The serpents coiled and slithered from all sides. They ran down the arms of those who held her in place, circling Elspeth's legs, coiling around her arms and her waist, under and through her clothes, and all the while the chant continued. The water dripped. The pool swirled. Something moved in the depths. The surface was green and frothy and the liquid in the pool was thick.
Silas felt the connection form. He felt the eyes of the watcher bore through him, even as her hair sprang like talons through the stone and into the water. The shadow rose, huge and powerful above and just behind him. In that moment he felt a dislocation. He wanted to scream. The pain of the separation threatened to tear him to pieces, but he reached out, laid one hand on each of Elspeth's ankles, and pressed down firmly.
The others felt the motion and didn't fight it. They lowered Elspeth toward the pool with exquisite precision. The water sped, swirling so quickly that some of it sluiced to the sides and over the edge of the pool. It dripped down to the floor, soaking the pants of those standing closest. Tommy felt the wet chill of it. When the liquid splashed against him it was hot and thick, but the second the droplets lost contact with the pool they were simply water. His jeans were soaked and he felt the cold water slip down his ankles and into his boots.
It should have felt good. The sun outside was hot, and there was little circulation in the church, but Tommy shivered. Icicles drove into his feet and numbed his skin. His arms burned. The closer they came to the surface of the pool, the hotter the points of contact with Elspeth's flesh became. Tommy's mind screamed at him to pull back, to let her drop, hit her head on the side of the pool, and be done with it. He held his ground.
Whatever was in the baptismal pool splashed again, and Tommy had the sudden image of an aquarium. He saw tiny flakes of golden brown food dropping to the surface. He saw Elspeth. Fish swarmed up from the depths of his memory, snatching the food from the surface and dragging it down. Eat or be eaten was the rule in the water. Whoever was bigger and faster than you was the one to eat you.
To his right, Irma Creed gripped Elspeth's arm and shoulder. Tommy saw Irma tremble, and knew she felt the fire. To his right a man he barely knew as Jason had the same, focused expression. What he might be focused on was anyone's guess. Tommy's forehead throbbed. He had to think between the thudding bursts of pain, and there wasn't much time between each.
Ed Murphy stood between Silas and Irma, a little closer to Irma than necessary, Tommy noted, but no one seemed to care. In fact, their legs touched in the center.
The chant softened and dropped into the background. Silas held Elspeth's ankles and spoke.
"We bring this offering to be cleansed. Water," he glanced down, "Fire," his hands sizzled where they touched Elspeth's flesh, "Earth," her legs and shoulders brushed the stone of the pool and the contact became solid, as if Elspeth and the pool were a single object, "and Air." Silas breathed this last, and his breath rose from deep inside, tearing up through him and drawn from his contact with the stone floor, stretching up and filling the huge horned shadows, blowing hot and tepid over their faces and arms. Those gathered swayed like the serpents they bore, and those snakes still wrapped around Elspeth's body fled, leaping up and out, away from the heat of her flesh and the depths of the pool, finding purchase on those who held the girl in place and coiling tightly.
Silas' breath shifted and became a long, beseeching cry. The shadow thing that outlined him against the dying late afternoon sunlight expanded. Silas blinked out like a burned bulb and that other, huge and silent, bent to place huge dark hands on Elspeth's flesh. She bent double as they released her, and slipped into the pool. Her arms and legs rose into the air and her eyes opened in sudden shock as she spun, turning in quick circles like something caught in a drain, and disappeared.
The snap of release blocked the light of the room and the voice of the chant. Those who had held the girl fell backward into the spiral of men and women behind them. They were caught, held upright and absorbed. The horned shadow threw back its head and roared to the sky as energy rippled down the length of the line of worshipers. They leaned into one another, rolling along like dominos toward the far end, lost in the bowels of the church, until at last the final body came up against the wall. Fibrous, wooden hair shot out from the wall and clamped over the man's body. He cried out and tore away from the obscenity of that touch, and the spiral whipped back the other direction. There was no control in this motion. Bodies tumbled aside as they passed the shock to the next in line and fell away.
