2012
MONTEZUMA’S REVENGE
V. Mark Covington
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Publisher’s Note:
Cover: Bonnie Watson
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.
Solstice Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com
Solstice Editor in Chief – Nik Morton
V. Mark Covington2011
The oldest recorded joke comes from Samaria around 1900 BC, it is a fart joke:
“Something which has never occurred since time immemorial; a young woman did not fart in her husband’s lap.”
Foreword
The world as we know it came to an end on December 21, 2012, just like the Mayan calendar predicted.
No, it wasn’t nuclear war or a pandemic of Ebola virus or bird flu. No space aliens came down and ate us and the planet didn’t reverse its magnetic field and flip over in space like a big blue flapjack.
We literally farted the world away. The global warming folks were right in theory, but off in the cause. We laughed at the idea of cow farts destroying the world, and we completely underestimated the goats.
Nobody’s laughing any more.
Chapter 1
The Full Monty
Tenochtitlan, Mexico
August 13, 1521
King Montezuma II, eighth son of the great Axaya’cl, opened one bloodshot eye a crack the breadth of a butterfly wing and stared at the grisly row of decapitated heads perched on a table beside his throne. Each head was painted with a clownish face, and big handlebar mustaches were smeared across each upper lip with ash. My crazy nephew is always joking around, he thought. He vaguely remembered last night’s party, the women, the pulque, the human sacrifices.
Montezuma pushed himself to his feet and straightened out his tunic. He righted his headdress of quetzal feathers, climbed the three steps up to his throne and dropped into the plush, feathered seat. A loud farting noise filled the room. He rose again, inspected the seat of his throne, and found a deflated sheep’s bladder perforated with tiny holes. Montezuma shook his head. Yes, Cuauhtémoc. Was there no end to his jesting?
As the Aztec King settled back, he heard the purposeful, yet labored pace of a runner’s gait approaching the great hall. The slap of the man’s feet across the stone floor grew louder with each second and stung his ears like wasps. The messenger, filthy, panting and covered in sweat, burst into the entrance to the great hall and lurched toward Montezuma. The man’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion, as he looked up at the king with wide, terror-filled eyes. The king’s personal guard moved to intercept the messenger who murmured something to him.
Montezuma watched as, mimicking the terror of the runner, the guard paled and trembled. “A messenger from the coast, my king, from Cozumel.”
Montezuma winced at the sunlight that splashed through the doorway and danced off his necklace of precious stones and the large abalone disk at the center that rested on his tattooed chest. Prisms of color reflected back at him from the looking glass that hung on the wall of the temple, a present from the Spanish King. He motioned to the runner to come closer.
“Yáab k’as uinik, máak k’uch,” panted the kneeling messenger. “The bad men arrive,” he choked out. “I saw many ships approach from my lookout at the temple to Xcel. I rowed my canoe across to Tulum, ran through the jungle to Chiche’n Itza’ and made my way here to Zo’calo.”
“Cortés has returned.” Montezuma sighed, found his silver chalice on the table by the heads and lifted it to his lips. Not a drop of the amber nectar flowed into his mouth. He frowned into the empty vessel.
“Where was he sighted?” Montezuma asked.
“As I reported my king, just off the coast of Cozumel. Many ships.”
“Where?” Montezuma wrinkled his brow and leaned forward.
“Cozumel,” repeated the messenger, “land of the swallows, temple of the fertility goddess … you were there two cycles of the moon ago. You slept in the King’s Temple …”
Montezuma stared at the man, blinking.
“You took the woman Acaxochita to your bed … big nose, even bigger …”
Montezuma cupped his palms far out in front of his chest. “Ah.” He smiled. “Cozumel, I remember now. How is she?”
“She is with child, my King. She wonders when you will return as you promised to bring her to live here in the palace.”
Montezuma blushed and a glaze of sweat broke out on his brow and upper lip. “More pulque!” he shouted weakly to a servant and tossed the silver chalice at the guard. The pitcher skittered across the stone floor, and rang off the walls with a hollow, clattering sound. He adjusted his crown of feathers, which had slipped over his right ear.
The guard chased the clattering cup until it hit the base of a stone column in the entranceway and rolled to a stop. He bent and scooped it up. Halfway to the entrance of the royal chamber, the guard stopped short when Montezuma called out to him, “And bring me the Spanish priest!”
Montezuma returned his gaze to the messenger and raised one eyebrow.
“I have traveled for three days, my King,” said the messenger. “I ran ahead of the ships. I fear they are only a few days behind me.”
