Debris of Shadows_Book II_The Forgotten Cathedral

by Tony LaRocca

  He pushed himself to his knees. This was not his first emergency feeding. He had, over the past few weeks, reduced some of his architectural wonders to empty shells. However, this was the first time he had had to do so in public. People would notice the fountain’s absence. They would question it.

  He sucked air deep into his lungs. He was still on the brink of exhaustion, but he could function now, at least. He would walk to the edge of the city. There he would fill himself with nourishment in private from the remaining Structural Sands. After he had enough stimulants in his system to think clearly, he would be able to form a plan.

  But had anyone seen him?

  He stood and turned in a circle, his eyes scanning the surrounding roads. No one was near. He faced the line of trees, and felt his stomach turn to ice.

  He approached them with measured steps, taking in the shattered granite that surrounded them for yards, the churned soil that lay beside their exposed roots.

  “Theresa?” he asked. His voice sounded like a rasp. He coughed, clearing his throat. “Matthew?”

  A root snapped up from a crack in the tile, and whipped around his foot. It yanked him towards the nearest maple. He fell to the ground. Something in his ankle snapped, and he howled in pain.

  He dug his fingers into the living snare, but it only constricted tighter. It dragged him across the pavement. He looked up and saw the tree’s lower branches reaching towards him, their twigs like gnarled, twisted fingers. Barbed thorns erupted from their extending leaves. A face formed within the bark, its knots protruding to create a brow, nose, and chin, the pattern of its grain molding into eyes.

  It was Tish.

  He let his children fly. They still had far less than their maximum strength, but at least they were nourished, and fueled by fear and adrenaline. They swarmed the girl’s face, and began to devour it.

  The root’s grip loosened, and he tore himself free. He scuttled away, trying to ignore the burning agony that shot through his foot. He forced himself to stand.

  Something was wrong.

  A thick, viscous sap flowed from the maple’s wounds. His children struggled as they smothered, and their smothering became his. He gasped for breath. It felt as if a great, insurmountable pressure was crushing his ribs.

  “No,” he said, his voice a guttural whisper. “No, give them back.”

  He lunged at the tree, but it lashed out at him, its thorn–laden leaves barely missing his face. He spun away.

  “No, no, no, no, no!”

  Layer upon layer of sap rolled down the tree–girl’s face, burying his wasps deeper and deeper. He could see bits of wooden skull and muscle where his children had damaged her.

  He could also see that she was laughing.

  He stepped away, ignoring the fire in his ankle. The bark began to peel from the trunk, leaving its wood exposed. It wrapped itself around the glob of sap. All Asher could do was watch as the maple’s branches lowered its prize to the ground. Then its roots began to thrash, throwing up the soil in clumps. He cried out in rage as it buried the ball, with his children trapped inside.

  He stood back, seething. What little energy he had recovered would not last. His hard–won reprieve would not matter before long. But his children… He fought the urge to scream. She had taken his children. How could he have let that happen? How?

  He circled the tree. He could not attack it directly, but perhaps one of his charges could. Roger would gladly carve it up with a chainsaw and dig up its stolen treasure if Asher so commanded, but his friend was still healing. He would have to find someone else to help him, and fast.

  He turned his back on the mocking foliage, and staggered off through the streets.

  Chapter 16

  Matthew walked down the winding corridor with the girl at his side. The deeper they went into the spiraling maze, the higher its ceiling of luminescent mist. The glowing fog caused the bleached walls of brick and cobblestone to glisten with an eerie sheen. The chilly air felt clammy and damp, and he wished that he had not burned his shirt.

  The thin, stringy roots and vines of the catacombs had clung to its walls like gnarled nets of lace. But here, they wound in and out of the grout. The farther the duo progressed, the larger the tendrils. It was not long before they found vegetation that had broken through the bricks, or knocked them whole to the floor. They seemed inert, but the travelers still gave them a wide berth.

