26

~Ali~

Sunrise is our alarm clock. When morning breaks, we gather our belongings and walk to the church's door, leaving our bags hidden inside a the branches of a small shrub. My skin pebbles the closer I approach to The Church, a twist constricting my gut, a nervous anticipation - oddly, not a particularly bad feeling.

The wooden door creaks lifelessly on its slanted hinges as Ethan presses his fingers to its worn, metal handle. A cold breeze is released from the belly of the church, passing us in a shuddering breath.

Day eight...

Tomorrow they will be here for Jaz and I, of that promise I am sure. The very thought of their army and weapons, the way they will mercilessly strip our souls from our bodies and the breath from our lungs has me whimpering. Sensing my inner monologue of suffering, Ethan comes up behind me and wraps me in a hug, cradling my head to his chest. I take the moment of comfort, pressing as far as I can into his body, and briefly allow my mind to hollow.

Soon after, Jack and Jaz pass the threshold and step inside. At that moment I realise we both have held on a moment longer than necessary. I smile nervously at him and follow the other two.

The first thing I realise about the church is the smell. The air inside is a potent mixture of damp wood and distantly burnt frankincense, a scent that settles like lead in the nostrils and then sweetens after a moment of consideration. The next thing I realise is the sound, the ghostly silence of the walls ruined by our steps reflected across the domed roof, sinfully loud. The small chunks of obsidian volcanic rock skitter across the floor as our feet kick them. I take a piece under my boot and it crushes into ebony ash. Looking closer around the room, hardened igneous rocks clutches to the corners of the room, settled into the grooves of the stone floor, a testament to its history.

The further I venture into the vastly empty room, the stronger the prickling sensation grows across the back of my scalp, spreading down my body, both unfamiliar and yet comfortable. I try to calm myself down before my heart rate rockets into a frenzy and gingerly scan the area around us, spying through the narrow windows, expecting to see a pool of shadows following. But even while looking around, I force myself to acknowledge the sensation is less intrusive, less scrutinising than before and more of a... recognition. I try to ignore it nonetheless, whatever the response means, continuing as if I don't feel my body buzzing, and soon the feeling dwindles to a distant tickle at the base of my neck.

We continue searching the room for something, but still find nothing. I am not sure what I was hoping to find - maybe The Book in a polished glass case, displayed on a carved pedestal in the centre of the room, a heavenly golden light shining on it like a spotlight? (don't judge me for my cliche precision, I am already embarrassed enough by it) - but it certainly wasn't an empty room, dust mingling with the narrow shafts of tilted light. Although the church is empty, it feels even more desolate than simply looking empty. So long ago devastated, ghosts seem to paint the walls with their forgotten souls.

"Something has to be amiss. There is nothing here!" Jaz paces the perimeter of the room, kicking at the porous rocks gripping the ground, huffing in frustration.

"No," Ethan responds, his gravelly voice echoing. "The Book is here - Jack and I can feel it."

"What can you feel? I don't feel anything!" I catch the disappointment outlined on her face, the corners of her eyes seeming to tilt down.

"You're human, Jaz," Jack chuckles as he feels against the wall. "You won't feel it."

"What's 'it'?" Jaz's attention is taken away from the room and onto what she is clearly not a part of.

"It's just a feeling we get," Jack looks to Ethan who inspects the brass handles, turning and twisting them on their mounts as if hoping one was a lever. "Like a sixth sense. I don't really know how to describe it." He pauses, chewing over his words. "Whenever divine beings are in a place close to their creator, we get this... vibrating thing, right?" Jaz's lips form a comical 'O' as she listens with interest. "The vibrating occurs on a degree of levels; a weak buzzing in our finger tips, a humming in our necks, all the way until our whole bodies glowing with it. It's the simplest, most basic units of ourselves awakening to the presence of The Throne." My clammy hands twitch to skim my buzzing neck, but I grip the fabric of my trousers to resist the temptation. I must be imagining things. Of course I wish I could feel the presence of the Throne awakening my body. But I just can't. "That's the best way I can explain it. But at least something is here."

Something indeed. I know it is here. It has to be.

I block out Jaz's grievance and try to focus on the things around me, her negativity a distraction and contagion. I stop my traipsing momentum and take a step back, clearing my mind with a musty breath and pretend I was seeing the room for the first time.

The domed roof, probably one the church's most defining features, curves austerely over our heads, underestimated in its simple beauty. A small, circular hole has been cut from the centre of the ceiling allowing a pole of light to shine in. Large candelabra adorn the grey-stone walls, their tarnished gold bodies still flecked with remnants of yellow beeswax. A tapestry hangs limply upon the far side, cloaked in a shadowy corner. Save for the windows and a notable hole in the lower portion of the wall beside me, the walls remain bare, only a fine crust of basalt clinging to the uneven stonework of the floor, larger rock pieces placed beside smaller rock pieces, all grouped in a random pattern.

Directly opposite me is a small, wooden platform, the bottom panels eaten away with heat and time, exposing the darkness beneath the church. The platform itself is nothing of grandeur with only a few dismantled pews stacked in its corner and an overturned podium. A desolate sight of a church that held such promise.

With the seeming the only contents of the church I force myself to think harder, look closer. There must be more; I won't accept anything less than more.

The platform intrigues me and I approach the wooden staging, bypassing the missing steps and stepping up the short height. The decrepit wood murmurs under my weight but holds as I move around, toeing the podium, running my fingers across the sculpted pews. And it is then that I notice a slash in the wall behind the pews. Actually, not so much as a slash, but more of an etch.

