Tequila's Sunrise

  DEADITE PRESS

  205 NE BRYANT

  PORTLAND, OR 97211

  www.DEADITEPRESS.com

  AN ERASERHEAD PRESS COMPANY

  www.ERASERHEADPRESS.com

  ISBN: 1-936383-55-1

  Tequila’s Sunrise ©2007, 2011 by Brian Keene

  Burying Betsy ©2006, 2011 by Brian Keene

  Dust ©2003, 2011 by Brian Keene

  Fade To Null ©2009, 2011 by Brian Keene

  Bunnies In August ©2005, 2011 by Brian Keene

  That Which Lingers ©1995, 2011 by Brian Keene

  Two-Headed Alien Love Child ©1995, 2011 by Brian Keene

  Golden Boy ©2008, 2011 by Brian Keene

  Cover art copyright © 2011 Alex McVey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the USA.

  Acknowledgements

  For this new edition of Tequila’s Sunrise, my thanks to everyone at Deadite Press; Alex McVey; Dallas Mayr (whose The Transformed Mouse inspired this tale); Tod Clark, Kelli Owen, Mark Sylva, and John Urbancik (who proofread the original version); Geoff Cooper; Mike Oliveri; Mikey Huyck; J. F. Gonzalez; Mary SanGiovanni; and my sons.

  OTHER DEADITE PRESS BOOKS BY BRIAN KEENE

  Urban Gothic

  Jack’s Magic Beans

  Clickers II (with J.F. Gonzalez)

  Take The Long Way Home

  A Gathering of Crows

  Darkness on the Edge of Town

  For Dave Thomas: “Para todo mal, mescal. Para todo bien, también.” (For all hardships, mezcal. For all wellness, as well.)

  CONTENTS

  Tequila’s Sunrise

  Burying Betsy

  Dust

  Fade to Null

  Bunnies in August

  That Which Lingers

  Two-Headed Alien Love Child

  Golden Boy

  TEQUILA’S SUNRISE

  (A FABLE)

  Tequila has no history; there are no anecdotes confirming its birth. This is how it’s been since the beginning of time, for tequila is a gift from the gods and they don’t tend to offer fables when bestowing favors. That is the job of mortals, the children of panic and tradition.

  —Alvaro Mutis

  Where shall I go?

  Where shall I go?

  The road of the god of duality.

  Is your house in the place of the fleshless?

  Perchance inside heaven?

  Or here on earth only?

  —Traditional Aztec funeral chant

  To open doors, one must first know how to find them.

  —Daemonolateria

  Once upon a time, which is how most fables begin, there was a land known as Oaxaca. The people who lived in Oaxaca called themselves the Tenochas, but history would call them the Aztecs. Oaxaca was a deadly place, a country full of extremes—in its people, creatures, and the landscape itself. Although it offered much beauty and wonder, there were myriad dangers lurking there, as well.

  Atop one of Oaxaca’s snow-covered, treeless mountains, a thousand feet above the sea and overlooking a wide, fertile valley, sat the city of Monte Alban. It was a large city (though not the biggest) and many people lived there. In the morning, the sun glinted off the frescoed temples and buildings in its plaza. At night, the moon reflected on its ceremonial pools.

  Before the Spaniards arrived in Oaxaca, a young boy named Chalco could often be found on Monte Alban’s expansive ball courts playing tlachtli and patolli with his friends. But when Cortes’s army landed on their shores, Lord Moctezuma issued a war summons. The invaders’ intentions were unclear. They said they came in peace, but they brought a new god and drove the people of Oaxaca before them like cattle.

  Most of the able-bodied men in Monte Alban answered Moctezuma’s call to arms, and traveled to the capital city of Tenochtitlan. Chalco and the other boys had to assume their place and were now responsible for farming, hunting, and all the other tasks. There was no more time for play or fun—only for the everyday drudgery of life. Childhood ended early and there was no time to miss it or weep for its passing. There were no more games and no more play, and the ball courts sat empty and silent, their stones dusty.

  Some people said it was the end of the world.

  Perhaps they were right.

