Xolotl Strikes!

by William Stafford

  I gave him a withering look and wished I could remember the line about the unspeakable chasing after the unfeasible - or whatever it is. Inedible? Incredible? The fact is I have never been in the saddle. As soon as I made a bit of money, I splashed out on Bessie as my main means of getting around. Cars are the future; you mark my words.

  The professor strode away, holding his map before him like a paper shield. I followed - what else could I do?

  “I don’t know whether you know this,” he said in his lecturer’s voice, “but before the Spanish arrived, there were no horses in South America. The locals must have thought men on horseback were centaurs.”

  “So, they didn’t have horses but they had Greek mythology?”

  “Don’t be such a smart-ass, Mortlake.”

  We stumped along in fractious silence until the plain gave way to farmland. Crops of maize and barley waved in the breeze, as green as the Gulf.

  “Farmstead,” the professor pointed ahead. “These people know me here. They’ll loan us a couple of horses.”

  “Really?” I muttered.

  “Sure! They trust me, you see. They trust me to respect their culture and to keep their artefacts in the country. Unlike your lot and the Elgin marbles.”

  “But-”

  He urged me to be quiet. “We don’t mention the mummy, all right?”

  I held up my hands. “I shan’t breathe a word,” I said.

  We plodded on, past a low-lying fence that marked the border of a pasture. Cows were dotted around, munching lazily. It was a peaceful scene. A bucolic idyll, almost, but not a patch on the rolling fields of England, of course.

  The farm buildings were white and fashioned from clay, I believe. Lumpy, misshapen things like upturned pots discarded by a ham-fisted potter. A child was playing on the path leading to the largest building. She was drawing designs in the dirt with a twig and did not see our approach until we were almost upon her. She looked up from her handiwork and grinned.

  “Hola, Professor,” she beamed.

  “Hola, chica,” the professor executed a mock bow. The girl laughed in delight and ran indoors. The professor looked altogether smug. “Told you they know me,” he said.

  “Quite,” I said. Three men emerged from the building. With shotguns trained on the professor and me. I raised my hands. “Overjoyed to be reacquainted, evidently.”

  The professor gaped in surprise and raised his hands. The men motioned us into the building. Perhaps they didn’t want the gunshots to frighten the cattle.

  * * *

  Rough hands tied us to chairs, back-to-back. The building - from what I could see of it beyond the weak throw of an oil lamp - was some kind of storage facility and reeked of mould and mildew. The men kept their guns aimed at us. The child sat at their feet, watching us intently.

  “Now, look here-” I tried the time-honoured opener.

  The men laughed. Rather rude, I thought.

  “Just sit still,” urged the professor at my shoulder. “These men have obviously been recruited into the cult.”

  I am not sure it was all that obvious. “Xolotl?” I asked. The men gasped and made an arcane sign.

  “You do not speak that name!” one warned, threatening me with the thick end of his rifle.

  “My dear sir,” I smiled, “The last thing I should like is your butt in my face.”

  He backed away but continued to look daggers at me.

  “Well, this is nice,” I said, altogether insincerely. Being tied to a chair in a pueblo or whatever it’s called was not going to get me anywhere closer to Cuthbert. “A fine way to treat your guests? What would your Xolotl have to say about this?”

  The men started. They made that gesture again. Triggers were cocked.

  “Mortlake, you damned fool!”

  “No!” I cried. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here while some religious fanatics menace us with firearms. It’s a cowardly enterprise on all sides, if you ask me. Well, I won’t stand - or even sit - for it. If Xolotl wants me dead, let Xolotl come and do the job himself. Do you hear me, Xolotl? I’m yours for the taking! Where are you, Xolotl? Show yourself.”

  The men froze. Their eyes darted upwards. Mine rolled around a couple of times. We waited.

  Nothing.

  Of course, nothing.

  But then, overhead, a roll of thunder. A crack of lightning. The men gibbered and made that sign repeatedly and rapidly.

