The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  “Oh, wow. When is her Quinceanera?”

  “December tenth through twentieth—you’ll be home in time for Christmas.”

  “And being home in time for Christmas really means a lot to a high priest of Aztlan.” He smiled.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She laughed.

  “No problem. I actually do enjoy Christmas. How could I not? My parents and brothers and sisters still celebrate it—and I’ll have presents coming my way.”

  “I’m sure. I thought that my husband would scuttle the idea because you naturally wouldn’t be able to provide the level of protection that a trained professional could offer. But after some thought he decided that he’d like you to go so that upon your return he can herald to the people that his daughter’s post-Quinceanera celebration was blessed by the auspices of a high priest of Aztlan.”

  “Not a bad tactic—especially with the pagan-philic atmosphere lately,” he agreed.

  “Yes, well, we nonetheless want you to be functional to some degree should the need arise. So we’ll provide you with firearms and hand-to-hand classes for the next two months.”

  “Sounds intriguing—I think you’ll find that I’m highly functional. How much?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. The classes will be paid for of course.” Rosa swiped her hand.

  “I assumed that. What I meant was, how much are you going to pay me for my troubles?”

  “You mean you’re not just a generous do-gooder like Captain Aztlan?” she asked sarcastically.

  “A do-gooder, yes, but as I mentioned, I’m still not much better off than the poor grad student I was a few years ago. I can barely afford my protein supplements. Why the hell did Aztec priests have to use Catholic salaries as a precedent?” he mused.

  “Don’t worry, Teo. My husband will call you and discuss compensation with you. You’ll be rewarded well.”

  “Sounds good so far. But I’ll wait for that money call from the president before I accept.”

  “Why?” Rosa giggled. “Do you have a counter-offer for mid-December or something?”

  “You never know, Ms. Guerrero. You just never know. Besides,” he continued with comic puffed lip, “I’m a lover and not a fighter because my religion forbids violence.”

  “Yeah, sure it does.” She drained her coffee and led Teo to the door.

  The president of Aztlan glowered at his sliced bookshelf. Stooping, he thumbed the initial pages of a cloven volume.

  “Copyright 1993. Damn—a first edition hardback, nearly a hundred years old, and I destroyed it.” He smacked his forehead. Rising, he moped over to his leather chair and slumped down.

  “Rosa—home,” he uttered, after tapping his ear. A dial tone registered, digits fired, and his wife’s voice greeted him in seconds.

  “Honey, I lost my temper pretty bad with Alfonso just now.”

  “Really? How bad? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. He just got me really pissed off. I was so mad I ended up ruining my book on Aztec warfare. You know, the one my grandfather gave me, from University of Oklahoma press?”

  “Well, why were you so angry?”

  “The guy was intentionally pressing my buttons. I can really see that now when I look back on the conversation. He knows I’m a bibliophile so he insults my reading skills. Ha. Ostensibly his call was to ‘congratulate’ me on our economic prosperity. But then he started trashing Aztec polytheism and telling me I was ‘leading’ our people into darkness or some kind of bullshit. Apparently, our paganism has been spreading south into Mexico—so I guess the news reports are pretty dead on.”

  “He’s just jealous, honey. He wishes Mexico were as prosperous as Aztlan.”

  “He may be jealous. But there was too much passion in his voice when he was on his pagan diatribe. He’s scared Catholicism is going to blink out of existence. And he thinks I’m to blame somehow.”

  “Well, other than South and Central America and some isolated places in Asia, where else is Catholicism being practiced?”

  “Here, baby. That’s about it. Maybe some whites here and there in the U.S. still have enough backbone to attend mass in spite of Swan.”

  “Hmmm. Well, speaking of pagans I interviewed Teo today and he’s quite a character. He had some very troubling news about the priesthood, though. Apparently Mictlan is gone, but he wasn’t the only one of his kind. His views on sacrifice are still prevalent.” She sighed.

  “Aw, damn it. God! This is just what I need now.”

  “What are you going to do—you have to act, Juan.”

