The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, 2013 Edition

by Paula Guran [editor]

  “You think so?” I say. “I liked the contrast of the woman’s ornate wrinkles against the barren poverty of the buildings. They’re akin, yet profoundly separate. Aesthetics, that’s all. No politics.”

  She makes a small coughing sound. “But surely the figure emerging from the shadows at the far end of the street is part of an ongoing discourse on the country’s unresolved past?” She squints at me expectantly.

  “What figure?” I say, amused. “The street’s empty. If anything about that photo is symbolic, it’s the emptiness.”

  “There’s definitely a figure there, Mr. Turrand. I can see it clearly. Not its features as such but the general shape. A desperado or something.”

  I turn toward the photo. “There’s nothing . . . ” The words fall away. There is something. Behind the face of the old woman, barely distinguishable from the blur of the distant street, lurks a human form. It’s unclear whether, as I’d pressed the shutter release, the figure had been moving or was stationary, observing. Nor can I tell where it’s looking, though I have an unsettling sense that it’s staring straight towards the camera. I’ve studied that image many times as I prepared the photographs for display, and I’m positive I’ve never seen that shape before.

  I push past the woman, who grunts her own displeasure and begins whining about artistic eccentricity to someone near her. I don’t care. I lean close to the print, but the figure is real enough—not simply a simulacra, not a smudge or chemical stain. It’s dressed in what appears to be a loose-fitting black poncho gathered in at the waist, with a black hood or scarf tied at the top of the head to form a mask, so that only a light smear of face is visible. It may hold a rifle.

  I’ve seen it before, or something like it.

  June 1996. I’m sitting in an ordinary cantina in the township of Ocosingo, brooding over a mug of cheap comiteco. I look up as a woman sits at my table. It’s unexpected, because there’s a sign on the door forbidding entry to policemen, dogs and whores. No one seems bothered by her presence though.

  “Buenas noches,” she says, with a sardonic smile. She’s smoking a small cigar.

  “Sorry,” I say, groping for the words, “I’m not looking for, um, companionship.”

  Those eyes, that were copal only a moment ago, darken. “You assume I am a puta? Why? Because I sit uninvited? Because I talk to a stranger?”

  I hadn’t expected my crude Spanish to be understood. Her English, however, is fine. I look her over. Her white shirt is open at the neck, but not enough to reveal cleavage, just soft café con leche skin. She’s wearing baggy black pants. I imagine the small hips, and the firm, reddish-tanned legs they cover. “Are you?” I ask, reverting to English.

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Maybe.”

  Her eyes are darkly luminous, her hair black and cut short around her ears. No obvious make-up, but she’s not colorless or plain for all that. With a hat and serape, she’d almost pass for a man from a distance, but up close, her body is distinctly feminine and her face mesmerizing: full lips slightly parted, rounded cheeks, and the centers of the eyebrows, over Frida Kahlo eyes that won’t let you off too easily, raised, questioning.

  “Care for a drink?”

  “I don’t drink,” she replies and falls silent, staring at me.

  I lean a little closer, smelling scented vanilla mixed with white chocolate.

  “How can I help you then?”

  She shrugs and blows a cloud of smoke over my head. “I sit. I wait.”

  Now I feel discomfort, even a sense of danger, though she has made no threatening moves. Her rich, unpainted lips caress the cigar with delight, teasingly. After a few moments she reaches down into a pocket in her pants, and I inhale. She fetches some object and places it on the table in front of me. Her hand draws away, leaving it standing there.

  The thing is a small rough doll, whether man or woman is unclear. About eight or nine centimeters high, it’s dressed in what is meant to be a black serape, head covered in a hood except for a slit from which two eyes peer, sewn in black thread. Hands and visible face are the only white fabric—though a twine made of black-and-white yarns crosses its chest like bandoliers. In its nascent hands it holds a crude rifle made of wood.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Zapatista doll,” she murmurs.

  I touch it then pull my hand back. “Zapatista?”

