Ancient Eyes

by David Niall Wilson

  Her vision blurred as the sweat burned the corners of her eyes. The swirling tapestries of the illumination shimmered. Serpents twined with the banners and fanciful letters, turned to vines, and back again to serpents. All of the words had gone pale. She could read none of it. Then, starting at one corner, and then the other, curling down in a sweeping curve, the designs became great antlers, the branches piercing the page like thorns, tearing the paper and rending chapter and verse.

  Irma's heart pounded and she felt the pulse in the veins of her neck rush behind her ears like a swollen river. She grew light-headed, and the heat that rose flushed the skin of her neck and down to her breasts. Her thighs parted slightly, and the book, which she still pressed down on so hard her arm shook from the pressure, collapsed between her knees, slammed painfully on the fingers of her hand and closed with a snap. Her forehead throbbed, and she wanted to reach up to that mark, to claw at it with her long nails and flay the skin from her bones, but she could not. Her hands were busy at other things, and her Bible lay forgotten on the sheets, its covers slicked with her sweat, until her writhing cast it from the bed to land face down on the floor.

  The room lost focus. A breeze brushed her damp skin; impossible where she lay, alone in her bed with the windows closed tightly. Beneath her back the soft sheets and mattress gave way to grass and overhead the ceiling of her bedroom was erased by an endless expanse of dark, brooding clouds with the silvered hint of moonlight at their edges and the scudding speed and purple backlight of a storm. Lightning flashed, and she arched off the ground, her shoulder blades digging into the ground and her hips thrusting up and into the embrace of the wind.

  A voice called out from very far away. The words were caught in the breeze, which rose suddenly to a wind, and blown aside before she could make sense of them. She squirmed. Her palms slid up and down her thighs and the ache in her forehead was matched by a wash of desire so intense she cried out.

  The voice rose again. This time she was able to make out her name before a cold wind slammed the sound from her mind. The chill of that blast cleared her thoughts. She shook her head and tried to regain control. She caught a swatch of color and groped with mental fingers to draw it near. It was not the green of grass, or the purple light of the storm. It was a single red square. She knew it, knew what it was and where it had come from, but she had to force her mind to draw the information to the surface. The quilt—it was one of the squares of her mother's quilt.

  Her bedroom snapped back into focus and a jolt of energy sizzled through her, starting at the top of her head and crackling along the length of her body. She thought of the lightning and cried out again, but the only pain was the pounding in her forehead. Whatever had gripped her was gone. For now. She felt things crawl over her. Tongues and flesh pressed to her skin, lingering in passing and drawing her along. She lifted herself from the mattress and pressed after that touch, but it was gone, and in the void it left behind, the voice became clearer.

  Someone was pounding on her door and calling her name. Irma shook so violently she thought she would vomit. She sat up shakily, wrapped the quilt around her thin shoulders, and stepped to the window. She glanced down the wall of her cottage toward the front, but she couldn't make out who was there. The muffled voice sounded frightened, or angry.

  She tried to call out to whoever it was to go way. She didn't want to see anyone, but more than that, she didn't want to be seen. She didn't want to be touched, and she was certain that no amount of strong soap and hot water would wash the slick, unclean sensations from her flesh. Her gaze passed over the trees, and, just for a second, she smelled that scent again, almost tasted the green sap on her tongue. Then it was gone, and with a sigh she left the bedroom and stumbled down the short hall toward her front door.

  As she neared the door, she recognized the voice of Ed Murphy. She could count the times they'd spoken on the fingers of one hand, but she knew the voice. She'd watched Ed and his boys come up and down the mountain for years. She'd run the boys off her land more than once when they were in their sauce, but she'd never run them too hard. She'd always hoped Ed would come to talk with her about them—or about anything.

  In Irma's daydreams Ed Murphy came around often, rough on the outside, but soft spoken. His coarse manners and stoic features gave him an aura of danger that Irma secretly found intoxicatingly attractive. The three of them, Ed, Tommy, and Angel, had lived alone for nearly ten years, ever since little Anna Murphy had taken ill.

