The wildside book of fan.., p.39
The Deathstone, page 39
THE DEATHSTONE
THE HOUR HAS COME FOR EVIL TO HONOR INNOCENCE... IN AN ACT OF BLOOD.
KEN EULO
Table of Contents
Begin Reading
Connecticut ● New York ● Colorado
Table of Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE & PREFACE
Copyright Notices
Other Books by Ken Eulo
Dedication
PROLOGUE
ONE
FIRST STEPS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
TWO
GETTING THERE
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THREE
MARDI GRAS
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FOUR
THE CROWNING
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
FIVE - LAST FRIDAY
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY--ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
Copyright Notices
KEN EULO
THE DEATHSTONE
Copyright © 1982, 2013 by Ken Eulo
Int’l ISBN: 978-1-62071-093-7
ISBN: 1-62071-093-5
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic means is forbidden unless written permission has been received from the publisher
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
For information address:
Author & Company, LLC
P.O. Box 291
Cheshire, CT 06410-9998
This eBook was designed by iLN™
and manufactured in the United States of America.
Other Books by
KEN EULO
The Brownstone (Stone Trilogy #1)
The Bloodstone (Stone Trilogy #2)
To learn more about Ken Eulo and
all of his books please visit:
http://www.keneulo.com
Dedication
For our firstborn, Kenneth, a special light whom we all love
PROLOGUE
1299 A.D.
Rottingen, France
THE EXCITEMENT WAS INFECTIOUS. EVEN THE BLAZE OF THE SUN fracturing the twisted rooftops at so many different levels could not diminish the suspense. The sounds in the square rose, the mingling and slowly loudening voices of people, the blacksmith’s hammer smashing against white-hot iron, the noise of hooves and wheels on cobblestones, the street howls from peddlers: “Rags and bones! Rags and bones!” Then a competitive cry: “Dog skin... human hair! Dog skin... human hair!”
Chickens and pigs clucked, rooted, grunted and pecked among heaps of straw and slop, getting in everyone’s way though no one noticed or cared. Soot and ash settled over landscape and invaded human orifices. There was a paroxysm of coughs; then silence. All at once, in that choke-filled, excrement-ridden atmosphere—the time had come.
Now a tide of people squeezed through the gate and followed a well-worn path leading up the side of the mountain. The horseman sat astride his animal and ordered the people to clear the way. People grumbled.
“Stand aside!” he ordered, forcing the huge sweating side of the animal against the crowd. “Scum! Stand aside!”
Most of them had come from far away to witness the spectacle. They did not welcome the delay. Many would have to remain on the road all afternoon to ensure getting home before nightfall. Besides, they had made the journey in joy; their hearts were always full when they watched the soldiers putting witches to death.
Further on, the procession had already stopped. The captain wiped beads of sweat from his brow and shielded his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun. He peered down the rocky hill and waited.
A stranger could not mistake the fact that this was a place of death, because five upright beams stood naked against the sky. Sometimes there were more, but there were never less than five.
For a long time people stood aside, wide eyed like children, comfortable with their lice and smoky smell and dirty hands and faces. They drank wine and ale, laughed, while the young ones babbled questions. Dice were thrown and plaintive songs were bawled in high humor. Death was cheap. It came, it went. There were always dead beggars to be seen along the roads. Rarely did anyone pause. Sickness and fever were a way of life.
Still the sun rose higher in the sky. Soldiers dozed on the jagged rocks. Below the rocks, beggars scrambled among the people begging for a molded crust of bread which might otherwise be discarded.
“Here, eat this!” a woman screamed with laughter and lifted her dress above her waist. The beggar was instantly shoved aside and from everywhere eager hands reached out to ravish the whore. Today there was no charge. Fornication was a favorite pastime before and after an execution.
Others stood aside in small gatherings and discussed their favorite death. They had seen death by spear, stoning, quartering by horses, strangulation, drowning, burning—still crucifixion was preferred. Other methods, the majority agreed after some pleasurable deliberation, were all too quick. Hardly worth the journey.
“Crucify them!” someone shouted. A chant quickly began. “Crucify them! Crucify them!” Behind the cries, hot sticky fingers lustfully probed between the whore’s wanton legs.
Abruptly a moan escaped the crowd as five women appeared at the foot of the hill. The captain rose in his saddle and stared down through a remorselessly sunny landscape. Each woman carried a huge piece of timber on her right shoulder. It was ritually prescribed that each would carry her own crosspiece.
Barely in view, one of the women stumbled and almost collapsed. Her knees bent; then, by effort, they straightened. A rousing cheer went up from the crowd—they were primed to see blood.
