Chapter 18 Xolotl
Xolotl
I’m asleep, but I’m not sleeping.
I sense the miles of stone around me clearly, and the heat from the earth’s core warms me perfectly, as usual. But it’s not enough. Something’s wrong.
I shouldn’t be here.
I can’t rest the way I’m supposed to. Something’s not right.
My body isn’t working—it’s supposed to be hibernating, but my mind’s racing. Why would I be stuck in this mountain, awake? What happened the last time I woke up?
The reality of everything punches into me like a missile.
A glorious, deadly, powerful bomb, like the one the humans fired at me before they finally capitulated.
It’s still inside me now. I feel it, pulsing and rippling in all its miraculous power.
The thrumming of it calms me, and I try to remember what else happened.
I’m purposefully hard to wake. I’m not needed very often up above.
But things still feel strange.
Like the sunlight dawning over the day, the truth rises up in me.
Whitney.
Whitney Brooks.
She’s changed everything. I bonded her as my champion, and I was terribly upset at how bad she was at her job.
She wasn’t eager to kill or destroy. She shared no information about the humans voluntarily.
In fact, I could barely even read her thoughts.
The small things I got made me even more insane.
She forced me to try human food.
And I liked it.
She made me smile and play, like some dog.
And I loved it.
I refused to give up my bond to her, and they wrenched it away from me!
Now I’m down here—does that mean she’s dead?
I cast about for the bond but can’t feel it.
Her death would’ve been the only thing that could plunge me back down here.
I scramble around, searching my spotty memories for her soul passing through me to the otherworld.
I don’t have a memory of it.
What does that mean?
Could one of the other horsemen have been there? Did they help Baba Yaga and Lechuza? Did they all work against me? Rage floods my insides, and I release the nuclear bomb the humans leveled at me. The place I’ve been sleeping explodes outward, and suddenly, I’m nearing light again.
But instead of finding myself on the surface of earth like I should.
. .I awaken into a place I’ve never seen.
It’s a place of light and dark—so bright I can barely see, with deep shadows so dark they look like stains of sticky pitch stretching dark and ominous toward the invisible horizon. “Hello?”
I stand and walk across the strange chamber. It seems to have no end, and no beginning. It just runs on and on.
“Where am I?” I shout.
Nothing.
So I whisper. “Why am I here? Where is this?”
Child, you have changed.
As if to punctuate the words, the shadows ripple, and the light beams shift and scatter and reform.
“Where am I?”
You should be asking where you are not. You’re awake, but you are not in your place, doing your work.
“I—I was doing my work,” I say. “But. . .” I can’t quite bring myself to explain that I abandoned my duties for a human. Because I like her.
You’ve changed. You were glorious, pure dark energy, but now, you are more. You’ve formed into a shape, a unique and strange shape.
A gong sounds and my entire body and soul vibrates right along with it, my energies floating up in front of me. I’ve never seen my own soul. I had no idea it was so dark. I never thought I was truly bad.
Not bad, child. The darkness isn’t the same as the evil strands you see in others. You’re pure death energy, my own creation. My shepherd to bring my souls back home. But now.
Another gong.
My soul ripples in front of me.
A bright, golden strand twists through the rest, casting shadows across the other strands, pulsing strong and bright.
“What is that?”
You have changed. She has changed you.
“But what does it mean?” I feel almost frantic. “And can you tell me whether Whitney Brooks’s soul passed through to the otherworld?”
The sound of chuckling is strange, but unmistakable. The bright strand in my soul ripples and widens right in front of my eyes. You change even now. Your soul longs for hers.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t. I’m just worried about her. She’s like a pet to me. Like my axolotls.”
Not so. You can lie to others, but never to me. You long for her deeply. She has changed who you are in your very center.
“If I’ve changed. . .am I no longer your horseman?”
You face a choice. You may pluck the light that has sprouted inside of you because of the child of balance. Or you may feed it, and you may draw nearer to her, but if you choose to nourish that sprout, you may no longer be my horseman of pure dark.
The voice is sad. That’s unmistakable.
“Will that disappoint you?” I tremble at the expectation of an answer.
Life is change, my son. You’ve changed before, when you asked me to make you brothers. When you asked for a respite. Your changes are beautiful to watch, but they pain me, too. You were perfect as you were, and for many millennia you served humanity. You’ve served well and faithfully.
“So what should I do?” I reach for the bright, sparkling, foreign strand.
As I stroke it, I smell burgers and fries.
I smell the rose scent of Whitney’s hair.
I see her sleeping face in my mind’s eye.
I watch her twirl in her blood-red dress.
I hear her complain about the lack of socks.
I feel her clinging to my back, relishing the feel of the wind in her hair, wind I created.
“Should I pluck the strand?” Even the thought has me shying away.
That strand may be the very last thing I have of Whitney.
And I want it desperately.
I’m afraid you’ve already made your choice. You must now make peace with it. In thousands of years, you’ve never broken a rule, not a single one. But now, since the sprouting of this bright strand, you’re breaking rules repeatedly.
I bow my head. “I’m sorry.”
I feel a hand on my head. When I open my eyes, no one’s there. I love you, whatever you decide, child. I will watch you grow and change with grace.
“Is she alive?”
I will tell you this one thing, that she yet lives.
But I will also warn. Human will, their agency, is paramount.
You may love her, but she may not love you.
If you pluck the strand and return to my service, you will feel no pain, no fear, and no anger.
You will return to what you were. There is no risk.
“But?”
If you nourish it and you embrace your change, you may return to earth, and you may pursue your beloved human, but you are promised nothing. She may despise you forever. You would have given up your immortal life and your power and position for nothing.
“Will I retain my magic?”
I’ve told you what I will. You must decide. The weight of the hand withdraws, and my soul twists in front of me.
I run a careful hand down the length of the golden strand, and I smile.
I close my eyes and think of her. Her face, stubborn and set, her mind, fierce and strong, and her body, as it curls against mine, her hands pressing on my chest. Since we met, she’s hated everything about me, but what if I wasn’t a horseman anymore?
What if I could give her what she wanted? She might hate me.
Or she might not.
I want it.
I’ve never wanted in my long life, but now I want with every part of my being. “I will keep the strand and return to her.”
Something thrusts me from the light and dark chamber, and my body hurtles rapidly toward the surface.
When I burst from the earth in a shower of dirt and rocks, it’s midday.
There’s a young boy with a rifle resting on his shoulder.
“Who are you?” He swings the gun around and points it at me, muttering.
“People busting out of the ground and wandering around like they own the place.”
I try to sense what he’s thinking, but he’s unreadable. Just like Whitney. “I’m Xolotl,” I finally say. “I’m looking for Whitney Brooks.”
“Oh, hell no.” He fires his rifle at me, and the bullet strikes my shoulder.
And I bleed.