The Black Resurrection

by Nick Wisseman

  Amadi studied the others as the Nippon advanced. Chase continued to distract Shoteka with the fire llama. Isaura’s face was a frozen mix of rage and horror. She hadn’t moved yet. She probably couldn’t. And Da—

  Da was staring at the tunnel.

  “You came for a boy,” Amadi guessed, remembering the child Capac had described. “An original boy who can survive the mine better than anyone else. A boy who can switch things, change properties.”

  Haru slowed. “How did you know that?”

  “But you can’t find him,” Amadi continued, registering how tired everyone looked. “Even though you’ve been trying since the battle ended.”

  “That’s why the dead aren’t buried,” Haru admitted. “Da hasn’t given us a break.” She glanced at a squat building with several chimneys for a moment, then shook her head.

  “And now he’s hoping Jie will copy my spirit armor if you force it to heal me?”

  “I guess so.”

  “What if I find the boy for you?”

  Haru exchanged a flurry of words with Da. “He says that would be better—a surer thing. Can you?”

  “Maybe. I heard a little about him on the way here.” Like his name: Urcon. But Amadi wasn’t going to reveal that if he didn’t have to. So he studied the tunnel. A stone-block arch marked its entrance. The construction was crude, yet nothing about it suggested Capac’s uku pacha. Still—there were too many stories to doubt that La Mina de la Muerte was the last place a child should be. “Will you hurt him?”

  “ … Da says no.”

  “You’re not going to cut him?”

  Haru grimaced. “I think that only works with you.”

  “I suppose I don’t have any choice but to trust you?”

  “I wouldn’t, but it’s probably that or the cutting.”

  “Right.” Amadi gauged the distance to the cart again. His old bone-spear didn’t scare him. (How had Haru gotten it, anyway? Had the tide washed it out of that cove on Panma’s coast?) And he’d endured Chase’s fire before. But if someone missed, and hit Shoteka or Isaura …

  No. Fighting was out. For now. Staying to endure torture didn’t sound much better—too passive, and all eyes would be on him. There was no edge to be gained there.

  That left the mine. “You think he’s in there?”

  “That’s what the other miners said—the ones who survived. Except they can’t find him, even though his skin is supposed to be gray. Neither can the Espans. Or us. But Da had the guild master halt operations so we can search.”

  Da interjected something impatient sounding.

  “Are you going in?” Haru asked.

  Amadi cast one more look at Isaura. Her face remained a mask. “How is Da controlling you?”

  The Nippon’s face grew equally blank.

  “Never mind. I’ll find the boy.”

  “Good,” Haru replied, her eyes returning to normal. “Da says you have until nightfall.”

  Amadi grunted and trotted toward the tunnel.

  “Two more things,” she called after him.

  A second later, an arrow punched through his side.

  The impact knocked him off balance, and the rush of pain unsteadied him further. But he managed not to fall, and when he looked back, he found Da lowering a bow; the Han had probably claimed it from one of the vanquished originals.

  “Leave it in,” Haru said. “So the wound stays fresh.”

  Amadi spat out a cup’s worth of blood. After taking a moment to gather himself, he gripped the rear of the shaft and broke it off, then did the same to the front. “I don’t want it in the way.” The spirit armor’s thick energy swirled around what was left, closing over the holes in his skin. Given enough time, the protective force might break down the wood. But that could take weeks. In the meantime, his healing would stay active—just as Da had hoped. And every breath would burn. “What else?”

  The awe on Haru’s face was as plain as the loathing for her next words. “If you don’t return, Chase won’t be the one to punish Shoteka …”

  Amadi turned and resumed running, faster this time.

  But he couldn’t outdistance the rest of Haru’s reluctant translation: “… Da will make Isaura do it.”

  And with that threat in his ears and an arrow in his lungs, Amadi sprinted into the Mine of Death.

