Jala's Mask

by Mike Grinti

  “Will you be competing in the wind-dance, my king?” Jala asked.

  The king nodded, his smile widening. “I’ve heard your father is a tough man to beat. I’m looking forward to it. Though to be honest, it may not be much of a show. I haven’t had a chance to wind-dance since Jin . . . since I was called off ship.”

  Jala winced. Nice work. I’m sure you’re the first girl that tried to charm him by reminding him of his dead brother.

  The king looked over at Jala’s father. “I hope you won’t embarrass me too much, Lord Mosi.”

  Jala’s father grinned. “There’s nothing embarrassing about losing to a master.”

  Servants set pitchers of palm wine on the tables, along with more exotic drinks: grape wine in two colors, beer made from barley and ginger, and liquor made from peppers that one of the ships had stumbled onto in the Autumn Lands.

  “Be careful with it, my lord,” Jala’s father told the king’s uncle, Lord Inas, pointing at the green-hued pepper liquor. “It’s like drinking the fire mountain’s piss. It burns your throat, then your belly, then your brain. You feel like a god and walk like a fish.” He stood. “Bardo and Kayet, welcome. Today we celebrate the rise of a new king and, I hope, the rise of our two families as one. By the king’s will, together our two families will lead the Five-and-One ahead to days of even greater splendor. And now, my friends, let’s eat and dance!”

  It was just like her father to start with something so presumptuous. The Bardo cheered and began to eat, but she saw Lord Inas scowl. The king offered Jala half of an orange, and she took it, glad to have something to keep her hands busy. Just the smell of the pepper liquor made Jala’s eyes water, so she stuck to white wine.

  The center of the floor had been cleared for dancing once everyone had eaten, but for now a storyteller took to the center. She bowed first to the king, then to Jala’s parents. But when she spoke, she smiled broadly and turned in place, including all the guests. “What story shall we hear? The wedding of Ipo of the Bardo and the hurricane Inok that would have washed away all the islands if not for their love?”

  “Ipo was Kayet, not Bardo,” one of the Kayet guests called out good-naturedly.

  “Then everyone has heard the story wrong,” the storyteller said with a slight bow. “But if that doesn’t please you, what about the meeting of Baya and Kai, who would later sail across the Great Ocean in the first grayship? Perhaps I could tell of one of the Three Nights of King Badru and the sailor Jamil?”

  This last caused a few laughs and giggles. The Three Nights were bittersweet and erotic, and would have been more appropriate at a wedding or repeated between friends or lovers. She’d heard two of three nights told by her older cousins, and had thought about them more than once lying awake at night. She snuck a glance at the king and was glad there was no way for him to see how hot her face felt. Maybe the wine wasn’t a good idea. Maybe sitting so close to him wasn’t a good idea. That story was definitely not a good idea.

  People shouted out their favorite from the options the teller had given, and others she hadn’t mentioned. But Lord Inas’s voice silenced them. “Tell us of the Lone Isle and the Fire Mountain, and the family whose name no teller can tell.”

  Heads turned, and more than one whisper could be heard over the drum. The stories of the Three Nights might be a little risqué, but after all, the king was supposed to be picking a wife, so it was only a little presumptuous. The story Lord Inas had asked for was old and dark and bloody, and had no place at a feast like this.

  But the teller showed no surprise or hesitation. Lord Inas and the Kayet were guests, and the choice was theirs if they insisted on it. “Very well, my lord,” she said, and began to speak of a time before the families had united the Five-and-One Islands under a king and queen. A time when there were six families instead of five, and they warred amongst themselves.

  “The fire mountain was known then as the Green Mountain, for it was lush with trees, and on these trees grew every fruit from every land in all the world. Every fruit but the fruit of life that makes a man immortal, for that can no longer be found in the living world.

