Read Online Snow Hill by Mark Sanderson - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Sanderson
Tags: Fiction
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about the boy.
“Harry, what’s going on? Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Suddenly Gogg leapt to his feet. Someone had lifted the giant latch.
“Green Hill’s Rents,” he whispered. “Three thirty tomorrow morning. I start work at four, so don’t be late. I’ll tell you everything then, I promise. The bastard’s gone too far this time. He’s got it coming.”
Johnny realised the boy had been thinking, not crying. His frustration must have shown in his face, for Gogg flashed a grin and said, “Trust me.” Then he scurried off.
For a while, Johnny remained seated, listening intently. He could not hear a thing: no receding footsteps, Harry leaving, the hum of traffic, birdsong…The silence was unnerving.
Knowing that if he sat any longer he would fall asleep—or freeze to death—Johnny got to his feet. To kill time while he waited for whoever had disturbed their encounter to show themselves, he decided he might as well take a look round the church.
He wandered through the ambulatory, investigating the numerous nooks and crannies, trying—and failing—to identify the period and style of the various additions and renovations. The piecemeal quality of the church’s construction actually served to enhance its austere charm. Of all the memorials that embossed the walls, that to Margaret and John Whiting, who both died in 1681, made the greatest impression:
Shee first deceased, Hee for a little Tryd To live without her, likd it not and dyd.
Johnny knelt down in a pew and said a prayer for his parents. He no longer believed in an all-merciful God. He was not sure what he believed in any more. Truth? Justice? Love? Did any of them endure?
As he got to his feet he noticed an oriel window above him, beautiful if incongruous. The central panel of its stone base was decorated with a cloverleaf. It contained a rebus, a visual puzzle, in which a crossbow arrow pierced a cask. A bolt and a tun.
Something moved: there was a figure in the window, dressed in black. Johnny tried not to appear startled. He pulled himself together and exited the pew. In the distance a door slammed.
“Have you worked it out yet?” A young man, his palms pressed together, approached.
“Who was Bolton?” Johnny, having compiled crosswords, considered the rebus insultingly simple.
“Ah, very good, very good. The Prior was a fascinatingman but completely loopy. He built the window so he could observe Mass without having to enter the church.”
“Rather voyeuristic of him, wasn’t it? Religion as a spectator sport.”
“Well, in a manner of speaking, it’s all theatre, isn’t it? But, like most pursuits, it’s more fun taking part.” He smiled conspiratorially. There was a blob of food on his dog collar. “Prior Bolton also built Canonbury Tower in Islington. Have you seen it?” Johnny nodded. “He was convinced that an apocalyptic tidal wave was going to wash away the City in 1524. Something to do with a conjunction of water signs, apparently. That’s why he built the tower—and he didn’t stop there. He went on to have a house built on the highest spot in Harrow-on-the-Hill. It seems he thought the flood wouldn’t reach him there.”
“ Après lui, le deluge .”
“Fortunately not. The end of the world still awaits us. Came pretty close though in the Great War. The church was hit during a Zeppelin raid in 1916, but the bomb only damaged the west gateway. The Lord looks after his own.”
“And the people blown to bits? Who was looking after them?”
They had learned all about the Zeppelin raids at school. It was impossible to imagine how the victims must have felt. Death from the air: another great technological advance.
The verger cleared his throat. “You’re a non-believer then? Never mind. You may not love Jesus, but He still loves you.”
Well, at least that made one person. Johnny did not think it appropriate to share the thought. He said goodbye to the
“Harry, what’s going on? Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Suddenly Gogg leapt to his feet. Someone had lifted the giant latch.
“Green Hill’s Rents,” he whispered. “Three thirty tomorrow morning. I start work at four, so don’t be late. I’ll tell you everything then, I promise. The bastard’s gone too far this time. He’s got it coming.”
Johnny realised the boy had been thinking, not crying. His frustration must have shown in his face, for Gogg flashed a grin and said, “Trust me.” Then he scurried off.
For a while, Johnny remained seated, listening intently. He could not hear a thing: no receding footsteps, Harry leaving, the hum of traffic, birdsong…The silence was unnerving.
Knowing that if he sat any longer he would fall asleep—or freeze to death—Johnny got to his feet. To kill time while he waited for whoever had disturbed their encounter to show themselves, he decided he might as well take a look round the church.
He wandered through the ambulatory, investigating the numerous nooks and crannies, trying—and failing—to identify the period and style of the various additions and renovations. The piecemeal quality of the church’s construction actually served to enhance its austere charm. Of all the memorials that embossed the walls, that to Margaret and John Whiting, who both died in 1681, made the greatest impression:
Shee first deceased, Hee for a little Tryd To live without her, likd it not and dyd.
Johnny knelt down in a pew and said a prayer for his parents. He no longer believed in an all-merciful God. He was not sure what he believed in any more. Truth? Justice? Love? Did any of them endure?
As he got to his feet he noticed an oriel window above him, beautiful if incongruous. The central panel of its stone base was decorated with a cloverleaf. It contained a rebus, a visual puzzle, in which a crossbow arrow pierced a cask. A bolt and a tun.
Something moved: there was a figure in the window, dressed in black. Johnny tried not to appear startled. He pulled himself together and exited the pew. In the distance a door slammed.
“Have you worked it out yet?” A young man, his palms pressed together, approached.
“Who was Bolton?” Johnny, having compiled crosswords, considered the rebus insultingly simple.
“Ah, very good, very good. The Prior was a fascinatingman but completely loopy. He built the window so he could observe Mass without having to enter the church.”
“Rather voyeuristic of him, wasn’t it? Religion as a spectator sport.”
“Well, in a manner of speaking, it’s all theatre, isn’t it? But, like most pursuits, it’s more fun taking part.” He smiled conspiratorially. There was a blob of food on his dog collar. “Prior Bolton also built Canonbury Tower in Islington. Have you seen it?” Johnny nodded. “He was convinced that an apocalyptic tidal wave was going to wash away the City in 1524. Something to do with a conjunction of water signs, apparently. That’s why he built the tower—and he didn’t stop there. He went on to have a house built on the highest spot in Harrow-on-the-Hill. It seems he thought the flood wouldn’t reach him there.”
“ Après lui, le deluge .”
“Fortunately not. The end of the world still awaits us. Came pretty close though in the Great War. The church was hit during a Zeppelin raid in 1916, but the bomb only damaged the west gateway. The Lord looks after his own.”
“And the people blown to bits? Who was looking after them?”
They had learned all about the Zeppelin raids at school. It was impossible to imagine how the victims must have felt. Death from the air: another great technological advance.
The verger cleared his throat. “You’re a non-believer then? Never mind. You may not love Jesus, but He still loves you.”
Well, at least that made one person. Johnny did not think it appropriate to share the thought. He said goodbye to the
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