Chapter 9: Nahualtezcatl
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Author’s Note: What can I say? This is one of those chapters that gives me the chills. And I hope it gives you the chills, too. And if you delight in finding the moment in a narrative when a book gets its name, this is your lucky week! 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 9: Nahualtezcatl
From the Journal of Felix Calvo, October 27, 2030
I tiptoed toward Tecolotl. I was afraid, exhilarated and eager.
Tecolotl folded his wings beneath his body and craned his neck forward, close enough to kiss me. I tried not to stare too long into his four eyes. Their pupils hypnotized me, and I was scared I might never come back if I stayed under their influence too long. He smelled of death—a sweetness of rotted, dead wood, sulfur and marigolds.
“The Rift has grown bigger,” Tecolotl said. “And you have done nothing about it.”
“What was I supposed to do?” I said.
“I dont’ mean just yourself. I mean the collective you. Loss lies ahead. Your world burns.”
“It’s been burning for some time.”
“I never expected our parents gods to reappear here on Earth,” Tecolotl said. “As far as I and my siblings knew, we were all orphaned at the end of the Fifth Age.”
“The gods died?”
“They did. The gods you still remember in the academic codexes you write: Tlaloc, Coatlicue, Huitzilopochtli and all the others. But we don’t die in the way your consciousness can comprehend.”
“How so?” I said.
“Your earthly languages can’t capture the nuance of how we experience time and space, and death.”
“But now Xipe Totec is bleeding through into this plane,” I said. “He’s back.”
Tecolotl emitted a series of clicks and whistles as a way to say yes.
“But it’s not just Xipe. I hear rumors that Xipe’s brother Tezcatlipoca the Black has also manifested several times here on your continent.”
“What about the other two brothers? Quetzalcóatl the White and Huitzilopochtli the Blue?” I said. But Tecolotl did not answer my question. Instead, he changed the subject.
“I have the book in my posssession. 9 Lords of Night.” I said, hoping this might get the bird’s attention and keep him talking to me. His bifurcated snake tongue emerged from his beak and the two serpents flicked their tongues so close to my face that they brushed my cheekbones.
“The flowers of Mictlán wanted to prevent humans from procuring such a book. The flowers wanted all that knowledge about Mictlán to remain secret. But they couldn’t stop it. The book exists, and that book will always lead to Mictlán.”
“So Mictlán is a real place?”
“Of course it is. It’s where I was born. It’s where my father Mictlantecuhtli and mother Mictecacihuatl, live. My siblings reside there, too. Mictlán is home.”
“So why are you here, then?” I said. Behind me, I heard explosions coming from he buildings in Lakeview near Wrigley Field, but I stood my ground, forced myself to focus on Tecolotl.
“My brothers and sisters have seen your future in a prophecy.”
“What did they see?”
Tecolotl emitted a series of drumming sounds and polyphonic vibrations that flooded Felix’s ears with unspeakable fear. I felt many stories in his music, but the narratives were abstract, nothing more than feelings wrapped in a blanket of dread.
“To gain full knowledge of the prophecy, you must travel to the eighth level of Mictlán, where you will find yourself in a realm called Itzmictlán Apochcalolca.”
The name that the owl spoke reverberated through my whole body, as if he had just felt a dubstep beat drop under a speaker at an EDM festival.
“There is a powerful oracle in Itzmictlán Apochcalolca,” Tecolotl said, “To find such oracle, you have to travel through the river Apanohuacalhuia, which flows with water that is blacker than night. All sorts of creatures thrive in this body of water: fish made of stone with scales of lava; crabs encrusted with human bones and skulls on their shells, and spiders who eat flesh and make art with silk made of diamonds and human fascia. The beauty of the river Apanohuacalhuia is without comparison, but its waters ensure a quick death for those who dare swim in them. If you are skilled enough to travel trough it, you will find a small square opening near a waterfall in Apanohuacalhuia. That opening leads into a deeper network of aquatic caves, which you may know in your language as a cenote. Many perils await in these caves, and the creatures found there are stranger than their cousins from the river. The beings in the caves include giants made of wind, intelligent deer as tall as an elephant, and rabbits who drink alcohol in terrifying orgies. At the end of the caverns, there is a small door that where you will find the oracle. The prophecy says you will travel to the oracle.”
