Chapter 18: A Forest

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Author’s Note: Today I'm dedicating this chapter drop to my cousin Louie, who passed away recently. Throughout my career as a novelist, I have been exploring the nature and meaning of death, and though the loss of a family member is immense, today I also celebrate death in the way my indigenous ancestors did. We keep death close. We turn our hearts and souls toward death, instead of averting our gaze. We even poke fun at death. We learn to embrace death as much as we embrace the joy of living. My cousin was a huge fan of The Cure, so I have re-titled this chapter as A Forest, one of Louie's favorite songs in the Cure's catalog. I miss you, dear cousin. Don't forget that you can chat with me about Hall of Mirrors inside my Discord server.

-Cesar Torres
Chicago

Hall of Mirrors by Cesar Torres
Copyright @ 2022 Cesar Torres. All Rights Reserved.

Hall of Mirrors by Cesar Torres

CHAPTER 18: A FOREST

From the Journal of Felix Calvo, October 27, 2030

The lines leading into the subway at Chicago Avenue hadn’t moved for more than an hour. I felt restless, as if something terrible event was going to happen at any moment. Police sirens screamed in the distance, and the sky above was tinged with smoke that drifted from Wrigley Field all the way downtown.

I thought about hailing a ride share, but my app showed no cars available.

Traffic to the Loop was being restricted. This felt, in many ways, as the beginning of the end.

Had a war begun? Was the city being attacked? Everything was so confusing for me not that day. I almost started talking to strangers, but my mind was still focused on the original reason I had traveled here. I needed to find Tecolotl. But I felt like a failure. I had gone in circles and accomplished nothing. Now I just needed to get home to safety.

Then it occurred to me—why did I need to use transportation to get home? I could still walk.

And from the east, I saw him again. Tecolotl dove toward Navy Pier for brief moment. He was showing me the way.

There would be more police along the lakefront, surely.

But there weren’t a lot of choices.

I wound my way up Fairbanks, through an overpass, and beyond Grand Avenue. The air tasted of salt and smoke, and the air had warmed up further. It was as hot as a summer day, even though November was around the corner.

I finally crossed over to Lakeshore Drive using an underpass at the top of Michigan Avenue. I saw police set up along the lakefront, but I kept on walking north. I would deal with those checkpoints when I got to them.

And I wanted to get in touch with Nestor. Because now I had a very sick feeling.

I was starting to feel that something really terrible had happened to him.

As I walked along the lakefront, the wide concrete pier opened up the lake’s vastness for me. The waters shimmered orange, reflecting the strange colors of the sky that all of us had sadly become so accustomed to.

Up ahead, I could see the green sign marking Chicago Avenue as the next cross street. I was alone on this part of the bike and running path.

Then, off to my right, I saw him. Tecolotl was swimming under the waters of Lake Michigan. I took a seat on the lip of the concrete.

“You’re a messenger of death,” I shouted. “So tell me—is Nestor dead?”

From beneath the water, the bird unfolded his smoke wings, becoming like a manta ray as the rays of late sunshine distorted his image. His music swelled.

This path of butterfly wings once was a portal to Mictlán, Tecolotl said through the molecules of water. A path made of greenish/blue light glowed at the bottom of the lake, heading about a mile toward the horizon. It snaked its way along the rocky sediment of the lake.

But this gate to Mictlán is now closed forever, the bird said.

A wave of grief washed over me. As I stared into the glowing water, I recalled friends and family who had died. Tecolotl and his holographic illusion were making me feel a sense of loss that hurt so much it felt as if my heart were being scraped from the inside out. I wiped tears from my cheeks and felt loneliness wrap itself around me like a blanket of ice.

“How do I get to Nestor?” I asked, knowing that Tecolotl had ignored my question.

The glowing green path under the lake faded, and the water turned into the color of soot.

Your job, Tecolotl said, is to accept what you can’t change. But the mirror image of that job is one of action too: you must also act swiftly to play your part you are destined for. You cannot bring back Nestor of your own accord, but there is one thing you can do. You must find Miahuacóatl, the Thief of Dreams. Once you find her, you must sacrifice a part of yourself to her and her father. Only then will you play your part in the Rift and help your friend Nestor.

The bird rose from the waters of the lake, and he flew in circles, leaving trails of greenish smoke. And as he faded into a veil of cotton-candy colored clouds, he spoke again.

And as you go on your quest, my son, don’t forget to enjoy the journey. My father and mother, Mictlantecuhtli and Mictecacíhuatl, are always near you. You should never fear death. My mother and father want you to experience joy on this planet, even if your time is short. Now walk northward. Night will be here soon.

