Chapter 14: Dirt and Dust
Bellswater. Bell's Water? Bell S. Water?
Three Punks trailed metal post boxes to road's end. A lone church left standing. The only recognizable landmark for miles. On account of it being all churchy. Odd-shaped hulk of building covered in stained glass peepers, thatched witch's hat roof near eaten alive by varmints. If the sun had been high, it would have peeked through tiny cracks in the half-devoured top. A hook for the night's lantern swung empty, leftwise of the big honking front doors. Somebody--somebody with a real sharp knife and bad sense--had carved Welcome to Damnation. Was that where they were going?
Thought: It's the only place left.
"Damn, think I know this town," De'afi said. "It's like--that story? You know? About this town that's all dead--ain't on the maps cuz its cursed. Water's bad. Soil's dead. You don't wanna be here."
"Great," Viola deadpanned.
Sadie Crane flung their arm up and knocked on the shut door. Let the church know somebody was coming in--that's just polite right there.
"It's okay, sweetness," they said to the old battered church. "We're not gonna hurt you."
Thought: Not on purpose.
"Bet there's a buncha arson up these parts," Viola said.
Thought: The whole world, up in smoke. Like he would have wanted.
"Kinda feels...dunno," Sadie Crane said. "Just feels. You know? You get it?"
Thought: They don't and never will.
The anarchist creeped forward. They ghosted fingertips over the rotted front door, wood brownish like fat caramel topping. This must have been the pinnacle of beauty in its time. Now it was a giant ugly scab. Cripes.
Thought: How many more? Dead things? Corpses? The never-living?
"Don't think we're supposed to go in there," said the aviator. "Looks sorta bad for folks?"
"We'll be fast," the anarchist said back.
They came up on the doors quicklike, braced smooth bottom of their leather workman's boot and threw forward all their weight. Rushed open, shards and innards of wood sprayed the floor.
Thought: It's beautiful. Something in here is beautiful.
De'afi got out and lit the lantern. They had bright. By gods, they had bright.
"Aren't churchies like, royalty out here?" ze asked. "How come they get abandoned like this? Cuz you don't worship right no more?"
"Maybe," Sadie Crane said back. "It's hard to get straight."
Thought: Once you get haunted, you're haunted. And this place stinks of haunted.
A coal-dark streak twisted corner of their vision, warning them to keep out. Something in there they ain't supposed to see yet, they reckoned. Or never, most likely.
There wasn't much to the church. A trail of mossy green carpet, shredded raw. Old pews, a raised platform and pulpit for talking--you know, churchy stuff. A little door behind the pulpit, leading to maybe a kitchen or dining hall where they did after-service meals? Sadie Crane's local church did fat cornmeal griddle cakes with bits of meat and corn. Black Sparrow hunted rabbits and deer, but she didn't eat meat. Not even chicken or goat. Sadie Crane took her share of the fat cornmeal griddle cakes. They'd never thought to ask why the churchy people didn't make griddle cakes without meat in them. Guess there weren't enough non-meat eaters in Alcoast?
Thought: Or not eating meat is "an affront to the Old Gods" or whatever? Who knows why anyone does what they do or for why we try to figure why they do what they do?
They clambered onto the wooden platform one after the other. The aviator first, anarchist second, journalist third.
The aviator said hir mind, put it down plain--ze'd been sitting on this since they first started out for the Spinners Club. Not much time for saying it.
"You all think I'm some kinda fucking airhead, right?" ze said. "Like I got no brains up here?"
Ze shot a glare at Sadie Crane, recent university graduate and big ass smarty. Then put one on Viola, the resident bookhead. Abakris said ze wouldn't know deep west from hir own rear. And maybe he was onto something. Ze'd spent half hir childhood on an island, surrounded by people who seemed to know more than hir about every damn thing in the universe. Why should it be any different in Arcadia? Except Arcadia had universities and enormous bookhouses, not just tiny community libraries. They had everything the Sannite Islands were known for, but larger and more impressive and often side by side with better. Oral storytelling first, but too many books for one Arcadian to read in their whole lifetime three times over.
"Nah," Sadie Crane said. "I know you got a brain. And it's beautiful. Nobody alive gonna take that away from you."
Viola set her jaw for a fleeting moment, knowing where this was coming from. Damn Abakris.
"Who cares if you got brains?" said Viola. "Lotsa people got brains. And some people ain't using them for shit. But you get stuff done. That's a damn good use of your head, brain or no."
De'afi sucked down a long hot sob.
"Thanks," ze said.
They poked their way over to the side door, fiddled the latch with an out hand. Might be food in there. Beans or rice or even cornmeal that hadn't gone bad. You never know. And who else was gonna take it? Other travelers?
Thought: Haven't eaten a scrap in hours.
The journalist slumped on the platform, kicked her feet off the side. Like a kid waiting for their guardian after service.
Sadie Crane picked the door latch open, recoiling it off the wood and onto the floor. They shouldered the door opened, it backpedaled inward and punched the wall.
Viola made quick into the corridor first, one hand bunched in her black cloak and other thrown wide like she was trying to fly. She conducted with all the foot-fancy of a bird slamming into a window. Turned her head around to look at her two dearest alive friends.
"You guys gonna come?" she demanded.
Thought: She's always been scared. Of everything. Of the world. Of what she'd be without you. But she can be brave sometimes, even if she thinks she can't.
De'afi picked hir lantern up off the floor and slogged into the corridor.
