by Tom Rich
Sylvie’s trembling stopped. She rose and turned. She became the waif again. But not the shivering, cast-aside girl who steps from the shadows with pleading eyes and a hand thrust forward. This was the gamine who had learned the lay of the streets, who knew how to lure would-be predators through back alleys and turn them into victims. “I know a place where bad dreams are chased away by candy,” she said, her voice sweet and soft and not hiding its lie.
“Oh?” The would-be victim tossed aside the magazine. He savored for a moment the allure that draws one into dangerous collusion. “And you’ll take me to this place?”
“I…I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s not for people who think candy is bad.”
“But I like candy. And didn’t I always bring you candy whenever you asked?”
“Yes. No! I want candy all the time. There’s a place I know where it never makes you sick.”
Breeze approached Sylvie. She turned her back. He whispered into her ear, “Your boyfriend wants me in Indiana to write a screenplay about his life.”
“NO!” she screamed. She kicked her way through the scattered scripts and magazines. She went to the table and with two sweeps of her arm knocked the candies onto the floor.
“That’s it, baby,” said Breeze. “Sadie just learned how her lover has fucked her up the ass. Fucked her good and royally. She’s awash in anger because she doesn’t want to believe it. But now she sees that it all makes sense, how she’s been nothing but a tool. And the anger burns off into…?”
Sylvie stormed around the room. After several passes she collapsed onto the divan. She leaned forward and put her head into her hands. “I don’t want to,” she said. “It’s too real. It’s too much like…real.” She trembled for a moment, then slowly raised her head. In a voice that was sweet and carefully modulated she began singing “Let’s Make the Morning Never Come.”
Breeze shoved his foot through the pile of scripts until he found the one he wanted. He picked it up and tossed it onto the divan, then left the bungalow.
18: Balamq’e / Tranquilino
High in the treetops, directly above Delucia’s prison, sat Balamq’e, another poor orphan of Wuqub’ Kaqix. Father Guerra was convinced that Balamq’e spent his time hiding in trees because he was guilty of stealing the many steel tools that had gone missing in the village. And since he was the only child in Wuqub’ Kaqix who refused to yield his Indian name and accept one of Christian recognition, Father Guerra considered the boy beyond redemption.
But Balamq’e minded not how Father Guerra treated him. His love for Delucia sustained him far better than could a priest’s mere alms and benedictions.
In his heart, Balamq’e desired to swoop down from the treetops and, like a jaguar, rip out the throat of Delucia’s captor. Owing to his lofty perspective, Balamq’e saw the network of armed men always within easy voice of Governor Bustillo. He knew a bold attack would bring immediate death. To die for Delucia would be an acceptable fate. But if his death did not bring about her freedom, what good was it? Balamq’e came down from the trees to plead to Father Guerra’s kindness.
“In order to enlist the services of the Church,” said Father Guerra, “one must first be a practitioner. There is something you wish to confess?”
Balamq’e knew what the priest meant. But he had stolen nothing. From the treetops he had seen several of his people take the tools in question. Such had never happened before the Spanish arrived with their tools of shiny metals. When all tools were made of flint and obsidian, everything belonged to everybody, and stealing did not exist. To gain Father Guerra’s trust, Balamq’e admitted taking the items.
What Balamq’e’s treetop perspective had not revealed was Governor Bustillo’s channel for spying. While Bustillo observed, Balamq’e confessed to Father Guerra within what he was told was the sanctity of the Church. The governor recognized the expressions of one reigning in a fierce heart when doing something appalling. Bustillo knew Balamq’e was not a thief. He had left the tools out himself to learn if the native’s preference for them would compromise their primitive sense of honor. Now Bustillo understood that, even though Balamq’e was a savage, his time observing from the trees had taught him the ways of civilization, so that a secret his people clung to in order not to become civilized, might now be negotiable.
