THE EGG OF THE WORLD, a misc. games fanfic

THE EGG OF THE WORLD

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the second installment of my AMNESIA: A MACHINE FOR PIGS trilogy. I'm working backwards from ENOCH, EDWIN, OSWALD AND I. Here, our antihero explores Mexico. The fully italicized section is, once again, verbatim from one of Oswald Mandus' journal pages in the game.)

~ February 17, 1899, 7:00 AM ~

"Why did we have to get up so early, Daddy? Why do we have to walk so far, and while it's getting hot?"

My son Enoch jabs his identical twin Edwin in the ribs with his elbow. "Don't be so simple. If we're going to get all our money back and be rich again, then we have to find treasure. The Aztecs have a lot of it."

"What if we get lost?"

I put a reassuring hand on Edwin's shoulder and squeeze it. "We won't. Our guide knows the way."

"How can he? He smells," Edwin whispers and wrinkles his nose. "That means he can't be all that smart."

"Come on, slow-coach," grumbles Enoch, linking his arm through his brother's. "Let's keep up." Indeed: Manuel's strides are not only long, but quick, and he doesn't stumble at all through the tangles of foliage on the ground. It takes at least two of my steps to match his, and my poor boys are trying their best not to trip over exposed roots. It's hard treading through this part of the Mexican jungle, and its verdant mysteries. Leaves rustle, parrots caw, and I believe I see a snake winding its way up a tree nearby. Is it poisonous? No matter: Manuel and I carry pistols, and my sons slingshots. Danger may be everywhere, but at this hour of the morning, we're avoiding both heat and lethal nocturnal predators. If we're fortunate, we'll find what we seek and be back at our base camp long before the sun reaches its zenith.

What do we seek, exactly? Enoch and Edwin are hoping to find gold and gems buried for centuries, but I'll be satisfied with pottery. After all, we're much more likely to find the latter than the former. Given enough time, anything becomes an artifact, even the most mundane objects. Collectors such as I, and those who are even more wealthy, will pay hefty sums for whatever we find. If Manuel is correct about these ruins, then our salvation is near at hand. Who could imagine it would cost so much to build an adapted mill?

My father certainly could. He was always one for economy, sacrificing efficiency to the lowest price. It is cheaper to butcher pork with two arms than with a hundred, but what produces more meat? Before his heart seized up, nigh on ten years ago, he called me a fool and proclaimed that I'd end up without a dime.

I do not want his wish to come true - yes, his wish, not only his prophecy. In the eternal war of father versus son, and owner versus employee, he always came out the victor. His only loss, and a small one at that, was when I hired myself out to his foremen as an apprentice. This was my choice: I wanted to work, and not merely manage or invest. While he became intimately acquainted with the insides of ledgers, I bathed myself in wet masses of livers and intestines. While the only foul odors he smelled were those of subpar cigars and his musty office, my finest perfume was a combination of blood and excrement. First I would get to know pigs, then processors, then prices, and finally portfolios. Father thought inheritance was the most beautiful word in the English language; that's why I have his house. My favorite word is industry.

It is this that shall cause our society to rise in the coming century: new inventions, not "old money".

Manuel exclaims wildly in his native tongue. I translate for the boys: "The ruins are not far ahead."

"Good, good!" Enoch starts jumping up and down. "It's high time we got there. I'm sweating in earnest."

I have to smile with my lips stretched tight, in order to keep from laughing. To him, "sweating in earnest" means that his shirt is sticking to him at the armpits, as is mine. He knows nothing about having it soaked clear through, with the moisture and stench of your own body filling your every breath. Enoch has never had to wipe his brow with an already-drenched sleeve as he shovels guts or scours cutting boards.

It is my hope that he never will, once my great machine is active and productive beyond human capacity.

~ 9:00 AM ~

"Manuel?" I cup my hands near my mouth, because our guide doesn't seem to hear me. "Manuel!"

"Sí, señor?"

"Dónde estamos?" At this moment, it's a relief that I've taught the boys French and not Spanish.

Manuel looks crestfallen. "Lo siento muchísimo, pero creo que somos perdidos."