  Anna had been dark and slender, speaking only enough to get by, whether because she feared her husband or because her English was poor none of them ever knew. She'd been a Mexican girl, and winters on the mountain had eventually taken their toll. It was a long way to a decent doctor—even further to San Valencez, and the hospital. Anna Murphy hadn't been taken there until it was far too late, and when Ed's truck had wound its way back up the mountain, he was alone.

  Now he was at Irma's door, and she was afraid to open it. She knew how she must look. God, she knew how she must smell. Her hair was a mess, and she was still dressed in her nightclothes beneath the quilt. What would he think? What would he do?

  Visions of the forest flashed through her mind. She remembered the fire, and the dance. She remembered the low, chanting voice that had been a blend of all their voices, and something greater at the same time. And she remembered the hot, blinding fear as they toppled one over the other, kicking and screaming, fighting to get free of that clearing and the forest—the laughter that dogged their steps.

  And she remembered Ed. Very suddenly, and very clearly, she saw his face, contorted with fear—and something more—falling away before her. She had landed across his legs. He'd been directly behind her during that dance. She shivered again. He had been so close to her, his hips moving in time with hers, their skin never touching—until the end. How had she not known? How…

  "Irma!" He was still there. "Irma, come out here. I need to talk to you. My boys have gone."

  The jumble of his words finally sorted itself, and she shook off the last cobwebs of vision. She cleared her throat to be certain her voice would not be weak, or break as she answered.

  "Give me a minute, Ed," she called out. "I need just a minute."

  He kept on talking, but she closed her mind to it and stumbled back into her bedroom. She dropped the quilt and slipped quickly into jeans and boots. She pulled an old flannel shirt off the chair beside her bed, put it on and buttoned it as quickly as her trembling hands could manage.

  She glanced only very briefly into the mirror, ran her hands back through the stringy length of her light brown hair helplessly, and wished she hadn't looked. Then, fighting to calm herself, she went back down the hall and opened her door.

  Ed stared at her, his hand still poised in midair where he'd pounded on the wood of her door. His mouth dropped open, and he took a half step back before he caught himself and slapped his mouth shut.

  "Jesus," he muttered softly, "you look like hell." Irma flushed, then bit her lip and stood her ground. Ed Murphy ordered his thoughts carefully. He wasn't a stupid man, but he was careful. He liked to have his words planned several minutes in advance, and for this reason most folks on the mountain thought he was slow.

  "I," he began, then thought about it for a minute, letting his gaze drop to the ground, then raising it again with purpose, "I need your help, Irma. I'm sorry for what I just said. It's Tommy and Angel. I sent them down to Greene's Store early this afternoon. I haven't seen them or the truck since. I know they'd have to pass back by here to get home…"

  There was a question lingering at the end of his words, and Irma shook her head, still not really trusting her voice. Then she added, "I didn't see them going or hear them coming, Ed."

  He nodded almost absently. His concern over his boys seemed genuine enough, but something else was eating at him, something more important, or more powerful. Since he didn't speak immediately, Irma looked him over carefully, hoping to find a sign of what was rea
lly on his mind—hoping that she knew—afraid that she might.

  His hair was disheveled. His shirt was open at the collar, as if he'd stopped part way through fastening the buttons and then had never gotten back to it. His entire aspect was of distraction and confusion.

  "You still have that car?" he asked at last. Irma nodded and found the courage to speak. "I got gas in her just last week," she said. "You going to look for them, Ed?" He nodded vaguely.

  "Are you okay?" she asked softly.

  His nod became a slow back and forth shake of his head. "No," he replied. "I reckon I ain't. It isn't just the boys bein' gone," he raised his gaze suddenly so his dark, intense eyes met hers. "It's them being gone now. It's the way everything feels here. It's…" His hand rose and his fingers brushed absently across his forehead.

