Unheroic Death

As I left the courthouse, it started to rain—nothing unusual for Seattle. I sighed, then shoved the jury summons and selection paperwork into my jacket pocket. I loosened my cheap cotton tie. My umbrella was at home. I’d forgotten it—again. My cell phone started to vibrate. I pulled it out of my pocket. Roxanne was calling. She’d asked me to text her when I got out of the courthouse, but I had forgotten.

“Hey, babe.” I answered the phone, “Sorry, I was just at the courthouse.”

“Did you get selected?” Her voice was low, sultry.

“Yep. Officially a juror for the first time in my 29 years of life. I wasn’t even born in this country, yet somehow they always get you.”

“Sorry, honey. Can we talk?” She hesitated.

“Can it wait until I get home?” I asked, “It’s raining here. Coming down hard.”

“I’d rather not. I’ve tried to talk for a while now.”

“About what?”

“Mateo,” she began. My heart plummeted. She only called me ‘Mateo’ when she had something bad to say—it burned, somehow. I was ‘Matt’ when things were going well. “I think we need to end things.” The words hit like a punch, knocking the air from me.

“What? Roxy, can we talk about this at home?” My panic set in as I crossed to the bus stop. She sighed.

“Mateo, please don’t make this harder. I’m moving to New York. You said you won’t move. We have different—” Her voice fractured and faded. I froze, unable to breathe, stunned she could end us so easily. The last thing I remember was turning, helpless, as a taxi barreled straight for me, its headlights swallowing my vision.

My very next memory was lying down in bed. I tried to remember what had happened. My mind felt light, hazy—I couldn’t remember what had happened for a moment. My body, on the other hand, felt heavy and sick, like I was dehydrated. My mouth was dry. I slowly sat up. I was in an unfamiliar place. It looked like some kind of bunkhouse or hostel. There were several bunk beds in a line down the wall. There was a desk that appeared to be a registration desk, but no one was sitting there. In fact, no one was in the room with me at all. The only bed with sheets was mine. The room was dark, too, and it took me a moment to realize why: it was lit only by candles, burning dimly in the intimate, warm place. I stood up. I was still dressed like I was coming home from jury duty, and then I remembered the taxi. What had happened after that, and where was I? This didn’t look like any hospital I had been to. It looked more like one of those bunkhouses for backpackers in the Alps. I put my shoes on—which were set neatly next to my bunk—and went outside.

Outside was unlike anywhere I had ever been. It looked like a small Aztec village, the kind you’d see in the telenovelas my mom watched. Everything was painted with a grey light. I looked up. The sun—or moon, I couldn’t really tell—glowed a sickly red, casting dim rays on everything. I kept moving. The village felt surreal. Then I saw a sign shaped like an arrow. It had three languages, but I couldn’t understand the first two. The third was Spanish. I no longer spoke Spanish well—having been raised in Washington with my white step-dad—but I could read it just fine.

“Registración de nuevos viajeros,” the dark wooden sign read. New Traveler Registration. Where was I? I’d once visited my great-grandmother in her village in Mexico when I was very young, and it looked similar, but this definitely wasn’t the same place. I walked in the direction of where the sign led, to a large cavern in a cliff-wall on one end of the village.

The cavern was empty, save for a large oak desk in the middle of the place. There was a bell on the desk, like in a hotel. I rang it and looked around. There were only two entrances to the place: the one I had come through and the one on the opposite end, but that one was blocked by a turnstile gate as you’d find at a subway station. Suddenly, a voice spoke in a language I didn’t understand. I turned to meet whoever it was at the desk, but came face to face with a dog, standing on its hind legs.

The dog was one of those hairless ones, native to Mexico. What did they call them? A xolocui… I couldn’t remember the breed’s full name. A xolo, that’s what they usually referred to them as.

“Ah… American. My mistake, sir.” The dog spoke, moving its mouth like a movie dog. It spoke with a rough, gravelly voice and a slight accent. Think Danny Trejo.

