Jala's Mask

by Mike Grinti

  Jala was afraid they would keep hitting him until he was dead. But once he fell, they let him lie there. No one else moved. Jala forced herself to stand in spite of the pain. I’m still a queen, she told herself. They can’t beat that out of me. She hoped they wouldn’t try.

  The soldiers bound their hands. Then they were tied together in groups of four, and each group was tied to a cart. One of the soldiers tied a green flag to a long spear and raised it above his head, waving it back and forth. Across the river the other group of soldiers did the same, then they got back into their two-wheeled carts and rode away.

  Then they stood, waiting. Watching. The sun rose steadily, reflecting off of helms and their mail armor. All of them wore helmets that partially covered their faces and sloped up several inches above their foreheads. Each one had a different pair of eyes painted on the metal surface, and they seemed to look down on her with scorn.

  When any of Jala’s people moved more than an inch, they were hit, once, hard and fast. The same if they made any noise. After a while, the soldiers picked up Captain Natari, bound his hands, and tied him to a cart as well.

  What are they waiting for? The sun rose, beating down on them. Two more soldiers were hit, and Marjani as well, for nearly passing out in the hot sun.

  Jala cursed them for that and earned herself another blow.

  Only when the sun was past its zenith, only when their throats were dry and their skin felt burned and the islanders had learned that they were not in control did one of the soldiers shout a command.

  They snapped the reins, and the horses began to walk, the carts began to roll, and the ropes grew taut. Jala stumbled and almost fell, but she caught herself in time. Painfully, stiffly, Jala and her people walked.

  Throughout the day and into the night the soldiers had shown no emotion. They talked little, laughed never. Finally they stopped, well past midnight, and the soldiers made camp and took off their helmets. Then they began to talk and laugh and drink and curse.

  Jala was tired, hungry, and still thirsty after the little bit of water she’d been given. Her feet were blistered and burned from walking on hot stones and sand.

  “We’ll be all right,” she whispered to Marjani as they lay on the hard ground.

  “I don’t believe you,” Marjani said. Jala didn’t argue. She didn’t believe herself either.

  The Hashon soldiers had lost interest in their prisoners for the moment, and Jala was able to speak quietly with nearby sailors, passing messages to Boka and Captain Natari.

  A few moments later, Marjani nudged her elbow, and Jala turned to see one of the soldiers creeping toward them, the blade of a knife glinting in his hands. His helmet was off, but there was something strange about his face, like it was covered by something. It looked like he was wearing a mask of some kind.

  “Help us,” she cried, though she knew they couldn’t understand her. “Help us or your book is lost!”

  The man with the knife stood and leaped on the nearest sailor, slashing down with his knife. But luckily her cries had roused her own people enough, and the sailor brought his hands up in time to catch the knife. The others tied to him tried to help as much as they could with their hands bound together. There was blood on the knife and on the ground around them.

  A desperate part of her wondered if they might take their attacker’s knife and cut the ropes that bound them, escape down the Hashana, and forget this mad plan of hers.

  But then the Hashon soldiers came with long knives of their own. They dragged the attacker off and took the knife. The man screamed and cursed, and the whole time his eyes were on Jala. They tore the mask off his face and threw it in the river, then slit his throat. They checked the sailor’s ropes. They buried the body.

  The next day, Jala could see the sailor who had been attacked more plainly. He had ugly gashes on his hands and chest that bled as he tried to walk, and his eyes had become distant and feverish. When they stopped midday, he collapsed on the ground and couldn’t be goaded into getting up.

  The soldiers cut his throat, too, and dragged his body away from the river.

  There were no more strange masked men, but Jala and her people learned quickly that night was more dangerous than the day. During the day, when the soldiers were on duty and wearing those strange helmets, the islanders were safe enough if they stayed quiet. But at night when the soldiers took off their helmets, they threw stones at the islanders, spat at them, tried to kick them if the soldiers still on duty weren’t watching. At night, they were unpredictable.

