The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  He laughed richly, stretched his arms along the Jacuzzi’s sides, then leaned back like a jungle cat. “Don’t worry about me, Marisela. I know how to take care of myself—maybe too well.” He bent his head forward and glided the stubble of his chin along the gold chain hanging from his neck.

  “So teach me some Nahuatl.”

  “Why do you want to learn Nahuatl?” he asked. “Give me a good reason and I’ll be your tutor.”

  “Because I should know the indigenous language of my people. I should learn some Aztec.”

  “And did the Aztecs walk out from the vacuum of space? Where were they from?”

  “Aztlan.” She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes.

  “So goes the myth.” Teo smiled. “Marisela, do you believe in other fairy tales as well? Do you still believe in Santa Claus?”

  “Of course not!” She folded her arms over her chest.

  “It’s all right if you do.” The man patronized. “Some girls become true young women on their quinceanera; others remain little girls and retain their naivete.”

  “Hey, I’m not naïve.”

  “And do you also believe an eagle landed on a cactus with a snake in its beak to designate where Tenochtitlan should be founded?” He chuckled.

  “Well, no, because that story involves Aztec gods and I don’t believe in them.”

  “At least your credulity has its limits.”

  “What?” Her mouth gaped. “You’re an Aztec priest. Don’t you believe in the founding story of Tenochtitlan blessed by the Aztec gods?”

  “I’m an anthropologist and a scholar with a taste for luxury. And the founding of Tenochtitlan is an etiological myth—nothing more.”

  The girl’s face shifted in puzzlement. “You’re not who I thought you were,” she said finally.

  “I just told you who I am, Marisela. I’m not lying. I’m nothing more—I’m nothing less. So, back to reality—back to the facts. Aztlan is a myth. We know Mesoamerican peoples trekked to central Mexico from some place to the north. Some scholars claim that place was northern Mexico, others New Mexico, others Nevada.”

  “And others California.” Her eyes narrowed.

  “Correct. But to claim that we’ve found the lost realm of Aztlan—that’s ludicrous. Even more ludicrous are your notions of Aztec identity. You all refer to yourselves as Aztecs because they possessed the mightiest empire. But what of the Mixtecs? What of the Tlaxcalans—the Zapotecs? Hell—what of the Toltecs and Olmecs from deep antiquity? How do you know you’re an Aztec? You could just as easily be descended from the lowly Tlaxcalans they conquered and abused.”

  “I don’t think any of us claim to be pure Aztec.” Her mind raced. “Nowadays, I think it’s more of a sentimental collective used for indigenous Hispanic peoples—that’s what my mom says.”

  “Fair enough.” He rubbed his chin. “But where did all those indigenous people dwell?”

  “Mexico.”

  “Far longer than in mythical Aztlan?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And if Aztlan constitutes California, where are our temples here? Where is the evidence of our trek south? Where is the indicia of our existence?”

  The girl was silent.

  “Where was Tenochtitlan, the Aztec capital? Where are all the Aztec, Toltec, and Olmec ruins that you know of, Marisela? Any in Cali?”

  “Mexico,” she murmured.

  “And to whom did California belong prior to the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo?”

  “Mexico.”

  “Excellent. So, my question to you is, do you enjoy defining your identity according to half-truth and fantasy? You call yourself an Aztec and you may not have a drop of Aztec blood. You call yourself an Aztlander, but there’s a high probability that Aztlan’s whereabouts will never be found. Face it—this country we live in, as it stands now, is nothing but an illegitimate gimmick. Saying you live in ‘Aztlan’ is like saying you live in ‘la-la’ land.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” She splashed the priest with a wave.

  Teo parted hair from his eyes, then continued. “You should define yourself within a broad category, Marisela, not a specific one. The broadest category to encompass all the things that you are, and all the things you may become, can be reduced to one simple word: Mexican. You’re a Mexican. Aztlan is the northern region of Mexico.”

  “Nope.” Her jaw was set, and her eyes were competitive and fierce. “The broadest category to define me is Mesoamerican Indian. And Aztlan isn’t just a fairytale anymore—it’s real. My father says it’s a new beginning for our people. Its geographic coordinates may be a little off, but so what? Since our people left it it’s been in their hearts and minds—now it’s a reality. If you don’t believe me look at your driver’s license and tell me where it’s registered—Aztlan!”

