Lawson nodded, and taking hold of some ski poles for balance—Michael noticed that he was definitely limping—said, “I’ll catch up with you in an hour.”
Michael checked his watch, then climbed back on his snowmobile and revved the engine. He shot down the bleak alleyway that ran between what were once the boiling rooms, then up toward the church, with its crooked bell tower. Rather than try to navigate through the tombstones surrounding the church, he stopped the machine halfway up the hill and marched the rest of the way to the steps. Putting his shoulder against the heavy wooden door, he shoved it open, stepping into a humble, stone-floored church, with worn wooden pews; at the end of the center aisle, a trestle table had been set up as the altar. A crudely carved crucifix hung on the wall behind it. He’d been in such a hurry to leave the base that he hadn’t bothered to bring all his camera equipment, but he ran off a few quick shots with his trusty Canon, nonetheless; knowing he still had a couple of weeks left on his pass, he planned to come back again and do it right—especially as, even then, perhaps a century or more since the church had been built, the place retained a strange air of expectancy. Somehow he would want to capture that, the feeling that at any moment the pews might once again be filled with weary whalers and the pulpit with a preacher reciting Scripture by the light of an oil lamp.
Under a pew, Michael saw the torn covers of a prayer book, but when he tried to retrieve them, he found they were frozen in place. He took a shot of that—too arty? he wondered—then slipped the camera back under his parka and, pulling his gloves back on, walked toward the altar. He thought he heard a scratching sound—could there still be rats?—and stopped. So did the noise. An old leather volume, its title obliterated by time, rested on the trestle table. He took another step, and the sound became clearer. It was coming from behind the altar, where he saw a door, with a black iron bolt thrown across it. Perhaps, he thought, that was where the preacher had once lived. Or maybe it had been a storage space for whatever valuable objects—chalices, candlesticks, Bibles—the church had once contained.
He rounded the trestle table, and suddenly he heard a sound that stopped him dead in his tracks.
He went closer, and it came again, more distinctly. It was a voice—a woman’s voice!
“Open the door! Please, I can’t stand it! Open the door, Sinclair!”
Sinclair? Michael pulled off a glove again so that he could manipulate the lock and bolt, and through the wood he could hear the woman, breathing heavily, nearly sobbing.
“I can’t be alone! Don’t leave me here!”
He threw the rusty bolt and pried open the creaking door.
What he saw left him dumbfounded. A woman—a young woman, loosely wrapped in a long orange down coat—staggered backwards, her face white with fear. She had long brown hair that fell around her face, and green eyes that, even in this dim light, offered a penetrating gaze. She backed up between a wooden table, with a bottle of wine on it, and a cast-iron stove that gave off a dull glow. Shredded prayer books and jagged pieces of wood were heaped in a corner.
They stood speechless, staring at each other. Michael’s mind was reeling—he knew this woman. He knew her! He had first seen those eyes at the bottom of the sea. He had first seen that ivory clasp, now peeking up on her breast, beneath a slab of milky ice. Sleeping Beauty.
But she wasn’t sleeping, and she wasn’t dead.
She was alive—breathing hard, and haltingly.
Michael’s mind went into a kind of shock. The woman was there, right before him, cowering only a few feet away, but he could not accept the evidence of his own eyes. That woman, who’d been frozen stiff, was moving and sensate. His thoughts went off in a dozen directions, searching for some reasonable explanation, but came rushing right back again empty-handed. What explanation could there possibly be—suspended animation? a vivid hallucination that he would awaken from at any second? Nothing he could think of could possibly account for the terrified young woman now standing, feebly, a few feet away.
Raising his bare hand to calm her, he noticed a tiny tremor in his own fingers. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She appeared unconvinced, cringing against the wall, beside the window.
Slowly, without taking his eyes away from her, he pulled his glove back onto his already numb hand. What else should he say? What should he do? “My name is Michael…Michael Wilde.”
The sound of his own voice was oddly reassuring to him.
But not, it appeared, to her. She didn’t answer, her eyes flitting around the room as if assessing any chance of escape.