Debris of Shadows_Book II_The Forgotten Cathedral Read online

  The craft slowed to a halt, and hovered just above the iridescent dome. He stood, pulling himself up by the handrail. He took a step towards the window.

  “Asher, sit down.”

  He turned his head. “Excuse me?”

  “You don’t need to open the shield,” she said. “I can do it.”

  He shifted his weight, fighting the dizziness that threatened to overtake him. “What do you mean?”

  Her breath came out in a sigh. “The abbot felt that you would not be in any condition to release your children so soon,” she said, “so she gave me access.”

  “Of course,” said Asher, choking back the bitterness that surged to his throat. He took a deep breath. “And, of course, she neglected to tell me.”

  Theresa looked at him, expressionless.

  Calm, he told himself. “Open the window, please.”

  “Asher —”

  “Do it,” he said, cutting her off. “What is the problem?”

  Her mouth opened and closed. “Nothing,” she said.

  “Then open the window.”

  She looked down at her hands, and tapped a button. The glass in front of him spiraled open.

  He pulled his cloak apart, and stood with his back to her, his body naked to the open air. It smelled like dust, like sand mixed with steel. He filled his lungs, opened his sacs, and sang.

  Pain filled his neck and chest as his wasps swarmed forth. He saw through thousands of eyes as they covered a patch in the shield, just large enough for the craft to fly through. He took another breath. He could see through the dome to the Sands below. They were all that remained of San Domenico, all that remained of the Shadows, and the hatred of NorMec. His sacs ached and burned, but this was his command. He had to assert his authority now, or he would be fighting for it every day of the mission. He sang, his voice pure and clear, for his children to open the dome.

  He felt their teeth sink into the shield like molasses. It congealed around them, refusing to yield. He tried pulling them back.

  The bubble refused to let go.

  His mind reeled. What was the problem? His children were newborn, but not immature. He was weak and recovering, not them. Had he sung the command incorrectly? Possibly, as much as anything was possible, but extremely unlikely. He sang again.

  His children sank in deeper, like flies trapped in amber. He could feel their panic as they smothered.

  Something was very wrong.

  Theresa’s voice sang out from beside him. He felt her children rush by on the dusty wind. “Don’t,” he said, his hand shooting to her naked shoulder. “They’ll just get trapped.”

  She ignored him, twisting away from his touch. Her wasps flew along the same path as his, laying over the patch of shield where his were caught.

  The turbulent wall melted.

  He watched through thousands of tiny eyes as her swarm devoured the shield around his. He felt involuntary relief at their freedom, like a drowning man gasping for air.

  His children returned to him. Their microscopic bodies wormed into the creases of his sacs, their lips suckling from his aching flesh. He closed the swollen rents along his neck and chest, and pulled his cloak closed.

  He was aware of Theresa returning to her seat, her cloak still parted. She piloted the craft through, and, at her command, her children closed the wall behind them. They sat in silence as her wasps flew back, and nestled within the comforts of their mother.

  She broke it, saying something about being sorry, something about how the abbot had ordered her to silence, how she had expected him to sleep until they had reached the remains of San Domenico. All emptiness, all lies.

  They did not share access to the shield. It was not coded to his DNA at all.

  He pushed his anger deep into his stomach. It would not serve him now. There would come a time when it would. She bleated again, trying to justify her deception. He could not hear her above the rush of blood in his ears. He had foolishly thought her above their games and machinations. He would not make that mistake again.

  The craft wafted down upon a cushion of air. It landed at the center of the site, and unfolded its sides like an orange set to self–peel. Asher stepped outside on trembling legs as the transport continued its self–transformation into a base camp. There was no wind or precipitation, just the calm presence of the Sands.

  The Sands…

  He had never been in the presence of so much Life Sand before. He knelt, laying his hands upon the desert. The fine grains reacted to his touch with a faint, yellow flicker. He scooped up a handful, and let it sift through his fingers. What did he hold within his grasp? Was it Bones at the end of his life, overflowing with remorse and terror? Was it a child, sitting with his friends on the steps of their apartment building, talking about last night’s game? Was it a woman driving to her job, or a man singing to his daughter as he tucked her in for the night? He did not know. It could just be simple grass, or an insect, or…

  He shook. He felt joyful, aroused, and lightheaded, all at the same time. The Church and all its schemes did not matter anymore, his pain and anger did not matter. All that mattered were the lives taking refuge within his brain, and their salvation that lay beneath his knees. An unstoppable geyser of drunken happiness surged through him. He threw his head back, and roared with laughter.

  “Sorry,” he giggled. “Sorry, just an emotional release.” He snickered. Theresa turned away in distaste, as if he had shit his cloak. The image of him doing so popped into his head, and sent him into another laughing fit. He lay on the dune, felt the warmth of the Sands against his back, and stared at the sky.

  After a few minutes, his feverish elation subsided. His neck, throat and cheeks hurt. He realized that he had been crying. He glanced up at his companion. She stared off towards their base camp, her arms folded. Maybe she could bring back some water, and they could make sandcastles together. A little fun might even cure her of her chronic resting bitch face, even if just for a little while. The thought brought on a few more giggles, but for the most part, his attack of hysterics was over.

