Well, it only took a month, but the new chapter is finally here. I blame school, work, and a rather annoying case of writers' block. Yeah, nothin like a little stress…
Great Deacon Road
Midnight
Less than ten minutes after Montoya's rescuers had departed with their alternately despairing and elated new passenger, Trevor Belmont stood beneath the eves of Soobie's Tavern, his arms folded across his chest. His black eyes surveyed the rough landscape of the Camilla Drawers in front of him, but he saw nothing. His thoughts were traveling faster than any horse he'd ever ridden; the words of the hanged man were a constant litany in his head, and had been since he'd finished his last beer. In the end, he'd managed to finish even more than Goriyas, who was now sprawled atop the piano in the corner in a small puddle of ale. Old Duncan Gibbons had just arrived (who smoked so much of the grass and opium that Trevor felt sure he must piss green) and was plinking his way through some of the songs that villagers claimed not to know of until the children had gone to bed and the women were feeling particularly wild. Old Wallachia favorites like "A Keg For the Kids" and "Toothless Marie", which were dragged out from under the table when the hour grew late.
This is not a good time to be ruminating, he told himself. And so he was right; he had consumed so much beer in the last three hours that he could not even stand straight. The letters on McAfee's Butcher Shop across the lane doubled, trebled. He had no business walking home on his own tonight. Best to wait until someone left who could give him a ride.
But I can't ride a horse tonight! His stomach seemed to yell in shocked surprise. It's unthinkable! The road home will be paved with vomit!
Trevor chuckled weakly to himself and began to descend the stairs. Fine, he could walk it. He lived less than three wheels from here, anyway. But he would sleep on the floor or in the stables tonight. No sense burdening his family with the consequences of his indulgences.
He had just reached the bottom of the stairs (the rain found him then and he drew back under the eve with a slight hiss, as if it burned to the touch) when the tavern doors blew open behind him. He turned and saw the girl Montoya had been wooing in the back corner by the card games. That brought a sudden and important thought to the forefront of his consciousness: just where the hell was Montoya? He'd been gone for at least a half an hour, hadn't he? He turned to the woman (who was now staring at him with a wary mixture of amusement and unease) with a single finger held up, as if he had a very important point to make. His foot slipped and he fell down the remaining two steps into a deep puddle, causing a massive splash.
"Damn fecking Avery," he muttered. Although he would not remember it later, he had slipped into an unconscious imitation of the Irishmen that sometimes passed through the town. "I've tole him countless times to mend this pothole…" The world wavered in front of his eyes, and he leaned forward to throw up. Nothing happened, however, and he fell back into the puddle, his chest hitching. Less than twenty minutes ago, Montoya had been doing the exact same thing about a hundred and fifty paces away.
Pettie descended the steps slowly, holding up the hem of her dress primly, and looked down at the fallen Constable. "Are ye feelin perky there, Chief?" she asked in a lightly mocking tone. "The night's dinner settin okay in yer tummy? Well, I've got a favor to ask of ye, so I do. If ye wouldn't mind pointin me in the direction your pompous confederate went stumblin, I'd be happy fer my daddy to haul you home wid' 'is hoss."
"No horse," Trevor grunted thickly. "Not tonight."
"Well, ye seen 'im?" she asked impatiently. Like many of the city's more religious folk, she had a deep-seated dislike for the Constable that she wasn't fully aware existed. If asked directly, she would have hotly denied it. "He lef' me for another of his gilly-girls? I'll tell him how I take to that myself!" Trevor held out a hand, palm side up, to indicate his ignorance. The hand seemed to mysteriously gain weight when he raised it, and it plopped into the puddle with a soft splash, wetting the lady's dress. Pettie nearly shrieked in outrage. It had been one of her mother's finest, and her father would skin her alive if it were ruined during a night at the tavern.
Pettie stood indecisively, her teeth grinding. After a moment, she turned and elbowed open the batwing doors, muttering decidedly unladylike words under her breath. Trevor sat up and shook the muddy water out of his shoulder-length black hair, which was now dotted with stones and pebbles like a bridesmaid's confetti. He rose to his feet like a geriatric, holding onto the wooden rail (which was used to tether horses in better weather) at the base of the steps for balance. He took a deep breath and turned in the direction of home.
Okay, he thought in an attempt to boost his self-confidence. It's not a long walk. Up the Deacon's, make a couple of turns, and I'm on my road. Dinah and Lucius will have been finished with the day's work long ago, so I won't disturb them by sleeping in the shed or the stables.
He started walking in the opposite direction Montoya had gone, heading into the heart of Wallachia. The Great Deacon Road stretched all the way to the Town Square if you walked far enough on it. Once there, it intersected with all but one of the streets in the city (Montoya's, which he shared with four other families). From this hub, you could travel anywhere you wanted. The Library of Scholars and Timber Marketplace were in the north; God alone knew Trevor spent more time breaking up arguments at the marketplace than the merchants did selling things. To the west were most of the business establishments. This was where Soobie's Tavern, The Iron Colt (Hash Renfrew's arsenal shop, which had been turning a tidy profit since the start of the War of a Thousand Heads), a number of restaurants and saloons, You Sew and Sew (Sonja Montoya's clothing and linens), and the Catholic church resided. Other roads led to-
Trevor stopped and whipped his head around to look at the church. His hair took a moment to follow and flew into his face like a muddy rag. He wiped it away impatiently and bit his lower lip. He hadn't been to the Church of Sister Mary Immaculata since he was a squire for the noblemen. He had a friend there, he knew. A good friend he hadn't spoken to in anything more than passing for nearly a decade. Trevor felt a sudden rush of joy and hope. Emmerich Corso, a loyal member of the parish, would be more than capable of explaining these feelings of guilt and impending doom to him. The more Trevor thought about it, the more convinced he became that he was simply ashamed of himself for leaving the church and denouncing God. After all, when was the last time he had prayed?
