Xolotl

A god once hid in this lake, our Nahua guide says in broken Spanish while I’m ankle-deep in water. He looks about sixteen and can’t speak a word of French, but he knows his way around the valley with his eyes closed. He answers to “Manuel”.

‘He turned into an axolotl.’ Manuel points at the water. He uses the Nahuatl word for the aquatic salamanders, with native pronunciation. Ah-sho-loht. After the Aztec god, Xolotl.

‘And your people still eat them?’ I position the mouth of a jar in front of an axolotl. ‘What if you eat the god?’

‘Xolotl was caught and killed long ago. There’s no risk.’

Dead god of a dead nation.

I scoop up the axolotl and hand Manuel the jar. ‘Perhaps the god of lightning and fire shouldn’t have been taking refuge underwater.’

‘Or perhaps that’s where nobody would look for someone like him.’ He sets it down on the shore.

‘You said he was found.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s just a legend. He also makes the sun move and guides the dead through the underworld. Do you actually believe that your god did…whatever?’

‘Whatever?’

He shoves me an empty jar. ‘Everything people claim He did.’

Before the expedition, I was in Crimea, convinced there was no God. Not that I needed to see a war in order to be at odds with Him. My only rule was to upset the British more.

But here, we’re far from holy judgement. Lake Xochimilco lies in obsidian stillness, the reflection of willows and cypresses green in the cold water. Remnants of an ancient civilisation on a par with the Egyptians hang onto the mountains, and mystical creatures inhabit the waters. I wouldn’t be surprised if Xolotl himself stepped out of the lake.

The back of my neck prickles, as if I’m being watched. I turn back to the shore, but Manuel is closing the lids on the axolotls, and the whole expedition is busy packing up. Still, there’s that distinct, static feeling, like touching a spider’s web. Trying to ignore it, I look down into the water. There’s an axolotl by my feet, its round eyes fixed on me. I don’t think it can see me—they don’t have good eyesight—but this one seems interested in me in a way the others weren’t.

‘Méhédin!’ Bazaine yells at me from the shore. Always get a move on, draw this, take a photograph there, and what are you even making, catch your stupid fish— amphibians for God’s sake so we can all go home.

‘One minute, please!’

When I submerge the jar, the axolotl slips inside of its own accord.

***

Strange dreams haunt me on the ship home. Every night, I’m visited by a man. He is dark, Anubian, reminding me more of the depictions of the Egyptian guide to the underworld than that of the Aztec one.

Sometimes, I find him in the room next to my cabin, the one I fitted with aquariums wall to wall back in Le Havre, each secured with lids and harnessed to protect against the force of oceanic waves. The tanks now house one axolotl each, and he walks along them, strong and straight backed in the orange glow of gaslights.

Other times, he steps inside my cabin while I’m in bed. He looks at the sketches of him I drew based on my dreams, picks up my papier-machê model of the Temple of Quetzalcoatl from my nightstand. His eyes light up and he whispers, ‘Brilliant.’

He has to duck his head under the doorframe.

***

‘You look dreadful,’ Bazaine says while we sip our coffees in the dining room, him organising his reports and me scribbling notes on one of my axolotl drawings. ‘Like you’ve come from your own funeral.’

‘I haven’t been sleeping well.’

‘Sea sickness?’

‘Odd dreams.’

He jabs a finger at my drawing. ‘Those creatures of yours would give anybody nightmares.’

I look at my sketch, the coin eyes, the big mouth, the small hands. The external gills crowning the head like rays around a black sun. Yes, they’re unusual and imp-like, but I’m not one to confuse rare animals with sprites. There are no sprites, no fairies, no Xolotl. Only lesser known, curious species and the stories we make up. ‘I don’t mind them at all.’

Except the one watching.

Its eyes follow me as I go from one aquarium to the next, dropping earthworms in the water. It turns after me whenever I cross the room. It urges me to look its way, as if it was a person. There’s something almost human, something deliberate about that stare and its actions, starting with how it chose to be captured.

I step to its aquarium. The axolotl looks exactly the same as the rest of them, there’s no reason for me to feel more of a connection to this one, and yet—

‘Can I call you Xolotl?’ I ask the creature, then glance towards the open door, hoping nobody’s heard. I’d very much like not to be locked in an asylum on my return, but perhaps I did catch some sort of madness. Maybe there was something in the water.

***

The Xolotl of my dreams is on the deck, shiny from pouring rain. His eyes flash as lightning shreds the night sky.

A wave bangs my hammock against the cabin wall and knocks me out of the dream. The crew is yelling on the deck, their voices muffled by the thunder, by the ocean throwing itself around and what sounds like chairs cartwheeling across the dining room. The storm wasn’t a dream.

Worried about the axolotls, I stumble into the corridor in my nightshirt. The waves shake the boat as if she were a toy. I fall into the far wall of the corridor, then almost back through the door; my aquarium room has never been further away—I’m thrown both back from and then past it before I manage to grab the door handle and trip over the threshold. I stay on my hands and knees. The lights are mostly out—there’s only one gaslight still flickering, swinging wildly side to side.

