Sandpaper Kiss

by Angel Wedge

  “Have you got any reason to return to the villages?” the conversation in the elevator was almost a monologue, but that didn’t matter. He was very good at channeled rage, and stunningly efficient at making the other tribesmen do what he wanted, but Uvi had no political schemes when it came to ruling the amerikanjie. He just wanted his own people to follow him. Barishkov had worked out a long time ago that the giant was a lot like him in many ways: as long as you were giving orders that would benefit him, he didn’t need to say anything and would just nod. “Might be a good idea to make yourself scarce in a month or two. I think I can persuade that imbecile to send troops down here, and if they fight back there’s a good chance Bomra will get himself shot. I think you’d be the one to take his place? I’ll be leaving, and I’ll take number 17 with me if you can recapture her by then, so if you can stay out of the assault you might just find yourself in charge here.”

  Uvi just nodded. That was the kind of plan that seemed fine to him.

  * * *

  We had to leave the Jeep, and hope it would be okay for a short time. We were lost almost before we were out of sight. The jungle was so full of detail that it blurred into a maze of dark green and brown from which my memory refused to isolate any one detail. I walked alongside Lucy, offering my hand to help her clamber over knotted roots, but in reality she was sure-footed enough to need no assistance. She could step effortlessly onto low branches, and stretch to reach handholds far enough away that I was sure she must have dislocated her shoulder.

  “Yier!” A deep, angry voice shouted from the jungle gloom, “Ye-kempe! You stop!”

  I stopped. What other option did I have? I realised that Lucy had paused a moment earlier and stood calmly beside me. Marcos, at her other shoulder, froze with muscles tensed, ready to fight. I managed not to jump out of my skin, but my heart was racing.

  The tribesmen didn’t walk towards us, they just appeared from the shadows. I couldn’t believe how close they had been without us seeing them, but then every man had skin that almost matched the bark of the trees, and wore only wooden accessories and short kilts of woven leaves. They were almost invisible until they moved. There were about a dozen in sight, all armed. But I was glad to see that as well as the obvious warriors, there were two more cautious figures on the edge of the group. Amba, and a wiry elder. I’d hoped that there would be someone who I’d spoken to before, but for Amba to recognise me was the best luck I could have imagined.

  “City boars,” the one who’d shouted stepped closer, growling in the tribal language. Lucy’s hand made a fist inside mine; this was the only language spoken in Lucretia Falls that she didn’t know, and that must be quite stressful for her. “They’re here to lay claim to the jungle, or the Goddess Tomb. The boasźevhe shouldn’t be here. We cut them down now!” I didn’t give the impression of understanding. I felt that this encounter would probably go a little easier if I could hear a little of their thoughts before joining in the conversation.

  On thing was reassuring, though. The facility at Lucretia Falls was Ibaru Hantala to them, the tomb of the Goddess. I’d thought it might be something like that, but hadn’t been able to find the right question to ask. As an albino child, Lucretia had been touched by their goddess. She’d been very bright for her age, too, another quality that the tribes saw as a sign of divine wisdom. Then, the first few entries I’d read from the girl’s diary implied that she had chosen the site for Lucretia Falls, and had been taken ill straight away. The tribal legends said that the souls of the dead followed the river to an underground heaven, and to them it seemed that Lucretia had picked the place she was going to die. She was following their legends, even if unconsciously, and that meant that they couldn’t easily dismiss the girl as an outsider.

  She knew their ways without being taught them. She was resigned to her fate, which they saw as a great virtue. She was pale, touched by the White Lady. She was a wise child. She had chosen to die in the place of the waters. So many coincidences had come together to make Lucretia Faulkner a living goddess to the local tribes, ensuring that they would do whatever her father asked. They would certainly protect the facility as long as the current leaders lived, because the place she had lived her final days had become a shrine, a monument to her memory.