"It's been one hell of a long time," he admitted to himself. His speech was slurring even worse than before. But he was walking straight, for a wonder, and the urge to heave up every last ounce of stomach acid had left him, at least for the present time.
He resumed his journey toward his new destination. His feet plopped in the mud and splashed freshets of rainwater in every direction. He remembered how his mother had warned him to never walk through muddy fields in the rain, because the bloodroaches hid there. One day he had been swimming with a friend (Was that Emmerich? he thought in a sudden flash of surprise. No, another boy, not particularly bright…) in the creek just inside the Termogent Forest and had emerged to find himself covered with large black bugs that reminded him of the moles that covered his father's back. They had clung to him with manic, possessed determination, and he had brushed a few of them off. Then (this had most likely been a child's imagination at work, but thinking back he was not so sure) he had felt a queer draining sensation, as if his strength were being siphoned from his body. The other boy had helped him pull some of the more stubborn ones off, until they had come across a bug that was stuck so fast, its head had stayed embedded in his arm and continued sucking even after it was dead. That was when Trevor had realized with numb shock and terror that they weren't just biting him; they were sucking his blood, they were trying to get under his skin and burrow into his body, and he had given voice to a scream of such revolted horror that two farmers from opposite ends of the creek had come running, sure that a boy was being eaten alive by a coyote. That evening Trevor's father had held a heated iron rod to his wounds to cauterize them, and he had slept sitting up for nearly three weeks.
This train of thought was interrupted by the yells of some revelers that were emerging from the bar. Trevor looked away from the tavern, hiding his face. Nothing could make residents of a town more uneasy than a Constable who was not fully in control of his faculties. Mayor Wilkes had warned him regularly that none of the deputies should ever be seen at the pubs more than once or twice a month. More than that would stir up gossip, and such talk was never good for public image.
Without warning, a sudden cramp twisted its way through Trevor's stomach. He gave a small cry and fell to his knees almost gracefully, landing in mud and soaking himself. It was like some weird sort of dance move. He leaned forward with his arms held in front of him, submerged in the puddle halfway up his forearm. He had time to think to himself Well, this is no way to observe the pristine image of the Wallachia Guard, and then he was heaving up the contents of his stomach. He threw up twice, burped sourly, and let go a third time, his eyes tearing up and his nose stinging. It seemed to last forever. When he was done he glanced over to his left at the group that had just exited the tavern. They seemed preoccupied in a conversation of their own, he saw with relief.
They would talk anyway, he knew. People always did. The woman would mention the incident to her neighbor over the wash in the morning, or maybe one of the men to his wife in bed. He grunted, rising shakily to his feet. He supposed they might not have recognized him. If they had, an insult of some sort would probably have been thrown like a piece of rotten fruit. Looka there, folks! Lookit our exemplary Chief on his knees! Mebby he'd like to lead 's all in some prayin! Our Constable's finally foun' God!
He walked on towards the steps of the church, his stumble gradually becoming a more confident stride. The wind made his eyes water continuously. Nasty ropes of mucous hung from his chin, and he wiped them away with the back of his palm. An acrid aftertaste filled his mouth like a lingering worry.
He picked up speed, his feet smooching in the soft mud, his breathing light and quick in his ears. Aside from the embarrassing episode with the tavern patrons, he felt great. He was blackly drunk, to be sure; any more beer and he would probably have been laying next to Goriyas on the piano as Old Man Gibbons (Mad Gibby to most people) feverishly played his way through "M'Lady Tess" or maybe "Under Her Skirt", the bullthroated voices of the farmers and merchants coalescing into an amusing lullaby. He reached the foot of the church's granite steps and gazed up at the wooden double doors.
It looked as high as the Denadoro Mountains.
One at a time now, he thought, and started slowly up the steps before he could think of a good reason to turn around and go home. His snakeskin boots, which were so new that they had not yet fully conformed to the shapes of his feet, made a strange click-rasp sound on the stone stairs. He smiled tiredly as his breathing grew more labored. This was a good trip to be making, he knew. Even moreso, it felt right. Surely Emmerich would be able to explain why he had been feeling such dread for the last two Sowing Seasons. He was sure it would simply amount to guilt at rejecting the ways of the Church. He had given up the slightest interest in attending Mass with Dinah and Lucius nearly two years ago.
He reached the halfway point of the steps, which was a small landing. As he was mounting the next riser, his foot slipped and he fell again, landing on his bottom with a rude thud. He teeth clamped together on his tongue painfully, spraying blood from his mouth like a hellspawned frog. He rose to his feet again, holding his backside, and shakily went up the rest of the steps.
"Made it," he muttered smugly, and elbowed open one of the wooden doors. The effort left him feeling weak, and he backed up a step, realizing almost too late that he had no more ground to support him. His arms pinwheeled madly for balance, and for a manic second he thought to himself Look at this! I'm going to fall down an entire flight of Church steps! I won't be found until the morning when the day's trading begins! Lovely, lovely irony! But then he found his footing again and entered the building, his pulse still beating strongly in his ears. He felt the beginnings of a monstrous headache.
He moved forward with his hands held out in front of him, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The inner vestibule was very spacious, with dozens of rows of pews, several candelabra (a few of which had been lit and threw off a faint campfire glow), and a number of painstakingly crafted sculptures, depicting the various Stations of the Cross. The far wall above the altar presented a figure of Christ as he had been crucified. A random thought flew into Trevor's head, like a bat darting out of the shadows: how had that statue been raised onto the wall? It looked like it weighed at least a thousand kilograms.
Moving to the small table in the corner without even realizing it, he dipped his fingers in the bowl of holy water and made the sign of the cross. A dull rush of shame went through him. It had simply been habit. There had been no belief or respectful motive behind it.
