Angel Fall (12 page)

So Alex ran into the next room.

It was a library; three of the walls were lined with shelves, but there were no books. On the fourth loomed a gigantic stained-glass window, and in it was a woman with a face of power and dark beauty. It was the woman from the plane, but Alex barely saw her. The thirst for light was blinding him. The glimmer had moved on and he had to follow.

And so began a staggering, stumbling chase of horror. No matter how fast he ran, the candle was never closer than the room beyond. Chamber after chamber. Hall after hall. Through narrow passages. Up and down staircases. Around corners. Beneath echoing domes. And everywhere, rippling laughter with muffled, meaningless words. Everywhere thirst and terror. Running. Falling. Screaming with pain. Then on again. Sweat dripping. Clothes slick with mold. Loathing himself, choking with rage at his own weakness. Dragged as though chained to the fading glow.

And on every wall there were paintings of children, always children, only children, paintings crammed and jammed without an inch between.

A
s Alex ran, the air gradually grew hotter and thicker until he could hardly hardly breathe. Blinded and choking, he was about to drop from exhaustion when the chase ended. Rushing around a corner, he crashed into a stone wall with such force that he fell backward and hit his head on the floor.

Slowly he sat up and groaned. His eyes wouldn’t focus, and his arm burned with such agony that he wanted to tear it off. But what was this? All around him was falling a soft shower of light. And he heard singing. From somewhere came the deep rumble of a thousand male voices joined in a roaring chant.

Alex rubbed his eyes trying to make them work. Slowly they began to focus. The wall he had crashed into had a large hole in it. That’s where the light was coming from. A mist of glistening drops lay on his skin like clusters of tiny pearls.

Liquid light. Light that you could drink.

Suddenly the desire to drink it was like a sickness. He licked it off his hand. So sweet! So delicious! Sticking out his tongue, he drew in his breath, trying to suck it from the air. Not enough. He had to have more. In spite of the pain, he pulled himself up. Then, like a dog on three legs, he scrabbled through the hole. As he passed to the other side, the chanting pounded into him with such ferocity that he sprawled on his face.

Struggling to his feet, Alex stood in awe. He was at the back of a cathedral so magnificent and soaring that he felt like an ant on the floor of Heaven. High above, the ceiling was lost in darkness. Below rose a forest of pillars taller than the tallest trees and littered among them were crumbled statues with golden wings, twisted bodies, and contorted faces. They looked like angels frozen in a writhing dance.

But it was the light that Alex cared about. The light and nothing else.

Fiery mist swirled and spiraled between the pillars, falling around him in clouds of glistening rain. And in the light flowed billows of silvery mold. The chamber was awash in an ocean of it. Clots and strands in exquisite patterns sailed through the air. Furry webs of filth floated to the walls and slicked the floor.

Gasping, he let the rain fall into his parched mouth.

Where was it coming from? He had to find it…then run and leap and drink until he drowned. He craned his neck. He couldn’t see between the pillars. Trembling, he crept out and cowered behind a statue. With one eye he peeked around it…and the vision froze his heart.

The cathedral was infested with phantoms.

Thousands of them hung suspended from floor to ceiling, and each was draped in a shroud of softly swirling mold. Far away he could see splashes of brilliance, but he couldn’t tell what was causing them. Whatever it was, the ghosts were staring at it as though in perpetual amazement. Finally Alex’s thirst overcame his fear, and he began skulking around the edge of the vast room; from pillar to pillar, he crept and each one brought him closer to the phantoms. Finally he was able to catch a glimpse of their faces.

And he knew who they were.

They were the sleepwalkers who had marched through the dead city. When they disappeared into the statue, this is where they had come. Even though he was moving close to them, they didn’t seem to know he was there. With dead eyes they just kept staring straight ahead. It took several more minutes for Alex to reach the last pillar, and with his face pressed against the slime, he inched around it.

Everything opened before him.

The congregation of ghosts was gathered around a golden staircase that led up to a wall a hundred feet high, and down it poured cascades of flaming light. In the light hung a gigantic painter’s canvas. The great expanse of cloth was empty except for a thick coating of dark green oil that rippled down in heavy waves. When each wave reached the bottom, it flowed onto the golden stairs. The steps must have been very hot because when the paint touched them, there was a hiss, and the oil bubbled into the fiery light that billowed through the room.

