Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales

by Simon Strantzas

  “Please, Señora. In English.”

  “No sé esto. Vete. Lleva tu hereje contigo.”

  “What?”

  She pointed at the photograph, and then looked at Rachel. Noah felt uncomfortable with the glare she gave his girlfriend.

  “Where is the place?” he repeated.

  “¡Hereje!” she said, slamming the table. Her finger shot out, pointing at the door. “¡Vete!”

  Noah picked the clipping up off the counter and backed away, his arms raised in surrender, unsure what had happened. He stopped when he felt Rachel touch his back. The old woman was still seething.

  “We’d better go,” she whispered, tugging at him. Noah nodded and let her guide him outside, his eyes unable to leave the crooked glare of the señora.

  Outside, the heat hit them like a wall. A glare reflected off the church across from them, though its bulk remained in shadow. Enough of a glare, at least, to disguise the presence of the priest until Noah bounced off him.

  “God, I’m sorry!” he said, then immediately regretted the curse. Rachel’s mouth was agape.

  “Okay, it’s okay,” the priest said, fixing his collar. He was taller than Noah and broader, built sturdy enough that he barely acknowledged Noah’s clumsiness. He scratched his wide round face with stubby fingers, and when he glanced at Rachel and saw she was pregnant, a smile overtook him. “Nobody was hurt, after all. At least, not out here. What was the screaming about?”

  “I’m not really sure. I’m trying to find someone and when I showed the señora inside she went crazy.”

  “Ah, Señora Alvarez. She hasn’t been the same since her granddaughter passed away. Do you mind?” He reached his large hand out and looked from Noah to Rachel and back again. Noah was confused, until he realized the folded article was still clutched in his hand. He passed it over carefully.

  “Hm,” the priest said, holding the clipping an inch from his round brown eyes, then holding it at arm’s length. “It’s no use,” he sighed. “I’m blind without my glasses, and your wife shouldn’t be outside in this weather. Come, let us go inside the church. It will be cooler there.”

  “How long have you lived in Astilla de la Cruz?” Rachel was sitting in the second pew, hands over the back of the first and tucked under her chin. Noah remained standing, looking at the sparse furniture and the small handful of parishioners spread out across the place, all with heads down and praying. The church was far more spartan than Noah expected, but he imagined all the money had been spent on the ornate cross that was a hanging broken shadow beyond the dull stained glass. Rustling emitted from behind the large altar, somewhere near the back of the nave, though he saw no cause. “I only ask,” Rachel said, wiping away sweat in the crook of her arm, “because your English is perfect, Father Manillo.”

  “Well, it’s not perfect, but I try. I was born here, but my family was blessed enough that we moved to California when I was still a young boy. I studied there for many years. Many years until I was teenager and I felt the calling. I returned home, here to Astilla de la Cruz, and heard the voice stronger and knew I must stay. I studied here with Father Montechellio, and when he was too old to continue, I took his place. But enough of me. That’s not why you’re here. Let me get my glasses and take a look at this picture of yours. I know the village like I know my own face, and if anyone can help, I think I will!”

  Father Manillo strode off toward the chancel, his shoes clapping the floor. Noah looked around the congregation but still could not locate the source of the rustling.

  “I have a good feeling about this, Noah. I think he’s going to help us.”

  “I hope so. I’m trying not to get my hopes up. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m still a bit achy, but I’ll manage.”

  Father Manillo appeared from behind the unadorned rood screen, a pair of thin glasses curled over his ears and nose. They gave his eyes a magnified appearance, like a new-born staring wide.

  “Now let me take a look at that picture.”

  Noah handed him the folded clipping. Father Manillo opened it up and laid it flat on the pew. He stared intently at it while Rachel and Noah watched him. A hand went to his chin, stroking the dark wrinkled skin there. Then Father Manillo nodded and looked at Noah and Rachel. He motioned for them to sit.