"C-C-Constable?" a voice asked from the darkness behind him, and Trevor jerked around in the other direction, so surprised that he fell on his ass for a record-breaking third time that morning, bumping his head against the rim of the table and splashing water onto the ornate tablecloth. The figure ran forward and Trevor saw it was a young man he knew. Dennis Guilder had served the Catholic community since he had been a young boy. He was slightly feeble-minded; his parents had abandoned him when he was an infant, leaving him on the steps of the church. That year there had been a lot of parentless children left on those stairs, he remembered. A man had also thrown his two-year-old daughter to her death off of a bridge right outside of the All-Hands Village. When asked, he had calmly told the deputies that a demon, who had possessed his wife (her body was never found), had made a new home in the soul of his daughter. He feared that he would be the next vessel for the spirit. "A-A-Are you ok-kay, Constable Belmont?"
"Yes, Dennis," Trevor grunted thickly. "Never better."
"I haven't seen yuh-you here in a while." Dennis held his hands clasped in front of him, kneading the knuckles like bread dough. Occasionally one of them would pop, causing an echo in the massive structure. That was another thing that Trevor remembered. The acoustics were so strange here that you couldn't talk at all, for fear that people would hear you on the other side of the room. He felt a sudden wave of nostalgia. This place reminded him of a time when things had been simpler and better. His job had been less stressful, his marriage and family much stronger, and-
Ah, yes, but that was why he had come!
"I've had a bit of a…" He searched for the right phrase. "A… ah, crisis of faith. I haven't attended here in a long time, Dennis."
Dennis nodded soberly, his hazel eyes never leaving Trevor's face. "I-I-I-It's alright, Constable. God f-forgives all of our eh-errors."
Try explaining that to Declan Mulqueen, Trevor thought suddenly, and his arms prickled with gooseflesh. He rose to his feet for what felt like the hundredth time and crossed his arms over his chest. "Is Emmerich Corso here?" he asked softly.
Dennis brightened. It was almost like a lantern had been ignited within him. He smiled and nodded eagerly. "Oh yeh-yes, sir! He's a Father now! But-" his smile grew uncertain- "he's been very very i-ill, lately."
A frown creased Trevor's features like a wadded sheaf of parchment. "Sick, you say? With what disease? It's not the tubeneck, is it?"
Before Dennis could answer, another man spoke. He had been standing in the doorway of the living quarters, just out of the soft candlelight's reach. Trevor looked at him with some surprise, dismayed that he had missed the man's presence. The third man, who wore spectacles, looked older and a bit overweight. He wore a decorated robe with a hood and woolskin dungarees. His arms were adorned with multi-colored rings. When he spoke to Trevor, his jowls quivered. He had a light speckle of facial hair, making him look a bit like a retired soldier.
"Father Corso is not receiving visitors," the elderly man said. "If you like, you may request an audience with him after this Sunday's meeting. Otherwise-"
"Is he dying??" Trevor asked suddenly. It seemed the only reason why the gentleman (who was clearly a doctor and not a member of the clergy) would evade such an honest, simple question. "Does he have something incurable?"
The doctor shook his head, not replying in the negative but indicating ignorance. "I'm afraid we can't say at this early stage. He has been weak and feverish of late, but he has no outwardly recognizable signs of disease. We'll have to keep a close eye on him."
"Duh-Doctor Soames says no-nobody can disturb the Father while he's s-sleepin."
Trevor met the gaze of the doctor directly, his every ounce of willpower intent on dispelling the notion that he was inebriated. "Well, I'm sorry to bother him, but I'm a childhood friend of his. I also happen to be the Wallachia Town Sheriff, and I come on official business." There was still a noticeable slur in his voice, but that was alright. For all they knew, he had a bothersome speech impediment like Dennis's.
The doctor hesitated. "Let me check on him first, hmm?" He was gone without waiting for an answer.
Trevor cleared his throat and tapped his foot impatiently. His stomach had rolled itself into a sickly little ball. He no longer felt sure at all that he should have come here. The old memories were just too much. What right did he have anyway, showing up in the darkest hour of the night (the hour of witches, he couldn't help adding with a touch of unease), drunk and edging toward belligerent? He could try his best to fool himself all he wanted, but his visit here had a distinctly self-serving purpose. He hadn't arrived to check in on old Emmerich after all of these years, hadn't even come as a last-ditch attempt to save his own damaged faith. It was only to make himself feel better about himself and his life in general. And most of that was based on a premonition that, however strong it might be, had absolutely no basis in fact and reality whatsoever. He might as well have been reading his own Tarot cards.
"Sir?" Trevor looked up and saw Dennis giving him a knowing look. "'S n-n-not official bussin-ness that draws you h-here, is it?" He shook his head, answering his own question. "Nuh-no, of course not. There's something aw-off about you, but I can't teh-teh-teh-tell…" He had to stop and take a breath, and simply trailed off.
Trevor smiled. "It's that obvious, is it."
"No need to tell m-me. I'm sure the Father w-will be h-h-happy to h-h-help you in any way he ca-can."
"It's not help I seek, really. More… assurance."
"I s-see. So many vi-visit us for that." Dennis shook his head, as if in mild wonder, and turned back to the door. Trevor wondered who exactly had labeled the young man as feeble. Probably the folks who hadn't the patience to hear him out. He started to say something to Dennis about this, but the doctor appeared at the door again and gestured impatiently.