  The whole thing felt like a nightmare that wouldn’t end. But then, on the third day, the city of the Hashon rose up ahead of them in a burst of green palms and vineyards and walls of yellow brick.

  They stopped there, with the city in sight, while some of the soldiers drove their carts off toward the city. They returned a few hours later with two larger carts that were completely enclosed by wood and rough cloth canopies.

  One of the soldiers untied Jala and shouted at her to get in. She did as she was told, but then they had some of the sailors get in with her. “Wait!” she shouted. “I want Marjani with me. Marjani.” She pointed at her friend, but the soldier just shouted back at her and banged on the wood with the flat of his sword.

  The cart creaked and shuddered as it made its way over the city’s brick streets, and seemed to hit every bump in the road, but it was still a relief not to have to walk. If only Marjani was there with her. She wished she’d never brought her here. She wished she’d never brought any of them.

  The smells of the city wafted into the cart, and she heard people all around them. The wood of the cart was old and warped, leaving gaps in the slats. Once her eyes adjusted to the bright light the gaps let in, she was able to peer out at the city. Mostly she just saw the same yellow brick broken up by the occasional stone or rows of thatch.

  The people they passed looked like the Hashon, though some had darker skin and curlier hair than their captors or wore clothes from far-off places that still reminded her of home. It seemed to her that more than a few of the Hashon had burns on their faces, bright pink and red welts around the nose and eyes and forehead. Jala saw flames painted on the side of buildings or crudely carved into the stone. They seemed to be everywhere, and she wondered what it meant.

  People shouted at them as they passed. At first Jala thought they must know about her, that they were angry about the book. But then she realized they were shouting at the Hashon soldiers, not at her people.

  A rock thudded against the side of the cart, and then another. One of the soldiers swore, and then Jala heard swords being drawn. Jala heard a scream, then the drivers cracked the horse’s reins, and the carts bounced on again. Jala craned her neck and only just caught sight of a group of soldiers fighting to control a quickly growing mob.

  Soon after that, the light dimmed as they entered some kind of tunnel. The cart’s doors were thrown aside and Jala was dragged out. They were somewhere underground, dank and dark. They led her down one corridor and then another before leaving her in a small cell. Marjani and the rest of the soldiers were taken away, and Jala heard more cell doors clanging shut farther down the passageway.

  She waited, hoping they would remember to return. Hoping she wouldn’t die here, alone in the dark, in a rank dungeon an ocean away from home. Somewhere nearby she could hear water flowing. An hour passed in silence. Maybe two. She hummed softly to herself just to hear her own voice.

  And then they finally came. A few soldiers entered the cell first, one holding a grimy lamp and two others pushing Boka the Trader in to stand beside her. Seven robed figures followed the soldiers inside, each wearing an elaborate mask.

  Each mask was different: there was a mask covered in eyes; a mask with a wide, grinning mouth; a mask covered in hands. One had nothing, no mouth and no eyes—not even eyeholes for the wearer. There was a mask of suns, a mask of moons, and a mask of mountaintops.

  It was the mask with the grinning mouth that spoke, wh
ile nearby a short, round-faced woman wearing only a plain white robe translated for Boka using the trade speech of the Constant City, a mix of speech and hand signs.

  “She says you will tell her where the book is,” Boka said. “If you don’t return the book, we will be tortured and killed in front of you.”

  With the only light in the room coming from the one lamp, the brightly colored masks seemed to float in front of her, eerie and alien. The people wearing the masks wore loose, dark-colored robes that hid their bodies. In the dark it was sometimes hard to tell who was speaking. Or maybe that was just her hunger or exhaustion.

  She was frightened, and all she wanted to do was curl up on the floor and close her eyes, yet somehow she was speaking. “I want my clothes,” she said. “I want to wash and eat. My friends will want to eat too. Then I’ll talk with you in the halls where you greet honored guests.”