“Welcome to Mictlan, sir. I am sure you have many questions, but we must get your new traveler registration out of the way first.”

“Did I die?”

“Yes, sir. Hit by a taxi. Very tragic. Your funeral was beautiful. Your mother wept. Even your girlfriend postponed her New York trip to attend!” The xolo said, then returned to his papers. “I have your name as Mateo Ramirez Leon, occupation as juror. Is that correct?”

“Civil engineer,” I corrected.

“Were you not serving jury duty right before you died?” He asked me, looking back up to me with his long snout.

“I was,” I admitted.

“Very well then. I will still list your occupation as juror. Follow me.” The dog went down on all fours again and started to walk towards the turnstile. He pushed it with his front paws and walked on through. I followed.

“My name is Xolotl. I am to be your guide as you explore this land. You may direct any questions to me, as long as I am around.”

We went out of the cave into a large, dark field. The grass around was all brown and withered. There was no other vegetation or animals around. The sky was cloudless and the red sun—or rather light— hung unmoving in the middle of the firmament. The dog stopped walking and turned back to me, clearly waiting for me to speak.

“I don’t get it. Is this hell?”

“Hell does not exist, as you know it. It turns out that the Mexica—the people you know as the Aztecs—were correct about death. You, my friend, died what we would call an ‘unheroic death.’ Which means that you died after living a meaningless, uneventful existence in a monotonous, boring manner.”

“Meaningless?” The word hollowed me out. My life was always boring—Roxy always said so, but it hurt hearing it from a celestial being. I tried to think back on my work. There was no plaque with my name, no monument dedicated to my memory. It couldn’t be true, could it? Had my life meant nothing?

“Apologies, I meant no offense by it.” The xolo continued in the same, explanatory tone, “I forget that humans can be sensitive. Anyways, because you died an unheroic death with unfinished business, you must travel through Mictlan—that is, the underworld—before you can depart to Tlalocan, what you would call heaven. That is where people who died ‘heroic deaths’ usually depart for when they pass.”

“Wait, why? That doesn’t make any sense. Am I being tested?”

“If you want to view it that way, I suppose.” Xolotl continued, “I like to think of it more as… refined. Yes, you’re being refined. I will also be evaluating you, of course, to see if you actually do make the necessary changes, not just faking them.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Señor Ramirez, I know you may have many questions, but I suggest we get a move on and talk while we walk. This journey typically takes about 4 years to complete

if you move quickly. Many don’t make it all the way. There is no map of Mictlan, after all. It is quite easy to get lost in here.”

We started walking in the direction opposite the cave entrance, into the open field with no end in sight. Was the dog actually leading me? I wasn’t sure. He seemed more interested in chatting. Eventually, we arrived at a wide, murky river. It was slow-moving but appeared never-ending. I looked up and down the river, searching for an end. Despite the boring, flat terrain, I could see for miles. Nothing changed about the river, except for the usual twists and bends. Another man stood at the riverbank, probably five hundred feet upstream from where Xolotl and I were. We walked up to him.

“Keep that damn mutt away from me.” The man said as we approached. “I don’t like dogs, and I especially don’t like him, trying to talk to me.”

“Sir, if I may, I know how to cross the river.”

“That’s what you told me last time!” The man yelled. He picked up a clod of dirt and tried to throw it at Xolotl. It missed, but the dog backed up and stood behind me.

“I’m gonna swim across.”

“No, sir, wait! Mateo—stop him!” Xolotl called out. I rushed forward to grab the man’s jacket before he could dive into the dark water, but I barely missed. The man resurfaced a few feet from the bank. He was swimming across. He was about two-thirds of the way there when a massive, dark shadow swam through the muddy water. It disappeared when it got close to the man, diving deeper to hide itself, and then the man was pulled under.

“What was that?” I asked, panicked.

“Xochitonal, the great caiman. It eats all who try to swim across.” The dog answered somberly. It turned back towards me. “Are you ready to cross?”

