Burying the Shadow (52 page)

Metatron
sauntered over to where I was observing the proceedings in
speechless consternation.

‘Sammael told
me the humans in the Strangeling were different to all others, but
I had no idea they were familiar with the sup!’ I exclaimed.

Metatron put a
hand on my shoulder. ‘This was our country once,’ he said, as if
that was explanation enough.

Pahadron and
the boy had sunk down to the ground, oblivious of our presence.

‘Aren’t you
going to stop this?’ I hissed at my father.

Before he
could answer, Sammael approached us. ‘Your suppositions must be
right, Metatron,’ he said. ‘This speaks of people who are regularly
indulging in the sup. And who else can they be sustaining but the
ancients? No other eloim come here.’

‘You did,’ I
pointed out.

‘That was a
long time ago,’ Sammael replied, ‘and I did not partake of the sup
beyond Sacramante.’

‘That boy
recognises us as eloim,’ I said, and shivered. It was not just the
unsupped in Sacramante who were beginning to see us as we really
were, then.

‘A couple of
the Harkasites came to the Strangeling during our information
gathering,’ Metatron said. ‘Pahadron was one of them. I mentioned
before that humans here had offered the Harkasites sustenance. This
is just another part of the puzzle that we have come here to try
and solve.’

Other young
humans had come creeping out of the darkness, and now surrounded us
completely. Something touched my hand, and I looked down, appalled
to find a grubby little girl staring up at me.

‘Drink, lady?’
she said, tugging my coat. Sup from a child so young? It would be
obscene! It was even more revolting to think of the pleasure she
would obtain from it, which was nothing if erotic in nature.

‘No, thank
you,’ I said stiffly.

‘Do not be
prudish, Gimel,’ Sammael said, with laughter in his voice. ‘This is
not Sacramante. Why not live your adventure, seeing as you’re stuck
with it?’

I made an
angry noise and pushed my way through the ring of youngsters. Let
Sammael and Metatron copy Pahadron’s perversity if they wished. I,
Gimel Metatronim, lady of standing and repute, would have none of
it.
Like you had nothing to do with the murders in Lansaal, all
those years ago, I suppose!
said my conscience waspishly.

It took two
days for me to relent. I did not need sustenance exactly, having
fed wisely before we departed the city, but the smell of blood from
my companions’ supping stimulated my appetite. I eventually supped
from the oldest girl I could find. Her taste was unusual, strangely
tart. She tried to suck ichor from my own skin, for which I had to
slap her. Such presumption. Sammael was right: this was certainly
not Sacramante!

The city of
Ykhey was visible long before we reached it; a huge sprawl against
the sky, girdled by a slow-moving river to the west, thronged with
small boats and rafts. Ykhey: holy city. It was a busy hive of
scuttling humanity; so much noise! Although I reprimanded myself
for being too conservative, I could not help but feel scandalised
by the way the shabby creatures who thronged Ykhey’s crumbling
buildings had helped themselves to eloim relics. So much had been
left behind when my ancestors had had to abandon the city, that was
obvious, but these things should have remained untouched. If I had
the power, I’d drive all these parasites out, so that Ykhey could
decline in silence and propriety, its streets populated only by
wild animals and ghosts.

Children clad
in ragged silks clustered around the legs of our horses, hanging
onto whatever parts of our clothing they could reach. I had a mind
to use my whip to get rid of them. ‘Do you know where to go?’ I
asked Metatron.

‘The entrance
to the Hypogeum is located in the heart of Ykhey,’ he said. ‘There
was a palace there, an open space for gatherings. Sammael once
lived there.’

I urged my
horse alongside Metatron’s and leaned over to speak to him
confidentially. ‘How does Sammael
seem
to you?’ I asked,
lowering my voice. Sammael was riding some distance ahead of us,
now apparently at ease upon his horse.

‘I would not
presume to diagnose either his mental or physical state,’ Metatron
replied in a waspish tone. ‘You can be sure he knows exactly what
he is doing.’

My father was
still using every available opportunity to clip me for my part in
Sammael’s re-emergence into the world.

