The Aztec myth of the unlikeliest sun god Kay Almere Read
Nanahuatl, weakest of the Aztec gods,
sickly and covered in pimples,
had been chosen to form a new world.
There had already been four worlds, each
set in motion by its own “Lord Sun,"
and each, in turn, destroyed:
the first by jaguars, the next by winds,
the next by rains of fire,
and the fourth by floods.
To establish the Fifth Sun,
Lord Quetzalcoatl,
the “Feathered Serpent,”
had gone to the underworld and
returned with the bones of earlier people,
nourishing them with his own
blood to create new life.
But for them to have a world to live in,
another god had to leap into the
great bonfire and become the fifth sun.
The Lord of Sustenance and the Lord of
Fire had chosen Nanahuatl for this task,
while the Lord of Rain and
the Lord of the Four Quarters
had picked their own offering:
the proud, rich Tecciztecatl.
First, the chosen ones had to complete a
four-day fasting and bloodletting ritual.
Nanahuatl had nothing but cactus thorns
with which to bleed himself,
and fir branches to paint
with his red offering,
but he resolved to try his best.
Meanwhile, Tecciztecatl flaunted
his riches,
using magnificent jade spines and branches
adorned with iridescent quetzal feathers
for his own blood offering.
When four days had passed,
the fire was roaring high.
Four times proud Tecciztecatl
approached the flames,
and four times he pulled back in fear.
Humble Nanahuatl stepped forward.
The other gods painted him chalky
white and glued feathers to him.
Without hesitation, he threw himself
into the flames.
A fire-blackened eagle
swooped over the fire,
grabbed Nanahuatl and carried
him into the sky.
There, Lord and Lady Sustenance
bathed him,
sat him on a feathered throne, and
wrapped a red band around his head.
Inspired by Nanahuatl,
Tecciztecatl threw himself into what
was left of the fire: cooled ashes.
A jaguar jumped over the fire pit, but
couldn’t carry Tecciztecatl into the sky.
When Tecciztecatl reached the horizon, a
band of goddesses dressed him in rags.
Still, he shined just as brightly
as Nanahuatl.
But since he had shown far less bravery
and much more pride,
one of the gods picked up a rabbit
and tossed it in his face,
dimming his light.
But the fifth world still wasn’t
truly established.
Nanahuatl, Lord Sun,
shined for four days straight
without moving through the sky like
all the previous suns had moved.
Back in their home, Teotihuacan,
the gods began to worry.
They sent Obsidian Hawk up
to ask what was wrong.
Nanahuatl replied that just as he had
sacrificed himself to become Lord Sun,
he now needed the nourishing
blood of the other gods
in order to move through the sky.
Enraged at this suggestion, Lord Dawn
stepped up and shot an arrow at Lord Sun.
Lord Sun shot back,
and his quetzal-feathered arrows
struck Lord Dawn in the face,
turning him to frost.
Before anyone else could act rashly,
the other gods turned to each
other to discuss what to do.
Of course, no one wanted to
sacrifice themselves,
but nor did anyone want to
act like Lord Dawn.
Besides, Nanahuatl had held up his end of
the bargain to nourish the earth—
how could they refuse to
nourish him in return?
They remembered how even
the wimpy Tecciztecatl
had eventually managed to
emulate Nanahuatl’s bravery.
At long last, five other gods agreed
to sacrifice themselves.
One by one, Lord Death stabbed them
in the heart with an obsidian knife,
offering their bodies to
their new Lord Sun.
As the last god made the sacrifice,
Lord Quetzalcoatl blew the embers
of the great fire back to life,
and the sun began to move
through the sky at last,
ushering in the fifth age.
Thanks to a pimply weakling whose
fortitude inspired all the other gods,
the sun moves along its daily path,
the rabbit-faced moon
following in its wake.