He Who Walks in Shadow (26 page)

“Now wait a second,” I said, in no mood to be treated like a child—or worse, consigned to the periphery because of my sex. “I think we have proven ourselves more than capable over the last few weeks. And besides, you are going to need all the help you can get on this one. I’m coming with you. And that’s that.”

My father began to object, but then Guillaume, sweet Guillaume, interrupted.

“As much as it pains me, I have to agree with Rachel.” Margot rolled her eyes. “We don’t know what we will face. She can fight; I’ve seen it. And Margot can be a terror.” Of that, I was certain. “We need them.”

Henry nodded in agreement. My father looked to Villard for support, but he only held up his hands. “They are in your charge, monsieur. You must decide. For my part, I wish only to see this thing done, and in that I believe they could provide invaluable assistance.”

My father audibly groaned. “All right,” he said. “All right. We all go together. But for now, I suppose, we wait.”

And so there we sat. Customers came and went. Regulars all; in fact it would not surprise me if the entire populace of that tiny village visited the pub at one time or another during the night. We watched them, were entertained by them as the minutes seemed to crawl by. Or some of us watched them, I should say. Villard, Alain, my father, even Henry had drifted off to sleep in chairs or on the floor in the dark, somewhat quieter corners of the place. The three of us—Margot, Guillaume, and I—we could not even begin to think of rest. I suppose it speaks to the darkness those men have seen in their lives that, in the face of a momentous event such as the one before us, they are able to attain peace.

Margot, for her part, did not stay in our company long. She drifted away from us to be alone with her thoughts. I wish there was something more I could do. But the simple fact of the matter is that there is nothing for it. Nothing at all. And as much as I hate to admit it, annoyance is rapidly replacing pity, no matter how guilty I should feel about what has transpired.

“Are you scared?”

Guillaume broke me from my omphaloskepsis, just in time too, lest I had fallen into a state of such self-obsession I might never have escaped.

“No, not at all,” I said, but before I had even gotten it out I saw the doubt in his mischievous eyes. “All right, perhaps a little.”

“I suppose it does come with some danger. But I have faith we will come through.”

I smiled at him, but then his countenance darkened ever so slightly, and so too did mine.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I just want you to know,” he said, his eyes downcast as if raising them would have simply required more strength than he had ever possessed, “if anything happens, that I love you.”

“Oh, Guillaume,” I said, taking his face in my hands and lifting it so that his eyes could meet mine. But then I hesitated. I’m not sure why. Something came over me, some moment of brutal honesty that had to escape. I found myself searching the room for Margot, until finally I found her sitting in the shadows at the end of the bar. “Guillaume,” I said, “I care for you, and when I think about the possibilities for the future I can barely contain my joy. One day I may love you, as you say you love me. But right now, that girl over there cares for you more than you know. So if you are speaking from your heart tonight, just in case it is your last opportunity to do so, perhaps you should talk to her, as well.”

Guillaume looked from me to her, while I searched his eyes for the rejection, the hurt, that I did not intend but he might have suffered nonetheless. I did not see it. In fact, I saw something else, something I could not quite place, as if the gears of some machine were in motion. I admit, it confused me. But then it cleared, and I felt foolish for my over-analysis of a man who must be awash in a sea of conflicting emotions. I leaned forward and covered his hands in mine.

“It will be all right, Guillaume. Everything will be fine. I promise.”

A shadow flickered across Guillaume’s face. It was nearly imperceptible, so fleeting that I wasn’t even sure it was real. Then he smiled. “I know, Rachel. I know.” And I believed him, for that was the look I perceived, an almost mocking sneer of utter confidence. “Now I think I’ll take your advice,” he said, gazing at Margot. He patted me on the leg and rose. My eyes followed him, and my heart went with him.

The night fades away, and I should rest. I feel that the next few hours will determine the course of not only my life but perhaps the lives of us all.

* * *

I cannot write. Even though I know I should. I cannot. I see it when I close my eyes.

