The Faceless One (2 page)

As he moved down, the light from outside faded, and the air turned chill, a frigid cold that increased in severity, a cruel and icy state without respite. The skulls along the wall became more massive, some of them with fangs nearly a foot long, cruel scimitars in predatory jaws. Just as the light all but disappeared, he saw massive skulls with huge, curving tusks as large as himself. Inverted, their great ivory arcs formed a portal. There was a dim light ahead, and he made for it, conscious of the grinning skulls flanking his progress, their empty eyes retaining the visions of millennia past.

Jimmy Kalmaku was filled with both terror and exhilaration. He knew that what he was about to see was only for the most wise.

He stepped into a vast chamber; its walls covered with ice colored a deep blue by the centuries. Long ago the cave had been a dwelling, and a vent had been laboriously carved in the ceiling for the fire pit. This makeshift chimney served as a sort of skylight, allowing the spring sun to partially illuminate the chamber.

To his left, the walls were bare. There were no skulls, no carvings, no painted figures or masks. To his right, a wall of ice, the light from above illuminating it, its interior filled with a soft, golden glow. Rather than smelling musty, there was a clean smell to the place, and the hint
of a spice like his mother sometimes used in cooking.

In the center, obscured and distorted by thick blue ice, something was suspended.

It was very dark and roughly circular. The object looked to be about the size of a large dinner plate, but it was hard to tell given the distortion of the ice. As he tried to puzzle out what it was, he saw a glimmer of gold around its outer edge.

Suddenly, it saw him.

There was no change in the object, no opening of eyes or shifting of position. It remained suspended in the ice as it surely had for hundreds of years. But he knew it saw him. He knew with absolute certainty that it was hungry for him, jealous of his life and warmth.

hello, boy

Jimmy stared at it. The voice was in his head and all around him.

are you cold? i am cold

It was the sound of gusts around their roof at night, when the wind scrabbles and claws at the eaves, searching for a way into the snug, warm room. It was the sound a man makes when he is trapped under thick ice, his fellows above watching helplessly as he is claimed by the cold sea.

let me out

The voice seemed to tear into him with needlelike claws. He backed up, striking the opposite wall and letting out a strangled gasp.

let me out

The voice was sliding around his mind, an eel that left a viscous and foul-smelling ooze on his thoughts. Jimmy felt at any moment he might throw up or faint.

let me out, jimmy. i can teach you more than the old man

At the mention of his name, a low moan escaped him. It knew him. Now he would never be free of it. No matter where he went, it would find him.

let me out

Would that be so terrible? To let it out? Perhaps it was a mistake, imprisoning it here. What creature deserved such a lonely and terrible existence? He could dig it out with tusks from the animal skulls, and he had the knife his uncle had given him …

“Tread lightly, Mouse.”

It was the voice of his uncle, deep in his mind, and it brought both comfort and sanity. It lifted the thick veil that seemed to have wrapped his mind and heart only seconds before.

He shook his head, trying to clear it further. The ice before him seemed to thrum with the power of the thing. If he were to let it out, what terrible things might be unleashed? His uncle said he must not forget what was here, that he must protect their people. It belonged here, shrouded in ice and shut away from the lives of Men.

Let Me Out

It was growing angry now, realizing its hold on him was weakening.

LET ME OUT

Its voice rose to a scream in his head, a sound that seemed to strike the ice like a mallet.

Jimmy ran then, unable to control himself. He blundered into one of the large skulls outside the chamber and opened a gash on his forehead. Disoriented, he started down a side tunnel, into the darkness. The screaming continued inside his head, followed by laughter that seemed to promise an eternity of misery, a suffering beyond anything he could imagine.

Feeling hopelessly lost, he collapsed on the stone floor and wept, knowing he would never see his mother or father again. The young boy prayed for death, prayed for anything that might bring silence.

Something pricked the back of his right hand, and the sharp pain made him look up, sure the thing had found him.

