Hell's Horizon

by Shan, Darren

  I was brought back to the real world sharply. One of the men blew something up my nose that made me vomit and jolted me back to semiconsciousness.

  “We must present you now,” I was told. “Try to stay with us.”

  I nodded wordlessly and concentrated on my feet as I was guided through a door and into an immense cavern that made the first seem like a cranny. Thick candles dotted the walls and ceiling. Dripping wax had formed random sculptures on the floor. The cavern receded into the distance as far as I could see. Symbols—similar to those I’d been painted with—adorned the walls. Many of them were of the sun. I thought they were beautiful.

  Directly in front of me lay a circular stone platform, roughly two feet high, maybe forty in diameter. A huge golden sun medallion hung suspended overhead. The platform was dotted with the stiff remains of preserved corpses. They sat upright in plain chairs around the edge, facing inward, mummified. Three ornate thrones stood at the center of the circle, set about three feet apart from each other.

  The robed, white-eyed man with the mole occupied the middle throne. Similarly blind men stood behind the other two, faces just visible over the tops of the high backs. They looked almost identical, except the one in the middle had the mole and a few years’ march on the others.

  In front of the trio a young man sat on his haunches, crouched at the feet of the seated man like a dog. He had long, silver hair and brown eyes, and was naked, his body covered like mine with intricate designs. He was the one who addressed me throughout.

  “Welcome, Flesh of Dreams,” he greeted me. I blinked nervously, lost for words. The man on the throne said something in a language I couldn’t place. The younger man nodded. “Don’t be afraid. You have nothing to fear. We shall not harm you.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, then fixed my eyes on the huge sun ornament. One of the men who’d accompanied me from the first cavern gently redirected my head so that I faced the platform again.

  “We are villacs, the priests of the sun,” the young man intoned. “We are the builders of this city, the architects of its future. You are a spirit of destiny, of our planning and making. Great things will come of our union.”

  “That’s nice,” I giggled.

  “We would tell you of our plans but it is not time. First you must be cleansed. You cannot join us as you are. Only the pure may serve.”

  The man on the throne spoke again. The young man listened. I staggered on my feet and tuned into the sound of dripping water. This made no sense to me but I was happy enough to go along with it in my drugged, spaced-out state.

  “Unclean as you are,” the naked man resumed, “it is time to draw your blood. This city was built on a chakana of blood and is sustained by it.”

  “What’s a chakana?” I asked.

  “A three-stepped cross. Chakanas are sacred to us. We have always operated on three levels, three different realms of existence. In this city we have forged a chakana of blood streams. The blood of man, of the sun, and of dreams. For centuries the streams have run separately. Soon they will merge and there will be one stream—a chakana—which will feed this city eternally.

  “You are here because you are a son of Dreams made Flesh. You will form one-third of our new chakana. We bring you here to prepare you for the day of union, to make you aware of the glorious destiny to which you were born.

  “Blood,” he hissed. “All revolves around the sap of the living. You thirst for blood. Your women have been murdered and you live to avenge their deaths, yes?”

  My eyes narrowed. “Ellen,” I sighed.

  “She was killed for the chakana. Your other lover too. Sacrificed for your destiny. Slain, that you may grow in spirit and move toward—”

  “You killed her!” I screamed, surging forward, only to find my way blocked by the two men who’d been my guides.

  “We did not kill your women,” the man on the platform vowed. “The murderer resides elsewhere.”

  “Who killed them?” I shouted. “Tell me or—”

  “That is for you to discover,” he interrupted. “Answers must be earned. Blood must find its own way.”

  “Fuck blood!” I screamed. “Tell me who killed Ellen or I’ll—”

  The blind man on the throne barked an order. It was commanding enough to silence me. He got to his feet and walked to the edge of the platform, passing the naked man, who averted his eyes. The blind priest continued speaking, empty eyes fixed on my form.

  “My master says you must show respect,” came the translation.

