Chapter 9

  Buenos dias, mi hijo.

  Arturo woke to a harmony of the Mother’s warmth and his ever-present companion’s grating snore, a song of his life in the plains with the bleats of sheep, and yet, that terrible undercurrent of pain, the melody of him, had vanished. The back of the wagon felt cramped and stuffy. All the drivers got together and decided their going was too slow and that the convoy would have to drive on through the night. Urgency, coupled with a nervousness produced by the black riders from the afternoon before, hung heavy and humid over the hardwood floors of the wagons and about the darting eyes of the horses pulling them. The animals were spooked.

  Relief had fled to leave nothing in its place. How weird to feel nothing in his stubborn hands and feet, in his tired joints and bones. His palm brushed the smooth grain in the wagon floor, and Arturo felt the grain, only the grain. Mind freed from an interminable focus, Arturo’s thoughts wandered as he slipped on his father’s hat and climbed over the expecting couple and plopped down to the ground at the back of the wagon.

  Roberto kept a protective arm around his wife, hand on her belly, even in his sleep. And to think, the man would just give up his children to the Monastery for nothing. Arturo felt the Mother’s voice ringing in his ear. Well, not for nothing, of course. But just like that? Roberto would never see them grow to laugh and to learn and to cry and to make messes and to love and to live. An empty home. Perhaps they would just have more kids. Would Roberto’s Storm garner a spark of the love his unconscious hand displayed now once he and his wife had forgotten their blessed children’s faces? He’d never see his own nin?os grown. Yet, his unknowing mind cared for them so dearly. The Parents’ blessing bestowed upon those unborn babies, and it was their destiny to never know their own mother and father.

  Tears dripped down Arturo’s cheeks, and he wiped them away then turned to the fires in the camp. The air was thick with the aroma of charring wood and meat. All the abuelitas sat around their respective fires, stirring pots and flipping tortillas and smiling at memories unseen. They likely did the same on the road as they did back home. “Desayuno,” the closest old lady grunted to him without looking.

  “Gracias, don?a.”

  She gestured a shaking hand, fingers thick with calluses built against the heat of comals over the years, “Café.” A thin, tall pot bubbled at the edge of the fire; edges chipped with the years of waking people to the work of their day.

  “Gracias, don?a.”

  “De nada,” she replied, the consonants gummy in her mouth and her voice soft in his ears. As Arturo took a seat, the wrinkled woman, clad in colorful fabrics with a woven shawl draped over her shoulders, braided thick and gray hair draped over that, deftly rolled chicken in tortillas and ladled red sauce over the top. Was she the same one as the day before? He was fairly certain the women were making rounds to cook food for each wagon. Their faces had begun to blend together. She handed him the steaming plate. Arturo closed his eyes and inhaled the mingling smells. Tomate and chile and the limon with the charred chicken and tortillas. He too made enchiladas for breakfast when he was home. At least, when he wasn’t with Valeria at Olina’s. His heart ached at the thought of Valeria sitting back in her home with her sick abuela trying to make ends meet. Arturo wrung his hands and felt nothing.

  He sat with closed eyes and a content hum in his throat, his nose filled again, and the enchiladas smelled like blood and dirt. His eyes snapped open, and he stared at the plate and at his bloody hands and his ruined chest. Woolen shirt torn to shreds, hands shaking in a hot and healthy gore, feet and legs tense and ready to run. Blood and ruin and bone sat in a pool of indiscriminate fluid where his food once was. Two eyes rolled to the surface, ovular pupils reaching into his mind. His teeth shattered and fell piece by piece into the death there on the plate.

  “Eat your kill, Arturo,” the voice said. The presence. The awareness. It had been there with him.

  His head fell forward, and he recognized the plate of enchiladas again. Some of the sauce spilled onto the ground. The vieja was staring, half-cooked tortilla dangling from her grip. His hands shot towards his mouth. Beyond the gory nature of these visions he’d been… receiving, teeth coming out in a dream was not a good omen.

  “Cafe? en e?l fuego,” he asked, laughing with a nervous shudder. She nodded her head slowly in response. Arturo coughed, stomach twisting in knots. “Bien. Gracias, don?a.”

  Looming shadows fell over the wagons. The horses huffed and scuffed the ground with their hooves, hauling the pilgrims up the switchbacks into the mountains. Electric conversations in excitement over the end of their journey lulled. At the top of the hard inclines now, green and lush mountains rose on either side of the pilgrimage convoy, inviting them to doze with the natural beauty. A temperate breeze caressed Arturo’s face, and he took a sighing breath with all the other people and creatures as the mountains took them in. The mountains that went on as far as anyone could walk or ride, forever.

