GNELFS

by Williams, Sidney

  Dark forces were at play here, forces that would manipulate anything at their disposal to make his task more difficult, even impossible. He did not know yet what they were, not exactly. They were all different, had special powers, special tasks.

  Some he had encountered before, some he had heard about, but others, those that lurked about now, those preparing their assault, were unknown. They could possess sinister powers like none he had ever seen, and if someone had succeeded in opening some ancient gate then the powers might be unknown to anyone.

  The results of that were beyond speculation. The only reality was his growing fear that something he could not combat, something he could not contain, might be waiting when he returned to Aimsley.

  Far ahead of him, he spotted a running streak of lightning—heat lightning—which seared its way through the night clouds in a flaming flare.

  He did not like the sight. It was odd, unusual, and again symbolic of all he feared. Different, strange, an omen..

  His temples throbbed. He was hit with memories, with anger. This trip was futile, hopeless. He would never reach the house in time. Perhaps they had known that all along, those who had ordered him to this task; perhaps in their mystical knowledge they had understood this was a battle too great and had dispatched him so that he could fail and meet the eternal condemnation that had followed him all his days.

  Perhaps all the things he had done were only vain stabs at correcting the evils of his past. They had said his father's act had been necessary for the order of the universe; yet even so, it had not been done out of a pure motive, and thus it had become his greatest shame.

  If his task was hopeless, he would resign himself to failure, but he would press on, do everything he could to reach the girl before whatever awaited could befall her. He would drive with all the speed the car would allow, and he would be prepared for confrontation. He would not look back. He would not surrender.

  He would fail, but they would know that he had failed while fighting, still seeking redemption, still seeking to correct the impurity of his father's soul. He would seek to serve the angels, and if they offered him damnation he would bow and accept it without complaint.

  He forced the gas pedal to the floor.

  ~*~

  Simon faced the silver-haired man concealed by shadows. The older man wore a dark gray suit and sat in a velvet-covered chair, his hands resting at his sides, the ring Simon had provided sparkling on his right ring finger. Black stone in an ornate gold setting.

  "You're sure you don't need to be there?"

  Simon shook his head. "Not tonight. It would not be wise to be too close."

  "These little bastards will do the trick?"

  "They have been set free, they are gaining power. They will taunt and torment."

  The man nodded, accepting Simon's prognosis. "We will be able to watch?"

  "As I promised," Simon said, a bit impatiently. He did not expect his competence to be placed in question, not even offhandedly.

  "How soon?"

  Simon extracted a golden pocket watch from his dark blue suit, and flipped open the cover. "Shortly," he said.

  He clicked the watch closed with a snap. "If you wish, we can proceed."

  "Yes.

  Simon rose, and together they walked to the opposite end of the room, where a spiral stairway led downward. Their steps echoed off the steps as they descended.

  In the shadows, Simon had set up the cauldron, and in the open fireplace beneath it coals and embers glowed bright orange. Their glow offered the only illumination to the room which had once been a basement. The shadows projected on the dark walls looked like the ghostly figures gathered for a coven sabbat.

  The older man kept glancing around, as if he were making sure they were alone as he walked up the steps of the platform which had been built of sturdy polished wood and iron to provide a working area over the makeshift fireplace. A huge black vent with a draw fan had been fashioned above it, but the room still reeked of smoke.

  Simon carefully peered over the edge of the dark iron pot, the surface of the gleaming liquid smooth and still in spite of the heat. For a moment he was looking at his own reflection in a dark mirror. As the man eased around beside him, however, he raised his thin white hand slowly across the opening of the pot.

  From somewhere within its depth, the liquid began to glow, silver at first and then golden, a blazing yellow fire growing within the liquid. For a moment the man turned his face away, but Simon continued to stare into the light, ignoring the glare that seared retinas.

  Softly he whispered the memorized incantation, and the glow subsided slightly, flickering until images began to become visible. The gray haze swirling inside the liquid began to part, revealing the scene at Heaven's bedside. Gabrielle knelt there, one hand holding her child's hand, the other on Heaven's forehead as if testing her temperature. Beside them, Althea looked on nervously.

  “They don't know what's happening?" the man said.

  One corner of Simon's mouth twitched up in a grim smile. “Our friends are trying something different tonight."

  "What are they doing?"

  " It's in their hands."

  "You can't ask them?"

  "Not at this point. They're doing some conjuring of their own." He swept a hand across the liquid's surface, eliciting small blue pulses which flickered through the clouds.

  "Those are signs of their magic," he said.

  "What if they're out of control? Can you rein them in?"

  "They function on their own, but they are created beings, Martin. Their power is limited. They are kesilim and lezim, fooling spirits and jesters, mischievous spirits who have killed only at my request. They have no reason to harm the child."

  "Unless it amuses them?"

  "No need to worry. They're acting to bring about what we wanted. They're tormenting Gabrielle. Tonight they're just varying their routine. They know she's grown used to their regular assaults."

  "What's wrong with the little girl? Have they made her sick?"

  "We can only wait and see," the sorcerer said.