“What happens inside?” I said.
“No one knows. The oracle was not built by my parents the Lords of Death. Neither Mictlantecuhtli nor Mictecacihuatl can govern the oracle. In fact, they can’t even enter it.”
“But aren’t the Lords of Death omnipotent?”
“They are, but the the oracle was built by a god who stands shoulder to shoulder with them. He’s the The Enemy on Both Sides, Possessor of the Sky and Earth, We Are His Slaves, the Lord of the Near and the Nigh. The Smoking Mirror.”
“That’s Tezcatlipoca. Tezcatlipoca the Black.”
“Yes, Felix. Tezcatlipoca engineered the oracle in such a way so that neither his three siblings or the Lords of Death could gain entry. That oracle is the Aleph of my world.”
“Like the short story?”
“I’m using a word that will sound familiar enough for you.”
I had never felt this kind of thrill and fear in my life. I wasn’t turned off by it by any means. But as the smoke owl continued to speak, I knew that my life was transforming before my eyes as this new knowledge filled my body.
“Does Tezcatlipoca live inside the oracle?” I said.
Tecolotl unfurled its wings in anger, and the hundreds of eyes beneath them raged with fire.
“Quiet! You must be careful invoking The Smoking Mirror’s name, because he may hear you! Tezcatlipoca the Black is a god that lives everywhere and nowhere. He’s so pervasive that he may be here with us right now, and neither you nor I would know it.”
“That’s a line from the book 9 Lords of Night,” I said.
“Yes. The friar who wrote that codex was very adept at hearing the messages coming from Mictlán.”
“So the book has real... meaning?”
Tecolotl’s wings transformed into ocean waves —they became water instead of smoke, and they shimmered in emerald and turquoise, roiling and wild.
“So will you accept your quest, Felix?”
I had to take a fucking seat. All this new information was doing me in.
“I didn’t know I was being offered a quest.”
“Fool. Your flesh is ready for the quest, but your mind isn’t. I can see that now.”
Tecolotl folded his wings and changed his body from water back into translucent green smoke that was thinning out, vanishing. The creature was leaving this reality.
“Don’t go yet! Tell me what you’re asking of me.”
“Your job is to go to the oracle, and ask it for a solution to mend the Rift. You will do this once in your lifetime, and soon after you visit the oracle, you will die.”
“But why me?”
“Because your blood sings melodies that can be heard on Earth and Mictlán simultaneously.”
“I don’t want this responsibility.”
“It doesn’t matter what you want. The oracle already determined your destiny.”
“I don’t care. I refuse.”
The Tecolotl laughed, and the two rattlesnakes inside its beak emerged for a few moments, forming an S shape with their necks as their eyes inspected Felix. “There are many things in this universe that we can’t change, Collider.”
Tecolotl caressed my shoulder with one of his massive wings, and my vision burst into a kaleidoscope.
For a few moments, I relived every meaningful part of my life. My relationship with my parents. The men and people I had loved, as well as the ones I had fucked. I saw my dog die all over again. I relived my fights and my reconciliations with Nestor, and I even relived my relationship to myself, which was nothing but daggers of self hatred and doubt. It was a life filled with suffering and longing. Yet despite the grief, fear and pain of my existence, re-experiencing all of these moments in microseconds filled me with a new conviction.
“Then at least give me a gift for the journey, Tecolotl. I’ve read my epic poems and adventure stories. I know how this works. I will need gifts if I am going to travel to the oracle.”
Tecolotl solidified instantly, like Alice’s Cheshire Cat. And wouldn’t you know it, his facial expression had changed. It looked as if he was smiling.
“How did you know that owls love gifts? We love to receive them, but more than anything, we love to give them. Very well. I am going to give you the most powerful gift I can bestow a human. Here, move close to me.”
