The Glass Demon

by Helen Grant

  He was looking at me with an expression which might have been friendly reassurance or might have been mild amusement.

  ‘Father Krause,’ I said in a weak voice. I felt a little dazed. What was he doing here? Dimly I was aware of his hands moving. He was holding something, turning it over in his fingers. There was a ripping sound and I realized that he must be holding bandages. He was going to splint my broken hand.

  ‘Father Krause?’ I said again. My voice was hoarse. I watched his strong fingers pulling at the end of the bandage and still it didn’t occur to me to wonder how he had got here, how he could have known I needed help. ‘Where is he?’ I croaked.

  ‘Where is who?’ Father Krause asked me briskly.

  I looked at him, shaking my head to try and clear it. My brain still felt as though it were filled with a thousand flies, all buzzing at once.

  ‘Bonschariant,’ I said.

  ‘Bonschariant,’ repeated Father Krause thoughtfully.

  He lifted up my left hand, the unbroken one, by the wrist. The mild expression on his face never changed as he took hold of my other hand and yanked them both together. The pain was explosive.

  When I had stopped screaming he said, quite calmly, ‘He is in all of us.’

  He held my two hands in one of his and with the other he began to wind something around my wrists. I saw now that it was tape, not bandages. I tried to pull my hands away, waking up to the reality of what was happening. I was too slow to see the blow coming until it was too late. My head ringing, I slumped back and let him finish the job.

  Eventually he seemed satisfied. He got to his feet. ‘Don’t try to get up,’ he said in a cold voice. ‘I have the axe now, you know.’

  He began to walk away from me, towards the door, where I knew the axe must still be lying. Panic was threatening to swamp me, but at least the clouds of grogginess were clearing away, driven back by the sharp need to survive. Think, think! shrieked a voice in my head. Don’t wait until he’s got the axe! Do something!

  ‘What do you want?’ I called out, cursing myself for the hoarse waver in my voice.

  At first I thought he hadn’t heard me, but then he came to a stop in the centre of the aisle. He turned slowly, and the smile he gave me was not pleasant to see. Coloured light from the windows tinted his skin red, so that he appeared to be grinning at me through a mask of blood.

  ‘What do I want?’ He paused as if considering. ‘What I want is for self-serving, greedy, ignorant outsiders to stay away. To stop plundering the church. To stop dragging the glory of God into the marketplace. That is what I want.’ The complacent tone was gone; his voice was rising raggedly. ‘I want that fool Mahlberg never to have written to your even bigger fool of a father. I want your father never to have come here. I want this treasure to stay where it belongs. I want you never to have seen it.’ Now he was almost shouting. ‘And if I can’t have that, I want you gone. All of you. But most of all –’ he took a step towards me – ‘I want you gone. You, you interfering little slut.’

  For a moment I thought he would stride back up the aisle and strike me, maybe carry on striking me this time, until I stopped moving. But he thought better of it. He went back to the doorway and leaned into the deep well of shadows behind the wooden door. There was a muffled clank as he picked something up.

  My mind was racing, skittering around like a rat in a trap, trying to find a way out. How long would it take Michel to get to the farm and phone for the police? How long would it take them to arrive and to work out where I had gone? I looked at Father Krause, coming back up the aisle towards me, and I knew that however quick they were they would be too late.

  He was carrying something in his hand, something which bumped against the end of a pew with a clank and a sound like liquid swilling around in a container. I began to scrabble with my feet, struggling to stand up, to put some space between me and him.

  ‘Be still,’ he barked at me.

  He put the canister down on the tiles a few metres away and there was a faint squeaking noise as he undid the cap. I began to detect a smell, a sharp stink which stung the nostrils. For one insane moment I thought of brimstone, the burning breath of the pit from which the demon Bonschariant had risen. The next second I realized what it was and why I had associated the smell with burning. Petrol. It was petrol.

  ‘No!’ I croaked.

