We ran like venadas, frightened deer, fleeing all the way down the hill toward the safety of foreign woods and eerie dirt paths. The Great Mother had saved us, and we escaped without looking back. The rest of my sisters and I ran for the mouth of the nagual’s cavernous dwelling. Within seconds, a foul stench thickened and permeated the cave. Instinctively, I reached over to block Pita’s sight with my hands, but she pushed me away and stood staring at the gore before us without so much as a single tear in her eyes. The liquid in the giant kettle gurgled and splattered as it ate away at his flesh, and he screamed in what must have been excruciating agony. Unable to stop, a victim of his own momentum, he fell into the roiling mess. In his great haste, he tripped on the hem of his robe and ran right into the cauldron he had been boiling for us. Suddenly, as if in slow motion, he turned sideways and made a dash for the mouth of the cave. He reluctantly made his way toward the cauldron. “No, please,” the nagual begged, inching along the wall.
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