“Okay, it’s okay,” the priest said, fixing his collar. He was taller than Noah and broader, built sturdy enough that he barely acknowledged Noah’s clumsiness. He scratched his wide round face with stubby fingers, and when he glanced at Rachel and saw she was pregnant, a smile overtook him. “Nobody was hurt, after all. At least, not out here. What was the screaming about?”
“I’m not really sure. I’m trying to find someone and when I showed the señora inside she went crazy.”
“Ah, Señora Alvarez. She hasn’t been the same since her granddaughter passed away. Do you mind?” He reached his large hand out and looked from Noah to Rachel and back again. Noah was confused, until he realised the folded article was still clutched in his hand. He passed it over carefully.
“Hm,” the priest said, holding the clipping an inch from his round brown eyes, then holding it at arm’s length. “It’s no use,” he sighed. “I’m blind without my glasses, and your wife shouldn’t be outside in this weather. Come, let us go inside the church. It will be cooler there.”
“How long have you lived in Astilla de la Cruz?” Rachel was sitting in the second pew, hands over the back of the first and tucked under her chin. Noah remained standing, looking at the sparse furniture and the small handful of parishioners spread out across the place, all with heads down and praying. The church was far more spartan than Noah expected, but he imagined all the money had been spent on the ornate cross that was a hanging broken shadow beyond the dull stained glass. Rustling emitted from behind the large altar, somewhere near the back of the nave, though he saw no cause. “I only ask,” Rachel said, wiping away sweat in the crook of her arm, “because your English is perfect, Father Manillo.”
“Well, it’s not perfect, but I try. I was born here, but my family was blessed enough that we moved to California when I was still a young boy. I studied there for many years. Many years until I was teenager and I felt the calling. I returned home, here to Astilla de la Cruz, and heard the voice stronger and knew I must stay. I studied here with Father Montechellio, and when he was too old to continue, I took his place. But enough of me. That’s not why you’re here. Let me get my glasses and take a look at this picture of yours. I know the village like I know my own face, and if anyone can help, I think I will!”
Father Manillo strode off toward the chancel, his shoes clapping the floor. Noah looked around the congregation but still could not locate the source of the rustling.
“I have a good feeling about this, Noah. I think he’s going to help us.”
“I hope so. I’m trying not to get my hopes up. How are you feeling?”
“I’m still a bit achy, but I’ll manage.”
Father Manillo appeared from behind the unadorned rood screen, a pair of thin glasses curled over his ears and nose. They gave his eyes a magnified appearance, like a newborn staring wide.
“Now let me take a look at that picture.”
Noah handed him the folded clipping. Father Manillo opened it up and laid it flat on the pew. He stared intently at it while Rachel and Noah watched him. A hand went to his chin, stroking the dark wrinkled skin there. Then Father Manillo nodded and looked at Noah and Rachel. He motioned for them to sit.
“I don’t know how much history you know of Mexico. When the Spaniards came in 1521, they brought God to the natives here, forced Christianity on them until it took, and over time those natives became civilised, paired with the Spanish, and developed into the Mexico we have today. Often dirty, often corrupt, but never godless is Mexico. But before this—before Columbus and Cortés and iron helmets and God himself—there were different rules the Olmec, Toltec, Teotihuacan, Zapotec, Maya, and Aztec lived by, and different gods to worship. Hexatopsodil, Quesadasidodfll, Setinodoginall—these were the ones who ruled the land, controlled air and water and earth. There was a god for everything; a separate yet no less important god to pray to, to sacrifice to, if a farmer wanted to grow a crop or heal his child. The ancient Mexican gods were not like the Christian God at all. The idea of one god instead of many would have seemed impossible, unbelievable—at least until the white men arrived and proved otherwise.
“But even that story, as widely believed as it is, isn’t quite the whole story. History is like that—never presenting everything it should, forgetting things it shouldn’t. Few people know what I’m about to tell you, fewer still actually believe it—at least, outside Astilla de la Cruz—but history has a way of changing the rules, even when time itself rejects the notion. I said that the Spanish brought the concept of the single god to the Mexican people, but that isn’t quite true. There was another cult of worshippers who believed a single god would save the world, although who or what that god would be is open to debate. The story has been lost for centuries, so very little is known; but as I’m quite interested in religion, as you can imagine, I’ve paid particular attention to talk of this nature and have pieced much together. Great Huitzilopochtli was at ancient millennial war with the other gods over the souls of all the children lost to illness and plague. He called the gods together for a truce, but Ueuecoyotl, trickster god of foulness and chaos, was not to be trusted and tricked Huitzilopochtli into transforming himself into a hummingbird, then impregnating a mortal woman whom Ueuecoyotl had already impregnated. Then Ueuecoyotl did the same to Ixtlilton and Camaxtli and so on until he had tricked them all into impregnating that woman. With each impregnation, a piece of the gods’ power was stolen, and Ueuecoyotl believed the subsequent child, the child of all the gods, would have all their power and usurp them as the one true god.”
“But wouldn’t he be usurped as well?”
“Ah, my friend, that was the beauty of Ueuecoyotl’s plan. He simply didn’t care. He was the god of chaos, after all.”
“Wait, so you’re saying this god and God-god—”
“Yes, one and the same. This is how a small number reconciled the new god the Spaniards brought with them. They believed this god, named Ometéo-tlitztl, to be the true supreme being, one which our God was only an aspect of. The cult has grown and persists, but they remain secret, unwilling to reveal their hidden selves to the world. Astilla de la Cruz is their home, and it’s everything I can do to keep the true God alive here in the face of that.”
“But does this have to do with my ex-wife and Eli?”
“I look at this photograph and even blurry it’s clear to me where it was taken. The blasted heath. Come outside once more. The sun has lowered enough that you might see.”
Noah trailed the priest to the entrance, Rachel a few steps behind. They were still in the shadow of the church’s spire, which spared them the worst of the heat, but after being inside for so long, the sun seemed doubly bright and harsh, and Noah had to squint to keep his eyes open. Father Manillo said something to a passerby, but Noah could not see much through his squinting eyes beyond a multicoloured blur. By the time Noah’s eyesight improved the person was long gone.
“There, my friend, do you see it?” Father Manillo pointed toward the distant rocky outcropping that bordered the village. “Do you see that shape at the top?” At first, nothing seemed amiss, simply acres of scrub surrounding the village, then Noah noticed something unusual. There was a hill leading back toward the mountains, and on this hill was what looked like a large rock structure. All around it there seemed to be no life at all—just rocks and what looked like a leafless tree. The entire image wavered in the heat like some blackened flame.
“That’s where your photograph was taken. That’s where the Tletliztlii worship, during the lost hours of the day.”