The axolotls are hard to see. I crawl along the aquariums, straining my eyes to see their black shapes, to make sure they’re alright. I count all thirty-three before I arrive at the last tank—Xolotl’s—and stare at empty water. Please, no. The lid has been pushed open, and there’s a puddle under my palm. I press my nose against the cool glass, scan the dark space. Nothing.

The air tastes metallic, charged with electric storm.

‘Where are you?’ I fix my gaze on the floor, sweep my hand across it in search of a small body. My heart is hammering in my chest. They can’t survive out of water. ‘Xolotl? Xolotl, damn it, where are you?’

Somebody clears their throat in the corner and I snap my head towards the sound. There is a sense of vertigo, or perhaps the room is tilting, I’m not sure. It doesn’t affect him, towering in the corner, sharp dog ears brushing the ceiling.

The light glints off his fangs as he says, ‘Here.’

The word crackles like lightning, thrums inside of my bones.

He moves towards me, unbothered by the room spinning, and leans close, his snout almost touching my face. ‘Why do I smell fear?’ He grins a terrible canine grin.

The gaslight swings off its hook and smashes on the floorboards.

***

I must’ve dreamt it, last night. In the aquarium room, the gaslight is shattered on the floor, but I could’ve heard that in my sleep next door, weaved it into the dream. The axolotls—Xolotl too—are all secure inside their tanks. There’s no sign of ancient gods.

By the time I enter my cabin with a plate of dinner, I feel better. Dreams aren’t madness.

‘Léon—’

‘Jésus!’ I jump and bang the door shut.

‘Xolotl.’ The subject of my madness corrects me from my desk. ‘Try not to faint again. I’m sick of eating earthworms.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s a bland diet after a while.’

‘You speak French?’

‘No. You understand a god when they address you. Can we discuss dinner?’

‘Aren’t you—dead?’

He raises his eyes at the ceiling. ‘And yet there’s still lightning, and yet the sun still moves. Lost souls are still guided through the underworld. I can give you a one-way tour—’

He stops speaking when I push my plate of brie and ship’s biscuit in front of him. He tries the biscuit first. He sneers at it, but I suppose most things must be an improvement from a worm.

‘So, the underworld? Am I dying?’ I ask while he nibbles a piece of brie. It’s an odd thing to watch. His face is similar to a Xoloitzcuintle dog’s, and dogs are easy to like. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘Maybe, if you give me another worm. What is this?’

‘Cheese.’

He tilts his head.

‘Sorry, does the understanding thing goes both ways with gods, or do I need to explain—’

‘No need.’ He pushes the plate away from himself. ‘You may have the cheese, Léon.’

I take a bite of the brie, resigned to madness and a dinner inferior to earthworms.

***

Xolotl appears more and more often, evidently bored in the aquarium, for which I cannot blame him. I notice his presence now, before I would see him. It’s that expectant, before-the-storm feeling. Something to do with lightning, with electricity, I think, because when I first touch him it gives me an electric shock, the sparks on my hands bright in the dark corridor.

‘Do you often shove people into your room?’ he asks as I close the door behind us.

‘I don’t usually have to worry about hiding an ancient god,’ I whisper, listening for the footsteps in the corridor. They pass without a pause. Not that I’m afraid they’d see him—I’m more afraid they wouldn’t, and then I could no longer pretend he is here.

I’m too fond of this madness.

Xolotl has that dog grin on which makes the hairs stand on my arms, and I still don’t know what it means.

‘What?’ he asks, because I’m staring.

‘It’s hard to read you when you’re half dog.’

He bows his head, and the bones in his face shift. When he looks up he is human. Or, human-faced. It’s the same features, the same face translated to a different species, both the same and brand new. His eyes are the same, and somehow his smile too. Sharp and wolfish, framed black with waist-long hair.

When he was part dog, I didn’t mind how lightly he dressed.

‘Better?’

‘Different.’ My voice comes out scratchy. ‘Why the dog’s head?’

‘I like smelling what people feel.’ He leans close, takes a breath by my ear. ‘It’s easier with a dog’s nose.’

I can feel the sparks on my neck and close my eyes. He looks too real, too human. This was a bad idea. He isn’t real, he isn’t a god, he isn’t a person, he isn’t here. My sister has this illness—seeing things that aren’t there—my grandmother had it too. The doctors said engaging with delusions makes them worse.

I take a few long breaths. Clap my hands. ‘Right! Back to work.’

Fixing my eyes on the door, I walk right past Xolotl.

***

You’ve got the nerve, he says, to ignore the god of lightning and fire and death, to dismiss the power which moves the sun. He changes his face back and bares his teeth. Growls.

When he doesn’t leave me alone, I collect my drawings of him and burn them over a candle, watch the fire consume the shapes of him.

He stops growling at me then. ‘I liked those.’

‘If you were the god of fire, they wouldn’t burn,’ I say without sparing him a glance. ‘Now, would you mind?’ I gesture at the empty aquarium.

The flame snaps at my fingers.

