Ancient Eyes

by David Niall Wilson

  "Cleanse him." The voice was high-pitched, shooting at Silas from his right and behind. Whispered echoes floated around the room. Voices rose together to form a rhythmic chant. They swayed in their seats and as Silas looked around wild-eyed, they became a single flowing motion of bodies, arms raised and heads thrown back. Hats dropped to the floor, hair came unbound, and they pressed, one to the other and in toward the center aisle where he knelt. Their collective heads turned and their gaze fell full on Silas' young, trembling face. He knew they saw him clearly—the sweat coating his body and the way he gripped himself, the heat where he still stroked himself uncontrollably. They watched him squirm, and their voices rose in volume, almost drowning out Reverend Kotz's own impassioned plea.

  "Cleanse him!" they cried. "The evil is in him, wash it away. The spirit is pure—cleanse the clay."

  Over and over they repeated the words, some missing a beat and falling into the chant in the spaces between beats, fleshing out the sound and driving it in waves that shook the rafters and rattled the glass in the windows far above. The sunbeams wavered with it—like heat waves rising from blistered stone, shimmering and blurring their vision.

  Tears streamed down Silas' cheeks. He struggled like a fish on a hook, held easily in Reverend Kotz's iron grip. He rose when the Reverend lifted and stumbled to his feet. The room faded to a rainbow-hued dream. Everything he saw had a shimmering aura formed of bright sunlight and hot tears.

  Reverend Kotz backed away down the aisle, and Silas stumbled after him. His scalp screamed in pain, but he could not free his hands from their labor, could not release himself long enough to ease the pain of being led by his hair. His tears dripped in a spotted trail toward the pulpit, and the chant, louder with every beat, drove him onward. The heat in his groin had grown maddening, but he couldn't form a clear thought. He knew it was wrong, that he should be thinking about—something—but he could not.

  Then the weight of that glare hit him, the palpable sensation of twin beams of pure hatred drove in on either side of his spine and he arched. His knees grew weak and the heat flowed out and down. Reverend Kotz lurched backward and pulled Silas through the curtained arch toward the room beyond the pulpit. Toward the pool.

  The chant of "Cleanse the clay" roared in his ears, or maybe just his pulse, hot blood pumping too fast. He heaved in gulps of air, but he couldn't catch a full breath. The curtains closed behind the two of them, muffling the sound and weakening the weight on his shoulders, but all this did was focus the pain in his scalp as he was dragged forward against the wall of the baptismal pool.

  He slammed his eyes closed and pressed his hands, which had swung worthlessly at his sides since the heat in his groin released, into the pool wall. He tried to press himself back and away, but Reverend Kotz held him easily.

  "It is our way, boy," the man said softly. "It is her way."

  Another voice intruded. Silas tried to concentrate on Reverend Kotz's words. He knew they were important. He knew he should remember, that if he survived the next few minutes he would need them—the words and the knowledge behind them, but he couldn't concentrate. Someone, or something, hissed loudly in his ear and he shook his head from side to side, even as Reverend Kotz pressed down on the back of his head and forced him toward the pool. Silas shifted, and the world shifted with him. He screamed.

  Silas sat bolt upright. He glanced down and saw that he still sat with his back to the baptismal pool. He heard the hiss again, very close, and he frowned. He glanced slowly around. They were everywhere. The floor was alive with writhing, serpentine bodies. Rattles whirred, and smooth scales slid over one another, over his arms and legs. They had wrapped about him and adorned him. His head bowed slightly and he lifted it, aware of the added shadow-weight and carrying it easily.

  Silas didn't panic. He rose slowly, keeping the serpents twined about his arms and allowing them to slide in and around his legs. He turned and stared at his reflection in the pool, a modern-day Medusa with serpents dangling from every limb and curling down over his collar like hair.

  He threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed off the walls and down the aisle between the pews. It shot out the open door into the darkness beyond and echoed off the hills.

  Silas lowered his head, shook it back and forth in disbelief, and then smiled at his reflection. He winked at himself and said softly.

