Your elf on the shelf is stealing lead from church roofs? Hmm, maybe that gives me an idea....
Taking the lead “There’s a church in this swamp?” Tristram’s voice carried across the landscape like ice borne on the wind. “Who the f-“ “Pointless asking who,” said the Ghost, cutting him off. “Rather wonder who they worship there.” “We’re going around, right?” said David. “I mean, what can a church hold that’s of interest to us? I mean you.” “My body,” said the Ghost. “Allhallows Church is where I’ve been bound for the last ten years or so. Before that….” He trailed off and came to a stop on a small knoll. There was no room for David and Tristram, who tried to find relatively dry footing nearby. “Before that what?” Tristram’s tone was still sharp and demanding. “Before that I was in Allhallows-by-the-Tower,” said the Ghost. “An ancient church from whose belfry the Diarist watched the Unreal City burn. They moved me after last time.” “Last time? What last time?” The Ghost pointed to a blur in the distance. “That’s Allhallows Church,” he said. “The only building around here for half a mile in any direction. There may be things sheltering against its walls. If… if they speak to you, it would be best to ignore them. Things are not always what they seem.” Tristram snorted. “What last time?” he repeated. “Let’s go,” said the Ghost. “Daylight is more dangerous out here than the night-time. The competition is fiercer.” * The church was monstrous: it rose out of the marsh-land like a mesa; a sheer-sided mass of stone that towered upwards. It cast a shadow so long that they were inside it well before they reached the wrought-iron railings that surrounded it, and David counted fifteen rows of arched, stained-glass windows for the body of the church; at either end a tower spiked into the sky yet higher. At first glance he thought the walls were somehow damaged and collapsed in places; they seemed rough and unworked, bulging and spreading, almost cancerous to look at. Only as they drew closer did he realise that in fact the walls were accreted with statues and gargoyles, architectural friezes depicting scenes that he didn’t recall from his cursory introduction to the Bible. A stiff breeze sprang up, coming off the river and carrying smells of salt, ammonia and something oddly herby that David couldn’t identify. Somewhere in one of the towers, a bell started to faintly ring. The Ghost had taken the lead and reached the gates first and as he stood in front of them, considering the large, rusted padlock and the chains it enclosed, each with links the size of David’s hands, Tristram slipped back a little to David’s side. He pressed a small, dry square of wafer, like a communion wafer, into David’s hand, and then walked back to rejoin the Ghost at the gates. David waited, making sure that they both had their backs to him, then ate the wafer. It was as dry as dust, but it still melted on his tongue and made him feel like he was drinking stewed tea. And then, for ten horrific seconds, he gave him the gift of magical Sight and he could see the strange half-life that the statues and gargoyles possessed; how they moved painfully slowly, trying to pull themselves free, and turned imploring eyes and beseeching mouths to the visitors, praying for relief and redemption. “I give you the gift of free movement,” said the Ghost, and there was a hint of a chuckle in his voice. David’s vision blurred for a moment and he felt nauseous, and then a large key-ring dropped into his hand. He promptly dropped it onto the muddy ground, and Tristram laughed at him. “What?” he said, bemused, still trying to deal with what he’d seen. “You’re a thief,” said Tristram. “Free movement, and you get the keys to the church!”
Detective Witt had led Chris to some caves he hadn't know existed, despite exploring the island every chance he got. There, the detective spent most of the morning on a satellite phone, sitting in the mouth of the cave for a signal.
As the day wore on, and afternoon shaded into evening, the detective's mood improved, until he became downright jubilant as the sun sank below the hills.
"Chris, my boy, we have temporarily foiled them!"
Chris stared at him. "That's nice. Thanks for ruining my day."
"Is that all you can say? Would you rather be dead?"
3 comments:
Your elf on the shelf is stealing lead from church roofs? Hmm, maybe that gives me an idea....
Taking the lead
“There’s a church in this swamp?” Tristram’s voice carried across the landscape like ice borne on the wind. “Who the f-“
“Pointless asking who,” said the Ghost, cutting him off. “Rather wonder who they worship there.”
“We’re going around, right?” said David. “I mean, what can a church hold that’s of interest to us? I mean you.”
“My body,” said the Ghost. “Allhallows Church is where I’ve been bound for the last ten years or so. Before that….” He trailed off and came to a stop on a small knoll. There was no room for David and Tristram, who tried to find relatively dry footing nearby.
“Before that what?” Tristram’s tone was still sharp and demanding.
“Before that I was in Allhallows-by-the-Tower,” said the Ghost. “An ancient church from whose belfry the Diarist watched the Unreal City burn. They moved me after last time.”
“Last time? What last time?”
The Ghost pointed to a blur in the distance. “That’s Allhallows Church,” he said. “The only building around here for half a mile in any direction. There may be things sheltering against its walls. If… if they speak to you, it would be best to ignore them. Things are not always what they seem.”
Tristram snorted. “What last time?” he repeated.
“Let’s go,” said the Ghost. “Daylight is more dangerous out here than the night-time. The competition is fiercer.”
*
The church was monstrous: it rose out of the marsh-land like a mesa; a sheer-sided mass of stone that towered upwards. It cast a shadow so long that they were inside it well before they reached the wrought-iron railings that surrounded it, and David counted fifteen rows of arched, stained-glass windows for the body of the church; at either end a tower spiked into the sky yet higher. At first glance he thought the walls were somehow damaged and collapsed in places; they seemed rough and unworked, bulging and spreading, almost cancerous to look at. Only as they drew closer did he realise that in fact the walls were accreted with statues and gargoyles, architectural friezes depicting scenes that he didn’t recall from his cursory introduction to the Bible. A stiff breeze sprang up, coming off the river and carrying smells of salt, ammonia and something oddly herby that David couldn’t identify. Somewhere in one of the towers, a bell started to faintly ring.
The Ghost had taken the lead and reached the gates first and as he stood in front of them, considering the large, rusted padlock and the chains it enclosed, each with links the size of David’s hands, Tristram slipped back a little to David’s side. He pressed a small, dry square of wafer, like a communion wafer, into David’s hand, and then walked back to rejoin the Ghost at the gates. David waited, making sure that they both had their backs to him, then ate the wafer. It was as dry as dust, but it still melted on his tongue and made him feel like he was drinking stewed tea. And then, for ten horrific seconds, he gave him the gift of magical Sight and he could see the strange half-life that the statues and gargoyles possessed; how they moved painfully slowly, trying to pull themselves free, and turned imploring eyes and beseeching mouths to the visitors, praying for relief and redemption.
“I give you the gift of free movement,” said the Ghost, and there was a hint of a chuckle in his voice. David’s vision blurred for a moment and he felt nauseous, and then a large key-ring dropped into his hand. He promptly dropped it onto the muddy ground, and Tristram laughed at him.
“What?” he said, bemused, still trying to deal with what he’d seen.
“You’re a thief,” said Tristram. “Free movement, and you get the keys to the church!”
Detective Witt had led Chris to some caves he hadn't know existed, despite exploring the island every chance he got. There, the detective spent most of the morning on a satellite phone, sitting in the mouth of the cave for a signal.
As the day wore on, and afternoon shaded into evening, the detective's mood improved, until he became downright jubilant as the sun sank below the hills.
"Chris, my boy, we have temporarily foiled them!"
Chris stared at him. "That's nice. Thanks for ruining my day."
"Is that all you can say? Would you rather be dead?"
Greg - you would read the prompt that way, wouldn't you.
Still enjoying this. Some really great descriptions in this one, really bringing things to life.
Morganna - so pleased you've returned to this tale, and I'm looking forward to continuing to watch it unfold.
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