CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

IN THE DARKNESS OF THE CRYPT, HE HEARD THE SCURRYING OF lizards. Then felt the soft angular body of a snake slither across his leg, slowly, in frightening dalliance.

As the snake slid over his body, Ron neither moved nor thought. Sequences of notions, possible actions, insights, ideas drifted from his mind like birds in the sky, as happened so often in the past week.

The snake slithered smoothly across his chest.

Still he did not move, breathe, blink an eye. Such a motionless suspended state brought with it a dark, indistinct feeling of death, preparedness for death, a preparedness as if he had died twenty times, and had come back countless more times, and had accumulated a knowledge that everything he felt and did was exactly in line with death.

Like a silky leaf in a warm, windy rain, the snake grazed his cheek, its long body slithering up the side of the rock. Then more lazily, like heavily rising cream, then fanning and spreading its tail, the snake slid from his body and disappeared into the rocks above.

After releasing his breath, Ron tried to raise himself but found he was incapable of standing, and let his body fall again to the ground. And he wondered whether it was dusk or dawn.

Only a pale half-glow shone through the opening in the roof far above. He had lost all track of time. The candles within the crypt had all gone out, leaving the chamber almost in darkness. He had drifted off a few times; either he had passed out, or he had fallen asleep—he wasn’t sure. It was as though his exhaustion had taken the form of a dangerous illness. He had dreamed of hot summer days and scorching raging fires and had awoken drenched in sweat.

Now the chamber was cool, and the blood on his face felt more scab like than liquid. He thought of his family, but so tormented was he that one anxiety pushed another aside, each more painful than the last, until finally he felt alien to his own thoughts, unable to live within their tortured dimensions.

The uncertainty was unbearable.

He moved his hands passively behind his back. The rope had cut off most of the circulation and coldness seemed to be seeping into his bones. He remained still, staring ahead at the goatlike image that stared back at him with piercing intensity.

Almost without his being aware of it, his attention had shifted from the malevolent face to a small clearing beyond. Something was moving. A shadow—small, hunched—a silhouette; then it faded into the darkness.

For a few long moments, the space ahead was lifeless, then—from within deep shadows emerged Tyler Adam. His steps faltered, but it seemed not out of cowardice. Rather he moved with innate caution, intelligence.

Ron stared at him, and he felt a sudden rush of paralysis. There was blood on Tyler’s face, and he held in his hand a long knife as though he were out to avenge whomever it was that had struck him.

What little light there was came through the small opening above, and filtered down across Tyler’s haggard face as he moved closer. He opened his mouth to speak, and more blood came from his mouth. Ron gazed into his eyes, and drew back from what he saw. A maniacal glee. Urgent. Yet somehow lifeless.

“Look at me good,” said Tyler Adam, softly. “Remember me.”

“Tyler,” Ron whispered. “Help me.”

He moved quickly to Ron’s side and dropped to his knees. He pressed his face close. “So they got you, boy. They got you good, did they?” His breath stank of cheap liquor.

A chill passed through Ron, far deeper than anything the cold bowels of the earth could produce.

“The Elders,” Tyler whispered. His face had contorted into a lustful grimace. “Blood is what they seek. Blood is the prize.”

“Tyler. Cut the rope.” Ron thrust his body sidewards and forced his hands away from his back. “Cut the ropes.”

Tyler hesitated, staring at him. His breathing was heavy, even. “Huh? Oh.” He smiled, but his eyes narrowed. If eyes were the windows of the soul, Tyler Adam had no soul. His grin faded. Like an awkward child, he groped and pulled at Ron’s hands. “They’ve got you good, boy.”

“Please, hurry.”

His voice more serious, Tyler said, “I don’t want to hurt anyone—” Then, firmly, “But now I must.”

Ron felt the thrust of the knife between the ropes, the back side of the blade a cold piece of steel against his wrists. The knife moved twice, quickly. A cold burning pain in his wrists. Ron gasped. “Tyler! You’re cutting me. You’re cutting my—”

Confused, Tyler turned to face him. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you... I am sorry.”

A stream of light flashed above the shadows of Tyler’s head... above him, above Ron... and music. Carnival music loud and raucous. Tyler’s eyes shot upward and he laughed. “So it is finally here—Last Friday.” His eyes darted quickly back to Ron’s face. “Yes, my friend,” he said with a leer. “So sorry.”

He thrust the knife under Ron’s chin, pressed the blade into the flesh of his throat. He laughed and forced the knife deeper. “Look at me good,” he said. “Remember me...” His face twisted as his hand tightened around the knife’s handle. “For my hatred is the last thing you will see...”