  My legs flailed uselessly as I tried to propel myself backwards, away from that poisonous stink. But Father Krause was inexorable. That unearthly calm had come over him again; he looked at me with that same cool, mild expression, like an entomologist watching the death throes of an insect in a killing-jar. Only the colours which dappled his face blurred and changed as he moved. He came over and delivered a kick to my hip which stopped my struggles immediately. Then he knelt by me on the floor and when he spoke his voice was almost gentle.

  ‘Look,’ he said, and he half-turned and pointed. ‘That was Herr Mahlberg’s window.’ He indicated the depiction of Naaman submerged in the blue waters of the river. He smiled faintly and streaks of green and red danced across his features. ‘That was the first. That was when I understood, when I knew what I had to do.’

  He pointed next at the window showing Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. ‘That one required perseverance.’ He sounded almost proud. ‘I waited for him in the orchard. The pattern had to be completed.’

  Father Krause’s gaze turned to the Fall of the Angels, the draperies streaming out behind the plummeting figures. ‘That was your sister’s window.’ The satisfaction in his voice made me want to vomit.

  ‘My sister didn’t do anything to you,’ I choked out.

  ‘Ich bin ein eifriger Gott, der die Missetat der Väter heimsucht über die Kinder ins dritte und vierte Glied.’

  I did not understand the whole of the quotation, but one phrase was crystal clear. The sins of the fathers. Those pale eyes were on me again.

  ‘That is your window,’ said Father Krause, and pointed.

  I turned to look and a terrible groan forced its way from my lips. It was a Pentecost scene. Most of the window was filled with a crowd of figures representing the Apostles, bearded figures dressed in flowing robes in gorgeous colours – crimson, emerald green, cobalt blue. It was impossible to mistake the brilliance of Gerhard Remsich’s work. Every upturned face had an individual expression and the distinguishing marks of its owner’s character. My father would gladly have given ten years of his life to stand where I was now. But I was not admiring Gerhard Remsich’s genius. I was staring at the corona of flame which surrounded every head. I was not the daughter of a medieval scholar for nothing: I knew what Remsich was showing. It was the moment when the Holy Spirit descended upon the Apostles like tongues of fire. This was what Father Krause planned for me: that my death should imitate Remsich’s work, that I should die with my head engulfed in flames.

  This time I managed to get to my feet. Father Krause could have kicked me a hundred times and I wouldn’t have stopped fighting him. I was fighting Death, I knew; if I lost, my lifespan would be the time it took to strike a match. I swung my bound hands, heedless of the pain, desperate only to escape the far worse pain which awaited. Then I turned to run, and suddenly Father Krause’s foot was in the way and I crashed on to the tiles.

  The next second there was a knee in the middle of my back. I wallowed on the tiles like a landed fish, trying to throw him off, but it was no use. He had something in his hands, something red, and he was lunging at me, wrapping it around my head in stifling swathes. The world was reduced to blackness and the musty smell of old material – rotting tapestries and grave cloths. I was still struggling but now I was blind. It was difficult to draw breath. I began to think I would suffocate and I struggled ever more wildly, panicking.

  ‘Stop!’ thundered Father Krause. ‘Stop or I burn you now.’

  That was enough to make me freeze in terror, yet I knew better than to think that I could save myself simply by obeying. I was standing on the brink of the
abyss, my thoughts wheeling like birds of prey at a cliff edge.

  ‘Please,’ I whispered into the musty cloth, ‘don’t do it.’

  I couldn’t say, Don’t burn me. The bare thought made my flesh flinch away.

  ‘I have to,’ said a calm voice, very close by.

  ‘Why?’ My voice was hoarse with fear.

  ‘To punish you.’

  There was a finality about those words which struck me with such horror that for a moment I thought I would faint.

  ‘What have I done?’ I croaked, although I knew very well.

  As long as we were talking, I could delay the evil moment, though I had no hope that it could be put off forever. The dread of that all-encompassing pain was so terrible that I would have given anything to put it off for another ten minutes, another five. Petrol fumes assailed my nostrils with their acrid stench. My eyes filled with hot tears.

