by Tom Rich
As he walked Pelfry, found he could compartmentalize the effects of the drug; separate it from the task at hand.
The trip was nothing like he expected. There was nothing visual except for colors pulsing. Certainly no mutations in the Garden forming a path to evil. Which he found disappointing.
Once Pelfry arrived, he took his time going through the woods. The lichen and moss and ferns seemed to whisper and hum. He told himself not to get lost in the flora, just like he didn’t want to get lost in the rearview mirrors. But why not get lost in the flora? Could be exactly what I came for. He listened, but heard no secrets revealed; especially about unspeakable practices of his own species. The woodland experience was merely pleasant.
Then he was out of the woods and on the top of the clearing that dropped down to the well, seventy yards below. “Okay, the killer could have brought the kid from any direction. Dropped from the sky, even. Not likely. But isn’t ‘not likely’ exactly what I’m looking for?” Pelfry started down the hill.
“Dropped from the Mother Ship?” Was that the drug talking? Or a brief missive from the cinematic manifestation of my racial memory?
And then something—something—told him what could be likely was that the killer didn’t bring the boy through the woods, or from any other direction, or even from the sky. It could be very likely—with a small probability of being completely not unlikely—that the killer met the victim at this location.
The drug doing some serious work? Was his untethered subconscious now running through the entire field of likely/unlikely scenarios yet to be covered by the investigating team? It could be those three men standing in front of him suggesting this idea, because they didn’t arrive with him, nor had they followed him down the road and through the woods, but here he was, and there they—
“You think that’s how a child molester dresses hisself?”
“Well now, Corky, whyn’t you tell us how you dressed at your honeymoon. Then we’d all know.”
The third man laughed. An airy, hissing sound, like something in his throat had been cut out. The other one who was also not-Corky joined in the laughter: Top Dog.
“No, see, you’re mistaken,” said Pelfry. “The victim wasn’t molested. Neither boy was sexually molested.”
“Know an awful lot about it,” said Corky.
“Look down the well.” The third man had voice, but very little. He spoke mostly with air. He shoved Corky toward the well.
“What’re you doin’ out here?” asked Top Dog.
“I could be asking you the same,” said Pelfry.
“Shee-yeah,” said Top Dog. “Gonna be a long night if he keeps up that line of reasonin’.”
“Long night,” rasped Tracheotomy.
“I don’t see nothing down there,” said Corky. “Could be he’s tying ‘em off with rocks now.”
“See, mister,” said Top Dog, “we’re members of the Citizens Watch Committee.”
Pelfry nodded, pursed his lips giving the matter serious thought. “Fresh from the town hall.”
“Fresh from the town hall,” said Top Dog.
Pelfry continued pondering. “It’s just that I don’t see any, you know, pitchforks and torches.”
“Hell’s he mean by that?” said Corky. He was back in line with the other two.
“Dumb shit,” rasped Tracheotomy. He elbowed Corky in the ribs.
“Only a monster would see things through a monster’s eyes,” said Top Dog. His boot lifted from the ground and jammed into Pelfry’s groin.
Pelfry fell to his knees and folded. A roundhouse kick went into his ribs. He took a kick to his mouth and another to the cheekbone. He fell forward and flattened. Pain shot through his entire body, which he was able to compartmentalize. A good thing to remember on his next trip to the dentist.
The kicking barrage subsided.
Pelfry needed to gain control of the situation. His training told him to understand something about the group dynamic and pick the appropriate member to address. He struggled to his knees. “Hey. Uh…” He coughed and spit blood. “Now, look here, Corky.” He wobbled, righted himself. “As far as the law’s concerned?” He coughed, nearly falling over. He bucked himself up. “What I’m trying to say, Corky, is that the law is a little dodgy in that area.” He coughed and spit more blood. “About your honeymoon in the barnyard, that is. I mean, as far as a sheep being underage, that comes under the same category as a dog aging seven years to a human’s one.”