I am undone.

Someone else will have to record what happened in this accursed place. For the future, for posterity. For something greater than me.

But perhaps there won’t even be a future. Not anymore. Not after what we have done.

Journal of Carter Weston

July 28, 1933

The monastery is quiet as the sun rises over the channel, but even the first rays of morning cannot lift the gloom that has descended upon us all. I shall record what happened on this accursed rock as best I can, for whatever posterity may remain.

We left the pub in Beauvoir under the dark of a dying moon. None moved in the streets of the hamlet, as the hour had long since struck when good people would be upon the roads. We crept through the shadows. What did we fear? Perhaps we already felt the crawling fingers of evil spreading around our throats.

We reached the salt flats at low tide, and even in the dim light of a bare crescent moon they shimmered in the darkness, beckoning us to come to them, like the sirens of old. Tricking us into believing that we would find sure footing there. Fortunately, Alain knew better.

“Follow him closely,” Villard said, interpreting both Alain’s words and his gestures. “Step where he steps. And be very careful. The sands are treacherous, and they will seize you in an instant.”

It was an admonition we were in no mind to ignore. So we followed, each footfall landing where the person in front of us had just strode. Were anyone watching, could anyone see, we would have made for a macabre spectacle. I could think only of the lines of wounded in the War, blinded by German gas, hand clasped on the shoulder of the poor fool in front of him, trusting that wherever he led was somewhere that they all wanted to go. Such was our faith in Alain. If he was not true, if his skills were less than he had led us to believe, then a suffocating death awaited us all.

The wind whistled across that desolate plain, and the sting of sea-salt and sand threatened to blind us. On those winds rode a storm, and we had not quite reached the half-way point in our journey when roiling clouds joined the great mountain of stone before us in blotting out the sky. With the moon and the stars—feeble lights though they might be—obscured, and the village of Beauvoir having long ago snuffed its candles and electric bulbs for the night, the shroud that fell upon us then was as complete as in the days before God said let there be light.

The occultists speak of the full moon as something to fear, believing that the orb at its most luminous commands the minions of evil. I must imagine that those who hold such views have never huddled in utter darkness, prayers for a single spark of illumination going unheard and unheeded.

Alain, however, must have the eyes of a cat. For even as we stumbled blindly, he remained true. When we reached the stone walls of the citadel, it seemed I breathed for the first time since we had stepped upon the flats.

“The sledge is in the rear,” said Villard. “We must go around.”

Even though our path took us scrambling across moss-covered boulders, this part of the journey went quickly. The sledge broke into view, a mass of hulking wood that at first I mistook for another large stone. My eyes followed the rope that ran up and into the dark void above. Hundreds of feet above. I thought to myself—how truly desperate we are to do this, to look into the face of such ultimate madness and go forward with it anyway.

Alain said something in French and Villard nodded. “He says for us to climb into the sledge’s basket and he will pull us up. We should come out in the store room beside the kitchen. From there, we are on our own.”

“He thinks he can pull us all the way
to the top
?” Henry said. The doubt in his voice reflected what we were all thinking.

“Faith, my friend,” said Villard as he climbed aboard. “The pulley is designed to carry much heavier cargo than us. Besides, we have faced worse dangers, no?”

It wasn’t the most reassuring thought, but with our prize so close, there was nothing else for it. I followed behind him. The rest joined, even Henry. We seated ourselves, backs against the shallow walls of the sledge, and all said our silent prayers.

Alain began to pull. Hand over hand, and we started to rise, foot by foot. The sledge climbed the wall. The angle grew steep, and gravity pulled us toward the earth below. Rachel, who had avoided me so studiously before, could not help but slide towards me as the climb continued. I held her tight, and she did not fight against me. Fear had overcome anger.

Our steady rise continued. Even as our height increased, I could make out no lights in the total darkness beyond. It was as if we were diving deep beneath the waves even as we ascended, into some abyssal sea of endless night.

