THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK SEVEN:
CUAHTENOTL EPACT
CHAPTER ONE
San
Sebastien was a fair sized town, larger than it seemed... perhaps... for the
compactness of its streets, which lined both sides of the tracks. Like many
railroad towns, and not only in Mexico, there was a palpable sense of
division... one side, if not prosperous, was at least tidy, the other abject
and seemingly on the verge of falling down the side of such mountain as José
never did get the name of. The tracks not only divided north from south... for
the Mexican line had swerved sharply so as not to have to pass directly by the
volcanoes... but up from down. The gente decente of San Sebastien, such as they existed, lived above...
those without fortune, below. There are such places where the whole of
Marx and Adam Smith (and Thorsten Veblen, too) may be discerned in just one
glance... José glanced, decided and turned to the high side of town. There were
no other passengers either arriving or departing... the porter exchanged
pouches of correspondence with the town's elderly stationmaster and the train
was off, steaming down the mountain on its way to Cuernavaca and, thence,
Mexico City.
Despite
the lateness of the hour and an uncommon mist, more suitable to the alleys of
old London, the streets of San Sebastien Alto swarmed with children... children
in the white trousers and shirts common, also, to those worn by the indians of the Yucatan. Many of
these pulled small wagons which José, upon leaving the platform, determined to
be coffins on wheels, ghastly toys that reminded the Major of the nearness of
the Days of the Dead which, he knew, were observed more diligently here than on
the Yucatan peninsula. One of these moppets approached him and, pulling on a
string that activated some hidden mechanism on the wagon, caused a papier mache skeleton painted a
slightly phosphorescent green to leap up and salute him. José drew back his
foot to administer swift, certain punishment... for how could he not be certain
that one of these wagons concealed a weapon... but the delinquent scurried away
into the mist, followed by others and, inexorably, more of San Sebastien's
cadaverous dogs.
The
encounter reminded José of his mission, also that he was hungry... grasping his
bag tightly against any spirit, living or dead, that might dart out of an alley
or doorway, he began searching up and down the streets of San Sebastien for
life other than that of those ragamuffins, whose cries and screeches, barely
distinguishable from sounds animals make, echoed through the damp town with
only single, dim gaslamps on its corners and, of
course, the blanched and swollen moon overhead. He tilted his hat so its
accumulated drizzle would not trickle directly into his face and gave consideration
to a conceit of Mr. Poe... that San Sebastien was a city in the lurid sea,
overlooked by don del Muerte; a melancholy throne, unreverenced, where...
"No
rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long nighttime of that town!"
He trod the length of San Sebastien's main street
without finding an unshuttered building, climbed a
mud path up to the next street, turned back towards the station and finally...
on an unlit corner, espied the dim glow of a panaderia
that also sufficed for the neighborhood cafe. José entered, placed his bag on
the floor, near his heel, and asked if there was any food to be had... all that
was left for sale was beer, coffee (horribly flavoured,
to one whose palate had been spoiled by the brews and aromas of Parroquia) and the small, barely edible novelties of the
season of death... hard sugar candies fashioned in the shapes of skulls,
tombstones, owls and other artifacts of somber aspect and the pan de muertos, biscuits with hard, sweet frosting
crisscrossed like the slats of a ribcage, flayed and baked. These were, of
course, quite stale and, dunked in the odorific swill
sold as coffee, provided a miserable supper... redeemed only, at the last, by
news of the man in the red shirt.
The
proprietor of the panaderia admitted to no knowledge
of Kanegis but, among the few patrons of the seedy
establishment, was a retired Ingenario who had,
apparently, been victimized in some complicated confidence scheme... the extent
and even cost of which he still had been unable to determine, for it involved
the changing of revolutionary currencies whose value might yet rise (or
disappear completely). Kanegis was a Greek, a
deserter from the wars raging through the unhappy Balkans, perhaps, or a former
resident of Mexico City, compelled to flee the capital as a consequence of some
criminal activity gone wrong. He did wear a red shirt over dark trousers that
had, at one time, been part of a suit of distinction... such as a wealthy man
might wear... but such days were clearly behind him, as his petty grafting
proved. He was of a terrible temper, but also a sycophant... a collector and
broker of information without regard to its source, reliability or consequence.