The anarchist threw forward into that corridor and followed their people.
"This is kinda like skullduggery fictionals, huh?" they said. "Like one of them real olds? About empty churches? But the church ain't a church, it's like, some monster's stomach?"
The journalist fiddled a small indent into her left apple cheek.
"Oooh, okay," Viola breathed. "Like, uh--Pleasantries and Pastels?"
"Nah, more like Filthy Liars and Fiendish Lovers," De'afi replied.
Those were the only two skullduggery fictionals ze knew by name. Not much for bookhouses.
Thought: This place must look great when it starts raining. Patters up the pews. Moss soaking up the wet. No better place to get your days spent, in this home built for ages. If only we were meant to be here.
The journalist exclaimed, whapping sheens of dust off her cloak. And then stopping real fast, heard a scuffle. Like a rat or maybe some other rodent. Shit.
"No no no please," Viola whimpered.
De'afi swung back the lantern. More scuffles now, more rodents in the cramped corridor. Ze imagined them with pitch-dark fur and blown cherry wine peepers. No telling how big rats got in a place like this.
"Damn fuck hell," the aviator said through teeth.
Gods alive. Viola reached other side of the corridor. The door was brittle and knobless. She levered the warped ancient gash in the wood. Shoved the door open and all three pelted inside full tilt.
Ze flung around and threw the paint-bled latch with a push of hir wrist and palm.
"Too damn close," they said. "Were those rats? Did anyone see? Like--actually see?"
"Nope," said De'afi. "Don't wanna either."
They tested the latch with fingers. Flimsy little thing hanging by threads.
Thought: We're cooked.
Their folks told stories about things in churches. Reason enough to stay out of this decrepit cough passing itself off for a building.
Thought: Things out there. Things worse than old gods ever cared to be.
De'afi pushed hir lantern up to get the room finally, to see what they were dealing with.
Moonlight coming in real neat through a window about four feet up, enough to help see by. Table in the middle, couple of wood stoves and one chair. De'afi knew that wood on sight. Gotta be black elderwood, maybe from a forest nearby?
"Who made this, you think?" the anarchist queried.
"Religious freaks," the aviator scoffed.
Ze wove around the table and thrust the lantern to a dangle over hir head. Shelves of books climbed like soldiers way way up the leftside wall. Almost hit ceiling, they were so damn tall. Ze'd never seen so many books in a space so tiny. Real weird to keep books in here, right up near the wood stoves. Guess you don't need real big brains for priesting.
Sadie Crane could almost see the priests. Dark flaps of robe buttoned nice and pretty up to collar, black capes and hoods over their heads. They hadn't seen priests in full garb for a longish stretch, hadn't stepped foot in a church longer still.
"Were your folks churchy?" the anarchist queried.
"Nah, we ain't about that," said the aviator. "Yours, Vi? I mean--think I know this, but--"
"Churchiest," Viola sighed. "Like when I got in trouble? Real bad trouble? Like talked back or something? I'd get an earful from the folks and they'd tattle on me to the priests so I got it from them too. Had to like, copy scripture and sweep floors."
Thought: She's stating under. Like her folks didn't make her learn the name of every damn saint in living memory. Like the faci aren't built off churchy principles. Like she wasn't told "the divine right to rule" when she was ten.
Sadie Crane approached closer to the bookcases, led by De'afi's light.
"Think Sybil would dig this place?" they queried.
"Nah," replied the aviator. "What's there to dig? It's all tomby."
"Elderwood's kinda nice," the journalist said.
Blackish streaks snared Sadie Crane's peripherals. Ignored them.
They made quick right up to the bookcases. Spotted titles they recognized. Where We Come From: Language, Culture, Death Rituals. Way Down Deep: A Traveler's Guide to All Creation. Godkiller: The Politics of Life and Death. They took some books off the shelves, put them into their pack.
"You sure you should do that?" De'afi asked. "You ain't gonna get cursed?"
"Curses ain't real," Viola protested.
"And when we ever cared about that anyhow?" Sadie Crane challenged.
They stuck more books in their pack and De'afi's rucksack. Seemed real bad to let all these books go to waste. What else were they gonna do? Stay and rot?
Viola lifted her butt up against the table. No one alive had been in that church for decades. Centuries maybe. Since the start of time.
Thought: The watching infinite. It's here.
She swung her gaze, heard the scuttling of tinny little rodent feetsies. Mice, if they got lucky. Rats if they weren't. And when had those three ever gotten lucky?
"Why'd we come here?" Viola asked.
"Cuz we're idiots, like just so damn stupid?" the aviator suggested.
"Getting real bad dark out too," the anarchist said.
Thought: It's of our own making. But what else is new under the sun?
De'afi cast hir lantern all over the place, searched out another door.
They all heard what was definitely no doubt little ratty scuffles. From behind the shut door that led into the corridor. No way out through there. Death trap.
Thought: Nice knowing you guys. But not really.
"Your big sis killed a rat once, right?" the anarchist queried.
"Kicked it to death and it splattered real bad, like raspberry jam," said the journalist.
"Yeah, so--guess we ain't doing that," Sadie Crane said.
Rats didn't eat people did they? Viola imagined herself eaten. She thought about rats munching through her chest cavity and puking bits of her into the floor cracks. They'd never make it to The Spinners Club. They'd never do the memorial. Sybil's death would be for nothing. Their lives would be for nothing.
End of Chapter 14