  “Though no reef grew around the Lone Isle even then, and the Sixth Family had no ships with which to raid the mainland or make war on the other families, they were left alone in peace. Because there was one more fruit that grew on the mountain: the fruit of secrets, a fruit sweet as wine and bitter as roots, and when they ate from it they heard the whispers of fire and wind and water and learned the ways of sorcery and magic. They called down storms and raised great waves. They saw far-off places and heard the songs of whales beneath the Great Ocean. It’s even said they gave the birds of the Five-and-One the tongues of men and women so they could repeat our words.

  “But while all the other fruit sated their hunger, the fruit of secrets only made them hunger for more. One by one they cut down the trees of the Green Mountain to plant more secret trees, until the mountain became angry. Smoke rose from the top, fire spilled down over the mountain like water, and the secret trees, and the Sixth Family, burned.”

  “Not the usual choice for a feast, as far as tales go,” Jala’s father said casually. “But I did always enjoy this story.”

  “Really?” Lord Inas said. “And do you enjoy the lessons it teaches us?”

  He was threatening her father, Jala realized. Or warning him, at least. But her father seemed unconcerned.

  “That power leads to foolishness? That one too many schemes can undo even the most feared family?” He smiled his most friendly smile. “I think that’s always been my favorite part.”

  The king rubbed at his temple. “Well told,” he called out. “A reminder to all of us that too many whispers and secrets aren’t healthy. But let’s have something less serious next. Tell us of Baya and Kai. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that story.”

  The storyteller did as the king asked, though the king hardly seemed to pay attention, instead staring down at his own plate in disinterest. Jala ate everything on her plate but tasted little of it, and she spent most of her time sneaking glances at the king. Her father, meanwhile, drank some of every wine and tasted some of every dish. Jala’s mother savored her favorites. Lord Inas nursed his liquor.

  Finally most of the guests seemed to have had enough of food and stories, and the drums took on a faster beat. People began to bang on tables, clap their hands, slap their legs. The storyteller sat to eat her own meal. The dance floor was open.

  Jala’s father stood and said, “Well, King Azi, I would be honored to have the first dance.”

  “The honor is mine, Lord Mosi.”

  They went to the circle in the center of the floor. Both of them took off their robes, handing them to family members assigned to the task. It left both of them naked except for a tightly wrapped loincloth.

  “If you’re going to stare,” her mother said under her breath, “at least try to be subtle about it.”

  Jala quickly looked down, embarrassed. But she couldn’t help glancing at them again a moment later. They had stepped into the ring, and Jala’s father was signaling the drummers. A low beat started to play. Outside, more drums took up the beat. Around the hall people clapped their hands and banged on tables. Jala felt lifted by the sound, as though her blood flowed quicker to match.

  “Dance well, my lords,” one of the drummers shouted.

  “Like the wind,” Jala’s father called back.

  The king and her father danced. They started with the basic form of the dance, circling one another, switching places as they lunged, kicked, twisted. Then their moves became fancier: handstand-kicks and throws that became graceful cartwheels. Their golden rings flashed in the firelight. The dance was violent and energetic, full of implied brutality coupled with stunning grace. Any one of the blows could have brought them to their knees, yet none ever quite connected. Always the kick was caught, the force redirected to keep the wind-dance moving through its circular path. Sweat glistened on the king’s skin, and Jala fo
und herself staring. What would it be like to touch the wiry muscles of his arms and chest?

  It was clear that Jala’s father had taken the lead and would not give it up. The king had to work just to keep up. The drummers egged the dancers on, playfully mocking and complimenting in turn. Other men entered the dance rings together, blocking Jala’s view of her father and the king. The hall seemed to swim with the movements of the wind-dance.

  “He’s gonna knock that boy flat on his back, and then where will we be?” Jala’s mother muttered into Jala’s ear, “For all his whining about the cost, you’d think he’d be a little more careful.” She turned and smiled at the king’s uncle. “Your nephew dances very well.”

