On the Third Day by David Niall Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

of files in place.  He tried to smell the faint incense, and to remember the plush carpeting beneath his feet.  The images shredded in the hot breeze.
                Ahead, the path wound through a break in the trees.  The sunlight, which had speckled and striped the path as they walked beneath the overhanging canopy of the jungle, shone brilliantly on a small clearing visible through that opening.
                Father Morrigan approached the clearing, and saw a man standing alone in the center.  The man was tall and slender, with dark, shoulder-length hair touched with gray at the temples.  The brilliant white of a clerical collar showed beneath the dark locks of sweat-dampened hair.
                “Father Prescott,” Morrigan said.  He started to step past Father Gonzalez as they reached the clearing, but the old man reached out and grasped his arm, holding him back.
                Father Morrigan turned in surprise and caught the old priest with one finger to his lips.  Father Gonzalez inclined his head to the right, and Brian saw them.
                Lining the clearing in ranks three deep, dark haired, dark skinned men and women knelt on the soft floor of the jungle.  Their hands were clasped before them, and they chanted a prayer that Brian couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before.  The words blended so well with the jungle’s other voices it formed a perfect harmony. Their collective gaze was fixed on Father Prescott, standing before a rough wooden cross.
                From a distance, the priest had seemed to be alone in the clearing, but clearly he was just the axis around which some greater wheel was spinning.
                Father Morrigan’s head buzzed with the heat, the rhythmic chant, and the strange, hallucinogenic sensation of the heat wave warped, brilliantly lit clearing.  He shrugged free of Father Gonzalez’s restraining hand and took a step toward the clearing.  It was an effort.  A palpable force surrounded the place so thick it was like walking through molten butter.  He took another step forward and entered the clearing.
                The chanting voices fell to a soft murmur at his intrusion, and then to silence.  He stood very still, poised between steps, as if he were a young boy again, playing “Freeze” with the other children on the block, fighting not to be the next to move.  He sensed that he had broken some taboo, but he didn’t know what he could do to reverse his actions.
                It was too late to retreat.  He took another step, stretched out his hand toward Father Prescott’s back, and stopped.  Father Prescott either did not notice him, or ignored him.  The priest dropped to his knees before the wooden cross.
                As Father Morrigan stood transfixed by the stares of the natives, silent and still, the first drops of blood splattered across the back of Father Prescott’s robe.  Father Morrigan stared as the dark, viscous liquid soaked into the cloth and spread in a growing stain. His lips parted, but no sound escaped, and at that moment, Father Prescott began to pray.
                His voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke the words in Latin, clearly and with passion.  The syllables rolled rhythmically from his lips, and Father Morrigan found himself mouthing them in unison, though he could not tear his gaze from Father Prescott’s robes.
                He held his hand out again, palm up.  Blood splashed across the bare skin, ran down his wrist and beneath his sleeve.  He jerked the hand back and stumbled forward a step.  Without thinking he raised his face to the clouds, trying to see, to understand, but the blood dripped freely now, splattering his face and stinging his eyes.  It plastered his hair to his head and ran down his cheeks in long, slick rivulets.  Moving with dreamy slowness, he turned his gaze back to