by Scott Taylor
The litter was plain but well made, with a roof for rain and thick privacy curtains. As Hunhau made to draw those, the bearers knowing full well the route they preferred, Cenoté delayed him with a touch of her hand. “The shop, Hunhau, briefly. Then the Raised Market.”
Four eagle masks turned as one.
“The market,” she insisted.
Where she’d never gone before. Where they’d be in crowds. Uncontrollable, dangerous crowds.
“Of course.” Curtains snugged tight, Hunhau settled into his seat, fighting his unease as the bearers lifted the litter and stepped out at their smooth steady pace. “May I ask why?” he said, after a moment.
The mask of wood turned to him and something stirred in the dark where eyes should have been. When she spoke, for an instant he thought he heard the howl of storm-driven waves. “I’ve found her.”
A chill fingered the maskmaker’s bones despite the heat. He opened his mouth, shut it, then tried again. “Found w-who?”
“The one I tried to stop that night. My enemy.” To his dismay, Cenoté added calmly, “now yours. She drinks the dead. Left unchallenged, she’ll turn on the living next. There’s no time to waste.” Her fingers found his hand. She laid hers, callused and cool, atop it. “The Shining Sea tossed me at your feet, good Hunhau. This is why. So I would have your help.”
“Mine?” he echoed, feeling as though the litter had tipped. “What can I do? I’ve no magic. You’re the Wizard!” Hunhau shut his mouth, too late. It was out. What he’d never dared say to her.
Wizard.
“No more.” Her mask turned in the direction of the bay for a moment, then aimed forward. “One does not question the Sea. This evil can no longer be fought from the tower. It must be fought here, now. I can’t do it without you. Will you help me?”
Involve himself in the battles of Wizards? Risk himself for the people of Taux, which meant the nasty Jai-Ruk under the bridge as much as his friend Tohil, neither of whom would believe this?
The Saints knew he wasn’t a hero.
Instead of answering, Hunhau poked his masked face through the curtains. “Pick up the pace, lads,” he ordered, pleased his voice sounded normal. “We’re in a hurry today.”
The saints knew he’d made his choice, two years ago on the sand.
Food cooling in his bowl, Ghanan sat at the wooden table, watching his wife. Ah Peku washed the child with care and dried her with their softest towel, then dressed her as she would a doll. Zotz endured these ministrations with limp uncaring patience, moving only when prompted. It was their ritual, now.
He dropped his face into his hands.
“Husband.” Softly. “You must eat.”
Last night, every night, had been the same. Come home from work at sunset, strip and wash stone dust from his skin, pull on a clean robe. There’d been a time when evening’s delicious cool drew them out for wine and dancing in the streets, or a moonlit walk along the quay. A time when he’d lifted the love of his life in his arms and known himself the wealthiest man in the world.
A time before Zotz.
Now sunset was when he brought the loathsome creature to the alley behind their home, so she could go on hands and knees to vomit forth the day’s darkness. Now nights were to hide behind locked doors. For he’d watched, that first time, and seen the darkness hump itself to the drain. It had clung to the edge and stared back at him, eyes aglow with hate, before slithering out of sight. One for each day worked.
And each day worked, word spread of the stonemason who could silence the stones. Offers poured in and Zotz made him take every one.
Two years. Ghanan imagined hordes beneath their feet, imagined them meeting and becoming one monstrous thing, imagined ... but what could he guess of her purpose? He was her hands and voice, that was all.
How Ah Peku forgave him for bringing Zotz into their lives, how she endured it, Ghanan couldn’t begin to guess. Trembling, the stonemason took up his spoon and made himself eat while his wife led the child, who didn’t eat or drink, to the little chair they’d made for her. Having sat Zotz down to wait, Ah Peku turned away, wiping her hands on her apron.
Their eyes met, the compassion in hers more than he deserved. Ghanan opened his mouth to say so, but nothing came out. Zotz wouldn’t let him speak at home. Not while she -- while it -- watched.