  “I don’t know how much history you know of Mexico. When the Spaniards came in 1521, they brought God to the natives here, forced Christianity on them until it took, and over time those natives became civilized, paired with the Spanish, and developed into the Mexico we have today. Often dirty, often corrupt, but never godless is Mexico. But before this—before Columbus and Cortés and iron helmets and God himself—there were different rules the Olmec, Toltec, Teotihuacan, Zapotec, Maya, and Aztec lived by, and different gods to worship. Hexatopsodil, Quesadasidodfll, Setinodoginall—these were the ones who ruled the land, controlled air and water and earth. There was a god for everything; a separate yet no less important god to pray to, to sacrifice to, if a farmer wanted to grow a crop or heal his child. The ancient Mexican gods were not like the Christian God at all. The idea of one god instead of many would have seemed impossible, unbelievable—at least until the white men arrived and proved otherwise.

  “But even that story, as widely believed as it is, isn’t quite the whole story. History is like that—never presenting everything it should, forgetting things it shouldn’t. Few people know what I’m about to tell you, fewer still actually believe it—at least, outside Astilla de la Cruz—but history has a way of changing the rules, even when time itself rejects the notion. I said that the Spanish brought the concept of the single god to the Mexican people, but that isn’t quite true. There was another cult of worshippers who believed a single god would save the world, although who or what that god would be is open to debate. The story has been lost for centuries, so very little is known; but as I’m quite interested in religion, as you can imagine, I’ve paid particular attention to talk of this nature and have pieced much together. Great Huitzilopochtli was at ancient millennial war with the other gods over the souls of all the children lost to illness and plague. He called the gods together for a truce, but Ueuecoyotl, trickster god of foulness and chaos, was not to be trusted and tricked Huitzilopochtli into transforming himself into a hummingbird, then impregnating a mortal woman whom Ueuecoyotl had already impregnated. Then Ueuecoyotl did the same to Ixtlilton and Camaxtli and so on until he had tricked them all into impregnating that woman. With each impregnation, a piece of the gods’ power was stolen, and Ueuecoyotl believed the subsequent child, the child of all the gods, would have all their power and usurp them as the one true god.”

  “But wouldn’t he be usurped as well?”

  “Ah, my friend, that was the beauty of Ueuecoyotl’s plan. He simply didn’t care. He was the god of chaos, after all.”

  “Wait, so you’re saying this god and God-god—”

  “Yes, one in the same. This is how a small number reconciled the new god the Spaniards brought with them. They believed this god, named Ometéotlitztl, to be the true supreme being, one which our God was only an aspect of. The cult has grown and persists, but they remain secret, unwilling to reveal their hidden selves to the world. Astilla de la Cruz is their home, and it’s everything I can do to keep the true God alive here in the face of that.”

  “But does this have to do with my ex-wife and Eli?”

  “I look at this photograph and even blurry it’s clear to me where it was taken. The blasted heath. Come outside once more. The sun has lowered enough that you might see.”

  Noah trailed the priest to the entrance, Rachel a few steps behind. They were still in the shadow of the church’s spire, which spared them the worst of the heat, but after being inside for so long, the sun seemed doubly bright and harsh, and Noah had to squint to keep his eyes open. Father Manillo said something to a passerby, but Noah could not see much through his squinting eyes beyond a multicolored blur. By the time Noah’s eyesight improved the perso
n was long gone.

  “There, my friend, do you see it?” Father Manillo pointed toward the distant rocky outcropping that bordered the village. “Do you see that shape at the top?” At first, nothing seemed amiss, simply acres of scrub surrounding the village, then Noah noticed something unusual. There was a hill leading back toward the mountains, and on this hill was what looked like a large rock structure. All around it there seemed to be no life at all—just rocks and what looked like a leafless tree. The entire image wavered in the heat like some blackened flame.

  “That’s where your photograph was taken. That’s where the Tletliztlii worship, during the lost hours of the day.”

  “How do we get there?”

  “It’s not a place for going—at least, not unprepared. The woman in the photo—your wife, yes?”

  “Ex.”

  “Your ex-wife, she’s not the same anymore. The Tletliztlii have her, and your little boy most likely.”

  “Tell me how to get there.”

  Father Manillo sighed, then consulted his watch.

