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We don’t have to do this, you know. We could turn around right here.
Moses tightens his hands on the steering wheel. He looks grimly forward through the grey clouds that have settled over the landscape.
You got to finish things in life, he says finally. It’s important.
The gate before them rolls open and the soldier returns to the car window.
You can proceed inside, he says and points not with a finger but with his full open hand. Take your second right and then your first left after that. The chapel’s ahead. You’ll see it. Pastor Whitfield will be waiting for you.
Moses pulls the car slowly through the gates, and the Vestal Amata begins a quiet and breathless plea.
Moses, Moses, she says. I ain’t dirty, Moses. Really, I’m not. I ain’t a holy woman either. I ain’t clean nor dirty either one. Moses, I’m just me. I don’t want to be anybody’s solution. I don’t want to be anybody at all. Moses. Moses, please. I know I’ve been a burden on you.
She is frightened. He has not seen her as a frightened girl before, and he has seen her as many things.
We’re just findin out is all, he says and looks straight ahead. You could be of help to people. We’re just findin out why it is you’re different.
I don’t want to know, she says in a voice that’s almost a whisper. I don’t want to know. I don’t. I really don’t.
The snow has started to come down now, drab grey and inhospitable. It whips around in flurries and gusts. It fills in all niche and nuance of the world. It blocks out the sky.
Eight
Seventeen Spires " Whitfield " Tests and Judgements " A Farewell " The Whole Horrible Gravity of Darkness " A Collision " A Surprise " ‘The Man Laughed’ " Keeper and Caliper " Interlude " Alone " Ambush
The citadel is a thing to behold.
They get out of the car and block their faces from the windblown snow. They can see figures, living men and women, walking to and fro unhurriedly across a courtyard. These are people who have grown accustomed to safety. They have lived behind these barriers for who knows how long – and they no longer have the wilderness inside them. The courtyard is a wide square expanse around which the low buildings of the compound are situated. It might be grass under the ice, or concrete, or something else entirely – but right now it is simply a plain of colourless drifting snow. So too the distant foothills – so too the sky. The features of the world grow indistinct inside this spitting cloud. It is a place that loses its absolutes – a lightless murk neither of earth nor air, a suffocating desolation where people roam like ghosts grown used to the purgatory they inhabit.
One man wrapped up in a parka walks by them. Moses stops him.
The citadel, he says to the man. Where is it?
The chapel? says the man. He points across the courtyard and continues on his way.
Then, in the distance, they see the spires of the structure. There are seventeen of them lined up in a row, grey spears standing ten storeys tall against the grey sky. It is unlike anything Moses has ever seen before. Dangerous is what it looks like, a structure of sharp steel edges and spikes – looking so like a weapon that Moses imagines it swung by one vicious giant against the jugular of another. Or a row of monstrous teeth, calcified to pale white – the petrified jaw bone of some ancient dragon.
Jesus, Moses says. That don’t look like any cathedral I’ve ever been in.
Moses, please, says the Vestal Amata and takes his arm at the shoulder. The snow is collected on her choppy red hair – as though the winter itself would make her disappear.
Come on, he says. I been around a long time, and if there’s one thing I learned it’s that the things that look most dangerous usually ain’t. It’s the ridiculous-lookin things you got to watch out for.
So they cross the courtyard, holding their arms before their faces to block the wind and snow. They are not dressed for this weather, and Moses can feel his beard icing up.
They go around the side of the chapel. A ramp leads up to the glowing doors like the protruded tongue of a sleeping beast, and they climb it. They enter through the wide double doors and find themselves in a huge hall lined with pews – the buttresses of the seventeen spires creating a row of triangular ribs inside that gives you the impression of having fallen into the belly of a beast. But there is an odd violet glow in the place, a perverse warmth that does not seem to jibe with the bitter grey outside.
Then an old man approaches them. He wears a suit and tie and moves with surprising alacrity from some alcove in the side of the place across a line of pews and up the aisle towards them. It is the Pastor Whitfield, and he introduces himself with a smile.
You are seeking sanctuary, maybe? the old man asks. We welcome all.
That’s nice, Pastor, says Moses. But I’m just carryin her for a friend. A monk who goes by Ignatius.
The old man smiles widely and claps his hands together.
Ignatius! he says. A dear old friend of mine. I’m so pleased to hear he is still with us. Are you part of his congregation?
Us? Moses says. No. Well, I ain’t at least. He told me to bring you her. She’s a Vestal.
The old man looks at the girl with the cropped hair and smiles benignantly.
A Vestal, he says. I’m not sure I understand. She’s . . .
She’s special, Moses says.
We’re all of us special in one way or another. I’m sure this young woman—
Special as in the slugs don’t want her, Moses blurts out. The man’s kindness makes him nervous – along with the purple glow of the place, the sense of peace, the downright civilized tone of it all. He is unused to the niceties that come along with comfort and safety.
They don’t— the old man begins, but stutters. They don’t—
That’s right, Moses confirms. They don’t want her. It could be she’s an angel or somethin. At least that’s what the friar speculated.
You mean, the pastor says, she’s immune?
Immune? Moses says and looks to the Vestal. I don’t know if you’d call it immune. If she died would she not come back? Beats me. But they’re not interested in makin her a meal. I reckon we could give you a demonstration if you got any slugs around. I don’t know if it means anything.
If what you say is true, sir, says the pastor, then this young lady means a great deal indeed. But maybe more to science than to the Church. Please follow me. I would like to introduce you to some of my friends.
Moses doesn’t like being called sir. He can’t remember the last time it was done. It fits him ill. He longs suddenly for the barren wilderness, the brokedown country roads, the collapsing structures, the wandering dead. It is there, in that place of ragged leftovers, that he knows how to behave.
