Heartless 1, 485 A.D.

It was my duty as a nacon, servant of the Gods, of my people, of the sun. So I kept reminding myself as we laid the sacrifice on the stone chacmool. While I drew blood from the 7-year-old boy’s nose and ears with my flint knife. While I held up my bloody fingers to the huge crowd at the base of the pyramid. While I gently moved the knife up his breastbone to open his rib cage. While I carefully extracted the heart as I’d been trained. First time for me. Him too, of course.

Cholula Pyramid, 2025 A.D.

“Now, this next room is tough to stomach. Any of you faint-hearted in the tour group should wait outside.” The tour guide paused, her eye lingering on the parents of a boy who looked about 7, then shrugged. “OK. My team has been excavating these tunnels. Takes a while since this is the biggest pyramid in the world. This room was one of the human sacrifice chambers. Yes, it’s true that they even sacrificed 7-year-old kids.” She paused, enjoying the surprise and horror on the group’s face. Leading tour groups could be fun. “But don’t worry, we don’t do that today.” She paused again, waiting for laughter. And kept waiting. Not even a sympathy smile? Anyone? The awkward silence continued. Well fine then. Fuck all you stupid savage gringos. “Are there any questions?” One of the gringos raised his hand. Whew.

“Professor, I just don’t see how people could do this. Over centuries. People really butchered kids like that in the name of God? How are you sure it all really happened?”

“Overwhelming evidence from here, Chichén Itzá, and many other sites. Art throughout their pyramids, ball courts, other buildings. My team has been translating some writing we just found with the exact dates of sacrifices. Skeletons with knife cuts corresponding to heart removal, disembowelment, decapitation.” Both of the parents retched and the tour guide smiled. I warned you. This is no tale for the timid.

Heartless 1, 485 A.D.

Who would have thought the young man to have so much blood in him? It kept gushing as I held up his beating heart to the Sun God, Huitzilopochtli. The boy was finally quiet, unlike like the crowd below. My chilac spread his only son’s blood on the stone on the sacrificial altar, the statue of Yum Kimil, and the faces of my four Chaacs. Their devotion was obvious, even through the red blood and blue paint. We continued the ritual silently, methodically, perfectly. Blood flowed down the stone steps onto the scribes recording it all. I removed the boy’s femur so we could make it into a pentatonic flute. Then the four Chaacs tossed him down the pyramid steps, where he would be flayed properly so the chilac could wear some of his skin.

We heard a rumble and the less faithful looked toward Popocatepetl. Fools. I didn’t demean myself by looking. Gods wouldn’t reward a sacrifice with a volcanic eruption. Of course the sound was thunder, you stupid savages! Then someone in the crowd pointed to a distant raincloud, the first sign of moisture this year. The cheer from thousands of Mayans was louder than thunder, but their surprise still disappointed me. Did they expect otherwise? Gods, in Their mercy and love, always delivered.

Cholula Pyramid, 2025 A.D.

“OK,” said another stupid gringo tourist. “So it all really happened. Some of it here in this room. But why? Was it just entertainment to them? Didn’t the poor parents ever, well, try to stop them?”

“They believed the sacrifice was necessary to appease the gods. They preferred to sacrifice children and prisoners of higher social status because they were more valuable. This whole region had huge issues with drought. No sacrifice, no rain, no crops, everyone dies. To them, it was their only choice.”

The gringo tourist shook his head. “Stupid sadistic savages.” Several other tourists nodded. The professor thought of a clever retort, then remembered that leading tour groups was the only way to fund her work. Much more reliable than writing grant proposals. Gringos tip, too.

Heartless 1000, 525 A.D.

1000 sacrifices. It hurt me more and more as my bones creaked. Consoling the parents was still the worst part. I always got that look from them for – well, forever. They knew their children were still alive, in a better place, asking for water, but still that resentment. They’re only human. So am I. So were both of my sons.

Every time, I followed the ceremony as trained. So did the scribes who recorded each sacrifice. Every time, God rained his love upon us. Another team scribed the details of the rainfall as the farmers led the dance of gratitude and our warriors sought new blood.

Cholula Pyramid, 2025 A.D.

Another stupid savage gringo tourist quit typing into his cell phone and raised his hand. “So… if you know details of the local weather, and you just figured out the dates of all the sacrifices… did you ever check their correlation?”

God, how she hated these idiots. “No. What’s the point? Besides, I’m not a data scientist.”

“I am.”

“Que? I mean – what?!”

“I just found a preprint in arXiv with your name on the author list. Looks like you included a supplement with all the sacrifice dates.”

“Um. Yes. We did. But, uh, you shouldn’t look at those preprints. They haven’t been peer-reviewed so they’re inappropriate for the general public, only research professionals. You see, it’s a rule called the-“

“Ingelfinger rule.” He pulled a faculty ID from his pocket. She pretended to pay attention. “Suffice it to say I am a research professional and understand.”

Fuck. He is and does. Now I hate gringos even more. “OK. So?”

“This is easy. It’s just a csv file. So is the file in this other paper published last year with the rainfall patterns. Several hundred years of data, there’s the scatterplot, now I just need to…” he gasped. “I, uh. I identified the correlation between human sacrifice and rainfall.”

“And?” She tried to pretend she wasn’t genuinely curious. “Correlation doesn’t prove causality, of course.”

“Of course, but it proves something when it’s perf-” He stopped. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t comment about unpublished data around all of these other people.”

“So… you found something interesting enough to submit for publication?”

“Sorry, I’ll have to excuse myself from the rest of the tour.” The gringo turned and walked away.

“Wait! I didn’t see your name. You need me as a co-author.” The gringo started running.

Ultimate Heartlessness, 535 A.D.

It was finally my time to see the gods. I was meditating beneath a corn plant, alone, ready to meet them. And there they were. They looked like people, like me, like our paintings of them. Somehow, I felt no pain while they removed my heart. But then they… put a new heart in my chest. I asked why. They said I was their favorite, had trillions of fans throughout the stars watching right now, that this heart would help me to lead sacrifices for another decade. I asked why. I heard the laughter of countless voices. The gods shrugged, said I wouldn’t remember because they put something in my head. They said they had a ship that sailed through the skies that made the rain every time I brutalized one of my own people. I heard the innumerable chorus of voices laugh again as I realized they aren’t gods, just people. Bored people. People with magic. This is all just – and unjust – entertainment to them. Sadistic savages.