He Who Watches Over the Pathways of Precious Stones and the Silver Ribbons That Wreathe the Corn When It Is But the Smallest Gem had demanded a translation from Aguilar and Malinalli, and when he heard it his eyes had grown as wide as saucers, which was no mean feat: he must have been one hundred and ten years old. Another aged councillor, He Who Opens and Closes the Floodgates of Light When the Drum Is Played in the Temple of the Hummingbird Who Feeds on Our Blood and Flies Across Obsidian Mirrors, had said, according to Aguilar’s and Malinalli’s translation: Perhaps it’s best if we proceed
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