by Scarlet Blackwell, J. L. Merrow, Josephine Myles, Erik Orrania, Nix Winter, Stevie Woods
Shane stared at the glyphs and he began to feel faint. His eyes followed a sequence of them across the top two rows and then diagonally to the bottom. He felt enlightened, as if he had just solved the most difficult Sudoku puzzle, and his heart began to race.
“Bahlum,” the whisper again from inside the dark chamber.
He put his hands on the fence but needed to be closer. He pulled off his backpack and fumbled with the zipper. A Leatherman. He had a Leatherman inside. He found it at the bottom of the bag and pulled it from its leather case. He folded out the pliers and checked outside the chamber and down the stairs. There was an older couple across the courtyard and up the trail. He doubted that they’d climb the stairs.
He began to work on the fence, fixated again on the glyphs that seemed to jump at him. The nails on the wooden frame didn’t budge so he began to cut the fence with the wire cutters. He squeezed down hard on them, pain and desperation overtaking his hands. His brow dripped with sweat. A bird squawked loudly from outside as the heavy wire snapped. Finally, he cut a hole big enough to enter.
“Bahlum.”
He bent the fence back and stepped one foot inside without questioning what he was doing—vandalizing the sacred site of a foreign country. He’d surely be hauled off to jail and flogged. But he had always lived within a safe and tight set of rules. It was time for him to dig deeper. He meant not to destroy anything, only to discover that which was calling him. He pulled his other foot inside as the fence caught his backpack and tore the vinyl. He did not care. He now stood face to face with the mural, the red men, and the many hieroglyphs.
He put his right hand on the painting and traced the curved nose and the voluptuous lips of the standing figure. They were not like Mike’s lips, little pink lines that closed like a Ziplockbag. Then his hand descended below the turquoise neckpiece to the naked ruddy chest. It seemed familiar to him. He closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and let it calm his heart.
A faint voice came from outside which startled him. Somebody might be coming. He couldn’t be caught inside this fence. He looked over at the glyphs and touched them in the order he had sensed—across the top two rows and diagonally to the bottom. Then he stood back till his backpack hit the fence, almost expecting for lightning to strike and the world to split open. But nothing happened. He chuckled at himself again. What am I doing but carrying myself away?
The voices down the stairs were approaching, maybe some people ascending as he had. He started to climb back out of the enclosure.
“Bahlum.” It was that whisper again. This time more distinct.
Shane looked over to where a beam of sunlight pierced through a small hole in the ceiling and illuminated a stone slab on the floor in the corner of the chamber. He hurried over. There was a crack between the square slabs in the floor. He pulled the Leatherman again and began to pry the corner stone. It resisted for a moment, but he forced it up. The people were closer now.
He propped the heavy slab up against the wall and revealed a black hollow. His heart pounded again, but he could not resist. He pulled off his backpack and dropped it into the darkness. It did not fall far. He dropped his legs down into the hole, lowering himself slowly until his legs hit his backpack and solid ground. He was barely waist deep. He grabbed at the top of the leaning slab and pulled it down to close the trapdoor before any others might see him.
He was alone in the blackness. The space was musty and dank. He felt for his backpack and pulled out a small flashlight. If anything, he had come prepared.
The light revealed a crawlspace about half the size of the chamber above him. He moved about the space and found an opening on the far side. Stairs as steep as a ladder descended deep into the darkness beyond where the light from his flashlight could reach. I must be crazy to do this. But I’ve come this far. There’s no turning back now. He dropped his legs down again and followed the slippery stairs into the earth.
He went nearly straight down three flights before he hit a landing. He turned to see a hallway, vaulted like the ceiling of the temple chamber, but the rock walls were not worn like the rest of the ruins. They were smooth and seemed freshly painted. There was a dull light at the end of the tunnel that drew Shane toward it.
“Bahlum.” The voice was no longer a whisper but a delicate, inviting tone. It did not scare him.
