And the pick-axe rose and fell, rose and fell. Shards of stone flew off like bomb fragments and clouds of dust filled the air. He coughed and choked and smeared his forehead with sweaty dirt. “Nearly there,” he hacked.
Laura wanted to say Don’t go any further, but with that thought there was a sudden crash and several stones collapsed into a dark void beyond. Laura jumped back in shock, not quite knowing what to expect. Shavi paused in midswing. Slowly the dust settled.
As their eyes adjusted to the gloom beyond, Laura saw Shavi had been correct in his assumptions. He had uncovered a large tomb filled with dusty stone sarcophagi; on several were carved the sign of the sword which Marshall had attributed to the Knights Templar. The atmosphere that swept out was so unpleasantly stale it forced Laura to clutch her hand to her mouth. But it was more than just the odour that choked her; there was a wave of oppression and threat which came on its heels. She couldn’t bear to stay any longer. She hurried back up the steps; Shavi didn’t even notice. His gaze was fixed on an intricately carved column of death’s heads, Green Men and dragons which he guessed from its siting was a continuation of the Apprentice’s Pillar above. Halfway up the column was an area where nothing was carved at all. Gently he touched it. It appeared to vibrate coldly beneath his fingertips.
“Here we are, then,” he whispered.
Marshall still sat with his head in his hands, didn’t even look up when Laura walked by. She wanted to be out in the open air, where she could breathe, but the Bone Inspector didn’t show any sign of giving up. If anything, his hammering against the wooden door had grown even more frenzied, his yells hoarse and broken.
“Give it a rest,” she said angrily. “This is supposed to be a place of peace and serenity. We can’t hear ourselves think in here.”
At her voice he subsided. It was so sudden Laura felt a brief moment of panic that he had something planned, but then he spoke in a voice that was full of such desperation she was shocked. “You musn’t go through with this. You have to stop now. I’m begging you.”
“If you hadn’t acted so up your own arse and told us exactly what was wrong we might have listened.” She chewed on her lip. “So what’s the big deal?”
“Listen, then.” His voice echoed tremulously through the wood. “It is not what lies here, but who: The Good Son.” He laughed bitterly. “A name of respect given to placate, to keep something terrible at bay.”
“He was supposed to be a good guy,” Laura noted.
“You should know by now,” the Bone Inspector said with thin contempt, “that when it comes to the old gods there is no good or evil. They are beyond that.”
“You know what I mean,” Laura replied sourly.
“If you could trust any of the Tuatha De Danann, then he was the one,” he conceded. “He was loved. As I said, it would be wrong to attribute human emotions to these gods. They’re alien in the true sense of the word, unknowable-“
“But you’re going to,” Laura noted slyly.
“The Fomorii loathed Maponus-“
“Jealous of his good looks and way with women, I’d guess,” she said humourlessly.
“In their bitterness at their overwhelming defeat at the second battle of Magh Tuireadh, the Fomorii were determined to launch one last desperate strike at the Tuatha De Danann,” the Bone Inspector continued. “And Maponus as the favourite son of the Tuatha De Danann was the perfect target. They attacked as he attempted to cross over from Otherworld to visit his worshippers here.”
“Attacked how?”
“All that’s known is that Maponus was struck down as he crossed the void between there and here-“
“If he was killed-” Laura interrupted.
“Not killed. These gods never truly die anyway. What the Fomorii planned was much worse. Whatever they did to him in the void, when he arrived here, he had been driven completely, utterly insane. That’s the ultimate punishment: eternal imprisonment in a state of suffering. The world never knew what had hit it. The first sign of what had happened was a small village in the Borders. Every inhabitant was slaughtered, torn apart in so vile a manner it was impossible to identify the dead, even to estimate how many had died. In his dementia Maponus roamed the wild places and in the long nights people spoke of hearing his anguished howls echoing among the hills. Every attribute he had was inverted. He was not the giver of light and life, but the bringer of darkness and death. No love, only mad animal frenzy, no culture, only slaughter. It is impossible to guess how many died during his reign of terror. Tales passed down through the generations told how the fields ran red with blood. And the Good Son, once a name to be revered, became a source of fear.”
