Darren Shan - City of the Snakes

“That’s a waterfall,” I mutter, the first words anyone’s uttered since we left the cave with the torches.

“All must be cleansed before communion with the Coya ,” the lead villac says. “You have nothing to fear. It is merely part of the ritual.”

A short while later we’re standing on a platform above a stream, facing the waterfall. It falls from a cleft high above us and gurgles away through a gully in the floor below the platform. A narrow wooden bridge runs to a ledge on the other side, passing beneath the falling water. There are torches on either side. I wonder why the blind priests bother with lights. I mean to ask, but before I can, the villac speaks.

“Do as I do,” the priest says, walking into the spray and spreading his arms. He turns in a slow circle, the water soaking him, drenching his hair and robes. Stepping out, he continues to the far side of the bridge and faces us. “Come.”

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.

We 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.