EQMM, September-October 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I'm gonna fracture your skull,” he panted. “Fracture your skull. Now you know."

  I had not known how much blood there would be, had not known that Riley's father would react, roaring, struggling against Riley, his bulk knocking the boy over so that for a moment it looked as though Riley and I would be the victims of this wretched plan of revenge. But Riley sprang up and his demons were suddenly in full power; he swung the wrench again and again, so that bits of bone and brain and blood went flying, covering him, splattering me. Long after his father lay on the floor, his head shattered and his body heavy in death, Riley kept swinging the wrench.

  When at last he stopped, he was sobbing. The tears were streaming down his face and his thin chest was wracked with spasms. I wanted to put my arms around him. I did not. I stood silently watching him cry. I wanted to cry, too, but found I could not. Have not yet.

  "Get me some clothes,” he said at last, without looking at me. “I can't go out in these."

  I found a pair of shorts and a T-shirt on a bed in the back and brought them to him. The shirt almost swallowed him. The shorts were huge but had a drawstring that kept them up. The shirt had a Saints logo on it. He was wearing a Saints shirt on TV when I saw him, but it was a different one—I could tell because it fit him. I wondered later if he had chosen it on purpose, if it meant something, if it was perhaps a secret code for me.

  "The car's out by the curb,” he said. “Let's go. We gotta lock the door behind us. My cousin George won't be back. He works the night shift and the storm's gonna hit before he can get here."

  Riley was right. Riley was always right, would always be right.

  My mother and I drove out of the city the next day, hours before the storm came. She did as Riley told her; she was too dazed in her own sorrow and confusion to argue. Riley packed water and food for us.

  "What about you?” I asked. “Come with us. We can take you, there's room in the car."

  "Best if I don't go,” he said. “Just in case. I can't be in that car. I'll head over to the Dome, that's where you go if you ain't got no way out. I'll get over there before it hits."

  We looked at each other, and then unexpectedly Riley leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.

  "You a good kid, Kiran,” he said. “And don't worry. Everything's good, everything's gonna be okay.” He looked at me closely. “Your brain might erase this. But if it don't, and if it don't erase me, then you can't ever tell. You can't ever tell that you knew me, or what happened, or why we did it. You can't, Kiran. You know that, don't you?"

  "I know,” I said.

  "Swear on your mama's life?"

  "I swear, I swear."

  * * * *

  We drove out of the city in the rain. As the car crawled toward Baton Rouge, my mother's mood lightened. She turned the radio on and we listened to the weather. She laughed for the first time I could remember in weeks.

  "Looks like we're going to get away, Kiran,” she said.

  "Yes,” I agreed. The storm would come that day. The water would rise over the levee, just as Riley had said it would. The storm surge would wash down Calhoun Street and pour into the shack where Riley's dad's body lay. It would cover him up and cleanse away the blood and the bone fragments, the globules of brain. And then the sun would beat down for weeks so that when they found him, blackened and bloated, there would be no telling who he had been or how he had died, which is just what Riley had known would happen. They would mark an X on the door, with a 1 in the left corner—the body count. There would be no record of the savagery of that death, no way for anyone to know what we had done. Riley was right.

  Riley would always be right.

  (c) 2008 by Meenakshi Gigi Durham

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE GIRL FROM THE PLEASURE HOUSE by Simon Levack

  Art by Ron Bucalo

  * * * *

  Simon Levack's Aztec sleuth Yaotl, hero of this new story and several others for EQMM, also appears in four full-length novels: Demon of the Air (winner of the CWA Debut Dagger Award), Shadow of the Lords, City of Spies, and the latest, Tribute of Death. PW praised the series for making “comprehensible a society that seems at first glance alien” and for matching “impressive period research with tight plotting."

  The young priest named Cemiquiztli Yaotl was not in a good mood.

