by Lavie Tidhar
Ahuizotl
Nelly Geraldine García–Rosas
Translated from the Spanish by Silvia Moreno–Garcia.
Nelly Geraldine García–Rosas is a young Mexican writer, publishing in both Spanish and English. She works as a freelance copy editor, and tackles Lovecraftian horror from an original angle in the following story.
Furious, the sea bellows, tearing the sails of the San Cristóbal, protests with roars of foam, yells like a woman in labour, cries like an abandoned child… Those were the words I managed to make out in the last, demented babbles of a Moorish youth who, with eyes popping out, threw himself overboard during the storm that lashed the ship taking me to meet my brother’s corpse.
Unlike the other passengers of the San Cristóbal, I did not embark for New Spain looking for fortune, but to stand face to face with misfortune and to bid goodbye to the last family member I had left. My brother, Fernando Villaplana, sailed in the year 1511 of Our Lord, being but a teenager. He had the fancy of becoming rich, gaining fame and possessing everything that our orphanhood had denied us. I remember seeing him, with eyes ablaze and hair uncombed, when he told me this before parting, as if the wind had already started flinging him toward those unknown lands full of wonder and danger, like the ones told in the Amadís. I knew from a letter of his that he had participated in the expedition commanded by Don Diego de Velázquez to the island of Cuba and that, a few years later, together with more than five hundred men, had joined the troops of Hernán Cortés to explore other lands and reclaim them in the name of His Majesty. After this, I had no news of him until, nearly thirty years after his parting, I received a letter from a friar named “Juan de los Ángeles.”
With beautiful and tight lettering, the friar told me how they had found Fernando’s corpse at the edge of the lake of Texcoco: “His skin was wet and slippery like that of a fish, but he did not squirm searching for the comfort of water; he remained still, as if asleep. He appeared to have no bruises or signs of violence. It was only up close that we realized his eyes, teeth and nails had been torn out with much care. ‘Ahuizotl! Ahuizotl!’ cried an Indian who kept us company and, drooling like a rabid dog, refused to help us carry the deceased.”
When I had finished reading the epistle assuring me of a grave on sacred ground for my brother, I did not know if my unease sprang from the way in which events were narrated or the fact that I had read that name written by an unknown hand: “Elena Villaplana.” Letter by letter, the maroon ink on the paper from New Spain returned me to the moment in which Fernando, dragged by the wind, had left me at the door of the convent of the Jerónimas so he could follow his dreams by the sea. From then on, I was Ágata de la Inmaculada Concepción; nevertheless, with the devastating news crumpling between my hands and tears in my eyes, the Elena inside me yelled, “Ahuizotl! Ahuizotl!” and forced me to head toward the murky waters of the New World.
The preparations for my departure happened in a mist, as in a dream, as though I were staring beneath the water. I remember little of what happened before I found myself kneeling next to the mast, praying and commending new souls to God during such a hard trial. It was then that the young Moor came running — drenched, he seemed black and slippery, and with his eyes so ominously open, he resembled a grotesque fish. He screamed strange words, perhaps in a strange tongue. I was only able to distinguish a few in Spanish before he threw himself overboard and disappeared amidst the foam.
A couple of weeks later, we arrived at the port of San Juan, which is also called “Ulúa,” for they say that the natives of the islet where the fortress–port is located howled at the sea, “Chlúha! Chlúa!” Words that the Spaniards understood as the actual name of the place. The crew was tired. It was agreed we would spend the night in an improvised camp on the beach and, at first light, would continue toward our destination, la Villa de la Veracruz. It was a relief to rest upon firm and warm sand, so that I fell asleep almost at once. Nevertheless, my sleep was restless; I dreamt that a huge figure emerged from the sea. On the shore, little animals the size of a dog greeted it, wagging their long tails that seemed to finish upon a hand. Waves crashed with strength and brought in their waters human corpses. Some seemed like abominations between man and fish, or seemed to have been turned inside out, and their guts were showing. The little creatures devoured, with much care, the eyes, teeth and nails of the corpses dragged by the sea for the satisfaction of the monstrous figure.
