The Great Wheel Read Online Free Page B

best clothes, with his white hair slicked neatly down. He also had a set of teeth in, something John could never remember him wearing in life. Or perhaps the teeth were just another part of the ritual. They’d probably end up with all the other teeth in the chapel of the Inmaculada at Santa Cristina.
    By Felipe’s account, Banori had been a church regular even before John’s arrival in the Magulf, a true Christian, turning up every Sunday at Mass propped on his walking stick until a succession of strokes finally grounded him to his flat. The neighbors complained about his cantankerous and unsanitary ways, but as far as John could tell, they had always made sure that he had the necessities to live. And every week or so, John looked in. Usually, he offered to say prayers or Mass, and Banori would decline—in an accent that strained even the abilities of the translat—saying that he was close enough to God, to Scuro Rey, to be past that kind of thing.
    Now, he’d gone the last mile. Maybe another stroke—but more likely he’d had enough of the indignities of age and got hold of something to end the pain. Peering at the clenched and smiling lips, John saw the glitter of tiny glass flakes that might have come from a crushed vial, and a sticky bubble that looked too black to be simply blood. Whatever it was, the presence of the witchwoman who’d scrawled these walls could hardly have been coincidental. It seemed as if this Church old faithful had finally chosen the witchwoman’s comforts over those of a priest when he decided to bring his life to an end.
    John pulled off his gloves. What difference could it make here? He took out the flask of holy water, flicking away the beetle that had crawled out from the sleeve onto the old man’s hand. Once again, John began to recite the too familiar words: May Christ be merciful in judging our brother…
    He heard the moaning sound again—obviously some pig or goat on the floor above. The clump of feet. The footsteps faded, then suddenly grew loud and close, bringing with them the moaning and a bizarre, Christmassy jingle of bells.
    He ceased his blessing and spun around to look at the open doorway behind him, which was blocked by a shadow.
    “There’s a dead man in here.” He buried his bare hands in the pockets of his cassock. “I’m from the Church of Santa Cristina. Do I—”
    The figure spat out a chain of sound that lay far beyond his understanding of the Magulf dialect.
    “Look— danna-comma —I don’t understand—”
    Still muttering, the witchwoman stepped into the room. John was torn between shock and curiosity—he’d never seen one at such close quarters before—and the first thing that struck him was the feverishly intense body heat she gave off. Even at two or three meters, it was like standing close to a fire. And then her eyes. She had some sort of fringed cape over her head, and the rest of her face was deep in shade, but the eyes were like wet slate and impossibly big. He tried to calm his breathing.
    The witchwoman was breathing heavily, too. Her shoulders were shuddering, heaving, jingling the forest of silver and gold that hung on her. There were boxes dangling from the knotted ribbons, tiny cages that contained chittering insects, gilded skulls. The whole thing made a tinkling, whispering cacophony, like the crackle of frost…a flock of panicked sparrows…a thousand windchimes caught in a breeze. Then the pebble-bright eyes blinked back at him, and every sound stopped at the same instant.
    In sudden, absolute silence—the chirping of every insect hushed, every bell magically still—the witchwoman stepped towards him.
    “I suppose you and I…” His voice came out as a whisper. “We have something in common. We see to the needs of the dead.”
    The witchwoman studied him. More slowly this time, she spoke again. He still couldn’t understand a word, but the voice was young, and he saw now that she wasn’t as he’d imagined such creatures