  Chapter Thirty

  Urcon

  Urcon watched as a tall, bloody Afrii grabbed one of the torches mounted inside the mine’s entrance and pounded toward the first junction. His pace was reckless. The main tunnel was smooth enough, but the rest dipped and curved like passages in an anthill, connected by ladders and rough, uneven surfaces. The man was already limping, and he was likely to sprain his ankle at any moment. Or worse. If he took a wrong turn, he could easily run into an umpe pocket before his torch sputtered enough to signal the foul air’s presence.

  But Urcon didn’t warn the tall Afrii as he flew past, even though his long feet slapped the ground a few inches away. The mine had been filled with strangers of late, mostly white men stumbling around like baby alpacas. A few of the miners had been in and out as well, but the pick-men didn’t carry their picks, and the ore-carriers didn’t shoulder their bags. They were looking for something other than quicksilver.

  Or someone. The day before, on the third slope near the long ladder, one of the pick-men had murmured, “Stay hidden, O Huaca of the Mine.”

  Trusting a new face wouldn’t be wise.

  Even so, something about the Afrii’s determined strides intrigued Urcon, so he followed the tall man once his torch’s light had shrunk to a dull glow. He’d slowed down now that he was deeper in the mine, and he was staying to the right. It wasn’t a bad tactic for a first-time visitor, but if he followed it much longer, he’d end up in an old section filled with umpe.

  Urcon padded forward, moving as quickly as he could without making noise. A few weeks ago, he’d softened the soles of his feet by trading their texture for that of a rat’s. But at a certain speed, he’d still give himself away.

  He’d figured out how to use his sound-sight without anyone noticing, though. Acquired from a bat, the ability let him map the tunnels by squeaking. Normal people couldn’t hear it, but the echoes told him how close objects were, even if he couldn’t “see” them. There was no better way to follow the Afrii in the dark.

  Cursing and stomping from the main entrance suggested the clumsy white men had entered the mine again, but Urcon ignored them. They could search for him all they wanted, but they wouldn’t find him as long as—

  “Urcon,” the Afrii called in Espan.

  He didn’t yell it, and he was far enough down that the sound probably wouldn’t carry to anyone else. But Urcon didn’t like having his name on a stranger’s lips—not when he was being hunted. How did the Afrii know it? The Espans didn’t.

  Was it time to hide? His Colors Room was only a few turns and a ladder away. He could be there inside a minute, tucked behind the blanket he’d disguised to look like the surrounding wall. But then the Afrii might keep calling his name, and everyone would know it.

  Unless the tall man blundered into an umpe pocket. He was dangerously close to one now. A few more steps and he’d be in poisonous air. Urcon would have to hurry if—

  “Urcon,” the Afrii called again. “I know what you can do, and I need your help.”

  Now Urcon froze. Only a few of his friends and family had any idea what it meant for him to trade something. And none of them knew what he’d become. There was no way this Afrii could have learned the truth. All he had was a name. There was no power in that. Not for a foreigner.

  But still.

  “Urcon,” the Afrii called a third time. Please. I—”

  Then he choked.

  Urcon sped up, moving faster than his softened soles could conceal. But he’d delayed too long. When he reached the edge of the umpe pocket, the Afrii was sprawled on the floor, his arm stretched toward his extinguished torch.

  Yet he s
till breathed.

  * * *

  The Afrii coughed when he woke.

  It was a natural reaction. Even though no one had swung a pickaxe in the mine for over a day, the air was still thick with sour dust and the stench of sweat. Urcon had coughed too after he’d dragged the tall man out of the umpe and stopped holding his breath. Then he’d made a second trip to fetch the Afrii’s torch, relit it, and leaned the shaft against the wall. That done, Urcon had moved beyond the light’s reach and waited.

  It hadn’t taken long. Sooner than he’d expected, the tall man’s eyes fluttered open, and after hacking out some reddened dust, he sat up and looked around. The umpe was even more invisible than Urcon, but the Afrii seemed to recognize that he was no longer in the spot he’d fallen.

  “Is anyone there?” he asked softly. “Urcon?” he tried a moment later.

  Where had he learned that?

