The Head stalking passed them to the sanctuary back, the soldiers (supporting the girl to either side) coming next, the rest of the men wheeling to follow, their feet marching.
Into the vast hall they went, the girl stumbling, glancing back to see she had tripped over a mangled arm. Shocked into wakefulness, she looked down the hall to see the remains of priests, their bodies sawed to bits, heads hacked free of necks and kicked against the walls. Priest-blood was smeared up the walls as high as men could jump. Hands, legs and hunks of red, body meat were gathered in strange and bloody piles. Though the soldiers had killed the priests, the girl knew this mutilation was her work.
This was how she wished to think of priests! As long as she should live!
* * * * *
Chapter 2
John Lyon woke up feeling drugged. Where was he? Oh, yes. In his new home. Not new, of course. Old. The real estate lady had been right about that, at least. His exploration of what passed for a basement had confirmed it. Though he wasn't an American historian, he knew enough about early construction to guess that the house was right at a hundred, maybe older. The hand wrought nails said so. As did the pegged construction and tongue and groove carpentry. Sure, there were a lot of manufactured nails -- but they'd been used to add rooms to the central, limestone core.
John rolled over, tired as only the insomniac can be but, at the same time, wide awake.
Rain. A sound like fine sand sifting steadily upon the stretched head of a giant drum. In a normal person, a guarantee of sleep.
Lying in bed, he felt depression dull his senses, why, he didn't know. For he had made the right move. From Indiana State to Kansas City.
About buying this house, John wasn't so sure .......
It had been on a bright, mid-September afternoon, an hour after his last Western Civ. class, that Madge, the fat and forty-fivish real estate lady had picked him up at his apartment. (Large of voice and bubbling with personality on the phone, she'd found out all the salient facts: that John was new in town; that he had no friends here; that he knew nothing about the Northland area; and that he wanted a house that was small and inexpensive.
If there were any surprises in the flesh, it was that -- "Just call me Madge, honey," -- was not as lively as he thought she'd be. Sober from the beginning, she'd become morose as she "granny turned" her Cadillac on Troost, soon to cut right onto a slab of unfinished road between 78th and 79th.
Bottoming the soft-sprung car off the end of the pavement, she began herding the white Caddy down a thicket-enclosed, one-lane (used to be gravel) road. Past a rusted NO EXIT -- PRIVATE ROAD sign strangled by scraggly bushes, the road so overgrown that foliage continually brushed the car, each scrape twitching Madge's ample, imitation cherry, cheeks. Bounding over cross-erosion-rills for a mile, Madge jerked the car to the right, braking to a dusty, swaying stop.
Their apparent destiny was a homely, two story house of weathered, irregularly cut limestone, the old building surrounded by a tangle of spiraea bushes, the house all alone in the center of an acre of scrub woods.
For her part, after wedging herself out of the car, Madge did her real estate best to gush over the house. Waddling ahead of him through tall, brown weeds, she'd natter on about how little upkeep there was to limestone.
On the porch, trying key after key in the lock on the weathered oak door, she praised the quality of solid doors over the shoddy construction of more modern, hollow ones.
A good effort, considering the fact that Madge didn't like the house. Not at all.
Finding the right key, she'd taken him on the standard tour complete with memorized script about how a "handy" man would love this "fixer upper," bravely stepping (on Miss Piggy feet) over the dried skins of antique mice.
The place was a hard sell, of course. Vacant for years. For decades.
The old structure had the standard stairway beyond the front door, a living room to the left, downstairs bedroom to the right (which could be John's study) a narrow kitchen at the back, dirt floor basement, and a connecting storm "cellar" into the hill behind the house. Tornadoes, you know. Good for an atomic bomb shelter, too.
Sure.
The down stairs viewed, they'd climbed the stairs (a few well placed wooden wedges would stop that creaking, she enthused) both of them careful to avoid the carcass of a sparrow at the top, the bird reduced to an open beak, hollow skull, and tattered wings.
