The Shorecliff Horror and Other Stories
Page 13
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Up on Temple Hill the crowds are still gathered and the fires still burn. Solomon comes to consciousness with his arms tied above his head and his legs locked in chains. He lies on a stone slab, naked from the waist up, wet and shivering with cold and shock. Eager faces loom over him, their eyes glittering in the flames that circle the hill. From the back of the crowd he hears a low chant, a strange song that rises over the heads of the people standing, in words that he can’t quite make out but which sound out clearer and clearer as the singers move through the crowd. The ring of bodies around him parts and the singers step into the circle, at their head the old man they called ‘the Pastor’.
His clothes have changed. He is wearing a long, red cloak with a hood that he pulls down from his face. It’s the same man as before. He has the same kindly smile, the same wise, reasonable eyes, but there is something different about him now. There is a change in his movements, the way he holds himself, an eagerness in the way he approaches Solomon as though he’s waited too long for this moment and is finding it difficult to contain himself. He stands in silence for a long time, though, staring and smiling and saying nothing. Solomon tries to speak, but is too tired, his head hurts too much and he cannot summon the energy to form any words or thoughts.
Eventually, in response to some signal Solomon cannot see, the old man nods his head and steps forward.
“It’s time, Solomon,” he says. He kneels down and leans over to whisper in Solomon’s ear. “This is your purpose,” he says. “This is what you came here looking for. You will make so many people happy today. I want you to know that.”
The words are kind and soft-spoken but they don’t reassure Solomon at all. He pulls at the ropes around his arms, arches his back and tries again to speak, to say some words that will put a stop to this.
The old man stands again, raises his right hand and calls out in a loud voice that carries over the hushed crowd that stands around them.
“The Messenger is here!” He cries. A great cheer rises up in response.
“From within him will come the strength to change the world.”
Another cheer.
“From within him.” The old man is whispering again. He leans across Solomon with a long, silver rapier held tight in both hands. The blade cuts into Solomon’s chest and is pulled in one swift, clean stroke down to his stomach. Blood spills fast from the wound, pouring over the stone slab and running out onto the bare soil underneath. More cuts are made. More cuts and more blood that spills and pours. “From within him,” whispers the old man over and over.
As the noise swirls around him, Solomon can feel a change happening. A plan is being brought to fruition, a purpose being fulfilled. A cold breath is blowing out from the wound in his chest. Whatever it touches, it changes. Somewhere close by he hears laughter.
Philippe and the Silver Flute