NESTOR BUÑUEL

Nestor and Steven entered the woods. The air beneath the canopy was tinged with notes of metal, pollen and rich soil. As their nostrils and tongues tasted the air, the woods tasted them back.

The two men forged through a path in the forest, which sloped downward, flanked by small streams of water, as if it were weeping. The trees looked and smelled identical to oaks back on Earth, but here in Mictlán, they gave off short melodies that sounded like harps in an orchestra pit. Nestor didn’t feel as if he was being watched by eyes in the trees. Not at all. Instead, he felt as if something deep in the woods was tasting the salt on his skin, the oil in his hair and beard, and even his clothes.

The leaves of the plants emitted an oily substance that attracted butterflies. These winged insects were larger than any Nestor had ever seen, each one about the size of a dinner plate. Their wings created drumbeats that matched the undulating rhythms the leaves made. Sometimes, Nestor had to use a tree trunk to steady himself as he made his way down the slope, and he hesitated to do so. Touching one of the tree trunks felt strangely intimate, as if he were touching the genitals of a human being. It was a foreign feeling, something that was only possible here in the canyons of Mictlán.

The ground squelched under their shoes, rich and humid, and Nestor’s leg sank ankle-deep in some places, but it felt good. It felt satisfying. That sensation was very different than the terror he had felt crawling inside the tunnels of Miquiztli a few hours ago.

He wondered if this forest might have a name, but he kept the thought to himself. His ears and skin picked up on vibrations that were coming from very far, hundreds of miles away, and the ground shifted, as if a very large living thing were connecting this spot to that place further up the coil. The only word he could think of as a metaphor was that of an electrical wire or a vein pumping blood. Something was connecting the ground from this lush forest back to a very powerful intelligence in the far distance.

“I’m very hungry,” Puttock said. “What can we eat?”

“We have no choice to experiment,” Nestor said. “Some of these low shrubs might have berries. I think I smell mushrooms too, but I wouldn’t dare try any.”

“Berries won’t be any safer. They can sicken you too.”

“Do you feel warm?”

“I’m freezing, actually,” Puttock said.

“I’m burning up. I feel like the heat is rising around us in this patch of woods.”

“There’s no sun here. Have you stopped to think about how odd it is for you to feel warmth in this kingdom?”

“I don’t know if I actually believe we’re here,” Nestor said.

“That’s what I say about spending my days in my prison cell.”

“That so?”

“Being in prison was like a dream: its repetition, its ache— all of it nebulous. But what remained constant was that my mind was struggling to accept things as they were. You see—you got two options when you’re in prison: give up on life, or accept, start learning some new shit and evolve.”

“I can relate to that,” Nestor said. “That’s what’s happening in our country. We have a water shortage crisis; wealthy people in fenced-in communities who want to stay virus free and hoard resources, and now, even more bands of vigilantes. For many of us, it’s been the same: give up on life or like you said, start learning some new shit and evolve.”

“Millions are going to die in America,” Puttock said. “And in the rest of the world.”

Nestor nodded. “You said you learned to adapt in prison.”

“I borrowed every book I could get my hands on in the library. I really got into Platonism, Buddhist philosophy, even some Gnostic shit. And it didn’t take long to understand that reality as we know it on Earth is nothing more than a veneer.”

“A veil,” Nestor said. “Hinduism came up with the same conclusion.”

“Many thinkers and religions did, detective. The world is not as it seems.”

“You’ve evolved your worldview since we arrested you back in 2025. You didn’t sound like this the first time we met.”

“I changed. Why do you think I made it my mission to find Mictlán?”

“Humor me.”

“There’s power in the ability to pass through liminal realms,” Puttock said.

Puttock picked up a nettle and picked at his teeth. His thin frame was a mere ghost in the eternal  dark of The Coil, yet he walked with a gait of arrogance, a sureness of who he was.

“I want the power to travel through portals.”

Above, in the canopy, a large object shifted, changing the musical notes of the harp-like leaves into a song that wilted Nestor’s emotions. Something beyond the forest was whispering now in Nestor’s ear.

The way to the Hall of Mirrors is written in the stars.

The voice was sensuous, velvety, both ferocious and motherly. But where was it coming from?

It seemed as if Puttock could not detect it, because the killer kept on hiking down the slope.

But Nestor could feel the voice in his heart, and in his skin, and that slithering motion that ran beneath the floor of the woods intensified.

You don’t know yet, do you? The voice said. Her voice felt feminine at its very core.

Nestor put a finger to his lips to let the voice know that he didn’t want to be heard by Puttock.

Don’t worry, she said. It’s just you and I having this conversation. This is my name.

