Tales of Darkness: Even shadows fear the darkness*
Versión en español|Versão em português
Hélvia Guacho was a very peculiar cainite, even though an experienced assassin, renouwned and an especially mercyless member of the Sabbat’s Inquisition, the cinema exerced great fascination over her.
In the eye of the chaos hurricane which Sabbat emanated from Mexico City, once in a while, it was possible to live in treacherous tranquility. In nights such as this one, when there was urgent calls from the boring Monsignors of the Sword of Caine and she was lucky to find herself with spare time in her beloved Mexico City, Hélvia could afford the luxury to attend at one of the movie theaters of the Cines de la República, which she attended for decades now, to enjoy the spectacle of illusions and light and shadow, dancing through the tired eyes of her long existence.
In the past, stories were told around bonfires or the exuberant patios of an maian acropolis, moved by imagination. But now, modern magic allowed the art of telling stories to reach a new level. All you have to do is sit back on an old chair and let yourself be carried away by images and sounds that invaded your thirsty eyes and ears. For a few moments, it was possible to live a thousand lives, visit far away lands that even experienced feet such as hers had never stepped on, and see yourself in the skin of people you could never imagine.
For her, it was an transcendental experience, almost religious. After all, Tezcatlipoca, the Lord of Light and Darkness, God of Night and Magic, certainly would be present in that room of eternal night, where light and shadow amazed countless legions of mortal — and even some immortals less stupid than most — being able to dress other skins in such a profound way proved to be an exercise extremely revealing and inadvertently useful.
Tonight, the traditional front sign enticed her curiosity by announcing The Mexican. The board, at the entrance hall, a young and beautiful couple exchanged caresses and the nome of great Hollywood stars were stamped in big rounded letters. It seemed more like a “chick flick” romance, but she took a chance anyway. It would be nice to be surprised, a feeling she didn’t have for long now maybe she had forgotten what it’s like.
The leading guy seemed to deliver a dignified acting, as usual. But the leading girl made her think if it wasn’t one of those cases in which beauty overlaid talent. This time, she was actually surprised– somehow at least — but could not escape from feeling outraged.
The movie, as shown on the board, wasn’t about Jennifer Lopez, Penélope Cruz, Salma Hayek or any other Holywood superstar “muchacha.” It wasn’t about some pretty american actress also. It was a story about the american’s passion for firearms — this time under the cover of a “chick flick” romance The Mexican was a reference to a revolver. After all, as the Beatles said, “happiness is a warm gun”-Madre de Dios! — There’s nothing that the yankees seem to like more. Probably something about the symptomatic need to display power and virility– Pathetic — She thought.
As usual, some people liked it. Two rows ahead, a group of teenagers breathed hardly everytime the uninspired direction closed the camera at the leading man. Two empty chairs at side, a couple was having sex without seeming to care about the world around them. By the looks of it, the guy there could handle things way better than the leading guy at the screen. At least someone was enjoying the movie.
During the movie, there was the death of two gay people, the only black man in the story and several mexicans. “It’s the american way”, justified the leading man. Apparently, white man have erections when firing their revolvers, and measure their power by the amount of targets they hit. Suddenly, the “third world”, didn’t seemed so bad, you can live worst lives at some places. Here, the lady right there could at least cum in peace, while the men at the screen distracted themselfs with their guns.
While leaving the room, she still reflected about the way the americans insist in picturing Mexico and the “latinos”. But her thoughts are invaded by the smell of fresh popcorn and the chocolate at the hall’s bombonière. — Do these mortals leaving the refuge of light and shadow to enter the dangerous mexican night have any idea that the popcorn, chocolate and coke in movie theaters all over the world are the legacy left by almost forgotten civilizations, left in the past of the “New World”? — A legacy so rich and influent that included things as corn itself, beans, and “english potato” and the “guinea pig”. A past buried under millions of dead people and centuries of lies and dissimulations, such as waters of Texcoco, running under the Mexico City. — If she closes her eyes, she could still see the beautiful lake of salty waters from under it risen, in the past, the mighty Tenochtitlán.
Walking and reflecting, she then sees her favorite monument in tow, La Fuente de la Diana Cazadora, a nude damsel holding a bow in a threathning way, pointed to the stars. The damsel was there for decades before the innaguration of the traditional Cines de la Republica, and everything lead to believe that it would remain there long after the mortals would get tired of the old cinema’s magic. The monument always was another font of fascination for her. It’s true name was La Flechadora de las Estrellas del Norte. The damsel had provoked protestation from the hypocrytical mortal elite at the mexican capital, faced by it’s nudity, beauty and daring, but a few decades were enough to make it that the monument to be incorporated by the city himself. She wanted the contemporary taste to see in the statue the reflection of a goddess, long forgotten from an decadent empire, in a past that rests in far away lands, at the other side of the Atlantic, but it’s shapes were inspired by a young mexican, an there’s no doubt about what it represents — a source of inspiration.