Vagabonds
followed us all the way to the plaza Metatron had spoken of.
Fortunately, the place appeared taboo for them, for they would not
tread on the slabs, but sat down to watch us in the ruins around
the edge. To the north, the remains of a splendid building soared
towards the sky: Sammael’s palace. Perhaps there would still be
bloodstains upon the floor. Brown leaves scurried across the
ground; above us the autumnal sky had thickened to a purplish
grey.

Sammael
dismounted from his horse and stood, as if in a daze, looking round
himself. I could almost feel the memories bubbling up in his mind.
‘I find it hard to believe the place still stands,’ he said.

‘Eloim
buildings are made to last,’ Metatron said, joining him. ‘We need
them for a long time, remember.’

Sammael smiled
at him, and squeezed his shoulder. ‘I must not look inside the
palace,’ he said. ‘You might not be able to get me out again.’

I listened to
them being bravely humorous, overtaken by a sense of distance from
them, sheer unreality. My fingers were cold against the stiff reins
in my hands. I became aware of being observed and looked behind me
quickly. Pahadron had dismounted from his horse and was watching me
steadily. I shuddered. His presence was not as oppressive as I’d
feared, but he still unnerved me.

‘You can
dismount now, Gimel,’ Metatron said. I dragged my gaze away from
the Harkasite to find my father grinning at me.

‘Perhaps she
intends to ride underground,’ Sammael observed.

I wanted to
despise them, but could find only pity inside me. The ground seemed
a long way away and, when I finally jumped down out of the saddle,
I realised my feet had gone almost completely numb.
This is it,
then
, I thought.
Soon, I will have to see for myself just
what is waiting for me in the future.
‘Where do we go?’ I
asked.

Metatron
pointed to a clump of bare trees a short distance away - that were
perhaps sweetly blossomed in the spring, but now skeletal and ugly
- within which a cowl of weathered stone could be seen. This
advertised the entrance to the city catacombs. I tried to imagine
the scenes that must take place here. Did they involve horse-drawn
coffins being unloaded into the depths, or half-sentient wretches
being led gibbering underground by relatives who had steeled their
hearts? I could not bear to ask.

We left the horses
wandering around unhobbled, trusting they wouldn’t wander too far
or, if they did, that our spectators in the ruins would hang onto
them. I felt they were loitering around in the hope one of us would
sup from them later. Perhaps we would find it difficult to leave
until we had obliged them.

The entrance
to the Hypogeum was ostentatiously carved with smiling, dancing
spirits, dressed in veils. These carvings were garlanded with
twiggy flower-vines, which still bore a couple of browning, fleshy
blooms. Wind fretted the empty boughs, and I could see the remains
of a discarded shawl lying in a puddle just inside the entrance.
There were two rows of stone benches there; whoever could have sat
in them, and why? It was hardly a place to spend a happy minute in
meditation. Just for a moment, I longed to succumb to the hysteria
within me that was demanding admission. I longed to shout: ‘I’m not
going in there!’ to turn around and run away.

‘Well, are we
all ready?’ Metatron asked, with a grim smile.

I nodded.
‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll
lead the way.’ He stepped beneath the stone arch.

Wide, damp
steps led down to an impenetrable dark. Brackets on the walls,
surrounded by black stains, suggested where torches had once
burned. Pahadron led us into the darkness. For once, his presence
was actually comforting. ‘Shouldn’t we carry light?’ I asked.

‘No, it might
repel the ancients,’ Sammael replied.

I shuddered. I
could imagine nothing less appealing than groping into a lightless
place where creatures who were possibly deranged, and probably
deformed, were roaming around. The air was not fetid, but smelled
strongly of damp earth. We heard no sound at first. The steps were
steep and curving and, very soon, we had to feel our way along the
walls, carefully reaching for the next step with our toes. I had
never known such intense blackness. Only the fear of being alone
prevented me from turning round and seeking the surface in
squeaking panic. My breath came with difficulty, and I held onto
Metatron’s cloak for comfort. Did he feel the same anxiety?

Eventually,
the steps came to an end, and I trod in a deep puddle as my feet
anxiously felt for solid ground. Freezing, unpleasantly turgid
water covered my boots to the ankle. Metatron turned round and took
my arm. ‘Be careful, Gimel.’

The darkness
was full of dancing specks of light, which I could still see even
when I closed my eyes. I did not intend to let go of my father now.
Even if he moved only a short distance away, I might not be able to
find him again. ‘How much further?’ I asked. ‘Won’t we get
lost?’