A raven, as white as the first snow of winter, regarded him quizzically. It hopped up, then pecked at his hand again, more gently this time. He could still hear the screaming of the thing in the chamber, but it seemed distant now, a wolf that circles the village long house in vain but cannot enter.

The raven hopped away from him, and he could see now that the tips of its feathers and beak were a burnished gold. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It moved away from him, slightly luminous in the dark side tunnel.

Jimmy followed it, and it led him quickly past the skull sentries and to the tunnel leading up to the cave entrance. The screaming of the thing in the chamber had diminished to little more than a whisper, and he shut it out of his head with thoughts of his mother’s smile and his father’s carrying him on his broad shoulders through town.

When he reached the entrance, he looked for the raven, but it had disappeared. He stepped out into the sunlight, and its warmth was like a welcome caress.

His uncle hugged him, then dressed the wound on his forehead before they made the hike back to the truck.

He wondered if his uncle would have come after him if the raven had not. Then he wondered if his uncle had sent the raven, if, indeed, he had been the raven. He had many questions, but they could wait.

“Tell me about the thing in the cave,” Jimmy Kalmaku said.

As they drove back to the village of Yanut, his uncle told him about The Faceless One.

Daniel put down the sandwich and listened.

He was sure he had heard something. He picked up the remote and muted the television. The comedian on-screen gesticulated silently as Daniel strained to hear.

There was a slight rustle behind him, and he jumped.

The sound had come from the entryway.

Slowly, he rose from the chair and made his way cautiously to the front door.

All was quiet. It was Sunday morning, and most of the other tenants were out.

Daniel listened at the door. Warily, he reached toward it, his fingers splayed and quivering. He put them gently against the door, as if trying to divine something.

All was quiet.

He knelt to the delivery caddy. It was a revolving drum he had installed next to the front door six months ago. A deliveryman would put his groceries in the drum on the hall side. Once he was gone, Daniel could rotate the drum and retrieve his delivery. The opening on his side was secured with a massive lock and heavy mesh, its openings no more than a millimeter square. Daniel unlocked and turned the crank. He leaned back as he did so, still not sure whether something might be strong enough to tear through the steel mesh.

Or small enough to fit through it.

The drum slowly turned, and a bag of groceries appeared, slightly listing. The delivery boy had either forgotten to ring the bell, or Daniel had missed it while he was in the shower. As he breathed a sigh of relief, a can near the top tumbled out, and the resultant thump startled him again.

He chided himself for being so jumpy. He had been extremely careful and taken numerous precautions. Besides, he was beginning to doubt they could travel this far.

Still, he checked the mortar along the bottom of the door. It was as white and pristine as the day he had mixed it, sealing the door with careful application of brush and trowel. He ran his finger along the smooth expanse. It felt cool, comforting. He removed the combination lock from the mesh cage and retrieved his groceries, shaking his head as he put the can of tuna back into the bag. He relocked the cage and spun the drum back into position.

Daniel set the groceries on the counter. Truth be told, he had enough food for another
three months, but he liked fresh lettuce for salads and had been craving tuna. He put the perishables away in the large double refrigerator and put all but one can of tuna into the spare bedroom he had converted into a pantry and storage area.

He washed up in the bathroom, setting his glasses carefully on the sink. His face looked a bit gaunt, and that was due to anxiety and lack of sleep.

He brushed his hair back and retied his ponytail. His dark hair was really starting to look shaggy, but there was no way to get it cut. If his self-imposed imprisonment was going to last, he might have to teach himself how to cut his own hair.

Daniel carefully retrieved his glasses, then wiped up the water spots around the sink. He kept the place spotless—except for the tree, of course.

Returning to the kitchen, he thought of continuing his sandwich-and-television break, but he was too unsettled to enjoy either. He wrapped the sandwich in a paper towel and stuck it in the fridge. He tried to keep waste to a minimum. Whatever he couldn’t reuse or flush down the toilet, he left in a bag in his delivery caddy. He paid a kid down the hall ten bucks a week to take his trash down for him.