  She glares critically, but that only makes her more captivating. “You are not very perceptive, are you, Señor Turrand? You photograph but you do not see.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you want me to see—”

  “Zapatistas are rebels,” she says. “Bandidos, if you will. Part of the Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional. They have opposed the oppressive Mexican state since 1994—the tailend of a war that has gone on for many decades. To many they are heroes. The better known of them have been turned into these figures, so.” She gestures at the doll. “It is good for tourism.”

  “Is that right?” I lean closer to the doll, pondering the ubiquitous tradition that transforms social malcontents into celebrities. Robin Hood, Ned Kelly, Phoolan Devi, Ishikawa Goemon, Dick Turpin, Pancho Villa: hero-bandits all.

  “Who’s this bloke?”

  “El Roto.” She offers a half-grin. “Once Genaro el Roto, Genaro the Broken, the Lost.”

  “Is he particularly famous?”

  “Famous for being dead. He was shot here in this town during the fighting two years ago, murdered by the government’s militia. His first name was indeed Genaro. But his last was a secret, his nom de guerre El Roto, after our famous Mexican outlaw from a century ago. Others have adopted that name now. El Roto lives on in them.”

  “Others?”

  “The fight continues, Señor Turrand. But it is now in the hands of the new generation, with their different methods. This man needs to be freed. Vengeance does not work for the greater good, and he is become a liability. Do you understand?”

  I shrug, bewildered by her words and her quiet passion.

  She smiles, her sensuality warming me. “You, too, are El Roto. I see it in your eyes.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. Take it.” She gestures at the doll. “I want you to have it.” What’s she after? I don’t know how to respond.

  “Those that die without resolution often return,” she adds, “and may not serve the best interests of the country. It can be disruptive.”

  “You mean they become martyrs to the cause?”

  “Victims merely. But vengeful ones.”

  Her burnt honey eyes hold meaning she doesn’t speak. “So where was El

  Roto killed?” I ask, unnerved by the depth of those eyes, which now half close.

  “The market square. Along with others.” She gestures again. “Take the doll. It is a gift. Take it back with you when you go home, to remind you that not all find peace.”

  I frown again at the insistence in her tone.

  “Take it,” she repeats.

  “I meant no disrespect.”

  She watches with curious intensity as I reach out and let my fingers wrap around the doll. When I draw it closer to myself, it’s as though she relaxes. I can feel the atmosphere around us lighten.

  Her eyes rest on me gently, perhaps sadly now.

  “Más comiteco, Señor?” Torn from my distraction, I look up into an indifferent, plump and pitted, mustachioed face—the tabernero’s.

  “No thanks, though the lady might want something.”

  He looks confused. Perhaps I’d said it incorrectly; my grasp of Spanish and local dialects is horrible, frankly. “Lady?” he queries.

  “This one—” I glance across the table to where the alluring woman was sitting, but she’s no longer there. Nor can I see her anywhere in the room. Only the chocolatey scent of Ocosingo’s fully-bloomed ceiba flowers lingers.

  “Señor?”

  “She appears to have gone.”

  Ragged eyebrows bend into a frown.
“There are no ladies here, Señor.” He shrugs, and adds, “It is prohibited.”

  “She gave me this.” I hold out the doll.

  He dismisses it as commonplace, immediately backing away from it. I can tell it worries him.

  “What’s going on here?” I demand.

  “Please leave.” His face is hard and serious. Then he turns and shuffles back toward the bar.

  I don’t bother arguing; I’ve had enough of this. I drop the doll on the table and head for the door.

  January 1994. I’m stumbling through a street off the market square, the bullet lodged in my thigh burning as fiercely as my anger. Around me, the air vibrates with shouting, gunfire and the choking breath of my own fear. From behind, a percussive rifle shot catches up to me, overtakes and echoes along the street ahead.

  “Genaro!” Acatl cries and I glance back.

  He falls to one knee, hand clutching his shoulder—and beyond him several government militia run toward us, yelling and waving their rifles. I take a hesitant step forward, aware that we are being hemmed in, but not wanting to abandon my friend. Another shot cracks and bounces off the walls to either side. Acatl jerks forward onto his face, the road surface muffling his cry.