  “You are not among the gods yet, Dia'boun,” the spry elder’s voice had an almost musical cadence as he cut off the young warrior. He even spoke differently, and I immediately guessed that being a little bit different was a way of reminding the tribesmen that the elders – priests, shamans, or whatever they called themselves – weren’t to be grouped in with normal men. As the old man stepped forward, I could see him more clearly. I hoped he wasn’t going to be the only one on our side, because he looked like he might die at any moment. His back was crooked, bent almost double, and he seemed to put most of the weight on his double-helix ornamented spear. His skin was pale and mottled too, as if he’d spent his lifetime getting bleached by the sun. How much of his aged appearance was down to careful acting, I couldn’t be sure. “Who are you to say what we should do with travellers? We are the guardians and caretakers of this forest, and we must protect it so that everyone who wishes to pass through on their way to the underworld may do so. If we would keep people away from any space, we would be as bad as them.”

  “Not if they bring harm to the jungle,” another warrior spoke. This one was a giant of a man, muscles gleaming in the dim light. It could have been the one who’d locked me up in the base, I couldn’t be sure. Uvi, Lucy had called him, a tribesman who didn’t care at all for his ancestors’ standards, but used them in an attempt to take political control of the tribes. When I’d seen him last time I’d only taken in the giant club in his hands and pectorals like an obsidian wall, so I didn’t know if he was the same man facing me now. This man was holding a hatchet as long as my arm, but aside from that I think the wooden bangles around his arms and neck were the same. I wondered if he would recognise me; maybe all Americans look the same to the tribesmen. He didn’t acknowledge me, so I had to assume I was safe for now. At least as long as he was surrounded by others of his tribe, he couldn’t kill me against the elder’s orders.

  “You’re right, we should ask them if they mean us harm.” Amba stepped in to the debate, and quickly turned to face me, a small smile in the corner of his mouth. He must know I was following the conversation, though I’d studied the language a lot more since our last encounter. “I apologise for excluding you from our discussion, traveller. Can I ask what business you have passing through the divine jungle?”

  I didn’t answer right away, distracted by a half laugh from the man who could have been Uvi. Then I remembered that in their faith, the jungle and the world were one and the same. Literally translated, asking why someone was in the jungle could be asking them to justify their existence. Amba was a wise man, and knew that if the other warriors thought he was poking fun at our ignorance, they would never suspect him of helping us. At least, I had to hope that was the case. At the same time, I wondered if he was giving me a discreet signal that although they might not use it, the others present did understand English.

  The one they’d called Dia'boun wasn’t convinced, and spoke angrily as he pressed his brwance close to my throat: “The bengai and boasźevhe always lie, Amba-Pehusa. The bones of our grandmothers have taught us that. We should ask the boy, who hasn’t yet learned the ways of artifice.” You could have cut the tension with a knife, but all the blades here were in the natives’ hands.

  “Well said. You will be a wise leader some day; maybe even a wise father.” The elder stepped forward to where Lucy stood, wrapped in the all-covering robe of the city priests. She was calm, relaxed, and still held my hand loosely. For now, all the tribesmen could see was a hooded figure with just the slightest area of pale skin protruding from the shadows of those robes, not tall enough to reach my shoulder even. “Well, child, can you tell us who you are?”

  I swallowed, seeing the anger in the eyes of
the warrior beside me. I guessed that if I spoke now, he would cut my throat where I stood and then face the wrath of his leader. Luckily, Marcos wasn’t so inhibited.

  “She cannot speak.”

  The elder nodded and blinked in surprise; then turned and looked Marcos up and down. He was wearing most of his uniform still, a warrior of the city, but had removed his rank pins and replaced them with the wooden shoulder bands of the natives, and a few sacred totems from my disguise. It was possible, for a while at least, he might pass for a bodyguard to a holy man and his disciple. We’d been unsure if the tribesmen would know the city culture well enough to make guesses about who we were, but Marcos had insisted that any chance they’d treat us favourably was worth the effort. So far it seemed they’d assumed I was the leader, but as soon as Marcos spoke their eyes were on Lucy.

