at the distant, misty-murky ceiling, looking for movement, for the drooping hands of the demons that had taken Geoff away, Geoff and quite a number of others. Bosky saw nothing up there just now. He looked back at the cracked street and caught a movement across the way, a woman’s face in the window of a low redbrick house. Bosky raised a hand in greeting to her, instinctively trying to be encouraging, but she only darted back, pulling the curtain.
“They’re all so scared,” Bosky said.
“Can’t blame them,” his granddad said. “Most of them think they’re already dead, and judgment’s soon to come. And if they’re not dead, then what is all this? I’m not yet sure this ain’t a dream myself.”
“I’m dead certain it ain’t a dream, Granddad,” Bosky said. “It’s a miracle, in a way—an evil one. But it ain’t no dream and it ain’t Hell. Not yet.”
They went into the chapel and found the baptismal. There was a little more color here, in a sickly sort of way, coming from the stained-glass windows, and a green-blue sheen fell over the stone baptismal: a basin carved with baby angels, set on a low dais to one side of the altar.
Bosky set the rifle aside, took out the box of bullets, and opened it.
And then sat back on his haunches. “This is stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking . . . It ain’t going to bloody work . . .”
“I doubt it works, too, lad,” Garth said. “But who knows? Why not try?”
Bosky sensed Granddad was just trying to keep him going with a little harmless encouragement. He shook his head.
But then he rocked back on his heels as the baptismal began to seethe, its waters boiling, sending up a quivering light. A majestic woman’s voice, emanating from the font itself, said,
Approach, bring your weapons hither . . .
“Stone me!” Bosky blurted. “Granddad—did you hear that too?”
“I did! And look!” He moved cautiously closer to the baptismal, pointing to the woman’s face appearing in the water, like a reflection—when there was no woman there to be reflected. She was a beautiful woman, made of light and ice and bubbling water, manifesting even as the waters quieted . . .
“An angel!” Bosky breathed, impressed.
An angel? The woman’s face seemed obscurely amused. Yes, if you like. The ancients knew me by another name. But I have always given my blessings to those who properly acknowledged me.
The woman’s voice resonated in Bosky’s mind in English, and yet he seemed to hear the words echoing indistinctly in other languages, languages he had never heard before but somehow recognized.
“I acknowledge you, Missus,” Bosky said, “and I’ll acknowledge you whenever you like, if you’ll help us! You don’t seem like no demon, and it’s demons who’re keeping us here, and culling us out like fat sheep to become mutton—and we’ve got no wish to be mutton! Anything you can do, it’d be brill!”
Then approach, child, and take the arrows of metal in your hand . . . and lower your hand here, into my bosom . . .
Arrows? Bosky reckoned she meant the bullets. He poured a handful of rifle bullets from the little cardboard box into his palm, came closer to the baptismal and, after a moment’s hesitation—afraid she was going to do something wickedly witchy to him when he touched the water—he lowered his hand, bullets and all, into the water.
The font began once more to seethe, and he thought he felt something vibrating between the bullets.
Enough. It is done. The other arrows now . . .
When all the bullets were bathed, and when, as an afterthought, Garth had dipped his pocketknife in the shimmering water, Bosky turned to the baptismal and said, “Lady, are you a saint? The vicar’d be pleased was I to tell him your name! You the Madonna, then? The Virgin Mary?”
He thought for a moment that the beautiful face in the font rolled her eyes. No, child. I am the queen of all waters. Call me the Lady of Waters. Know that I am here to
“They’re all so scared,” Bosky said.
“Can’t blame them,” his granddad said. “Most of them think they’re already dead, and judgment’s soon to come. And if they’re not dead, then what is all this? I’m not yet sure this ain’t a dream myself.”
“I’m dead certain it ain’t a dream, Granddad,” Bosky said. “It’s a miracle, in a way—an evil one. But it ain’t no dream and it ain’t Hell. Not yet.”
They went into the chapel and found the baptismal. There was a little more color here, in a sickly sort of way, coming from the stained-glass windows, and a green-blue sheen fell over the stone baptismal: a basin carved with baby angels, set on a low dais to one side of the altar.
Bosky set the rifle aside, took out the box of bullets, and opened it.
And then sat back on his haunches. “This is stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking . . . It ain’t going to bloody work . . .”
“I doubt it works, too, lad,” Garth said. “But who knows? Why not try?”
Bosky sensed Granddad was just trying to keep him going with a little harmless encouragement. He shook his head.
But then he rocked back on his heels as the baptismal began to seethe, its waters boiling, sending up a quivering light. A majestic woman’s voice, emanating from the font itself, said,
Approach, bring your weapons hither . . .
“Stone me!” Bosky blurted. “Granddad—did you hear that too?”
“I did! And look!” He moved cautiously closer to the baptismal, pointing to the woman’s face appearing in the water, like a reflection—when there was no woman there to be reflected. She was a beautiful woman, made of light and ice and bubbling water, manifesting even as the waters quieted . . .
“An angel!” Bosky breathed, impressed.
An angel? The woman’s face seemed obscurely amused. Yes, if you like. The ancients knew me by another name. But I have always given my blessings to those who properly acknowledged me.
The woman’s voice resonated in Bosky’s mind in English, and yet he seemed to hear the words echoing indistinctly in other languages, languages he had never heard before but somehow recognized.
“I acknowledge you, Missus,” Bosky said, “and I’ll acknowledge you whenever you like, if you’ll help us! You don’t seem like no demon, and it’s demons who’re keeping us here, and culling us out like fat sheep to become mutton—and we’ve got no wish to be mutton! Anything you can do, it’d be brill!”
Then approach, child, and take the arrows of metal in your hand . . . and lower your hand here, into my bosom . . .
Arrows? Bosky reckoned she meant the bullets. He poured a handful of rifle bullets from the little cardboard box into his palm, came closer to the baptismal and, after a moment’s hesitation—afraid she was going to do something wickedly witchy to him when he touched the water—he lowered his hand, bullets and all, into the water.
The font began once more to seethe, and he thought he felt something vibrating between the bullets.
Enough. It is done. The other arrows now . . .
When all the bullets were bathed, and when, as an afterthought, Garth had dipped his pocketknife in the shimmering water, Bosky turned to the baptismal and said, “Lady, are you a saint? The vicar’d be pleased was I to tell him your name! You the Madonna, then? The Virgin Mary?”
He thought for a moment that the beautiful face in the font rolled her eyes. No, child. I am the queen of all waters. Call me the Lady of Waters. Know that I am here to
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