按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
。'
'Yes；' there was nothing to be gained by trying to cover up the full extent of the perils of this night； 'the most dangerous task I have ever faced。 'Wait up for me if you will； but 。 。 。 but if I do not return 。 。 。 remember there is nothing more that can be done。 Don't even attempt a second exorcism for they will have won。 Leave the evil to spawn their evil。' And he muttered to himself： 'for I shall then be one of them out there！'
Maurice Storton watched his visitor step outside and close the door softly behind him。 The curate's hand trembled as he crossed himself and only then did he appreciate the full extent of his fear。 For years he had preached against evil but he had never realised just what evil was until this moment。
Sabat took full advantage of the shadows on the short walk to the church； a fugitive of the night hours。 There was always the possibility of a policeman being posted to watch the churchyard and Plowden's threats concerning Sabat's return could waste valuable time and do untold damage。 Delay at this stage would be fatal。 He was taking no chances。 The next gale would in all probability demolish the lichgate； Sabat decided as he passed through it。 The weathercock and a few more slates would go； too。 It was all part of a godless plot by the Left Hand Path； harnessing the forces of Nature for their own ends。
He unlocked the church door and stepped inside but did not put on the lights。 Once his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he would be able to see enough to carry out what he had to do。 And there was no time to be lost。
Even as he filled the chalice from the tap in the vestry and carried it towards the altar he sensed the evil in the atmosphere。 Only his own extra…perceptive senses could have picked it up； a cold mustiness that could not be attributed solely to the old church which was kept unheated and shut up for most of the time； icy fingers that seemed to touch him and a whispering that might just have been the wind soughing in the trees outside unless one listened very carefully。 And Sabat tried not to； told himself that it wasn't Quentin's laughter he heard from afar but his own imagination。
He worked fast； blessed the water； not in the traditional priestly way by placing his hands over the chalice but by lining both forefingers in the manner of twin guns being sighted on a target； conveying his whole personal force down into the colourless liquid。 Quentin's laughter again but Mark Sabat ignored it。
He reached down the big cross that stood on the altar； held it like a crusader's sword； seemed to sense a faint vibration along it。 The power was there but would it be enough？ No longer did he doubt that this night there would be a terrible confrontation between opposing forces。
It had grown much colder； the temperature dropping by several degrees； seeming to numb his brain like that of an arctic explorer exposed in a barren freezing wasteland。 They were beginning to work on him； the fight had already begun
Totally unrelated thoughts began to flood his mind like the scrambling of a radio wavelength。 Adolescence； the shame of what he'd done； but God； the mind…blowing sensuality of it all； the super…charged bodily feeling was such that he'd have done it again right now。 Then the women were crowding him； one after another； faces and bodies he vaguely remembered but didn't have time to recognise。 Except the last one when all the others had gone … Miranda* He could not get rid of her； almost dropped the heavy crucifix in his desire to get to himself。 Almost。。。 a supreme mental effort sent her stumbling back into oblivion and Sabat was fighting again with all the mental power he could muster。 Maybe he should have brought Maurice Storton along after all； most exorcists were acpanied by at least one devoted Christian to help with the prayers。 But no； this was his own fight； nobody could help him。 This church was no place for a near…senile curate。
He made it up into the pulpit just as a gale sprung up； a freezing blast that wafted and fluttered the altar tapestries behind him； tore at his own clothes as though determined to strip him naked。 The pages of an open bible were flicking over； some being shredded from their binding。 And in the midst of it all he heard Quentin 's maniacal laughter。
'Our Father；' he yelled at the top of his voice； the words being whipped away so that he did not hear them； might have been miming them/ 。。。 hallowed be Thy Name 。。。 as it is in Heaven 。 。 。 forgive us our trespasses 。。。〃 a pang of guilt like a knife being driven into his stomach。 He writhed； clung to the mahogany railings； 'deliver us from evil。。 。 Oh God； deliver us from evil。。 。'
The wind seemed to check； then came back again； Sabat's long hair flowing wildly。 Somehow he managed a confession and absolution； feeling himself growing weaker all the time； still clutching the chalice of charged water； its contents slopping from side to side； spilling。 He dipped his free hand； wet the fingers and began to fling droplets in all directions； a spray that hissed like a kettle boiling over on a hob。 Spitting protests； angry cat…beasts temporarily thwarted as they surrounded their prey； the wind suddenly dropping。 A deadly calm； a lull in a storm of evil as the enemy regrouped for a massive onslaught。
Now Sabat could hear his own voice； dry and rasping but determined。 'God； the Son of God； who by death destroyed death； and overcame him who had the power of death。 Beat down Satan quickly。'
He hoisted the heavy crucifix aloft； swung it defiantly in all directions。 The wind outside； a kind of agonised groan 。 。 。 but not in here！ His brain began to function more easily again。
Shouting； screaming； hating these invisible entities with all the power he could muster。 'Deliver this church from all evil spirits； all vain imaginations； projections and phantasms； all deceits of the evil one； bid them harm no one but depart to the place appointed them； there to remain forever。 God； Incarnate God who came to give peace； bring peace。 *
Quentin's voice； a cry of 'hypocrite1； but it faded and Sabat was moving back down the aisle； chalice in one hand； crucifix in the other。 The shadows seemed to fall back； a kind of tranquility infiltrating this hallowed place。 A desert fortress； in effect； a strong legionnaire's outpost where the hostile bedouins were kept at bay； safety within its battlements。 But Sabat knew that he had to go outside and bat the foe again； he could not skulk in false safety。
Clouds scudded across the sky； the wind starting to get up again； bringing the darkness back with it。 He caught his knee against the sharp edge of a tombstone concealed in a clump of long grass； cried out aloud in pain and spilled some of the water。 Then they were back on the attack； screaming their hate as they closed in on him。
He scattered more water； heard it sizzling。 But this time the forces around him were not retreating； they were being more angry than before； massing in the blackness of the shadows for a bined attack。 And Sabat felt himself starting to weak