“What happened to him?” Laura’s voice sounded oddly hollow, as if the room had mysteriously developed other dimensions which allowed it to echo.
“He couldn’t be allowed to continue in this way,” the Bone Inspector replied darkly. “He may have been seen as saviour once, but now he was cast in the role of destroyer, and if humankind wanted to survive, it had to destroy him. Or the next best thing.”
“We’re a fickle bunch, aren’t we?” Marshall was suddenly next to her, his voice painfully sour. “If salvation doesn’t arrive just how we expect, we bite that outstretched hand.”
“My people gathered in their college, first at Anglesey, then at Glastonbury,” the Bone Inspector continued. “It was their time, you see. After so long in the dark, the Sundering had allowed them to grow in strength and hope. Their sun-powered cosmology, their worship of that bright side of Maponus, allowed them to turn their backs on the night and the moon and hope for a greater role for mankind in the mysteries of existence. They weren’t going to see all that swept away, especially by a god whose time had passed, even one so close to their hearts.
“In a ritual which took seven nights to prepare, they eventually drew up enough power to bind Maponus in one spot. Even so, it cost the lives of two hundred good men, so the legends tell, reduced in Maponus’s frenzy to a shower of blood, bone and gristle. But the others held fast, and Maponus was caught.”
Laura glanced over her shoulder towards the steps to the Sacristy. The flinty clink of pick-axe on stone echoed up. “Jesus.” Her voice sounded pathetically small.
“You have to stop him!” Marshall hissed. “For the love of God! Before it’s too late!”
“But we don’t have a choice.” Laura repeated the mantra, her head spinning. “If we don’t do this here, everything goes fucking pear-shaped.” And then she was running towards the steps, yelling, “Shavi!”
Shavi couldn’t hear anything, not even the sound of his own frenzied attack on the pillar. His concentration was drawn into the stone and nothing beyond existed. He coughed through the clouds of dust he was raising, scrubbed at the sweat that was dripping from his brow, and swung, and swung. And then finally, with a crack that seemed to tear through the very foundations of the chapel, a sound almost like a human roar, the pillar burst apart. Shavi staggered backwards and fell. And as the dust gradually cleared he saw what lay inside.
“They cut off his head!” the Bone Inspector was bellowing. “They cut it off while he was still alive and sealed it in a pillar. And it was still alive even then! Still screaming! And they buried his body nearby-“
Laura reached the top of the steps, still shouting Shavi’s name, just as the first tremor rattled through the building. A shower of dust fell from the roof as a large crack opened up in the stone floor, pitching her to one side. She hit the flags hard, knocking the wind out of her.
Marshall was already moving past her, his arthritic joints cracking under the strain. Laura caught a glimpse of wild emotions in his face as he headed down the stairs. Another tremor hit and he fell from halfway down, banging his head against the stone. Blood spattered from a deep gash as he slammed into the sacristy floor.
The tremors came faster, building in intensity. As she hauled herself to her feet, Laura had a sudden image of the chapel crashing down on top of her, crushing ev
ery bone beneath the enormous weight of stone.
Shavi’s head was spinning and for a brief moment it felt like he was surfacing from a dream until reality suddenly jolted him alert. The clouds of dust that swept through the chamber were almost choking, and the intense vibrations running up through the floor made him nauseous. But it was the sound that disturbed him the most; it moved effortlessly from a barely audible bass rumble to a high-pitched keening. There was something in the quality that filled him with an overwhelming despair, while making his gorge rise; he could hardly bear it.
And then the dust cleared and he saw the origin of that awful noise. Where he had smashed away the stone of the pillar lay a dusty space, and within it was a severed head. It took him a second or two to make any sense of the features, but gradually they fell into relief: full lips, perfect cheekbones, large eyes, a straight nose. There was something about the face that was incredibly beautiful, yet at the same time sickeningly corrupt. The skin seemed to glow with an inner golden light, but near the jagged skin of the severed neck the hue was queasily green. And the eyes, though dark and attractive, moved from an angry red to purple. The rear and sides of the head were still trapped in the stone, so only the face peered out, as if the owner was comically peering through some curtains. Long hair turned white and matted with stone dust poked out on either side.
