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                            Journey to Sxtlan

                          by Vivian Darkbloom

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   I awoke the next morning with a glorious hardon, the kind that
   just wouldn't subside no matter how hard I tried.

   My little angel stirred beside me, then her eyes popped wide open
   looking up at me, then her hand blundered across my blunderbuss,
   causing it to surge impossibly even further, and a wicked little
   grin crept across her cute tiny face. I say `my little angel,'
   but who I saw was different from the girl I remembered. Darker
   skinned, and with a rounder nose, thicker eyebrows.

   Definitely the same girl, though.

   Before I knew it, she had spread her legs wide, arched over me,
   and she sat down hard in just the right spot, just the right
   direction. The hot little mouth burned coals of satisfaction like
   a deluge of fresh clean rainwater over parched soil. An oasis in
   the desert. The opening took some time to widen sufficiently, but
   she persisted devotedly, panting, puffing, and grunting most
   sweetly the entire time.

   The morning was bright, though all around me unfamiliar shapes
   lurked and haunted. Shapes of an ancient time, no sign of the
   advances of modern technology. Or what might have been something
   I had only dreamed. Through a doorway, I imagined I could see a
   swath of yellow sunlight, from a window beyond, no doubt.

   The cloth upon which we lay was coarse but soft and luxurious, in
   warm and rich shades of red and orange. Though barely could I
   spare the attention for such things with the determined moaning
   of my sweet princess above me, aligned on that sacred center
   point between us, the line of unspoken great meanings. I could
   feel what she felt, in our private connection, our own quiet
   telegraph.

   "Telegraph," the word seemed odd and unfamiliar. As if I had made
   it up. In a different tongue that that of this realm. Speaking of
   tongues, she bent over and kissed me on the mouth, sloppy and
   hard as she was wont to do, then arose back up in her arching
   journey to release.

   It turned me on to watch her thin dark body and young aureola,
   flat and undeveloped, the smooth flesh of her thin arms and legs
   as they rocked so earnestly, with such determination and loving
   spirit. How young and little, yet her desires and movements were
   the same as those of an adult woman, only in miniature.

   It was only a matter of minutes before this hot little pinata
   exploded, spraying her candied spittle of ecstasy across my hairy
   chest as the bursts of orgasm swept down her spine and across her
   whole body.

   There was a brief interlude of disconnection while we clumsily
   traded places, shuffling unfamiliar but luxurious fabrics aside
   where they had been laid on top of us. Now I became her sex
   machine, rowing and stroking on top of her, as she now gazed
   calmly up into my face, a complacent, satisfied vacancy on her
   face, a curiosity while she watched me reach my climax inside of
   her.

   As the wave rose in the tidal pool, she too reached the point of
   tremors around me, though not as extreme as the first time. And
   then, from the center of my abdomen, the flood surged forward,
   higher and higher towards the brink of the dam, until just a tiny
   feather stroke triggered my sweet release, and I shoved myself
   hard and deep into her.

   She responded in kind, with a tremulous amorosity, intense wails
   fading into smiles as she sensed the hot drops I was squirting
   into her sacred cavities. Then she clucked in that gentle manner
   of one who knows she possesses something she had been seeking.

   We fell back into a light slumber, which ended a few minutes
   later with the entrance of a mysterious persona into the
   antechamber.
     ____________________________________________________________

   When I awoke next, the bed was cold beside me. My princess had
   gone. I got up, and strode towards the source of light in the
   next room. I looked down at my body, now firm, dark-skinned,
   decorated a manner characteristic of civilizations long ago. I
   looked at my two open hands, unfamiliar yet the same. Down at my
   feet. The stone floor was coarse and smooth against the soles.

   When I entered the next room, I could see my princess seated at a
   low table. The Indian woman from the episode by the lake was
   stirring a mixture in a pot, over an open flame in a fireplace
   built into the clay walls. She smiled when she saw me.

   "So, you are here. Eat."

   Unlike myself and my princess, her appearance had not changed. I
   longed for, yet feared, a mirror in which to view my countenance.
   Was this a dream? It seemed so real. I did not bother trying to
   pinch myself. I knew it would only hurt.

   "What. . ." I started to ask.

   "You have found your spirit guide, and she has brought you back
   home to us," replied the old Indian woman. "It will take some
   time for you to regain your bearings. Relax."

   Sounded reasonable enough.

   A trio of musicians stood in the corner, playing for us.
   Pan-flutes accompanied by singing and strumming on metal charango
   strings, and a large bass-like stringed instrument. The music
   stirred up strange memories -- or were they dreams? Of a device
   which had plugged both my ears, and from which music came from
   the plugs. I shook my head in dismay. What an awful thing. Who
   would ever dream of listening to music in such a terrible manner?

   What was even more bizarre, was that I pictured a thin strip of
   brown tape, and felt somehow that the music was in the tape. Now
   I laughed heartily at such a silly idea. My hummingbird looked up
   at me curiously, spoon in her mouth.

   I felt myself wanting to dance, and memories came into my mind,
   of times when I had danced to this music. Now these felt more
   like memories than dreams, but it can be so difficult to tell
   them apart. I tapped in time on the table, humming along softly.

   There was something else, I was thinking, as the woman ladled the
   porridge into a bowl, setting it before me. Something else
   impossible to describe. But yet, which I had to describe. A state
   of disarray, concepts and things and emotions and sensations all
   blended together into a maddening mixture of unlabeled substance.
   But of urgent importance.

   Dreams of another place. A place with many clever inventions not
   present in the real world, a school, yes, a Universe study place
   it had been called. What a strange word, University. And a
   mosaic.

