Night of the Furies

by David Angsten

  Dan hefted his ethylene tank. “I’m going with you, Jack.”

  “Looks like we’re all going with you,” Phoebe said. She was staring across the nave toward the passage to the infirmary. Furies were pouring into the church. They carried thyrses and glinting axes. Their cries rose up to the dome.

  “Run,” I said. I laid down my ethylene tank and opened up the valve.

  “Jack—” Dan shouted. “It’ll be too much!”

  “We don’t have time,” I said.

  Phoebe stuffed the bandages into her pack. Dan threw the second tank over his shoulder. Damiana grabbed the pinecone thyrsus. I hefted the coil of rope, and we all ran off toward the tower.

  We fled down the aisle out of the nave and through the entrance hall. In the room at the base of the tower, Dan ripped aside the velvet rope, and we started up the stairs. I glanced back and saw our pursuers open the double doors to the square. A huge, clamoring mass of Furies surged like a fire into the hall.

  I followed the others up the narrow steps. Damiana led the way. The steeply twisting staircase passed the doorway to the ossuary. As Damiana and Phoebe continued climbing to the belfry, I stopped at the bone room and called to Dan.

  “Bring the tank!” I told him. He followed me into the dark chamber. A shaft of moonlight from one of the oculus windows fell to the center of the floor. We laid the cylinder down in a corner and opened up the valve. With a hiss the sweet odor began to permeate the air.

  “We’ll have to get down fast,” Dan said. “If anyone causes a spark, this place is going to blow.” As we crossed the room to the door, for the first time Dan noticed the walls were lined with glass cases filled with bones and skulls. He paused to gape in amazement.

  Shouts from the Furies echoed up the hall.

  “Hurry!” I said.

  A line of women was streaming up the steps. The first one held an ax in her hand—an ax with the bronze double blade. As I started out the door, she swung the weapon at me. I dove back inside, crashing into Dan. The women came pouring in after us.

  The Fury with the ax attacked me, swinging the blade through the air. I backed away with my coil of rope, trying to avoid her slashes. When I backed up against a glass case, the woman came lunging at me. I rolled aside and her ax swept past me, shattering the glass and embedding itself in the wall. She pulled it out and swung at me again, her forearms now running with blood.

  I took a swipe at the ax with my rope. The looped coils caught the blade, and I flung her body into the shelves. The glass imploded as she crashed to the floor. Skulls came tumbling out.

  The chamber was filling with Furies. Dan had grabbed a thigh bone and was using it like a club, smashing back the women attacking him. The odor of the gas grew stronger. I tried to hold my breath and fight my way out, but I felt a whack on the side of my head, and the next thing I knew I was lying on my back, staring up at a wild-eyed Fury beating me with her thyrsus. Dan tackled her, and they tumbled into the shelves. Broken glass showered them, and the woman picked up a jagged shard and slashed it across his side.

  Feeling dizzy, I struggled up through a chaotic sea of grimacing faces and grasping hands, trying to stand on my feet again. Women were pulling my limbs and fingers, and tearing my flesh with their teeth.

  Dan had pulled his shirt up and was holding it across his mouth, clubbing back the Furies with his free right hand. I realized it wasn’t the blow to my head but the gas in the room that had weakened me. Tearing my way through the wall of flesh, I found the shred of a chiton in my hand and used it to cover my mouth.

  The women began gradually falling off around us, succumbing to the power of the fumes. Some collapsed, some crawled on the floor. Several just stood there, vacantly staring, their fury fading away.

  Dan had been cut. Blood dripped from his side as he staggered over the fallen Furies strewn across the floor. I grabbed the coil of rope and, taking his arm over my shoulder, helped him out the door.

  Damiana and Phoebe had come back down and were fighting off the women charging up the steps. With a vigorous thrust of her thyrsus, Damiana sent them tumbling. We climbed up ahead of her, Dan staggering between Phoebe and me, dripping blood on the stairs. I threw open the trapdoor, and we scrabbled up into the belfry. After reaching down to help Damiana up, we slammed the door shut on the Furies.

  Damiana bolted the lock.

