Ehyeh-asher-ehyeh (I am that I am)

back, was divided into a kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. The kitchen had a door leading outside.

There were windows in the living area, kitchen and bedroom—even the bathroom had a window.

He examined the bottom story carefully while the others, who had been here before, brought in the

rest of their supplies.

Only because he knew there was a secret passage was he able to find it, one of the walls of the

closet, which went out then down. He followed the rough-hewn passage and emerged in the

middle of a large stand of ombu trees, then spent the better part of the afternoon familiarizing

himself with the layout of the trees, the river that ran near the edge, the barn, and the flat open

pampa on three sides of the cabin. Even if their enemies hid in the trees, they'd be a good half-mile

away, close enough for a skilled sniper with a good rifle. Fortunately, Duncan was a skilled sniper

and had a good rifle, but their enemies might be equally prepared.

When Connor walked back into the cabin he smelled Duncan's beef stew, and his mouth watered

like one of Pavlov's dogs. Duncan was stirring a pot, and Elena was, unsurprisingly, doing a

smooth, calming tai chi form. "Where's Corazón Negro?" Connor asked.

"Getting ready for the ritual he needs to perform to go into the Dream" Duncan answered. He

pulled the spoon out of the pot, blew on it, and gave Connor a taste.

"More rosemary," Connor suggested, then lowered his voice. "Do you think this Dream stuff will

work?"

Duncan shrugged. "The Ancient Gathering thinks it will work. Corazón Negro, the New Dreamer,

thinks it will work. More importantly, Lilitu thinks it will work against her. It's a classic, two-pronged

attack, Connor: physically against Lilitu's body, with a sword, and mentally or spiritually or

whatever against her … spirit."

He paused as Corazón Negro came in the kitchen door. "Smells good, Duncan."

"You can't fight on an empty stomach," Duncan replied.

"Actually, I do not intend to eat, only sip a little water."

Elena called out from the living room, "And we'll have to insist that he drink something at all."

"I must be purified, cleansed. But the rest of you should have food—your battle will be a more …

physical one," Corazón Negro said.

"When?" Connor asked.

"At dawn. Lilitu's people are standing by; they will be here shortly after I begin, within a few hours

at most, maybe sooner."

"And our warriors, the Ancient Gathering, will be at Lilitu's hiding place at the same time," Connor

said. "So, tomorrow will be a hell of a day," he said, stretching his arms above his head.

"I suggest you all get some sleep," Corazón Negro said, smiling.

====================================

Later…
Corazón Negro noticed he was bathed in sweat. A thin film coated every inch of his body. A trail of

footprints followed him down the room and into the bathroom.

The shower hissed to life. Corazón Negro shook as he fumbled with the dial. Running water, he

thought. Just what the doctor ordered. For a second time in nine days, he smiled. Running water

was the usual folktale prescription for these situations. Interpose running water between self and

pursuing nightmare. Take once per night as needed.

His kind, however, were traditionally on the receiving end of this particular superstition. All of them

were terrors from the past.

Nonetheless, the scalding water worked as advertised. Its humble magic not only dispelled the

physical signs of the previous struggle, but some of the terror as well—the terror of walking with

the certainty that, all his life, he had been observed.
It was always the same—the faces of the orphan children, watching him, judging him. He could

find no hint of accusation in their glassy, unblinking eyes, or words of condemnation on their cold,

bluish lips. But the very sight of them filled Corazón Negro with dread, with a feeling of

condemnation.

For the ninth night in a row, Corazón Negro had dreamt of the orphan children Lilitu had killed

thirty years ago in Mexico. His adopted children.

Corazón Negro closed his eyes. The faces were there still, awaiting him. Round and bright as

moons, smiling up at him from just beneath the surface of the flames. Infinitely patient. The face of

the nearest youth, a sixteen-year-old girl held his gaze—she was his beloved Ana, who should have

been an Immortal. Corazón Negro traced the gentle curve of the youth's smooth, unblemished

cheek. The girl's icy black eyes were as large and perfectly round as saucers. Her hair fanned out

all around the bright face like a fishing net cast upon the surface of the dark waters of time.

Tangled strands lapped gently at the slick side of the infinite.
The faces neither moved nor spoke. They had been burned and their bodies had apparently been

some time in the dust. Although the faces were calm, almost serene, Corazón Negro knew that

their deaths were not the result of some misstep in the dark.
They had been tortured. He repeated the phrase a second time with a slight, but significant shift of

emphasis. They had been maliciously burned alive, cast into the fire, abandoned to panic, to

flounder and sink beneath the flames. Lost to sight. Lost to memory.
Only they did not stay down—they would not stay down! They had performed that final and

miraculous transformation. They were like the alchemists, struggling for decades in their damp

cellars to work the great art—to transmute lead into gold—to free themselves from the burden of

their leaden physical body and achieve the pure gold of spiritual transcendence. But it was the

children who had discovered how the trick was turned.
Lilitu's flames had swallowed them utterly and completely. But the children, they had worked the

great reversal, swallowing the fire in turn. They rose, ascending bodily, if not into the heavens, at

least to the flames' surface. There they hung, suspended like luminous moons, presiding over the

blaze.
These were Corazón Negro's silent accusers, his judges. The lapping flames whispered to him like a

lover's promises and gentle reproaches.
Corazón Negro no longer railed against their rebuke. In a strange way, he had begun to look upon

their nocturnal visits as something of a legacy, a birthright.