  “Now you’ve done it,” murmured the professor.

  The men dropped to their knees. They laid down their weapons so that, palms upwards, they could pray to the ceiling.

  “Well, don’t just sit there,” I sprang from my chair. The professor looked amazed. I grabbed his sleeve and dragged him out into the burgeoning storm.

  “But how - ?”

  “Not the first time I’ve been tied up,” I confessed as we ran towards the stable. “My man Cuthbert taught me a few tricks.”

  We stole a couple of horses - There was no time to saddle them up and so we rode bareback away from the farmstead.

  “The storm!” the professor gasped. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” I shrugged. “I would have had to come up with another distraction.”

  Our hooves thundered along the road. Just as quickly as it had flared up, the storm fizzled out again. We covered a couple of miles, reaching exotic woodland where we paused to rest the horses.

  “Clearly we can trust no one,” said the professor. “Word has got out.”

  “Which word might that be?”

  “I hesitate to say it - but if a certain deity is rumoured to be making a comeback, you can bet your bottom dollar, folk will jump on the bandwagon.”

  “Trask won’t be short of followers,” I nodded.

  “Exactly. Now,” the professor took out his map. “We are... here or hereabouts, and where we need to be is... there or thereabouts.” He held up his finger and thumb. “It’s only this far away.”

  “Where exactly are we going?”

  “The lost city of Cuitlahac.”

  “But if it’s lost...”

  “I found it!” he beamed with pride. “Trask’s museum funded my expedition. If I’d known what he was planning to do with my findings, I would have gotten the money elsewhere.”

  “Too late for that now,” I muttered. “Let’s get going.”

  “On foot,” said the professor. “The horses won’t cope with the dense undergrowth.”

  I was secretly relieved. My own undergrowth was terribly sore after all that bare-backing. I patted my steed on its neck. “Those men - they’ll come after us, won’t they?”

  “Probably already on their way,” said the professor, peering back the way we had come. “But maybe they won’t follow us into the city.”

  “Maybe...” I didn’t share his confidence.

  “This way!” the professor announced, striding off. He shoved broad leaves aside, letting them swing back and strike me in the face. There was no need for that, I thought.

  * * *

  As we penetrated deeper into the jungle, the professor told me more about the city he had discovered. Nature had reclaimed it in the centuries following the Spanish invasion and, unusually for such finds, the central temple was still pretty much intact. Others had been blown up with gunpowder and replaced with Christian churches, but the temple to Xolotl at Cuitlahac was untouched. Also, Professor Pepper was pleased to relate, much of the artwork was still present, beneath a covering of ivy and ferns, to be sure, but it was all there for the studying.

  “One of the most exciting finds was a codex,” he confided. “It contained the writings of an Aztec priest. You see, in those days, there weren’t many career choices. You could farm the land, you could join the army, or you could be
ordained into the priesthood. And this guy has left us an account unlike any other. You can actually hear his voice speaking to us over the years.”

  “What does he say?”

  “It’s tantamount to blasphemy,” said the professor with a twinkle in his eye. “If the authorities ever got hold of it, I expect our friend was executed pretty damned quick.”

  “Go on,” I said, dodging another swinging branch. A bulbous-eyed lizard poked its languid tongue at me. I returned the gesture. And hurried away.

  “I’ll see what I can remember,” said Professor Pepper. “You’ll get the general idea at least.”

  * * *

  I wish I had not been called to this exalted position. Mind you, it has kept me alive for decades longer than my contemporaries. They were all bled years ago, their entrails fried and their bones pulverised. I would have undoubtedly met the same fate because I was not built to be a warrior. I had no proficiency with the hammer and chisel and so I could not be a stonemason, carving effigies and tributes to the mighty Quetzalcoatl - glory on his name! I would most definitely have been altar-fodder, like the others from my region.