Daniel looked over at the niche that contained his computer, laser printer, various reference books, and journals. The computer was a godsend, one of the things that allowed him to live comfortably—or at least safely—in exile. He paid all his bills over the Net and conducted all his research from there. He made a mental note to order more print cartridges before his eyes continued up over the desk itself.

The fetish was still there.

It revolved slowly on the forty-pound test line he had hung it on, the breeze from the central air causing it to survey the room with bright, obsidian eyes.

Daniel honestly didn’t know if the fetishes were keeping him safe. Still, he was not going to test the efficacy of his charms. They had taken a lot of work, and two of the essential ingredients were both costly and illegal.

Thinking back on those feverish, sleepless nights when he had crafted the effigies and invoked the protective sphere, Daniel hurriedly went to each window of his Fifth Avenue town house. On the outside of each window was a similar effigy, sealed there with a permanent epoxy. The building’s window washer was paid an extra fifty dollars to clean carefully around each one.

Each fetish was in place, its eyes glinting outward, its mouth exposing an imposing set of reddened teeth.

All was quiet.

Daniel once again chided himself and decided perhaps he’d rest a bit more before getting back to his research. Maxwell at UCLA had just published a paper that might be relevant, and the search engine he used had indicated a new Web page out of China that might help him, once
he got it translated.

He crossed the rich cream carpet, now stained in one corner from the fabrication of the fetishes. If he ever got out of the place, he was going to have that carpet replaced. Hell, he might even move. He hadn’t seen Steven in a long time, and his brother kept telling him to leave “that hellhole,” which is how he always referred to Manhattan, and join him in California.

Countless times he had wanted to call Steven, but he knew his brother might think him crazy, might even come to help him, and he couldn’t risk that. What would happen to his own flesh and blood if he were outside the sphere of protection Daniel had conjured? Hell, he hadn’t even uttered Steven’s name, lest it give the thing power over his kid brother.

If he was able to complete his research, then everyone would be safe.

Tell that to Milo Grant and the rest of the village
, he thought.

He had read the news the day before. He had been trying to track down the shaman and still had no leads. He had Googled Yanut and been shocked to see what had become of it. Maybe Tully was right, maybe he was a “thief and a damn fool,” but what choice did he have?

The phone rang, and he let the service pick up, sure it was Tully or any other of his colleagues who were either curious or pissed off. Once he was able to venture outside, he’d have a lot of explaining to do.

Their gloved hands carefully chipping the ice. Milo grinning, his uneven teeth glinting in the reflected light. Had he died screaming?

Crossing the room, he brushed against the Christmas tree. A cloud of needles fell whisper-soft to join the ring of debris on the carpet. He had sealed the place before he had remembered it. So it stood in the center of the living room, its once-green needles a dull brown, its bright metallic and glass ornaments slowly gathering dust. He had left it as a testament to his stupidity and the lack of planning that had landed him in this prison. The ornaments tinkled slightly as he passed, as if announcing an arrival.

There was another sound then, a sort of low crackling coupled with a barely audible squeal.

Daniel turned to the windows overlooking Central Park.

One of the fetishes was coming loose from the window, sliding slowly down the glass, like a slug making its way across a clear expanse.

The epoxy had been expensive and guaranteed to hold for at least ten years. It was impossible that it was giving way as if it had no more adhesive strength than chewing gum, yet the fetish continued its slow and torturous progress down the pane of glass.

Daniel rushed to the window, but what could he do? He couldn’t risk opening the window. He stood there, powerless, as the small figure came loose and fell away.

He craned his neck as the effigy fell two stories to the street. It came to rest just under a
large maple tree. Perhaps he could call the doorman, have him retrieve it. If he was quick, he could reapply it to the window, saying the invocation before opening the window.