City of the Snakes (39 page)

My father steps up beside me. “Will the explosives be affected by the water?”

“No. But the microphones will.” I raise my voice, addressing the priest. “How much further is it?”

“Why?”

“I don’t like the idea of marching through these cold tunnels soaked like a water rat. Can’t we skip this part?”

“The cleansing is essential,” he snaps. “Besides, you won’t have to walk far, and you are required to rest in a room of steam before progressing to the hall of the
Coya
. That will warm you.”

“Wonderful,” I mutter, dropping a couple of poker chips by the side of the path. Then I shout, “I’d rather be anywhere but here right now!” That’s the signal to Sard.

Once it’s been given, I walk into the spray and immerse myself. I hear the crackle and hiss of the bug as the water hits. If there was a problem with the signal when I spoke, or if Sard was distracted, we’re finished. All we can do from this point on is cross our fingers, play for time… and pray.

When we’re together again, dripping and shivering, the two
villacs
at the rear move to the front and join their companion. They set off, chanting. Although they don’t tell us to follow, we’re obviously meant to. Sharing a
wary glance, we wring out the wet folds of our robes, then hurry after the priests, to cover the last leg of the subterranean march.

We arrive at a pair of doors twelve feet high, carved out of dark wood, adorned with gold-lined murals of mountains, rivers and warped human figures. At the top, spread across the two doors, are representations of the sun and moon, a face visible at the heart of each, a man’s in the sun, a woman’s in the moon. The symbols must have been daubed with luminescent paint because they glow softly in the gloom.

The English-speaking
villac
steps forward, hammers twice on either door, then kneels, lowers his head and covers it with his hands. The other priests stay on their feet, so we do too. After a lengthy wait the doors swing inward. Thick clouds of steam bubble out. At first I can’t see anybody, but as I peer intently I realize someone is standing just inside the doors. It’s a woman.

The woman addresses the priest on the ground. He replies in his arcane tongue. She responds sharply, her gaze directed at my father. The priest speaks again. There’s a pause when he finishes, then the woman steps forward out of the steam and into the glow of the sun and moon.

The first thing I notice is that, apart from a pair of loose sandals, she’s naked. Once I recover from that brief shock—the last thing I expected to be greeted with was a nudist—I swiftly note her characteristics. Short, stocky, a flat face, broad nose, painfully white skin, hair tied back, curved fingernails at least three inches long, her pubic hair shaved away except for a small circular mound that has been dyed bright orange—a tribute to the sun, I guess. And she isn’t blind. Her eyes are large and brown.

The woman bows and makes a snakelike sign in the air with her left hand. I glance at Ama and my father, then smile shakily and half-wave. “Pleased to meet you too,” I chuckle edgily. The woman frowns and holds up a hand, instructing us to stay, and retreats into the shadows.

Minutes pass without the priests moving or talking, or the woman returning. I want to ask about her, these doors and what lies beyond, but I sense this isn’t the moment for questions. Instead I pick at my robes, readjusting them around my vest, trying to hide the bulges of the explosives. Ama and my father do likewise.

Finally the woman reappears, flanked by eight others, who march in pairs, all as naked as she is, similar in height, build and looks. As they come through the door the women branch out, encircling Ama, Wami and me. They pivot around us, lips moving faintly as they chant softly. My father studies their naked bodies openly, turning as they turn. Ama stands stiffly, ignoring them. I focus on their eyes, trying to hold their gaze so they don’t notice the shapes beneath my robes.

Wami reaches out to touch one of the naked women. She flinches and subjects him to an angry barrage of Incan gibberish. When she stops, the priest on the floor says, “It is not permitted to make contact with the
mamaconas
. No male hand may maul their sacred flesh, except in the time of mating. If you attempt to touch her again, you will be disposed of. That goes for you too, Flesh of Dreams. As much as you mean to us, certain taboos cannot be broken.”

