The Lazarus Drop

by Paul Moomaw

  The figure shook the rattle, and the drum and flute stopped. He shook it again. It was loud in the sudden silence, and angry, like the buzzing of a swarm of wasps. Then he spoke, and I recognized Carlos’ voice behind the mask.

  “You are the children of the god of darkness and light. You are the children who will bring the time of changes."

  The people in the room raised their hands above their heads and clapped once, sharply, in unison. The sound echoed off the walls.

  “Three times has the god of light and darkness destroyed the world."

  Another echoing clap.

  “Three times has he renewed it, with its birds and flowers, beasts and fish, men and women."

  And another.

  “Now the time is at hand for the fourth age of chaos and destruction. The time is at hand for the fourth age of renewal."

  Another clap echoed around the cave.

  “There will be no more."

  Clap.

  “There will be no more."

  Clap.

  “There will be no more."

  Another thunderous clapping of hands, then stillness. Carlos sank to his knees. He placed the rattle on the floor behind him and held the spike before his face, gripping it with both hands.

  “Great father of the three-cornered hat, Tepeyehotli, god of darkness who dwells in the bowels of the earth and devours the sun, father of the jaguar, guardian of the sacred jade which is the heart of the world, fill me with your darkness. Drench me with your light. Guide me with your anger. Let this sacred spine of the stingray, your winged messenger who dwells between the darkness and the light, be the instrument of your will, drawing my blood to feed your hunger, blood from my very tongue, to dedicate my tongue to your way, so that it can speak only truth."

  A woman rose from the floor and stood behind Carlos. It was Pilar. She pulled the god-mask from Carlos’ head, then knelt behind him, and placed one hand around his forehead, tilting his head back. In the other she held a small, wooden bowl under his chin.

  Carlos stuck his tongue out and held the point of the stingray spine against its side. The drum and flute began again, the drumbeat speeding up until it was a constant roll, and the flute piping more and more shrilly.

  Then the music stopped, and in the same instant Carlos rammed the spine all the way through his tongue, from the right side to the left. The blood flowed from his mouth, into the bowl.

  The cave was in total stillness. The only sound was the dripping of blood.

  Then Pilar began to speak, her dark, strong voice filling the cave.

  “These are the words of the god, that you may hear, and believe, and be filled with his dark anger. Now, see, says the god, that fire is a thing of both light and shadow, and it sends forth both into the night.

  “And I will stand in the shadow of the flame, and you will not see me.

  “And I will reach forth my sharp finger, my finger of flame and shadow."

  She dipped her finger into the bowl.

  “And I will touch you there.” She touched her finger to her lips.

  “And there.” And she touched her breast.

  “And again, there.” And the bloody finger rested against her groin.

  “And you will shrivel and burn, and become as nothing, not even a memory, not even a dream.

  “And this will please me, and in my pleasure will be your renewal to my way, to my memories, and to my dreams."

  Pilar placed the bowl back into Carlos’ hands.

  “Touch the god,” she said. “Fill yourself with his darkness."

  A woman rose and went to Carlos. She dipped her finger into the bowl and touched herself three times, forehead, breast and groin.

  Others followed, and with the movement and shuffling of feet, I snapped back into reality. I had been as much in a trance as anyone in the cave.

  I watched as each person went through the ritual with the blood. Mostly I watched Carlos, wondering if he had doped himself up before mutilating himself with the spine.

  I decided he hadn't. There was too much pain in his dark, brooding eyes, too much obvious control of his facial muscles. But there was something else, too.

  Earlier, I had thought I saw something in Pilar's face that was missing in her brother. Now I understood, as I watched Carlos, that it wasn't something she had that he didn't. It was the other way around, a thing in Carlos that I would never see in Pilar. He knelt there, holding the bowl, head held high, as people went to him, one by one. They went to him in attitudes of dread, and awe, and worship.

  And he was loving every minute of it. Inside this dark, somber Carlos lived a gleeful little boy, grinning wickedly at having such power.

  I shifted my gaze to Pilar. If I was going to feel worshipful about either of them, it would be her. Her beauty was reason enough; but there was also an aura of strength and calm that made me want to go past the beauty and touch the inside of her.

  Right now, there was something else as well, a look on her face as she watched her brother. I sensed that she saw the same thing I saw—had observed it many times—and that it disturbed her.

  The last person, a boy in his teens, had returned from the bowl, and the cave was hushed again. Then Carlos spoke, the words a little slurred from the wound in his tongue.

  “The god gives me this to offer you, that he has sent us a weapon. He has sent us a man, who comes from another place, and who will provide us with the means to begin the changes."

  Murmurs filled the cave, then stopped as Carlos raised his hand.

  “Hear this, for the god speaks to his children. Soon, very soon, the finger of the god will touch the one who oppresses us, and shrivel him. So go, now, and wait for the time. It comes soon."