“You have done well. Now go and rest.” Montezuma waved his hand at the man in a dismissive gesture. “And tell Acaxochita I’m very busy here, the timing is bad right now, I’m still trying to find myself, I need some space.” He threw up his hands. “I don’t care what you tell her, but say that we can still be friends.”
The pulque arrived ahead of the priest and by the time Father Sanchez entered the chamber, Montezuma had downed the chalice-full of the liquor, and was trying to stand. He tripped over the leg of his golden throne, stumbled and landed on his knees, his cheek resting on the stone floor. His tunic bunched up toward his waist exposing his posterior to the world. As he fell, his feathered crown toppled over from his head and landed on his backside, leaving his ass sticking up in the air, peeking out of a nest of feathers.
“Showing your ass again,” said Father Sebastian as he approached the prone King.
Montezuma pushed himself off the floor and crawled back into the royal chair that was carved with intricate depictions of jaguars, hawks and dragons. He slumped there as the guard brought a pitcher of pulque. Refilling his silver chalice, Montezuma said to the priest, “Father Sanchez, my friend.” The king motioned with his cup, sloshing pulque on the floor and on his bare chest. He liked the Dominican monk. Father Sebastian Sanchez wasn’t like the other Spaniards that came with Cortés. He was neither a mercenary nor a thief. He frequently offered sage advice to Montezuma who thought of the priest as a confidant and friend. The priest told Cortés that he stayed on in Tenochtitlan to fulfill his mission to Christianize as many Aztecs and Mayans as possible. Montezuma suspected this was a pretext. The way the priest enjoyed the art, the music and the food of Tenochtitlan, Montezuma could see that the city appealed to the Spaniard.
“I was on my way here for your daily language lessons,” said Father Sanchez, louder than was necessary, “when your guard came to hurry me along.”
Montezuma pressed his finger to his lips and lifted his eyes to the priest, imploring him to lower his tone.
The priest shook his head and scowled, his eyebrows beetled and his nose wrinkled. “Drunken debauchery.” He glanced at the table beside the throne and saw the decapitated heads. He gasped and stepped back, making the sign of the cross across his chest. “You are all heathen animals and you’re going straight to hell!” The priest’s voice was raspy with shock. “In the six months since I’ve been here I have seen some brutal and ghastly acts, but there always seems to be a new horror awaiting me.”
“We got carried away last night,” said Montezuma.
“I take it your nephew Cuauhtémoc was at your party,” said the priest.
“How did you know that?” Montezuma stared.
Father Sanchez pointed to the heads and then pointed to Montezuma’s upper lip and made a U-shaped sign.
Weaving slightly, Montezuma walked to the looking glass and peered at his reflection; a large black handlebar mustache was drawn on his face. “Koox tun!” Montezuma cursed as he rubbed the mustache away. “We must leave Tenochtitlan tomorrow.”
“You’re drunk,” said the priest.
Montezuma stood, staggered slightly across the room and lifted a lit torch from a golden sconce set in the stone wall. “I find that I can hear the Gods better when I have a bit of pulque,” he said. “And I need to hear the gods very clearly now. Come with me, Priest, I want to show you something.”
Holding the torch extended before him like a sword, Montezuma led Father Sanchez to a small door at the rear of the chamber of audiences. The priest followed him down a long, narrow flight of steps, into the bowels of the temple. The stairway ended at a heavy, mahogany door fortified with copper bands and large, iron hinges. Montezuma held the torch close to a complex array of gears, sprockets and belts that secured the door to its stone jamb. Concentrating, he turned several small knobs and pressed levers in a specific progression and the lock mechanism sprung into motion. Sprockets spun and belts looped through wheels until the door swung back on its hinges an inch or two. Montezuma pressed gently on the door as he gazed upward to inspect the sill where the door swung in from the doorframe.
“What are you looking for?” asked Father Sanchez.
“The last time I opened this door, a clay pot filled with goat urine came down on my head.”
The priest followed Montezuma’s gaze to the top of the door. “Cuauhtémoc?”
“Who else?” Montezuma passed through the door, assured there wasn’t a dousing rain of goat urine awaiting him.
“You should do something about Cuauhtémoc’s practical jokes,” said Father Sebastian. “I believe he’s getting worse.”
“We all deal with worry differently,” said Montezuma. “The Itza killed many Spanish soldiers at the last cycle of the moon. The King of Spain will send more soldiers to punish us for what the Itza have done. Our people are dying from diseases the Spanish brought, and Cortés will be here soon to plunder our treasury.”