  I regain my balance and turn to run on, desperation energizing my aching muscles. Bullets explode into the ground to my right, and I leap awkwardly towards the nearest cover, behind some concrete stairs. One more step then my left thigh erupts in pain, throwing me forward. My leg collapses and I crash to the ground.

  I’m aware of the thud of heavy boots drawing near. A soldier looms over me. He’s breathing heavily.

  I glance up at him. “Bastardo!” I say, a mere whisper.

  The man—large and black against the sky and the eves of shops on the far side of the road—looks down in silence. His face is harsh, and his rifle poised and ready.

  I hear the shot and feel near-simultaneous pain in my forehead—a blood-flash before the bullet ruptures my skull.

  August 1999, the day after my exhibition’s opening night. I’ve been drinking for hours now, appeasing my own unhappiness through the pursuit of oblivion. The morning newspapers are strewn over the floor of my apartment, torn and crumpled.

  “Had enough, Morley?”

  Sioni stands in the bedroom doorway, her hair untidy and make-up smeared. She’s wearing a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt and nothing else. It’d make me take her straight back to bed if I wasn’t so pissed.

  I drag my carcass off the sofa, and squint. “So what’s with Groban anyway?” I refill my scotch glass. “I saw you playing up to the bastard.”

  “You told me to.”

  “ ‘More post-colonial landscapes from Morley Turrand. Yawn.’ What sort of a review is that?”

  “Is that what he wrote? He told me he liked your snaps.” I stand close, so close I can feel the heat of her.

  “Likes my snaps? I guess the blow-job you gave him in the backroom wasn’t up to scratch then.”

  “Fuck you, Morley.”

  “Sioni, it’s all you’re good for. Least you can do is get it right.”

  She glares, her whipped-puppy eyes moist. She’s on the verge. It’s so damn easy.

  But she fights it. I see the moment of vulnerability pass. “Maybe it’s your snaps that are fucked.”

  Before any reactive synaptic activity can generate a response in my muscles, her fist catches my left cheek, even though she was aiming for my mouth. It wouldn’t have been so bad but she’s got a silver skull ring on her third finger, Keith Richards-style; one I gave her! I stumble back a bit.

  After a moment she looks up at me. Tears glint in her eyes—but they’re hot tears, not the lukewarm drizzle of misery. “You want me to be sorry, Morley? Well, I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted from me. I’m sorry about your career and I’m sorry you’re an arsehole. Most of all I’m sorry I’ve had anything to do with you.”

  Her words cut through the alcoholic haze. “Sioni, I’m bleeding here—”

  “And don’t bother to apologize. I’m going as soon as I get dressed. I won’t be back.”

  The bedroom door slams. For a moment I fight an impulse to kick it down, but the fire dies quickly. I don’t even try to talk her out of it.

  She’s as good as her word. Still disheveled but dressed in the red, impossibly sexy silk dress she’d been wearing last night, she emerges from the bedroom about ten minutes later. “I am sorry, Sioni,” I almost bawl. “It’s the bloody alcohol, my head, that dick Groban—”

  She gives me little more than a side-glance before turning away. The fact that she doesn’t even have the passion left to slam the front door as she leaves paralyzes me.

  So I take another swig of scotch and follow up by tossing the glass, half-full though it is, against the wall. It shatters with satisfactory violence.

  How long I slump in the chair, mindless with self-pity, I don’t know—but I’m pulled out of it by the phone. It’s Grace Nye, the gallery owner—the last person I want to talk to. When I left the exhibition at about 11:00, only one or two minor unnumbered pieces had been sold.

  “Not good, eh, Grace,” I say.

  “Not in volume, no—and yes, I noticed Groban’s comment this morning.” Silence. I’m afraid to say anything.

  “But I have one piece of good news. You sold one of the major pieces.”

  “Good god! Which one?”

  “Escena de un Asesinato. The street scene with the old woman’s face—”

  “Really?”