  In the Aztec city of Mexico-Tenochtitlan, it was the day of the Feast of Maize and Beans. It was late in the spring, when the light winter rains were a memory and the life-renewing downpours of high summer were a dream. The rivers were sluggish and the roads were hard and dusty.

  At no time of year were the ceremonies the priests undertook more important than now. The people of Mexico-Tenochtitlan depended on them to ensure the favour of the rain god; without that, there would be no rain and soon, no food. Nothing could be left to chance or human error; every detail of the rites must be observed, and any priest who was not entirely pure or who might make a mistake, however trivial, must be culled before the festival began. Nobody was exempt, not the youngest novice nor the most infirm old man.

  To this end, Yaotl, a skinny young man, who had worn the black body paint and dark mantle of a priest from childhood, had spent five days being tested. He had been starved, immersed in the chilly lake that surrounded the city, had his body pierced with thorns, and been forced to enact pointless rituals. Hungry and exhausted as he was, he had spent each evening making little cairns of dough balls and tomatoes, knowing that if any rolled out of place, he would be punished, and that at this time even so trivial an error could see him expelled from the priesthood, beaten and half-drowned in the lake, and sent back to his family in disgrace.

  Every year, Yaotl had passed the tests, sustained by the thought of what his family—in particular his elder brother, an arrogant young warrior named Mountain Lion—would say if he failed.

  However, for Yaotl it was the sixth day—the day after the testing was over—that was the worst, because that was when the failures were dealt with. On the sixth day, the poor, dejected figures, the men trembling and with downcast eyes, the boys howling in terror, were pushed or dragged to the edge of the lake. Old and young alike were dumped into the cold water, jeered at, spat on, rolled in the mud, held under the surface until they choked, and finally, left to crawl away, miserable and shivering.

  Custom and the will of the gods required him to join in, but Yaotl had never enjoyed it. It was too easy to see himself in the pathetic, slimy creatures whimpering on the shore.

  "It's a harsh business,” he murmured.

  Beside him, his friend Telpoch said: “We all took the same test, Yaotl, and they had the same chance we had.” He turned away from the lake, back towards the close-packed houses and smoking temples of the city. “Anyway, here come their families, so it's all over for them now."

  They watched the little group approaching: anxious-looking matrons bearing rabbit's-fur blankets, stern fathers, truculent brothers and cousins.

  One of the young men stopped in front of them.

  "Yaotl? Is that you?"

  He was not much older than Yaotl, but already sported a warrior's lock of hair, and his orange cloak showed that he had taken two captives on the battlefield. For a skilled fighter, though, he seemed curiously unsure of himself.

  He also looked strangely familiar. As recognition dawned, Yaotl's eyes widened, their whites gleaming against the black dye on his face.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I, er, need a favour."

  Telpoch said: “Who is this, Yaotl?"

  "My brother, Mountain Lion.” Yaotl spoke between clenched teeth. “I suppose he must have thought I'd failed the test and come here to gloat."

  "Yaotl, you're not listening...."

  "Too right, I'm not!” He turned his back.

  Telpoch stared at them both. “This warrior's your brother?"

  "The one who used to beat me up, and put live snakes in my breechcloth, and practiced with his throwing-sti
ck by using me as a target. Oh, yes, that's my brother!"

  There was an outraged spluttering from behind him. “You gave as good as you got! What about the time you left a stolen cactus fruit on my sleeping mat and got me held over a fire of burning chiles?"

  "Served you right! Come on, Telpoch, we've got work to do."

  He took a few steps, but his friend placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Wait a moment. He said he needed a favour."

  "Oh, forget it,” Lion snapped. “I'm not asking that worm for anything. They can burn the top of my head off, I don't care. If he thinks I'm going to start crawling around his dirty feet..."

  "Worms don't have feet!"

  "Yaotl, don't be childish,” his friend admonished him. “Lion, just tell us what you want."

  "I need help tracking down a demon."

