[Note: Xochipilli is pronounced SHO-chee-PEEL-ee]

Bruno Flores slid out of the limo. Nobody would believe it had been sent just for him. Who’d have thought the hombre from the wrong side of the tracks could make it big in the art world?

He had the god to thank for that—and the man who’d bought the god painting, of course. Bruno would rather have kept the piece, but that would just be crazy, right? The missing canvas tore a hole in his heart, though. It was his best work.

And now he was in demand. Not sure how he felt about that.

As he stood on the drive, wondering whether he should walk right up to the elaborately carved front doors of the mansion or creep around to the back, a young man approached. Bruno’s invitation had mentioned an ancient Native theme, but he’d imagined leather trousers and colorful skirts. The costumed man headed his way wore an elaborate mask beneath a headdress made of feathers and blooming flowers. He was dressed only in a loincloth. Every inch of his skin sported what Bruno hoped were temporary tattoos—flowers, butterflies, and mushrooms—all drawn in the style of the Aztecs.

“Señor Flores,” the greeter called cheerfully, “you’ve arrived. Señor Lozano will be so pleased.”

Sure, he would. The richest dude in town wouldn’t recognize Bruno if he saw him. He’d just want the flavor of the month to make an appearance at his fiesta and impress the masses. Bruno pasted a smile on his face anyway. His new manager wanted him to get out and schmooze more.

The man gestured towards a gate at the side of the huge house. “Call me Diego,” he said. Yep, servant’s entrance it was.

Only it wasn’t. As they made their way around a paved pathway towards the back, a lively tune started up ahead of them somewhere. Nice sound system, not that the man would have anything less. Bruno smelled roasting meat and the yeasty pong of beer.  Well, it was a good night for an outdoor shindig. The sun was just setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that made Bruno want to pick up a brush and try to reproduce them.

He nearly ran into the back of his guide, who’d stopped to open a second gate, this one taller than either of them and made of wrought iron twisted into delicate patterns. Looked like butterflies. Maybe Lozano was a collector or something. Who knew what kind of crazy hobbies the rich pursued? After all, Lozano had tossed enough pesos at his Xochipilli painting to catapult Bruno into stardom.

He called the piece “Seven Flower,” after Xochipilli’s alter-ego, Chicomexochitl, the god in charge of painters and writers. Maybe he could catch a glimpse of his painting tonight. He still had the preliminary studies, of course, but it wasn’t at all the same. He hadn’t realized how much it would hurt, parting with the piece.

Bruno glanced back and spotted another costumed guide escorting a couple around the side of the house. The man was wearing a tux and his plus-one’s floor-length gown matched the red of the sunset.

Bruno glanced down at his best suit. He was so underdressed. He opened his mouth to make an excuse to his guide. Diego took one look at his face and frowned.

“You’re not going to let Señora Abernathy-Smythe get to you, are you? She can’t even follow directions. This is not a black-tie party, my friend.”

Bruno gave Diego a look, tugging at his jacket lapels. “We both know I’m going to stand out like a coyote at a dog show.”

Diego’s face fell momentarily, then he brightened. “Not necessarily. Boss Man keeps a supply of costumes for just such an occasion. Come with me.”

“Really, I should just–”

“I won’t take no for an answer, amigo.” Diego gestured towards a small doorway almost hidden behind another sculpted shrubbery, this one an abstract twisted shape. “Just trust me.”

Bruno shrugged and followed. At least he could get some of whatever was cooking out there. The scent had set his stomach rumbling. A cold beer would be nice, too. Hopefully, the prices wouldn’t be too steep. He could tell his manager he’d attended the party—no need to say for how long.

Diego led him through a darkened hallway into what looked like an oversized closet. Row upon row of professional quality costumes hung upon portable rods. Dresses, jackets and pants—even a few fuzzy animal outfits, their heads dangling like ridiculous trophies. Lozano must really like parties.

Diego dug around, shoving costumes one way, then another. “I know we have—ah, here you go.”

He pulled out a leather shirt and pants, both baggy enough to be “one size fits all” for most men. “Generic tribesman. Covers anything you might be embarrassed to have hanging out in the breeze.”

Bruno eyed Diego’s costume pointedly. Aside from the loincloth, he sported only the tattoos, plus wrist and ankle bands made of leaves and flowers. Tiny bells sewn into the bands tinkled as he moved. Someone had done their homework when it came to this masquerade. Diego could have stepped from an old mural. He grinned at Bruno and passed over the outfit.