The priest nodded, but kept silent.
“It is a very difficult time for all of us, especially the royal family.” Montezuma touched his torch to each of the wall-mounted torches set in the four corners of the room. The darkness shifted and the room brightened. “We know we won’t survive Cortés’ return. Cuauhtémoc releases tension by playing pranks. I have pulque.”
* * * *
Father Sanchez gazed around the large stone chamber. He noticed that all of the walls were bare save one. On that wall was a large, circular stone disk about four feet in diameter. It was ornately carved with the face of a warrior with his tongue thrust down toward his chin. The disk was surrounded by a series of carved stone panels also attached to the wall. Deep, controlled cuts formed ancient hieroglyphs in the panels, giving them a bas-relief effect. The shadows in the semi-dark room brought out the edges of the carvings. In the center of the room stood a large rectangular box about the size and shape of a coffin. A blanket of brightly colored feathers was draped over the object.
“Past, present and future,” Montezuma swept his hand from left to right across the paneled wall. “This calendar shows the progression of time.”
Father Sanchez stared at the stone disk.
Montezuma held up his hand to indicate the first panel at the top of the calendar in the twelve-o’clock position. The panel showed two warriors in heated combat. “This is time before the Sky Gods came, a time of great conflict. The Olmecs ruled and there was war and barbarism. This was before the great flood. We were a savage people then.”
The priest shook his head in disbelief. “In the year since I have been here, I have seen mass executions, hundreds beheaded at the tops of temples, their hearts ripped from their chests and offered to the gods.” He crossed himself and steepled his hands in front of his chest. “I have seen their bodies tossed down the steps for the masses to cannibalize.” Father Sanchez clasped his hands together in a gesture of prayer. “I have also witnessed a game you play with decapitated heads where the object is to kick the bloody head through a set of rings. And you’re telling me you’re less savage now than before?”
“In the before time, we killed because we were barbarians, no better than animals. Now we have ceremonies, rituals, special axes for beheading, and special knives for taking sacrificial hearts. Before, we killed for sport, now we kill to appease the gods, much like your Inquisition.” Montezuma grinned at the priest.
Father Sanchez shook his head again. “I left Spain because I wanted no part of that.”
“The pressures of the church, I know.” Montezuma smiled kindly. “I was a priest before I became Emperor. There is also the need for new land, wealth, slaves. I was also a great general. As we both know, when the military and the church conspire together, no one is safe.”
“The panels?” The priest shifted his weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable with the topic.
“Yes,” Montezuma nodded and pointed to the panel in the one o’clock position “This next panel shows when the Sky Gods came.” The panel depicted a man in a helmet with tubes running from the helmet to a container on the man’s back. He was seated in a chair in the center of a huge mechanical device. His hands hovered over an array of buttons, levers, and gauges.
“The legend says that the Sky Gods drew these pictures on tree bark and our stone carvers cut them into these panels.”
The priest rolled his eyes and sniffed loudly at the mention of the Sky Gods. “This is unbelievable. Sky Gods, indeed!”
“It’s all true.” Montezuma pointed to one of the panels. “See, here is Cortés. This is the day the Spaniards first arrived. See us all bowing before them? The silver armor of the conquistadors fooled us. We thought the Sky Gods had returned. Of course, we could not know the true nature of these conquistadors until they began to pillage my city. Like all prophesy, sometimes you don’t know what’s supposed to happen until it happens.” Montezuma moved his hand clockwise to the next panel. “Here is where we are now. It shows you and me standing in this room, viewing the panels.”
The priest looked more closely at a figure dressed in the hooded robe of a Dominican monk. A large cross hung around the figure’s neck, he had a thick mustache and his head was tonsured like his own. The figure was indeed standing beside a carving of Montezuma and the two figures were looking at the panel.
Father Sanchez moved closer and scrutinized the panel. “Those two figures look exactly like us.”
“They are us, my friend. The panel shows you and me, standing here, in this room, looking at the calendar. Amazing, yes?”
“Dios mίo.” The priest crossed himself. “That is me and you looking at a panel of me and you, looking at a panel, of me and ... It is like looking at two facing looking glasses. I feel dizzy.” The priest braced himself against the wall and took a deep breath. “But how?” He stared at the likeness of himself on the panel. “How old are these panels?”
“The Mayans created this calendar and these panels at least a thousand years ago. As I have said, from the time when the Sky Gods walked among us.”
“Sky Gods,” the priest sneered. “We in the church do not believe such nonsense. One God created the heavens and the earth. We are singularly alone in the universe.”