Instead, he lifted his arm and Ah Peku came to sit by him on the bench. He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair.
It smelled of life.
Once inside the shop, Cenoté asked Hunhau to bar the door, then help her from her raiment. The strips around her hair she left, as she was wont to do when ready to work.
Skin like the inside of a shell, hair like a waterfall, lips pale and perfect. Beautiful, she was, in the way a wave crashing against rock or the reflection of stars in the utter calm of a summer sea could steal a man’s breath or call poetry from a dolt. Was she beautiful as a woman? Though she stood clad only in her breechclout, Hunhau couldn’t say. His tastes ran to women of soft flesh, after all, and Cenoté was almost gaunt.
Then there was her face. Scars, deep and rippled, sealed the gaps where her eyes had been brutally torn out. By some mercy, she didn’t remember what had happened; Hunhau couldn’t forget his first glimpse of those dreadful wounds, the white glint of bone. That she’d survived -- it had taken more than a skilled physician. It had taken terrifying will.
Now, though blind, she moved around the shop with brisk confidence, choosing a piece of driftwood from the bin to take to her worktable. Hunhau clamped it to the stand, itself turned or tilted by foot petals beneath the table.
Masks lined the upper shelves, masks no one could mistake as being made by anyone else. They were breathtaking, with great eyes and vivid colours. Cenoté made them for the neighbourhood children, to play as turtle, dolphin, or shark; they were not for sale. The idea of taking coin for the work of her hands offended her; she didn’t say it, but Hunhau could tell.
Cenoté helped him instead. The masks she began and he finished were the best he’d ever done. As months went by, even those he did on his own -- for Cenoté would have nothing to do with death masks -- improved. His old master would have been amazed.
What she loved to make were cups. Cups. Bowls. Ewers. Jars. Anything to hold water and everything did, without a leak. They sat on every shelf and lined the walls. Hunhau had grown used to the way rain bent itself to enter the open windows of the shop, flowing and splashing only where Cenoté wished.
Though once in a while, it splashed on him. He’d sputter and protest, secretly pleased to catch a rare dimple at the corner of her mouth.
Once a month, at the highest tide, Cenoté would send him back to where he’d found her, to fill a special cup. With reverent movements, she’d put it to her lips and drink as if the saltwater were wine. When she’d had her fill, she’d soak what remained with a sponge and lave the ruin where her eyes had been.
On those nights, she’d go to her bed early and cry, very softly. He’d listen, heartsick and helpless. There was no cure for such pain. There was no imagining it.
He’d come to love her as any sailor loved the sea: lost apart, knowing better than to seek that perilous embrace. And now it was over. What hope did a blind ex-wizard and a maskmaker have against a creature that could drink the dead?
“Water, please, Hunhau. We must hurry. Any bowl will do.”
He brought the largest, careful not to spill a drop, and set it on the table. Her face turned and tilted as she lifted a hand towards him. Understanding, he removed his mask and came in reach. Like raindrops, her fingertips played over his face, tracing his forehead, his cheeks, and, though he winced inwardly, his great nose. Or maybe not so inwardly, for her lips curved and she tapped the tip of his nose lightly before taking back her hand.
Whatever Cenoté had read of his face must have satisfied her, for without delay she sat on her stool and crooked an imperious finger at the bowl. Water rose in a thin twisting rope and leaned tow
ards her.
No matter how many times he’d witnessed her magic, his heart still pounded in his chest.
The finger flicked at the wood and water followed, striking like a snake. A chunk broke away with a snap, then another and another, as Cenoté shaped the mask, her fingers now dancing, more twists of water flying through the air in response.
Slivers followed as she began a finer shaping. Hunhau leaned close. This was no sea creature or bird. What grew from driftwood was a face of astonishing realism. A woman’s, serene and strong, with flawless, almond-shaped eyes.
