The Temple of Heart and Bone (9 page)

Clouds roiled overhead, eager to
release their gathered water on the world below. Light fell from the land, and
not even the moon pierced the thick, churning clouds. The rain continued,
unabated, mastering the world out-of-doors. All the animals of the forest
sought shelter, and nothing moved that was not pushed by water or wind. As the
night wore on, the clouds above began to struggle, one with another. Great,
thundering crashes echoed across the water of the lake, and small animals
crawled deeper into their burrows. Sheets of lighting lashed across the sky,
tracing their reflections in lake and puddles. Shattering cracks erupted in the
night as trees exploded into splinters and hissing sap.

The storm that fell on the forest
gathered strength as it poured in from the east. The sound of the falling rain
was soon washed away by the howling of the wind. The howling of the wind could
only be heard in the brief intervals between shattering blasts of thunder.
Brilliant flashes of light blazed mere seconds before the thunder replied, and
the replies were coming more and more quickly. The lightning turned the
darkness brighter than midday and all the world flickered between positive and
negative. The limits of the lake expanded as the ever hungry water sought to
overpower the land. Engorged by the constantly falling rain, the lake swelled
until its wind-blown waves crashed over the top of the old wooden pier.

The gusting wind turned chill and
cold, sucking the heat from both land and water. Leaves blew in clusters from
the trees, flying off into the night like erratic bats. The trees, themselves,
were left naked to the world—great skeletal creatures surrounding the little
home. Their branches, so denuded, reached with bone-like branches to scratch
and scrape at the walls and roof of the cottage. Eerie screeching accompanied
the creaking of the wood, as the trees worked to open the structure. The
howling of the wind laughed and hooted a counterpoint to the hungry clawing,
mocking all resistance in the darkness.

Through all the darkness and
light, through all the howling and screeching, Drothspar remained unmoving on the
floor. The water of the storm had rolled in among his leaves and bones. He did
not stir. Shattering cracks of thunder rolled off of him as if he were stone.
The blinding flashes of lightning did not move him. The leaves he had gathered
swirled around him in gusting drafts of wind. He made no effort to stop them or
to gather more. He remained silent and still.

The storm raged throughout the
remainder of the night. Throwing all it had against the little cottage, the
storm seemed to challenge the apathy of the creature within. Reinforcing itself
with strength from the east, the thunder and rain continued past daybreak. The
thick, dark clouds permitted only minimal light to squeeze through, covering
the landscape in a blue-gray shroud. The bare-limbed trees stood silhouetted
against the leaden sky. Shadows did not exist in the diffuse steel light of the
storm. The staccato lashing of the rain continued to accompany the howling of
the wind.

Inside the cottage, the still
remains of Drothspar were partially covered with wet and sticking leaves. Lying
in the stain of his lover’s blood, he looked as if he had fallen, himself, on
that very spot. One arm reached out toward the door, the other still clutched a
dwindling pile of leaves. The skeleton, several feet from walls, windows or
door, presented a macabre center-piece to a broken and forgotten room.

The
rain had come none too quickly for the soul moving through the woods. Falling
water had knocked the reek of something foul from the wind. Before the rain had
come, it had smelled as if every grave had opened for miles around. The rain,
however, had cleansed the air—somewhat—and though it was still cold and wet, it
was an improvement. Opening a pack, the figure pulled out a flask, unscrewed the
cap, and drank deeply. The body shuddered and its head snapped away from the
flask. Replacing the cover, the dark figure put the flask away and moved on
through the trees.

The old man’s directions had been
about as smooth as his liquor, the figure thought to itself as it slogged its
way across the wet forest floor. A warm, burning sensation flowed through the
living body, and the rain became less of an inconvenience.

“Smooth or not, if his directions
are as effective as his drink, I’m set,” the figure whispered to no one in
particular. Looking about, the traveler decided that the forest really wasn’t
that bad of a place, at least now that the stench had died down. The trees,
though bare, were doing
something
to keep the rain at bay. The water had
actually plastered the fallen leaves to the forest floor, so branches and roots
were a
little
easier to spot in the darkness.

Occasionally, the figure would
stop and listen amongst the trees, more from habit than from any real concern.
After a few moments of watching and listening, it would move on, stepping
carefully, warmed by the alcohol. Carried in one hand was a small box slung low
in a metal handle. Every so often, the figure would lift the box and open its
face to the stormy night. A small shaft of light would seep out from the
covered lantern to illuminate the wet path ahead.

The path had grown over with
time, just as the old man had said it would. It was still fairly clear,
compared to the random lines and game trails which crossed and thatched through
the trees.  The old man had said there would be a farm on the way, a
ruined scar left by the last invasion from the East. This path, he had said,
would lead directly to that farm. The figure moved along the path, steadying
itself on trees. The rough bark was a comfort to the hand, secure and hard,
easy to grasp.