The second story had two bedrooms, what used to be diamond patterned wallpaper shredding off walls in scraggly strips. Ahead was an old fashioned bathroom with chipped porcelain wash stand, the bowl braced in front on battered metal legs. Against the far wall was a claw footed tub that would have to be replaced. The stool was the small-circle-of-water-at-the-bottom kind.
No water on, of course, rust to dribble from the pipes for days assuming the water could be turned on at all. Of course, the pipes could be made of rust free lead ... and so, poison him over time.
Downstairs again, Madge repeated the only thing the house had going for it. "And, you'll have to agree, John, that the price is right."
Madge looked at her watch, what she saw panicking her. "But ... ah ... it's getting late ...."
John glanced at his watch. Four-ten.
"Late?"
"Well ... it gets dark fast this time of year," she'd said, nervously checking her watch, actually tapping it with one, long, press on, iridescent fingernail as if afraid the watch had stopped. "And ... well ... I have a client flying in from California. Have to meet him at the airport ...."
Though it was doubtful if Madge was telling the strict truth about a "California" client, he'd seen enough. "I'll take it."
The deal clinched, Madge... fled?? to her car. Strange behavior, John had thought at the time.
The contract signed at Madge's office, and the house was his.
Two months for carpet, pipes, and paint, (20 workmen feverishly pounding, painting, and installing for premium pay) ... and he'd been in his house for a week. ...... Only to discover he was as depressed here as he'd been in the apartment. Even more so now that the construction excitement had stopped. ..............
John must have dozed ... found himself awake once more. What was that sound? Rain. And ... voices? Not likely. Not out here. ............ It sounded like ... chanting ... No. ... Nothing. ... Just noises in an old house.
No matter how down he'd been feeling, all was well. If only John could find some way to convince himself of that.
There were the nosebleeds he'd been having, of course. But that was due to dry air -- the summer, one long drought -- the atmosphere mausoleum-arid inside the house, its wood parched by years of unoccupancy. Only had nosebleeds here. Never at school.
Already in debt, he might as well go on to install a humidifier on the new furnace. They didn't jail you for debt any more. Half the people in America had ancestors who'd been shipped over from debtor's prisons. .... Aprilaire ......
John Lyon woke up again, this time to the sound of his alarm.
Flogging himself with the work ethic he'd learned in college, John dragged himself out of bed; forced himself through his morning routine, ending with a light blue shirt, darker pants, and matching tie.
Downstairs, he gagged down half a bowl of Wheaties, fed Cream, got her fresh water, petted her, and sprinkled some fresh litter in her box. Then petted her again, wishing he could do nothing all day but stay home, hold Cream, and run his fingers through her long, thick fur until anesthetized against his life.
But he couldn't.
Leaving the house, spooning himself into his old Mazda, he roared off down the access road, winding up the RX 7's rotary through another October dawn.
Again, he played the game: how fast could he go and still careen to a stop before plunging out of the "forest" onto Troost.
On campus in 20 minutes, John keyed himself into the office complex, then into his two man cubbyhole (made even smaller by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on two walls) a coffin sized space which he
shared with his department head and friend, Paul Hamilton.
A great bear of a man was Dr. Paul, "reared up," a trophy sized 6 foot three. English historian. A balding, 45 year old bruin -- outgoing, friendly, favorite of students and colleagues. Married, of course, with the average 2.5 children, Paul's wife due again in several months.
It was Paul who'd made John's move to Kansas City less wrenching, Paul soon to come lumbering in.
And ... from the sound of the outer door flung open, from the thumping of footsteps on the thin carpet ... here he was!
"Good morning, John," growled the deep voice of Dr. Paul Hamilton, the big man squeezing through the office doorway, John swiveling to look up at him. You had to smile when Paul was in the room.
"How are you?"
"Great, great," said Dr. Paul, as he dropped into his groaning chair. Paul had on a colorful short-sleeved shirt as usual, no tie, tan slacks. Yawning, the department chairman put one, size 13 shoe on his desk, half pivoting to wink at John.
"But enough small talk." Paul grinned. "Ellen says I'm to drag you over to the place this Saturday night for supper." Ellen was Paul's artist wife.
