by Mark, David
He had to move while he still could.
The smoke drew what little moisture he had left, leaving his mouth as dry as antique parchment. That was when he felt something. His leg was burning. It was closest to the flames. When he moved it the burn intensified, getting hotter and hotter. It was worse on the back of his neck and he moved with new vigor, desperate to escape. He slid along the boards, leaving a smear of blood and bodily fluids, fluids he didn’t even want to think about across the smooth boards of pine, crawling his way towards the cool air of the entrance. He stopped to place a hand inside his pocket, retrieving the item he had found inside the frame of the painting. It was still not too hot to touch, removing it to see the golden metal, not gold but golden, coming alive by the light of the flames around him. Orichalcum, a voice said to him, almost uncaring. Upon it, a symbol embossed in the metal, three vertical lines emanating from a horizontal, slightly curved line. He had no idea what it was and returned to crawling, clutching it in one hand so it impaired his progress.
Get rid of it, a small part of his mind told him. No, he shook his head. He couldn’t, the heat now burning the back of his neck. He realized, there is a moment, a point when everything could be all right. He knew he had passed that moment and cursed his stupidity. This wasn’t worth it. It was too late. The disc fragment, or whatever the hell it was heating up. He moved quickly now, writhing his way forward, navigating the sections of charred wood that had begun to fall from the ornate carved roof structure.
A creak, as of wood about to come apart; he paused and looked upwards, sensing danger. High above, the trellises, cross-braces and rafters of the dark wood high above, rising like layers of an intricate pyramid, but alive, fire licking the apex. A section of the framework was already burning, the creaking sound repeating. Another groan of wood, louder. He looked directly above him and feared the worst, the continuous creak of timbers becoming a wrenching groan, part of the burning crossed bracing tearing itself free of the supporting superstructure. It landed three meters behind him to smash one of the pews in a shower of flame and red sparks.
He lowered his head, a whimper escaping his lips and continued his struggle to escape. His hair started to smell. The ancient object became hotter. He closed his hand to keep it cool and uttered a scream, opening his fingers to see the symbols on the fragment imprinted in his skin. He paused to look at it, fascinated, barely caring anymore, the rampaging heat, the pain and the smoke combining into a maelstrom of anguish he almost felt he could contain.
Let it go, he commanded himself. You have to let it go...
He couldn’t let it go. He had to let it go. Wisps of smoke were coming from his skin, but still, he kept hold of it. He started to pant, the air, what little there was of it, becoming too hot to breath. With a cry of anguish that was not pain, he lifted his arm and cast it to the side. A flash, a brief radiance shone from its surface and then it was lost within the inferno, eyes moving beyond the field of burning debris to rest on the moving body of the policeman, Lindgren.
He noticed movement beyond the smoke. Daniel, the American. He tried to cry out, to call for help, but his mouth wouldn’t utter any sound, the words caught in the parched skin of his throat. The figure, Daniel was retreating, moving to the entrance, pulling something heavy to the doorway. It was all so tantalizingly close and he managed a cry, finding his voice. He resumed his crawl towards the open door as another groan of timber unleashed a new section of roofing above him crashing down before home, blocking his exit. Too late, he knew in that moment that he wasn’t coming out of the church alive.
A figure appeared out of the smoke and fire, blood caking one side of a haggard, drawn and weary face. Elin Vikland was half pulled, half carried out by Daniel. She held his arms in trembling hands, struggling to support her weight, pain written in every crease of her face, coughing violently, smoke rising from her clothes.
Conrad turned to him with surprise as Ash pulled himself slowly up into a standing position, raising his hands in submission. He waited until Conrad appeared to let his guard down, staggering to one side, then threw himself forwards, spring past Conrad to gather the bundle up before he had time to react. Leaving the blanket on the ground, noticing in a brief moment the golden shine of the runic inscriptions on the frame as he recovered his balance. He looked up in time to see Conrad’s surprise, reaching into his jacket pocket, his hand reappearing clasping his gun. Ash froze, seeing the changed look in Conrad’s eyes and stopped dead in his tracks. The man before him had become a stranger, pointing his gun with weary yet hard and determined eyes.
