One final blast of purging flame washed through the cavern, taking with it all hint of darkness.
29
Church and Gabe scrambled along the tunnels as fast as they could, unsure whether Marcy or the others had been destroyed in the inferno. But as they clambered out of the hole that gave access to the tunnel network, they found Marcy staggering around amongst the trees, a ragged scar marking her cheek where the spider had been. Gabe lurched towards her across the rolling ground.
‘He took it out,’ she said, dazed. ‘I don’t know how, but he did.’
The sound of shelling and gunfire surrounded them. Plumes of smoke rose up through the vegetation and jets blazed across the sky. The Tet Offensive was in full swing.
Church stopped uncertainly a few feet from Gabe and Marcy.
‘You were going to do what you had to,’ Gabe said. ‘I don’t hold it against you.’
They were all thrown off their feet as trees, vegetation, soil and rock erupted upwards in a deafening explosion. Rising up through the rubble came the Fabulous Beast with slow, heavy beats of its wings. Two Phantom jets roared by to attack the Vietcong positions and had to take evasive action to avoid the creature. As the Beast flew towards the west, Church’s ears rang with a long, low, plaintive cry that broke his heart.
‘Is this a win?’ Gabe said.
Church shook his head. ‘The source of the Blue Fire has been blocked. We’re cut off from it, and whatever energy is left here is going to dwindle. No more Fabulous Beasts will be born into this world.’
Church was devastated by the thought of what had been lost. Magic was gone. The lifeblood of the world had been stanched. The Fabulous Beasts that brought such majesty and wonder to Existence were now threatened with extinction. He fought back the wave of despair that rose up in him, determined never to give in to it again. Church, Gabe and Marcy watched the Beast until it disappeared.
There was a disturbance in the trees. Church expected to see Veitch, but instead it was the trader in the tattered black robe from the Market of Wishful Spirit. He held the Extinction Shears, somehow recovered from the conflagration in the cavern. One pale hand was extended towards Church, a simple gesture that was somehow innately threatening. Church handed him the mirror.
He bowed obsequiously. There are always many wonders at the Market of Wishful Spirit. These items may not be available for a while, but buyers will find something for their heart’s desire. Drop by, drop by.’ He edged backwards into the trees and was soon lost to the shadows.
30
The flickering black and white image showed heaps of bodies in a Vietnamese village piled high like firewood. A US soldier was about to shoot a two year old desperately pulling herself out of the mound.
‘March sixteen. My Lai. That’s Lieutenant William L. Calley Junior with the rifle. He led First Platoon. Somewhere between two hundred and five hundred villagers massacred. We’re not sure of the exact figures. Scores of women and children gang-raped by US forces.’ The low, drawling voice was impassive.
The room was dark and filled with tobacco smoke. Men in dark suits or military uniform sat or stood, watching the images of atrocities projected onto the screen.
‘In his report, Calley said the Vietcong had captured one of his men shortly before,’ another voice said. ‘Calley and his men could hear the guy screaming all night, from seven clicks away. Calley thought the VC had amplified the screams. They hadn’t. They’d skinned the guy, apart from his face, soaked him in salt water, torn his penis off.’
‘Yes, atrocities on both sides,’ the first voice agreed. ‘A moral vacuum.’
The image changed to a smart-suited black man lying dying, a bloodstain spreading across his shirt. Several other black men in suits surrounded him, their faces torn by grief and shock.
‘April 4. Martin Luther King Junior shot and killed in Memphis. The nominal assassin is James Earl Ray. With Malcolm X also dead, both voices of the black civil rights movement have been silenced.’ The narrator coughed, then took another drag on his cigarette. ‘The following week there were black uprisings in a hundred and twenty-five cities across the nation.’
Another image. Robert F. Kennedy, brother of the assassinated US president, lying in a hotel kitchen, more blood spreading across a shirt, more expressions of grief and shock.
‘June 5. Bobby Kennedy shot moments after winning the California primary. His presidential run was ended almost before it began. The nominal assassin was Sirhan Sirhan.’
‘Another lone assassin,’ someone else mused. ‘JFK. Malcolm X. Martin Luther King. Bobby Kennedy. That joke’s wearing a bit thin.’