  But instead, the High Priest took a shine to me. He kept me apart from the others and spared me the narcotic in my maize, the drug that makes the chosen ones compliant and subdued. Like cattle strolling off to slaughter.

  He taught me the mysteries of his role. I was his apprentice. There was a lot to learn. And every night, I had to sharpen the great obsidian daggers in readiness for the dawn sacrifices.

  I saw thousands of young men come and go. The honour of their selection meant their families would eat well. For about a week - after which, they would have to try to survive with one less mouth to feed, but also one less pair of hands to till the soil and reap the harvest. They arrived awestruck by the palace - although they saw precious little of it, confined to quarters that are only one step up from dungeons. The drugging begins at once; any insurrection is quickly quelled and quashed. Only the willing will give up their hearts to Quetzalcoatl (glory on his name!).

  But now, as I scan the cartloads of new arrivals, seeking out an apprentice of my own, I question the whole gory business - and not for the first time. It does not seem to do any good, this bloodshed on the grand scale. The crops are never more bountiful. The wars are no easier to win. And the Emperor is insatiable in his quest for victory, his hunger for power. He sips wine thickened with the blood of the innocent and feasts on bread made from the flour of their bones. I am quite sure he is insane.

  But what can I do? As High Priest serving Quetzalcoatl (glory to his etc etc) it behoves me to carry out the grisly task, the ritualised massacre of so many of our nation’s youth. I am as trapped in the tradition as any of the hapless victims who prostrate themselves across my slab. And all I can do is to try to be as quick and efficient as I can, like a fisherman’s wife gutting a catch; I strike just beneath the rib cage, slicing once! twice! so the guts tumble out like a nest of snakes and then I reach in and pull, ripping out the heart and holding it aloft. If there is a beat of two still left in it, this is regarded as a propitious omen. I have learned how to make them jiggle on the palm of my hand - There is no shortage of propitious omens.

  But still, nothing gets better. Nothing ever gets better.

  And I tire of the whole squalid business. Let Quetzalcoatl (blah blah blah) find his own bloody victims. If there is such an entity as Quetzalcoatl. I have serious doubts.

  A trumpet blares, calling the people to the foot of the ziggurat. And I must get to work. It is not the work of appeasing a god; it is the work of keeping the Emperor on his golden throne.

  If I am to keep my head upon my shoulders, I have to swallow my qualms and ignore my queasiness and suppress my questions.

  At least I can take pride in my obsidian blades. I keep them nice and sharp.

  * * *

  “Quetzalcoatl?” I queried.

  “The feathered serpent,” said the professor. “A pussycat compared to our guy Xo-”

  He stopped himself from completing the name and cast a nervous glance skywards.

  “I’ve never been what you might call a fan of religion,” I stated, “but this one seems especially barbaric.”

  “Folk’ll believe all sorts if you lace it generously with fear,” said the professor. “And that goes for more than the Aztecs. Now, look.”

  He came to a halt. We had reached the lip of a cliff. Down in the valley below, stone walls peeped through trees and lianas. The buildings - I cannot call them ruins because they looked perfectly preserved - appeared to be wrapped like Christmas presents, draped as they were in greenery.

  “That straight line there,” the professor pointed downwards. “That’s the main canal. Empty now. We can follow that into the heart of the city.”

  “What’s there?”

  “The temple!” he spoke as if I were an idiot. “These people put religion at the heart of the lives in every respect. And their hearts into their religion too, come to think of it.” He emitted a hollow laugh, and I thought of the sacrifices mentioned by the priest and shivered.

  Gingerly, we picked our way down the precipitous slope to the valley floor. It was deathly quiet. Not even the insects or the exotic birds gave as much as a chirrup, and there was an odd chill in the air.

  Yay, though I walk in the shadow of the valley of death... The line surfaced from my childhood experiences of Sunday morning tedium. Good old Church of England - quite the soft option. Once they’d given up that business of burning people at the stake, of course.