  "I remember."

  As if on cue, the generator that had powered the lights sputtered, low on gas, then died. The church and baptistery dissolved into silent shadows.

  SEVENTEEN

  Harry George picked his way slowly up the trail. It had been many long years, and though he knew that the act of climbing was part of the faith, and that he should trust in the mountain to lift him and bear his weight, he struggled. His breath was ragged, and sweat coated his body. He held a cut branch in one hand as a walking stick, and he leaned on it heavily.

  As he climbed, he remembered. The final march down this trail had drained something from him, and he fought to get it back. He thought of the others who had climbed with him that night. He remembered Jonathan Carlson's furrowed brow as he heard their pleas. He remembered the boy, as well, and remembered how they had forsaken him after his father's death. The flood of memories was dark and deep and he had to concentrate on putting one foot before the other to prevent a misstep that would send him tumbling back down the mountain. There were others he would have to see. He didn't expect to sleep under his own roof until it was done. They would come, at least some of them, but they would have to be approached one by one. He would have to remind them of their duty. He smiled ruefully as that word slid through his thoughts. It was such a tricky thing, duty, sneaking up on a man in the twilight of his life to bear down on tired shoulders with its full weight. As a younger man, filled with fire and outrage, this climb had taken an eternity. Nothing happened quickly enough. Now he stumbled up the mountain, bent by years and stooped from carrying his guilt through most of them, and the climb took an eternity. He paused about halfway up to the old church and sat heavily on a large outcrop of stone. It was hot, but the trees blocked most of the sun. Harry took out his canteen and tipped it, letting the still cool water run down his throat and splashing a bit onto his forehead to trickle over his face and under his collar.

  He saw the sky through a pattern of tree trunks and limbs, blue and white backdrop to nature's line drawing. He blinked. The lines formed by the trees were familiar, and he frowned. He tilted his head slightly, searching for perspective, and the memory flashed into view.

  Sarah Carlson's hands were slender, her fingers long and deft. She shuffled what appeared to be a small pile of sticks before her rapidly and spoke softly under her breath. Harry craned his neck to watch her flying fingers. Others were gathered, as well, and he had to lean in over young Ed Murphy's shoulder to see. None of them could make out what she was saying.

  They were gathered in the small stone cottage, far up the mountain. Reverend Carlson sat beside his wife on the floor, and the others gathered around. Abraham sat huddled in one corner of the room, near the fireplace, and watched with wide eyes. The room held more bodies than it had been designed to hold. The air was hot and sticky, and everyone except Sarah Carlson felt it. Their faces ran with sweat. Their hearts raced.

  They weren't sticks, Harry knew. They were Yarrow stalks. He knew because he and two others of the elders had gathered them, fifty in all, careful to make them even in length and to dry them in the sun. Sarah's instructions were exacting, and strange. Even as Harry had plucked the flowers from the earth and carefully cut the stalks, he'd prayed. This was not his way—it was not the way of the mountain, or of the church.

  Sarah placed the first of the stalks on the floor in front of her. She split the remainder into two piles. She placed the pile in her right hand on the floor and plucked a single stalk from it, placing this between two fingers of her left hand. Then it began, so rapidly that none of them were able to follow her movements. The counting
was precise; sometimes in fours, sometimes in fives, and each time another small pile of Yarrow wands crossing those that had been counted before, until all were accounted for in a single stack. Sarah stared at them for a moment, scratched a broken line onto the paper at her side, and continued. She gathered the entire pile of fifty wands up and started again.

  She completed the process six times. Each time she scratched either a solid or broken line on the paper at her side. When she was finished, she tied the bundle of yarrow together reverently and handed them to Jonathan, who took them without comment. Up until that moment, the rest of them might not have existed. They stood and waited, and Sarah glanced up, catching first one set of eyes, and then another. She rose in a fluid motion, gripping the paper in her right hand.

  "Hsi K'an," she said simply. They blinked at her without comprehension, and she held up the diagram she'd drawn. "The symbol is Hsi K'an," she repeated. "It is a water symbol, a symbol of containment and control." There was no reaction at first, but then heads nodded slowly and reluctantly.