  In seconds, they were beating at the door. We stood there, watching it, hoping it would hold. The door shook, rattling the bolt. The Furies screamed in rage.

  “We’ve got to get off this tower,” Dan said. He was holding the bleeding cut in his side. “With all that gas it could blow.”

  We went to the balustrade and peered out between the pillars that held up the overarching dome. The square below looked empty.

  “They must all be inside,” I said.

  “They won’t last long down there,” Dan said.

  Phoebe eyed the rattling bolt, Furies beating at the door. “I hope you’re right.”

  “It’ll take a minute for the fumes to reach them,” Dan said. He slouched against the balustrade and slid down to the floor.

  “Dan—” Phoebe crouched beside him and examined his wound. I peered over her shoulder. He had a deep, open slice in his side at the top of his hip. Blood was oozing from it.

  Phoebe pulled a roll of gauze out of her pack. Damiana came over to help her as she started to wrap the cut. “I’ll do this,” Damiana said. “You’d better take care of your foot.”

  “Hurry,” Dan said groggily. “The ethyl ene…”

  I walked around the perimeter of the huge bell, looking for the best side from which to climb down the tower. It appeared to be a fifty-foot drop to the ground. I noticed the back side of the tower abutted the peaked roof of the narthex some twenty feet below. From there you could slide down the slope of red clay tiles and make another twenty-five-foot drop to the ground. It would be safer to make this two-stage descent in case anything happened to the rope.

  While Damiana wrapped gauze around Dan’s hip, and Phoebe bandaged her shoeless foot, I set up for the descent. I fastened the rope securely to a pillar, wound it around another pillar for resistance, and tied the other end into a loop. My plan was to lower each person down as they held to the rope while “standing” in the loop.

  The Furies had stopped pounding at the trapdoor. I walked over and looked down on it, wondering if they had all finally fallen unconscious.

  A loud crack startled me. The corner of an ax blade had pierced the door from below. The blade retreated, then chopped through again.

  We all stared down at the trapdoor, watching as the ax struck again and again.

  “Hurry,” I said. “Dan, you’re first.”

  “No,” he began. “Phoebe, Damiana—”

  “You’re the heaviest,” I said. “And you’re bleeding. You won’t be any help to us up here. It’s going to take all three of us to lower you down. So please just shut up and do it.”

  Half a minute later he was climbing over the side of the balustrade, inserting his foot into the loop of the rope.

  “When you get down,” I said, “go directly to the harbor. Get the yacht fired up and ready to fly. We’ll join you there as soon as we can.” I looked to Phoebe and Damiana. “If anyone gets separated, rendezvous at the yacht.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement.

  I pulled up the slack around the pillar, and the girls and I took a solid grip on the rope.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” I said.

  Dan let go of the balustrade and clutched the line at his chest. The rope cinched tight around the pillar and tugged at our grip. We could feel it stretching under Dan’s full weight.

  “Slowly,” I said. “Hand overhand.”

  The three of us gradually let out the rope, lowering Dan to the roof. We could feel him gently bouncing against the wall of the tower. None of us could look over and see how he was doing. We could only watch the rope slide out around the pillar, its fibers scr
aping the stone.

  The ax continued chopping at the trapdoor. I eyed the splintering wood, praying the fumes would take hold.

  The rope went slack as Dan reached the roof of the church. Then it pulled at us lightly. “Careful,” I said.

  Suddenly we heard a shout, and the rope jerked, pulling hard.

  “He’s sliding down the tiles!” Phoebe said.

  We held tight to stop his slide, then let the rope out slowly. When he reached the bottom edge of the roof, we once again felt his full weight on the line.

  “Almost there,” I said.

  We let out more rope until, moments later, the rope went slack as he finally reached the ground.

  I ran to the balustrade. Far below, Dan emerged from the shadow of the church, slipping away toward the town. “He made it!” I exclaimed.

  The girls were pulling up the rope. I looked at the trapdoor.

  The chopping from below had stopped.

  I moved closer, listening. A narrow slot had been splintered through the wood. I peered down through it into darkness.

  “Jack.” Phoebe was helping Damiana climb over the side. “Damiana’s going next,” she said.

