The deathstone, p.32
The Deathstone, page 32
“What kind of meat?” Ron felt himself sickening.
Tim Hadley smiled and pulled a flask of liquor from his pocket. He gulped feverishly and held the flask out to him.
Ron shook his head. His gaze drifted to Tim’s shotgun propped by his side. The distance between them was too great. He knew he’d never be able to get to the weapon unless Tim moved away.
Another splash of light, followed by a small explosion. “Ahhhh.”
“What’s that noise?” Ron asked.
“Fireworks. The Elders always like to make a big show of things on Last Friday. To get the young ones all stirred up. Me, all that noise rattles my guts.”
“I don’t suppose there’s water down here.”
“Not fit to drink.”
“How far below are we?”
“Depends on which direction you take. Fifty feet— hundred, hard to say.”
Ron reached down with his hand and touched the ground, and suddenly his hand froze. The stone behind him was ice-cold. He groped, trying to find a rock to use as a weapon.
He heard Tim say, “You’re a goddamn fool!”
He jerked his hand up into position as if it were still tied. “What?”
“Coming back the way you did. A goddamn fool.” Tim drank again, emptying his flask. With a gesture of disgust, he flung the flask across the chamber.
Another flash; explosion. “Ahhhh.”
Ron tried to speak, but his mind was a blank. A heavy mist crept its way along the chamber floor, truncating Tim’s torso at the waist.
“You were warned,” Tim mumbled. “You should have... His voice faded. He straightened and shook his head. “Piss on you!” he cried.
Ron flexed his fingers, trying to work out the numbness. The thumb on his right hand ached. “I really need a drink of water,” he said.
“Shut the fuck up!”
“I need—”
“I said shut up!” Tim rose in the mist like a great bear and stared down at Ron. He swayed slightly, reaching out to brace himself. Stiff with anger, he looked away, stared at his flask. Snorting and grumbling and spitting, he said, “Do you know how many lives are buried here? Do you? This fucking mountain is covered with the dead.” He glimpsed the casket. “But the stonecutter—he has her. Widow Wheatley. Every year he dies—every year he comes back!” A surge of outrage strained his eyes.
Ron slid his left leg under his right, pulling himself up into a more solid position. He shifted his body weight closer to the rock, until he was set in a coiled position ready to spring. “How long have you been part of this?” he asked.
Tim’s eyes lowered. “Twenty-five years. Just a boy I joined. Just a...”
“It bothers you, doesn’t it?”
“What’s another life? Here one minute, gone the next.”
“But still, it does bother you.”
“Guilt is weakness. And I told you to shut up!”
Tim stood above Ron, clenching his fists. His eyes were glazed, his skin white. Sweat ran in a steady stream down his face.
A sudden flash of light; an explosion. “Ehhhh.”
Ron prepared to strike.
Again Tim Hadley’s eyes shifted to his flask, and this time his eyes locked on it; a glitter of silver shroud by a yellow mist. He moved toward it.
Ron moved too. He rose and dashed in a single movement for the shotgun. He never stopped to look at the man to his right. He reached out and jerked up the weapon, bringing it around like a club, striking Tim Hadley above the collarbone. A rush of air burst from his mouth as he fell forward, striking his head on the edge of rock, and collapsed into stillness.
Ron stood for a moment, frozen. Waiting for Tim to move. He had the shotgun aimed at his head and his finger readied on the trigger.
He drew a breath, waited. Then let his eyes scan the crypt. In the moon-glow darkness all he could see were half-faces of statues leering at him. The muscles in his back and shoulders felt cramped. He shook off the sensation. He knew he had to move. But where? He’d never be able to find his way back through the maze of tunnels and passageways. He also knew he would not be given another chance. The next time they’d kill him.
But he wasn’t concerned with his death now. It was Chandal and Kristy he worried about. What had become of them? How in the hell was he going to reach them? Even if he did, what then? His options were nil.
Move, goddamn it. Move!