“You must let me know when it is ‘mating time,’ ” my father murmurs.

“Who are the
mamaconas?
” Ama asks.

“The priestesses of our
Coya
,” the
villac
says. “Hand-servants of the queen. They see to her needs and assist her in the time of creation. They are her daughters and sisters, her ever-constant companions, our wives and mothers.”

“It sounds deliciously incestuous,” Wami smirks.

The priest takes his hands off his head, stands and faces us. “It is almost time to meet the
Coya
. She is old and wise. She does not speak your language, but will know if you are belittling her, and will react without humor if slighted. Do not test her, Dreams Made Flesh, if you value your life, for she endowed you with it and she can just as surely rid you of it again.”

Wami smiles, but I sense the tension behind his grin. The naked women come to a standstill and lower their chins to their chests, resting their long fingernails on the pale flesh of their stomachs. The three
villacs
form a file in front of us and chant. The air smells of incense, but that might be psychosomatic—I feel as if I’m in church, so perhaps I’m imagining the sickly scent.

The priests move forward. The heads of the
mamaconas
lift and they nod at us. I share a worried glance with Ama and my father, then start ahead. Ama, Paucar Wami and the
mamaconas
follow. When we’re all inside, the doors close, plunging us into steam-ridden darkness and mystery.

W
e stumble forward blindly until the English-speaking
villac
snaps, “Stop!” The clouds of steam intensify, warming my damp robes. “We remain here until the cleansing is complete. It may be some time. Keep still and do not speak. Any interruption will necessitate an even longer delay.”

We stand close by one another while the steam envelops us and the
mamaconas
slither around, whispering, occasionally breathing in our faces or scratching us teasingly with their nails. I don’t like this. It’s surreal. I imagine all sorts of monstrosities circling us. I want to break free of the steam, shove the priestesses away and run. But I hold myself in check and remind myself that every minute wasted is a bonus, as long as they don’t keep us here
too
long.

Eventually the
mamaconas
withdraw and the priest says, “Advance.” We stagger through a set of heavy drapes into a candlelit tunnel a hundred feet long, blocked at the far end by more drapes. I pause nervously at the second set of drapes, then rotate my neck left and right, working the tension out of it. When I’m calm, I part the drapes and step through.

I find myself in a cavern with a low roof—no more than seven feet high in places—supported by dozens of thick wooden pillars. The room is lit by many candles, set in the floor, casting their light upward. Women crowd the area close to the entrance, spread in a semicircle, naked like our guides,
eyes bright. When they see me, they squeal like groupies at a rock concert and point excitedly with long, curved nails.

“You seem to be a hit with the ladies,” my father grins.

“But do they want to screw me or sacrifice me?”

“Possibly both. But if you are lucky, they will fuck you first.”

Ama moves up beside us and eyes the women critically. “I don’t think it would kill them to buy some clothes.”

The English-speaking
villac
sniffs. “The
mamaconas
have been blessed by the goddess of the moon. They are pure, and must exist in a state of purity. They cover the soles of their feet because this earth is not worthy to receive their touch, but otherwise parade as nature intended.” He sighs. “It is because of their purity that we surrender the use of our eyes. We are not fit to gaze upon them.”

“You let yourselves be blinded so you can’t look at your priestesses?” I blink slowly. “Didn’t you ever think of blindfolds?”

“One does not blind oneself to heavenly beauty with a strip of cloth,” he retorts. “It is an honor to give one’s eyes in the service of the
mamaconas
.”

Ama moves ahead of us and studies the women. They don’t attempt to shield their nakedness. Some pick at her clothes, frowning, as if they’ve never seen such garments. “These are servants of the moon goddess?” Ama asks the priest.

“Yes.”

“I thought you worshipped the sun god, Inti.”

“The creator of all things was Viracocha. When he created the first people, Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo, he split himself in two, becoming the sun and the moon. Our men worship the male form of the god, our women the female. But you will learn more of this soon. Come—the
Coya
awaits.”