  “A pity.” The priest frowned. “I thought you would have been more receptive. Based on your revulsion for Mictlan, I thought you would have been a better pupil for my Socratics.”

  “Maybe I don’t like to be told what to think or believe—by anyone,” she challenged. “I certainly don’t like to be channeled along intellectually like a mouse in a maze. And since when did you become such a big Mexican dentist?”

  “You mean irredentist?”

  She blinked, then blushed. “Yeah.”

  “I’d love to tell you, but no time to stay and chat, Marisela,” he said over his shoulder as he climbed from the tub. “If I’m going to hit the gym today it’s gotta be before dinner—wouldn’t want to miss the party tonight. I’ll have to make the most of their weight room—how much you wanna bet there’s no free weights?”

  “Who says you’re invited to the party tonight?” Her arms were still folded, and she observed him with a side glance.

  “C’mon, girl.” He smiled. “So I pushed your argumentation skills a bit. And in the process you discovered I’m really an atheist. I’m not ashamed of it—it’s the only choice for intelligent people, really. And you are highly intelligent—for a fifteen-year-old, you’re a prodigy.”

  “I could tell any one of my friends here, and they’d tell their parents. Once the other priests found out, you’d be fired.”

  “Well, it’s too late now.” He shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “Guess you’re the keeper of my little secret, and my fate’s in your hands.”

  “Is that your only secret?” she called after him.

  But he kept walking, and didn’t look back.

  Chapter 31

  The teenagers lazed across the floor and upon big sofas, gorged on pizza and cola. On a paper-thin image projected from an orb, the denouement of an action movie was in full pitch. Gunfire whined from surround sound, and explosions projected their bass from wall to wall. The room was illumined only from the glow of the television screen and a dying fire crackling in a fireplace. Outside, the snow had ceased falling, and a full moon creamed the terrain with light. The lodge was impressive, but its architect had a penchant for tall ceilings and wasted space. A chillness began to permeate the room.

  Jorge had managed to snatch a seat next to Marisela for the movie. He wished he were like the film’s protagonist—a rugged, virile, gun-wielding man of action. Maybe someday he would be—but for now, he was confined to the body of a lanky sixteen-year-old.

  A tall, muscled man passed by the fire—it was Teo, a bottle of cabernet in his hand. He slid down to the floor next to Marisela, and swigged down gulps.

  “I’ve just been relieved of my bodyguarding duties.” He laughed. “Big-ass Eduardo says so. So I guess I’m just along for the ride now, huh?” He lifted back the bottle again.

  “All you’ve done so far is try to hang out with us—no wonder they fired you,” she said coldly, eyes devoted to the screen.

  “Hey, hey.” He raised a finger. “Pump up the volume a little more—this is the best part. Lemme’ hear that gunfire loud and clear.” The priest thumbed his watch to illumine it, and observed it was four minutes to nine. “This is an action movie
,” he drawled, “the idea is to feel like you’re actually there. So pump the fuckin’ volume.”

  Elsa, one of Marisela’s close friends, complied. The gunfire and explosions were now at a chaotic pitch.

  “That’s better.” Teo smiled, leaning close to Guerrero’s daughter. “I need to tell you my other secrets—it’s important.”

  “What are they?” She turned inquisitively.

  “Gotta tell you in private.” He rolled his eyes at the other teenagers. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  Amid the din of casings hitting cement and Hollywood explosions, Teo and Marisela tip-toed across the sprawled bodies of her friends. She followed him into a wood-paneled room stacked with board games and extra supplies. He checked his watch again, wiped sweat from his brow, then shut the door.

  “Well, go ahead. Tell me what you wanted to tell me.”

  “Uhm . . . well,” he checked his watch again, “just kind of nervous to say what’s on my mind.”

  An explosion shuddered the room, and Teo’s bottle dropped and shattered.

  “What the hell was that?” the girl asked, moving toward the door.