“TYLER!” boomed a voice.

Stroking the handle of the knife with his thumb distractedly, Tyler hesitated. He looked at Ron and grinned. Then, slowly, gently, he lowered the blade.

“That’s right, Tyler. Not yet.”

Alister Carroll materialized from the shadows, and moved, with stealthy silence, to the casket. He was silent for a second. “Tyler,” he said, “Mr. Talon is not your responsibility. Please, go back to the others. I will come up soon.”

Tyler scrambled to his feet and, pausing at the archway, sheathed his knife. The crypt thrust its massive shadows over his face. He hesitated a moment longer, then bolted away into the darkness.

Alister stared at Ron in silence. Finally, he sighed and said, “Life is difficult when one looks like Tyler. I’m afraid he is suffering from a sort of male menopause.”

Ron twisted uneasily and could feel blood seeping from his wrists. He adjusted his hands and realized that Tyler had, after all, cut a portion of the rope, for now his hands moved freer. He carefully kept his eyes riveted on Alister.

In the distance, a universe away, carnival sounds rose suddenly, grew louder.

With a certain amount of hesitation, Alister moved to the goat-headed statue, opened a small compartment within the goat’s stomach, and brought forth a scroll. “They say curiosity killed the cat. But that satisfaction brought him back. I wish you such satisfaction.”

He held out the parchment scroll before Ron’s eyes. Its faded yellow surface made it difficult to read. Ron leaned forward and squinted.

“Herein let it be stated,” the doctrine began, “that we are of one mind, of one spirit, bound toward one common destiny, to avenge all crimes committed against our people. And we swear to our Lord Ahriman to live by the doctrine, under the laws set forth in each declaration below.”

The declarations followed:

1

Every man, woman and child shall obey the Grand Ruling Elder, or in the Grand Ruling Elder’s absence, the Keeper of the Hate.

2

Those who shall depart, attempt to depart, or help others to depart, shall be subjected to the Chase. Departure is a major offense.

3

Those who divulge secrets of the Doctrine, the Carnival of Summer, those who do not live in accordance with laws governing the Doctrine, the Carnival of Summer, shall have their tongues removed.

4

Those who shall commit mayhem upon their neighbors, upon the Ruling Elders, without prior warning, shall receive punishment commensurate with the offense committed.

5

Those who seek to marry outside the conclave, those who willfully commit unauthorized adultery with outsiders, shall be put to death. Offspring from such an unholy union shall also be put to death.

6

Those who worship any Lord or God other than Lord Ahriman, shall die by fire. Worshipping any Lord or God other than Lord Ahriman is a major offense.

7

Those who obey the Doctrine, those who spill the blood of an enemy, shall be rewarded with everlasting life.

KNOW YOU and YOUR NEIGHBOR by these declarations, and go in peace.

Ron’s eyes moved to the top of the parchment, fixedly stared at the words: the Grand Ruling Elder. His mind raced. Who was it who was this powerful in Brackston, fit to rule a people whose only laws were to control themselves from killing “off-season” or being killed themselves? Laws that went a step further. Towards keeping them, restraining them from ever showing a drop of human decency...

Ron’s eyes moved from the parchment and stared at Alister with an intensity so great that he turned away when their eyes met.

“The Grand Ruling Elder. Who—” Ron broke off.

Alister had begun to smile.

Ron stared at him in dumb amazement. “You,” he breathed. “It’s you.”

A pause. Then Alister nodded.

“And the Widow Wheatley...”

“The Keeper of the Hate. All children—her children.”

Ron glanced at the parchment. “Cynthia Harris...”

“She was going to help you depart. A major offense. We even believed she may have wanted to leave with you. An even greater offense. It sets such a bad example for our other young people who have certain curiosities. Lou understood. We had no choice. Regrettable, actually. I liked Cynthia, I really did.” He shrugged. “As for Nancy, well—she really became a problem after she was crowned queen last year. She was not quite up to the demands of the throne. We had no choice but to remove her tongue.”

“Tyler Adam?”

“Well, poor Tyler has broken ‘Declaration Four,’ I don’t know how many times. An eye for an eye. Perhaps you’ve noticed?”

Ron shook his head.

“The man is blind. Totally blind. Strange, I thought you knew that. He committed mayhem upon Matthew Todd’s oldest boy. Then he was suspected of killing Widow Wheatley’s two sons. The vote was: An eye for each son.” He paused. “Some say he was blinded by his own hatred. Others, well—”

Ron now saw the age-old shrewdness in Alister’s eyes. There was the fear, the helplessness, the longing, but most of all there was a pool of knowledge that goes with the territory, that goes with living all those years.