  The elder, however, looked only at Marcos, staring into his eyes from a few inches away. Eventually, he spoke again: “I believe you speak the truth. I see the fear of death in you however much you wish to hide her, but I do not see the fear of discovery. Let me look on the face of this child, because our people have certain traditions when dealing with children, and especially with the mute.” It didn’t escape my notice that Uvi brandished his sword at the last words, hoping to inspire fear if we didn’t know what their traditions were. Lucy shook and took a half step back. Of course, she was special. The tribesmen she’d seen had never been willing to speak, and she’d been confined to her room so often that most of the warriors out here probably thought her existence was some fanciful rumour. Uvi had probably done his best to pervert and censor what myths came out of Ibaru Hantala, but that was going to change.

  One man stepped closer to pull back her hood, as they’d done too vigorously with mine, but then stopped. I could understand why he’d be nervous to touch her. What had probably been a simple defense of their village or camp ground had become a situation fraught with danger. It would be bad enough seeing a power struggle between two people they all respected, but the addition of both weapons and the symbolic element of a mute – a tiger in human form, maybe, according to some of their oldest legends – had upped the ante more than anyone expected.

  Uvi had less respect. He strode forward and yanked at Lucy’s hood. Those people were going to have a lot more philosophy to worry about than just attacking a mute. Her robe came untied at the slightest tension on the hood, and fell to the ground in a pool of stiff linen at her feet. Lucy didn’t just have flowers in her hair, she had almost a whole bush. Her mane was piled up ornately, plaited with supple twigs, leaves and blossoms, even feathers from some kind of jungle fowl she’d made a quick snack of on the way here. Her coiffure sprang up around her head like a peacock’s tail or like some kind of crown, and the same style was repeated all down her body. The costume was barely there at all, only satisfying a minimal need for decency. It was made of strips of olive fabric from the military uniforms, as well as gauze bandages from the first aid kit, more feathers and flowers, and scraps of fur. I realised now that Marcos had modelled the outfit after the tribal costumes, the few substantial pieces of fabric covering the same areas of her as that their orbaşa kilts and wooden bangles would have.

  Marcos was an unsung genius of fashion design. The web of bandages supported an incredible array of jewellery and trinkets, everything we could think of using, but in no way concealed the shape of her body. The lines drew my eye in, in ways that any gentleman should be ashamed of. When I saw her like that, I think I finally admitted to myself just how beautiful she was. Not just beautiful as a person; kind and responsible, someone I’d love to spend more time with, and sympathise with as I learned more about her life. But beautiful as a woman, with slender toned muscles and her proud, defiant posture just drawing attention to perfectly formed breasts. She was beautiful and desirable, and there was no way I could deny in that moment that I wanted her.

  If I was looking at Lucretia Faulkner, I would have been disgusted with myself. The girl would have been fifteen years old, and Lucy’s stature would certainly have fitted the age. Lucy, if I understood right, was even younger. Maybe she was five or six years old, but grown at an accelerated rate due to whatever strange mix of hormones the scientists had dosed her with, and the feline half of her physiology made guessing her age even more difficult. But from the stories she’d told me, I had to assume she was a lot smarter than the years would suggest. I had no idea if I should be thinking of her as a child still, but when I saw her like that I couldn’t make myself believe it.

  I barely even noticed as the old priest laid his otalya spear on the ground, point to the left as a sign of respect. It was the best outcome we could have hoped for when we were planning this mission: with the elder deferring to Lucy, the tribesmen would all be on our side when we raided Lucretia Falls to set free the caged hybrids. It wasn’t too much of a surprise, either. The girl who had gone to her doom so willingly had returned from heaven, and had come back as a tiger too. She allowed her tail to flick from side to side as she stood there, and I realised it was almost as long as my arm once it wasn’t concealed under her skirt or robes.

