The Lazarus Drop

by Paul Moomaw

  We sat in silence for a while, passing the bottle back and forth. I was getting a little drunk, but Cruz showed no sign that the alcohol was affecting him.

  “Tell me about Carlos’ father,” I said.

  “Filomeno, his name was. He was a scholar, a researcher. He spent most of his time poking around in old temples. In fact, he probably knew as much as anyone about pre-Columbian cultures. He passed his passion for those people on to his children, although he would assuredly shake his head over this mongrel religion of theirs, this Jester God.”

  Cruz laughed, and shook his own head.

  “If he had kept to the past, he might still be alive. But he got distracted by the present. He began to notice what was happening to the people around him. It bothered him. He began to talk about how it bothered him. Noriega had him beaten up. He kept on talking, and he began organizing people to press for change. So they beat him up again. He nearly died, but when he recovered he went right back to stirring things up?"

  He reached for the bottle again, saw that it was empty.

  “Then one day he disappeared."

  “Noriega decided he'd had enough?"

  “Probably. There was no proof, of course."

  “How old were his children?"

  “Carlos was about five, I think. Pilar was ten or eleven. There was no mother. She had died giving birth to Carlos.”

  Cruz slammed his fist onto the table. “Goddammit, gringo, even in Mexico there was a time when almost nobody would have died from childbirth. Morelia had a hospital. A good hospital. And for things it couldn't handle, there was air transport to bigger places, like Guadalajara, or the Federal District."

  He sighed, sagged back against his chair. “I think I am glad that I will be the last Porfirio in my family line. This is not an honorable time for policemen."

  “Perhaps some day,” I said.

  “Perhaps."

  “Who raised Carlos and Pilar?"

  “They raised themselves. Actually, Pilar raised Carlos. She's more a mother than an older sister. I think that was true even before their father disappeared. She mothered him, wiped his nose, rescued him when he got into scrapes, made excuses for him. Still does."

  A door opened and slammed closed in the front of the house, and after a moment, Carlos and Pilar came into the room. Carlos looked drunk, a whole lot drunker, in fact, than Cruz or me. He stood there, swaying, for a moment, staring silently at us, filling the room with the stink of his beery breath, then lurched off to his room.

  “He is feeling dreadful about Otero,” Pilar said.

  I glanced over at Cruz, who raised an eyebrow imperceptibly.

  “We all feel pretty dreadful about Otero,” I said. I wasn't in a charitable mood. “I expect his wife and sons feel especially dreadful."

  A curtain came down over Pilar's face, but not before I saw the pain in her eyes.

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “That was a cheap shot."

  Her face remained impassive. “We will meet tonight. Carlos insists that if Beto is going to be among us, he must offer his blood to the Jester God. I agree that he should.”

  She turned away, then turned back and looked down at me. “Carlos also invites you to attend and observe. He insists on this, in fact."

  “And do you also agree to this?"

  “No. It isn't a bullfight for the gringo tourists to come and watch. But it is what Carlos wishes."

  She walked out of the room.

  Cruz got out of his chair.

  “Time for me to leave. I hope you will have an interesting evening."

  “There's an old Chinese curse about that,” I said.

  Cruz looked at me quizzically, but I just smiled and waved him on.

  * * * *

  I was the first man into the cave that evening. Pilar had insisted that I go in early and station myself in an unobtrusive place.

  “I don't want our people to feel like zoo animals,” she had said. “Better if they don't notice you at all."

  But most of them did, as they entered the room silently, in groups of two and three, gazing briefly at me, then letting their dark eyes slide away without reaction.

  There were many more, this time, I supposed because of the bringing in of a new member; I got a rough count of just over a hundred before I gave up. The same, few lanterns lit the space, and the red eyes of the jaguar on its altar over the pool glittered dimly at me. The place stayed cool, despite the mass of packed bodies, and I could feel an occasional stirring of air. I guessed there was some kind of natural ventilation, possibly in the invisible ceiling overhead.

