The darkness continued to grow in Gabriel’s vision, spreading like an ink stain over the brightness of the city as he fell towards the Citadel.
Round the edges he could now see individual lamps on the deserted streets of the old town lighting up store fronts, and shuttered souvenir shops, and swinging signs hanging below the sloping sides of steepled rooftops. He could also see shapes rising up from the dark mountain as he fell towards it. He could see the highest peak, from which Samuel had fallen, sheer on one side and dropping steeply away on the other. It flattened to a ridge and ran round the lower part of the mountain, curling around the impenetrable dark in the middle like a noose. He still could not see the garden.
He spiralled down, aiming at the centre of the blackness to a spot he remembered from the satellite photo of the garden. When it centred in his vision he yanked down hard on the ripcord. He felt the slight tug of the guide chute shooting up from his pack then the wrench of the main chute deploying. The canopy arched over him like a huge curved airbed as he slipped his hands through the handles of the guide ropes and steered himself down through the darkness.
With the roar of the wind gone he could now hear the sounds of the city: the hiss of traffic on the ring road, music from the bars beyond the southern side of the wall mixed with the sound of talking and laughter. Then the sound was cut off, along with most of the light, as he dropped below the high ridge and into the dark crater at the heart of the mountain.
The moment the light went Gabriel switched eyes and the night vision that had been preserved in his right eye instantly made sense of the flat blackness. He could see fissures in the mountain walls and round, fluffy shapes rising in soft-edged clusters from a large area below him that looked lighter than the rest of the mountain. It was the garden. Much closer than he had imagined. Rising fast.
He pulled down hard on both guide ropes. Felt a bounce and a soft yaw in his stomach as the chute pulled him up. He lifted his legs away from the feathery top of a tree rising up from the darkness. His boots clattered noisily through the thin branches as he caught the top. He pulled hard on the right-hand rope to swing away from the tree. Felt his leg get snagged by a thicker branch. Kicked free and looked up just as the next tree rushed out of the darkness towards him.
The monk looked up from the fireplace – listening.
He rose and moved over to the door, his red cassock the only colour in the monochrome lower hallway of the Prelate’s private quarters. He put his ear to the door leading out to the garden and heard it again – quieter this time. It was like a huge bird shifting about in the trees, or maybe someone pushing their way through bushes. He frowned. No one was allowed in the garden after dark. He reached into his sleeve for his Beretta, shut off the lights and opened the door.
The moon was still hours from rising and the monk’s eyes could see nothing in the deep darkness of the garden. He stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind him, then scanned the darkness, turning his head like an owl, listening for the sound of movement.
A sharp crack split the silence and his head snapped round towards it. He listened harder. Heard a faint whispering, like a branch shaking, then silence flooded back. The sounds had come from the orchard. He stole down the stone steps to the pathway and stepped over the gravel path to the silent grass beyond. It whispered softly against his hurrying feet as he moved towards the copse of trees, gun extended, the darkness taking form as his eyes grew accustomed to the night.
He could see the trees now, and something else near the centre of the orchard, lighter than the prevailing night, moving in the darkness like a ghost. He levelled his gun at it, moved closer, keeping the uprights of the trees between himself and the apparition. As he drew nearer he noticed ropes draping from its edges, then saw an empty harness at the end of them, trailing on the ground. He realized with a jolt what it was just as his vision whipped round and everything flashed white in time to a deafening crack. The monk tried to turn and level his gun at whoever had grabbed him but the lines of communication between his head and the rest of his body had already been severed by his broken neck. He collapsed to the floor, smelt the rich moist fug of the dark soil mixed with the rotten mulch of last year’s leaves, was aware of someone loosening his rope belt and his cassock being tugged. Then his eyes fluttered shut, and darkness engulfed him.