  “Nothing, nothing, I’m sure.” He pressed his back against the portal. “It’s the surround sound. It really is.” Another explosion knocked board games from shelves. Her eyes grew wide, and she tried to pry him from the door. Bear-hugging her, they stumbled to the ground. She heard her friends in the game room screaming, and the sound of gunfire was all around.

  “Eduardo, help me! Help me!” she cried, trying to create enough distance from her captor to make a knee to the groin effective.

  “Shut up and stop struggling!” Teo yelled. “It’s for your own good. If you go out there you could get fucking shot.” He tightened his grip and leaned all his weight against her to smother her struggle against the floor.

  “Why are you doing this? What’s going on? Eduardo! Raul! Help! Help me, please!”

  She discerned a multitude of weaponry by their semi-automatic and automatic percussions. It was a discordant symphony interrupted by pulse-dead pauses. Then a lone muzzle’s hateful clamor. Then the sweeping, body-stitching concert again. Until, one by one, the musicians slumped down in crimson, their vibrant instruments in frozen hands.

  Silence.

  “Let me go, let me go, you bastard!” screamed Marisela, tears spilling from her eyes.

  Her wails died. Heavy strides were coming toward the room.

  “Sandoval, is that you? I’ve got her here,” called Teo anxiously.

  The feet stopped at the door, and the drawing back of a pistol’s hammer was audible. In a rush of air the door kicked open.

  The girl’s face melted in relief, as her captor’s wrenched in horror. There, in the door frame, stood Eduardo. His feet were braced wide, and he leveled a handgun at Teo’s head. The priest blinked as the red tracer played along his eyes—Eduardo’s hands were still shaking and couldn’t draw a steady bead.

  “Let her go, priest. Now!” he barked, and coughed. A trickle of blood started from the corner of his mouth.

  Teo noted the blood, then shoved Marisela aside. The girl scrambled for Eduardo, and he comforted her with one arm.

  “When I heard the gunfire, I knew something terrible had hap-happened,” stuttered Teo. “She wanted to run out, but I knew it would be too dangerous. So I held her down until I thought it would be safe.”

  “He’s lying!” accused the girl. Then, turning to her left, she saw the room in the distance where she and her friends, moments ago, had been watching a movie. The short corridor was a wavering vista, and the air was thick with the smell of blood and sulphur. As she pulled away from Eduardo her arm was sliced by something sharp. Dimly she registered that a hunk of shrapnel protruded from his side.

  She ran, more swam, down the hall. The room was a parallel world of horror. Raul was slumped against a wall, the left side of his face eaten by shards of metal. He grinned at her from red lips and teeth, and what remained of the bare muscle and tissue flexed hideously. But it was unintentioned ghoulishness; he was comforted knowing she was safe as his brain deadened with blackness, and his chin touched his chest.

  Her hands covered her mouth, and her eyes were the cursed purveyors of hell’s art. Near her feet, an assailant lay dead, clothed entirely in black. Even his face was hidden by a sable, pull-over mask. Upon his chest was a constellation of bullet impacts. The black cloth was torn away in imperfect circles, beneath which gleamed a cuirass of body armor. But one round had found his mouth. Behind him, legs entwining the man’s torso, was Jorge. The boy’s rigid arm was constricted around the assailant’s cold throat in a choke. But Jorge’s mouth was open, his head back, hair standing on end and looking synthetic like an upturned doll’s. In the man’s right hand was a pistol pointing into Jorge’s armpit. Then she saw the exit wound in the sixteen-year-old’s neck. Then the black mire of blood in which the two reposed. It had crept to her bare feet, and she leapt back with a scream.

  Upon the rest of the floor lay at least two score bodies, the vast majority decked in black. A Jaguar knight shouldered past her, blood trickling from his ears. For him, the world was soundless. Small daggers of metal chunked superficially in his chest and arms like hurled shuriken. He stooped over, wincing, and pulled one of the attacker’s masks from his face. He did it gingerly, because this particular assailant’s throat had been rent so thoroughly that a hard tug may have achieved decapitation. Beneath the mask, the man’s hair was thick and black. His flesh was bronze, and a gold hoop earring decorated each ear.