  The rustling of our footsteps through the undergrowth was the only sound. It was as though all of Nature knew this was a place of death and was not to be disturbed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We were soon enveloped in silence. Greenery cast shadows over the path ahead. The sky shrank, the blue framed by darkness. I was aware of eyes upon me - perhaps it was the creatures in the trees. Perhaps it was the men from the farmstead, lining up their sights to pick us off. Or perhaps it was the ghosts of the countless thousands who had trod this path on their way to messy death.

  We reached the canal. The walls were slick with moss and slime, the bed likewise, although you could make out the paving. It was easier going than the slope, I can tell you, and afforded us some cover from snipers.

  “Along this waterway, the effluent and detritus from the sacrifices would be washed, out to the fields to fertilise the soil.”

  “Nice,” I said.

  Tall buildings flanked the canal, like sleeping giants in blankets of green. The professor pointed them out: the palace, the armoury, the grain store... but none were as tall or as grand as the shape looming ahead. The canal took us under a thick, perimeter wall to a courtyard broader than any playing field I had seen at home. Before us stretched the broad stone steps of the central ziggurat, their centre smoothed away to form a chute, down which the bodies of the sacrificed, with gaping holes in their chests, would have slid down to the water.

  “We must hide!” the professor suggested. “The ceremony will begin at dusk.”

  I followed him out of the canal and across a rectangular paved area. The professor pointed out hoops at either end, set high in the walls.

  “Basketball?”

  Professor Pepper laughed bitterly. “Something even more deadly than that. To the Aztecs, sport was a matter of life and death.”

  I found that easy to believe. I have encountered in many an English public house, beastly boors who believe association football alone brings meaning to the human condition.

  “See here.” He pointed out an overgrown shelf on which several skulls were grinning in a row.

  “The balls?”

  “The losing team.”

  “Golly.”

  We pressed on through the ball court. I couldn’t help shuddering.
What a horrific society it must have been! Every day a blood bath. I pined for home where the worst one might be confronted with is a hard stare if you fail to give up your seat on the omnibus to an old lady.

  “Professor,” I whispered, “How do you know the ritual will begin at dusk? How do you know it will be today?”

  He stopped and faced me, his eyes flashing. “Because it must. The heavens are all aligned. It is a once-in-a-generation thing. It must be tonight! Now, quick! In here!”

  He ushered me into a cavernous chamber where the air was chilly. The room was dominated by two huge rings of stone, one perpendicular on the other. The professor ran his hand along the surface of the horizontal one.

  “Cold,” he diagnosed. “They have not been used.”

  “Um... ?”

  He smiled patiently, as though I was his slowest-ever student. “Millstones.”

  I was none the wiser.

  “Remember when I told you the body of the king had to be ground into powder.”

  Ah. Oh, yes. Ugh.

  “It hardly seems respectful,” I pointed out.

  “I guess not. But he won’t feel a thing.”

  There was a rumble from somewhere above. The professor urged me to hide in an alcove. We shrank into the shadows as footsteps descended a stone staircase. The Aztecs were big on stone. Well, it’s durable, I suppose - where people and civilisations are not.

  Bearing flaming torches, Hiram Trask and Miss Pepper led the way. Behind them, carrying the trunk from the left luggage office, came Washington Melville (I’ve gone off him) and - yes! - there he was! My Cuthbert! I had to clamp a hand tightly over my mouth to stifle an ejaculation. A nudge from the professor warned me to keep still.

  Even from a distance, I could see Cuthbert was still under the influence of the drug. How stiff he was! How glassy of eye and slack of jaw!

  Trask directed the trunk-bearers to deposit their load at his feet. He handed his torch to Melville and, interlacing his fingers, flexed his hands as though he was about to perform a piano recital.

  He opened the lid.

  “Yeah, about that,” said Miss Pepper. “I broke the lock - well, I had to check the old boy was in there, didn’t I?”