Cemetery Dance

The men turned, followed a long, narrow passage, went through a set of double doors, and then they were in the church itself. The air was suffused with the smell of candle wax and heavy incense; the crowd jostled and murmured urgently, moving like the sea to the cadences of the high priest, Charrière, standing at the front. Two banks of burning candles provided light as four men labored over a flat stone set into the floor. Beyond, in the waxy darkness, stood many others, dozens of them, silent, the whites of their eyes like flickering pearls in the massed darkness of their hooded forms. And to one side stood Bossong, drawn up almost regally to full height, observing the proceedings from the shadows, his expression unreadable.

As D'Agosta watched, the four men threaded ropes through iron rings embedded into the corners of the large flagstone, tied them off, then laid the ropes on the stone floor and took up positions beside them. Silence descended as the high priest moved forward, holding a small candelabrum in one hand and a rattle in the other. Cloaked in rough brown, he moved with great deliberation, placing one bare foot after the other, toes pointed downward, until he stood in the center of the stone.

He agitated the rattle, softly: once, twice, three times as he slowly turned in a circle, the wax from the candles dripping onto his arm and splattering onto the stone. One hand reached into the pocket of his cloak, withdrew a small feathered object, and dropped it as he turned. Another soft rattle, another slow — motion turn. And then Charrière raised his bare foot high, held it, and brought it down with a slap on the stone.

A sudden silence, and then, from below, came a faint sound, a rasp of air, a fricative breath.

The silence in the chancel became absolute.

The high priest gave another rattle, slightly louder, and circled once more. Then he raised his foot and brought it down once again on the cold stone.

Aaaaaahhhuuuuu… came a mournful sound from below.

D'Agosta glanced sharply at Pendergast, his heart quickening, but the FBI agent was watching the proceedings intently from beneath the heavy, concealing hood.

Now the priest began to dance in lazy circles, his hoary feet pattering lightly, tracing a circle around the feathered object. Every once in a while a step would be much louder, a slap, and at those times an answering moan would sound from below. As the dance got faster, the slaps more frequent, the moaning grew in length and intensity. They were the vocalizations of someone or something prodded to irritation by the tattoo of sound above. With a thrill of dismay, D'Agosta recognized them all too well.

Aaaaiihhhhuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu came the forlorn call as Charrière danced, aaaiihuuuuu… aaaiihuuuu… the drawn — out vocalizations never falling into a rhythmic pattern but expressed with increasing excitement and shorter duration. As they grew in volume and urgency, the gathered crowd began to mirror them with a low chanting of their own. It started as a bare whisper, but gradually grew in intensity until the single word they chanted became evident: envoie! envoie! envoie!

The priest's dance quickened, his feet now a blur of movement, the rhythmic slap keeping time like a fleshy drum.

Aiihuuuuu! grunted the thing below; envoie! chanted the group above.

Suddenly Charrière stopped dead. The chanting ceased, the voices echoing and dying in the church. But noises below continued, blending into each other, groans and stertorous breathing, along with the sounds of restless shuffling.

D'Agosta watched breathlessly from the shadows.

"Envoie!" cried the high priest, backing off from the stone. "Envoie!"

The four men at each corner of the stone slab seized their ropes, turned, slung them over their shoulders, and began to pull. With a grating sound, the stone tilted up, wobbled, and rose.

"Envoie!" cried the priest yet again, raising his flat palms upward.

The men stepped sideways, dragging the stone away to expose an opening in the floor of the chancel. They brought the slab to a standstill, dropped the ropes. The circle of men closed in tighter, all waiting in silence. The room was suspended, in stasis. Bossong, who had not moved, stared at them in turn with dark eyes. A faint exhalation rose from the opening — the perfume of death.

Now the pit below was filled with the noises of restless movement; scratchings and skitterings; mucous, anticipatory slurpings.

And then it appeared out of the darkness, gripping the lip of stone: a pale, desiccated hand, a ski

D'Agosta stared in disbelief and horror. It was a man — or, at least, it had been a man. And there was no doubt in his mind — no doubt at all — this was what had chased him, attacked him, outside the Ville precisely seven days before. Yet it didn't seem to be Fearing, and it certainly wasn't Smithback. Was it alive… or the reanimated dead? His skin crawled as he stared at the leering face; the pasty, withered skin; the painted curlicues and tendrils and crosses that showed through the grimy rags that passed as clothing. And yet, looking more closely, D'Agosta realized the man — thing wasn't wearing rags, after all, but the remnants of silk, or satin, or some other ancient finery, now tattered with age and stiff with dirt, blood, and grime.

The crowd murmured with something close to reverence as the man — thing skulked about hesitantly, looking up at the high priest as if for instruction, a thread of saliva dangling from thick gray lips, breath coming out like air squeezed from a wet bag. Its one good eye seemed dead — utterly.

Charrière reached into the folds of his robe, withdrew a small brass chalice. Dipping his fingers into it, he sprinkled what looked like oil over the head and shoulders of the form that stood swaying before him. Then, to D'Agosta's infinite surprise, the high priest sank to his knees before the creature, bowing low. The rest did likewise. D'Agosta felt a tug on his robe as Pendergast directed him to do the same. He went down on his knees, stretching forth his hands in the direction of the zombii — if that's indeed what it was — as he saw the others doing.

"We bow to the protector!" the high priest intoned. "Our sword, our rock, all hail!"

The rest chanted along.

Charrière continued in a foreign language, the others following suit.

D'Agosta glanced around. Bossong was no longer to be seen.

"As the gods above strengthen us," the high priest said, switching back into English, "may we now strengthen you!"

As if on cue, D'Agosta heard a crying sound. Turning, he spied, in the darkness, a small chestnut colt — no more than a week old — being led to the wooden post by a halter, its long wobbly legs stamping the floor as it moved back and forth, whi

The priest rose. Moving in a sort of half — dancing, half — swaying motion, he raised a gleaming knife in the air, similar to the ones they had seized in the raid.

Oh dear God, no, thought D'Agosta.

The others stood, turning toward the high priest. The ceremony was clearly coming to a climax. Charrière worked himself into a frenzy, dancing now toward the colt; the congregation was swaying in rhythm; the glittering knife raised yet higher. The little colt stamped and whi