Call Me Ismay Read Online Free
Author: Sean McDevitt
inches of the memorial itself.
The stormy weather that continued outside suddenly produced a flash of lightning, illuminating the interior of the cathedral in all directions with shafts of red, green and blue light, projecting religious figures onto the walls in elongated, haphazard fashion. Langston turned just quickly enough to see St. Peter with the Keys to Heaven and Hell hanging like a shining ghost in midair, then disappear. Seconds later a terrific crack of thunder snapped and rolled and shook the ancient building, forcing Langston to produce a short, frightened chuckle. Am I tempting fate? he wondered. Am I going to regret this?
As the thunder subsided, he resumed his study of the memorial at close range, the smell of musty mold almost overpowering him. The letters of the strange epitaph, blue in colour, seemed to gradually fade as he re-read every line, and a crack in the stone seemed to obscure the date of death. Langston allowed his fingers to gently graze the surface of the text, retracing the path of each and every letter and number, and in doing so made a horrifying discovery.
2nd of Aug: in 34th year of his age/And of our Lord 1702. The stone, upon close examination, clearly read 1702, not 1762. A full sixty years now had to be factored into Bartholomew Gidley's vital statistics.
Langston gulped, feeling weight on his shoulders and an ache in his lungs as he silently pondered the awful truth: Gidley's actually been dead for 209 years, not 149? The words and the utter absurdity of it all now slammed into Langston's skull like a hammer; the voices of critics who suspected that he'd had a personal vendetta against Edward Lyons echoed in his ears with cruel potency. His source on what he felt was the story of the century now couldn't even be relied upon for correct details on something as profoundly important as some of the dates involved.
It took him a few minutes to muster the energy to verbalize his outrage and despair. “The wrong dates? My source gave me the wrong dates?” He attempted to stand still for a moment, and while his raging stomach had subsided, he could feel his legs beginning to quake with agitation and fear. “Well, what bloody difference does it make on the dates?” Langston spit his words out angrily in an attempt to bolster his courage, no longer taking into account the possibility of being overheard in the chapel. “Forty years, a hundred years, Gidley's still dead, isn't he?” He felt his anger rising as he began fumbling violently in his pockets for the fruit knife. “Is it back to London, then, with nothing? Damn it! Godammit! Godammit it all to hell!”
Langston pulled the knife open and impulsively plunged it into the stone memorial, making only the smallest dent and actually inflicting serious damage on the blade itself. Undaunted, he lunged again, this time dislodging a portion of wall the size of a pebble, and causing a small amount of dust to cover the lenses of his glasses. Months and months of untold pressure came rushing through his muscles, as he thrust the knife a third time and punctuated his action with an anguished cry.
It was his final assault. As Langston completed the third lunge forward, the blade bent backward, drawing blood just above his wrist; then the knife slipped through his fingers. As he convulsed forward in pain, the table he'd been standing on suddenly groaned loudly as his weight forced it away from the memorial's wall by several inches. Langston fought to keep his balance, but in doing so managed to force his wounded wrist into the wall, causing him to crumble and push the table further backward. Within seconds, Langston collapsed into the small space between the table and the cathedral's wall, finding himself covered in dust, and bleeding.
Langston lay still for a moment, feeling beaten and suffocated- only to realize that he'd been holding his breath the entire time. He turned over into a kneeling position and
The stormy weather that continued outside suddenly produced a flash of lightning, illuminating the interior of the cathedral in all directions with shafts of red, green and blue light, projecting religious figures onto the walls in elongated, haphazard fashion. Langston turned just quickly enough to see St. Peter with the Keys to Heaven and Hell hanging like a shining ghost in midair, then disappear. Seconds later a terrific crack of thunder snapped and rolled and shook the ancient building, forcing Langston to produce a short, frightened chuckle. Am I tempting fate? he wondered. Am I going to regret this?
As the thunder subsided, he resumed his study of the memorial at close range, the smell of musty mold almost overpowering him. The letters of the strange epitaph, blue in colour, seemed to gradually fade as he re-read every line, and a crack in the stone seemed to obscure the date of death. Langston allowed his fingers to gently graze the surface of the text, retracing the path of each and every letter and number, and in doing so made a horrifying discovery.
2nd of Aug: in 34th year of his age/And of our Lord 1702. The stone, upon close examination, clearly read 1702, not 1762. A full sixty years now had to be factored into Bartholomew Gidley's vital statistics.
Langston gulped, feeling weight on his shoulders and an ache in his lungs as he silently pondered the awful truth: Gidley's actually been dead for 209 years, not 149? The words and the utter absurdity of it all now slammed into Langston's skull like a hammer; the voices of critics who suspected that he'd had a personal vendetta against Edward Lyons echoed in his ears with cruel potency. His source on what he felt was the story of the century now couldn't even be relied upon for correct details on something as profoundly important as some of the dates involved.
It took him a few minutes to muster the energy to verbalize his outrage and despair. “The wrong dates? My source gave me the wrong dates?” He attempted to stand still for a moment, and while his raging stomach had subsided, he could feel his legs beginning to quake with agitation and fear. “Well, what bloody difference does it make on the dates?” Langston spit his words out angrily in an attempt to bolster his courage, no longer taking into account the possibility of being overheard in the chapel. “Forty years, a hundred years, Gidley's still dead, isn't he?” He felt his anger rising as he began fumbling violently in his pockets for the fruit knife. “Is it back to London, then, with nothing? Damn it! Godammit! Godammit it all to hell!”
Langston pulled the knife open and impulsively plunged it into the stone memorial, making only the smallest dent and actually inflicting serious damage on the blade itself. Undaunted, he lunged again, this time dislodging a portion of wall the size of a pebble, and causing a small amount of dust to cover the lenses of his glasses. Months and months of untold pressure came rushing through his muscles, as he thrust the knife a third time and punctuated his action with an anguished cry.
It was his final assault. As Langston completed the third lunge forward, the blade bent backward, drawing blood just above his wrist; then the knife slipped through his fingers. As he convulsed forward in pain, the table he'd been standing on suddenly groaned loudly as his weight forced it away from the memorial's wall by several inches. Langston fought to keep his balance, but in doing so managed to force his wounded wrist into the wall, causing him to crumble and push the table further backward. Within seconds, Langston collapsed into the small space between the table and the cathedral's wall, finding himself covered in dust, and bleeding.
Langston lay still for a moment, feeling beaten and suffocated- only to realize that he'd been holding his breath the entire time. He turned over into a kneeling position and
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