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While Aocmoilhuicpa is a made up God, Chantico and the others are real, and I mean no disrespect to ancient Aztec beliefs at all. Oh, and I guess I mean no disrespect or infringement about the other characters who I did not invent either. They would belong to Disney, naturally.
Except the Aztec Gods, they belong to themselves.
Warning: Spooky. Extremely odd POV. Not yer average Pirate Way. Will make no sense at all if you haven’t been following the tale, and there’s no actual smut to be had, so look elsewhere for physical gratification… but if you’re into fake anthropology you might find it amusing…
Izcatqui
By the sanction and blessing of Chantico I rule this cavern, as she is my champion. And so it is with the light of the fire she governs, I lure these four to me to receive their due punishment.
Izcatqui. Here it is. This is it. Where the treasure lies. Mine. I give it up for no one.
Youngest of the gods I may be, but power I have still. Aocmoilhuicpa I am called, because there is no more to tell, and no more to tell it. The people my champion so loved are now gone to Mictlan, where they did not yet belong. There is no more to tell because those who would tell it have been silenced forever.
Worshipped her, they did. Their villages and lands were dedicated to the power of Chantico, their patron Goddess of Hearth Fires and Volcanoes. They honoured her with their devotion and love. Shrines and sacrifices they made, and she was gratified by their faithfulness. She rewarded them, kept their lands, though surrounded by the Fire of the Earth, safe from destruction. They lived in the heart of Volcanoes and prospered.
Until Cortez.
The whole of the valley succumbed to him, when all was said and too much done. Children worked to death. People beaten and starved. Mictlan is the home of all the dead except women who died while creating new life, and warriors. But Mictlan was suffused with the people of Chantico’s lands before their time. Girls who will never give life. Ones who should have been warriors but died as boys. Far too young to make the journey. It is wrong, and Mictlantecihuatl wept to accept them within her borders.
Chantico begged the Lady, begged Mictlantecihuatl to allow her vengeance on the invaders. But the Lady did not want her realm swelled with the ranks of yet more undeserving, for she knew that Chantico’s powers unleashed would destroy more than they would save, and that the retribution would be swift and merciless.
She was persuaded, however, to give birth to me. For only the Goddess of the Realm of the dead could procreate a spirit intended only for revenge.
The wise and honourable Mictlantecuhtli would have no part of it. He desires not a rival for his power. So his wife sought another sire, one who would create with her a instrument for punishing those who take what is not theirs, who hunt without thought, who would kill for sport or profit, who swarmed over the lands of Chantico like a plague. One who would understand these aggressors.
Thus my sire, Yacatecuhtli, the God of Merchant Adventurers, who felt his realm fouled by these vermin, these ‘conquistadors’. Dishonourable, he pronounced them. Foul. Worthy of demise.
Others opposed. Opposed the creation of a new god. Opposed the intervention in the lives of, let us admit what they are, petty humans. So, my potential was limited from the start, they saw to that. But still I became. I was charged with making the gold ripped from Chantico’s valley a treasure that would not benefit the thieves who would pilfer it.
I fulfilled my obligations admirably. And the gold was discarded, avoided, cursed they said. When it came to rest in this cavern I took up residence, surrounded by the Volcanoes, the other children of my second mother who loves me dearly. Charged with keeping the gold safe, I keep the memory of Chantico’s people safe. And since the day Cortez took possession of it I have discharged my duties with glee.
The day the pirates of the Black Pearl came seeking the Treasure of Cortez, I was woken from a long sleep. I did not, at first, reveal the full dread of my power. I played with them. I toyed with them. I let them grow to understand, one by one. And I derived great pleasure from it, for it is what I was created to do. And one can never be so exultant as when they fulfill their destiny.
Great pleasure I derived when I turned the sweet food they dined on to ash. Great satisfaction I was given each time they drank yet remained thirsty. Great fulfillment was to be gotten with every woman that peaked their lust yet failed to quench it. Most invigorating of all, I would not let them die.
They tried. Oh, how they tried. They threw themselves from great heights, blew caverns in their brains with their filthy pistols, fell on their swords with a gusto they had previously reserved for those they perceived as their enemies.
Only one had any decency in him. Only one I would have shown mercy to. For he was honest and true at the core. But he was lost to me, far beneath the waters. I could not reach him. So I forsook him.
I do not know why I am reminded of him now. It is as if his presence has been renewed in my consciousness.
They come from two directions. Very clever, these four are, to have found not one but two approaches through the labyrinth Chantico has set around me. The rocks are perilous. The way is difficult. Yet they come from both sides. And when the first two arrive I will judge their deeds, I will look into their hearts. I will see what they are made of, and if they are found worthy they will see me.
If not, I will crush them.