‘The passage
is fairly straight,’ Sammael said, behind me, ‘Don’t worry.
Pahadron, stay behind us. I’ll come forward and lead now.’

‘What are we
going to find?’ I asked.

Neither
Sammael nor my father answered me.

It seemed as
if we walked - painfully slowly - for hours. Sometimes, I thought I
heard sounds around us in the dark, and would alert the others.
‘Water dripping,’ Sammael or Metatron would reply, ‘or, rats’.
Small comfort.

Eventually, I
realised I could see the outline of Metatron at my side; light was
coming from somewhere. I couldn’t decide whether it was lamplight
or daylight, but it revealed that we were walking along an arched
corridor, with uneven flagstones underfoot. The walls were covered
in flaking paintings of marching figures; some of them merely
caricatures. There were many wide niches in the walls that looked
as if they should support coffins or cadavers, but all were empty.
Just being able to see helped to calm my nerves, although I still
clung to Metatron’s arm tightly. I was beginning to hope we might
find nothing at all down here. Perhaps the ancient eloim had gone.
Then I saw a bright light flickering up ahead. We were not
alone.

‘There is a
torch there,’ I said, pointing. ‘Look.’

I had never
seen light quite like it, although it strongly resembled burning
gas. There was a peculiar smell in the air, sweet yet bitter.

‘That is not a
torch,’ Sammael said, over his shoulder.

‘What is it
then? Luminous gas?’ I wondered whether it was some sort of
disgusting miasma being exuded by dead bodies.

‘No, my dear,’
Metatron said dryly at my side, ‘that, I suspect, is what we’re
down here looking for.’

‘What do you
mean?’

‘Look
closely,’ he said.

The radiance
was not merely light. As we drew nearer to it, I could see a vague
suggestion of solidity in its core. It was perhaps eight feet in
height, although only the upper half of it resembled anything like
an eloim shape. Below the waist, it faded away in a train of
glowing mist. There was a suggestion of eyes at its head; mere dark
smudges within the flickering brightness, but no other discernible
features. It was, for all its strangeness, a very beautiful sight.
My relief was immeasurable. Whatever peculiarities this creature
manifested, at least it wasn’t going to drive me insane by simply
beholding it. That, I think, had been my worst fear.

Both Metatron
and I had halted our advance and were standing with our arms about
each other. Pahadron remained motionless behind us, but I could
sense his vigilance. Sammael, without qualm, went right up to the
apparition. I saw him raise his hand as if to touch it; his fingers
were black silhouettes against the light. He held this position for
over a minute, while Metatron and I watched in silence. I supposed
he was communicating with the creature in some way. Then, he turned
to us, and beckoned.

‘It is safe to
approach,’ he said. ‘This is Alcobiel. He is willing to commune
with us.’

Alcobiel who?
It might have been one of my own ancestors.

Metatron and I
advanced cautiously. I felt the hairs begin to stand up on my skin
and a metallic taste bloomed upon my tongue. Would this creature
actually
speak
to us?

I wanted to
explain myself to the ancestor: I am Gimel Metatronim. I am
disgusted by your circumstances. I, personally, am not at all
responsible for your incarceration down here. But of course, I said
nothing.

The dark
smudges of Alcobiel’s eyes held no expression I could possibly
interpret. Perhaps it was quite happy in this place. I could detect
no emanation of hostility, but none of welcome either.

‘May I ask
questions?’ Metatron inquired politely.

‘Ask freely,’
Sammael replied. He folded his arms and took a few steps
backwards.

‘Venerable
being,’ Metatron said gravely, bowing his head a little. ‘I am
Metatron, official of the Parzupheim. First of all, I would like to
beg your forgiveness for disturbing your peace...’

A voice, that
was at once within and without my head, interrupted Metatron’s
introduction. ‘I am aware of who you are, and your purpose! You
suppose we enjoy a peace that might be disturbed? Fool!’

Metatron
wisely ignored this outburst. ‘My question is simple. All I desire
to know is whether you and your kin are responsible for certain
anomalous phenomena presently occurring in the land of Khalt. These
phenomena include sightings of spiritual beings, mutant offspring
born to humans and a particularly distressing condition, which the
natives have dubbed the “walking death”. Are any of these events
attributable to your kind?’