He turned off his flashlight and walked down the hall to a doorway. The light was brighter as he approached. The room was amber for the yellow light of a couple of oil lamps on the walls. Water trickled from a small spout into a ceramic basin on a stone table on one side of the room. In the center was a stone slab as big as a bed, about knee high, mostly covered with brown furs. On the other side of the room sat a young man in an ornately carved chair.
When Shane stepped into the room, the man stood up and came closer. His almond eyes were big like those of a wanting child. His nose and lips were the majestic features of the Maya. He wore a neckpiece that was an intricate mosaic of turquoise. His chest was hairless and brown, not red like the men in the mural, and his skin looked smooth and soft.
“Bahlum,” he said softly as he looked at Shane, “you have finally returned.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Shane. “I am not Bahlum.”
“Then why do you understand me?” the man asked.
Shane could not answer that. The man was speaking neither English nor Spanish. He should not have understood.
“You see, Bahlum. It is you. You have returned.”
“But I am not Bahlum. My name is Shane.”
The young man smiled. His teeth were large and white. “Yes. I knew it was you. Chan. Chan Bahlum. You must remember me. I am Hanab and you are Chan Bahlum.” Hanabstepped closer and put his hands on Shane’s face. He touched his forehead and nose and mouth. “I admit that you do not look like I remember. You are much paler. You must have been in a very cold place.”
Shane also lifted his hands and began to trace the man’s face with his fingertips. That nose and those sensual lips, he remembered them.
“You decided to go on, into the future, Chan. But I told you that I would wait forever. Now, before the merging of the worlds, you have finally come back to me.” He pushed the straps of Shane’s backpack off his shoulder and let it fall to the floor. He pulled Shane’s shirt up and over his head. “But I can see that you can hardly remember. You have become lost in a new time with all of these strange things. Do you still not remember? You have even left your favorite shoes here.” He pointed beside the stone throne to where a pair of leather sandals lay.
Hanab drew him in so that the two were chest to chest. Their foreheads were together, their eyes closed. Shane did not remember exactly, yet he felt as if there was nothing unusual about this place and this man. Hanab’s scent had belonged to him one day long ago. Hanab removed his neckpiece and Shane rested his head on the man’s shoulder. He embraced him as they stood for unknown time in the dim room. Their lips finally met. Yes, he was home.
Chan shed the rest of his clothing and pulled Hanab to the stone bed. They fell onto the furs and held one another and kissed. The two were naked and took in every part of each other’s body until they were one again. They drifted into the ancient galactic rift and drank the eternal solstice sunlight. They soared above the great jungle and dove from the heights of the waterfalls into the clear pools below. Their arrows pierced the great beast. They burned with passion and penetrated the depths of their shared universe until their desire was quenched and they returned to the amber room and the sound of the trickling water in the basin.
“It is late, Hanab. I cannot stay,” said Shane, looking at his Bulova watch.
“Chan,” he answered, “You have become a slave, haven’t you? Remove that shackle on your wrist. Remember, you are home now.”
“What do you mean? I am no slave. I have a new life, far from here, and those who depend on me.”
“Oh, Chan,” said Hanab, pointing down at his backpack. “You may have grown in s
cience and modern inventions. You may feel quite prepared. Yet you have lost your ability to comprehend the wisdom of timelessness.” He went for the sandals beside the throne, knelt before Chan, and slipped them on his pale feet. “You have gone into the future. Now come back to the past. Feel it and remember it.”
Shane looked again at his watch and at the darkness of the hall through the doorway. “But my family, my job, and Mike. I have appointments to keep, and obligations to meet.”
“You are consumed by time, Chan, when all you need is here. You must sacrifice your fixation on this limitation that you have adopted.” Hanab pulled at the watch on Chan’s wrist. ”Do you want to complete your journey? Your destiny lies not up those stairs or down any hallway. It is in no secret temple or great city. The resolution of your journey lies inside you. Do you not know? You released yourself from here once, and now you must free yourself again. You don’t need more time because you have forever. And when you release yourself, you will be one with me, and those you love, and our ancestors, and the entire universe. They will feel you and know you are there as surely as you will be here with me.”
