Into the Dim

by Janet B. Taylor

  Would it be so bad if we didn’t make it out? If the two of us made a life here together?

  I quickly thrust that thought away. “Guess we better get going.”

  We knelt near the front, heads bowed, just another pious couple. When everyone’s backs were turned, we rushed behind the high altar; in this age only a shadow of the spectacular gilt masterpiece it would one day become. Beyond lay a stuffy storage room.

  Accoutrements of the mass filled the shelves. Golden cups and saucers. Vials of holy oil. White robes and purple stoles hung on hooks. The heavy aroma of old incense drifted thick from dangling censers.

  “Umm,” I moved to a dusty corner where an iron ring was set into the stone floor. “I think, at least, I hope, this leads down.”

  Down a narrow, splintery set of steps lay the dank cellar. Cobwebs cloaked the wine barrels and jumbles of dusty crates. Bran located a pile of very old rushlights. He lit two with knife and flint, and we headed deeper into the vast subterranean vault. When we finally arrived at the farthest wall, an arched and ancient door stood partially ajar. Our light revealed a sweeping arc in the dust where it had recently been opened.

  Beyond, a stone tunnel sloped sharply downward. Bran held his torch low to the ground. “Footprints. Recent.” he whispered.

  I ground my teeth as claustrophobia slithered around my chest. Tunnels. Why does it always have to be freaking tunnels?

  Unlit torches lined the walls beneath the low, barreled ceiling of the undercroft. The overpowering reek of mold and damp earth made my lungs constrict. Close beside me, I felt Bran tense at the scritch of tiny claws on stone.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Simply not a big rat fan.”

  I gave an undignified snort that guttered the flame.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You. Cringing at a few teensy mice.”

  “For your information,” he said, offended, “I wasn’t cringing. I was merely worried we’d step on the sweet little fellows. Grind them to red paste beneath our boots.”

  “Lovely image,” I said. “Well, just hold on to me, then. I’ll protect you.”

  A little thrill pulsed through me as his grin gleamed white in the darkness.

  The cold intensified as we moved down the endless system of corridors, following the scuff of footprints marring the long-undisturbed dust. When muffled voices sounded around a corner just ahead, Bran doused the torches and led us behind a low wall of stacked barrels next to a small alcove.

  “I tell you, it’s here,” an irritated voice said.

  Bran mouthed the name: Becket.

  We edged closer to peek through the cracks. Thomas Becket’s back was to us, barking to two men in black and silver. I stifled a groan when I saw one of them was the odious Eustace Clarkson.

  Perfect.

  “But, Father,” Eustace complained, “Lady Celia said—”

  “Lady Celia is gone. And though she claims the stone is not here, I am no longer certain she spoke truth. The old nun, Hectare, made her final confession to Father Jerome, right before she died.”

  A stab of sadness hit me. Sister Hectare was gone, and the world was a little darker now. Bran’s fingers laced with mine and squeezed.

  “Since I happen to know a thing or two about some of dear Father Jerome’s . . . habits,” Becket went on, “he gave me every word of the old crone’s confession. Apparently, she believed there is an object down here. Something precious. So, you shall search this place. Inside and out. Bring it straight to me and tell not a soul. There will be a reward for whoever finds it.” Thomas Becket hesitated. “For the church, of course.”

  Bran and I exchanged a questioning look. What could he mean? Not the Source. That was a place, not an object.

  Becket swept by us without a backward glance. Eustace Clarkson glared after him.

  “Oh, we’ll find it, Father,” he spat. “And make a pretty penny, too.”

  “But you heard him,” the other guard, all greasy black hair and cretinous expression, said. “The stone belongs to the church.”

  I reared back, nearly dislodging the stack of crates. The stone?

  “Bah,” Eustace sneered. “You want to live your life bowing and scraping to those above you? Then do as I say. Go that way.” He pointed in our direction. “And I’ll search down there.”

  Eustace Clarkson stomped off down the corridor in the opposite direction. The other guard sighed, crossed himself, and headed straight toward us. There was no place to hide. As soon as he passed the barrier, he’d see us.

