The Shadow Lamp

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The image, though faint, was well defined and far too precise to be the result of mere chance. Yet in the waning afternoon light stealing through the room’s single window, the inimitable pattern—which would have fitted perfectly with those Kit had seen scrawled on the wall of a Stone Age cave, painstakingly rendered in the inner burial chamber of High Priest Anen’s tomb, and, most notably, tattooed on the half-bare torso of Arthur Flinders-Petrie at the Spirit Well—remained unregarded and unrecognised.

  And so Kit simply shook out the handkerchief and handed it to Cass, who promptly tucked it into the cuff of her blouse as she finished putting on her shoes. Then, blithely unaware of the secret they now possessed, Kit pocketed the ruined shadow lamp and vial of rare earth and escorted Cass from the Apoteke. Alas.

  The two started across the market square, the crowd rapidly thinning as twilight deepened and lights began to glow in windows. Silvery smoke threaded from the chimneys clustered on the rooftops all around, tinting the air with an autumnal scent. Halfway to the coffeehouse, they met Wilhelmina coming the other way. “Hey, you two—I was just coming to find you.”

  “Did you see Gianni?”

  “Yes, he told me the jury is still out on the mystery powder.”

  “He wants to take the sample to Rome for testing,” Kit told her.

  “That’s what I hear. I think it’s a good idea.” As she was speaking, the church bells began ringing. She paused to listen.

  “What church is that?” Cass asked, turning her eyes towards the dark façade of the imposing gothic church fronting the square.

  “That’s Týn Church,” Mina told her. “Vespers is just starting. Actually, I was on my way to the service. Would you like to come along?”

  “I’d love to,” said Cass.

  “Let’s all go.” Wilhelmina continued across the square; Cass fell into step beside her and Kit followed. “I like it—especially when I’ve had a busy day and I need some peace. Etzel hardly ever misses a service. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we see him there tonight.”

  “Speaking of bumping into Etzel, I saw him today.” Kit went on to relate how he had seen the big baker in the square with a bag slung over his shoulder.

  “He was probably on one of his missions. There are a lot of needy people in the back streets around here. Etzel is always doing something to try to help out—his Seele arbeitet, as he calls it.”

  “His soul works?” wondered Cass.

  “You know German?”

  “Not really,” she allowed. “I run into it in an academic way from time to time, that’s all.”

  “I’m impressed,” remarked Kit. “You also know how to test chemicals and read Latin. Is there anything you can’t do?”

  “Cook.” She gave him a sunny smile.

  Týn Church loomed from the shadows, its twin multi-spired towers rising heavenward, each finger-thin pinnacle topped with a cross glinting in the last of the day’s dying light like golden stars. The lower panes of the enormous centre window, an elongated gothic design, shone with the ruddy glow of candlelight, and torches on either side of the imposing black iron-studded doors pooled light around the entrance. Kit cracked open the smaller door set in the larger one, and the three entered the venerable old church.

  The service was well attended. “Standing room only, I see,” Kit quipped, then realised it was always SRO because there were no pews—only a row of chairs ringing the expansive sanctuary for the older members of the congregation. Mina shot him a stern glance. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll behave.”

  They pushed in among those gathered at the back. The attending priests were chanting the voluntary. Though the service was an amalgam of Latin with a few instructions in German, it was fairly easy to follow, and Kit, who was not so well versed in religious rites, found the service at least unobjectionable if not actually enjoyable. One look at Mina, whose face gently illumined by candlelight appeared reverent, beatific even, gave Kit to know that she was enraptured by the majestic movements of liturgy and song. Posing as a nun at Montserrat Abbey, he concluded, had no doubt quickened in Wilhelmina a deeper appreciation.

  For Cassandra, however, it was something more.

  As the psalms and hymns echoed up through the great vaulted darkness and the incense rose in sweet, pungent clouds before the altar, Cass grew at first quiet, then pensive, and finally markedly subdued—head bowed and eyes not so much closed as clenched, her whole body tense, almost rigid. Finally, as the final notes of the great pipe organ rang in the air, Kit leaned close and whispered, “Are you okay?”

