Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales (33 page)

“All the same, we should call it a night.”

She took his hand again and they turned around. Other than the moon and the tiny light of the Hotel Bolero, there was nothing else to guide them through the dark.

Noah could not lie still between the hotel sheets. Sleep seemed elusive, impossible, when he was so exhausted from his journey on little more evidence than a blurry newspaper photograph. He itched with unbridled anxiety; it was like electricity travelling through his nerves into his addled brain. His ears buzzed, his eyes filled with sparks behind closed lids. Even his teeth felt slightly displaced, and biting down did not alleviate the discomfort. He was charged with the knowledge that Eli was close—closer than he’d been in years—and it became impossible to spend another moment in the shrinking bed. While Rachel slept easily and deeply, Noah pulled back the covers and slipped free.

The heat in the middle of night remained oppressive, and sitting beside the open window proved futile—the air from outside was no cooler. Still, Noah could look out from his perch at the tiny village streets lit by moonlight, and past the broken spire of the church toward the rough-edged horizon. He stared out and wondered where in all that emptiness Sonia was hiding. Sonia, and the son she had stolen from him. He boiled with impotent rage. If he only knew where Eli was being held, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from storming over there, despite the assurance of both Rachel and the Sarnia Police that it would likely result in his death. But Noah was willing to risk it all to be reunited with his son. No one understood how much Sonia had taken with her, what emptiness Eli had left. The man Rachel met two years ago was not whole, had never been whole the entire time they’d been together. But there in Mexico, his body vibrating in anticipation of its missing piece, Noah was closer than he’d ever been. He didn’t know how things would change when he was complete, didn’t know if Rachel would reject the version of him she’d never seen before, but he couldn’t allow himself to falter with worry. Eli, his only son, was close, and his presence was stoking the fires that burned in Noah’s heart. It was burning him up.

Noah was still sitting by the window as the sun made its slow ascent into the sky, a fiery god from behind the horizon. More heat came with it, and whatever respite the dark had offered was revoked, a victim to the burning orb. Rachel opened her eyes not much later, she too finding it impossible to sleep, and when she waved her arm at Noah, beckoning him back to bed, he complied. Arm around her body, hand on their unborn child, he pressed his body into her back and fought the instinct to flee from the unbearable heat she was radiating. It was essential to his sanity that he stay tethered to her. Eli, though, was out there waiting for him.

“We have to go soon. We need to start looking.” He felt her take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. “You’re not too hot, are you? If you want to hang back here, I can meet you later.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine.” She swallowed hard. “Where to first?”

“I guess we’ll start with the photo. Show it around. See what happens.”

It did not take Noah long to get ready, but Rachel moved more slowly, her ligaments aching as they stretched to accommodate their growing child. Noah had not planned what to do once he and Rachel reached Astilla de la Cruz. Before they arrived, he had felt certain it would be easy to find a Canadian woman and child in a village so small, and yet once there he realized how detrimental his own foreignness was. He and Rachel had little in common with those around him. One mistake and they would get nowhere.

Downstairs, the old señora sat behind her desk as though she had been stationed there overnight, staring at a framed photograph. Rachel appeared discomfited by her presence and tugged at Noah’s arm to keep him moving past, but Noah decided if they were going to start searching there would be no place better. The señora’s scowl did not frighten him—he would have suffered far worse for Eli.

“Excuse me? Señora?”

She grunted in response, her jowls tight over a clenched jaw. But when she looked up at him her face was wet, and those cold eyes red. He glanced at Rachel, hoping to catch her eye, but she was intentionally looking elsewhere.

“Do you know this place? Do you recognize it?”

He unfolded the article he’d been carrying. Time had already worn its creases, giving the photo an additional layer of fog. Noah flattened it out as best he could before showing it to her. Her eyes didn’t move.

“Señora, please.
Muy importante
.”

Her scowl deepened, scoring the flesh of her leather face like an old handbag, and she laid the small framed photo face down.
“Ándale. Dámelo.”
Her hand snatched at the article, and he gave it over, albeit reluctantly. He struggled to tamp down the fear that by simply relinquishing possession of the clipping, he might lose his only clue to his son’s whereabouts. When her swollen eyes landed upon the photograph, they stretched open wide, much wider than he would have expected. She turned noticeably paler, as a dark shadow crossed her face. He worried she might scream. Instead, she shook her head vehemently and pushed the clipping as far away from herself as she could. As though it were on fire.

“Please, Señora. In English.”

“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 person 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.