The Ghosting of Gods by Cricket Baker

Author:Cricket Baker [Baker, Cricket]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-78099-854-1
Publisher: John Hunt Publishing
Published: 2013-05-31T04:00:00+00:00

34

chains beneath his robes

Raindrops bead the cowl of Saint Thomas, rolling to the creases and down the back of his robe. Leaning on his staff, he leads me through the drenched coven village. My own coat isn’t waterproof. It grows heavy with rain and stiff with cold.

Every hut we pass has a fire burning within. Covenists work inside, bent over their papers at long tables. Several of them cook at stoves, and the aroma of food mixes with the earthy smells of the village in rain. Children stuff two of the huts. Their high-pitched voices chant numbers. Fun and games are over. It’s time for work. Their faces are focused, solemn. Like little nuns.

I recognize the path we take. Saint Thomas is leading me to the graveyard in the hollow where I witnessed the coven attacking Ruth’s ghost.

This is my chance. “Saint Thomas, I need your help. I have a question.”

“You may ask, child.”

Weird for him to call me a child when he doesn’t look much older than me. His wavering voice, though, reminds me there’s age to him despite his youthful appearance. “Where should I seek the Holy Ghost?”

He slows, glances at me, shudders. “I believe atmospheric disturbances worsen in the City of Sacristies. But I would stay clear if I were you.”

“Do you know where to find the City?”

Leaning on my arm, he wheezes. “Keep far away from the City and the Holy Ghost, unless you want to die, child. No other offering will suffice.”

“Excuse me? Are you saying the Holy Ghost will kill me?”

“Enough on this subject. Look here. Elspeth.”

I want clarification, but my next question dies in my mouth upon sight of Elspeth, upon sight of what they’ve done to her. Involuntarily, I curse.

“It does look painful,” Saint Thomas says thoughtfully, “but then, Elspeth is accustomed to pain.” He catches me with his staff as I step toward her, to help her. “We must not cross the circle, young man.”

Bits of metal form a thin line, encircling Elspeth so that if I obey Saint Thomas’s instruction, I am unable to touch her. Tied to the tallest tombstone in the graveyard, Elspeth is five feet from my reach. Rope criss-crosses her knees, waist, and chest, holding her upright though her head hangs to the side, as if she’s trying to rest it on her left shoulder. Her arms fold awkwardly, with elbows jutting out parallel to the ground and hands yanked behind the tombstone. With disgust, I see that dozens of nails pierce the rope to fasten it to the tombstone. As if that’s what it takes to restrain the slight girl that Elspeth is.

Maybe that is what it takes. A chill comes over me.

I get as close as I can, with my boots next to the metal filings of the circle.

“Elspeth?”

Her eyes flip open.

I flinch.

Tilting her face up to the sky, she opens her mouth, catches raindrops on her tongue. “Who are you?” she croaks.

Saint Thomas pats his chest. “I have no idea! I’ve lost my crystal.

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