Now, several months into my appointment at our church here in Santa Segovia, I am hard at work bringing the word of Our Lord to this land. Even though our church is built of baked mud, and can hold but twelve bodies at a time, I can already count a score of eager converts. Notwithstanding my concern that the Indians indignantly refuse my sermons if there is no sacramental wine on offer, I believe they hold me in great esteem.
No, my concern plagues me each night as I tidy my sacred church, sweeping the floor with my poor broom, as if it might do more than simply pool the spills of the fermented beverage the Indians consume habitually. Dutifully I sweep away the chewed bones of the rodents they gnaw at during my service, along with the scraps of Indian bread which I daresay is tastier than that with which I am accustomed.
It is this sweeping that causes my Indians much distress. Initially I suspected they cherished some measure of filth, as did in fact my own grandmother, may she rest in the womb of Heaven, no fan of chores was she. But recently I have come to understand that it is the late hour of my sweeping that is of issue.
I confess I am remiss in my own chores, and I make my own prayers and my own writings before I undertake my tidying. And when I tarry in the church after the sun has set, my Indians become quite serious in demeanor. They will usher me quickly to my poor house not fifty paces away, not retreating until my latch is set.
One night, they grew cross when I had cause to return to the church, having forgotten my Breviary. With great urgency and torchlight they ushered me home. It was on this night that I first sighted Them, the lurkers who watch from the edges of the village, those who step back quietly into the fields, or who take plodding refuge behind what wall or donkey might suffice to shield them from plain view.
No queries about these individuals would be abided. But late one night I took to foot about the village, lest these be souls craving knowledge of Our Lord yet be too timid to seek it directly.
And in this assumption, I proved dead wrong, my words being most carefully chosen. Once approached, and followed around the back of the church, I caught up with one such individual. It was not difficult in that they move quite slowly. No sooner had I placed my hand on his arm, did he turn and place his own hand on mine and look deeply into my eyes.
You’ll think me a fool for saying this, as did Father Vasco who has since counseled me on such encounters, but I found great solace in that moment. For what stood before me was not a living soul, not a soul at all, but a hell-sent demon loose in our world.
I knew at that moment that the existence of such a being manifestly laid to rest any doubts I might have had about divinity itself. And I confess that those doubts did arise from time to time arise. Because if such a spectral being is neither too alien nor cumbersome for this world, then neither is the Lord God I serve.
- Santa Segovia, 20 June, Year of Our Lord 1580 SEBASTIANO
Rafael Duran
age:
511
occupation:
retired conquistador
education:
B.A. art history, New York University extension
personal:
single, widower of twelve wives
hometown:
Cordoba, Spain
hobbies:
ham radio
food/bev:
deep dish pepperoni/Jameson
life goal:
become fluent in Chinese
fav movie:
The Mummy (1932 Boris Karloff)
obscurity:
creative investments have resulted in a portfolio worth close to a billion dollars, wears numerous prosthetic devices
June 21, 2011
New York, NY
Rafael Duran
http://www.harqubusier.blogspace9.ex
You call yourself Perdido now? They think you’re a demon, but you’re not, not quite that. I remember you, brother. I can still smell your stinking breath across the centuries. And your litany of terror and damnation has little changed.
Who would remember Vasco Cuellar after such time has passed? I fought alongside you that day in Cajamarca when the world was won, yet no book pays homage to me, the great conquistador Rafael Duran.
No swordsmen were we, Vasco. No, we manned the Captain’s guns. And what guns they were, do you remember? Half as heavy as a dog, the harquebus was a tortuous weapon. Two minutes it took to load, half again if your hands were shaking, and our hands were shaking. Louder than an Andalusian whore on All Souls Day, and you couldn’t hit the broad side of the Andes even if you shut both eyes.
But the noise they made – that was some noise – noise enough to scare half the life from an Inca. Maybe that’s why Captain Pizarro made us his conspirators. After he had the emperor prisoner, the gold came down the mountains on the backs of llamas, each more laden than the last. And the Captain trusted you and trusted me, his harquebusiers, to spirit away fully half of that gold, the secret hoard that the King was never to learn of.
I’ve often wondered what became of you, Vasco, and how many of us still walk. I daresay walk is a poor choice of word. I haven’t truly walked in centuries, not since the Indian general Rumiñavi cut off my feet with my own Toledo sword, demanding the whereabouts of the hoard. We were high in the mountains near Cuzco where the battle raged, and I concede he was more skillful with my blade than was I. No swordsmen were we, Vasco.
You spoke often of returning to Spain to take your vows, so perhaps you did. You sound like a priest – nothing but fear. I can’t fault you for that; I’m still not certain what happened to us that night we hid the gold. In that rotten mud pyramid older than time itself; something did happen to us.
Did you then return to Peru, to the scene of our crime? Did you go back for your soul? I never did. I was captured soon enough, and I didn’t fare well. Footless I was; they burnt off my ears and most of my fingers. Indeed, I have been typing this brief missive for close upon two hours, what with just the three fingers left.
