Effigy
EFFIGY
by
Theresa Danley
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Published by
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
Whiskey Creek Press
PO Box
51052
Casper
,
WY
82605-1052
Copyright
Ó
2010 by
Theresa Danley
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-60313-785-0
Credits
Cover Artist: Nancy Donahue
Editor: Dave Field
Printed in the
United States of America
Acknowledgements
I wish to give thanks first and foremost to God for giving me the courage to undertake the challenging journeys of writing. Second only to Him, I extend my endless gratitude toward the work and research of John Major Jenkins. Without his book,
Maya Cosmogenesis 2012
, and his supplemental guidance, this story could not have been possible. A big heartfelt thanks to my husband, Bryan, and all my family, friends, and neighbors who have supported me in this endeavor. To Kathi, Jennifer, and Carole, a special thank you for cheering me on through all your red ink, and to Dave and Marsha for all your patience and hard work. Finally, a hearty thanks to Juan Carlos and Teresa, my “eyes and ears in Mexico.”
Historical Note
In AD 968, the fair-skinned Toltec high priest, Ce Acatl Topiltzin—Our Lord, One Reed—settled in the Valley of Mexico and founded the city of Tula—Place of Reeds. There, he practiced religious reform and adopted the name of his god, Quetzalcoatl.
Twenty years later, there was a revolt. Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl was overthrown, led to the coast of
Veracruz
and, according to one legend, was cast away on a raft of snakes. As the current pulled him out to sea, Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl prophesied, “I will return from the east in the year One Reed!”
AD 1519 happened to be a One Reed year. That was also the year the fair-skinned Hernán Cortés arrived from the east and encountered the Aztec emperor, Moctezuma II. According to early Franciscan reports of the time, the Aztecs mistook Cortés’ arrival for the long awaited return of Quetzalcoatl. By the time Moctezuma realized their error, the Spanish were well on their way to conquering them.
Quetzalcoalt, the deity, and Quetzalcoatl, the man, have long been entangled within a myriad of myth and legend. At times it’s hard to differentiate one from the other, let alone separate fact from fiction. Historical accuracy is hopelessly lost, or miraculously found, depending on the source at hand, which often leaves some to wonder who or what Quetzalcoatl really was.
And in the midst of it all, there are those still anticipating his return.
Prologue: The Enemy On Both Sides
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Tula
Ruins,
Hidalgo
,
Mexico
She stepped away from her car with the chill of death rippling her skin. She tugged at her park service jacket, pulling it tighter against the pre-dawn darkness. Perhaps it was the cool air or the bank of clouds delaying the cheery radiance of morning that ordinarily sensitized her dormant clairvoyance. It could be the way the crimson dawn appeared as a slivered artery just beneath the clouds, spilling a bloody caress down the cold, chiseled faces of the rigid Atlanteans.
Whatever hung in the air, it discomforted Maria Delarosa.
Early morning hours were usually what Maria lived for—that silent time before the tours started rolling in, when the weary ruins slowly shed their one-dimensional silhouettes and emerged as glowing Toltec temples. It was only then that the Atlanteans stood boldest against the skyline like basalt sentries standing guard against some oncoming apocalypse. This morning, however, they appeared less like the defenders of a lost city and more like gory savages returning from the carnage left in the clouds.
Maria decided to walk off her jitters in the open courtyard of the ruins. She avoided the warriors crowning Pyramid B though she couldn’t quite shake the chill creeping beneath her skin, which only seemed to intensify as she passed the large central altar of the courtyard. She continued to the edge of the precipice overlooking Tula de Allende, comforted somewhat by the soft sprawling lights, and the refinery glowing in the distance.
She paused in the serenity and thought about waiting there, watching the town awaken with the morning. She may have done just that had not the faint odor of death drifted over the breeze. It seemed to be coming from the Jaguar Chacmool.
Of all the things in Tula, the chacmools mystified Maria most—those oversized figures of men reclining on their backs, knees up, heads up, and always holding a round plate on their chest. The chacmool near Pyramid C had long lost its head but the Jaguar Chacmool was intact, unblemished in fact, and just beginning to appear from the shadows as she approached.
The Jaguar Chacmool’s immaculate condition made it exceptional compared to the others. The beautiful polychrome statue emerging from the shadows drew her eye from the subterranean ball court just beyond. Soon the sun would find it, releasing its colorful contrast to the surrounding ruins, and Maria hated it for that.
The Jaguar Chacmool was a replica, brought to the site seven years ago in celebration of one hundred and twenty-five years of archaeology in
Tula
. Though it was undeniably beautiful, Maria loathed it, fearing its presence distracted from the authenticity of
Tula
’s ruins. Admittedly, it was structurally accurate, but the artist who donated the brilliantly-colored statue had taken liberties with its painting by including the figure of a jaguar on the breastplate, thus giving it its deplorable name.
This morning, however, it was the smell rather than the sight of the chacmool that caught Maria’s attention, and she noticed something lying behind it.
The chill returned to the very hairs of her jacket-insulated arms. With quivering fingers she dug into her pocket and withdrew a pen light. She clicked it on, but the small beam didn’t offer much in the pre-dawn glow. Gingerly stepping closer, Maria focused on the feet of the chacmool where her light dimmed upon the soles of a pair of hiking boots.
“
Quién es
?
”
It wasn’t the first time she’d come across a drunk who’d wandered too far from the cantinas, but given the fetid odor now ravaging her nose, she’d be satisfied stumbling upon a sweaty, inebriated boozer needing a ride back to town. Suddenly, a car reeking of tequila and urine didn’t compare to what she feared lay behind the Jaguar Chacmool.
This drunk didn’t move.
Maria cleared her throat to call again, but stopped. Hiking boots weren’t the typical footwear for cantina regulars, and by the looks of the thick, unbeaten treads, these boots hadn’t hiked very far.
“
Se
ñ
or?
”
She inched closer, suddenly aware of her pulse as she held her breath. She strained to peer around the chacmool, bracing herself with a hand upon the statue. There was a cold, clammy feel to the stone, the feel of death upon her skin. She turned the light to her hand and found it tacky with blood.
With a gasp, she stumbled around the statue but stopped short. The beam from her pen light landed on the face of a gaping young man, staring wide-eyed and pale-faced toward the bruising sky.
Gulping back a gag, she let the light beam trail down to the man’s naked torso. His arms were flailed about as though he’d been tossed to the ground and a dark smear of blood coated his chest. His body was twisted awkwardly, but effectively enough to stretch open a deep gouge just beneath the rib cage.
Maria panicked, slamming into the chacmool. She braced herself against the smooth stone but her hand bumped something fleshy lying atop the chacmool’s chest plate. Bile rose to the back of her throat as she turned her pen light back to the statue. There, the tiny beam shimmered off the congealed blood pooled beneath the fleshy bulb of the man’s heart.
“Oh God!” she gasped. “Not again!”