As my heart tumbles into my stomach, Edwin asks me, "What did he say, Daddy?"

A sudden idea blooms in my head: "He says it's time for our midmorning snack. Let's sit down and eat." I spread a blanket in an area where there aren't too many vines and sticks underfoot, and take off my pack. Keeping my body relaxed and my expression cordial, I pull out apples, cheese, bread, and four canteens.

"Señor? Perdóname mil veces, pero por qué comemos ahora?"

"We're hungry," I tell him in English. He knows at least that, although not much more. "Please join us." He sits down across from the boys, and they wrinkle their noses again. The aromas of tequila, perspiration, bad breath, and unwashed clothes do nothing to whet one's appetite. However, all that hiking has more than made up for it. We may be lost, but at least our bellies will be full as we try to retrace our steps. Damn that idiot peasant! If it weren't for him and his habit of drinking anything but water, we'd be well on our way to finding a fortune. Who knows? Maybe he was only turned around a bit, and we're not stranded.

"Tell us about the Aztecs again," Edwin blurts out, his eyes alight with the fierce curiosity of a true student.

"Not now. What I've mentioned before, especially about their sacrificial rites, isn't talk fit for a picnic."

"I know what is," counters Enoch, his disappointment giving way to newfound excitement. "Gold! Mounds and mounds of it! Everything the Aztecs used was made out of gold: shields and swords and forks and…"

"Not forks, my lad. They didn't use those. Their weapons and shields were crafted from iron and stone."

"What of the gold, then?"

"It was mostly ceremonial, used for the possessions of the priests and their chief, Montezuma."

"We're going to find some and melt them all down to make coins, and then we'll be filthy rich again, and -"

"Why the obsession?" I ask him, trying to keep my tone light. "We have your grandfather's home to live in."

"So? We might lose it." My mouth falls open. "You're not the only one who can hear yourself talk."

Shivers crawl down my spine. "You've been eavesdropping on me in my office, haven't you, Enoch?"

"How could I not? When you yell on the phone, it's a wonder the person on the other end doesn't go deaf!"

I could box his ears for such impudence, but Manuel's presence and Edwin's expression stay my hand.

"Never mind that," I say calmly but firmly. "We're on an adventure, and we'll make the most of it whether we find jewels or jugs of clay. Just as you collect coins, and I collect animals that I've hunted for sport, there are others who treasure even the simplest things if they're from ancient times - Aztec times."

"Tell us about them," Edwin chimes back in, his grin a mile wide. "How did they appease their gods?"

"Later." I ruffle his hair. "For right now, please eat and drink up while your water's still cold."

Speaking of which, I suddenly see Manuel pulling a silver flask out of his pack while he thinks I'm not looking. "No." I have to grit my teeth to keep from shouting. "Agua. Solamente agua, por favor." You fool. If you've truly gotten us lost, there'll be no more liquor for you, and I'll tell your boss to fire you posthaste.

"Lo siento." He tries to put the flask away, but I reach out and snatch it from his hand before he can. He glowers at me as if I've committed some grave offense, then remembers to rearrange his face in a neutral expression before I can do it for him. If Manuel weren't the only tour guide who knew the ruins in question like the back of his own hand, I'd have taken his employer, Mr. Flores, with me. He would drink only water in the midst of this sweltering jungle. I'm surprised our current companion hasn't died of dehydration!

Only Enoch, pointing off into the near distance, can distract me from wanting to punch Manuel. "What's that over there?" I don't see anything, but apparently he does. "Can Edwin and I go and look, Daddy?"

"May Edwin and I go and look, and yes, you may. Don't wander far. Keep us in sight at all times."

"Yes, sir." He squares his shoulders, and he and his brother head toward whatever it is he's spotted. One would need to have the eyes of an eagle to notice anything unusual in this tangle of grass and leaves, but that's what my Enoch has. He has inherited them from me, ever-watchful of flashing knives and cleaver blades. He and Edwin stand at their treasure spot for a bit, holding something up that I still can't see.

When they return, Enoch is cradling a peculiar black object in his hand. "Look! Luff!"

"What?"

"Luff. An egg, a stone egg!"