They were old certainly, those memories of mistakes in the form of bright, youthful faces. Older by

far than Corazón Negro or any wrong he might have committed in a thousand years. Still, he knew

himself to be party to the crime against them—if not against Ana who bobbed gently against the

slick stones of the infinite, then certainly against hundreds like her. Souls he had cast suddenly and

unprepared into the river of night.
Corazón Negro had always suspected—but did not know, could never know now—that the infinite

was brimming full of youth, swarming with golden eyes, buoyed up ever nearer to the well's lip by

the sheer mass of bodies beneath. He imagined that some day very soon now, he might awaken to

find that they had spilled out over the brink of the infinite. He imagined the tide of the drowned

washing out over the fields, running like a tangled river through the woodlands, crashing against

the heel of the mountains. Corazón Negro wondered what, if anything, might hope to stand against

the great flood—whether any bulwark existed against the rising tide of sins might hope to endure.
Maybe they would win in the end, these sins. This flood of shining victims. They had the weight of

numbers behind them. They had the advantage of age, of uncounted ages. And they were so very

patient.
Corazón Negro knew that he was their victim as surely as they were his. He had been especially

sought out, chosen, marked. He was Immortal. When that tide of sins finally rose, when his Dream

lapped over into the waking world, he would be culled out of the pack.
Corazón Negro did not fear death; he had been there so many times already. Nor did he fear

oblivion. But he very keenly felt it his duty to remain among the mortals. This desire did not arise

from any overdeveloped sense of self-preservation, nor even of self-interest, not certainly of self-

importance.

Corazón Negro had a very acute sense of who he was. He was the last of his kind, the last original

Aztec. And that was a great and terrible responsibility. He had witnessed what no one should be

forced to witness—his brothers slaughtered, his home destroyed. When death would come for him

at last, it would obliterate not only his body, but also it would also erase forever certain memories,

ideas, ideals in which this physical form was the final repository.
With Corazón Negro's death would pass forever the sight of that ill-fated ritual enacted beneath the

streets of Mexico City thirty years ago—the massacre that had destroyed Quetzalcóhuatl. With his

death would pass the memory of the multiform and varied wonders, the arcane, the miracles, the

secret vigils, the hidden names of God, the hard-won treasures of centuries. The legacy and

birthright of his people, the Aztecs.
And with his death would also pass the last living memory of those unforgettable eyes, their terrible

brightness undimmed by the weight of death and dark flames around them. In victory, the sins

from the past must necessarily die with him and the night tremors—and Lilitu—at last come to an

end.
Corazón Negro killed the spray of water and walked dripping from the tub, painfully aware that he

was ten minutes closer to that end, and not knowing how to stop or even delay its coming.
Scalded clean by the hot water and dripping wet, Corazón Negro perched himself on the edge of

the bed. He took care to avoid the sweat that still puddled on the mattress. He tried to force

his thoughts to focus on his next move, but they led him inevitably backwards.
Up to now, his movements had been instinctual—a headlong flight away from the site of the

massacre, away from the beloved ruins beneath Mexico City. Corazón Negro's sole purpose had

been to put as much distance as possible between himself and the all-too recent nightmares. If the

truth were known, he could not say with certainty that it was not already too late.

He did know how long he had lain pinned and helpless beneath the ruins after Quetzalcóhuatl's

death. The hate against Lilitu had possessed him. Irony. It was a human concept. It was only in the

wake of her savage predations that he began to rise above the demands of his instincts. It was as

if only by satisfying these primal, bestial needs, the more rational civilized thought processes could

begin to emerge. As reason had gradually returned, Corazón Negro had been horrified to find

himself among the familiar touchstones of his Immortality. With mounting dismay, he recognized

that his footsteps had been drawn to the well-know gathering places, the places of power that

made up the legacy of his people. But even here, half a continent away from the source of his pain,

he was not far enough away. He wondered if it would ever be far enough. Shaking his head, he

banished such thoughts from his mind. He had to be pragmatic.

Again, he found his thoughts returning to the legacy of his people. If he could find an apprentice, a

successor, then the knowledge of his clan might not pass entirely from the earth.

