The light revealed the nearly complete skeleton of a man lying at the base of Coatlicue’s statue; the head and hands were missing altogether, and I swung the light over the entire area in an almost desperate attempt to catch sight of them. Frantically driving out memories of what the original goddess had strung upon her necklace, I concluded that Farland had been caught in a cave-in and died, his skull and carpal bones subsequently being displaced in the collapsing of the walls and ceiling or carried off by some vermin. Certainly some type of scavenger had to be responsible for the fleshlessness of the bones, I told myself. Then I grew nauseated envisioning the latter possibility but knew it was preferable to further suggestions which, although becoming more horrifyingly believable each moment, I dared not allow myself to consider. A glance at the statue itself, half in anticipation of seeing Farland’s severed head and hands displayed there, helped calm my fears; Farland had not allowed the goddess neck adornment of any kind, let alone the gruesome kind I had half expected to see ensconced upon her breast.
Further exploration of the tomb only added to my growing fear and trepidation. In several corridors branching from the main room, I encountered numerous drawers in which individual members of the Farland family had been entombed since the 1600s. The marble seal had been smashed in every instance, the pall disinterred, and the body savagely torn from the coffin and disseminated haphazardly about the area. It was with relief that I noted the presence of skulls and hands among the skeletons so rendered asunder. Yet many of the bones displayed wedge-shaped lacerations for which I could not account. It was clear that the mayhem of my surroundings could not be attributed to the simple crumbling of the interior structure over time; the destruction was the result of some terrible paroxysm of unrelenting rage — but by whom or what, and to what end? Could the damage derive from an attempt to obliterate any sign of violence? Had Farland been murdered?
I had all but concluded that the wisest thing for me to do would be to report my discoveries to Sheriff Waterman, when I banged my shin upon a stone and blurted out an expletive that echoed the length of the chamber in which I stood. From the far extreme of a dark corridor I had not yet explored came the sound of labored breathing in response, accompanied by an auditory shuffling and scraping. The sounds became amplified in a cadence of heavy shambling that made me realize someone or something’s attention had been attracted by the sound of my voice.
I could only inhale in short gasps as I stood frozen to the spot, no longer capable of denying the icy fear that slowly crept over me, gripping both my mind and body in a vice of terror. I suddenly found myself willing to admit belief in anything if only the thing approaching me would just go away.
The flashlight had been wrenched from my grip as I fell, landing a few feet away, its beam pointing directly at the source of my terror. I could have easily reached out and grasped the light had I not been immobilized with absolute terror.
The thing came closer, until its lumbering mass was partially silhouetted at the edge of luminescence provided by the torches in the main room behind me. Before the thing’s outline broke over the top of the flashlight beam, I managed a faltering retreat, back into the main room, snatching the flashlight from the floor as I ran. Once there, a mad curiosity kept me from backing further toward the exit, for I could not leave without knowing beyond doubt the nature of the thing that had emerged from charnel darkness.
I prayed the slime-drenched thing I had seen emerging from the blackness had been distorted by my imagination but as it neared, its form clarified, additionally lit by a phosphorescence like that emitted by decaying organic matter. When I beheld the full detail of the thing in the glare of my flashlight, an insane shrieking simultaneously assaulted my ears. The screaming was deafening and went on and on until, finally, I realized it was coming from my own throat. This realization made me laugh — hysterically, uncontrollably, psychotically. It struck me as ironic that I should be raving so uncontrollably when confronted by a totally voiceless presence in a silent tomb.
I looked up and beheld Farland’s living, breathing masterpiece. Her necklace initially caught my eye. It was strung with a pair of mummied hands and a rotting, maggot-infested heart. At her waist depended the long-sought-after object of my search, or part of it, for I could not mistake the head of Ashley Farland, despite the overall gray-green cast of the skin and the bits of putrid flesh peeling away from the underpinning bone.
