I turned all the way.
She was small, much smaller than I'd expected. Tiny. And frail. And she had the oldest and sweetest face I'd ever seen.
Her eyes were pale, paler even than Midge's, and it seemed as though clouds drifted in them. Her lips were ancient-thin, the edges curled under; but all the same, it was a kind mouth, the lines at each end not spoiling her expression. And although her nose was sharp, it portrayed no arrogance, only a determination of will. Wrinkles splayed around her features in whorls and ridges, yet it was a clear, unsullied face, full of vibrancy and compassion, a Mother Teresa vision that had seen so much and felt so much, the experience etched in with those age-lines as explicitly as words in a book. Around her head she wore a shawl, many colors woven into its coarse material with no distinctive pattern formed; white hair, strands seeping over her shoulders, peeked from beneath the shawl. Her dress was long, high-necked, and dark gray in color, of a vogue in favor with Whistler's Mother.
Flora Chaldean stretched up her other hand, so that both rested on my shoulders.
I suddenly understood with that touch the extraordinary gathering of spiritual energy it had taken for her to reach this point. Her past peripherality, her gradual drawing closer to the cottage, had been no more than a visual (or visionary) representation of her struggle for materialization, the accumulating of psychic forces, the molding of her spirit existence into tangible form. Yet somehow I felt that only what was happening inside Gramarye that night had allowed the final barrier between the spiritual and the physical world to be breached.
I saw all this in her cloudy eyes, as though those vapors were her very thoughts. And I was aware that her presence was a warning, as it had been throughout our time at Gramarye, when her form had been observed only as a spectral shadow in the distance.
She drew close and her mouth opened, but again, I've no idea whether I heard the word or sensed the thought.
But what she said with her mouth or with her thoughts, was:
"You . . ."
And then she began to decay before my eyes. It was as though she had burned up all the psychic energy it had taken to bring her to this moment, the final thrust of entering Gramarye using the last of her strength; now the process was going into reverse, into decline, the advancement toward the physical sense backtracking like a video rewind. Soon I was glad I hadn't got close during those early stages, those times I had seen her out there near the forest watching Gramarye.
The wrinkles in her face and hands deepened then dropped away leaving only faint lines, as her flesh became . . . loose. Passion went from her eyes as if the clouds had joined in a blanketing fog. Her hands shook on my shoulders, tapping a soft, irregular drumbeat, and her skin became waxen, almost shiny like glazed meat. It began to stretch, become paper-thin; it began to tear.
Her decomposition was rapid, taking no more than a minute or two, yet each second was timeless in itself.
The festering of her body started.
Where flies had settled on her as she had lain slumped at the table in Gramarye's kitchen all those months ago, so their spawn reappeared, white rippling maggots that feasted and grew, forming a correlation of restlessness, a superbly drilled regiment of minute carnivores. They disappeared into holes that they, themselves, created.
The deep stench poured over me and I held my breath, afraid to take in the fumes.
Her meat began to sag, to drop away, exposing muscle and bone, uncovering those crawling things busy inside. Her eyelids were no longer firm enough to contain her eyes, which drifted out onto her ravaged face. One hand that had rested on my shoulder slowly slid down my chest, the bones of the fingers—there was little flesh left on the hand—snagging against the tattered material of my shirt.
She shrank before me, a figure that had been small in life becoming smaller as bones and muscle relaxed into each other. Her other hand—the skeleton of her other hand—fell away.
Other things wriggled in those dark, bone-ridged eye cavities, black things that scuttled over each other, things like pieces of string that curled and slimed, all glorying in their treasurehouse of sustenance. Her jaw gaped open, nothing left to control its movement, and it seemed that even her blackened, withered tongue had joined the ranks of the crawling beasts, had become one of them.
The shawl slipped from her head and her white hair hung in sparse, limp clusters, and skin was only islands of tissue layers on the gray skull.
Her body slowly collapsed and mercifully started dissolving before reaching the floor. Clothes, bone, and liquefying flesh lay in a heap on the tiles, but within moments, those too were gone. There was nothing left of Flora Childean save for the smell.
I staggered backward, jolting hard against the door frame. Val was staring at the kitchen floor in disbelief. Mycroft had all but collapsed against the stairs. I saw that his eyes were half closed as though he had been wearied, drained of strength.
Yet strangely, I felt charged, a kind of chemical energy sparking within me, sending blood pounding around my body, causing nerve endings to tingle and throb. She had touched my shoulders and her eyes and thoughts had filled me. But still I didn't understand!
Until I found Mycroft watching me warily and I sensed his fear and respect. Then I began to know . . .
THINGS UNLEASHED
MYCROFT VANISHED back up those stairs—and there were other footsteps too, obviously of those followers who had remained out of sight—as I held up my hands and studied them, wondering why they palpitated so and why my scalp (and other hairy parts of me) prickled and felt so itchy-dry. I touched my head and my hair was brittle (I'd almost expected it to be standing erect, punklike). So was this the physical sensation that came with the possession of Magic?
The possession of Magic. Now that just couldn't be! Not me, not Mike Stringer, skeptic and part-time infidel. But I was being carried along by something that had little regard for my own self-doubt and confusion.
"Mike . . ."
Val was resting against the table, hands on either side clutching the edge. She looked shocked, and that was hardly surprising with all that had happened since she'd stepped inside the cottage. Now, though, she was growing curious about me, sensing the change that was taking place.
I don't suppose that change was visible in any real way, but she knew it was happening all right. Of course, there might have been blue sparks shooting from my ears for all I knew, but I didn't think so. The shift in my mind was slight, however, otherwise I think I'd have been totally overwhelmed by this metamorphosis.
The funny thing was, I was afraid, but the fear didn't frighten me. Does that make sense? The fear excited me, because this was something new, and with the acquisition—or I should say, the releasing—there came a feeling of well-being, an essential element that helped balance the power. Imagine being born blind and then, one day, a knock on the head enables you to see (the ability having been there all along). Think of the excitement, the awe for everything around you. The fear of it.
Yet still I wasn't a hundred percent certain. Flora's touch and thoughts had instilled the knowledge, flicked the switch of awareness, but what the hell?—I could have been hallucinating. There was only one way to find out, and a nervous thrill flushed through me as I headed for the stairs.
Val attempted to grab my arm as I passed, but something made her withdraw her hand before she made contact.
I ran up the stairs, ready (and eager?) for combat.
The Synergists were waiting, but were in some disarray; it wasn't just Mycroft's evident panic, nor my approach, that had caused their disorder.