They stuffed me in a stone tomb up in the mountains, left me to die. But even then, I understood that I would not die. At first they returned every week to demand where we hid the gold, stabbing me with molten bronze pokers, even taking out an eye, but I never told them. Then they came every month. Then every year, and then they forgot. Do you know what it’s like to be thirsty for two hundred and six years?
Not until a wayward silver miner took a pick to the capstones of my enclosure would I be free. He screamed upon seeing me, imagining me some dread monster. But I’m not a monster, I explained as I devoured him, leaving nothing to waste except the larger bones, as I had few remaining teeth. It was my first and last act of cannibalism.
It took me four years to crawl down from the mountains. I moved at night, drinking from clear streams, but finally I reached my destination. I had no trouble finding that rotten pyramid, no worse for wear was it. With some trepidation I committed my three remaining fingers to the task of digging through the mud bricks to find the chamber.
Equal shares for Captain Pizarro, Captain Almagro, the lieutenants all, and for you and me, for our good work hiding the hoard that the King would never learn of. Because that was the grand secret, wasn’t it, Vasco? There was far more gold than anyone imagined.
You can predict my surprise, when two centuries after we buried the gold, my footless self entered that same chamber, and I cast my remaining eye on our gold, glittering by my candle, untouched, undiminished.
Entering the chamber, I stepped over the bodies of four Spaniards; soldiers wearing their armor. Their heads had been cut off, but each breastplate bore the mark of the Egiptos, the Gitanos, the low-born men who carried the lances for the Captain. Why they were killed, I cannot know, perhaps to protect the hoard.
And yes, Vasco, those demons, those imps were still there. And when they looked at me, they looked deeply. But they let me be, perhaps feeling some kinship, having made me what I am.
I took only my share, loading the gold onto a mule-drawn wagon owned by
a farmer and his two strong sons. I paid these men outrageously for the work, as they were afraid to approach that pyramid. But all the Indians were. Wasn’t that why we chose this Godless place?
I determined to kill these men upon finishing, but having made their own plans, they came at me with their knives. One put a gash across my forehead that causes me great distress even now. The other took off my nose. But I have unnatural strength, Vasco. I suspect you do as well, so I squeezed those boys tightly, the father next. That was the end of my predicament.
I drove the wagon until the mules died, remiss I was in their feeding. By then we had arrived at the outskirts of the city of Trujillo where I built a fine house and lived a respectable, if reclusive, life. On more than one occasion, I considered returning for the rest of the gold, but I never did. There never is enough time in life to do everything one wants to do.
I remained in Trujillo for a hundred and ninety years. I married twelve times, once taking two wives concurrently, which proved a disaster. But one morning after paying my respects at the catacomb where my twelve brides lay, I determined to leave this land. I counted enough gold left for several more centuries, sold my property, and boarded an airship for New York City.
And now, eighty years later, I am comfortable in my luxury apartments, my teeth, ears, eye, and nose now much repaired. Good metal feet I have for the occasional hobble. Imagine my surprise then, when I picked up the newspaper only to see the picture of that pyramid on the cover. I had to learn more, and it was good of the principals at Blogspace9 to allow me a small place in this endeavor.
I share these memories with you, Vasco, for two reasons:
First, to assure you that an old friend is pleased to learn that you still draw some manner of breath, though it appears you are quite insane.
Second, to inquire about this Sebastiano. Was he your apprentice? My interest in his book is tempered with concern, you must understand. I don’t know what we have become, Vasco, but you would do well to settle your nerves, and cease your counsel about demons and leaping from high towers. The last of the Sopays was long gone from the earth by the time I crawled down that mountain.
You took your vows, Vasco. You became the priest you dreamed you would be. So why cannot you do the one thing required of a priest – have faith? As for me, I don’t know what I have become, but if God has no use for me, then I have none for Him.
June 25, 2011
Seville, Spain
Bruce Wheeler
Hey there, Michelle. It’s three in the morning here in Seville, and I can’t stop thinking about you. Love you. Also horny. I don’t want you to worry about me; I’m more angry than scared at this point.
If we were to set aside logic and common sense (and Michelle, watching a harem full of dead concubines planning their day DOES REQUIRE setting aside logic and common sense), then we’re left with the possibility that something quite extraordinary is going on.
On the off-chance that our new friends Cuellar and Duran are not internet pedophiles looking for mischief while their porn loads, might they in fact be undead conquistadors still intimately connected to our pyramid? No offense, guys - I’m just trying to cover my bases.
I ask this, Michelle, because if there is a whole pile of Inca gold inside that pyramid, guarded by walking mummies, and if we’re close to finding the definitive mummy-hunting handbook, then we could actually be in some danger.
Also, what the hell is a Sopay? Perhaps our undead Facebook friends can help us out with that? As for me, I’m taking things one day at a time.
The police came for Negromonte a day after my rescue. Two squad cars pulled up to the flamenco restaurant just as the dinner dancing got underway. National security, they claimed, shaking their heads as they closed the place down, sending confused unfed tourists scurrying onto the street.