Bustillo made his presence known to Balamq’e. “Your people harbor a secret that keeps them on the brink of starvation. Delucia was given the opportunity to help them, yet she offered only a story meant to distract with obscurities and exaggerations. Tell me why your people would rather hover near death than allow my ways to feed them. Do so, and I will put Delucia’s freedom into your hands.
Balamq’e led Governor Bustillo and Father Guerra from Wuqub’ Kaqix. When they’d walked so far that returning before sundown was no longer possible, Father Guerra protested. In Balamq’e’s language he said, “You have deceived us. Your plan is to lose us in the forest so that you can have the girl to yourself.”
“I see great distances from the treetops,” said Balamq’e. “What I have to show you is still two days walk.”
Father Guerra said to the governor, “He leads us into a trap. If we are to continue, we should first return to the village and gather men with weapons.”
Bustillo said, “I can ill afford the time. Another planting season will soon slip away. Besides, I have my sword.” He pulled the sword partway from its sheath.
Balamq’e easily found food and water to sustain his travelling companions. When Bustillo spied Balamq’e digging for an edible root, he asked the boy what tool he used.
Balamq’e showed Bustillo the jawbone of a jaguar, his namesake and totem. “Does the governor not know that the forest provides for those who honor it?”
Father Guerra whispered to Bustillo, “Banish the heathen from Wuqub’ Kaqix now and send him on his way. You see that he can survive on his own.”
“Perhaps you should return on your own,” replied the governor. “Or have you not learned enough from the boy to do so?”
At the end of the third day the three halted before a slender tower of stone wrapped in sagging wooden scaffolding. Bustillo understood the tower to be an object in the process of construction. But in this place? Balamq’e led the way around the unfinished tower. The chattering and howling and damp closeness of the forest abruptly gave way. Stale currents rustled tall grasses choking wide thoroughfares between massive structures. Occasional clinks and clanks traveled on these currents as if spirits, standing on scaffolds hidden beneath thick, trembling mosses, slowly dismantled the imposing structures of this empty city.
“I have heard tales of magnificent cities,” said Bustillo, “but I thought them exaggerated.”
Balamq’e led them into the Plaza of the Stelae. Father Guerra said, “These statues disgust me. The writhing creatures carved upon them celebrate bestiality. What solution to civilized affairs could you hope to find in this den of iniquity?”
“No longer experiencing the sublime equal to European Masters?” said Bustillo.
“I was mistaken about the intentions of their art,” said Father Guerra. “Its only purpose is to incite lust.”
Balamq’e followed as the two wandered about the ruins.
“They never surpassed the corbelled arch,” said Bustillo, standing before a grand entranceway. “But what lacks in sophistication is surpassed by ambition and grandeur.”
“A stairway leading to nothing,” said Father Guerra at the base of the Hieroglyphic Stairway. “A comment on the thousands of fornicating figures it bears. Fornication for fornication’s sake breeds nothingness.”
“So much industry interrupted,” said Bustillo. “What I could build with such people. Where did they go?”
“The way of Sodom,” answered Father Guerra. To Balamq’e he said, “This vacant city proves your many gods are nothing but empty promises carried on howling winds. Stones from places like this in Mexico are carried away to build our churches. Will you never accep
t the superiority of the Savior over your bird idol?”
Balamq’e kicked a small stone. He pointed to where the stone landed. “What I have to show you lies there.”
Bustillo looked. “An empty space between two slanting walls. How is this significant?”
Balamq’e went to the stone and kicked it further. “This ballcourt sits upon the Crack of Creation leading to the Underworld. Chosen men played the ballgame in the fashion of the Hero Twins when they defeated the Lord of Death. My people’s savior is now in the Underworld in his own struggle against Death. Knowing this is why death on our terms is preferable to your brand of corruption. I have shown you what you asked to see. Now you must allow me to free Delucia.”
“Stories and games,” said Bustillo. He regarded the empty city. “Grasping for the illusory becomes the industry of those who have let opportunity slip away.”
