The Other Tree Page 10

  “Sir,” said Emir, stepping back.

  Docker watched as Stace, Bale, Roman and Emir slid down their harness ropes, swinging quickly along the cliff face to the Jeep below. Docker waited until the ropes loosed from their anchors before he turned back towards Almovar Castle. As he approached the doors, he slid his gun from its holster, racking the slide with a snap.

  * * *

  Luke staggered through the tunnel with Chris draped in his arms, his flashlight wedged between his chin and his shoulder. The secret passageway was only about five feet high and four feet wide, and he was doing his best not to knock Chris’s head against the walls. Really.

  The passageway ended in another metal ladder, rising into a narrow brick shaft. He clambered up the corroded rungs, his shoulders burning as he struggled to keep Chris balanced. He was fairly certain this wasn’t correct first-aid procedure, but scenarios involving snake bites and madmen in castles rarely came up in the manuals.

  He ran out of handholds inside a narrow metal compartment shaped like a wardrobe. Shoving open the steel door, Luke climbed out of what appeared from the outside to be an industrial refrigerator.

  The crypt leads to the kitchen, thought Luke. That’s just unhygienic.

  He carried Chris to the archway of the deserted medieval kitchen, peering into the unlit banquet hall. He noted with disquiet that the bearskin rug had been pulled back over the trapdoor.

  Luke switched off his flashlight and crept into the banquet hall, trying not to shiver as he padded softly through the blacked-out castle. The only sounds were Chris’s shallow breathing and the thundering beat of his own heart.

  Halfway across the room, Luke heard the front door open—very quietly. Footsteps approached, heading purposefully for the banquet hall.

  Luke’s gaze shot frantically around the long hall, his feet glued to the floor in blank panic.

  Fireplace.

  The voice was so soft he couldn’t be sure if he had imagined it.

  “Always…secret…fireplace…” Chris’s mouth moved, her eyes still closed.

  Luke ran into the recessed hearth and crouched against the sooty wall, pushing madly at the stones and logs. His hand yanked on a poker, and the back of the fireplace revolved suddenly, swinging him and Chris into a small stone room.

  Luke’s vision was speckled by the sudden light, and it took a few blinking moments before he realised there was a sword pressed to his throat.

  The hidden room was modestly furnished, and currently occupied by a slightly crazed-looking Almovar wielding a blunt, rusty sword. Although Luke doubted the weapon could actually decapitate him, it might give him tetanus. Almovar’s small brown owl was sitting dangerously lopsided on the old man’s shoulder, looking permanently infuriated.

  Almovar rapidly took in Chris’s bandaged leg, her missing shoe, and Luke’s probably equally crazed expression. Lowering his sword, Almovar held a finger to his lips and gestured towards several Soumak cushions at the back of the room.

  “What’s going on?” whispered Luke, laying Chris gently on the cushions.

  “They’re here for the book,” said Almovar.

  “Who are ‘they?’” asked Luke.

  “Some big corporation. They phoned a few days ago, wanting one of my rare manuscripts in exchange for…well, let’s say enough money to fix the plumbing. I said no. They came by yesterday in person, and I said no. I guess this is how they ask a third time.”

  “Must be some manuscript,” said Luke.

  Almovar looked grim.

  “I love books. But I also recognise when they’re dangerous. And things which make otherwise ordinary people perform unconscionable deeds are dangerous.”

  Almovar looked down at Chris, her breath rasping through her swollen throat.

  “The last time I let someone see that book was over ten years ago,” said Almovar. “For some reason, your friend reminds me very much of her.”

  Almovar was a recluse not because he disliked company, but because good company seemed to be harder to find than Byzantine diptychs of pterodactyls. He saw castles and dragons where others saw high-density apartments and shih tzus. He dreamed of biplanes and deserts and endless oceans under blazing constellations, while others talked of debentures and career progression.

  She had been different.

