by Brian Keene
“Not necessarily. Quetzalcoatl will not save your people. You will.”
“M-me?”
“Indeed. That is why I am here, Chalco. Things are dire. Hernan Cortes’s conquest is destroying your land. He does not serve your king. He serves Charles, the King of Spain—and his God. And though all worship stems from the same Creator, you people get so caught up in names that you think you serve different gods. That is what King Charles and Cortes believe. They believe that they are doing the work of the Creator, but they are wrong. Cortes does not care about your people. He is here for new lands and new riches, and death follows with him.”
Chalco shuddered.
“Let me tell you of the future,” the worm continued, “and how it will be if Cortes is not stopped. He brings with him a disease called smallpox, against which your people have no defense. This disease will race to Tenochtitlan and decimate the capital. Many will die from it, including your father—but not before he returns to infect you all. Your brother, Quintox, will be the first to die in Monte Alban, followed by Yamesha. Soon, everyone you love will be dead.”
“Please…no.”
“That’s just the beginning. Those who die will be the lucky ones. The invaders will enslave your people and slaughter your priests. They will melt down all of your gold and mint it into coins so that King Charles can pay off his war debt. Your homes and temples will be torn down so that the Spanish can build churches and mansions in their place. What they don’t destroy will be converted. Their holy men will destroy your codex and calendars. They will burn your books. Most importantly, they will teach you only of their God, and deny you access to your own gods—even though all stem from the same source…the Creator.”
“Then we are lost.”
“No. This can not be allowed to occur. So, as I have in the past, I am going to aid your people. I will impart a gift. And I have chosen you, Chalco, to receive that gift. I will give you a key to unlock the doors of human perception and visit unseen worlds. You will eventually gain all of the knowledge that has been forbidden to your kind, and thus, gain understanding. You will slay Cortes before he ever arrives and lead your people to triumph.”
“I do not understand, lord. Why me? I am no one important. My clansmen are nothing but farmers and hunters.”
“Have your priests taught you of how I appeared to your people and guided them?”
“Yes.”
“I remember it well. Your people came down from the cold mountain wastes, searching for a hospitable land to call their own. Often they starved or died from exposure to the elements. Sometimes they had to fight other tribes for passage. But when they settled on the shores of Lake Texcoco in the Valley of Anahuac and began to farm, I was there waiting. I advised them to send settlers out to find more land. One of those explorers was your direct ancestor.”
Chalco felt a sudden, immense pride at this revelation.
“While searching for a good location, your ancestor encountered a Toltec tribe and became involved in their affairs. Since he was only one man, they welcomed him. Your ancestor aided the Toltecs in a war against yet another tribe. He fought well and showed great valor. He slew many and turned the battle’s tide. As thanks, the Toltec chieftain offered him a boon. Your ancestor asked for one of the chieftain’s daughters. She was very fair, with hair like golden flax and eyes of blue. No one in these lands had ever seen a woman like her. It was whispered that she was of the gods. Perhaps this was true. Regardless, the Toltec chieftain granted the request, impressed as he was with your ancestor’s contributions.”
Nodding, Chalco picked up his knife and sheathed it.
“After the boon was fulfilled,” the worm continued, “your ancestor returned to his encampment with the girl in tow. But rather than marrying her, he returned to his crops and once they were planted, he sacrificed the girl. He flayed her skin and draped it over himself so that the maize might receive a blessing. He hoped the harvest would be bountiful by the time the rest of your people arrived. When the Toltecs learned of this, they attacked your ancestor. He slew them all, just as he had slain their enemies, and then he used their blood to irrigate his crops. The maize grew strong, thus, your people grew strong. Indeed, it was the finest maize and the finest people in the land. Two hundred years later, you rule over all. Your vast empire is one of the greatest this world has ever known. But within a generation, all of that will end because of Cortes. Your people will be reduced once again to a tribe of starving mongrels. That is why I come to you. Like your ancestor, you will save your people.”