"That's l'oeuf," I tell him, pronouncing the word carefully. "It does look like one. Do you think it's obsidian?"

"No, it's too rough. Too porous," Edwin says, taking the stone from his brother. "It's scratching my hands."

"Pumice, then." I wink at my son, who loves science more than any other academic subject. "Both of these types of rock are igneous, meaning that they were formed by cooling lava from volcanic eruptions."

"Whatever it is, may we take it home? Will it hatch?" asks Enoch.

"What in the world could hatch from that, you big silly goose?" Still, Edwin gazes hopefully up at me.

"Of course we'll take it home. Heaven knows there are probably thousands of other stones such as this, so the Mexicans won't miss one." Manuel laughs out loud, and I give a start because I hadn't thought he was paying attention. With our spirits lifted, we begin to pack up our blanket and canteens. Our guide hurls four apple cores far into the jungle, and I silently applaud him. Then I feel Edwin tugging at my sleeve.

"Listen! If you hold it up to your ear, you can hear the sea." He does this and then hands the "egg" to me. Before I do the same, however, I remember another strange scientific fact that might pique his interest:

"The finest researchers in London and elsewhere say that at our planet's core, there is a great iron ball. That might explain the Earth's magnetic fields, as iron is itself magnetic. However, how can it be solid if the core temperature is so high?" I hate it when I'm trying to explain something to Edwin and get stuck like this. "Maybe we can look into it when we get back home, all right?" He nods, his eyes gleaming brighter. "Meanwhile, here's your egg."

"No, you keep it. Someone might throw it around like a common baseball and lose it."

"Hey!" Enoch pinches Edwin hard on the arm, but his brother doesn't even flinch. He simply glares.

It's Manuel who breaks the tension of this sibling rivalry. "Mira," he says, pointing at the sun. "El sol."

"He's right. The day's getting on, and we had better try and reach the ruins before noontime." The four of us move out without any further complaints or arguing, and I clutch my sons' prized possession tightly. When I hold it up to my ear, however, I don't exactly hear the distant echo of the sea.

~ 10:00 AM ~

Faint whispers. They sound like nothing I have ever heard, but everything I've prayed not to hear:

Ssss. Dusss. Mmm-dussss…

Feeling sudden cold chills despite the rising steam in the jungle, I take another swig of canteen water.

SSSSSSS…

"Daddy? Are you all right?"

I nod toward Enoch, but my throat is tight. I loosen the bandanna around my neck and mop my forehead. I know I should put the stone egg in my lapel pocket where it belongs, but I can't help listening to it. It's as if there truly is a creature inside, against all odds and logic, and it's yearning to break free of its prison.

"Manuel? Let's stop for a minute."

"¿Por qué?"

He's right. We've only just started hiking again, so there's no reason for us to take another rest. "Nada, nada," I stammer, shaking my head and trudging forward. It's only ten o'clock, yet this heat is stifling. What is wrong with me? I've suffered worse on the killing floor, back when I was a young man, so why am I turning delicate now? It's true that I am nearly five-and-forty, but that's not so old, is it? In my grandfather's day, and even in Father's, most men did not live so long. Then again, most men were not so fortunate.

We continue covering ground in our usual way, which is to say ineffective, until Enoch suggests, "Why don't we march like soldiers? That way we'll keep pace with Manuel and not get so tired. All right?" He lifts his knees high and swings his arms. "Hup, two, three, four. Left, left, left-right-left…" Edwin follows suit, and they continue this chant until it starts to sound like leh, leh, leh-rah-leh instead of cardinal directions. As they march, I watch. Heat shimmers in waves before my eyes, and I have to rub sweat out of them. My boys' military cadence and step start to lull me to sleep. No, not quite, but my mind becomes numb. Perhaps this is their true aim, and not merely to make hard miles on foot go by faster. If you barely think, and are conscious of only the basic functions of existence, it's easier to - wait. Are they carrying rifles?

Yes. Yes, they are. Slung across my sons' backs are not packs and slingshots, but deadly weapons.

"Halt!"

Everyone stops. Edwin, Enoch and Manuel stare at me as if I'm going mad. Perhaps I am.

