathering crowd, and laid the man out before the fire. They knelt about him, fingers still tracing in the dirt, their voices rising in volume and tempo. The Grand Cutthla drew his obsidian knife as the others gripped Keemu’s limbs. In one swift slash, he opened Keemu’s stomach and the sacrifice split the air with his scream.

No one flinched as the Grand Cutthla reached beneath Keemu’s ribs and ripped the heart from his chest, quickly ending Keemu’s life. The heart still beat, twitching in its compulsive rhythm and all looked on, placid and dazed. No one screamed, no one cried, no one cheered.

The chanting ceased.

The Grand Cutthla bit into the pulsing meat, blood smearing about his mouth. He passed the organ to his fellow priests who did the same, the last of them tossing the heart into the fire where it sizzled and popped in a flash of violet.

The light in the sky began to fade and the priests turned their gaze to the heavens, their faces twisted in ghastly delight. The tribe looked skyward, mouths agape as the sun disappeared from the sky, but there were no clouds, the sun had not set. A great circle of darkness rolled across the sun leaving little more than a silver lining. Peeka stared at the faint halo of light, his hazed mind unable to comprehend what was happening. Were the gods not pleased with their offering? Had they taken the sun from them?

He was still gaping at the darkened sky when he heard a surprised cry and a wet gargling. Tearing his eyes away, he focused on the scene before him, focused on the priest before him, focused on the demon.

The man had changed, his face twisted into something dark and frightening. A violet luminescence emanated from his eyes, veins of the same spidering from them, running along the patterns of his tattoos. His sharpened teeth seemed longer and a forked tongue slithered out, tasting the air and scenting the fear that spiked within Peeka. Whatever the priests had given them was not enough to combat the primal terror that thrummed through his veins.

Peeka’s gaze whipped about, taking in everything from the torn-out throats of his kin to those trying to flee into the darkened day, their limbs heavy and uncooperative under the priest's drug.

The Grand Cutthla stalked towards him, blood dripping for his chin. His voice was now sibilant as he spoke. “Your offering” he hissed, “has been accepted.”

Peeka turned and fled.