Under the Pendulum Sun
Page 35
And yet, I wanted to go.
“What else can I do?” he said.
I crossed my arms as I watched him sit heavily on the bed. He crumpled, his face in his hands. The weight that I had seen him bear with such defiance and determination had finally crushed him. For all his previous weariness, he had dark currents of anger, of pride, of bitterness.
But no more.
“Please, Laon,” I said.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to acknowledge the summons,” I said, hurling my own temper back at him. “It’s what you and I have been working for. It’s what you came here for. And Mr Benjamin, he needs this. He’s packed and ready to go. You need to acknowledge this before you abandon it all.”
“I have,” he bit back. Diogenes gave a soft whine at the far side of room, as though sensing his master’s distress. “I know.”
“And?”
“You are my sister, Cathy. After what I’ve done, what we’ve done… I can’t. I’m not worthy. Not worthy of you, of this,” he said. “I should go home, where God can judge me. I’ve run away from my sins for long enough.”
“But the summons–”
“It doesn’t undo what we did,” he said, bleakly. “Nothing can.”
“Exactly!” I said. “They have already found the darkest corner of our souls and dredged from there the greatest sins. They have already stripped us bare and made us face our own worst selves. Face each other’s. They cannot do more.”
He was staring at his agitating hands, as he turned them over and over. His wide palms and long, blunt fingers. He had beautiful hands.
“Please, Laon,” I said. “Brother, look at me.”
He turned to me.
Despite his tempestuous thoughts, his blue eyes were still pools, and I saw myself therein. He too must have seen himself in mine, twinned in recursive reflection, like a metaphysical poem. I tried then to believe myself as strong and as wise as he saw me to be, just as I wanted him to see himself the way I saw him. I needed that strength, that wisdom.
The candle flickered, and so did our reflections.
Laon looked away.
I took a deep breath and steeled myself.
“What more can they do to us?” I said. “What more could they tempt us with?”
He laughed, long and hollow, as he shook his head. He wiped tears from his eyes and, brushing echoing ones from mine, he said, “Nothing, sister. There is nothing more they can do.”
“We don’t have to go back.” I laid my hand on his shoulder.
He placed his hand over mine.
“There is redemption yet, brother.”
“But I don’t know how to repent, sister.”
“Laon–”
“I just… I know what we did, blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh.” He laughed again, shaking his head. His hand tightened over mine and I did not want him to let go. “For redemption, there need first be repentance.”
“We will teach each other,” I said. “There is a world that has been deaf to the Word of God, hidden from His eyes and exiled from His love. It is, in the words of Elizabeth Clay, an unharrowed hell.”
“What use is God to the fae?”
“They have souls, Laon. We have read as much. By their mother’s lineage, by right of creation. They may not be human souls as they are not descended from Adam – or Mankind, as he may be termed – but they are souls nonetheless.”
“You think we can bring it to them?”
“I trust.”
“The sinners that we are?” He turned his eyes skyward for all that there was no heaven there.
“There is no greater missionary than the mother tongue. We now speak the language of sin. We can speak to them better than anyone else can.”
“You know that I didn’t come here for saintly reasons.”
“Saints have further to fall. This place breaks saints. But you and I,” I gave a grim smile, “we have nothing to fear.”
“Because there is nothing more they can do.” He held my hand now painfully tight and he clasped it to himself like a promise. Hope glimmered in his eyes and a tired, familiar smile crossed his lips. “What do you think’s in hell then?”
“I read that Dante thinks the second circle’s lust.”
“What would he know?”
“It was in Father’s encyclopaedia, and that has to be correct,” I said, quite primly.
Laon laughed at that, and this time there was less bitterness and more joy. I joined him, and though my own laughter sounded stilted, I knew it would come easier, with time.
“Maybe it’s going to be nothing but fish,” said Laon. “And sea whales.”
“Nothing to fear there then.”
“Either way,” said Laon, beaming now. I returned the smile and I knew what he was going to say next. “We should find out.”
Acknowledgments
This book owes a huge debt of words to the Brontës, to the Romantics, and to the various Victorian writers whose texts I have quoted and misquoted in this novel: Jacob Tomlin, William Dean, Fleming H Revell, George Smith, Clarke Abel, Reginald Heber, Hudson Taylor, and George Young, to name a few.
Thank you to everyone at Angry Robot, human and otherwise, named and unnamed, but especially: Marc for believing in me, Penny for guiding me through rough public-facing waters, Phil for that precision edit, Claire for picking up after my typos.
I'm unspeakably grateful for the love and support of my earliest readers, especially Dom, Sam and Will who have endured multiple fragment-laden drafts. I love you all and you're brilliant.
Further thanks for use of eyeballs, ideas and encouragement: Becca for our many conversations about changelings; Carrie for sharing my love of missionaries and dragging me to Macau with her; Gareth for a truly magical friendship; Lor for sharing with me the best of things; Sean for that bright ray on a very dark day; Tom for cake wizardry and divine inspiration; Veljko for moths and the Mottled King; Zaak for Hobbs of Malmsbury; and Zoë for putting up with my pretentiousness since basically forever.
Thank you to my mother for encouraging my “wild imagination” (her words) and to my father for correcting my stories with snarky red pen even when I was tiny (I have unearthed archaeological proof).
To my family who have promised to read this regardless of contents, I'm very sorry you had to endure this book. Thank you. I promise the next one will be less creepy. And that there will be a next one.
Finally, a heartfelt thank you to Graham Stark and Adam Savidan of the Sidewalk Slam podcast. I've still not managed to watch any wrestling but your voices are very soothing.
About the Author
Jeannette Ng is originally from Hong Kong but now lives in Durham, UK. Her MA in Medieval and Renaissance Studies fed into an interest in medieval and missionary theology, which in turn spawned her love for writing gothic fantasy with a theological twist. She runs live roleplay games and is active within the costuming community, running a popular blog.
medium.com/@nettlefish • twitter.com/jeannette_ng
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Sin like salt
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part One: Gethsemane Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part Two: Gilead Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part Three: Golgotha Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Part Four: Gehenna Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Legals
We are Angry Robot