Contents ( 48)
- PAST LIFE
- David Mark
- PART ONE
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- PART TWO
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- PART THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
He takes a torch from the crate. Steels himself. Shines it into the darkness.
The man known as Cromwell cowers in the furthest recesses of the wagon, wrapped up in his own stark-white limbs; arms and legs drawn up, face pressed against bloodied, shit-streaked knees. Papa Teague thinks briefly of Hell. The Hell the priests used to talk about at Mass: of suffering beyond endurance – the flames devouring the eyes, the endless agonies, the wail and despair of the sinners beyond redemption. He feels a surge of compassion. Fights it down.
Perched on the lip of the hole, Papa Teague pulls a pack of cards from the pocket of his waistcoat. It’s a fresh pack, the seal unbroken, the cellophane catching the light. Slowly, silently, he opens the pack of Oracle cards. Shuffles them, his movements languid, deliberate. He keeps his eyes on the figure in the dark. Hopes that this time, he will be given permission to dispense mercy instead of justice.
He blesses himself. Splits the deck. Stares at the Oracle card and feels his heart sink. The image is of a furry cat, inscrutable eyes, sketched against a red carpet and yellow wall. It is the sign for ‘falseness’: a reminder to be alert to those who will lie and cheat and manipulate. A card of lies, corruption, negativity. It is the card selected for him by fate, and the ethereal presence of those who serve as his guide. It is not a card that allows him to be merciful. Cromwell’s punishment must continue.
He spits into the hole. Up-ends the crate. Packs of Army rations spill into the darkness like coal. Dry food, desiccated fruits, sugar-packed chocolates and barely-edible biscuits. They land in the pool of stagnant muddy water that swills upon the floor of the wagon; circles on the surface as it steadily drains away through the rotting floor into the black earth beneath.
Papa Teague hopes that by the time he returns, the earth will have swallowed him. That the weight of the dirt and the rain will cause the wagon’s roof to sag, and that he will have drowned or suffocated, or his heart have simply given up through poor despair.
He shines the light upon the man who killed his kin, and who would have taken his daughter to pieces and driven a crystal through her heart. Feels the familiar rage rise. Takes comfort in it. Hides behind it.
A moment, before the hatch closes. A heartbeat. The figure in the darkness looks up. Sees. Papa Teague locks eyes with the creature he has imprisoned beneath the earth. Sees the spark in his eyes: the burning, ceaseless hatred. Looks into eyes that carry a promise, an oath, a prayer. Sees his own unmerciful death; the annihilation of all that he loves; the crimson agony of his own death.
He slithers back. Slams the lid shut. Tries to catch his breath. When he lights his cigar, he notices that his hands are shaking. It takes an effort of will to calm himself. To look up into the sky, and search for something with which he can soothe himself. He cannot see the birds. The light has been folded within a great dark fist of cloud.