Then the ball was in play again and she was no longer thinking thoughts, only moves. They were going for the scoring hoop again; their scorer was beautifully placed. She thought about running over and scratching him but the ball was quicker than she was. He jumped for it, and the next thing she knew, it was curving perfectly through the centre of the scoring hoop. He threw up his arms in delight, but instead of cheers a loud booing filled the stadium. It sounded like some monster coming nearer. The scorer had kicked the ball with his foot. He probably hadn’t meant to; sometimes it just happened. But he knew he’d done it now. He kneeled down and bowed his head and allowed his team captain to strike him on the back with his great wooden club. The crowd loved that.
Lord Tekokiztakitl himself threw the ball back into play – in the Final it would be the king. The ball went high into the air, where the gods could decide who should have it.
The gods decided on Monkey8. Now that it was coming to her, she was not afraid. She leaped high; she broadened her chest. The ball struck like a fist but she controlled it. She knew where Jaguar3 was. She knew the others were not watching him because he was dishonoured, so she flipped it to him. He flung his hip at the ball and it curved back into the air. She knew where it would go and was there waiting when it arrived. She caught it with her knee. She bounced it three times, killing its spin. They were coming at her; their captain had his club raised.
It was too late. She pulled back her leg and kneed the ball confidently through the middle of the stone scoring hoop. Then, for honour only, she trapped it on her chest as it dropped through the other side, softly as fruit.
The cheer she won then made the earlier cheers sound like mutters. Lord Tekokiztakitl stood up, so everyone else stood up. He took his gold ornaments from around his neck and she ran to receive them. Because he had done it, others did it, and she walked around the pitch allowing people to drape her with gold.
She was the first girl ever to score on a New Court. Surely they must let her play in the finals.
– It wasn’t a dream, was it?
– You mean you have dreamed of this before?
– No.
– Because that would mean something if you had.
– No.
– It might also mean something if you never had.
The Interpretation were questioning her. It was part of how they decided whether she would go through to the finals. Everyone said the Interpretation were scary but they seemed lovely. They bought her a cactus syrup at a street cafe in the shade of the New Court. She sat and watched the painters finishing the new mural. The New Court had been built specially for the 2012 finals. The mural showed scenes from the whole history of Aztec Europa. There was Montezuma floating into the River Clyde on his imperial raft, over five hundred years ago, his huge nodding feather headdress making him look eight feet tall. No wonder the ghostfolk who lived here – with their pale speckly skin – thought he was a god. Apparently their god walked on water. Montezuma’s raft was so low in the water, it looked like he was doing just that. They thought their god had come back to them.
– Where did you learn ulama? asked the man from the Interpretation.
– My father is a rubber importer. He gave me my first rubber ball to play with when I was five. The ghostfolk who work in our house and gardens have a boy, and he was forever kicking a fitba – those pig’s bladder ghostfolk balls that hardly bounce. They kick it with their feet. When he saw how a real ball bounces, he couldn’t leave it alone. We’ve played all day. Every day. Ever since. Father is busy; my mother is dead. We play in the corridors and in the delivery alley.
– You learned ulama from a ghostboy?
– We learned together. His name is Mungo.
– We don’t need to know the ghostboy’s name. You know that most of the players who are on the list for the finals are from great families? They were taught by other great players. One of them was taught by Neza himself. And Neza has declared him the greatest player he has ever seen.
– Let me play him and we’ll see.
– This will be a game of universal significance. No girl has ever played in such a game. And a girl who learned her ulama skills in an alleyway… you must admit it seems unlikely.
– Unlikely things are mostly from the gods, she said. – Look at Montezuma. He went for a ride on the imperial raft one day, got caught up in the Gulf Stream and ended up here in a village called Glasgow. He founded the second empire and made that village into the greatest city on earth.
– You are comparing yourself to Montezuma?
– My father said we should all strive to be like him. So, yes, I compare myself to him. Every night before I sleep, I ask myself, did I do as Montezuma would have done?
– And how do you answer?
– When he was adrift, he was not scared. He didn’t try to paddle back. He knew the gods were taking him somewhere, so he stood calm and strong like a god; and when he came here, they took him for a god. All I ever wanted to do was play the game. When I got older and I heard that no one born in the month of the Monkey had ever played in the New Court, I still played. When I realized that no girl was ever allowed to play, I still played. When my father tried to stop me, that was like the waves and the winds and the monsters that Montezuma fought. I still played. If the gods had made me want something so wrong, it must be because they had some purpose. I stood tall.
– So you lied to your father?
– Yes.
– You had better tell him the truth now. Because you will be playing in the semi-final and all the world will know.
She burst into tears when they told her, and they had to remind her that weeping was a beating offence.
She tried to remember all she had said to the Interpretation. After all, if she had convinced them, she should surely be able to convince her own father. When she got home, he had already heard. Before she could say a word, he had locked her in her room. She tried to sleep, hoping to dream of the Final. Then she sat up suddenly. Something was tapping at the window. She saw the pale freckly face pushed up against the glass.
– Mungo, she whispered and opened the window. – He won’t let me play in the semi-final. It’s so unfair.
– He’s sacked my father and sent us away. He says it’s all my fault, that I taught you ulama.
– At least your father will get another job and another house. I will never have another chance to play the game.
Mungo laughed at her. – A spoiled wee idiot, he called her.
– Do you know why it’s called the Final? Because it’s the final game. The gods are going to destroy this world and start a new one and everyone’s going to die.
– No one’s going to destroy the world.
– Yes, they are. The gods destroyed the world before, once by flood, once by fire, once by the great wind, and once more by fire; and this year they will do it again. And that’s why we’re playing the Final, to thank them for letting us live so long; and maybe if the game is good enough, they will destroy us with something comfortable, like petals or snow, and not sores or locusts.
– Our God telt us that he’d destroy the world no more. Never again. He did it once and promised he’d never try that again. He put a rainbow in the sky to seal the deal.
– But your god is weak. He lost. Even before Real People came here, your god was nothing but a dead man nailed to a piece of wood. Your god is dead. Our gods will destroy the world and I will have missed my last chance to play.