  “It was Norma Rivera. You know her? She seemed to know you quite well.” I didn’t, but I get Grace to describe her and I place her at once.

  “The thing is, Morley,” Grace continues, “she wanted to take it with her. Number one of the run. Seemed rather obsessive about it.”

  “I don’t usually do that—and besides, the print was flawed.” Remembering the phantom shape, I immediately determine to check the other prints.

  “Was it? I didn’t notice. Anyway, she insisted. Even offered to pay more. I could hardly refuse.” Grace tells me how much more and all my objections suddenly dissipate in a cloud of mercenary relief. “Anyway,” she continues, “can you bring me another print? Maybe a few of them, just in case. I’ll get one framed before we open this afternoon. We might be on a winner there.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  As I hang up, I start to shout for Sioni, to tell her the good news. Then I feel my face and remember that she’s gone.

  June 1996, a few days after I met the woman in the cantina. I’ve been wandering the countryside around Ocosingo, on this occasion photographing the nearby Mayan ruins at Toniná in a way that I hope will appeal to tourists. Travel Scene magazine somehow heard that I’m here in Mexico and tracked me down to the Hotel de Destino. The editor wants me to take some appropriate shots of the area, on commission. I can use the money, so I reluctantly agree to prostitute myself. Now I’m busy playing the backdoor whore. It’s not hard. It’s what I’ve always done.

  The day is warm, not hot enough to irritate me. It rained last night, lightly, so the air’s clear. I’m feeling almost optimistic. I take some panoramic shots of the view then proceed through random clusters of trees toward the detritus of ancient stonework and Toniná’s huge central pyramid. It rises from grass and vegetation as though thrust up from underground.

  Despite its openness, there’s a shadowy quality to Toniná that quickly drags me back into myself after the innocence of the surrounding fields. The ancient ruins are scattered over much of the hillside like the broken corpse of a city, but as I pass a sacrificial altar isolated in an open area of grass, and climb the stairs into the ruins proper, the ornate rubble closes around me and begins to squeeze my soul.

  Toniná’s antique paths, foundations and walls become a maze-like complex that is, they say, oriented to the night-sky, with occasional openings thick with shadow that lead downward into the earth. But I’m so enmeshed in the details, I can’t see the pattern. Friezes solidify out
of the rough stonework as I move about, many of them depicting bound and headless prisoners. The most prominent is of King Kan-Xul from nearby Palenque, cowering with rope tied around one constricted arm. Among Toniná’s greatest achievements were, apparently, the defeat of Palenque and the capture of the King, who subsequently suffered ten years of humiliation at his captors’ hands before execution. So my guidebook tells me.

  I come across a sarcophagus carved out of a single large stone, its lid missing and its mortal contents long gone. By now I’ve lost the bucolic peace I’d found in the green fields and darker green clumps of trees that sweep across the gently rolling land around the hilltop ruins, oppressed by an awareness that what remains longest of civilization are the scars of violence and death. I wonder if the original inhabitant of the sarcophagus is still here somewhere, unwilling to leave. As I take picture after picture, the sun gradually lowers and the light glows eerily.

  A breeze picks up as the day dwindles. I’ve been shooting the outside of a half-buried wall topped by cacti, with three arched doorways leading below ground-level to a labyrinth known as the Palace of the Underworld. Snapping shots as I go, I approach the central opening. Thick darkness beyond it gives me a momentary frisson that makes my skin squirm. It’s a psychosomatic response, I know, but the shiver is real enough.

  Looking through my Minolta, I set up a frame that encompasses only the central archway and surrounding stonework. As the scene comes into focus I’m aware of a figure standing in the internal shadows beyond the rough architrave. I take the shot then pull the camera away from my face, blinking to peer through the lowering sunlight. The opening’s about one hundred meters distant, so if someone’s there I should be able to see him. But I can’t, only that dark gaping hole into the Underworld. Another glance through the camera’s viewfinder, using a close-in zoom, reveals nothing. Whoever it was must have stepped backwards into the labyrinth.