THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

 

BOOK SEVEN:  CUAHTENOTL EPACT

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

 

 

 

          "I have a proposal for us," José finally ventured, coaxing a little of the eagle... or even a zopilote... back into his spirit. "It is nearing midnight, and when the bells of Cuahtenotl finish tolling, neither you nor I shall be able to find that which we need, for a year, at least, or ever... I propose that you lay down the Jackal's machete, and that I place this automatic between us when we lie in the hammock as the article of my faith, and we shall give to each other that which we need. I shall have the General's money and you, you shall have, from me..."

          He could not bring himself to say what he was prepared to sacrifice, but with all the strength remaining in his battered left hand, unloosed the buttons of his trousers.

          Then, the Major sat on the edge of the hammock nearest the spike driven through the inverted theatrical balcony, holding the Browning against his cheek as he heard her slide in nearest the other end, suspended from a tower of the lunatic asylum. Very slowly, very deliberately, he sagged downwards and pulled himself forward by grasping the netting.... Consuela slithering downwards, her skirt snagging in the hemp, rising above her knees to her hips, nothing more than a profile by the light of the last of the candles of death.

          "And now that we have each other where we want them," José whispered into her face, only a few inches above his lips, "take my hands and I shall take yours and we shall be together here... you, I and the señor Browning." The automatic pistol slipped from his cheek as their fingers intertwined, and came to rest in the hollow between their throats. There was a short uproar as two of the black birds disputed a tasty portion of Gerardo Moscoso, with the surprise of the screeching and flapping, an erotic, almost electric current rippled through the major from his groin to the toes of his left foot.

          "Now, a snake of mine shall find its way to you, through the monte..."

          "A little worm," Consuela rasped, "come to the mother who is so much vaster than he is." And her teeth locked onto the Major's bruised lip, but gently, and the prongs of her tongue tickled the last bits of the Jackal’s offal and don del Muerte's stew from his teeth.

          Far and beneath, the church of the plaza tolled the dying of the last of the unlucky days... its tomes thudding through the sodden trees and wind-whipped debris like cannon shots. One... two... three... three, José remembered Chankik's gossip, ox, the number of the earth or, rather, its crust...

          "Bend to me!" the Major commanded, his ravaged fingers savaging the witch, raking downwards into the hollows of the warm, wet wool that slid over her flesh like the sheerest silk of China.

          Four... five...

          "Ai!" Consuela cried out and pulled him near, digging her own nails down the collar of his coat and into his back, draining the Major's fluids from him with her tongue, her lips and the viselike grip of her coño; sucking the moisture from his body as certain spiders feed upon the bodily juices of bugs twice their size...

          Six... seven... eight...

          The last of the candles flickered out and José, feeling the barrel of the Browning as a membrane between the throbbing veins of their throats, emitted a single, sharp cry of pleasure and pain or... could it have been... triumph?...

          "I lied!" he rejoiced. "I know where to find the General's money... whether you help me or not."

          Nine...

          "And, as you have said, I am not Jesucristo!"

          Ten... lahun... the number and the hour of ah-Cimil, the hour of don del Muerte...

          And reason deserted the Major, and Consuela also, as though they were no longer human beings but, rather, the beasts of their aspect... a writhing serpent drawing venom inwards from a great, black, flapping bird that tore back at her with the frenzy of its brothers devouring the Jackal where he lay, the Browning directly under their chins, now, as they thrashed in the hamaca...

          Eleven... buluc... the hour of descent, of destruction of the above and the falling away of souls...

          Not merely her clothes sliding away in his grasp... not only the clothes but... for the sake of Juan de la Cruz!... her flesh shedding, crumpling in his fingers as, simultaneously, both lurched for the gun naked beneath their nakedness – their animal souls come to the fore, twenty fingers reaching for the gun...

          Twelve...

          And, following the last chime of the churchbell, the discharge of the Browning... which made thirteen, causing even the zopilotes of the dark to stop, look up from their meal and do reverence... thirteen, the hours of the day and number of the days of the lunar week, the weeks of the tzolkin, the moving joints of the corpus... two ankles, knees, hips, two wrists, elbows, shoulders, one head... thirteen, multiplied by the twenty digits of hands and feet... thirteen, the cardinal points of three crosses and the tree of life and death, the abode of the serpents or, in the Valley of Mexico, Dios del Cielo, La Via Lactea. Thirteen, oxlahun... three and ten... the rising to break through the crust of death on the third day, the days of the waxing, then waning moon, favorable to stranglers and sorcerers... the binding twine of the Bacabs and the smoke from the little gun swelling to fill the choza, condensing to turn the wheel of...

          Resurrection...

 

 

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