Part 3 of Xoctol

Chapter 6

The moon was slowly rising in the sky as Xoctol crept out of bed. He was
careful to not wake his father or sister down the hall as he put on his clothes. He
then reached for another pair, and put the extra pair into a bundle. He grabbed his
bow then went downstairs. He added some food to the bundle then ran out the door. The
blast of cold air choked him for a minute, but he recovered himself and loked at his
surroundings. The dew from the night’s rain had made a puddle by the door. He looked
into it and smiled at his brawny frame. His years in the gold smith shop had toned
his body, but the smile quickly vanished when he heard a sound. He crept back into
the doorway and waited tensely, like an eagle about to strike. But he was relieved to
find it was only a merchant getting a head start on his competitors. Xoctol ran out
of the doorway and went off down the street. He went quickly, wanting to be far out
of sight before the city awoke. He planned on finding the field on which the whites
and Aztecs would battle on in the morning. He wanted to hide in the woods nearby and
possibly in the confusion join in the “slaughter.” Xoctol ran all that night under
the moon searching for the battleground, and just before dawn he found it. He
searched for a safe spot to rest for the few hours before daylight. He was exhausted
at the rigorous running but he was defiant in his will to at least see the battle.
There were some trees at the apex of a hill, with perfect view of the battle. It was
right on the side so if he wanted he could slip off in to the woods and chase some
whites, and nearby was a stream if he was thirsty. He settled down under some bushes
not caring about secrecy. But as he was falling into a deep sleep, he heard the sound
of voices nearby. He slowly got up, his head heavy with sleep and looked about him
searching for the disturber. He was terrified to spot some white men waling just a
few jaguar leaps away. Keeping his senses he crept into the underbrush trying to stay
hidden as best he could. He couldn’t hear the voices clearly but caught brief
sentences. They seemed to be talking about some location. He heard phrases like,
“this would be perfect,” “and they will never expect it.” Xoctol didn’t know what
these phrases meant, but he did know if they came nearer he would be spotted
instantly. He held his breath as he prayed to his gods. He was frightened at the
strange weapons they carried. They seemed to be long metal sticks but he could
observe the sharpness as he saw them cut through the sturdy vines like fruit. The
Aztec’s weapons were simply branches from a sturdy tree and sharpened. He began to
have doubts about the easiness of the battle. But he watched gratefully as they went
off through the woods. He quickly ran away into some more dense underbrush, and
settled down for more sleep.
The darkness faded as the sun rose claiming the sky once again. Xoctol rose to
hear the yelling of soldiers down in the valley. He got up and went to the stream
nearby to refresh himself. He dipped his fingers and feet into the oozing mud at the
bottom feeling the coolness of it, but the increasing din in the valley brought him
back to the situation at hand. He put water on his face waking himself up fully, then
collected his bow and ran off into the woods. He was reassured with the Aztec’s
chances when he saw the overwhelming numbers of his countrymen. The Aztec line
stretched all the way across the valley. The shouts of the Aztec leaders could be
heard all the way up the hill, but the white’s line was strangely silent as if they
were waiting for something. The Aztecs pulled out their weapons and put on their
armor then watched the whites, daring them to charge. But the whites still stood
watching, waiting. The Aztecs could no longer wait and with a cry they charged. The
sound of a million men echoed throughout the valley, but the whites still stood
waiting. Then a shout was heard, the whites raised their weapons, Xoctol watched
curiously as the whites put their odd swords to their shoulders. Then a huge
explosion sounded and smoke filled the air. Xoctol fell to the ground with shock, and
then rose again. He waited confused for the smoke to clear. There was chaos
among the men in the valley as the Aztecs ran into each other in the smoke, and
attacked each other not being able to determine enemy or friend. When the smoke
finally cleared Xoctol couldn’t believe it when he saw entire lines of the Aztecs
dead on the ground, while the whites stood unscathed. What was this witchcraft Xoctol
wondered. But Xoctol knew they couldn’t keep that up forever and sooner or later the
Aztecs would reach the white’s line. Xoctol stood up deciding now would be his best
time to join the battle. Then suddenly, he heard voices behind him. He searched the
hill and saw the vague outline of some white men hidden in the bushes holding their
ears near a huge hollowed out stump. Xoctol crept closer using his withy body trying
to stay hidden. He suddenly realized it was strange for tree to be pointed straight
out like that, when a piercing roar erupted from the tree. Thunder claps echoed down
the plain. Xoctol fell to ground, life was over, the gods must be coming to claim
back the earth he thought. He put his head on the ground trying to hide but he knew
it was useless, and he rubbed his dirty face with anguish. A powerful gust of wind
from the tree swept his head around. He looked down in the valley expecting to see it
empty of live bodies. But to his horror only the Aztecs were dead, the whites stood
unopposed. The few Aztecs who survived were shot dead with a final volley from the
white’s terrible weapons. What was this metal witchcraft, Xoctol wondered? He slowly
recovered his senses watching the whites celebrate, the sight of all his comrades
dead was too much for him. Xoctol crept off carrying his bow, stunned, bereaved, and
defeated.

Chapter 7

A slow rain broke out over the forest as Xoctol stumbled on. He was in a
daze from the events from yesterday. They still were affecting his mind as he went
forward through the woods back toward the city. The cries of the Aztecs, the
explosion of the metal witchcraft, and the destruction of his country men was
becoming too painful for him to consider. The exultancy of the Spanish was not yet
inaudible and Xoctol listened with anger. He faltered on, slowly regaining his senses
and wit, but he was exhausted and after blundering on for an hour he fell to the
ground, too tired to care about the wet soil. He fell asleep. The slow but steady
rain collected as Xoctol slept, but as the sun was creeping over the hills, he rolled
right into a puddle. He awoke suddenly from the cold wetness. He rose and with the
good night’s rest Xoctol was now at full strength, and with his mind rallied he
hurried off toward the city.