The first memory I carry of her, from when she still walked this earth, is the scent of her cooking—strong, sweet, unforgettable. Her greatest creation was Melipan, a bread like no other, always served with sunbane tea. It wasn’t just food—it was a feast for the soul, a taste of the gods themselves.
My mother was the finest cook of Melipan in the entire village. Boys and girls would gather just to catch the scent of her work, drawn by its sweetness. Even the men and their wives, though they would never admit it, envied her skill. But this is not a tale of envy.”
This is the story of my fall—from a prince, the son of a chief, to a slave, and then to something worse: a Coyotzin. The very word turns my stomach. They force me to join their hunts, to live by their brutal ways. Coyotzin are cruel, yet fair in their twisted sense of honor. They have no leaders, at least not like the civilized clans I was born into. They are savages, I have seen things like you can never imagine.
But before we get there, I must tell you how I became one of them—a Coyotzin. It began on the night they attacked our oasis, hidden deep within the endless sands of the grand desert. Our home was a small patch of life surrounded by miles of emptiness—a place where tall palms stood sentinel over crystal-clear springs, where the air smelled of sweet flowers and the hum of insects never ceased. It was our haven, our world, and we thought nothing could touch it.
I remember the evening clearly. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting the desert in deep gold and red, the heat finally beginning to give way to the cool of the night. The oasis shimmered in the twilight, the sound of trickling water and rustling leaves filling the air. Inside our home—a simple hut made of woven palm fronds and sturdy wood—my mother was preparing the evening meal. The smell of roasting herbs and fresh fruit wafted through the open doorway, mingling with the scent of the warm earth.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
I sat on the ground, restless as usual, watching her work. I had heard the story of Quetzalan before, but tonight, something about the quiet peace of the evening made me crave it once more.
‘Mother,’ I said, looking up at her. ‘Tell me the story of Quetzalan again. Please.’
She smiled, pausing her work to glance over at me. ‘You’ve heard that story a hundred times, Aztlán,’ she teased, her voice soft and soothing. ‘You know it by heart.’
‘I know,’ I replied, ‘but I like the way you tell it.’
‘Very well,’ she said, leaning back slightly as she began. ‘Long ago, before this desert was nothing but sand and heat, there was a jungle—a jungle so green and full of life that the trees stretched up to touch the sky, and rivers ran like veins through the land. At the heart of this jungle lived Quetzalan, the Feathered Serpent, a god whose song made the rivers flow and the earth bloom. His song was life itself, and under his protection, the people of the jungle thrived.’
As she spoke, I could almost see it—the jungle, alive and breathing, so different from the dry expanse of sand that surrounded our oasis. I imagined the cool shade of the trees, the thick, wet air, and the sound of Quetzalan’s song echoing through it all.
‘But,’ she continued, her voice growing softer, ‘there was one among the people who wanted more. His name was Tocatl, a warrior who thought he could harness Quetzalan’s power for himself. He was brave, but also foolish, and he believed that if he could capture the Feathered Serpent, he would control the magic of the jungle.’
I leaned in, eager to hear more, even though I knew how the story went. Tocatl was always the part of the tale that fascinated me. A man who thought he could bend the will of a god to his own desires—how could anyone be so bold?
But as my mother spoke, the air around us seemed to change. It was subtle at first—a stillness, as though even the leaves had stopped rustling.
‘They’re here,’ She said, her voice low. She didn’t need to say who. We had heard the stories of the Coyotzin, the savage clans that roamed the desert, taking what they wanted and leaving destruction in their wake. Now, they had found our oasis.
My mother stood quickly, her face tight with fear. ‘Aztlán, take what you can we must go now!’