  ‘You were going to tell what you had found.’

  ‘I wasn’t, I won’t,’ I babbled, shaking my head frantically, though it was useless since it was enveloped in the dark cloth. ‘I won’t tell anyone, I promise.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ said the voice. ‘You and your father, you didn’t stop searching when you discovered that Herr Mahlberg was dead. You didn’t stop when your brother nearly died. You should have gone away then, but you didn’t. And when your sister died, what did you do? You came here, as I knew you would, because you can’t resist interfering.’

  The next moment came the sound I had dreaded – the sound of liquid slopping out of its container. I felt it spilling on to my clothes and soaking into them. The wetness touched my skin. Another violent shake of the petrol can and it was vomiting out on to the cloth which shrouded my head. My eyes burned and as I shrieked out my terror I tasted petrol on my lips.

  ‘Don’t do it! Please don’t do it!’

  I kicked out with my feet but met empty air. The footsteps were retreating – to a safe distance from the coming conflagration, I realized. As I flailed about, my hand screamed with pain but I was almost past noticing it. The scent of petrol on the cloth around my head nearly sent me mad with terror. I thought, I will die without ever seeing the light again. On the heels of that thought came the even more horrible realization that I would see the light again – the light of my own burning. I might even see the dazzling colours of those stained-glass windows one last time when the flames seared the cloth away, but it would be the last thing I ever saw.

  I had screamed myself hoarse. In a paroxysm of fear I collapsed back on to the floor and in the moment of silence which followed I heard the striking of a match.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  In that moment I truly thought I was dead. The tiny tearing sound of the match running along the side of the matchbox was the sound of a guillotine blade descending. I scrabbled uselessly with my feet, but it was impossible to get up with my hands bound and my boots skidding in the stinking wetness on the tiles.

  There was a low curse. The match had not lit, or else it had burned out immediately. Then there was a rattle as Father Krause slid the box open again to extract a second match.

  At that moment there was a tremendous crash. It was unmistakably the sound of breaking glass; I could hear shards of it pattering on to the floor. Something heavy landed on the tiles close to me.

  ‘Bonschariant!’ shouted a voice I recognized at once as Michel’s.

  There was another ear-splitting crash and then a groan in return, the groan of someone who had been mortally wounded.

  ‘No!’

  Someone – it had to be Father Krause – was stumbling about, howling incoherently. I heard him stagger against one of the wooden pews.

  ‘Bonschariant!’ yelled Michel again. ‘Come out!’

  The cry that arose in response sounded barely human.

  ‘Come out!’ Michel’s voice sounded closer now. I guessed that he had stepped up to the gaping hole in the window he had smashed. ‘Come out or I’ll smash every one of them!’

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ screamed Father Krause in a voice that was thick with fury. The cool mildness had vanished altogether; this was not what he had planned.

  ‘Come out here and try,’ Michel shouted back.

  I listened to this exchange in terrified bewilderment. What was Michel going to do if he got Father Krause outside? How could he possibly fight against someone with that single-minded intent to kill, that slavering desire for blood? Everything seemed mixed up in my head – Father Krause’s warning about the power of demons, the shock of seeing my brother’s bed with the spear running through it, Polly’s fall from the top of the tower. I felt that I was going mad. Perhaps the sound of glass was not Michel breaking one of the windows at all; perhaps it was the sound of the Glass Demon freeing himself at last from his prison behind the panes, stepping out into the world through a shower of glittering glass splinters. He would destroy us all.

  There was another almighty crash, followed by a roar of fury. I cringed. I could feel the end of a pew at my shoulder. With an effort I managed to wriggle between it and the pew in front. I had no idea where Father Krause was but I had some faint hope of hiding myself, of buying a little time and trying to free my hands. The reek of petrol made me want to vomit but I made a titanic effort to hold the feeling back, dreading the thought of throwing up into the thick material which swathed my face. I reached up and tried to pull it off my head, but pain flared instantly in my broken hand.