"Come along, Constable. Ten minutes, and no more. I simply cannot allow much time." Trevor followed him down a narrow, torch-lit corridor to a large bedroom. Emmerich Corso (Father Corso, he reminded himself again) was sitting up in a small cot next to the wall. He was wearing long underwear and soft brown moccasins. His face was large and ruddy, and by all appearances perfectly healthy. His hair, which was thinning in his mid-thirties, was a blonde the color of wheat or flax. The scar under his nose, courtesy of a wild dog, stretched from his left nostril almost to his cheekbone. Seeing it brought home another memory to Trevor: Emmerich staggering down the sunset dappled dirt road north of town and holding his face behind his hands, which had been dripping bright red blood that dried almost instantly in the dust and hot air. He had lurched drunkenly and, before Trevor could run over and catch him, collided with a tree, opening a fresh wound in his forehead. "Mad dog!!" he had shrieked, his eleven-year old voice reaching a register of such shrillness that Trevor was mildly worried he would rupture something in his throat. "Oh help oh fuck fuck it's a mad DOG!! It BIT my FACE!! It's MAD and I'm KILT, Trevor, I'm KILT!" Of course, Emmerich had not been killed and it had become his Worst Moment. Trevor had three Worst Moments of his own, and was delighted when this melodramatic behavior had been inaugurated as one for Emmerich. They would reminisce on these Moments once in a while, usually hiding behind the smithy's after smoking some of Em's grandfather's opium or getting a look up a city girl's skirt. They would lounge in a glen near the pond and talk for hours, Emmerich usually staring up at the sky, a thoughtful look on his face and a blade of grass in his teeth, while Trevor would sit Indian style, often starting small fires with a rock and flint. They would gossip and speculate about anything and everything under the sun, and they would remain there until dusk or even an hour or so later. Sometimes they would leave early and try to steal a keg from the taverns; other times they might be pirates or thieves on the run from the law, running around in the woods with other boys. There had been a small, burned-out shed in the northern section of the Termogent Forest which had served as their base of operations. Many Secret Meetings had transpired there. On a few memorable occasions nearly half a dozen boys had gathered to spend the night in the small shack (it had been named- what had it been?), and on one night, they had encountered Belzig, the massive one-eyed creature that the townspeople referred to as He Who Walks Behind the Rows. And a boy had turned up missing…
But Trevor dismissed these thoughts so automatically that they might never have been formed. On the few occasions that he remembered the encounter with the Cyclops, he had not lingered over it much. He felt surprise, a subtle but very deep feeling of nervousness and unease, and the episode would be over seconds later. He had become so used to simply pushing the memory away that he was gradually beginning to regard it as a myth, or something that had happened thousands of years ago.
Ridiculous! There had been no creatures of the night, no one-eyed behemoth full of killing spite. Such things were saved for Lucius's bedside, when he would launch into a bedtime story, some fantastic and joyful, others grim with a deep-rooted moral center. Lucius never grew bored or scoffed at the lessons, though; most of the stories were Montoya's, and few enjoyed good fables more than the Belmont family.
No, there hadn't been any deadly escapes, and there certainly hadn't been any dead boys, killed or eaten by Belzig. Locals said that the creature made his lair in the garden of a demolished pagan temple. Some claimed he had been drawn to the spot by the lingering evil presence, which had supposedly spread like a virus over the countryside, giving rise to the clans of harriers and murderers. Another school of thought held the opinion that the Satanic forces had spawned him in the first place. Everyone agreed on one thing, however: regardless of whether or not there was a prehistoric predator making his home just north of Wallachia, it was not a place to play after sundown. The remains of an old settlement were still strewn about in the woods, and there were just enough well-pits and wild animals to make mothers agonize with worry. Their fear was very well-founded, Trevor knew; being the Constable, he had seen enough accidents to know that whatever god had been appointed to watch over little boys and girls seemed to have gone on holiday, at least in Wallachia city.
Now, Trevor looked up at Emmerich and managed a small, uncertain smile. "Time seems to have treated you well, brother."
The priest nodded slowly, the light from the corner lantern shining on his waxy forehead. "It certainly has, Trevor. I'm thankful to see that I can say the same for you. Why not come in and break bread with me?"
"At this late hour?" Trevor moved to a crudely constructed wooden chair near the cot. He turned it so the back was facing the sick man, and sat resting his forearms in front of him. "Are you sure you can eat? How are you feeling now?"
Emmerich waved a hand, as if batting away a fly. "I'm as fine as I was ten years ago. That doctor's just taking precautions, Lord bless him. I do wish he'd go home for at least a few hours, though. I'm sure he's other patients to tend to."
The silence spun out interminably. Suddenly Trevor didn't know what to say. Any ability of articulation he'd possessed had suddenly evaporated. Perhaps I left it in a tumbler at the bar, he thought suddenly, and his stomach turned at the thought of beer.
"How have you been, Em?" he asked after another minute. "How, really?"
Emmerich looked him full in the eyes then, and even in the limited glow Trevor could tell that things were not as jolly as his friend would have him believe. No, in that moment Trevor saw a lot of things. Life had not been good at all for his old buddy old pal Emmerich Corso, and most likely hadn't been for some time. He might even be worse off than Trevor himself, a possibility that hadn't occurred to him in any sense, coherent or subconscious.
Father Corso didn't answer immediately. He swallowed, making a few clicking sounds in his dry throat. Outside, the storm lashed impatiently against the small square windows. Rainwater ran down the cracked and dirty glass like tears. The occasional flash of lightning would lend stark visibility to the room for a moment, making Emmerich's scar stand out on his face. Trevor didn't like to look at that scar. Seeing it somehow made him feel like turning around and running down the hall, running without pause until he made it home. He suddenly missed Dinah.
Trevor decided not to make Emmerich answer. "I've been less than spectacular lately myself. Truth be told, it's a big part of why I'm here. See…" He trailed off and held his hand up in front of his face. He had been starting to make a grand sweeping gesture, like when he made uplifting speeches at the City Council meetings. It suddenly occurred to him that he talked with his hands a lot.
