Their clothes were strange. One of the people seemed to be injured. He was lying in the corner, covered in blood. His face was pale and waxy. Another man brandished a weapon of some kind. Chalco didn’t know what type, but assumed it was deadly, based on the fearful reactions of the others in the room every time the object was pointed at them. None of them noticed Chalco, so he eavesdropped on their conversation.
“He’s not breathing, Tommy. He hasn’t been for a while. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Your friend is gone. He’s dead. Look at him, son.”
“Shut the hell up, you old fart. Just shut the fuck up right now!”
Their speech was as odd as their garments and surroundings, but Chalco could understand it—another effect of the drink, he assumed. He was fascinated by everything in the odd metal room, but this was obviously not his destination, so he reluctantly shut the door and tried another.
The third door opened into nothingness. A black void yawned before him, filled with pinpricks of light. After a moment, Chalco realized it was the night sky, as seen from high above the Earth. He’d heard the priests talk of such things. They said that the lights in the sky at night were the eyes of the gods. The door had apparently opened into a place amidst those eyes.
Stars, he thought. I know now that these are called stars. They are not the eyes of the gods at all. Oh, this drink—this tequila—is wonderful. I’m learning so many things. When I get back to Monte Alban, I must explain this all without being labeled a heretic.
Awestruck, he tried to find a horizon or an end to the gulf, but its boundaries were limitless. He admired the simple beauty. Knowing now that the stars weren’t eyes, but suns, made them even more impressive. In the center of the darkness was a scarlet moon, slightly bigger than the one he was used to. It was an amazing sight.
And then the moon blinked.
It drifted towards him, crossing the unimaginable distance in seconds. A second moon soared into sight. The moons were eyes. They had no body or face. Just two huge orbs floating in the darkness. They stared at him with penetrating glares. It felt like his soul was being examined. Chalco slammed the door and the feeling disappeared.
Once he’d recovered from his fright, he tried again. The next door opened into a subterranean cavern lit by some sort of phosphorescent lichen. The rough walls were hewn, rather than naturally formed. A pile of bones lay near the door. He couldn’t tell what sort of animal they’d once belonged to. A great, smokeless forge burned in the distance.
A line of pig-faced creatures lurched past, lumbering into a nearby tunnel. They had tusks and snouts and their language consisted of squeals and grunts (but again he could understand it). Despite the deformities, the pig-things walked upright like men and carried tools and weapons with them. One of them gnawed on a human forearm, stripping the meat from the bone. Their stench was incredible. Their sound was worse.
One of them stopped suddenly and raised its snout. Thick mucous dripped from the creature’s nostrils. Snuffling, it turned towards him. Chalco quickly closed the door, overcome with revulsion.
He continued on. Each door was like a window on the worlds,
each scene more wondrous or terrifying than the previous.
He saw a great city with tall, silver spires and men made of shiny metal rather than flesh.
He glimpsed another city built out of pure light. He watched the dead get up and walk again, hunting the living for nourishment, tearing them apart with their hands and teeth.
He laughed at a silent clown whose face was painted white. The clown tried juggling three yellow balls, but kept dropping them.
He saw a planet overcome with darkness. Blackness poured over the landscape like a wave. The darkness itself was a living creature that devoured every being it came in contact with.
He shrank away from a roaring lizard taller than the biggest temple in Monte Alban, its mouth lined with razor-sharp teeth longer than a warrior’s spear. It stood over the bloody, torn corpse another, long-necked lizard.
He spied on a young, obsidian-skinned couple as they made love in the reeds along a stream bank.
He faced a tribe of creatures that were more goat than men, gathered next to a roaring campfire. Nearby them were wicker cages stuffed with terrified human women. The goat men danced in a circle around the fire and then rutted with their female captives.
He shielded his eyes from a great ball of fire that produced a mushroom-shaped cloud.
He watched people on an island flee from an army of savage beasts.
He thrilled as an armored fighter battled with a ferocious man-serpent.
He laughed in amazement at a massive creature the size of his adobe, with long, floppy ears and a trunk for a nose. The beast trampled through a steaming jungle.
He cowered at the sight of a man-sized being with gray skin, enormous black eyes, and only a slit for a mouth. The creature seemed aware of his presence. Chalco could feel it searching his mind, as if invisible fingers were combing through his brain.
He saw a coastline overrun by huge creatures that were part-crab, part-lobster, and part-scorpion. They were controlled by a race of intelligent amphibians that walked like men.
He saw a frightful being composed of pure, crackling energy, another composed entirely of sound, and a third that existed as the physical manifestation of a collective idea.
He marveled over the eruption of a great volcano that spewed molten rock and clouds of ash into the sky.
He gasped at chariots that moved without the benefit of livestock to pull them—on the ground, in the sky, and even into that black space above the Earth.
He saw births and deaths, armies clashing on a dozen battlefields, people laughing and crying. He could not know the names for all that he saw, or understand them entirely, but he knew them all the same. With each new world, he felt his consciousness expand. There would be so much knowledge to share when he made it back home.
Finally, he found what he assumed was the right door. It opened onto a beach of white sand. The sun was shining. Vegetation waved in the breeze. Rolling waves crashed onto the shore. Far out to sea, Chalco spotted an armada of ships.
“This must be it! Huitzilopochtli be praised.”
He leapt through the door and onto the beach. The sun-baked sand was hot beneath his soles. It shifted beneath him as he walked. He tasted salt in the air and heard birds calling out above him. A small crab scuttled away. Washed up seashells glittered in the surf. The heat plastered his bangs to his forehead. He flipped his hair out of the way and searched for a good place to hide, somewhere that would conceal him from the ships yet offer a good vantage point and a clear shot once Cortes came ashore. He spotted a copse of trees surrounded by dunes farther up the beach, and headed for them, walking backwards, using his bow to smooth out his footprints in the sand so that nobody would see them. He looked up once, making sure that the door was still hovering above the beach.
As he concealed himself, Chalco noticed something etched in one of the tree trunks, high off the ground, certainly out of reach of a full-grown man. They were letters or glyphs of some kind, carved deep into the wood. The edges were splintered and ragged, as if claws had been used rather than a blade. The strange symbols were in another language, but the tequila gave him understanding of what they said—if not their meaning.
CROATOAN
Was it a name? A place? A tribe of people? He didn’t know, despite the drink’s influence. It sounded…unclean. Ominous.
In the distance, three small boats cast off from the larger ships. Their flags fluttered in the wind. Men sat perched in them, watching the shoreline. Kneeling in the sand, Chalco strung his bow and notched an arrow, waiting. The breeze died down and the birds grew silent. Even the ocean seemed still. And then, something snuffled behind him. Screeching, the birds took flight, fleeing the area. Still crouching, Chalco whirled around, pointing his arrow in the direction of the noise.