“Crucify them!” the crowd hissed. “Crucify them!”
The ragged band of women started their climb up the mountain. They moved slowly, breasts partially exposed, legs and arms bruised from where the soldiers had taken pleasure in beating them. Each step brought with it a sharp pain as the jagged rocks cut deep into the balls of their bare feet. A whip was used to keep them moving.
Along the sides of the path people argued the guilt or innocence of one of the women who had been popular at the inn. “A good whore put to waste,” grumbled a voice. A fight suddenly broke out and soldiers sprang forth with spears to quell the disturbance.
Now the walk to the cross was half-finished. The spectators were not so numerous on the hill, because this was a restricted area. Only the Town Elders were afforded the privilege of making this final climb. Still, those who were there spat at the women, hurled stones, laughing and shouting: “Go to hell where you belong! Die!” Others shouted: “Bitch-witch, Bitch-witch,” in a sort of sing-song chant. Under the law, sympathy toward the accused was forbidden.
All at once, from between the tightly pressed crowd, a little girl clawed herself free. Her eyes were transfixed on her mother. Tears coursed down her cheeks. Mutely her mother stopped and held out her free hand to her child. Blood ran down the woman’s arm and drew up into a small puddle in the palm of her hand.
Other women, seeing this, began to sob and found it exceedingly difficult to bear the sight of her, this broken woman who was about to have nails driven through her wrists and feet.
“Stupid bitch!” scowled an angry husband. “Do you want them to see you? Accuse you?” The old woman quickly dabbed her eyes and laughed.
“Momma!” screamed the child and darted for her mother’s outstretched hand.
“Hold, child!” the soldier ordered and forced her back into the crowd. “Momma! Momma!” the child screamed. She thrashed out violently, trying to free herself. The soldier held his grasp. She clawed at his hands, chest, her eyes swollen, one hand desperately reaching out to her mother.
The woman begged her child not to grieve, and her covert glance into
A softer eye contact. Please.
“Move it, slut!” The soldier stuck his spear into the soft flesh of her back and pushed. The woman lurched forward, a tiny trickle of blood flowing from her fresh wound. Glancing back for the last time, she watched her daughter break free of the soldier and disappear into the crowd. It had been a poor sort of farewell.
The woman moved on. The minutes passed slowly and yet too quickly. There was the longing to go rapidly toward the inevitable conclusion; the longing for the humiliation to cease. And yet, the desire for life to go on even in its worst agony.
From time to time she peered into the crowd and could see her daughter frantically pushing between people, trying to get a last look at her. The child appeared confused and frightened and shook so violently that it seemed she could scarcely stand. She wailed, “Momma! Momma!,” while with an elaborate show of disdain, people cleared their throats and spat upon her. Several men took hold of the child and spun her around, while others picked up stones. A sound went through the air as though a herd of animals had suddenly stampeded. The crowd was getting restless. Soldiers jumped to their feet in alarm. The mountain rumbled as people stamped the ground with their feet and smashed rocks together, tapping out the passage of time, tapping the slow cadence of a dead march.
Now, at the top, a hush fell over the crowd. Excitedly they pressed in upon the soldiers and, with a muttering of curiosity, smiled their idiot grins.
A young soldier broke ranks and came across the rocks to where the captain sat astride his horse. He leered senselessly, conspiratorially. “We are ready,” he whispered and pointed in the direction of the women.
“Indeed,” the captain scoffed and shifted the weight of his lumbering body in the saddle. The horse shifted its hind legs with the redistribution of power. “Whoa,” the captain soothed. “Easy...”
His body bent forward slightly as he stroked the suppleness of the animal’s neck. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of the women’s faces. All but one were weeping. But then, he mused, her child had done enough weeping for both of them. His eyes met the flat gaze of the woman. Although he was not interested in the confrontation, he did not feel the inclination to avert his eyes. Her face was sunken, the deep wrinkles of her brow full of sweat. Her expression remained that of stone. Yet in her eyes there was a kind of triumph, the triumph of an unconquered spirit and the superior will of an avenging angel.
Nervously he scratched the black stubble of his bearded face. It required a degree of courage, indeed passion, to do what he was about to do. He waited a moment longer.
The crowd stirred.
“Let it be done!” his voice suddenly boomed. “Let it be... done.” His voice trailed away. The soldiers moved in quickly and began to strip the women naked. The nudity added shame to the proceedings and, at the same time, exposed the women to the millions of insects of the air. The vultures would come after the crucified were dead. The crowd roared its approval. The crucifixion had begun.
