Authors: Brian Keene
After slinging his bow with gut-thread and readjusting his quiver and basket, Chalco headed farther up the mountain. It was easy travel at first. He stuck to the well-trod footpath, avoiding the prickly cacti. Soon, the city’s noise faded and the sounds of nature took over—the screech of a hawk far overhead (out of range of his arrows), the whisper of a spider clambering over a rock, a bush rustling in an all too- brief gust of wind. He saw no other people and no game, either. The countryside was deserted. The hot sun climbed higher into the sky and no further breezes were forthcoming. Chalco started to sweat. Thin beads of perspiration dripped from his forehead and upper lip. The steep, winding trail grew narrower, and then vanished altogether. Chalco pressed on, watching where he stepped, alert for snakes and scorpions. Both could penetrate the soles of his sandals. There was still no movement. He found some rabbit tracks in the dirt, but they were at least two days old. A sidewinder track followed after them. He wasn’t the only predator looking for game. He hoped the serpent had better luck than him.
The bow grew slippery in his sweaty hands. He spotted a brown lizard sunning itself on a flat stone, but it was too small to bother with—nothing more than a mouthful. It skittered away as he walked by. Pausing, Chalco knelt in the dirt and rooted through his basket. He pulled out the water skin, unsealed the beeswax with his thumbnail, and took a long drink of pulque, grimacing at the taste. Then he sealed it back up and pulled a lime from the basket. Continuing on his way, he bit a hole in the fruit, relishing the tangy peel. He sucked the juice out as he walked. Sweat ran into his eyes. Even this far from Monte Alban, the mountain still seemed deserted. It was as if all the wildlife had fled from the advancing Spaniards.
Boredom set in and instead of watching for game, Chalco daydreamed. He thought of his friends. He remembered their days spent playing tlachtli, or gathering in the main plaza to watch prisoners of war be sacrificed, or joining in the great feasts. He missed his friends. They rarely saw each other these days. Like him, their fathers had all gone to Tenochtitlan and the boys were left to provide for their clans. The only time he really got to see his friends anymore was at temple, and then they couldn’t speak freely.
His thoughts turned to Yamesha, and his stomach fluttered. More sweat stung his eyes, but now it wasn’t just from the heat. He hated the way Yamesha made him feel, but at the same time, it excited him. On the rare occasions that he got to talk with her, Chalco’s mouth refused to work. He tried hard to think of something clever or funny to say. Instead, he said nothing. When she looked at him, he looked away. When she smiled at him, he frowned. Yet she was never far from his thoughts. She was intoxicating—and terrifying. The worst part was that he didn’t understand why. What made the jeweler’s daughter so different than the other women in his life? His sisters didn’t have that effect on him. Neither did his mother or aunts. Why should it be otherwise with Yamesha? Why should he grow his hair long just to impress her? It made no sense.
Despite his conflicted emotions, Chalco really did want to marry her. At fourteen, he wasn’t old enough yet. Men from the clans could marry at twenty and the women at sixteen. But with all of the recent changes in Monte Alban, perhaps the priests would ease that restriction. After all, if, in his father’s absence, Chalco was now the head of his clan, why could he not enjoy all the benefits of adulthood? Couldn’t he and Yamesha perform the right of Tilmantli, just like any other young couple? They were of different clans and different blood, as required by law. That was enough. He pictured himself going before the clan council and seeking permission from the old woman matchmaker.
His father was there, celebrating victory over the invaders. His mother was smiling again, as were his sisters. So was Quintox.
I want to be just like you…
Lost in his fantasies, Chalco didn’t see the pheasant lurking inside a nearby thicket. Startled by his approach, the bird burst from the shrubs, squawking with fright. Its wings beat the air in an explosion of multi-colored feathers. Startled, Chalco jumped backward, dropping his bow. His heart beat faster. As the pheasant flew away, he scrambled to retrieve the weapon. He notched an arrow with trembling hands and tried to aim, but the bird was already out of range.
“Gods damn the fowl!” Chalco shivered, and then wondered why. It was the middle of the day. The sun was at its peak. He should be sweltering in the heat. Instead, his sweat had dried on his skin.
He glanced around, stunned. There were no familiar landmarks, no rockslides or canyons or caves that he recognized. Lost inside his head, thoughts consumed with Yamesha, he had wandered farther up the mountain than he’d ever been before. But how? Had he really been daydreaming that long? It didn’t feel like it. He pushed his hair back and looked up at the sun again. It was in the midday position. Impossible. How could he have wandered for so long, without falling into a chasm or tripping over a stone? How had he made it so far without coming to harm? Surely, the gods had watched over him. Had they guided him here, as well?
His shock gave way to curiosity. An overwhelming sense of adventure stirred inside him. If the gods had indeed guided him here, he reasoned, there must be a purpose behind it. He decided to explore farther. If anything, perhaps the wildlife would be more plentiful here. As long as he didn’t kill anything too heavy—like a wolf or a deer— he shouldn’t have trouble hauling it back to Monte Alban.
***
After washing down his lunch with a sip of pulque, Chalco pressed on. Slinging his bow over his back, he scaled a small cliff, his agile fingers expertly finding the right cracks. He jumped over a deep crevice. A jaguar’s skeleton lay at the bottom, bleached bones pointing towards the mountaintop. He paid his clan’s totem animal a silent tribute. The air grew colder, the vegetation more sparse. Soon, his sandals crunched over a thin layer of snow. There were tracks in the frost—rabbit, coyote, and deer. Un-slinging the bow again, he notched an arrow, proceeding up the mountain with caution, his senses alert for any movement or sound.
