The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

Her chipped tooth pushed down on her lip, and she rebuffed an image of her Quinceanera party. Her beautiful gown. Her mother and father there to protect her. She inhaled a choppy breath, and her eyes were wet.

  “So you don’t want to like, to like, have me around to teach things to anymore?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Actually, I would. But more than having you at my side I prefer the continued friendship and service of Mictlan. Regrettably, his fee for service is your sacrifice. Oh, but it’s not all bad. After he extracts your heart and uses it to sate his deities I intend to take it and serve it to President Swan for supper. He’d never eat it knowingly—perhaps I’ll disguise it somehow. The look on his face when he finds out the truth will be priceless—I love to toy with the fool.”

  Marisela’s hand touched her chest, and she succumbed to a sinking feeling of nausea and horror. Had not a guard steadied her, she would have fallen.

  “There, there, my dear.” He hissed. “Death is a blessing—it’s an ejector seat from the hell world we live in. Before you know it, you will be in paradise with the gods of your people.”

  “I will be with Jesus. And my grandparents.” Her tone was defiant. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop that.”

  He rose from his throne and stretched. “Stubborn, stubborn Marisela. I will miss our discussions. I think I could have groomed you to be a powerful blood emperess.”

  “Maybe I could be still,” she said weakly. “Please tell me about your paintings—the ones where the people are on their heads—and the large one there, behind your throne, of the old mansion falling apart into the swamp. That was going to be our next lesson, remember?”

  His eyes gleamed in the light of the restored braziers.

  “Is this interest of yours genuine? Or is it a stab at self preservation? No matter, I will indulge your curiosity.” He descended the short steps and began to pace. “During the European witch hunts occurring between the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, theologians propagated myths about the alleged witches. They said that the witches worshipped collectively at nocturnal gatherings called sabbats. Tellingly, no legitimate source had actually seen one of these mass gatherings.

  “To continue the hysteria, a mythos had to be established lest the persecutions sputter out. But there were deep questions to be answered. Who did the witches worship? Was there a corpus of liturgical texts—a witches’ canon? What of their procedure? Their celebration?

  “So, dutifully, the filthy clerics rose to the task of spinning a grand mythology. And between Catholic and Protestant, neither could claim an outperformance of the other. The witches worshipped Satan, they said. But where was their bible—their sacred texts? Again, tellingly, none existed. So, to fill these gaps, the theologians interpolated beautifully. The bible of the witches was the Christian bible in reverse. Their primary hymn was the Our Father said backwards. They danced ‘widdershins,’ or counter clockwise, back to back. And at the sabbats, they stood on their heads.”

  Hommler stepped in front of her, and folded his arms.

  “As a boy, I identified with those poor, persecuted women that were killed—some sixty thousand of them. And I noted how the human mind is prone to binary opposition—to dualistic categorizations of good and evil. I daydreamed about inverting the social hierarchy at my high school—elevating my vampire clan to the pinnacle, and banishing the jocks to the filthy bottom. There is no gray in the pith of human thought, Marisela, only black and white. Well, that is, until I changed things.” He laughed triumphantly. “And I observed how inversion often accompanies dualism. Satanists touting upside down crosses. Witches depicted as standing on their heads. So, years ago, I decided to invert the world according to my own aesthetic. See how those monotheistic bastards like it now.” His tongue flirted with his sharp teeth. “Those paintings hold a sentimental value for me. They’re the lurid, inverted dreams of Christian artists. When I see one, they remind me never to forget my objectives.”

  Marisela drifted phantasmally to a column, and slumped her head against the stone. She had to stay sharp or he wouldn’t teach her anymore. And then she was as good as dead. But she was so, so hungry.

  “Well, that’s interesting,” she said, mouth open.

  “Big shit.” He laughed. “Tell me something critical—something substantive. Otherwise, you’re going back to your cell.”

  Her mind raced—God, she needed sugar.

  “Well . . . when you successfully invert the order of things—and you’re at the top and your enemies are at the bottom—what’s to stop your enemies from inverting things again to reassert themselves?”

