In the Panther's Wake

Chapter 29

It doesn't take me long to reach the beam at the top of the wall. I pull myself up onto it and squat, facing the way ahead—a long thin plank of wood crossing the entire length of the church, supported by beams branching out to the sides. I slowly rise up onto my feet so that one foot is behind the other, and begin stepping carefully along.

"You're almost there," he calls up. "Just please don't fall."

Markus is on his feet, watching me nervously. If I lose my balance I'm dead, but I try not to focus on that and edge further along the beam. At last I reach the other end, so that the circular window we entered through is just across from me, but out of reach. I firmly grip the stones that jut from the wall and begin my climb up the tower, to the next beam above.

The wood criss-crosses all the way up to the spire, and once I'm onto the first beam, it's just a case of grabbing the next and pulling myself up one beam at a time. My hands blister and sting on the dry wood that creaks below my feet and growls under my hands. So I move quickly, never staying put for too long.

I reach the fifth and final beam, squat upon it, looking up at the body hanging just above me now, from a heavy iron clasp that probably used to hold a large bell. I slowly rise up and reach high, trying to grab the body. It looks like it was once a man, dressed in a robe, now skeletal and dry, dust more than anything else. It's lighter up here in the tower; slivers of yellow nestle in through cracks in the roof tiles. The man hangs peacefully, glazed in warmth up here. It's a shame I'm going to have to cut him down.

The other end of the rope to which he's tied, hangs down along the tower wall just in front of me. I take it and wrap it tightly around my hands. I pull as hard as I can but the rope won't budge.

With my eyes I follow it, up along the wall and out across the open tower just below the roof. There it's tied to an iron bar, looping down to where it's hooked around the dead man's neck. I do the only thing I can; I climb the rope towards the very top.

I grasp it between my feet and use the stones as hand holds. I move up like that, till I'm level with the hanging man. I let go of the wall with one hand and pull out my wolf dagger. I aim, pointing the tip, then swipe at the rope.

It tears, hanging on by a thread, and I give it a final slice. The body drops, hurtling down towards the ground, where it explodes in a cloud of dust and bone.

"Markus?" I call down, loud as I can.

"I'm Ok! Get down here."

I hug the wall and slide down along the rope to the beam again. I hop down till I'm on the final plank, the one that leads all the way along to the top of the doors. I feel like it's all over, like I've made it. I move along the beam quickly this time, too quickly; my balance wavers. I slow down, watching Markus examining what's left of the hanging man.

"He was a priest," Markus whispers.

"How do you know?" I ask, stopping just above him.

"The robes, they have crosses stitched on them."

I continue to move along, "You find anything..."

My foot misses the beam, and down I fall. I cry out and grab desperately at thin air, hooking my left hand onto the wood as I tumble down. My back pops and jerks as I swing by one hand, my weak fingers slipping.

"Markus!" I cry, as my hand finally loses all strength, and I drop.

All sense of gravity goes as I tumble, turning in the air.

I hear Markus' shouting fade to nothing—am I dead?

The crack hits me like a tram, smack on the shoulder. Everything is white, and I'm sure this is the end; something so simple, a lack of concentration. I gasp for air, there's no room in my chest. But I'm breathing—still breathing.

I roll over and flail my arms, desperately trying to push myself up to see what's happened. I grab at a leg, push a body off of me—Markus.

Dazedly, I try to sit up, struggling to balance. I stare at the beam above and it spins like a propeller blade, so far away. Surely I should be dead. And I realise it wasn't the ground I hit, but Markus, my brother who rushed out to try and break my fall. I turn, the world still a dusty spiral. Putting my hands on my brother, I steady myself, "Markus," I call, tapping him, holding him round the shoulder.

Finally he coughs, kicking into life, but there's another gash on his head and I notice blood on my hands.

I kneel, putting his head on my lap and lay him on his side. He shakes and trembles as I call to him. "Markus?"

All he can do is groan, his eyes closed, pain shutting him down.

"My leg," he groans.

I rest his head down on my hoody and inspect his wound—it looks fine. I go to pull up his jeans and he moans in the dark as I touch it.

"I need to see," I tell him, sliding the torn material up to his knee.

The leg is swollen, twice the size it should be, his ankle bone barely visible. The heaviness in my stomach grows, settling in deeper. This could be the end of everything. Markus can't go anywhere like this.

I wrap him in the rug we pulled from the handless body. He drifts in and out of consciousness; his head also took a smack as our bodies collided. The priest is in pieces, parts scattered over the dirt, fingers and feet, larger bones broken in half. The head is obliterated to dust and bits of hair clump to shards of skull. I find a small knife tucked into the old robe and run my finger over the golden cross that's stitched onto the heavy material.

I sit beside Markus and curse our luck—no key, no supplies. And my brother's ankle might be broken, but I don't want to think about that. My head is still spinning, a draining ache grows constant and strong. I lean against one of the benches, close my eyes, and hope that when we wake up things will be better, somehow. They can't get any worse.