In all honesty, I cannot say how long I remained in a half-mad state, my mind pummeled by the nauseous “uncleanliness” standing before me. I found myself studying Coatlicue while each of the two mammoth rattlesnakes of her head studied me; I wondered whether the front pair of eyes served as vehicle for intelligence or, indeed, if the abomination had a need for brains at all. Her movement and function might be directed by nothing more than ravenous lustful hunger.
I can only describe the reptilian bitch as a gigantic caricature of the human form and an insult to nature itself. The structure of her wide, distorted head incorporated the features of two gargantuan rattler heads rampantly joined at their snouts to form a face of living blood. The lipless orifice created by the merging of the mouths penetrated the width of the poll to provide for a face in front as well as its duplicate in the rear. Large fangs depended from the jaws of the two-faced monster, curving outwardly, away from the center of each of the idol’s malefic ‘smiles.’ Horny ridges above the jaws acted as cheek bones, and below the protective dual ridge of the brow nestled lidless, unblinking nyctalopitc eyes inlaid with vertical pupillary slits.
Great pendulous breasts lay like deflated bags upon her chest above a row of innumerable swaying rattlers that formed a clicking fringe belting her bloated waist. Her thick arms terminated in open-mawed reptilian heads resembling vicious handpuppets with unnaturally large fangs. These were only surpassed by the discolored claws extending from the toes of her swollen feet.
Aside from the nauseating necklace, her only raiment was a convoluted mass of writhing snakes of normal size, their vaguely triangular heads bobbing and weaving threateningly as they slowly dove in and out of the Gordian weave the Aztecs had dubbed her “skirt.” The sibilant hissing of their extraordinary numbers blended into a resonance reminiscent of the rustling of dry, brittle leaves as their ugly heads swayed calculatingly, keeping to a measured beat only they could hear.
Seeing this total abnormality heft its bloated bulk toward me caused some function of my brain to lapse, rendering me incapable of movement. I stood there, agape, unable to defend myself or run away, like the fabled rabbit trapped in the hypnotic glare of a viper. Its breath reeked of fetid meat and worms, and I grew dizzy, helpless before the approach of conglomerate lunacy. It was all so unreal and impossible, that I doubted the reality of the experience. I seemed to view the scene from afar as the accursed beast grappled for me with its grotesquely mutated limbs.
Suddenly another sound intruded upon the sibilant silence, and I turned to determine its source. From behind me came a flash of gray and brown with teeth barred in a deadly snarl. The dog hurled its body into the air, landing on Coatlicue’s mottled chest, where the animal began to rend and tear the scales from the underlying vulnerable flesh. The hound seemed familiar until finally, to my amazement, I recognized it as Markson’s German shepherd, Jenkin.
The brave beast did not have the slightest chance against a creature of such overwhelming proportions, and I listened as Jenkin cried out again and again at the painfully venomous bites inflicted upon him by the viperous denizens of the monster’s skirt. Only moments later, he emitted a final agonized yelp before falling, lifeless to the floor. Coatlicue was obviously agitated, but I detected no sign that she had been seriously harmed.
I knew my chance to escape had come, so I began inching myself away, moving slowly toward the door to the entry shaft. Coatlicue bent down awkwardly to rip into the canine carcass, her attention distracted momentarily away from me. Walking backwards, however slowly, proved impossible without stumbling
in the half light, for when only ten feet from the outer door, I tripped and fell headlong into a pile of rubble.
At the noise, Coatlicue snapped to attention, abandoning her nauseating feast in an effort to catch me. I had underestimated her intelligence for she immediately maneuvered herself around to bar my way to the exit. I stumbled again in my haste to move further away from her, and my groping arm tore one of the burning torches out from its cresset, knocking it to the ground at the foot of the statue off to my right. The instant the flame touched what I had thought was a sculpture, its true nature became all too clear. No wonder I had not been able to guess its composition — it was not stone at all! The thing I had seen and found so beautiful was nothing more than the slough the monster Coatlicue had shed immediately after her rebirth! The dry discarded skin burst into flames of such intensity that even the real Coatlicue was driven back and away from the exit. The light, combined with the heat of the fire caused her to twist and convulse such that countless adders were flung from her skirt by centrifugal force. Each landed with a slapping sound upon the floor around her before quickly slithering off to the shelter of the room’s darker recesses.
