When Graveyards Yawn, G. Wells Taylor [a court of thorns and roses ebook free .TXT] 📗

The Mother of God Cathedral was piled high into the flickering darkness of the storm. The lightning briefly illuminated the many stained-glass windows like half remembered dreams. A stone angel, sword in hand, flew over the enormous arched doors. His eyes were set with grim purpose. The vigilance on his features increased my curiosity. What was he guarding? What could be important enough to get an angel so worked up?

Tommy ordered Elmo to stay in the car. He flew out and up the steps. The rain was slowly scrubbing the paint from his cheeks. I looked back to where Elmo waited at the curb and saw his face jammed into the acute angle of the windshield, eyes wide. I tried to think of the day. Thursday, no, Friday now. How long did the Handyman have me before I woke up? It couldn’t have been more than an hour. Things were happening too fast.

Tommy dropped to his knees in the shadow of the gigantic angel. “Uriel, oh Uriel.” He suddenly twisted into a knot like he’d swallowed a fishhook. “Uriel,” he sobbed, “let me in, let me in.”

I didn’t recognize the name. Through the incessant splatter of rain and grumbling sky I heard a shoe scuff pavement. Behind Tommy to the left was a man. He had the unmistakable broad beam of middle age. He was dressed in black. The collar of his long damp coat was tucked under his ear lobes and his hat was low, deepening his eyes. He hugged a briefcase and a paper bag that was oily and dark with rain. He moved quickly toward Tommy. The clown heard him and swung around with his gun at the ready. “No, dark one!” he barked.

The man flinched, and in the action sent enough strain to his wet grocery bag to tear it to pieces. Fruit bounced off his feet, and a jar of pickles smashed—its contents rolled and bounced away like legless frogs.

“I mean no harm.” the stranger blurted; his voice as taut as wire.

“What do you want?” Tommy’s was slurring noticeably, growing weak.

“I thought you needed my help.” He took a hesitant step forward.

“I want in, I think it’s time to go.” Tommy began to wilt.

“You’re injured, let me help you.” The priest moved another step. “You can come in.”

Tommy’s gun drooped. “I’m fine. There’s no need for alarm. Nothing to see here. The show’s over.” He raised himself to one trembling leg, tried to get the other under him but failed. He sprawled over the spattering puddles, the gun sliding from his grasp. An epileptic spasm shook him as he made a last desperate attempt to rise. He failed. Tommy was unconscious in the rain.

The man hurried over, knelt by him. I could see his eyes study Tommy’s form from boots to hair. He touched the plastic bindings on his wrists, shook his head. “Dear Father,” he muttered. His arms slipped under Tommy and with great effort lifted him. “Another castaway. Such a storm, Holy Father. What else will it wash up?”

I floated along overhead. The fellow took Tommy into the cathedral through a nondescript side door, then down a long, ornately paneled hallway. He stopped beside a door recessed in the wall. He had to lean Tommy’s weight against the frame to struggle for the key. The door opened, the man turned on the light and then dropped Tommy on a large bed.

“My Goodness,” he muttered rubbing at his back. He produced a penknife from his pocket, easily released the clown’s hands. Then he stripped Tommy of his clothes. “What in Heaven?”

He stared at the wound on Tommy’s head and shoulder, clicked his tongue then left momentarily. He returned with a small, metal box emblazoned with a Red Cross. He paused and studied a number of quarter-sized pockmarks that ran across Tommy’s chest. “Hmm, this is strange,” he murmured, then gently bathed and bound the new wounds. The vicious tear in his shoulder still oozed blood.

I was amazed. I couldn’t remember the scars on Tommy’s chest, and yet now that I’d seen them they raised a grim indeterminate specter in my mind. Perplexed, I watched the fellow produce a large cloth and soak it in alcohol. He worked it over Tommy’s face. The makeup already streaked with blood and rain came away easily. I watched as the face appeared for the first time. It was strange. Almost boyish around the eyes, yet lines of age and the rough skin of maturity covered his cheeks. Again I asked myself, “Why the makeup?” Christ, he didn’t even have a hair lip. Then, the strangest thing happened. The priest smiled with recognition.

“Of course!” He nodded, resting a palm on Tommy’s cheek. “You again. The scars.” Fingertips like butterflies lit on them briefly. That was all he said. But it was the most profound thing I’d heard all night. With Tommy’s wounds tended the priest gingerly slid him beneath the covers. The clown’s black hair made a dark halo on the pillow.

