Silas nodded. It would do the girl good to get into the sunlight and dry off, and he didn't have time to babysit her. He had to get through to the others, tap into the energy they had fed the church and ready them once more.
It wasn't the old way. Reverend Kotz would not have held two cleansings on the same day. He would have sent them home, drained and empty, trailing off through the woods to their separate lands and homes. Silas didn't remember a single Sunday when he'd spoken to another child, or seen his parents with another family.
Everything had changed. Silas was not naïve. He knew that what had happened to him had happened at a lightning pace. What he'd just witnessed went far beyond anything from his childhood; far beyond anything that Reverend Kotz might have imagined, he suspected. Beneath the dark veneer and evil glare, Kotz had fancied himself a preacher. He had believed that his warped services and sadistic practices prepared his flock for a one-way trip to Heaven. Silas had no such illusions.
Unless Jesus had sprouted an impressive rack of antlers and the Holy Mother had grown hag-like and hungry, those he served had little or nothing to do with any Christian faith. Reverend Kotz had come from a solid Christian background. He'd attended Bible College and traveled the country with Evangelical groups to hold revivals. When he came to the mountain and built his church, he believed he would spread the gospel to the unwashed masses of the California hills. He didn't bargain on what he'd find once he arrived, but Silas had known all along.
He walked slowly down the aisle toward the podium at the front of the church. There was no Bible open there, and he'd prepared no remarks. He had no idea, in fact, where the words he spoke came from, or what prompted the actions he took, once the chanting began. Before the chanting, when he walked the woods, or stood at the altar, he was in charge of his body and his mind and the other hovered just out of sight, providing support and strength. Once the words began tumbling from his lips, however, everything shifted.
He turned to face them. They averted their eyes. He wondered what they were thinking. At least half of them, he knew, fought inner, losing battles against the power that bound them. He felt their thoughts and emotions. He didn't know how, exactly, but he knew it was a connection between the dark shadow he'd become and the mark on their foreheads. This was not a congregation of like minds, gathered together to serve a common faith. These were slaves, drawn by the darkness into the forest and led like sheep before the gaze of the thing over the door. Silas was a slave, as well, but at the same time he had more power—more control over himself and others—than he'd ever experienced.
He watched Tommy lead Elspeth out the door of the church. Light sliced in through the crack, and then was cut off as the door swung shut. The silence was thick enough to chew on. Silas gathered his strength, raised his eyes and stared straight back over their heads. He stood very still for a moment. Where the alcove had been, ropy vines and branches shot out. The face was clearly visible, no longer veiled in shadows, but drawn forward, attached to the structure of rope-hair roots. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but Silas thought something moved in that nest of leaves and greenery—something sinuous and quick.
Then he felt the swell of darkness within and lowered his gaze. It didn't matter. It was all coming together in a single day and leading to a single moment. He had no idea where it would leave him when it was through, but he had a part to play, and no other options available.
"Dearly beloved," he whispered. The words carried easily without amplification. Slowly, shaking off their lethargy, his congregation responded. They raised their heads and met his gaze, and Silas smiled.
Someone in the back of the church flipped on the light switch and the sconces and overhead lamps flashed to life. In that instant, Silas continued.
"Let us pray."
TWENTY-FOUR
The climb up the mountain after services was very different from any earlier climb. Abraham felt stronger than he'd ever felt in his life. The support of the others, and their faith, bolstered him and lightened his steps. At the same time, a great weight bore down on his heart and threatened to suffocate him. Their faith was strong, and he could count on them to stand behind it, but as much as that faith was in God, it was in Abraham, as well. What happened in the next few hours would happen through him, his words, his actions, and his own faith.
The others fell behind and left him to climb in peace. What he did next he would have to do alone. They would seat themselves outside the cottage to wait, and would only enter when he called them. Abraham knew this, and he feared it. There was little margin for human error in what was to come. He knew what was expected of him. He remembered his father's words, and his father's actions, but his father was not present. No one would enter the cottage at his side, and if he failed in the next steps of their endeavor, they might as well all pack up their bags and move off the mountain. Silas Greene would triumph. The dark thing that lived above the door to his church would triumph. The mountain would be lost, and Katrina—he wouldn't think about that. He couldn't afford to dwell on speculation. If they had Katrina, he'd find her soon enough.
The trail was as clear as it had been the first time he'd come to this cottage so many years before. There were none of the encroaching vines that had menaced him only a few days before, and if a hedge had ever blocked the way, there was no sign of it now. The mountain trembled beneath him, but it wasn't the tremor of an earthquake, or of fear. It was acceptance, and it shivered up and through his frame with intensity he hadn't expected. The vibration calmed his thoughts and measured his footfalls. He climbed steadily and with purpose, and with each step closer to the old cottage on the peak, his confidence grew.
When he reached the clearing outside the cottage he hesitated. He glanced over to where he'd buried his mother. An image of her face surfaced, clear and powerful, and she smiled. Abe stood very still and let tears stream down his cheeks to dampen the collar of his shirt. He'd had no time to grieve, and the more the mountain reminded him of where he'd come from, and who his parents had been, the deeper the loss cut. A month earlier he'd thought he wouldn't mind never hearing a word from his past, that he could just march into the future without looking back and be content. Now he wondered that he'd ever had the strength to leave.