  “Like a tumbling hourglass.” He whirled his cape dramatically. “Each side vying for control—enjoying victory for a time, only to be flipped into defeat again. Excellent point, my dear, excellent point. And the answer is . . . once I’m in power, shatter the hourglass—obliterate the paradigm. I’m ushering in a new model of polytheism to supplant dualism and monotheism. Then, my enemies can’t reassert control.”

  “Polytheism isn’t dualistic?” she asked lethargically.

  Hommler sneered, and swiped his hands toward her in disgust.

  “Of course not, you fool. Back to your cell with you.”

  “You’re wrong.” She was woozy, and barely knew what she was saying. “You can’t escape dualism. It’s all around you—it’s elemental.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “Fine. You told me your evil god Tiamat fought with a good god named Marduk. And so what if there are lots of gods in your Mesopotamian religion. I bet when Tiamat fought Marduk those gods chose sides—I bet Tiamat and Marduk were like team captains. And I bet that battle was a fight between good and evil.”

  He stared at her, body frozen, eye balls shaking.

  “And what about the stories you told about the Norse gods?” she continued. “Their last battle, Ragnarok, boiled down to a huge battle between good and evil. There were lots of gods on the side of good—and there were lots of giants and dragons on the side of evil. How much more dualistic can you get than Ragnarok? And in Egyptian polytheism you had Horus versus Set, and . . .”

  “Enough!” He slapped her across the mouth, and as he did so, her chipped tooth sliced his palm. “When gods war it’s called theomachy. And it’s very, very troubling.” He stared dumbly at the blood running from his hand, and was silent for several moments. Marisela shrugged off the blow—it was nothing compared to what she had endured at the fists of Mictlan. She even laughed as the vampire licked his wound. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll tell you of the stricken mansion,” he half whispered, and slumped into his throne.

  Chapter 37

  Hans stood on a towel stretched on the grass, a longneck in each hand. He wore torn blue jeans and a ragged black t-shirt replete with skulls, serpents, and axe-wielding barbarians.

  “Who’s ready for some fuckin’ metal?” he asked the men and women laying down towels around him. They wore similar t-shirts stamped with various band names. The common denominator among the illustrations were creatures of myth, symbols of death, and arsenals of antiquated melee weapons.

  “This is too good to be true, man! Bell Witch—Hephaestus—Red Sky—Mace Knight—Odinsturm—all in one fucking concert! Hans, how on earth did you put this thing together, man?” a long-haired fan asked.

  “I don’t fuckin’ know!” The youth smacked his lips and bolted down more amber. “But things are getting better. Can’t you feel it, man? The sun’s shining—metal’s in the air—thousands of our people are starting to wake up from their trance. This is it, man—this concert’s gonna mark the birth of something awesome!”

  “Fuck yeah! Fuck yeah!” Nearby, Alaric swore, guzzled a beer, then ripped off his t-shirt. The iron cross around his neck was now lost in tufts of chest hair. Morrigan reclined by his side in a lounge chair, and waived at Kim and Hans.

  “Hey, Kimmie.” The witch smiled. “Where’s that born-again nut case? He doesn’t like metal?”

  “Hate
s it!” Kim laughed. “Says it’s Satan’s music.”

  “Damn,” she said. “I was hoping he would have shown—my brother wants to kick his ass.”

  Kim laughed uneasily, and observed that Alaric’s nose had never been set properly. It now had a marked inclination toward the left. Even though Hans’s fiancé wore sunglasses, the barbarian guessed the object of her gaze. He smacked his nose indifferently, and wrenched it till it was more linear. Then he doused his face with beer and roared something incoherent.

  As Mr. and Mrs. Stewart made their way through the crowd, a huge ovation commenced. Margaret’s face was red, and Max, somewhat uncomfortably, waived to the howling masses. They were dressed incongruously with the rest of the audience. Not only were they some of the only audience members without band t-shirts, Mrs. Stewart was wearing a Sunday dress.

  “Ha ha.” Hans laughed. “Mom’s never been to a rock concert before. She doesn’t know how to dress for one of these things. Next time, I’m getting them t-shirts.”