"Tell me." Emmerich was leaning forward intently. It was not a suggestion. It was an unmistakable demand. Almost exactly like when they had been boys. Em would have an idea of some sort, building a bear trap or maybe a flying machine, and Trevor would do most of the legwork. He hadn't minded. It had been fun. Even when most of the inventions (and that was exactly what they were; not devices or gadgets but inventions, like the creations of those mad scientists that Montoya liked to include in his stories) failed to work at all it had still been a good time. But sometimes Em would forget that they were equals, forget that they weren't Emmerich Assisted by Trevor but Em and Trev, the freaking Disaster Duo, and a peevish sort of arrogance would creep into his voice. He would stop making suggestions and start giving orders. Trevor the Honorable Engineer was relegated to Trevor the Chimney Sweeper. Harsh words followed and blows were exchanged. The longer they had known each other, the more common this phenomenon had become.
That tone had survived the years, it seemed, but now it was more insistent and less condescending. "Tell me and I'll tell you. Just like before."
Trevor smiled. There was no humor in it. "Right. Just like before." He poured the priest some water from a jug on the small side table. He sat back and cleared his throat. "There's not terribly much to tell, I'm afraid. I know so little. My… I… well…"
"Easy does it," Emmerich cautioned, and laid back down on the cot. He rolled on his side and faced Trevor, looking like a large and balding infant. "You have to start somewhere. No sense trying to take it all on at once. Begin with your smallest worry, and work your way up, like a mountain trail."
Or church steps, Trevor thought, and had to cover his mouth to hide a grin.
"Okay…" He closed his eyes. "Well, there are three things. First…" He stopped. Emmerich waited patiently. "I think I may want to leave my post as Constable." He waited for a reaction from Emmerich, perhaps an admonishment, but received nothing. "I'm also growing apart from Dinah. I…" He looked down. "We fight so often. We almost never speak kindly to one another. I… I remember…" He paused again. He wasn't going to go on. If he did, he would likely begin sobbing.
They were both quiet for a moment.
"Trevor." The priest spoke softly. There was no trace of the old voice of commandment. "Look into the fire of my lantern."
The Constable's brow furrowed. "Alright, then." He fixed his gaze on the flame. It seemed to dance slowly, deliberately. In some ways it seemed almost beckoning.
"Don't concentrate on anything. Just look. Fire may be deadly, but it can have a certain healing power. Forget your troubles for just a moment, Trevor."
Already Trevor seemed preoccupied. Thunder boomed outside, as if protesting Emmerich's advice. Presently his stare moved away from the flame and wick and made its way down the glass exterior of the lantern. He noticed the smudges of dirt and grime. Saw the fingerprints of countless monks and nuns dotted across the smooth surface, as random as freckles. The wood base had small symbols carved into it, and he studied these. They seemed almost to move in the flickering light. His eyes traced a path back up to the flame and rested there, tracking the bob and weave of its head.
Come with me, Trevor, the fire urged. Step into me and be cleansed, for fire purifies all. Your sins will be forgiven and your troubles eradicated. I will hurt, yes, but only for a few moments. Darkness and sweet nothing will follow, and you will be absolved. Your responsibilities will be removed. I can provide that.
"Why do you think a space exists between you and Dinah? What could have caused such a misfortune?"
"Elwood. Our other son." Trevor's voice was soft, serene. He might have been working, or reading a particularly good book. He answered, but his attention was elsewhere. "He died six years ago. Awful accident. Nothing's been the same since."
"I remember hearing about that. I was on a mission during the funeral. I'm sorry you had to experience that. No man should bury his son."
"I suppose it ties into my desire to leave the Guard, as well. You see, I was the first to arrive at the scene when we were notified."
"Oh, my… my word…"
"It was gruesome," Trevor admitted, but by his tone it would not have been obvious that he was describing the death of his first-born. He sounded distant, and his eyes stayed trained on the lantern. An eavesdropper would have assumed he was describing a particularly good play. "He was crushed, you know. By a wagon. Some traveling Irishman couldn't control his horses. They carried him into a market stall, and it just happened to be the one Elwood was standing in front of. He was hauling ale, I remember. The barrels and kegs smashed open and fell on him in an avalanche. Fell on Elwood, I mean. The merchant came out of it just as fit as a fiddle, don't you know. Anyway, the street was flooded and stagnant with the smell of alcohol. A lot of the bums and children were down on their knees, lapping up the brew. We hauled in a lot of disorderly vagrants that night, I assure you!"
Emmerich said nothing, but he was watching Trevor closely. The Constable had been smiling, but he raised his hand to his mouth and the smile disappeared, as if wiped away with a napkin. "His head was splattered," he added matter-of-factly. "When we finally lifted the wagon off of him, he was not recognizable as human. Thank God, I don't really remember what he looked like then. I'll tell you one thing, Em: I may not believe in the Lord like you do, but the fact that I don't remember his face on that day goes a long piece toward convincing me that there is a good and merciful God. Oh, yes. But, I'm straying off course again, aren't I? I saved the worst detail for last, even though it's very small. His pockets had been turned out. Somehow that was the worst for me. There was my son, lying there in the middle of the road with his brains dashed out and his grandfather's moccasins missing and his pockets emptied. I could just see in my mind's eye how some vagrant or hobo or Brown Person had crept up and slid a hand down his pants. It enraged me. Infuriated me. I attacked some of the gawkers in the crowd." He stopped and took a breath. The lantern flame danced and wavered, flickered and smoked in its cage of glass and wood. "They had no right to be present. No right, I tell you. Of course, King Seldon- long live he and all that balderdash- would have decreed that they were not violating any laws, but that is not true. My son was not a spectacle. He had just departed on the greatest of journeys, never to return to this mortal coil. Such a leaving should be taken in privacy, or with the company of loved ones. Elwood had neither." The last sentence he said flatly, with a hint of disdain. The Father noticed that a bit of the Wallachia townsfolk dialect had slipped back into his voice, and that if Trevor kept it up he would be theeing and thouing by the time the sun peered over the horizon.
"I never talked to Dinah about it. I know how that sounds, but there it is. Lucius was just starting his schooling, and we were still very dependant on our crops, mostly the corn. And this is going to sound worst of all, but I forgot him. I stopped thinking about Elwood. It was easier than confronting the reality of it. In a very real sense, he had never existed for me."
