She leaned back and closed her eyes. Denny did not dare to do the same, he was afraid he might fall asleep.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ve got it now. Where does all that stuff go, when it’s been deleted?’
‘Into people’s heads,’ said Denny.
‘Into the realm of the imagination,’ corrected Tamar. ‘Redundant beliefs. And there’s a file for that too, but it isn’t in mainframe.’
Denny shuddered; he thought he could see where this was going.
‘I’m not talking about the dreamscape,’ she said. ‘But answer me this, what sort of Being is good at accessing the belief of mortal minds?’
‘A god!’ said Denny snapping his fingers. ‘But the belief isn’t there anymore,’ he added frowning. That’s the point. Neither are the things that were the focus of that belief. In fact, that brings us back to the deleted files.’ He sighed.
‘That belief is still there,’ said Tamar. ‘Think! I know you can remember if you try.’
‘People from the time, believed in the gods and so on,’ said Denny. ‘And they were real – at the time. People believed in them because they were real, and they were real because people believed in them – but they aren’t now, and they never were because it was all deleted except … It’s a paradox,’ he said. ‘Redundant belief belongs in history.
‘Right,’ said Tamar. ‘If you want access to that belief you have to go back to when it still existed. Even though the gods never existed now they did then. They may have all been tidied up into deleted files from our point of view, but there was a time, when they hadn’t been. I know it’s weird. It’s like, how can they exist, even in the past, when they’ve been deleted from history altogether? But it’s like – even mainframe exists as a part of time. The historical files are inside mainframe. But, put another way, mainframe also exists within the history files. You can access it from any point in time because it’s always been there. Like you said – a paradox. That’s what all of time really is.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I saw it, but then, I sort of forgot. Too much information to handle, I suppose.’
‘So, where is the belief?’ she asked. ‘Where is it now?’
‘And I thought you knew everything.’
‘I’m not the one who went into mainframe and saw everything. That was you.’
‘It … lingers,’ said Denny. ‘Not everything that is believed in is real. But everything that is real is believed in by someone. It’s not quantifiable. It can’t be controlled. Not even by the gods. But sometimes seeing really is believing. So … the Hall Of Images … that’s where belief resides. The pictures in people’s minds. I’m sorry, that’s not really helpful is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Tamar thoughtfully. ‘It might be.’
* * *
‘Your dad’s mad keen on all those old books Iffie,’
‘I don’t think Dad’s actually keen on all those old books. He just thinks they’re important or something.’
‘Then maybe they are.’
Iffie decided that maybe Jack was right. Maybe they were.
There were books in that library that were unreadable. Not because of the ancient languages – that was another type of unreadable – these were … magically unreadable. The words themselves were in another dimension. Not a parallel universe, or a pocket universe, just another dimension like the astral plane, but not that simple. Of course, books take you to another world in a purely figurative sense anyway, but in this case, there was another side to it.
Iffie had, as a child, often cast spells which took her into the action of her favourite books. Just a tweak to the wording should take her into the action of one of these books even though the action was taking place in another dimension. It was a weird juxtaposition of the world of reality the world of fantasy and the strange realm in which the words were hidden.
And if a mere witch could do it, then a powerful god like Being should have had no trouble at all. And it made sense on another level. Cindy had been a witch too. Witches used books for a lot of things. Words had power; all witches knew this instinctively. And Cindy had lived here, in this house at one time, she would certainly have known about the strange intra-dimensional books in the library.
Now she just had to find the right book.
When she finally found it, it practically jumped out at her. This had to be it! If Cindy was going to hide in any book it was going to be one named “Gods and Monnsters”. (This was the actual spelling, Monnsters with the double “n” – actually referring to all kinds of magical creatures not necessarily monstrous ones.)
Jack, when canvassed for his opinion, agreed with her.
It was, in fact, a pretty dry reference book written, as Iffie put it, about a million years ago (in fact it was only 700 years old) by an aging magician who had seen a thing or two. But it was not the words that were important in this case.
The spell involved getting into the dimension where the words could be read – luckily Denny knew how to do this and he had taught her, taught both of them; and actually, it was Jack who had taken to it easily, Iffie had had trouble learning. It was a cerebral connection; the body remained where it was. Once there, they could take the next step into the book itself. This part would be largely up to Iffie.
A dry and dreary landscape met them when they entered. But, and this was the important part, it was a part of the fantasy realm.
All books, even those that purport to be factual reference books rightly belong in the realm of fiction. All “facts” are coloured by the author’s personal views to a greater or lesser extent and let’s face it, so many “facts” are being proved daily as having been the merest fantasy after all, in the light of some exciting new “facts” that have emerged in their place. Historical data is particularly prone to this phenomenon. And scientific facts do not exist at all in any real sense. There are only scientific theories waiting to be torn down by the next generation. The word “science” refers not to a table of factual data but to a process which is ongoing. Add to this, the strange truth that most of humanity is simply stuffed full of random misinformation, and it is a wonder that anyone believes anything that they read or hear about at all.
