Waking the Moon (71 page)

“You can save Dylan,” Robert said. “If we haven’t waited too long.”

“But how—where is he?”

I pulled away from Balthazar, and pushed Annie aside. “Do you know? Is he hurt? Because if you hurt him—if
anyone
hurts him—I’ll kill you with my bare hands. I swear to god by all that’s holy, I will—”

Balthazar opened his mouth to speak. But before he could say anything, Annie erupted into laughter.

“What?” I shouted, whirling to face her. “What’s so funny?”

“N-nothing,” she gasped.

“Because I’m not kidding, I’ll kill anyone—”

“That’s what I
mean,”
Annie said, and wiped her eyes. “I think that’s the point, Sweeney—”

She turned and stared at the two
Benandanti.
Then, to my surprise, she made a little bow. Her husky voice rang out as she announced, “Well, guys—whoever you really are, and whatever the hell you’re doing—

“I
think
you finally got the right girl for the job.”

I said nothing; what
could
I say? But at last Robert Dvorkin sighed and murmured, “We can’t wait. Are you ready, Balthazar?”

Balthazar turned to me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I stared at my feet and nodded. “I’m ready. But where is he? How are we going to find him?”

Balthazar took my hand. “This way, Sweeney,” he said, and pointed at the front door of the carriage house. Abruptly Annie was there between us, shaking her head furiously.

“Hey! If you think you’re taking her off somewhere—”

“No, Annie,” I said. Adrenaline and dread and exhaustion had pumped me up so that I hardly even felt afraid anymore. “This is—well, I don’t know
what
it is, but you better not come.”

“Don’t you
dare
—”

“Annie!”

“Let her go.” Robert’s calm voice cut through the anger. “One way or another, it won’t matter.”

Annie turned to him. “Oh, right, like
I
don’t—”

I grabbed her. “Shut up, Annie. Balthazar, tell me what to do.”

I looked into his eyes: those half-feral eyes, with their mockery and menace always waiting, waiting, like a patient wolf. I saw no mockery there now, or menace; but neither did I see any warmth. Only a cool, measuring regard, as though he were looking at a heated glass and wondering if it was strong enough not to shatter.

After a moment he nodded. “That way.” Once again he pointed to the door.

I shook my head. “That’s the front door of my house.”

“That’s right, Sweeney.” A very small smile appeared on his face. “Go,” he urged, and gave me a gentle push.

“But—”

“Go.”

All the bravura I’d felt moments before was gone. I felt sick and numb with fear; but then I thought of Dylan. Somewhere, Angelica had Dylan; but where? I could only trust Balthazar now.

“Okay,” I said. I walked toward the door, forgetting Annie stumbling behind me, forgetting Balthazar and Robert and even Angelica.

Dylan, Dylan,
I thought, and reached until my hand pressed against the screen.
Oh, Dylan.

The door bulged open, the bottom catching on the floor sill and groaning as I pushed.
Dylan. Dylan.
Then, with a sound like water bursting from a broken dam, the door gave way. Before me was a dazzling vista, gold and crimson and argent, nothing but radiance, and so brilliant I could not bear to gaze upon it. I closed my eyes and stepped forward. My hands flailed helplessly as I plunged. Before I could draw another breath I tumbled head over heels and struck the ground. I lay there for a moment, groaning.

I had walked through the
Benandanti’s
portal and left the carriage house behind, and it hadn’t killed me. Yet. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.

I was at the Divine.

“Sweeney—”

I stumbled to my feet as Annie staggered up beside me. “Sweeney—how did—are we—”

“Yes,” I said, staring at the sky. “I think we are.”

We were on the porch in front of Garvey House. Wherever I looked, everything seemed to be in motion. Immense oaks lashed back and forth like saplings, their leaves torn from them and sent spinning upward. All the air was charged with the sound of wind, a terrifying roar like a thousand engines racing. A power line whipped through the air, finally wrapped itself around a toppled pole. On the narrow path leading to the building, whirlwinds of dust and grit churned furiously. A chair went skidding across the porch to crash into the balustrade. I grabbed Annie to steady myself, then pulled her after me down the steps.

“Oh Annie,” I breathed when we reached the bottom. “It’s the end of the world.”

