heart hammering. The figure moved closer, leaving human footprints on the ground. When it was almost close enough to touch her, a hand came out of the cloak, shook a string of bones at her.
She squealed, then turned and ran. The painted passageway, which had been so dark at night, was dimly lit with shafts of grey. As she ran down it, her panic mingled with indignation, that a person dressed as a thing had come out of nowhere, stolen Terje away, and then rattled old bones at her. The paintings, muted in the light, swirled past her. Their faces were friendlier, their masks—the fish, the sun—were more cheerful than the gloomy reed-face. She stopped finally, pressed against a crevice, and listened. Then she ran again.
She slowed finally, panting, beginning to cry a little. Reed-Face was still behind her; she heard the rattle of its bones. But she was too tired to run any more, and too upset. She pushed herself into a shadow, tried to become flat, like a painting. The dark figure rounded a corner. Its square eyes peered left, right, then into her still face. She gathered her muscles and sprang at it with a shriek.
The dark cloak, the bones, the mask fell to a heap on the ground. She caught a glimpse of a blue face beneath the mask, and then whoever it was disappeared back down the passageway.
She wiped a tear away angrily and put on the cloak.It was soft and warm, covering her from shoulder to ankle. She hesitated a moment, then picked up the mask, looked at it curiously. It was tightly woven, with a cap attached to keep it on the head. It looked new; some of the reeds were not yet dry. Someone had spent days making it. But why? She gazed at its strange eyes, and it seemed to speak to her.
Why would anyone want to wear a face like yours?
Because, it said, I make you invisible and you cannot be harmed.
She put it on.
Now I am Reed-Face,
she thought, and picked up the bones.
No one can scare me again.
She continued down the passageway, not knowing where she was going, but not wanting to return to the cave. The world was square, now; the paintings seemed even stranger, seen from Reed-Face’s eyes. But she felt protected.
The walls began to speak to her slowly, catching her eye with paintings repeated over and over. The stories they told drifted into her thoughts.
Now there was a great rainstorm, and the river flooded. A boat full of fishermen is sinking. Twelve moons in a row. A new year. The great Fish-Man is dead. His mask is taken off, and put on the new Fish-Man. The Fish-Man marries the Sun-Woman. There is a big feast, and everyone is wearing masks that smile. A new year. The Sun-Woman has a sun-child. A girl. Here a boy enters a black hole. A cave full of terrifying things. Is it a dream-cave? He passes through. When he comes out, he carves a mask. Now he has a new face. Now the painter is painting himself painting. Did he run out of things to say? Or did he want to say, “I am the painter?” Another year . . . the Moon-Flash.
She stopped in surprise, for there seemed to be many moon-flashes, all at once, circles with fire in them. Stick-figures were doing a confusing dance among the Moon-Flashes. Then the dance became clear, and her blood ran cold.
People are killing people.
“Terje,” she whispered and began to run again.
The history faded into a colorful jumble around her. She ran past years, not knowing if she were going toward the beginning or the end of the story on the walls. The bone rattle shook a warning at her, but she paid no attention until, running finally out of history into daylight, she found herself surrounded by masks.
She stopped, panting. They all stared at each other: reed-faces, mud-faces, wood-faces, feather-faces. They had been waiting for her. Impulsively, she crouched, shook the bones at them to frighten them away.
They laughed and, murmuring among themselves, turned away from her to follow a trail down the cliffside.
I am still Reed-Face,
she thought surprisedly. Then she
She squealed, then turned and ran. The painted passageway, which had been so dark at night, was dimly lit with shafts of grey. As she ran down it, her panic mingled with indignation, that a person dressed as a thing had come out of nowhere, stolen Terje away, and then rattled old bones at her. The paintings, muted in the light, swirled past her. Their faces were friendlier, their masks—the fish, the sun—were more cheerful than the gloomy reed-face. She stopped finally, pressed against a crevice, and listened. Then she ran again.
She slowed finally, panting, beginning to cry a little. Reed-Face was still behind her; she heard the rattle of its bones. But she was too tired to run any more, and too upset. She pushed herself into a shadow, tried to become flat, like a painting. The dark figure rounded a corner. Its square eyes peered left, right, then into her still face. She gathered her muscles and sprang at it with a shriek.
The dark cloak, the bones, the mask fell to a heap on the ground. She caught a glimpse of a blue face beneath the mask, and then whoever it was disappeared back down the passageway.
She wiped a tear away angrily and put on the cloak.It was soft and warm, covering her from shoulder to ankle. She hesitated a moment, then picked up the mask, looked at it curiously. It was tightly woven, with a cap attached to keep it on the head. It looked new; some of the reeds were not yet dry. Someone had spent days making it. But why? She gazed at its strange eyes, and it seemed to speak to her.
Why would anyone want to wear a face like yours?
Because, it said, I make you invisible and you cannot be harmed.
She put it on.
Now I am Reed-Face,
she thought, and picked up the bones.
No one can scare me again.
She continued down the passageway, not knowing where she was going, but not wanting to return to the cave. The world was square, now; the paintings seemed even stranger, seen from Reed-Face’s eyes. But she felt protected.
The walls began to speak to her slowly, catching her eye with paintings repeated over and over. The stories they told drifted into her thoughts.
Now there was a great rainstorm, and the river flooded. A boat full of fishermen is sinking. Twelve moons in a row. A new year. The great Fish-Man is dead. His mask is taken off, and put on the new Fish-Man. The Fish-Man marries the Sun-Woman. There is a big feast, and everyone is wearing masks that smile. A new year. The Sun-Woman has a sun-child. A girl. Here a boy enters a black hole. A cave full of terrifying things. Is it a dream-cave? He passes through. When he comes out, he carves a mask. Now he has a new face. Now the painter is painting himself painting. Did he run out of things to say? Or did he want to say, “I am the painter?” Another year . . . the Moon-Flash.
She stopped in surprise, for there seemed to be many moon-flashes, all at once, circles with fire in them. Stick-figures were doing a confusing dance among the Moon-Flashes. Then the dance became clear, and her blood ran cold.
People are killing people.
“Terje,” she whispered and began to run again.
The history faded into a colorful jumble around her. She ran past years, not knowing if she were going toward the beginning or the end of the story on the walls. The bone rattle shook a warning at her, but she paid no attention until, running finally out of history into daylight, she found herself surrounded by masks.
She stopped, panting. They all stared at each other: reed-faces, mud-faces, wood-faces, feather-faces. They had been waiting for her. Impulsively, she crouched, shook the bones at them to frighten them away.
They laughed and, murmuring among themselves, turned away from her to follow a trail down the cliffside.
I am still Reed-Face,
she thought surprisedly. Then she
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