  I was afraid of this sinister man but the memory of Ellen drove me to snarl, “Fuck respect.”

  The blind man stiffened, then chuckled and mumbled something to his servant.

  “My master says your blood is hot and that is good. Respect will come later. He can wait. For now you must lend us your hands.”

  I stared down at them. The blind priest reached into his robes and produced a curved dagger. I took a nervous step back. “You’re not taking my hands,” I moaned.

  “We don’t intend to,” the young man laughed. “We need only your blood, and little of that. Step forward.” I shook my head and jammed my hands behind my back. The priest with the mole began to chant, then made a beckoning motion with his knife. Suddenly I was stumbling toward him involuntarily.

  I stopped at the platform. I wanted to flee but was under the blind priest’s spell. He leaned forward, took my left hand, laid it on his head, said something under his breath, lowered my hand and kissed the palm. Next he made a quick slice with the knife across the soft flesh. Maybe because of the dust, I felt no pain.

  I thought he was going to lick the blood off but he didn’t. He let it drip to the platform, where it disappeared as though absorbed by the stone, then repeated the ceremony with my right hand. Finished, he stepped back, handed the dagger to one of the priests behind the empty thrones and resumed his central position.

  “It is done,” the naked man said. “The blood of Flesh of Dreams is diminished. To replenish it you must take blood in anger. By doing so, the way for the union will be open. Take him back now,” he said to my guides. As they stepped forward to escort me away, he addressed me a final time. “When next we bring you here, it will be to celebrate the union of the blood streams. On that day every question will be answered.”

  “No,” I mumbled, shaking my head. “I want to know now. You’re going to tell me. I won’t leave until you do. I’ll tear you apart if I have to, but I won’t—”

  As I was making the threat, I stepped onto the platform, only for a shock to course through my body like a flood of electric eels. It was as if I’d rammed my fingers into a live socket. I was hurled through the air. The world went white, then red, and I knew nothing except dreams.

  Bill was standing over me when I returned to the land of the living, slapping my face lightly. “Al?” he asked softly. “Are you OK?”

  “Where am I?” I groaned, sitting up.

  “My place,” he said. “You’ve been asleep for two whole days. I thought you’d never wake.”

  “The cavern,” I sighed, remembering parts of my underworld adventure, though full recollection wouldn’t come until later.

  “What?”

  “The cavern. The platform. I was…” I bent forward and examined the soles of my feet, expecting to find burnt patches, but they were unmarked. “Where was I found?” I asked, wriggling my toes.

  Bill frowned. “You’ve been here, sleeping.”

  “Not two days ago. I was out cycling.”

  Bill shrugged. “You were here when I got back, dead to the world.”

  “That can’t be. The cavern. The priests. They took my blood. They told me—”

  “You’ve been dreaming,” Bill chuckled.

  “No! It was real. I was—”

  “OK,” he said, taking a step back. “You were cycling in a cavern. I believe you. Now, are you gonna get up and dress or do you want to cycle some more?”

  “Later,” I muttered, scra
tching my head, trying to remember everything. “I’m starving. I’ll have breakfast, then…” I stopped. My suit was hanging from the back of the door. “What’s that for?”

  Bill took my hands and squeezed tightly. “It’s Thursday.” When that didn’t register, he added sorrowfully, “Ellen’s being buried today.”

  21

  The funeral was devastating. Ellen’s mother was a vibrant, forceful woman, in the normal run of things capable of taking anything life threw at her. She lost her first child to crib death—came to terms with it. Cancer drove her husband to an early grave—she survived that too. But Ellen’s death was one blow too many. Hysteria descended. She wept throughout the service, keening like a professional wailer, pounding her knees with bunched fists.

  Ellen was buried on Glade Hill, a carefully tended cemetery perched above the city like a bird’s nest. The cost of burial was outrageous—nearly everyone I knew went for cremation—but Ellen feared fire and had often expressed her desire to be buried.