  “I don’t have Mass for a few hours. Let me change into something more comfortable than robes. You will need an emissary, anyway, if any of them are to talk to you.”

  Noah sat beside Father Manillo in the borrowed truck, while in back Rachel grabbed what she could to stay seated. Even so, Noah wished they were moving faster.

  “I apologize for the ride,” the priest yelled back so she might hear him. “The terrain to the ruins is rough, but there’s no way around it. There are no roads that go there. As you can guess, if there were, the Tletliztlii wouldn’t use them. They like their privacy.”

  Noah turned to look at her.

  “Are you okay?”

  Rachel nodded, then put a free hand on her stomach. “It’s not too bad,” she said, then was jolted harshly, lifting her off her seat a few inches.

  “Maybe we should slow down.” Father Manillo looked at him, then into the rearview mirror.

  “We’re almost there, Rachel. I don’t want to risk getting stuck in one of the crevices. Can you hold on a few more minutes?”

  She nodded and looked at Noah. Noah’s teeth chattered.

  “Don’t worry. I’m doing my kegels,” she said.

  Noah shook with giddy anxiety, a symptom compounded as they approached the ruins, yet as the distance shrank Noah found himself increasingly puzzled. The site looked nothing like the photograph, nor like anything he had imagined. He had expected a towering altar made of stone, housing an antechamber in which the Tletliztlii—including Sonia and Eli—would be hiding. Perhaps a large carving of Ometéotlitztl’s face in the rock, overseeing everything. Instead, the ruins were just that—ruins, and consisted of little more than a few crumbling walls in a semicircle around a small raised platform that was split in two. There were no buildings, no people, no sign of life of any kind. The area was bare rock without shade or plant. Nothing grew for at least a few hundred feet in any direction, and even then only a circle of low brush that looked tiny and black against the blazing sun. The only proof life had ever existed on the rock was the lone dead tree standing at its center, sprouting from the cleaved rock, its branches knuckled and bent, hunkered and barely unfolded in death. A thick cord was tied around one of its branches, the spot beneath worn smooth, and at its end swung what remained of a faded piñata. Noah did not know what animal it once must have been—the shape bore no resemblance to anything he’d ever seen before—but its dead eyes stared at him as it slowly spun in the breeze, yellow streamers fluttering. Its stomach has long ago been burst open, and Noah couldn’t help but wonder what had once been inside.

  “Where is everyone?” Rachel asked, squinting out from behind her sunglasses. “And is it just me or is it hotter here than in the village? I’m sweating like a pig.”

  The priest took off his hat and ran his forearm across his forehead. Beads of sweat ran down his arm like blood.

  “This is where they’re supposed to be . . .” he said, but he wasn’t listening closely. Behind his tinted glasses he was surveying the scene.

  Noah had known all along, but refused to let himself believe it until Rachel and Father Manillo spoke the words aloud. Eli was not there. Probably never had been. Everything was slipping through his fingers, like the scorched sand beneath his feet. Every hope he had of rescuing his son was gone at once.

  “I thought you said they’d be here. There’s nothing, no sign of them at all.” It was so hard to think under that sun, and his disappointment so vast.

  “Honey, it’s okay,” Rachel said, putting her hand on his arm to cool him. But her skin was like a flame and he jerked free.

  “It’s not okay. Don’t you get it? Eli is gone, and we were so close. Why did we come out here? Why are we wasting our time?”

  His anger flared, lit the world on fire. Noah winced, the blinding brightness needles in his skull. “I need to find Eli,” he tried to say, but his mouth refused to work. “He’s the only thing I care about.” The jumble of words faded into the distance along with all other sound, faded until nothing remained but deep endless quiet. Behind his closed eyes Noah saw Eli standing on the starkly lit barren heath, waving, his expression inscrutable. Noah reached for him and tripped forward, falling head first into the parting earth. But before the darkness could swallow him he was suddenly stopped, and the motion threw open his tear-filled eyes. For a muddled moment he wondered when he’d started crying.

  “Be careful,” Father Manillo said, helping Noah up and handing him a bottle of water. “The heat—I think it’s too much for you.”