  Bran pivoted. I saw the motion as he silently drew the curved blades from his belt.

  “No,” I whispered. But it was too late.

  Greasy-hair turned the corner. Bran launched himself at him, knocking him to the ground. The man’s sword spun away to land at my feet. I froze as the men growled and grappled in the dust. For a moment, Bran had him pinned, but the larger man shoved Bran away and slithered out from under him, then flipped him on his back and pressed a thick knee down on his neck. Bran’s arm’s flailed. His face turned purple as he gagged.

  I slipped from the shadows, heart slamming as I picked up the guard’s sword. It was heavier than I expected, the leather grip still warm. I hefted it in both hands, trying to get the feel of it. But before I could do a thing, Bran’s fist came up and slammed into the guard’s temple.

  The man toppled over and fell away, unconscious. Bran scrambled up, gasping and choking. I ran to his side, peering over my shoulder into the blackness, sure that Eustace had heard.

  “We have to tie him up,” Bran rasped, hand at his bruised throat.

  We dragged the man into a shallow chamber. Bran sliced off several strips of my underskirt and, with deft movements, soon had the unconscious man bound and gagged.

  “Hurry,” he said. “They’ll find him soon enough.”

  He picked up the guard’s stuttering torch and we hurried down the tunnel. When Eustace Clarkson’s boot prints veered into a left passage, we went right.

  We passed through archways and down damp stone steps. Cobwebs draped the ceiling, and water dripped from everywhere. The passage here seemed much older, cut into the very bedrock of the earth. When the tunnel narrowed until I could touch both sides, fear began to nip at me.

  We’d made it to the crypt. Tombs lined both walls from floor to ceiling, like file cabinets of death. The names were mostly worn away, though some showed the carved words. As we moved deeper, twisting and turning, we saw that some of the seals had crumbled away completely, revealing grinning skulls and flashes of other bone.

  Finally, we reached a dead end. This time, Bran’s frustration showed. He slammed his boot into the offending wall. “Damn! I was so certain this was the right way!”

  “It’s okay,” I soothed. “Hang out here for a second, I’ll backtrack and check the other tunnel.”

  Hurrying back the way we’d come, I saw that the passage we hadn’t chosen was also blocked.

  I returned, brushing cobwebs from my hair. “Hey, we’ll need to double back at least . . .”

  Bran’s lit torch hung in a rusted iron holder. Bran himself was gone. He was gone. And I was alone.

  Chapter 45

  MY VOICE SHOOK, “THIS ISN’T FUNNY, YOU KNOW.”

  Silence.

  “Bran?”

  A crunch from deep in the tunnels. A random chunk of stone? Eustace? Bony fingers crawling from a grave? I yanked the torch from the wall and waved it out in front of me like a sword, pressing my back against the wall.

  “Bran,” I hissed as the terror ate into me.

  “Yes?” Bran’s voice said from just behind me.

  I whirled, torch raised to strike. He squeezed the rest of the way out—as if from the stone itself. I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Wha—how?”

  Then I saw it. A cleverly constructed false wall that folded back on itself. You had to be at the perfect angle to even find it.

  I lowered the torch. “Fabulous,”
I snapped. “But if you ever leave me like that again, I may have to kill you.”

  Three sharp turns and a descent down four flights of nearly vertical steps took us to another world. At the bottom, the floor morphed from slick gray stone to a mosaic that shone in jewel colors where our footprints dislodged the dirt.

  Excited, I tugged on his arm. “The cave under my aunt’s house has a floor like this. That’s gotta be good, right?”

  The torchlight revealed elegant fluted columns supporting a ceiling that swirled in black and white concentric circles.

  “Roman?” I wondered aloud. “Or . . . no, I think it’s even older than that.”

  We stopped beside a dust-choked bronze sculpture. Waist high, it’d been cleverly molded into a cupped hand.

  “There’s some very ancient wood here.” Bran peered down into the sculpture’s palm. “I think this was for fires.”

  He set the torch to the dry kindling, and in moments light flickered, revealing the huge statue that dominated the chamber.