  * * * *

  For everyone but the priests, the festival was rather fun.

  The common folk threw parties, inviting their neighbours to feast on maize and bean porridge. They made pots and pots of the stuff, ensuring there was plenty to spare. At night, young warriors and the girls from the pleasure houses would dance from house to house to demand a share.

  Mountain Lion had good reason to be pleased with himself. He was tall for an Aztec. His sinews were like ropes coiled around his limbs, the result of years of military training in the House of Youth. His hair and his orange cloak signified the tally of his captives. Lion was everything an Aztec warrior should be: handsome, serious-minded, lean of body, and hard as stone.

  "Mother, will you stop fussing over me?” he pleaded.

  "I'm nearly done.” The lady's voice was slightly muffled by the needle she held clamped between her lips as she bent over a small tear in the hem of the cloak. “If you wouldn't keep treading on this ... There.” She straightened up and stood back to admire her son's appearance. “You want to look your best, don't you? After all,” she added slyly, “Flower Necklace might be there."

  "What if she is?” Lion bristled.

  "I thought you liked her?"

  "I may have mentioned her name once...."

  "Just once?"

  The young man heaved an exasperated sigh. “Can I go now? The others will be waiting!"

  "If that paint's dry, yes.” His mother touched one of the white circles around his eyes with her fingertip “Now, have you got your stave?"

  "Yes.” He picked up the maize stalk and shook it.

  "And the jar?"

  "No, I don't need one, I can share..."

  "Flower Necklace's?"

  "No, my friend Hummingbird Feather's! Goodnight, Mother!"

  His cloak billowed behind him as he swept out of the courtyard. His mother watched him out of sight with an indulgent smile.

  * * * *

  The procession wound its way along the city's highways and canal paths, a high-spirited little crowd of young men and girls out to enjoy themselves. The streets of the Aztec capital were normally silent after dark, when they belonged to creatures of the night, sorcerers and dangerous spirits. Tonight, though, was different, and the most superstitious of the young people could take comfort in their numbers and the light of their torches. Nobody was going to get much sleep tonight, and as they danced, whooped, and chanted their way through the streets, they left a trail of howling babies, yapping dogs, and cursing householders in their wake.

  "When I do, when I do, give me a little of your porridge.” Lion sang the traditional, meaningless words lustily. “If you don't give me some, I'll break a hole in your house!” The others joined in, swaying more or less in time with the tune, while his friend Hummingbird Feather's pine torch drew bright circles in the sky and set their shadows whirling.

  The only thing that marred Lion's enjoyment was the way the girl at his side kept bumping into him, thrusting her hip against his as they danced.

  By the time Lion had met up with his friends, Hummingbird Feather already had the torch in one hand, a girl on his free arm, and a broad grin. “You can carry the jar,” he had said cheerfully, and Lion had no sooner picked it up by one handle than Flower Necklace had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to seize the other.

  He could only glare at his friend and try to ignore his laughter. Watched enviously by his fellow warriors, he could hardly complain if one of the most desired girls from the pleasure house chose to attach herself to him.

  When he had first seen Flower Necklace, just a few months ago, he had been as attracted to her as she seemed to be to him. But he had been just back from his first campaign, where at his very first battle he had taken two captives, both of them unaided, and he had been the talk of the city. His head whirling with success and sacred mushrooms, how could he resist the skilful attentions of a trained courtesan?

  Unfortunately, it had not ended there, and soon there had been messages smuggled out of the pleasure house, his name called out in the street, and too many chance meetings. It had all been too much. The cochineal that stained her lips and teeth now seemed too red, the indigo dye in her hair too dark, the ochre on her skin too pale, and the figure under the thin cotton of her blouse too full.

  Eventually his old mentor Fire Serpent, the Master of Young Men at the House of Youth where he had done his training, had taken him to one side and reminded him that pleasure girls were there for all successful warriors, not just one, and taking one as a concubine was against the law. At that point Lion had decided he ought to say something to Flower Necklace, but somehow the right words had never come.

