letters looked funny. "What is it?"
"I'm not sure. But the lettering is Celestean. It roughly translates into 'Cull.' Or 'Purge,' I suppose. Yes, purge is probably a better translation." He ran his tongue across his hundred teeth, deep in thought. "The image imposed is of a tree stump, burned down to the roots."
"You read Celestean?"
"Tricky question. It's not really a language." He stood and took the mask, holding it at arm's length. "The Celesteans seemed to communicate in unformed ideas. Images. The pictograms we use to program foetal metal cogwork are a derivation of their form. The idea is to let the words interact with the unconscious part of your brain. They impose meaning directly into your..." he searched for the word. "Soul, I guess. Directly into your heart."
"That was perfectly clear," I sniped. He grimaced like a schoolmarm.
"Hold still," he said, then held the mask about an arm's length away from my face. "Look at the words without looking at them. Unfocus. Just let your head talk directly to the..."
"Look, this is bullshit. You told me what it means. Cull. I get it. I don't need to..."
It fell on me like a nightmare. The room disappeared and I was filled with the smell of blood and fire. Ashes in my mouth and the sky was coiling cinder. The earth below me sagged under the weight of blood and my veins crumbled like dry leaves. I gasped, but the only air was thick as steel wool, and just as harsh. On my knees and I could feel the life being dug out of me, out of my heart, out of my blood. Behind me I felt death reaching back for generations, rooting out everything I had known or been or remembered. It was like a fire that burned through time. And before me, nothing, nothing, just the empty night and nothing.
And then I really was on my knees, and Wilson was shaking me with both his stone-hard hands. The mask was on the floor between us, the words in my head coiling like that sky of cinder. I hurled myself back and banged into the cheap iron of the bed.
"Well," Wilson said, standing. "That's the thing about the Celesteans. They said different things to different people." He carefully picked up the mask and wrapped it in a bit of sheet he tore from the bed. I realized I was still staring at him, and tried to compose myself. "Don't. Just relax. Let it get through you. Let it go."
I watched him numbly as he went around the room. He got the chests open, finally. He went through them meticulously, unfolding and then refolding things, rearranging the contents, open pouches, sniffing, closing. My mind was a smooth stone in a babbling brook, the room around me sliding coldly over without penetrating. It was minutes before I understood the things I looked at. I stood.
"What the hell is that thing?" I asked. My voice was harsh, like I'd been crying.
"What we were supposed to find," Wilson answered. "The question is why. And if we were the ones who were supposed to find it, or if he left it for someone else."
I rubbed my hands together and stretched my shoulders.
"I'm ready to go," I said. Wilson shook his head.
"Not yet. This is what we were meant to find, but..."
"I'm ready to go, Wilson. As in, we're going."
He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. It hurt.
"Jacob. This isn't the worst thing we've seen. It's likely not to be the worst we'll see before this is over. You need to pull yourself together."
"Sure. But first we're going to go somewhere else." I made for the door. Wilson stopped me.
"First we're going to search the rest of this house. Then we can go."
"You said that we wouldn't find anything else. That we were meant to find that. So. We found it."
"We did." He gestured to the chests. "But what about those?"
I looked over his shoulder. "Looks like clothes to me."
"Yes. Clothes that have been recently packed, and then left behind." He spread his hands in a question. "Why?"
"I don't know. Maybe he forgot them."
"Jacob. Is there anything about Ezekiel Crane that makes you think he would
"I'm not sure. But the lettering is Celestean. It roughly translates into 'Cull.' Or 'Purge,' I suppose. Yes, purge is probably a better translation." He ran his tongue across his hundred teeth, deep in thought. "The image imposed is of a tree stump, burned down to the roots."
"You read Celestean?"
"Tricky question. It's not really a language." He stood and took the mask, holding it at arm's length. "The Celesteans seemed to communicate in unformed ideas. Images. The pictograms we use to program foetal metal cogwork are a derivation of their form. The idea is to let the words interact with the unconscious part of your brain. They impose meaning directly into your..." he searched for the word. "Soul, I guess. Directly into your heart."
"That was perfectly clear," I sniped. He grimaced like a schoolmarm.
"Hold still," he said, then held the mask about an arm's length away from my face. "Look at the words without looking at them. Unfocus. Just let your head talk directly to the..."
"Look, this is bullshit. You told me what it means. Cull. I get it. I don't need to..."
It fell on me like a nightmare. The room disappeared and I was filled with the smell of blood and fire. Ashes in my mouth and the sky was coiling cinder. The earth below me sagged under the weight of blood and my veins crumbled like dry leaves. I gasped, but the only air was thick as steel wool, and just as harsh. On my knees and I could feel the life being dug out of me, out of my heart, out of my blood. Behind me I felt death reaching back for generations, rooting out everything I had known or been or remembered. It was like a fire that burned through time. And before me, nothing, nothing, just the empty night and nothing.
And then I really was on my knees, and Wilson was shaking me with both his stone-hard hands. The mask was on the floor between us, the words in my head coiling like that sky of cinder. I hurled myself back and banged into the cheap iron of the bed.
"Well," Wilson said, standing. "That's the thing about the Celesteans. They said different things to different people." He carefully picked up the mask and wrapped it in a bit of sheet he tore from the bed. I realized I was still staring at him, and tried to compose myself. "Don't. Just relax. Let it get through you. Let it go."
I watched him numbly as he went around the room. He got the chests open, finally. He went through them meticulously, unfolding and then refolding things, rearranging the contents, open pouches, sniffing, closing. My mind was a smooth stone in a babbling brook, the room around me sliding coldly over without penetrating. It was minutes before I understood the things I looked at. I stood.
"What the hell is that thing?" I asked. My voice was harsh, like I'd been crying.
"What we were supposed to find," Wilson answered. "The question is why. And if we were the ones who were supposed to find it, or if he left it for someone else."
I rubbed my hands together and stretched my shoulders.
"I'm ready to go," I said. Wilson shook his head.
"Not yet. This is what we were meant to find, but..."
"I'm ready to go, Wilson. As in, we're going."
He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. It hurt.
"Jacob. This isn't the worst thing we've seen. It's likely not to be the worst we'll see before this is over. You need to pull yourself together."
"Sure. But first we're going to go somewhere else." I made for the door. Wilson stopped me.
"First we're going to search the rest of this house. Then we can go."
"You said that we wouldn't find anything else. That we were meant to find that. So. We found it."
"We did." He gestured to the chests. "But what about those?"
I looked over his shoulder. "Looks like clothes to me."
"Yes. Clothes that have been recently packed, and then left behind." He spread his hands in a question. "Why?"
"I don't know. Maybe he forgot them."
"Jacob. Is there anything about Ezekiel Crane that makes you think he would
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