She spoke her name, and the way Nestor heard it was as if a flock of screeching seagulls, combined with deep pulsing synthesizer tones, all of it wrapped up in orchestral melodies made of pure beauty.

I am Blue Hummingbird. I transport beings inside the Coil, but I can’t help you in this journey, Nestor. But that doesn’t mean I can’t communicate with you here, far from Iztepetl.

Nestor felt his ribcage shake as the creature spoke.

“Who are you?”

Coatlicue’s daughter.

“And why can’t you help me?”

Because my mother, and two other goddesses, Tonantzín, Mayahuel, are still missing. They are a trio who is long dead, but also still in motion through the wheels. Without them, I am limited in my power.

In the distance, Nestor detected the head of the creature who was speaking to him. Her head was flat and arrow shaped, and she had eight eyes that sparkled, despite the lack of sunlight inside Mictlán. He could form this mental image because her sound signature revealed part of who she was. The rest of her body was hidden to his intelligence.

“I am afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

It’s simple. The end of the Fifth Sun wiped out many of our parents and elders, including the three queens I mentioned: Coatlicue, Tonantzin and Mayahuel. The Rift will only become wider if they don’t find their path back to us.

“So what should I do?” Nestor said.

You will have to face the Black Tezcatlipoca by yourself. That’s the reason you and your companion are traveling to the Hall of Mirrors. And it’s the reason I can’t help you. Tezcatlipoca made it clear to me that you must get there without my aid. Tezcatlipoca the Black has a powerful son who will not allow me to enter the valley of Itztepetl. Therefore, I cannot take you there.

“How many sons does Tezcatlipoca the Black have?”

Too many to count. There’s the Ocullín, a monster that feeds on fear. There’s also the jaguar Citlalín, as well as the flocks of horned turkeys you see in the sky from time to time. There are many obsidian glaciers in the depths of Mictlán who are also children of Tezcatlipoca. But the son that guards the Hall of Mirrors is…different. He’s in many ways, uncontrollable. So when you meet him at the gates of the Hall of Mirrors, be careful.

For a moment, Nestor could suddenly smell the location of the Hall of Mirrors. It was billions of miles away, up above, in a higher level of this coil-shaped canyon.

The son who guards the Hall of Mirrors is unnamable. So beware, Blue Hummingbird hissed.

Nestor stared down at his feet, as they took in the vibrations of this creature. “You’re the first creature in this place who has been kind to me.”

Nestor felt an invisible touch graze his cheek. He felt comfort and safety for a moment. The creature was extending herself to ease his heart.

Don’t be fooled by the darkness of Mictlán, Nestor. Not everything that’s dark is a threat. The Coil is indeed a place of beauty, where the flowers recite poetry across the barriers of time. But be careful, too.

“Thank you. I need to catch up with Puttock, or we’ll both get lost.”

Oh, and one more thing, Nestor. Remember that each of the four Tezcatlipocas wields power in the Sixth Age through their sons and daughters. Your answers will be found in the new generations.

“That makes you one of those daughters, doesn’t it?”

The ground opened up before Nestor’s feet, and a nest of snakes erupted, like a flower blooming. The reptiles formed beautiful kaleidoscope shapes more dazzling than the interior of a diamond, and they emitted forlorn, melancholy music. The snakes writhed back into a braided shape, and went back underground.

I miss my mother Coatlicue very much, Nestor. Be well, and protect your heart. Do not bend it toward corruption.

And then the signal and voice from Blue Hummingbird disappeared.

Nestor sprinted through the woods to catch up with Puttock, who was a good half mile ahead.

“You think you can gain power by visiting Mictlán?” Nestor said, panting.

“You want to laugh at me, I see it in your face. You think I am foolish.”

“Don’t make assumptions, Steven.”

“Suit yourself. But know this: Xipe Totec’s blood is boiling, detective. He is the most influential of the four Tezcatlipocas, and yet, Xipe is the one that is relegated to remaining a black sheep. It’s truly an insult to see him diminished. But Xipe is rising, and it’s him I’m looking for. He will crown me, detective. He will reward me with his power. He will help me learn how to travel through worlds.”

“But why would you come down here, to Mictlán, to look for Xipe Totec?”

“Because I believe that he’s been hiding here, somewhere in the nine levels of The Coil. When the Fifth Age ended, Tezcatlipoca the Red died and was buried somewhere inside Mictlán. But he’s reawakening, and I have solid proof. And that’s why I am here. I am going to find Xipe Totec by fulfilling our prophecy to enter the Hall of Mirrors. And when I do that, I will help The Red Tezcatlipoca in his resurrection.”

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