“You taught me the stories from your holy book,” said Montezuma. “I remember a man named Ezekiel, was he not in that book?”
“Ah, yes, Ezekiel.” The priest became pensive. He was used to theological debates with Montezuma. They always left him uncomfortable and questioning his beliefs.
“Did your holy book not say that the man called Ezekiel saw a fiery metal wheel within a wheel in the sky and four creatures, like men, were inside the wheel?” Montezuma folded his arms across his bare chest.
“Well, yes.” The priest shook his head. ”We believe that was an image of God.”
“Sky Gods. Montezuma smiled. “They came here too.”
“But –” the priest began.
“And here,” Montezuma cut Father Sanchez off and pointed back to the panels. “Look again at the panel of us looking at the panels. See the ship in the background? Cortés returns to pillage our city and take our gold.”
The priest recovered his composure and gazed at the panels as Montezuma continued, “And this panel, it shows a line of Aztec warriors and a wagon in a procession.”
“What does it mean?”
“That is you and me leaving the city tomorrow.” Montezuma pointed to the column of soldiers. “See, the warriors are laden with gold and treasure. Cortés will be here tomorrow to plunder the city; we must take the treasure and go north. You and I, my friend, will lead the exodus.”
“We?” asked the priest. “You want me to come with you?”
“It is not what I want,” said Montezuma. "It is what has to be. See the panel? That figure in the hooded robe, with the mustache and fringe of hair around his head, that is you. There is no mistake. There is no one else in my kingdom that looks like you.”
“What is the box?” The priest stared closely at the panel. He was not sure he liked the idea of leaving the city ahead of Cortés’ arrival.
“The beginning of the end, my friend. The instrument that will facilitate the end of the world five hundred years from now.” Montezuma smiled at the priest and whisked the blanket of feathers from the top of the object in the middle of the room, revealing a crystal box, six feet long by two feet wide. A gold cube was attached to one end and wires ran from the cube into the crystal box. The gold cube featured a small glass window two inches square with numbers displayed in it. Below the window were rows of buttons made of rubies, turquoise sapphires, lapis, and malachite. The jewels glowed as if backlit.
Montezuma ran his hand across the smooth surface of the box. “It is a device left by the Sky Gods.” It has been passed down from king to king like the secret of the panels. At the appropriate time, I am to turn these dials until the numbers 10-15-2012 appear on this small window. When the numbers are lined up, I am to touch the gems in a particular order.”
Father Sanchez examined the panel closely. “And then?”
“A new paradigm, perhaps even the end of the world.”
“But there are two more panels after this one, ” the priest said. “Do they depict what will happen after the end of the world?”
“The last two are very strange.” Montezuma stepped over to the stone carving that showed two men, a woman and himself standing by the box.
“Who are those people,” asked the priest.
“I do not know.” Montezuma shrugged. “They must be great leaders of their people. See how poised this one looks – the man with the small scar below his ear and that look of decisiveness in his eyes? He shows great intelligence, maybe the leader of the world five hundred years from now.”
“And the next panel?” The priest pointed to what looked like a bean sprout.
“I take it to mean a bountiful harvest.”
“And the final panel?” The priest indicated a panel that showed a huge explosion, clouds swirling and fire raining from the sky.
“The end of the world, perhaps.” Montezuma turned away from the wall. “Or a new beginning. Again, I am not sure.”
“And if I choose not to accompany you on this journey?”
“You are an emissary of Spain,” Montezuma said. “When Cortés returns and finds me and my treasures gone and you still here, he will become enraged that you allowed me to leave. He will probably kill you. Also, if you defy the panels, the destiny of the world will be changed.”
The priest reached into his hassock and retrieved a leather bound notebook. He pulled out a quill and a small pot of ink from another pocket and began to sketch the calendar and the panels.
Montezuma watched while the priest drew each figure from each panel in meticulous detail. “Why do you draw the calendar?” he asked.
“For my report to Rome.”
When he finished, he tucked the quill and notebook back into his hassock. “I will also keep a diary of our trip.”
The king smiled and led him to the door of the chamber. As Montezuma opened the door, a bloated goatskin slipped from the doorjamb and landed on him. The liquid contents of the goatskin splattered his head and ran down his chest.
“Phew!” The priest held his nose and stepped away from Montezuma. “That smells like the sewer ditches.”
“Goat urine.” Montezuma rubbed the noxious, stinging liquid from his eyes.
“Cuauhtémoc?” asked the priest.
“Who else?” Montezuma sighed.