“Cross? With that caiman or whatever in there? How?”

“I will ferry you across, of course!” The dog jumped into the water and began doggy-paddling near the shore. “Hop on!”

“You’re too small! What about the Sochi-whatever in there?”

“The Xochitonal will not eat me.” The dog asserted, “Don’t worry about the rest. I will take care of it. Are you ready?”

For some reason, I thought back to my mother’s little chihuahua, Chuy. Even though I was little, I did my very best to care for the little dog. I even spoon-fed him when he got sick. I had always tried to take care of dogs. Despite the fact that my existence was considered ‘meaningless,’ I desperately needed that to count for something. I hesitated, doubting if the dog could carry me, doubting if the caiman would come eat us. Finally, I stepped forward into the water, right onto Xolotl’s back. Instantly, he grew to the size of a horse and started swimming across the water. I saw a large, black, reptilian head rise from the water’s surface as Xochitonal watched us with a creepy, amber eye, but it did not move toward us, just as Xolotl had assured.

*****

I woke up on the hard, jagged stones of Izteptel, the Obsidian Mountains. The memory of the river crossing felt like a lifetime ago. My clothes and skin were cut and tattered from the razor-sharp obsidian that these mountains were made of. I didn’t even sleep comfortably, but at times I was able to find larger, flat pieces of obsidian that didn’t cut my skin as I lay down. I removed my shoes and looked at my feet. Until a week ago, my shoes had held up against the razor-sharp stone, but now the soles were torn to shreds, and my feet were getting torn up as well. After crossing the river, Xolotl left me for a time, telling me to continue while he ran an errand. I had passed through Tepectli Monamictlan—The moving, crushing mountains, what felt like weeks ago. I really had no way to tell the time. For the first time since waking up after dying, I wondered what it would feel like if I never left. I felt I was lost for good.

I also had no way to tell the direction either, now that I thought of it. Most of the time, I followed the easiest path—no simple task here, where ‘easy’ paths dropped off without warning. The stones all looked flat against one another. There was simply no visible texture. I took a deep breath and continued my journey. I traveled up another switchback-like outcropping on the glassy rock and continued my way up. Finally, I saw something besides just ebony-colored stone: a building, made of wood and thatch. I rushed up to the doors, abandoning all caution as my bloody feet were jabbed and poked by obsidian, until running up the steps to the building. I went in.

Immediately, I was met with a familiar sight, though it took me a moment to remember when I had been at a place like this: it was a hostel, exactly like the one I had been in when I awoke in Mictlan. On the desk, however, was a bell, just like at a hotel. I rang it.

“Hello again!” Xolotl stood up on his hind legs from behind the desk. “Welcome.” He spoke in a surprised tone— I felt like I had been unexpected.

“Xolotl!” I greeted the old dog, smiling, “How are you?”

“I am doing well. Even better to see that you have made it so far. However, Mateo, even if you are my friend, if you would like to stay here, you must pay a fee.”

“I don’t have anything…” I sheepishly admitted.

“Well, normally, guests pay a portion of their offering to Mictlantecuhtli, the Lord of the Underworld. Where is your offering, Mateo?”

I frowned, then I reached into my pockets. I pulled out my jury duty paperwork, my phone (broken after the taxi hit me), my wallet (empty, except for my driver’s license and bus pass), and a half-pack of cigarettes. Paper, plastic, nothing.

The dog cocked his head curiously and picked up the box. His tail wagged gently. He opened it, pulled out a cigarette, nodded, and put the pack down.

“You only have one thing of value, it seems.” He put the dart in his mouth, which somehow lit by itself, and pulled a long drag.

“Mmm, yes. That will do nicely. Now that you have made it through Izteptel, I will let you rest while I tell you about Itzehecayan, the land of Obsidian Winds, where you will depart to after you leave here!”

I sighed, exhausted to hear about a land of obsidian winds after passing over a whole mountain range of the stuff. The dog-god just laughed. I realized he wasn’t joking.