"Black Blood of Bulls" by E. W. Farnsworth

Black Blood of Bulls

by E. W. Farnsworth

I have been subjected to a recurrent dream.  At first, I thought the frightful images in the dream were the result of sacred mushrooms I and the other priests were constrained to eat on holy days.  In my waking hours, I have been praying fervently for my people, but they seem to be under a curse.  They know their situations have never been worse, and they are worsening still.

In my dream, I walk up the ninety-one steps of the temple while the people sing and shout in unison.  The sacrificial animals seem to know something is dreadfully wrong, so they bellow to the skies all through the proceedings.  Only when all the livestock have been ritually slain does the human sacrifice begin.  My fellow priests make the selections, and no one knows which of the people will be chosen.  The entire pyramid and ninety-one steps are bathed in blood as hearts and entrails tremble lively in the head priest’s cruel yet capable hands.

I have been impassive throughout the invocations.  I have been witness to the rising fury of the multitudes.  Invariably, one of my fellow priests steps in front of me with a beckoning gesture.  I faint dead away before I can be led away to my own slaughter.  Awake in the inky black night, I notice I have broken out in a cold sweat.  I am not ascending the pyramid altar.  I force myself to return to my slumber.  I sincerely hope my dream will not return.  

I suppose I am ungrateful for my having eluded the selection process.  My fellow priests do not seem to suffer from my dreams.  I have witnessed hundreds of clergy facing the gleaming sacrificial knife.  I have seen them smiling through the extractions and mortifications on the high altar. Perhaps my failure to be chosen is a sign I am impure or unworthy to face my redemption?

I figure that one day my dream will be a reality.  My brothers and sisters having been selected, I am the last of my family’s line remaining for the ultimate rite.  I become aware of slight nuances in my recurring dream that suggested my time was drawing near.  I listen for telltale sounds, even silences.  I fancy I might be able to smell or even taste a difference separating my sacrifice from all the others.

The king and high priest know their time is ending.  Disease, pestilence, death and starvation have forced the neighboring societies to sacrifice all they had, but to no avail.  Like all the other human societies, we have run through our stocks of sacrificial animals until only our cherished bulls remain.  

The other priests do not have to announce my selection.  Suddenly, I am treated to the most delicious ambrosia—a cocktail of sliced fruit and coconut drizzled with honey from the forest.  The day before the ritual sacrifice, I am fed the king’s own dinner.  I go to my bed full of food and full of foreboding.

I may have dreamt the night before the sacrifice, but I have no memory of it.  In fact, I woke up outside halfway up the side of the pyramid, covered in blood.  I heard the people singing the invocation to our deity.  On either side of me the king and high priest sang along with the others.  I felt my body receive a stream of bulls’ blood from higher up the steps.  I heard the bellowing bulls and smelled their fresh black blood.  I saw the king and high priest savor the entrails of a pure white bul.  I tried to gain my footing, but I slipped and slid on the bloody steps.

The high priest grabbed my right arm above the elbow while the king grasped my left arm in similar fashion. I saw the priest wield his flint knife as he sought the perfect place to slice through my chest to extract my heart.  I felt as if I had been paralyzed.  I could not tell which of the delicacies I had eaten had been laced with the poison that made my arms and legs useless.  I heard a new sound rising as the bulls fell to their sacrifices.  I searched through my catalog of sounds and finally knew the flies and wasps had come for the ubiquitous, gooey blood.

The infernal buzzing is, I think, going to drive me mad.  The black blood of bulls is so thick, the insects cannot bite through the red mess.  The high priest makes his discovery, and I feel his flint knife searching under my breastbone.  A hand struggles to free my palpitating heart while another hand finds one artery after another.  Swift flicks of the priest’s wrists set my still-beating heart free from my body.  I see both the king and the high priest are smiling at the quality of their work.

I think I shall awaken as I have done so many times before.  I tell myself to remain calm while I wait for my great awakening.  Above the sounds of keening amongst the multitudes, I hear the final bull bellow its final agony. My mind focuses on the buzzing sounds while the sunshine knifes through the clouds above the pyramid.  I am rejoicing I still can breathe.  I take a deep breath, but I cough on account of the blood in my mouth.  I feel sticky all over, but the blood of the final sacrifice washes over me.  The king and the high priest stand ankle-deep in the red mass.

In my delirium, I think I hear the cry of a quetzal bird.  Then I see a male quetzal flying towards the sun.  It alights on the wrist of a golden figure I have never seen before.  I feel rather than see the king and priest kneeling before the deity.  As I pass from one layer of consciousness to another, I think the prophesied miracle must be happening for the people, because of my sacrifice but not for me.