"It's nothing," I snap tersely, "just the sun. I am not so young as any of you. Carry on, before we broil!"

We resume our trek. I curse the jungle, its tangling weeds, and Mexico. Montezuma's Mexico.

~ 11:00 AM ~

"Señor! There, not too far from us, are the ruins of Tixociguali. I am sure this time, or I will die!"

Yes, you will. We all will. There is no way we will make it back to base camp now, since we're lost. I would continue ruminating about exactly how Manuel will die, but a glimpse of a shimmering tower stops me.

"Am I hearing you correctly?"

"¡Sí, sí!" His glee is unmistakable; let's hope his tattered map is, too. My sons yelp joyfully and press on. Remarkably, they haven't tired of marching, whereas I'm exhausted. I want to tumble in a weak, dripping heap to the floor of the clearing we've found, but I dare not. If this is our Ithaca, our heaven and our ultima Thule, I don't want to stop until I lay eyes upon it in full. Tixociguali! The very name is magical. It means something in the language of the Aztecs that I once knew, but have completely forgotten at the moment.

"Leh, leh, leh-rah-leh," Enoch and Edwin bark as they continue in lock-step. It's unsettling. Are these truly the same lads who came with me from London, wrestling and bickering at any chance they got? It's not that I gave them many opportunities to do so. Still, I would prefer that to this. In their camouflage clothing, meant to prevent any wild creatures from noticing them, they not only look the part, but act it. At home one of my precious twins cannot be more different from the other, but here? Now? They are identical in far more than appearance. Their arms swing at precisely the same pace, and their legs stomp the earth with the sound of one giant boot. It makes my stomach churn, though I don't know why. Do I have heatstroke?

"Boys!" I call out. "Let's slow down, because I…I'm not feeling very well."

"Have some water." Edwin hands me his canteen, which I discover is only one-quarter full. Moaning, I shake my head and hand it back to him. Enoch offers his, half-full, and the brackish water tastes divine. Despite our goal of reaching our destination before noon, I want, no, absolutely need, to rest for a minute.

I feel a gentle vibration from my sons' stone egg, hidden in my breast pocket. I take it out and listen again.

There's a faint keening coming from within it, a high-pitched noise like the song of a tuning fork. Instead of traveling to my left eardrum and hitting it, the sound wriggles past it, through my skull and brain, and into my right ear. Though it sets my teeth on edge, I can't tear myself away from it. Something's beneath it…

Gunfire. Underneath the keening, shouting. I gaze at Edwin and Enoch, grown men, struggling for breath. Their faces are smothered in mud, with their nostrils and mouths blocked. Only their eyes are visible.

"Daddy?" Sweating, Edwin hugs me and offers me his canteen again. This time I can't help but gulp it all. He's a boy of eight again, as he should be, and I am myself, as I should be. We will find the treasure.

~ 11:00 AM ~

"What is the name of these ruins again? How do you pronounce it, Manuel?" asks Enoch.

"Tee-ho-see-GUA-lee. It's an Aztec word. This is…pyramid." He pronounces the last word slowly.

"I can see that," grumbles my impertinent son, "but what was it used for? Food storage, or sacrifice?"

"The latter." From the way Edwin's staring at me with a fascinated, expectant grin, I can tell that it's finally time to retell the tale of how these ancient people paid homage to their deities. Their names run like rivers through my fevered brain: Tlaloc. Quetzalcoatl. Huitzilopochtli. It is this last being I have come to dread:

"Sacrifice was especially important to Huitzilopochtli, the patron god of the Aztec people. As long as he was kept richly fed with human blood, he would be victorious in battle, and so would they. No benevolent saint was this one. His favorite delicacies were the hearts of his victims, removed while still beating."

He and Enoch giggle with manic glee. Oh, how they love sordid details such as that one! To distract them from the gory image, I continue, "If we're to find anything of value, we should head up the steps to the top."

"While it's so hot? I think it's close to noon," Edwin says, "and besides, you're feeling ill. Make Manuel go."

"Oh, no! I'm not letting him get his hands on our gold, or jewels, or anything. He makes money. We don't."