  ***

  The day Chalco met the worm began like any other.

  It began in darkness.

  ***

  Before dawn, the call to rise echoed across the city, as it did every day. Inside the pyramid temples, the priests blew conch shell trumpets while their acolytes beat on wooden drums. The noise disturbed the birds roosting on the temple peaks. Shrieking, they flew into the sky, adding to the cacophony. The music throbbed through the streets and alleys, waking the residents.

  Chalco stared up at the thatched roof of his family’s adobe hut and rubbed sleep dust from the corners of his eyes. He was still tired. After working in the fields all day long, he’d gone to bed late the night before. Today would offer a welcome change. He planned on going hunting. His clan’s larder grew empty.

  The drumming continued and the trumpets sounded again. Around him, Chalco’s mother, sisters, and younger brother stirred. The adobe had two rooms, partitioned down the middle. On one side were the sleeping quarters. The other side held the kitchen and dining area. As Chalco stumbled out of bed, his mother tended to the fire, which they’d banked the night before. Kneeling, she blew it back to life. Was it his imagination or did she look older today than she had in recent months? Her once black hair was now streaked with white. She didn’t smile very much anymore, and there were lines on her face. He knew that she missed his father. Chalco missed him, too. He wondered if they’d see him again.

  Outside, the trumpets sounded one more time—wailing long and mournfully before they faded. Somewhere, in a nearby hut, a baby cried.

  Yawning, Chalco got dressed. He passed his otterskin maxtli between his legs, and then cinched it around his waist. The two ends of the loincloth hanging down in the front and back were embellished with intricate designs of an eagle and a jaguar—the totems of his clan. He pulled a mantle of woven cloth over his left shoulder, and then slipped into his deerskin sandals. His feet had gotten bigger, and his toes felt cramped inside them. Soon, it would be time for a new pair. At five feet five inches, Chalco was considered tall for his people. His father often joked that perhaps he was really the son of the cannibal giants rumored to live in the Northern caves. But he also said that Chalco’s size was a blessing, especially when it came to work. His broad head and thick neck were good for carrying baskets, and his long, muscular arms and wide feet aided him both in the field and on the hunt. Chalco did not mind his size. He knew it gave him an advantage over the other boys. The only thing he did not like was his coarse, dark hair. Currently, the thick bangs hung over his almond-shaped eyes and got in his way. He had to constantly flip his hair away from his face. Despite the annoyance, Chalco was reluctant to cut it. He wanted a long, braided ponytail like many of the older men had. He’d noticed that women seemed to fancy them.

  The fire’s glow filled the hut. The warmth felt good. Dressed for the day, Chalco turned to his little brother. He was still in bed, blinking, half-awake.

  “Quintox, get up.”

  The younger boy shook his head. “I am still tired, Chalco.”

  “Did you not rest well?” Chalco knew that Quintox missed their father and uncles, and wondered if it was affecting his sleep.

  “I had a strange dream.”

  Chalc
o sat on the edge of the bed and patted his head. “What was it?”

  “I shouldn’t say.” Quintox frowned. “It might be wrong to tell.”

  “Then whisper if you are ashamed, so that our sisters won’t hear.”

  Quintox lowered his voice. His eyes were wide. His bottom lip trembled. “I dreamed that Cortes was really Quetzalcoatl.”

  Chalco stiffened. He glanced around quickly, making sure the rest of the family hadn’t heard his brother’s blasphemy. Such talk could lead to only one thing—Quintox being sacrificed to Tlaloc, the rain god who required children several times a year as tribute. Although the priests also gathered children’s tears in a ceremonial bowl as an offering, that would not be Quintox’s fate. Not for blasphemy. He would shed blood rather than tears. To compare Quetzalcoatl, the Plumed Serpent, greatest of all the gods, to Cortes, the leader of the Spanish invaders, was unforgivable.

  “Stop that right now. I mean it. No more of this talk.”

  “But Chalco, the priests say that this is the year Quetzalcoatl is supposed to return. Remember? He promised that he would come back and deliver us. He would usher in a new era of peace and prosperity. ‘Look to the east’, they say. If this is the end of the world, then surely he must come.”