Above us was a raging maelstrom like that I had glimpsed in my vision of Othiym. Only this was
real.
This was the
sky.
Like an endless sea of molten lead it flowed and boiled, iron-colored, streaked with waves of bruised green and violet. Lightning shot through the clouds, and as we watched a tree burst into blue flame, then, with a howl like a wounded leviathan, crashed to the ground.

“We have to go!” Annie shouted, pointing at the flaming wreckage. “Get off the hill!”

With a deafening boom the air exploded into white flame. I screamed and ducked, felt Annie pulling me down the path. Leaves and branches whipped my cheeks as I stumbled after her, until with a cry I looked up.

All the Divine was ablaze with lightning. Against this jagged splendor the Gothic buildings rose stark black, their towers and parapets rippling with phosphorescence, their angel guardians aglow. There were no people anywhere in sight, no lights on in any of the windows. I stared, speechless, half-deafened by thunder, like one of those stone figures brought to ground.

“What are we supposed to do?” yelled Annie.

I shook my head and shouted, “I don’t know.”

But I did. Because in all that raging tempest, only the Shrine was untouched. It loomed above the chaos of light and shadow, more the implacable sphinx than ever it had been: ponderous and silent, a behemoth waiting to give birth. Fox-fire flowed from its parapets, pooled like cyanic mist about its twisting stairs and the empty black eyes of its stained glass windows. The gilded stars burned a fiery gold against the lapis dome, and reflected within its curve was the most perfect white crescent of a moon, rising from volcanic clouds on the eastern horizon.

“In there.” I pointed to the Shrine. “He’s in there.” Annie nodded mutely as I started to run. “Come on—”

Beneath our feet the grass kindled. Smoke billowed behind us and I choked on the scent of burning leaves. To either side rose the Piranesian citadels where for two hundred years the
Benandanti
had kept their treasures and lore intact, with their winged granite sentinels outside. I could feel their eyes upon me now, those same blank eyes that had greeted me on that first afternoon so long ago; could see them crouched on balusters and columns with wings arched as for flight, their hands drawn up before them prayerfully. I ran, wiping my eyes against the smoke and heat, while before me the Shrine seemed to swell ever more monstrous, and the impassive angels watched.

Suddenly Annie shrieked. I turned and saw her pointing wildly.

“Sweeney!—”

The sky was filled with angels: black and crimson angels with coppery wings. From towers and rooftops and steeples they flew, launching themselves with arms outflung, hair aflame and their wings spreading behind them in glorious arcs, and all the air thundered with their cries. Voices like bells and voices like the sea, children’s voices and the groans of old men, exulting and lamenting and howling their triumph as they swooped from their pediments and made blazing Catherine wheels across the sky. I stared dumbfounded, too overcome by awe to feel afraid, until one careened through the air above me, so close that its fingers raked my scalp and I fell back screaming with pain.

“Fire—”

I covered my head, my palms scorched and the reek of singed hair filling my nostrils.

“Sweeney! Are you okay?” Annie shook me. “Sweeney!”

I bit my lip and nodded. “Can you still run, Annie?”

A grin broke through her ash-streaked face. “Hell,” she shouted, “if I can’t run
now
—” She raised her arms protectively as another shadow raced across us.

We ran, zigzagging among the trees, pursued by that yelping horde. Angels or demons, furies or divine escort, I never knew. Whether they were sent by the
Benandanti
to protect us, or by Angelica to hunt us, they followed Annie and me to the very foot of the Shrine. Only then did their whooping cries diminish. In twos and threes they flew to the uppermost rim of the Shrine and landed, wings spread, until the dome was ringed with them.

Beneath that watchful army Annie and I hesitated. Overhead storm clouds boiled. The sickle moon was a hooded eye within the tumult. Before us the great steps led up to the Shrine, the rosy sandstone given a lurid sheen by the storm. Dust eddied like smoke where the wind garnered it. I glanced to make sure Annie was beside me, and began to climb.

Nothing stopped our ascent; nothing was there to bar our way inside. The wind’s roar seemed muted there, though its power was evident: a fallen column, a large concrete urn toppled and crushed like an acorn. Bitter smoke hung everywhere, and there was the funereal musk of another odor, myrrh and sandalwood incense.

“Look,” whispered Annie.

Where the statues of the three archangels had once stood, there was now a single huge marble image, filigreed with smoke and flame. A young woman with huge staring eyes, her torso draped in heavy robes that parted to expose her chest. Only where her breasts should have been, there were mounded rows upon rows of teats, dozens of breasts like a dog’s or sow’s, like rows of monstrous eyes staring down upon us.

