Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (10 page)

I knew it.

I immolated him, right there in Mama’s room, watched with a stony face as he burned to a crisp in front of me. Mama heard his cries, not the kind she was expecting, and she rushed in. When she saw him aflame, Mama screamed; she howled at me; Glinda! she said. What did you do? I felt my hand move through the air as if it was the paw of some great forest beast. I grabbed Mama by the neck, and then there was blood, lots of blood, spurting over the tiny cabin’s walls. Mama sank without another word. I moved through the fire and the ruby red liquid as if nothing could touch me; and it couldn’t. I was indomitable, impregnable, unassailable now. As my entire life burned down around me, I found myself glad to leave it behind.

I went deep into the woods, found my sisters by the still, virid pool. Momba and Sally, my two dark-haired beauties, were laughing and splashing as usual, their play as rough as always. My sweet pale Locasta, the image of my eye, sat on the bank, looking forlornly at the blue water she dared not enter alone. She saw see me come; and the way I moved, the way in which the forest parted as I advanced, terrified her. But I took her hand; I cooed and calmed her fears.

We never went back home. I built a house for them by the pool, and a few years passed peaceably enough. Then they left, one by one, and quickly, too. They left to make their way. They left to know the world. Momba first, to the wide-open spaces of the western wild; she always chafed under anyone’s thumb, Mama’s or mine. She was most like Mama of all of us, though I never told her so. Then Sally left too, my rigid marionette, who in many ways had become the Mama, keeping our tiny home tidy and clean, cooking meals of sallow root vegetables every night. Sally left for the wider world, for the cities of the East. Even Locasta, shy Locasta, left me all alone. For her there was a man, one who lived nearby, a temporary and futile gesture; he was the first of many men who would be there for her. And that was fine with me. They each had their own paths and I was happy to forever leave this place.

I went south, to the warm, temperate climes of Oz. There I stayed, powerful and resplendent. And my sisters you know, too. You know them, in fact, better than I. You know of Momba and Sally and even of Locasta, though you call her for me. You gave her my name. But I am the Glinda. I have the power. And of them all—of everyone in Oz—I am the power. I am the potential, I am the kinesis, I am the future. Or so I thought.

Perhaps in absolute power I became complacent. I rested too much, on my many laurels. For now I am oblivion, doomed to be forgot. West, North, East—you remember them, each and everyone. You remember them, their deeds and their infamies, their smiles and their silver slippers. But do you remember me? The good witch, the sorceress of the South? The goddess of all Oz? No. They have their legacies; and perhaps they alone are mine. For I see now that power is nothing. Even when it is absolute. It is still intangible. Memory is all. To be forgot, like me, to be disregarded and left out, left behind, that is the fate of so many of us. To be forgot, to never be thought upon. No one will lament my passing; no one will even know I am gone. I simply will go. Too late I have learned that to have power is not to have time immemorial; it is not to have legacy. Such things are made of sterner stuff than power, and for all my might—for all my deeds, both good and ill—I leave nothing behind to mark me, nothing behind to show I was here. All I was, all I am, will simply, quickly, be forgot. Too late I have learned.

To be remembered . . . that is true power.

=[]=

Michael G. Cornelius
is the author/editor of eleven books, several plays that have been produced on stage, and numerous stories, poems, and essays. His books have been sold to
Chelsea House, McFarland
, the V
ineyard Press, Variance Publishing, SynSine Press
, and shorter works have been sold to or appeared in works from
University of South Carolina Press, Lethe Press, Alyson Press, Dark Scribe Press, Jan van Eyck Press
, and others, and has appeared in such journals and magazines as
Americana, Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine, The Spillway Review, Velvet Mafia, Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Clever Magazine, CreamDrops, From the Asylum, Scroll in Space, The Piker Press, The White Crane Journal
, and more. His work has received dozens of favorable reviews in national magazines, journals, and newspapers. He was a finalist for the
Lambda Literary Award
in 2002, and has also been nominated for an
American Library Association
prize, an
Independent Press
Award, and others.

Jamie Lackey

=[]=

I had only recently become acquainted with Jamie Lackey’s short fiction, but what I’ve read, I’ve loved. Needless to say, I was thrilled to unexpectedly find her submission to this anthology sitting in my in-box one morning. Unfortunately, that first story did not fit the theme of this collection quite right, so Jamie went back and wrote up this next little masterpiece in just a few days. Rewriting the exploits of the Spanish explorer, Hernán Cortés,
Quetzalcoatl’s Conquistador
is wicked and brilliant. Beware the ones you trust—Quetzalcoatl may be coming.

=[]=

Hernán Cortés took a long drink of the fermented cactus juice the natives called octli. It was a far cry from the fine Spanish wine that he deserved, but there was none at hand and he needed a drink. His relationship with the governor of Cuba had soured, his men only served him because he’d scuttled all their ships, and now Marina, his native concubine who’d been serving as translator and advisor, was dying.

He was feeling a bit odd, himself. He could only trust that God would protect him from whatever afflicted the woman.

He stormed through the camp, looking for someone to punish for his foul mood. The night air was heavy and cool, a welcome relief from the heat of the day. The coughing bark of a jaguar echoed through the dark trees, and the men around him flinched.

The sound of distant drums caught his ear, and he froze. The wind shifted, and the sound faded. No one reacted. “What are you waiting for?” he snapped at his attending officer, Bernal Diaz. “Send out a scouting party! Find the source of those drums!”

Diaz blinked. “What drums, sir?”

“There were drums. Before the wind changed.”

Diaz’s eyes flicked to the flask in Hernán’s hand. “I didn’t hear them, sir. But I did hear a jaguar.”

“If you slay it while looking for the natives, you can keep its skin.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.”