The sun dipped behind a cluster of clouds for a moment, causing the crowd to gaze upward. Below the mountain, the leaves of the trees and the flowers moved in a soft breeze. Lizards darted swiftly among the rocks and down into the dark crevices below.
Abruptly the sun reappeared. Cheers, yells, as all refocused their attention on the women. Screams now: “Sow! Witch-bitch! Burn them! Fuck them first! Fuck them!”
But still the little girl who huddled feverishly against the rocks would not take her eyes from her mother, from the soldiers who fondled her, mocked her. The child’s eyes burned with sorrow. And something else. Hatred. Deeply felt, seething hatred.
“Let’s see your heathen god save you now!” the soldier snarled as he tore the last bit of clothing from her body.
“If she believes in the devil,” another guard shouted, “then let him rise up from these stones and save her!” Other soldiers joined in the taunting.
Once they had completely stripped the woman naked, a cloth was wound between her loins and between her thighs with the loose end tucked in at the back. Her clothing, along with that of the others accused, was tossed onto a pile of wood and set afire.
A sharp crackling noise filled the air. Smoke swirled cocoon-like into the sky, mixing with a malevolent, hissing chant, ‘‘Burn, burn, burn...”
The child watched as her mother was brought swiftly to the ground. As soon as she fell, the beam was forced up tight against the back of her neck. The woman gave no resistance and said nothing. Even when her body hit the ground hard, she withstood the pain in silence.
Once begun, the business at hand was done effortlessly and efficiently. The woman’s left hand was held flat against the board. Staring up at the soldier’s face she wondered if she could withstand the torture. She couldn’t. With a sharp blow, the first square-cut iron nail was driven into the woman’s wrist. Her long agonized wail rose quickly in the noonday air. The soldier wiped a splattering of blood from his face, then moved to the other side of the woman’s body to the other wrist.
Rivulets of blood flowed freely over the rocks now, making their serpentine way into dark crevices of stone to where lizards dwelt, where nightmares were conjured, where lamentations and suffering were buried for centuries, set free now by the oozing scarlet liquid that softly, silently, reawakened their powers and stained all flowers a bloody red.
The child’s eyes swelled with tears. Her body trembled, shook—the hammer was brought down again. Hatred. She would not forget her hatred. Another forceful thud as the hammer struck iron. I shall remember, she said... I shall remember, she thought... I shall remember! she screamed.
With the last thud of the hammer, the child turned away.
Her mother had been crucified. She would remember.
ONE
FIRST STEPS
CHAPTER ONE
Father, the root of this little white flower
Among the stones has the taste of blood.
Something is very strange on the hill today.
The sun fades and reptiles are everywhere.
But do not run away, because...
THE HOUSE WAS SMALL. RESTRICTED. A SPANISH-MOORISH stucco dotted with palms in the Hollywood Hills section of Los Angeles. On either side were other such dwellings; to the rear, the abandoned estate of Huntington Hartford and, beyond, the precipitous clambering of hills. But in the early evening of July 18, the house looked festive. At approximately 6:20 P.M., Ron Talon glanced into the hall mirror, ran his hand indifferently through his hair, then turned to open the front door. Kristy, his six-year-old, was upstairs in her bedroom getting dressed; his wife Chandal was on the terrace making a last minute check of the food and drink. It was to be just another informal poolside gathering on an indolent Sunday night.
Ron’s hand stopped just short of the doorknob. He had heard a sharp, brittle sound from above. It came from Kristy’s room.
He paused to listen.
The sound was odd. Almost rhythmical. Now louder, faster. Then the sound abruptly ceased. Ron glimpsed his image in the mirror. And then it happened. It was something that had started with the first hot days of summer. Colors seemed to suddenly fade, and with the dulling of his perception, there came an overwhelming feeling of loneliness.
During these moments that seemed to be coming more frequently these days, he had the disturbing feeling that time had somehow eluded him, and that he had become lost in the scheme of things. He felt awkward sitting at his desk or discussing business with a client over lunch—even walking into his own kitchen in the evening. The simple act of eating dinner had become a chore.
Chandal slid open the terrace door and stuck her head inquiringly in his direction. He tried to smile and, as always lately, he groped for something he needed to tell her. Something half-remembered, just out of reach. Even now, as the warm colors of her existence flooded the living room, the words once again eluded him.
“Ron, someone’s at the door.”
“Do you think they’d go away if we didn’t answer?”
“Probably forever.” Chandal nodded as the doorbell rang twice more, its chimes sounding angry under the persistent finger.
