Chapter 10: Monastery of Ice
"Can you get the phone?" El asked, calling out from the bathroom. "I'm still wet from the shower. It could be the hospital."
Peter glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock. Who else would be calling this late? He stopped unbuttoning his shirt and picked up the receiver of the bedside phone.
A deep, brusque voice was at the other end. "St. Jude. Prospect Hill. Go now!"
"Lavinia?"
"You're wasting time."
"What do you mean by St. Jude? Do you know what time it is?" This was the first time she'd ever called him at home. It must be important, but if she wanted him to go out in the middle of a thunderstorm, she'd have to explain why.
"The church. He's not ready. Go or it will be too late!"
"Who's not ready? Neal?" Typical Lavinia. She ignored his questions while pursuing her own indecipherable agenda. But there was no mistaking the tone of urgency in her voice.
"You were supposed to protect him!"
"Now wait a minute. You never told me to be his bodyguard. What's this all about?" But he wasn't destined to know. She'd already slammed the receiver down. Peter sat down on the bed. Should he go?
El came out of the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. "Who was that?"
"Lavinia Armitage, the head librarian."
"At this hour? What does she want?"
"She's worried about Neal. Said I should go to the old church on Prospect Hill."
"St. Jude's? Why would he be in a boarded-up church at this hour?"
"Hell if I know." Peter tucked his shirt in and started downstairs. "And only one way to find out. I hope to be back soon."
The rain lashed the windscreen of his black Torino as he drove out the driveway. Wretched night to be out and about. On the drive over, he pondered El's question. What possessed Neal to be at the church? Did he have another vision? And how did Lavinia know about it?
The church was only a short drive away. When Peter pulled to a stop, he looked around for a car but the parking lot was empty. Neal might not own one. He lived so near to the university, he didn't need to.
The church was dark. A few security lights were on outside. This was crazy. Grumbling to himself, Peter pulled out a flashlight from the glove compartment, reached for his umbrella, and sprinted for the front door. The wind was so strong, it threatened to reverse his umbrella.
The porch roof sheltering the church entrance provided little relief from the rain. When Peter tested the door, he was surprised to find it unlocked. He folded up his umbrella and left it next to the door. Switching on his flashlight, he walked into the dark interior of the church.
"Neal? You here?" Peter paused at the entrance to listen. Only silence. He called again. His words echoed in the cavernous hall, mocking him. A sweep of the church with his flashlight revealed no sign of a wayward linguistics professor. Peter trained the light on the floor. There in the dust were clear imprints of running shoes. Were they Neal's? The size looked about right. They led down the nave toward the front of the church. Perhaps he was here, after all.
Peter followed the footprints to the front of the church and up the broad steps to the altar.
A Nikon camera lay on the otherwise bare altar. Even though the altar was covered with dust, there wasn't a speck on the camera. Peter picked it up. The area underneath the camera had been swiped, with traces of finger impressions left in the smudges. Neal had slim fingers that were a good match for the smudges.
The footprints ended at the altar, with none leading away from it. The altar was a solid block of stone. No hidden cavity that he could find.
Stymied, Peter shone his flashlight around the transept and ambulatory. Perhaps Neal had been here. But where was he now?
#
Any notion of time or distance was impossible. All Neal knew was that he was sinking ever deeper into a sea of terror.
The monstrosities prodded and gibbered. They tore at his clothes and gnawed his flesh. The dark sea was luminescent with phosphorescence. Some of the creatures were translucent and he caught glimpses of their internal organs underneath their flesh. Neal was beyond screaming. Exhausted by the constant attacks, he'd ceased to struggle long ago. He closed his eyes, attempting to block out the abominations around him, but there was no relief . . .
Why wasn't he dead? He must be fathoms beneath the surface by now. He'd taken his last gasp of air an eternity ago but he felt no need to breathe. Perhaps he was already dead. Hell couldn't be worse than this. He opened his eyes. He was sinking below the phosphorescence which was now a distant sickening glow high overhead.
As he sank ever deeper, eventually he left the creatures behind. No gibbers. No claws tearing at him.
He was alone.
Neal gradually became aware he wasn't simply sinking, he was being dragged down. What force was it that could exert such a pull?
He soon found out when without warning he hit the rim of a powerful whirlpool which sent him spinning out of control. Overwhelmed by nausea, he closed his eyes to the dizzying blur of colors smeared together in a maelstrom of destruction.