  She was an angel. Or more likely a pagan goddess. Much, much older than the saints guarding the congregation above. The woman’s blank eyes stared down into her own cupped palm.

  “That must be her,” Bran said. “The lady. The entrance to the Source has to be around here somewhere.”

  While he searched the perimeter, I puttered around the base of the statue, staring up into the serene face. Curious, I scrambled onto the square plinth, using the statue’s marble skirts to steady myself. As I perched next to her, my arm around her slim waist for support, I leaned out to peer down into her hand.

  A globe-shaped object rested in it, as if she kept watch over the world in miniature. Reaching out, I touched it. Something flaked off. I scratched at it, and another white chunk fell away. Frantic now, I gouged at the object. Tiny pieces of ancient painted clay crumbled beneath my touch, revealing what was hidden beneath. As the object came free at last, I plucked it from her palm. And stared.

  “Bran.” Excitement edged my voice. “Come here. Now!”

  I beamed down at him. “Heads up.”

  His nimble hands flew, snatching what I knew, without a doubt, had to be the true Nonius Stone. “Bugger me,” he breathed. “You found it.”

  This time there was no question. Even in the low light, the black stone sparked with all the colors of the rainbow, just as Pliny had described. Red and violet. Green, orange, yellow, and blue.

  “The lady lies beneath their knees,” Bran said in a whisper, looking up at the shadowed ceiling. A smile danced across his lips as he held up a hand to me. “Come here,” he said in a smoky tone that took my breath away.

  As Bran held out a hand to help me down, his grin faded. I followed his gaze to where the statue’s arm met her shoulder. There was a dark seam in the otherwise flawless marble. He helped me down, handed me the stone, then reached up and pulled on the statue’s outstretched arm. Her shoulder joint gave way with a loud creak, followed by a horrible screech of stone as the statue began to turn.

  When it stopped, it had turned ninety degrees, revealing an opening no more than two feet across. Situated at the base of the plinth, a perfect square of black now marred the white marble. It looked like a mouth waiting to consume us.

  As we stared at what could only be the entrance to the Source, I took an involuntary step back. My throat closed, and the phobia I’d experienced since my time inside the nightmare tree roared to life.

  That can’t be it. No way. It’s too small. Too small.

  “Nope. Can’t do it. It’s too tight. I mean, don’t you see? There has to be another way. Yes, another way. Just have to keep looking.”

  Understanding dawned on Bran’s face. “That’s what happened to you in the tunnels earlier. You’re claustrophobic.”

  “Oh, okay, Einstein,” I said. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” My voice had gone all screechy and black dots now danced at the edges of my vision. I recognized the sign. The onset of a full-blown migraine.

  Bran spared a quick glance over one shoulder. “How about this?” he said. “I’ll go in first. Scope it out, so to speak?”

  Before I could argue, he grabbed the torch, dropped to all fours, and crawled into the entrance. An orange glow rimmed his body as he moved inside. After a moment, even that disappeared and I was left alone with only the bronze sculpture’s dwindling fire for company.

  An eternity passed as I paced back and forth in the flickering circle. With every rotation, I glanced at the hateful square of blackness, praying for a glimpse of light. “Bran?” I whispered.

  Nothing.

  Is the fire going out? What if he never comes out? What if I end up alone here in the dark? I glanced back at the opening.

  Darkness. Nothing. Alone.

  I crouched before the entrance and tried again, his name wrenched from my lips in a primal scream. No answer. I closed my eyes and dropped back on my heels. “Where are you?”

  Fire blazed up in my face. I yelped and I scuttled backwards—crab-like—damp palms slipping against gritty tile.

  “Well,” Bran croaked as he crawled out. “That’s hardly the hero’s reception I was expecting.”

  Feeling foolish, I rushed to help him to his feet. In an instant I could see that the exertion had cost him. He looked ghastly. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and he was shivering convulsively. I knew by the way his skin scorched my palm that the fever was worse, so much worse.

  How’s he still standing?