  Even I was surprised as the wise and venerable leader lowered himself to his knees before her. Dia'boun turned away from me, surprised by the leader’s acceptance. But as glad as I was to have the edge of his knife away from my throat, my eyes were fixed on Uvi, stalking forward with his blade raised. I could be sure it was him now. He wasn’t as surprised as the others because he’d seen Lucy in the lab, and he knew where she’d come from and what she was. That was a snag I hadn’t foreseen. I didn’t know if he meant to kill her and challenge the leader later, or to strike at his own elder and claim the man had been senile. Either way, the conflict within the tribes would result in a lot of blood spilled.

  Until another knifeman dropped to the ground, pressing his forehead into the dirt. A second quickly followed, and a third. The man who had been too nervous to touch Lucy gathered up her robes, now, and folded the fabric across his horizontal back as he bowed, as if to keep the coarse cloth free of the jungle mud that already coated it. Dia'boun hesitated. Many of his fighters – including one who, from the wooden bangles on his arm, seemed to be second in command – were giving their respect and devotion to Lucy. It only took a second before he too bowed, though not as deeply as the others.

  That was the last step that stopped Uvi. If he challenged the old priest now, he would be threatening every man who acknowledged Lucy as their goddess reborn, and he would be fighting a dozen of the tribe’s warriors on his own. As he finally stopped, Lucy turned towards him and opened her mouth. Time seemed to stop for a moment, and I hoped she wouldn’t be careless enough to speak after we’d declared her mute. One lie would be all he needed to unravel our carefully constructed mythology.

  She growled, the sound rumbling from the very bottom of her lungs. At first it could have been the purring of a housecat, until the volume built and her voice rang out in a tone so deep it scared even me. There were no words, but there didn’t need to be. She had come to them as an albino, the messenger of the White Lady, and had followed her patron goddess into the caves that ran deep underground, to which all living water must flow. Then she had returned from death, the demonstration of divine powers that Professor Faulkner had promised them or whatever he had described it as. And beyond death, her hair was still the pure white of the Lady, her eyes as pale as an impure diamond. But now she was a tiger too, a guardian spirit for the jungle.

  Blessed by the gods of both this world and the underworld; returned from death. Nobody could deny Lucy’s divinity now. It was time to return to Lucretia Falls.

  Chapter 28 — Tipping Point

  I’d thought that walking through the jungle was exhausting, but it was even worse once we were moving uphill. We were almost climbing a sheer cliff now, but there was little chance of falling with the constant ladder of branches and vines. It was tough going, and felt like we’d climbed a mile by the time the ground star
ted to level off. The tribesmen had probably been this way before, but even they were pausing for breath after a dozen strenuous steps.

  They stopped to help Lucy too, and I wondered if this was how it had been all those years ago when Doctors Faulkner, Corliss, and Balletyne had brought Lucretia here for the first time. She gratefully stepped over the branches they held back for her, but I could see she didn’t need the help. Although she was getting tired quickly, my cat-girl was the most sure-footed of any of us. Marcos was having more trouble, but his albino ancestry only earned him an occasional hand up, compared to the reverence they showed to an avatar of all three gods.

  We’d decided on a plan after hearing reports from some of the tribesmen who’d been guarding the Goddess’s Tomb. Barishkov was worried about an attack by whichever group won control of Sante Benedicté, they said. A Benedictean assault couldn’t follow the narrow trail we’d used, so they would be roughly following the course of the river. They’d be attacking the complex of outbuildings at the bottom of the waterfall, so that’s where the UN troops loyal to the Oversight Committee had been stationed, covered by machine guns on some of the balconies halfway up the cliff. The only defence at the top of the cliff was one tribe who had put their nomadic wandering on hold to make a semi-permanent camp there. They had probably watched us pass from the shadows when I’d first come to Lucretia Falls, and they would be the complex’s last line of defence if soldiers came from the kingdom to the west. Small in numbers and not heavily armed, we had naturally chosen that way to go in.