I tried to summon some thin veil of hope to cloak me when I walked through those doors. Nothing came. Only the thought of Dylan bore me on—but it was a distant and curiously detached thought, like the remnant of a dream quickly fading. My scalp ached dully, my mouth felt dry and chalky.

“Let’s go.” I pushed against the door, and we entered the Shrine.

The wind died. The ornate windows admitted no light from outside, and a pervasive grey haze clouded the air. Marble vessels that had once held holy water were now filled with glowing chunks of charcoal, from which rose thin columns of scented smoke. Blossoms carpeted the marble floor: crushed narcissus and purple hyacinth, tiny white rosebuds, anemones and cyclamen, wilted poppies and jonquils. There were figs, too, their black hearts bursting with pink juice; and small hard apples, and pomegranates big as gourds, their rinds cut away to reveal the moist seeds within like so many wine-stained teeth. And ears of corn no bigger than my hand, and barley sheaves and maize; clusters of grapes that oozed red and black where we trod upon them, and the swollen knobs of opium poppies whose blooms were spent. Everywhere we looked there were flowers and fruit wreathed in that dreamy haze.

I turned and saw Annie staring transfixed at a pile of grain.

“Look,” she breathed. She reached to touch a single white kernel like a glistening pearl. “It’s so—so perfect.”

The mounded grain shimmered like fairy fruit. With an effort I turned away.

“Come on, Annie. We can’t stay here.”

I pulled her after me. She came reluctantly, glancing back as we walked from the bay into the nave of the Shrine.

“Oh,” I gasped, and stopped.

All around us there were stones. Megaliths, I thought at first, or boulders; but then I saw that they were not stones at all. They were immense carven idols—the most ancient and holy of icons made huge and manifest, in anticipation of the epiphany that was to come. A bulbous-shaped woman who might have been molded of honey, so bedewed with moisture was she—eyeless, mouthless, her hands placed protectively over a swollen belly that flowed into huge jutting buttocks and plinthlike thighs. Behind her stretched rows of tall white figures like alabaster blades, their breasts mere jots upon their torsos, a knife-slit of vulva between their marble legs. There were simple basalt columns and stalactites, pregnant women carved of green serpentine and shining onyx; ivory figures twenty thousand years old, their smooth faces scrolled with indentations and meanders, their hair etched into elaborate braids and knots. Women with the curved beaks of ibises and women with the heads of bees; snake-women, bear-women, women bearing tusks and tails. Their necks were hung with ropes of blossoms, their mouths smeared with honey and wine. Bees crawled across their cheeks and nested in their parted thighs. On the floor the matted petals shivered as serpents made their way through the blossoms. The air steamed, as though the vegetation was already decaying. Sweat streamed down my body and soaked my shirt and bare legs. Mingled with the heady incense of sandalwood and myrrh was another smell, pungent and sweet and malty. Beer, and the unmistakable odor of crushed coriander seed, the fragrance of sandalwood and oranges.

As we approached the altar the stone figures gave way to forms of gold and silver and bronze. Queens in chariots borne by griffins, tiny girls cast in gold, with eyes of lapis lazuli and feathered crowns; a statuette of a monarch with her head thrown back, flanked by crouching lions. A goddess upon a mountaintop looking out to sea. Drowsy mothers nursing their young. A marble madonna holding the broken body of her son; the painted plaster image of a woman crowned with the moon and seven stars, a serpent coiled protectively about her ankle. Faint music sounded from the transepts. Flutes and tabors, a jangling sistrum.

And suddenly I was in that hot classroom again—the smells of chalk and wood polish, a faunlike man dancing across the floor with sistrum raised as a boy recited—

An Egyptian instrument used in the worship of Isis. Fourth Dynasty, I believe …

I started to fall, but Annie caught me.

“I’m okay,” I said hoarsely. “Just dizzy …”

Chanting voices joined with the sound of bones and flutes. Women’s voices—

Hail Hecate, Nemesis, Athena, Anahita! Hail Anat, Lyssa, Al-Lat, Kalika. Great Sow, Ravener of the Dead, Blind Owl and Ravening Justice. Hail Mouth of the World, Hail All-Sister, Othiym Lunarsa, haïyo! Othiym.