  The president grit his teeth and exhaled.

  “Those priests were legitimately elected by a theological council, though, Rosa. I’ve got to be careful; I don’t want to intervene too much. If I’m too interventionist people will call me a hypocrite and a tyrant.”

  “But honey, a portion of our citizens could be imperiled. Teo says there are priests who want to kill the Spanish here.”

  “Yes, well, it’s just talk at the moment. It’s all hypothetical. There’s no evidence of any substantive steps to enact this plan, is there?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t think so.”

  “All right. I’ll speak with Teo about it and see what he recommends. He seemed like a good man at the dinner a while back. Maybe that’s just because any fool would look good compared with Mictlan.”

  “I think he’s a decent guy. A little full of himself, but he seemed all right.”

  “That’s good. At least we have one rational man in the priesthood. Okay, Rosa, I’ve got to make some calls to my counselors and generals. They’re not going to be thrilled at the prospect of a potentially adversarial southern neighbor.”

  “Honey,” Rosa said, “you don’t think there’s any real chance. . .”

  “That it would come to war with Mexico? It’s unlikely. But I’ve seen crazier things happen in this world. I’m probably going to order some divisions down to our southern border just to be safe.”

  After the call, Guerrero unfurled a map of the United States on his desk. Each state abutting California looked as if a football coach had planned his Thursday night tactics there. Arrows projected in wild directions, circles abounded, and everywhere were army groups represented by rectangles. For a few moments the president stared at his marker, then with a burst of resolve erased two of the rectangles near the Arizona border. He redrew them a tad to the east of San Diego.

  The state of California was colored jade and denominated as Aztlan. The arrows, all firing outward, signaled ambition and expansion to an adult. To a child, they looked more like the shooting force from an explosion.

  “Why are you making Aztlan blow up, daddy?” Antonio had asked months ago upon seeing his father fan arrows into neighboring states on the map.

  “I’m not, son. These arrows represent the spears of our destiny. We’re going to take back what was stolen from us long ago.”

  “Oh,” the little boy had murmured skeptically, “it still looks like it’s blowing up to me.”

  Chapter 18

  Rick reclined in his chair, both hands clutching a worn paperback. The cover depicted a muscular swordsman confronting a horde of malefic assailants. Rick was enjoying the novel. More and more he found himself reaching for escapist entertainment—books, videogames, and training.

  “You and the menfolk gonna’ work on the new buildings, today, Bubba? Or do ya got some farmin’ to do?” Cathy asked, fixing her hair after pulling on a sweater. “Maybe yer jes gonna sit on yer keyster and read all day.”

  “Come here, you redneck.” Rick leapt up from the bed, and tickled his wife. “What time do you teach till, pretty lady?”

  “I teach till three. Stewart’s bringing some new families by to observe our kindergarten class today at one-thirty. Maybe you can drop by for a while and watch too.”

  “Well,” he said, “I reckon if I can break free from that thar farmin’ and buildin’ ah might jes manage to find some time to do jes that.”

&n
bsp; “Well that thar sure would be nice,” Cathy drawled playfully.

  “Yeah, isn’t it like some kind of parent teacher day or observation day? Stewart asked if I’d observe one of the high school classes this morning. Said he wants me there at ten.”

  “I wonder what for? Does he want to create a husband-wife teaching duo or something?”

  “I don’t think so.” Rick frowned. “I’ll tell you when I find out more.”

  “Okay. That a good book you’re reading?”

  Rick laughed self-consciously.

  “Actually, it is. It’s by this Texan named Robert E. Howard who wrote in the 1930s or something. Apparently he was kind of nuts—but he’s a damn good writer, and Stewart recommends all the male members of the FCP read some of his work.”

  “You know, speaking of authors, I actually hear George is pretty good.”

  “George? Are you sure? George the fighting machine?”

  “Yes, Margaret told me he’s an amazing poet. Apparently he used to write a lot of free verse.”

  “Hah! That’s crazy. Who would have thought? George the warrior-poet.”