  Ed's hair was long and shaggy. His bangs shot out over his forehead nearly to his eyebrows. Still, Irma knew what she would find if she brushed those strands of hair aside. And she wanted to do that. She didn't want to see what was behind that hair, but she wanted to run her fingers through it and she hoped he would not read that desire in her eyes.

  "I'll go with you," she said. "Come inside. You need coffee, and I have to get cleaned up."

  Ed didn't reply, but he followed her inside, and Irma closed the door behind them. She didn't make it halfway down the hall before she felt him draw near. Irma turned, but if she'd intended to flee, she was too late. As she spun he caught her clumsily in his arms and covered her lips with his own.

  The heat flashed through her again and she gasped. She struggled feebly, just for a moment, and then he lifted her, carried her easily down the hall with her trembling body pressed to his strong chest, and thought was abandoned. Irma unfastened the buttons of his shirt and it fell open to reveal a hard, muscled chest. He tossed her back onto her bed.

  On the floor, forgotten, the Bible lay face down, open with its pages folded and crumpled beneath it as though they had failed in their duty to hold it upright.

  Far below, just turning onto the feeder road leading to the Coast Highway, and San Valencez, Tommy and Angel accelerated. The motor on the old truck was sound, and they didn't get many chances to wind it out up on the mountain. They also didn't get many chances to get a ticket, and after a quick burst of speed, Angel throttled back and they rolled along at a steady, if unexciting, 55 mph.

  It wasn't like him to worry, but things had changed. Tommy glanced over once, but said nothing. He didn't know what had happened to Angel in the forest behind Greene's store, but he suspected it hadn't been far removed from his own experience, and he wasn't about to share his visions of Elspeth Carlson with his brother, or anyone else.

  Besides, the work that waited was too important for them to be detained in the city. Others waited for their return. Tommy didn't know exactly how he knew that, either. He knew those who were called would come, and he knew that those who had been in the forest and had been touched would come. There were those who might try to prevent them, but in the end, they would come. How could they not?

  The list in his pocket was simple and explicit. Wood, nails, paint, enough supplies to start bringing the old church back to life. Enough supplies to expand the nightmare tales of his childhood into stark reality. Tommy barely remembered the church. His father had gone further up the mountain to the stone church. Tommy and Angel had been warned to stay as far from the gleaming white walls of Reverend Kotz's house of worship as possible, but they were boys, and they had seen. They had crawled close and watched as families filed in and out those doors. They had seen the faces and heard the soft murmurs.

  Now they would see it brought to life. Tommy still tasted the vile, earthy flavor in his throat, and every time he did his thoughts returned to the girl, and he had to turn slightly sideways so that Angel wouldn't notice his hand straying to his crotch, or the glazed look that came into his eyes.

  Angel would not have noticed, as it turned out, but this didn't stop the hot flush of shame that tinted Tommy's cheeks each time.

  They stopped for the night in a seedy roadside motel on the outskirts of the city and left a wake-up call for daybreak. Nothing was open at this hour, and they would need their strength the next day for loading and unloading the truck, and for the work beyond. Before they slept, Angel pulled a small scrap of paper from his pocket and glanced at it. Then, without a word, he snagged the phone book from the room's scruffy desk and thumbed through it with purpose. Tommy watched for a few minutes, slightly curious, but he was tired, and they didn't have much time to spare, so he laid down, closed his eyes, and dropped off to sleep without comment.

  Angel scanned the phonebook until he found the number he wanted. He took a pen from the desk drawer and scrawled the number onto the scrap of paper. Then, after sliding the note back into his pocket, he gave a grunt of satisfaction; he crawled into his own bed and dropped off to sleep immediately.

