Barry Sadler - God Of Death

Casca strode along, his steps picking up speed as if by the trust of the child he was being relieved of the pain that was Metah and the grief was put to rest. He went to the entrance of the great hall. Setting the boy down and taking the child's small hand in his larger paw, he walked inside past braziers burning incense to where the only decorations were the six masks hanging on the walls.

A bent figure stepped forward and bowed. It was Pletuc the carver. Now Casca remembered him as the one who had broken the Olmec captain's nose with the chamber pot full of night soil, and he smiled. Taking the mask from his face, he walked to the place prepared for it on the day of his sacrifice. Slowly, carefully, he set the mask with the others and stepped back, looking at his own face in motionless, timeless jade… true to the smallest detail. Even the hairline scar left on him by the Greek whore was perfect. He glanced at the old carver.

"I told you I would hang the mask in the hall with my own hands."

The carver chuckled. "So you did, Tectli. And it does look very good there hanging with the others." The old man walked to the display with pride. As if he personally owned the masks here he pointed to each one and called it by name. His great-grandfather had carved the first two, his father the next three, and he had been honored with the duty of carving the likeness of Cuz-mecli's father, the king and the even greater honor of carving this last one, this likeness of the living god, the Quetza. He paused, and then spoke, his reedy voice piping:

"Something is missing."

"What's that, old one?"

"These." Pletuc showed two gray-blue ovals.

Taking the mask of Casca down, he worked with the jade for a moment and then put it back on its hanger. "There. It is complete." The jade mask seemed to have taken on life. The oid man had inserted two carved eyes of the same shade and hue as Casca's. The jade mask lived. "It needs eyes to watch over your city, Tectli. Now it shall see all."

Pleased with himself, Casca grinned. "It's good, old man, but I'll wager you I shall wear the mask again when this city is gone from memory."

Cackling, Pletuc laughed. "No, Tectli. I do not wager. You won the last time you said you would do something. I did not get this old by wagering on things I could not collect on."

Casca laughed with him and swung the young boy back on his shoulders. Tousling the child's hair, he said to him, "I would give all the years of all the centuries and the wealth of great nations to one such as you to be my son. Will you be my son?"

The three-year-old smiled timidly, and though he did not understand the meaning of Casca's words, his trust in this strange man was so complete that he bobbed his head in an affirmative manner.

"Good. Then so it shall be. For am I not a god? And are not the words of a god law?" He carried the boy out into the bright day where the masses of Teotah waited. Raising the child above his head, he boomed out: "Hear me! This is my son. I adopt him." The boy's mother had a look of confused panic. Was she going to lose her son?

Casca looked her straight in the eyes and said gently, "Fear not. I leave him in your care. Take him back to the city. But from this day this child shall carry my name. He will be called the Quetza. Not a god, but a man. Remember, he is mine. Take care of him."

Striding to where his Vikings waited, Casca took from himself the feathered robe of green and gave it to Cuz-mecli. "Grow into this, young king, and rule wisely, for I shall be watching." He touched the boy's cheek with approval. Then he put on his Roman armor, drew his sword, and pointed east. "To the ships! We sail for the Hold… and home."

The Vikings roared in approval. Olaf stepped forward, the first step, and they all followed. They marched escorted by a guard of one thousand Serpent warriors. Holdbod refused the litter ordered for him. Even with his sore back he marched beside Olaf and Vlad. "The way to the sea is for men to walk, and not be carried like babies," he grumbled.

The way to the sea was pleasant. Casca and his men were honored wherever they stopped. Food was always ready and willing maidens added some bloodlines to their tribes.

Casca, though, refused all women. Metah was still too close.

The hills gave way to jungle. And finally to one last rise. Here Casca led the way and pointed down. "The sea. We are here."

His men spent that night in revelry, telling the story of their adventures to those left behind on the ships, filling them with envy that was soon dispersed when those who had to remain behind were shown the baskets of wealth of which they would receive a full share. The next morning the ships were hauled back into the surf and lay at anchor. Supplies were loaded all that day and the next. The ships swung on their anchors as if eager to be off from these strange waters and to return to the more familiar fjords where they were born.

When the ships were loaded and the tide favorable, Casca bade farewell to the escorting Serpent soldiers and sent them back to their city where so much had happened to him and to them, then he returned to the ship. The Vikings were ready. The cargo was stowed. Casca stood at the tiller. The sun reflected silver spots on the small waves.

"Set oars and begin the stroke!" he ordered. "We sail for home."

The oars sliced into the water and the dragon ships began to move, slowly at first, and then with greater speed. They entered the open waters and turned north. North, back the long way they had come. Many of their brothers would not make this voyage with the Vikings, but surely they were already in Valhalla drinking and boasting of their feats in this strange land of temples and birds. Wassail would be sung for the dead when the Vikings returned to home fires. The striped red and white sails were set. They filled. The wind was now the master. The dragon ships rode like well-trained stallions, sliding and slipping through the waters, homeward bound.

The night was warm, but the sails were filled, and the bows of the dragon ships cut through the phosphorescent water. In the leading ship, Casca, forward, looked across the dark waters.

Home… he thought. Where is home for me? Everyone else has a place to which he belongs. I do not…

Beyond the silver phosphorescence of the bow wave the sea waters were black… like death…

Would that I could lose myself in you… Would that the wetness might cover me forever. Surely everything must end in time… and my time cannot be much longer…

Moving his hand against the smooth railing, he muttered aloud:

"When will it end?"

A shiver ran over him as the Jew's voice came, unbidden:

"Till we meet again…"

"Sir… sir!" The voice was insistent. It was as if the lights had been turned on. Goldman turned to the voice. He saw Johnson, the museum guard, standing there with a confused look on his face.

"Are you all right, sir?" Johnson asked. "You've been standing there for hours. Your friend said that you weren't to be disturbed, that you were studying the article. But it's closing time now, and we have to shut up until tomorrow. You can come back then if you haven't finished examining the mask."

Goldman's mouth was dry. Closing time. That meant he had been here seven hours. "Yes. Thank you." He read the guard's metal name plate. "Thank you, Mr. Johnson. Yes. I'm quite all right, thank you. May I have just one more moment, please alone? Then I'll leave."

Johnson nodded. "All right. But five minutes more is all I can let you have." Leaving Goldman, he shook his head. What the hell could be so interesting about an old jade mask from Mexico? These brain types. I'll never figure them out. How can they stand in one spot for hours looking at something that doesn't move or talk? Just sits there. Well, that's their business…