Ancient Eyes (39 page)

Abraham stood, numb with terror. The words had fled, and though the light at his back felt as strong as ever, he had no idea how to tap into that strength, or what good it would do him. He started to speak, to say something, anything to delay the moment that loomed before him.

Then it happened. With a sharp screech, Reverend Kotz rolled up off the ground.
 
He had the long, tapered blade that Harry George had dropped clutched in both hands, and he drove it into Silas Greene's side.
 
The blade bit, slid in easily between ribs and muscles, and drove straight through the little man's heart.

Silas stood still. His face took on a confused expression, and his hand came up to grip the wooden blade protruding from his side. He turned, stared down at Kotz, and his mind swam. He took a step forward, tried a second, and dropped to one knee.

The world swirled before him. He met Kotz's dark glare.
 
The man whispered that single word again, "Mine," and Silas no longer saw the man. He no longer saw the church, or the clearing, and the strength of the darkness that had possessed and moved him slipped away.
 
He saw a pit, dug into the dirt floor of a barn. He saw the glaring, hungry eyes of the wounded cock, the blood of a stronger, younger bird dripping from the spur attached to his leg. He felt the hands, dragging him back and away, but this time they slipped, and he fell. He tumbled headlong into that pit, and he heard Reverend Kotz's laughter follow him down.

As Silas collapsed, Jacob Carlson drew back and hurled the small lantern in his hand through the door of the church. It bounced once, shattered against a pew, and the oil inside washed out and over the floor. Flames licked for just a second at the center of that spill, then burst to life and roared upward.

Abraham, suddenly remembering Katrina, cried out and dove forward. He cleared Silas' prone form in a single leap, battered two stupefied members of Greene's congregation aside, and with his hands over his face to shield him, leaped through the flames and into the church beyond.

The interior was dark. The lights had gone out, and the heat from the flames seared his skin as he passed. The smoke was already thick, but he ignored it. He kept low, felt something slither past his leg, bit back a scream and drove on. The snakes were frantically slithering away from the flames, flowing like a serpentine river in the same direction he ran. He passed through the pews, around the altar, and ahead he saw something on the floor.
 
He ran faster, and as he drew near he saw it was a body.

The fire rolled down the walls and flickered across the beams of the ceiling. It was hotter and moved faster than any fire should, and Abraham knew he had only a few moments, maybe seconds, before it would consume him as well. The cleansing had begun.

He reached Katrina's prone form and scooped her up. Something slashed at his leg, missed, then slashed again and bit deep. One of the snakes. He couldn't worry about it.
 
He turned, just for a second, and nearly dropped Katrina in shock.

At the far end of the church, the flames centered on the small alcove above the door.
 
Something crawled from that pit as he watched, dragging itself on serpentine, ropy tendrils like some great, ugly crab. It broke free of the shadow, just for a second, and glared at him. The force of that glare drove through him and he staggered back. He nearly lost his footing in the spilled water from the pool, then turned and stumbled toward the door.
 
Others were there ahead of him and it was open.

Abraham tumbled out the door, kept his feet long enough to reach the trees beyond the clearing, and stopped. He was nauseous, and his leg burned like fire. He knew it had probably been a rattlesnake, and the worst thing he could do was to get the blood pumping faster through his system, but he had to get Kat away from the flames.

Then strong arms grabbed his shoulders. He struggled, but he was too weak. Kat was taken from his arms, and he felt himself lifted. He glanced up then and saw the roof of the white church collapse in on itself. A huge, horrid face lifted from the blaze, eyes turned to the sky.
 
The scream reverberated down the mountain. It wasn't pain, but fury.
 
Then the walls fell in over the roof, and Abe's eyes crossed.
 
He dropped into darkness and knew no more.

Abraham woke to bright sunlight. It streamed in through an unfamiliar window, striped by half-closed blinds, and warmed his face. He shook his head and tried to sit up, but a hand dropped gently onto his shoulder, and he turned.
 
Katrina sat beside him. Her face was pale, and her eyes were lined from lack of sleep, but she smiled shyly at him.

"Where are we?" he asked, avoiding all of the things he knew they were going to have to say.
 
"What happened?"

"Either of those questions could take days to answer," she said. "Is there a short version?" At that moment there was a light knock on the door, and Barbara Carlson entered. She carried a tray with a steaming bowl on it and a ceramic cup. Abe scooted back and managed to lean on the headboard, with Kat's help propping the pillow behind him.
 
As he came more fully awake, his ankle throbbed, and he groaned.

"Take it easy," Barbara said with a smile.
 
"That bite isn't healed. You're lucky we got to you in time." Bits and pieces of memory dropped into place like parts of a jagged puzzle. Abe closed his eyes. "Did we…?" He couldn't finish the sentence. "The church burned," Barbara replied. "Harry and Jacob have been over there sifting through the ashes. Some of the others started digging a pit off to one side.
 
We're going to shovel the ashes into the hole and build a mound on top."

Abe nodded. He'd planned something similar before they started down the mountain.

Barbara sat the tray on his lap and the scents of chicken soup and hot tea made his mouth water.
 
He realized very suddenly that he was hungrier than he could ever remember being. As he reached for the spoon, he turned to Kat.

"How long have I been out?" he asked.

"Two days," she replied.
 
"I've been right here…"

There was a slight catch in her voice. Abe looked around the room and saw that there was no
cot
. The chair she sat in had a blanket draped over the arm.

"Have you slept?" he asked her.