I walked up to the gigantic beast. The Tecolotl craned its neck toward me, and his beak grazed my ear.
“The Mexica people had a name for the oracle. That name was Nahualtezcatl. That name in itself has the power to keep you safe, so you must never share it with anyone. Keep it secret. That word is your gift.”
“What does it mean, Tecolotl?”
“The Nahualtezcatl is known among my siblings and the denizens of Mictlán as the Hall of Mirrors.”
The ground shook, and music flowed from its depths. Deep throbbing baselines, ethereal vocals that sounded human, and crystalline melodies made by something that sounded like a harp.
“The Hall of Mirrors is the most powerful architecture ever built,” Tecolotl said. “And Tezcatlipoca the Black governs its every aspect. Nahualtezcatl is the place where you will visit, ask your questions from the oracle, and then die.”
“That is my gift? Its name?”
“Yes. The ability to name things is a power unto itself.”
Tecolotl folded his wings, craned his head toward the sky, and burst into a cloud of greenish black vapor. It left in its place bright sunlight amidst a cloudless sky that felt uncaring, alien, and much too vast.
NESTOR BUÑUEL
Puttock and Nestor rolled on the tiled floor. Nestor punched Puttock on the side of his head. Puttock recoiled, let go of Nestor’s neck, and slid backward on the floor, as he gathered himself together. Puttock sprang to his feet with the agility of a much younger man. His gray eyes were wide open, and he panted as he backed away from Nestor.
From the hallway, shouts erupted, and a digital alarm rang off further in the distance, from the depths of the prison.
“Detective Buñuel,” a voice said through the intercom, “Please stay inside the interrogation room. We have issued an security alarm throughout the facility. I repeat, stay inside the interrogation room. An officer will be right with you to secure the prisoner.”
Great, Nestor, thought. Now I have to hold down this piece of shit while another cop brings out the handcuffs.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Puttock said. “You lay one finger on me, and you’ll be the one behind bars, I’ll see to it.”
Puttock had his back against the mirrored glass of the interrogation room, and Nestor could see his own reflection coming forward, muscles bursting through the sleeves of his t-shirt, and his brown skin taking on a reddish hue as its capillaries filled up with blood. His teeth were bared, and inside the mirror, Nestor looked like an beast in the jungle, fighting for its life.
“Hey now,” Puttock said, holding up his right hand to keep Nestor at bay. “Join me in this moment, detective.”
Puttock produced a box cutter from his shirt pocket, and drew it in a straight line across his forearm, as if he were scoring a piece of steak. He made this gesture with the speed and agility of a an orchestra conductor, and his blood flowed. It ran in rivulets down to Puttock’s elbow and wrist, and the man smiled, as he painted a mask of blood across his nose and eyes.
“This is light from a dead star,” Puttock said, tracing the river of blood in his arm with his clean hand. He placed a drop let of blood on the tip of his index finger and whispered several words that Nestor couldn’t understand. The man looked seduced, intoxicated, and even aroused by the sight and the smell of blood.
Nestor saw an opening for action, and he took it.
Nestor snatched Puttock by the wrist that held the box cutter and pushed him back against the mirrored glass. Nestor twisted Puttock’s arm behind him back and pressed the killer’s face against the reflective surface. The two men stood so close to each other that their lips were virtually kissing.
Puttock laughed.
“Don’t fucking move,” Nestor said, and Puttock cackled further. “Is this funny to you?”
“Yeah,” Puttock said. “It’s funny as shit. Look at us.”
Nestor turned his head a few degrees to the right, and he caught sight of both he and Puttock, entwined and bleeding, mashed up against the mirror like lovers in the heat of passion.
From behind the men, the intercom clicked on once more. “A code-red alert has just been issued for all wings of the facility. Officers, please follow the protocols to keep all sectors secure.”
“Something bad is happening outside this room,” Puttock said. “You feel it, cowboy?” Puttock wasn’t looking directly at Nestor as he said it. Instead, he was talking to Nestor’s reflection in the mirror.