  No one spoke. The only sound was of the shuffling of feet, the rubbing of cotton trousers, and an occasional, audible breath. Tonight, there were no women present. I assumed that had a significance, but I didn't know what. There was also no drum or flute.

  The last man had entered the cave, and everyone was sitting in expectant silence. I felt the air move in a different way, and glanced toward the entrance. Pilar stood in the shadows. She saw me looking at her, caught my eye briefly, then looked slowly away. As she shifted her body slightly, I saw that Beto was standing just behind her, stark naked, looking young and frightened.

  A loud buzzing filled the room, and then Carlos exploded into view, leaping from behind the altar which held the jaguar, rattle in one hand, stingray spine in the other. The mask of the Jester God covered his face. He stood there, swaying, and I wondered if he was still a little drunk.

  “There is a man who would join his spirit to the spirit of the Jester God. Send me this man."

  He shook the rattle and filled the cave with angry buzzing again.

  “There is a man who would spill his blood into the blood of the Jester God. Send me this man."

  People in the cave clapped in unison, three times, the sound cracking the air like a giant whip.

  “There is a man who would know the god who lives in the bowels of the earth, the god who devours the sun, who sends his child the jaguar to shake the world and usher in the final time of change."

  Carlos straightened and turned toward Beto and Pilar. He extended the rattle toward them.

  “Send me this man."

  Pilar gave Beto a gentle shove, and he began to move reluctantly toward Carlos, who continued to stand like a statue, pointing his rattle at the newcomer.

  Beto stopped when he reached Carlos. He stood tensely, waiting for whatever was going to happen next. I wondered if Pilar, or anyone, had tried to give him an advance idea of what the ritual would be like.

  “You are a child of the god, and the god knows you, even though you do not know the god, for he stands in the shadow of the flame, and you do not see him."

  A loud handclap followed Carlos’ words.

  “But he sees you, and allows you to feed him with your blood."

  Another handclap.

  “Feed him with the blood of your mind.”

  Carlos grabbed Beto roughly by the hair. He took the stingray spine and forced it into Beto's forehead, just over the left eye. He pushed it along under the skin until the point was just over the right eye, then pressed the forehead with his free hand so that the point emerged from the skin again.

  “The blood of your mind, of your thoughts, that you may think in the way of the god, and the god may know your every thought."

  Carlos pulled the spine roughly out again. Beto's eyes had been squeezed shut. Now he opened them again, and kept them open, trying desperately to appear calm and unafraid, while the blood ran in a small, steady stream from his wounded forehead, following the lines of his face and dripping from his chin.

  “Feed him with the blood of your breast, so that your heart and his heart will be united, and your feelings will be his feelings, and he may know your every feeling."

  Carlos stabbed the spine into Beto's chest, forcing it into the left pectoral muscle from the side, under the nipple, and out again. Beto stiffened, but held his silence, then sagged slightly as the spine was withdrawn.

&nbs
p; “Feed him with the blood of your manhood, so that your every act of love may be dedicated to him, and show your love of him, and so that you may create him in yourself, and yourself in him."

  Carlos grabbed Beto's penis. Beto closed his eyes and looked for a moment like he might pass out. Carlos stretched the foreskin out, and stabbed the spine through it. Beto went completely rigid, the veins standing out all over his body, but he still didn't make a sound. I wondered what Carlos would have done if Beto had been circumcised.

  Carlos removed the spine, crossed his arms over his chest, and stepped back.

  “Hear the words of the god."

  There was another triple handclap.

  “You are my child, whom I will carry into chaos and beyond. You are my tree, which will bear the fruit of the time of change, and in bearing the fruit you will be devoured, and in being devoured will become my seed, to repopulate the world in the final age."

  Another handclap shattered the air.

  “You are my soldier who will die for me. You are my lover who will bear change for me. Let everyone here see who you are, and see my power in you."