  “You’ve never been to a rock concert either, big guy,” Kim teased. “So don’t act like such an authority.”

  “Yeah, well, my brothers had. They used to tell me about them when I was little—I wanted to go with them so bad.”

  Kim smiled, and observed the thousands in attendance across the green field. It was the same field they used for rallies, speeches, and holiday events. She had to crane her neck and look behind her to see the majority of the fans—she and Hans had arrived two hours early to secure great seats. In front of them unfolded a large, raised stage. It was still bustling with roadies lugging technical equipment, speakers, and wires. Periodically, a sound check would pierce the air.

  “Babe, I wish George and Aleksandra could have been here,” the youth commented off hand.

  “Yeah, but it means a lot to them to see that Orthodox priest. Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll be able to make the next concert, honey. Besides, the Visigoth’s here, and he’s drunk again. You don’t want George to kill him or something.”

  The youth turned toward Alaric, and yelled. “That looks fucking awesome, man. Bring one for me next time!”

  Alaric gave him a thumbs up. The barbarian had donned a medieval helmet—a gleaming basinet.

  “The bastards took my sword from me at the security gate,” roared back the barbarian. “But they let me keep my helm.”

  “You need a Viking one—with horns. Bring one like that for me next time.”

  “Baaa!” Alaric swiped his hand. “Viking warriors didn’t wear horned helmets. You need to be taught some real history, boy.”

  “Hey, didn’t the Vikings wear horned helmets?” Hans whispered to Kim.

  “I don’t think they did—artists got it wrong all this time.”

  “Really?”

  “Shhh—it’s about to start.”

  A group of four men, clad in jeans and leather, strode out from backstage. One seated himself behind a redoubt of drums, two seized guitars on the stage’s flanks, and the fourth swaggered up to the microphone in the center. The frontman’s hair fluttered like a black flag in the wind, and he brandished an iron cudgel, bulb teeming with spikes, in his right hand.

  “Holy shit, babe! That’s him! That’s Dirk Cromspell of Mace Knight!”

  “I know, sweetie! You finally get to see your favorite bands.” Kim smiled, vicariously enjoying his excitement.

  The audience was roaring—all twenty thousand—pumping their fists and stabbing the air with horns formed by index and pinky fingers.

  “Hello, Pennsylvania!” Dirk greeted with English accent, and foisted high his mace. “I decided to bring Matilda with me today.” He pumped the weapon in his hand, and the crowd exploded. “It was down between her, Rebecca, and Cynthia. But I chose Matilda because, about a year ago to this day, she came in quite handy. I was doing an underground gig in Nottingham—midnight—and we were attacked by a malodorous array of Mohammedans. One of them jumped on stage and tried to carve my guts with a knife—so I crushed his skull with m’lady, here. Then, I jumped into the crowd with the rest of the band and joined in the fight!”

  Hans was roaring so loud that his face was red, and nearing purple.

  “And after our small but determined group of white pagans and Christians rebuffed the Muslims, my band and I limped back onto the stage. Then, we played on for another fucking hour. Mace Knight never surrenders! Mace Knight fights till death!”

  The two young lovers shouted with the crowd, fists raised. Hans took a moment to look over his shoulder at his mother and father, catch their eyes, and grin. Then, not far from his parents, he saw Rick Wilkerson standing with Pedro and Jack. The men exchanged nods.

  “Before we light up today, and appease the gods of rock and metal, I have an announcement to make,” Dirk said, and the crowd was silent. “Fifty percent of the profits from this concert will be donated to federal-approved charities.”

  The audience’s enthusiasm, so raw and unflagging, snapped. Hans’s shoulders sagged, and the crowd released a collective sigh. Dirk observed the crestfallen thousands, and let the mood fester before clearing his throat.

  “Come now, my friends. Don’t you think we should use profits from this concert to . . . bring over ten-thousand African refugees to West Virginia? It’s got the highest white population of any state—so let’s see what we can do to alter that.” The crowd hissed and booed. “Well, what about an inner city outreach program to bus children of Color into our districts? How about a donation to the ADL to educate our local law enforcement about hate crimes to apply selectively against whites? No? Well then, how about we just give everything to NAMBLA? Yes, let’s give all the profits from this concert to NAMBLA.” By now the smile on Dirk’s face had cued the audience to his jest.

