Yara scurried up the ladder with the quickness and confidence of someone accustomed to the ascent, whereas I, less certain of my footing, lagged behind, pausing to steady myself and to rethink the wisdom of this excursion. But on reaching the top, standing beside the wicked bronze-green curve of the fang and gazing down at the squat, I had an unwarranted sense of power. It was as though I’d scaled some hithertofore unscalable peak and was for that moment master of all I surveyed. Yara took my hand and her touch boosted the sensation. I felt heroin high, the way it is after your rush has dissipated and you seem in complete harmony with every part of your body, the slightest movement (the twitch of a finger, the curling of a toe) signaling a joyful competence. She led me deep into the skull, past volutes and voluptuous turns of bone, then upward along a narrow channel into the cavity that once had housed the monster’s brain, the far end of which was brightly lit by groups of candles and furnished with a much-patched waterbed, a desk, a table and three wooden chairs, and an antique steamer trunk that served as both filing cabinet and chest of drawers – the rest was empty, pale curves of bone lost in dimness. Seeing this collection of thrift shop artifacts crammed into a corner of a cavernous skull sponsored the thought that I had stumbled into a child’s bedtime story about a lost girl who dwelled in an abandoned palace of bone. I noticed that the candles had not burned down very far and asked who had lit them.
‘The adherents.’ She opened the bottom drawer of the trunk and removed a couple of towels. ‘They always seem to know when I’m going to return.’
‘You mean the people down below?’
‘Yes. They take care of me.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘They’re extremely nurturing.’
‘Yeah? You must do something for them.’
‘I perform an equivalent service.’ She tossed me a towel. ‘They’ll be bringing food soon. We’d better hurry if we want to wash up before dinner.’
Behind the skull, at the entrance to the gateway of splintered bone that had once sheathed part of the spinal chord, with thick tree trunks, leaf clusters, and ferns crowding near, stood a wooden tub, large enough in which to host a modest pool party and filled with water. A dripping pipe depended from the darkness overhead and, since there were no leaves adrift on the surface, I assumed the adherents had drawn Yara’s bath a short time before. She lit torches mounted beside the tub, igniting reflections in the water, and proceeded to strip off her clothes. Her body was perfectly proportioned, her pubic hair trimmed into a neat landing strip. I had presumed her to be heavily tattooed, but she sported only two: a tiny soaring bird of blurry blue ink above her right breast, not the work of a professional, and a diamond-shaped pattern of dark green scales positioned like a tramp stamp on the small of her back. These were of recent vintage and marvelously detailed. I joined her in the tub and watched her scrub away make-up (she had previously removed some of it with tissues) and city grime, revealing prominent cheekbones that added exotic planes to her face. After she finished scrubbing she sank down so that only her eyes and nose were visible. Serpentine tendrils of hair floating on the water were lent the impression of undulant movement by the flickering reflections with which they merged, making it appear that fiery snakes were swimming toward her, joining their substance with hers.
The jungle pressed close around and the chorusing of frogs was loud, which might have explained the absence of insect – yet I could recall no insects inside the skull. I mentioned the fact and she made a so-what face, watching me with eyes aglint with torchlight.
‘Do you want insects?’ she asked.
‘Can you arrange for some?’
‘I can try.’
I moved my hands in semicircles, sending ripples toward her. ‘Did you bring me out here just to take a bath?’
‘I’m a creature of impulse.’
‘Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?’
She rested her arms on the edge of the tub, facing me, and let her feet float up. ‘I’d prefer you reach your own conclusions. That way you won’t be able to accuse me of manipulating you.’
‘Is my opinion that important?’
‘It’s difficult to say.’
‘This woman-of-mystery shit,’ I said. ‘It’s not working for me.’
‘You’re not giving it a chance.’
Torchlight lapped at the trees, quick tides of orange radiance illuminating leaf sprays and sections of trunks, and flared along bone interiors. From above came the long, stuttering trill of a bird chortling over its live supper. National Geographic Primitive, I told myself, trying to blunt my reaction to the place. But the presence of the skull overwhelmed me once again and I had an apprehension of danger.
‘Know what I think?’ I said. ‘I think you must be running some sort of game on those people back there. The adherents.’
‘You’re not the first to say that.’
‘Well, are you?’
‘Sometimes I wonder.’
‘This kind of answer, it’s all you’re going to give me?’
‘For now.’