For a second, for the first time, she tought she had seen La Flechadora drop the missing bowstring of the bow and fire invsible arrows towars the northern heavens. Soon, a soft and fresh autumn rain fell over the city, as insensitive tears from countless defeated enemies. Then, she contemplated the drops, slowly falling and dividing themselves in many others when touching the ground, forming puddles where other water drops formed concentric circles, reflecting the metropolis’s pale lights. A smile appeared at corner of her lips, as a lightning in a blue sky. — It was the sign she waited for so long! — It was time to stop being Hélvia Guacho, the Sabbat Inquisitor, and go back to wear the dress of Kalomte Kabel, the Scourge of Tezcatlipoca.
Kabel always despite the heinous parodies which represented the Sabbat’s Auctoritas Ritae, mere shapes without any content. But she had a special contempt held against the one known as La Palla Grande, the Grand Sabbat Ball. Which date matched the one of the american Halloween and the Dia de Los Muertos, the day of the dead, a profane misrepresentation of the cult of Al Puch, the regent of the Mitclán underworld. This would be the last time that Kabel would made herself be a part of that, however, this time, she was sure she would enjoy the occasion.
Conveniently characterized as La Catrina de los Toletes, planning to leave a mark of her presence on everybody’s memory. She participated at the ritual as expected from her. Doubly undercover, hiding beneath La Catrina’s costume, her disguise as Hélvia Guacho. She showed herself for the ones beneath her and demonstrated respect to the elder and more powerful ones. When her presence were noted, even before the Regent, Melinda Galbraith could make a triumphal entrance. Kabel evoked her blood gifts to not to be missed, using her speed to leave the place right after.
For long now, Kabel was aware of the influence of the Huitzilopochtli, the Baali’s, an old acquaintance, over the Sabbat regent, but did not find it convenient to take her out yet, using her inquisitor disguise. However, tonight, she was there as Kalomte Kabel, the Tezcatplipoca scourge, adorned with the distinctions of Ah Puch, to whom orderer the cursed soul of Melinda. She despite everyone of the Sabbat, but hated Lasombra the most, which Melinda tried to mimic the most, at the point to be confused as one of them. The Lasombra were, to the Kabel, the essence of the spanish “conquistadores” that one day thought to have eliminated her kind. Soon, the would remember that even the shadows should fear the darkness.
In te blink of an eye, she entered the Regent’s chambers, executing her by shreding out her black heart with a series of strikes from her claws. Melinda tried to react, prevented by her mighty perception, capable of fighting back, but not overcome the furtive gifts of Kabel. The Tlacique warrior’s speed was greater than the Regent’s, who, in vain, tried to defend herself. The legendary and supernatural strength and resilience, which Melinda used at public rituals to impress, were no match either for the Regent to resist the sudden and surgical strike by the unexpected Tlacique Methuselah.
She returned to the celebration as fast and as suddenly as she left, feeding and patiently waiting for news on the death of the Regent, but the news would arrive late. She couldn’t avoid a smile from her lips when saw an impostor taking Melinda’s place. She knew that the fraud couldn’t hold for long, and soon the chaos she planted at the heart of the Sabbat would grow fruits of destruction among her enemies. So, she left.
She rode with the blessing of Huacán, as Tezcatlipoca had only revealed to her children. Before the sun rise, she was back at her hometown, beloved Calakmul, or Ox Te’Tum, as they called it when she was only a young mortal.
She took a good look at the ruins around her, and once more it was like she could see the former glories of the past and all it’s might. The world is in constant changing, not even the mortals last forever. The bad news is that the world may end too, no matter how good or glorious it is. The good news is that everything has an end, for as worst and as painful that it might be.
At the woods around the ruins, in a place she had stored in the bottom of her soul, Kabel, unberried her favorite chimalli and macuahuitl. They were as good as new, protected from time’s action by ancient nahuallotl spells. At the chimalli, a small rounded and tradition shield, the image of Kinich Ahau, her favorite face of Tezcatlpoca; at the macuabuitl, shining blades of black obsidian, sharper than man kind’s best steel ever made, even in the current nights. She wished she was dressed to take her part at the expect return of Tlacique. The next night, Archbishop Tzimisce, whom had taken the name Xipe Totec to himself, felt the caress of the true skinned god.
Then, an orange arch rose on the horizon, announcing the arrival of a new day. As small sacrifice to the Lord of Light and Darkness, Kabel tried to face the sun that threatened climb the horizon till her eyes burned as lit charcoal and her skin to smoke with the caress of the first beams of light. She resisted without showing any pain and was rewarded with a glimpse of it’s glory right before stepping down to merge with the holy grounds of her ancestors.