"I caught a little rest," she replied. "I was worried. I…"

"She's a very strong girl," Barbara cut in, breaking the awkwardness of the moment. "Strong and good. You've done well for yourself, Abe."

Abe nodded. He took a bite of the soup and smiled. It was good. He hadn't had anything like it since he left the mountain.

"I know," he said.

He ate in silence for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He had too many questions. He also had a hell of a lot of explaining to do, and he didn't know where to start with that, either. On top of that, he'd lost two days.

"It was a timber rattler that bit you," Barbara told him. "It was a big one.
 
You must have stepped on him on the way out.
 
No one else was bitten; the snakes were in too much of a hurry to get away from that fire."

"It wasn't the fire."
 
Katrina said this with conviction, and both Barbara and Abe turned to her curiously. "They were rushing out around me before there was a fire. I was standing in the doorway, by the curtains, and they slid over my feet, around my legs—hundreds of them. I've never seen so many snakes."

Abe dropped the spoon onto the tray and reached out to lay his hand on her leg. She put her own on top of his, but she didn't look at him. Her gaze was far away, and he wondered what she saw—what she remembered.

He wasn't sure what he remembered.
 
His last memories were of fire and impossible images in the flames. He knew what he'd faced, and what he'd seen, but now he leaned back on perfectly ordinary pillows in a plain, ordinary room with sunlight pouring in the window.
 
His leg ached, and he knew he'd been bitten, but it was impossible. His hand strayed absently to the medallion still hanging around his neck. Something was odd, and he glanced down.

He wore two. Someone had found his mother's necklace in his pocket and hung it around his neck beside his own. He remembered how she had hung in the trees. He flashed on the hedges. His arms still bore scars from the thorns.

He closed his eyes, and he saw the front of the white church, moonlight spilling down through the trees to illuminate its surface. Green light poured from the windows, and Silas Greene stepped into the doorway.
  
The images tumbled forward and he saw the skinny old man on the ground, the fallen sword and the death stroke.

"What happened to Greene?" he asked softly.
 
"And who was that old man?"

"Silas Greene is dead," Barbara answered. "He never knew what hit him. That blade—we never knew—it expanded. When it pierced him and slid between his ribs, it stuck. He keeled over, and the tip of the blade stuck into the mountain."

Abe thought about it, picturing it in his mind.

"The man who killed him was one we never thought to see again. You should remember him, Abe, but he was taller then, and younger. It was Reverend Kotz. He disappeared the night your father performed the cleansing. We assumed he was dead."

"But," Abe's brow furrowed.
 
"He must have been over a hundred years old…"

Barbara nodded. "There wasn't much left of him.
 
He was as thin as a stick. He must have been living in some cave in the woods. God only knows what he's been eating—what he's been doing…"

"They couldn't get the sword out, Abe," Barbara continued. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and her eyes took on the same confused glaze as Katrina's.
 
Her voice dropped nearly to a whisper.
 
"Jacob tried, and then Harry.
 
They tried to cut it, too, but nothing they had would make a mark. That sword stuck down through Silas Green, and there was a fissure in the ground. It opened where the blade struck. All the while we watched it, that crack widened. Sometime late yesterday afternoon it opened far enough and Silas slid down the blade. He should have fallen off.
 
It should have been too deep, but it wasn't.
 
The blade grew, Abe, right through him and into the earth.

"This morning, when they went back to finish digging the pit and sifting the ashes, he was gone. There was no hole at all, only a small, thin sapling.
 
It's a pine."

Abe stared at her, and then shook his head.

"It's over, then," he said.
 
The sword is gone. The lamp was broken to make the fire. And that thing above the door—it's gone?"

"It seems to be so," Barbara replied. She didn't look at him.
 
"I think the tree that was planted will see to it. I think it's a guardian of sorts, born of the mountain."

"That sword was over a hundred years old," Abe said.
 
"How could it grow?"

"Until we lost our way," Barbara answered, finally turning to meet his gaze, "I spent every Sunday of my life in that stone church. I've seen things and felt things that I can't explain.
 
I've seen the lives of my friends and my relatives swallowed by that other place and the evil in its walls, but I've seen good things, as well, Abe.
 
Your father was a great man, and he held secrets we may never find again. I know we'll try.
 
It may seem like we lost something—the sword, the lantern—but I don't think so.
 
I think they served the purpose they were created to serve, and have returned to the mountain.

"You returned to the mountain.
 
Maybe it's the same for you."

Abe reached out, fumbled in Kat's lap and found her hand.
 
He gripped it hard.

"You know I can't stay, Barbara.
 
I have a life…we have a life." He turned and met Kat's gaze levelly, searching for agreement, acceptance—forgiveness.
 
Her eyes washed with tears, and her lip trembled. She leaned in and hugged him fiercely, nearly upsetting the tray in the process, and he held her to his chest.

Barbara nodded and surprised Abe by smiling.
 
"I know that Abe. We all know it…knew it when we first saw you back.
 
You have your father's eyes, and his heart, but you don't belong to the mountain the way he did. You have some of your mother in you, too, and something more. You'd wither and waste away here, and what kind of way would that be for us to thank you?

"If you have no argument with it, Cyrus Bates is going to move into the cottage above the church. He remembers things—more than any of the others—and he has no one left. He wants to spend the rest of his days searching for things we may have lost and tending to the trail, and the church. I think it's a good choice for him, and we're going to need someone up in front when we worship. All of us are going to need some time to forget this, and to find ways around what we did, and what we've seen. The mountain may be cleansed, but it isn't healed.
 
That takes more time."