‘Put it away.’ Daniel commanded, Vikland grimly hanging on to him as if her life depended upon it. ‘There’s no need for that.’
Conrad barely even noticed him. ‘The painting, give it to me,’ he said, reaching his hand out.
His words penetrated the veil, an order given by someone who was used to giving orders. Ash barely registered them, never taking his eyes off the cold metal eye of his weapon staring him down. He looked around, movements slow, meeting Daniel’s imploring eyes, then turned back to Conrad. Without thought or explanation, ever so slowly Ash shook his head.
‘Give me the painting Ash.’ Conrad demanded, lowering his voice, holding his hand out again. He stepped forwards, looking in front of him, behind him, towards Vikland, uncertainty showing in every movement.
‘What has happened here?’ Daniel demanded in a strange distant voice.
The words arrived cold and naked. He remembered somewhere it was raining as he took a step backwards, feeling his hair sticking to his scalp, his arm firmly around the painting, wet fingers tightening. He shook his head again. Conrad glanced over his shoulder. Ash turned around, seeing the flames. They were taller than before, suddenly aware of the sound they made, so even Conrad had to pause and take it in. So beautiful they were, glowing behind the thin veil of rain, like a golden mist: yellow, orange, red... green. He looked across to where Daniel was standing in the doorway, cowering, his face white, shaken.
‘Ash, I need help. She’s bleeding.’ Daniel moved his head from side to side to tell him she was in bad shape.
‘Vikland?’ Ge blinked, looking back at Conrad again. ‘She’s been shot,’ he heard Daniel say.
Vikland. A sound, as if from an animal approaching. Ash turned to see Alvar Bok walking from the house, head lowered. He had appeared as if from nowhere, face looking like thunder ‘Let them go!’ His voice boomed.
What was Vikland... what was the police doing here?
Conrad stopped, doubt appearing. Bok seemed bigger somehow with his oversized outdoors jacket parted, revealing the sagging form of his jumper beneath. Eventually, Conrad lowered his gun.
Daniel looked at Ash, face pale. ‘Help me. She’s in a bad way.’
Before he could comprehend why a police officer was shot he noticed movement, as Ulrika made for the path leading to the door.
‘Stay where you are!’ Conrad snarled.
Bewildered, Ash looked at Conrad with a look of accusation. ‘Did you shoot her?’
‘What did they tell you?’ Conrad said, his attention settling upon Bok. ‘That Anna was a relic to be taken away before it all got embarrassing for them?’
Bok looked toward Daniel and moved to help him.
‘Stop,’ Conrad raised his gun and pointed it at Bok.
Bok stood poised, turning to him and shook his head. ‘Anna was never a relic.’ He nodded towards Vikland, ‘She needs help. We can talk about this later.’ Alvar Bok opened his arms, palms forwards. ‘I need the painting.’
‘For god’s sake, someone help me!’ Daniel pleaded, looking down as he raised his hand from the side of Vikland’s head and wiped it on the stone step of the entrance doorway, hand red. ‘She’s bleeding real bad here!’
Ash glowered at Conrad, at his pistol, at the flames, crackling and hissing behind him. ‘She needs help dammit!’
‘Almquist covered for his masters. They silenced him.’ Conrad continued, pointing
his gun at Bok. ‘What does that have to do with Anna?’
‘The painting Ash,’ Bok repeated
Ash turned the other way, towards Bok again. ‘What the hell – what is this?’ He shouted.
‘I want to know why he’s here!’ Conrad roared. ‘I want to know why we’ve all paid the price. Well?’ He was staring at Bok with something bordering on hatred. He waved his hand towards Ash. ‘Give me it.
‘Give it to me!’ Bok commanded, his face set into a look of determination, and frustration.
‘Whatever you do, do not trust that man. Don’t do it!’ Conrad looked desperate now.
A spreading pool of blood, her blood. Vikland was still conscious, looking at Conrad with a gaunt, empty look as Daniel placed one of her arms around his neck, trying to stand up but pulled down by her dead weight.
‘For god’s sake, someone help her!’ Ulrika shouted out, the scene rapidly descending into chaos.