Most horrifying of all, between the canvas and the stairs hung a grotesque shape. It was the sculpture of a golden hand with fingers the size of tree trunks. The monstrous thing was suspended, palm upward, as though a giant were reaching through a curtain of oil. And the sculpture was alive; the fingers were slowly moving. As the burning waterfall ran through them, they opened and closed, grasping the shimmering brightness.

Suddenly Alex felt ill.

The heat was overpowering, and the stench smelled like boiling vomit. Fiery streaks were pulsing through his arm, and something slimy was running through his fingers. Lifting his hand, he stared at it. Green pus was flowing from the gash. His stomach knotted. His mouth filled with saliva. Squatting behind the pillar, he retched. The taste made his thirst for light disappear. Suddenly all he wanted was the cold of outer darkness, a place where he could go and freeze and die alone.

It was time to die. He could feel it.

Desperately he looked for a way out of the cathedral. In the dimness of his suffering he remembered that at the back he had seen massive doors. But they had been chained shut. Maybe there was a little space underneath them—just enough for him to crawl out like a maggot, then rush to the cliff and throw himself off.

He was about to run for the back when a bolt of agony shot from the wound with such force that he gasped and staggered—and shrieked.

The chanting stopped and there was deathly silence.

As Alex sobbed, around him echoed a whisper as soft as the billowing mold,

Then the cathedral thundered with singing that shook the mountain. Slowly all the phantoms turned and thousands of dead eyes stared straight at Alex. The voice came again, but this time like a hurricane.

“Child of the Wind…look at me.”

Instantly an invisible force picked him up and threw him out from behind the pillar. Like a bag of dirt, he slammed to the floor. The phantoms parted, opening a corridor that led to the golden stairs. The invisible force dragged him to his feet. As Alex stood teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, out of the shadows a new host appeared. Among them were the man and the woman from the plane. They towered above him in glittering brightness as though their flesh were made of glass.

The voice cried out, “Child of the Wind…come to me.”

And Alex knew that he must obey. He was desperate to obey. The thirst for light had returned. All he wanted was to grovel and lick the glory—suck the burning oil that shimmered on the stairs.

As Alex Lancaster stumbled toward the golden staircase, suddenly his arm didn’t hurt anymore. In a steaming cloud the brightness swirled around him. He opened his mouth. Softly it caressed his lips and tongue. So delicious! But still not enough. He wanted more! And more came. As he drank the mist, he felt a tingle in his stomach…a strange warmth…then waves of shivering ecstasy.

He understood now!

His mind was clear and soaring!

The cathedral was Heaven; he was surrounded by angels, and the mist was the Blood of God!

As Alex stumbled down the corridor between the phantoms, he saw her. The girl with the long black hair. She was standing at the top of the stairs near the frame, and she was smiling. How beautiful she was. Such soft lips. The body of a goddess. All his blazing pleasure at her beauty distilled into an ecstasy of perfect hate. Until that moment he had never understood the splendor of unpolluted loathing, loathing untainted by the slightest love. As he traced her form with his eyes, he longed to let the loathing crush her. He longed to punish her for what she had done to him—to torture her for what everyone had ever done to him.

But then she vanished from his consciousness like a wisp of smoke, because above him loomed the waterfall of light and flowing oil. As he gazed at it, everything else was forgotten. In the journey through the cathedral, he had been reborn. And from within the oil came an answering joy. It bled in streaks of yellow, swirls of crimson, slashes of gold. It flowed in colors that he had never seen, as though a palette had been drawn from the veins of heaven. Above him on the canvas were a thousand rainbows, circles of fiery brilliance flowing down from the stars. And in them appeared a face. When he saw it, he dropped to his knees, knowing that his existence was over. Nothing could look into eyes of such glory and live.

God and Beast!

Hunger and yearning!

The Crashing Chaos behind the thrones and altars on uncounted worlds.

To look into those Eyes was to have every question answered. In one moment Alex understood the horror of his filthy, reeking insignificance. Crouching beneath the Eyes, he felt them piercing through his body…searching for the breath that made him live. And having found it, the Hungering God bent close and groaned. The whisper came again: “Pray to me for I can taste your soul. Pray to me that, as I drink it, I will leave a drop of you alive.”