He backed to the center of the crypt and turned. Alister had gone off in that direction. No, there. He swirled in three directions at one time. He wasn’t sure.
A sudden flash of light. A small pop. “Ehhhh.”
He glanced up, debating another alternative. It was worth a try. There were ledges all the way to the top. At least he knew where he was going. A knot formed in his stomach. It was his only real chance.
He moved. It was too late.
The rush came from the side, out of the shadows of the far wall. Tim Hadley threw himself at his legs, and Ron thrust his hands out to prevent his head from smashing into the rocks. They rolled, Ron punching and Tim Hadley clutching, the air reverberating with grunts and groans. Dust, clots of earth, sticks snapped. Ron smashed his fist into the man’s face; his head jerked back, his nose busted open like a ketchup bottle. Tim yelled and released him, and Ron stumbled to his feet.
But the man had already regained his balance and charged again.
Ron turned to meet it, but before he could lift the shotgun he was hit by the full weight of Tim Hadley. He stumbled and fell backwards onto the ground. Tim’s body fell on top of him. He shoved the shotgun out with both hands to protect himself, but he didn’t have the strength to lift against that massive body. Quickly, Tim pressed the shotgun down against Ron’s chest, then forced it forward until it was pressed across his throat.
As Ron struggled, he felt the cold metal cut the air from his windpipe, until finally he began to gag for air. He could feel his lungs about to burst as the dead weight of the man on top of him pressed harder. He jerked his arm free and jammed his hand into Tim’s face. Bracing his foot against the rocks, he tried to jerk his body up, trying to throw Tim over on his side. There was no moving him.
For a moment Ron thought about giving up his struggle. Letting go. The palm of his hand fell back, reached out, groped, fashioning itself around a stone. With his last ounce of strength he smashed the stone into the back of Tim’s head. Hatred and revenge and power oozed out of him as he struck him again and again and again, until finally Tim Hadley stopped moving.
Ron staggered to his feet, his chest heaving, and stared down at the man. He lay perfectly still with his face lying in a pool of his own blood. Jesus Christ! Ron hoped he wasn’t dead. He stood for a moment in frightened awe, rooted to the spot. Then his senses burned again and the numbness left him. He had to move, and move quickly.
He removed his shirt, then his tee shirt; tore two small strips from the bottom, and bandaged his wrists. With the remainder of the tee shirt, he fashioned a strap and tied it to either end of the shotgun. Donning his shirt, he slung the weapon over his shoulder and tested the makeshift strap. This done, he began to climb.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
THE ROCK GAVE WAY BENEATH HIS FEET. HE REACHED OUT AND clung to the vine cluster above his head; one leg remained dangling in midair. Shaking, he glanced down. He heard the rock hit with a deafening crash on the ground below. It had taken a long time getting there.
Quickly he pulled his leg up and stood cramped on a narrow ledge. His outstretched arms were starting to strain. He inched closer to the wall. Held for a moment.
Turning around slowly, he saw evidence that the walls around him were partially caved in. Above him was a small niche. In slow motion, he lifted his foot to the next crevice. He pushed against it. It held.
He paused to catch his breath. A slight wind whistled among the rocks, adding to the feeling of desolation. From where he stood, he could see the moon. It hung in the sky like a bent spoon.
He waited and listened. All he could hear was the wind on stone and the occasional mutterings and carryings-on of the carnival.
With a light step, he moved a notch higher. One more step, another, then he dropped to his knees, trembling uncontrollably. A feeling of death rose within him, chilling his body. He unslung the shotgun and sat. He knew he was lucky to still be alive. He closed his eyes briefly, giving thanks to God, then took several deep breaths in preparation to move. Hands splayed by his buttocks, he opened his eyes and scanned his surroundings. With an effort, he stood.
Slowly he realized that there was an opening in the rocks behind him. No, more than an opening. A carved arch. He moved closer. A maze of catacombs lay ahead. A labyrinth of tunnels... and steep narrow steps that spiraled up.