  Damiana slid her foot into the loop and clung to the balustrade. She looked frightened by the sight of the roof so far below, but was trying her best to be brave. When Phoebe asked her if she was ready to go, she nodded to her quickly.

  Phoebe and I took up our positions, holding the rope at the pillar.

  “Okay, Damiana,” I said. “Just take it nice and slow. We’ll meet you down below.”

  She waited for a long moment. I glanced down at the slot in the trapdoor, wondering what had happened to the Furies. Smelling a whiff of the sweet ethylene, I thought they must all be unconscious. Then I worried how long it would take before air pouring down through the hole woke them up.

  Suddenly, there was a great tug on the rope as Damiana let go of the balustrade. We heard her gasp out loud, and I could feel her dangling against the wall.

  “Damiana?” Phoebe called.

  We didn’t hear her answer; she was too petrified to speak.

  “Let it out slowly,” I said.

  Hand over hand, we released the line. Again the rope scraped around the pillar. Damiana was nearly half the weight of Dan, so even without the third pair of hands, letting her down was much easier. In a minute she had landed on the roof.

  “Okay,” I said. “Here she goes…”

  We felt intermittent tugging as she moved down the slope. Then we heard a scream, and the line went slack.

  Phoebe let go and ran to the balustrade. I continued holding the rope. “What happened?” I asked.

  “Look!”

  I hurried over to the rail. Damiana lay sprawled at the bottom edge of the roof, clinging to the red clay tiles. Apparently her foot had slipped free of the loop, and reaching out to stop her slide, she’d let go of the rope. The end now lay several yards beyond her reach. She clung to the slope in terror.

  “Hold on, Damiana!” I tried to throw the rope out to her, but I couldn’t get it close enough, and she was clearly too petrified to move.

  Phoebe started hauling up the rope. “I’ve got to go down there and help her, Jack. You’ll have to lower me down.”

  “You’ve only one good foot,” I said. “How are you going to reach her?”

  “I’ll crawl along the peak and lower the rope to her. You can let her down to the ground, then pull the rope up to me.”

  We didn’t have a lot of good choices. And if we didn’t do something quickly, Damiana could very well fall to her death—not to mention that the tower could explode, or the Furies suddenly awaken. “All right,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  Phoebe climbed over the balustrade and slipped her good foot into the loop. She looked at me and nodded. “I’ll see you down below.”

  “Definitely,” I said. I held firmly to the rope as she stepped off and grabbed a hold of the line. Slowly, I lowered her. Even though it was only me letting her down, Phoebe was the lightest of any of us, and I controlled her descent with relative ease.

  Still, I watched the rope with increasing apprehension. It had begun to fray as it scraped yet again around the upright pillar and down over the edge of the balustrade. Tiny fibers were chafing loose, and in some places ragged little tufts had appeared. I wondered how many more drops it could take. Would it last for Damiana? For Phoebe? For me?

  The rope went slack as Phoebe reached the roof. Still holding the line, I moved to look over the balustrade. Phoebe had straddled the peak of the titles and was crawling into position above Damiana. When she got there, she gathered up a few yards of the rope and tossed the looped end down. With some coaxing from Phoebe, Damiana managed to reach up and grab hold of the loop.

  She looked completely terrified.

  Phoebe glanced up at me and shook her head. Damiana was not going to be able to put it around her foot. The only way to get her down at this point was with her holding on to the loop with her hands.

  I don’t know how she did it, but Phoebe somehow talked her into giving it a try. I moved back into position by the pillar and slowly pulled up on the line. I kept it taut until Damiana slid off the edge, and suddenly I felt her full weight stretch the rope. My eyes were glued to the frayed fibers passing around the column. The rope held, and Damiana was now hanging on some twenty-five feet above the ground.

  I began slowly lowering her down. Hand over hand, letting it out steadily, watching the rope scrape and fray around the pillar. My arms were growing weak, and my blistering palms were wet with sweat. The sweet perfume of the ethylene gas drifted through the air. I wondered if it was beginning to affect me, and I shot a glance at the trapdoor.

  My heart leapt into my throat. A slender, bloody hand was emerging from the slot. Reaching for the bolt to the door.

  “No!”