How much time had passed? He must have blacked out for he no longer felt water on his skin but the rush of wind. He opened his eyes and discovered he was hurtling through the air as if he'd been plucked from the vortex by a monstrous hand. What new terror was this?
He was flung onto a sheet of ice, where he skidded helplessly on his back before careening into a boulder. There he lay gasping for air in an atmosphere so rarefied, so ice-cold, he despaired of finding enough oxygen to fill his lungs. With each breath, the ice penetrated deeper into his core.
Neal raised a hand to his face. Already frost was forming on his skin. Ice clung to his eyelashes, making it difficult to see. He braced himself against the boulder to sit up and take in the desolate surroundings. He was near the edge of a plateau with jagged edges. Off in the distance toward the center was a large ice formation. Probably an illusion, but to his weary eyes it looked like a low flat-roofed building made of ice and surrounded by tall pillars—giant mammoth tusks of ice curving inward toward the structure.
The plateau surface was scored with deep trenches as if hot molten metal had been drizzled over the ice. No mountains to be seen. Overhead in a midnight-blue sky, stars hung shriveled and lifeless in the thin air. No recognizable constellations to guide him home.
Neal staggered to his knees then his feet. Amazingly his clothes, though now completely coated with ice, were intact. He'd expected to find gaping wounds and bloodstains, but it was as if none of that had occurred. Was this all one long nightmare?
Wrapping his arms around his chest in an abortive attempt to cling to what little residual heat remained within his body, Neal stomped his feet to try to maintain circulation. He was a mere thirty feet or so from the drop-off. Neal moved forward cautiously but despite his care quickly slipped and fell on the treacherous ice. He resorted to crawling on his hands and knees.
The wall of ice below was a sheer escarpment with clouds midway down which obscured the bottom. Off in the distance the tips of a few jagged peaks jutted out from the clouds, but none was as high as his new prison. If the boulder hadn't stopped his slide, he would have plummeted off the edge to a certain death.
Shaking convulsively, Neal inched his way backward. The wind had been light when he arrived but was now increasing in irregular gusts which threatened to turn his bones into dry ice. He crept toward the ice formation at the center. It could provide slight protection from the wind . . . if he didn't pass out before he reached it.
For Neal knew with fatalistic certainty that soon he would lose consciousness, never to revive. And if this were a nightmare, why should he fight it? Wouldn't it be better to simply close his eyes now, hoping to awake in his world? And if it weren't a nightmare, wouldn't it be better to die now rather than drag it out?
Logically that was the best solution. He stopped, closed his eyes, and abandoned himself to the ice and the wind . . .
Well, that sucked.
He'd simply succeeded in making himself feel even colder. He hadn't thought that was possible.
Okay, body, you want to keep on living? Get me to that ice palace. Good times ahead. Roaring fire in the fireplace. Mulled wine. Question: do I like mulled wine? I need to try it then I can die.
Lecturing, cajoling, mocking himself, he finally reached the structure. Lousy building. No door. How's a fellow supposed to enter and drink mulled wine without a door? By now, his eyes were so coated with frost, he didn't attempt to keep them open. He crawled along the structure, relying on his fingers to find anything that could form a shelter. The legs on his jeans were shredded, but he was far too weak to stand up. One small consolation—it was so cold, his legs were numb to the pain.
Neal rounded one corner then inched his way along the far long side until he stretched out a hand and felt . . . nothing. Had he come to the end? Neal pried his eyes open. Squinting, he saw an opening in the wall. Was this salvation? Or a portal to something far worse?
He plunged forward and collapsed inside the cavity. He must have lost consciousness once more for the next thing he knew, he felt marginally warmer. A faint light was now visible at the end of a long tunnel. He had no memory of seeing it earlier. The tunnel was narrow, but the walls straight. This was no natural construction. It reminded him of the inside of an Egyptian tomb.
As he gathered his strength to stand up, he heard it again. The flute. The same melody that he'd heard in the church so long ago. He lay sprawled on the ice listening to it for several minutes, but it wouldn't let him stay there for long. It was compelling him forward. Neal crawled over to the wall and used it for support to pull himself up. Slowly he moved toward the light. The light grew ever brighter and now he could perceive glyphs carved into the ice. With a start, he recognized several of them as being the same marks as those on the starfish.
