My short story, "The Witch, the Shapeshifter and the Warrior: an Aztec Legend" was recently published (using my real name, Diana Garcia) in the above fantasy anthology of which a percentage of the proceeds will benefit various Muscular Sclerosis (MS) charities. Purchase of this anthology of great short stories by an amazing group of writers is for a good cause!
Two of my poems are also included in this anthology, "Sacrifice" and "Universal Connection" so please look for them when you purchase the book or Kindle e-book. (Look for both poems in this Simple Poetry blog).
I'm currently working on extending this fantasy Aztec legend into a novella and I am very excited about this. Although I took many liberties in writing this story -- it is fiction/fantasy after all -- I did do some research on Aztec lore, mythology, and culture. I am fascinated because I have Aztec blood running through my veins and am a sponge when learning about this part of my heritage.
I am a very visual person and have been known to write poetry and stories upon looking and becoming fascinated by certain images. If you have read some of my poetry in this Simple Poetry blog you will see that I include an image which inspired me to write that particular piece. The artists vary and I ALWAYS attribute the artwork.
The image below is by painter, Jesรบs Helguera (1910 - 1971)
I had already written my short story, "The Witch, the Shapeshifter and the Warrior: an Aztec Legend" months before I saw this glorious image (above). It depicts perfectly what I had in my mind's eye when I was writing the short story. I am extremely fascinated by this image because it is driving me mad thinking that maybe I had already seen this image before I began writing the story because this image literally looks like a scene in my story. All I can say is that I have looked at so much Aztec artwork and have read so much Aztec mythology, but I can honestly say that I don't remember ever seeing this particular image. I am thankful to have found it and learned about the amazing Mexican artist, Jesus Helguera.
Below is an excerpt of the short story:
The day after the
soothsayer’s story, the cold winds and bright sun greeted her and everything
became new and she forgot her woes. She shifted into a magnificent golden eagle
and soared with the fast winds. If anyone bothered to look up from the fields
they saw the brute beauty of Precious Feather’s striding and bowing, then
gloriously gliding high into the orb’s light, and then disappearing in the dappled
shadows of Snake Mountain, the sacred mountain of the peoples and of the Nagual where they all lived and died for
millennia.
Precious Feather looked down
and looped around upon seeing a group of men playing a game of ulama. She settled herself and blended
with a neighboring boulder and watched the men jump so high, they could be
birds themselves, in order to hit a ball with their hip or buttock as the
teammates and onlookers cheered with wild abandon. The player’s skill for jumping
so high was fascinating to watch.
One particular player struck
her as handsome. He was tall with skin bronzed by the sun, and his muscles
rippled in fluid motion when he ran and jumped high. She ruffled her feathers
and wondered if it were possible to ever fall in love. Did she even know what
that would feel like? Well, no time for that as she was feeling hungry and flew
off to hunt and feed her predatory instincts.
****
The men hunted the mountain
range glad for the time off from their rigorous military training. Some of the
men carried their bows and arrows but Milintica
Yaotl (Fire Warrior) or, Tica, was known for his proficiency with the atlatl. His friends liked to joke with
him and tell him he needed help and therefore needed his special spear thrower
but Tica knew, as did his friends, that many gods were depicted holding an atlatl and the many hours of training
only made him a master of his weapons. He loved using his weapon of choice
because he felt he was chosen by the gods for his accuracy and keen eye. Tica
had been pleased with the bone and wooden darts he had finally finished as he
listened to the storytelling the night before and was eager to try them out. He
was proud of the snakes and designs he and his father had taken weeks to carve
to decorate the atlatl and it had
taken him months to gather the golden eagle feathers to use for fletchings for
his darts and spears. As part of his military training he was required to
always have a supply of his spears and darts for if they were called to war at
a moment’s notice he would be severely punished if he was caught with a short
supply of weapons. Therefore, Tica and his men rarely had free time to roam the
forest and mountains. But today they were taking immense pleasure in their
freedom enjoying the brightness of the day and the cool winds on their faces.
Tica was running uphill
above the rest of the group when he espied a magnificent golden eagle flying
overhead. It circled around, dropped a few feet, and then glided and soared,
and like Tica, also seemed to enjoy the freedom of the clear day.
“Perfect!
I need those feathers! This will be too easy,” he thought. He signaled for his
men to halt and be still. They were skilled in their soundless movement and
stillness, able to communicate with their hands and eyes. The men blended with
their surroundings as to become invisible.
Precious
Feather glided and swooped and twirled with the rays of the sun over the
mountain top. For Precious Feather the
soar and the glide was the best thing she loved to do. It did not matter if she
was a swallow, a wren, or the golden eagle she favored on a daily basis, the
soaring was her happiness in all of the world. The sadness was never a part of
her during her flying times. She never felt the dart pierce her breast. The
soaring stopped. She spiraled downward and she heard a distant shriek faraway
in the winds, never realizing it was she who did the shrieking.