Had it been hers?
Cenoté twirled her forefinger and the water returned to the bowl. Without waiting to be asked, Hunhau moved that bowl aside. Such water retained some hint of her magic. Later, if there was a later, he’d take it to the common garden and pour it on the roots of his neighbour’s olive tree. He’d been anxious at first, but the tree seemed unaffected, other than a welcome increase in fruit.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “The tray next, good Hunhau. Fill it from one of the covered jars, please. And bring your paints.”
Rare, that Cenoté would call for more water. As for paints? The maskmaker hesitated. They’d take hours to dry. It was blisteringly hot in the courtyard, even in the shade. “I should send the bearers away then.”
The hint of a dimple on her otherwise serious face. “This won’t take long.”
“But the paint ...”
“Trust me.”
He shut his mouth and grabbed a jug, going to the back of the shop. The covered jars were his height and stood in a row. After months of squeezing by them, Hunhau had taken to using the tops as shelves. Cheeks rosy with embarrassment, he dragged a step to the first in line and climbed up, hastily removing a set of stacked baskets and, yes, that box of tile pieces he’d thought might be useful.
Fight evil? He couldn’t even keep his shop tidy.
The woven sisal lid pricked his fingers as he pried it off. He held his breath, sure the stuff would have rotted in the damp, but the underside appeared newly made. As for the water inside?
Hunhau dared a little sniff.
A silly smile broke over his face. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs. This was rain after a drought. Air after lightning. A newborn’s sweet breath. All at once and ...
“Hunhau?”
He was taking too long. “Coming.” Blushing more hotly, the maskmaker quickly dipped the jug, filling it to the brim. Holding it in the crook of his arm, he fumbled the lid back on the jar and began to climb down.
“Don’t touch it,” Cenoté said absently.
Freezing midstep, Hunhau stared into the jug as water sloshed perilously near its rim -- and his bare arm -- before settling. “W-why?”
“It will remember you.”
He shouldn’t have expected a comprehensible answer. Moving with greater care, Hunhau brought the jug to the table. Pouring the water into the shallow tray, he couldn’t help but sniff again. If the world could smell like this, he’d never need a mask.
Had there been anything different about the water or the jars, any sign of exceptional magic? He thought, now that he made the effort, that Cenoté had reached her hand into each; he’d assumed to make sure the jar was full, as she would by keeping a fingertip inside her cup when pouring wine.
Unclamping the mask, she slipped it gently into the filled tray. It sank to the bottom, looking up.
“What colours should it have?” Cenoté asked him, as if she’d forgotten.
If this had been her face...
“A moment,” Hunhau replied. Hurrying to a cabinet, he threw open its door and shoved aside bags of pigment. Nothing he had would do.
Reaching to the very back of the shelf, the maskmaker pulled free a long, low box. He brushed the worn carving of its lid, then nodded to himself. These were the paints Yum Caax had reserved for his finest works, blends of the rarest, most exotic materials. His former apprentice hadn’t dared touch them.
He brought the box to the table, unlatched the sides, and lifted the lid. The tiny crystal vials were as he remembered; the colours inside vivid and alive. “These,” Hunhau said without doubt, choosing four to press into her waiting hands.
Her fingers closed. Cenoté’s head tilted, listening to what he couldn’t hear, then she almost smiled. “And you say you’ve no magic, my friend. Watch.”
Before he could think to stop her, she dropped the unopened vials into the tray.
They didn’t sink, as crystal should and wood shouldn’t, but floated to the four corners like sparkling boats. At Cenoté’s bent finger, they began to spin until each vial was centred within its own tiny whirlpool, though the water over the mask’s face was undisturbed.
The seals cracked, spilling priceless pigment. Hunhau’s cry died in his throat as he saw the vials themselves remained dry and almost full. Colour spread in hazy clouds and narrow, intense bands: twilight rose, storm black, pearl white, and a blue so achingly pure it might have been carved from ancient ice.
