THE OBSIDIAN MIRROR



By Robert Sheckley
Illustration by Daniel Galanaugh

 

Juanito was on the veranda that morning, taking his morning cafe con leche with a crisp churro of the sort that only old Maria could make so perfectly. He saw the car when it was still far away on the highway. It was Diego Melia, the village mail carrier, in his rattly old 2CV. Diego turned off the highway onto the road that led between the fields of almond trees, and came to a stop in front of the house. He got out, puffing slightly due to his weight. He was carrying something, a package.

The two men greeted each other gravely. "I have something for you, sir," Diego said.

"You could have left it in my box," Juanito said, "and spared yourself the trip."

Diego shook his head. "The gentleman from Mexico paid me to bring it to you myself. Anyhow, it would not have fit in your box."

He was carrying a large flat parcel, wrapped in burlap and fastened with silvery duct tape. He handed it to Juanito.

Juanito turned it over. There was no address written on it, and no return address.

"What is it?"

Diego shrugged. "The gentleman didn't say."

"What gentleman is that?"

"The one from Mexico, to judge by his accent. He came to the post office just as I was opening. Said he was passing through the region, and this gave him the opportunity to return something that belonged to your family. He paid me well to take it to you personally."

Diego courteously refused Juanito's offer of a coffee or a drink. "I must be getting back to the post office. God be with you, Juanito."

Juanito watched until the little 2CV had left his property and turned right into the highway back to the village. Then he sat down in one of the straightbacked chairs and cut the duct tape with his clasp knife.

Inside he found a note. It read: 

  

Dear Sir,

"This Aztec mirror has come into my possession. I believe it is valuable, but that is of no importance. The only question is, to whom does it belong? My researches have determined that it rightfully belongs to you as a direct descendent of that Juanito Guzman who accompanied Cortez to Mexico and took part in the Conquest. Do what you want with it, keep it or destroy it as you see fit. But remember, this mirror is sacred to Tezcatlipoca, who no longer exists, and may never have existed."

 

Juanito unwrapped the burlap and took out an old Aztec mirror of polished obsidian. The surface was smoky, he could barely make out his own face in it. The thought occured to him that he might be well advised to have nothing to do with it. The days of the Conquest were best forgotten; no good could come of such a souvenir. 

He looked into it anyhow. The mirror seemed to want him to look into it. There was a curious attraction about it. 

Then the mirror began to clear. Reflected in it Juanito saw a pyramid. It was truncated, not coming to a point. A step pyramid. On its flat top was a low stone altar. There was someone stretched out over the altar, on his back, facing the sky. Four men were holding his arms and legs, immobilizing him. They were dark, brownskinned men wearing white cotton mantles. A man who seemed to be a priest was standing nearby. He was also dressed in a white cotton mantle, but it was covered with feathers, and they were stiff with blood. Another man, similarly attired, was holding up a smoky obsidian mirror, apparently a twin of the one Juanito was looking into. It seemed to be important that the mirror saw what was going on, and what was to happen next. Juanito remembered reading that Tezcatlipoca, the chief diety of the Aztecs, viewed events on Earth through an obsidian mirror.

The priest lifted a knife--long, sharp, made of obsidian. The priest tensed, preparing to driving it into the chest of the man stretched out on the altar. But before he could complete the action, a shot rang out. The priest screamed--more a sound of rage than of pain. His arm was shattered. The obsidian knife fell from his fingers. It shattered on the stone.

And now there were other men on the pyramid top. White men in armored corselets and steel helmets, with swords of steel. They had climbed up the pyramid, leaping from stone to stone. You could hear them grunt as they swung heavy swords, cutting down the priests holding the sacrifice.

The sacrifice scrambled to his feet. One of the bearded strangers stooped and took the mirror from the lifeless hand of the priest who had been holding it.

"Here, Juanito," he said, tossing it to the sacrifice. "A souvenir. It almost witnessed your death."

The sacrifice caught the mirror. His arm sagged. The mirror was surprisingly heavy.

The priest who was going to sacrifice him, bleeding to death, his arm shattered, blood pouring from a sword cut between neck and shoulder, cried out, "Tezcatlipoca! In your time, my lord, when you are ready."

One of the Spaniards dispatched him with a back hand cut.

"Enough of this heathen mumbo jumbo," the soldier said. "It is over. Let's get back to camp. Cortez will be waiting."

They climbed painfully down the high steps of the pyramid. The plaza surrounding the pyramid had been packed with people. It was empty now. The natives had fled, leaving a dozen bodies when the Spanish rescue party hacked through them.

On the ground, surveying the empty plaza, one of the soldiers said, "It is over."

The sacrifice said, "No, it is not over, not for me, not for Tezcatlipoca. I am the sacrifice and there is no escape."

"Don't be a superstitious fool, Juanito," the soldier said. 

The sacrifice stared into the mirror. It was clouded, dark. Juanito Guzman said, "This is not the moment when Tezcatlipoca wants me. I still have time..."

  

"Take heart, my lord Guzman," the soldier said. "It is over. You will return to Spain, to your estates in Asturias, to your intended, the beautiful Nieves. You are a lucky man, my lord. If the mirror offends you, destroy it!"

"No, I dare not destroy it, Diego. But I have heard that Tezcatlipoca is indifferent to who is sacrificed to him. Perhaps someone else..." He set the mirror down carefully at the base of the pyramid.

"It is a pretty object, my lord. A great souvenir. If you don't want it..."

"I don't! And I advise all of you to have nothing to do with it!"

The soldiers muttered among themselves. It would make a lovely souvenir. But they had plenty of loot back at the camp. And there was something uncanny about this cloudy mirror.

Leaving the mirror behind, they made their way back to the camp...

Suddenly, compulsively, Juanito stood up from his chair. The mirror had told him too much! Was there any relationship between him and his ancestor, Juanito Guzman? He didn't know, didn't want to know. The dream that the mirror had induced was too strange, uncanny, compelling...

With a single compulsive he threw the damned thing against the stone wall of the house--it shattered, and a single knife-shaped fragment bounced back, and with uncanny accuracy pierced him to the heart. Juanito fell into cloudy darkness, aware that he had taken part in an ancient sacrifice long postponed, finally completed, the final sacrifice of an innocent man to a cruel and impersonal god who perhaps never existed and now no longer needed to exist.