The water in the pool boiled. From the depths of the shadow creature at the foot of the pool, Silas Greene's arms emerged, gripping the sides of the pool and yanking free. The line of energy snaked into the rear chamber, drove through the final dozen faithful and slammed into Silas' back. He gasped, his eyes blazing, and he plunged his arms into the waters of the pool. He stopped just short of allowing his face to make contact with the surface, and then he drew back. He strained, arched his back, and drew Elspeth from the pool.
At first he didn't have the strength for it. He pulled, and the water that was no longer water held, dragging her back like green quicksand. Then the shadow lent its strength and Silas pulled again. Elspeth came free with a wet, sucking sound, and Silas fell back onto the stone floor, her body falling over his and drenching him.
He shook his head. His hands and arms tingled from the burning sensation. He was soaked from head to foot, but it was only water. Cool, clear water.
Elspeth coughed and spit. Silas stared into her eyes and gasped. In that moment is was not Elspeth Carlson who stared at him. Deep, ancient eyes glared straight through his soul. Hair like wooden rope shot out from the sides of that ancient, weathered face. Then Elspeth coughed again, and the moment passed. She trembled and tried to lift herself off of Silas's prone form. He lifted her to the side and extricated himself.
Silas stood and placed a hand gently on the girl's forehead. She glanced up again, her eyes wide, and he saw it. Directly in the center of her forehead was the mark, a dark swirl, like a serpent, or a question mark. He reached down, took her hand and helped her stand.
All around them the others climbed back to their feet. A murmur of voices rose, confused whispers and muttered curses. The floor in the back chamber was wet, but not as wet as it seemed it should be. There were snakes, but only a few, and these were quickly gathered up and placed in their glass tanks. Silas took it all in and shook his head. The darkness had receded somewhat, and he had full control of his limbs.
The church seemed decayed. What had been bright, newly painted walls were dingy. The long shadows of late afternoon cut across the failing beams of sunlight slipping in the windows. The dark water stains on the floor pooled like bloodstains. He did not turn to the alcove above the door. The sensation of eyes digging into the back of his head and drawing on his energy had diminished, and he didn't want to reawaken it.
The doors remained closed. The others filed out of the back chamber and took seats in the pews. Some of them limped; others needed help to find their seats. The tumbling avalanche of flesh had left them battered and worn. All of the energy had drained from the room.
Tommy staggered out through the curtains and stood a few feet away from Silas. He didn't take a seat with the others. He was thinking about a dance they'd held a few years back. He remembered bright torches, and loud music, too much to drink and dancing. He also remembered the morning after. Everything had faded. The stage had been alive with music and sound, but by morning sunlight it was desolate. It was difficult to picture in his mind how it had been the night before, or why it had seemed so full of magic.
The church felt that way in the aftermath of the "cleansing." The shadows were long and deep, the light from the windows was dimmed. In the light of everyday normalcy, what had happened seemed somehow unreal. It was as if what had happened was a dream he'd awakened from to—this.
He glanced at Elspeth. She watched him in return, wary, but no longer appearing ready to bolt at the first
opportunity. Silas still held her hand, but a moment later he dropped it. He stepped closer to Tommy and spoke, keeping his voice low.
"It's time for your brother to bring the other one," he said softly. "It won't be long before they come. We have taken one of their daughters, after all."
Silas turned back and smiled thinly at Elspeth. Her clothing was still damp, and it clung to her slight form like a second skin. There was no trace of the thick, green liquid. She shivered and clutched her arms tightly about herself, though it was stiflingly hot in the church.
Tommy nodded. "I'll bring them," he said. Then he pointed at Elspeth. "I'm taking her with me."
Silas nodded. It would do the girl good to get into the sunlight and dry off, and he didn't have time to babysit her. He had to get through to the others, tap into the energy they had fed the church and ready them once more.