(Hearing
this, José's determination not to permit the man to leave this desolate part of
Mexico was settled, and he prodded the leather bag with the tip of his boot to
be sure that the Webley and the Browning automatics still rested therein.)
The Ingenario then advised José that Kanegis
had left San Sebastien... he had gone on to that very village of miserable
scavengers that the porter had pointed out, Cuahtenotl.
"On business!" the Ingenario shook his
head. "What business is up there, save the buying and selling of
garbage?"
The
mention of the trashpickers' village up the mountain
brought José a bounty of gossip from all of the patrons of the panaderia... some of it useful, most of it the
self-important swagger of small men with just enough fortune to dwell on the
better side of squalid, little town and, thereby, anointed with the liberty to
deride those more miserable than themselves. Cuahtenotl,
to hear the stories that they told... inevitably cut off by a slurping of the panaderia's noxious coffee or an explosion of crumbs from
stale pan de muertos... was a seething suppuration on
a mountain of the Devil's turds.
"They
steal children," one tubercular fellow assured José, "and train them
to crawl through abandoned mines, looking for gold that has fallen through the
pockets of the Cientificos!"
"In
Cuahtenotl, on the last night before their Epact...
which is, in fact, tonight!... such good souls as
exist there drink themselves into a stupor and, if they are fortunate, will not
awaken until Sunday!"
"If
there is no corn, they do not despair, for they will kill and devour any dog,
cat, rat or bird of carrion that dares intrude upon their village. That is why
there are so many dogs here in San Sebastien - they know what awaits them up
there!"
"Up
there, in Cuahtenotl, time runs backwards... even for
the indians. Tonight is the last day of their year...
then come the five unlucky days which these diabolists associate with the dias de muertos,
then their New Year begins in cold and rain. Not on the week past Our Lord's
day, which is itself after the solstice so that the lengthening of the days
brings hope, nor in February, where the days are lengthened further, still, and
the spring is at hand, but next Sunday." And because José was there to
locate the man in the red shirt, and not get into disputes, he refrained from
telling them of the indians
of Yucatan and the Territory, whose New Year began in midsummer.
"They
are Zapatistas, one and all..." the consumptive affirmed, with a great
cough into his handkerchief.
"They
eat their dead."
José
nodded sagely at each accusation, more fantastic than the last, marking his
memory with the few useful grains of intelligence reaped from this harvest of
diabolism. No San Sebastiano would acknowledge having seen either Consuela or
the Jackal... but the night train from Orizaba was the only way into the
region, and no sane person of the high side of the tracks would spend any time
at the station if he could help himself. Of course there were always the local
police, but these somewhat respectable citizens held the jefe and his men in
low esteem and, besides, there was a Jefe Militar for
Cuahtenotl itself... a grafting, imbecilic
son-of-a-bitch of a cashiered Federal officer, whose only merit was apparently
that he was there, and they were here.
In
short, a man with whom José already felt confident he could do business.
The
other scrap of useful information José gleaned off of this tapestry of
desolation was that the inhabitants of Cuahtenotl
prayed to the Devil, one and all... their only priest a sorry sot and a lecher,
to boot, their school a hotbed of sorcery. "Some women of Cuahtenotl have the capacity to transform themselves into
vixens," one old man who'd introduced himself as Baltasar
averred, "others into fowl and, in consequence, there is always some flavour of murder afoot, up there, with persons being found
torn apart by their cousins and nephews, only parts of bodies, scraps,
really... they are all relatives, of a sort, no outside person would ever marry
into a family of scavengers. Would you wish to awake, of an evening, and find
that your wife has become a bird... pecking at your pecker? Not even the
Zapatistas spill their manseed into chickens!"