"Sounds good." Even though Paul was doing his chairman's duties to cheer up the new man, it was another night that John wouldn't have to be alone.
"And now for the bad news. My wife has a cousin coming to town on Sunday. About your age -- a little younger, maybe. And Ellen wants to fix you two up for a date Sunday night."
"Sing for my supper?" The bitter truth was that John had no interest in women since he'd fumbled away his relationship with Janet. "I can't breathe muddy water," had been Janet's excuse for wanting out. Exactly the way John felt ever since.
Making John just another empty, aging youth with brown-blond hair and what people called "regular features" -- regular nose, regular ears, regular teeth. The only "irregular" thing about him was what Janet had once called "startlingly green eyes."
John was alone except for Cream, his cat incapable of love, of course, but would at least rub against him when he was about to feed her.
"The truth is," Paul was saying, wrinkle lines forming across his broad forehead, "that I don't know what this cousin looks like." The chairman smoothed back his thinning, all black hair. "Some of Ellen's relatives are passable. Others ..." He waved a meaty arm.
Putting his elbows on his desk, John rested his head in his hands. Stared out the window. "Listen, Paul," if Ellen wants me to take her cousin for a date, I'm willing. Provided Ellen doesn't care what her cousin thinks of me, that is."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I've had no luck with women, lately."
"Nonsense, my boy," said the gentle giant, brushing the very thought away with another, thick fingered wave. "The truth is that women would love you ... if you'd only give them a chance. Take the Dean's new secretary ..." And Paul was off on a libidinous discussion of the lady's charms, his discourse inspired less by the lady's attributes than by Ellen's advanced pregnancy, John thought.
"What is the conversation of the morning, gentlemen?"
John continued to rest his head in his hands. No reason to turn around. It was Kitterman, the school's psychologist. Head cocked and thrust through the door, his look would be that of a vulture inspecting carrion.
Officed next to Hamilton and Lyon, Kittermen roomed with Claude Jiles, an American historian who was never around in the morning. Dr. Kitterman, on the other hand, was always there. Thin, precise, bloodless -- Kitterman could glitter intellectually (like the polished lenses of his steel rimmed glasses) but could not feel.
"Just discussing politics," Paul lied smoothly. Talking about love with Kitterman made as much sense as striking a match on an airless moon.
To help Paul fend off the whip-thin psychologist, John wheeled around, only to be stopped by a slash of Kitterman's hand.
"Much as I'd like to have a word with you gentlemen about the direction of this nation," said Kitterman in his precise way, "it must wait until another time." The psychologist made a tent of his emaciated fingers. "Today is examination day." Kitterman never used abbreviations like "exams" or any other kind of what he called "vulgarisms." Though Paul's casual ways annoyed Kitterman, the psychologist was always gracious to his Chairman -- like the coward Kitterman was. "And I must repair to my filing cabinet," Kitterman continued, "and extricate the deadly weapons. On guard, gentlemen." A dramatic bow, a pivot on one heel and the man ... disappeared. Only the smell of brimstone lingered in his backwash. Paul checked his watch, a square, man's watch that looked delicate on Paul's massive wrist.
"God, he's right, John. Time to get after them." He paused, thinking. "You're coming to dinner next Saturday, then?"
"Glad to."
"And the cousin ... thing?"
"That, too. I'll give her a shot."
"Giving her a shot's not a bad idea," the big man said thoughtfully. "In fact, if I were you, I'd give her a couple of shots both before and after dinner. Remember Ogden Nash's advice:
Candy
Is dandy
But liquor
Is quicker.
Paul turned, winking a brown and merry eye. "Walk with me to class?" They had adjoining classrooms on Monday morning.
"Sure."
And they were up and headed out, Paul plowing forward, John drafted in his wake. Through the work room, the outer office, and into the hall.
There, students and student sounds dominated, "eds" and "coeds" seated on maple benches along the walls -- students flipping through texts, talking, laughing, poking each other. A few had flopped down on the floor, backs to the wall, legs outstretched, other students stepping over and around them.