The sun had passed its zenith hours before. It was late afternoon, and he turned to the cottage with purpose. What he had to do depended partially on timing. He entered the cottage and closed the door carefully behind him. It would take the others time to reach the clearing, but he wanted no distractions.
The air was warm, but not stifling. The walls were shaded on all sides by trees, and except at the height of noon, the sun didn't fall directly on the roof. Abraham closed the shutters one after the other. They sealed tightly and cut off all but a faint trickle of light from outside. When the room was as dark as he could get it, he knelt in the very center of the floor, in the heart of the symbol carved into the floor. The arms of the cross stretched out to either side, in front of him, and behind him. He stared fixedly at the fireplace.
He'd witnessed this ritual only once. Abe's father wanted him to see, and to know, what took place when the elders gathered outside the cottage. All other times Abe had been excluded, just as the others were excluded, but that one time had been enough. He raised his arms to shoulder height on either side, bowed his head, and swept his gaze down the hearth and across the stone floor.
The mountain's vibration had increased, but Abe didn't notice it until the moment he grew still, closed his eyes, and cut himself off from the world. A whisper of sound that might have been voices, and might have been leaves skittering across stone slipped in and out of his thoughts. They didn't confuse him, as they might have, but instead the effort to sort them and understand them focused his mind.
The sun dipped a little lower, and yet Abe sensed an illumination. He knew what he would see when he opened his eyes, but still he hesitated. He steeled himself and stared at the floor. Light shot in all directions, lines cr
ossed and re-crossed the stone in intricate designs. The crystal in the ceiling had caught the last glimmer of the day's light and refracted it into the room. Abe's lips parted in a silent gasp as the pattern beneath him shifted subtly. In this light, there were other lines. A crack outlined a small rectangle on the floor directly before him. The handles that had seemed pointless by day clearly connected with this plate. Abe breathed a prayer and reached for them. His fingers slid easily into place, and he lifted.
The moment was so fleeting that if he hadn't felt the weight of the stone lifting in his hands, he wouldn't have been able to credit what he'd seen. The shadows shifted, and the lines of the pattern blended. Suddenly the rays of light were just that, beautiful and glittering, but doing nothing in particular to the carving on the floor.
Abe set the small slab of stone carefully aside. There was a small opening beneath, and he reached inside. His hands trembled, and he was suddenly clammy with sweat. What if there was nothing there? It had been years since anyone had come to this place. What if Greene knew about it? What if kids had come and camped in the cottage and found it when the light was just right?
He felt the edges of a wooden box, and sighed with relief. He slid his fingers around the edges and lifted it out. He placed the box on the floor beside the small stone slab, then lifted the stone and slid it back into place. It closed with a soft click, and the crack vanished. Abe stared intently at the floor, but all he saw were the intricate lines of the cross that was carved into the floor, and the dance of early evening sunlight through the crystal geode.
He thought about this for a moment. He wondered how they had managed to place the crystal just right. How had they known precisely where to cut the stone, and what had they used to do it? He didn't remember his father having any particular carving skill.
Abe ran his fingers along the design on the floor. It felt ancient and timeless. He had a sudden image of pyramids, and he shivered. No one knew how those great stone monuments had been constructed. No one knew how primitive engineers had managed to make huge stone slabs slide aside at the touch of a hand, or cut stone blocks as large as a mobile home with such precision they fit together as tightly as if they'd been formed as one solid piece.
The whispered voices in his head returned, and he thought he caught part of a name. He couldn't pronounce it, but it seemed right and the vibration beneath his knees attached it to the stone and the mountain beneath. The stone knew the answers, it seemed, and though no explanation was forthcoming, Abraham thought he understood why no one else would have found this secret. He glanced at the design on the floor again and frowned. Was it the same? Exactly the same as when his father had shown it to him? Was it even exactly the same as when he'd entered the cottage? He couldn't be certain.
Abe fingered the pendant hanging around his neck for a moment, then picked up the box and carried it to the small table. The last time he'd seen that box removed from its alcove, he'd sat in a far corner. The bright, dancing lights had confused him, and he'd pulled his knees up tightly to his chest. His father had paid no more attention to him than he had to dust floating in the brilliant light, or the wind through the trees outside. He had focused on the box, the moment, and the duty at hand. Abraham felt that now. If he concentrated on the whispers he heard his father's voice joined with others. Images filled his mind and flickered in and out of focus. He saw faces, places, things he'd never seen before, and knew them.
He flipped open the lid of the box and glanced inside.
The contents were as he remembered them, with a single exception. There was a small leather book, a tiny crystal vial filled with liquid, a long tapered wooden sword ran down one side of the case, there was a small leather pouch, and the one thing he had never seen before. This last was a single folded slip of paper. Abe lit a candle to give himself light, and turned back to the box. He lifted the paper out and stared at the bold script across the front.