Conrad turned around, slowly, back towards Ash, water running down his face, his gun level. ‘Now give me the painting, I need the painting.’ He backed towards the entrance. ‘Give it to me. Come on, just do as I ask and we can all leave.’
The crackle of fire, the dance of rain.
‘He’s bluffing.’ Bok replied, looking at Vikland with concern. ‘It belongs to me.’
‘What did they tell you Bok? You still haven’t answered my question?’
Vikland said in a small voice, looking at Bok. ‘Hasse is dead. Did you kill him? Did you kill Hasse?’
‘No!’ Bok turned towards Ash a last time. ‘This is foolish. Now give it to me. It belongs to none of you.’
‘Just answer my question.’ Vikland croaked.
‘Come on, let’s get her looked after?’ Daniel’s eyes were begging, his body trembling with the exertion of supporting her now.
‘You’re leaving it too late!’ Ulrika shouted from the other side. ‘Stop all this talk and somebody help her!’
Ash looked from Bok, following Daniel’s gaze towards Vikland, noticing a look of dismay upon Conrad’s face as somewhere deep with the church a groan was followed by the sound of crashing wood.
Confused, Conrad looked around, uncertainty filling his eyes. ‘You have no idea who you’re keeping company with Ash.’
‘You knew about Almquist?’ Ash said, looking at Conrad.
‘Of course not!’ He locked eyes with him. ‘The painting belonged to Anna Kron. Now I’m coming to get it.’ Conrad started walking.
Ash thought of Almquist’s head slumped forwards, restrained by his seatbelt as they had driven past. He thought of all the conversations at the homestead. It already felt like a lifetime ago, felt like he was a spectator at some arena for the insane, two men looking at each across an empty car park in the rain. The fire left his eyes. What was left was weariness. Another window burst, another shower of glass and all around the growing roar of flame.
Conrad moved quickly, hand reaching out, face grim. Then Ash was turning in an arc, arm outstretched, turning the painting flat, flicking his hand, the small painting spinning on its side towards Bok who caught it promptly between the palms of his hands. Conrad stopped, mouth open, retracing his steps backwards. They both stood still.
Ash and Conrad both watched Bok as he turned it over, fingers moving along the back of the frame. And then he was pulling, tearing off the backing board, removing a thin piece of wood with a hole in the middle. He discarded it to the sodden ground and revealed the back of the painting. There, sandwiched behind the canvas he removed what Ash thought looked like a folded piece of paper, placing it in his pocket as he turned his back to Conrad, turning around and holding aloft the canvas to all to see, the golden frame falling to the ground.
‘See, this is what Ikim Agar painted,’ Bok said, holding up the back of the painting, turning it towards them without mentioning what only Ash had seen, all thoughts about the folded paper vanishing on seeing the back of the canvas.
It was another painting.
‘Not the Hangman?’ He asked, eyes wide, straining to see what it was. It seemed abstract, not symbolic. It was a painting of... walls fading, what looked like an open, carved entrance of some sort disappearing into a dark sea.
‘Now let her go.’
Conrad wavered, ‘I need more than that Bok.’
Bok shook his head. ‘We are out of time,’ he glanced again, a look of concern in Vikland’s direction, then back again. ‘Let her go.’
‘I need more,’ Conrad implored, trying to get his head around what he was seeing.
But it was too late. Bok stepped forwards, towards him, the distance between them decreasing until he stopped before the church. ‘How did you do that?’ Bok said.
Ash was confused. ‘Do what?’
‘That...’ Bok drew back his arm, then flicked his wrist quickly with a great force.
‘NO!’ Conrad shouted then stopped dead in his tracks, watching the little painting as it flew through the air upwards, higher and higher up into the smoke above the church, then falling, downwards, disappearing into smoke and flame.
Chivers thought he was dead, only to find himself beneath fiery serpents rising high, disappearing into flame and darkness. He had managed to pull himself way from the tapestries, away from the collapsing roof. He coughed again, the smoke descending. A tearing sound as another part of the roof structure tore itself loose, descending with another almighty crash, engulfed by the flames. Panic swelling, driven on through all the pain, the hair on his head all but burned away, his hands red and blistering, his stomach leaking, Chivers still found his instinct for life and clung to it with all of the strength remaining to him, consumed by the need to keep his head low, pressed to the floor, to where the only air was to be found he could breath, and keep below the descending mantle of smoke. He looked around, eyes weeping across the floor, coughing again, knowing he wouldn’t leave this place alive.
