Sacrament Read Online Free Page A

Rosa, who had the gold of Steep's eyes in her hair, and the black of his
beard in her gaze, but was as fleshy and passionate as he was sweatless and unmoved. Guthrie had known them
for such a short time, and many years ago, but he had them in his mind's eye so clearly he might have met them
that morning.
    He had Rabjohns there too: with his green milk eyes, too gentle by half, and his hair in unruly abundance,
curling at his nape, and the wide ease of his face, nicked with scars on his cheek and brow. He hadn't been
scarred half enough, Guthrie thought; there was still some measure of hope in him. Why else had he come
asking questions, except in the belief that they could be answered? He'd learn, if he lived long enough. There
were no answers. None that made sense anyhow.
    The wind gusted hard against the window, and loosened one of the boards Guthrie had taped over a cracked
pane. He raised himself out of the pit of his chair and picking up the roll of tape he'd used to secure the board,
crossed to the window to fix it. Before he stuck it back in place, blocking out the world, he stared through the
grimy glass. The day was close to departure, the thickening waters of the Bay the colour of slate, the rocks
black. He kept staring, distracted from his task, not by the sight but by the memories which came to him still,
unbidden, unwanted, but impossible to put from his head.
    Words first. No more than a murmur. But that was all he needed.
    These will not come again
    Steep was speaking, his voice majestic.
    -nor this. Nor this
    And as he spoke the pages appeared in front of Guthrie's grieving eyes; the pages of Steep's terrible book.
There, a perfect rendering of a bird's wing, exquisitely coloured
    -nor this
    -and here, on the following page, a beetle, copied in death; every part documented for posterity: mandible,
wing-case, and segmented limb.
    -nor this
    'Jesus,' he sobbed, the roll of tape dropping from his trembling fingers. Why couldn't Rabjohns have left him
alone? Was there no corner of the world where a man might listen in the wail of the wind, without being
discovered and reminded of his crimes?
    The answer, it seemed, was no; at least for a soul as unredeemed as his. He could never hope to forget, not until
God struck life and memory from him, which prospect seemed at this moment far less dreadful than living on,
day and night, in fear of another Will coming to his door and naming names.
    'Nor this...'
    Shut up, he murmured to memories. But the page kept flipping in his head. Picture after picture, like some
morbid bestiary. What fish was that, that would never again silver the sea? What bird, that would never tune its
song to the sky?
    On and on the pages flew, while he watched, knowing that at last Steep's fingers would come to a page where
he himself had made a mark. Not with a brush or a pen, but with a bright little knife.
    And then the tears would begin to come in torrents, and it wouldn't matter how hard the northeasterly blew, it
could not carry the past away.
     
    ii
     
    The bears did not make a liar of Adrianna. When she and Will got to the dump, the remnants of the day still
with them, they found the animals cavorting in all their defiled glory, the adolescents - one of them the best
proportioned female they'd yet spotted; a perfect specimen of her clan - scavenging in the dirt, the older female
investigating the rusted carcass of a truck, while the male Adrianna had been so eager for Will to see surveyed
his fetid kingdom from the top of one of the dump's dozen hillocks.
    Will got out of the jeep and approached. Adrianna, always armed with a rifle under these kind of conditions,
followed two or three strides behind. She knew Will's methodology by now: he wouldn't waste film on long
shots; he'd get as close as he could without disturbing the animals and then he'd wait. And wait; and wait. Even
amongst his peers - wildlife photographers who thought nothing of waiting a week for a