It would have been smarter just to die. Corazón Negro let the feeling of self-reproach crash over

him like a wave. To give up, to go down. He felt himself go under, felt acutely the weight of sins

upon him. It was the sheer enormity of the past that held him under—the voracious flood that had

already swallowed many Immortals before him and still was not sated.

Corazón Negro knew from personal experience that Lilitu's anger could never be sated, not until

she had encompassed the entire world. Her pull was unrelenting and maybe in the end, irresistible.

Already, her deep hatred had claimed the lives of the entire Aztec people. She had singled them

out, marked them, stalked them, and trapped them. She had gathered them in and destroyed

them, and now he was the last. By default, he had become the embodiment, the end product of

the great experiment. He was the sole receptacle of the accumulated knowledge, ambitions, lore,

strivings, rites, disappointments, schemes, hungers, ideals, tragedy, devotion and pathos of a

proud people. Of all those that bore the name of Aztlantaca, he was the last.

The Aztec sighed deeply. Now he was more than a warrior. He was a Dreamer. But then again,

maybe it was better to let the sins close above him and rest. Finally to rest.

There was something seductive in the watery embrace of the past, in its oblivion. It would have

been very easy to surrender himself to that floodtide. Even if it were to mean being brought face-

to-face with all the indiscretions of a lifetime, or more precisely, of a hundred lifetimes.
Corazón Negro needed to be stronger than ever. He knew he could bear the accumulated

indiscretions, even the Immortality, that had been his constant companions these many centuries.

He turned the new recrimination over on his tongue. Immortality. "Inmortalidad," he said out loud.

It had a more of a wicked edge to it than his original thought, sin. The word stung his throat, but

he swallowed it. Yes, he could endure even the renewed acquaintance with Immortality.
But new images were rising toward him through the murky memories. They worried away at his

rationalizations, eroding them, carrying them away upon the tide. The images spoke to him of a

greater reckoning. They tugged at that gauzy concept he was sheltering behind, this 'Immortality',

and tore it away, exposing the red, raw skin beneath. They left him with a far less comforting

reproach to cling to. The Quickening.
The memories ran red in a reddish swirl about him. In the Quickening, there was life. In the

Quickening, there was magic. In the Quickening, there was power.

Corazón Negro knew himself to be a creature, a construction of the Quickening—a flashing dynamo

distilling energy from the Quickening. It was the Quickening that gave him his longevity. It was

Quickening that gave him his power over the mortal world. It was Quickening that fueled the rites

and rituals of his race.

If there were a single common element to the seemingly endless procession of years, it was the

need for Quickening. There was no advantage in contesting the fact. He resigned himself to this

latest condemnation. He inhaled deeply and allowed his lungs to fill with air.
Suddenly, a vision filled his brain. His body was racked with sudden screaming pain. Where

Corazón Negro had thought to swallow only air, he found himself filled with a far harsher

realization. It was not mere air, but killings. Murder.
An unending maelstrom of murder. The sheer monstrosity of his crimes—not only what he had

done, but what he had become—surged through him. It tore at him from the inside. The pain of

this knowledge forced him to double over, bending him at the waist.
"No! I am the new Dreamer! I must stop Lilitu!" he whispered in pain.
Corazón Negro flung the credo into the face of the voracious past. A howl of pure self assurance,

vindication, acquittal, absolution, justification, against its inevitable ravages. "I am the last of my

people! I will endure!"
He could feel the wave break and begin to roll back before him, retreating. Leaving him gasping for

the life-giving present. "I am the Dreamer! Though the entire world be drowned beneath Lilitu's

hate, I must remain to stop her!"
He was a mountain rising from the sea. However, another thought emerged. "Perhaps I am the last

of only a race of monsters, a people formed by and through depredations."

The mountain contorted, revealing twisted crags, cruel sea cliffs. "Perhaps I am a creature of

death, murder and cruelty, unholy rites and blasphemous hungers!"

The mountaintop shook, crumbled, and slid away into the waiting sea below. At the mountain's

summit all that remained was a blasted jumble of rock and desolation. "Perhaps my very existence

is a continual curse upon the earth!"
Stunted black tress sprang up, dotting the mountainside. Dark shapes slipped through the

undergrowth. "But I will stand firm against the oblivion!"

The sea gathered its might, surged against the paradise of sea cliffs, and was thrown back in

disarray. "I will build myself a monument! A lasting remembrance of my people!"

A dark cloud passed over the summit like the hand of an angry God. In its shadow, something was

gathering, rolling storm-like beneath it. "A being of peace! And Lilitu will look at me and will

tremble and remember!"
Far below him, the waves scratched tentatively at the foot of the cliffs. Yes, in time, they would

have their way. Of that there could be little doubt. Soon the waters of the past would cover the

entire earth. In those final moments, the only remaining line of retreat would be inward—to sink

into the very heart of the Dream.