  “Well just what the bloody fucking hell would you say to donating to our own people for a change?” asked the rocker, parading the stage. “To give poor white European immigrant children some fucking decent clothes to wear so they don’t freeze to death? To buy books for our white children to read in our schools? Hell’s blood, you all nearly pissed yourselves at mention of the word charity—and rightly so. Because all charity has meant to our people for the past century has been to give, give, and give some more. To whom? To whom? Non-whites, freaks, and perverts. Give till we have nothing left. Till we’re ground down in the fucking mud and squalor.

  “Did you ever see an Asian country donating billions to fucking Africa? Did you ever see the Hispanic countries donating billions to other countries? What about the Muslims? Fuck no—it’s always the do-gooder, altruistic ass-wipe whites. Well, it’s time to refocus our altruism on our own people for a change if we want to survive for another century. After we win this next war for our survival, we’re going to have our own bloody NAACP—our own Caucasian-American College Fund. And for all the white scum who balk, well, I’ll give ‘em a kiss from ol’ Matilda!”

  The crowd cheered fanatically, and Cromspell shook his mace over his head.

  “You know, when I was seventeen, I was a foreign exchange student here in the U.S.,” the rocker continued, his charisma migrating through the thousands. “And I saw all these white boys and girls in high school applying to college. And they dutifully performed their ‘community service’ very damn well, logging in all their hours to the minute.” Dirk nodded dramatically. “They needed to—colleges loved it. But just what kind of criteria for community service did colleges employ? I’ll tell you—‘atone for your heterosexual whiteness’ community service—that’s what. Teach a non-white illegal how to speak English. Go build houses for Indians in Mexico. Design floats for a queer parade. Invite a Guatemalan immigrant to live at your house, teach him English, and fix him up with your little sister.” Dirk was screaming.

  “You had to bloody fucking atone for checking off the ‘Caucasian non-Hispanic’ box on your college application.” His face was red, and he snarled. “Because unless you were a queer, and stated it explicitly, you’d be at the bottom of
the damn pile of applicants if you were white. And that’s the biggest admission factor they used in selecting their white students—which ones sacrificed the most to better the lives of non-whites. It also helped if you wanted to study a politically-correct subject, like African history or gender and racial issues. And perchance you did get in to a good school—well tell your parents to cough up the thousands, because white families don’t get scholarships or financial breaks. That money is reserved to entice non-whites to attend your college. They get the scholarships. They get the preferences. They get the special treatment. And you don’t get shit.

  “Do you think colleges would have given a flying fuck if a white student had donated service hours to a poor community of Eastern-European immigrants? Hell no! How about teaching English to Italian refugees fleeing from genocide at the hands of the Muslims? Not a bloody chance! How about volunteering at a mostly white old folks home? Maybe you’d get a little credit there—but not nearly the bang for your buck you’d receive for investing your time in something patently non-white. So, Oliver, give me a riff for charity—white charity—c’mon, let’s here it!”

  One of the guitarists peeled out a climbing tune with his instrument, his fingers dancing across the strings.

  “And without further fucking ado,” chuckled Dirk, “let’s get to the music. Let me take you back to the early nineteenth century, my brothers and sisters—when white people foolishly fought and strove against each other for hegemony. Let me tell you about the battle of . . . Trafalgar.”

  The band exploded in a concord of drums, guitars, and vocals. Kim and Hans pumped their fists in tune to the heavy cadence and sentimental vocals about Lord Nelson and his fleet. The youth sang along, his deep voice comic as it overlapped the singer’s, and his fiancé hugged him tenderly.

  Dirk was strutting along the stage, his long hair a mess in the wind. The guitar solo had finally arrived, and he used this time to posture and leap in the air. He paralleled himself with the guitarist, and cradled his mace as if it, too, were a guitar. Dirk parodied the agonized looks of his guitarist as the solo reached a frenzied crescendo.