It wasn't the old way. Reverend Kotz would not have held two cleansings on the same day. He would have sent them home, drained and empty, trailing off through the woods to their separate lands and homes. Silas didn't remember a single Sunday when he'd spoken to another child, or seen his parents with another family.
Everything had changed. Silas was not naïve. He knew that what had happened to him had happened at a lightning pace. What he'd just witnessed went far beyond anything from his childhood; far beyond anything that Reverend Kotz might have imagined, he suspected. Beneath the dark veneer and evil glare, Kotz had fancied himself a preacher. He had believed that his warped services and sadistic practices prepared his flock for a one-way trip to Heaven. Silas had no such illusions.
Unless Jesus had sprouted an impressive rack of antlers and the Holy Mother had grown hag-like and hungry, those he served had little or nothing to do with any Christian faith. Reverend Kotz had come from a solid Christian background. He'd attended Bible College and traveled the country with Evangelical groups to hold revivals. When he came to the mountain and built his church, he believed he would spread the gospel to the unwashed masses of the California hills. He didn't bargain on what he'd find once he arrived, but Silas had known all along.
He walked slowly down the aisle toward the podium at the front of the church. There was no Bible open there, and he'd prepared no remarks. He had no idea, in fact, where the words he spoke came from, or what prompted the actions he took, once the chanting began. Before the chanting, when he walked the woods, or stood at the altar, he was in charge of his body and his mind and the other hovered just out of sight, providing support and strength. Once the words began tumbling from his lips, however, everything shifted.
He turned to face them. They averted their eyes. He wondered what they were thinking. At least half of them, he knew, fought inner, losing battles against the power that bound them. He felt their thoughts and emotions. He didn't know how, exactly, but he knew it was a connection between the dark shadow he'd become and the mark on their foreheads. This was not a congregation of like minds, gathered together to serve a common faith. These were slaves, drawn by the darkness into the forest and led like sheep before the gaze of the thing over the door. Silas was a slave, as well, but at the same time he had more power—more control over himself and others—than he'd ever experienced.
He watched Tommy lead Elspeth out the door of the church. Light sliced in through the crack, and then was cut off as the door swung shut. The silence was thick enough to chew on. Silas gathered his strength, raised his eyes and stared straight back over their heads. He stood very still for a moment. Where the alcove had been, ropy vines and branches shot out. The face was clearly visible, no longer veiled in shadows, but drawn forward, attached to the structure of rope-hair roots. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but Silas thought something moved in that nest of leaves and greenery—something sinuous and quick.
Then he felt the swell of darkness within and lowered his gaze. It didn't matter. It was all coming together in a single day and leading to a single moment. He had no idea where it would leave him when it was through, but he had a part to play, and no other options available.
"Dearly beloved," he whispered. The words carried easily without amplification. Slowly, shaking off their lethargy, his congregation responded. They raised their heads and met his gaze, and Silas smiled.
Someone in the back of the church flipped on the light switch and the sconces and overhead lamps flashed to life. In that instant, Silas continued.
"Let us pray."
TWENTY-FOUR
The climb up the mountain after services was very different from any earlier climb. Abraham felt stronger than he'd ever felt in his life. The support of the others, and their faith, bolstered him and lightened his steps. At the same time, a great weight bore down on his heart and threatened to suffocate him. Their faith was strong, and he could count on them to stand behind it, but as much as that faith was in God, it was in Abraham, as well. What happened in the next few hours would happen through him, his words, his actions, and his own faith.
The others fell behind and left him to climb in peace. What he did next he would have to do alone. They would seat themselves outside the cottage to wait, and would only enter when he called them. Abraham knew this, and he feared it. There was little margin for human error in what was to come. He knew what was expected of him. He remembered his father's words, and his father's actions, but his father was not present. No one would enter the cottage at his side, and if he failed in the next steps of their endeavor, they might as well all pack up their bags and move off the mountain. Silas Greene would triumph. The dark thing that lived above the door to his church would triumph. The mountain would be lost, and Katrina—he wouldn't think about that. He couldn't afford to dwell on speculation. If they had Katrina, he'd find her soon enough.