I awoke, bathed in sweat and trembling uncontrollably. I tried to commend myself to the Archangel Saint Michael, but the abominable images of the dream continued to haunt me in the darkness of a moonless night. I don’t know how long I was victim to this terror, but, still drenched with fear, I noticed suddenly that not far from me there were lights dancing in the palm trees. I approached them, thinking that it was a gathering of some of the mariners and it would do me well to sit before a fire. But no sailor was there: a group of strangely dressed Indians danced around a nest of palm leaves, inside which there stood a small stone figurine, no bigger than a fist. They sang in an odd tongue, but repeated constantly “Chlúha! Chlúa! Dagoatl! Dagoatl!” and howled like dogs, their cries increasing. The sailors from the San Cristóbal were awakened by the howling and, enraged, frightened them off by force.
Soon, morning broke and I saw something shining amidst the sand removed by the dance of the Indians. It was a small stone figurine of a black–and–bright crystal, the obsidian stone they employ in the realm of the Indies to make knives. It represented the silhouette of a man with huge eyes and tiny, pointed ears. The hands, adhered to the body, resembled those of a frog and it might have had a tail that had broken off. I could not stop thinking about Fernando as I looked into the wide, large eyes of the figurine, so I took it with me.
The end of the trip was short and calm. We arrived at the Villa de la Veracruz at midday, thus I decided to leave, immediately, toward the city of México–Tenochtitlán, where, thanks to a letter from the Mother Superior, I would be received by the newly established convent of the Jerónimas of New Spain. The roads were tortuous and the mist did not allow me to see the mountains surrounding us. Sometimes, you could hear howls like the ones of the natives of the port of San Juan; the driver told us it was the coyotes from the mountain and that we should not be afraid. Nevertheless, I felt a drop of cold water stream down my side, until it reached the pocket of my habit, and it increased the weight of the black figurine until I was slouching.
After I finally arrived at the convent and rested, I went to visit Friar Juan de los Ángeles at the Jesuit home. He was an old man and walked with difficulty. Even so, he wanted to take me to my brother’s grave, which was far off, in the atrium of a small chapel. As we walked together, he once more related the story of the discovery of the corpse, going into detail on the missing eyes, teeth and nails. The friar’s gaze seemed to grow empty every time he spoke of the appearance of Fernando’s skin, “moist and slippery, like a fish.” I tried to speak of something else, but he seemed engrossed, as though he did not know I was there. After a little while, we arrived at a small cemetery, where I prayed in silence. I carried no flowers to place next to the wooden cross, so I took out the figurine and decided to leave it by the grave, as a gift for my brother. Friar Juan de los Ángeles grew pale when he saw it, made the sign of the cross several times and began to scream, “The Ahuizotl! Have respect for the dead and take away from this sacred place the demon that murdered your brother. You, servant of the aquatic Satan, do not deserve to wear the habit with the figure of Our Lord!”
Not knowing what to do, I rushed away, disconcerted, through the cemetery.
Back at the convent, I fell victim to feverish tremors, which kept me in bed for many days. I dreamt, over and over again, about the titanic figure emerging from the sea and on the beach; it was received with joy by the ahuizotls, who, imitating the screams of a birthing woman or the cry of an infant, devoured my brother over and over again, or made terrible necklaces of teeth and nails. One a
fternoon, when my fever seemed to have eased, a dark–skinned girl with black hair took me to walk by the edge of a river. The sun was sinking, revealing the intense brightness of a few stars when the girl told me to wait, for she could hear something resembling a baby’s cry. I could not stop her. A dark, scaly hand rose from beneath the murky waters, pulled her hair and everything went black.
Days later, they found the dead girl. A little child told me her corpse glinted, like a horrible fish at the market. I resolved then to abandon New Spain forever and with it, my brother’s corpse and the terrible dreams.
I arrived at the port of Veracruz on a Thursday at dawn, the first rays from the sun greeting the sailors with hundreds of dead frogs and fish upon the sand. My ship was soon parting, but we managed to hear the screams from the coast; I felt a drop of cold water stream down my side, until it reached the pocket of my habit, and it increased the weight of the black figurine until I was slouching. I held the figurine between my hands and, though I tried to pray, no words came out.
