The Idol Tongue
The fire
from the torches cross-lit the first chamber of the temple. From that entry
chamber the pair could see all the way through two more chambers into the inner
sanctum, where glimmered the indistinct shape of a large golden idol.
“You look
lovely,” whispered Virgilio to the distant idol. “I can dance you straight out
of this deserted city.” He crept forward. “I’ll show you what real worship is
like.”
Esme’s arm across his chest
barred his further advance.
“What?” he asked.
“Something
isn’t right,” she said.
“Of course
something isn’t right,” he said. “The city is empty and must be run by spirits.
Who keeps these torches burning? I don’t know and I don’t care to find out.
Let’s do what we came here to do and get out.”
“The wind
that pulls the torches this way and that…the warm humidity in the air…it’s…it’s
bothering me.”
“Which is
why we snatch the idol and get out of this cursed place.” He tried moving
forward but she insisted on holding him back, as if she were listening for
something.
“Suddenly
you’re scared of spirits and curses? This is why they hire gypsies like us.
You’ve been wearing that ink and those medallions since birth. Besides, the
curse on our line is much too jealous to let another curse catch us. Come on.”
“You think
so? Why didn’t Rochelle come in here with his big team and rob this temple
himself?”
“I just
told you why Rochelle hired us! We’re gypsies!”
“He knew
the layout of the city and could describe the temple to us. He’s been here
before.”
“So what!”
“Why didn’t
he snatch it himself?”
“He’s fat
and crippled!”
“His team then?”
“Because
they’re scared!”
“Even the
slaves looked comfortable in Rochelle’s camp,” she said, referring to the small
village of tents erected outside the entry tunnel to this underground city.
“He’s
rich.”
“They look
like they’ve been living there for a while.”
“Must have
taken some time to send for us.”
“See, he
sent for us!”
“I’m going
to bag the idol.” He shoved her arm out of the way. “You can stay where you
are.”
“Wait,
Virgilio,” she hissed.
“What use
would you be anyways?” he hissed back.
“Virgilio,
I know I’m right. Come back!”
He ignored
her and strode into the temple. She retreated to the doorway and clung to it
with labored breath.
He
unsheathed the blade with which he was to cut loose the idol from its base, as
instructed by Aubrey, Rochelle’s head slave. Drawing abreast the idol, Virgilio
tilted his head.
“What is
it?” Esme called.
“It’s a
wrathful deity wearing an ugly expression,” Virgilio called back. Then, as if
struck by a notion, he spun and sprinted back toward Esme.
He made it
all the way through the chamber closest to the idol before the floor of the
temple lurched so violently he was thrown off his feet. With a deafening groan
the entire building tilted and kept tilting until the floors became vertical
planes. Esme hung from the doorway, her legs dangling, screaming as she watched
Virgilio slide down the floor despite his desperate attempts to cling to it.
The golden idol uncoiled into a long lashing tongue-like tentacle that caught
hold of Virgilio’s leg. Virgilio hung thrashing upside down above a gaping
black pit that pulsed and contracted like a massive throat just behind the
plinth that had housed the idol.
“Esme run!”
shouted Virgilio.
She threw
one leg up over the doorway and hauled herself onto the temple face, as much to
avoid seeing Virgilio dropped into that throat as for any other reason. On
hands and knees she scurried over the temple face and skittered down the temple
ornamentation back to level ground where, screaming and crying, she flew
through lanes and past buildings that she now understood as building-shaped
scales aback a city-sized beast until a concussive force threw her off her feet
and onto her side. She tasted blood. The arrow had pierced her chest quite near
her heart. The pain was too sharp to allow her a full breath.
She saw the
approaching feet only moments before someone rolled her onto her back. Aubrey,
Rochelle’s head slave, looked into her face. “Can’t be you tell the whole world
now, love.” The last words she heard were, “Master wants that golden tongue cut
and brought to light of day. We was hoping it were you two tricky thieves get
it done. Just sorry it weren’t.”
James Moran
James Moran is a professional astrologer who regularly publishes articles, fiction, and poetry.