  She had appeared one day with a small carpetbag suitcase, claiming to be a history student writing her doctorate. She had been bright and witty and brilliant company during the few days she’d spent at the castle. It had felt so good to laugh again.

  “I let her study the book,” said Almovar, a shadow falling across his face.

  She had studied the book with such ferocity, poring over the pages like a woman possessed.

  “And one day,” said Almovar. “I returned to find her gone, and a page ripped from the text.”

  He took a shaky breath, still stirred by the memory.

  “I decided then that I was no longer a public library, and that some books are best kept away from people,” said Almovar.

  “I’m sorry,” said Luke.

  People always have a habit of disappointing you, thought Luke. It was human nature to be cruel, to be weak, to lash out at the undeserving, and to abandon promises they never meant to keep.

  Luke mopped at Chris’s face with his sleeve.

  Almovar shook his head sadly, still lost in thought.

  “I still wonder about her, sometimes,” said Almovar. “There was always something odd about the incident. The strange thing was—”

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Luke and Almovar froze as gunshots rang through the castle.

  * * *

  Docker stared steadily down the barrel of the gun, faint wisps of smoke trailing into the air.

  He crouched carefully on the limestone and nosed aside several fallen books with his gun. Spattered pieces of red and black flesh were pasted to the floor of the crypt, although with a little imagination you could reconstruct a thin snake. Docker noted this as he stood up. This was what happened when you didn’t pick up after yourself. He glanced around at the mess of papers and splayed manuscripts, and his gaze stopped on a heavy calfskin book lying open on the desk.

  Docker swivelled around, gun raised as a figure dropped through the trapdoor and landed lightly in a crouch. Emir rose to his feet, quickly taking in the rifled crypt.

  “I heard gunshots,” said Emir.

  “All the way from the Jeep?” said Docker, lowering his gun.

  “I thought you said there was nothing here.”

  No bodies at least, thought Emir.

  Docker swept up the calfskin book, sliding it into his bag as he headed towards the ladder.

  “There isn’t now.”

  * * *

  Chris had started to convulse, her lips turning a shade of blue usually reserved for Japanese horror movies.

  “What kind of snake was it?” said Almovar, holding down Chris’s shoulders as Luke cradled her head in his hands.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see—”

  “I’ve never had snakes in here,” said Almovar. “Lots of millipedes, and sometimes rats. But don’t mention that to the wedding registry.”

  Luke lifted Chris into his arms.

  “We have to get to a hospital,” said Luke, heading for the fireplace. “I’ll take my chances.”

  There was a sudden, muffled rattling, like a loop of chain unrolling very fast, followed by a heavy clang. Almovar stepped nervously beside Luke, and they both braced as Luke pulled on the brass poker.

  The hall was dark and silent, the trapdoor flung open beside the overturned rug. Luke rushed to the front door and found the portcullis lowered, the chain broken.

  He laid Chris gently on the ground and grabbed the twisted length of chain, straining to pull up the gate.

  “Give me a hand,” said Luke.

  “I have a back door, you know,” said Almovar.

  This was just as well, since Luk
e’s next plan of action would have involved hurling an antique chair through one of the stained glass windows.

  Luke followed Almovar through the turning corridors and crooked passageways, finally emerging from the stifling darkness into the fresh night air. Everything smelled of rain and thunder, and a strong breeze sliced across the mountain top.

  “Take my car,” said Almovar, sliding open a barn door to reveal a sleek, antique car. Black, of course.

  “Is that a hearse or a wedding car?” asked Luke.

  “It’s called horizontal diversification. Or would that be vertical…?”

  Almovar passed Luke the keys and pointed to a rough dirt road winding through the woods.

  “That goes down the other side of the mountain, and rejoins the road about two miles down.”

  Luke stared at the road for a moment.

  “You have a private road that goes all the way to the castle?”

  “I’m almost seventy!” said Almovar. “I’m not going to run up and down the walking track just to get to the car park.”

  Luke glanced around at the thick forest, the wind whipping through the trees.