  Noah wiped his face and looked at Rachel. She stood with her arms crossed over her belly, turned ever so slightly away from him. Noah wanted to say something but didn’t know what.

  “We shouldn’t have come here,” he murmured.

  “I understand, Noah,” Father Manillo said, his wrinkled hands held out to ease Noah’s anger. The red mist had already dissipated, but Noah’s unhappiness remained.

  “We aren’t any better off than we were back home. Actually, we’re worse off. At least then this stupid photo offered hope.” He pulled the folded article from his pocket, tempted to tear it up and throw it away. “But look at this place. There’s no hope anywhere here. Everything’s dead.”

  “It didn’t use to be,” Father Manillo said, bald pate gleaming with sweat. “Once this all used to be jungle. Right here where we’re standing. When the Aztecs built this temple to Ometéotlitztl, it was hidden from the prying eyes of neighboring tribes. They called it ‘the lost temple’ because of how secret the Tletliztlii kept its true location.”

  “So what happened to it?” Rachel asked, roused from her heavy-headed silence. She would not look at Noah, though. “Where did the trees disappear to?”

  “Ah, you know the way of things,” he said, looking out over the rocks back toward the village. Noah looked, too, but saw only the wavering heat warping the broken church steeple. “Time has not been good to plant life anywhere, including Mexico. Perhaps even more so in Mexico where your environmental protections don’t apply. They began clear-cutting about fifty years ago, pulling down and removing more and more trees, trunk and all, until they exhausted the area. The sun here being as it is, everything beneath it was burnt to a cinder without the trees’ protection—soil simply dried up and the wind took it away, leaving behind only the bare rock beneath. In a generation, the area was transformed, and when the logging companies finally left, Astilla de la Cruz was left more destitute than it had ever been before.”

  “Why didn’t anyone stop them from cutting down the trees?” Rachel’s breath was wheezing out of her. Noah’s lip curled despite his own lingering curiosity.

  “No one could. A local family that did most of the cutting here—there were stories about them. They were involved in a lot of things, most illegal. You met one of their children at the hotel. Señora Alvarez? Her father was Hernando Alvarez, and when Hernando found out the trees could make him money he wasted no
time cutting them down. Back then, the idea of sustaining a crop didn’t occur to anyone, especially one as hungry for money as Hernando. In the end, though, what drove him over the edge, what caused him to bleed the area dry, was a mishap. The details are sketchy, but somehow he did something to his own wife, something horrible, because when she gave birth to their second son what emerged was a dead thing, black as coal.”

  “She’d had an affair?”

  “No, that’s the thing. It wasn’t a black baby. Instead, its skin had been turned black and gangrenous, the same thing that had probably killed it. The son Hernando had waited so long for was dead, and his wife soon afterward once the unsettled toxic flesh flooded her body.”

  Rachel gasped. Noah felt ill. The heat from the sun was starting to twist what he was seeing, and he wondered if Father Manillo was losing his cohesion.

  “The story goes that Hernando wailed so loudly on their passing that it drove all life from the area, leaving only death on this hill. They buried the child here too. Underneath that slab. Some people wonder if that also had something to do with the curse here. Not me, of course. But some people. That’s why most of the villagers avoid this place. Everyone but the Tletliztlii followers. It’s the perfect spot to hide a child you don’t want found.”

  The priest looked guiltily at Noah. His face was slick with sweat, and he was trying to blink it from his eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I let my mouth get away from me, my friend. Maybe it’s best we all leave, I think. It’s a bad place.” He crossed himself. “Come, let me take you both back to the village. You don’t belong here. Not under this horrible sun.”

  “But what about Eli?”

  “Have faith, Noah. I will pray for you both.”

  That answer did nothing to ease Noah’s worries.

  Father Manillo left Noah and Rachel at their hotel. Noah had been silent during the trip back, weighed down by despair. What made it worse was Rachel’s demeanor. She had never spoken a word aloud, but it was clear her presence in Mexico was for his sake alone. She was not as committed to finding Eli as he was. But how could she be?