  Cass nodded but did not lift her head; her hands remained clenched tightly over her chest. Worshippers began disbanding and streaming away around them, but she did not move.

  Wilhelmina put her arm around the young woman’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, Cassandra?”

  When she failed to respond, Kit gently urged, “You can tell us. We’re here for you. Is it homesickness?”

  “No,” Cass breathed at last. “Nothing like that.” She raised her face, and Kit saw she had been crying. “I don’t think I’ve told anyone what happened to me in Damascus.”

  Kit and Mina exchanged a glance. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Wilhelmina told her. “It’s okay. We’ll understand.”

  “It’s the reason I’m here,” said Cass, smudging away the wet tracks down her cheeks with the heels of her hands. “I saw something that scared me—a vision—and it frightened me so much I ran to the nearest shelter I could find, and that was in the Sisters of Tekla chapel.”

  “What did you see?” asked Kit. Mina gave him a cautionary glance and he quickly added, “That is, if you want to share . . . or not.”

  “No, it’s all right. I can tell you.” Cassandra drew a long breath and said, “I guess you could say I saw the destruction of the entire universe. That’s the only way to describe it.” She went on to relate more details of the terrifying vision—the insatiable, all-devouring darkness, the vast and mindless hatred of light and its manifold expressions, the pitiless obliteration of all creatures possessing the spark of life, the relentless desolating rush towards oblivion—that had driven her from sleep and into the embrace of the Zetetic Society. She finished, saying, “I sat there praying until it got light enough outside to see, and then I ran as fast as I could to join the society.” She glanced up with a sad, almost rueful smile. “I guess I have been running ever since. This is the first time I have actually had a chance to stop and reflect on what happened. The service tonight was beautiful, but it brought it all back to me.” She glanced from one to the other of them and drew a long, shaky breath. “I don’t really understand any of this.”

  “Never mind.” Mina gave her shoulders a squeeze. “There’s a lot going on that none of us understand, but we’re all in this together.”

  “All for one and one for all,” Kit added. “And we’re not about to let anything happen to you.” It was a brave but silly thing to say—an ultimately empty promise—and Kit knew it the moment the words left his mouth. Cosimo was right, this ley travelling was an exceedingly perilous business indulged at great personal risk—and there was nothing he or anyone else could do about that.

  Cass seemed to understand but accepted the solace of his words all the same. “Thanks,” she sighed. “You’re both very kind.” She gave an embarrassed little laugh. “I’m not usually such a basket case, honest.”

  They joined the congregation making its way out of the church. Passing through the heavy oaken doors, they moved off towards the Grand Imperial Kaffeehaus across the way. Save for the departing worshippers, the marketplace was nearly deserted; the last of the day traders were tying down the coverings on their fully laden wagons. The great square was cast in darkness now, and the bright needle-points of stars were shining in a clear sky.

  “How are you feeling now?” asked Kit.

  “A little better,” answered Cass. “Still . . .”

  “That must have been some bad vision
to scare you like that,” remarked Kit.

  “It was . . . harrowing.” Cass shivered at the memory, which even now had the power to chill her heart.

  “If it would help to talk about it,” offered Wilhelmina, “I’d be happy to listen. That is . . .” She trailed off as she noticed that Kit had stopped walking. Both women glanced around to see him stock-still, as if rooted to the spot. He was staring into the middle distance as if he had just seen a ghost.

  “Kit?” gasped Mina. “For Pete’s sake, what is it?”

  “Burleigh is back,” he spat, his voice a low, rasping whisper. “I just saw a Burley Man.”