Corky kicked Pelfry in the stomach. Pelfry gasped and went down.
“This guy’s real funny,” said Top Dog.
“He’s about to be real crippled,” said Corky. “That’s right, mister, killing would be too good for you. Look at eem. He’s laughing. What kind of sick fuck laughs—”
“A child molester, that’s what,” rasped Tracheotomy.
“Let’s toss him down the well,” said Corky. “See how he likes it.”
“Might like it,” rasped Tracheotomy.
“Hold on a minute,” said Top Dog. “He’s tryin’ to say somethin’. Let’s see if he comes up with another zinger.”
“Fuck that,” said Corky.
Tracheotomy threw an arm across Corky’s chest.
Pelfry needed to be upright to speak. But the pain… He’d lost the ability to compartmentalize. But he had to speak. The urge to speak was more intense than the pain. “Just, uhh. Oh.” He doubled over. He lifted his head. “Okay. Okay, now. I’m… Just one more thing. At the…on the day of your wedding, Corky, did…did Daddy Shee-eep have a sha-hotgun in your back?”
Top Dog and Tracheotomy nearly fell down laughing.
“That’s ram to you, meeester seeety sleeeker,” said Corky. He kicked Pelfry under the chin.
Pelfry’s head whipped back. He fell forward, his right hand pinned beneath his left shoulder. All in one motion he reached into his jacket, unsnapped his holster, rolled onto his back and drew his weapon.
“Shit!” yelled Corky.
“Fuck!” said Top Dog.
From his back, Pelfry managed to steady the gun on Top Dog’s nose. At least the gun felt steady, though the target offered an array of two, three and four noses from one moment to the next.
Then Pelfry was alone in the field. His arm fell and he lay spread-eagled.
The drug brought his entire focus to the pain pulsing through his body.
“Is this because I’ve forsaken my name?” he screamed at the sky.
The stars whirled in a vortex. He fired his gun into the vortex.
The sharp crack went out and came back in undulating waves of fading circles.
“Or is this Kurtwood Franz sending a message?”
He raised the gun and fired again. The crack went out and came back.
He fired a third time. A vision formed in the vortex.
“And I saw, and behold, a pale horse, and its rider’s name was…Franz.”
20: Ciriaca
Ciriaca, yet another orphan of Wuqub Kaqix, had been taught that removing themselves from time was a method for her people to hide from the Spanish without vanishing entirely. The Spanish were greedy invaders who demanded too much from the land. They were strong in numbers and schooled in many devious plans for undoing Creation. They spread diseases so corrupt the Hero Twins could find no way to defeat their form of death. And, most unbelievable of all, they worshiped a sun that offered no light to nourish the life of Creation.
Ciriaca tried to endure her people’s hiding within the false brilliance of Seven Macaw. But this form of exile troubled the young girl, and she often lashed her tongue at village elders. But what most disturbed her was, of all the stories taught to her and the other children, there were never any new stories. Nothing but tales of ancestors long departed and gods and Creators as old as the sky. Ciriaca felt this unfair. Stories had a way of carrying people across time. Not being included in time was keeping Ciriaca from being part of a story. Without being in a story, no one would ever know she had lived.
“The way you allow our circle to keep getting smaller, we might as well disappear altogether!” Ciriaca shouted as she stormed into the forest.
“The lesson of the elders is to outwait the Spanish until time once again includes our people,” Ciriaca told herself as she walked. “But what good will waiting for time to return do for Delucia, Balamq’e and Tranquilino?”
Ciriaca walked.
Governor Bustillo was responsible for her people’s misfortunes. Because of him and his Spanish greed, her people descended more and more into belief in Seven Macaw. Her father’s stories of hunting lived in her memory, so Ciriaca knew something about how to kill. But killing Governor Bustillo would only bring more Spaniards with more of their laws and punishments.
She walked. It did not matter where. Being banished from the story circle rendered her out of place as well as removed from time.