  ‘Lin?’ shouted Michel.

  I dared not reply, afraid of attracting attention.

  ‘Lin!’ I could hear the bleakness in his voice. He thought I was already dead.

  I heard the sounds of a series of mighty impacts. Glass rained down on the floor of the church. That was the end of one of Gerhard Remsich’s masterworks, over four and a half centuries of history shivered into coloured fragments.

  ‘Stop!’ screamed a voice.

  The smashing sounds ceased abruptly. I could hear Michel panting. He must be close to the window.

  ‘Where’s Lin?’ he shouted.

  I wanted to call out to him, to tell him that I was still alive, but I couldn’t. I was paralysed with fear, terrified that a single word would bring down vengeance on my head. More than anything else, I did not want to hear that sound again, the tearing sound of a match striking against the side of the matchbox.

  ‘She’s in here.’

  ‘Send her out!’

  ‘You come in here.’

  Don’t do it, Michel, I prayed silently. You don’t know how strong he is. I remembered the axe and a shiver ran through me. Where was it? If Father Krause had it, if he stood behind the door when Michel came in, just as he must have stood behind it waiting for me – what then? I imagined Michel stepping cautiously over the lintel, not seeing the figure that lurked in the shadows, the uplifted blade of the axe glinting silver in the gloom as it reached the top of its arc and began to descend with deadly force.

  ‘Send her out or I’ll break another window.’

  There was a sharp hiss of anger at that.

  ‘Michel Reinartz!’ cried Father Krause. His voice was like the howl of the damned. It met with silence. ‘Michel Reinartz! I know who you are.’

  Michel did not reply, but there were no more sounds of breaking glass.

  ‘You will die, just like your girlfriend.’

  This provoked a reply. ‘If you’ve hurt her, I swear I’ll break every single window in the church.’

  There was a scream of rage. Michel had finally provoked Father Krause into attacking. I heard him move away from me with a hurried tread towards the door of the church. I heard a clink as he picked up the axe, its head striking the tiles. Michel, who was almost certainly armed with nothing more dangerous than whatever bricks and stones he could find lying around the church, would stand no chance against someone wielding an axe.

  I made another desperate attempt to pull the cloth off my head and this time I succeeded, though pain blazed an agonizing trail r
ight up my arm. The light was blinding. I peered out around the end of the pew, but spots were dancing in front of my eyes. I could see a dark figure outlined against the bright rectangle of the doorway, the axe grasped in a clenched fist. The axe head struck the door frame with an ominous metallic sound and then Father Krause disappeared outside into the sunlight.

  I struggled hard to get my legs under me. It was almost impossible to do so without putting any weight on my hands. Still, I finally managed it, and by partially bracing myself against the pew I was able to get on to my knees and then to stand up. I was still holding on to the cloth. I looked at it now and saw that it was a piece of red velvet, torn across. A piece of curtain, I thought, and let it drop as though it were a venomous creature.

  ‘Michel!’ I screamed at the top of my voice.

  My eyes were adjusting to the light and now I thought I could see him, a dark shape behind one of the unbroken windows, the one showing Naaman in the waters of the River Jordan. A sudden movement caught my eye and I turned to see a second shadow pass behind the window opposite, a brief glimpse of something black flitting past the scene of the raising of Lazarus.

  ‘Lin?’

  ‘Michel, he has an axe!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s got an axe!’ I screamed at the top of my voice. I was almost sobbing in desperation, imagining Michel being hacked down where he stood because he was trying to listen to what I said instead of fleeing for his life. ‘Run!’ I shrieked.

  I saw his silhouette behind the blue glass, but he was not moving. There was no sign of movement behind any of the other windows either and I realized with horror that this must mean that Father Krause had reached the end of the church, behind the altar. In another moment he would have rounded the corner and be bearing down on Michel, as inexorable as Michel’s namesake, the Angel of Death.