Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (28 page)

I
s this the one?
I thought to myself as I knelt at the rock wall. There was trash at my feet, a cola can and a couple of empty crisps packets, numerous stubs of cigarettes. Teenagers, I thought with disgust, lowering my head just under the ridge, a boy-sized hole.

A heavy wave of stench socked me in the face like a well-aimed fist. Stale air, dank green mold, the rotted yolks of a thousand cracked eggs and the unmistakable smell of damp poultry. Easing my right arm through and then my leg, I almost lost my balance as I realized a cobbled stone staircase waited for me, so narrow gnomes might have constructed it, so steep I could surely fall and break my neck. My hand grasped at the stonewall, but it was so chalky with age it slipped. I squeezed my other leg through the hole, and then my hips, thanking God they were so slender. Bending over backwards like a novice contortionist, my head was last to be stuffed into that tiny cavern, and I straightened out as best I could, shuffling timidly down the stairs, hands on each opposing wall for balance.

Yes, I mumbled to myself upon my ginger descent, this was most definitely the place. I was finally able to unlock my spine at the chamber with the water troughs, its high ceiling and the hollow resting places for yesterday’s carrier pigeons carved into the opposing wall. I looked down into the trough where I had rediscovered Volatile all those years ago, a naked child.  I had run down here to hide from someone who was molesting me in the bathroom – what was his name? Michael. No, Christopher Esposito, that’s the one. I hadn’t thought of him in an age. But then again, the image of the dark one had scared the living daylights out of me then, no wonder I didn’t remember a pimple-faced child-pervert. I steeled myself and gritted my teeth. I was a grown man now. I would not be frightened away.

There were more steps leading away from the cavern. These twisted in a spiral formation, only about a meter wide. The powder on the stonewalls, a mixture of dry mold and bird’s dander, brushed against my jeans and collared shirt and flew up my nose. The light from the window in the pigeon’s chamber was draining away, and I pulled a battery-operated torch from my pocket. It was growing cold and I wondered where exactly I was, and how far down in the earth. I moved cautiously onwards, flicking my torch from ceiling to floor, the stairwell becoming narrower and its height shortening until I was crouching as I walked. Markings lined the walls of the staircase that reminded me of the caveman era. But I did not have time to examine them.

A rush of air, as hot as a furnace, assailed me and I froze, directing the light to my feet. And just in time too, as I found myself wavering over an enormous opening in the volcanic tuff, and I staggered two steps backwards, landing on my behind.

Instinctively, I switched off the torch. I was breathing heavily, the shock of almost plunging to my death overwhelming. I sat there for some minutes, collecting my wits. And then, attentively budging forward on my knees, I gripped the rim of the opening with both fists. It was solid rock. And with a deep breath, I ducked my head under it and opened my eyes. Nothing. Pitch black.

And then, an orange light. Two orange lights. I blinked, and squinted my eyes. Was I dreaming, or were there now a hundred tiny lights blinking in the darkness? And as my eyes adjusted, I realized the lights were the lanterns of thousand rooms, of a thousand houses carved from the depths of Orvieto, an entire underground city before my eyes. The words of Orlando Khan drifted back to me:
they have their own society, kings and queens and families and clans that live underground with them…

This was it. This was their spirit world.

I was beginning to think that the use of my torch would aid in illuminating the city better when I was knocked violently off my knees, the torch rolling away from my grasp, disappearing into the opening. I was sprawled on my back, my neck cradled dangerously by the last step of the staircase, my feet dangling perilously over the edge. I felt hot breath on my cheek and heard the bristling of a thousand feathers, sharp as daggers, standing on end.

And through the darkness, my eyes focused upon him. I could see his crucifix-shaped pupils glaring down at me, inches away from my face. And his mouth opened slowly, forming a horrifying red ‘O’. Monstrous words began to pour from his mouth, although his lips did not move.

I am the guardian of the gate
, he said, and his voice sounded like the creak of a door when you are assured you are all alone.
You shall not enter.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, inching away from the terror of his unmoving mouth, the scent of old blood and children’s tears on his breath.

I let you live once
, said the voice.
You have trespassed for the last time
.

“I offer you this in payment,” I said, speedily thrusting a hand in my pocket and withdrawing the single black feather I had collected on that day, many years ago.

I care not for your trifles,
whispered the creaking old voice,
you shall die.

“That’s not true,” I stammered bravely. “I know what this is.” I held the feather up to his terrible stare. “This is power. I hold some of your power in my hands.”

Give it to me.

“Let me go free.”

There are few human beings that can enter the city of spirits and leave unscathed. You are not among them.

“How do you know?”