The first one to enter the cave is the smallest. Why do they send their smallest warrior first? He is dark and beautiful. Perhaps he is meant as a sacrifice.
No. He smells of courage, not sacrifice. He means to protect. He shields the man behind him as if his small body could stop my power. He barely obscures him, how could he possibly protect him? They are so close together I cannot tell their souls apart. I must separate them. I must confuse them. I will give them noises to investigate.
There. I have the first one alone. I can smell fear now. Excellent. Fear opens them up to me. I can read every misdeed, every offence, every sin when they are afraid. This one has broken the laws of his people. Oh, he does not look as if he could, but he has slit the belly of a sailor in a rage. He has deceived. He has taken what was not his. He has taken property. Human property.
I do not abide the practice of human property.
But he has never owned a human. All his misdeeds were against those who would hold human property. Fascinating. Despite his foul deeds, his motives remain pure. It is very interesting to me. I cannot kill him. Not yet. I sense no desire to seize the treasure. He is motivated by the desire to protect. To protect the pathetic beings who have taken up residence on the other side of this domain. And the one behind him.
So I will look at who he protects.
A warrior. He has fought with honour and dignity. He has hunted to provide. He is deadly and beautiful in his power. But he has been hunted, as well. And sold. He has suffered. He has retained his honour and dignity. No, he has reclaimed it. For he was broken. At one time he was broken and fought no more. It is the first one who gave him the strength to recover. The first one gave him hope when hope was lost.
How can I kill one who has suffered so? He is free now. It would not be fair, for him to fight and suffer and pass through so much only to be cut down. For I sense no evil desire in this one, no intent to take what is not his. He would become dangerous if his will were set against me, but it is not. He does not even desire revenge. He desires only to provide and heal. To provide for others. To heal the wounds he and others have suffered. His will is for peace. This is most intriguing.
Almost all who have ever found this cavern before were black souls, evil men with evil purpose, filled and fuelled by greed and lust and gluttony.
Like the third one who just entered.
Now there is a pirate.
I can smell it on him, like I can smell the rum on his breath and the sex on his body. Delicious, heady sex. He loves it. He wallows in it. He would be a wicked and skilled lover. His wildness is beautiful. I can smell the lust.
And I can smell the gold. He’s touched it. He’s felt the curse. He’s been touched by me before. I can feel the cold steel in his chest, and smell his blood on the gold.
I hate the smell of the blood. All that blood mingled together with the gold in the chest. His stands out, not fouler than the rest but more pungent. Fresher.
My sire would be interested in this one. Opportunist. Adventurer. Keen merchant. Slick and crafty. Oh yes, cunning. And full of avarice. He touched the gold. He wanted the gold. He’s touched much gold that was not his. He loves the feel of the forbidden in his hands.
There are layers of it, deceit after lie after sham after pretence. Theft after plunder after pillage. When I breathe over him he knows it, because he is one who understands best that beings such as I exist.
I let my breath cool him, peel back the layers. This is entertaining. It is like opening a present. I am filled with anticipation, for when I reach the rotten core I will devour it. I must be delicate, I must strip off each layer carefully. If I disturb them too much they will fall back into place, collapse on themselves, hide the core, and the core is tastiest.
What a man is really about, this is what I crave, for only then can I see what punishment he is due.
He senses me but has done nothing to oppose me. He is as curious as I am expectant. Now I pull back the final layer, expose the core.
This is impossible!
Greed I expected. Lust, gluttony, even pride. But this? It cannot be. I can not take the life of one who holds this at his core! I am cheated.
Where is the object of this unexpected …goodness?
Him.
Smells familiar. He’s been here before too. But there is something else about him. There is something all too familiar.
Tall and strong, and beautiful. How can it be that four could enter and be beautiful to me. None of this race has ever been beautiful to me. But this one, the eyes and the face and the hair and the stance and the soul.
He inspires this goodness in the pirate. He inspires this unforeseen devotion. Yet he is no pirate. He is no adventurer, even. He is… I must see him closer, I must speak to him.
There is a truth that deserves to be known.
Captain Jack Sparrow shuddered as the cold air passed through him.
“Jack?”
“Nothing, luv, just a chill,” he said as he looked warily around the cavern.
The chest of Aztec gold lay on the mound, exactly where they’d last seen it, with the withered corpse of Barbossa lying at its foot. Swag of all sorts lay about the cavern, unchanged in all this time. By the dim light of the torches he could pick out familiar passages and pillars. But there was a presence he could not put his finger on. But he did not want to alarm anyone.
“Jack?”
Will stood not ten feet away from him, eyes wide with shock. “It’s cold, Jack! What is it?”
And before his eyes, Jack watched Will Turner disappear into thin air.
Next: Chapter 67 Truth
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