  The Afrii stood and reclaimed his torch. Slowly, as if his bloody side hurt more than he’d let on before, he walked toward the umpe patch, torch first. When the flame flickered, he nodded and pulled back. “Capac warned me about that,” the tall man said. “I suppose I should have listened.”

  Was the Afrii talking to himself? Or did he know someone was still nearby?

  The tall stranger returned to the part of the tunnel where he’d regained consciousness. “Do you remember Capac?” he asked. “A short man, and stout. But brave. He and I escaped the Chincha Islands together. He told me about you on the way here.”

  Urcon resisted the urge to bolt. There was no doubt now: the Afrii was talking to him. And this Capac sounded familiar. A man with that name and build had disappeared from home a few years ago.

  “Capac said you were special,” the Afrii continued as he leaned against the wall, his eyes roaming the tunnel. “Able to switch things. Change properties. It sounds like quite a gift.”

  No—no! His name was one thing, but a stranger shouldn’t know this. Capac shouldn’t have known it.

  The Afrii set the torch down and rolled up one of his sleeves, revealing a series of animal tattoos on his forearm. The light rippled across them like wind over grass, making the images shift and dance. “A gift like that can be used to help people. And if you used it to help me when I fell, I’m grateful.”

  Wait. Hadn’t Thonapa been friends with Capac? Urcon grimaced. His older brother had been loose-lipped when he’d had too much chica. Maybe he’d gone out drinking with Capac after a harvest ceremony and said more than he should have.

  “I also have a gift,” the Afrii said. “But it’s not as good as yours. It can’t help anyone else. Only me.” He picked up the torch and touched the flaming end to his bare forearm.

  Touched it and held it there. Without flinching, even though his flesh was clearly burning.

  Urcon almost cried out for him. The smell was terrible. And he was ruining one of his best tattoos, a swirling depiction of a striped jaguar in mid-pounce.

  Finally, mercifully, the Afrii pulled the torch away. His skin kept crackling, but it wasn’t getting worse. If anything, it was getting … better. The charred edges were smoothing out, their swollen ridges receding as the jaguar’s lines corrected themselves. Within seconds, his arm was unmarked. As if he’d never been burned. As if nothing could truly hurt him.

  Not even the mine.

  “I’ve always thought of it as spirit armor,” the Afrii said. “But wherever it comes from, I never wanted it. I wish I could give it away. With your help, maybe I can.”

  Urcon thought of all his efforts to aid his fellow miners. Pulling the ones he found in time out of the umpe, as he’d done (apparently unnecessarily) for the Afrii. Rolling fresh candles to men whose own had burned out. Swapping tiny bits of ore for beads of water to loosen the walls where the pickmen worked. And all the rest. None of it made much difference. Not compared to what this man’s “spirit armor” could do.

  The tall stranger pointed his torch in the general direction of the mine’s entrance. “There are people outside who need my spirit armor. Will you help me give it to them?”

  Despite the code of caution he’d lived by these last few months, Urcon wanted to say yes. But he heard footsteps.

  A few seconds later, so did the Afrii. He grew quiet as the steps approached, then scowled as a white man rounded into view.

  The new stranger held a pistol instead of a torch, but the ball of flame hovering—hovering!—above its muzzle provided just as much light. Maybe more. Certainly enough to see the handprint-shaped scar on the man’s forehead and the longer mark snaking down his neck.

  Before he could come closer, the Afrii snarled something in a different language. The white man’s response sounded like an apology, but the Afrii didn’t seem to accept it. His next words were just as angry. After another quick exchange, the white man shook his head and resumed walking.

  Forward—toward the umpe pocket.

  His next few steps took him past Urcon, and once again, he was tempted to reach out and stop a stranger from wandering into peril. But he didn’t move.

  Neither did the Afrii. When the white man drew near him and motioned for him to make way, he only crossed his arms and glared.

  He looked torn, though. As if part of him wanted to move aside and let the white man walk into dead air. Or maybe the Afrii just wanted to fight. His hands were clenched so tight Urcon was surprised not to hear bones snap. For a solid minute, the tension in the tunnel was as thick as the dust.