Shane looked down at his feet. The sandals were a comfortable fit. The room was a place of unity: earth, fire, water, and air came together here. His watch felt cold and heavy on his arm. He had felt a calling and now he understood. The calling was not to visit but to return. He was Chan Bahlum, the jaguar serpent. He slipped the watch off his wrist and dropped it on the hard floor. Chan looked at Hanab and into his starry eyes. He held Hanab’s hands in his and pulled him back down beside him on the furs. The trickling of the water ceased, the flames of the oil lamps extinguished, and there, in the darkness, their two worlds merged again and for the rest of time.
Fire Can Make It Rain
by Nix Winter
A ritual marriage to appease the gods - a prince and a bard - their passion might bring back the rain.
Bards judged the passing of time in years, months, days, measured with writings on paper. The plain soul folk Jewls called family judged the passing of time, if they did at all, by counting the first day of spring. By either count, he was thirty-five. Bards were expected to see a hundred and fifty winters, often made it to a two hundredth spring, so he wasn’t exactly old. He stood on the Queen’s balcony, wearing only a long silk robe. His hair hung to the floor, unbraided, flame red. His skin was pale as the very slightest touch of pink the sunrise kissed the unwilling clouds with. His eyes were the violet of twilight.
Bards were forbidden to lie. He had lied twice in his life though, and he hadn’t died either time. He was old enough to know truth in the world. Good people lied sometimes. His mother was a princess who became a bard who loved a man who loved no one. His father was a man who left destruction as proof of his passing. His master, the man who had raised him, was a drunk and a gambler who had been good at one thing only, but he had been very good at being a parent. Love was what healed everything.
He understood why so many people hated red hair. If you walked north, past Shahaylen Lake, just kept going, there was a war. There were people with flame red hair, hair the same color as his, and they raged, painted themselves with other people’s blood, spoke a language no one from the south understood, and every child they begat had red hair. If the father or mother had red hair, the baby had red hair, and no one from the south would ever touch someone with red hair. He hadn’t liked the north.
There were only two red headed bards. One was the founder of the Bard Guild, a demon that haunted people’s darkest imaginings. The other was a thirty-five year old virgin who had maybe, finally grown into a man.
He turned as the door to his chamber opened, admitting the man who would be his husband. Today it would be just the two of them.
Queen Ionwe was his best friend. She would not chose a man who would not match him well. It was his duty. Today would end the drought. The Gods would bless the country and the people. Jewls’ stomach wanted to tie into knots.
The man who stepped through his door was tall, still wet from the bath. He had short dark hair that stood on end. His chest was smooth, with pink nipples, but powerfully built, well defined muscles that made Jewls think of a great and powerful warhorse. Narrow hips, still covered by a thin silk wrap. The build of his legs sent a flush of sexual hunger through Jewlsand he wondered...why he had waited so long.
Still on the balcony, he held his own silk robe closed, a tight fist at his throat. “Greetings, Honorable-husband.”
“Hello, Beautiful,” the man said.
Jewls had never seen him before and they stood there, taking stock of each other. Habit took over, tradition, his own line of tradition because he’d forgotten everything he’d read about how this marriage celebration was supposed to work. He pulled back his sleeve, displaying his Bard marking, a brand and tattoo that stretched from inside his wrist to the inside of his elbow. He bowed gracefully, though he almost stumbled because he forgot his hair was unbound. “I am Jewls the Lucky of the House of Fire, Guilty of Contempt.”
When he looked up, his husband had crossed the Queen’s Chamber, a ceremonial chamber that allowed those with the obligation to watch a marriage consummation to do exactly that. The dark haired man reached out to touch the brand. “It looks old. Did it hurt?”
The touch caught his breath in his throat. “Um,” he said, lashes of gold and pale ruby fluttering a little. “I was thirteen. It was a long time ago, and yes, it hurt.”