  "There is danger," Sarah continued. "Great danger, both spiritual and physical. There will be things revealed in this endeavor that, perhaps, you will not want to know. This will not come without cost."

  More nods, and the nervous shuffle of feet. Nothing she told them was new. She repeated their own thoughts, their own fears, and they wanted to move on. In their minds, the course of action was already clear. Only their respect for Jonathan Carlson had gathered them into this small space to listen, and even he couldn't make them understand.

  "There are two parts to the symbol," Sarah continued, unperturbed. "The first is the base. This is K'an, a pit—evil—a darkness or an emptiness. The second, the top, symbolizes patience. Practice. It is a symbol associated with rituals and faith."

  Impatient murmurs fluttered about the room like trapped moths, looking for an escape from the light that had so tempted them a few moments before. They did not want to hear the word patience. Faith was fine, but faith backed by action, not by words, or even prayer.

  "The sooner you confront this evil," Sarah said flatly, "the less chance you have for success. The rituals must be perfect. The motive behind the action must remain pure. You must be thorough and ruthless. If you do not cut this thing from the mountain and cast it out, it will grow again. Every time it is reborn, it will grow in strength."

  "We can't wait," a voice whispered from the back of the cottage. "They are taking our children."

  Sarah closed her eyes and had to control herself as her fingers gripped the paper in her hand too tightly. It crumpled, and her hand shook. She regained control and faced them, scanning the group with her eyes.

  "Your children will not be safer if you become a part of what you seek to destroy," she told them. "If you do this thing, it must be done perfectly. You may not feel the return in your lifetimes, but your children will feel it, and their children as well."

  "Let there be cleansing," another voice murmured. "Whatever the cost, let there be cleansing, and let there be peace."

  "Bring back our children," another cut in.

  A third whispered "Amen" and the word echoed about the cottage and seemed to drop and catch in Sarah's hair, fluttering like a trapped insect.

  "The only way to accomplish this is containment," Sarah said, her voice soft. "That place will never be truly cleansed, but it can be buried. It can be burned. It can be cleansed from the surface and warded against return."

  A small, florid-faced man stepped from the crowd suddenly and snatched the paper from Sarah's hand. Before anyone else in the room could move, or speak, he crumpled it between the palms of his hand. Then he realized the impermanence of this action. He unfolded it, tore it in two, then doubled these over and repeated the action until the pieces were too small to be torn again. He released them to flutter down at Sarah's feet.

  Jonathan was at his wife's side, his arm protectively between them.

  "Jasper," Jonathan said.

  "No." Jasper Cromwell spat the words between clenched teeth. His eyes blazed and his features were contorted into a mask of sudden and unbridled fury.

  "This is not our way," he said. "This is not God's way. This. . ." he gestured at the shreds of paper at his feet, and at the bundle of yarrow wands still clutched in Jonathan's free hand, "stinks of the very thing we speak of doing battle with."

  There were murmurs of assent from the rear of the room, but no one else stepped forward.

  "We can't stand by and watch our mountain rot out from under us," Jasper concluded. "We know what has to be done, Reverend, and so do you. She," he pointed at Sarah again, "should be out of it. Just by her being here you have jeopardized all that we stand for, all that our ancestors have built and believed."

  Jonathan cut him off. "Are you trying to tell me, Jasper, that you know the ways of my church better than I? Are you ready to step forward? The pulpit belongs to only one, and he is chosen. I am chosen. Do you dispute that choice?"

  "Now, Jonathan," Jasper began, backing away slightly.

  "I asked you a question." Jonathan's voice was hard and powerful. The crowd shrank back toward the walls, and the door. Jasper backpedaled so fast he nearly toppled; only the supporting hands of those behind him kept him from careening through the door and out into the night. A sudden flash of light illumined the small room, moonlight refracted through the crystal lens in the ceiling. The light caught Jonathan's face clearly. He was furious, but contained; emotion rippled across his features and threatened to crash down on the gathering like thunder.