The night seemed to go on
forever. The storm had clouded, literally, all sense of time. Darkness had
fallen early under the blackened skies, and with no moon or stars to judge by,
time stood still. The land still moved beneath the feet, the figure assured
itself.

Looking out past the trunks and
limbs of the forest, the figure spied a clutch of deformed shadows, blacker
than the night around them. They presented themselves not so much as
distinctive entities, but as an unbroken inky blackness so dense that even the
dimmest light did not leak through. It tugged at the vision and worried the
mind. The figure stopped again to listen. The patter of the rain and the
howling of the wind were joined by new sounds; an eerie, squeaking creak and
the slapping of wood on wood came quickly into the forest like frightened
children. A chill ran down the figure’s spine, only to be countered by another
pull from its flask.

Moving slowly, cautiously, the
figure stepped out of the trees and into the clearing around the farm. Just as
the old man had said, it thought to itself, as the warmth of the liquor took
hold. The buildings had been fairly big at one point, probably fairly well
made. They had also been destroyed long ago, and there was certainly nothing of
value among the remains. With a small sigh and a shrug, the figure moved on to
find the cattle pen.

The old man had said to trace the
fence along the buildings until it turned away from them. Then, he said, follow
the turn half of its length, and head straight away from the fence toward the
forest. The figure did as it had been instructed, following the fence along its
length. It ran its hand along the wood for a time, until a splinter convinced
the hand to jerk away.

Crossing the distance from the
fence to the forest had been easier said than done. What had appeared to be a
clear field in the darkness contained ploughed furrows grown over with grass.
The figure stumbled once before catching on to them, then walked more cautiously.
It felt strange to be exposed in an open field after moving through the
protective shadows of the trees. It was like passing from an alley into a great
city square. Anyone could be watching.

The rain made visibility very low
that night, and the figure consoled itself with that. Halfway through the
field, a deafening crack, like the detonation of a massive siege cannon,
crashed through all the sounds of the night. The figure dropped to the ground
with a practiced speed, falling prone but alert. It was the first blast of
thunder that the figure had heard that night, setting its heart to racing.
Lying still on the ground, the thunder returned louder and closer than before.
The figure waited flat on the ground.

With dazzling speed and brilliance,
great arcs of lightning snaked through the roiling sky. A flicker that turned
night into day was followed a half-dozen seconds later by a shattering crash of
thunder. The figure looked at the tall, wet trees ahead and decided to double
back. Feeling more than naked in the field, the figure knew it stood a better
chance against the lightning in the open than among the tall trees. The farm,
it thought. Perhaps one of the ruined buildings might provide at least some
cover until the worst of the storm blew over. Dashing back as quickly and as
carefully as it could, the figure reached the cattle fence and followed it back
to the burned-out structures.

Outside one of the buildings, the
figure almost fell into a wide, gaping blackness. Uncovering its lantern, the
figure found the open cellar of what it thought to be the main farm house.
Considering only for a moment, the figure decided to follow the steps down into
the darkness, its lantern held ahead and open, and one hand concealed in its
cloak. The stairs were covered with a crumbly layer of grass. The grass had
grown in dirt and sediment that had washed into the cellar in storms past.
Stepping down into the depths, the figure halted at the bottom of the stairs
and scanned the walls with the lantern.

The shelves were empty, for the
most part. Many were broken, some, near the entrance, were burned. Shards of
glass littered the few that remained horizontal, remnants of jars that had once
held preserves, jams, and jellies. Nothing moved in the cellar, though the
storm lashed, flashed and thundered just up the stairs. A strong draft of wind
pushed down the stairs and into the cellar, setting the lantern to swaying in
its handle. The figure turned toward the stairs and backed, slowly, into the
cellar. Its heel struck something on the ground, and its foot stopped
immediately, to prevent itself from falling. Turning slowly on that heel, the
lantern bathed the floor with light.

Vacant eyes stared back from an
unattached skull, while stick-thin arms in tattered clothes stretched toward
the figure’s foot. The figure stood stock still, certain that its heart could
be heard over the thunder. Three corpses, mere skeletons, were splayed out on
the floor, one arm disturbed by the pivoting heel. All three bodies were missing
their heads, their skulls lying scattered on the floor. Judging by their
clothing, the bodies had once belonged to a man, a woman, and a young girl. The
clothing, what remained of it, was stained a dark, faded black, and revealed
secrets of bone through tattered holes. The floor around the bodies was stained
with the same black, but also sicklier colors of amber and brown. The skulls
were surrounded by clumps of moldering hair, and similar, though smaller,
stains.