  ~*~

  Althea carefully placed the thermometer under Heaven's tongue as Gabrielle whispered softly to the child, urging her to keep it in place.

  "Hot," Heaven managed to mumble.

  "I know you are, baby," Gab whispered. "We're trying to make it better." She placed a hand against Heaven's forehead, and found it so warm she was frightened. She couldn't remember her feeling this hot even when she’d had fever as a baby.

  She recalled those moments now, the times with Dave, the fear, wondering if Heaven was seriously ill or just suffering from some childhood virus. They'd been up hours, taking turns monitoring her temperature and offering her doses of the medicine prescribed by the pediatrician.

  Where was Dave now? He couldn't be responsible for this crisis, not with his own memories of pulling Heaven through those early days. Nothing could make someone turn that cruel. She patted Heaven's hand as Althea eased the thin thermometer from the child's lips and held it to the light.

  "Hundred and three."

  "We’ve got to get it down somehow."

  "Let's try some aspirin first. She could just be reacting to the stress. There's been enough to upset her system."

  “You think so?"

  Althea bit her lower lip. "Let's hope that's what it is."

  Gab found the small bottle of baby aspirin in the medicine cabinet. That brought memories too. Heaven, barely old enough to talk, taking the soft, sweet tablet between her lips and repeating the warnings which had been drilled into her by both parents. "Just take one," she'd said. "Make Heaven sick—sick—to take more."

  God, I don't want to lose my child. Gab felt so helpless. What could she do if this was something more than a fever? In what way could she fight for her daughter? If Danube did not return soon, they would be facing things beyond comprehension—and with no notion of how to do battle.

  When Gab returned to the bathroom, Althea
was holding Heaven's hand and gently brushing hair out of her eyes. "She's sweating."

  "What does that mean? The fever's breaking?"

  Althea's face remained solemn, no sign of optimism in her expression. "I'm afraid it means it's not a fever at all," she said.

  ~*~

  The headlights flashed off the glowing white and green road sign, one corner of it bent, the surface dappled with pits, from a random shotgun blast. Even through the rain Danube could make out the words: Petittville 5.

  He was on the right path, would be able to follow this road through the small town which was at the edge of Riverland Parish.

  It was a slim hope, but it was his best. He blinked; the constant thump of the windshield wipers was lulling him as he fought fatigue. He passed the first spattering of signs, his headlights illuminating announcements of fresh peaches and vegetable stands ahead. He didn't expect to find anything open in town, but with luck he would sight a service station with an outside pay phone. He cursed himself for not having adopted a mobile phone. He had lived so long, he was slow to accept technology.

  He turned on the radio, letting the music assail him as the air-conditioning vents he opened sprayed icy air into his face. The blower made his eyes water, but the chill kept him alert.

  The car rounded a curve, and the headlights blazed across the trees just off the road's shoulder, trees he would have slammed into if he'd let the wheel slip only slightly.

  The radio preacher who filled his ears spoke of the evils of sin. If only he knew how many forms it has, Danube thought. Evil has so many faces. He had thought he had seen them all. The conjurings and sorceries he had faced had taken many shapes, but now his heartbeat thundered, telling him some new mode had been allowed entry.

  On the roadway, the yellow center line seemed to move, rushing toward him like a huge, bright flatworm. Finally he saw the flashing orange eye of a caution light which dangled like a medallion from a power line across the road. It marked the edge of town.

  He passed under it, into a narrow stretch of asphalt that ran in front of a bank and two parallel rows of closed shops. He drove by a small dress shop, stiff mannequins looking through the plate-glass window at him. A photography shop, its front window ablaze, presented an array of family portraits and smiling graduates in cap and gown, caught forever with false joy on their faces.

  Finally the headlights bounced off a Chevron sign. It was not lit, but the shiny red and blue surface reflected back his high beams. On the same post as the sign was a small square with a white on blue telephone handset outline.

  Good enough, he turned into the lot and cruised up in front of the station, past the pumps. He rolled to a stop at the edge of the building, where the telephone was attached to the wall beside an ice machine.

  The overhang of the arcade which covered the pumps did not quite stretch out over the phone, and a steady trickle of rain poured over the roof's edge. He had to stand in it as he dropped a quarter into the slot.

  Drops ran down inside his collar as he dialed Gabrielle's number from memory, and as the purr of the receiver sounded in his ear, he heard the static created by the weather and the lightning.

  He didn't count the rings. He let them persist, waiting. The rain soaked through his hair, plastering red curls across his forehead. He closed his eyes as water ran down over his eyebrows.

  The ringing continued. Her phone must have rung more than ten times by now. An arc of lightning ripped down across the sky behind the store, and thunder followed.

  He swatted water from his eyes, and finally he heard a click on the other end of the line.

  He could hear a quiver in Gab's voice as she said hello. "Danube," he said. "What's happening?"

  "She's very hot, but it's not a fever. Her temperature is climbing up and up, but she's sweating."

  Danube turned, hunching his shoulders and trying to shut out the sensation of the pounding water.

  "Have there been any other occurrences, any other signs of the unusual?"

  "Not at this point."

  "They're there, somewhere," he said.

