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long-dead cells of a reptile. He gasped, filling his lungs for what seemed
like eternity, as if they were bottomless wells and he would soon be lifted
off the ground by the sheer weightlessness of his billowing lungs.
Free.
The rhythms buoyed him, lifted him, moved him. He felt the bodies rushing past
him as one would feel flies buzzing past one's face.
He began to stutter-walk, and the dark forms whizzed by, barely avoiding
collision, for he was not moving clockwise anymore, nor even counterclockwise,
but inward, toward the woman in the mask, toward the lines in the dirt, toward
the poteau-mitan.
He had to know.
Was he here? Or was he in his dream now?
Walking, feet planting somewhere far below, even though he couldn't feel them?
The dream was dif-
ferent and yet the same, different in form a bit, in heart the same, but more
important was this he was aware this time, he was not forgetful. He knew about
the woman in the mask. Better still, he could and was walking toward her of
his own will, no longer a bound victim watching it all play out. He could
approach his demon, finally, and look it in the eyes, and put a face on the
dreaded unknown.
The woman was being handed the lead of a goat now, a black male goat, its
scent penetrating even Gabriel's dazed mind, mixing with the pecu-
liar copper aftertaste in his mouth, becoming the smell of his ecstasy. He
could feel the small smile on his lips, feel the flesh around his eyes being
stretched by the wide-set gaze he had locked into.
Dream. Dream. It's all a dream.
He watched as she tilted back her leopard head and spat strange homilies to
the sky. He did not hear them, they were beneath the drums. Still he stepped
forward. In slow-motion she drew her curved dagger across the throat of the
creature, its eyes rolling in panic, the red blood oozing out in rich globs,
slowly and thickly, like red honey, spilling into the bowl the bowl the bowl.
She was standing and turning and he was right behind her now. She faced him
and the eyes in the
mask met his. Locked. They were crazy, like the eyes of those who danced. Not
human, but beyond human. Not a leopard, but something darker and wiser and
more bitter than that. They narrowed on him, the face under the mask curled as
if smelling him, smelling. He reached for the hood with one lumplike hand.
Those dark eyes flew open with recognition and disbelief.
"Witch-hunter!" the voice hissed. It was the voice from his dream, guttural,
insane, malevo-
lent, mocking.
His fingers found the edges of the hood and he pulled, not feeling or caring
if he was being gentle or rough, as stumbling as a bear cub batting at a hive.
The hood came off. Malia's face appeared before him. His heart sank like a
stone; broken, numb. I knew it would be you. Knew it had to be, but still I
hoped .. .
And yet ... as he looked at Malia, Malia was not what looked back. It was
Malia's face and not her face. It was her physical form, as familiar to him as
his own, yet the eyes were not Malia's and the curled, mocking lips not his
beloved's either.
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"I smell his blood in your veins!" the thing hissed.
The voice bore no trace of Malia's silky timbre it was brittle and harsh, like
sandpaper on his ears.
For the first time since that liquid had hit his face, he began to be afraid.
He felt suddenly the chill of the breeze, the vulnerability of his unshielded
face, realized he was not in a dream and he was not welcome here. He could not
comprehend what it was that stood before him, the not-Malia thing. He had
thought if he could see what was behind the mask, it would dispel the demons.
Instead, it had only made the demon see him.
A laugh like fingernails on glass issued from the creature's mouth. The dagger
came up in both hands, poising over Malia's head.
"I should have ended your bloodline years ago, puny coward spawn! Traitor
gizm! Son of mongrels!"
"Malia!" he screamed at the thing, horrified. He thought the eyes flickered
briefly with something he recognized, something that recognized him, but the
human spark was quickly extinguished.
Yet the arms, the arms paused in the air as if weighted.
And he was running, stumbling backward. He caught a glimpse of a few stunned [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]