It has been called many things. The Black Mamba, Calypso, Tia Dalma. And worse. Much worse. The scratching of mice claws on the stone at his bare feet is accompanied by the disturbing screeches of the rodents scurrying past. Consumed by the darkness of the tunnel, she shuffles forward, her toes digging into the void like the antennae of a cockroach. His stubby fingers feed the string of the ball he carries. Slowly he pulls out the lifeline, measuring the decreasing diameter of the ball with light pressure from his left thumb. He knotted the third such ball, one to the other, in as many days. The rope now extends more than fifteen hundred feet behind her - nearly a third of a mile - as she winds through the unmarked curves and dead ends of Devil's. Labyrinth, the name he gave to this seemingly endless underground labyrinth. Carved into caves by an ancient civilization long thought extinct, the interconnected underground passages may once have connected temples or funerary monuments, may have provided a safe haven from hurricanes, or served as death traps for exiled citizens, prisoners, or the sick and elderly . His flashlight went out twenty minutes and two tunnels ago. He thought about going back, chasing the string until daylight, but what would be the purpose? Although she can't see in the dark, Tia Dalma isn't without her ways. He has his voodoo, his visions, he can direct these wormholes through reality to sense Danger, Desire and Death: the three Ds. Now he does, but he only detects worry and rat racing and a looming threat looming. like a stench. Bad things have happened here. Evil stains these walls. Where some would feel fear so intense they'd gnash their teeth, this woman heats up right in the... middle of paper...! A second haunting scream spreads through the catacombs. It is a sharp complaint tinged with pain and anger, dark sadness and agonizing uncertainty. There should be others even if that one is lost. The evil queen. The Beast. Tia Dalma took it upon herself to gather these principles and rebuild. No battle is without losses; no army survives with all its generals. Hope is ephemeral and defies his desire to hold on to it. Who needs hope when there's hate to take its place? Who needs hate when there is an attack planned for that same night many, many miles to the north? An attack destined to bring the Kingdom to its knees? However, she won't let go of the hope or the thread. He twists it between his fingers as he reverses direction, begins to gather the string around himself, the ball in his hand growing thicker and thicker as he brings it back along a well-traveled path.