He approached me, his arms reaching out, while a sick, remorseful dread froze both my hands and feet. Fortunately, the same could not be said for the wooden mace that flew spinning through the air, collided with the ghastly figure’s head, and laid it out in a dead sprawl, while I recoiled with a strange sense of awakening. As my senses cleared, the collapsed figure appeared quite different, though no less grotesque. Shockingly emaciated, with pale, protuberant eyes, unkempt, patchy hair, and tightly-drawn skin with numerous untended cuts and sores, not to mention a large, fresh, bleeding wound on the side of its head. On the positive side, the filthy rags it wore were native in style, and it bore no resemblance to my poor late apprentice.
“Stupid macehualli!” hissed Quetzalxochitl, whom I
