Her fingers paused at the dent in the Mask, the single blemish caused when Mofo had hurled it against a wall. Kalisha had smoothed it as much as possible, but despite her efforts, the imperfection remained. She hated Mofo for the way he had defaced her prize when he discarded it – and her. Her ambition to be his consort one day was now as dead as the tsotsis’ rule of the streets.
And the Mask had saved her life.
Kalisha remembered the night a Muvuli had come for her. She had seen other tsotsis attacked, yet she had, child-like, refused to believe the same thing could ever happen to her – until it did.
Fear had clutched at her heart when she saw a second shadow materialize behind her. It had pulled a dagger from the silhouetted simulacrum of cloth at its waist, even as Kalisha’s own weapon – and her natural shadow’s – remained in its hiding place. She had stood frozen in fear as the Muvuli’s blade rose, then began to fall ....
Then the light of the Blue Robes’ night-sun glinted from the silver surface of the Mask. And a luminous shaft of illumination pointed the way to an open sewer – the way to the Underground.
Kalisha had not hesitated. She dove toward the opening even as the second Muvuli’s dagger barely missed her own shadow’s back. The dark mouth of the sewer swallowed her whole, and the Blue Robes’ shadow could not pursue her into it. She was safe.
At first, she had loathed the noisome stench of the Underground. And she missed the sun’s light and warmth. And she longed for the sound of other people’s voices, and the sight and touch of them. Eventually, however, those yearnings passed. She came to realize that the Muvuli would never find her as long as she remained below. And neither could other tsotsis bent on stealing the Mask from her.
Before going into the Underground, Kalisha had not failed to notice the covetous glances some of the surviving tsotsis of the Maim had cast at the bundle that was always clutched in her arms. It had to contain something of value ... something worth stealing. Small as Kalisha was, however, there was a glint in her eyes that warned would-be thieves to beware. It was like looking into the eyes of a cobra.
Kalisha was not alone in the Underground. The Mask served as both her companion and her friend. The only time she spoke aloud was when she spoke to the Mask.
She remembered how Tiyana had donned the Mask during ceremonies at the Beit Amiya. She had seen Tiyana become one with the goddess. In her fronting persona, she had been all but invisible to Tiyana and the others she served, so they seldom, if ever, shooed her away. She had watched and listened; observing much, but understanding little.
More than once, Kalisha had wondered what it would be like to place the Mask’s face over hers. How snugly would it fit her? Would she, too, become one with Nama-kwah, as Tiyana had?
Now, the Mask was hers. She could put it on any time she wanted, and her curiosity would be satisfied. And, on several occasions, she had begun to do so. But each time, something stopped her hands before they could place the Mask over her head. It was as though another, unseen hand placed itself gently, but firmly, over hers, exerting just enough pressure to restrain her without hurting her.
Eventually, Kalisha realized that the Mask would let her know when it wanted her to put it on. Until that time came, she would remain Underground, out of the reach of tsotsis and Muvuli alike. She would remain in the darkness as long as she had to. The Mask would tell her when she should put it on, and leave the Underground, and see the sun and the Moon Stars again.
She ran her fingers across the face of Nama-kwah. And she sang a wordless song in a voice corroded from lack of use.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Uloan Fears
1
Legaba’s Realm lay silent and inert. Its sky was like the inside of a leaden bowl: gray, flat and featureless. Its sourceless light had grown so dim that the landscape it illuminated was almost invisible, shrouded in a shadowy pall like the overhanging smoke from some massive, cataclysmic conflagration, or a fog that encompassed the entire world.
The trees that dotted the endless swamp drooped like gigantic, wilted flowers. Their branches hung even lower than they had before; some of them snapping off and falling, then floating aimlessly in fetid water. A colorless scum rimed the swamp’s surface. Occasionally, bubbles would rise in the water, as though something underneath was struggling to breathe. Those bubbles were the only indication of life in all the dreary the dreary vistas of Legaba’s Realm. His Children ... the crocodiles, the serpents, the hordes of spiders ... had all vanished after Almovaar’s departure. The Spider God was alone.
Legaba himself had remained motionless beneath the shattered remnants of the trees that had once surrounded him like a palisade. Now, only jagged stumps remained. The fragments of their trunks and limbs had long since drifted away or sunk to the bottom of the swamp.
The Spider God had greatly diminished in size. Before, his bulk would have dwarfed even that of an elephant in the Beyond World. However, his losing battle against Almovaar had reduced his substance to an irregularly-shaped sphere about the size of a buffalo.
Legaba’s innumerable tentacles were gone. The eight crimson stars that were his eyes no longer shone, leaving him as monochromatic as a piece of shale.
