When we stopped for the night among some ruins beside the road and Pahadron was erecting our sleeping canopies, a fox-like boy with long ragged hair came stealing out of the darkness to watch. Pahadron stood upright and stared at the intruder.
‘Will you drink?’ said the boy. He was skinny, dressed in tattered clothes, with the nervous gait of a nocturnal animal.
‘Yes,’ Pahadron said. It was the first time I had heard him speak at all and the sound of that single word was surprisingly light and musical. He squatted down beside the boy, who put his arms around Pahadron’s neck. For a few moments, it seemed they were kissing, then Pahadron’s mouth slipped down to the boy’s throat. The boy whimpered in pleasure as Pahadron’s teeth sliced into his flesh. A single jet of sweet ichor spurted from the side of the Harkasite’s moving mouth. I could not believe what I was seeing. Supping humans so blatantly beyond Sacramante? The boy was not a patron: what was going on?
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 re
mains 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?’
Alcobiel steamed in silence for a few moments, apparently observing Metatron thoughtfully. ‘We manifest in Khalt,’ it said. I took that to be an acknowledgement of culpability.
‘Might I ask why?’ Metatron spoke thickly and swallowed hard; he was not as calm as he sounded. I squeezed his arm encouragingly.
‘The soulscape of eloim has been marked by a shadow,’ Alcobiel answered. ‘Eloim juveniles in Sacramante are unable to perceive this, owing to an atrophying of awareness. To us, the shadow is unmistakable. Therefore, we manifest.’
‘A shadow?’ Metatron said. ‘Could you explain that to me?’
‘The shadow is that cast by the Dark Brother,’ Alcobiel replied. ‘He calls the children to him, and they obey his voice. We have to protect our children, however ignorant they are of their peril. We took our own action.’
‘Your own action? What, exactly?’
To experience another being’s laughter inside your own head, especially when that laughter is not of the sweetest kind, is not a pleasant experience.
‘Blind! Blind! Blind!’ announced Alcobiel. ‘The shadow is the seed of invasion. While you nourished this seed with your lives, we sought to smother it.’
‘An invasion?’ Metatron continued, unperturbed. ‘By who, or what, and from where?’
I did not think Alcobiel was going to answer. The brightness dimmed a little, and seemed to retreat. I heard Metatron take a breath, but he did not speak. Then, the radiance increased again and Alcobiel said, ‘
The invasion comes through. From Elenoen.’
Elenoen. The name was familiar to me, and yet I don’t think I had ever heard it before.
‘Watchers!’ Metatron hissed ‘From the old world. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Watchers watch,’ Alcobiel replied. ‘This is something more active; a definite form, an influence. It has leaked through, somehow.’
‘That is not possible,’ Sammael said, in a distant, reasonable voice. He had wandered some way up the passage, and was fingering one of the wall paintings now revealed. ‘All the interfaces with Elenoen were destroyed when we were exiled. Anyway, if something could get through to Earth, surely you would be able to pass through in the opposite direction. In which case, why are you still here and manifesting in Khalt?’
‘The gateway cannot be found,’ Alcobiel replied. ‘We searched for it, but there was no sign. Our conclusion was that it must have been a temporary access way, created for a specific purpose.’
‘I find that hard to believe,’ Sammael said. ‘If anything had come through from Elenoen, I would undoubtedly have been its first target.’
‘That is a token of arrogance, Lord Sammael,’ Alcobiel replied. ‘Whatever came through seeks to destroy eloim from within. It must be aware that you have distanced yourself from the world. You are probably no longer a threat to it, not even a recognised power. This is why we confronted the problem ourselves, even though it is far from easy for us to manifest much more tangibly than you see here.’
‘I am still not convinced,’ Sammael said, in a voice that suggested he was more affronted than unconvinced.
‘I don’t think we can afford to disbelieve anything at this stage,’ Metatron said, ‘I think we have to determine what objective this hypothetical intruder, or intruders, has.’
‘It is easy to divine,’ Alcobiel said. ‘They wish to destroy you, and have invented a means to infect eloim souls with the compulsion to self-destruction. Elenoen covets this world. When we were trapped here, a source of strength was cut off. They have been patient, watching eloim on Earth weaken and stagnate. Now, they have decided to act, while you in Sacramante scurry round panicking.’