  CHAPTER 25

  In Which Corpse-Pickers Raise the Alarm

  The once-peaceful valley was transformed into a killing field as the fire arrows screamed overhead, each one streaking to earth to erupt in a gout of flame and searing metal, slaughtering the terrified victims by the score. The desperate race flowed around them—horses, cattle, people—all of them blind with terror and in full flight. Giles clutched Haven’s hand in a strong, unyielding grip and pulled her with him into the wild and reckless flood.

  Filling the heavens with their bloodless shriek, the fiery salvos sliced through the darkened skies, striking again and again in a lethal rain. The torrent of humanity raced on, streaming over the bodies of the dead and dying; the slower ones were caught and crushed by those coming behind, pulled under by the unstoppable human tide surging through the valley.

  From their very first steps, Giles knew they were in a race for their lives. Though it meant hard scrambling along the sharply tilting slope of the hill, Giles was determined to keep himself and Haven at the farthest edge of the flood and away from the chaotic, killing crush of the centre. Over the sloping ground they ran. Time and again Haven slipped, and each time Giles was there to bear her up and put her back on her feet.

  The dazzling fireballs fell all around them. With each shattering impact, bodies were smashed and torn apart. What the impact did not destroy, the inevitable eruption obliterated. Thick and fast they fell, howling as they came. The soft earth shuddered with the explosions, spewing flame and searing gases to singe the air.

  Soon Giles and Haven were running through a fog of bitter smoke that stung the nostrils and obscured the way ahead. They gulped air and felt the burn in their lungs. Coughing, eyes streaming, they ran blindly on.

  Directly ahead, one of the infernal things slammed into the hillside, obliterating bodies and sending up a deadly shower of cinders and molten metal and carving a crater in the soft earth. Giles saw the hole too late and tumbled into it, pulling Haven down with him. Fragments of hot metal and scorched dirt smouldered in the hole. The air stank of singed hair and charred flesh. Giles rolled onto a piece of glowing shrapnel, burning holes in his shirt and trousers. He gasped and squirmed away, brushing burning cinders from his arm and leg. Haven landed hard on her side and felt the heat of scorched earth through her clothing.

  She struggled onto her knees and made to rise. A fleeing rider loomed out of the smoke. Galloping hard, he saw the hole and prepared to jump. As Haven’s torso appeared above the smouldering embankment, the horse spooked and tried to veer away. Caught between a leap and a swerve, the terrified animal’s forelegs tangled, and it plunged headlong into the embankment. Haven ducked below the protecting rim of earth and the rider threw himself from the saddle. The injured animal thrashed on the ground, its legs kicking. It screamed once and then fell still. As another missile screamed down through the haze of smoke, the warrior abandoned his ruined mount and ran.

  Haven started up once more, but Giles pulled her back. “Stay down! We are safer here.” The body of the dead horse, like a boulder in a stream, caused the fleeing hordes to part. Hunkered down in the bottom of the hole, they could stay out of the onrushing turmoil.

  After a time the fireballs ceased, but the desperate retreat continued. On and on the people came, passing in a blur of smoke and motion before disappearing into the night. Giles and Haven lay in the bottom of the crater, occasionally stirring to gauge the flood until exhaustion overcame them and they slept.

  When Giles stirred again, the sun was rising, and with it came the advance scouts of the invading forces: men on horseback riding fast along the river course to vanish in the early morning mist rising from the water. The forerunners were followed by a small force of scavengers—old men and women who picked their way among the scattered dead to collect weapons and valuables, clothes and boots and armour. Some carried long leather bags that trailed after them on the ground; others, in twos and threes, dragged wicker baskets, and still others pulled small handcarts.

  Into the bags, baskets, and carts they tossed belongings of which the dead had no further use. Some corpses were stripped bare, others lost only hats or belts. A rare few lost nothing at all, but all were examined and their material goods evaluated and, for the most part, confiscated.

  The scavengers worked efficiently, but without undue hurry, moving from body to body among the dead scattered across the wide bowl of the valley on both sides of the river. Giles and Haven watched the grim undertaking as it moved methodically closer to their earthen bunker.