Chapter 2
A Coup of Words
Bradbury, Mars Colony
July 4, 2005
Justin Pendragon slammed down on the brakes and the spiked wheels of his Range Rover dug into the frozen surface of Mars. Even with the heater blasting inside the vehicle, he was teeth-chatteringly cold. Martian cold gets right down into the marrow of the bones. He crossed the twenty feet and stepped into the domed Quonset hut that served as a barracks. At a little over six feet tall, he had to tip his head down when he went through the door.
Ignoring the grunts of acknowledgment from his fellow surveyors, he pulled off his gloves with his bad teeth, shrugged out of his parka and launched himself into his bunk, planting a red outline of Martian dust on his sheets; he was too tired to care. He ran his hand over four days of beard stubble, thought about shaving and decided against it. He picked up his dog-eared copy of Atlas Shrugged, his fifth time through it, leaned his head of thick, and currently dusty, auburn curls into the pillow and tried to get through John Gault’s speech. Finally, he gave up, laid the book on his chest and stared up through the glass of the geodesic dome at stars as bright as diamonds on black velvet.
The mars night sky took his breath away. He could barely make out the tiny blue dot that was earth, his old home. He didn’t miss it; here, he had paying work and a chance to start a new life. Eleven other men sat around the barracks on crude furniture or around a folding card table or lay on their bunks. Most were drinking hard after a long day of surveying. These were men who signed on for the Martian survey project because they had no other options, no wife, no family. By using those who had nothing left, the U.S. had a better chance of keeping the colonization of Mars a secret from the general population.
Economists saw another financial crash coming, and the last thing the politicians wanted in the news was how they diverted hundreds of billions of dollars from the budget to fund the colonization of Mars. The Martian job offered a steady salary, and for those who decided to stay and make a home on Mars, the incentive was forty acres of Martian land and a specialized Range Rover retrofitted for the Martian atmosphere. The rest they would have to carve out of the hostile Martian landscape themselves.
They all made an effort to make the barracks as homey as possible. The men had constructed shelves from wooden packing crates that had carried survey equipment. Upon these shelves each man had placed mementos of a favorite car, a beloved dog or a home that had been lost in the crumbling Earth economy. The men had also used the wood to construct a makeshift bar. Behind the bar, liquor bottles the men had smuggled aboard the shuttle were lined up on a shelf.
Merle York sat at the card table and said, “To the Fourth of July.” He raised his glass in the general direction of the blue dot in the star-studded Martian sky.
“Too bad we don’t have any fireworks,” said Justin. He stuck a bookmark in Atlas Shrugged and threw his legs over his bunk. “At least we get tomorrow off.”
“So tonight we drink,” said a bedraggled man named Winter, who stood behind the bar pouring Canadian whiskey into a plastic cup. He raised his glass. “To us, the founding fathers of Mars.”
“You know, we are the founding fathers.” Justin hopped off his bunk and joined Winter. “We’re the only people here, so we kind of own this whole planet.”
“The U.S. Government owns it,” said Stoneman who was sitting at the card table engrossed in a book of crossword puzzles. Whenever he was not on the job, he was glued to the card table, working on crossword puzzles. “And they never let us forget it. We’re just wage slaves, taking pictures of craters and dried up rivers so they can divide up the planet and sell it off to other countries, if any other countries still have money.” He never looked up from his puzzle book. “We’re no more than vassals.”
“Possession is nine tenths of the law,” said Justin, pouring a drink, “and we are in possession of this planet. We could just take it.”
“Take it?” asked Stoneman. “How can we take it? We have no government, no army, no weapons. You’re crazy.”
“Maybe Justin is on to something,” said York. “Maybe we can’t take it today, but we could create a government, recruit colonists, start to build a military, buy weapons. It would take years, but it could work.”
“So what kind of government should we start?” asked Justin. “Democratic? Socialistic? Maybe a monarchy?”
“We all saw how well a democracy works,” said York. “The U.S. is falling like Rome, and socialism killed Russia. England is still doing okay, and they have a monarchy, so I vote monarchy. Who’s with me?”
A cheer of “Martian Monarchy” went around the room, followed by drinks all around.
“We’ll need a king or an emperor or something to have a monarchy,” said Winter. “I volunteer.” He climbed up on top of the bar, staggered and fell to the floor.
“No,” said York. “We have to do it right. Someone has to pull a sword out of a stone or win a jousting match or something.”
“We don’t have a sword in a stone or jousting lances,” said Justin. “And if we did, we couldn’t joust with the Land Rovers; we can’t roll the windows down to stick the lances out.”