  “Well, Japanese samurai used to write poetry quite a bit, so he’s not the first of his kind. We learned that the other day in my fifth and sixth grade classes.”

  “That’s interesting. Hey, I thought you guys only focused on Caucasian history.” Rick scratched his head.

  “We emphasize and prioritize it, but we allocate about a fourth of our time to other cultures, too.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” Rick smiled. “Well, see you this afternoon, cutie?”

  “I hope you show up, country boy.”

  They kissed, and Rick’s hand softly touched her neck out of habit. A shot went through his mind, and he recoiled. Seconds later his face was stark, and his breath came in short gasps. As he pulled away, his forearm covered his eyes. But it couldn’t prevent him from seeing a phantasmagoria of slaughter on green grass.

  “Honey? God, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, suppressing a moan. “I just . . . just have to escape for a while.” Groping hands found his book. “It’s just a panic attack or something.”

  “Are you sure, sweetie? Let me stay here with you.”

  “No, I’m fine. Go to class and I’ll see you later—I promise. I’m going to take some aspirin and rest a little—it’s just a headache.”

  After more coaxing his wife left. Rick sprawled down on the bed and eyed his paperback’s cover art.

  “The lone warrior against unbeatable odds . . . I wouldn’t mind going down like that.” His face was stone. “But what happens to the warrior’s wife and children? What happens to them when the warrior’s gone?” Through an open door, he saw his razor resting near the sink.

  “God, I know what happens. I know.” His eyes winced tight.

  Later that morning, Rick left the house and headed for one of the portable buildings located on the east side of property. It was rather large for a portable, of sound construction, and equipped with the latest pedagogic technology. Several students loitered outside, chatting in groups. Most were dropped off by parents. A few pulled up in their own cars and parked in a small lot near the building.

  Rick zipped up his leather jacket as a chill wind swept through, sending orange and brown leaves wheeling. Leaning against the building, he scanned the students. The European refugees were easiest to spot. Their clothes were tattered and fit poorly, and their eyes were bleak and stagnant like lifeless pond water. In contrast to the refugees were the local students, who conversed and moved with the fire and optimism of youth.

  Then he realized that as he studied their faces, something was missing. Most of the girls had their ears pierced, of course, but after a cursory scan, he could see no facial piercings. Interest piqued, Rick scrutinized the noses, eyebrows, cheeks, chins, and tongues for the tell-tale metallic gleam of a stud. Nothing. He smiled—if they had the guts to reject that trend, perhaps that was a good sign.

  One of the girls was more vivacious than the rest. Her long, strawberry-blond hair fell around a new cream sweater, and her eyes were forest green. She was practicing dance steps with a tall, athletic boy. Judging by their rock-step, twirls, and attempted pretzels, it appeared as if they were exploring swing dance. Another girl stood by, trying to direct them. At each blunder there was much laughter.

  The persistent sniffling of a nearby student finally caught Rick’s attention. Turning, he saw a boy slumped against the side of the building. He was dressed in a billowing white undershirt and his jeans only reached mid-calf. His eyes stared vacantly at the two dancers. The only movement Rick observed in the boy was the steady inhale of his stuffy red nose, or when a gust whipped up and his body succumbed to a shiver.

  “Hey, man, don’t you have something warmer to wear than just a t-shirt? It’s like forty degrees out here.”

  The boy turned and looked at Rick, but kept his right shoulder riveted to the wall. Then his eyes rested on the portable building’s door.

  “Teacher is not here yet,” he mumbled in a thick accent. “We cannot go in yet.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t you have something warm to wear?”

  The boy’s head sank, and he mumbled something into his chest.

  “Couldn’t hear you. Could you speak up?” Rick walked closer. As he drew near, the boy turned in closer to the building. “Hey man, are you okay?”

  The boy revolved his right side out of view as Rick faced him. But the short-sleeve undershirt did little to hide that his arm terminated at the elbow.

  “He’s fine. What the hell are you bugging him for?” a voice challenged.