Iffie was well aware of this, having been lectured on it, mostly by her mother, from an early age. Which was why, if someone had said to her that the sky was blue, she would probably have challenged them to prove it. If it had been a cloudy day, her arguments would have taken the other point of view apart.
Jack was one person who never allowed himself to be drawn into this endless loop of speculation about the nature of reality, but he was trapped now.
‘Griffins,’ said Iffie disparagingly as one hopped by. ‘People will believe anything.’
‘It’s quite pretty, though,’ said Jack mildly. ‘In a deformed genetic experiment kind of way.’
‘But it isn’t real.’
Jack sighed. ‘Nothing is here,’ he pointed out. ‘That’s the point, isn’t it?’
‘Nothing?’ she said looking around. ‘You know I think, unfortunately, that you’re right about that.’
‘He isn’t here?’ asked Jack.
‘Do you see anything?’
‘Well, I don’t really know how this works, I mean, maybe he’s in another chapter or something.’
‘That’s not how it works,’ she said. ‘We came in at the beginning. From here we can see clear to the end. There’s nothing here apart from what’s supposed to be – if you don’t count us that is.’
‘There are plenty of other books …’
‘None that she would have picked. I checked them all. Huh! Another dead end.’
‘Maybe she picked one at random, we shouldn’t just give up.’
‘I’m not giving up, but this isn’t the way. Look out for the ogre,’ she added.
If you’re certain he’s not here, maybe we should get out of here.’
‘I’m certain. He’s not here. I’m beginning to think he’s not anywhere. Maybe he’s just a figme
nt of our imaginations.’
‘That would be too much to hope for,’ said Jack.
* * *
Okay. So there was definitely something else going on, Denny realised. The fact was, try as he might to hide it, he was getting steadily weaker after each of the horrible dreams. It was taking him longer and longer to recover from each attack – and he had to admit now that they were attacks, they were more than mere dreams anyway – and each time his recovery was a little less complete.
As had happened before, he was certain that he had read something about this sort of thing, but he could not remember where. The problem, this time, was that he was on his own. He had not told anyone else about the dreams, and he did not intend to. And how to explain what he was researching without telling them?
So why not just tell Tamar about it, and ask for help, as he would usually do? The truth was, he was horribly ashamed of the dream attacks; that was the thing. Ashamed and furious that he was apparently completely unable to stop it from happening. He should be able to stop it. The fact that he could not, made him feel unaccountably guilty, as if he somehow deserved it. He did not want anyone to know; he would sort it out for himself. He was sure he had read something somewhere … He fell asleep.
* * *
They had tried scrying with it, using it in a locator spell, crystal divination, and all the things that an intensely personal object can be used for to find a person. All the things that Iffie had used the feather for. The orb did not work any better, so Denny gave it back to Jack, who gave it back to Iffie, who had another idea.
Iffie owned a witch’s Athame, a fairly innocuous item compared with Denny’s demonic version. It stole no powers, and in Iffie’s opinion, a kitchen knife would have been just as good. But it was prettier, she had to admit that.
She also had a bunch of candles and incense sticks, salt, crystals and the orb.
Many teenage girls spend time sitting in the centre of a pentagram surrounded by candles and incense and chanting incomprehensible nonsense.
Iffie had never done this, and she was not about to start now. There were easier ways to cast spells.
She took the paring knife from the kitchen drawer – there was no point in spoiling the Athame, which had been a present – and scored the candle three times and lit it on the stove. Then she filled the room with steam from the kettle to provide a cloudy medium in the air. The books recommended incense smoke, but Iffie did not like the smell and they always set off the smoke detectors anyway.
A pentagram was not necessary, but some sort of barrier to sit within was. A circle on the floor was drawn with a handy crayon, and she sat down and chanted – chanting, unfortunately, is a prerequisite of any spell, and it always made Iffie feel self-conscious, like she was talking to herself.
Anyone could be a witch with incense, a fancy Athame and pentagrams drawn carefully in sacred salt. It took real skill to be a witch with a potato peeler, a steaming kettle and a crayon.
And the orb. It looked by far the most magical object in use – but it really was not, it was merely the conduit.
Iffie opened the book on her knee. It was perfectly acceptable to read a spell out from a book. Only pretentious witches took the trouble to learn all their spells off by heart beforehand. Of course, some you used so often that you remembered them anyway.
“To summon an angel” she read.
Of course, technically Ash was not an angel he was only a half angel, but she was sure the principle was the same. The angelic part of him would have to respond.
She hoped.
* * *
‘At midnight last night, in the Capital, a total of seven arson attacks took place apparently simultaneously. The targets of these co-ordinated attacks were all well known brothels. In each case, there were no survivors. Witnesses said that the fires seemed to begin spontaneously and instantaneously, although, in two cases, a man wearing a black mask was seen fleeing the scene.
‘The fires consumed the buildings so quickly that no one inside had time to escape before they were burned to a crisp. Due to the extensive damage to the bodies, none of the victims have as yet been identified.
