That Is Not Dead by

Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: PS Publishing
Published: 2016-01-04T05:00:00+00:00

This time the friar spoke to his father confessor.

Padre Pena frowned darkly.

“Brother,” said the padre in a grave tone, “this sounds like the work of the Devil.”

“But it is not! I saw Jesus. His splendor was undeniable. His face was not flesh but light.”

“But did you not say he called himself Quetzalcoatl?”

“Yes, but that is the body he wore when he came among the heathen Indians.”

“Did he convert them to Jesus?” retorted Padre Pena.

“Yes! No, he caused them to worship himself, Quetzalcoatl, which is only another name for Jesus.”

The frown on the padre’s face was a thundercloud now.

“You saw things. But you do not think! Listen, dear brother, if Holy Jesus came among these people, why do they worship demons? You know their horrid names: Tezcatlipoca, Huizilopochtli, Coatlicue. They are a cult of cannibalism and human sacrifice, vomited up from the lower regions of hell by the Evil One himself.”

Fray Murrietta had no answer for that. The spell of the peyote button had enthralled him. He hung his head.

Padre Pena ordered him to confess his sins and recite twenty Hail Marys as penance.

This he dutifully did.

But when the next morning came, despite the stern admonition not to do so, Fray Murrietta went out into lush forest by the river to meet Yahuahqui—to talk again with the Jesus of the strange name and radiant face who dwelt in the black mirror.

Yahuahqui waited patiently, his copper face quite impassive.

“You brought no one,” he declared quietly.

“They…did not understand. But I am here.”

Yahuahqui nodded.

From his person, he drew another cactus button.

“Take this. He is waiting.”

“I am afraid,” said Fray Murrietta.

“Of what are you afraid?”

“I promised Je…I promised our Lord that I would bring others.”

“Yes. He wants their souls.”

Fray Murrietta did not like the sound of that. “Their…souls?”

“Do you not harvest souls in the name of Christ?”

“But…But that is different,” insisted the simple friar.

“No! It is the same. Jesus wants souls. Quetzalcoatl needs souls. It is the same thing! Do you deny this?”

“No…” Here, Fray Murrietta hesitated. His eyes went to the black mirror and the bitter-tasting peyote button. Perhaps Quetzalcoatl could explain it to him. Perhaps he could quell the growing fear in his innermost being.

At length, he said, “Give them to me.” And the friar made the sign of the cross—something he had neglected to do on the prior occasions. But it was too late for such rituals.

And so the unholy sacraments were surrendered.

Once the bitter button went into his mouth, Fray Murrietta lifted the smoky-edged obsidian mirror to his face.

This time, he did not see his own face. For the visage of Quetzalcoatl—or Quetzalcoatl-Jesus—stared back at him.

“I am pleased to see you again, my child,” said the radiant one.

“And I you, Lord.” He could not bring himself to say the strange name, Quetzalcoatl.

“Where are my new followers?”

“I could not convince Padre Pena to come.”

“Others will do.”

The friar blinked. “What others?”

“Any others. For I seek souls to redeem, and their individual names do not matter.”

Fray Murrietta asked, “What shall I tell these new

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