The trail was as clear as it had been the first time he'd come to this cottage so many years before. There were none of the encroaching vines that had menaced him only a few days before, and if a hedge had ever blocked the way, there was no sign of it now. The mountain trembled beneath him, but it wasn't the tremor of an earthquake, or of fear. It was acceptance, and it shivered up and through his frame with intensity he hadn't expected. The vibration calmed his thoughts and measured his footfalls. He climbed steadily and with purpose, and with each step closer to the old cottage on the peak, his confidence grew.
When he reached the clearing outside the cottage he hesitated. He glanced over to where he'd buried his mother. An image of her face surfaced, clear and powerful, and she smiled. Abe stood very still and let tears stream down his cheeks to dampen the collar of his shirt. He'd had no time to grieve, and the more the mountain reminded him of where he'd come from, and who his parents had been, the deeper the loss cut. A month earlier he'd thought he wouldn't mind never hearing a word from his past, that he could just march into the future without looking back and be content. Now he wondered that he'd ever had the strength to leave.
The sun had passed its zenith hours before. It was late afternoon, and he turned to the cottage with purpose. What he had to do depended partially on timing. He entered the cottage and closed the door carefully behind him. It would take the others time to reach the clearing, but he wanted no distractions.
The air was warm, but not stifling. The walls were shaded on all sides by trees, and except at the height of noon, the sun didn't fall directly on the roof. Abraham closed the shutters one after the other. They sealed tightly and cut off all but a faint trickle of light from outside. When the room was as dark as he could get it, he knelt in the very center of the floor, in the heart of the symbol carved into the floor. The arms of the cross stretched out to either side, in front of him, and behind him. He stared fixedly at the fireplace.
He'd witnessed this ritual only once. Abe's father wanted him to see, and to know, what took place when the elders gathered outside the cottage. All other times Abe had been excluded, just as the others were excluded, but that one time had been enough. He raised his arms to shoulder height on either side, bowed his head, and swep
t his gaze down the hearth and across the stone floor.
The mountain's vibration had increased, but Abe didn't notice it until the moment he grew still, closed his eyes, and cut himself off from the world. A whisper of sound that might have been voices, and might have been leaves skittering across stone slipped in and out of his thoughts. They didn't confuse him, as they might have, but instead the effort to sort them and understand them focused his mind.
The sun dipped a little lower, and yet Abe sensed an illumination. He knew what he would see when he opened his eyes, but still he hesitated. He steeled himself and stared at the floor. Light shot in all directions, lines crossed and re-crossed the stone in intricate designs. The crystal in the ceiling had caught the last glimmer of the day's light and refracted it into the room. Abe's lips parted in a silent gasp as the pattern beneath him shifted subtly. In this light, there were other lines. A crack outlined a small rectangle on the floor directly before him. The handles that had seemed pointless by day clearly connected with this plate. Abe breathed a prayer and reached for them. His fingers slid easily into place, and he lifted.
The moment was so fleeting that if he hadn't felt the weight of the stone lifting in his hands, he wouldn't have been able to credit what he'd seen. The shadows shifted, and the lines of the pattern blended. Suddenly the rays of light were just that, beautiful and glittering, but doing nothing in particular to the carving on the floor.
Abe set the small slab of stone carefully aside. There was a small opening beneath, and he reached inside. His hands trembled, and he was suddenly clammy with sweat. What if there was nothing there? It had been years since anyone had come to this place. What if Greene knew about it? What if kids had come and camped in the cottage and found it when the light was just right?
He felt the edges of a wooden box, and sighed with relief. He slid his fingers around the edges and lifted it out. He placed the box on the floor beside the small stone slab, then lifted the stone and slid it back into place. It closed with a soft click, and the crack vanished. Abe stared intently at the floor, but all he saw were the intricate lines of the cross that was carved into the floor, and the dance of early evening sunlight through the crystal geode.
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