At the end of the tunnel, he paused, placing a hand on the wall for support. In front of him was a room about thirty feet square. The walls were covered with the same starfish glyphs, but he ignored them. Standing in the middle was a lone figure. He was playing an ebony flute with his back to Neal, but stopped upon Neal's arrival. The figure stood next to an altar of onyx carved with a filigree of grotesque shapes resembling the monsters in the abyss. A hermit priest in a monastery of ice.
He turned toward Neal, a yellow mask obscuring his face. His hands were also encased in yellow gloves. His black silk robe was etched with vermilion calligraphy. Placing the flute on the altar, he walked forward.
"Neal Carter, you sought me out and so I have come." The priest's voice was refined and gentle with a British accent. It sounded like one of his professors at Oxford. This must be a dream. The thought reassured him even if there were no waking from it.
"Who are you?" Neal's voice was a frozen whisper, barely recognizable.
"I have many names, but I serve only one—he who sits on the black throne, the ruler of time and space. Some of my names you will learn later. For know this—you and I will have many more meetings."
At his words, Neal tried to back away, but found his shoes frozen solid to the ice floor. Neal stared with horror as the priest moved ever closer. His voluminous robe prevented any understanding of the form underneath.
"You find my monastery cold? Your tremors bore me." He flicked two gloved fingers, and within an instant Neal was no longer shaking. The hoary frost covering his body had hardened into a frozen shell, making any movement impossible. Then it struck him. The presence he'd felt that morning in the hospital. Neal knew with absolute certainty that the yellow-masked priest in front of him had been with him in the imaging chamber. And he knew who the priest was. Evil incarnate.
"Neal Carter, you dared find me. You will return when I call. But until then, begone!"
He placed a gloved hand on Neal's chest over his heart and pressed into his flesh. His hand was a white-hot poker branding his heart. Neal screamed. The poker pressed relentlessly ever deeper until all went black.
#
Still no sign of Neal. Peter stood in the side hallway and pondered his next move. He'd searched the church and the small cluster of auxiliary rooms, but all in vain. If Neal had been here, he'd probably returned home and was now sleeping safely in bed. He'd simply forgotten his camera. The lack of footprints leading away from the altar was troubling, but what other explanation was there?
And how did Peter know it was Neal who'd made the footprints in the first place? Lavinia didn't say he was in the church—just that Peter should go there. Confound the woman for being so cryptic. Peter vowed to return home after a quick final circuit.
A lightning bolt pierced the hall followed instantaneously by a deafening clap of thunder. That was too close for comfort. Had the roof caught on fire? Peter raced back to the nave to check for flames.
What was that?
Peter stopped and listened intently. There it was again. A low moan coming from the south side of the nave.
"Neal, is that you?" Peter sprinted over, sweeping the area with his flashlight until he spotted a pale shape at the base of one of the columns. Was that Neal? It looked more like a fallen statue. The figure was unrecognizable, apparently covered in white plaster. His hair, his face, his clothes were all coated with the stuff. Had he fallen from the balcony?
Neal was attempting to sit up. As Peter crouched beside him he realized with shock that Neal wasn't covered with plaster but a thick layer of hoary frost.
"Peter, is that really you?" His voice was a husky whisper. He was shaking so violently that the frost was quickly melting.
"In the flesh. My god, what happened to you?" His skin was cold as ice. Peter worked frantically to brush off the frost before further damage was done.
Neal clung to his arm with icy fingers. "Did you see him? The priest in the yellow mask?"
Peter looked around bewildered. "There's no one else here. Just take it easy. You're safe now." It was about sixty degrees outside. How had Neal gotten encased in frost? But he was in no state to answer. His teeth were chattering so badly, he could barely talk. "Can you walk?" Peter asked.
He nodded but didn't attempt to stand. No breaks or injuries that Peter could see, but his jeans had been ripped to shreds. The skin underneath appeared to be undamaged. Neal had a rain jacket on but it was soaking wet along with the rest of his clothes. Peter took off his raincoat and wrapped it over his shoulders. Sighing gratefully, Neal folded himself into a huddled ball within the warmth of the coat.
"Sorry, kid, but rest comes later." Drawing a deep breath, Peter wrapped an arm under his shoulders to hoist him up. Neal was in no shape to help much, but Peter was relieved he didn't let out any cries of pain. Whatever had happened had transformed him into a human icicle but not a broken one.