The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  The Aztec champion raised his mighty hands in gesture as the camera pulled back.

  “We, the warriors of Aztlan, recognize the problems facing our white allies living under the gray oppressors in America. And we want to help you. But before we can help you, you have to learn to help yourselves—you have to learn how to resist—you have to learn how to fight.

  “But how can you resist? How can you fight? One way is to fight physically like Michael did. But for many of you, this isn’t possible because you’re too young. Luckily, there are lots of different ways to fight, no matter if you’re a boy or a girl, strong or weak, big or small, old or young.”

  Eduardo smiled awkwardly at the camera, adjusted his helmet, and resumed his address.

  “A good way to fight back against the grays is, first of all, to make sure your parents don’t become gray. Tell them all the bad things that will happen to them. Remind them that if they become gray they will want to hurt you and mistreat you. Many of your parents are thinking about becoming gray to get better jobs. They want to provide you with nice things, and they want good careers, so it can be tempting for them. But tell them that becoming gray isn’t worth all the money in the world.

  “Second of all, make sure that you don’t become gray yourselves. And tell your friends not to become gray too—tell them to take pride in who they are. You don’t have to have a certain skin color or race to be a great person. All you have to have is heart—the heart of a warrior.

  “So, until tomorrow’s episode of Go, Michael!, stay tough, stay strong, stay smart, and stay proud.” Eduardo saluted the cameras, and reclined back into his massive chair.

  Max rubbed Blake’s head until his hair was pointed at odd angles, then laughed.

  “What’s going on, Mr. Stewart? Do like . . . the Aztecs . . . wanna help us?” Blake looked up at his father’s mentor.

  “What the Aztecs want is more of the western U.S.” He popped his old knuckles, one hand at a time. “But would they help us fight the grays? Maybe—but there’d be a price, you can bet.”

  “Well, is this show good or bad, then?” The boy’s eyes were distressed.

  “Hell, it’s a good show. Who would have thought the first non-discriminatory show on the air depicting white guys in a good light in our lifetimes would have been made by Aztecs. Damn, I’ve gotta tell the rest of the guys.” He strode from the room, and Blake returned to throwing punches at the air.

  Chapter 24

  The Athenian stepped into black pantaloons, and pulled them up around his waist. They were a bit baggy, but they’d have to do. He had developed a fondness for this Irish holiday since arriving in America, and in years past had devoted hours to selecting a precise costume. Lately, events and people and duties had been fluttering in his life like a speed bag in rhythm, so there was little time for costume selection.

  Before donning his shirt and vest he examined his upper body in the mirror. Each scar, whether stretch mark from gym iron, or knife wound from steel, he acknowledged with a frown.

  “I don’t think she’ll mind them.” He gave the mirror a broken smile, and appraised his musculature with a nod. “I may be scarred up, but at least I’m ripped.”

  George slid on a white, ornately ruffled shirt and maroon vest. With a flourish, he then threw a purple cloak around his shoulders. A gold cross was embroidered on the back.

  “No one’s gonna know who the hell I’m supposed to be.” He sighed. “What’s missing? Of course!”

  His hand glided across the sink and seized a metal diadem. This, like his robe, was emblazoned with a cross. He set the crown upon his wavy black hair, and stepped back from the mirror.

  “Not quite.”

  A sheathed sword was gently removed from a wall mount and slung from his belt. But the Greek was still unconvinced of his coronation.

  “There’s one more thing . . .”

  Walking into the bedroom, he rifled through a box on his dresser. In a moment he withdrew a flashing medal roped by a gold chain. He hung the necklace around his throat and fixed the medal so that it was displayed on his vest.

  “I wonder if she’ll know now . . .” He pondered. “No one else will—but she might.”

  George shot a grim look at the mirror, drew his blade, and raised his fist.

  “As my city falls, I will fall with it!” he declared, then laughed. A full moon was rising over the trees beyond his window. He paused to fathom its beauty, then walked briskly from his room, robe whispering on floorboards.