  “I fear we must move, my lady,” observed Giles. “It would be best if we were not found here.”

  “I agree,” said Haven, her voice ragged. “But where can we go?”

  “If we climb the slope, they will not come up there, I think, and we can watch to see what is to happen.” He paused, looking off towards the river. “I do not care to move far beyond the sight of water.”

  “Nor do I,” replied Haven. “Lead on, Giles. I am content to follow.”

  While the corpse-pickers were still some way off, the two travellers quit their refuge and quickly as possible climbed the nearest slope. They had almost reached the top when the shouting began—first one lone voice, and then others raised the alarm. Giles cast a hasty glance over his shoulder. Some four or five scavengers had stopped working and were now making urgent gestures in their direction.

  “They’ve seen us!” said Giles. “Run!”

  Up the hill they fled, scrambling the last few yards to the top and flinging themselves over the crest, where they ducked out of direct sight from the valley. They threw themselves down in the long grass and lay panting, hoping against hope they would not be followed. When he had recovered his breath somewhat, Giles rolled onto his stomach and began crawling up to the hilltop.

  “Giles! Stay down. They will see you!”

  “I must know what they are doing,” he whispered tersely. “We may be in danger yet.”

  He edged up and up until he could peer over the top of the hill and down into the valley. The shouts of the scavengers had brought outriders to their aid; three mounted warriors with spears were even now making their way towards the hillside up which Haven and Giles had fled.

  He slid back down to where Haven was anxiously waiting. She saw the expression on his face and said, “Tell me.”

  “Riders.” Giles wiped sweat from his eyes. “We’ve been seen. They’re coming for us.”

  “How many?”

  “Three of them—armed.”

  Haven bit her lip. “Giles, we cannot hope to outrun them.”

  “Not together, no. But I will draw them away, and as soon as they give chase, you run the other way. You may be able to find a place to hide.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I will keep going as far as I can.”

  “That will not be far,” she told him.

  “I need only divert them long enough for you to escape.”

  “But you will be caught.”

  “That does not matter.”

  “It matters to me!” she spat. She took his hand in both of hers and pressed it tightly. “No. We will face them together come what may. I will not abandon you to your fate.”

  “Then I fear you will share it,” he said. “Please, my lady. It is for the best.”

  “The best ceased to interest me some time
ago,” she replied, and offering a sad, hopeful smile, said, “Come, we have no time to argue. Let us be resolved in this.”

  Giles regarded the woman before him. Something had changed in her demeanour—something he would have given much to discover. Alas, it was too late. Raising the hands that still clenched his, he pressed them to his lips.

  “I am sorry, my lady.” With that, he leapt to his feet and fled the grassy hollow. “God be with you.”

  “Giles!” She lunged after him, but he was already up and away. Squirming to the edge of the shallow depression, she raised herself up to see him running fast along the top of the hill.

  The first rider crested the hill, paused, gazed around, saw Giles, and bolted after him, shouting as he slapped his mount to speed. The other two riders appeared an instant later and, seeing their comrade giving chase, joined the pursuit. Haven waited only a moment longer and, seeing the riders commit to their courses, rose and fled in the opposite direction, running as fast as she could, the long grass pulling at her feet.

  She scanned the hilltop as she ran, searching for another hiding place. The smooth incline of the treeless hills offered nothing. Over the gently mounded slope she flew, growing more desperate with each fleeting step. She risked a backwards glance at the pursuit unfolding behind her. Giles and the horsemen had passed from view. She was alone on the hillside—but not for long.

  Just as she turned her gaze to the slope before her, there appeared the head of a rider, followed instantly by the head and neck of his mount and then the rest of the animal. Heart beating furiously, she threw herself down in the grass and prayed he had not seen her.

  It was a prayer that died in the air. The rider’s shout reached her even as she struck the ground. She lay in the grass only a moment, then scrambled up and darted away, heading down the slope this time, her feet flying as momentum carried her faster and faster.