James Axler – Deathlands

But it was impossible to be sure, as all eight wore amazing, intricate masks. They were built on a thin wooden frame, covered in huge nodding feathers of turquoise, green and coppery blue. The faces were stylized, with eyes of white shell, teeth of jade and cheeks made from a black stone that Ryan guessed was probably obsidian.

The effect was impressive and, to be honest, Ryan thought, more than a little frightening.

The men wore long cloaks down to their bare feet, fringed with the same gorgeous feathers. The cloaks looked to be woven from linen and were a range of colors. Black predominated, with red, yellow and green.

Only one man wore an emerald cloak and he was the tallest, walking at the center of the half circle. His mask was even more ornate than the others, and he carried a long sword at his hip, made from the same black stone.

Mildred’s brow was furrowed, as though she were struggling to remember something from the past. “Green means royalty, I think,” she said. “And yellow is connected with food. Black was either priests or nobles. I can’t recall which. Red might be warriors. The color of blood, you know.”

The drums continued to beat from the village until the man in green held up his hand, flourishing the black sword. The crowd of nearly two hundred natives at his back fell silent, along with the drums.

He called out in his own tongue, and the native with the wounded arm replied at length, gesturing toward Ryan and the others, miming them opening fire and then acting out the deaths of the slavers.

Finally he pointed at Jak, though he didn’t look at the young man. He touched his clenched fist to his chest, then to his forehead, and finally to his lips in what was undoubtedly some kind of religious ritual.

“Play this cool, Jak,” Ryan whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Sure.”

The sword dipped and every man and woman and child dropped to their knees, temples touching the dirt.

“The man who would be king,” Doc said, thoughtfully. “I’m certain our guesses are correct. They regard the lad as some kind of long-lost god or monarch. Or, perchance, a combination of both.”

Only the green-clad man remained standing, his face invisible behind the feathered mask.

“You are come to us,” he said in a ringing voice. “The wait has been long. If you had come a day sooner, then the men with whips and chains would have been scattered and we would not be in mourning.”

“We scattered some for you this afternoon,” Ryan said, not wanting the moment to slip away.

“We heard this. And we thank you. Thanks to the servants of the awaited one.”

“Friends, not servants,” Krysty pointed out, but nobody seemed to hear her.

“My name is Itzcoatl. In your way of speaking it means the Serpent of the Black Stone. The brother who you helped is called Chimalpopoca. Smoking Crest. We are the people. Called, in our tongue, Macehualli.”

“Aztec names,” Mildred breathed. “Mother of God, but these are lost descendants of the ancient Aztecs.”

“How do you come to speak our own language?” Ryan asked. “Are there other Americans near here?”

“Americans.” Itzcoatl savored the word in his mouth as though it were a suspicious new herb and he wasn’t altogether sure whether he liked the flavor or not.

“Are there any?”

“No. We have not seen Americans for” He hesitated. “More moons than there are fingers on the hands of many warriors. Not in the memory of any person of the tribe.”

“But there were Americans here?”

Itzcoatl considered the question, his face invisible. The smoke from the many fires billowed around him, making him look like a creature from ancient myths, rather than a human being. “There is atemple. Right word? Temple some miles from here with a door that is never opened.”

“The gateway,” Krysty whispered to Ryan, who nodded his agreement.

“That is part of many places where Americans built in the years before the crops failed. Our fathers’ fathers’ fathers worked for them. Helped them in their preparation for war. When they departed it was a sad day for all of the people. The dead they left we buried in honor. Some took their own lives. None stayed alive. We learned their way of speaking, and because we thought that they would return, we have kept up learning of their speech. I think I speak it more good than other man. But it becomes harder with each child. One day it will be lost.”