  Boka hesitated. Jala snapped her fingers at him without looking away from the seven Hashon lords. He translated. Some of the masks turned to look at their own translator as she relayed Jala’s message. Some of the masks whispered to each other, then an order was given. One of the soldiers left.

  A minute later the soldier returned with Askel in tow. The grinning mouth mask spoke, pointing at Askel.

  “This one will die first,” Boka translated.

  “Without him the Anka is lost forever,” she said. There were murmurs when she said their word for the book. She spoke over them. “The Anka is buried under the sand, and only his magic can lead me back to it. If he dies, the magic dies.” She wasn’t even sure if this was true, but she didn’t want to try to find the book herself using magic she didn’t understand. If the magic dies, we all die, she thought. Standing in the dark, cramped cell, surrounded by people who wanted to kill her, the whole plan seemed like a really stupid idea. “You have two days, maybe, if my hand still bleeds. You will treat us as guests, and then we’ll leave as guests before the guestrite is over. And I want my clothes.”

  “I’m not saying that,” Boka hissed. “They’ll kill us both.”

  “They’ll kill us if you don’t. I’m not giving them the book for nothing in return.”

  “Maybe you’re willing to sacrifice us, but I’m not.” He glared at Askel. “Take them to the book, and maybe they’ll let us go. We don’t mean anything to them. Let them keep her if they want.” Askel laughed softly, an ugly sound from deep in his throat. Boka clenched his teeth. “You’ll just tell them anyway. They’ll torture you, and then you’ll do anything to make them stop.”

  “What can they know of pain that I don’t?” Askel asked. “I’ve drunk the blood of the fire mountain, felt it burning away the years of my life. Let them try. Better to die here than choking to death over the mountain’s bowels.”

  Jala stepped closer to Boka and took his hand. “I know, my friend,” she whispered. “I’m scared too. But the wind’s blowing too hard for us to turn away. We can only see where it takes us.”

  Boka’s hands shook as he repeated Jala’s words. She could see the translator’s eyes following Boka’s hands with ease, but then the woman asked Boka to repeat himself. When she turned back to translate to the masked lords, she acted confused. Jala thought she could almost guess what the woman was saying. I can’t understand this islander, this one must have been hit on the head too many times. I’ll ask again, but it’s like talking to a fish.

  Well, maybe he wouldn’t have said fish. She hadn’t actually seen a lot of fishing along the riverbanks. Too many boats.

  She shook her head, forcing herself to pay attention again. The translator was signing and talking to Boka, but in the midst of asking him to repeat and explain she flashed a new sign, one Jala didn’t recognize.

  “What’s going on?” Jala asked. “Can you make her understand or not?”

  Unlike the translator, Boka seemed to be genuinely confused. “No, she seems to understand, but she made the sign that means she has a better offer for us. I think she’s working for someone else, not just these Hashon lords. Someone else who wants the book.”

  Jala glanced at the translator, and the woman met her eyes for a moment. Then she turned back to the masked lords, made some more apologies, and signed at Boka again.

  So the woman was only pretending not to understand. “Boka, what the hell is going on? What sort of better offer?”

  “She says that if you remain here, it will be easier for her master to meet with you. She says they’ll help us escape.”

  Jala stared at the translator again. Her head ached. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been given any water. Before they were stuffed into those carts, probably. She wanted to feel clean, to eat, to make sure Marjani and the rest of her people were safe. “This is some kind of trick. Tell her to repeat exactly what I said before.”

  Boka did as she asked. The translator shot her a hard look, as if to tell her that this second, secret conversation wasn’t over yet. A moment later the masked lords left, taking Boka with them. She was alone again, wondering if the translator had passed on her message. Would they come back with one of the sailors? With Marjani? She wished Azi were with her, which was such a selfish wish.

  But when the soldiers returned, none of her people were with them. They motioned for her to get up, without yelling at her or hitting her, and led her out of the dungeon and up into the palace itself.

