chant.
“Ho! Dweller in the Abyss, Dark Thunderer—hear us!”
The girl Yana cried, “Hear our prayers! Drink—eat of our sacrifice!” Her red lips were cruel.
“Lord of the Lake!” thundered the Curupuri. “Look on our sacrifice!”
Then silence, heavy and ominous. Yana said, “The priestess must be unblemished.” Her voice was sweetly malicious.
Zol nodded, turned to Alasa. His hands went out, ripping the tattered cloak from her. A gasp went up from the natives.
The girl stood nude. Her bronze hair spilled in a tumbled mass on bare shoulders. Instinctively her hands went up in an attempt to cover herself.
Zol shouted laughter as he gazed at the nude girl, at the sweeping curves of her body, flawless in its beauty. Then the priest tore the feather cloak from Yana and cast it about Alasa’s shoulders.
Nausea tore at Mason’s throat as he saw the body of the priestess, naked save for a brief loincloth. From neck to ankles she had been tattooed. Red and blue designs circled the mounds of her breasts, fled across her rounded hips. Understanding of the months of agony the girl must have endured made Mason feel suddenly sick.
The shouting died. Zol chanted, “She is unmarred—perfect! Tonight the testing begins. The mark of the Thunderer shall be put upon her.”
The mark of the Thunderer? Alasa shuddered, drew the translucent cloak closer. In the eyes of Yana, Mason saw a red blaze of rage. Her lashes drooped, she turned away.
The Curupuri closed about Mason. Vainly struggling, he was forced from the temple, taken back to the hut. There, legs once more bound, he was left alone.
The afternoon dragged on. Occasionally the guard would enter to test the captive’s bonds. Though Mason tried to engage in conversation with the man, he met with no success. Perhaps the Curupuri were forbidden to converse with their prisoners.
Just after sunset Mason heard voices outside the hut, and presently Yana, the priestess, entered. Two natives were at her heels.
One was the guard. He freed Mason’s feet, and with the other Curupuri, left the hut. The priestess knelt beside Mason.
In the dimness the disfiguring tattooing was invisible, and Mason could see only the smooth curves of the girl’s body, scarcely hidden by thin cloth. She said softly, “The guard is gone. I told him Zol wished him to hunt in the forest. And the other who waits without—is my friend.”
Mason stared at her. Fumbling with the Curupuri dialect, he said, “One has need of friends here.”
She nodded. “It is true. I—would like to save the white girl?”
“Yes!” Mason said swiftly. “Will you help me?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why?” He did not entirely trust this girl in whose eyes murderous rage sprang so easily.
“In your place I should not hesitate. You are strangers, I know that. You are not gods, as some said, else you would not be bound and helpless now. Whence you come I do not care, so long as you leave here swiftly.”
“The—the place where we were captured. Is it far from here?”
“No. You saw the gap in the mountains—the pass? It is not far, just beyond that. You can reach it in a fourth part of a day. And as for why I shall help you—it is because the white girl will take my place! For years a pale-skinned priestess of our tribe has ruled us. When the last one died I took her place. Zol did not like that—for I would not always obey him. Now he sees a chance to depose me and gain a puppet priestess … I would kill this white girl, but it would be sacrilege. I would be tortured … but if you escape with her, it will be different.”
“Then untie me,” Mason said, his voice eager.
The girl bent down, her hair brushing Mason’s face. “But you must not fail! For there is another way—” Again the mad rage flared in her eyes. “I have been the priestess of the Thunderer for more than a year. And I have learned much—the words of power that call the Dark Lord from the lake.” Her tone was brooding.
“Ho! Dweller in the Abyss, Dark Thunderer—hear us!”
The girl Yana cried, “Hear our prayers! Drink—eat of our sacrifice!” Her red lips were cruel.
“Lord of the Lake!” thundered the Curupuri. “Look on our sacrifice!”
Then silence, heavy and ominous. Yana said, “The priestess must be unblemished.” Her voice was sweetly malicious.
Zol nodded, turned to Alasa. His hands went out, ripping the tattered cloak from her. A gasp went up from the natives.
The girl stood nude. Her bronze hair spilled in a tumbled mass on bare shoulders. Instinctively her hands went up in an attempt to cover herself.
Zol shouted laughter as he gazed at the nude girl, at the sweeping curves of her body, flawless in its beauty. Then the priest tore the feather cloak from Yana and cast it about Alasa’s shoulders.
Nausea tore at Mason’s throat as he saw the body of the priestess, naked save for a brief loincloth. From neck to ankles she had been tattooed. Red and blue designs circled the mounds of her breasts, fled across her rounded hips. Understanding of the months of agony the girl must have endured made Mason feel suddenly sick.
The shouting died. Zol chanted, “She is unmarred—perfect! Tonight the testing begins. The mark of the Thunderer shall be put upon her.”
The mark of the Thunderer? Alasa shuddered, drew the translucent cloak closer. In the eyes of Yana, Mason saw a red blaze of rage. Her lashes drooped, she turned away.
The Curupuri closed about Mason. Vainly struggling, he was forced from the temple, taken back to the hut. There, legs once more bound, he was left alone.
The afternoon dragged on. Occasionally the guard would enter to test the captive’s bonds. Though Mason tried to engage in conversation with the man, he met with no success. Perhaps the Curupuri were forbidden to converse with their prisoners.
Just after sunset Mason heard voices outside the hut, and presently Yana, the priestess, entered. Two natives were at her heels.
One was the guard. He freed Mason’s feet, and with the other Curupuri, left the hut. The priestess knelt beside Mason.
In the dimness the disfiguring tattooing was invisible, and Mason could see only the smooth curves of the girl’s body, scarcely hidden by thin cloth. She said softly, “The guard is gone. I told him Zol wished him to hunt in the forest. And the other who waits without—is my friend.”
Mason stared at her. Fumbling with the Curupuri dialect, he said, “One has need of friends here.”
She nodded. “It is true. I—would like to save the white girl?”
“Yes!” Mason said swiftly. “Will you help me?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why?” He did not entirely trust this girl in whose eyes murderous rage sprang so easily.
“In your place I should not hesitate. You are strangers, I know that. You are not gods, as some said, else you would not be bound and helpless now. Whence you come I do not care, so long as you leave here swiftly.”
“The—the place where we were captured. Is it far from here?”
“No. You saw the gap in the mountains—the pass? It is not far, just beyond that. You can reach it in a fourth part of a day. And as for why I shall help you—it is because the white girl will take my place! For years a pale-skinned priestess of our tribe has ruled us. When the last one died I took her place. Zol did not like that—for I would not always obey him. Now he sees a chance to depose me and gain a puppet priestess … I would kill this white girl, but it would be sacrilege. I would be tortured … but if you escape with her, it will be different.”
“Then untie me,” Mason said, his voice eager.
The girl bent down, her hair brushing Mason’s face. “But you must not fail! For there is another way—” Again the mad rage flared in her eyes. “I have been the priestess of the Thunderer for more than a year. And I have learned much—the words of power that call the Dark Lord from the lake.” Her tone was brooding.
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