  The road had gotten busy during the day. Travelers on foot, horse, and riding in their own wagons worked their way into the mountain pass with the people from Arturo’s home. Colors and smells, their imports bent the old wagon axles bouncing on the old roads, old men and women worn with years under the sun ready to make another year’s living selling to the inhabitants of La Terra’s great city. Arturo hopped out of the wagon while an unbothered Barto dozed off into his tenth nap of the day, and he caught up with Miguel who was huffing louder than the horses, leaned against the stone of the mountain pass, a tree with a perspicacious hold into the little notches and nicks in the rock giving him shade. Between gasps, Miguel nodded in the direction of the wagons’ movement, “Mira.” Arturo turned and walked to the crest of the switchback trail the convoy had been following for the better part of a day.

  And, finally, he laid his eyes on the Capital.

  A sprawling scape of white and black and red and yellow and blue and life. Fingers of a great city clawed their way up greenery and up foliage into the mountains themselves. The great bowl of El Valle de Las Tormentas was laden with the beating heart of all things under the Parents. Makeshift shacks and soaring towers, four stories tall in some places, mingled together in a haphazard haze, in chaos and perfection. Either fog or smoke or both hung pregnant with sound and silence over the city, pinpricks of restaurants and their fires, mariachis and their rings of torches, altars to the Parents and to the dead, streets lined with lights and people, dogs barking from rooftops and alleys with the slop of the day’s meal tossed out by aloof women in the streets, the jittering of the cityscape with all the things teeming there.

  But… for the pyramids. They dominated this city.

  Mountains of gods stretching for the very stars in the sky, terraces wider than the streets of home, stones heavier than anything ever lifted or heaved by men. The Monastery towered over the near side of the city, streaming with movement in and out and on the terraced slopes, supplies running up cables and stubborn weeds making their homes in the cracks in the construction. He stretched his neck and looked at the peak where healthy green things lived. The pyramid’s face stood black in shadow and cast its darkness over the city, an early night for an early nightlife. But the Ministry stood in the light, identical but resplendent. Gleaming yet matte in stone. It was the home of the Parents and all those who governed and supported the people of La Terra.

  Arturo rested his eyes on the Capital, and his relief from pain was complete.

  Miguel breathed heavily next to him, “I can practically smell the carnitas from here.” Trance broken; Arturo laughed.

  “And I can taste the cecina already,” Arturo smiled and smacked Miguel on the back, not something he was accustomed to being able to do. They looked at each other and smiled wider.

  “I do love the sight,” Antonio whispered from behind them. Miguel yelped and swung an involuntary and ineffective punch at the skinnier, quieter man. Antonio calmly stepped out of the way.

  “?Me asustaste pendejo!”

  Antonio grinned, “Perdon.”

  “Vamos!” Arturo called out, already high-stepping it down the path. His hat blew off his head before the cord yanked around his neck in the passing air and half strangled him. Arturo didn’t care. His legs burned, and his breath was hot. Arturo didn’t care. His feet pounded the earth, and they felt good. His hands held out by his shoulders for balance, and they felt strong. The energy of this place coursed in him. The Monastery’s shadow kissed their faces with a cooling touch as they ran on. The city was so large it was deceiving how far they still had to go.

  But Arturo kept running, more so stumbling, down the path to get to the city gate. He wanted to be there in it, to smell it and see it and taste it. Surreal was a word so weak and light the wind blew it from his mind. The Capital was a fever dream, and he couldn’t wait to be sick. He was even excited for the mass.

  The remnants of an ancient wall stretched in either direction away from the road at the city’s entrance. The Monastery cast the gates in darkness. Vendedores peddled their dried meats and pottery with mounds of their products piled on their backs and in their arms, little wooden carts somehow withstanding the great strain of all the things they sold. Some of the new arrivals waved their hands and shook their heads while they bargained. A cacophony of sounds echoed off the mountain and pyramid, the sounds of the city. Guitar and singing, arguments, and laughter all poured between the gates. Miguel trotted up next to Arturo, face covered in mayonnaise and crumbled queso, an enormous piece of corn dripping oil and salsa onto his fists.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Arturo’s mouth hung open, “You already found elote?? I haven’t seen anyone selling it out here yet.”

  “You missed it staring out at the streets with that dumb look you still have on your face. I ran and got some at the first cart I saw,” Miguel barely had breath to speak between bites.

  “I’ve never seen him move that fast,” Antonio added from behind them.

  “I’ll show you where it was, Arturo. I’ll get a second one with you.” And that’s what Arturo loved about Miguel.

  “Gracias. Ah, don’t you guys love it here,” Arturo asked as they stepped foot into the city proper, weathered stone ascending them from the land of countrymen to among the city folk. His friends nodded in agreement.

  “Sure do,” Barto grunted and pushed past them. Some middle-aged women in less clothes than should be proper this close to the Monastery sat around a bar off to the right. The old wall made up one side of the building, and the wrinkled root of a man sauntered towards it.

