The Aztecs, it turns out, are a pretty nasty bunch. Miss Primrose told us about the sun thing, but she didn’t tell the full story about the sun thing. Apparently, the Aztecs were under the impression that if they didn’t give shed-loads of human hearts as a present to the sun, it would stop moving in the sky. There are stacks of drawings of priests dressed as gods, and gods dressed as suns and stone tablets of more priests dressed as suns. It’s bewildering, and I wish Dad was here to explain it all, because I can’t work out who is really who, and who is just dressed up as someone.
I stand staring at a case with a carved tablet of a figure in a headdress. It’s exactly like my dream. On the back of the display is a drawing of an Aztec temple, the steps running with blood and masses of bodies lying at the bottom. One figure is obviously dressed as the sun, holding a sun disc and wearing a particularly large set of feathers.
‘Nice,’ says Henry. ‘Which one’s the sun?’
‘That one,’ I point at the drawing. ‘Or at least, he’s playing the part of the sun.’
‘Do you mean the one covered in blood, lying at the bottom of the steps?’ asks Henry.
I nod. ‘I think so, although…I don’t totally understand it.’
Henry loses all shades of brick and turns clay in colour.
‘But, stupids, this is Miss Primrose,’ says Ursula. ‘She’s not mentioned anything about this stuff.’ She points at the case. ‘She’s far too nice, she wears fluffy white trainer socks and smells of roses. I’d be more worried about the Stone Age lot.’
‘Bronze Age,’ corrects Henry.
It’s Ursula’s turn to flush.
‘I know Miss Primrose is sweet and lovely,’ I say. ‘But she’s not shown any signs of it in the last few days, and two weeks ago, if anyone had said that my parents would build a pyramid in the garden and appoint me as a high priest, I wouldn’t have believed them.’
‘So?’ says Ursula, tapping her foot on the floor.
‘Where are the Mongol Hordes?’ asks Henry.
‘Over there.’ Ursula points to the other end of the gallery and Henry stomps off to look at the cases. ‘What are you saying, Sam?’
I point at the picture. ‘Human sacrifice,’ I say. ‘Lots of it.’
‘You’re just being silly.’
‘OK, well, tell me what else they do,’ I say. ‘Find something nice about the Aztecs. And why does Miss Primrose want a sun?’
Ursula reads all the smart labels. ‘They worshipped loads of different gods, not just the sun.’
‘Yes, and how did they appease them?’ I ask, looking at a huge stone knife.
Ursula reads for a moment. ‘OK, fair enough, more hearts. But here’s one.’ She jabs at a case. ‘Agriculture, that was just watery little floating flower beds – that would be quite nice really.’
‘Have you seen Miss Primrose building floating flower beds?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘But then I haven’t seen her rip anyone’s heart out.’
A chill runs down my spine. I remember Miss Primrose sitting in the classroom, playing with the sheep noise machine; I suddenly understand where she got it from. ‘Haven’t you?’
‘No – nice Miss Primrose, ripping out someone’s heart? Of course not.’
‘Think, think hard,’ I say.
She stares at me. ‘Not Tiny Tim? Not his growler?’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘Tiny Tim; and the costume she’s been wearing, I know it’s made of a duvet and a wetsuit, but it’s awfully like this person.’ I point at a black and white engraving drawn by a Spaniard. ‘Quetzalcoatl – the feathered snake god.’
‘And what did he do?’
‘He was the one that stood on top of the temple and ripped out the hearts.’
We stand and stare at the exhibits. Suddenly all this dry dead stuff from the past makes sense to me. These feathered hats were worn by priests; murdering priests. These curved knives were exactly the things that cut holes in the victims’ chests, before the priest ripped out their hearts.
‘You’re actually serious about this, aren’t you? You think Henry’s her target?’
I think for a minute. ‘I don’t think she’s planning on murdering the whole class; it was the way she said it, “Let’s choose our sun”, like we were choosing a victim. I think we chose Henry.’
‘How interesting,’ says Ursula as if it was a maths problem. ‘I wonder how she was planning on doing it? I mean, he’s twice her size.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Henry’s so nice, he’d never hurt a fly. He’s the perfect victim. If she tells him to lie down, he’ll do it – and then it’ll be too late. She’ll…’ I rerun the day in the classroom, with the feathers drifting across the floor. Miss Primrose building the temple from school chairs, and talking about something. Something odd. What was it – something to do with the time, or the calendar?
I’m fishing about in my memory when Henry comes over, purple and anxious.
‘Well, that was interesting.’
We stare at him.
‘The Mongol Hordes, they played polo, charged around on little ponies.’
‘Did they?’ asks Ursula, looking bored.
‘Do you know what they used for a ball?’
I shake my head. I don’t know anything about the Mongols.
‘Either the head of a prisoner – or if they didn’t have one – a goat’s head,’ says Henry, his bottom lip wobbling.