  The apartment complex was alive with children, and George navigated his car through the parking lots with extra care. After parking in front of a building marked prominently with the number seven, he climbed out of the driver’s seat and looked at his feet. The black boots with their substantial heels felt good, and he appreciated the extra inch they afforded. Perhaps, even if his date wore heels tonight, he’d still be taller than she. He didn’t mind her lithe, tall body—in fact, it fired his blood. But he sometimes wondered if she would prefer a taller man. When George dwelled on these thoughts, he pushed himself to new limits at the gym. He may not be the tallest guy, he’d reassure himself, but he was tough, smart, well-muscled, gentlemanly, and virile. And those assets, he knew, were valued—not spurned—by women in the FCP.

  An elderly Russian woman answered his knock at the door. Her English was poor, but she invited him in with a wave of her hand.

  “Aleksandra will be out momentarily,” she said with practiced inflection, eyeing his costume.

  Thanking her, he seated himself on a sofa and studied a set of nesting dolls on the coffee table. Within moments, the old woman was at his side with a rainbowed platter of marzipan. He smiled, nodded, and selected an apple and a pear from the array. The candy was delicious, and she cackled good heartedly as he intoned universal sounds of gustatory pleasure.

  Satisfied that she had performed her duties as host, she sat down to resume her knitting. George had been dating Aleksandra for nearly a month now, but the apartment still captivated him. It was a repository for little treasures, good food, and occasional mental glimmers that made him feel as if he were back in Europe. Moonbeam crept though a kitchen window, and illuminated a painting above an old bookshelf.

  He rose from the sofa to better study it. It was fashioned in the old Russian style—fancifully, colorfully, memorably. An old woman, seated in what appeared to be a giant mortar and pestle, was flying through midnight sky. Beneath her were tracts of snow-laden pines. The moon’s pallor through the window enlivened a painted moon on the canvass, and George blinked. In what surely was visual deception, the crone in the painting grinned at him.

  “Mother Russia! Mother Russia!” lamented his host. “Attacked by the Muslims and Chinese. If only she existed . . . Baba Yaga. She would deal with them!”

  George looked closer at the woman depicted in the painting, and noticed that her teeth were pointed and bestial.

  “Maybe she would.” The Athenian laughed, a little uneasily. Down the tiny corridor, he heard a doorknob turn. George instantly straightened his posture, and fixed expectant eyes on the doorframe.

  Aleksandra emerged in a regal, sapphire gown. Her long, blonde hair was woven in an elaborate braid, and crowned with a silver tiara. The young woman’s eyes danced at the sight of the Athenian. In her hand she carried a scarlet cloak.

  “When I didn’t know what to wear you told me to dress like a queen,” she said, her tone unsure. “So this is the best I had. I also brought this, since it will be cold.”

  “Baby, you look gorgeous!” George choked, discretely noting the curves of her fair skin in the enclosing blue.

  Her face relaxed, and she smiled, head down.

  “And you look handsome.” She whispered, moving forward to embrace him. “Now will you tell me who we’re supposed to be?” Her accent was heavy, but her command of English was strong.

  “You’re Orthodox . . . you tell me.” He laughed and held up his medal. It portrayed what appeared to
be a king, sword in hand, atop city walls.

  “Saint Constantine.” She gasped in excitement. “The last emperor of Byzantium—Constantine Palaiologos. So I must be his queen.”

  “Yes! He died fighting the Turks while defending Constantinople.”

  “1453,” she added, and George’s eyes turned galvanic.

  “You never cease to impress m. . .” His complement was lost in a deep kiss. Foreheads pressed together, breath hot on each other’s cheeks, George whispered. “You probably know this—he was canonized in 2053 before the siege of Athens to help boost morale.”

  “I know.” Her lips intoned. She pressed against him, and the look in her eyes was somehow both feral and sensitive. They kissed again, and George pulled away—he had detected the early redistribution of blood below his sword belt.

  “We better go,” he breathed heavily, “we’ll be late for the party.”