  “Gross, right under the Parents’ noses,” Miguel whined looking disgusted.

  “They’re in the Ministry, Miguel,” Antonio stared off at the distant pyramid.

  “Whatever, amigo. By the Father’s name and all the Greatstorms he’s cleansed, look at that.”

  The women were laughing and giggling at whatever Barto had to say. “He’s got to be richer than we thought,” Arturo responded slack jawed.

  “Don’t you guys work together?”

  “That’s what makes it even harder to understand.” Arturo pulled out an empty coin pouch. They all looked at each other and laughed.

  They made their way past the Monastery and into El Mercado Rojo. Arturo closed his eyes and took in the smells. Their plan was to eat then work their way up the main street, El Derecho, drinking until they found a place to stay. Penitence and religion were for a time after the first chance to have fun… by the Parents’ guidance… probably.

  In every direction he looked, Arturo balked at buildings smashed together and stacked on top of each other, lines in a history book built in one decade and the next, people hanging onto the balconies and calling out to their friends below or pouring some putrid bucket into the street. It didn’t matter what it was or where it landed, and Arturo certainly didn’t care. He saw more human experience in these quick glances than in a week back in his pueblo.

  Valeria’s almond eyes flashed up at him from her back. He froze and gulped and kept walking, his awe stained by shame.

  The Capital was completely encircled by green-brown peaks a lifetime and yet a short hike away. Old women and sleeping men sat amongst their stalls along the streets, younger women picked through hanging dresses and stacked pots to find what they liked. The pervasive red imprinted itself into his brain, but Arturo only had eyes for one place.

  Ahead of them, a chef in a sweat-stained, collared white shirt chopped at mounds of scarlet red meats with a cleaver. His swelling belly and concentrated face spoke of one thing, good tacos. Huge, black, and blackening teeth flashed in his jubilant smile as he cradled his delicate dishes in his giant hands and passed them to the customers at the high counter. Ratty, wooden stools were lined around the comal for hungry eaters. The shop had no name, and it didn’t need one. The three friends took seats and leaned on the counter. “Que quieren,” the sweaty chef asked without pausing his cooking. Spiced meat and toasted tortillas wafted around them.

  “Quatro tacos de cecina para mi,” Arturo responded.

  “Me too,” Antonio murmured.

  “I’ll do as many of the cabeza for me,” chimed Miguel. Arturo and Antonio chided him for not going with the signature meat of El Mercado Rojo, and Miguel whined back, “Back off, I can’t do the spice.” Arturo and Antonio then laughed at him. “Hey, I’ll drink you two into the ground.”

  Beefy hands dropped beefier tacos in front of the three young men and placed small bowls of different salsas on the counter. “A bit of everything, and...” Arturo took the bite he had been waiting for, perfection. Fat and heat coated his mouth, and a lime brought it all together. “Mierda, que bueno,” Arturo laughed to himself. Indulgence. Valeria would love this place. Arturo stopped and felt a pang of guilt again. Well, she could have come.

  When they finished their third plate of tacos, Arturo tossed some coins to the chef who nodded at them. He never broke eye contact from his cooking food. Arturo respected the dedication. Miguel smacked him on the back and thanked Arturo for the food. “First cervezas on me,” Antonio offered. They all wooted.

  The young men ate and drank their way through the Capital, and all Arturo’s cares of the world vanished into the air with the smoke from the group’s pipes and tobacco. He was even happy to see Barto catch up with them after his whoring. The grump was already drunk too, carrying a half-empty bottle of tequila loosely in one hand. The gulps Barto took from the bottle were truly inspirational. Miguel sat down with him and challenged the old man to a drinking competition. “You’ve already lost, nin?o,” Barto growled. Miguel did sway back and forth in his seat, clearly the drunker of the two.

  Arturo made his way outside of the most recent bar they patronized. They had moved from El Mercado Rojo, past several barrios, and into El Centro. The buildings here were all stacked boxes of cracking clay, signs painted onto the outer walls above the entrances. Wagon fixers, tanners, wool spinners, and fishmongers. Arturo’s pueblo never got the seafood stuff given their distance from the coast, so he and his friends never really got the taste for it; so, the smell from those shops was nothing short of unwelcome. He joined up with his bickering group attempting to decide where to go next, and he tried to keep his balance. He made a mental note to forget the less glorious sides to his visit, like the smell of this cramped place, for obvious reasons.

  People stumbled by in the streets. Arturo smiled at his fortune and flexed his hands. Flashing lights and applause caught his attention from further up the main street. His friends and Barto stepped out of the bar to meet him, and Arturo realized he was standing in the middle of a group of people he didn’t know. He turned toward his friends. “What d’you think is’over ther,” he slurred at them.

  “Lests… jus’go’n’see,” Miguel slurred back. Arturo made an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders and trudged in the crowd’s direction.