  The boy recited it from memory. The prophecy was ingrained in them all from the time they learned to speak and read. Chalco knew it well. In Tenochtitlan’s grandest place of worship—a temple devoted to Tonatiuh, the sun god—there was a gigantic stone monolith, eighteen feet in diameter and carved from a single, black volcanic rock. It was a calendar. According to the calendar, Quetzalcoatl would return this year to save his faithful servants. He would sail across the ocean from parts unknown and arrive on Oaxaca’s eastern shore. After he’d driven their enemies from the land, one hundred years of peace would follow. So far, none of this had come to pass. Instead of Quetzalcoatl, it had been Cortes and his armies who landed on the eastern shore. They’d carved a swath through the country as they pressed farther inland, claiming to come in peace even while people died. It was a bad omen.

  Although he would never admit it out loud, Chalco often wondered if Quetzalcoatl would ever return. Maybe the priests were wrong. Or maybe… maybe the plumed serpent didn’t even exist. Maybe none of the gods did. Perhaps the gods were just stories. It wasn’t the first time he’d considered this, and it filled him with dread. In the light of day, he was sure the gods existed, and fearful they would exact revenge for his doubt.

  “Chalco,” Quintox asked. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.” Ashamed by his thoughts, Chalco pulled the covers off his little brother and boxed the boy’s ears. “Enough talk. The sun will be up before you are. Get dressed. And don’t speak of this anymore.”

  When Quintox was ready, they kissed their mother goodbye and walked down the street to the communal bathhouse. The huts were separated—one for men and one for women. The boys took their place in line and slowly shuffled forward. Once inside, they undressed and then bathed, using sticky soap made from tree sap. Morose slaves poured water over heated rocks and the room filled with steam. As they cleaned themselves, the boys listened to the older men gossip—merchants, craftsmen, medicine doctors, priests, the elderly or infirm, and others who had been excused from Moctezuma’s call to arms.

  The talk was mixed; much of it was dire. A black pheasant had been spotted the day before, lurking in the brush near the temple of Huehueteotl. A prisoner of war, condemned to sacrifice, briefly lived after his head was cut from his body. His legs and arms had flopped and jittered while the priest held his severed head aloft. Then his decapitated body tried to run away. Another priest who’d been carrying a stone tray laden with palpitating human hearts had been wounded by a jaguar. The beast leapt from the shadows and mauled the unfortunate victim, and then snatched the offerings from the tray before vanishing. A two-headed calf was born in the night. It cried out like a human and then died. A metalworker came in contact with his wife’s menstrual blood—always an invitation to disaster.

  Bad tidings, all.

  To make matters worse, these things happened in the midst of an invasion. The Spanish continued with their conquest, and the talk and rumors soon turned to that. It was said they brought their own slaves with them—people with skin as black as coal. The men in the steam room wondered what kind of people these obsidian slaves were. They seemed fierce and proud. Could they not rise up against their captors and break their bonds?

  When they’d finished bathing, the boys got dressed again and hurried home for a breakfast of tortillas, beans, and warm goat’s milk. In contrast to the gossip of the bathhouse, Chalco’s family ate in silence. His mother admonished one of his sisters to chew with her mouth closed. Quintox asked for more beans. But other than that, they were quiet. Their mood mirrored the oppressive atmosphere that seemed to hang over all of Monte Alban.

  After breakfast was finished, his mother and sisters cleaned the clay bowls while Chalco drew his brother aside.

  “I must go hunting today. We need more meat.”

  Quintox grew excited. “Can I come with you? Please? Before he left, Father said that I am old enough to start learning how to hunt.”

  “And you are.” Chalco smiled. “Soon, I’ll teach you as Father taught me. But not today. There is too much to be done. Mother needs help in the fields—you have a strong back, just like I do. Just like all the men in our clan. You will be more help to us there.”

  Quintox’s expression soured. He looked at the ground and pouted.

  “But I don’t want to farm. Farming isn’t noble or exciting. I want to hunt—to help.”