  Matthew glanced at his companion. His heart sank. Her transformation had been cruel, no matter what the intent. Did she have a family? Once they found their way out, where would she go? Where would she sleep? His primary mission was still to find the Cathedral, but he would take her with him as far as he could. Perhaps they would find her parents along the way, or someone who could better care for her.

  The undergrowth of roots became an obstacle course that wound from one side of the hall to the other. At first their tendrils had been sparse and easy to avoid. Now they blocked his and the girl’s path every few feet, and had grown to almost a foot in diameter. They could easily be stepped over for now, but what would happen when the way became impassable?

  The girl stopped, and clutched Matthew’s arm. “Hey,” he said, “what’s wrong?” She pointed, and his eyes followed.

  A flower that resembled a cellophane orchid protruded from a crack in the wall. Its large, twisted petals gleamed in the pale blue haze, reflecting the surrounding bricks and roots as if it were made of glass. “Come on,” he said, “let’s check it out.”

  She shook her head, her eyes never leaving the flower’s glossy sheen. He shrugged. “Stay here then,” he said, “I’ll be back in a second.” She reluctantly let go of his bicep, and he approached the outlandish blossom.

  He ran his fingertips over its transparent petals. A symbol had been embossed onto each one. Was it another clue, perhaps? Something about the Cathedral, or Brother Leo’s mysterious curtain? He twisted the flower into the light. The raised image resembled a smiley face with a tongue hanging out, drinking from an upended bottle.

  It was a logo.

  He peered at the swirls that ran along its stem. They spiraled towards the wall like the threads of a bottleneck. He laughed.

  “Hey,” he said, “check it out. It’s a soda–bottle flower.” He sniffed, filling his nose with its caramel–syrup aroma. “It even smells like cola.”

  He winced. After spending an eternity within the tunnel, he had not realized how foul its air had become. It carried the stench of charcoal and rot from the ruin he had left behind. The plastic flower, in contrast, smelled sweet.

  He looked back at the girl. “This is wild,” he said. “Don’t you want to see it?”

  She shook her head. Her cellulose incisors dug into her bottom lip. He walked back to her, and held his arms out. She ran into them, and buried her face in his chest. “Okay,” he said. “You don’t have to. It is pretty cool, though. I wonder how it got here.”

  She pulled away, and pointed a finger at herself. Then she pointed up at the ceiling of churning fog. She held her hand out, and mimicked drinking from a bottle. Then she pretended to let it go.

  “You?” he asked. “You dropped it down here? A soda bottle, I mean. You dropped a bottle into a hole or something, and you think it became this flower?”

  The girl nodded.

  He whistled. “That’s kind of silly,” he said, “but I believe you.” He looked down the corridor. They would have to start climbing on top of the roots, soon. “So, let’s say that this is where you dropped that bottle. Do you know where we are?”

  Her head bobbed up and down again. She reached into the air, and made an exaggerated grabbing motion with her fists. Then she pulled her arms towards herself.

  “Yank? Steal?”

  She stopped her pantomime, and gave him the scowl again. He grinned. “Okay,” he said, “I’m not good at charades. Bear with me.”

  She mimicked the grabbing motion again. “Take?” he asked. “Pull?”

  She snapped, an
d pointed at him.

  “Pull?” he repeated. “Pull what?” His eyes widened. “The curtain?”

  She rolled her eyes, and held up her hands. “Jeez,” he said, “cut me some slack.” He looked up into the mist. “So whatever this curtain is, you’re telling me that it’s above us. The question is, how do we get there?”

  She shrugged. He patted her shoulder. “Come on,” he said, “let’s keep going. Maybe we’ll find stairs ahead, or something.” He walked around the corner. “I should make a map of all this. Who knows, maybe it spells out —”

  The tunnel opened into a cavern. The luminescent fog was much higher here, forming a roiling ceiling that hovered at least thirty feet in the air. Drooping from the mist, poking through every wall of the cave and burrowing into the cobblestone floor, was a gargantuan network of twisted roots.

  “Holy shit,” said Matthew. He placed his hand on one. It was at least two feet in diameter, like a small tree trunk. Its rough surface felt cold, as if it were made of iron. “I’m sure they could bear our weight. What do you think?”