***

In the Muséum d'Histoire Naturelle, the director turns my papier-machê model of the Temple of Quetzalcoatl in his hands, amused, then places it away from himself the way one would move something foul. His desk is cluttered with pages from my journals, photographs, and the few surviving sketches of Xolotl which I drew on the backs of reports I wasn’t willing to burn.

‘Monsieur Méhédin, whilst your work is certainly—’ he turns over a report with a Xolotl sketch on the back, raises an eyebrow then puts it back, sketch-side down— ‘interesting, I’m afraid it is too, what’s the term, artistic to be of significant, or, indeed, of any scientific value.’

‘I can assure you my work is based on observation.’

He holds up the page with the drawing of Xolotl. ‘Such as this dog-headed wild man?’

‘No, but—’

‘Monsieur Méhédin, I did not wish to bring this up, but considering your family history, it would be foolish of me, irresponsible even, not to question the integrity of your research and your own ability to accurately observe reality. And when you arrive with—this,’ he spreads his arms over the papers, ‘I’m sure you understand.’

I stare at the model in front of me, think of the sparkle in Xolotl’s eyes when he picked it up. But that was all in my head. No real person has ever said it was brilliant. ‘I understand, but I haven’t been diagnosed—’

‘And I sincerely hope you won’t be.’ He waves his hand. ‘Now, about the animals—’

I sit up in my chair, alarmed.

‘You are not a biologist, correct?’

‘No, I’m—no. But that wasn’t an issue when I was asked—’

‘Oh no, no, that’s not an issue, you’ve done very well bringing them here, and we are happy to pay you a portion of what we agreed. And there’s nothing wrong, of course, with being an artist—’

‘Architect. But I was part of the expedition because of my archaeology and photo-journal—’

‘—but I suggest giving the animals to people better equipped to study them. Local biologists. I have taken the liberty to invite Monsieur Duméril, he will survey the specimen this afternoon. If you could be available to receive him and assist with the arrangements for transporting a few of the’—he stumbles over the word “axolotl”—‘please.’

I agree through gritted teeth, suppressing the urge to question the amount of the “portion” and when I would receive it. I gather my journals and reports into a pile, placing my model on top.

‘Those will be a nuisance to carry all the way back by yourself.’ The director frowns at the leaning stack. ‘Shall I dispose of them for you?’

***

‘Fascinating.’ Auguste Duméril stares into one of the aquariums, leaving a greasy handprint on the glass when he straightens himself. ‘Tell me about them.’

I stand away from him, by the window, and look out onto the grounds of Jardin des Plantes. Nature cut into civilized shapes, picture-book examples of what trees should be.

‘They’re named after an Aztec god,’ I turn towards him and I relay what I know of Xolotl’s legend.

He listens with a blank face.

I make the effort to smile. ‘Good story, isn’t it?’

‘Aztec mythology is not relevant to my work.’

I no longer consider him worth the effort of being friendly. ‘Biology isn’t relevant to mine.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He looks at my axolotl sketches and the notes I gave him and squints his eyes. ‘I can tell.’

He chooses six to take—not right now, I’ll have to arrange for that—but he looks at each of them and marks their tanks with an X.

Xolotl, who has started to ignore me too and has not left his tank since we arrived at the museum, lifts his head when Auguste marks his glass.

***

I could swap the axolotls, if I wanted to keep him. Auguste would never know. And I want to keep him, but perhaps I shouldn’t, perhaps once he’s gone this madness will be gone too. No more electric dreams, no more imaginary conversations with a curious Aztec god. No need to be dreading an asylum.

I stay in the museum late, light a candle once it’s dark outside. I’ll have to find something to do—maybe another expedition where they need things to be photographed—and I need to clear my belongings from here before I go. I shouldn’t clutter my house, in case it has to be sold.

I pick up my poor model, try to picture the real place, the cleanliness of the air among the ruins of Xochicalco, but I cannot reach it. My depiction looks pathetic and childish, and I should’ve known it was mad to show up with it. With a flare of anger, I throw it across the room, into a dark corner. I don’t hear it land.

Xolotl steps into the candlelight, holding it. He has his human face on, and he stops an arm’s length from me, just across from my desk.

‘Brave of you, throwing my brother’s temple around.’ He waits a little, gives me a chance to fill the silence.

I don’t.

‘Do you want me to leave? He’ll cut off my gills, you know.’

‘You don’t exist,’ I tell him, because it’s the last time and proper goodbyes are important for closure. ‘It’d be easier if you did. I don’t want to speak to an illusion, a trick of my mind. If you go, maybe I won’t have to.’

Xolotl puts his hands on the desk and leans across my papers. ‘You smell unhappy.’

A spark fires between our noses and I lean back in my chair. ‘Believe it or not I don’t want to be mad—or electrocuted daily.’

‘So, you can be either mad or alone.’ He distills the dilemma. ‘Which one do you prefer? A sacrifice of your mind or heart?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes.’ He places the model gently in front of me. ‘Because if I am real—and maybe even if I’m madness—you must choose.’