THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK SEVEN:
CUAHTENOTL EPACT
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
El Chacol had been a simple fellow. Perhaps he had come to Cuahtenotl for no particular reason, perhaps he had simply
gotten lost, and there was nothing that held any meaning for him. In such case,
José reasoned, wouldn't a simple man be drawn to simple hiding places in which
to hide the General's saddlebags... particularly since he knew that their
contents were valuable, but that there was a mystery to be solved before he
could convert the certificates into money, any sort of money, that could be
spent on caña or a horse, or ammunition. Standing
where the Major did, or at any place overlooking the valley of debris, the
Jackal would be drawn to items with bright colors, unusual shapes, things that
were big! Things that announced
themselves with trumpets, not flutes.
And there
stood that biggest float of all, erect by the fortunes of its falling, and
nearly whole... la veleta de Malinche!
The
float upon which Elena and her smooth, beardless Cortes had waved to the crowds
of Merida, so many years ago, had been simple... an open carretera,
bedecked with flowers and nubile attendants of the witch and her indian-killer. What lay in the valley, however, was a cabriolé for the gods... a great white coach perhaps six
times the length and width of those that traversed the fashionable streets of
the capital (although infrequently, now, with the coming of the automobile).
There were four rows of four wooden and iron wheels... rotted and rusted, now,
as they were... and the Major calculated that, depending upon the quantity of Malinche's attendants, no less than forty horses had been
given over to the task of pulling the coach, perhaps as many as sixty!
A blur
through the rain caught the corner of the Major's eye and, when he looked,
there was one of those tan shaped orbs from the display of friendly eggs... it
regarded him until he removed the Webley from his
belt, then rotated and fled on spindly, dark-coloured
legs. Of course there were no eggs with legs and arms, not even of the days of
the Epact... some children with less fear of the spirits than their parents had
gotten into a discarded display and made, of it, a toy. What else could a child
do in this godforsaken valley?
José
circled the great veleta, admiring its
construction and, also, looking for places where a simple fellow like the
Jackal may have concealed Bravo's saddlebags. Not a place of great cunning or
cleverness, but not an obvious place either... Gerardo was a thief, so knew the
ways of thieves. He placed one of his muddy boots between the spokes of the
foremost wheel and hauled himself upwards... the cabriolé
had once been a brilliant, virginal white (an odd choice for the conveyance of
so controversial a person but... then... Mexicans have always been of at least
two minds about their heritage, often more) that had blanched and faded with
the passage of more than two years, dun-coloured
where mud and filth and rot had seeped into the wood.
Some of
the hindmost wheels had been broken during the fall from the railroad tracks,
or thereafter, so the cabriolé listed slightly backwards...
its foredeck was slippery and José kept himself upright by grasping one after
another of a series of poles that probably had been used to support garlands of
flowers strung together or, perhaps, paper lanterns as favored by Orientals to
illuminate the cabriolé by night. The coach was
another matter... at one time richly upholstered in plush, leather and crimson
velvet, it was a filthy reeking agar for mushrooms and slime and insects of a
sort that might have delighted Doktor Krankenhauer, but repelled the Major, who backed away with
his hand across his mouth. Then, he thought of his duty... took several deep
breaths and entered again, prodding the putrid cushions and kicking at the
planks beneath the seats to be sure that there was no hiding place for the
General's saddlebags.
He
backed out of the fetid coach, breathing heavily and... if
this were possible... beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks, merging with the
trails of the rain. He wiped his face, his vision blurred... and looked up to
see a young man in Conquistador dress posing at the upraised front of the cabriolé. "Cortes?" he squinted, for he had grown
weary with spirits.
"Cimarrón. Rafael Cimarrón, Capitan."
"You're
out of your place, espiritu! There may be little boys
in the village or, certainly, down the mountain in San Sebastien.
Not here. And, by the way, I am a Major, even if not on active duty."
"For
me, you are and always will be Captain Macias. You had no cause to conspire
with the police in Campeche... I had no interest in your sweetheart. You had me
sent to the Territory for a crime that I did not commit."
"And
those you did commit? I do not wait for one to injure me... the proximity is
sufficient to my reply. I did not even know that you had been sent to Quintana Roo... did you enjoy your stay?"
"Suffice
it to say that I am here, and will return tomorrow... and tomorrow's
tomorrow for all the years that are left to this world to come."