  None of her family knew about Nic Hornyak, or that Ellen was dead because I’d drawn her into my sordid little world. I had that much to be grateful for—I couldn’t have attended otherwise. But being blameless in their eyes did nothing to ease my conscience. If anything it made matters worse. There I was, mixing with the innocent, accepting their condolences with a wan smile, a sad shrug. I felt lousy. Hypocritical. Guilty.

  The service came to an end and cars began pulling out of the drive. I’d have been happy to stay by the grave but I was expected at the house for the wake.

  As I hunted for a lift—Bill had driven me here, but kept to the back of the crowd and slipped away before anyone else—a fleet of five black Cadillacs wound their way up Glade Hill and came to a halt not far from the gates. A tall, bony figure stepped out of the middle car. I had to double-check to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.

  It was The Cardinal.

  He blew into his cupped hands, as if there were a chill in the air, then nodded at me and got back into the limo. I went to see what was going on.

  I stood by the open door of the Cadillac and stared in at The Cardinal, who was rubbing his arms and gazing out the side window uneasily.

  “Get in,” he snapped. “I hate the great outdoors.” I got in without a word. “Take you anywhere?”

  “You know where the wake’s being held?”

  He nodded and the chauffeur passed word on to the other cars. He said nothing until we were off the hill and shadowed by ugly gray buildings.

  “The city looks prettier from the fifteenth floor of Party Central,” he noted, nose crinkling. “I’d forgotten how seedy it is up close.”

  “It’s home,” I said softly.

  “Hmm.” He opened a mini-refrigerator and produced two bottles of mineral water. “If you have to travel, this is the only way.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, dispensing with the chitchat.

  “You didn’t come to see me. I wanted to check that everything was good between us.”

  “I’ve just buried my ex-wife. How could everything be good?”

  “I said between us. I’m aware of your grief. I share some of it—though I didn’t know the woman, I know how much she meant to you and I feel partly responsible for what happened.”

  “So you should,” I snarled. “You as good as murdered her.”

  “No,” The Cardinal sighed. “I had nothing to do with Ellen Fraser’s death. I know you’ve teamed up with your father behind my back—that was hardly likely to go unnoticed by my network of spies—and I suppose you’re suspicious of me, given the degree of secrecy you’ve sunk to. But I don’t know why your ex-wife was killed, nor Nicola Hornyak, and I certainly don’t know who did it.”

  “Wami thinks you allowed us to be set up,” I said. “He thinks you were spooked by that Incan card and played along because you were afraid.”

  “He’s not far off the mark.” The Cardinal sipped his drink. “I’ve never run from a challenge or retreated out of fear. It’s not in me to back down. But I’ve learned to play my cards right and sometimes it suits my purposes better to lay low rather than attack. This is one such instance.

  “When the postcard came, I was furious. If I’d been twenty years younger, I’d have torn the city apart till I found the prick who thought he could fuck with me, and taught him a valuable lesson. But my blood doesn’t run as recklessly as it did. I had other problems to deal with. Though it galled me to play along, it was the right thing to do. So, yes, I threw you in at the deep end. But I’d no idea it would end like this.”

  “Would it have made a difference if you had?” I asked.

  “It might. I know the pain of losing a wife. I would wish it on no one.”

  “That’s right,” I murmured. “You were married once. Drove her crazy. Walled her up in the Skylight.”

  “You’re treading on thin ice, Al,” he growled.

  “Do I look like I’m worried?”

  “You should be. I could have you…” He stopped with a curse. “I didn’t come to make threats. I came to clear my name before you did something stupid. I’m not your enemy and you’ll only waste your time treating me as one.”

  That was debatable, but it was big of him to come, so I didn’t want to provoke him. “The blind priests say they know who killed her,” I told him instead.

  “You’ve had contact with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “They spoke to you in English?” The news startled him. “I didn’t know they were capable of common speech. Tell me what they said.”

  I gave him an abbreviated version of my encounter with the villacs. “Of course they could have been lying,” I concluded. “About not killing Nic and Ellen.”