  “Listen.” Chalco squeezed his shoulder. “It’s war time. We each have to do our part. That is the way it has always been. Remember what we’ve been taught. Nobody is more important than another, except for Lord Moctezuma and the priests. By helping our mother in the fields you are helping us all. That is a very noble thing, Quintox—the noblest thing of all. Honor our clan. And don’t worry. There will be many more days to go hunting, and much game to kill. You’ll get your chance.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Quintox smiled. “I want to grow up just like you. I want to make our father proud, the way you do.”

  “Oh, you do, Quintox. You really do. You make our entire clan very proud.”

  And he did. Chalco had very recently begun to take an interest in girls, particularly Yamesha, the jewel-cutter’s daughter. He hoped that when the time came, their families might arrange a marriage for them. If so, he hoped that his first child would be a son—and that the boy would be just like his little brother.

  Grinning, he gently boxed Quintox’s ears. The younger boy pushed him away. Laughing, they punched one another until their mother spoke up. Her voice was stern and tired.

  “Go on now, both of you. Enough talking. You can do that at dinnertime. To the fields with you, Quintox. The sun is coming up. It will be hot in a few hours. It is better to work now, while the air is still cool.”

  “Are you not coming, Mother?” Quintox asked.

  “I will join you shortly. First, I must stop by the temple and offer prayers for your father and uncles. Chalco, your sisters have prepared a lunch for you to take on the hunt. Don’t forget it.”

  “Thank you, Mother. I won’t.”

  She kissed them both and then left the hut. Quintox and his sisters departed for the fields. Alone in the dwelling, Chalco gathered his weapons. He strapped a deer hide sheath to his waist and thrust his stone knife into it. Then he collected his bow and strapped a quiver of arrows over his back. Finally, he slung a wicker basket over his other shoulder. Inside were tortillas, wrapped in leaves to keep them fresh, along with two small limes and a water skin sealed with beeswax. The skin was filled with pulque, a slightly alcoholic drink made from agave. Chalco preferred water. He hated the bitter taste of pulque. But it would give him stamina later, and water was too precious to spare. Rain had been scarce
this season and water was being rationed.

  Chalco departed. The first rays of dawn shone across the sky. With many of the men off to war, the streets were quieter than normal. But in the silence, Chalco heard things he didn’t normally pay attention to. Birds chirped from the rooftops, having returned to their roosts once the morning trumpets faded. A goat snorted as Chalco passed by a trough. A baby wailed from a nearby hut. In one of the temples, the first sacrifice of the day screamed. Several small children chased each other in the street, shrieking in delight. The cries intermingled, becoming indistinguishable from one another—screams or laughter, they sounded the same.

  Chalco admired one of the pyramids as he passed by. He wished, not for the first time, that he could build something like it. How grand would that be, to honor the gods and his clan in such a manner? But his skills lay elsewhere, like his father and his father before him. He was a hunter and a farmer—and a warrior. His hands were made for soil and blood, rather than stone and brick. Still, he’d always been enamored with Monte Alban’s artisans and craftsmen. The city’s architecture was marvelous. Chalco hoped that one day soon he might travel to the capital, and gaze upon Tenochtitlan’s fountains and immaculately clean streets. He’d heard so many wonderful stories about the city. They had running water there. The temples were supposed to be the grandest in all of Oaxaca. He longed to traverse the canals, visit the great houses full of books, to touch the golden Codex wheel, and see Lord Moctezuma’s procession as they passed by adorned with bells and jewels and brightly colored feathers. It was said that dancers went before him, casting flower petals on the ground. Chalco thought that it must be a magnificent sight. Perhaps the greatest in all the world.

  Chalco shuddered, wondering what would happen to all of Tenochtitlan’s wonders if they fell into the invaders’ hands. Would Monte Alban be next? If so, what would happen to his clan? His family? To his little brother? To Yamesha? The thought made his stomach hurt. Around the next corner, he passed an old woman pushing a cart piled high with woven fabrics. The old woman did not smile. He knew how she felt.