Chalco bowed again. “I am honored, Lord. But how will I do this? I am just one, and nothing special. Will you bestow special powers upon me?”
“No. As I said, I will give you a gift and teach you to open doors. With this, you will receive knowledge, which is the greatest power of all.”
“But how, lord?”
“Look inside your water skin.”
Chalco did as commanded. He unsealed the beeswax and pulled off the cap. Then he sniffed the contents. His nose twitched and his eyes watered. He peered inside the skin. It was filled with a yellow-brown liquid the color of ginger root.
“What happened to the pulque?”
“This is pulque, but it has been transformed into something more powerful—the drink of the gods. This is my gift. It is called tequila. One sip and you will unlock the doors of perception. Try it.”
Hesitant, Chalco drank from the skin. He coughed. The strange liquid tasted like wood smoke and burned his throat. His stomach lurched. Gagging, he reached in his basket and pulled out his last lime. He sucked on it to rid his mouth of the taste.
“It is bitter,” the worm agreed. “But the lime should help. Salt would also cut the bite. Do you carry salt with you? It is a good thing to have.”
Chalco started to reply, but found that he couldn’t. His tongue felt thick and swollen, and his lips were numb. It was difficult to breathe. His throat was still on fire.
“With that taste, the knowledge of how to transform pulque into this drink is passed unto your people. It stems from the agave plant. Even now, the idea takes seed in the mind of one of your clansmen. But their salvation—indeed, your entire civilization’s future—lies with you. Now, take a second sip.”
Chalco closed his eyes and did as commanded. He pursed his lips. The liquid’s kick was still strong, but he immediately followed it with the lime. His throat felt warm, but not fiery like before. His stomach muscles clenched.
Slowly, Chalco opened his eyes…
…and stared.
A doorway floated in the air above him, hovering just off the ground. The lime fell from his gaping mouth. Chalco reached out with one trembling hand to touch the door, but then yanked it away. “What…?”
“Behold. Through that door lies the Labyrinth, a dimensional shortcut between worlds, universes, and realities. This is how my kind travels from world to world, plane to plane, back and forth through time and space.”
Chalco stumbled forward, walking in a wide circle around the door. There was nothing behind it—just more mountain. He completed the circle, and stared. “But where is it?”
The worm chuckled. “Very good, Chalco. Where indeed? The door is suspended right in front of you, is it not? And yet, it isn’t. The Labyrinth is nowhere and everywhere all at once. It is the in-between—the black space amidst the stars, the backdoor of reality. What you view as a doorway, is really just an extension of the Labyrinth on this level. It is indeed an entrance—and exit—but it doesn’t truly exist here. The doors of the Labyrinth merely connect to various levels.”
“Levels?”
“Planes of existence. Different worlds and realities.”
“Why couldn’t I see the door before?”
“Because your eyes were not open. Normally, the only time your kind see the Labyrinth is when their spirit has departed their body. There are some among you—a select few—who know how to open the doorways and can traverse its passageways while they
are still alive. But they have sacrificed much for that knowledge. I am bestowing the ability upon you so that you may save your people.”
“I feel dizzy, lord. My fingers are tingling.”
“That is the drink. One does not sup as the gods do without feeling the effects. Are you ready for the final sip?”
Chalco’s voice trembled. “What will happen?”
“With the third taste, you will be ready. You will go through the door and travel the Labyrinth. At the far end of the hallway is another door. You will open it, and find yourself on the beach at the time of Cortes’s arrival. The doorway will remain stationary behind you. The invaders will not be able to see it. It is only for your eyes. Hide in the foliage near the surf. Have your bow at the ready. Slay Cortes as he sets foot on your soil, and then return through the Labyrinth, taking the same path you took before.”
Chalco picked the lime back up again, brushed the dirt off, and sucked on the fruit while he listened.