  Rick turned, and a tall youth confronted him. His hair was dark and shaggy, and an eye patch covered one of his eyes.

  “His English isn’t too good. What do you want with him?” he spoke with a British accent.

  “Nothing . . . I just saw him shivering there and asked if he had something warm to wear. He’s obviously sick.”

  “Yeah, well, the whole world’s fucking sick. What else is new? And if he had something warm to wear, don’t you think he’d fucking have it on?”

  Rick raised his open hands. “Calm down, man, I was just concerned. That’s all.”

  The tall boy folded his arms. Rick thought it was a gesture of defiance until the wind kicked up, and he saw a shiver run through the lanky frame. This boy, like the one leaning against the building, wore only an undershirt.

  “You from England?” asked Rick.

  “Wales—what’s left of it.” The boy wiped clear fluid running from his nose with his wrist.

  “What about him?” Rick nodded to the young man missing an arm.

  “Czech Republic.”

  There were several moments of silence.

  “How long have you guys been over here?”

  “Long enough to know that your country is as fucked over as ours.”

  “Oh.” Rick’s fingers dug nervously into his pockets, and his eyes averted the eye patch.

  “It’s no big deal—you can look at it. I hate when it makes people uncomfortable.” The boy adjusted the black leather and blinked with his good eye.

  “Oh, I wasn’t trying to avoid it,” Rick said awkwardly. “Actually, I think it’s pretty cool. You look like a tough guy with it. When I was a kid I wanted to wear an eye patch someday—thought it would make me look like a bad-ass.”

  “Yeah,” the boy’s tone was caustic, “that makes sense. And here I thought the Paki fanatics that carved it out did it for sport. But I guess they did it to me as a fucking favor so I could look like a bad-ass. And they must have wanted to make my Mum and Pop look like super bad-asses because they did a lot worse to them.”

  Rick sighed, and a spell of nausea rushed through him. His pulse began to accelerate. He imagined the boy held down, screaming, a stiletto digging into his socket. And then it wasn’t the boy that lay before him in his mind—it was Blake.

  “I’m sorry,” Ric
k croaked, his throat beginning to constrict, his mouth hot with the saliva that was a prelude to vomit. He gulped the spit back down hard and grit his teeth. There was no way he was going to puke now. They wouldn’t understand—they’d never believe it was triggered by nerves. They’d assume it was brought on by revulsion at the sight of their wounds.

  “Here.” Rick hurriedly unzipped his jacket and offered it to the sick boy against the building. The boy’s eyes fell, and he turned into the wall at a greater angle to hide his arm.

  “We don’t need your help. We don’t need your fucking jacket,” the Welsh teen yelled. “Everything’s shit. Everything’s hell. You can’t stop it—it’s everywhere. So why even try?”

  “If you don’t put this on, you’re just gonna get sicker. Please, take it,” Rick spoke softly over the rants of the other boy.

  The Czech stubbornly eyed the door and wouldn’t meet the man’s gaze.

  “Look, if you put on this jacket, it will cover up your missing arm until we can find a doctor to make you a new one. Take it.”

  The boy snatched up the jacket with his solitary hand. After some difficulty, he donned the leather. Moments later, he rotated to a more natural position, his back against the building. Chills no longer tremored his frame.

  Rick folded his arms and leaned with the two refugees against the building. The wind raked his thin shirt, but he sighed and smiled. His nausea was gone.

  Chapter 19

  At two minutes till nine Mrs. Stewart pulled up in her car. After greeting Rick, she opened the classroom door and smiled at each student as they entered. She was attractive and well dressed, probably in her late fifties. Her hair was well-tended and shoulder length. She had vowed to her sons on numerous occasions that she would never sheer off her hair for the sake of convenience as many women did her age.

  When not teaching or coordinating FCP activities and parties, she busied herself with European folk and ballroom dancing. Rick had heard she was spectacular, and that Mr. Stewart was a spry dancer himself. It was rumored that Margaret was going to offer formal ballroom instruction in January, but no announcements had yet been posted.