As dusk fell Ciriaca found herself in one of the ruined maize fields. She gazed through columns of crooked and blanched wheat stalks standing in water so defiled the earth would not accept it. Though no blossoms or seeds weighted their tops, the plants bent from the sky. The once fertile valley was pulling itself deeper between the mountains in order to hide its shame from the eye of the sun.
In happier days, Ciriaca had helped the mothers and aunts of the village push maize seeds into furrows. Such purpose would she feel in her back and forth travels beneath the sun, the k’ulel raining from the gods filled her on its way to nourishing the seeds. It was like having an appetite sated by golden light. But so much effort, now gone to nothing in these fields, created a sorrow that drew a dark weight into the emptiness of her hunger. Time had not only excluded Ciriaca’s people; it was reaching back and taking what little of it they had saved.
The sun left the sky. A piece of it must be bitten off by Thirteen Deity each night, thought Ciriaca, so much had darkness come to shape her life.
The darkness of greed.
It was because their One God demanded all the credit for Creation that the Spanish were so greedy. In greed, there was no joy. If the Spanish understood that Creation took the effort of many Creators, they would know that Hurucan expanded his sky blue home out of pure joy from seeing the face of the sun; that he joyously opened his home so the bird could soar high over the mountain and glide into the valley below, carried on the wind to deliver hope with its song to all who bear sadness of heart.
Thirteen Deity must have taken too much dinner. The sky god spit out a small portion of light that streaked across the night. Perhaps it was a morsel Thirteen Deity found not to his liking. It came so close that Ciriaca felt she could reach out and let it burn her hand. But it passed as quickly as a heart skip that prompts desire. A second light followed, trying in vain to catch the first. Then a third, alone from being so far behind the other two. Such a sad beauty in their brief flashes against the darkness; in their small imitations of the sun falling to its death each evening.
And now it was too late for her three friends. Perhaps they had found their freedom by no longer being subject to the politics of time.
But what of their stories?
Ciriaca went to Father Guerra in his church. She waited outside while the priest went into Governor Bustillo’s house.
“Another child wanting to lead us somewhere,” said Bustillo. “What is so different about this one?”
Father Guerra replied, “The difference is she came to us. We would be wise to indulge her.”
“And she insists we travel at night?” said Bustillo. “Why do you not suspect a trap?”
“The cover of darkness is so her people will not be alerted to her purpose,” replied Father Guerra. “Besides, do you not have your sword?”
Bustillo had grown weary of humoring Father Guerra. But why not allow the priest his amusement one last time. The Inquisitor would soon arrive, and Bustillo had much to say about this priest’s inability to save souls.
Ciriaca led the two men out of Wuqub’ Kaqix. They traveled east, but not far.
When they stopped, Bustillo rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. He waited in silence for only a moment before he said, “Do you intend to take us to a maize field, but cannot find it in the dark of the night?”
Ciriaca replied, “Finding a maize field has become a difficult task, even in the light of day.”
Bustillo smiled. He fondled the hilt of his sword. “An empty city, perhaps, where people once played games while neglecting to see how time was stealing away all they had built.”
Ciriaca kept her eyes on the eastern horizon. “My people have found that playing a game unconcerned with the constraints of time brings fulfillment worth any sacrifice.”
“I see,” said Bustillo. “If you are unable to discern the four cardinal directions, there is an arrow in my pocket that can assist you. Your people find it quite magical.”
Ciriaca replied, “Do not be so certain north will always be where your magic claims it to be.”
“You are an impertinent child. I could have your wagging tongue cut out.” Bustillo partially drew his sword.
Ciriaca looked at Bustillo. “If you fear my tongue, slice it away now.”
Bustillo let the sword slide back into its sheath. “Impertinent and bold. Perhaps you can be of service to my needs after all.”
The three stood in silence, in darkness.
“Bah!” said Bustillo. He turned to leave.
“Perhaps someday you will realize we are not ignorant savages,” said Ciriaca.
Bustillo faced her. “Perhaps not those who built the city.”