  “Shouldn’t you come with us?”

  “They got what they wanted,” said Almovar. “And I can’t. It would look…”

  Almovar looked away. Townsfolk were townsfolk, whether they were wielding pitchforks or broadband.

  “Thank you,” said Luke.

  He looked into Almovar’s pale, pinched face.

  “They…say things,” said Luke. “But they think you do nice weddings.”

  Luke suddenly remembered why he had been gently relieved of parish counselling duties.

  The wind rose into a low howl as Luke slid behind the wheel, the engine chugging into life. Chris lay motionless on the back seat, her hands starkly bloodless against the black upholstery.

  It’s going to be okay.

  Right?

  As they drove onto the wooded road, Luke glanced at the rear view mirror, watching as the castle receded into the darkness.

  * * *

  It had been surreal.

  Bursting through the flimsy hospital doors, into the strained light.

  We need a doctor!

  Nurses, scattered like marbles, bouncing through the wards.

  English! Does anyone speak…

  Trolleys straining with the wounded, rattling through the halls, or hanging in islands, waiting for help.

  Help! Please!

  Deflated IVs hanging from tarnished stands, gloves snapping on, tiny flashlights—

  No response.

  Plastic trays rattling with implements, some of which looked raided from a kitchen.

  Is she going to be—

  Scissors snipping through bandage, through cloth. Pale mottled flesh, shiny, not supposed to be that colour.

  Sir, you have to wait outside—

  Outside.

  Luke sat on an uncomfortably moulded plastic chair, his head in his hands. He smelled of sweat and old dust, and his brain buzzed like a can of shaken soda tossed into a vat of acid. The light was too dim and too bright at once, and the pastel green walls, which had undoubtedly looked soothing on the tiny colour chart, seemed to scream “You’re probably dying!” when painted throughout an entire hospital.

  “Sir.”

  A woman in her forties, wearing a white surgical coat, stepped in front of Luke.

  “What kind of a snake was it?” asked the doctor.

  “I don’t know, I didn’t see—”

  The woman’s gaze flicked away, then back to Luke.

  “There was some toxin left on the entry wound, but we haven’t been able to identify it. We tried a broad antivenom, but she’s not responding.”

  The words echoed from far away.

  “We haven’t come across anything like it before,” the doctor continued. “We’re doing everything we can, but her condition…”

  The rest faded into static, drowned out by the sound of Luke’s heartbeat ringing in his ears.

  Thank you, he thought he said.

  I’m sorry, she may have replied.

  Luke’s feet moved across the dull, scratched floor. People bobbed and swayed around him, the walls rippling like laundry in a headwind.

  Outside, the sky was sapphire blue and clearing. Long blades of grass waved in the moonlight, carrying the scent of pine and violets.

  What a silly thing to have happened.

  What a stupid, wasteful thing.

  Chris should have been at home, making hot chocolate and curling up with a botanical journal. Or tucked away in the university basement, playing with some exciting new plant. She should have lived to ninety, becoming a cantankerous old woman screaming at children to keep off her rare Himalayan blinking grass. She should have watched successive governments rise and fall, bought a new television set every seven years and complained about how things just didn’t last anymore. She should have had a family, possibly several. Fallen in and out of love, and hopefully back in.

  She—

  Oh, god…

  Luke fell to his knees.

  Oh, God.

  Luke curled on to the ground, holding his head in his hands.

  I’ve looked, and I’ve searched, and I’ve tried so hard.

  Why don’t you answer?

  Why don’t you ever answer?

  Luke shuddered with racking breaths, his head pressed against the earth. The smell of dirt and rain and blood filled the air.

  God, give me something—

  He sensed the presence before he heard the footsteps, soft on bending grass. Luke lifted his head and saw a woman standing before him, her green dress fluttering above battered hiking boots. She was almost like a shadow, green on green against a backdrop of rustling woods.

  “Thena?”