“I’ve never spoken with a bard before.” His voice was sweet, a musical, if untrained, voice, deep with a slight accent that Jewls didn’t recognize.
“I have. They’re arrogant dicks, for the most part. What’s your name, Honorable-husband?”
The man took a step back, bowed politely, but not with any of the Bardic nuances. “I am Prince Rand of Valion or I was. Now I am Rand, husband of Jewls the Lucky.”
“Would you rather be a prince, Rand?”
“No,” he insisted, drawing Jewls’ palm to his lips. “I may have had my concerns, but from the moment I entered, I have wanted only you.”
Jewls arched an eyebrow. He reached out to touch dark soft hair. “You have beautiful eyes, so dark and deep like the forest. Did they tell you that I have spoken for the dead one hundred and ninety-three times? If you lie to me, I will know.”
Rand drew Jewls’ hand towards his cock, hard and thick under the thin silk wrap. “Was I lying?”
“No, but I will ask you again later.” Color burned on Jewls’ cheeks, almost as bright as his hair, darkening full lips, soft curvy lips, the lips of a woman or a Bard.
“You may ask me every day. The answer will be the same. Disrobe, husband of mine.” Rand took a step back, hungry eyes watching Jewls’ every subtle move. “I wish to see every secret.”
Jewls tucked his chin, blush still very bright on his cheeks. There had been a man he had wanted once, a tall and rough man who had left him years before. He held his lower lip between his teeth, and forced himself to relax his hold on the robe. It fell away, gliding over his skin as it went, revealing a slender, pale body. His was a body that could walk across a continent, dance and play music for days at a time, but with which he’d kept all sexual desire to himself. Even his pubic hair was flaming red, if a little darker than the hair on his head. His body, so long denied physical intimacy, hardened under the exploring gaze of his husband. He tried not to think of those that he couldn’t see who were obligated to watch. “I don’t have any secrets.”
“Of course, you do.” Rand said. He unfastened his own wrap, letting it fall to the floor.
Jewls’ mouth dropped open, his eyes fixed on the thick cock, darker skin, thick vein. “That will never... fit,” he whispered.
“Yes, it will,” Rand promised. “The rain won’t start until I find release within your virgin body. There must be rain. Beyond that, trust me. I won’t hurt you.”
Years of fear, of having to protect himself from people who hated him for his hair coloring, feared him for
his connection to the Gods, all of that welled up and Jewls took a step back, towards the rail. “I can’t.”
“I trust you,” Rand said. Faster than such a large man should have been, he cut between Jewls and the railing. Rand held out his hands, instinctive show of having no weapons. “The scars on your back. You were whipped.”
“Three times,” Jewls whispered. He gathered his hair up in arms, backing away from the beautiful prince. “Do you not fear me? I can see your lies! I can call down the power of the gods on you!” He puffed up a little, daring this man to still want him.
“Then you can see that I have never lied in my life. It is the truth when I tell you that you will feel great pleasure in our joining. Your body already responds to me.” Rand pointed out, reasonable.
They glared at each other for moments. Jewls intimidation tactic collapsed. He narrowed his eyes and snapped, “My body responds to spoiled milk as well. It does many things without my permission!” Jewls sidled up to one of the great posters at the corners of the bed, beyond the lush red velvet drape.
Rand trapped him there, between the great oak pillar and his hard unyielding body. Very slowly, as if reaching for a wild animal, Rand let his hand travel down Jewls’ body to tenderly wrap his fingers around his virgin cock. “So no one’s ever touched you here?”
“I didn’t say that,” Jewls hissed angrily.
“This,” he said, stroking Jewls’ erection, “is not how a man’s body responds to sour milk.”
“Stop!”
“No,” Rand coaxed. “Do not be afraid, Jewls. It will only hurt just a little at the beginning. If you fight me, I will have to bind you. You agreed to this marriage. You trust Queen Ionwe, do you not?”