"Hi," Dr. Lyon," said a sweet young thing, 18 going on 14.
"Mary," John said as he recognized her, nodding, forcing a smile.
"Professor, when's the test?" asked a tawny coed, falling in step with Dr. Paul. "I thought it was last Friday when I was in the hospital, but Mary said it was next Friday when I've got to be out of town. What I really what to know is when could I take a make up?" And so it went, notebook carrying students scurrying before them as John and Paul swept down the corridor.
"Listen," said Paul as they pulled up beside the open doors of their classrooms, "How's your house coming. Sorry I couldn't help you move in, but I had to go out of town with Ellen. Her grandmother's at the nursing home, you know."
"That OK. No problem. I got in last week -- just the essentials. The rest can stay in storage until I get around to it. I just moved in the apartment stuff. It rattles around a little, but the place isn't as big as I thought it was at first."
"I was trying to tell Ellen where you said it was. But I wasn't able to. You said on Troost?"
"Actually, it's just off Troost. I guess it would be 78th Terrace -- if the street cut through. Down a private road."
"I thought I knew the Northland pretty well, but I don't remember anything like that," Paul said, glancing quickly at his watch, the hall almost empty, a girl dashing for a still open classroom door, two boys sauntering along, hoping to get shut out of class.
"It's through some bushes and trees. Just a dirt track, really, quite hidden. After that, a mile or so. All by itself at the end of the road."
"Huh. When you get settled, you've got to line me out so I can find it."
"I'll do that." John looked at his watch. 30 seconds.
"Must be great to be in your own place, at last."
"Except that it's not as soundproof as I thought. Didn't get much sleep last night with the rain and all." John could understand why Paul would think that having a home of your own was "great." Home used to have that connotation for John, too, back when home was a snug haven where a teen aged John Lyon could lick his wounds. That was before his parents died.
"Rain? Last night?" Paul looked puzzled. "It didn't rain last night. At least not at my place. And, if I have in mind the approximate location of your new house, we live in the same area."
"Just a littl
e dark cloud right above me, probably," John said. Funny, but people used to think that the gods controlled the weather. Just last summer, some farmers had hired an old Indian to do a rain dance ......
But ... it was time. "See you, Paul. In about an hour."
"Just about." Paul grinned.
With that, the two of them swung into their rooms, jointly kicking the rubber stops out from under the leading edges of the doors.
"Good morning group," John said, as he walked over to sit on his desk. John placed his notes on the lectern and glanced up to scan 30 pairs of beered-out eyes.
John was distracted by a thought. It couldn't have rained last night, this morning's road powder dry.
John felt ... disoriented.
It was time to start the lecture, all those scummy, Monday morning eyes looking up at him. And yet ... John hesitated. It was just that he was certain he'd heard rain; that it had awakened him -- several times.
A dream? It had to be. He must have dreamed it ... heard that rain in his sleep. Funny. ... Funny.
* * * * *
Chapter 3
It would have been a torturous journey for a younger man, the pilgrimage from Hero castle, that great pile of stone clutching the crag with its granite claws, down and down by goat trail over fog-slick rocks. And not one slavey to bear his pack! For no one must know of his importance. No lone hunter, bow and quiver beside him in a tiny, mud daubed, mountain inn, or petty merchant mincing along a hog-packed street in a hill country village, or herdsman tending smelly sheep on the plains beyond. All must think him of the peasant class.
First, he had posed as a peddler of small wares, an ancient grey beard, bent beneath a fraying pack. Reaching the high plains, he traveled as a farmer, antique flail strapped to his back. Now, he was a grizzled sailor shouldering his oar along the inward edge of the lake of Quince.
For days, he'd been following the yellow lake's smooth shore, near enough to maintain direction, far enough from the water's lapping edge to avoid the gregarious fisher-folk who serviced their brightly painted boats on numerous, timbered jetties. As he skirted the hovels of the fishermen, he would nod to the old women whose knurled fingers mended gill nets as nimbly as a court musician strums his harp.
Under The Stairs Page 2