  Luke rose unsteadily to his feet, and the red-haired woman stepped towards him. She looked like she might have been crying recently.

  “What are you—” Luke began.

  “Give this to her,” said Thena, looking quickly over her shoulder as she pushed a small press-seal bag into his hands.

  Luke looked down at the small, capped syringe.

  “I’m not trained in venipuncture,” said Luke.

  Thena blinked at him.

  “I have other startled exclamations to make, too,” said Luke. “Like how did you—”

  “We could go grab a coffee, but irreversible brain damage kicks in in about,” Thena looked at her watch. “Two minutes.”

  Luke stared at Thena, and beneath the matter-of-fact calm, he could see something inconsolable in her eyes. Without quite knowing why, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze before he sprinted madly back towards the ward.

  Sweat rolled down his back as he wove between trolleys and bustling staff. He slipped into the hospital room, rushing past several occupied beds. Chris lay on an off-white bedspread, half-covered by a rumpled green sheet. She was a similar colour, her breathing barely registering.

  Trembling, Luke pulled the syringe from the plastic bag and glanced around the quiet ward. He flicked the needle and located a vein, steadying himself. They didn’t train you for this at the seminary—the only blood involved was alcoholic.

  Luke concentrated on the sensation of stillness, of purpose, and watched as the plunger emptied into Chris’s arm.

  “What are you doing?”

  Luke slid the syringe into his coat and turned around. A Chinese intern with thick-rimmed glasses stood in the doorway with a clipboard.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” she said disapprovingly. “We’ll let you know if there’s a change.”

  Luke nodded, looking down at Chris’s colourless face, then left the room.

  7

  Morning was pale and reluctant, washing the hospital with watery sunlight.

  “You didn’t sleep there all night, did you?”

  Luke opened his eyes blearily, still slumped in a chair shaped like molten Lego.

  “Sleeping on chairs, sleeping
on the floor,” said Chris, sitting up in the hospital bed. “You don’t self-flagellate, do you?”

  “Life is usually punishment enough.” Luke stretched with a series of loud cracks.

  “Do you want some pudding?” said Chris, proffering a small bowl of…something.

  “I think that’s meatloaf,” said Luke.

  “But it smells like ice cream.”

  She studied the monochrome mush for a moment, prodding it tentatively with a spoon.

  “Thank you,” said Chris.

  “Hmm?”

  Chris put down the bowl of meatloaf pudding, leaning back against the pillow. She was still a slightly waxy colour, and although her hands were resting on the bed now, Luke had seen them trembling.

  “I think maybe you should go home,” said Chris. “I mean, I’ve got the riddles now, and if I come across some Biblical sphinx thing, I’m sure I get to phone a friend.”

  She wasn’t sure how much of it was real, and how much had been the hallucinogenic properties of the toxin attacking her brain, but Chris was pretty sure Luke had endured a pretty appalling night. She remembered fading light, a room being ripped apart, a tragic story, gunshots, rattling chains, and engines roaring while the wind shrieked through the trees. And she remembered being carried, through darkness and long silences, through the echo of stone and the smell of salted meats, through ash and rain and antiseptic. She also had vague memories of a shadowy figure crushing her head with its claws, but she was fairly certain that was either a hallucination or a Romanian Dream Eater.

  And then she had woken up. That had been a surprise. Luke had been scrunched up in the chair by her bed, looking like an old potato that had fallen behind the vegetable drawer and been forgotten about. Chris had never been exceptionally gifted in matters of personal presentation, but right now Luke took dishevelled to a whole new level of physical and psychological distress. He hadn’t wanted to come in the first place, and Chris had been reckless to think this would be an adventure of righteousness and reparation. Her mother wouldn’t have wanted this. Then again, Chris was discovering a side of her mother that was increasingly perturbing.

  “They said there might be brain damage,” said Luke, casually cracking every joint on every finger. “But I suppose that’s the advantage of being eccentric to start with. I think the next step is finding the missing page. It seemed kind of important.”