Costume donned, Bruno chose the smallest, least elaborate mask from a box then followed his guide until they emerged at the stone pathway again. 

“Everything in this garden,” Diego said, gesturing ahead as they strode towards the music, “will either be psychotropic, or can be used to create something that is.”

Bruno lifted an eyebrow underneath his mask. The things rich people did.

“What’s with all the butterflies?” He had already counted three different carved shrubs and two sculptures.

“Butterflies and flowers,” replied his guide. “The garden is dedicated to their god.”

“Psycho-whatsis flowers.” Now which old god was in charge of butterflies?

“Exactly.” Diego beckoned Bruno forward. “É voilà. La fiesta!”

Bruno wasn’t exactly certain what he’d see beyond the final gate. A bad imitation of a spaghetti Western? The ballroom scene from Labyrinth? He stepped through the gate in front of his guide, who swung the wrought iron structure shut behind them. 

The first thing that hit him was the odor of roasting meat and vegetables, ripe fruit, and on top of everything, the scent of hops. Once his nose had pointed him in the right direction, Bruno felt his artistic center snap to attention. This was a garden that should be in a magazine somewhere. Huge blossoms and healthy green leaves, more sculpted shrubbery and statuary, and throughout it all, comfortable seating nooks that encouraged you to stop and take in the vistas.

Bruno did just that for a moment, again, wishing he had a canvas or notebook and pastels. He didn’t recognize any of the flowers blooming, but the scent was heady and almost overpowered the odor wafting from the grill at the other end of the garden. Strings of fairy lights illuminated the scene. Bruno brushed a hand against a bright red blossom nearly as large as his palm and as soft as silk.

“Those are poppies,” Diego murmured. “You make opium from the seed pods.”

Right, he’d said everything was some sort of drug. Rich people.

The superb sound system turned out to be a live band, set up across the garden from the grill. A few guests danced on a small courtyard but most simply wandered among the plants, their costumes as colorful as the blooms. Servants in feathered capes bustled about refilling drinks and taking empty plates. He’d have to paint this sometime, just to satisfy his muse.

“I need to head back and ferry more guests,” Diego said, placing his hand at Bruno’s back and giving a gentle shove forward. “Go get some food and drink. Have a little fun.”

Bruno’s stomach rumbled again at that point, reminding him he’d forgotten to eat lunch. He made his way through the guests scattered along the paved pathways, trying not to stare openly. Most of them had at least made an effort at costuming, the men wearing loincloths or woven trousers and the women in brightly striped Native dresses. The rest wore black tie.

The long line at the grill almost changed his mind about food, but it seemed to be moving quickly. Bruno finally stepped forward, to be handed a paper plate loaded with tortillas, a variety of fruits and vegetables, and three different types of meats. Nobody asked for payment. He followed the line to the drinks table. Looked as if their host wanted people to imbibe. The bartenders were offering beer, several kinds of wine, tequila, and even pulque.

Bruno had never developed a taste for the local beverage, so he reached for a beer. Just as he put out his hand, someone behind him reached across for a container of pulque and their cups collided.

Bruno flinched as the beer puddled on the tablecloth, then started dripping onto the pathway. Way to impress the elite. His face felt as if it were on fire. He looked around for something he could use to wipe up his spill.

“No worries,” the bartender called, handing Bruno a fresh Solo cup brimming with foam. He brandished a bar towel in his other hand.

“It was my fault,” said a mellow voice from Bruno’s shoulder. “The pulque called to me and—why, it’s Señor Flores!”

Bruno’s shoulders tensed again. It was going to take some time before he became used to being recognized by the masses. Although, these people hardly qualified as masses. Any one of them could probably buy his whole studio apartment from the change compartment in their Rolls Royce.

He turned his head. Handsome, of course. Señor Uber-Rich Lozano probably hand-picked beautiful people to decorate his gardens. Interestingly enough, this fellow had left off the mask, choosing to paint his face instead, a rich corn-yellow, with swipes of a darker shade below his high cheekbones. Those cheekbones shouted Native blood, as did the dark shade of the skin not painted.

A friendly smile dimpled the tinted cheeks. Like Bruno, the man’s hands were both occupied with a plate of food and now a large cup of pulque. Maybe it was the yellow paint, but Bruno was suddenly reminded of his masterpiece. This fellow would make a perfect model for more god canvases—wide dark eyes with a spark of mischief, a dancer’s build, and those cheekbones.