Ciriaca said, “Perhaps someday you will share in our learning and allow yourself to see how we see the unfolding of the universe.”
Bustillo said, “I could never become so seduced by this land so as to chose to live in mud rather than a palace. Nor despaired enough to cling to stories and games for solace.”
Now Father Guerra spoke. “Do you believe that Lady Blood filled an entire basket from one ear of maize?”
Ciriaca said, “I believe there is a place for maize to grow and a place for wheat.”
“So you cling to your people’s blasphemies and refuse to accept the one true God,” said Father Guerra.
Ciriaca replied, “Where the soil is right for maize, the heart is right for Lady Blood. Where the soil is right for wheat, the soul is right for the One God.”
“Do you believe that men playing with a ball can vanquish death?” asked Father Guerra.
“Men who wear crosses about their throats make terms with death by what is right with them,” said Ciriaca. “For my people, what is right is to honor those who have defeated Death’s corruption.”
Father Guerra said, “And the ceiba tree. It holds heaven above earth?”
Ciriaca replied, “Will anything you or I say bring heaven below earth? What is, is always what is. And so you can never put an end to our stories. Our stories are carried on the wind. There will always be the wind.”
“You brought us here to understand something,” said Bustillo.
“You do not see it?” asked Ciriaca. She pointed to the rising sun. “Dawn is the rebirth of the sun. We all stand under the same sun; we with our gods and Creators and ancestors, and you with your One God.”
“The only true light is that which shines from God,” said Father Guerra.
Ciriaca said, “Soon after the time of Creation, Seven Macaw declared himself to be the sun. The Hero Twins put an end to him when they saw that his light was only the glittering of silver and jade and gold. They knew
the life of humans would be of no value when materials were the source of glory in the world.”
Father Guerra said, “You reject the one true God, yet you also reject the bird idol? I think you must be considered soulless in two—”
Bustillo interrupted, “You imply greed is what makes the Spanish heart beat. You think that telling me this will free the children?”
Ciriaca said, “They are freed from your tyranny.”
Seeing the sun reborn each day was like becoming conscious for the first time of the love of taking a breath. Even so, Ciriaca now preferred to see the three small lights streaking across the sky. But the night that had borne them was passed.
She comforted herself with the memory of her first time putting maize seeds into the ground. The wide rump of the auntie in front of her swayed to and fro as she moved forward while poking the softened dirt with a stick. Ciriaca, her legs no longer than the depth of the furrows, fell every few steps. Her hands made imprints in the dirt, and its rich smell clung to them. Another auntie lifted her from behind and set her straight. Both aunties told her how good she was for not flying off into the forest to pretend the animals were her playmates, like the other little girl who should be helping.
Ciriaca wondered if there was enough k’ulel in that memory to lure time back to her people. Perhaps her k’ulel was only strong enough to provoke the morning breeze that coaxed a small, yellow bird from the stirring grass.
The two men with their eyes on Ciriaca paid no attention to the bird’s flight.
In the heat of the afternoon, everyone would stop working the fields. That was when the children sat in the shade and learned the stories from the elders. Unpracticed tongues often mangled words in their repeating. But meanings were always understood, and never relinquished, no matter how young a child. One day a jaguar appeared from the shadows and ambled into the circle. So rapt was Ciriaca, she thought the animal part of the storytelling. She did not notice when everyone suddenly scrambled away or climbed into trees. She remained sitting as the jaguar approached. It came so close she felt its hot breath; saw herself reflected in the cat’s eyes, which made her think she had come to be in the story. From above she heard, “Ciri—Ciri—Ciri—” Then came a loud snap, and her friend, a boy her age, was sitting next to her, holding a tree branch. Ciriaca nudged him. “I see you in there too,” she whispered. “Now we will always be part of it.” The jaguar yawned. The boy fainted. In one leap the jaguar returned to the shadows. For a long time afterward, the people of the village hurt their sides with laughter over the story of the boy who awoke and thought he saw everything from the inside of a cat.