  With the shock of it, I relaxed my grip, and the rope flew off, burning through my hands. Damiana screamed as she plummeted. I clamped down, and the frayed fibers tore my palms. The rope stretched to the breaking point. It held.

  The hand slid the bolt aside, opening the lock.

  I continued to let out the rope as quickly as I dared, fearing I would lose Damiana. My heart pounded like a caged maniac. My hands were ablaze with pain.

  The battered trapdoor opened. Fumes filled the air. I stared in fear at the opening, still unable to release the rope.

  A tall, white-draped figure emerged. She climbed the stairs until she loomed above me, a towering Fury in a grisly chiton, long locks of scraggly hair dangling down like snakes.

  As she turned to face me, I shuddered. Her teeth were bared in a bloody grin, her fierce eyes were dark and gleaming. Her thin breasts dangled in the rags of her chiton, and her woolly cunt was in view. She’d been cut with a blade across the middle of her belly, and all the way down she was blood-soaked.

  It was Phoebe who had cut her. She’d swiped her with the ax blade back in the cave.

  This bloody hag was Thalia. Abbess of the monastery. Mother Capetanos. Unholy queen of the Furies.

  She must have been the one hacking the door with the ax. Having breathed in the fumes, she had fallen into a trance, but air from the slot had awakened her.

  Words now poured from her mouth in Greek, spoken in an Oracle’s monotone. But these were not words of wisdom or counsel, but of bitterness, anger, spite. The malevolent spewing of a Fury.

  She came toward me head-on with the ax. She swung it horizontally, aiming at the pillar. As the blade struck the stone, sparks flew and the line was severed. The rope tailed off through the balustrade. I tumbled back to the floor.

  From below came Damiana’s terrified scream.

  I rolled aside as Thalia brought down the ax, missing my neck by inches. I jumped to my feet and backed to the rail. The hag came at me, slashing. I whipped her with the end of the rope in my hand, striking her shoulders and chest. The pain seemed to feed her ferocity. With a grin, she let out bright shrie
ks of excitement.

  The double ax crisscrossed before my face. Falling back, I crashed onto the bell. The ax came down and careened off the bronze, sending off sparks and a piercing clang. I scrambled backwards across the floor as she carved the air in front of me. I rose to my feet at the balustrade and whipped at her face with the rope. When she raised the ax, I grabbed her wrist. We struggled for control of the weapon. Her eyes glared fiercely from behind her stringy locks. Her mouth was a blood red gash.

  The Fury let out a hideous screech.

  With her free hand, she grabbed hold of my crotch and squeezed with all her might. I doubled forward and the ax came down, slicing the back of my shoulder. A razor of pain shot through me. I whirled around dizzily and crashed into the rail.

  With a shriek, Thalia rushed at me, raising her ax in the air.

  I whipped the rope at her ankle. As it looped around it, I yanked. Her foot was pulled from under her. She spun and struck the balustrade, and her legs went into the air. Arms flailing, ax in hand, she tumbled over the rail.

  As she fell, her shrieking stopped, and a frightening stretch of silence followed. Then came a sharp clatter as she smacked into the tiles.

  I rose unsteadily to my feet and looked over the rail. On the broad slope of the angled roof, Thalia lay in a splattered heap, the ax still oddly clutched in her hand.

  Several yards away, directly below me, stood Phoebe. She was staring at Thalia’s inert body.

  “Phoebe!”

  She looked up. Her face was taut with fear. She was standing precariously on the peak of the roof with her back against the wall of the tower.

  The rope had vanished over the side.

  I called down to her. “Is Damiana okay?” My eyes searched the shadowy ground.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “And Jack? I don’t know how to get down.”

  Phoebe was stranded. Damiana had fallen and may have been killed. I was bleeding like a sacrificial ox. The church was filled with zonked-out Furies and suffused with explosive fumes.

  “Jack!”

  And now Thalia was moving.

  27

  THE AX had sliced open the flesh on the back of my left shoulder. I couldn’t see the wound, and couldn’t reach it, either, but I knew it was serious. The blood didn’t stop running, and the pain produced a disorienting shock. It seemed as if a part of me had splintered off, or my mind in some way had detached from my body.