   I tried to separate the strands, like a woman brushing through
   long thick hair. Were these memories or only dreams? Memories of
   something that had been or would be? Or simply random images of
   the sort that come to one while sleeping? So difficult to tell
   sometimes. When they seem so similar.

   A woman walked in, stately and dignified, but young. With dark
   curly hair. I knew that she was the princess. Not my princess,
   but the princess, and for that reason also my princess, but not
   in the same sense. . .

   She eyed me curiously, inquiring of the old Indian woman. "Has it
   come to pass?"

   The Indian woman smiled, clearly delighted to respond. "Did I not
   say? One day, if Clatlque be willing, our hero would return to
   save Sxtlan. It is written in the prophecy. And now he has
   returned."

   An image tugged at me, was it a memory or a dream? Of an urgent
   need to sit in a room with others wearing lots of clothing. A
   room filled with desks, at which we all sat writing. It was a
   fearful feeling, one of needing to meet a particular challenge,
   to overcome an obstacle. I saw the paper before me, covered with
   symbols, and knew that they pertained somehow to the composition
   of tiny particles that made up everything in the universe.

   At this I had to laugh. How absurd it was, to feel fear over such
   a room with no spears, and no archers with arrows to pierce the
   skin and no clubs to break bones. Only a paper (whatever that
   was, a thin sheet from trees somehow).

   But the funniest thing about it was the idea of tiny particles.
   How ridiculous! Tiny particles creating the things around us.
   Everyone know that Giant Tortoise had created all things around
   us when it created the universe.

   Thin brown strips with music in them. Thin white sheets from
   trees with chemical symbols on them. What strange dreams I had
   been having. Perhaps it was something I had eaten.

   "So it is true then," murmured the Incan Princess. "In pursuit of
   the laughing coyote wind and the golden threads of power uniting
   all things, he has attained the fifth ring of singularity."

   I nodded in agreement. At the same time, another dream memory
   entered my mind, of a time when I had seen her face in a dancing
   storm of black and white tiles, and then in a cloud. How very
   strange.

   I had heard tell that on occasion, the Ayahuasca could bring
   about such sensations. I spooned the porridge into my mouth.

   The princess sat down across from me on the ground at the low
   table. "You will counsel my father wisely then? The king? Tell
   him to abandon this foolish war, and to rebuild the levees."

   "Of course," I replied. "Why would I counsel him otherwise?"

   She smiled understandingly. "I'm glad to hear that. So it is true
   what Madhyashca says, that your soul has been purified?"

   Her question puzzled me.

   "He is still confused," called over the Indian woman. "It will
   get better with time."

   After eating, I got up and wandered over to a doorway from which
   bright sunlight was streaming in. The musicians were still
   playing. Nobody had commented on my complete nudity, but then
   again, others around were also naked.

   I don't know why I found it so odd. I guess it was the dreams
   with all those people wearing lots of clothes. Strange clothes,
   of smooth alien fabrics and straight edges. Perhaps brought by
   travelers from the sky we had been hearing about so often
   nowadays.

   Walking outside, I found I was in the middle of a grassy meadow,
   and when I strode over to the half-wall surrounding it, I found
   myself gazing over a sheer drop, into a mountainscape of misty
   green grass-covered steep peaks. Lazily, the shrouds of white fog
   crept, swirling, through the valley. Around me on adjacent Andean
   mountaintops were the rugged trapezoidal shapes of castillos in
   basalt and limestone, angular squared-off stone figures perched
   on pinnacles above flourishing terraced farmlands.
     ____________________________________________________________

   As I sat with the King, I could tell that he would revere as
   sacred holy truth every word I said.

   How could he? After all, the king himself was regarded as
   descended from the Gods. But as the priest, my calling was one to
   speak directly to the Gods every day.

   How could any reasonable person buy into all this drivel? Here I
   was, so obviously a fallable human. And after all, wasn't it the
   previous words they had heard from my tongue (albeit from another
   spirit, though they had no idea, and I myself was having
   difficulty comprehending; but nonetheless. . .) words from my
   tongue that had led to the dreadful collapse of the levees that
   had killed so many, the devastating floods, the war based on lies
   that had drained the economy and brought so many thousands
   soldiers home dead or wounded, permanently scarred
   psychologically if not physically. A debt that would take its
   toll on our civilization for decades if not centuries.

   And here I sat, a new soul in this same body, atop the mighty
   pyramid, hearing the terrifying thunder of drums as we lazily
   watched the powerful armada, listened to the dense clomping of
   boots on the stone road below. The sultry peal of the battle
   horns called and answered as the soldiers marched endlessly by in
   their dreadful columns.

   The king leaned over. "If it's time to end the war, as you said,
   then what is to become of them?" I could sense his amusement. I
   was betting that he had been waiting a long time to hear that the
   war should be ended. But nobody would defy the high priest.

   "Them?" I murmured, following his gesture to the section of
   well-dressed fat courtiers chortling lasciviously and slapping
   each other on the butts. Colorfully dressed pleasure-maidens
   carrying parasols mingled among them.

   "The merchants of death," he explained. "The men who manufacture
   the arms with which I have furnished my armies. They have made a
   killing, literally, and now they wallow in treasure."

   I shrugged. "Gold is of the kingdom, is it not? So take it back.
   Such men should meet the end they deserve."

   "Death?" again I sensed the amusement on his face. Images of
   these evil, wicked men being torn to shreds by wild tigers and
   boars were quite satisfying.

   "No," I replied. "One does not kill in order to prove that murder
   is wrong. Sentence them to hard labor. Tie them together with
   chains and put them to work rebuilding the roads and bridges
   their engines of war have destroyed."

   "Ah yes," mused the King. "Truly, you are the wise priest."

   FIN

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