in his cramped flat, he waited for dawn, and what was certain to be a nerve racking flight to Mexico City. He was drenched in sweat following a two hour workout. He showered. He knocked back several fingers of gin neat in rapid succession. If anything, his unease intensified. He lay down. He was developing a splitting headache. It was only 3:30 pm. It was going to be a long night. He padded over to the sink and gulped down three extra strength aspirins. He plopped down on his bed and propped two pillows behind his aching head. He reached for his copy, leather bound, of 'The Monastic Constitutions of Lanfranc' and began to read:
Whenever anyone has to read or chant anything in
Church, the cantor shall, if needs be, hear him go
Over his task, before he performs it in public. It
Is the cantor's business to watch carefully at all?
Times, so that no negligence occurs in any service
In the Monastery...
As if the spirit of the ancient monastic admonitions were moving him, Jonathon Bourque, surfeited on gin, acetylsalicylic acid, and bone weary to boot, began to chant the 13th century plainsong melody, "Oh Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel and ransomed captive Israel, that mourns in lowly exile here...".
The voice trailed off. Bourque slumped down and went unconscious; tongue out and snoring uproariously.
The whining rev of the engines signalled the take off. Jonathon bowels loosened. He was working on his fourth gin and tonic. His palms were so sweaty and his hands so shaky that he put his face down to the glass so as not to spill a single drop of the precious balm. The moment of lift off. The point of no return. He looked furtively out of the window. The huge roaring engines seemed to be attached to the underside of a long, thin, oh so exposed wing by what? A couple of bolts? Maybe some crazy glue? Or silly putty? ‘If the engine falls off, the wing will snap like a twig. The double gin and tonic disappeared in one gulp. How long will it take to die?- ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute. All hopes, dreams, memories disconnected in an instant; eternal oblivion; a peaceful, dignified exit from a comfortable drug sated death bed, but a plunging coffin from 30,000 feet, a disintegrating tangle of white hot metal. If my body is recovered, everyone will know that I died in terror, not from the crash, but from sheer fright, for I will have shit my new flannel pants. If only I hadn’t read Brown’s bloody document.’
Chapter 4
Circa 1510
With detached interest, the boy observed the scraggly group of captives. They were being herded into the holding area, each to await his death in turn on the altar stone.
It was a singular honour for one so young to be invited to stand with the exalted priesthood who made these hallowed offerings.
A flowery war had been called by his father, Canaille, the High Priest, in order to provide the quantity of "God Food" demanded by the Lord Huitzilopochtli. The line of sacrificial victims stretched as far as the eye could see.
They stood atop the Great Pyramid - Canautli arrayed in his crimson robe and plumbed crown of multi-coloured Quetzal feathers, and around his neck the gold amulet of his authority. On his right, Zpitl, his son; on his left, the six lesser priests. The temple musicians assumed their positions flanking the High Priest and his acolytes. On a signal from Canautli, the drummers began the slow funereal rhythm which would continue until the first victim had been guided up the one hundred and fifty two steps and bent backwards over the altar stone.
Above the drum beat, the conch shell trumpeters entered with a stirring high pitched oblligato; they were followed by the five reed flautists who spun the melodic line. The temple choristers, two hundred strong, sounded forth the invocation hymn:
Oh Great Huitzilopochtli, Lord of the night.
Oh thou who sends down blight and plague,
Who breaks the quetzal feather in twain,
Let these offerings be acceptable in thy sight,
Oh all powerful Lord,
Let this flowered sacrament of blood open to
Your people the butterfly of obsidian delight.
There were ten conch trumpeters on this occasion as Azteca Holy Writ demanded. Each one a virtuoso, yet each schooled to achieve a unified sound. The intonation was impeccable. The sound clarion clear.
The very excellence of the trumpeters made the one discordant note which was sounded, so much more offensive - a sacrilege against the Lord Huitzilopochtli.
The High Priest, Canautli, reacted with dispatch. The guilty musician was seized and held fast. Canautli gave a peremptory command. The man's head was sawed off. The Captain of the Eagle Knights under the command of the High Priest, picked up the still animated severed head, mouthing its silent scream, and flung it into the populace crowded around the base of the Great Pyramid. The Blasphemer having been expunged, the ceremony might continue.
The boy observed what his father, the High Priest had commanded, and he saw that it was good.
As dusk fell, the oratory atop the Great Pyramid was stuffed to overflowing with a hundred thousand steaming, rotting human hearts. The white robes of the priests of Huitzilopochtli were wringing wet - sopped with blood. So great was the blood that it flowed like meandering streams down the steps of the pyramid and through the streets of Cactus Rock.
The experience of that day was a great spiritual revelation for Zpitl - His very special, personal epiphany.
He longed for the day when he himself would be privileged to offer up the "God Food" to the Lord Huitzilopochtli for the salvation of his people.
The tall athletic looking young man with curly brown hair was escorted into Joseph Brown’s cavernous study.
This was the first time he had been privileged to meet with the big man at his home. The body guard left him standing in front of his employer’s stolid walnut desk.
Joseph Brown sat hunched over his PC.His Corinthian leather executive desk chair was custom made to accommodate his bulk. He ignored his visitor, and continued to scroll through the information on the screen with palpable impatience, pausing now and again when something caught his interest.
The young man made a valiant effect not to show his nervousness. He stood rigidly at attention. Sweat appeared on his brow. His underarms were beginning to smell. The waiting and the silence seemed interminable. Furtively, he scanned the room. It only exacerbated his unease.
Joseph Brown’s study was huge, and everything in it was oversized and expensive. Mahogany panelling throughout enclosed dimensions approximating a basketball court. The pegged oak floor was covered with plush, hand woven Persian carpets. The wall behind the big man’s chair housed three oriental screens. Everyone on Joseph Brown’s payroll had heard about them. Each screen was valued at well over $ 500,000. The soapstone carvings were inlaid with mother of pearl. The panels were trimmed with twenty-four carat gold leaf. The screens dated from the seventeenth century.The scenes depicted on the panels were considered to be among the finest examples of oriental erotica extant, at least, outside of China.The acts of sexual intercourse depicted on the panels were consummated in unusual places and in acrobatic postures. In trees; on swings; in hammocks; hanging from beams. Of course, the figurines displayed only partial nudity as tradition and good taste demanded; yet, there was an excess of bondage; the penises and vaginas were grossly enlarged and fattened. However, the participants acted out their coupling in well- mannered, stylized understatement.
Finally Joseph Brown looked up from his PC; Cold, pitiless eyes lasered the young man like an insect pinned to a mounting board.
“Your report is crap. Each one of the women you figured would be “hard on” material for Bourque has a history of being an easy fuck. He’s not goin' t’ buy into it. I don’t give a damn how smart these academic cunts are, or how many post graduate degrees they have, they’re all fuck happy, so they’re absolutely useless to me. Take this bimbo for example:
Allison