I was holed up in a miniscule three-bedroom apartment not far from the restaurant. It’s home to a family of Gitanos led by a patriarch who smokes unfiltered cigarettes and watches soap operas all day. I share a room with their three middle-aged sons who I suspect are pickpockets, given the uncommonly large number of wallets lying about.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I heard Negromonte tell the police. “What American boy? I am a simple businessman.” But they took him anyway and held him for three days of extended harassment.
I would have helped, but I’m a wanted criminal. That being said, I’ve been restless. I have lingering questions about the nature of life, afterlife, etc. that demand my attention. Thankfully my adoptive family made some alterations to my appearance, and set me up with a brand new identity. There are advantages to living in an apartment littered with other people’s wallets.
Estebe Uberoaga I became. Of Bilbao in the lovely Basque region of northern Spain, I have papers identifying me as a welder. I am also, judging by the contents of my wallet, an aficionado of karaoke.
Having spent several days in hiding, I was eager to get out. I wanted desperately to return to the Archive, but that was impossible. Even with my new identity, I would still need my investigator number. And the moment I typed that in to a computer, I would be subject to arrest.
Instead, I went to the University of Seville. As Estebe Uberoaga, I acquired a day pass to use the library. And much to Estebe’s satisfaction, the historical archives at the University of Seville are nearly as comprehensive as the Archive of the Indies, at least as far as conquistadors are concerned.
In a climate-controlled case right in the center of the reference room, I found a handwritten document listing the names of the 62 cavalrymen and 106 infantry who accompanied Pizarro at the battle of Cajamarca. And I’ll be damned if the names Rafael Duran and Vasco Cuellar weren’t among them.
I found no other reference to Duran in the database, or in any other index. But I did find a Vasco Cuellar who was ordained in Seville in 1550. That was nearly twenty years later, so it probably wouldn’t be the same guy unless…well, unless he’s an immortal of some sort. Can you help us out with this one, Cuellar? If you’re reading along, can give the porn a rest for a moment or two to chime in?
Father Vasco Cuellar next turns up in Trujillo, Peru in 1578 on a list of missionary priests, but I couldn’t find any further mention of him. I might have turned something else up, but I was arrested at the library.
As luck would have it, Estebe Uberoaga is a member of a Basque separatist organization responsible for a series of bombings in northern Spain. Apparently, one rolls a giant pair of fuzzy dice when engaging in identity theft, and I rolled snake eyes.
The result was an unpleasant nine-hour detention in Seville’s Central Lockup, which looks like the green room for a reality TV show about intoxicated cross-dressers who bawl while professing great affection for their estranged mothers.
I made few friends, though a cheerful fellow by the name of Sexy Boom-Boom Carolina promised to teach me to dance the Mambo if I ever made it to Málaga during Carnival. I know, right! Who knew Málaga did Carnival?
The detectives came for me just after midnight and interrogated me for two minutes, enough time to confirm that I was not Estebe Uberoaga. I must have picked up the wrong wallet this morning at the hostel, I told them. But I nonetheless agreed to sing karaoke as a condition of my release. My rendition of Desperado was well-received.
I’ll be changing my identity again soon because I plan to continue my investigations. And that’s largely because I don’t have a choice, or a passport, or any money or prospects. But I still have you, Michelle, and that keeps me going.
June 25, 2011
Cupertino, CA
Administrator
As a courtesy to our users in Spain, and in due consideration of the questionable legal situation in which one of said users is currently compromised, posts by Bruce Wheeler will not be visible in Spain, or Portugal (because our programmers can’t determine how to do one without the other). Nor will said posts be visible in the People’s Republic of China (which has ongoing intelle
ctual property issues).
Pyramid at Segovia
adobe brick pyramid structure 600m from coast at Segovia archaeological zone 23m high, two interior chambers, constructed circa 400 A.D.
Current excavation permits issued to Drs. Cyrus Sanderson and Michelle Cavalcante Access guaranteed to public school groups and practitioners of native religions.
For more information, or to host your wedding or event at the pyramid, contact Carmen at Ministry of Antiquities in Trujillo. Note: office closed for lunch from 11-2:45.
June 26, 2011
Segovia, Peru
Kim Castillo
Good morning, Peru! Kim here. Remember me, your beloved lab rat and document translator? I’m hard at work. Even though the sun has been shining on the north coast for nearly two hours now, I’m the only one up.
Michelle had a rough night worrying about Bruce, so I gave her a sedative. She is still sleeping. Leon is crashed too. He managed to find a porn channel on the TV. I think it’s from Chile; there are a lot of socialist subplots mixed in with the humping, but the upshot is that he watched all night and he’s still asleep.
Bolivar appears to be on the mend. He took some soup last night. I begged him to let a doctor look him over but he refused. He’s so stubborn. I love him. I’m looking forward to his recovery.
Still no word from Cyrus.
As for me, I’m gearing up for my day, doing a little light reading about long dead conquistadors. Fascinating, isn’t it? Hey, you know what else is fascinating – the fact that there could be a gigantic pile of gold hidden in our pyramid.
The Mummies of Blogspace9 Page 7