****
The old woman had entered
the forest before the sun entered the skies. She cupped her right hand and from
her left she poured water from her gourd.
She splashed her face and then continued walking not caring to wipe the
droplets from her withered brown face.
Today will be a fine day for collecting herbs and shoots she whispered
to the air and panorama before her. She often appeared to be talking to herself
but she spoke to all the entities around her. Spirits and shadows swirled
around her and she was accustomed to their presence although others could not
see. To the old woman, the people were too blind and too busy in the life of
the flesh to see the lives of the mist and of the smoke and of the planes
between the shadows. Why her eyes and her senses could see those entities she
did not know. They were her soundless companions yet she could feel their wails
and woes deep within her heart and she knew each and every one of them. She was
used to the “shadows” as she called them and she felt they somehow protected
her anyway.
The old woman greeted the
plants and trees of the forest and thanked them for their gifts and protection
as she trudged along and picked shoots and savored leaves in her mouth to munch
into wet balls then she would spit them into her old leather satchel which was
filled with the day’s acquisitions. This plant will be good for this. That root
will be good for that. For her, home was not the hut she lived in at the edge
of the village at the foothills of the sacred mountain. Home for her was there
among the plants and trees, beneath the sky, among the wind and air, this was
her true home.
Malinal
Xochitl or, Grass Flower, was also called Tepin, Little One, because of her tiny stature. Small though she
was, the villagers were afraid of her and called her a witch behind her back
but sought her out in times of need for her healing capabilities. Her healing skill
was known throughout the far reaches and was constantly being called upon from
village to village and so needed to keep her plants and herbs in stock. She
lived a solitary life, and the only company she enjoyed was her shadows and the
animals and plants and that had always been enough for her. Her healing knowledge
had been instinctual from the time she was very young as her mother before her
and her mother before her, throughout time.
Grass Flower was little but her
walk was regal. Her old legs were strong and swift and her skin was burnt brown
the color of the seed pods of the sapote
tree. Her strong arms always carried some plant or stones for her garden and
she was a common figure among the villagers although she was eccentric and she
knew she was feared, which she didn’t mind because no one bothered her.
She was resting beneath a
tree and going through the items in her bag when she heard a crashing of tree
limbs and a shrill scream above her. Had she not looked up and not seen the enormous
eagle falling towards her it surely would have killed her with the force and
speed of its fall, but she instinctively stood up with a speed no one would
believe and held out her woolen cape in an effort to catch the thing letting
her herbs and plants scatter where they may.
It landed with a WHOOSH! And she fell back but held on to her cape and
her catch, and calmly hugged the creature in the cape to her chest as she tried
to stand. At that moment a group of warriors raced towards her with their
weapons raised and the tall authoritative one in front of the group said,
“Drop it old woman!”
She said nothing but regally
stood before them and appraised them with flaring nostrils and piercing angry
eyes holding a bundle that was much bigger than her, and growing heavier and
heavier.
In a more respectful tone Tica
said, “The eagle is mine. I need its feathers for my weapons.”
Tepin laid the massive bird
at her feet and said with equal respect, “She tells me she does not want to go
with you. Be gone! Her feathers will bring you bad luck.”
“Why would they bring me bad
luck? What do you mean, woman? I and my weapons are blessed by Huitzilopochtli the god of war and all
that they kill bring me much luck!” Tica said this in a tone and pitch higher
than he would have liked. How did she know the eagle was a “she”?
“Yes,” said Tepin, “I have
heard of your mighty feats and know well you are the champion of the games and
the hero of the flowery wars. Your battle skills are sung at the gatherings.”
then she looked down at the dying eagle and continued, “but I have held her to
my beating heart just a moment ago and as I held her she spoke to me and now
she is a part of me. She is no longer yours to take.”
Tica walked over to the old
woman and looked down at her and the creature which was wrapped in some kind of
blanket. His muscular height dwarfed her by comparison but she stood her ground
and she was not afraid of him. She peered up at him in defiance.
“I will let you have this
dying bird. Now that I have thought on this, I agree with you. The knowledge
that you, a witch, have touched it I know you speak true that its feathers will
bring me bad luck. And bad luck I do not need in the battlefield. This SHE,” he
looked down at the eagle feeling a pang in his heart at the loss of those
elegant and beautiful feathers, “is a gift from me to you.” Then Tica motioned
for his men to turn and he, and they, swiftly ran and disappeared as silently
as they had appeared down the mountain as if they were never there.
Tepin did not realize that
she was holding her breath and as they disappeared down Snake Mountain she let
out a deep sigh and picked up her bundle and whispered softly to the eagle at
her chest as she descended down. She hoped the fierce looking warriors were not
hidden in the shadows ready to attack her and she whispered to the spirits and
the air to protect her from harm.
# # # End Excerpt # # #
No comments:
Post a Comment