The fire department’s arson investigation team have deemed that a powerful accelerant must have been used to set the fires to have made them burn as hot and as fast as they did. However, no evidence of this has as yet been found.
‘In a bizarre Hollywood twist, it was later discovered that at each scene the single word “LUST” had been scrawled on one of the remaining walls. In a manner reminiscent of the horror film “Se7en”. Police have determined that the words were put there after the fires had been extinguished. But, despite a permanent police presence at each scene, no one was seen.’
This was the substance of a report on the local and national news in a total of eighteen different countries. The stories never made it to the international news circuit. No connection was ever made.
Many local and national newspapers all over the world carried the story of local streetwalking prostitutes being massacred on the same night. The word “LUST” left in each case somewhere on the body.
In this case, within national boundaries, the connection was made but never explained.
Denny and Tamar did not see the story until it was too late. The mortal realm was not their province. By the time they did see it, it was only as a macabre piece of a much larger picture.
* * *
As soon as she made contact, Iffie realised that she had not really been expecting this to work. Ash appeared in the steam like a remote vision – floating in and out as the steam moved and dispersed and re-coalesced. But he was most definitely there, and Iffie was suddenly tongue tied.
‘Hi,’ she said tentatively. What was she supposed to say? “Hello Mr. Murderer, feel like giving yourself up”? She really, really wished that she had thought this one through.
‘You summoned me?’ Ash said sounding both outraged and a little pleased.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you,’ she said nervously.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right. What do you want?’
‘I just thought we could talk,’
‘Hmmm,’ Ash seemed suspicious.
‘Best not to push it then,’ Iffie thought. ‘You know, talk,’ she repeated. ‘Like friends do.’
‘Are we friends?’ he asked almost eagerly.
‘I’ll always be your friend,’ she said.
The floating face broke into a radiant smile. ‘Oh, Iffie,’ he said. ‘I knew it, I knew you were good. I knew you would see the light. I’m so glad. I was so worried. But now it will be all right. I will save you, you’ll see. But first I have much work to do. Can you wait? Will you be all right?’
‘What work?’ said Iffie.
‘God’s work,’ he said a sly look coming over his face. ‘I have to go now, but if you need help or guidance you can call on me again. Any time you like.’ And the face vanished.
‘He hung up on me,’ thought Iffie. ‘How do you like that?’
Still, she had made contact, it was a start. Next time, hopefully, it would go better.
* * *
At midnight, as Tamar, Denny, Stiles and Hecaté sat in the study, comparing notes, there was a sudden crash and a hundred armed men in black masks came smashing through the windows like the SAS, and attacked.
They were not exactly ordinary men – ordinary men are not known for their ability to throw fire from their hands – a strange pure white fire that burned cold like mercury. But they were still outmatched in this fight. It was enough to make you wonder why they had picked it.
‘You know what this feels like,’ said Denny, throwing a bolt of energy through three of them at once.
‘What?’ said Tamar, slicing off several heads at once with a large sword.
‘A diversion,’ said Denny.
Tamar dropped the sword and clapped her hands and time stopped for everyone except herself. She did not usuall
y do this, it being dirty tactics, but it would not hurt them so to hell with it.
She released the others* and demanded of Denny: ‘A diversion from what?’
*[To release someone from a time freeze one only has to move them. However, this is not as easy as it sounds, since time holds a person still with a strength that far surpasses the strength of the gravity pull within a black hole. But Tamar was unusually strong by anyone’s standards.]
‘I don’t know yet. Listen,’ said Denny.
Tamar listened, they all listened. It was a moment frozen in time, but it was chillingly clear for all that.
‘Oh, no,’ breathed Tamar in horror.
Hecaté had gone white.
Normal sound needs time to travel through. But this was not normal sound; it hung around in the ether. It was the sound of a thousand witches crying out in terror.
‘I’ll get Iffie,’ said Denny. ‘Then we check the covens. If it’s these same guys.’ He gestured at the frozen men around the room, ‘they shouldn’t be too hard to take care of.’
‘What do we do with them?’ asked Stiles.
‘A volcano somewhere should do it,’ said Tamar, in all seriousness. ‘Thaw them out nicely. But hang on to at least one of them. I have questions.’
Tamar left time frozen as it was and they went out to look for some trouble. Hecaté led the way, but they could all hear the cries, except Stiles.
And trouble was what they found too.
It was the same guys that had attacked the house, black masked figures caught mostly in the act of desecrating the shrines of Hecaté and killing any witches who tried to get in their way. And many who did not too. Strangely, not all of the world had remained frozen; some, in fact, quite a lot, of the mysterious warriors appeared to have beaten the time freeze and had to be fought off. Which was fine with Tamar at least, who liked a bit of mayhem when she could get it. The years had done little to soften Tamar’s violent tendencies, but Denny could have done without it really at the moment. He was just too damn tired for this. Although from the way he was taking his share of the enemy apart, no one would have guessed this.
Rise Of The Nephilim (The Tamar Black Saga) Page 9