  The girl stared at the roots, her mouth agape. She shook her head, waving her hands in the air. He rubbed his chin. What was she trying to say? Obviously, it would hold them. The problem must be something else. He looked down. He saw no errant sticks or twigs, and the ground was paved in stone. There was nothing to write in, or upon. “Any chance you know sign language?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Yeah,” he said, “me neither. Look, is this beneath where you dropped your bottle? Is that where the curtain is?”

  She nodded.

  “Is Brother Asher waiting for us up there, or maybe Sister Theresa?”

  The girl shrugged.

  “Okay, just one more. Do you think the tree itself might be dangerous?”

  She bit her lip again. She seemed to consider it, as if conflicted. After a few moments of deliberation, she held her hands out in the air.

  Matthew sighed. “I have to try.” He pulled himself onto the nearest root, and climbed to the next. He made it to the third, and looked down. He had climbed about seven feet from the bottom of the pit. The girl stared up at him, unblinking.

  “Look,” he said, “I know you’ve been through something terrible, but we can’t stay down here. Whatever caused that loop, whether it was Asher, that woman, or just a glitch in this Sage, there’s no telling if it will start again. If it does, I’ll be trapped, and you with me. I don’t want to leave you down here on your own. But you have to understand, a lot of people I care about are going to die if I don’t find what I came for. So please, come with me.”

  She cocked her head to the side, as if considering. Then she raised her arms.

  He lowered himself to the branch below, and grabbed her vegetable–like hand in his. She put her other hand on the root between them, and pulled herself up.

  He half–pulled, half–guided her through the upside–down jungle gym. It was slow going. Though the roots grew less in number the higher they climbed, they also grew thicker. Eventually, the duo’s ascent became akin to shimmying along rough, ever–widening, steeply slanted logs. The girl crawled inch by inch, her arms and legs wrapped around the roots as she clung on for dear life.

  After half an hour, they reached the ceiling of fog. Now that Matthew was close, he could see that it was not so much mist as a shimmering, hazy lake, suspended in midair. How thick was it, and what was on the other side? “Stop,” he said. He watched its churning, luminescent waves. “Could you see this from above?”

  She raised her head from her root, and shook it. He looked back into the feverish glow. “Wish me luck,” he said, and stuck his hand inside.

  A slight tingling that was not unpleasant ran up his arm. He pulled his hand back, and examined it. He could not see any difference or damage. He held his breath, and stuck his head through.

  The other side of the lake was clear, as if it only existed when viewed from below. It did not shine here, but after a few moments, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. They still had about fifty feet to climb, but he could see points of light high up in the distance. He opened his mouth, and filled his lungs. He exhaled. The air was still dank, but breathable.

  He looked down, and saw the girl’s face peering up at him through the glare of her onion–like glasses. “It’s safe,” he said, and climbed a few feet higher. “Come on.”

  She crawled closer, hesitating before the light. She reached up, and stuck her hand through.

  Her fingers instantly split, spilling a thick juice down their sides. They withered and browned, their muscles and bones shredding into dark, pitted rents. To Matthew, it was like watching a time–lapse virt of a putrefying vegetable.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Go back!”

  She jerked her hand away, and stared at her rotting digits. She opened her mouth, and screamed in silence.

  The roots around them came to life, squirming like a nest of vipers. The enormous wooden serpent beneath their legs bucked and writhed. Then it twisted upside–down.

  Matthew instinctively locked his arms and legs around it. Fire shot through his thighs and calves. He willed his shoulder to separate, and the undulating underground branches that surrounded them slowed their insane dance. He looked down.

  Another tendril shot from the roots’ central trunk, and smacked the girl in her waist. Her eyes grew wide in terror as it knocked her off into the darkness. One subterranean branch after another intercepted her descent, yard by yard, as if to break her fall. He threw himself from his perch, and grabbed onto one a few feet below. He could just make her out in the red–shifted gloom, tumbling from writhing limb to writhing limb.

