Yellow light filled the attic. The light locked with the dust – tons of
dust up here – and the atmosphere of the place stuffed his head like a
fever. It seemed that he perceived this light with every nerve of his
body.
The attic was mostly empty but toward the south wall was a
queer arrangment of chains; the ends dangled about seven feet from the
floor and had broad iron bands attached. The bands were hinged on one
side so they could open and shut. The chains looked red in the yellow
light.
He held one of the bands and stroked his finger along
the inside and it came away reddish. Rust, he thought; but it didn't
flake; it wasn't gritty like rust. It was old, caked blood...
Slowly,
Peter is mesmerized and begins a journey into madness where a
bloodstained god waits to claim the mind and soul of the last of the
Lelands.
"I am honestly convinced that Fred Chappell is one of
the finest writers of this time, one of the rare and precious few who
are truly 'major.'" – George Garrett, author of Death of the Fox andThe Succession.
