Fish. I had reached the boundary of the Fifth World.
But, as I swam closer, I saw that they weren't fish at all – but bodies, their pale skin gleaming, their long hair streaming in the invisible currents. Their eyes were wide open, watching me impassively.
There were children: six, seven years old, their faces devoid of all expression, save for the tears running down their cheeks, inexplicably glistening in the water. There were women: young women with swollen skin, old women with a thin line of red circling their throats. And men, young and old, their skin as blue as unshed blood, their eyes bulging in their orbits.
The Blessed Drowned. The sacrifices to Tlaloc, to Chalchiutlicue, still weeping the tears that called down rain, still clutching their slit throats.
Neutemoc was heavier and heavier: not helping me, I thought, not without bitterness. If he became any heavier, I wouldn't be able to lift him and rise to the surface.
I kicked harder, knowing who I would see, at the end of this procession of the dead.
First was Eleuia, her empty eye-sockets still crying tears of blood; and etched on every feature of her face, the ruins of her beauty. Even pale and unmoving, even mutilated and reduced to this shadow of herself, her presence was still commanding – and she was still obscenely beautiful, she could still make me rigid with an alien desire.
She was singing, softly singing:
I turned my eyes away from her, unable to bear her empty gaze.
And after Eleuia–
Like Neutemoc, he was entangled in the tree's roots, his face pale and colourless in the green light, both arms pulled back and wrapped around separate roots, making him into a living quincunx. Unlike Neutemoc, his eyes were wide open, staring at me, not with anger or with rage, but with a quiet, sorrowful disappointment that made my heart twist.
'Acatl,' he whispered, and his voice was the water surging through the roots of the tree. A few handspans above us, the roots broke the water's surface: the Fifth World, so close and yet so unattainable.
'Father, I'm sorry,' I whispered, as I swam closer. The words came out of my mouth in a trail of bubbles.
Father's eyes held me, shining in the ghastly pallor of his face. He didn't look blessed, or happy. Just disappointed. Sad. The same look his body had had, even in death.
'Father…' I couldn't speak. I couldn't make myself heard. Father just shook his head, and didn't answer me.
Neutemoc was a dead weight in my arms. I dragged him closer, struggling to reach Father's body. If only I could be close enough, so that he could read my lips. If only I could apologise – for the vigil, for Neutemoc…
For myself.
'You still do everything as if he were alive, don't you?' a mocking voice asked.
Slowly, I shifted around, half-turned away from the tree.
The child-god Mazatl hung in the water, a few measures away from me. Green light flowed around him, outlining his body and the white tunic he wore. And in the light stood a monstrous figure with dark eyes, laying His hands on the child's shoulder, His fanged mouth resting close to Mazatl's ears, whispering words that the child flung back at me.
'Tlaloc,' I whispered. The acrid taste of the lake's water filled my mouth, and only a thin thread of sound came out.
'Mazatl,' the child said, a bare whisper that was almost human. But then he was speaking again with Tlaloc's voice, a thunder that made the water shake around us. 'Or rather, not any more. Now I am called Popoxatl.'
The Strength of Rain.
'Well named,' I whispered.
I kicked, trying to rise to the surface. The end of the green light was so tantalisingly close. I could be out of the Storm Lord's territory, and into a place where the rules of the Fifth World applied. But Neutemoc's body, weighing me down, prevented me from rising any further.
An expression of animal cunning spread across Popoxatl's face: a sickening thing to see on a face so young. 'You don't want to answer my question, do you, Acatl? Tell me.'
'About what?' I asked, trying to keep my voice calm. I didn't know why I was seeking to gain time, but every instinct spoke against angering Tlaloc while I was still underwater.
'Your father, of course,' Popoxatl said.
In the tree's roots, Father opened his mouth, revealing rows of yellowed teeth, struggling to speak, but unable to do so.
A game. Popoxatl was playing with me until I ceased to amuse. I tightened my grip on Neutemoc's body.
'Answer me,' Popoxatl said. 'Do you not do everything as if your parents had never died?'
'Mother died four years ago,' I said, slowly. 'Father, seven. I've made my own way. I don't see what You want.' But I knew.
I wished Chalchiutlicue would do something, anything to rescue me. But despite the waters contracting around me, this wasn't Her dominion. The tree, and everything around it, belonged to the Storm Lord, Tlaloc.
Popoxatl laughed: a slow, rumbling sound that shook the roots of the tree. 'Your own way? Oh, Acatl. You risk your own life to save your beloved brother–'