  Carlos took Beto's shoulders and turned him around to face the others. From the front, a man rose. He carried a bowl and sponge, and dipped the sponge into the bowl as he approached Beto. He wiped away the blood on Beto's forehead and face, pressed the sponge against the wound on his chest, and then, almost tenderly, grasped Beto's penis and wrapped it momentarily in the sponge.

  The man stepped away, and another rose in his place, carrying a white robe. He draped the robe gently around Beto's shoulders, then led the newly blooded soldier back to sit with him. A number of other men in the cave got up and went to Beto, touching his hair and his robe, and then returning to their places.

  Carlos allowed this to go on for a few minutes, then raised his arms. The rattle buzzed angrily again, and all movement stopped.

  “One of our soldiers has left us. He who was Ramon Otero has passed through the change, to await us when all change is done. It was his fate to lead the way, and it was the will of the god to bless him with his touch, and now he is nothing, so that he may be the first to be renewed."

  The will of the god, my ass, I thought. Tell them how he really died, you prancing faggot. Tell them how he got shot to pieces by a panicky kid with a gun.

  It was as if I had spoken aloud, for at that moment Carlos turned and pointed his ridiculous rattle at me. His eyes glittered as he stared at me over the heads of the seated men.

  “There is a man who is not of us. There is a man who claims he shares our goals, and would have us share his, and yet does not share his secret thoughts. There is a man who claims his heart is one with ours, and yet hides his heart in darkness, as he hides himself in the shadows of this place, believing that he can see the god, and that the god cannot see him. Ramon Otero shed his life's blood to save this man, but this man sheds no blood."

  Carlos took a step in my direction, and the men in front of him melted silently to one side, so that there was an open path between him and me.

  “The god would see this man more clearly."

  I glanced at Pilar. Her face wore a look of consternation, but she didn't stir. She looked briefly at me. Then she dropped her eyes to the floor and shook her head resignedly.

  Whatever was about to happen was between me and Carlos.

  I took a deep breath, willed myself to relax, muscle by muscle, limb by limb. I knew instinctively that he had set this up, that he had invited me here for this. I sensed that this was a test, and that if I showed any weakness or fear, I might not leave alive. It wouldn't make any sense for him to kill me; it would be crazy, in fact. But I wasn't too sure Carlos wasn't a little crazy.

  I decided to meet him head on.

  “What do you want of me....” I paused, let a good sneer develop in my voice, “boy."

  Anger sparked briefly in Carlos’ eyes. Then he grinned.

  “The god wants to get a better look at you, gringo. The god wants to test you."

  The grin broadened into a happy smile.

  “The god craves a taste of your blood. Will you give him some? Or must he take it all?"

  I felt a hundred pairs of eyes on me. Here goes nothing.

  “I will be glad to give the god a taste of the blood of a man."

  I placed myself before Carlos and reached for the stingray spine. He jerked it away just as someone struck my knees from behind and sent me down to the floor. Strong hands pinned my arms to my side and lifted me until I was kneeling in front of Carlos, who stared down at me, grinning, his dark eyes dancing.

  “Show the god your tongue, gringo."

  His grin broadened, as he saw the fear in my eyes. We stared at each other for a long moment, and I knew he had started paying me back for Playa Azul.

  Sticking your tongue out should be a simple thing, but it took me three tries. It was as if the damned thing had a life of its own—and probably a lot more sense than I had.

  Finally, I got it out, and immediately another pair of hands locked my jaw in place, pressing it up so that there was no way to pull my tongue back in without biting it off.

  Carlos pressed the sharp point of the spine against my upper lip, just under my nose. He pushed it in just far enough to draw blood and make me wince.

  “Feed the god with the blood of your tongue,” he intoned, “so that your every word may be one with the word of the god, and so that he may know every word you speak."

  He drove the sharp spine the rest of the way through my upper lip, and I could feel its hard surface pressed against the front of my teeth, and its point against the top of my tongue. He paused, savoring the pain on my face, and the fear of what was coming, while I stared up at him, thinking, you bastard, you silly bastard, pumping up all the rage I could find to smother the cowardice which kept sidling into my guts.