“Take some men into the jungle. Lead them yourself.”

Diaz glanced at the flask again. For a moment, Hernán thought he would disobey. He was delighted—that would give him reason to have the man whipped.

Then Diaz sighed and looked away. “Of course, sir.”

Hernán longed to strike the man across the face for his insubordination. But his command was already brittle—he didn’t have the power to punish glances. And he didn’t have the energy to think of another way to put the man in his place.

Hernán hoped Diaz was one of the ones who spooked at every sound in the jungle night. Maybe the drumming natives would manage to put him down before they were eradicated. Or maybe the jaguar would rip his throat out.

The thought cheered him, and he continued to walk aimlessly through camp, pretending to check on his men, until he found himself outside of Marina’s tent.

He went in.

It stank of strange, resinous native incense and blood. The doctors must have been at work. Marina lay on top of a cot, clad in a simple white robe. Bandages adorned her wrists and ankles, and a low fire flickered in the middle of the tent. The stifling heat was almost unbearable. Sweat coated Hernán’s face and soaked through his light clothing.

Hernán took another drink. The cactus wine burned down his throat. He passed his flask to Marina. Her fingers, when they brushed against his, were hot and dry.

Hernán watched her drink. She was so beautiful. Worthy of him. Worthy of the Spanish wine that would never grace her tongue. He brushed stray strands of her dark hair away from her face. “The priest says that you won’t last the night.”

She laughed. It was a wild, dark sound, and her eyes were black in the flickering firelight. Shivers coursed along Hernán’s spine. “Your priest, for once, might know what he’s talking about.”

Hernán frowned, pushing away his sudden unease. “Don’t blaspheme, Marina.”

“Malinalli,” she said. “My name is Malinalli.”

“You were baptized as Marina before Jesus, our Lord and Savior. You mustn’t fall back into your heathen ways, especially not now. The gates of heaven will open or close to you by morning.”

Malinalli said something in her torturous native tongue.

For a moment, Hernán almost understood her. He fought off a wave of dizziness. “What are you burning?”

“Copal. It is sacred to my people.”

The drums returned, louder this time. Hernán shook his head, and they faded.

Malinalli held out her arms. “Come, my lord. Lie with me, one last time.”

He hesitated. She was ill and her return to her native ways was troublesome.

“Please,” she said. Her desire-roughened voice stirred him. Who was he to deny her final request?

Heat came off her body in waves. She smelled like her copal incense and orchid blossoms. The drums came again, pounding in his ears. She pulled him onto her cot, and he took her, rough and fast.

The warmth from her body flowed into him as they became one. When he pulled away, her body was as cool as the night air, and his skin glowed brighter than the fire.

“What is happening to me?” he asked.

“Quetzalcoatl is coming.”

She spoke again in her native tongue, but this time he understood her perfectly. Her native words felt right in his ears.

He fell to his knees and clutched at the solid gold crucifix around his neck. He prayed. “Holy Father, who art in heaven—”

Malinalli laughed again, and he realized that he’d been speaking Nahuatl. The words died on his lips. He reached for Latin, but it was gone. He tried to cry out in Spanish, but his voice failed him. He could not even shape the Lord’s name.

Malinalli pulled the crucifix from him and tossed it away. “Your god has no power here.”

“How have you done this?” he asked.

Malinalli shook her head. “My god chose you long ago. Before you were even born.”

“Chose me for what?”

“You will be his Tēixiptla—his vessel. He will take your flesh as his own and walk in glory.” She pulled a knife from beneath her thin mattress. The obsidian blade glistened black, and blood-red gems gleamed from its golden hilt. Malinalli held it out, and Hernán’s hand reached forward of its own accord.

“I offer my life to you, Quetzalcoatl.” She stood, naked and glorious before him, her arms spread, palms up.

“Why?” Hernán asked.

“He will remember my sacrifice and be kind to my people. Kinder than Moctezuma, kinder than you. This is the only way I can help them.”

A weight settled over him, moving his body like a marionette. Hernán stepped forward, crushed his lips to hers, and thrust the knife between her breasts.

Her blood was cool on his bare skin, refreshing as a mountain lake. A shimmering, green-blue bird, its tail two long, trailing feathers—a quetzal, he knew now—burst out of Malinalli’s chest and plunged into his own.

Pain raked his body as it entered his heart.

Hernán struggled against the heathen god. He tried to dive for his crucifix, but his body refused to obey. He felt the Lord’s light ripped from him. His thoughts grew fuzzy, hard to control. His skin shone like the sun.

=[]=

The Aztec Emperor, Moctezuma, gave him a worthy welcome. He and a legion of his finest warriors met Quetzalcoatl and his host’s men on the wide road into Tenochtitlan. The heat was punishing for his mortal shell, especially clad in metal armor. But his deception had to remain complete, for just a little longer.

Moctezuma presented him with flowers from the emperor’s own garden, as well as feathers from Quetzalcoatl’s sacred bird. Quetzalcoatl was moved by the gesture. He abandoned his caution for a moment and laid his hand upon Moctezuma’s brow. He whispered a blessing in Nahuatl. Moctezuma’s eyes widened and he fell to his knees. His warriors did the same.

His host’s companions gaped. “My lord, what did you say?” one of the two priests asked.

Quetzalcoatl sighed. The invaders’ language was unworthy of his voice and he loathed having to speak to them. He was growing tired of these priests. They asked too many questions, and their weak offerings to their own god offended him.

“These people are simple and easy to impress,” he said. The invaders’ sense of superiority was their greatest weakness. But they were still a threat, here on the open road, with their guns and hot metal armor. They would not be a threat tonight, after the feast he knew the emperor will have prepared.