Soulstorm
Page 31
And now, as he climbed the road one final time under the gray canopy of snow-sky, he hoped again that it would be here, confined here on this mountain forever, away from curious and weak men. His side aching, he toiled up the hill, the cold air stinging his nostrils, burning his lungs.
At last he cleared the final curve and saw what was left of The Pines. It sat brooding like some ancient abbey in its clearing, beginning to be overgrown with brush. The walls had not fallen. They stood as solidly as they had for seventy years, no longer gray, but charred black by the fire's breath. He walked across the thick weeds and dead leaves that covered the lawn, walked up until he was within the shadow of the blackened walls, until he could see through the breach into the Great Hall, the huge copper shaft of the chimney lying amid the rubble like the fallen trumpet of a god. Only then did he stop and listen.
There was nothing. Not a whisper of force, not a purr of energy entered his open mind.
Where are you then? he thought. Only two people had left the house—Gabrielle Neville and Wickstrom. They had both visited him at Mt. Sinai, and he had sensed nothing from either of them, only perhaps a newly found joy in life and a tremendous sense of relief to have escaped from what had touched them all so strongly at The Pines. Wickstrom had bought a restaurant in Queens, and seemed to be enjoying the venture. Gabrielle Neville had seemed happy as well, but there was a sense of sadness about her, too, even though she had been a good many months pregnant at the time of her visit. It was akin, he thought, to the sadness of the Madonna, bearing the child she would live to lose.
But perhaps the sadness was normal at that. It would be difficult to bear a child alone. He had read two months ago in the Times that it was a boy, David George Neville.
He had wondered then, only for a moment, who the father really was. He wondered again, and an infinitely remote possibility made the wind far colder as he gazed at the suddenly empty shell of the house.
I hope he was born in innocence, he thought. I hope we all are.
Or did innocence have to be earned, searched for over the years in the dark forest of the soul? Conceived in sin, do we buy innocence with our own blood? Or with something even more precious?
And those who had died in the shadow of The Pines—what price had they paid?
The trees whispered above Monckton's head, and any answer they could give they kept to themselves. He looked up at them, then beyond to where the clouds were darkening. If he walked quickly, he might reach the bottom of the hill before the snow began.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight