Chuma shone his lantern in the direction of the noise and let out a low whistle. At the end of the church beyond the nave was a group of four white statues on pedestals. All four statues sported wings and robes. They faced each other around an enormous block of stone topped by an altar of rectangular stone, at which the statues were pointing weapons—a flaming sword, a normal sword, a spear, and a mace. The crows had gathered on one of the stone figures, muttering and croaking among themselves like old women dressed in black rags. More mosaics glittered on the altar and its dais.
“Who are they?” Chuma asked.
“The one with the spear is probably Gabriel,” Francis said in a teacher voice. “The one with the flaming sword is Uriel. The fourth one is likely Raphael, though he usually carries a staff and not a mace. The one the crows are sitting on is Archangel Michael.”
“Actually, they’re all Archangel Michael,” Merrin said.
“What?” Francis asked. “How could you know that?”
“The base of each one has the word ‘Michael’ inscribed on it in Greek.”
Francis shone his light downward. His face fell. “Oh. Archangel Michael.”
“The right hand of God,” Merrin added, unable to keep a malicious tone from his voice.
The crows shifted and muttered, glaring down at the men with glittering yellow eyes. A splat hit the floor beneath the statue, and Merrin smelled bird shit. He moved cautiously forward, his light spreading through the darkness around the altar. He climbed the three steps up to the top of the dais. A feeling of unease stole over him, and he realized all the angels’ weapons were pointed directly at him. Or rather, they were pointed at the altar on the dais. There was barely room to move without bumping into something pointed, confirming Merrin’s theory that this church wasn’t meant to be used for worship—no priest could use this altar without skewering himself.
“The crows must have flown in through the dome,” Chuma said. “Have you ever seen anything like this church?”
“Not this far from Rome,” Merrin said.
“What’s the reason for multiple Michaels?” Francis asked, still sounding wounded that Merrin had punctured his earlier deduction.
“No idea,” Merrin admitted, rubbing his raspy chin. “Michael is God’s warrior. Maybe the builders thought they needed an army.”
“Very strange,” Francis muttered. He moved up to join Merrin on the dais. “It doesn’t look like any church I’ve ever seen. Churches are built to exalt heaven, but this—all their weapons are pointed downward. As if…”
He trailed off. One of the crows scratched its head with quick fluttering movements of its claws. Merrin moved around to the other side of the altar, and his lantern beam picked out a broken beam of wood jutting up behind it like a shattered finger. He ducked under a stony mace and looked closer. It appeared to be the base to something. The jagged part of the wood looked newer, as if it had been recently broken. Merrin’s eyebrows drew together.
“Francis, come look at this,” he said, and Francis joined him.
“Strange,” Francis said. “What could—”
A giant face loomed in the darkness. Merrin jumped. “Francis! Behind you!”
Francis spun and snapped his light around. The face was upside down. Mouth open in a silent wail, eyes dead and hollow beneath a crown of thorns, it wept in silent agony. Francis shrank back, then realized the face was carved of wood. He ran his light farther upward, revealing a huge crucifix—Christ on the cross. A massive chain was wrapped around its feet, suspending it head down from the ceiling. The broken base was an exact match to the top of the jagged beam. The crucifix was half again life-size.
“Lord, have mercy on us,” Francis whispered. “Why would someone do this?”
“A more important question is who would do this,” Merrin said, “and how. No one’s been in this place for a thousand years.” He reached out and touched the figure’s face.
The crows exploded from their perch. They rushed through the air, moaning and croaking. Their wings beat against Merrin’s head and shoulders, and he threw up his hands to protect his face. Hot pain sliced his ear. He screamed and lashed out with his fist. It connected with something feathery that crunched. Air swirled around Merrin, beaten by harsh black wings. Another crow nipped at his wrist, drawing yet more blood. Chuma was shouting something—
—and then the crows were gone. Merrin looked up in time to see the last of the flock vanish out of the dome. He sucked at his wrist, then gingerly touched his ear. The crow had taken a fair piece out of the top, and it was bleeding in a small waterfall. It felt as if it had been torn halfway off.