The priest sipped his water. His mouth had gone completely dry. "That was when you… grew distant from one another?"
"Yes. It seems strange, right? Most couples grow stronger in their mourning. But not us. I closed myself off from her. I'm not afraid to love, but I don't want to. Not at all."
"Do you still love Dinah, Trevor?"
"No." There was no hesitation.
Emmerich seemed to consider. "Have you had mistresses, Trevor?"
"Yes. Two."
The priest sighed and cleared his throat. "What's the third obstacle, Trevor? What lies at the end of your mountain road? What ordeal could eclipse the collapse of your marriage?"
Trevor was silent for a moment. He saw nothing. The flame of the lantern was gone. His eyes were turned inward, searching. He turned to his friend and his eyes were blank, vacant.
"Darkness." It was almost a whisper.
"What was that?"
"Darkness, I said. A darkness eternal. A dying man, in many ways already dead, warned me of an impending chaos. I scoffed at the time, but I believe him. I've had unfounded feelings-"
"Dreams."
"Dreams…? You know that of which I speak."
Emmerich raised the badly formed clay cup to his lips again. His hand was shaking. "Yes, Trevor, I believe I know what you feel. How long has this persisted?"
"I couldn't say. I can remember it as far back as when they still sold reap charms at the Timber Marketplace."
Emmerich sat up again and leaned forward, watching his friend's eyes. "Over the past several years there have been increasing reports of bizarre creatures roaming the land. I don't just mean exotic animals; people claim to have seen things not of this world. It's almost like the border that divides dimensions has grown weak. Trevor, do you remember that night at Agonne Bastion? Do you remember the Guardian of the Forest?"
Trevor looked suddenly at Emmerich. The power of his not-quite-hypnosis had snapped like a small twig. The doctor entered then, his spectacles hanging from a fine chain at his breast. He cleared his throat and both men looked up at him. "Constable, I'm going to have to ask you to take leave. The time is nearly one o' the clock. I've given you far more time than I should have." He waited, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his eyes gazing at them severely.
Trevor and Emmerich looked at each other. Neither could have described the feelings of almost childish terror and unease that gripped them. Trevor was wet with sweat, his tunic covered with large dark spots. The priest stared back, his mouth opening and closing in a silent O, as if he were impersonating a fish. Finally, Trevor stood up shakily and held out his hand.
"Come see me soon. At morning, if you can." Emmerich's voice was intent. He squeezed Trevor's hand. "You must, we simply must speak of this! I fear… there may be a…" His gaze shifted to the doctor and he seemed to collect himself. "We will talk."
Trevor nodded without speaking. He seemed unable to speak. Doctor Soames led him to the entrance. His legs felt like blocks of wood. He was vaguely aware that the older gentleman was apologizing, explaining the need for caution and discretion, and assuring Trevor that he would assist the Wallachia Guard in any way possible. Then the door boomed shut behind him, echoing off of the stone exterior of the church, and he was alone in the wind and rain.
He started in the direction of home. A few minutes passed before he realized that he was consciously not thinking about what had just happened. That was almost definitely for the best. He would instead think about his memories of their evenings together, and how they had gradually but inevitably parted ways. Yes, it had been just like a marriage going bad from the inside out; an apple rotting during the long, dry summer. He would walk the rest of the way home, his thoughts treading safe ground with memories of Em, and he would stay far away from nightmarish recollections like that of the Cyclops, which had flooded back into his consciousness with shocking force as soon as the priest had mentioned it. He would also take special care not to think about how tonight's visit had gone so utterly, horribly, and irrefutably wrong, thank you. He would take extra pains to forget how this entire expedition had blown up like an improperly loaded musket, only instead of erasing his face and taking his life, it was chipping away at his sanity, bit by bit.
Yes, how wonderful it was not to think of these things!
He had just enough time to turn to the side before the vomiting started again.
That was one thing throwing up had in its favor: while you were doing it, you couldn't think about anything else.
Wallachia Town Cemetery
Early MorningThe skies shouted overhead like quarrelling lovers, and Gabriel Sheridan paced in a small circle. He was oblivious to the crashing of the storm and the occasional rumblings of passing chariots. Sometime after Trevor left the Catholic Church, a small bolt of lightning had struck a naked, leafless oak tree in the northeastern corner of the burial ground. Splinters and sections of trunk had exploded in all directions, scorching the grass and starting a small fire that was quickly smothered by the constant rain. Some pieces of bark had been thrown all the way to the Great Deacon Road, and some of the coaches thumped over the larger ones, causing the horse drivers to worry whether they had snapped a wheel. Sheridan was untouched by any of this, physically or emotionally.
His stride quickened, left foot right foot, and as the dirt became soggy and eventually turned into a nasty quagmire, Sheridan's thoughts followed suit. The Master was not supposed to be this late. Gods, no! Approaching this field of the dead, he had felt the strong rush that was commonly associated with the arrival of the Prince of Darkness. He would have been hard-pressed to describe his initial impression of it, but he would have been happy to share the experience with anyone that cared to listen. He had been completely and utterly alone since a large group of raiders had massacred his village. That had been nearly four years ago. Sheridan could not remember the town's name, and had only the vaguest recollection of its streets and citizens. He knew nothing of his current location, either. Was he still in Romania? His hometown could have been thousands of wheels south, covered by a lake, for all he knew. Or perhaps he was standing in its remains, right this very moment. Endless possibilities occurred to him, but none seemed particularly realistic or conclusive.
