Today’s The Clockwork Caterpillar character sketch looks at the stoic warrior Pacal. I wanted to make sure that the story really had this frontier vibe and part of that necessitated including peoples and cultures who already lived on the land which the colonials invaded. Pacal is a bit different in that he’s a stranger almost as much as the rest of the cast to the railroad plains. He grew up in the jungles of the south where his people were made intimately familiar with persecution. Before the arrival of the Rhea Silvan explorers across the seas, Pacal’s people were subjugated by the vicious Nahua peoples who had conquered their cities and enslaved their populace. That the Nahua were consequently conquered and enslaved by those across the seas was but a brief vindication. As it turns out, the newcomers cared little to distinguish between the different peoples already in the land. So while their old oppressors were oppressed, Pacal and his people continued to be exploited.

However, though the invaders were more advanced they simply couldn’t hope to control such a wide and populous territory. Rebellion came quickly and severely. The Nahua overthrew their overlords and reclaimed their lands. But they certainly couldn’t go back to their old way of life. Everything they knew about the world had been upended and though they had liberated themselves from the yoke, they hadn’t pushed back the foreigner’s spirit.

Athemisia is a peculiar beast wherein small actions have wide-reaching consequences. There’s a push and pull of forces that keep scouring its face and remaking the political and social makeup of the land. And its inhabitants represent that struggle. Thus, part of my goal with The Clockwork Caterpillar was to communicate the diversity and cultural clashes between so many unique and spirited peoples. The conquered weren’t just one identity just like the conquerors weren’t either.

Unfortunately for Pacal, when the Nahua reclaimed their land, it didn’t lead to the liberation of his people. So he struck out to the north where the conquerors were still stationed, looking for solutions that could save his people. Thus he strives to watch and learn what he can, hoping one day to find a place where his family can live in peace.

Pacal

“What’s that you doin’ mister?”

The ball bounced off the trunk of the tree, landing with a thud into the bucket. Slowly, the big man turned. He was a massive specimen: thick muscles wrapped about a wide, golden frame barely contained within the worn clothes. But what his dress lacked in description was made up by the odd adornments. Around his wrists wound thick roped bracers, a trio of deep purple feathers covering their length. The tendons of his hands were highlighted with bright ink from his knuckles to beneath his sleeve.

A collection of bright green rocks jangled about his neck as he turned. Each was etched into a separate head deformed with massive tongues, large ears or great almond eyes slanting across the smooth stone. His shirt was simple white cloth but a strange mantle rested atop it. Fashioned from brightly dyed fabrics, intoxicating woven patterns and colourful feathers along the fringes created a hypnotic design.

“Baax ka waalik, little-one.”

He turned, bowing his head deeply to the little boy. The child just scratched his scalp.

“You’re funny.”

Undaunted, the boy stepped over the rifle lying upon the dry earth. He scrambled to the bucket, reaching inside and fetching the ball. It was round and hard, almost twice as big as two fists smashed together. He turned it in his hands, looking it over from all angles. But to his young eyes it was nothing but a black sphere.

“Careful, little-one. That is no mere toy.”

The boy blinked, observing the ball even more intently.

“What is it?”

The big man moved to his side. He strode not as a mountain made to move but with the gentle grace of a passing breeze. He knelt beside the lad, clamping a great hand on the child’s shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around the ball and lifted it. He held it before the boy, moving it steadily through the sky.

“The great Speakers say it is sun. Its passing marks passing of day to dusk then twilight to morn.”

The boy giggled.

“That’s silly. The sun ain’t black.”

“Is it not?”

The boy looked at him with a queer expression.

“No! The sun is yellow!”

“Is it? How do you know?”

“You can see it,” the boy said, pointing overhead. He turned his little face skyward, stretching his finger.

“You speak that but you look away.”

“Course. Momma says you ain’t allowed staring at the sun.”

“Is wise. But if you never look, how can you know?”

The boy scratched his head.

“Well… I have seen it. But you only see it shortly. It’s too bright!”

“But look at something in passing and do you see all that is?”

The boy blinked.

“I don’t know.”

The giant gave a brief smile. He then lifted his hand over the necklace dangling from his neck.

“Tell, what I wear?”

The boy scrunched his eyes, trying to remember the objects which dangled from that loose string. He could remember it was something green. Something vaguely familiar in shape but so strange that it was nothing like he’d seen before.

“Heads!” he proclaimed proudly.

The giant chuckled. He peeled back his fingers, revealing the row of carved green stone. But it wasn’t three clattering heads looped together. Instead two gaping maws encompassed the strings, the carved stones appearing more like a serpent with no tail.

The boy’s mouth gaped in surprise.

“Look briefly and only see surface.” The man stood, holding the ball aloft. “Wise Speaker said, ‘Look at sun as moving. From yellow to orange to red. But forever keep watch and all seen is night.’”

“So the sun is black?”

“In time. But heed mother, little-one, for it also light. Enjoy gifts but respect power. You have much time to enjoy when older.”

“So what are you doing with the sun?” the boy asked as the man turned away.

The large man looked down at the ball.

“I am remembering.”

“Remembering?”

He turned, tossing the object from hand to hand.

“My people remember with these.”

“What do you remember?”

“People. Those left. Father and brother.”

“Where are they?”

The giant smiled but shook his head. It was the smile of a teacher, patiently weathering his pupil’s slow march towards understanding. It was a smile that drew feelings like a bucket pulled from the dark, bearing precious water but dripping with the painful past.

“Xibalba.”

“Where’s that?”

“Very, very far.”

“Are you going to see them?”

The giant laughed.

“Perhaps.”

“What will you do when you get there?”