The colours found the mask.
Suddenly, both wood and water vanished. Hunhau found himself staring not at a mask, but a face. Skin of pearl, lips and cheeks of soft rose, brows black and upswept like wings.
Without warning, the long black lashes parted, revealing eyes like the wild, open ocean. He staggered back. “It moves!”
“It remembers me,” Cenoté said matter-of-factly, but he thought her hands trembled as she lifted the mask from the tray. She held it before her face. “Will it pass, good Hunhau?”
A Wizard’s face gazed down at him, cold and aloof. Beautiful, the way elegant and deadly things could be, but this wasn’t Cenoté. This wasn’t the person closer to him than any family or friend. “I don’t know what to say,” he managed. “I don’t know who this is. Who you want to be.”
“How not?” She moved the mask aside, showing him the familiar ruin above a mouth downturned in distress. Her fingertips traced the tension in his jaw and found his frown. Cenoté nodded. “I understand. What we’ve crafted is a memory, nothing more. I can’t go back to that life,” she said gently. “I thought you knew I don’t want to. I’m happy here, Hunhau, and free as I’ve ever been.” She raised the mask again, with its disconcerting eyes. “To fight, however, I must see our enemy. This is the means.”
That she was happy and wanted to stay was something to warm the heart and treasure, but the rest? “You could have made such a mask before,” Hunhau accused. “You’ve let yourself be blind!”
“I am blind, my friend, and always will be.” Cenoté laid the mask on the table. “Without eyes, a Wizard cannot perform the greater magics. Without eyes, the Afterglow Sea is beyond my reach.” She seemed to come to some decision. “Understand me, Hunhau. This,” her fingers touched the scarred and empty sockets, “was no accident. The last thing I remember is being in a scrying room, searching for this creature. Someone in the tower stole my eyes. A traitor.” Beneath her voice, the fury of a breaking wave. “Whoever it was meant to cripple me and has.” Her fingers rested cool on his face, then brushed like mist across his eyes. “But for a little while, this mask will let me borrow your sight. If you’re willing?”
He squinted at her. “Ten coins says it’s going to hurt.”
“Twenty,” that was surely a dimple, “says we’ll die horribly in the attempt.”
“I should never have taught you to gamble,” he complained.
“All life’s a gamble.” Cenoté actually smiled. “Now help me dress. We’ve a distance to travel.”
By the play of torchlight, the empty eyes moved, the little corpses writhed. The stones appeared to rest on the figurines, but it was a clever illusion. The stonecraft of those who’d built the original city was without equal.
But why this?
Resolutely, Ghanan looked away to the good stone, born of the earth and not the whim of evil minds. He’d come to believe in evil.
Evil squatted impatiently before the wall, waiting for him to feed it.
But he could do nothing against these men. Offended Sturgeons were more likely to use their staffs on his head than leave. Did Zotz understand that? Ghanan delayed, pretending to search for a tool in his kit as he gave the men assessing looks. Saints, they were huge, with arms like tree limbs, and had the easy confidence – or single-mindedness– of those to whom a dank cellar rife with the whispers of the dead was simply another place to guard.
Suddenly, Zotz began to rock back and forth, her arms clasped around her middle. The stonemason froze in place, afraid what might come next. Sure enough, her mouth opened and she let out a shrill, keening cry.
It was a sound no child should have been able to make. Hairs rose on Ghanan’s arms and neck.
The Sturgeons exchanged annoyed looks. “What’s wrong with her?” one demanded.
“She doesn’t like strangers.” He had to raise his voice as the dreadful screech grew louder, threatening his sanity. “Please, good Sirs. If you would wait at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, I’m sure she’ll stop.”
They didn’t suspect a child – no one ever did, Ghanan thought. With disgusted shakes of their heads, the two guardsmen turned and went up the wide steps.
Zotz closed her mouth and looked at him.