  Bran’s elegant hands rested on my shoulders. “Okay. It’s not so bad.” His voice was gentle, coaxing, though I noticed he wouldn’t quite look me in the eye. “I mean, we probably wouldn’t want to summer there or anything, but it opens up nicely once you get inside.”

  “How far inside?”

  He waggled a hand back and forth. “Ehh . . . not that far.”

  “Bran.”

  He looked away. “A hundred meters or so.”

  I did a quick conversion. “You expect me to squeeze through that tiny toothpaste tube of an opening, the length of a freaking football field?” Close to hyperventilating now, I eked out the words between inhalations. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t. You go. I’ll just stay here. I’ll become a seamstress or something. I’ll—I’ll whore on the streets if I have to. I don’t have any personal experience, but how bad could it be? And it’s nice here. No pollution. And—”

  I stumbled over a fallen column and sat down hard, panting. Already I could feel the walls closing in around me.

  Bran knelt before me. “I’d wager you can’t sew worth a damn. And as far as whoring goes”—he cocked a half grin—“I hear it’s an awful return on one’s investment. Especially during this age. You’d end up spending half your money on powdered goat balls, or whatever it is they use these days to get rid of the clap.”

  “They didn’t have the clap in the twelfth century,” I rasped

  “Syphilis, then.”

  “Nope.” Wheeze. “That didn’t start until—”

  “Either way,” he cut in, “I have to say prostitution wouldn’t be my first choice in career paths for you.”

  Wheeze. Pause. One side of my mouth twitched as I met his eyes. “No?”

  “No,” he said. “Decidedly not.”

  In the uncertain yellow of the flame, Bran’s eyes burned like jewels in a face gone pale as porcelain, with beautiful, gaunt planes. The fever was eating him up from the inside. Without the proper treatment, the infection spreading from his wound would get worse. He’d get sick. He would die.

  Die. The word tasted like poison in my mouth. I swallowed hard. Of all people on this godforsaken world, I could not—would not—let him die. We were the same, he and I, aliens in our own time.

  His voice was fierce as he whispered, “Listen to me. You are the strongest, bravest person I’ve ever met. With barely any warning, you traveled a thousand years into the past to save your mum. And who do you know that would sacrifice their only way home for someone else?”


  “I know you,” I said, softly.

  “Yes, well . . . aside from my brother, I haven’t much to go home to.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Bran shook his head, staring hard into my eyes. “Untrue. Besides, no one can come close to matching that lovely brain of yours. You melted iron bars, for Christ’s sake.” That crooked incisor peeked out. “I think you’re a bloody superhero. Of course,” he said, eyebrows waggling, “you’ll need a cape and some tights.”

  I tried to scowl, but I couldn’t hold it. He wrapped me up in his arms. When his lips grazed my ear, I shivered though I was no longer cold. Not at all.

  When he pulled back, I skimmed the pads of my fingertips across his forehead. “Your temp’s getting worse.”

  He stood, smiling down at me. “Then let’s go home and get some blasted ibuprofen, shall we?”

  When I took his outstretched hand, electrical pulses sizzled along my nerve endings. He cocked his head to the side, studying me.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just imagining you in those tights. I’m not sure my heart could take it.”

  A buzz of pleasure shot through me at the lazy look in his eyes. Somehow, I managed to whisper, “There you go with the talking again.”

  Bran grinned and wrapped an arm around me again, tilting his head to rest against mine. We stood like that for a while, staring into the square of darkness.

  “So,” I murmured, “crawling into the bowels of hell, huh? That should be fun.”

  His chuckle rumbled through me. “Loads.”

  When his knees wobbled, I held him up, giving strength for once instead of taking it.

  Chapter 46

  AS SOON AS WE ENTERED, I FELT IT. THAT ELEMENTAL, cell-invading tremor I’d first experienced under my aunt’s home. It quivered up the bedrock, through my palms and knees, and across my skin. This was it. The way back.

  Just ahead of me, Bran struggled to push the torch out in front of him. He called back over his shoulder, “See? Not so bad, is it? Keep holding on to me. We’ll be out of this in a jiff. Just breathe.”