"Hush now, Enoch. This was a sacred place to the ancient ancestors of Manuel's people, and so we should treat it as such. I know we're on a hunt for artifacts, but we should treat Tixociguali as a chapel."

"Do you mean a church?"

"Yes, lad. Let's be silent and reverent. Manuel? You stay down here and wait for us. Watch for animals." The peasant nods, drinking not from his secret flask, but from his official canteen. At least he's that wise.

Enoch grasps my left hand, Edwin my right, and together we three make toward the summit of the temple.

~ 11:35 AM ~

What is happening to me?

My entire frame is quivering, and not solely from the effects of heat and fluid loss. The vibrations from that opaque rock, black as night and just as ominous, have entered into my bones. Will my skeleton shatter? That's what it feels like, and I have to control my breathing with the dwindling remnants of my strength.

Enoch and Edwin somehow manage to babble excitedly, despite their own fatigue, but I don't hear them. Instead, I hear words and names I've never heard before, except for two. They come in startled bursts:

Stalin. Somme. Sakhalin. Der Fuhrer. Première. Deuxième. Gavrilo. Verdun. Anzio. Mao Zedong. Pol Pot.

My mind clings to the only words that it understood from that mishmash of syllables: First and second. First and second WHAT? What are those names? Do they signify real people and places, or not?

YESSSSSSSS….

The stone, as warm and trembling as any chicken's egg before it hatches, hisses this chilling reply.

I am at the Aztec pyramid no longer. Or, rather, I am still climbing it, but I'm ascending through time as well as space. I hear church bells ringing, heralding the dawn of the new century, which are immediately drowned out by the whirring of machinery. Before my eyes, I watch Edwin and Enoch grow from boys to youths to men. They wear the exact same camouflage, although their bodies grow leaner and their faces harder. Their jaws tighten, and their eyes glint with an almost feral light. Their muscles bulge, but why so noticeably? Their hair shortens, but why is it down to stubble on both their heads? Why is it shorn?

The sound of machines, built for industry and production, soon turns to the merciless roar of those built for destruction. I bite down so hard on my chapped lower lip that blood oozes out. I realize everything now.

My sons will be soldiers. My sweet Edwin, who loves the natural world more than anything, will be trained to trample earth, cut trees, poison water and slaughter animals and people. He will be taught to regard those who are different from himself not as humans, but as livestock. Pigs. And, oh, how they'll squeal…

As for Enoch? My boisterous boy, who dreams of joining the circus and becoming its finest strongman? Instead of lifting weights to please a cheering crowd, he'll be doing so for men far crueler than he is, with fists of iron. Instead of making people happy, bringing life to their spirits, he shall bring death. His strength will not even be used for the protection of his home and family, but for that of our Empire and its Profit!

Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and my sons have fallen silent. All I see before me now is blood.

Blood, blood and bone. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. For God and glory. For democracy. For freedom.

Is it the egg, or my own soul that's whispering this? No matter. If I do not act now, then all shall be lost.

"Daddy?" Edwin squeezes my hand, and Enoch steps back slightly. "We're here."

Indeed we are, at the site of sacrifice and supplication. I intend to do both before I descend these steps.

It is because, whether now or later, my precious boys will be naught but fattened pigs to Huitzilopochtli.

~ March 15th, 1899 ~

Curled into my bunk, all sick and sweat ridden. They clean my room about me, but I can only hear the voice from within that gentlest of stones. It sings to me and I dream of a great machine.

We will build a new world from the ruins of the old. We will plant flowers in the rotten ribcage and let them grow to hold the sky from falling. I remember how it whispered to me, as we rolled sick and heaving. And I remember when we pulled into Southampton and we both wept, for it was every bit as much a desecration as had been sung to me.

And then we came to London and I set it upon the mantelpiece, and went into the house and gathered the servants and set on re-crafting them, and then I went into the garden and buried those tiny shattered skulls under the weeping bulges of the rhododendrons.

The egg upon my mantelpiece is teaching me everything about how to crack the iron egg of the world.

Enjoy your hearts, O timeless god of War. The two you've eaten last, atop the temple, belonged to me.

FIN 2-05-14