  Then slowly, deliberately, he forced the spine all the way through my tongue, and out my lower lip.

  I didn't scream. At least I don't think I did. Everything is fogged over. Memory is kind about pain. I know it hurt as much as anything I have ever experienced. But when I remember that night, the experience of pain isn't there.

  What is there instead is the wonderful numbness that came after Carlos had removed the stingray spine, and the man with the sponge pressed it between my lips, filling my mouth with a bitter-tasting liquid. The numbness flowed and merged with a drowsiness that crept all through my body.

  I don't even remember leaving the cave, or returning to my room, but I woke up sometime during the night. The lamp was lit, and I was naked. And I wasn't alone.

  Pilar was sitting on the edge of the bed. She looked down at me, and I lay on my back, looking up at her. My mouth hurt like hell, although not with the piercing agony I had endured in the cave. She handed me a cup.

  “Drink some of this."

  I took a swallow. It was the same painkiller she had given my on my first night in her house.

  I drained the cup and held it out to her, and when she reached for it, I took her hand. This time she didn't pull it away.

  We stared at each other forever, and then I pulled her toward me. She came willingly, eagerly, and her lips were better than any painkiller.

  She pulled away with a smile that was almost wistful, and stroked my forehead. She stood up and unbuttoned her dress, watching me the entire time. The dress slid to the floor, revealing a strong, brown body with large, pendulous breasts, heavy hips and a round belly, and firm, muscular thighs. She reached back and removed the tie from her hair, so that it cascaded, a straight, black waterfall, across her soft shoulders and breasts.

  She slid softly into the bed, her body warm, and vibrant, the perfume of it making me dizzy. Then she slid me softly into her, and I forgot that I had ever been in pain.

  * * * *

  When I awoke the next morning, Pilar was gone, my tongue hurt like hell again, and somebody was knocking on the door.

  “Come in,” I said—or as c
lose to that as my bruised, swollen tongue and lips would let me.

  It was Cruz, all decked out like a police chief. He even had on a little blue hat. He offered me a sympathetic look.

  “Pilar told me what happened last night.” he said. “I hear you were very brave."

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. I didn't feel a whole lot like talking.

  “But now that you've got the Jester God on your side, you better pray to him that your people's shipment shows up."

  I cocked an eyebrow at him, waited for him to continue.

  “I was at Noriega's last night. They're moving your plump little bird in five days."

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  Chapter 12

  I perched on a hillside above a small valley, peeking around a bush, my heart sinking into my boots, while I gazed at the busiest deserted airstrip anybody had ever heard of.

  We had arrived at Huetamo in the middle of the afternoon, wanting to reconnoiter before dark. Maybe the airstrip had been deserted once, but now it was an active construction site, with at least three dozen men working, and the deep-throated growl of heavy equipment floating up to us.

  “What the shit is this about, Carlos?” The words still didn't emerge very clearly from my damaged mouth, but I don't think that was why he didn't answer. The look on his face said he was as dismayed as I was.

  Cruz, on my other side, snorted a quiet laugh. “This may complicate things a little.”

  Nothing ever seemed to rattle Cruz. He moved in a low crouch back into the trees, where another dozen men waited. Carlos and I followed him.

  “I thought this place was supposed to be the perfect drop zone?” I said.

  “It's been deserted for years,” Carlos groaned. “How was I supposed to know?"

  “That's your favorite song, isn't it."

  “Fight later,” Cruz snapped. “Right now we have to decide what to do."

  A shiny new, metal building, the dirt still raw around it, stood on the edge of the airstrip, and another building, hangar-sized, was going up next to that. The runway itself was being resurfaced; a couple of large graders and a heavy roller moved up and down it as we watched—big, primitive-looking things, dirty green, with exposed seats and smokestacks that belched plumes of black smoke.