Age of Aztec by James Lovegrove Page A

quest package. The pharmacist demanded to be shown ID. The sight of Mal’s Jaguar Warrior badge knocked some of the snootiness out of him.
    “That seems to be in order, madam,” he said. “One has to be careful. One doesn’t sell vision quest packages to just anybody. The law prohibits... but then you already know what the law prohibits.” He was flustered.
    “Don’t panic, I’m not here to bust you. Unless you’ve been selling drug tinctures to people who aren’t certified sane enough to use, which I’m sure you haven’t.”
    “Indeed not! Never!”
    “Then we’re fine. I really am here to buy a package, that’s all.”
    “Then let me be of service. Any particular preference? What sort of vision are you hoping to achieve? Prognostication? Communion with the gods? Self-realisation? Recreation? We have tinctures to suit all sorts, all of them naturally sourced and prepared according to time-honoured recipes.”
    “I’m looking for answers. I need to make a choice.”
    “Any specific choice?”
    “Between men.”
    The pharmacist interpreted this in a certain way and raised an eyebrow. “You’re after a husband?”
    “No, I’m not. And I hope you’re not volunteering.”
    He wanted to snipe back at her, but couldn’t. It didn’t pay to get lippy with a Jaguar. “I misunderstood. I beg your pardon.”
    “I’m just after... clarity, I suppose. Insight into a dilemma.”
    “Ah. Might I recommend, then, a draught of psilocybin mixed with honey? It’s traditional, highly palatable, goes down a treat, and the effects are gentle but potent. I prepare it specially myself, from mushrooms grown by reputable wholesalers, and my customers report back that the results are always satisfactory and that – ahem – ‘bad trips’ are rare.”
    “Okay. If that fits the bill. I’ll take one dose.”
    “Might I enquire whether you’ve had experience with hallucinogens before, madam?”
    “A little. I used to dabble. Nowadays, not so much.”
    “Are you on any medication?”
    “No.”
    “Do you have any underlying chronic health problems?”
    “No.”
    “Any ailments or diseases you’re presently suffering from?”
    “Only premature mortality syndrome,” Mal muttered under her breath.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Nothing. No diseases.”
    “Splendid. I’ve just mixed up a fresh batch of ‘magic honey,’ as it happens. It’s in the cold store. Back in a jiffy.”
     
     
    M AL TOOK THE psilocybin-honey draught home. The pharmacist recommended using it in a familiar, comfortable environment. That would help anchor her, in the event of “problems” occurring. He also suggested she void bladder and bowels beforehand, wear a loose-fitting garment, keep the telephone to hand just in case, and light a single candle but place it well out of reach where it couldn’t be accidentally knocked over. He wished her luck on her vision quest and handed her a receipt so that she could claim back the cost of the trip on expenses.
    Mal set everything up as suggested. She sat herself cross-legged on the floor in a cotton kimono. The candle flickered on the mantelshelf. She held up the little phial of amber-yellow liquid, studying it by the dim flame light. At last she unstoppered it, raised it to her lips, took a deep breath, then swigged the tincture down in one gulp.
    This was it. No going back now.
    She placed the sheet of paper with the suspects’ names on it in front of her, propping it up against a cushion. She ran her gaze over the list countless times until she had memorised them all. Then she closed her eyes.
    The sickly-sweet taste of the tincture clogged the back of her throat. She listened to the sounds in the flat – the whir of the air conditioning in the bedroom, the churn of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the occasional moth’s wingbeat of the candle as it guttered. She listened to the city noises outside too, and the floorboard-creaking footfalls of the young couple in the flat above as they