Authors: Brian Keene
“Levels?”
“Planes of existence. Different worlds and realities.”
“Why couldn’t I see the door before?”
“Because your eyes were not open. Normally, the only time your kind see the Labyrinth is when their spirit has departed their body. There are some among you—a select few—who know how to open the doorways and can traverse its passageways while they are still alive. But they have sacrificed much for that knowledge. I am bestowing the ability upon you so that you may save your people.”
“I feel dizzy, lord. My fingers are tingling.”
“That is the drink. One does not sup as the gods do without feeling the effects. Are you ready for the final sip?”
Chalco’s voice trembled. “What will happen?”
“With the third taste, you will be ready. You will go through the door and travel the Labyrinth. At the far end of the hallway is another door. You will open it, and find yourself on the beach at the time of Cortes’s arrival. The doorway will remain stationary behind you. The invaders will not be able to see it. It is only for your eyes. Hide in the foliage near the surf. Have your bow at the ready. Slay Cortes as he sets foot on your soil, and then return through the Labyrinth, taking the same path you took before.”
Chalco picked the lime back up again, brushed the dirt off, and sucked on the fruit while he listened.
“The death of Cortes will set into motion a chain of events on this level, culminating in your people’s eventual domination of the world. But be wary, Chalco. You must not be distracted. The drink of the gods sharpens your senses, but you must also maintain your wits. Although you might be tempted to travel other passageways or step through other doors, do not. Some entrances do not have exits, and not all doorways are meant to be opened. Too much knowledge is never a good thing. Stray not from the path. When you enter, go straight to the end of the passageway. After you have killed Cortes, return the way you came. Do you understand?”
Chalco nodded. Despite the lime, his mouth felt parched. His ears rang.
“Say it.”
“I understand, Lord.”
“Good.” The worm crawled to the edge of the agave. “Then partake of the third sip and throw open the doors of perception.”
Chalco drained the skin, and sat it next to the agave. There was only a small bit of liquid left inside. This time, he didn’t need the lime. He dropped the half-eaten fruit onto the ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The tequila coursed through his body. The air seemed to thrum with energy. The hovering doorway shimmered. Overhead, an eagle cried out. Chalco took a deep breath and cast one last glance back at the worm. Then he pushed the door open, revealing a long stone corridor. Chalco stepped inside.
There was a flash of white light. Immediately, the eagle’s cries ceased. Chalco glanced behind him. The door was closed. There was no sign of the mountain, the agave, or the worm. They lay on the other side of the exit. He turned around. The corridor seemed to stretch into infinity. He couldn’t see the end. It was brightly lit, but there were no candles or torches. The illumination had no source. The gray stone walls were featureless, the ceiling high. There were no windows, but both sides of the hallway were lined with hundreds of closed doors. He wondered what was behind them all. More mountaintops, perhaps? Other worlds?
Admiring the masonry, Chalco touched the wall with his fingers, and then jerked them away with a gasp. The surface was cold. There was no moisture, no condensation. No texture, either—not even a crack or pit. The icy surface felt smooth. He sucked his fingertips. They were red, as if burned.
“This is not stone. It is something else.”
He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. Perhaps it was the tequila. He felt it inside him. What was it Huitzilopochtli had said? The doors to reality would be thrown open and Chalco would receive knowledge. Maybe that was how he knew that the walls weren’t made of stone. But if so, then why didn’t he recognize the mysterious substance? Was it beyond his human reckoning? Or had the drink’s effects not yet been fully realized? It didn’t matter. He was experiencing something that no Tenochan had ever beheld. The Labyrinth was the path to glory.
“Oh, Quintox,” he whispered. “If only you could be here with me now, brother. You would be proud indeed.”
He noticed that despite the length of the hall and the ceiling’s height, his voice did not echo. The sound was muted. Chalco fumbled for his knife. Clutching it in one fist, he crept down the passageway. After he’d taken thirty steps, he turned around to make sure the exit was still there. It was. The door remained shut, but visible. Heart pounding, he continued on his way. He counted the closed doors as he walked by them—twelve, then twenty-four, then sixty. The corridor was obviously longer than it looked—an optical illusion of some sort, like the mirages that appeared in the desert. His father had told him all about those. A thirsty man would see water on the horizon, but when he reached it, he’d find only sand.
Occasionally, Chalco passed other corridors, intersecting with or branching off from the main hallway. He hesitated at each one, listening, but they were as silent as the rest of the Labyrinth. They, too, seemed endless—straight lines into infinity. He wondered where they went, but did not explore them, remembering Huitzilopochtli’s warning. He stared ahead. When he squinted, he thought he could see the end of the hall. Despite the passageway’s deceptive length, he was gaining ground.
***
Chalco was filled with an immense sense of pride as he continued on. Such a boon!
He
had been chosen by the gods. Him. Chalco. The gods had selected him and nobody else—not the priests or medicine men or the seasoned, battle-scarred warriors. He had never felt more alert and aware than he did at that moment. He wondered if it was another effect of the tequila or just the atmosphere of this place in general.
He thought of Quintox again. What would his family say if they could see him now? How joyous they would be, knowing that he’d been chosen by the gods to save them. When he triumphantly returned to Monte Alban, things would be different. His father and the other men could come home. Quintox would be prouder of him than ever before. And Yamesha—her clan would certainly approve of their marriage. The priests would honor him as they did the gods. Lord Moctezuma would call upon him, or invite him to the capital. All of Oaxaca would sing his praises and his face would be forever memorialized in stone. Perhaps a village would be named after him, or maybe even a city. Songs would recount how the gods blessed him with power and how he slew Cortes and stopped the invasion. Books would be written about his exploits. He would get his own Codex in the Great Temple. It would be grand!