  “Doubtful,” he replied. “I don’t see why they should drag you all the way down there just to lie to you.” He stroked his chin with his twisted little finger and glanced away. “Did they explain why they referred to you as Flesh of Dreams?” Though he phrased the question casually, I could tell it had significance for him.

  “No. They babbled on about blood and something called a chakana, but none of it made sense.”

  “Did they mention the word Ayuamarca at any point?”

  “No.” But I didn’t tell him that Paucar Wami had.

  “Curious,” he muttered, then made a dismissive gesture. “Enough about the blind fools. The investigation—do you wish to continue?”

  “It’s too late to stop,” I responded.

  “Nonsense. I can remove you from the case and set another team on it. Fuck my blackmailers. If you like, you can leave the city and not return until everything’s been cleared.”

  “I’m not running,” I told him. “And I don’t want you interfering. Ellen’s killers are mine. If anyone gets in my way…”

  The Cardinal chuckled. “I was right about you, Al. You were wasted in the Troops. Very well, the case is still yours. Good luck.”

  “I won’t need luck. I have this.” I opened my jacket to flash my .45.

  “As persuasive a tool as any,” The Cardinal noted drily, and said nothing further during the remainder of the journey.

  The wake was held in a large house belonging to one of Ellen’s cousins. Family and friends milled around, talking in low voices, drinking heavily, smoking as if the tobacco industry were about to go out of business.

  There was a huge grate for an open fire in the main room. Somebody lit it in the afternoon, despite the glorious weather, and I retreated to its side when I couldn’t take one more comforting pat on the back. I would have left but that wouldn’t have been polite, and for once in my life I wanted to do the decent thing. For Ellen’s sake.

  I sat by the hearth, watching the flames, cold as I’d ever been. After a slow, lonely half hour, Deborah—Ellen’s elder sister—approached. “Holding up?” she asked, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. I nodded numbly. “Mom’s taking this badly. We’re worried sick about her.”

  “Some people take things l
ike this worse than others. She’ll come to terms with it eventually. You just have to make sure you’re there for her when she needs you.” The platitudes came naturally. “You seem to be bearing up OK,” I noted.

  She glanced around to make sure we were alone, then spoke quietly. “Remember Donny, my son?”

  “Sure. He was a real terror. Must be thirteen, fourteen now?”

  “Fourteen,” she confirmed.

  “Is he here?”

  “No. He’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s cancer.” A confidential whisper. “Just like Dad.” I stared at her. I hadn’t cried since finding Ellen dead at the Skylight, but I came close to it then.

  “Is it serious?” I asked stupidly.

  “He’s dying. They’ve operated twice without success. He’s there again today. We didn’t tell him about Ellen. He’s going to die. In a few months we’ll be back here mourning again. That’s how I’m so calm. I’ve been preparing for a funeral.”

  “Is that why your Mom’s so shattered?” I asked.

  “Mom doesn’t know. We wanted to keep it from her. We’ve kept it quiet from most of the family. We live outside the city, so we don’t see them much. We were going to tell them after this operation, if it fails. Now though…” She looked over at her weeping mother. “Excuse me,” she sobbed, voice cracking, and hurried away, shaking helplessly.

  I sat there, thinking of Ellen, her mother, Donny. Everyone was drifting around like zombies, drinking too much, talking about the past, their jobs, their kids, but not about Ellen. They didn’t want to discuss the dead, not like at most funerals. Ellen’s corpse was lying peacefully up on Glade Hill, but might as well have been here, in the middle of the room, the way people were acting.

  And it was all my fault.

  I thought about the coffin being lowered. The words of the priest, trying to comfort the mourners. The sound of the earth as it hit the lid. She’d looked so healthy laid out before. The killer hadn’t touched her face. She could have been sleeping, except I knew that Ellen slept with her mouth open and was never still. She was forever moving, wriggling her toes, snoring, scrunching up her face. But not anymore.