  Lord Inas snorted. “He was always the better dancer.” Inas was a stocky, balding man with a crown of dark hair and a full moustache, both going gray. His forehead was lined with wrinkles as he scowled at Jala. “Did you know Jin? I’m sure you two must have met.”

  Jala nodded. “We did. He was charming.”

  “He always was to girls like you.” Inas poured himself a bowl full of the pepper liquor and drank heavily, then coughed for a long time. The drink was so strong it made his eyes turn bloodshot and water. Jala’s mother deftly moved the liquor out of his reach in the guise of making space for more food and drink.

  The king returned to the table with Jala’s father. He drank some of the palm wine and held out his hand to Jala. “I haven’t forgotten. Will you join me?”

  Jala took his hand, and he pulled her between the dancers and into the circle that had been set aside for them. He took the center first, for when the king was looking for a queen the traditional order was reversed. She danced around him, following the outline of the circle, swaying and spinning, showing off her body and her grace. At least she hoped that’s what she was showing off. She tried to lose herself in the movement of the dance, to forget how nervous and excited she felt, but the thoughts kept running through her head. I’m dancing with the king.

  The king did not dance the male part of the courtship dance. Instead, he took her hands and pulled her close. They spun in the circle together. The air was hazy with smoke and chalk. His hands were strong, his fingers rough and calloused. Her heart beat too fast and too loud, distracting her from the rhythm of the drums.

  The king leaned in close and whispered, “It’s too noisy, and I’m tired of dancing. Is there somewhere quiet where we can talk?” His lips brushed against the tip of her ear.

  Jala didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

  She took his hand and led him out of the circle. They slipped out down a side hall, away from the guards who tried to follow and into the open air. Bonfires burned up and down the beach, and drummers played fast, lively music. One of the sailors was juggling knives. Another drank deeply from a cup, then held up a lit brand and spat. The ball of flame rose ten feet into the air, shaking the leaves on the palm tree overhead.

  They headed away from the fires and the crowds. The wind from the ocean was cool and salty. Jala took them past crowds of dancing villagers and along the walls of the manor. They stopped near a group of trees.

  “It’s quiet enough here,” Jala said. Her voice was shaking. The king still held her hand. Her whole body ached when he smiled at her, his teeth almost glowing in the moonlight. It was a good thing this corner was well lit.

  “I’m glad it was only the four of you,” the king said. “Sometimes these things take forever. They parade girls in front of me for an hour, every second or third cousin they can pull out of a village and claim some semblance of royalty. Not that they really expect me to notice them, but they think it makes the right girl that much more enticing to me. With you, they only brought out two cousins, and of course that girl who scowled at me to try to make you look prettier. They shouldn’t have bothered. With any of it.”

  Jala realized he meant Marjani and felt suddenly protective. “And what’s wrong with scowling at you? Not everyone wants to marry you, you know, and they don’t much like being paraded either.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with her,” the king said quickly. “I just meant that nobody there really expected me to look twice at her, not even you.”

  “Well, maybe you should have looked at her twice, then. Or three times. Or however many times before you saw how amazing she was. Wouldn’t that have been a surprise for all of them?”

  He laughed. “I don’t usually surprise anyone. It’s not really something anyone wants in a king. But if you’re right and she’s not interested in me, it’s all worked out for the best, hasn’t it?” The king shook his head. “You know . . . most girls try to talk themselves up, not defend their supposed competition. I think I’ve been trying to compliment you.”

  Jala felt her cheeks warm. “Her name’s Marjani. She’s my friend, not my competition. We’ve been friends forever.”

  “I’m sure most of the girls have had friends like that. None bothered mentioning them when they were alone with me, though.” He walked in silence for a while, then stopped. “This isn’t easy, you know. It’s not fun for me, ignoring girls I’d gladly kiss because their families aren’t worth considering, charming others because their families have as many ships as yours and I’m not supposed to offend them. It’s driving me crazy, and what’s any of it for? In the end my uncle will tell me who to pick, who he’s made the best alliance with. My family doesn’t even trust me to pick my bride for myself.”