  She smiled, clasped his outstretched arm, and followed his lead toward the door. The old woman smiled at the couple as they passed, and they bade her goodbye. When the door closed, a black cat leapt up to the Russian elder’s chair. She stroked its fur, then returned to her knitting.

  George hopped out of the driver’s seat and walked briskly around his car to open his date’s door. Chilly winds blew through the dark sky, wafting the acridity from bonfires to noses in a subtle, seasonal aroma. The parking lot was fuller than George had ever seen it. Hand-in-hand, he and his date walked along the dirt path toward the entrance to the festivities. Running children flew past them in sheets and capes, their parents’ reprimands chasing after on the wind. George noted the way Aleksandra smiled warmly at the children, how she took time to speak with the little girls who approached her in awe. So she likes kids, he thought. That’s the mark of a good mother. He raised the top of her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  Four men dressed as Confederate soldiers guarded the entrance. Their regalia was polished and looked authentic. One of them held aloft a billowing Confederate flag.

  “Yes sir-ee, Greco,” one of the men drawled at George’s approach. “We’re from a time when the good guys were gray. . . er. . . wore gray.”

  “Hi, Billy.” The Athenian shook hands with the bearded Rebel.

  “Howdy. That’s a mighty fine woman you got on your arm.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled. “Aleksandra, meet Billy, Jonas, Preston, and Seth. And don’t let them fool you—they dress up like this on more days than Halloween.”

  “How do you do?” she greeted, curtsying.

  “A pleasure, mah lady.” Billy and his friends bowed. “Man, she looks like she just walked out of Gone With The Wind or something. Put her in a red dress, dye her hair, and she could be Scarlet.”

  As George handed over the admittance fee, the Confederate handed him two tickets then pointed at the flag.

  “Greco, me and the boys have been thinkin’.” His breath reeked of whiskey. “Since we don’t have a flag for the FCP yet, I think we should go ahead and use Ol’ Dixie!”

  “Oh, no!” George laughed uneasily. “I understand that it’s part of your southern heritage, and you’ve got a right to fly it. I also recognize that lots of brave white men died under its colors. But it’s got too strong an association with slavery to be adopted by the FCP, Billy.”

  “Ah, c’mon, Greco,” pleaded the guard. “We don’t like the slavery either—we just like the chivalry an’ the honor an’ shit. I wanna fly Ol’ Dixie when we go into battle against those Muslim fuckers someday. I think it would be great to have this as the FCP flag—people’d love it.”

  “Yeah, and if you were a black nationalist—hell, not just a nationalist—any black—what would you think of it? If you were a strong black guy, you’d hate it. And you’d hate the people who carried it. I know I would,” the Greek reasoned.

  “Well who gives a fu. . .” Billy eyed a passing little girl dressed as a princess and bit his lip. “Who cares what those darkies think. I don’t wanna enslave ‘em—I don’t wanna hurt ‘em. But I sure don’t wanna kiss their asses either—and I’m not gonna stand by and be meek when the media tells my daughter to date ‘em. I’m gonna tell her to stick to her own people. And I’m not gonna sit tight and shut my mouth when I see ‘em promoted over other people just on account of their diversity.”

  “That’s fine,” replied George. “But your Dixie idea is still a no-go. Sorry.”

  “Aw, Greco!” The bearded man complained, and stumbled. “You know I had to at least give it a try.”

  “Yeah, I know.” George smiled, led Aleksandra past the men, and rolled his eyes.

  Generous light emanated from tall, steel sport lamps overhead. They served a dual purpose for the FCP—to illuminate meetings, and to light the flag football games played by its members on Tuesday nights. Contributing to the glow was a large bonfire in the field’s center, in front of which was a pulpit. George spied Mr. Stewart, Margaret, Hans, Kim, and others near the blaze, so headed for them. The field abounded in ghosts and heroes, celebrities and vagabonds, historical figures and the fey personages of myth and legend. There were carnival games, apple bobbing contests, roasted meats, popcorn stands, Scottish strength competitions, and folk dancing. The Athenian grinned broadly at the turnout and obvious time invested in decoration and costumes. He relished the festivities, the lights, the camaraderie, the children—the hope.

