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-You can touch it - she simply said.
As George’s fingers were trembling,
they followed the shape of the fig-
ure on her breast; a soft musky
smell that rose from the skin of the
brunette began to take over the male
instincts of the lonely forty plus
years old.
Without knowing exactly how, when
or at what time, his hand had slipped
from that strange face that seemed
to have life with every breath that
the woman takes; George took over
one of her breast as his mouth drank
from the moisture of her mouth.
There was no resistance by the
woman. Rather, her legs hugged
George’s waist and caught him in a
trap of love that kept him increas-
ingly close to her. She held the
man’s hands by the wrists while
she went up and stretched both of
their arms on the bed, clasping her
hands high above
her head.
Her breathing be-
came more rapid
and panting. George
felt the sweet scent
of her skin trans-
formed gradually
into
something
wilder and imme-
diately recognized
a memory in time.
It was an increasing
smell resembling
incense.
Everything
was
happening too fast.
The kisses, the
frenzy of her pelvis
that undulated like
a snake dancing
old rituals learned
on the night of the
ages, and whispers
that he could not
understand.
Only if George had been able to
see the chest and part of the sweaty
stomach of the goddess carved in
cinnamon that was holding him
with her legs and movements; if he
could see that by the elevated posi-
tion of her arms, the drawn face on
her breast seemed to have threaten-
ing eyes and mouth; if the clouding
of the half-naked woman had not
distracted him enough to be able
to recognize the face represents the
Monster of the Land of the Mayan
mythology; if he had watched the
seduced games rolling on her pelvis
that clanged her closer and closer to
him, her short meanings moved the
mouth of that face etched with the
voracious hunger of centuries, he
would have been saved.
When George understood that the
whispers were coming from the
woman’s stomach and not from her
throat, it was too late.
A pair of legs and hands held him
still, hot and full lips prevented him
to scream and it stole the last breath
of his lungs, and an old face that
had come to life in the womb of the
woman inexorably devoured him.
When it was over, and before get-
ting out of bed, Itzanami whispered
softly:
- Do not ask for spirits who do not
want to be known, or voices that do
not want to be heard.
The old Mayan King had returned
from the grave to shed the blood of
a sacrifice of a modern slave to ap-
pease the gods. Itzanami, which in
the King Pacal’s language means
“warlock’s bride” had served him,
once again.
It was December 21, 2012, the win-
ter solstice in Chiapas, an arcane
Mayan calendar came to end and a
very different era had just begun.
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MAGAZINE - JANUARY 2012
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