Upon their return to Wuqub’ Kaqix Bustillo told Balamq’e that in one more day Delucia’s freedom would be placed in his hands. Next morning the governor took the boy to a deep pit dug overnight just outside the village. “Here is your crack in creation,” said Bustillo. He shoved Balamq’e into the pit. “Your people enjoy a game of heroes? How fortunate for you. In the world that Delucia now lives, it is a hero she awaits. Find your way to her through your underworld and you can be her hero. Oh, and hero, here is your twin.” Bustillo tossed the jawbone of a jaguar into the pit.
Balamq’e was youthful and strong, and he possessed additional strength from his desire to free Delucia. But because of his lowly perspective, he knew not in which direction to dig to find her.
The natives of Wuqub’ Kaqix were to bring Balamq’e what morsels of food they could spare. But to offer Balamq’e anything else would bring the penalty of death. So people who once secretly admired a boy for not accepting a Christian name, now shared in his hopelessness as he spent his days turning every which way from not knowing which direction to dig.
Governor Bustillo summoned Father Guerra to his home. “The stories of the children only lead into labyrinths of fancy. Their elders hide what we seek behind their silence. A silence I believe can be breached. I have my letter to Dagoberto Creech. It needs only your seal to bring representation.”
Father Guerra implored Bustillo to be allowed one last effort before summoning the Inquisitor. “It is true Tranquilino is also a child. But he has known a life elevated above the poverty he now endures. Under the previous governor, his family prospered so that they once owned land and lived in a house much like this. I think he is now more one of us than he is one of them. He even wears his hair in the Spanish fashion. Let us see what we can learn from him.”
“One day,” said Bustillo. “Then I will have your seal.”
Tranquilino had fallen far. When misfortune befell Waqub’ Kaqix, it was the prosperity of the natives that went to nothing first. So Tranquilino no longer lived beneath a roof of red tiles, nor did he have a family. And Governor Bustillo had taken as his own all the horses his family had expertly learned to breed. But Tranquilino dwelled not on his wretchedness from being so enamored of the name the Christians had bestowed upon him. He flourished the name about the village like a bird trilling its song: “I, Tranquilino, bid you good day.” “Tranquilino wonders if Tranquilino can be of assistance to you.” “If one desires the company of Tranquilino, one need only say, ‘Tranquilino,’ and Tranquilino will be at your side as quickly as Tranquilino is able.” The natives grew into the habit of murmuring the name quickly, any words following so hushed they disappeared into the surroundings. And since they never kept his company, perhaps they wished for Tranquilino himself to disappear. But how the Spaniards said the name—the beautifully rolling “r” stretching the first syllable all the way to the precipice beyond which lay the deep “qu,” the voice climbing steadily on the “ell” until high enough to launch the soaring “eeeeeeeeno” (which always left the mouth in position to smile and laugh)—made the boy present in a world that otherwise ignored him.
Governor Bustillo had Tranquilino brought to his house. “Your people have poisoned the soil and brought about your family’s ruin. This has cost you your inheritance. What do you owe to those who deprive you of land rightfully yours?”
“You intend to restore what is rightfully mine?” asked Tranquilino.
“Reveal to me that which unites your people against my purposes. When the land again brings prosperity, we will redraw the boundaries so that you receive what share you deserve.”
Tranquilino charged from the house and out of the village.
“Again we are being led,” said Bustillo to Father Guerra. “A ploy to gain time to think of yet another story.”
“Have patience,” said Father Guerra. “Perhaps he needs a journey to take him more fully from his world into ours.”
After much walking, and with little sun remaining, “We change direction yet again,” said Bustillo. “I will waste no more time.” His hand went to his sword.
Father Guerra stayed the governor’s hand. “He walks to loosen a demon that clings with long talons. The others desired to purge the bird idol and embrace the Son of God, but the demon had too great a hold. This one seeks the twists in the road that will lead to his and your prosperity.”