  “Mis amigos! Would you like to hear another,” a young man’s voice called from the center of the crowd. Miguel used his size to his advantage and shoved through the crowd to get his friends a better vantage of whatever spectacle awaited them. Most in the crowd were as drunk or worse than their little group, so no one looked twice. They got within three rows of cheering people before stopping to watch. The young man yelling over the crowd stood on a wooden crate, dressed in a white jacket and slacks. A wide-brimmed black and white sombrero drooped, lopsided from his head, and a black lace lined his jacket lapels, studded with polished silver buttons. A companion, dressed identically, sat on another wooden box in front of a strange contraption made of metal. Little prongs of varying lengths struck out from the tops and sides, and the man’s thin fingers were clasped together near small rods pointed towards his stomach.

  The crowd roared at the standing man’s coaxing. “Then you shall have another!” He threw up his hands, and his pedestal looked close to toppling. The crowd roared louder. The two companions at the center lowered their heads together, then the one seated at the metal box placed his fingers on the small rods sticking from the box’s side. Lightning reached for the sky, and an electric orchestra of zippy, tinny notes sprung into the air like some mutant accordion. They smelled like rain.

  The performer’s fingers danced along the metal rods, and lightning jumped from the top of the box like a spider web for catching drunks. An open trunk was placed on the ground, half full of coins and empty glass vials. The music picked up and the standing musician clapped. A blast of wind knocked off hats and blew back hair among the crowd. Hands shot into the air, and everyone cheered.

  It was a Storm mariachi.

  Arturo’s jaw was dropped so far open it dragged in the dirt on the ground. Even Barto looked excited. The one with the blasts of wind jumped from the box, adding a beat to his percussion with his feet and blasting a cloud of dirt into the air. The bolts of lightning danced in the smoky clearing, blurred and eclectic. The show of light and sounds dazzled Arturo’s senses. He tried recalling the names of siblings in a Storm. The Thunder man? Thunder bolt? Well, the guy with the thunder began snapping his fingers and beating his chest to a fast and invigorating rhythm. Every beat sent little blasts of air through the crowd, and lightning lit up the people’s faces.

  The lightning brother’s fingers danced on his metal box. His head was down, and he swayed in the rhythm. Neither sang words nor spoke, they simply felt their music. Thunder guy began dancing around in circles. His brother lifted his head into the sky, bolts arcing towards the night in rapid melody.

  Thunder took Arturo in his heart. It reached into his soul. He had never felt this connected to song. He felt it in his bones, in his muscles flexing, in blood rushing in his ears. The dancing musician seemed to slow to a standstill, Arturo’s breath rasping in his throat, leaden in his chest. The back of his neck itched like his skin was trying to drag him into the sky. He turned and looked up at the Monastery, its peak lost in dark clouds and in the night. All of his being beckoned him to walk towards the great stone pyramid. Was this the spiritual feeling people were supposed to experience on pilgrimage? The music reached a crescendo in concert with the beating of his heart. The sombrero on his back pressed into him with each clap of thunder from the musicians. A bit of the electric light flashed and reflected off the Monastery, off… a sword… flashing with its own light in the night, far up the pyramid before the cloud cover in a window before a terrace. What a curious time to be practicing with a sword.

  Arturo could barely think. His mind was sluggish with drink, but his skin crawled to move. He slowed his breath. Tried to snap out of it. He turned back towards the entertainers. He opened his eyes. Both mariachis watched him. Their heads sprouted fur and fangs and their eyes wept blood. They finally sang, “Your blood, your family, your brother.” They sang in horrible gurgling voices. Blood sputtered out of their mouths as they laughed at him. They finished their chorus with a scream, “DEMON!”

  Arturo jerked, and the crowd erupted with applause. The Storm stood and bowed. Arturo’s friends clapped him on the back and gestured at him to cheer as well. Shaken, he lifted a half-hearted cry in favor of the song. The mariachis, with human heads Arturo told himself over and over, bowed. Thunder guy called out, “Gracias! Gracias! Somos Los Hermanos de la Lluvia! Come see us any night. We are easy to find!” The crowd laughed. Arturo felt lonely.

  The group of countrymen and sheep herders found a nice inn to stay at over the night. Many of the establishments dotted roads all near the Monastery making business out of the pilgrims. People would make their journey, drink to their heart’s content, and crash at the nearest inn they could find. Funny how the best partying in the city was nearest the largest church.

  Arturo’s head hit an unsupportive pillow and his skin scratched against a straw mattress. The innkeepers didn’t even bother placing wool sheets over the itchy stuff. Arturo didn’t care. His mind was addled with booze in a far-off place. A lone swordsman stood atop a mountain of stone and reached out his hand. A man in a green mask called him by name and wept tears of blood. And Arturo slept.

  Buenas noches, mi hijo.