He clambered up onto a small jumble of boulders and paused, staring back down at the city, and the valley far below it. A shimmering haze seemed to hang over Monte Alban. The buildings and pyramids seemed so small from this height, like tiny replicas rather than real structures.
“It is beautiful,” he whispered.
“Yes, it is.”
Chalco screamed.
“Oh, stop that,” the voice said. “You’ll scare everything away and have to return home empty-handed tonight.”
Chalco whirled around. He was alone, yet the speaker sounded like they were right beside him. It was a male voice, deep and calm, almost hypnotic. He scanned the mountainside. There was nothing to hide behind. The nearest boulder was too far away, and the only plants were a few thin, scraggly pines and a single agave plant. He was momentarily surprised to see an agave growing this far up the mountain, but before he could consider it further, the voice spoke again.
“Look again, Chalco. Look at your home.”
“W-who are you? Where are you?”
“I am one of the first. I am everywhere and in between. I am here with you.”
Chalco turned around in a circle, trying to find the source. The voice sounded like it was coming from four different directions at once.
“Y-you speak Nahuatl?” he asked.
“No,” the voice said. “You hear Nahuatl. I speak the language of my kind.”
“Are y-you a…god?”
Chalco’s voice was barely a whisper. In contrast, the other speaker laughed loudly. The sound boomed across the mountain, echoing off the rocks. Chalco began to tremble. Unable to hold the bow steady, he slung it over his back and drew his knife. Then he dropped into a defensive stance and held the weapon in front of him. This was no god. Surely it was a demon, or perhaps one of the giants his father spoke of. It would try to eat him if he didn’t fight it off. But where was it? The laughter faded. Silence returned.
“Please,” Chalco cried. “Please, demon. I have done nothing to you. If I am trespassing in your domain, then I am sorry. I was merely hunting and then—”
“Do not be afraid. I am no demon. Your first guess was right, even though it is such a small word. Although I am not a god in the true sense, your kind considers me a deity of sorts. I am a messenger.”
“W-what is your name? Who are you? Why can I not see you?”
“I have many names. The Burning Bush. The Hand That Writes. The Watchman. The Guardian. The Sleepwalker. The Doorman. The Gatekeeper. But none of these are my secret name. I cannot tell you my real name. It is not for you to know. Names have power. Your people call me Huitzilopochtli. You may call me that as well, if you like.”
Gasping, Chalco dropped the knife and fell to his knees. A sharp stone cut into his flesh, but he did not cry out. Instead, he bit his lip, lowered his eyes, and begged forgiveness. Huitzilopochtli, the guardian spirit of his people, the messenger of the gods, the Hummingbird Wizard, second only to Great Quetzalcoatl himself!
It was Huitzilopochtli who had guided the Tenochas before they settled in Oaxaca. Back then, they’d been nothing more than a wandering tribe of mongrels, the cast-offs and misfits of all the other regional tribes. They roamed the wilderness, lurking at the edges of other civilizations until they were chased away. They were a demoralized, decadent people. Then Huitzilopochtli appeared and blessed them with advice and wisdom. He told them to continue wandering. They were to be fierce but cautious, avoiding combat whenever possible, but not shrinking from their enemies either. He told them to send scouts ahead. The pioneers planted maize along the way. When the harvest was ready, they settled that area and then sent more pioneers ahead to the next location. As they traveled, Huitzilopochtli admonished them to keep him with them at all times, carrying him before them like a banner. Sacrifices were to be made in his honor, as he was a messenger for the gods and deserved tribute. The priests fed him on still-beating human hearts.
The Tenochas complied with all of his demands, and within a few generations, they ruled over all of Oaxaca, vanquishing the other tribes in the region. No longer demoralized, they were lords of the world.
Sadly, as time passed, the priests forgot about Huitzilopochtli. After all, he was merely a messenger of the gods, rather than one of the gods himself. Instead, they worshipped Quetzalcoatl and the rest of their pantheon. Chalco’s generation was unsure what Huitzilopochtli even looked like. Chalco had always assumed that he was a hummingbird of some kind. He did so now, as well, and glanced up at the sky, looking for birds, but the sky was empty.
“You must turn your eyes to the ground.”
“But where, lord? I do not see—”
“Here. On the agave.”
Chalco crept closer to the plant. There, on one of the fronds, was a tiny, segmented worm no longer than his thumb and thinner than his arrow shafts. It had a black head and a pale, white body. Two pinprick eyes stared up at him.
“Oh…” Chalco whispered.
The worm winked.
Chalco’s hands went numb. His ears rang. He thought that he might pass out.
“You… you’re a worm.”
“I am many things. And yes, right now I am a worm. Though it is not how I prefer to look. I have taken the form of an agave worm because I am in hiding and because the agave is linked to what must transpire today. Behemoth and his kind would find the irony amusing.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Your people don’t have a name for Behemoth in your pantheon. He is one of the Thirteen, those who are neither gods nor demons and yet are mistaken for both by humanity. You worship them without understanding what they are. They, along with the Creator, are all that is left of the universe before this one. Behemoth takes the form of a Great Worm.”
“Please,” Chalco whispered. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. Humankind isn’t meant to understand, for that knowledge has been denied you. Indeed, the Creator denied you knowledge of many things. Some of it is for your own good. The rest…well, I think it was terribly unfair, what happened in the Garden.”