Free The Goldsmith's Daughter by Tanya Landman

correctly until the very end; any deviation from the pattern was an offence. This dance was done not for idle pleasure or amusement; this was an act of worship that demanded the total dedication of the participant’s body, mind and soul.
    When it was over Mitotiqui grasped my hand. I turned to him, and suddenly we were children again – giggling infants who had escaped the clutches of our nurse. We abandoned the festivities and fled, winding between streets and alleyways, heading for the chinampa fields.
    So absorbed were we in our reckless flight that we almost ran headlong into the procession. Only when the priests nearly stepped upon us did we realize our danger. We swiftly stood aside, flattening ourselves against a wall, heads bowed low in respect, wiping all traces of amusement from our faces.
    It was the god. The perfect youth was carried upon a litter, garlanded and magnificently clothed. I knelt as he passed, as was the custom; but as I did so, some impulse spurred me to glance at him.
    For a moment, I was blinded by beauty – stunned by the radiance of his face. Glory scalded the backs of my eyes. This was no mortal boy. He was transformed, possessed by the god, lit from within by his power. The youth he had been was burnt away, and what remained of his body was a gilded shell: unreal, insubstantial, a dream. And soon the door would open to a more lasting truth – the eternal reality. I closed my eyes to shut out the brightness of his divinity, pressing my palms hard against the lids.
    The procession of priests and handmaidens to the god moved on, and Mitotiqui and I were left alone once more. I could breathe again, and did so, inhaling in fevered gulps. Our rash act had brought us close to incurring the wrath of the priests and it would be death to do so.
    My brother did not notice my distress.
    â€œLook,” he said, his voice quivering with excitement as he held out his open palm for inspection. “See what the god has left us.”
    It was not the food of commoners; not a thing that could be freely purchased in the market square. But I had often seen girls carrying baskets towards the temples; I knew at once what they were.
    Mushrooms. Five of them. The sacred diet of priests and gods. They had rolled from the litter of the perfect youth and been found by my own perfect brother. He pressed two into my hand.
    â€œThese are for you. I will have three,” he decided.
    â€œBecause you are a man?” I asked, my temper rising in irritation.
    â€œNo, dear sister, because I am bigger. I need more food. You know my appetite has always been greater than yours.” So saying he crammed the mushrooms into his mouth and chewed.
    How could I do anything but copy him? He was my beloved brother, and for too long I had ached with his absence. Where he led, I would follow.
    I started to eat.
    For some time we simply stood and stared at each other, feeling a little stupid. I had expected the effect to be instantaneous, and it was not.
    But then – like a rising mist – the mushrooms began their work.
    I cannot describe all that happened next, because I do not recall it. I know that I had a sensation of floating above the streets and over the roofs. I yearned to soar high into the sky, to see at last what lay beyond the mountains. And yet I was prevented by a great weight that tethered me to the ground. Looking down, I recognized this as my own body, which was slumped beside Mitotiqui in the street. From above I watched as he pulled me to my feet and, with an arm about my waist, walked with me back towards the temple precinct. His steps were uneven, his gait strange and stumbling, as though he too would soon collapse. Drugged as I was, I felt it unwise to be amongst crowds where our condition would be observed. I wanted to tell him to go in a different direction, but in my spirit-like state I had lost the power of speech.
    A hazy blur of dancers whirled about the square, and the drums