Shavi could barely tear his eyes away from those full lips, which moved sensually to make that foul sound. He could feel it rumbling in his stomach cavity, vibrating through his teeth, deep into his skull. He pressed his hands against his ears, but it made no difference.
Although the spectacle was hideously mesmerising, Shavi realised instinctively he ought to get out of there. Before he could move, the largest tremor of all opened a massive fissure in the floor. Chunks of stone dropped from the ceiling and Shavi threw up his arms to protect himself. When he next dared look, he realised a golden light was rising up slowly out of the fissure. The apprehension held him fast; he had to see what was coming.
Within seconds a hand protruded from the dark, and then slowly Maponus’s headless body hauled itself out of the hole. For a brief moment it staggered around as if it were learning to walk and then it moved to clamp its hands on the pillar. The remaining stone that held the head crumbled away. Its eyes ranged wildly; there seemed to be no intelligence there at all.
The thin, delicate fingers clutched until they caught on to the head. A second later it was placed firmly on the shoulders, the eyes still rolling. A sickly light eked out from between the head and the body as the two knitted together. And then Maponus stood erect and whole for the first time in centuries, slim and beautiful and golden and filled with all the terror of the void.
Shavi thought his eyes were about to be burned from his head at the wonder of what he saw. “Please,” he whispered. “Hear me.”
Maponus fixed his monstrous gaze upon Shavi. The eyes flickered coldly; Shavi saw nothing human in them at all. Slowly the god began to advance.
“In Edinburgh, the Fomorii await,” Shavi continued. His voice sounded like sandpaper. “We call on you to help us defeat the Cailleach Bheur. Defeat the Fomorii.”
Maponus listened, and then he smiled darkly.
Shavi sighed, relieved his message had been understood. But when he raised his eyes back to the glowing figure he saw Maponus was still advancing, his features frozen and murderous. The god stretched out his arms and golden sparks spattered between his hands. Shavi could taste the ozone on the back of his throat. One more step and he began to feel the temperature rise, the pressure build in his head. Deep inside, a part of him was trying to drive him out of there, but he was held in the stress of that dazzling regard. The hairs in his nostrils began to sizzle.
“No! If you have to take anyone, take me!” Somehow Marshall was there, trying to interpose himself between Shavi and the god. His face was scarlet with the blood from his wound, and with his staring, terrified eyes, in other circumstances, he would have cut a comical pantomime figure. But there, in the light coming off the creature, he looked like some tormented soul from a painting by Bosch. Despite his fear, he managed to raise his frail, trembling body until he could look Maponus in the eye. “Take me.” His voice was quiet, gentle. He stretched out his arms in a posture of sacrifice, not supplication.
Maponus clamped his hands on either side of Marshall’s head. In an instant Shavi could smell the sickening odour of cooking flesh. Marshall howled as the blood began to boil in his veins. Those sparks danced and sparkled all over the cleric’s twitching body, raising plumes of grey smoke.
The horrific sight broke the spell. Shavi rolled over and scrambled out of the chamber, throwing himself up the steps from the sacristy two at a time. Laura was waiting for him at the top, her face streaked with tears.
“That smell,” she choked.
He grabbed her and drove her towards the door. As they madly threw the pews away from the exit, the chapel began to shake wildly. Enormous chunks of masonry fell from somewhere above, and rifts opened in the walls and floor.
Laura glanced over her shoulder just once at the light gradually rising from the sacristy. “He’s coming!” she moaned.
The last pew was thrown aside just in time and then they were hurtling out into the chill, misty morning air. The Bone Inspector was waiting for them, his face showing all the horror that they felt in their hearts. With a deafening rumble, the chapel fell in on itself, shaking the ground like an earthquake.