“You mates all right down there?” Jefferies called from above. “Those bloody birds looked pretty nasty going in and out.”
“We should go back up,” Francis insisted to Merrin. “You need to see Dr. Novack.”
“Get ready to take Mr. Merrin up!” Chuma called. “He has minor injuries.”
“Right, then!”
The rope was part of a block and tackle set up on the church roof. In short order, Jefferies hauled Merrin, then Francis, and then Chuma out of the interior. Merrin flinched at the bright daylight until his eyes readjusted.
“They got you a good one, mate,” Jefferies said, noticing Merrin’s ear. “Christ!”
“There’s no need to blaspheme,” Francis said primly.
“Head wounds always bleed a lot,” Merrin assured them, taking out his handkerchief and pressing it to his ear. The entire shoulder of his shirt was soaked in scarlet. “I’ve had much worse.”
Jefferies shrugged. “So what did you find?”
“A puzzle.” Merrin fixed Jefferies with a hard stare. “Mr. Jefferies, I think there’s something you haven’t told me.”
“Eh? What do you mean?”
“I mean that it’s clear someone has been inside this church, and recently.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, mate,” he said, but his hand stole upward to finger one of the boils on his face.
“The base of that crucifix was broken within the last month or two. Someone’s been in there. What aren’t you telling me, Mr. Jefferies?”
The dig manager returned Merrin’s hard stare for a moment, then looked away, still fingering the boil. “I suppose there’s no harm in talking about it now.”
“Not if you want to keep your job, there isn’t,” Merrin agreed.
“Look, mate—I’m only doing what Bession told me.”
“Who’s Bession?” Francis asked.
“He was the chief archaeologist before you lot arrived,” Jefferies said, “and the one what uncovered the dome here. He saw it could be opened, and he wanted to have a little peek inside, you know? But he didn’t want anyone to find out.”
“Because that would be poor archaeology, and he would be castigated for it by our little community,” Merrin asserted, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of his own desire for haste. “Go on.”
“So the two of us came out here one night and got the thing open, yeah? That was a weird night. Windy and such, and when we pulled up the dome, it…breathed on us. Almost made me wet my nappies, if you know what I’m sayin’. Bession went down for a few hours, then I helped him back up. He asked if I wanted to have a look, but you couldn’t pay me enough to go down there, so I stayed up here, thank you very much. Bession went down there two more times, always at night. Swore me to secrecy about the whole thing. I thought it was a little strange, but I figured, hey, Bession’s a frog, and the Frenchies are always a bit strange. Bugger anything that moves, they will, including the boys. ’Course, I always say live and let live, but even I can’t—”
“The point, Mr. Jefferies,” Merrin interrupted.
“Right. Anyway, he went down there a few times and I helped him. That’s the long and short of it.”
“Is there an inventory of what Bession found down there?”
Jefferies shrugged. “I never saw one.”
“Chuma, did you know abou
t this?”
“I did not,” Chuma said promptly, and Merrin believed him.
“Where is this Bession?” Merrin demanded. “I need to talk to him.”
“You can’t,” Chuma said.
Merrin raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“He’s gone mad.”
“Mad?” Francis echoed.
At this Jefferies nodded. “Starkers. Right round the bend, he went.”
“Where are his notes, then?” Merrin said, sounding more frustrated with every word.
“In his tent.” Chuma pointed. “It is over there.”
Bession’s battered tent whipped in the wind. The sides belled and collapsed, then belled again. It was a large tent, the size of a truck. Merrin, glad his ear had finally stopped bleeding, reached for the ties. Francis and Jefferies he had sent to do other work. Francis went with bad grace, Jefferies with alacrity.
“No one’s been inside since Bession fell ill?” Merrin asked.
“They are superstitious,” Chuma said.
“And you?”
“Not superstitious.” He tapped his forehead. “Smart.”
Releasing the final tie, Merrin opened the flap and stepped inside. The tent’s interior was a total mess, as if a set of filing cabinets had exploded. Camp tables and chairs were scattered everywhere, and most surfaces were covered with papers. A cot with a rumpled blanket thrown carelessly across it occupied one corner while a messy desk occupied another. Merrin was rather startled. Some archaeologists were less than meticulous about their surroundings, but this seemed a bit extreme.