  “Mexicans,” he thought he whispered, but boomed. “Hey, Captain Tlaxtatl, come here.”

  Teo emerged from the corridor first, his palms upon his head. Following him was Eduardo, his movement labored.

  “Cover this fucker,” the giant commanded the Jaguar knight. But the man didn’t respond. Grunting, he saw the blood running from the knight’s ears.

  “If he moves, kill ‘em.” He shoved the gun into Marisela’s hands.

  Mechanically, her finger drifted across the safety to assure it was ready to fire. Then she saw the cocked hammer, and gulped. Her self-defense coach wouldn’t have entrusted her with the weapon if he didn’t believe she could bring herself to fire it. Could she?

  Gritting his teeth, Eduardo sunk to a knee and examined the terrorist’s face more closely. “Jose Sandoval,” he murmured, and, rising, unleashed a bloody expectoration into Teo’s face. “Jose Sandoval, head of Caballero’s special ops. What the fuck were they trying to do here? Kill Marisela? Take her captive? Kidnap her like some South-American-style fucking extortion?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eduardo! I don’t have anything to do with this!” Teo was crying, and his tone was frantic.

  “The fuck you don’t!” growled the Eagle Knight captain, drawing a knife. “I heard you call for Sandoval through the door, like you were expecting him. I slit that fucker’s throat personally, and I’ll do the same to you, right here, right now, if you don’t start talking.” The exertion brought more blood to Eduardo’s mouth, and he pursed his lips together to hold it in.

  “I don’t know what’s going on, honest!” he puled.

  “Yeah, right. But as much as I’d like to kill you I’ve got to wait.” He turned and coughed more blood. “We’ll haul you back to Los Angeles where we’ll extract the information from you. We’ve got a chopper on the way to pick us up.” His hand drifted to the shrapnel wound at his side. “Your Mexican friends seem to be fond of grenades. I think you’ll find that many of your more loyal brother priests are fond of flint knives. I’m sure they’ll dream up a living hell for you—as you deserve.”

  “ETA is twenty minutes,” a wounded Eagle Knight opened a door and informed. “Marisela, thank the gods you’re all right!” The man rejoiced. “Your friends are in here.”

  The girl turned, her long black hair whipping around her head, cheeks still streaked with tears.

 
“Gabriela! Alena!” she yelled, as the girls came running out.

  Teo saw her gun hand relax, and the sidearm point toward the floor. He then discretely eyed the blown out windows and kicked down door. Eduardo grinned, drawing another pistol from his hip and cramming the muzzle into the priest’s ear.

  “Don’t even think about it,” the captain warned.

  “Marisela, thank God! We thought they killed you or took you!” One of the friends, Alena, choked. “Jorge . . . Jorge tried . . .” Her jaw locked up and she averted her gaze from the bodies. “He tried to fight them. And, and . . .” She was gasping for air amid her tears, her chest heaving, and Marisela tried to hug her. But she was rigid, and her body was trembling. Marisela pulled back, and saw that Alena’s gaze was focused on the door frame to the outside.

  Guerrero’s daughter turned to look too. There, standing alone in the threshold, was a monster. She was armored in thin, metallic red plate that covered her entire body. Where interstices occurred at the joints there could be seen an underlying layer of pliant aramid fiber. A yellow visor was open over her face. Within, her head was shaved, and a tube wormed into one of her nostrils. The body armor contoured into breasts that seemed too perfectly formed for her androgyny. Were it someone else, Marisela would have thought her a man. But Marisela had seen her before, in a different reality, and knew better. In her hands she carried a silver, gleaming rifle.

  More of the teenagers had emerged from the room by now, and were gaping at the newcomer. Marisela stepped backward and stumbled to the floor. The intruder’s eyes tracked her exclusively, and seemed oblivious to the others.

  “Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air!” roared Eduardo, leveling his pistol at the woman. The red tracer drowned in one of her inky eyes.

  “My name is Ishtarotha Babylonica.” Her voice projected from an amplifier beneath her neck, and was deep and velvet. “I am battle-priestess of the Order of Tiamat’s first division. I come for the girl.” The visor snapped shut. “If you tender her peacefully, none of you will die.”