And Alex prayed, shaking, screaming, retching out meaningless words.

Then the whisper rose into a wail. “Live until the gift of dying. Live until death is all that remains. Worship me for I am Lammortan, Painter of Heaven. Worship me, drink my light, and never rise again.”

Down roared an avalanche of splendor. Alex’s face blazed and from his throat came a screaming song. The voice was not his, and his lips formed words in a language that he could not understand, a language of stuttering madness, of ranting, spewing, babble, of jabbering hate in ten thousand tongues, a language of agony, but never had he felt such raging joy. As he shrieked, the ghosts of the cathedral answered.

Alex’s body convulsed in hideous spasms. Crashing to the floor, he writhed and jittered, and his mind floated free. All his life he had been searching for this moment…to worship…to offer up his soul…to burn himself in shrieking glory. One last time he screamed, and the veil of his spirit was ripped to shreds. Slowly the writhing stopped. The sacrifice was finished. Lust for lust. Hate for hate. Rage for rage. Every ounce of him had been conquered. And in the conquering was his exaltation. In the rape of his soul he had met his God.

The Voice spoke again: “Crawl beneath my hand.”

Slithering, quivering across the floor, Alex clawed up the steps. Where he touched the oil, his skin blistered, but there was no pain. Streams of pus oozed from his wounded arm, but he felt nothing. Finally he was beneath the gigantic hand.

“My enemies have damaged you. Lift your arm.”

Alex obeyed. At the place where the dog had bitten him, his flesh lay open to the bone and was slathered with green pus.

“Look up.”

Alex tried to look up but his vision swam. The giant fingers seemed to be on fire. Flashes of liquid gold dripped between them onto the wound, filling the rip in his flesh, turning the pus to steam. Then the gold wove around his arm in a seamless band. As he stared at it, his vision cleared. The wound was no longer visible. Once more he heard whispering. But now it came from within his head.

Stand up. Walk down the stairs.

Slowly Alex obeyed. When he reached the bottom, he paused. Looking back at the canvas, he received the greatest thrill of his life. Painted on it in the colors of heaven was a majestic portrait, a picture of himself the way he had always wanted to be. A conqueror; a hero; a god! And the face was perfect in every detail but one—the eyes were not his. Alex didn’t care. His dream had come true, that was all that mattered. And he
felt
like a god. All the phantoms in the cathedral and all the crystal creatures lay prone before Him, singing, worshiping the glory of His Presence.

Suddenly there was a rumble…and the singing died.

In the blink of an eye the multitude vanished.

To his amazement Alex found that he was alone. The gigantic chamber was empty. Dazed, he turned back toward the canvas. His portrait was gone. All that remained were flowing waves of oil. Instantly his fear returned. What had happened?

A figure rushed from the shadows. It was the girl.

“Where’d everybody go?”

“Daylight is coming. We’ve got to hurry.”

“What do you mean?” Alex stared into her eyes. For some reason she couldn’t look at him.

“Quick, follow me!” She turned and ran.

“Hey, not this again. Come back here.” To his amazement she obeyed. Not only did she return, she dropped to her knees. It was so shocking that for a moment he didn’t know what to do. “Well…okay…good.” Bending down, he glared at her. She was afraid of him. He could feel it. And her fear made her beauty even more delicious. “What’s your name?”

“Melesh. Please, we don’t have much time…”

“All right, but no screwing around. No running ahead and losing me. You got that?”

“Yes.”

Quickly she led him away. This time the journey through the cathedral was much different. Though the girl hurried, she never left him. Once Alex ordered her to stop just to make sure he was in control. Turning back, she knelt at his feet. It made him feel so good that he laughed. “Hey, I like this.”

“If you like it, I’ll do it always. I’m your slave. But please, we’ve got to go to our rooms.”

His slave? Into his mind came thoughts so cruel they were unspeakable.

Jumping up, she hurried on, through a part of the building that was without the strangling heat and mold and portraits of children; no haunting eyes full of sadness to watch him. They didn’t go much farther. After climbing a staircase and rushing down a hall, the girl ran to a wooden door. Throwing it open, she pulled him inside. Alex found himself in a room with high windows. It was very stark with only one piece of furniture, a large four-poster bed.

“It’s time for sleep.”

“And what if I don’t want to sleep?” He moved close to her.