  Hans pulled his goggles down over his eyes at the approach of George and Aleksandra. His flight jacket could scarcely fit his large frame, and the brown leather cap covering his head was askew. The chin straps were unbuttoned, and hung down along his shoulders. Aleksandra tried not to laugh.

  Kim adjusted his flight cap, giggling. She wore a long, pink wig that hung over her jean jacket, and a tank top underneath that read “Metal Chick.” Near the bonfire, she wasn’t cold in her black leather skirt.

  “Okay, bro, who am I?” challenged Hans, pulling his jacket aside to reveal an underlying red t-shirt.

  “Uh, a crop-duster pilot?” George laughed.

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I am,” the youth joked.

  “George,” teased Kim, “you’re supposed to know that he’s the Red Barron.”

  “Oh, right. Thus the red shirt.”

  “What do I gotta do for people to recognize me . . . tie it around my head like a bandanna?” asked Hans.

  “Manfred von Richtoffen.” Aleksandra nodded. “Terror of the Ardennes. Probably shot down by an Australian anti-aircraft gun.”

  “Very good!” Margaret remarked, eyebrows raised. “That’s right, we have a history professor in our midst. But I thought your expertise was the early-modern period?”

  “My expertise.” She blushed. “But I love history from all eras.”

  “In that case, you might appreciate the dilemma I faced, Aleksandra,” the youth confessed. “I couldn’t decide between being Richtoffen or a Teutonic Knight. But then Kimmie told me that I was a Teutonic Knight every other day of the year, so I might as well be the Baron for a day.”

  “Ah, how sweet.” The Russian looked at Hans and Kim, then smiled.

  “Yes, son,” said Mr. Stewart, “we all know you’re a Germanophile. But your mother and I can’t complain on that one—look what we named you.”

  A burly man dressed in animal hides stepped forward from where he had been drinking by the fire. He was above average height, and his girth was substantial. However, it was evident that muscle lurked beneath his adipose. A silver pendant, fashioned in the shape of a hammer, hung around his throat, and a black beard forested his cheeks and chin.

  “That man,” he growled, pointing to Hans, “has killer’s blood in his veins.” The accusation silenced the FCP leaders, and all eyes riveted to the newcomer. “I saw him spill the blood of his enemies lustily, callously—like the marauding Teuton that he is. It was in a past life. I was at Kharkov, 1943—the cold was hellish and the artillery was deafening.” He swiped his hand in a circle as he stumbled into the center of the group, and droplets
of beer flew from his fingers. “There were Reds all around us, prodded on by their Commissars.”

  Aleksandra withdrew a step and felt George’s arm wrap her shoulder to pull her close.

  “And . . . and I thought I was gonna fucking die,” he garbled. “So I fell down in the snow and prayed to Thor.”

  George held a hand over his eyes like a visor, bent his head, and tried not to laugh.

  “And then, out of nowhere I see these reinforcements charging up. Fucking armed to the fucking teeth—Waffen SS. And he was leading them . . .” He pointed to Hans, who now was the only listener with a straight face. The youth looked on with interest. “Yeah, it was him—with hell in his eyes. And he just starts unloading his ammo into those Red scum as he’s runnin’.” The drunk gestured as if firing from the hip. “He saved us and turned the tide. Saw it with my own fucking eyes.” He tapped his ears for emphasis. “And my eyes don’t lie.”

  “Who are you?” asked the Athenian.

  “Who am I? Who am I?” he asked, smacking his chest with each interrogatory. “You must have a piss-poor understanding of history, Georgie. I’m Alaric, the Visigoth. I sacked Rome in 410, and have been reincarnated at various times in history. That’s who the fuck I am.” He blinked, laughed, and stumbled to the ground.

  A fire-haired woman stepped forward, and tapped his side with her boot.

  “Alaric, that’s enough. You’ve had too much to drink. Get up,” she coaxed. Her enchantress’s aura was enhanced by, but did not generate from, her costume. She wore a lavender robe, fringed in sable, and her eyes were Celtic green pools touched by lightning.