He had covered many miles, and met many people. A lot of these often eccentric folk were imaginary; there was much more eating away at Sheridan's brain than illness. The hallucinations he happened upon were often young virgins ready to share a bed in exchange for some minor protection from highwaymen. Other times the apparitions might take the forms of monks or farmers with families. A few times he had even seen his family. None of them would keep him company for long, however. They would stay and talk and spend the night, or maybe even a few nights, and the next morning they would simply be gone, having taken perhaps some coins or a few chunks of bread. Sheridan didn't mind this, though; he never remembered his visitors. Most probably any missing food or money had been taken by children or wild animals.
His run of thought continued, making the same circles as his feet were: the Master was on his way, the Master's presence was fading, the Master was testing his patience, the Master had judged him too weak for his plans. This went on for so long that he had actually managed to create a rut in the soft earth, like those cartoon characters in the newspapers that paced around for an extended period of time.
He slowed down, coming to a gradual stop in front of a tombstone that read LORNA COLE, BELUVD WIFE AND MUM. He put his hands on his hips and frowned. This was not accomplishing anything, this mindless cursing and muttering. His eyes closed until they were slits, glinting with intelligence and anger. The Master had not forsaken him. They had forged a bond. This was simply a test of some sort, designed to check his loyalty, or maybe his wits.
Ah, so it be a puzzle, then! he thought, and a leering smile broke out on his face. As a Prince of Hell ye may be, ye'll soon know that I'm a pert one! Wery pert, indeed!
He retraced his steps. That feeling in the air, the almost palpable sense of something amazing arriving, had definitely been there. Why else would he have run haplessly toward his destination, leaving poor Oppenheimer to starve in the drawers of the flatlands? He missed his poor mule, who had been suffering nearly as much as he. An equal companion would be hard to find.
Sheridan remembered what it was like to see the Master arrive, oh yes. Having seen it once, you weren't likely to forget. It was less of a physical thing than something that overcame the mind. Doorways of memory would open, horrible ones. Scenes of trauma, horror, and guilt were replayed over and over. Sheridan remembered the guilt most of all. He had stolen only once in his life (as a child, but Sheridan was becoming more convinced that he had never been a child, not in the true sense of the word), but he had sinned plenty for a man of his age. The shame and horror at these sins weighed on him like a crushing rock at first- then the Prince appeared in physical form.
The Master, who called himself Count Dracula, was intensely charming and attractive. He was just over six feet tall, with fairly broad shoulders and a head that seemed slightly too small for the frame. His long black hair reached to the middle of his back and was so clean and healthy-looking that Sheridan almost wanted to take his hand and run it through that thick mane. That hair. What would it feel like to smell it, run it through his fingers, maybe even taste it? Dracula's eyes were small and often changed color. They could pin you down with a single glance, but not with fear. Looking into the eyes of the Count, Sheridan felt more than confidence and compassion. He felt purpose. He had been a mere wanderer just two weeks ago, but now he would be one of the most crucially important men in the history of mankind. Who else could claim to have the power to alter the fate of the human race? Why, he would be-
Quickly, Sheridan slapped himself in the face twice, a small grunt escaping his lips on the second strike. He needed to focus. It would do no good to reminisce on the joy his Master brought him. For now, that was a dead end. He must focus on the task at hand… but what was that task?
But gods, it was overwhelming! The crushing shame of his sins and imperfections was effortlessly erased by Dracula! The immeasurable relief that it brought was like medicine for the dying; after the moment had begun, he marveled at how he had survived without the Master for so long.
He swore to himself and left the tombstone of the BELUVD WIFE. He would walk and talk with the dead. They were his friends. And why not? He would be among their number very soon. Sheridan felt a strange sort of peace in the boneyards. The residents were happy to listen, and there was never any argument. The dead were understanding and they respected the living and the troubled.
He walked up to a broken headstone, the script illegible. "'N who were ye, in this bloody dreadful life?" he asked the grave. "Was ye of noble blood? Or did ye spend the days stealin bread from the stands and market? Did ye die a pauper?" He moved to the next stone in the row. This continued until he neared the eastern wall of the graveyard.
He drew up to a tombstone (three were left in this row) and cleared his throat, spitting a thick wad of green phlegm to the ground. Although he scarcely realized it, these questioning conversations with the dead (Rikuo Montoya would undoubtedly have referred to these as speculogies, with a sly grin and a glint of fierce humor in his eye) had become a ritual. With the passing of each graveyard in his travels, he visited the interred. He selected a row at random (though it was usually near the back) and passed them all, laughing and joking, confessing and interrogating.
The next marker was very large and had an angel perched above it. The front bore the inscription: RITA LeCOOK OUR BABY! WE WILL MISS YOU. There was more, but it was covered by moss and mud.
"I do wonder if ye were faithful to yer hubby, Rita," Sheridan croaked. His voice was creaky and raspy from use. He had done more talking in the last twenty minutes than he tended to do in months. He scraped the growths away from the gravestone and felt a dull flush rise in his pockmarked cheeks. Rita had been six years old.
He remembered her now. The bandit that had just been executed in town was believed to have killed this one, along with most of her siblings. Sheridan shook his head, a snarl of rage etched on his face like a scar. He knew about losing children, he did. He knew the pain
(Gabriel)
of watching not just one but all of your babies as they were relentlessly taken from you, stolen as one would steal a horse. The method of their passing didn't matter; flood, disease, or murder, it all amounted to the same. Maybe not at first,
(Gabriel)
but given time that didn't matter, nothing mattered. Nothing but the loss. Sheridan wanted to take Rita's mother by the hand, hold her and tell her
(Gabriel my dear Gabriel)
that she was not alone. In fact she-
(GABRIEL COME HERE THIS INSTANT)
Sheridan looked up suddenly, a small cry escaping his lips. He knew that voice, knew it very well. Only there was absolutely no way he was hearing this voice right now, because its owner had been dead for nearly half a century.
