Page 85 of Badlands

The man pursed his lips. “A rubber tree might wish to flap its leaves and, birdlike, take to the skies… but not, I imagine, in the form of a floor mat in the restroom of an airplane.” He shook his head. “You are the vessel through which we will realize what we’ve so long prepared for—which our visionary founder promised.”

“Your founder?”

“You met him. Just now, on the mesa top. Dr. Carlos Oskarbi.”

Skip, struggling with confusion and fear, realized he was referring to only one thing—that shriveled mummy figure in the litter.

“Oskarbi?” he said, whispering because his mouth had suddenly gone dry.

The man on the throne nodded. Then he gestured to the guard, spoke once again in what sounded to Skip like a nonsense tongue.

The guard responded and busied himself on the far side of the kiva.

The white-painted figure looked back at Skip. “We have a moment while he makes up a preparation for us. I’m ready to help you understand why your impending sacrifice is of such consequence. Ask what you will.”

Impending sacrifice. Skip tried to speak but found himself unable to utter a sound.

The man shook his head sympathetically. “Then I will explain. In your world, I am Dr. Morgan Bromley, professor. Here, in Gallina Canyon, I am the leader of theConvocatoria de Brujos.”

“The convocation of sorcerers,” Skip said, finding his voice.

“We are seekers of a particular kind of knowledge that confers great power. Those who fear this knowledge for centuries have tried to erase it—destroy it through massacre and genocide. Look what they did to the Gallina people: our spiritual forebears, whose kiva we now occupy. It has taken decades to reconstruct what was lost. Many times, in that other world where I run a library and teach anthropology, I’ve wished I could tell of the effort and scholarship that went into that reconstruction, first by our spiritual father, Carlos Oskarbi, and then by myself as hisheir. Carlos first traveled the path to power in Mexico, where the Totonteac Indians had preserved the knowledge. He persisted even in the face of efforts by his teacher to hinder him. And then he brought the teachings out of the mountains and gave them to us, his students. He wrote a book, but withheld the central teachings—those that could be shared with only the select few. When he passed on to a higher plane here in the canyon, due to an unfortunate accident, I undertook to complete his work. I refined and perfected the ceremonies. I began the sacrifices. Your arrival was the sign we were waiting for. The sacrifices were not in vain. And as you see, his sacred remains are still presiding over our ceremonies.”

“What’s this sign you’re talking about?” Skip managed to ask.

“You think you came here of your own free will. But in reality, you were summoned here by ourdiablero. You’re confirmation that our annual rituals of devotion, combined with the sacrifices of our three members, have pleased ourdiablero.”

Three members?“You mean the women who died in the desert?”

“Not ‘died.’ Voluntarily and joyfully elevated. They have now joined Dr. Oskarbi on the higher and far more beautiful plane of consciousness.”

This was so fucked up—this guy was nuts. “But no one brought us here,” Skip protested feebly.

“You two were summoned to us for a vital reason. Your sacrifices will power the ceremony in which we finally summon Xuçtúhla.”

“Xuçtúhla?”

“Our founder was taught, from his years immersed in the ancient Totonteac religious tradition of Mexico, that there’s a way to tap into this power of the unseen world that lies behind this one. There’s a way to open the door and raise thediablero,the master of smoke, the feathered creature of darkness, who offers us knowledge and power… Ah.” Abruptly, Bromley stood up, nodded at a sign from the guard, and then placed the mask back on his head. “I see the preparations are complete.”

Skip swallowed. “But… Wait. I want to know more.”

“And you will.” Bromley gestured to the guard, who brought a small, lidded pot over which he’d been toiling with a pestle. Bromley took it and removed the lid. In a paralysis of dread, Skip watched Bromley approach him, holding the outstretched bowl. In it was a paste of some greenish, sticky, gum-like substance. Bromley scraped it from the pot, rolled it into a small bolus with his hands, and held it out toward Skip’s face.

Instinctually, Skip turned away.

The guard grasped Skip by the hair and jerked his head back around. In his other hand he had the obsidian knife, which he now pressed against Skip’s throat.

“Please accept the gift of transformation,” said Bromley in a mild voice.

Skip opened his mouth and the thing was thrust in, like a foul communion wafer.

“Chew,” said Bromley.

He bit into it, his mouth flooding with the bitter astringency.

“Swallow.”

Skip obeyed, the acrid taste drying up his mouth and throat once again. He shuddered, trying to get down the substance sticking to his throat.

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