“I will know sun.”

The boy puzzled these words with a twist of his mouth. It was clear he didn’t understand, though his childish mind did grapple with the words. The giant knelt once more, holding the ball up for the boy.

“Care help remember?”

“Okay!”

His face lit as he took the ball. He turned to the man.

“What do we do?”

He stood, surveying the land about them. He walked over, picking up the bucket and motioning for the boy to follow. They walked towards the stone wall of the sheriff’s jail. The man ran his hand over the stone, knocking lightly.

“This shall do.”

He placed the bucket at the middle of the wall then motioned for the boy to stand at the far end.

“Now what?”

“First, hit ball on wall.”

The man motioned towards the stone and the boy squished his face in concentration. Lifting the large ball over his shoulder, he swung with all the strength his little arms could muster. The ball struck, rebounded and bounced three times against the ground before rolling to a stop. The man walked forward, picking it up.

“Alobi, little-one. Perhaps you born ball player.”

The boy blushed.

“Did I do well?”

“Good first. Now, watch.”

The man bounced the ball before him, scattering dirt in a soft cloud. Twice he bounced the ball against the earth before twisting and striking the ball with his forearm. With the meaty smack, it launched through the air, striking the wall soundly before bouncing towards the child. It flew straight and true, hitting the ground twice before rolling to a stop at his feet.

“Now me. Try again.”

The boy nodded as he bent and scooped up the ball. He wrenched it back and threw it. It recoiled off the jail, bouncing once before rolling to the man’s left. He nodded.

“Better. Important to watch angle. See where you want. Follow back to know strike place.”

The man approached the wall, patting one of the stones.

“Watch.”

He bounced the ball twice, held it aloft and smacked it with his forearm. The ball rebounded and returned once more to the boy’s feet. The child sighed, gathering the ball. He judged the distance and scooted forward for his throw. The ball hit, though with less force, and bounced four times to the man’s feet. The man nodded.

“Alobi.”

“What’s the bucket for?”

“Is goal,” the man replied. “Final journey from one body to next. Like sun passing through darkness and rising new again.”

He bounced the ball at his feet before striking. With precision, the black ball bounced off the stones and dropped directly in the wooden container. It gave off a haunting echo as it rolled along the bottom.

“How can it come out the other side? It’s a bucket.”

“Normally not bucket,” the man nodded, walking over and picking up the ball. He then lifted the pail and held it sideways against the stone. “Normally on wall and sun can go through.”

He moved the ball back and forth to demonstrate. Then he pointed at the dirt across from them.

“Normally another wall with another goal. Back and forth, sun rise and fall. Journey of gods. Journey of man.”

The boy blinked.

“I don’t get it.”

“One day, little-one.”

A shout caught their attention and a woman poked her head from the street. She turned, gasping at the sight of the large man standing before the boy.

“Come here, Blasius!” she called. Her voice was filled with worry. The boy looked at the man, disappointment colouring his features.

“I have to go.”

“Xiitech utsil, little-one.”

The boy ran towards his mother. As he came near, she pulled him close. She had not but suspicion as she cast askance looks his way. Her bonnet lowered and she spoke just loud enough that he could hear.

“Are you alright? Did he do anything to you?”

“We played. He showed me his game.”

Not trusting the words of her own child, the woman took her son’s small hand and shot one last disparaging look towards the stranger. “Best you clear out of here, savage. We ain’t want your kind. Don’t make me get the sheriff.”

She pulled her child away, even as he cried as they went. “But momma, he’s real nice!”

“Hush child, these primitives ain’t got no place in our towns. Best they stay on their plains.”

The man walked over to his gear and collected his things. He picked up one particularly colourful cloth and wrapped it about his waist until he formed a pouch. He then slipped the ball inside, ensuring it was secure before slinging his rifle over his shoulder. Finally, he readjusted the jade beads upon his necklace until the three heads looked once more about him. Their unblinking eyes kept eternal vigilance for their wearer.

He checked his canteen. What little remained sloshed about the bottom. He would have to stop at the town’s well before departing.

Not that he had intentions of staying. This land was not his and he had no desire to invade these people’s lives. They who were unable to tell the difference between the natives of the plains and those that had travelled far from the south. Their ignorance and fear spoke more than their inattentiveness. But it did not bother him.

He was well acquainted with hatred.

And if these people felt they could rid themselves of him then they would learn that the familiar weapon over his shoulder was not for show. If this were his home, he would have more heads upon his necklace for all these ‘sheriffs’ who were supposed to be these villages’ fearsome defenders. But he wasn’t home and he wished to avoid bloodshed when he could.

Unlike the northerners who waged a futile war against the invading ghostmen, he and his people had learned generations ago about their fearsome might. They brought horses and they brought firearms and beneath iron hooves and iron barrels they paved a new territory for themselves with the bodies of the old.

But so many of the natives of these northern plains clutched futile to their old ways, as if somehow their drums and their stones could hold back the invasion.

Pacal knew different. They were unstoppable. For even if every ghostman and woman was slain—and their skulls collected for the great racks—they left behind their armor, their weapons and their ways. Nothing would be the same. Either one learned to use their tools or they gave themselves up to the darkened halls of Xibalba. May as well just lay before the jagged knives and pay the blood debt of the vicious Nahua Ajkin then to try and resist the change that came on the tempest’s winds.

Not that there was home to which he could return. So he wandered and he came to the lands of these strangers to see for himself that which had brought about the end of the world. What he found were a people so frightening in their strangeness and curious familiarity. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t these petty, distrustful, ignorant men.

He walked towards the well, canteen in hand. He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder. Let them come if they so choose. He was so tired of remembering.