Tranquilino stopped his march in the middle of the forest. “We have walked the four cardinal directions,” he said. “Thus did Creators germinate sky and earth; each coming into existence, like a maize field, when shaped by four sides. In the center of all travels stands the ceiba tree, that which holds the sky above the earth. This land you say would be mine? The boundaries drawn under the sun of your One God only exclude. The boundaries drawn by Creators, in the light of the true sun, include all people. This is what you asked of me. Will I now have what is mine by right of your law?”
“Most assuredly,” said Governor Bustillo.
Bustillo had Tranquilino staked to one of the ravaged fields. Sitting high on the palomino that was once Tranquilino’s favorite, Bustillo strutted around the boy. “Your hands and feet now point to, by the law of your people, the four directions that define the invisible boundaries of your world. By the laws of my people, the land owed to you has been surveyed and the boundaries defined. You are now the center that unifies the seen with the unseen.”
The natives were to bring what food they could spare to Tranquilino. By penalty of death, they were to call Tranquilino anything other than Tranquilino. Also by law, the people were ordered to answer anything he said with complete nonsense. Not only would Tranquilino suffer the emptiness of never being believed, his people would now hear themselves as Governor Bustillo heard them.
19: Pale Rider
“‘And between the throne and the four living creatures and among the elders,’” quoted Jones Pelfry from memory, “‘I saw a lamb standing, as though it had been slain, with seven horns and seven eyes.’” He looked out the window anticipating a corresponding hallucination in the passing nighttime scenery.
Nothing.
Why was Melvin so hung up on Jez’ebel, wondered Pelfry, when the livestock in The Revelation to John was so much more spectacular? Not just the seven-eyed, seven-horned Lamb of God. There were all those horses—twice ten thousand times ten thousand—with lions’ heads and serpents’ tails and mouths spewing fire and sulfur. Sure, being arrayed in purple and scarlet and bedecked in gold and jewels and pearls was a stirring image. But what about the seven-headed red dragon the Whore of Babylon rode in on, with its ten horns and a tail sweeping a third of the stars from the sky?
Pelfry passed another field enclosed by white fencing.
Something about the Four Horses of the Apocalypse seemed familiar when he’d consulted the Bible earlier that morning. “And behold, a white horse,” he quoted. “And out came another horse, bright red. And I saw a black horse, and a pale horse, and its rider’s name was Death.” Not familiar as in a Sunday School memory being stirred.
Familiar as in a recent encounter.
Or is the drug
collapsing time?
Pelfry braced himself for a wave of paranoia. None came.
He brought his mind back to driving. He’d coached himself on not getting caught up in the drug so much that his driving became erratic. He scanned the road and checked the gauges on the dash, avoiding the rearview mirrors concerned he might lose himself in some alternate universe. “The anomaly in your mirror may be less real than it seems.”
He’d considered that taking the drug might agitate his paranoia. Just the opposite; it freed him.
The speedometer registered five miles per hour. Pelfry laughed. “How long have I been traveling five per?” That he asked made him laugh harder.
But there was work to be done. “Ah, me. Killers in the Garden to track down.” This he found hilarious. “Maybe if I got out.”
Pelfry stopped the car. Didn’t pull over. Just stopped and got out. There was no traffic to worry about. It was late. He was on a country road; a long straightaway, so there was not the problem of someone coming too fast around a curve and ramming his empty vehicle. “Unless they’re damned drunk,” he said as he turned from his Ford Mustang, leaving the door open.
“Now, if everyone was doing mushrooms and not boozing it up, cars could be left anywhere, even on hairpin turns—both sides of the road!—because everybody would be driving five per. Hah! Now that’s civilization. Parked cars lined up on both sides of hairpin turns and never a single ding. What a wonderful world that would be.”
Not such a wonderful world yet, he thought. “And that’s why I’m where I am doing what I’m doing.”
Pelfry estimated the spot where he parked to be two miles from the patch of woods where it was thought the killer of the second child had pulled over. No one who lived in the area had seen an unfamiliar car that night. But no one appeared to drive this road at night. Pelfry assumed the killer knew that.