'You went to my tobacco place?' he echoed.
'Yes, on Santa Monica. The address was under the paper or whatever that wrapping is.' She blinked, shook herself. Was she that tired? She took another sip of the drink. It didn't help. In fact, she seemed to grow drowsier.
'That nice Mr. . . . I can't remember his name . . . he . . . excuse me, Walt. Don't know why I'm so . . . sleepy.'
'Continue. You went to the shop.'
'Yes. The owner said he couldn't make any of your blend for me because (fog) you always brought one of the (so tired) ingredients yourself and he didn't know what it was. So I had to get you something else.'
'Why?' he said again. Before she could answer, 'Why must you all know everything? Each the Pandora.' He took up a poker, stirred the fire. It blazed high, sparks bouncing drunkenly off the iron rod.
She finished the drink, put the glass down on the table. It seemed to waver. She leaned back against the couch.
'I'm sorry, Walt. Didn't think you'd get so . . . upset.'
'It's all right, Emma.'
'Funny . . . about those . . . tins. Eight of them. Two were . . . named Anna Mine and Sue deBlakely.'
'So.' He fingered the poker.
'Well,' she giggled, 'weren't those the . . . names of your two ex-wives?'
'I'm very sentimental, Emma.'
She giggled again, frowned. Falling asleep would spoil the whole evening. Why couldn't she keep her damn eyes open?
'In fact . . . all your blends had female . . . names.'
'Yes.' He walked over to her, stared down. His eyes seemed to burn . . . reflection from the fire again . . . and his face swam, blurred. 'You're falling asleep, Emma. ' He moved her empty glass carefully to one end of the table. It was good crystal.
'Can't . . . understand it. So . . . tired . . .'
'Maybe you should take a little rest, Emma. A good rest.'
'Rest . . . maybe . . . ' His arms cradled her.
'Lie here, Emma. Next to the fire. It'll warm you.' He put her down on the carpet across from the fronting brick. The flames pranced hellishly, anxious, searing the red-hot brick interior.
'Warm . . . hot, Walt,' she mumbled sleepily. Her voice was thick, uncertain. 'Lower it?'
'No, Emma.' He took the poker, jabbed and pushed the logs back against the rear of the alcove. Funny, she'd never noticed how big it was for such a modest house.
Her eyes closed. There was silence for several minutes. As he knelt and reached for her, they fluttered open again just a tiny bit.
'Walt . . .' Her voice was barely audible, and he had to lean close to hear.
'. . .Yes?'
'What . . . special ingredient?'
There was a sigh before he could reply, and her eyes closed again. Long moments. He tossed two more logs on the fire, adjusted them on the iron. Then he knelt, grabbed her under the arms. Her breathing was shallow, faint.
He put his mouth close to her ear, whispered.
'Ashes, my love. Ashes.'
MOTHER THUNDER
Jessica Amanda Salmonson and I have corresponded for years, infrequently but always with respect and interest. In addition to writing her own stories, Jessica is a busy editor. When I learned that she was putting together an anthology of stories utilizing mythological themes, I was immediately interested.
Mythology always fascinated me in school, but all we were ever exposed to by the Anglocentric American secondary curriculum was the mythlore of Greece and Rome. If the teacher was especially well read and prepared, we might also receive a dollop of Norse gods, those individuals so famed today for .their appearances in Marvel comics. No residuals go to Valhalla or Asgard. Only when l left college did I begin to find out about mankind's wealth of invention, of the tales and fantasies of the rest of my brethren.
One thing I discovered was that mythologies exist to be expanded upon. The dreamtime could be my time, too. Tales twice told in Tanzania were as pointed and relevant as those spilled on the streets of Topeka. When it comes to storytelling, the family of man is wholly egalitarian. I think my embroidery of reality would be as welcome in a yurt in the Gobi as in New York.
What first drew me to the Inca, however, was not their mythology but their tragedy. If only, I told myself as I read the sad story of their destruction by the conquistadores, they had possessed writing. If only they'd known the wheel. If only they'd had matching cavalry or gunpowder. If only they'd had . . .
No one paid any attention to Crazy Yahuar until the Silver Men came.
'They have crossed the river,' the exhausted chasqui told the Priest. 'Even now they are working their way up the mountain.'
'They must not come here,' the old Priest muttered. 'This is the most sacred place of the Tahuantinsuyu, the Four Corners of the World. They must not come here.' He pulled his feathered cloak tighter around his shoulders. The wind was cold on the mountaintop.
'The Silver Men go where they wish.' The teacher/noble who stood on the Priest's right hand had seen much these past twenty years. He had become a realist.
'Why dream on, old man? We have three choices: we can submit, we can run away into the jungle with Manco Inca; or we can die here. Myself, I chose my own grave, and it is here. This is where my grandfather began, and this is where his line will end.'
'If we pray to the Sun,' the old Priest began. The teacher interrupted him angrily:
'It is too late for prayers, Priest. We have forgotten what they were for, have forgotten too much for prayers to be of help now. Prayers did not help Atahuallpa. The Silver Men strangled him, ransom or no ransom, prayers or no prayers. Give me' one of their armored long-legged llamas to ride upon and one of their fire-weapons to fight with, and keep your prayers:' He turned his attention to the panting chasqui.
'How many, post runner?'
The chasqui held out a quipu, and the teacher studied the number and location of the intricate knots tied in the rope. 'Too many. You have done your job, runner. I will not hold you here. What would you do?'
'Return to my family.' The chasqui was still breathing hard from the long run up the mountainside.
'Go then, if you can avoid the Silver Men, and live long.'
'Thank you, noble.' The runner turned and fairly flew down the steep trail, anxious to flee the sacred city. He had heard of the barbarity of the Silver Men, of the atrocities they had visited even upon great Cuzco, and he had no desire to be martyred along with those who might choose to try to defend the citadel. Better it be left to Priests and nobles.
The old Priest let out a sigh. 'The Empire is coming to an end. It is too bad.'
'Too bad has nothing to do with it, Priest.' The teacher made no attempt to conceal his bitterness. 'I blame Huascar and Atahuallpa. If those two brothers had not spent the energy and wealth of the realm fighting one another over the succession, we would already have driven the Silver Men back into the sea, despite all their strange weapons and ways. Now, it is too late.' He turned and gazed past the lower terraces, toward the first wall of the city.
'So now I shall die here, not for the Empire but for my ancestors and my oaths, which is all that has been left to me. What will you do, Priest?'
