Ancient Eyes Read Free Page B

that, swayed in the air, and all of those glittering, emotionless eyes watched him in return.
    It was mesmerizing. There was a crack in the side of the tank, a break in the perfect symmetry of the tiled interior.   They could have escaped at any time—no doubt had escaped, time and again, but they had returned. A quick glance around the alcove showed that the glass tanks had been shattered. Their shards and glittering bits lay in moss-encrusted clumps strewn about the floor.   But the baptismal pool had drained, and they had found their way inside.
    They had waited. Perhaps she had called and held them—Silas didn't know, but he remembered.   He'd seen these snakes, or their ancestors, before. The images hung like tapestries in the back of his mind, blocking off parts of himself that might have blossomed into something more than a small time shopkeeper on a remote mountain—parts of him that might have found a woman, fallen in love, or even made friends. All of that was lost to him, but the memory was not.
    "Hallelujah!" He whispered to himself. The word slid in among the snakes and drew him into his past.
     
    The Greene's wound their way slowly through the trees toward the church, one family among many.   They greeted those they passed, but did not linger to gossip. Sundays were not their time, but the Lord's, and Reverend Kotz was waiting for them.   No one wanted to be the first through the doors of the church, but worse still was to arrive late.
    Silas clung to his mother's coat and hurried his steps to keep up with the adults. His cheeks burned whenever they passed one of his schoolmates, because he didn't want them to see him clinging to his parents in this way, but the truth was that Silas was frightened of the church. There was something about the way its white painted walls gleamed in the morning sunlight that was false, like one of the older women with makeup caked all over her face to hide which side of fifty she was. Reverend Kotz was worse.
    So Silas stayed close, kept his fingers wrapped tightly in his mother's coat, and held his silence.    The woods were different on Sundays. Any other time when the families gathered you heard screaming children, laughing women and catcalls among the men. Sunday it was as silent as a funeral—and to Silas, who had attended two funerals in his nine years of life—it was very much the same.
    They stepped out of the line of trees and saw other families trudge slowly through the wide-open front doors of the church. Without a word, Silas' father stepped into the rear of the line, and they shuffled inside.   Reverend Kotz stood to one side of the door, smiling his too-wide smile with his too-white teeth, his suit so dark that if you stood him in front of midnight he'd show up as a shadow.   His hair, just as dark, was combed back carefully, and as he greeted each family with a handshake on their arrival, something seemed to pass from their hands to his—some spark of energy, or life that they'd brought with them into the woods, but would never see again.
    Silas' family took seats near the center of the church.   Reverend Kotz had left his post at the door and strode purposefully up the center aisle without a glance to either side. Silas stole a quick look over his shoulder, and he shuddered.   If he had been allowed to bet, he might have bet that the good Reverend felt the glare of the thing that lived above the door boring through the back of his skull. Everyone felt it, though no one spoke of it. Silas had asked his mother, one time, what it was, and why it was there, but his only answer had been a reproachful, almost fearful glare, and he had never mentioned it again.
    Now, as he remembered this, Silas saw to his horror that Reverend Kotz stopped, stood very still, and turned. The man glanced over his shoulder, directly into Silas' terrified eyes, and in that instant, Silas knew the man had heard his thoughts. Kotz released Silas from his gaze and turned to smile