§
The waves rise until they resemble a mountain in the ocean that turns dark, like the skin of the Ahuizotl. Barely illuminated by the convulsive light of the candle, the obsidian figurine seems to glint by itself, and I feel it coming: black, huge, stirring the ocean with its innumerable scales, its eyes eternally open. The scent of salt and blood drifts through the air. God help us.
The Rare Earth
Biram Mboob
Born in the Gambia, Biram Mboob currently lives in the UK. His short stories have appeared in Granta and elsewhere.
Finally, the Word was spreading. On an otherwise unremarkable morning in December, the very first pilgrims approached the stronghold at Kivu in the Congo.
Dora Neza was pulling her dying father on a hydraulic–steam litter. He lay motionless, his face a skeletal grimace, his skin a thinly congealed wax. She had pulled him for several days through forest thicket and marsh. In the dark and at the dawn he would rouse from his litter and cry out to her sharply. He would croak at her in the strange tongues of the void. Her reply to him was always the same, “We are nearly there, Baba. Nearly there”.
They approached the high, metal wall of the Nyungwe forest reserve. The wall stood twelve feet tall, featureless, alien, white morning mist roiling along its base like a trapped cloud. Dora observed the wall for a few minutes and then retreated from it. She found a nearby break in the thicket, set the litter down, and waited. She listened to the tortured breathing of her sleeping baba, the warble and keen of a solitary hornbill, the rustle and bell of the early breeze. She waited. The earth turned, bathing the glade about her with the muted lights of the morning sun.
More than an hour had passed before the wall opened. A large metal panel creaked and then slid away. In the wall’s new maw stood three knights. They wore green armour, black crosses chiselled on their tabards. Heavy machetes hung from their waists in leather scabbards, rifles slung over their shoulders. It took a few moments for Dora to notice that there was a fourth figure, a giant zumbi lingering behind the knights. At the sight of it, she scrambled to her feet, terror swelling in her like the tide. The zumbi wore nothing but a pair of transparent shorts, the attire of diamond miners and low domestics. It stopped a few paces outside the wall, motionless, its manner somehow both limp and tense at the same time, its flat gaze fixated on some distant point beyond the glade.
“Unataka nini?” one of the knights asked her, the largest of the three.
She began to reply, but the one who had spoken shoved her roughly. She realised he wanted no reply, so stayed silent while he admonished her for evading their checkpoints. From somewhere in the canopy, the hornbill sang its warble song one final time before rustling into flight.
The knights lifted her sick baba up to his feet and let him fall to the ground. They used their machetes to hack apart her litter and examined its innards, pistons, and joints. When their inspection was over, the largest knight walked over to the zumbi and slapped it twice on the back of its head whilst pointing at her baba. The zumbi gathered him up from the ground and easily slung him over its huge shoulder. The knights walked through the opening in the wall, followed by the zumbi. Dora waited a few moments, and followed them through. The wall closed behind them, the scattered remnants of the litter contraption left outside like the metal bones of some unimaginable feast.
They walked through a forest, whose coppice grew thicker, and it got darker as they walked. Then the forest trail widened, turning into a path. They soon began to walk past forest mahemas — camouflaged green canvas tents — amongst the trees. They began to encounter men and women along the path, some holding rifles, others holding axes and tools. Some were dressed in the foliage–like rags of forest dwellers, others in green ceremonial robes. Overhead in the arboreal, silvered arrays and antennae jutted into the sky. There were other machines parked between the trees: tri–wheeled jungle vifaru tanks, missile launchers, skyward pointing rail cannons.
They entered a large clearing. The biggest knight turned to her. “Fuata,” he said, pointing at the giant mahema that stood at the clearing’s centre. Unlike the other mahemas, it was the size of a circus marquee, glossy white, with antennae and arrays protruding from its roof. A large wooden cross was planted before it alongside two armed sentries. The knight slapped the zumbi on its broad shoulder blade and pointed at the mahema entrance, making it advance between the sentries and disappear inside. Dora followed.