(WHY DON'T YOU COME SIT BY YOUR GRANDMOTHER)
He turned, and she was there. He was standing in the middle of a graveyard on the outskirts of a city he didn't know, speaking to the bodies of some who had been dead for hundreds of years, waiting for the arrival of a supernatural being, and here was Gramma, sitting in her favorite rocking chair that had always been kept by the fireplace in her cabin. She was floating about five feet from the ground; her chair moved back and forth on thin air. She even had the fan she'd always carried. It had a lovely picture of a sunset on it. As he watched, she opened it for him, displaying the simple watercolors.
(WELL, YOU MUST BE ONE THEY CALL GABRIEL, EH?) Gramma asked, and tipped him a wink. Now that he looked closer, it really wasn't his long-dead grandmother. This was another woman, similar in age and nationality but a different person nonetheless, dressed up like a doll for his benefit.
"And who are you?" he asked. His voice hit a high pitch and cracked. "Ye not be my grammy… no matter how ye may look her."
(I'M NOT YOUR GRANDMOTHER, SON, AND I'M SURE NOT ANYONE YOU KNOW. BUT YOU KNOW WHO I REPRESENT.)
Sheridan stood for a moment with his mouth hanging open, trying to process all of this. Could this entity possibly have been sent on behalf of the Count? His eyes widened as he considered this possibility. It was also likely that there were forces working against his Master. Maybe…
"Speak ye name, and be done wid'it!" he yelled in his rusty voice. His throat felt like it had been burned with a torch. "You carry no fear for me, spectre!"
(YES, I CAN SEE THAT. AND WHY SHOULD I? YOU HAVE COME TO ACCEPT MY PRESENCE IN YOUR LIFE LONG AGO.)
The woman fanned herself contentedly. Sheridan noticed that she had some warts and her teeth were yellowed. Gramma had never been sloppy like that.
"Do ye know of-"
(SPEAK NOT AGAIN, GABRIEL! I CAN HEAR YOUR MIND CLEARLY. TROUBLE YOUR POOR LUNGS NO MORE. YOU SOUND SICK. NOT TO MENTION THAT THE SOUND CARRIES AT THIS TIME OF NIGHT.)
Sheridan licked his lips. Could this thing really communicate through the mind? He reached a mental hand out, feeling for something, a doorknob in a dark room.
(STOP TRYING SO HARD. THINK AS YOU NORMALLY WOULD.)
He coughed hoarsely into his fist. He was coming down with something, and at this point it just might finish him off. He put his index finger to his temple like the fortunetellers that traveled with the gypsies.
Who are ye, Spirit?
(MUCH BETTER. ISN'T THAT EASIER? HASN'T THE PAIN LEFT YOU?)
Why don't ye answer my question?
(BECAUSE, GABRIEL, IT HAS NO ANSWER. I DO NOT HAVE A TRUE NAME. I AM NOT A THINKING ENTITY. I SIMPLY EXIST, TRAVELLING WITH YOU AND ALL OTHERS OF THIS EARTH ON THEIR DAILY ROUTINES.)
Sheridan tried to make his mind as blank as an artist's easel. He couldn't even begin to imagine what this creature was talking about, but he felt sure about two things: this apparition was closely related to the Count, and its power was almost equal to his.
(I AM THE FORCE KNOWN AS DEATH. I TOOK THIS WOMAN'S BODY FOR MY OWN A FEW MINUTES AGO. SHE JUST PASSED AWAY IN HER SLEEP. I COULDN'T HAVE ASKED FOR BETTER TIMING. IT'S UNFORTUNATE, BUT I WON'T BE ABLE TO RETURN IT TO HER FAMILY. THEY WILL NEVER KNOW WHAT BECAME OF HER.)
Why can't you… But then he knew. He could see it in the image of the elderly woman with the utmost clarity. The teeth that had previously been yellow and cracked were now black. Her thinning hair had disappeared almost entirely, and her scalp showed with a strange lump near the back. The hands, large and with leathery skin just moments ago, had become twisted claws. The woman's body was decaying at an amazing rate before his eyes. Sheridan could almost see the tissues and muscles as they dried out and putrified.
"Do you serve m' Master?" he asked, licking his lips fearfully. He was unaware that he had spoken aloud.
(I SERVE NONE OF THIS WORLD, GABRIEL. I MERELY MAKE AGREEMENTS. NOW LISTEN CAREFULLY, MY BOY. THERE IS ANOTHER LIKE YOU RAMBLING ABOUT THIS CITY. A WOMAN. SHE HAS BEEN DISCOVERED.)
He brightened instantly. A woman for him?! Then his eyes narrowed again in suspicion and he looked the woman full in the face. She was now beginning to bloat. A dreadful smell wafted toward him in the wet night air.
Who be the lady?
(AN OUTCAST. ANOTHER ASSOCIATE OF YOUR MASTER'S. SHE HAD MUCH WORK, BUT IT IS NOW YOURS. HER EXISTENCE IS NO LONGER A SECRET. I WILL BE VISITING HER SOON.)
Who found 'er?
(A GUARD O' THE WATCH. THAT IDIOTIC LAUGHING MAN. WIND YOUR TRAIL AROUND THE WALLACHIA GUARD, GABRIEL. THE SHERIFF IN PARTICULAR. THEY ARE THE MOST DANGEROUS PART OF YOUR MISSION.)
Sheridan coughed suddenly, falling to his knees. Blood flew from his mouth and coated his closed fist. He felt like something was tearing in his poor chest. He looked up at the ghost named Death and smiled, a vicious snarl. There was very little sanity left in that smile.
"Give me my orders, sperrit! My life for him!"
(THAT'S VERY WELL, GABRIEL. NOW STEP CLOSER. WE HAVE MUCH TO DISCUSS, DON'T WE?)
He moved closer to the woman, farther into the graveyard, into the awful, cloying stink. There was no turning back now; Sheridan had chosen his path for good. And he would stand at the gates of Hell with a smile and whistle, he reckoned.
The storm went on. The night drew toward dawn.
Death talked. Gabriel listened, understanding lighting up his pitiful face.