Chapter 58 #2
“So then why Handel’s wraith, in particular?” Kincaid asked.
I thought back. “Brach told us he was maturing the wraith toward something he called its ‘final form.’ ”
Kincaid gaped. “Dear Lord, Jack. ‘Final form’ is the language of the ward-bond. Brach must have been grooming this wraith to replace the Iron Horse ward. If it were bound to him and installed, the Ward’s song and all the wisdoms of the Ancient Stratum would be Brach’s alone.”
“Handel may not be bound to Brach this moment,” said Church, “but Purcell is still in pursuit of the wraith. So, we need to know where Handel might go.”
“After I cut away his bindings, he touched me.” I recalled the wraith’s sandpaper feel. “While we were connected, he told me he was still going to the Ancient Stratum. ‘To finally finish it,’ he said. He was obsessed . . .”
“Because of his loyalty to Brach?” Lady asked.
My hands began to tremble. “Handel has only consumed songwriters. He was eliminating them so Brach could replace them with mummers who would write and play only his revolution music.” I recalled the unscathed spinet and lute in his attic office, same as Jimmy’s and Angela’s guitars, which Handel had been sure not to damage—a twisted respect for his victim’s instruments.
“But even before Brach bound him, Handel was only enlarging himself with songwriters. I saw it in their shadows.” “Imagine how moody he must be by now, then,” Chuey quipped.
“Why on earth would he do that to himself?”
“I think it’s for their skill.” I pulled Handel’s most recent Messiah from my pack and placed it on the study desk.
I explained as best I could the progression of the many versions we’d found in Handel’s attic.
Then I pointed to the number forty-nine next to the date.
“I can’t be sure, but I have a feeling this represents the number of souls Handel possessed in the writing of this version of his song. ”
Church ran a hand over his bald head. “And Brach has shown Handel a path to our Ward, one of the oldest, most powerful songwriters in all the Strata.”
I nodded, scanning the music again. It really was beautiful. “That’s got to be why Handel’s going down for himself now . . . ‘Finishing it’ must mean killing the Ward and taking her song in hopes it will give him the power to finally complete his own.”
“But the Ward still holds the Steps,” Lady said.
Lakshmi stood. “Yes, but Handel is a powerful wraith and the Ward has been weakened, which may embolden him to try and force his way down.” “The Ward told me she would rather fight than wither away.” I put the sheet music back in my pack. “And she can let whomever she wants pass down the Steps.”
“You think the Ward would allow it?” Lakshmi asked. “To make a final stand, perhaps?”
“We’ve got to go.” I tried to stand, but my legs gave out and I collapsed back down.
My friends needed me to get up, but my stamina was gone.
The small hollows that had opened inside me every time I’d imparted a piece of myself seemed to be catching up with me.
How could I descend through history like this, let alone face a wraith of Handel’s magnitude?
My heart was willing, but I just felt tired . . . small.
Kincaid sat next to me. “You look weary. Maybe I can help.” I knew where this was going. “Heal me, you mean?”
“After a fashion,” Kincaid said.
I’d done something like this for Chuey—the elanothalia drycraeft—but I sensed what Kincaid meant was something a little different.
Trouble was, much as I liked the priest, I still had feelings about prayers and such that went back a long time.
Probably more of the forgiveness path the Ward said I needed to get back on.
Those misgivings were hard to let go, though. Some of them had hardened me for the street, and that wasn’t all bad. But I needed help, or I wasn’t getting up. “All right,” I finally said.
Kincaid laid his hand over mine and silently shared a beautiful empathy that passed down deep into my soul.
It was as quiet and hopeful as the sunrise.
It soothed my scars, made them seem bearable, and restored a few simple, pleasant memories—Aunt Gloria chasing off the bullies, Dad fixing my bike chain—where hollows had been.
It wasn’t just that I felt stronger. I felt . . . more like myself. And I was so happy to have back these little parts of me that I’d lost.
I took a deep breath—deeper than I had in a while—and stared back at Kincaid. Instead of imparting one of his memories to restore me, he’d given me back some of my own. “How . . .”
“Not everything is thanaturgy.” He offered a half smile. “Our burdens are the very things that make us strong, Jack, the very things a friend is pleased to help shoulder. And like the bones in my abbey, memory carries a residue of the soul that can be reconstituted when given a little care.”
This priest was all right. And maybe I’d let myself hate on guys like John for far too long. “Thank you.”
He nodded. Then he reached into his pocket and handed me a spinner of dark-blue twine. “Lingual thread. For you and your friends. Worn at the neck, it will remove language barriers in the deep Strata.”
“Thanks,” I said again, then handed him Handel’s most recent Messiah. “For safekeeping.”
He gently took the score. “Jack,” he added, “descending that far is risky. I’ve replenished some of what you’ve lost. But for young thanatists, the increasing weight of the past tends to call up deeper memories.”
“I’ve felt a little of that already.”
Kincaid looked at me and Chuey. “Pause on each stratum long enough to center yourselves, or you won’t survive the descent.”
He walked us back through the Abbey and out the Dean’s Yard door. “Godspeed, my friends,” Kincaid called after us.