  “Let me guess,” he said, staring up at the swirling plasma dome hundreds of feet above, “you didn’t do that at your first resurrection.”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He sat up. She stared at him with wide eyes, as if she expected him to run screaming around the dunes with his cloak flapping in the breeze. “I’m all right, really.”

  “I’m going to meditate,” she said, turning back towards the camp.

  “Meditate?” he asked. “We just got here.”

  Her voice was hard. “It is especially at times like this that we need to face the Ophanim within ourselves.”

  “That was very good,” he said. “Did you write that yourself?”

  Her eyes darkened. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I am truly sorry about the shield. You are in command here, and I don’t question it. I just wanted to make that clear.”

  “Well, I’ll just have to make sure I keep you happy, just in case I ever want to get back home.”

  She threw him another glare, and walked back to their base. He lay back once more. He could hear the confused din of his charges within his mind, their laughter, their songs, and their tears. “Soon,” he whispered, grabbing handfuls of Sands between his fingers, and letting their grains sift through. “Soon.”

  The following day was filled with silent recriminations. From morning to evening, Asher wandered the dunes alone. The Life Sands flickered as he passed, creating a trail of briefly glowing footprints in his wake. He could feel every soft, fine grain as they caressed his bare soles. He knew that his meanderings and sleeping beneath the open sky only fueled Theresa’s suspicions of instability, but he did not care. He walked faster and faster, his open cloak dangling behind him.

  She was treating him as if he were childish and immature, when the truth was, he was afraid.

  Fear had woken with the sunrise as a tiny worm of doubt and anxiety, gnawin
g within his chest until he wanted to rip it out with his bare hands. It had grown into a squirming shroud, one that smothered his face and made it nearly impossible to breathe. Everyone and everything that had been San Domenico only existed inside of his head now, and they all demanded liberation. How could he have possibly thought he could ever handle such responsibility? How could he have imagined that he had the required resolve and sense of inner peace?

  Memories of Phoenix flooded over him. The rotting smell of feces and ash, the putrid fog that stung his eyes, the monstrous conglomerations of animal, mineral, and vegetable. The pain, suffering and death, all caused by an inadequate resurrector. He had never met Brother Silas, but he knew that the monk had had age and experience over him, and a history of two successful missions. How could he hope to succeed when such a respected veteran had failed?

  We have to pull back the curtain.

  The phrase sliced through his ruminations, fueling his panic. The memory of Brother Leo, the not–lionhearted artist, flashed in his mind, wild–eyed and raving, his screamed accusations giving birth to arcs of spittle.

  I wanted to heal, but you wouldn’t let me.

  Asher concentrated on his breath, on the energy of the Sands that tickled his feet. His heart was racing. He saw the girl, the robin’s feathers piercing through her flesh, their perversion of her DNA refusing to be denied. He shook his head, and focused on the desert of Life Sands around him, and the shield dome on the horizon.

  He needed help. He could not do this alone.

  He would go to Sister Theresa, and apologize for any previous offense. Surely she would want more than anything for the resurrection to be a success. Besides, was the shield debacle really her fault, or the abbot’s? In the end, she only cared about what was best for his charges. Maybe it was time for him to do so as well.

  “I will do better,” he said out loud. His voice was dry and hoarse. It was the first time he had spoken in almost a day. “I will do better.”

  He scanned the horizon, and saw the glint of their ship–turned–camp in the distance. He walked towards it, squinting against the sun.

  It was time.

  He approached the camp, an attempt at a smile upon his lips. Sister Theresa stepped out to meet him, her arms folded. Her upper teeth dug into her lower lip.

  “I’m ready,” he said. “I want to make peace for any disagreements we’ve had in the past. All that matters is the resurrection. Thank you for being here to assist me.”

  She remained silent. He puffed out his cheeks, and exhaled. He had tried. He clenched and released his hands, pushing his returning sense of annoyance down to his stomach. He turned his back on her, and faced the dunes.

  “Remember,” she said, “you must recreate the structures first, exactly as the scrolls intended.”

  “Agreed,” he said over his shoulder.

  “You must start small, only one quarter of a square kilometer a day. Too much at once might curdle your purpose.”

  His heart began to race again. Didn’t she think he knew that? “Yes,” he said.

  “Then you must meditate, and report back to the Church.”

  “I’m aware of my responsibilities,” he said. He forced a mask of calm over his features. “Again, thank you.”

  She did not reply. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs. Couldn’t she see how overwhelmed he was by all of this, and all he had seen? It was not as if he could pass his duty on to her, Jacob, or even to the abbot. He remembered her tears over Brother Leo. Leo, who had held him at gunpoint, and destroyed the holy scrolls. Asher had done none of those things, had never acted to hurt her, or anyone else. She had cried for Leo out of compassion, so why was she so devoid of any for him?

  He pushed such thoughts aside, and retracted the flaps of his sacs. He felt the long mouths that rented his chest and neck unfurl.