  "N..no." Jasper whispered. "God no, Jonathan. I…"

  There were no further words. Jasper spun on his heel and raced for the door, crashing through those behind him and knocking several of them off their feet. Some of those who remained returned Jonathan's stare evenly, but they held their tongues and filed out the door into the darkness.

  Harry George and Ed Murphy were the last to go. Ed stood with one foot in and one out of the cottage, and glanced back over his shoulder. "It's nothin' personal, Jonathan," he said, trying to find words that wouldn't sound like what they were. "She isn't one of us. This…" he waved his hand at the floor, where Sarah had sat with her yarrow wands and where the shredded bits of paper still remained, "isn't a part of us. It doesn't belong on the mountain."

  He didn't say that Sarah did not belong on the mountain, but the implication hung heavy in the air. Harry didn't meet Jonathan's gaze as he passed through and out of the cottage, but he felt that gaze bore through his shoulder blades and into his heart.

  Harry blinked and stared at the trees. The hexagram he'd seen, formed of tall, soaring pine trees, was gone. All but the ache of remembered pain fled with it.

  He stood and turned back up the trail. The day was nearly half over. It took him longer to get anywhere now, but he knew he was lucky he could make such a climb at all at his age, so he didn't complain—not even to himself. He concentrated on watching the trail, which was overgrown and rough, and on what lay ahead.

  The sun bore straight down on the mountain as Harry approached the stone chapel. The door was closed, and he saw marks in the ground outside where someone had used a rake. The grounds were clean. The walk leading around to the rear of the chapel had been cleared of vines and weeded carefully.

  He tried the door, and it opened easily. Harry stepped inside and scanned the chapel in surprise. It was very clean. The pews stood in orderly rows, and the dust had been swept from the floor. The windows were open, allowing a small breeze to wash through and freshen the air.

  Harry turned in a slow circle. The chapel was just as he remembered it. It was as if he'd been yanked back through time, and tears rolled suddenly and unexpectedly from his eyes. He thought that if he closed his eyes, he'd hear Jonathan Carlson's voice, soft and melodic, leading him in a prayer. Instead, he kept his eyes open wide and spoke the words himself, words that hadn't passed his lips in over a decade.

  "May the Lord keep and guard this place," he whisp
ered at last.

  "May the mountain kiss Heaven and bring her blessing upon us all. Amen."

  Abraham's words followed so perfectly after his own that it was a moment before they registered. Harry leaped back, nearly collided with the wall, and spun, his eyes wide.

  Abraham stepped forward and grabbed Harry by the arm to steady him.

  "Easy," he said with a grin. "That wall isn't very forgiving."

  Harry stood very still and stared at Abraham. It had been a lot of years since he'd seen the boy, and they'd been kind. Abraham was a little taller than his father had been, and much younger, but you could see Jonathan in the smile, and hear the echo of his voice when Abraham spoke.

  "You look like you've seen a ghost," Abe commented, stepping back. Harry stared a moment longer, then managed to get his mouth moving. "I'm sorry, son," he said. "You look enough like your father to be a ghost. You gave me quite a start."

  "Sorry about that," Abe was still smiling. "I couldn't resist. I heard your words, and the others came to me. I don't know if I could have kept them from coming, even if I'd tried."

  Harry waved it off. He turned and swept his gaze over the church again. "You've been working hard," he said. "I was up here a few years back. The door was loose, and there was enough dust here to choke a mule."

  "Most of that is in my hair and on my clothes," Abraham laughed. "I've been expecting to see you. I saw Henry on the trail yesterday."

  Harry's smile vanished. "He told me." The silence hung untouched for a moment, then Abe spoke again. "He wouldn't let me see his forehead, Harry." Harry nodded. "He has the mark. A lot of them do. I locked myself in the barn that night. We have a hex sign painted over the door. It's old, and the colors are faded so you can barely tell what they once were, but it helped. I curled up with the cows, half-buried in a pile of straw until it was over. Henry was out that night, and when he finally came back he was…changed."