  He clutched the root as it squirmed. With his mind accelerated, he could sense the pattern of their movements. The hard, twisted surface beneath him cracked like dry rubber. He saw another tendril pass a few feet below, and dropped towards it. His target bucked, and rose to meet him.

  He peered into the thrashing, underground jungle. He had lost track, but he was sure that he was at least twenty feet in the air. The fall might not kill him, but he would be useless with a broken limb. Logically, neither he nor the girl were in any real danger of dying. But at the very least, she would be trapped in the pit, alone and in terror. Another root approached him from beneath, and he let go.

  He only fell a few inches. Within the space of a few seconds, the limb he had fallen from had sprouted an offshoot, and snared his waist. With a jerk, it hoisted him upward. He looked down in frustration. The roots below were all sprouting tiny branches, and knitting together. The strands grew thicker and thicker until they had sealed the gaps between them. There was no sense wasting his life–energy, he decided, and closed his shoulder.

  As his relative time snapped back to normal, he realized how quickly the tree was propelling him to the surface. Another tendril whipped down to wrap around his thighs, and yanked. The sudden acceleration knocked the breath from his lungs, and black stars popped into the edge of his vision. The tangled nest of vegetation zoomed by until, like a great wooden tentacle, the root unceremoniously tossed him out upon the floor.

  He rolled away from the trunk of the tree, but its aboveground limbs did not pursue him. The roots along its base wove tighter and tighter until they formed an inseparable barrier of knotted bark. He lay on his back, gasping, and stared at the leafy branches above.

  They were black.

  The vines and flowers of the garden — tulips, roses, sunflowers, and daisies — were all black.

  He prodded his torso, and winced. His lower ribs ached and were more than likely bruised, if not fractured. A dull pain radiated from the left side of his abdomen. He prayed that nothing inside had ruptured. He looked up at the canopy of leaves.

  “Why?” he asked.

  The tree did not reply.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, and erupted into a coughing fit. “You can’t talk, and I don’t speak plant…” His voice trailed off. He thought of the way the roots had reacted when t
he girl had screamed in silence. He glowered. “Fine,” he said. “Maybe that’s why you were trying to convert me, so that I could understand you, but what you did to that poor kid was inexcusable.”

  There was no response. He pushed himself to his feet, and took in his surroundings. A brick wall encircled the courtyard. He walked towards its exit. He would come back for the curtain, whatever the hell it was. He had to make it back to the church, and to its cellar. He would smash the cinder block with a sledgehammer, if necessary. He had promised the girl that he would not abandon her, and he wouldn’t. He stepped into the maze, and turned its first corner.

  A wall of foliage blocked his path. The giant tree had lowered its limbs, its branches and leaves intermingling with the vines, flowers, and shrubs that adorned the labyrinth’s walls.

  “Don’t you understand?” he asked. “She’s alone, down there.”

  The petals and leaves erupted into needle–sharp thorns.

  Matthew took a step back, and prepared to tear his shoulder down. He clenched his teeth. He was sick to his stomach of fighting this woman and her floral armies. He turned, searching for a weapon.

  Then he saw the painting.

  He looked over his shoulder. The jagged barrier had not moved, but the foliage was slowly retracting its thorns. He walked back towards the final wall of the maze.

  “Pulling Back the Curtain,” he read out loud. He looked into the painted eyes of the lion. “Hello, Uncle Leo,” he said. He reached out, and traced the circle of fractured glass around the doorframe’s cross with his finger.

  His shoulders slumped. “I don’t think that you’re deliberately cruel,” he said, still facing the painting, “and you did save her from the light. She couldn’t get out that way. Maybe she can’t get out through the church either, but I can’t just leave her.” He turned around.

  The barrier of branches had disappeared, leaving him an exit. In their wake lay a jumble of vines. He watched as they slithered across the path, forming words:

  CATHDL ONLY WAY.

  He closed his eyes, sighed, and rubbed his forehead. “Fine,” he said. “You’re right, I admit it. But can you at least go down there with her, so that she’s not alone?”