  His wasps streamed forth, creating spherical formations in the open air. The sudden assault of thousands of sights, smells, tastes, and sounds overwhelmed him. He saw himself naked, his arms outstretched. His member was erect, his hairless flesh riddled with goosebumps. He could feel everything within the dome. His skin and muscles, the air, the sun, the energy of the shield, even the glowing anticipation of the Sands. He could hear the desperation of the millions of souls within his head, and feel his children’s aching hunger within his own belly. They wanted the nourishment of the Sands, and they wanted it now. They wanted to build. They wanted purpose.

  He opened his mouth, and gave them one.

  His litany re–created the glyphs that had been inscribed upon the scrolls. He felt his children dive into the Sands, feast upon their sacred power, and spin it into webs of existence. They wove bricks, socks, steel beams, hairbrushes, violins, toilets, and books. He sang the foundations of San Domenico into the earth. The harmonies of the scrolls vibrated amongst the folds of his mind. They resonated within his muscles, nerves, and bones, bringing wave upon wave of adrenaline in their wake.

  The passage of time became irrelevant to the avalanche of structures that poured from his lips. Here was a page from a child’s homework, a red–inked star adorning its corner. There was a WesMec dollar bill, blue and white, woven from fibers of cloth and paper. A man’s gold wedding ring, forged into a heart and crown being held by hands, lay on the corner of a table. The table had been crafted from pine. China plates and cotton napkins had been set upon it…

  He sang the city, and his children churned his song into reality.

  He walked through the streets, through every office, house, and apartment. Here was a board game set to play, its pawns and paper money laid out upon a carpet. There was an oak case containing an antique collection of vinyl records. Beside it stood a turntable, its needle sharp. Like everything else in the city, it craved purpose. It wanted to vibrate between shining grooves, and bring music forth.

  He walked on and on, singing San Domenico into existence. Nothing else mattered. He thought that he heard a voice cry his name upon the wind, but it was far away, somewhere below the intoxicating bliss of resurrection. He could no longer tell where his city ended and he began. It was all song, Sand, color, and eventually, darkness.

  Light, harsh and artificial, bore down into his eyes.

  Something covered his nose and mouth. He looked to his left. A tube protruding from the back of his wrist connected him to the camp’s medical cradle. He tried to sit up, but the movement made his head swim. He fell back, trying to suck in air. It was not enough. He felt as if he were drowning. He pulled the thing off of his face, and gasped.

  “No,” Sister Theresa said, pushing the mask back on. “It’s humidified oxygen. You need to breathe it.”

  He stared up at her. Past her shoulder, he could make out the tile wall of the base’s tiny infirmary. “I can’t,” he gasped as he tore the mask away. She moved to replace it, but he shook his head. “What happened?”

  She glared at him. “You wouldn’t stop,” she said. “You sang for hours and hours. You sang all day and all night. I tried to stop you, but it was impossible. You sang for days on end, until you collapsed from dehydration and exhaustion.”

  He lifted his arm. Its flesh and muscle clung to his bones, which were visible even through the cracked and flaking folds of his cloak. His legs ached and burned, as if he had run a marathon. “How much did I do?”

  “Almost five square kilometers,” she said. She chewed on a fingernail. “You resurrected over 450 blocks in three days.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Okay, obviously, I got carried away. But that just puts us ahead of schedule, right?”

  She snorted, rolled her eyes, and shook her head as if he were a petulant child. “Get better,” she said. “Relax and heal. Your children will need you to heal.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “They returned to your body when you fell. They have been dormant within you ever since. You were unconscious for twenty–two hours.”

  “I just couldn’t stop,” he said. “It was
all so… so…”

  “Beautiful,” she finished for him.

  “Exactly.” She glared at him, her eyes shining. He got the distinct impression that if he were not incapacitated, she would cause him harm. “What?” he asked, erupting into a coughing fit. “All right, so I screwed up. I’ll be more aware, next time.”

  She lunged forward, and for a moment, he was certain that she actually would hit him. She held back at the last second, her sapphire eyes inches from his. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” she said, her voice like ice. “You have no idea.”

  Asher shrank back. “You’re crazy,” he said. “What the hell is your problem?”

  She bit her lip, and shook her head. She pulled away in silence, and strode from the infirmary.

  It took another two days of intravenous electrolytes and brooding silence before Asher could move about on his own. Every muscle ached, and every step made his legs shake as if they were made of rubber. His throat still itched and burned. A few more days of treatment, and he was sure he would be able to sing again.

  He had resurrected a twelfth of his city in just three days as opposed to three weeks. All right, he had done himself harm, but why was Theresa so angry? Surely she did not care about his wellbeing that much, if at all. Was it just professional jealousy? Fine, he would slow himself down to her speed. He could not work like that again, anyway. But Holy Ophanim, he would push himself to his limit. He had never felt so powerful in his life. Why did people like Abbot Dinah play their childish, political games when they could be resurrecting the world instead? And that had only been Structural Sands. He could barely imagine what effect the Life Sands would have on him.

  He sucked down a pack of pureed rations: strawberries and ham, with a side of mashed potatoes. The combined slurry was just edible enough for his stomach to hold down. He heard Theresa step up behind his chair.

  She stood in silence for a few moments, watching him as he took a swig of water from his canteen. “Do you want to see your city?” she asked.