Bruno couldn’t just blurt out his desire, however. He’d learned that much, social misfit though he may be. He’d ease into the modeling offer. He returned the man’s smile and sipped his beer, waiting for the other to initiate the conversation.

“I simply adore your ‘Seven Flower,’” the man said, pointing with his chin towards an empty bench beneath a flowering shrub. “Shall we sit and eat while I shower you with compliments?”

Bruno couldn’t help but chuckle, though his face still felt hot. “I’m always open to flattery,” he replied, following his guide to the bench. 

“Call me Chico,” the man said, dropping gracefully to a seat. A shell-and-jade necklace that probably cost more than Bruno’s moped jingled as the man moved. He’d really taken the costume thing to heart.

The carved stone was cool against Bruno’s legs and flowers scented the air around them. “Bruno,” he told his companion. “Señor Flores makes me feel old.”

He forked up a bite of pork and chewed. Chico did the same and for a few minutes, they sat in silence, paying homage to the talents of the chef.

“I’m curious,” Bruno ventured at last, dabbing his mouth with the paper napkin. “Where is ‘Seven Flower’ displayed?”

Chico grinned, making Bruno think even more strongly of the god he’d tried to convey through his canvas. “You need to have someone give you the two-cent tour of the house.”

Not likely. Maybe Lozano would let him inside just long enough to see the piece, though. He speared a chunk of ripe mango. “I don’t believe I’d be on that list, amigo.”

Chico’s smile shifted, became less mischievous. He set down his cup and placed a hand on Bruno’s shoulder. “My friend, you need to start believing. Your work will command respect now that people have taken notice of your talent.”

Bruno’s face heated up again. He studied the paving stones, willing the blush to fade. Suddenly, he noticed a pattern carved into the stones. “Are those mushrooms?”

“Didn’t they tell you about this garden? Everything in here–”

“Will get you high, yeah I remember.” Bruno shook his head. Rich people’s fancies. “Señor Lozano needs a statue of Xochipilli, the old god of pleasure.”

“Ah, but if you wind your way to the center of the maze,” said Chico, “you’ll find one. You’re encouraged to leave an offering.”

Bruno’s left eyebrow went up. “You’re not telling me some rich dude actually believes in the old gods. Or is it just one more piece in the hallucinogenic garden?”

Chico ate the last piece of steak from his plate, collected Bruno’s now-empty one, and held them out at shoulder-height. Before Bruno could comment on the odd behavior, one of the caped servants swooped in and collected the dirty plates, tossing them into a trash can near a table holding various desserts. Rich folks took such service for granted, evidently.

“I assure you,” Chico said, wiping his hands on a napkin, “there is no more devout house in all of Mexico than this one. Come, let me show you the maze.”

Bruno glanced about. He was supposed to be mingling, not hobnobbing with one of the rich hombres. But nobody else was looking their way and the idea of the statue at the middle of the maze intrigued him. Who better to preside over a crazy garden like this than Xochipilli?

He rose, taking his beer with him. Chico was still sipping his pulque. He waved his free hand towards a bed of cacti. “Peyote, of course. And you’ve seen the poppies already. Over there, you can see Salvia and Datura.”

“What’s that palm tree with the red berries?” Bruno challenged.

“Betel. And we have some Coca near that.” Chico swung open a small gate at waist height. The actual hedge maze was little taller. Bruno glanced to the center. Yes, there was a statue there, of some sort of reddish stone. It looked ancient, weathered and faded. It had been adorned with flower necklaces and crowns, and several plates holding unidentifiable substances were scattered along the base.

Chico gestured for Bruno to precede him. The pathway through the maze was one of those circular spirals, not a labyrinth. You were supposed to feel in tune with the universe or something by the time you reached the middle. Bruno just felt mildly buzzed. He examined the statue up close. It was Xochipilli all right, one he’d seen in a magazine. Could it be an original carving?

The god squatted, arms crossed on top of his knees. He was one of the few Old Ones who didn’t go in for a blood sacrifice, and his demeanor reflected his laid-back attitude. He looked as if he were just chilling at the sidelines of a game, or maybe waiting his turn for one of the filled pipes Bruno spotted at the statue’s base.

A few joints had also been deposited there, and the plates held such offerings as peyote buttons and mushrooms. Chico tipped his cup until some of his pulque dribbled onto the statue’s base, then casually plucked one of the joints from the god’s stash and raised it to his mouth. 

“Should you do that?” Bruno asked. “I thought it was an offering.”