  Jala was taken to a room in the palace with a shuttered window facing the river. Looking through the slats in the shutter, she saw ships being built on the riverbank. They were slow, heavy barges not unlike the ones that had landed on the islands. She counted twenty. There were probably more. Were they preparing for another attack?

  She pulled on the shutters half-heartedly, but they’d been nailed shut, and the wood was strong. And where would she go, with no ships and nothing to trade? She couldn’t even speak the language.

  Someone knocked on the door. The door only locked from the outside, so they could have just entered. I guess they’re being polite, for now. But when she opened the door, it wasn’t one of the Hashon servants. It was Marjani.

  “You’re all right!” Jala said just as Marjani cried out, “Jala!” They hugged each other tightly.

  “When they took you away, I—”

  “I didn’t know where they took everyone, and I was afraid—”

  They stopped and laughed nervously. Jala straightened her dress. “How do I look? Like someone you’d want to make peace with?”

  Marjani’s smile faded. “So there’s no peace yet? When they took us up to these rooms, I thought maybe things had gone well.”

  Jala shook her head. “Not yet. We’re their guests for now, that’s all. I think we’ll be safe for a few days. But they’ll have to come for me soon if they want their book, right?” Jala smiled for Marjani’s sake. “I don’t think we’ll be stuck here for too long.”

  Marjani squeezed Jala’s good hand. “You look lovely,” she said. “Especially when you lie.”

  “It’s not a lie. I just . . . I’m scared. Not just for myself, but for everyone. For you, for Captain Natari, for poor Boka, for all those sailors. I keep thinking, did I really need thirty sailors? Couldn’t I have taken twenty? Fifteen?” She sat down on the soft bed. “Are they all here?”

  Marjani shook her head. “I don’t know. They took us up into the palace, then brought me here.”

  The door opened again. It was Boka. Behind him stood the translator and two Hashon servants, all dressed in the same plain white robes.

  “They’re taking you to dinner,” Boka said. “That’s what she said, at least.”

  “Where is everyone? Are they treating you well?” Jala asked.

  Boka shrugged. “They took everyone to different rooms all over the palace and put guards on the doors. As far as they’re concerned ‘guest’ just means we get beds and maybe some food now and then.”

  “All right,” Jala said. “That’s something, anyway. Just give me a moment.” She hugged Marjani one m
ore time, then touched her earring for luck. It was heavy and annoying sometimes, but it helped her feel like a queen, and it was her last connection to Azi. It was hard to feel queenly when your kingdom was a world away.

  The palace itself was unimaginably huge. Though she tried, Jala couldn’t keep track of the passages they took, the identical halls lined with smooth green stone, the many gates and doors, the tapestries and lamps and paintings. Even here she could hear the sound of the river flowing through the walls and under her feet.

  Finally they reached a large hall, magnificent in its height and decorated with precious stones. Daylight streamed through the tall windows set in the walls and ceiling, and the entire hall sparkled with reflected light. But more precious than stones was the food laid out on one end of a long table. Jala’s stomach growled at the sight.

  The masked Hashon sat waiting for her at the other end of the table. They didn’t look so frightening in the light. She could see which of them was short or tall, which one had a large gut, which were women and which were men. All of it reminded her that beneath those masks they were still people, and people were willing to make trades for what they needed.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Jala said.

  Standing nearby, Boka spoke with the translator, then said, “You are welcome, island queen, as a guest of the Hashon. We invite you to sit at our table, eat our food, and drink of our river.”

  “You’re sure they said guest?” Jala said.

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “In that case, have you eaten, my friend? Tell them you’ll sit and eat by my side while we talk.”

  Jala sat and ate with Boka while the masked figures watched. They seemed to have no interest in eating. Only their translator seemed restless, standing beside the table and shifting from foot to foot. To fill the silence, and to show how unconcerned she was, Jala asked about the food. There was horse meat in a sauce made from oranges and dried grapes served with rice. There was also beer that she was expected to drink with a reed, so thick it was as much a meal as a drink.