"You
should have chosen a more agreeable climate for your wasted vacation,"
José scoffed, as a swell of rain and wind enveloped Cimarrón
and bore him off. "Fantômas!" he spat. "And without even showing respect for my rank. I
suppose that, to all of the dead of this miserable place, Diaz is still
President."
Despite
its stench, he re-entered the coach to roll and light a cigarette, out of the
weather, and cupped it with his left hand as he stood, smoking on the deck of
the cabriolé. Arrayed to all sides of the listing
exhibit... like icebergs round the supposedly "unsinkable" Titanic,
which had gone down just six months previous... were warped and splintered
pianos which, at length, attracted the attention of the Major. He hopped down
from Malinche's coach and inspected the nearest of
these... it was counterfeit, of course, with neither ebony nor ivory keys, only
a faded black and cream simulacrum. He rapped the top of the false piano... it
was hollow... and, since the wood had already been breached in several places,
and a few of the holes were larger than his fist, he plunged his still-aching
right hand into these and groped for the treasure that was not be there.
Was he
losing his mind? The saddlebags could not have been concealed in a place
without an aperture of at least half a meter... he walked to another piano,
lying on its back like a stiff, dead dog, and tugged one of the legs... which
came away in his grasp. Frowning, he kicked at the frame and it collapsed in
rotten splinters and wet dust, without even the musical gasp with which real
pianos expire. Sheets of rain caused him to lower his head and, when he looked
up, perhaps a dozen wraiths were closing in upon him.
"More
of you bastards?" the Major sneered. "What a motley gang of ghosts
you are... are those the clothes that you died in? Did I send you off to hell
in the territory... we had some actors and musicos,
even a circus clown who offended the President, but... are you the best that
the Devil can do?"
Several
of the little creatures in egg-suits darted through the approaching phalanx and
José ravaged his memories... had he somehow taken the lives of poultrykeepers? What the convicts of the Territory had been
before their dispatch... was that any business of his for don
del Muerte to take notice of?
"I
almost wish that you were real," the Major sighed, taking up the leg of
the false piano as a cudgel, waving it at the nearest of the spectres... a zouave in rags, red
jacket and white trousers patched and sprouting some ungodly Krankenhauerian fungus... thin as a Posada calavér, and with the long, ragged brown beard of a Jesus
who has been sleeping too long by roadsides.
He
swung his ersatz piano leg at the neck of this ersatz Juan de la Cruz.
"Cabron!"
The
valley Jesus flinched, and José's blow struck him high on the shoulder...
nonetheless, the fellow tumbled to his knees, leaving the Major standing and
wondering at the distinct sensation of accomplishment in smiting a solid, flesh
and blood adversary. The piano leg had not so much snapped as imploded with the
impact... the top half of it sagging, held in place by a few strands of cheap,
rotten wood from which erupted a stream of panicked, biting insects.
"Cabron!" the Major repeated,
flinging the useless cudgel aside and drawing his Webley.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked of a cringing, kowtowing
pasha in torn, dirty chiffon, an absurd headpiece and pointed slippers, raising
what he hoped was a theatrical saber. José fired two shells into his thigh and
his groin and the man fell sideways but, as he did, there came a sharp blow
against his ribs, another against the back of his head caused him to drop the
automatic. There were so many of them... and he could not see six inches in
front of him! Something struck him, hard, on the back of his knee and another
improvised club broke off against the crown of his hat causing something warm
and hurrying to stream down his face... the Major wiped off what he thought was
blood but saw, to an even greater horror, that, although the hat had absorbed
much of the fury of the impact, the explosion of the wood had released a swarm
of little gray bugs that were on his face, burrowing beneath his shirt...
crawling up his wrist.
And
then he screamed.
And a
legion of blows rained down upon him... through God's own rain... sticks and
pikes and boots and even a few bony fists pummeling the Major no matter where
he might turn. And yet, he thought... as something particularly sharp seared
his shinbone, some rusty, infected sword?... the blows would have killed him
had they been delivered by men of even average strength, wielding weapons that
did not corrode or splinter upon impact. And then the mud splattered his face
as he fell, and the last thing José Macias remembered was a smell of flowers...
the sweet flowers of a poveda: plumeria,
lilies, gardenias. And, receding at an illimitable
distance, the glittering, spun-sugar skull mask... free, at least, of the skull
within... stretched and twisted into all of the shapes of the universe, and
some known only to the Otherworld.
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