He waited a few minutes for his eyes to adjust. He saw no movement on the steps. They had probably been used years ago when the crypt was first built. Satisfied that it was all clear, he slung his weapon over his shoulder and started up the steps.
When he emerged into the light again, he was no more than twenty feet from the opening at the top. He felt a small amount of relief, but noticed there was no way to get to the opening except through a narrow tunnel.
“Shit,” he muttered. If there was one thing he’d learned during his stay at Brackston, it was that narrow openings were not safe places.
With a sense of uncertainty, he felt along the rock inside the tunnel wall. He came away with a handful of wet sandstone. It was obvious the tunnel wasn’t very safe. The surface of stone was loose. Water seeped between its many layers. He slapped the inside wall with his open hand, harder; small pieces of rock fell from the opening.
He stepped back. The opening was no more than two feet in diameter. The opening of the average doorway was three feet. He studied the tunnel a moment longer. A crack ran along the wall before arching back to join the mouth of the tunnel.
Ron concentrated hard, then made his decision.
He crawled the first few yards with ease, dragging the shotgun with him. He could feel the slimy surface of stone against his skin. Reaching up with his palm, he felt the ceiling. Solid rock.
With enthusiasm, he glided like a water snake another five yards and then abruptly stopped. Ahead the tunnel narrowed. He tried forcing himself forward. It was no go. Trapped in darkness, he debated what he should do. Goddamn it! He forced his body backwards until his feet touched the ridge and then dropped.
His breath came in sharp gasps. He reminded himself not to panic. He waited until he felt the tension leave his body. If he could remain calm, remain relaxed, it should be possible to crawl through that space. He was sure of it. All he had to do was to remain calm, to breathe slowly.
He began to climb again, forcing himself to rest at various intervals. Then he burrowed with both hands in the wet stone. Rested. Moved a few inches. Burrowed some more. He was almost to the top when he saw a bright burst of light ahead. It came back again, but only for a moment. Then total blackness.
Now he could feel a steady stream of air as another piece of stone broke loose in his hand. Just a little more and he could get through. Just a little more. Then it happened. The earth around him began to move. He saw the earth give way first and then heard it, woosh followed by silence. He could not breathe. God, he was buried, imprisoned and suffocating in a large mound of earth; paralyzed by the heavy earth and stone that had collapsed around him.
He attempted to take small breaths. He continued to do this for several long moments, but the weight on his chest became impossible to bear. He grew dizzy. And he knew, absolutely knew, that he was about to die.
The children knew better than to ask questions. They sat shivering with expectation.
Now a tide of people squeezed through the back gate of the carnival ground 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. “Citizens of Brackston. Stand aside!”
“Crucify her!” someone shouted. A chant quickly began. “Crucify her! CRUCIFY HER!” Behind the cries, meat roasted, wanton fingers probed lustfully between the whore’s legs and dirty faces smiled while greeting their neighbors. “How are you, Abigail? Beautiful night, isn’t it?”
“Jack... Russell... good to see you. You both know Michael?”
“How are you, Michael? This is his first Last Friday, isn’t it?”
Michael nodded, hanging onto his father’s hand.
Then suddenly they came. Out of the vast wilderness, out of legend and myth, out of the depths of human hatred itself.
They came first into the town square, shaking their death-rattles, uttering strange lamentations. Part man, part beast, part bird. Wearing ceremonial dress adorned with jackal heads, bear heads, bird feathers and grotesque wooden masks, they danced on hooves, claws and on bare feet. With eyes peering through long bird beaks and gaping goat mouths, through bull nostrils and ram horns, they flashed symbols of fire and stone.
They moved on, dancing for the smiling children. No longer men, but embodied forces of earth and sky swirling through the dust of the hills, shaking that remote noise of hatred, stirring and entreating the children to awaken to the wonder and mystery of their role in the cosmic order of things.
Suddenly it was over.
The mountainside fell hushed.
With great frenzy and excitement, all eyes turned to face the stone. The time had come.