  What would happen if these two men—shamans both—squared off a few feet from Urcon? Nothing good. He’d have to risk discovery to flee to a safer hiding place.

  It didn’t come to that. The Afrii eventually murmured something to the white man. The white man considered it, turned around, and went back the way he’d come.

  “There are other people outside,” the Afrii noted after the white man disappeared around the first bend. “Bad people.” He tapped his side, which no longer seemed to be bleeding. “I don’t want them to have my spirit armor, but I think they’ll try to take it … I think it’s why I’m here.”

  The Afrii slid down the wall until he was sitting. “I probably don’t have to tell you that going out there will be dangerous. I’ll protect you as best as I can, but the bad people are powerful, and the worst of them is controlling the others. Although … If you’re willing to risk yourself for me, you should know the truth: I’m a bad person too.”

  Urcon wrinkled his nose at this, then regretted the motion, small as it had been.

  But the Afrii seemed not to have noticed. His gaze still swept around the tunnel, resting on nothing. “I was a slaver,” he clarified at last. “I took Alladans, Hausans, Whydans—even Foim—and sold them to white men. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care. I just wanted my money. Until the day another slaver ambushed me, and I became a slave myself.

  “Then I saw,” the Afrii said, closing his eyes as if to see better, to remember. “Then I learned what being a white man’s slave truly meant. And I wanted to die.

  “Except my spirit armor wouldn’t let me. Even though I didn’t deserve its protection. Even though I begged the vodun to give it to a Whydan girl named Oseye. She was kind and brave—everything I wasn’t. But my ‘gift’ was mine and mine alone.

  “So now I atone. Every day, I struggle to atone … And it will never be enough.”

  He opened his eyes. No tears emerged, but Urcon didn’t doubt they could. The Afrii’s pupils had become pits of sadness.

  “I think you’re better than me,” he whispered. “You helped me, a stranger, when you didn’t have to. And you live here, in the mine. Who knows what you do for food and water, or how you survive the quicksilver’s touch. But I bet you do it to help others.”

  Urcon bit his lip. Finding food was the most ordinary task. There wasn’t any in the mine, so he had to sneak out at night, when the tunnels were empty. Water he took care of by pulling it from the air and swapping it for the quicksilver he’d absorbed—same as he did for t
he miners when he was able to lay hands on them for a second. They thought keeping a brass coin in their mouths alongside their coca leaves pulled the mercury out of their body. The truth was that he had to be their brass coin.

  But as for why he stayed in the mine … did he actually know?

  “Maybe you lost a family member to this evil,” the Afrii said, as if he’d read Urcon’s thoughts. “Or a friend.”

  He had. Thonapa had died an azagado a year ago. Father’s dust-clogged lungs had given out the year before that.

  “Maybe you’re tired of seeing your people ground down for others’ profit. Or maybe you just think it’s unfair that you can endure what others can’t.”

  Both.

  “I can’t say, except that they’re all reasons I understand. And if you can understand me—if you’re there—I hope you’ll help me. But it’s your choice. I won’t force anyone else to go with me. Not again. Not ever.”

  Urcon bit the same part of his lip. Even more than before, he wanted to say yes. But he couldn’t. To gain the bat’s sound-sight, he’d had to give it his voice—the trade wouldn’t have worked otherwise. It wouldn’t have been equal value.

  For a while, he’d kept tabs on the bat (which no longer flew so well) by listening for the words it spoke, random phrases that had scared more than a few overseers. But he’d lost track of the animal a week ago. There was no getting his speech back.

  And if he stepped away from the wall and into the light, the Afrii would see only a boy whose skin and tunic matched the mine. Was that worth anything? Should he slip back to his Color Room and reclaim the browns, and the pinks, and all the other hues he’d traded to make himself look like stone?

  The Afrii exhaled loudly and stood. “You’re a fool, Amadi,” he muttered as he started to walk, then jog the way he’d come.

  But this time, when the stranger passed by Urcon, he reached out.

  Chapter Thirty-One