Then there it was. The miracle. It awakened his soul, emerging from the slumber of death. It was meant for him. It came to him from above as the the surface of flames flowed like liquid lava across the roof. His mind slowly embracing what his eyes were telling him: That the object was falling, not rising. That it was rotating, gracefully, as if by divine intervention. In slow motion, carrying it, lifting it above the waves of heat.
Directing it towards him.
It landed sideways, skidding across the floorboards, unspoiled; resplendent. It came to rest not more than three meters away, on front of the first line of smashed and burning pews, threatening to destroy it. Sebastian Chivers moved his leg, then gritting his teeth against the pain in his gut, the burns in his hands or from the hair burned on his head and pulled himself towards the small object – upon which his entire being now depended.
Chapter 23
OVER
Thus is said in Völuspá:
Surtr fares from the south, with switch-eating flame,
On his sword shimmers, the sun of the War-Gods;
The rock-crags crash; the fiends are reeling;
Heroes tread Hel-way; Heaven is cloven.
Gylfaginning
‘It’s gone.’ Bok said, looking directly at Conrad. ‘It’s over.’
But Conrad was standing still, his gun pointing somewhere between the ground and Ash’s legs, indecision written all over his crumpled, dark features. ‘What did they tell you? This was a new case?’
‘Help her!’ Daniel shouted, frustration breaking his voice.
‘I need to know.’ Conrad turned and looked down at the pitiful sight of Vikland, clinging to life, the pain of his decision written all over his face. He turned to look at Ash. ‘I need to know!’ He turned to Bok, then cast a look over towards the fire, flames rising higher and higher, lighting him from behind, his face turning dark and foreboding. ‘I can’t leave here with nothing to show. I have to have something...’
‘She needs our help!’ Ulrika ran forwards, but stopped when Conrad pointed his gun at her. She stopped, her face masked by b
itter frustration and incomprehension.
‘The frame and the painting were a pair. They had to be kept separated.’ Bok said quickly, returning his attention from Vikland to Conrad. ‘The painting was Anna’s, not the frame; that is something else. It’s got nothing to do with this. It’s not important.’ Bok’s eyes shot upwards, to the flames licking along the edge of the rain-sodden church roof. ‘Anna hung the painting here at the church. When Gustav Kron committed suicide, nothing more was seen of it, until you came along. What did you expect?’
Another timber fell from the roof, the sound of it crashing and splintering muffled within.
Conrad looked out from the church, across the black silent waters of the lake. ‘What did they tell you?’
Bok looked at him, tired and gaunt, shaking his head.
Conrad wavered, on the brink of decision.
‘Give it up Conrad.’ Ulrika said, gently this time.
‘Come on,’ Ash turned and was appalled to see Vikland’s face drained of life, felt time ebbing away. ‘Let’s get her looked after. This is going too far.’
But Conrad Baron wasn’t listening. ‘Anna doesn’t exist anymore. They must have known that. They knew you knew that. They set me up, didn’t they?’
Ash was looking at someone bleeding to death and was powerless to prevent it. He took a step forwards.
‘No!’ Conrad pointed the pistol at Ash’s stomach. He looked from Ulrika over to Bok, the softness of the rain intermingling with the rising heat of the fire, rendering the place a sense of the corporeal.
‘Stop fucking around and let us help her.’ Ash stood, feet planted firmly on each side of the ground, anger flaring up again. ‘If you don’t put your pathetic toy away. So you’ll either shoot me or...’
Conrad let his arms drop to his sides, looking down at the growing puddle at his feet, raindrops falling off the tip of his nose, head hung low, desperately trying to connect the pieces. ‘Expendable, like the rest... so they clean up the mess before it’s too late, and take out the delivery boy into the bargain.’ He looked up at the sky, eyes raised on high, blinking in the rain before lowering them to settle on Ash.