Huge birds of many colors were hovering overhead. A faint breeze was stirring through the trees with a whispered sound indescribably smooth and soothing. The bright moon-glow— pure, dazzling yet soft—illuminated a scene of paradisiacal splendor. Pure whiteness glimmered on either side of him, the soft glow a warming sensation.
So this was death.
The thought trickled through his consciousness like a faint reflection of something glimpsed in a steamed-over mirror. Abruptly something roared in his ears. Fireworks—thunder?
Just as Ron’s lungs were about to explode, the earth slipped away from his face. He forced his body forward enough so that his head was now resting in a small pocket which enabled him to breathe. Above him he could see the glimmer of moon and stars.
Christ, he was alive. Alive! He felt a slight breeze caress his face. He endeavored to raise his right arm and he laughed like a person emerging from ether with aches and painful stiffness in every part of his body. His arms were all but immovable.
Alive, he whimpered inwardly. Was it possible?
With great effort, he pulled his right arm free, then digging frantically, he freed his left arm. Stretching out both arms, he pulled himself up until he had freed himself.
The ground beneath him began to tremble. He froze. All his terror returned. His slightest movement could disturb the balance of things, sending him down again in an avalanche of dirt and rock that would bury him forever. He could almost envision his fears liquified, ice-blue in color, oozing from the stone above, the earth below.
But the shotgun was still lodged in the earth below. He could see it. He dropped to his stomach and reached down with his hand. His fingertips just grazed the nose. The earth started to sink, the shotgun with it. He reached farther, straining, groping. Taking hold of the weapon, he pulled. The shotgun came up as the earth slid away, leaving the chamber below completely sealed off.
He rolled over on his back and hugged the shotgun like a long lost lover. His breath came in short gasps, eventually slowly and steadying.
Finally he managed to stand up. He switched the shotgun from his right hand to his left and stripped off the makeshift sling. Both of his wrists were still bleeding, the exertion having pumped the blood more violently through his veins. The bandages on his wrists were soaked in blood.
He paused only long enough to wrap another layer of tee shirt around each wrist. Then turning slowly, he saw he was standing some ten feet from the mouth of a cave. He inched forward along the wall until he had reached the opening. His whereabouts, his next actions, and his approaching destiny were merely links in an endless chain of things unknown.
CHAPTER FIFTY
THE STARS WERE FADING ONE BY ONE, SMUDGED BY BILLOWING smoke that rose lazily before his eyes. The night was slowly turning a slate gray. Far below a dark group stood motionless before the gates of the town. High and slender torches cast their light over various faceless countenances, hushed for the moment in one solemn and intent expression. Now there rose a slow and dismal music that floated far along the desolate ridges; while a chorus of voices accompanied the woodwind sound.
First came the musicians, playing a slow march—next the women, chanting their strange melodious dirges. The female voices mingled with those of children, whose light and airy voices made a striking contrast of life and death—the fresh flower and the withered one.
Ron leaned against the edge of the cave, feeling the cold stone prickle through his shirt. It didn’t seem quite so dark now; his eyes were beginning to adjust. He could see the shapes of houses far below and the menacing bulk of stone leading up the side of the mountain.
Now a sudden burst of flames on a plateau above the gate on higher ground. Children dashed madly about torching a huge stack of wood. The fire flashed luminously across the gloomy valley—it shot above the massive walls of the neighboring cliffs; and Ron started to behold the blaze reddening on the creatures’ faces who danced around it.
They were circling the fire now, dancing in a madman’s frenzy, delirium, their huge animal heads weaving in and out of shadows. The fire blazed up with a roar, sending a column of red flames soaring. They moaned and wailed and shouted. Even though the words were unintelligible, Ron felt that their hideous shrieks were like a hand held toward him, a handshake with death.
While the voices swelled, mounting to a climax, the procession from below rose; they shuffled in single file along the narrow path. One by one they came, stepping in rhythm to the solemn, dark tune. The musicians led the way, fanning out; then the old women arrived at the plateau followed by the children. Hundreds more remained below, stood in monumental silence, and stared up at the spectacle.