"To give up? To go down? Never!" he murmured.
Already Corazón Negro could hear the madness of the lapping sins against his final shore. The

bottom of the ocean, the scratching of the grains of sand. Sliding slowly. The sound intruded upon

the oblivion. The sound of years passing. A shovelful of years. The echo rose in pitch and

immediacy. It fell with the regularity of a spade. There was urgency in the song of the spade. A

compulsion. And a note of something familiar.
"Yo... lloht... zin... Tlil...tic..."
The alien syllables meant nothing to the dead and broken shells that lay at the ocean's heart. But

the sound echoed and rebounded within the hollow of that shell—redoubling in meaning and

intensity—until something deep within awoke and stirred at the sound of that summons. He curled

in upon himself, tumbling, kicking. He tried to burrow himself deeper into the sands.

Awareness came flooding back in an excruciating rush. Still the voice would not let him rest. He

knew that voice.

"Yolloht... zin..."
Corazón Negro oriented himself by that voice and kicked out desperately trying to reach for the

surface. The first thing to return to him was the light. Slowly it resolved itself into distinct shapes,

patters, and visions. Soon he could not shut out the swarm of wriggling shadows that surrounded

him.
The sea was filled with thousands of drowning bodies, all fighting to reach the surface. The blue

and bloated limbs of those who had already succumbed to the struggle snatched at him, clung to

him, bore him down, back down toward the ocean floor and the waiting arms of oblivion.

"Yollohtzin Tliltic!"
A swollen face pressed close to his own. It bobbed gently, aimlessly, from side to side, its short hair

fanning out in the current. It regarded him with a clinical, almost serene detachment.

"Fear not, brother, I am here", Darius told him.
Corazón Negro felt more than heard the words.
"Visita interriora somnium, rectificando inveneis occultum tui anima alter ego. Tempora mutantur et

nos mutamur in illis..."

"Visit the center of the Dream," Corazón Negro translated. "And by purifying it you will find your

secret soul, your other self. The time has changed, and we have changed with it..."

The center of the Dream. The forbidden place. The dark region at the very center of himself that he

must dare to go—had to go. The place where he kept, carefully guarded, his secrets from himself.

It was a dwelling place of truths so dark they had to be forced down, chained to the bedrock, lest

they rise up to assail him in the dark hours.

Corazón Negro felt the darkness closing in on him once again. Darius's voice was the murmur lull of

the ocean currents. "It is the Dream, of course. The power is in the Dream. And Lilitu understands

this. If she wins she will return to her realm and seek out her master, laying before him the

forbidden fruit."

There was a movement in the deepest recesses of the dark hole at the ocean's heart. A stirring.

Corazón Negro's body twisted, trying in vain to avert his gaze from the presence rising up from the

depths.
There was a swirling of sand, resolving itself slowly into a twisting funnel. A looming mass taking

form, becoming a gigantic underwater tornado. The rising maelstrom howled with the grinding of

sand and water. Corazón Negro shielded his eyes. He could distinctly feel the impact of each grain

of sand slicing into his exposed lifetime. The shadowy form that dragged him onward was already

lost amidst the turbulent waters, drawing him directly into the heart of the maelstrom.
A great rushing, a colossal monster of sand and water buffeted him, blinded him, and snatched him

up. He spun wildly, spinning end over end, dragging against his anchor line.

He could not quite shake the feeling that there was something in the roiling waters, a presence

stirring up the fury of the deep, a will. Corazón Negro clawed sand from his eyes and squinted

against the weight of the water.
There, at the very center of the maelstrom, a vast shape was rising, patiently, layer upon layer.

Corazón Negro strained to catch a glimpse of it through the swirling sand that gouged his eyes. He

had to know. Had to understand and believe. If only for this brief moment before his vision was

taken from him. Corazón Negro forced his eyes open, and he saw.

Lilitu, already devouring Darius' soul.
Darius's voice echoed in his thoughts. "Save us, brother. You are our beloved Son of the Wolf. Our

savior, our Dreamer! The new Dancer of Time! Save the world from our Prometheus, our Lucifer."

"I will, brother! I will!" Corazón Negro yelled, strong and confident.
"Come and die, Son of the Wolf," Lilitu responded. "Come and enter night if you dare! I am that I

am!"
For a long time there was silence upon the deep and bottomless layers of sand. Then, as if in

answer, the great portal of the Dream swung wide open to receive his prodigal son and his

precious gift. "COME TO US, SON OF THE WOLF. IT IS TIME," the Dream commanded.

The vision left him. Then Corazón Negro opened his eyes and walked into the bedroom. With

renewed hope, with excruciating care, he began gathering his tools for the coming ritual.

====================================
Island of Nod

Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean

March 30, 2013

In her cave, Lilitu gathered strength. Soon enough, Corazón Negro would enter the Dream to try to

cast her away. The Dreamer would die inside her darkness.