The blaze terrified Coatlicue. She seemed to totally lose control of her body. Her head suddenly rose up in fury. The composite rattler heads that comprised her head wrenched and ripped apart. Each of the bleeding heads flailed wildly back and forth, the forked tongues snatching tastes of smoke-filled air. Taking advantage of the monster’s disorientation as she lumbered in ever-widening circles, I dashed for the exposed portal to freedom. I had nearly made it through the door before being viciously struck again and again from every direction by the poisonous fangs of the cowardly refugees of Coatlicue’s skirt.
I managed to drag myself through the second doorway before passing out, so desperate to reach that cool night air that I did not even bother to fling the hateful scaled biters from my flesh. Once outside, I threw myself through the trees and headlong into the weeds.
I awoke with a start on the following afternoon, only to find myself laid out upon Farland’s makeshift bed in the main house amidst the lingering reek of Coatlicue’s pervasive stench. I tossed back the blanket that covered me and prepared to stand, only then realizing both my legs were heavily bandaged. Before I could even formulate the several questions this situation brought to mind, Markson entered the room and welcomed me “back from the dead.”
“You? You saved me?” I blurted out. “But you wanted me to find that, that thing — you set me up to walk right into a death trap!”
Markson pulled a chair next to the bed where I rested. “Now whatever brought you to that conclusion?” he asked defensively.
“Well, for one thing, your name and time of arrival was written on Farland’s calendar, yet you told me you had declined the invitation before making any plans with him.” The pieces of the puzzle began to fall together as my head cleared.
“You lied to me — not only were you expected, but you were also present at the revival ceremony,” I blurted out in accusation. “You were there, and when you saw that horror actually come to life, you ran, leaving Farland, your friend, at its mercy! You left him there to die in order to save yourself!”
Markson sighed, then looked directly, openly at me.
“Half of your accusation is true; a part of me did hope you would disappear, but my conscience wouldn’t allow it. When Sheriff Waterman phoned to inform me he’d provided you with directions to this place, I realized I could not be a party to murder, not even indirectly. I simply couldn’t bear the thought of meeting my maker with your blood on my hands.”
“What about Farland’s blood? Where was your precious conscience when you abandoned him to his terrible fate?” He may have saved my life, but I felt hatred for him, as I would for any coward who could forsake another in such a manner.
“You judge me too harshly, Mr. Hathorne. I am no hero, but I am not a coward either.
“I admit I attended Farland’s little ceremony as you call it, but I came here hoping to convince him that the risk was too great. Given the opportunity in person, I felt sure I could persuade him of the danger involved with his plan, but he insisted the invocation must commence exactly at noon on the Solstice. At that particular moment each year, the sun and Earth are at their closest proximity, and Farland was sure the solar influence was intricately linked with Coatlicue as she was the mother of Huitzilopochtli, who represented the sun.
“There’s no need to describe the conjuration in detail, and I would never dare cite the unspeakable forces he called upon for aid. Suffice it to say, the statue was somehow invested with the reptilian goddess’s pestilential essence. You’ve seen her, so you know.”
I tried to interrupt, growing impatient with his explanation, but he would not allow it.
“Please allow me to finish,” he sternly silenced me. “You have accused me of murder, man! You owe me at least an opportunity to defend myself!”
I nodded my assent though I still doubted the veracity of his words.
“You will recall that Farland stated in a letter to me that he was prepared for the worst should the revived goddess retain her lust for bloody sacrifice. You may also recall that he failed to explain the means by which he planned to protect himself, should it become necessary. That is because he intended all along to offer me up as a sacrificial victim to assuage her monstrous appetite.”
