Fiction Short Story

Dennis Phillips

"The Offering"

Enrique hammered the ancient Volkswagen up the washboard gully, bumped through a crumbled gash in the low gravel wall, and clattered to a stop beside the stone carving of a snake's head.

From the cramped passenger seat, Homer Arbor brushed at the dust that swirled through his open window, coating his striped shirt and checked shorts. "Did I tell you I met the Dalai Lama in Seattle last year?" he said to the driver. "He's a god, you know. My buddy Jeff was with me. We both saw the Lama, but I got to shake his hand. Shook the hand of a real god. Tough to beat touching a god, En-Ricky."

Enrique Obispo sighed, "We have our gods here, too."

Enrique turned off the air-cooled motor. The silence after two hours of laboured driving into this remote area of central Mexico was absolute. No birds. No breeze.

"Yeah, but this was a flesh and blood god. Not some bogus god that nobody knows anymore." Homer looked at the parched grey-green scrub bushes and cactus. "Does everything here have thorns?"

"The sharpness of the thorns protects the heart of the plant." Enrique slipped the ignition key into his shirt pocket.

"Makes it damned inhospitable, if you ask me. But I didn't come here to talk about bushes. I want my buddy Jeff to know how adventurous I can be without him. I don't want to visit the same old tourist traps."

"I'm sure we can find something to suit your taste, Señor Arbor."

"Last night I saw some Mexican kids all decked out in Hallowe'en costumes. Made me feel like I was back home in Philly. Things aren't so different here."

"Hallowe'en is a foreign fabrication. Here we believe that the spirits of our departed ones return each year on this, the Day of the Dead. They must be welcomed. Perhaps you would like to participate?" said Enrique as he opened the door and slid out from behind the steering wheel.

"Great idea, Ricky. I'm in your hands. You did wash 'em, didn't you? Hey, it's just a joke. No need to look all squishy-eyed."

"On the Day of the Dead we bring offerings to the graves of our ancestors. I will take you to a sacred cemetery and show you Tlaloc, my ancestral god."

"Sounds great. I bet Jeff didn't go to a cemetery when he came to Mexico. He probably hung out at the bars on the beach. He won't believe this. Take me to your ancestor."

"First we must prepare the offering. We believe our ancestors' spirits require sustenance. They take the nourishment we offer them, and in return they nourish us. They give us the harvest, the corn, and the seeds that grow. The ears of corn must die to feed us, and when we die, we feed the seeds. Life becomes death. Death becomes life."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Ricky. Let's get started, 'cause tonight there's a football game on TV back at the hotel. I want to get back in good time to watch it."

"I assure you, you will not miss your game." Enrique opened the front trunk of the Volkswagen Beetle and reached inside. "Will you carry this clay urn to the offering place?"

"I don't see any gravestones, Ricky. You sure this is a cemetery?"

"It is where my ancestor, Tlaloc, reposes. Tlaloc of the rain. I shall ask him to nourish our crops. I will give to him precious liquid, and if he is pleased, he will give us back precious liquid. Do you see that stone mound ahead of us? That is where we will make our offering."

"I thought you guys brought tequila and tamales and stuff. All you've got is this dirty pot and," Homer pointed inside the trunk, "that bundle of old rags. What are we going to give Tlaloc?"

Without removing the bundle from the trunk, Enrique peeled back the covering rag. The rag had once been blue but was now stained ochre. From within the heart of the bundle, the black edges of an obsidian blade shimmered and glinted as though beating with a hungry energy.

He turned and said with a smile, "I'm sure we'll find something."

(c) Copyright September 2002 Dennis Phillips