“Sleep,” said the Priest. He left us then, and I heard him retrace his footsteps. I thought he would go to retrieve his briefcase and groceries, perhaps he would see Elmo, ask him questions.

I had to think before I let my hallucinogenic trance take over. I was weary of existing—bone tired without any bones. Who had been waiting for me at the Arizona? What the hell did they want me for? I suddenly remembered the charm on the Handyman’s wrist. The ankh circling a swastika. The Twelve Stars? And I’d seen it before in Adrian’s office.

My thoughts returned to the spectator. I couldn’t forget the image of the glasses staring at me while the Handyman worked. The reflection of a cigarette calmly smoked while hidden eyes watched my torment. The voice had been too familiar. What had happened to Van Reydner? Who shot Elmo? If questions were currency, I’d be a rich man.

The door opened. The priest walked in. New moisture dripped from his hat, he took it off, and placed it on the floor beside him. He pulled a chair to the bedside.

“I spoke with your friend, Mr. Wildclown. The dead fellow. He was beside himself with worry.” He smiled, knowing his words were going unheard. He continued nonetheless, for his own comfort if not Tommy’s. “I sent him home, told him to return in the morning. To bring you some fresh clothing.” he sighed, pressed his hand to the clown’s forehead. It was flushed with fever.

“Oh dear.” The priest picked up his hat then set it and his coat over a chair in the far corner. Returning to the bedside, he produced an apple from his pocket and tried to get comfortable in his chair. He pulled the peeling from the fruit with his teeth, and then placed the long strips on a circular side table under an antique lamp. I decided to take advantage of the peace to release my psychic trauma through my strange dreams.

Transition.

I wrestled a burning corpse, crushed its head against the asphalt with my armored fist. A gloved hand grabbed my shoulder yanked me to my feet. An Authority Inspector, face hidden by shadow barked orders at me. “Stop fucking around.” The stranger pointed to the approaching mob of dead. “I ordered you to open fire. OPEN FIRE!” I raised a rifle—it was different. No auto-shotgun. Blue fire primed the nozzle. A flame thrower. “Open Fire!” The Inspector’s voice bellowed. “Open Fire!” I pulled the trigger. Flame leapt out and consumed the first six dead men it touched. A shriek rang out.

Transition.

I walked along the street again. Neon colored the puddles blood red. I felt a tightness in my chest, looked down, and saw many gaping holes.

“Hey, Dick.” It was Tommy’s voice. I looked up. He stood about five feet from me. The gun in his hand still smoked.

“I shot you. You know the rules of the game.”

I tried to speak, but the effort brought blood to my mouth. I coughed. Blood foamed from the wounds in my chest.

I felt my legs weaken. I took a faltering step forward. The night air chilled the blood on my legs. My socks were oily with it; they slid inside my shoes.

“Die, goddamn it!”

With enormous effort, I reached out. My arms had become wood, but they caught and held fast to Tommy’s neck—fingers like roots. He screamed and clawed at my wrists. I could feel my fingers penetrate his flesh, burrowing inward. Suddenly the gun went off and I felt a sickening thud of pain. Again the gun roared. I dropped, but my hands held fast. Tommy screamed. There was a flash of light.

Transition.

Tommy screamed. He leapt up from the bed below me. The priest was right there, forcing him back with a gentle hand to each shoulder.

“It’s here!” Tommy shrieked. His eyes scanned the room. “It’s here!”

“You’re all right. Please, Mr. Wildclown. You’re fine there’s no one here. Settle!” The Priest strove to hold him still. “You’ll injure yourself the more.”

“Can’t you feel it? Waiting. Watching!” Tommy continued his frantic scan of the room. “It’s gray, it’s gray and dark. Oh God!”

“Please, lie still. Here.” He quickly poured a large shot of brandy from a bottle he must have procured while I dreamt. “Here.”

Tommy snatched the glass from him and poured it down his throat. He handed it back to the priest. “Ghosts, all around us.” The clown muttered, as the priest refilled his glass. “The dead.”

“True, my son,” the priest said quietly. He watched Tommy empty the second glass. “These are trying times. But you must remember that the Lord does these things for a reason. It is up to us to gain the wisdom to understand that purpose.”

“The ghosts. The angel, Uriel.” Tommy lay back on his pillow. “He would know. He could help me escape.”

The priest’s brow wrinkled. “Uriel? He who protects the Garden?”

“I want to go there,” Tommy muttered. “That’s the only escape. Forgiveness for all.”

“Sleep, my son.” The priest tucked Tommy’s covers around his