He went over to the desk and felt a little jerk in his stomach. Glaring up from the papers were drawings of demons. Dozens of demons. Demons with horns. Demons with tentacles. Demons with slime dripping from their pores. Demons raping women. Demons sodomizing men. Demons devouring children. Demons drinking blood. And in the center of them all was the demon from Semelier’s rubbing.
Merrin’s injured ear throbbed. He reached down to pick up the latter drawing. The moment he touched it, pain lanced his finger and he snatched his hand back. Blood oozed from a cut on the pad of his index finger and dropped red onto Semelier’s demon. Merrin grimaced—this was his fourth injury today. More carefully this time, he lifted the drawing. Beneath it lay a shard of broken glass.
“Chuma, where is—” he began, and then realized the foreman had not followed him into the tent. He raised his voice. “Chuma!”
Chuma stuck his head inside. “Yes?” He saw the mess and grimaced. “You are not asking me to clean this up, are you?”
“No. Where is Bession now?”
“The sanitarium in Nairobi.”
“I’ll have to visit him,” Merrin said. “He has a lot to…to…” The words died away as something else caught his eye. Slowly, unwillingly, his gaze went up to the roof of the tent. Chuma craned his neck to see what Merrin was staring at, and his mouth dropped open. Large red-brown symbols covered the ceiling. The wind rippled the canvas, making the symbols writhe around the roof’s underside like a nest of snakes.
Unease stole over Merrin. “How long has Bession been gone?” he asked.
“A few weeks,” answered the foreman, visibly shaken. “I brought him to Nairobi, and then Major Granville told me you were coming, so I waited for you.”
Merrin frowned. “Is Bession an expert in biblical languages?”
“I don’t know,” Chuma said. His voice was hushed. “Why?”
“Because this writing is Aramaic, the language spoken in Palestine at the time of Christ.”
Fear slid across Chuma’s face. “What…what does it say?”
“ ‘The Fallen shall rise in a river of blood.’ ”
The last of the sunlight vanished from the sky, leaving behind a black sky salted with jewel-bright stars. Merrin parked the jeep in front of Derati’s little hospital and killed both engine and headlights. The village looked nearly deserted. Few lights brightened any windows. A lonely wind rushed up the street, making the trees beyond the village dance and hiss in the darkness. The road and boardwalks were empty. Merrin climbed down from the jeep and headed for the hospital door. Tinny music floated out to greet him. He poked his head inside.
The main room of the hospital contained a row of neatly made beds, each with a tray table sitting next to it. None of the beds were occupied. Wooden cabinets and shelves of medical equipment lined the walls. The place smelled of ether and rubbing alcohol. Merrin saw no one. He thought a moment, then went around to the back of the building. Sarah had to live somewhere, and Merrin guessed her quarters were attached.
Around back, he found a low porch with a screen door. Light spilled out onto the boards. Merrin approached the door and peered into a small, spare kitchen. A tiny wood stove occupied one corner, a washbasin the other. Wooden crates nailed high on the walls made shelves for pots, dishes, and food. A pair of hanging kerosene lamps provided warm yellow light.
Sarah sat at the tiny table with her back to Merrin, holding a pack of cards. Three cards lay faceup on the table in front of her, and Merrin could see them over her shoulder. The first showed a tower being struck by lightning. The second showed an armored skeleton riding a white horse. The third showed a horned, winged devil looming over the naked, chained figures of a man and woman.
Merrin knew he should knock or speak to alert her to his presence, but he stayed silent. He found he liked watching her. Sarah, meanwhile, put the three cards back into the deck, shuffled, and dealt three more cards.
They were exactly the same, right down to the order they came up. Odd. Sarah stared down at the bits of pasteboard, and Merrin felt abruptly like a voyeur. He knocked. Sarah started and twisted around in her chair.
“Hello,” Merrin said cheerfully. “Do you have a moment?”
