Ancient Eyes by David Niall Wilson Page B

through his mind. "Come home." In the city they would not have believed the transformation that ten miles could make. Abraham had left the truck as a man on the road, far from his cottage on the beach and his work, but attached to them by the thin threads that bound civilization into a tattered tapestry. Those threads stretched taut as he walked the four miles of burning pavement, and when he turned off the road, cut into the line of trees and climbed up and away, they snapped cleanly.
    He closed his eyes, leaned on the broad, strong trunk of an ancient oak, and basked in the moment. His jeans felt stiff and restrictive, their tight creases pointless and irritating. He was glad of the boots he'd worn, and he wished he'd worn older jeans with more wear. He hadn't been thinking about the mountain then, but he had felt it, and he had known. His memories were returning full force now.
    He pushed off from the tree and settled his knapsack more comfortably on his shoulders. It was a little past noon, and he wanted to reach his mother's house before the light failed.   It was a long climb.
    Anyone he ran into would know him despite the years and the changes they had wrought, but still, it was best they get a clear look as he approached. Normally he would have feared nothing more than a seat full of rock salt for trespassing, but now? The paper weighed heavily in his pocket, and he watched the trees to either side carefully as he walked.
    Something had changed. He felt an odd detachment from the woods surrounding him, as if he were a stranger and didn't belong, but even so, he felt it. He had expected to feel alienated, but there was something dark in the air, something menacing that reached out from each shadow. He frowned and hurried his steps.
    On his left, up the mountain a bit, he saw the spire of the church rising against the blue of the sky.   The wood needed paint, and the roof was dark and patched. The high window on the steeple was shuttered, but one side hung limply out at an angle as if waiting for a wind to come along and put it out of its misery.
    Abraham thought about cutting through the churchyard. It was a little out of his way, but he had the sudden urge to see the place. He needed to be sure that it was as he remembered it, not as it had been in his dream. If it were as run down as it appeared to be, then it was unlikely he would see the windows pouring light into the darkness, or deep, chanting voices rising from the eaves. He saw the flaking paint and loose shingles from where he stood, but these meant little. The note, crinkling in his pocket as he walked, told a different story.
    Abraham had a sudden flash of memory. He saw his father's face, not angry—never angry—but set and grim. He saw torches lined up and stretching back into the forest like a giant flaming serpent, flowing away behind his father.   He saw that other face, the dark branching antlers and the wide, hate-filled eyes. He heard a keening that shook him to the depths of his soul and remembered ripping his eyes from that scene to stare into the pale gleam of a long-ago full moon. He had been so young then, and the memories—though vivid—held few answers.
    He shook his head and turned back to the path.
    The trail was worn, and he saw the signs of many passing feet. The prints ran over and around one another in a jumbled, scuffed map that Abraham read instinctively.   A great number of people had been this way recently, and the knowledge itched at his mind.   So much traffic didn't mesh with the unkempt steeple on the church, or the ominous, heavy emptiness of the air.   There was nothing along this path but smaller trails that trickled off deeper into the woods, and the church.
    Although the road he'd left behind was the nearest route to civilization, it wasn't a big draw for the locals.   If they needed something from the city, they would go by truck, usually about once a month, and they would go in force. They wouldn't run out along