The figure fought to keep its
gorge down, putting all the details of the scene together. It noticed the
small, deep indentations of animal teeth, and the fractures in the skulls that
had cracked like hard-boiled eggs. Stains in the clothing surrounded not only
the necks and shoulders of the victims, but the torsos and arms, even the legs.
The figure shook its head and closed its eyes drawing its breaths with
conscious effort. Great Maker, the figure thought, what kind of animals—

Something cracked loudly in the
cellar, snapping the figure’s eyes open instantly. The lantern swung away from
the bodies and searched through the cellar, though nothing appeared to be
moving. Another sound came through the darkness, from the area of the cellar
opposite of the lantern’s light. It seemed like something dragging on the dirt
floor, a shuffle or a scrape. The lantern swung swiftly in that direction to
find nothing. The scenes of violent deaths, it thought, were rumored to be
attended by the victims long after life. Of course, it could have been a mouse,
the figure thought rationally, as something slid from a broken shelf to clatter
on the floor.

Backing toward the stairs and the
crashing storm outside, the figure kept its eyes on the cellar and its grim
contents. Chills ran the length of the retreating body, and the air became
cold, as if suddenly freezing. Hairs rose on the chilled arms and legs, even
the tiny hairs of the neck, and something deep and instinctual urged the figure
to head into the physical dangers of the storm surging in the night. Backing up
the stairs, the figure emerged out of the cellar and backed quickly away from
the structure. Thunder and lightning chased each other in the night air and
water fell in conflicting angles. The wooden shutter which had been slapping
itself almost rhythmically began to beat violently against the building,
reminding the figure of the lashing tail of an angry cat. The squeaking creak
that must have come from a rusted door hinge screamed as if in agony, its wails
carried off on the gusting winds.

For a moment, Death surrounded
the figure. The farmstead, once living, and now as much a corpse as the
skeletal remains it housed, cried out against the atrocities it had witnessed
and succumbed to. The storm brayed like an insane audience, listening to the
accusing voices of the fallen. Freezing air flooded the compound and hail began
to beat down heavily on the grass and blackened wood. Racing for cover, the
figure sought shelter in the standing shell of the barn.

Once inside, the lantern bled
light onto shifting images dangling from the rafters. Blackened by fire, rib
cages hung from iron hooks, swaying over the scattered remains of old bones.
Where the cellar had held only three tortured corpses, the barn had been scene
to some grisly orgy of violence. Skulls dangled loosely from eye sockets,
swinging on other iron hooks. Entire skeletons fell around the sharpened stakes
on which they had been impaled. Shutters which had been stuck solid to the
structures for years came loose and tripped against their walls like fear-crazed
hearts. The screaming of the rusted hinge became a cry of utter and complete
anguish, filling the cavern of the barn. Skulls on hooks seemed to swivel and
stare at the intruder and wind moaned throughout the rotting wood. Spinning
with uncanny speed, the figure darted out of the barn.

Dashing along the fence, instinct
overtook reason and emotion. The body took over from the mind, checking only
once or twice through memory for destination. Running feet and rhythmic
breathing worked to preserve life while the mind reeled. Scenes of horror and
pain, of cruelty and fear blurred through the mind’s eye while the overgrown
field swept by underfoot. Unemotionally, instinct noted to the body that the
forest was approaching quickly, ignoring the ravings of disbelief and fear. The
body churned and moved, gripping its lantern tightly, uncaring about the fire
within. Breathing heavily, the body reached the trees and hid itself quickly
behind one.

Behind the tree, the nightmare of
the farmstead fell into the distance. The tree was security. The tree was an
anchor to life. The mind looked around the forest, wondering momentarily how
the trees had appeared. Breathing worked continuously, restoring attachment to
life, even as it expelled used breath. Slowly the horrors subsided, and deep
inner fears acknowledged distance between the forest and the Death left behind.
Cautiously, as if the very buildings could uproot themselves and give chase,
the figure looked back the way it had come.

The buildings remained where they
had been, and the figure sighed in relief. No dim forms or shadowy images
slipped through the field toward the forest. The hail, which had fallen so
suddenly, melted again into rain, and water streamed down the cloak-covered
figure. The clatter of shutters could still be heard in the distance, angry
spirits beating their breasts for acknowledgement, vengeance, and justice. The
screaming agony faded into the night, a lone voice begging helplessly against
the howling wind.

From the cover of the tree, the
figure stared a long time at the remains of the farm. Its arms embraced the
tree, grateful for the shelter, eager to anchor to something, anything living.
Almost imperceptibly, the darkness faded slightly over the farm. The charred
and rattling buildings stood out more in the light, and the figure began to
appreciate the distance it had covered from the scene in the barn. The fence
and the field expressed a wide gulf between farm and forest, wider than the
mind could account for in memory. Brief images of running and breathing
flickered amidst the darkness of terror. The figure shuddered, tightening its
embrace on the tree. The images of running, of breathing and of fear were left
behind, and the mind worked to restore purpose and order.