Several yards away, a terrible creature rose from behind a shifting dune. It was almost three times his height, and covered with white, matted fur. The thing was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, and its powerful arms hung down to its knees. Talon-tipped fingers clenched and unclenched. The monster’s face was almost human, except for a wide mouth filled with gleaming fangs, and two black, brooding eyes above a flat nose. Seeing Chalco, it snorted in surprise. Chalco was reminded of a cat. The thing’s ears looked feline, pointed and twitching. A monstrous phallus swung between its legs.
Chalco’s heart beat. Once. Twice.
The creature charged.
Chalco let his arrow fly.
The thing grunted as the arrow plunged into its chest. The shaft protruded from its breast, the white fur turning crimson around the wound. The monster never slowed. It snapped the shaft with one hand and lunged for him.
Biting his lip, Chalco notched another arrow and let loose. The beast snatched it from the air and tossed it aside.
Chalco leapt to his feet and ran. Behind him, he heard trees snapping as the creature gave chase. The sand shook with each loping stride the monster took. Its growls echoed across the beach.
It can’t see the doorway, Chalco thought as he fled. Only I can. If I make it back into the Labyrinth, it won’t be able to follow.
The beast closed the gap between them. Chalco heard its harsh breathing. Its stink fouled the air. Flinging his bow aside, he pounded across the sand, forcing his legs to go faster. His lungs burned. The wind howled in his ears—or maybe it was just his pursuer.
Chalco dived headfirst through the floating doorway. He landed in the corridor, banging his head on the stone that wasn’t stone. The breath rushed from his lungs. He rolled across the floor, coming to rest against the wall. Rubbing his head, Chalco drew his knife.
Outside, on the beach, the growls changed to laughter.
Animals don’t laugh. That thing is intelligent.
As he watched, it headed straight for the doorway.
It can’t see me. It can’t…
The monster plunged an enormous, fur-covered hand through the open door, grasping at him. Screaming, Chalco slashed at it with his knife. The hand withdrew, and then reached for him again. The blade bit deeper. Blood spattered the floor. Enraged, the beast pulled away again.
Chalco held his breath.
The monster slammed against the doorframe, heaving its bulk through the opening. The door seemed to shimmer and stretch to accommodate the creature’s size. One hand thrust through, then an arm, then another. The entrance grew wider as the beast’s head followed.
Chalco took advantage of the arduous progress to escape. He slid out of the monster’s reach and sprinted down the hallway, ignoring all of the other doors. His feet pounded in silence. His breath stiffened in his throat.
Behind him, the monster raged. Then it spoke for the first time. Its cadence was slow and halting. The rough, guttural sound terrified Chalco as much as the beast itself did.
“You…not…escape…Meeble.”
Chalco turned left down a side passage and kept running, not looking back. Closed doors flashed by on both sides, each one of them an invitation to more terror. Who knew what lurked behind them? Wisdom was a curse. He wanted to go home, wanted to go back to being a boy.
Wanted to forget.
He ran for a very long time, and the beast—Meeble—pursued him. Usually, it was far behind, but several times it nearly caught him. He wondered what the creature was, and what its name meant. He’d never seen anything like it before. He doubted any of his clan had, either.
Finally, Chalco came to a dead end. A double door, larger than the others, stood before him. He wondered what new horror waited on the other side. Behind him, around the corner, he heard the monster catching up. It snorted like a bull. Its breathing sounded like a geyser.
Closing his eyes, Chalco opened the door and stepped through. Wind brushed against his face. He opened his eyes, but it was too late.
He fell into darkness…
…and did not stop.
***
Back on the mountaintop, the doorway flickered and then vanished. Still perched on the agave plant and still in the form of a worm, Huitzilopochtli hung his head and cried. He had failed. Humanity was not ready for the knowledge tequila provided. Perhaps they never would be. They were too prideful, too worldly—too human.
He’d deceived his masters. Slipped away and hid inside this form, hoping to tip the scales in humanity’s favor—turn the tide of infinity. But he had failed. Soon, he would be found out. He could not hide forever, not even outside the Labyrinth.
As the sun began to set, Huitzilopochtli inched his way down the agave and onto the ground. The soil was cooler now. He crawled across it. A shadow fell over him. He had time to look up and then the bird plunged toward him. Wriggling beside the agave to avoid the flashing beak, he fell into Chalco’s discarded water skin, which had a few drops of tequila in the bottom. The worm struggled, and then became still.
Night descended. The wildlife returned to the mountain, and in Monte Alban, Quintox waited for Chalco to return home.
He never did.
But eventually, their father and uncles returned to Monte Alban. Death came with them. The worm’s prophecy came to pass.
And the doors were closed to humanity.
And that is why to this day, some people believe in the legend of tequila. They believe that tequila is a gift of the gods. That it will grant knowledge of the universe and open the doors of perception. And they also believe that eating the worm will allow them to visit an unseen world.
But they never do.
Instead they fall.
***
***
When you write for a living, you usually write every day. And while you (hopefully) never lose that sense of magic and wonder, it is easy to become bogged down in the process. There are deadlines and publisher demands. Editors and readers are eager to suggest what you should really be writing, especially if you want to get paid. And if your mortgage payment relies on that next sale, you tend to at least consider their suggestions. If you’re not careful, crafting stories can become more like work and less like fun.
So it’s always a treat when you get to try something different and explore new literary horizons. Just like in a relationship, experimentation can reinvigorate a writer’s muse.
That’s what this story was to me. An experiment—and great fun, as well. After reading Jack Ketchum’s masterful fable, The Transformed Mouse, I fell in love with fables all over again and wondered if there were any new ones to tell. Luckily, I was thinking about this while drinking a bottle of tequila.
Tequila has no concrete history. There are a number of different theories as to how it came to be. If you don’t believe me, check the internet. Tequila and mezcal experts argue over the drink’s origins, what actually constitutes the drink, where the worm came from, etc. As an enthusiast, this seems like a shame to me. And since nobody can apparently agree on its true origin, I figured I’d make one up.
Thus, I wrote a fable detailing how the “drink of the gods” came to be, incorporating much of its trappings and mystique. It’s fiction, of course. Historians might point out things I got wrong. I suggest they have a shot and shut the fuck up. It’s my mythos and I can do what I want with it.