"Don
Orfeo does," another codger corrected him.
"Orfeo is patron of the Club Diana, on the other side of the
tracks," José's tipster explained. Of course there could be no vice
unknown to such people.
José
thanked his touts, gathered up his bag and stuffed a few stale death's head
biscuits into his pocket, for who knew when he would find food again? There was
no hotel in Cuahtenotl, not even a guesthouse, but
fully half of its structures were uninhabited, he was assured, and there would
be plenty of places to rest once he had covered the six... or eight...
kilometers up the mountain on a winding, muddy trail. And he paid the tab for
all of those present, securing their promise that no word of his being would
ever pass beyond the confines of the panaderia, for
the success of his enterprise depended upon secrecy and surprise.
"You're
some kind of policeman yourself," deduced Baltasar
with a wink, "come to carry the señor Kanegis back to Mexico for his crimes. Maybe you'll arrest
all of those miserable creatures, up there," he added, hopefully, and José
smiled and shrugged... a gesture that could have meant yes, or no. "Go
with God at your shoulder, sir... Cuahtenotl is a
foul abscess of sin and the excesses of jubilation, which Mexico cannot abide.
Clear it out, root them out, señor, and the Lord will
cover it with His canvas of darkness."
And
several of the habitués of the panaderia even
accompanied him to the door and pointed out that street which quickly
deteriorated into a miserable path up the mountain. A sharp, biting rain had
overspread the malodorous fog of San Sebastien, and José pulled his overcoat
tight... sharp, wind-whipped branches lashed at his face and his limbs, for the
path was soon so narrow that there were places where two mules would not be
able to pass each other without one having to step off the trail and risk a
terrible fall into the abyss.
And on
that journey upwards, a sentiment came to the Major... not a memory but
something other, if you will. A premonition... he could not know, but only
sense that there was or would come a time when his soul would strain against
its cage, a time of such cold, wet weather with danger to all sides. It caused
him to slow, even stop for a moment, wondering at the mystery of mortality that
had, so unexpectedly, blown across his path.
After
some hours had passed, the intensity of the rain lessened... again the dull,
silver moon peeked across the treetops like a great, round fungus in the sky
and revealed, to the Major, the trail's nearly orthogonal elevation which
ended, abruptly, at a great "X" formed by two tall, fallen pines...
as certainly nature's warning to trespassers as would be a corps of armed
Rurales, training their rifles on any presumed intruder. José sighed, for his
days in the Territory had attenuated him to the signs and symbols of Juan de la
Cruz... and his subterranean Other... but, after all,
the uncouth Chacol had made off with eight hundred
thousand pesos. Eight hundred thousand pesos... and the imbecile
probably did not hold the worth of his bloody saddlebags to be a thousandth of
that! It even occurred to the Major that he could secure them and the certificates
they contained for payment of a pitiful premium... but the Jackal would be
suspicious of the patron of Akbal, who had come all
the way to this miserable redoubt for papers of such small worth. And then
there was Consuela. And his pride.
No... nobody must ever leave this mountain alive.
And
then José almost despaired, for the great eagle that always came to him in his
prayers and desperation, pointing out the way to a swift, felicitous...
though not always peaceable... resolution had apparently deserted him. Just as
fortune had deserted Felix Diaz, who waited in jail for his uncle, or the
Germans, someone to ransom him... José had prayed that Bravo would not
be so foolish as to squander all they'd extracted from the Territory on behalf
of don Porfirio's perfumado.
What was José without his eagle? No better than the vain, obtuse Felix... no,
not even his aguila chica
visited to whisper instructions into his ear.
Nothing
remained but a man... battered beyond his years... with a slippery, treacherous
path ahead of him and the arms of Juan de la Cruz crossed, forbidding him entry
into a place that was as far from Eden as Mexico was from its chalky-faced,
putrefied moon.
He
began to walk, placing one foot unsteadily in front of the other. One step, and
another...
The
needles of rain became sharper... and more numerous.
José walked.
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