I drew back from him in disbelief. I could not imagine anyone, even Farland in his madness, capable of formulating such unimaginable treachery.
“You are shocked, as well you should be, but that is the shameful truth. I stood in disbelief as Farland bound the flailing spirit within the confines of the eidolon, totally unmindful of my precarious position between the two. Once he was convinced the demon was fully congealed within the sculpture, he threw himself upon me from behind, hurling me directly into the path of the ravenous creature. I heard him call out to the goddess, begging her to accept me as his blood offering.
“Somehow, I regained my balance and managed to right myself enough to stagger away from the oncoming horror, still unable to believe Farland’s betrayal. He brandished a blade with which he then attacked me, fully intent on depriving me of my heart.”
I became fully engrossed as he revealed the circumstances of the struggle, slowly but surely realizing he was telling the truth.
“Luckily, Farland had underestimated the strength adrenaline bestows upon those who are desperately afraid. He came at me, we struggled, and he stumbled, falling back into the arms of his own fatal creation.”
The ailing professor stopped briefly, overcome by the bitter memory. I averted my gaze as tears streamed down his cheeks and began to reassess my earlier evaluation of the man. The cold unfeeling man I had originally interviewed was now gone, replaced by a warmer, more vulnerable human being who had faced an impossible dilemma from which he could never recover.
“There was no way to save him. I would have, even then, if there’d been any way possible at all, but once she’d enveloped him in her terrible embrace, there was nothing I could do. I turned and fled, stricken with madness and horror.”
“I contrived to eliminate all trace of my presence here that day, obviously without realizing Farland had made note of my expected arrival time on his calendar. Knowing she was unable to tolerate the light, I returned before sundown and locked her in the tomb, accomplishing the deed with a thick chain and strong padlock on the outermost gate. No one remembered the crypt was there, so there was little chance of her inadvertent release. I knew her anatomy would deprive her of the dexterity necessary to tamper with the lock. I then tried in vain to put the entire nightmare series of events behind me.”
Amazed at the naiveté of Markson’s plan, I objected. “Didn’t it occur to you that such a famous person would not just be forgotten? That some type of investigation would certainly follow?”
“I knew any outside investigation would be sidetracked by Sheriff Waterman. You see, I went to h
im that day, immediately after fleeing the crypt; I told him everything, though I doubt he believed it all. He actually helped me place the lock and has kept my secret since that day. You have no idea just how terrified the good citizens of Aylesbury were of Farland. They considered him some sort of devil incarnate, so they were glad to be rid of him regardless of the means.”
“It was only later, when I learned of your determined quest to discover Farland’s whereabouts, that I panicked. I knew I didn’t have long to live and I could not allow my family to become involved in a scandal. Who would have believed a tale such as mine without unleashing the Coatlicue from her prison? Still, I could not bear the thought of leaving Barbara and Tyler the terrible legacy of a suspected murderer.”
He looked up at me with a shamed expression on his face. “I felt obliged to tantalize you with the letters and other small clues, so you would follow the trail to the demon’s lair wherein you would disappear, just as Farland had done. But as you see, I couldn’t follow through.
“As to your rescue, I happen to be one of those persons who is always prepared, which means I brought a healthy dose of anti-venom and a hypodermic along with me. Just in case.
“Diamondbacks are not native to this area, you know,” he continued. “Have you put that clue in perspective yet? No? Well then, do you recall how the Aztecs described Coatlicue’s four hundred sons?”
I thought a moment, then recalled a passage from Coe’s Mexico on the subject.
“She gave birth to four hundred male offspring, described simply as ‘diamonds’ — my God! I see it now! I’d taken it for granted that “diamonds” was just a euphemism for stars. Incredibly, the bitch was giving birth right before my eyes!”
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