Sarah recovered herself and smiled. “Of course. Come in.”
Merrin carefully wiped his feet on the mat and opened the door to enter.
“Can I get you some tea?” Sarah said, rising. “Or something more substantial?”
“Thank you,” Merrin said, letting the door swing shut behind him. “That would be—”
“Good God!” Sarah exclaimed. “What happened to your ear? And your shirt—it’s covered with blood!”
“I had a little accident,” Merrin admitted. “Can you…?”
“Of course! Please sit down. I’ll be right back.” She vanished into the clinic.
Merrin sat in the chair Sarah had vacated. It was warm from her body, and it felt oddly intimate, sharing her heat this way. The faceup tarot cards and the pack lay on the table in front of him. The Church frowned heavily on the occult, even something as minor as tarot cards. So Merrin swept up the pack, shuffled the cards into it, and dealt three cards faceup, as Sarah had.
The Tower. Death. The Devil. The same cards he had seen in front of Sarah. Merrin frowned, shuffled the cards back together, and dealt again.
The Tower. Death. The Devil.
A chill flowed down his spine. The same cards twice in a row was coincidence—scary, but still a coincidence. But four times? He was about to gather the cards and try again when the door opened and Sarah reentered with a tray of medical supplies. She set it on the table and Merrin put the cards down.
“Take your shirt off,” she ordered. “I’ll have to clean the wound first, and—What on earth? Your wrist! Your neck! What happened?”
“I had a very strange day,” Merrin said, unbuttoning his shirt. “Can you just fix me up?”
He sat back while Sarah clucked and muttered over him. Some of her ministrations hurt, but he bore it in silence. She cleaned all his wounds and cut a bandage for his ear. Her hands were soft on his skin, and he smelled her scent. As she leaned over him to apply the bandage, her shirt fell open slightly, exposing the curve of her breast. Merrin felt himself responding, and he shifted in the hard chair.
“Does that hurt?” she asked, applying the last bit of tape to his ear.
“Not really.”
“I
t will scar, I’m afraid,” she said. “You should have come to see me right away.”
“I got too busy,” he told her, shrugging back into his shirt despite the bloodstains. He decided to change the subject and gestured at the table. “Tarot cards? I didn’t know you dabbled in the occult.”
With a self-conscious laugh, Sarah set the tray aside and took the chair opposite Merrin’s. “I found them here when I arrived. They help pass the time. Do you know what these mean?”
Merrin shook his head. “It wasn’t on the curriculum at the seminary.”
“The series is read left to right—past, present, future. The Tower means destruction, a complete and total end. Nothing else can come after. That is in the past. Death means transformation, a change from one place or form to another. That is happening now. The Devil means…temptation. Especially physical temptation. That is in the future.”
Merrin realized his hand had stolen into his crotch, and he casually moved it back onto his thigh. “I wanted to ask you,” he said a little too loudly, “did you treat Bession?”
“I tried.” Sarah’s voice was flat. “There was nothing I could do for him. He had no medical symptoms, nothing to suggest any kind of disease or infection. His breakdown was purely mental. And extremely severe.”
“How severe?”
“He spent two days in the hospital here. By the end of the second day, he was foaming at the mouth and I had to get Chuma and Emekwi to restrain him.”
“And that’s why the Turkana fear the church is cursed.”
“That, and the disappearances.”
Merrin cocked his head. “Disappearances?”
“No one told you?”
“I’m getting the feeling no one tells me anything,” Merrin said.
Sarah smiled. She had a dimple, and Merrin found it thoroughly endearing. “In the past few weeks since the church was uncovered, we’ve lost a dozen men.”
“Lost. You mean they ran away?” He gestured at the cards and added a sarcastic note to his voice. “Or was it those evil spirits?”
“Yes,” Sarah said with a small laugh that sounded forced to Merrin’s ear. Then she fell silent. Merrin couldn’t think of anything to say, but he didn’t feel uncomfortable about it. It was nice to sit with her. Her bare forearms rested on the table, and Merrin’s eye fell on her tattoo. She caught him looking, and he flushed.
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