  The one who needed to go was me, before I got caught in the crowd. I backed through the door, closed it behind me, and felt my way as fast as I could back to the house. I was sitting at the table sipping on another glass of mescal when the rear door opened and people started slipping through. I got a lot of curious looks, but nobody said anything.

  They passed in clusters of two and three, out of the room, and out of the house, and I was alone again. Carlos and Pilar still hadn't shown up.

  Carlos came in next. The high was gone and his pain was obvious. He banged through the door and rushed for the bottle of mescal, then drank greedily, straight from the bottle, wincing and moaning a little as the alcohol hit his wounded tongue. He put the bottle down and stood, hand to his head, for a moment. He took another drink, then turned around and saw me.

  “You've been sitting here? All this time?"

  “Enjoying some of that.” I nodded toward the mescal.

  “How long?"

  “Ten, fifteen minutes.” That was true enough.

  “What'd you see?"

  “Some people. You must have had a party."

  “Forget you saw anything, understand?"

  I nodded and smiled. “I didn't see anything."

  “Good. Don't forget."

  “To forget?"

  “Oh, fuck you!” He stumbled from the room, holding his head again.

  Pilar came through the door as I was pouring myself another drink.

  “You!” she said.

  “Self-evidently,” I replied.

  She looked from me to the bottle, to the door of Carlos’ room, and back at me again.

  “How long have you been here?” she asked.

  “A while.” I said.

  “What did you see?"

  “I forget."

  She looked at the bottle, as if checking to see if I had drunk enough to be forgetful.

  “What do you mean, you forget?"

  “Carlos told me to forget, so I forgot."

  “Forgot what, cabron?"

  I grinned up at her. “I don't remember."

  “Look at me."

  I did, and I couldn't maintain the grin. Our eyes stayed locked, and it felt as if she could see into the deepest recesses of my mind.

  “How long
were you in the cave?” she asked.

  That made me blink.

  “How the hell did you know I was in the cave?"

  “A guess. I felt a presence, an intrusion. And at one point, just before everyone left, I was sure I saw movement at the entrance."

  “You did. That was me, leaving."

  “So you saw a lot?"

  “I saw what your brother did to himself."

  “And now you think we are superstitious fools."

  I got up, poured myself some more mescal.

  “Good stuff,” I said. sitting back down. “No, I don't think you are fools."

  “What would you say if I told you I don't believe any of that business myself?"

  Our eyes met again; this time she looked away.

  “I would say you were lying."

  She laughed quietly, ducked her head, then looked at me again, and for the first time there was a touch of warmth in her gaze.

  “You would be right,” she said.

  “And yet, I don't believe that you would do what Carlos did tonight."

  “The blood?"

  I nodded.

  “I have done it,” she said. “One time. Everyone who joins our movement must shed blood in that way. We believe that offering blood to the god allows us to welcome him into us, to destroy us and remake us in the image of the coming way."

  “But Carlos has done it more than once?"

  She sighed. “He does this once every month. He says he must set the example."

  “Because he is the leader?"

  “The brave leader. My little brother, who grew up using my skirts to wipe his nose."

  “Those people. They are the underground?"

  “Only a part. Not every member believes in the old ways. And not everyone who believes can come to every rite. The cave is too small.” She laughed again.

  “You need a bigger cave."

  “When Noriega is gone, we won't need to hide in a cave.” She looked at me again, and her face changed, as if she had suddenly remembered who I was, why I was here. She stood up.

  “The house is yours to wander in as you please. The cave is not. And you must not go outside alone. I believe Cruz is coming for you tomorrow afternoon to show you whatever you need to see to decide which instruments of death your government will provide us. Good night."

  She headed for her room. I headed for the mescal. I hoped there was plenty of it, if I was going to be spending my days under house arrest.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 9

  I had a reasonably clear head by the time Cruz picked me up at dusk, driving an official police groundcar.

  “All the windows in this thing are one way,” he said as we climbed into the vehicle. “We can see out, but people on the outside see only their reflections. It was Noriega's idea. He thought it would intimidate the populace. He wouldn't like the way I'm using it this evening."

  He drove sedately through the center of town, down the broad avenue that followed the river, past the Hotel Presidente, and beyond. People we passed on the street didn't appear intimidated, although more than a few gave us dirty looks.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “The General makes his home outside the city, at Lake Patzcuaro, on an island."

  The city gave way to isolated houses, small ones, with narrow windows and low doors set deep into thick walls of pastel greens, and pinks, and blues, under roofs that looked as if they had been made by weaving twigs together.

  “Not too many years ago most of these places had tin roofs. A lot of those roofs had satellite dishes, and at least every third house had at least a beat up old truck or groundcar in front."

  He pointed at the fallen in remains of what had been a large building.

  “See that? It housed a microprocessor manufacturing company. Employed half the people in this valley. Everything's gone, now. The General put an end to all of those things. Technological poison, he says. Bad for his children."

  “How is it, being one of his children?"

  A shadow crossed Cruz’ face.

  “You were on the bus,” he said.