"To my son, Abraham, who I know will find this. Jonathan Carlson"
Abe's hand shook and he gripped the paper too tightly. It was old, dried and a little brittle, and the corner of it disintegrated between his fingers. He eased up and laid it on the table, then opened it gently and smoothed it so he could read.
"If you are reading this," the note began, "then I am right, and I have failed. You remember the night as well as I do; parts of it you may remember better than I do. If you hold this note in your hands, you have remembered. That is my consolation—if you are here, then maybe the failure is not complete. There is always time. There may be no greater truth in the universe than that. Nothing can change it…
"We left something incomplete. We broke the pool. We cast out the serpents. We were filled with our righteousness. I knew what we were to do, and in my arrogance, I believed I knew better—that I had revelations from God—that it was my place to forgive.
"It was not men we faced in that church. Reverend Kotz was a vessel. The church itself was a vessel. The powers they held were mine to cleanse from the mountain, and I left them to fester. I fear that with my passing, none will be vigilant. If this is so, then you have come home to a battle, Abraham; a battle I should have won long ago.
"She is evil. He is primal. Those are what you face. She does not belong here, but like a cancer she sends her roots into the mountain and drags out the life she needs to continue. He has always been here, but without her to warp the power of his energy, he was like the sky, or the snow on the highest peaks. He was not a danger—he was part of the mountain."
Abraham read slowly, taking in the words and committing them to memory. He knew he would not be likely to get a chance to reread this note until everything was over. The others were waiting outside. They would give him time, but not too much—there wasn't much to give. Abraham turned his gaze back to the note, but the words faded to white. The light seared his eyes, but he didn't close them. Images shifted through his mind like an out-of-control slide show.
He saw the pool. He saw Silas Greene lift something up. Water cascaded around the chamber and Silas fell back. The huge, ponderous rack of horns rose up and behind him and swept through the frames of wall and door as he fell, pulling a soaked, thrashing form after him.
Elspeth stared straight into Abraham's eyes. Her face washed from frantic terror to despair to wicked glee in the flash of—what? A snake's body across her back? A rivulet of water dripping back toward the pool? Her forehead bore the dark mark, bright as fresh ink.
She fell away.
Images shifted again and Abraham stood in that room. He stood behind his father, who held a book in one hand and a vial in the other. He sprinkled from the vial and chanted. His voice was loud, ringing from the walls of the church like peals of thunder. Abraham backed away. Snakes writhed on the floor, wrapping around his father's ankles and up his legs. The floor was alive with them. The pool was alive with them, and it bubbled over. There was no water. Something brilliant green and hissing like acid bubbled over the walls and onto the floor.
Jonathan Carlson did not flinch. He was not bitten. Abraham turned from the pool and the chamber and fled. Others passed him—some he recognized—still he heard his father clearly.
Again the shift.
Her eyes were deep wooden pits. They coiled in and in on themselves, rings of age in the wood, gnarled roots like ingrown nails, ropy, endless strands of hair stretching out to all sides. He thought of the ocean. He saw wooden ships with prows slicing the storms and waves. She rode at the very tip of the front ship, lips curled into the storm and wooden hair flowing back to grip the sides of the ship barnacle tight, leeching its soul.
He saw another church, in another place. Above the door, he saw the dark hole and he knew she was there. He didn't see her, but he felt her, and he saw lines staining the wall where she dug in and fed. He saw the shadow of antlers on the wall over her head and felt the other—but different. Older. Not the dark horned presence of Reverend Kotz, or Silas Greene, but a shadow born of lust and fueled by virility. The ai
r was alive with the musky scent of him dipped in the deep green grip of her eyes.
He saw Elspeth again, heard her laughing and knew it was not her voice—not any longer. He saw Katrina, lying on a dirt floor. Her back was against a wooden wall, and her wrists and ankles were bound. Dirt streaked her face, and her blouse was torn. She stared up at him—no, through him at some other. She screamed.
Everything shifted again as Abraham cried out in fury. The static sound of his father's voice grew softer and softer, so faint it settled into background with the fleeing hiss of serpents and so—Abraham spoke.
But the second he heard the tones of his voice, he stopped. The images fell away and he was alone in the very small cottage. He was bathed in sweat. Panic rose and he whispered his fear into the empty, quiet room.
"Katrina."
The beams of later afternoon sunlight had shifted angles up the wall and he knew he had waited as long as he dared. He skimmed the rest of the note quickly.
"They told me we should burn the church to the ground. They told me, and I knew that they were right, but I thought we had won. I thought, in the rubble of their precious pool and the flight of Reverend Kotz that we had achieved the cleansing, and so, I told them to forgive. I told them forget. I was wrong.
"When you go to that church, Abraham," the note ended, "watch it burn—and scatter the ash."
There was a soft knock on the door of the cottage, and Abraham rose without a sound. He opened the door and gestured for those outside to enter. They stepped past him, ignoring the table and the candle. They moved to the corners of the cross on the floor—head, sword, light and back.
Abraham slid between them gracefully and knelt in the very center of the cross. He bowed his head, cleared it of thought, gripped the pendant around his neck, and began.
"I am the heart," he said. "I carry the blood of my father, and the blood of your fathers. I carry the blood of the mountain. Who will be my arm?"
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