  FIVE

  A face carved of shimmering white stone hovered in the air. The avalanche roar of rock breaking up and crashing down mountains broke the silence. The long ropy strands of the stone face's hair slid over and under one another, whirled about like vipers and then slammed out and down. They crashed into the earth, impossible lengths that dove deeper, grew and drove through earth and clay, tearing furrows that angled toward Abraham with shocking power and speed. He stood silent and still. Clods of earth flipped up and away and rocks sailed past him, so close that the displaced air of their passing rippled over his skin. None of it touched him, but he was trapped in the gaze of the ancient stone eyes, and he felt the malevolence—the pure unadulterated hatred they held for him. Abraham clutched a dagger tightly in his right hand. His knuckles were white tight on the hilt, and his arm trembled with the effort of holding still. He lifted his left hand and managed to tear his gaze from the stone eyes for just an instant. In those few seconds of control, he brought the tip of the blade up and sliced the palm of his hand. Then again. He worked quickly, grimacing and biting his lip with each cut. The earth shook beneath his feet more powerfully every time the blade sliced flesh, and he knew that his time was short. The symbol on his palm was crude, the lines imperfect and welling with blood, but they met at each corner, and he knew that even the imperfection was part of its strength. That is what he had been taught. His blood smoothed the edges and dripped from his wrist.

  Slowly he turned and held his tortured palm out before him. The eyes were closer now, and larger, so large that they filled his vision and so bright that they no longer seemed stone at all, but translucent lenses. Shapes moved beyond them; their features were dimmed by the opaque, filmy expanse of the eyes. The earth had stilled to a tremble, and the ropy strands of hair had ceased their endless boring into the earth and hung about him, draped like the legs of a giant spider, but not touching.

  Great veins creased the bulbous eyes and then solidified, like the branches of an ancient tree. Abraham shook his hand and a single drop of blood splashed against the surface of one eye. The branches re-arranged and for a quick flash in time, he saw huge, multi-pointed antlers sweeping up toward infinite darkness.

  He whispered a word forgotten the moment it passed his lips and pressed the palm of his hand into the eye. An incredible rush of air threatened to drag him off his feet and tumble him through the air. His hand flew back so hard and fast his arm was half-wrenched from its socket, and he screamed. The sound grew from a keening wail to fill the world with its painful, hateful sound. He clapped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes.

  Abraham sat bolt upright in bed and clapped his hands over his mouth. He bit down hard on his lip, squeezed his eyes closed, and a moment later was able to slide his legs quietly over the side of the bed and rise. He was drenched in sweat, and his knees were so weak that he had to steady himself on his nightstand. He heard Katrina's steady breathing from the far side of the bed and knew he had managed not to wake her this time.

  It was still early, but sleep was out of the question. He slipped into
his jeans and a t-shirt and out into the next room. Their small townhouse overlooked the beach, just below the cliff where The Cathedral of San Marcos by the Sea leaned out over the waves and the rocks below. The church gleamed bluish white in the waning moonlight, and the waves themselves were steel blue tipped in silver. From where he sat, it looked as if the small cathedral might tilt and drop to its destruction in the waves at any moment, but Abraham knew it was an illusion.

  He had stood on the cliff beside the cathedral once and stared down the beach, trying to make out the walls of their home. He had not been able to do it. Everything got lost in the brilliance of the sun and the gleam of the sand. Another illusion.

  The clouds rolling in over the horizon swirled and he would have sworn they formed the symbol from his dream. He closed his eyes, but all this did was solidify the image and redden it with flowing blood. He cursed softly under his breath. He shifted his gaze to the sand and considered going out for a run. It usually cleared his head, especially when the beach was dark and there was no one in sight, but he wasn't sure that his legs would carry him, and something cold had imbedded itself in his heart; irrationally, he didn't want to go down there alone.

  So he sat in the old rattan Papasan chair by window and stared out over the beach, his knees pulled up to his chest. He didn't really see any of it after the first couple of minutes. Memories slipped past his carefully erected defenses and teased at his senses, and it was all that he could do to keep them buried and under control. It wasn't cold, but he pulled the frayed afghan Katrina had made for him from the back of the chair, tucked it under his feet and pulled it up around his shoulders.