“The death of Cortes will set into motion a chain of events on this level, culminating in your people’s eventual domination of the world. But be wary, Chalco. You must not be distracted. The drink of the gods sharpens your senses, but you must also maintain your wits. Although you might be tempted to travel other passageways or step through other doors, do not. Some entrances do not have exits, and not all doorways are meant to be opened. Too much knowledge is never a good thing. Stray not from the path. When you enter, go straight to the end of the passageway. After you have killed Cortes, return the way you came. Do you understand?”
Chalco nodded. Despite the lime, his mouth felt parched. His ears rang.
“Say it.”
“I understand, Lord.”
“Good.” The worm crawled to the edge of the agave. “Then partake of the third sip and throw open the doors of perception.”
Chalco drained the skin, and sat it next to the agave. There was only a small bit of liquid left inside. This time, he didn’t need the lime. He dropped the half-eaten fruit onto the ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The tequila coursed through his body. The air seemed to thrum with energy. The hovering doorway shimmered. Overhead, an eagle cried out. Chalco took a deep breath and cast one last glance back at the worm. Then he pushed the door open, revealing a long stone corridor. Chalco stepped inside.
There was a flash of white light. Immediately, the eagle’s cries ceased. Chalco glanced behind him. The door was closed. There was no sign of the mountain, the agave, or the worm. They lay on the other side of the exit. He turned around. The corridor seemed to stretch into infinity. He couldn’t see the end. It was brightly lit, but there were no candles or torches. The illumination had no source. The gray stone walls were featureless, the ceiling high. There were no windows, but both sides of the hallway were lined with hundreds of closed doors. He wondered what was behind them all. More mountaintops, perhaps? Other worlds?
Admiring the masonry, Chalco touched the wall with his fingers, and then jerked them away with a gasp. The surface was cold. There was no moisture, no condensation. No texture, either—not even a crack or pit. The icy surface felt smooth. He sucked his fingertips. They were red, as if burned.
“This is not stone. It is something else.”
He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. Perhaps it was the tequila. He felt it inside him. What was it Huitzilopochtli had said? The doors to reality would be thrown open and Chalco would receive knowledge. Maybe that was how he knew that the walls weren’t made of stone. But if so, then why didn’t he recognize the mysterious substance? Was it beyond his human reckoning? Or had the drink’s effects not yet been fully realized? It didn’t matter. He was experiencing something that no Tenochan had ever beheld. The Labyrinth was the path to glory.
“Oh, Quintox,” he whispered. “If only you could be here with me now, brother. You would be proud indeed.”
He noticed that despite the length of the hall and the ceiling’s height, his voice did not echo. The sound was muted. Chalco fumbled for his knife. Clutching it in one fist, he crept down the passageway. After he’d taken thirty steps, he turned around to make sure the exit was still there. It was. The door remained shut, but visible. Heart pounding, he continued on his way. He counted the closed doors as he walked by them—twelve, then twenty-four, then sixty. The corridor was obviously longer than it looked—an optical illusion of some sort, like the mirages that appeared in the desert. His father had told him all about those. A thirsty man would see water on the horizon, but when he reached it, he’d find only sand.
Occasionally, Chalco passed other corridors, intersecting with or branching off from the main hallway. He hesitated at each one, listening, but they were as silent as the rest of the Labyrinth. They, too, seemed endless—straight lines into infinity. He wondered where they went, but did not explore them, remembering Huitzilopochtli’s warning. He stared ahead. When he squinted, he thought he could see the end of the hall. Despite the passageway’s deceptive length, he was gaining ground.
***
Chalco was filled with an immense sense of pride as he continued on. Such a boon! He had been chosen by the gods. Him. Chalco. The gods had selected him and nobody else—not the priests or medicine men or the seasoned, battle-scarred warriors. He had never felt more alert and aware than he did at that moment. He wondered if it was another effect of the tequila or just the atmosphere of this place in general.