The three of them were already at the perimeter wall, pulling themselves over to safety. Shavi paused on the summit to look back at the devastation, hoping against hope that the monstrous thing they had unleashed would be trapped under the rubble.
He was overcome by an awful sickness when all he saw was a golden light fading into the mist, moving out across the countryside.
chapter eight
the deep shadows
he first sign that all was not as it should be hit Church twenty minutes after they had entered through the well-head. No longer stale, the air in the tunnel smelled of cinnamon and mint. And it almost seemed to be singing, harmonious melodies bouncing back and forth off the walls. “Is this the start of it?” he asked.
“`This is the best part of the trip.”’ Tom’s voice echoed curiously behind him.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just remembering the sixties.”
“This is no time to be getting nostalgic.” Church was tense with apprehension.
“If you’d enjoyed the sixties to the full you’d be a little mellower in dealing with everything life has to throw at you now.”
“Sorry. I was born too late for the summer of love.” There was a shush-boom effect deep in the stone walls, like a giant heart beating.
“You missed a great time. That smell, it reminds me of California nights, hanging out at Kesey’s parties when he and the Merry Pranksters set up shop after they did the Magic Bus ride. Jerry Garcia doing the music. Two kinds of punch-normal and electric. That was before the Hell’s Angels moved in and ruined it.”
“What are you talking about?” Church said distractedly. “You have done too many drugs, haven’t you.” He reached out to touch the tunnel wall; strange vibrations rippled up his fingers.
“You know, Kesey, Leary, all those psychonauts, they set things in motion that could have changed the world before the Establishment stamped it down. They believed the psychedelics could help them see God, did you know that? And by doing that they were just like all those people who threw up the great monolithic structures around the world where the earth energy is at its strongest. Before our feeble modern culture, psychedelics fired civilisation.”
“Are you saying all those hippies were right?” Church said distractedly.
“We all need to be neo-hippies if we’re going to cope with this new world that’s being presented to us, Jack.”
The note of tenderness in Tom’s voice surprised Church so much he looked around and was instantly disoriented. He a
ppeared to be viewing Tom through a wall of oily water, the image stretched, skewed, distorted.
“Tom?” He reached out a hand, but his friend seemed to recede with the action until he appeared to be floating backwards along a dark corridor, growing smaller yet glowing brighter.
“It will be all right, jack.” Tom’s voice grew hollow, deep and loud, then faint, as if it were cycling between two speakers. Church blinked and Tom was gone.
Unable to understand what was happening, he was overcome by a sudden wave of panic. They had been walking along quite normally, and now he was alone; it made no sense.
Desperately, he clamped his eyes shut, focusing on Tom’s advice to be mellow, and then he remembered how Tom had warned him that space and time could warp that close to such a potent source of the earth energy. He composed himself with a deep breath, accepted that he was on his own, and forged on down the tunnel.
After following its undulating path for about fifteen minutes, lulled by the background harmonics of the air, he suddenly rounded a corner into a large cavern. He could tell it was enormous from the change in the quality of the sound of his breathing and footsteps, although the roof disappeared into the deep shadows above him. The danger of getting lost in such a place was a distinct possibility. He could follow the walls with their faint phosphorescent glow around the perimeter, but he instinctively felt the correct path was directly across the floor of the cavern, through the darkness that could hide treacherous fissures, sinkholes and pits. His fears were confirmed when he glanced down and noticed a carved rock set in the floor by his feet. It was well-made, polished and indented. It showed a dragon, its tail curling to form an arrowhead which pointed the way into the centre of the cavern. He hesitated for just a moment, then strode off into the shadows.
It seemed like he had been walking for hours, although he guessed it was only about fifteen minutes. In the enveloping dark the going was laboriously slow, feeling with each foot before taking another step. At times the visual deprivation was so hallucinatory he felt his head spinning and he had to fight to stop himself from pitching to the ground; in that warped atmosphere he was having trouble discerning what was happening in his head and what was external.
Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) Page 25