The Barrenderos Amaranthine Bank Account – part 3 (365 Ways With Words)

They walked up the road called Alcatraz in the tricky gloom of city darkness – the street lights were out. Nearing Christmas, they passed tacky illuminations of trees, santas, baby Jesus and nativities. In front of them the wooded hillsides loomed as black shadows, ominous vacuums of light. Even the insects were quiet. Nearby dogs barked as they passed a garage with a hastilly-constructed palatte wood door. Above it a hung a large Mexican flag, barely visible.

"Did you know, Señior Colibrí, that the flag is wrong? Actually, let me correct myself, the flag is right but our interpretation is wrong."

"What do you mean? The eagle is victorious over the snake: good is victorious over evil."

"Yes, that's what most people belive, but it's wrong. You see, the eagle is not an eagle. It is a crested caracara – a falcon, not an eagle. A beautiful bird. It's clutching the rattlesnake, but that's also wrong. It's Coatlicue, mother of the serpents. Actually, her real name is Cihuacoatl and she created everything by crushing the bones of previous world and mixing it with the blood of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent hero. The caracara bird is holding the mother goddess."

"So the eagle is not killing the snake?"

"It's confusing at first, but the caracara and the serpent are together united."

"Wow! How do you know so much?"

"It's an interest of mine. Once you find out one thing, you find out other things. Pretty soon you change you mind altogether."

"You said the snake was the serpent mother. What about the eagle?"

"Ah, I'm glad you asked, my good friend Colibrí. The caracara is the son of Cihoatcoatl, Huitzilopochtli. He is the sun, he is power. You know the story – after he had fought against Copil and killed him, he threw his heart into lake Texcoco. When Huitzilopochtli ordered the Aztecs to build a city over his heart he said the sign for the right place would be the caracara perched on the cactus."

"Oh yes, I remember that from school, about the flag: Mexico City is built there."

"Exactly so. The story is the foundation of Mexica – our city and our life."

"So, the eagle and serpent are two gods and they are... linked?"

"You are right again. Huitzilopochtli is the key. As the caracara he is the important one. The Aztec ancestors knew him and feared him. Back then they made a magnificent statue – so powerful it was always hidden behind a curtain, so formidable the Spanish conquerors destroyed it."

"Wow! You really know your Aztecs. I knew it was important, who we are, but I didn't know any of this."

They walked on, their feet tired, as they passed an intersection where soil had collected. If they could have seen beneath them, they would have noticed round dust clouds rising, swirling in little vortexes as their steps moved on.

"My house is not much further." he said as word of encouragement. "You must stay tonight. We are not at work tomorrow, are we?"

They came to the end of the road at the junction of 5 de Mayo and within ten steps were at Carlos's house. By the striplight inside, the busy figure of his wife could be seen in the steamy kitchen cooking on the stove. From the TV, too loud in the main room, could be heard the dastardly pronunciations of the soap star Enrique Rocha in Corazón salvaje. The squeak and slam of the gate announced their presence to the dog and the dog's frenetic barking announced the visitors to the occupant. The fly-screen door opened to allow the two weary workers to enter.

"Allow me to introduce Maria. Maria, this is my friend and colleague Señior Colibrí." They shook hands formally, the dark stinned petite woman with the broad mouth said little beyond the expected 'hello'. Carlos gave instructions for one more serving and that this guest would be staying for that night.

Over dinner of corn, beans and meat tortillas the two men talked of work, of their infuriation with the current situation and how bad things are getting on the streets. Carlos had a bottle of habanero, a spirit aguardiente brew made by Maria's clan in Chiapas that they called pox. They both knew enough English to laugh that drinking pox would leave them both with a dose of sífilis. They moved on to Caldéron, whom they loathed, the problems with labour shortage and decreasing salaries and longed for the day when all Mexicans were free and prosperous – all fine sentiments under the increasing influence of the rough spirit.

Moving onto the battered sofa that would later suffice for a bed, they continued their talking. Carlos opened a further bottle of pox and they toasted the revolutonary Francisco Madero, Emiliano Zapata and Subcomandante Marcos and concluded with a hearty "Viva los Zapatistas!"

Carlos looked over: would he like to see the gods of the Lacandon, the tribe of his wife? He stood up and staggered towards the window where a small table sat. He had not noticed this before – upon it rested a conch shell, a rattle and a drum and a collection of other smaller objects. In the midst of all of these sat a large and rather crude pottery human figure with a human face.

"This" he started with theatrical overtones, "is a god pot. But..." he continued, picking it up, "it's not a god. It's just a human – like you and me. Look, here's his face. His little face."

He laughed. "What is it for?"

"The Lacandon people send their prayers up with it." He pretended to whisper so that his wife would not hear his words, "Very primitive people. Cannibals, I tell you." He looked around to notice his wife was busy in the kitchen with something and not really listening at all. "Cannibals!" he shouted louder. She stopped and turned her head, then went back to whatever she was doing. "Tomorrow, Señior, I will show you something that is really magnificent. I will show you something that will make you wonder if we are real Mexicans, you and I; if we are the downtrodden masses, or if we are the ones who will one day have the power." He clumsily put down the clay pot and pointed to his dinner guest barely able to keep his eyes open. "You – you, Señior Colibrí, Señior Hummingbird, will see God. I, myself, will take you to see him."

In the kitchen his wife turned to see the man, his hand outstretched, pointing at the slouched figure as if power was flowing through his fingertips. Fear took hold of her face and she crossed herself and shouted the word, "Hesuklistos!"