The crack of dawn had illuminated just the tips of the pyramids home to the Aztec city of Tenochtitlan. While this change would go unheeded to the average Aztec citizen, often ensconced in reed mats and fast asleep at the early hours of day, this slight alteration marked the awakening of Acatl. Acatl had just welcomed his teenage years, yet his self-selected responsibilities belied him to be a man of great age.
The subdued sounds of water ripples instituted a calming ambiance through which Acatl started his day listening to. Blinking at the roof of his adobe house, a priority hijacked his mind: he had to check on his family’s chinampas.     
The chinampas were the blood line of Acatl’s family. These were the rectangular plots of Earth his ancestors had meticulously engineered years prior. Layers of mud and reed filled these plots and plants grew on these structures. To outsiders, this innovation was known as the “floating gardens”, but for Acatl’s family, they were just the chinampas who housed the maize, squash and corn that the clan enjoyed.
   Just as he was leaving the estate, his mother caught up to him.
   “You rise earlier each morning. One day, I know you’ll beat the Sun,” she whispered.
   “Your father would have been so proud,”
   All Acatl could produce at his mother’s words was a sly smile. His father had passed away two years prior serving on a military endeavor that was determined by his empire’s tribute system. The Great Speaker, or the religious authority of the empire, would require each conquered city to send physical military men, labor or goods as a symbol of loyalty.  In return, the Aztec empire would protect the family and ensure their wellbeing. The Great speaker spoke the word of the land and held both religious and political authority. There was no way any man could contravene his orders.
Acatl’s father wasn’t sent to fight by choice, he was forced to. He was forced by a tradition that promised a boon. A prize that was never received. A bane that was given in its place.
   Ever since his father’s passing, Acatl had to be taller. He had to be stronger. He had to listen more carefully. He had to be physically indestructible. He had to be better.
   Despite his internal brawls, Acatl was grateful. He was given the privilege of tending to agriculture, while his ancestors had lived as hunter-gatherers, always on the chase for what the world had to offer. 
His chinampas, on the other hand, were slow and steady, yet were rapid at keeping his family on both their feet.
Or so he thought.
Acatl must have been at least ten feet away from his chinampas when they frantically began to crack. The Earth’s water was now sinking well into the mud, as the chinampas undulated underneath his feet. The ground was not shaking: the wood beneath the chinampas cleaved on their own.
The cracks in the chinampas opened their eyelids as a murky light shone through them. The firefly-like luminance appeared to mark Acatl’s breaths. There were no footprints, no blemishes on the ground, just a glow.
Acatl bit into the flesh of his cheek to assure himself that this occurrence was real. Was this a sign from the Great Speaker? From his father?
Maybe the chinampas were not as prosaic as Acatl had previously thought. 
.  .  .

On the other side of the Americas, the young Kiona studied the artifacts of her hands against the snug clay of the Earthen mound. The mound shelling Kiona’s hands continued to carry traces of maize from a week-old religious celebration.
The Mississippi River delivered a somber tone that typified the southwestern Illinois climate of the Cahokia civilization. 
These mounds were more than just housing for the Cahokia people. They were where the Great Sun’s teachings would radiate towards the townspeople via representatives and priests. These are the same mounds that observed the generational passing of inheritance from mother to daughter, as the Cahokia people embodied the practice of matrilineal lineage. These mounds had spectated the loudest laughs, the force of the most spiritual rituals and the most obscure of secrets.
Then, she heard it. A loud cacophony  in a foreign sound assumed the room. Cahokia didn’t engage in any formal tribute system and had limited trade with surrounding regions, so it was odd for new people to enter the empire.
Kiona looked back. There was no individual to be seen. Then what was the noise? Was she hallucinating? 
Right then the mound spoke. Almost like it was Kiona’s name. 
.  .  .
It was a day of firsts: the first rain of the Andean spring and Waman’s first day in mita service. Unlike most civilizations of the time, the Incas demanded government service in the form of physical labor over taxation. Without a wizened wrinkle of age visible on his face, Waman dreaded this day. He didn't possess the muscular frame typical to his ancestors, and was flooded with feelings of incompetence regarding his ability to complete the task.
As he embarked on the long commute to the fields, Waman recited a quick prayer to Inti, the Incan Sun God. This prayer wasn't new to him, he had recounted it the night before while witnessing a human sacrifice dedicated to Inti. Maybe the event in front of him wasn´t the sole cause of arousal, maybe the thick residue of the graphic sacrifice bit into Waman´s soul as he thought.
It was undeniable that the maize, corn and potatoes ubiquitous to the state were pernicious to harvest from the Incan terraces. Waman juggled his ambivalent feelings about the task and did everything in his power to distract himself from the inevitability of his fate.
Waman was about to embrace his first assignment of the day, a quinoa terrace. As he positioned himself to grasp the stubborn grain, the Earth underneath him appeared to stutter. Intrinsically, he clutched the quipu he fastened to his waist, an instrument with knotted cords that would allow Waman to track the duration of his mita service. 
The Earth was listening. The Earth was going to stand up for Waman in a way that no one had before.