Her eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness. The zumbi had deposited her father on the ground and retreated to the recesses of the tent. She looked around. A well–appointed leather suite, a plush carpet pile, and judging from the cooler air some form of air–conditioning mechanism. There were perhaps a dozen men in the mahema, some standing, others sitting. However, it was immediately obvious to Dora who amongst them was the Redeemer. He sat in an armchair at the focal point of the room. A tall man, muscled, stout, a warrior’s build, not much older than thirty, but bald and hairless, except for a long beard. His face was oblong, severe, and he wore the stiffly contemplative frown of a man still settling into his role at the apex. Casually dressed in a simple white robe, his legs were crossed and displaying a pair of badly scarred knees.
Dora assumed that they had arrived at the conclusion of some disciplinary hearing, for a sobbing man lay prostrate before the Redeemer. Two sentries lifted the shuddering wretch by the arms and dragged him outside.
After the sentries had left, the men in the mahema turned their attention to her. The Redeemer stared at her while the knight who had spoken outside whispered something into his ear. She gazed evenly at him in return, her hands clasped behind her back. Despite the heat, she still had her orange kanga draped over her shoulders. Underneath, she was wearing a ragged T–shirt and faded denims.
“Where are you from?” The Redeemer asked.
“From Cyangugu,” she replied.
He nodded amiably. “That’s a hard road that you’ve travelled. How did you know where to find us?”
“Everyone knows you are here. Everyone is talking about you.”
“And what do they say about me?”
She kept her gaze on him as she spoke, “That you are Yesu. The Christ returned.”
The Redeemer pursed his lips, as if hearing this for the first time. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Dora,” she replied. “My father’s name is Michael.”
“Dora,” he repeated. “What else do they say about me?”
“They say you have cured the blind and brought dead men to life. Before he stopped speaking, my father told me that he saw you perform miracles in Ituri. He saw you summon fire from the sky with your finger. He saw you kill a hundred PLA without moving from where you stood.”
The Redeemer nodded and smiled, pleased. He turned and glanced at one of the men seated near him. A much older man wearing a knight’s uniform said and smiled, “The Word spreads.”
The Redeemer turned back to her. “Tel
l me,” he asked. “What name do I go by in your town?”
“Schwarzenegger,” she said.
He frowned. “That was my war name,” he said. “When you return to the town you will tell your people my true name. You will tell them that my name is Gideon. You will tell them that I am the Word made flesh.”
Dora looked down at her baba, who was lying still on the floor.
“Don’t worry about your father,” the Redeemer continued. “He will be made whole again. I will cure him. Does he hold faith in the Trinity?”
“Yes,” she said, “he does.”
“Then his faith will be rewarded. His faith in me will make him whole.”
§
“PLA spies,” Musa Kun said. “I guarantee it.”
The older man was Gideon’s second in command, a trusted counsellor, and a thin shuffling person with a protruding jaw that gave him a deceptively gormless appearance. Musa set down his papers and stood up from his chair. He prodded Michael with his foot, making the stricken man groan. “Did you see her shoes?” he asked. “Nice boots like that?”
“I did,” Gideon said. He looked down at Michael, observing his features, a man nearing sixty with grey temples and a painfully thin face. Beads of sweat ridged his forehead occasionally sliding down his nose. “They aren’t spies. You wouldn’t make a spy of a dying man.”
Gideon stood up, bent down and touched the man’s forehead. He could have been dying of any number of infections; there was no way to be certain. The superbugs evolved quickly enough so that there was almost no point in trying to catalogue them.
“We should still be careful though,” Musa Kun said. “He might not be a spy, but the girl could be.”
Gideon shrugged. The girl Dora was admittedly, a different matter. She might be employed to penetrate the camp, the sick old man merely a prop for her deception. But there were many reasons he doubted this, the main one being that it wasn’t the way the PLA usually worked — spending time on a subtle and elaborate ruse like this. The girl could do no serious damage on her own and if all they wanted was reconnaissance of his camp then they could have just flown one of their more expensive machines over the forest, something impervious to the rail cannons. However, perhaps things had changed since Ituri. Perhaps the kindoro were beginning to take him seriously. Perhaps they were beginning to understand.