I shuffle the pews out of the way, laying them down from their position against the wall. What I uncover is the church's greatest hidden feature - a carving of The Throne. A small but ostentatious embellishment pressed into the wall; spiralling legs, curving arms and a backboard writhing into a tall point, crowned with a single, fat ruby. The cathedra is so skilfully painted, the bright colours now faded to a whisper of what it was, that I thought the ruby droplet at the tip was another illusion of the artist, the colour having preserved itself magnificently well. I approach closer, fingering the fine artistry, and stumble when I touch the cool, faceted face of the gemstone - not a painting after all. The jewel, fused into the wall, remains cloudy in the shadows.

I flounder backwards, the others so engrossed in their inspection of suspicious cracks and uneven stonework they don't even realise what I have uncovered. I look out across the church from my slightly heightened position and suddenly take note of the bizarre craftsmanship of the flooring. I scrutinise masonry and at first glance nothing strikes me as particularly unusual. Until the randomness of the tiling becomes pointedly less accidental and appears to be more of a mosaic.

I look at the atypical floor pattern, the size and barely indistinguishable colours of the stone that bypassed my attention earlier. And then I see it, like seeing the church through new lenses, the whorled pattern of the stones, spiralling into the centre of the room in a collection of pointed and angled stone. And at the centre sits nothing exceptional, just a slab of more basalt.

With a new idea taunting the corners of my mind, I leap from the stage and rush to the clump of blackened rock. I kick it. And kick and kick and scrape until the hardened cap skitters away to reveal the ruby droplet beneath. And then the patterns becomes clear, the rugged stones all rushing in from the edges of the circular room and colliding with the crimson, faceted gemstone.

My eyes rush around the room, piecing together a puzzle before my mind can catch up - the arched, slanted windows, the gently sloping roof and walls, the carefully cut out hole in the ceiling, all directing light to the centre of the church; to the ruby on the floor. And it suddenly makes sense - the church is a funnel for light, manipulating the sun's rays around the room. Every golden drop of sunshine is directed straight to the floor like a gigantic spot light. And as the sun moves across the sky, the light becomes more and more concentrated, migrating across the floor straight towards the ruby.

As my mind whittles over the information it has just gleaned, the sun reaches its peak, golden light congregating in the ruby, illuminating it blood red from the inside. My eyes flirt between the glowing ruby on the floor and it's shaded counterpart mounted on the wall. If I stall much longer, contemplating any peculiar plans, the sun will shift and the floor-encrusted ruby will dim again.

"Jaz?" I call out, tearing my eyes from the dull gemstone.

"Sup?" She hollers back, running her fingers across the crumbling wall.

"Do you have a mirror?" I pull a cheeky grin, knowing how stupid my request is.

"Look at me," she gestures to her face, a little grey from dust, hair knotted at the back and snorts. "No, I don't have a mirror, let alone have the courage to look in anything remotely reflective."

That's it! The locket!

I claw at my chest and uncover the silver pendant, slipping the chain over my head in a hurry. I drop to my knees and hold the shiny metal between two fingers, pushing it into the refracted beams of red light emitted from the ruby. The liquid light glints warmly in my hand, turning the silver pendent crimson.

Angling the locket toward the wall, I fine tune the laser of light until I gather it into a thin beam within the face of the locket. When it's threaded together like a strand of red cord, I puncture the ruby upon the engraved throne. Red light makes the ruby flare to life and it pulses a deep scarlet colour.

And if I didn't know things could become more abnormal, I was about to be proven wrong. As if being super heated, the ruby seems to soften, its sharp, faceted edges rounding as it begins to liquidate on the wall. My hand shakes nervously, unsure if my damage is irrevocable, but I steady it with my other arm. A drop of liquid gemstone slips down the wall.

"G-g-guys. I did... something." I stutter quietly as the ruby starts to drip like blood welling from a wound. "GUYS!"

"What's - " Ethan's voice is swallowed when he sees marbles of ruby slip away from the glowing stone, snaking into the grooves of the engraving, outlining the carving red.

The rivulets of molten stone do not harden. It continues to flow, flooding the wall and pooling across the floor. The puddle of fiery liquid hisses and bubbles as it comes in contact with the wooden slats of the platform. With everyone's eyes glued to the scene unfolding, they take a few collective steps backwards, watching raptly from behind my crouched form, still holding the locket in place. The last remnants of solid ruby runs away and the locket turns cold again in my palm. Remaining is a small hollowing in the wall where the hardened gem once rested.

With the ruby finally abated, I rush to the others, my boots slipping over the stone. Ethan steps forwards and pulls me backwards and together we watch helplessly as the liquefied ruby creeps forward. If I remember anything from my eight grade chemistry classes, it is that bubbles usually indicate a chemical reaction. And if that is the case, this spells bad news for the floorboards.

The the red puddle disperses in all directions until it is taut like a drum skin. With the surface tension stretched to its limit, the fizzing becomes deafening. Bubbles race across the face of the pool, spitting globules in all directions. Like acid devouring baby flesh, the ruby dissolves half the stage, leaving a deep, circular gash left in its wake.

Silence replaces the blistering buzzing and a dark hole replaces part of the floor. Ethan gently releases me and steps away to approach the scarred floor.

His feet climb the stage silently, testing the strength of the remaining wood. Deeming it strong enough, he toes the edge of the pit, then dives into the darkness.