The priest claps and the women part. As I walk, I whisper out of the side of my mouth to my father. “Do you think the pillars support the roof or are they just for show?”

“They look like they are integral,” he replies.

“If we set off our explosives here…”

He smiles bleakly. “If not for the fact that it would mean my destruction
too, I would love to bring the house down. But it is better if we wait. Do not be in a hurry to embrace death, Al m’boy.”

I spy a massive red sheet hanging from the roof. It’s maybe sixty feet wide and the hem touches the floor. As I get closer, I see that two more run at ninety-degree angles to it at either end, and I guess they’re connected by a fourth at the back to form a square.

The
villacs
stop at the red sheet of cloth and the
mamaconas
drop to their hands and knees. They’re crooning softly. The priests wait until the tune stops, then the English-speaking one faces us. “It is time to meet our
Coya
. This is a great honor. As I said earlier, you must treat her with respect or suffer the consequences.” This is addressed to Paucar Wami, who adopts as innocent an expression as he can muster. “By rights, I should present only Flesh of Dreams to her, but I assume you wish for your allies to accompany you?”

“Yes,” I answer promptly.

“Very well. But you alone have the privilege of addressing her. The others must speak to her through you or me, and they should do so only if they feel it is imperative. This is not a time for idle questions. One last point.” He pauses, and now his white eyes settle on Ama. “There must be no emotional outbursts. Control yourself, no matter how difficult it may prove.”

“I’m not a child,” Ama huffs.

The priest catches hold of the sheet and lifts. I bend low to pass under it, as do Ama and Paucar Wami. The priest follows us, but his companions remain on the other side of the sheet, along with the
mamaconas
.

I stand inside the veiled room and allow my eyes to adjust to the light, which is much dimmer here. As objects swim into focus, I realize that much of the room is taken up by an enormous bed—no mattress, just a base—on which rests the largest, most gruesome-looking hag I’ve ever seen. She’s lying on her side, thighs obscured by the hanging folds of her sagging stomach. It’s hard to guess her height, but I’d put it at ten or eleven feet. Layers of fat encircle her like boa constrictors. Her face is double the normal size, her skin grey and mottled, her teeth sharp and uneven, her eyes a dull red color. The nails of her fingers and toes are all but invisible—the flesh of the appendages bulges out over them—and her breasts
hang to her pubic mound, her nipples huge and black, leaking a dark liquid. She’s naked, but there’s nothing remotely appealing about her.

The
Coya
casts an eye over us, then puts a question to the priest, who’s holding his hands up by the sides of his face, lightly touching his temples with his fingers. He answers with a grunt. She looks at me and smiles. Moves her left hand in under the layers of fat to her vagina. Wets the fingers, lifts them to her nose, then speaks to me in words I can’t understand.

“She senses loneliness in you,” the
villac
translates as I gaze distastefully at the creature on the bed. “She offers to use her juices to create a mate for you, one who will be all that you wish.”

“No thanks,” I mutter, stomach churning at the thought of having anything to do with this foul monster’s
juices
.

“Al,” Ama says tightly. Her face is rigid and I can see that she’s struggling to hold herself together. “On the floor, near her feet.”

I look down—I haven’t had eyes for anything but the
Coya
until now—and notice a mass of chains and locks. As I stare, something moves beneath the chains and a face swims into view. It’s a man. His features are bruised and bloodied, and his ears and nose have been cut off, but I place him instantly—Capac Raimi. He looks fit for nothing but death.

I reach out a hand to steady Ama, afraid she’ll disobey the priest’s warning and bring the wrath of this monster down upon us. “I’m OK,” she says, then looks at the
Coya
and gulps. “Will you ask her if I can go to him?” I raise an eyebrow at the priest. He speaks to his queen, who snorts but waves a hand magnanimously. Ama dashes forward to check on the welfare of the man she was created to love.