Title: The Hidden Congregation
A Reverend Christie Mystery: Book One
Author: William T. Delamar
ISBN: 978-1-62420-185-1
Email: delamarw@juno.com
Genre: Mystery
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 3
TAGLINE
The
Reverend Oxford Christie is called to the nondenominational Church of the One
Soul in Philadelphia. But...what has happened to the congregation?
BLURB
The
Reverend Oxford Christie is called to the nondenominational Church of the One
Soul in Philadelphia. But...what happened to the congregation? No one has joined the church for many years.
The previous minister’s portrait is now hanging in the basement far from all
eyes. Though there is a cemetery, there are no graves for the spouses of the
remaining members. Something sinister has taken over the church. But those left
behind won’t talk about it. Angel, the church secretary, is clearly hiding
something. Nehmi, the caretaker, lurks about, watching Ox’s every move. Ammahn,
a visitor, sneaks in and sits in the back pew, never talking to anyone. What is
found in the deep recesses of this sanctuary will haunt you.”
EXCERPT
The powerful jet
whistled and left the ground, circled toward the east, climbed and gathered
speed, a six-hour flight. The clouds shut out the ground. Eastward, toward the
source, but the source was everywhere.
The seats were wide
and the one next to him was empty. He adjusted his chair to lay flat and
allowed himself to relax, thrusting feet first through space, toward the rising
sun.
Sand, ancient rock,
and a wailing wind escaped from a corner of his mind, something about ancient
stones that dwarf all human importance; the ice age lying in shale, waiting for
a trigger. Destination: Cold Point, Pennsylvania; a prophetic name. It was a
cold prophesy of the past—the shallows of a great Pliocene lake, gone but still
emerging, like light years; a wink in the eye of infinity. There were creatures
not mentioned in Holy Writ lurking at the edges of the unknown.
"Sir, would you
like a cup of coffee or tea or juice?" asked the stewardess.
"No. Thank you.
You're very nice, but I'll just lie here and restore my energy."
She smiled and moved
on. He could hear her recite her liturgy. "Would you like a cup of coffee
or tea or juice?"
He let his body sleep
as the earth and its creatures swept beneath him on a moving tapestry. Through
the windows of his mind, he could see the stars, whistling cold through space
and burning hot to the touch. The plane, too,
was a star, while the spinning earth below brought the burning sun from the
other side of the world slowly overhead.
They crossed
mountains and rivers. Far below and to his
right, lay the grasslands of Kansas. He could feel its rich heat in the thin
light over Missouri. Evolution was taking place as time's invisible presence
processed earth and air. Flesh cracked open and bone turned white. He could
feel the blood in his veins, flowing at a steady pace, like the continuing
kaleidoscope below him.
Time sang, bathing
space—the origin of all music—centuries of music in a calling note; cries of
ecstasy and terror. His blood sang and the world sang with it, from air to
grass, from fire to rock, to silent chalk. All the life that had surged and
died, fluid eyes long closed, reduced to powder, a sweet dust with pungent
mystery, unknown but to a few of his colleagues in archaeology.
Mid-afternoon: the
cries of life beyond the chalk blended with the whisper of the jet as it began
its descent into the thicker air.
"Sir, you need
to bring your seat to an upright position and fasten your seatbelt."
We're all fallen
angels. The House of Sleep was rising toward him—the archive—the bone land. He
would haunt the past.
The old business in
Philadelphia had only aged a few grains of sand. There would be time. There
would always be time. The figures in the Museum of Man were silent witness to
that. The findings, whatever they might be, would hardly change the balance of
good and evil.
Insignificant, except
to certain people.
No comments:
Post a Comment