Chico let out a howl of laughter as a caped waiter hurried over to light the joint. Bruno felt an almost irresistible urge to join in the merriment, though he had no idea what was so funny. Chico took a deep drag and grinned, releasing the smoke through his nostrils. “If anyone in this garden is entitled,” he chuckled, “it’s me.”

The light bulb suddenly went off over Bruno’s head. He barely kept from spewing his gulp of beer over his host. “Señor Lozano,” he muttered, his face going brighter than the last threads of the brilliant sunset. 

Bruno should have done some homework before coming here. At least Googled a photo of the man. “Chico,” indeed.

Señor Lozano gestured towards his chest with the joint. “I do answer to that name,” he said, his cheeks dimpled. “But today, I am Chico. You should be able to guess what it’s short for. Would you like to see where I’ve hung ‘Seven Flower’?”

Would he?!

“If I may ask,” Bruno ventured, trying for nonchalance, “what made you decide it was worth that much?”

“Ah,” said Lozano, taking another drag on the joint. “I have a small, but devout, collection. ‘Seven Flower’ will fit in nicely.”

And that didn’t answer Bruno’s question. Before he could rephrase his query, Lozano handed his empty pulque cup to a passing waiter and took Bruno’s arm.

“Come see,” he said, blowing a smoke ring.

Bruno stiffened at the unrequested contact but swallowed the last of his beer and allowed himself to be steered to what he supposed passed as Lozano’s back door—a wall of glass with a sliding panel allowing access to the inside of the house. The interior had been professionally decorated in what Bruno privately called Desert Chic, with colors like sand and maize and splashes of bright red and turquoise. They passed through a living area filled with conversation nooks and comfortable lounging furniture, and Lozano led the way into a long hallway.

“This is my sanctum,” he announced, pulling open one of the inner doors. 

The beauty beyond punched Bruno’s midsection hard. Sculpture, jewelry, watercolors, and even an Aztec mural along the back wall. Everything Xochipilli. Some of the pieces were antiques, who knew how old? And there, framed between a modern bronze and an ancient stone carving, was ‘Seven Flower,” displayed as the focus of the room, with soft lighting directed on the god’s ecstatic face.

It took Bruno a minute to absorb the essence of the room so he could speak. When he did, it came out as a hoarse rasp. “I didn’t know there was this much Xochipilli artwork in the world.”

Lozano smiled proudly. “Many of these pieces are special commissions. Directly inspired, you might say.”

Bruno had certainly felt directly inspired himself, painting “Seven Flower.” He still had no idea where that had come from. The image had just flowed from somewhere else, through his fingers and onto the canvas. Was that what a muse felt like? 

He stared at his own work. Had he really done that?

“I look forward to a long and fruitful partnership with you,” Lozano said. ‘With Chicomexochitl behind you, your career will take off.”

Chicomexochitl, “Seven Flower.” Maybe Lozano was right, and Bruno would be set for life. It’d be nice. The rest of these artists must have made it big with their Xochipilli pieces over the years.

He glanced around the remarkable room again, suddenly seeing a similarity among the work. Though centuries separated some of the pieces, it was as if each artist had used one model, as if each tried to capture the same vision. He looked back at “Seven Flower.” The god’s face looked like the two statues on either side of the painting—but one was modern and one ancient. What was going on here?

Bruno leaned forward to peer closely at a golden necklace with the face of Xochipilli as a stylized sun. Yes, it was the same face as his “Seven Flower” and the statues. The same face staring back at him from all around the room. Behind him, Lozano cleared his throat loudly and Bruno’s spine tingled. He straightened. It couldn’t be.

Mentally, he removed the yellow paint from Lozano’s face and compared the result. He whirled in place, taking two steps back until he came up against the jewelry case and could go no further.

Lozano—“Chico!”—grinned like a boy with a water balloon behind his back. “You’ve seen it,” he said. “I knew an artist would.”

“Chicomexochitl,” Bruno managed to whisper. What was he supposed to do now—kneel? Fling himself onto his face? How was a man from the wrong side of town supposed to handle meeting his god?

He couldn’t even meet the god’s gaze, could only stare at the tiled floor of the room. This couldn’t end well, could it? Wait, what had “Chico” said?

“Partnership?” Bruno rasped, daring a glance at the god’s face. 

The god’s cheeks dimpled again, that mischievous smirk back on his face. He took a drag on the joint and blew a plume of smoke toward Bruno’s face. “Isn’t that what every artist wants?” he asked. “A muse—a patròn?”

“You created ‘Seven Flower!’”