Alister smiled. “It’s all here. The masks. The dolls. Ah, a doll collection is most important when educating the young ones. The child makes the doll by hand, naturally. That’s very important. Their first born must not be store bought like your Kristy’s Jennifer. No. It must be fashioned to the child’s own distinct personality. She plays with the doll first, but soon—a strange thing happens. She begins treating the doll as though it were a human. She argues with it, scolds it, until one day an arm disappears, then a leg—and the child is happy. Happy to see her playmate punished, crippled. It all gets easy—real people next.” He sighed heavily. “I’m afraid, son, you’ve opened one of the great black boxes of life, and no one can help you now.”

“Why? Why, for Chrissakes!”

Alister clicked his tongue. “A man like you would never understand our ways. It isn’t in you.”

“Just as it wasn’t in Clayton Byron Taylor?” hazarded Ron. “Was that why he escaped?”

Alister tilted his head back and allowed himself a genteel chuckle. “Clayton Byron Taylor fascinates you, doesn’t he, Mr. Talon? Well, perhaps that curiosity should be satisfied as well. No, Clayton never escaped. And Clayton was not the brother of Erica Taylor. Are you even more intrigued?”

For some inexplicable reason, Ron found himself dreading Alister’s next words. “You don’t have to—”

“Clayton Byron Taylor,” continued Alister inexorably, smiling, “never existed.”

“Never existed...” repeated Ron dumbly. “But...”

“We of the valley have dreams. We are born of flesh, Mr. Talon. We have normal desires, normal ambitions. But it is the rule of the valley that our destiny lies here, never beyond the ridges. We are in the world, but not of it. Mrs. Taylor has another side, an almost separate personality. It is out of this other identity, highly creative, but of very weak character, that the music comes. We allow this music. Hell, we even enjoy it. And we have filtered it to the world. But always under a pseudonym.”

“Clayton Byron Taylor,” breathed Ron. “Then—”

“Mrs. Taylor wrote the music, yes.”

“But I saw his picture. At least, I thought it was his picture.”

“What you in the business would call a publicity shot,” Alister replied. “The music was composed by Mrs. Taylor and dedicated to the memory of a much younger brother who died many years ago trying to escape the valley.” Alister smiled gently. “If you have any other questions, Mr. Talon, merely ask me. Don’t make a further fool of yourself with your ridiculous speculations.”

Unhurriedly, he rolled the scroll up, placed it back into the goat’s stomach, and turned to face Ron. “I like you,” he went on. “I really do. I made the Elders take a vote. I saw to it that you’d go free. Not an easy matter. The voting was split. It caused Matt Todd and his wife to fight bitterly. The poor bastard sleeps in his gas station now because of you.” He shook his head sadly. “It was I who cast the deciding vote. I let you drive out of here. It isn’t often a person gets a chance to do that. Why did you come back, son? Why didn’t you just keep going?”

“It’s something you wouldn’t understand, Mr. Carroll.”

Alister had taken out his pipe and was scooping tobacco into it from a pouch. “It’s rare,” he said casually, “when a man is willing to sacrifice himself for others. I guess that’s why I liked you right from the beginning.”

“Will you tell me one thing?”

Alister cleared his throat. “If I can.”

“If I had gone for help. If I’d of brought them back here to Brackston. What then?”

“What would they have found?” Alister puffed leisurely on his pipe. “Tidy little streets, tidy little houses. Lots of flowers. The scent of lilac permeating the air. A nice, quiet, safe little town nestled in the mountains, now aglow in the rising moon. Or—” He broke off.

“Or?”

“Or perhaps,” he said with a smile, “they’d have found no town at all. Just a stone. A stone around which moving is done. But does it matter now?”

Ron’s cheeks had reddened. “What’s going to happen tonight?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really know.” He removed the pipestem and began to blow through it. “What happens on the hill tonight is up to the Widow Wheatley. She never lets the men in on her little secrets.”

Ron knew Alister was lying. They all knew; every last person in Brackston knew but him.

Alister suddenly looked bored. “Only thing now,” he said, “is to pray for rain.”

“Why’s that?”

“If the rain comes... but it won’t...” Grimacing, he folded his arms to indicate that he was finished.

“What then?” Ron asked.

“Then—then you may have a chance.”

This said, Alister Carroll walked the length of the crypt slowly and paused in the open archway, the deep blue shadows and a light mist swirling around his ankles.

“Tim?” he called out.

Tim Hadley edged his way into the chamber. He held a double-barrelled shotgun waist-high, carrying the rifle in the crook of his arm.