  "What? The Gnelfs?"

  "They have great power. They are spirits, the symbols in the books give them a gateway."

  "So why is she so hot? Are they hexing her?"

  "I'm afraid they're conjuring. If they were able to enter this realm through the doors, they may be trying to bring others."

  "But why is she so hot?"

  "There are many forms of demons. They could be summoning a fire demon."

  "What?"

  "A demon that manifests itself as an element.”

  “What can we do?"

  "Keep her cool. Douse her with water, do whatever else you can, and I'll be there within the hour. They have a ritual to perform to open the gate for their brother. Perhaps it can be delayed long enough."

  "How do we fight it if you're not here?"

  "Pray for blessing," he said. "I'll be there soon.”

  “Danube…"

  "Yes."

  "Who's doing this?"

  "Not your ex-husband. He's not capable of it.”

  “Then who?"

  "We shall have to find out. Once we deal with the crisis at hand."

  ~*~

  Althea brought towels from the bathroom, while Gab lugged a pan of ice water from the kitchen. Dipping the towels into the water, they quickly spread them across Heaven's body, not worrying about her gown getting wet or the spillover onto the bed.

  "What's happening, Mommy?" Heaven asked as Gab bathed her face with a washcloth. The child's cheeks were flushed bright red now.

  "Just rest," Gab whispered.

  "I feel hot from inside," Heaven complained.

  "That would follow, in line with what Danube said."

  Placing her hand on the child's forehead, Gab could almost feel the heat increasing. Gently, she pulled her fingers away and replaced them with another rag dipped in the ice water.

  "Is she real sick?"

  Terry had found his way to the door. He stood there, the towel he'd been using to dry his hair draped around his shoulders. His hands nervously clutched the cloth at each end, and he sawed it back and forth across the back of his neck.

  Althea moved from the edge of the bed to put her hands on his shoulders, Gently turning him and guiding him back into the hallway. "Heaven is very sick, and we don't know what's wrong with her," Althea said. "We have to let her rest."

  "Why is she so hot?"

  "It's a bit like a fever."

  "Is she gonna be all right?"

  "We don't know. Now please, go back to the living room and wait."

  She watched him walk dejectedly back down the hall, then slipped back through the doorway to Gab's side.

  "I think she's getting hotter," Gab whispered as she squeezed water across the child's neck.

  “We only have to hold out a little while," Althea said. "Danube will be here."

  Gab's eyes drooped closed. "Please God, don't let my baby die here. Please."

  Opening her eyes, she looked down on the child's tortured features, and from somewhere in the room heard the sound of laughter.

  Chapter 16

  The tires hydroplaned across the coating of rain on the roadway while the steering wheel vibrated in his hands. He did not decrease speed.

  He was nearing Aimsley now. Shortly he would reach the edge of town, and it would not take long to make it from there to Gabrielle's home.

  He had gained slight confidence from the phone call; at least he knew what he would face. He would have to deal with a conjuring, would have to counteract it if possible. But if the demons themselves were doing the conjuring, he wasn't sure he would be successful.

  He had no doubt that the powers of light were stronger, but was it their hour to prevail?

  ~*~

  In the darkened room, the man smiled as Gab squeezed ice water onto her daughter's forehead. The liquid provided a picture so clear that he could see the lines of panic cutting across Gab
's brow. It was better than watching a video monitor.

  It was a grim smile that crossed the sorcerer's countenance. Success was being realized here. He had unleashed the forces, and now they were acting on their own, functioning to fulfill the goals he had set forth at his employer's request.

  Stepping back from the cauldron, he moved down the steps of the platform. He had traveled a great distance since that day he had acquired his first grimoire in the old shop in London. He had searched and studied a long time, and had finally found the man, Joseph Hall-Patch, who could help him learn even more.

  He had stayed with the old man in the cramped rooms over the shop, spending the days poring over musty books with brittle pages. Gradually, the old man had revealed things to him, things learned in secret meetings or gained from forbidden books. Hall-Patch had studied under many teachers and had much to offer.

  The most important of them was the book, ragged and faded, its leather binding dusty and cracked. The edges of the pages were ruffled and flecks of crumbling brown paper fluttered free whenever he plucked it from the wrappings which had been placed around it to protect it from further decay. It was a scrapbook of all the old man had gathered, reflecting all his journeys, all his contacts.

  While his host continued to peer into the depths of the liquid, Simon knelt at the base of the platform and removed his book, holding it gently in his soft hands as if it were his child. It was too fragile for casual handling, too important to be used frivolously, yet he loved the old book, cherished it, because it explained to him all of the things he must know to build the power he had desired all his life. And that knowledge would allow him to fulfill his feeling of uniqueness.

  Gently, he peeled back pages, scanning the ornate lettering. He had known from the first moment his eyes fell upon the pages that he must possess it. Knowing it could become his only if he took it, he had worked diligently, studying, struggling with the spells and incantations; learning first the simple charms the old man suggested he master before moving on, practicing things in the dark hours after midnight on his own. He pored over the book, studying, memorizing and finally breaking through the barriers—or veils, as they were called—that separated the other realm from his reality.