Foolish human
, said the dark one. And with one silver fingernail, more like a deathly talon than any human appendage, he drew a circle over his heart. As his leather clothing fell apart, I could barely make out lines and lines of eerily familiar coiled writing protruding from his bare skin, and with a jerk, I realized they were not quite script, but shapes made from his indigo veins.
I am the guardian of the gate
, he repeated.
And I determine who lives and dies.

“But if you kill me, she will never forgive you!” I declared. “I saw you with those men, claiming you were from the DOC. I know you were involved in her plans. She did all that for me, for
this
human being. And if you helped her, that means she has power over you. So you will not dare touch me, in fear of her wrath.”

She’s dead,
laughed the voice.
The accord is broken.
But his eye blinked a little too rapidly, and I heard a quavering in his speech.

“Liar!” I stated, and I began to smile from deep within. “She’s alive, isn’t she? You beings, whatever you are, you can’t really die, can you?”

If you do not leave this moment
, replied the dark one,
your blood will be my people’s wine this night. Fresh warm wine sucked from your every artery, your body deflating like an old wineskin as we pass you from one to another. And we will eat bread made from the marrow of your bones.

“I am not afraid of you,” I lied.

Give me back my power.

“No. I’m going to save it. Maybe it will buy me free entry one day.”

But the dark one’s head lowered until his face nearly touched mine, and all the light left his eyes. I sensed his enormous presence growing smaller, softer, more compact. Silken hair fell onto my face and shoulders and engulfed me in its familiar scent. His voice changed and when he spoke again, the voice was that of a woman’s. It was hers.

“You must never come back here, Gabriel, do you hear me? You must promise me never to come back to this city of death.”

And the dark one’s face transformed into hers. I blinked twice.

“This is not your path. Your path lies in Orvieto, not under it. You must forget all you have seen here today. Do you promise me?”

And the dark one leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth, a deep kiss full of longing. I didn’t care that it was him, because in my mind there was only her, and I wanted that kiss to last forever. So I sunk into it, into her, into him.

“Swear a blood oath
,”
said her voice, “because blood oaths last forever.”

And even though I did not know how it was done, I swore it in my soul.

Her eyes looked down at me and with a mighty sound of rushing wings, she was gone. All the lights in the underground city went out.

As I staggered to my feet, I slipped on my own blood, seeping from a wound in my right hand. It looked as if a sharp beak had gored through it, but I had already forgotten how that had occurred.

The feather was gone.

And so was any inclination that I could ever marry Darlo Gallo.

I found Orlando Khan in the public house on Via Sant Angelo that I recalled one of his thirteen uncles owned. He was sitting at the bar, his back bent, his curved nose and olive skin almost exactly as I remembered. He was wearing a light-colored tunic belted at the waist, which was still trim, over tight blue jeans. His hair was short, curls cropped close to his skull, evening shadow on his jaw.

He did not look up as I sat down next to him, and at this short distance, I noticed subtle changes: the grey bags under his eyes, the ash in his complexion, descending lines around the mouth that signified too much recent disappointment. I had seen him, upon occasion, as I careened down the boulevards with Darlo Gallo and friends. He never returned my waves or shouted greetings. He looked right through me, as if I were invisible. I would shrug and say something to my companions about the oddity of foreigners, and they would all laugh. And then terrible guilt would descend upon me, and I remembered all he had done, and how I had loved him once. And Darlo would sense my awkwardness and cover it up by exclaiming, “I don’t know, darling. He’s still awfully handsome.”  And much worse, I would imagine Volatile overhearing my pompous, petty comments, her disappointment in me.

“Ah, Laurentis,” murmured Orlando, eyes on his glass, “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Have you?” I said, motioning to the bartender.

“I expected you to come sooner with your questions, your incessant questions and unwavering lack of understanding. But then again, you are a big man about town these days.” This he said without a trace of mockery or rudeness, as if stating simple fact.

“I didn’t think Muslims were allowed to drink,” was all I could come up with in response.

“This is
raki
,” said Orlando, holding up a glass full of what looked like water. “The men in my family have been drinking it for generations. It was one of the Turkish customs my father couldn’t leave behind. Whenever I saw my father drinking this,” he continued, taking a small sip, “he would say:
God will forgive me, on this one occasion.
And so now, I say the same to you.”

“If you say so,” I replied.

“But what God really wants to know,” began Orlando, turning to face me, “is why you have tied your fate to a woman you hated for years on end.”

“She’s different, Orlando. She’s changed.”

“Tigers cannot change their stripes,” he stated drily, drinking from another glass that had appeared before him.

And I laughed then, remembering my dreams before they became the white world. How Orlando was always depicted in them – an alien young boy with tiger’s claws for hands. “Are you sure about that?” I chuckled.

“What is it you want from me?” he asked directly.