Lost in thought, Chalco giggled. The sound of his own laughter startled him from the daydream. He halted. The corridor continued on uninterrupted, with no end in sight. Was that possible? Surely he had traveled forward. The end—another doorway—should be visible.
He looked back the way he’d come. The hallway stretched in that direction as well, and he could no longer see the exit. The door he’d come in through was missing. Where had it gone? Had he traveled that far in such a short time? His stomach sank, and he felt a twinge of panic. Chalco squeezed the hilt of his knife until his knuckles turned white. Had he somehow taken a wrong turn while he was daydreaming, gotten disoriented and wandered off down a side passage?
“Great Huitzilopochtli,” he prayed, “hear my call. Guide me, for I am lost. I did not heed your warnings or think of my people. Instead, I thought only of myself. Pride has led me astray.”
Silence. The guardian spirit was not coming. Not as a worm. Not as a Hummingbird Wizard. Not at all. Chalco had never felt so afraid or alone. Dropping to his knees, he sheathed his knife and beat the floor with his fists, moaning in frustration. Like the walls, the floor was cold. He leaned back, resting against a closed door, and considered what to do next—turn back and search for the way he’d come in, or keep moving forward, hoping that he’d come to the right doorway?
He sat there, leaning against the closed door, for a very long time before he heard the water. It was coming from the other side of the door; the steady, monotonous roar of the ocean. Chalco had heard it once before in his life, when he’d accompanied his father and uncles to a religious celebration in a seaside village on Oaxaca’s western shore. He’d been very young at the time, but he’d never forgotten the sound. Sometimes when he slept, he dreamed about it.
Chalco closed his eyes, put his ear to the door, and listened. It was definitely the ocean. He heard waves crashing and seabirds cawing out. His hopes rose. Maybe this was the door to the beach after all.
Jumping to his feet, Chalco opened the door and looked out into a sea. It wasn’t Oaxaca’s eastern shore. He wasn’t even sure it was Oaxaca. The doorway hovered on the surface of the ocean. There was no land, only water. The sun hung in the sky, reflecting off the sea. Seagulls circled, hunting for fish. Chalco shielded his eyes against the glare and watched them. He smelled salt and brine. Foam-topped waves crested against the doorframe but did not splash into the corridor, prevented from entering by some kind of barrier he couldn’t see. Chalco wondered if the same invisible wall would prevent him from crossing the threshold. Experimenting, he stuck his foot through the doorway. The surf lapped at his foot. The water was cold.
Slowly, Chalco pulled his foot back into the corridor and grinned. No, this wasn’t the right door. This wasn’t his world, or at least the part of his world he was looking for. But wherever it was, it
was
beautiful.
And then something erupted from the water. Two long, greenish-gray tentacles, each one as thick as his waist and covered with puckering suckers, thrust towards the door, grasping for him. He glimpsed a massive, shadowed bulk just beneath the surface, and then two more tendrils burst forth.
Screaming, Chalco backed against the far wall. The tentacles pushed through the open doorway and slithered across the floor. Chalco yanked his knife free of its sheath and stabbed one of the appendages as it slid across his foot. The stone blade sank into the flesh. Hot, black ichor squirted from the wound, staining his hand and splashing across the walls and floor. On the other side of the doorway came a great splash and the tentacles retreated. Chalco barely had time to free his knife.
The monster vanished beneath the surface. Chalco slammed the door shut, and the corridor was silent once more. Steam rose from the monster’s spilled blood.
When he’d stopped trembling, Chalco cleaned his hands and blade with his loincloth. Feeling helpless and unsure of what to do next, he decided to try another door.
Perhaps he’d find the right one by chance. After all, the previous exit had opened into the ocean. Maybe the next door would lead to the beach.
He put his ear to another door and listened. This time, there were no birds or waves. Just silence. Knife in hand, Chalco opened it. Inside was a small metal room. A group of people were huddled against the walls—several men, a few women, and a young boy about the same age as Quintox. When he studied the boy, Chalco was overwhelmed with a sense of familiarity—as if he’d known him before. But that was impossible. More likely the child simply reminded him of his little brother.
Their clothes were strange. One of the people seemed to be injured. He was lying in the corner, covered in blood. His face was pale and waxy. Another man brandished a weapon of some kind. Chalco didn’t know what type, but assumed it was deadly, based on the fearful reactions of the others in the room every time the object was pointed at them. None of them noticed Chalco, so he eavesdropped on their conversation.
“He’s not breathing, Tommy. He hasn’t been for a while. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Your friend is gone. He’s dead. Look at him, son.”
“Shut the hell up, you old fart. Just shut the fuck up right now!”
Their speech was as odd as their garments and surroundings, but Chalco could understand it—another effect of the drink, he assumed. He was fascinated by everything in the odd metal room, but this was obviously not his destination, so he reluctantly shut the door and tried another.
The third door opened into nothingness. A black void yawned before him, filled with pinpricks of light. After a moment, Chalco realized it was the night sky, as seen from high above the Earth. He’d heard the priests talk of such things. They said that the lights in the sky at night were the eyes of the gods. The door had apparently opened into a place amidst those eyes.