Cocoa ceremony

Sounds of chatter everywhere, insistent, like an itch that cannot be scratched away. Women, laughing with full mouth, teeth glistening in the sun, their large earrings softly jangling whenever they turn their head. Their hands are busy, but their eyes gleam with joy as they share their thoughts with their compatriots. Through the large window carvings the noises of the day are brought inside the large hall, filled with women of all social standing.

The work is important. They are preparing cacahuatl, or cocoa, to later be consumed by Montezuma, the great Aztec king, and his many warriors, who just returned from a war against an enemy tribe. People say many were captured. A glorious victory!

Great care must be taken for the cocoa to be perfect. It takes years to master the process, and even then, not everyone can handle the pressure. Necallal is one of the women who has been preparing this precious beverage. She concentrates on grinding the cocoa beans on the metates or grinding stone in front of her, her mind entirely focused on the task at hand.

The beans are now being crushed, and with them, the dark, heavy smell of ground chocolate, pure as it is, begins to rise. Necallal's arms are getting stiff from the effort, the heavy grinding stone and the responsibility weighing down her body, but her hands move in a practiced rhythm, her body rocking back and forth, like the last time she saw her king.

An unusually hot night, even being naked did not help cooling down. They lied on the stone floor in her bedroom, listening to the sounds of the beasts of the night. Monkeys cooing to each other, and the roars of jaguars echoing in the distance.

"I will be back soon. And I will make you goddess."

Her heart jumps at the vividness of the memory, and she finds herself back at the hall. How would she even dare to hope that such a romance could last!

It was a dream, even while it was happening. It can never be.

As the day carries on, whispers ripple through the hall like a slow-moving tide, seeping into the gaps between conversation and laughter. Whispers of sacrifices being made tonight. But of course. The captured warriors will be offered to the gods. That is how it always has been. The gods must have their due. They provide for us.

The notion strangely hangs in the air, carrying an ill omen, and Necallal suddenly tastes blood in her mouth, nausea filling her throat.

She forces her hands to steady as they ground the cocoa, focusing hard on the familiar, rhythmic motion. She can not afford distraction. Yet, beneath the surface, a cold knot of dread twists her heart and stomach tighter. The wonderful smells of honey, vanilla, chili, magnolia blossom and a hundred other spices now being mixed into the cocoa seem to only mock her, as they caress her senses, yet she does not find peace.

Confirming her worst fears, two dark figures now enter the hall, shadows of a familiar shape, their eyes sunken into their skull-like faces beneath feathered headdresses.

They move with a slow, deliberate pace that belies the quiet authority radiating from their presence. Necallal shrinks under their gaze, her fingers softly trembling.

The priests are now looking over the crowd, sharp, as if searching not just the faces but the very souls assembled. Fingers adorned with rings clutch ritual staffs carved with serpents and jaguar motifs, tapping softly against the stone floor, marking each step like a heartbeat.

A silence spreads, overwhelming like the humidity outside, overbearing. The women stop laughing and their chatter comes to a halt. Like a breath being held.

The priests are not here by chance. They seek someone, a single thread in the tapestry of voices and movement. And when their gaze finally settles and lingers, a ripple passes beneath the surface - a deeply felt relief by everyone not being chosen this time.

“You must be careful,” one of the priest is next to Necallal now, grabbing one of her wrist and gripping it tightly. His dark eyes locked onto hers with a sharp, unreadable warning. “Finish what you’ve begun. It has to be fit for a god.” His voice was low and menacing, filled with eager anticipation.

The other priest came to her side now, looking her up, as if measuring her worthiness.

Necallal swallowed. The words kept repeating in her mind as she continued working - the grinding stone echoing steadily, a metronome marking time she wished to borrow. The laughter and clang of earrings around her felt distant, muted, like being underwater.

Hours later, the sun is slowly setting, filling the preparation hall with orange glaze, and everyone is glowing with the satisfaction of a job well done. The perplexing visit of the priests now forgotten, the cocoa is ready to be frothed at the celebratory dinner later in beautiful carved vessels specifically designed for this purpose.

Necallal leaves the hall, her heart unexpectedly light, even with the murmurs of the sacrifices planned still tracing behind her like a shadow. The path to her home is thick with gentle sunlight, the jungle alive with the restless cries of exotic birds.

When she enters, she stops dead in her track.

Montezuma awaits her, a knowing smile lingering on his face. Necallal's eyes flicker to the table next to him, and she recognizes the drinking vessel she has left her cocoa in earlier. The king's eyes, which could be so fierce on the battlefield, are now radiating tenderness.

He looks at her gently. There is something unspoken in his eyes, a devotion only few people will ever understand. She understands only too well.

"My yollotl, my eztli (my heart, my blood). You are a beautiful dream the gods dreamed up. It is time for you to join them." His voice carries that same promise Necallal heard before. Her knees give up and buckle under her, she falls to the floor.

“The gods have given me victory today. They must be appeased.”

He steps closer, and grabs her to make her stand up. The two priests from earlier enter behind Necallal and stop in the door, observing the scene unfolding before them.

Necallal understands the inevitability of it all. She hangs her head, while the king undresses her and robes her in colorful clothing, adorning her with jewellery, finally placing a headpiece brocaded with gold on her head.

"Now dance for the gods."

Her body is heavy. She does not dare to move, it is too much.

The king sees this, and takes the drinking vessel from the table. He reaches out, offers the vessel to Necallal. She does not know if she is awake or if she is dreaming. She is thinking, maybe we are all just dreams of the gods. In that case, I will awake.

She takes the vessel and drinks, desperately, with big gulps, a mix of blood and cocoa, a sticky flavour on her tongue she will never be able to forget.

Then a whirling of sensations - a strange heightening, as her heart thuds in her ears, the slow tightening spiral of fright and submissiveness crawling around her ribs like ivy. Her mind hovers, caught between knowledge and bewilderment, as on the edge of some great, invisible gulf.

Visions flash behind shut eyes: dark forms gliding down the corridor, feathered priests with eyes that seethe with primal condemnation; creaking grinding stone pounding in rhythm to a malignant drum that she alone can hear.

She tightens her senses for a moment - soft shuffling sound of fabric on skin, cold caress of gold, distant chant of torches being lit. Then the world spins.

'The flash of drawn swords behind her. The priests grab her and start to drag her away.

"We have a long climb."

People come out of the houses, hollering with joy at the vision of Necallal spinning loose and free, the priests at her heels in tow.

In the distance in front of them, torches being lit. The big feast is to start.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Necallal's mind capers on the edge of dreams and destiny, relishing the misfortune of existence, dipping into cocoa and blood.

In the surrounding jungle of the city, the jungle breathes—a chorus of monkeys sobbing softly in sorrow, jaguar roars thundering like thunder, mingling with the mutterings of men and gods.