  He turned to her now, as they drew level with the next doorway and the threatening song rang out again.

  "Um ... Flower Necklace, there's something I've been meaning to..."

  Before he could go on, however, the householder had appeared. He was a small, anxious-looking man with the tonsured hair of a labourer or a farmhand. He had a bowl full of watery gruel, although his hands were shaking so much that the stuff kept slopping out onto the earth floor of his house.

  "Look, I don't want any trouble,” he muttered. “Take this, it's all I've got."

  "A likely story!” As Hummingbird Feather shouldered his way to the front of the small crowd, his torch waved dangerously close to the wooden doorposts. The householder's face, stained yellow by the flickering light, twisted in alarm.

  "Look out! You'll set the place alight!"

  Hummingbird Feather glanced at the bowl, which had spilled most of its contents by now. “You can do better than that for the brave warriors who defend your city, can't you?"

  He aimed a kick at the wall beside him, driving his foot clean through the thin plaster. The girl on his arm gasped and giggled.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, how clumsy of me. Now look, you've got a hole in your house!"

  The little man backed away from the door. He looked as though he was about to burst into tears.

  "That's enough.” Lion thrust Flower Necklace away from him and stepped forward, to stand just in front of Hummingbird Feather. He held on to the jar with one hand.

  "What do you mean?” The young man with the torch looked bemused. “Look, these people have to show us respect..."

  Lion's free hand moved to the knot in his cloak, shifting it a little on his right shoulder; by touching the orange cloth he reminded his friend who stood higher in the ranks of the warriors. “We asked him for a little of his porridge, Hummingbird Feather. That's what he's offered us. We'll take it. It's obviously all he's worth.” He thrust the jar at the man in the house, who silently tipped the last few drops into it. “Now get back indoors and keep out of sight!” Lion advised him, before turning sharply on his heel and walking away.

  The other young people stared wordlessly after him.

  * * * *

  The procession had become more subdued by the time it reached the next house, the laughter, a little more forced. The crowd had split into two loose groups, one centred on Hummingbird Feather and his girl and the other on Lion and Flower Necklace. Flower Necklace kept cooing in Lion's ear about how noble he
had been at that last house, which did nothing to improve his mood.

  "When I do, when I do, give me a little of your porridge. If you don't give me some, I'll break a hole in your house!"

  This was a more imposing dwelling than the one before, with a newly whitewashed stone wall and a wide doorway opening into a courtyard. A brisk fire threw an unsteady light over the idols lining the walls and the domed sweat bath in the corner. Several people squatted close to the fire, where they could enjoy its warmth and help themselves to warm porridge from a large pot standing over it on a tripod.

  Lion noticed that the people in the courtyard were of varying ages. The youngest were children just young enough to be wearing breechcloths under their short cloaks, while the man he took for the head of the household was a tall, vigorous-looking man whose bearing, as he rose and strode unhurriedly to the doorway, might well have been that of a former warrior.

  The householder hailed them courteously with the traditional greeting: “You have come far, you are weary. Please rest and have something to eat."

  "That's more like it!” Hummingbird Feather approached the doorway. “A big improvement on that last place!"

  "Now,” the householder went on—and Lion noticed a slight catch in his voice, as though he was suddenly unsure of himself—"there's just one small problem..."

  "Oh, no, not again.” Lion groaned inwardly at the prospect of another confrontation.

  The man's tone was apologetic. “You see, my wife dropped the ladle and broke it. Now she's gone indoors to look for a cup, but knowing her she'll have broken all those, too. Stupid woman!” The last two words came out with surprising force. “Take my advice, lads,” he added, with a knowing look at Flower Necklace that made Lion wince. “Make sure you keep your wives in their place. Beat her on her wedding night and every night after that until she gets the message. It saves so much trouble in the long run!"