  So, her family’s plans were for nothing after all. He already knew who he’d marry, and this whole trip was just for show. But how could he be so easily swayed by his uncle? “I don’t think I understand. You’re the king,” Jala said. “You can marry whoever you want. Your brother would have.”

  “I wish he could,” the king said. “Then I really could do what I want and go out there.” He waved at the beach and the Great Ocean beyond. “I want to sail home with ships full of silk and dyes and wine. I want to drink with my friends on the beach and visit Ko—” He stopped himself and shook his head. “If I had what I wanted, Jin would still be here. Dead sails,” he cursed, leaning back against the wall and staring out over the water. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things so sad and serious. I just thought we could talk some, and maybe I’d steal a kiss before we went inside again. It’s been a long month.”

  “You don’t want to be king?” Jala asked. She’d wanted to be queen all her life. Ever since the first time her mother had said, You might be queen someday, in a voice tinged with hope and fear and expectation, she had wanted it.

  “I did when I was younger,” the king said, “but I always knew what the cost would have to be. Anyway, younger brothers in line for the throne aren’t encouraged to want it too much.”

  Jala wasn’t sure she should press him, but she did anyway. If they parted ways after tonight, she might never be alone with a king’s full attention again. “Do you miss him?”

  The king shrugged. “I guess. I missed him long before he died. I was on a ship while he was off with my father, learning how to be a good king. Sometimes I think maybe I should have been the one that died. I almost did, when some merchant’s wife gave me this scar for trying to take her rings. Meanwhile he scratches himself with a rusted sword, and I’m the one that lives?” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter now. Things are the way they are.”

  None of this was going the way it was supposed to. Jala could almost hear her mother’s voice: Get him to talk about your looks. Tell him he’ll make a great king. She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry about your brother,” she said softly. “But I’m glad you didn’t die.”

  He leaned forward, hesitated, then kissed her on the mouth. His lips tasted salty, just like the air, but they were soft and hot. Jala let herself relax into his hold. It was so easy to kiss him, somehow. She found it hard to remember that there was any reason to stop. She could feel his heart beating quickly, as fast as her own. The wind felt cold over her bare shoulders.

  In just a minute, I’ll tell him to stop.


  “Here they are,” someone shouted, and suddenly they were surrounded by voices. Azi pulled away from her. People stared at her: the guards who were supposed to keep an eye on her, her mother and her cousins, men and women from the village.

  “So this was your plan?” It was the king’s uncle, standing next to Jala’s mother and speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “To have your daughter seduce the king so that he felt obligated to choose her? I wonder how many others she’s kissed back here. Now I see the kind of queen the Bardo offer.”

  The king reached for her hand, but Jala pulled away in the guise of straightening her hair. A braid had come undone, so she tied it back once more. If she could do nothing else, at least she could try to maintain some dignity.

  “I have to go,” Jala said.

  Azi stepped between Jala and the others. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll talk to my uncle, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Let me pass,” Jala said, then added, “My king.”

  He looked like he was about to say something, but instead he stepped aside. “Of course. Go to your family, and we’ll sort this out tomorrow. Good night, Jala.”

  “Good night, my king.”

  She walked through the crowd with her head high. Her mother tried to pull Jala to her side, but she ignored her. Her heart was still pounding, and her stomach was twisted up into a knot. She wasn’t sure why she bothered pretending. Dignity was important for a queen, and she had no chance of that now.

  Azi sat in the Bardo guest room and stared at the wall. How had everything gone so wrong, so fast? His head pounded and his muscles ached from trying to keep up with Lord Mosi. The old man moved so fast, and Azi has been glad to escape and dance with Jala. What were you doing, kissing her like that? You made a promise. You swore. Even as he berated himself, a part of him knew he would have kept on kissing Jala if he could. Even now the thought made the blood pound in his ears. That definitely wasn’t helping his premature hangover.