Nestor pinned both of Puttock’s hands behind his back. Nestor felt a pop in his ears, as if the pressure in the room had just changed. A fire grew in his belly, too. The rage, the thrill of the hunt—that raw energy of anger and aggression that he had always enjoyed when apprehending a subject. That was the same energy that had landed him in hot water a handful of times when he was investigated for excessive force. And now it was back with a ferocity he hadn’t felt in more than a decade. He twisted the arm upward, and Puttock grimaced and moaned. Nestor thought about taking the man by the back of the head and slamming it against the table in the center of the roo, but before his instincts could take over, he was startled by a sound just above his head.
A massive bell was ringing, and its sound filled up the whole room, louder than speakers at a rock concert. The bell rattled Nestor’s rib cage, and its deep, brassy tones enveloped his head. Puttock pulled his head away from Nestor’s and turned once again toward the mirrored surface off to their left.
“This blood, this gorgeous blood, is light from a dead star,” Puttock repeated. His blood had left a long horizontal streak on the mirror. More blood gushed from his arm, spilling onto the floor.
“I need backup!” Nestor shouted at the top of his lungs. But something bad really must have been happening outside, because no one came to his aid.
“And this haunting set of tones above us—it is the sound a galaxy makes when it dies,” he said, his words slithering out of his mouth.
The bells rang louder now.
Suddenly, Puttock went limp and stopped resisting. His eyes took on a flat, disaffected look, and he stared through their icy gray irises at Nestor, who had noticed that the room smelled differently, as if someone had just opened a bouquet of flowers. It was the flat, emotionless expression of a true psychopath.
Puttock squirmed and twisted until he was able to free up the hand that still held the box cutter in its grip. Before Nestor could understand what was happening, he felt a coolness bloom near his brow, and then, suddenly, his reflection in the mirror sprouted a sharp red line front he middle of his forehead, down through the nose and onto his upper lip. Puttock had just sliced him with the box cutter straight across his face, revealing a thin ribbon of skin that hung off Nestor’s forehead.
Nestor twisted his own body behind Puttock’s, and put the man in a headlock. The blade fell to the floor. As Puttock resisted, squirming and trying to slip free, Nestor slammed the murderer against the mirrored glass. The glass shook, but it did not break.
Finally, two officers burst through into the room.
This shit is almost over, Nestor thought, and even though he expected the two officers to get control of this situation in just seconds, the two uniformed men stayed behind, moving slowly, as if underwater, or in slow motion. In fact, every movement, every breath, was now happening at a pace that slowed everything down to a crawl. Everything slowed down to a crawl.
Nestor tightened the headlock around Puttock’s neck, applying pressure to the carotid artery to prevent blood flow. Chokeholds were not the right way to handle a human being, but that dark urge, that savage violence that existed inside Nestor, had re-emerged now. And if he let himself get carried away, he knew he was more than capable of killing the man.
Nestor and Puttock struggled, and they turned toward the glass face to face with their reflection.
The surface of the mirror shifted, as if a watery shadow had moved across it.
“Go ahead, faggot, let your rage out,” Puttock said, and when Nestor heard those words, he snapped.
Nestor yanked Puttock by the back of his head, and using all the force he had in him, he smashed his forehead right on the glass. Nestor didn’t care which one shattered first, the glass or the skull.
When Puttock’s brow struck the glass, the room exploded with the sound millions of bells.
But instead of shattering bone and glass, Puttock’s head pushed through the three-dimensional surface.
The glass quivered, as if its very molecules had been disturbed. Nestor’s arms were very strong, and both he and Puttock had a lot of momentum.
Puttock’s whole head and neck slid into the mirror, and Nestor found himself plunging into the mirror too, falling into it, leaving its flat reflective surface behind as he fell into a distorted dome of black energy and diamond shapes, the smell of blood filling his nostrils. Nestor’s body dissolved into mirror, and before Nestor could utter a word, he and Puttock were gone.
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