He thought of Quintox again. What would his family say if they could see him now? How joyous they would be, knowing that he’d been chosen by the gods to save them. When he triumphantly returned to Monte Alban, things would be different. His father and the other men could come home. Quintox would be prouder of him than ever before. And Yamesha—her clan would certainly approve of their marriage. The priests would honor him as they did the gods. Lord Moctezuma would call upon him, or invite him to the capital. All of Oaxaca would sing his praises and his face would be forever memorialized in stone. Perhaps a village would be named after him, or maybe even a city. Songs would recount how the gods blessed him with power and how he slew Cortes and stopped the invasion. Books would be written about his exploits. He would get his own Codex in the Great Temple. It would be grand!
Lost in thought, Chalco giggled. The sound of his own laughter startled him from the daydream. He halted. The corridor continued on uninterrupted, with no end in sight. Was that possible? Surely he had traveled forward. The end—another doorway—should be visible.
He looked back the way he’d come. The hallway stretched in that direction as well, and he could no longer see the exit. The door he’d come in through was missing. Where had it gone? Had he traveled that far in such a short time? His stomach sank, and he felt a twinge of panic. Chalco squeezed the hilt of his knife until his knuckles turned white. Had he somehow taken a wrong turn while he was daydreaming, gotten disoriented and wandered off down a side passage?
“Great Huitzilopochtli,” he prayed, “hear my call. Guide me, for I am lost. I did not heed your warnings or think of my people. Instead, I thought only of myself. Pride has led me astray.”
Silence. The guardian spirit was not coming. Not as a worm. Not as a Hummingbird Wizard. Not at all. Chalco had never felt so afraid or alone. Dropping to his knees, he sheathed his knife and beat the floor with his fists, moaning in frustration. Like the walls, the floor was cold. He leaned back, resting against a closed door, and considered what to do next—turn back and search for the way he’d come in, or keep moving forward, hoping that he’d come to the right doorway?
He sat there, leaning against the closed door, for a very long time before he heard the water. It was coming from the other side of the door; the steady, monotonous roar of the ocean. Chalco had heard it once before in his life, when he’d accompanied his father and uncles to a religious celebration in a seaside village on Oaxaca’s western shore. He’d been very young at the time, but he’d never forgotten the sound. Sometimes when he slept, he dreamed about it.
Chalco closed his eyes, put his ear to the door, and listened. It was definitely the ocean. He heard waves crashing and seabirds cawing out. His hopes rose. Maybe this was the door to the beach after all.
Jumping to his feet, Chalco opened the door and looked out into a sea. It wasn’t Oaxaca’s eastern shore. He wasn’t even sure it was Oaxaca. The doorway hovered on the surface of the ocean. There was no land, only water. The sun hung in the sky, reflecting off the sea. Seagulls circled, hunting for fish. Chalco shielded his eyes against the glare and watched them. He smelled salt and brine. Foam-topped waves crested against the doorframe but did not splash into the corridor, prevented from entering by some kind of barrier he couldn’t see. Chalco wondered if the same invisible wall would prevent him from crossing the threshold. Experimenting, he stuck his foot through the doorway. The surf lapped at his foot. The water was cold.
Slowly, Chalco pulled his foot back into the corridor and grinned. No, this wasn’t the right door. This wasn’t his world, or at least the part of his world he was looking for. But wherever it was, it was beautiful.
And then something erupted from the water. Two long, greenish-gray tentacles, each one as thick as his waist and covered with puckering suckers, thrust towards the door, grasping for him. He glimpsed a massive, shadowed bulk just beneath the surface, and then two more tendrils burst forth.
Screaming, Chalco backed against the far wall. The tentacles pushed through the open doorway and slithered across the floor. Chalco yanked his knife free of its sheath and stabbed one of the appendages as it slid across his foot. The stone blade sank into the flesh. Hot, black ichor squirted from the wound, staining his hand and splashing across the walls and floor. On the other side of the doorway came a great splash and the tentacles retreated. Chalco barely had time to free his knife.
The monster vanished beneath the surface. Chalco slammed the door shut, and the corridor was silent once more. Steam rose from the monster’s spilled blood.