And yet still, we rose. My eyes were fixed upon the walls of the monastery above, and within them there seemed to be an area of darkness somehow less solid than the rest. It was only when we came within reach of that black square that I realized why; this was the opening into which we would pass.

The sledge lurched forward one last time and slid to a stop in front of that cavernous darkness. Villard reached up and flipped down the locking hook to hold us in place. From his jacket pocket he removed a revolver with which he gestured at me. Henry and I pulled our weapons as well. Guillaume, Rachel, and Margot followed suit. On this adventure, we were traveling well-armed, care of the French police.

Villard led the way, and the sledge rocked gently like a boat on the waves as he stepped into the castle-monastery beyond. He stood on the edge, peering inside. When he signaled for us to follow, the girls and Guillaume entered, with Henry and me following behind.

A low fire died in a hearth in the wall, its glowing embers providing the only light to this room that appeared to double as both a kitchen and a storehouse. Villard turned to me and said in a whisper, “If we can avoid the monks and have your prize, all the better. I have no desire to engage in a confrontation with them.”

“Nor do I. The staff is a relic of great significance, both historical and ecclesiastical. It would be kept in a place of honor, likely at the summit of the monastery. I think we will know its resting place when we see it.”

“I certainly hope you are right. We don’t split up. We stay together, even if it takes more time.”

“Understood.”

Villard took point. He moved forward in the orange glow of the firelight, towards a staircase that wound upward. Where it ended, none of us could know, but the general direction was correct. And in times like those, that is all one can hope for. The staircase ended in another open room, also deserted. Along the walls, which rose to a high vaulted ceiling, were bookcases; this was the library.

Gilt lettering on well-worn leather shimmered in the flickering firelight. There were names I recognized, and a shudder, a thrill of anticipation even, coursed down my back. These were ancient books, most thought lost before the great library of Alexandria was even built, much less put to the flame.
De Vermis Mysteries
,
Cultes des Goules
,
Ars Magna et Ultima
. On a table by the fire sat a scroll, held open by shards of obsidian. I caught only the merest glimpse of the angular writing, the jagged text, but enough to know it was the forgotten script of Hyperborea. This was the lost
Book of Eibon
, in its original form, unadulterated by countless clumsy additions and excisions over the centuries—the millennia—since pen was first put to paper on the plains of Antarctica. It is a testament to the urgency of our quest that I did not stop, even for a moment, to look upon those pages, to feel them against my fingertips. Instead, we rushed across the barren expanse and reached yet another stairwell.

To this point we had met no resistance, seen no other living soul. I began to harbor hope that we might yet succeed, steal the staff, and be gone, before the brothers or anyone else with more nefarious plans would know the difference.

One by one we ascended the stairs, Villard leading the way. We moved in total darkness, but our steps were true. We were as silent as the night was black, and no one could have known of our advance.

Such was my focus on the next step ahead that I barely noticed the dawning light breaking over us. For indeed, as we ascended, the night seemed to lift. It was not until we rounded the final turn and saw the firelight in its fullness that I even realized the effect had been more than my just eyes adjusting to the darkness

We had reached the courtyard, the cloister that crowned the Mont. Here our prize awaited us. And someone, it appeared, had been kind enough to leave on the lights. A great number of torches burned, and the vast expanse was lit from the doorway where we stood to the far wall overlooking the sea below.

“Do you think this is normal?” Villard whispered. “Do the torches always burn?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“The ancient texts tell us that the haunter of the dark fears the light,” Henry said. “Perhaps this is a way to guard against him. The ultimate protection for the staff.”

“Perhaps,” I said. I wanted to believe it. I wanted to think that we would not be stopped now, so close to our goal. But what I wanted to believe was largely irrelevant. We had come this far, and we would go farther. My ancestors on my mother’s side were of Scottish descent, MacDougall blood. Their motto was a simple one—“Victory or Death.” I have carried that same motto into battle every time I have ventured forth to conquer the forces of darkness. Tonight, we all carried it, whether the others knew it or not.