Stoneman finally looked up from his crossword puzzle book. “I have a Scrabble board, I smuggled it over in the shuttle. We could have a Scrabble tournament to decide who becomes Emperor.”
“A war of words,” said Justin. “I like the sound of that. To the most literate belong the spoils. Set it up.”
Chapter 3
Sundancing Fool
Richmond, VA
October 8, 2012
“Is that man ’tarded?” A small boy of about five, holding his mother’s hand, pointed at Ricky Poot.
Ricky Poot, his mouth ringed in powdered sugar, a dark stain spreading across his crotch, was limping across the meadow toward the pavilion stage on Brown’s Island. Moments before, he had picked up a rock in his sandal that hurt and made him limp. Looking down at his shoe, he tripped over a root and spilled beer on his crotch, leaving a dark purple stain on his jeans. When he tripped, the partially eaten funnel cake he’d been carrying became airborne, colliding with his face and dusting him with sugar like a powder-puff. The cloud of white powder that covered his face made him look like a slipshod mime.
“’Tarded is not a nice word.” The woman tugged at the boy’s arm. “And it’s impolite to stare.” She led the boy off in the direction of the bandstand. “Let’s just say the cheese has slipped off his cracker a bit.”
Ricky made his way to the bathroom, stared into the mirror, then grabbed a handful of paper towels. He had driven from Washington D.C. to the Folk Festival in Richmond to see his grandfather perform a Mayan Sundance, and, if he was lucky, maybe meet a nice girl. He wiped the powdered sugar from his face and began dabbing a towel at his crotch. “Yep, you’re a real lady-killer,” he said into the mirror.
After he removed the stone from his sandal, Ricky stopped at a beer-truck concession stand and bought a replacement beer to wash down the sugary aftertaste of the funnel cake. He then made his way through the crowd toward the sound of Bluegrass music that twanged from a distant stage and competed with the percussive rhythms of Zydeco from the other side of the field.
Farther along the procession of bandstands, a man in a sailor hat was enchanting a group of children with sea shanties. Crowds drifted from stage to stage through the salty scents of hot pretzels and po-boy sandwiches. The smell of fried crayfish mixed with the yeasty aromas of funnel cakes and Belgian waffles.
Ricky caught the scent of oysters frying and wished he had opted for a po-boy sandwich rather than the greasy funnel cake. He spotted a vacant patch of grass high up on the hillside and made his way through the crowd toward a pole that rose seven stories. His eyes followed the pole from its summit to the ground. He shuddered at what a fall from that height would do to a man.
His eyes came to rest on the old man who wore a full-length cape of red and white feathers and held a microphone. As his grandfather stepped up to the base of the pole, Ricky observed that he looked even more frail than he remembered. His pants and ankles were adorned with eagle plumage, which made his skinny body look like a partially plucked chicken. Four other men, younger, huskier and dressed with similar brightly colored feathers wrapped around their knees and elbows, stood around Ricky’s grandfather. They began to straighten out coils of rope, preparing for the Sundance.
Ricky took a sip out of his cup, missed his mouth, and spilled beer down his shirt.
“Jesus! All over me!” He slapped at his shirt with the palm of his hand and then rubbed his hand on his jeans. “What a fucking day!” he muttered.
“You shouldn’t take the lord’s name in vain,” a southern-accented woman’s voice found Ricky from a blanket a few feet away. “And the F-word is vulgar.”
Ricky glanced over at a woman, thirtyish, with long dark hair, wearing a short, flowered summer dress. Her huge blue eyes peered out at him from below the brim of her large straw hat. She was sitting on an old-fashioned quilt spread with a picnic lunch.
“Just a joke.” Ricky looked down at his stained shirt sheepishly.
“You shouldn’t joke about Jesus,” said the woman more loudly.
“If anybody can take a joke, it would be Him,” said Ricky, smiling. She’s cute, Ricky thought. She looks buttoned up, but cute.
“That’s not funny.” She turned away and reached into the picnic basket by her feet. She removed a thermos and poured what looked to be tea into a plastic cup and placed it beside a plate of fried chicken, rolls and potato salad.
“I’m sorry,” Ricky called.
She didn’t acknowledge his apology and sipped her tea while looking toward the stage.
Well, I screwed that up, he thought. I had a pretty girl talking to me and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. When am I going to learn that not everybody likes my sense of humor, especially about religion?
Ricky returned his attention to his grandfather’s voice resonating in all directions around him.