  We didn't talk the rest of the way to the lake.

  The sun was beginning to set over the peaks to the west as we pulled off the road and moved slowly through a park-like area, stopping under the broad canopy of an ancient tree. The evening was still, the lake iridescent, flashes of copper and blue winking in the last rays of the sun. Small boats dotted the lake, dark silhouettes floating on the water. Each boat had a single boatman, and from each craft there sprouted fishing nets, projecting from the sides like fragile wings, so that the boats appeared to skim across the surface of the water like giant butterflies.

  “Do they really catch fish in those boats?” I asked.

  “They used to. Now they make a pretty picture for the General. Nothing more. For centuries, people fished this lake. Once they used boats and nets much like those. Later they had more efficient equipment. The General put a stop to that, too. No killing our brothers the fish, he said.” Cruz snorted in disgust.

  “It's funny, sabes? Before the General, they had put a quota on the fishing, because they worried that too many fish were being taken. Now the damned lake is choking on fish, and nobody can take even one."

  “The way nobody can take a deer?"

  Cruz gave me a look. “What would you know about deer?"

  “Remember, I told you I got a ride into town."

  Cruz nodded.

  “My benefactor was a poacher. He nearly shot me, going after a deer."

  Cruz bellowed a laugh. “What a fate that would have been. The super gringo agent, brought down by a lowly poacher."

  “He was getting the deer for his family. They were coming home that morning. On the bus."

  Cruz bowed his head. His fist was clenched, knuckles white. “Cochinos!” he spat. “Pigs. There will be a reckoning.”

  He shook his head, as if to clear it of a nightmare, then pointed out over the lake to a large island in the center. A low complex of white-walled buildings glowed dimly in the fading light, stretching down to the water's edge. In the center of the island rose the silhouette of a giant statue, one arm raised toward the sky. It looked like it must be close to twenty meters tall.

  “That is where we must attack,” Cruz said. “The island is called Janitzio. Once it was a mission. Later it was a museum. Now it is the General's home, and the rest of Michoacan is a museum."

  “What's the statue?"

  He glanced at me with a sardonic smile. “Make a wild guess."

  “The General?"

  “Very perceptive. Before, there was a statue of Morelos, who was a 19th century patriot. It was ugly, almost as ugly as this one. But at least it meant something to the people."

  “I guess you can blow it up."

  Cruz laughed again. “Correct. But first we have to get past those.” He pointed across the lake.

  A boat was emerging from behind the island, a very different boat from the little fishing craft that still plied the lake. This one was long, low and mean looking, with a laser cannon mounted on the deck. The deep growl of powerful engines echoed over the water.

  “Noriega has three of those. If we don't put them out of action, we have no chance,” Cruz said. Then he pointed skyward. “And he has five of those.”

  A silver popper was rising vertically from the island, rotor skirts shimmering and winking as the craft reached the last rays of the sun. It started moving toward the shore; then, about halfway across the lake, it suddenly dropped like a stone until it was only a meter or two above the water. It hovered there for a moment, the skinny, hydraulic legs which let the craft land on almost any terrain giving it the appearance of a giant, silver insect. Then it rose into the air and continued its flight landward.

  “The boats and the poppers are heavily armed,” Cruz said. “Between them, they cover the lake completely. If even one of them is able to fight, we don't make it. That's what has kept
the General in control for so long. The people have rifles, and handguns, and curses. He has those."

  “So you need missiles."

  “Big enough to take those out, and small enough to launch from those,” Cruz said. He pointed to one of the fishing boats. “Those little butterfly boats must be our armada."

  I shook my head doubtfully. “It will take a lot of those little boats, at one person per boat."

  “It's not that bad. You can get two people in each boat, one sitting up, one lying down."

  “Still...."

  “We also have the General's peculiar thinking on our side. We won't need a lot of men, because we won't be facing a lot of men. Noriega doesn't believe in technology for his ‘children,’ but he has a child's faith in technology for himself. Once those machines are gone, he will be almost completely defenseless."

  “So you need enough heavy stuff for the poppers and the boats."

  “Plus antipersonnel weapons to keep Noriega occupied when we hit the island. We may be exposed on the beach."

  “Small arms?"

  “No. My police force is well-armed, and everything is conveniently stored in one place. That will be the first stop on the way here."

  “And all your officers will stand to one side and let that happen?"

  “Enough of them. And the rest won't matter, once we have their guns."

  “What about the island's physical defenses? Gates, walls, doors, that sort of thing?"

  “There's not a lock in the place, and half the walls are windows."

  “And reinforcements? Noriega must have more people he can call in if he needs them."

  “Not a problem, I think, if all goes well. There are garrisons in Ciudad Hidalgo—that's on the road back toward Toluca—and in Apatzingan, Zamora and Uruapan. And he has radio contact with each of them, so he can call for help. But they have only ground transport. Noriega would never trust anybody out of sight with aircraft. And if we take the boats out, they won't have a way to the island."