“No, you did. I merely inspire.” The god’s smile softened. His gaze grew thoughtful. “And so very few respond. It’s not like the old days, you know, when they made an offering and expected something in return.”

Bruno swallowed the lump in his throat. “I…how would this work?” He still felt the urge to kneel on the hard floor.

“It would work as it worked for ‘Seven Flower,” came the reply. “Only now, I may show up in person to model for you now and then.”

Right. A literal god was planning to show up in his studio. He’d better tidy up. “How would I …er…pay you for modeling then?”

“Chico” let out another contagious laugh. “It’s the other way around, actually. You produce the art, and I will purchase what I wish, as I have with ‘Seven Flower.’ I’ll see they’re properly shown, of course, in the galleries and my private collections.”

Bruno took what felt like the first deep breath in several long minutes. “Do you…but what about sacrifices?”

“Ah, yes.” “Chico” grinned again, reminding Bruno of nothing less than a hungry coyote. “One must always sacrifice for true art.”

This was a terrible idea—wasn’t it? “What, exactly, does a sacrifice to Chicomexochitl entail?”

“Thinking of still-beating hearts, are we?” Another chuckle. “You mortals watch way too much television. I like flowers and butterflies.” He raised the hand holding his joint. “And, of course, the occasional quality entertainment.” 

“Chico’s” face turned solemn then. “But don’t think this is going to be easy. Real talent never is. It’s long days and sleepless nights and aching hands and–”

“—trying to put what’s in my mind onto the canvas,” said Bruno, catching on at last.

“That’s the hardest of all. Your minds can’t absorb all of a god at once. And even if you could, how could you convey that experience? Paint can only do so much.”

Bruno thought hard for a moment, then nodded. “What now?”

His god laughed again. “I think you should start by getting used to your new-found fame, amigo. Maybe buy a house instead of renting.”

“But the light’s perfect in my–I mean…whatever you say.”

“Inspiration, remember? No orders. Way too busy for micromanagement.” “Chico” took Bruno’s arm again, raising the hairs all the way along Bruno’s spine. “I’ll stop by next week sometime—as Lozano—and we’ll sign some papers commissioning a new painting.”

He tugged Bruno’s arm, pulling him towards one of the display cases on the left. “But let me show you my collection, amigo. I think you’ll appreciate it.”

Were all gods this… enthusiastic? Chicomexochitl acted like a little boy showing off his toy  collection. Well, Bruno could have done much worse in the muse department. He could have gotten one of those “still-beating heart” Aztec gods.

He followed “Chico” around the room, responding to each piece with hopefully appropriate appreciation. To be honest, it all started to blend together as his brain tried to make sense of what just happened. Was he really getting the two-centavo tour of a mansion by a god masquerading as the richest man in Mexico City?

“Chico” eventually pulled Bruno back into the main room to show off a larger statue. Just as he began explaining its provenance, he stopped in mid-sentence.

“Must run,” he said, taking a last drag on the butt of his joint and crushing it out on the stone fireplace, “One of the children just left an intriguing offering at the maze.”

“Do you…er…always answer in person?” Bruno asked, following the god onto the patio again.

“Mostly not, but this is another of my artists and I have a soft touch for you creatives.” “Chico” trotted off toward the hedge maze.

Bruno dropped heavily onto a bench at the edge of the garden, putting his face into his hands.

“I see you’ve met Señor Lozano,” a voice said at his side. Bruno looked up to find Diego, a red Solo cup in one hand and a sympathetic expression on his face. The man lowered himself to a seat beside Bruno and the two stared out over the gardens for a moment.

“Is he really–?” Bruno couldn’t finish the thought aloud.

Diego clapped Bruno’s shoulder. “He really is. It’s not so bad, though. He’s usually off blessing something instead of bossing us around.”

Bruno looked across the garden, where “Chico” was deep in conversation with a woman in a striped Native skirt. What had she asked for with her offering?

Would “Chico” really accept a bouquet over illegal substances? Where was Bruno going to find live butterflies?

Abuelita had predicted a lonely, boring career for Bruno if he tried to make it in the art world. For just a moment, he wished she’d been right.

[E.J. Murray lives in Upstate South Carolina in a little house filled with books and photographs.They write character-driven science fiction about aliens exiled from a hive mind society.  When not off in their own little universe, they can usually be found wandering around with a camera in one fist. They have published short stories in several anthologies, most recently Carolina Crimes: Rock, Roll, and Ruin. They are currently working on their first sci-fi novel.]