Beautiful Sacrifice

Lina said, using her laser pointer, “the mixing of elements of Christianity and indigenous deities. This picture was taken last year during the Días Perdidos celebration, not far from Chichén Itzá. The celebration roughly translates as their version of Mardi Gras—a syncretic festival which also mixes Christian and other religious elements—for a holiday directly before the season of Lent.”
    The jungle image was replaced by that of a wooden cross, taller than the man standing next to it. The heavy beams were covered in cornstalks and leaves, as if the cross were living, growing.
    “The question that this image begs is, Which is more important to the villagers living here? The cross or the maize? You could separate the corn from the cross, but without the corn to sustain them, there would be no worshippers for the cross. The two can’t be separated, but neither side is truly ascendant here.”
    Immediately the reporter who had been allowed into the final class for a feature about “December 21, the End of the World” spoke up.
    “The images of the cross and the corn you showed—aren’t you concerned about backwash from people who take their religion seriously?” the reporter asked.
    “The Maya were, and are, very serious about their religion. They just don’t approach it in the typical Western Christian way. Understanding that is fundamental to understanding the Maya of any time or place.”
    “Still, it’s not reassuring to mainstream religion,” he said. “Altars have been found everywhere along the border. It’s rumored that bloody sacrifices are made, just like in the old days.”
    “Doubtful,” Lina said cheerfully. “Among the most important sacrifices a Maya king could make was his own blood, produced by piercing his foreskin with a stingray spine and slowly drawing knotted twine through the slits. Do you think men today have the belief to carry through with such a painful sacrifice?”
    The reporter winced and shifted as though to protect himself. “I was thinking more of human sacrifice.”
    “What could be more human than genital self-mutilation in the name of a god you hope to please?” Lina asked, just to see the reporter squirm.
    “What about tearing out a victim’s heart?” the man asked hurriedly.
    “Sometimes noble war prisoners were sacrificed—literally made holy —by having their heart removed while it was still beating. But those weren’t the most valued sacrifices.”
    “What was?”
    “When the life of ruling royalty itself was given. To the Maya, blood continuity was fundamental to their reality. The people’s safety, sanity, and soul depended on being led by a priest-king who could claim unbroken descent from his guiding deity, who was also his blood ancestor. To sacrifice someone of royal blood was a tremendous gift, a desperate gift, done only in times of extreme need.”
    “What kind of need could drive people to tear out living hearts?” the reporter asked.
    Lina told herself to be patient. The man was only doing what he thought was his job. Chasing headlines. Sensation.
    “There are glyphs describing such sacrifices,” she said, “usually after the people of a kingdom lost a war or suffered intense famine or drought. Such a calamity was proof that your priest-king had lost his connection to his guiding deity. The priest-king himself was sacrificed, often with his blood kin, and the people moved on to follow another, more powerful leader. One who had the blessing of the gods.”
    “Rather barbaric, don’t you think?”
    “To paraphrase Shakespeare,” Lina said dryly, “uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. Any crown. The Maya are human, no more or less barbaric than Europeans or Chinese of the same time.”
    From the corner of her eye, Lina saw a tall, muscular figure slide into the classroom. His skin was like his body, sun-weathered and tight. Hair that was neither brown nor black, simply dark, gleamed under the fluorescent lights. The shirt he wore was a guayabera. It would have been at home in any Maya marketplace—faded, boxy, designed to be worn outside the pants to allow the body to breathe in the hot, humid jungle. His jeans were equally faded, equally clean. The boots he wore were so old they were the color of asphalt. Even with clean-shaven cheeks, the man had a roughness about him that wasn’t a fashion statement. It was simply real.
    Hunter Johnston was back.

C HAPTER F OUR
     
    L INA’S HEARTBEAT PICKED UP EVEN AS SHE