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'They are here；' Madeleine Gaufridi added； smiling； 'Now we shall。。。'
She was interrupted by a scream from outside； a piercing yell of terror that was magnified and rendered more terrible because of the stillness of this remote wooded clearing。
And Sabat recognised it as the scream of a child that was suddenly cut off； as though a hand had been clapped over its mouth！ He found himself glancing back towards that table and noting again that there was no food on display！
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DOOR opened and people began to file in。 Andre Schmid was in the lead； but was no longer clad in those worn； tight…fitting jeans which rolled over at the waistband。 Scarcely recognisable from a distance； he was dressed in black flowing robes that gave him a monastic appearance； a cowl that was flung back so that his jowls were still visible。
However； it was the limp form which he carried in his arms which attracted Sabat's attention； hypnotised him with a feeling of horror。 A child； doubtlessly the one who had screamed a few moments ago； now head down； with blood dripping steadily from a gash across his forehead。
Schmid paused before the closed coffin； gave a slight bow； and laid his burden stretched out on the lid。 Now Sabat could see the unfortunate child clearly in the circle of light cast by the flickering black candles。 It was a boy； no more than seven at a guess； a squat limp figure clad in brown shorts and a rainbow…striped shirt。 The blood was still flowing from his head； forming a pool on the lead surface。 But there was。。。 something not quite right！
Sabat stiffened as he suddenly caught a glimpse of the boy's face。 Oh merciful God！ A Grotesque； almost flat features； hideously misshapen。 A mongol！ Anger and pity mingled inside Sabat。 These bastards needed a human being for their vile cannibalistic rites so they had procured some subnormal harmless child。 So easy to lure away。
Sabat clenched bis fists； almost rushed forward but something held him back。 A voice。 'It's kindness really。 The boy is better dead than alive。 In any case he probably wouldn't live more than a few years。 Better that he serves some useful purpose。' Quentin's voice； condescending。
Sabat sighed。 It was true。 There was nothing he could do anyway。
He had expected the usual form of human sacrifice mon to such places as Haiti where the throat was slit； the spurting blood caught in vessels and drunk by the worshippers of evil； and had steeled himself to witness it。 But it didn't happen that way。 Suddenly everybody was moving away from the inert form on that awful coffin。
Sabat couldn't work out whether Madeleine or Andre Schmid was directing operations。 The others； with slow jerky movements that reminded him of the living dead in Haiti； were removing the altar cloths； carefully setting those candles down on an adjacent shelf； the material wafting and flickering the tiny flames； threatening to extinguish them。
It took several seconds for the awful truth to dawn on Sabat。 He had expected to see some form of wooden table as the basis for the altar…instead he saw a huge old…fashioned cast…iron oven of the Rayburn type； a filthy uncleaned monster； its front daubed with spilled fat and what appeared to be congealed gravy； except that he knew it wasn't because already his acute sense of smell had picked up a faint stale aroma and recognised it。 The acrid tang of burned human flesh！
He felt himself starting to retch； almost threw up。 He wanted to turn away； flee from this place； leave these people to their vile atrocities。 But he knew he could not； he was Quentin and he had to go along with whatever they were planning to do this night in their build…up to the climax of Walpurgisnacht！ He sensed the evil； was part of it himself。
A thin youth was struggling to carry an aluminium bucket containing coal and some chunks of wood。 Another was busy crumpling up sheets of newspaper； stuffing them in through the small door of the firebox。 Now there was a sudden sense of urgency； a rattling of a matchbox； a scraping and a smell of sulphur。
Sabat heard the roar of flames； the crackling of kindling wood； the leaden door was slammed shut。 Now the group were turning round； those faces no longer expressionless； eyes that burned with a hidden lust staring at the boy who was beginning to stir。 Nobody took any notice of Sabat。 He was a spectator； nothing else。
The mongol raised his head； wheezed as a gust of smoke from the old cooker engulfed him。 Eyes wide with a terror which he did not understand； cringing。 Thick lips moved and gave off inarticulate sounds。 Thank God； Sabat thought； he doesn't understand。 He knows they're going to do something unpleasant to him but mercifully they will kill him quickly。 It will be all over any second。
The candles were burning steadily； casting an eerie circle of yellow light fringed by shadows and moving shapes。 The flames inside the stove were roaring； hungrily devouring the dry wood； splitting the lumps of coal。 But it would take time for the oven temperature to rise。 Sabat was mentally yelling； 'Kill him！ For fuck's sake kill him and put him out of his misery！'
Schmid stepped forward； a sinister black priest in full regalia。 He stretched out a flabby white hand； grabbed a tussock of unruly red hair and jerked the mongol's head back。 A strangled cry。 That cut was still bleeding。 Then silence。
Even Sabat could feel the full impact of that hypnotism； the child an easy victim； mouth wide； nodding his agreement to something he did not understand。 And when Andre Schmid released him the boy smiled； a stretching of gargantuan lips exposing wide； misplaced teeth。
An order which Sabat did not catch。 The mongol nodded； grunted； began clumsily to unfasten buttons； exposing a roll of surplus flesh around his waist； a body that was so badly proportioned that you only realised the full extent of its deformity when it was unclothed。 Giggling； inhibited even under hypnotism； hands splayed across the lower regions in a protective shield。
The pany retreated into the shadows； left Schmid alone in the circle of candlelight； a cloaked figure murmuring some whispered incantation。
Sabat wanted to cross himself but his hands refused to obey his brain； had him wincing with a feeling of guilt The Left Hand Path had no mercy on traitors！ Instead he found himself offering up an apology to the powers of darkness。 He would renounce his vows； his faith。 He would partake in this ceremony because he was one of the followers of darkness。
Time became meaningless。 Schmid's tone was an incessant drone； alternating between humility and arrogance。 Minutes； hours； it was impossible to tell。
Then Andre Schmid was moving forward； fumbling with the latch on the oven door； throwing it wide so that a blast of heat like the breath from some fiery dragon cut across the chapel； had the others reeling。 Except the boy； he was standing now； a pathetic ungainly figure。 He grinned； grunted something。
Schmid was towering above him； a giant by parison； pointing towards the oven with a stubby forefinger。 'Get in there； child？
There was no hesitation from the mongol。 A step forward； then another； almost an eagerness about his movements now。 Lurching； bending to peer into the dark cubicle； screwing up his features in puzzlement。
'Get in there； child！'
Sabat caught his breath； his own fingers seeming to shrivel with the heat as he watched the bizarre scene by the 'altar*。 No cry of pain from the mongol； just a hissing of scorched skin。 Clambering awkwardly； falling back because he was not agile enough to get into the confined space； hauling himself up and trying again。
This time he made it； hunching himself； squashing his frame against the red hot side of the oven； looking out with an imbecilic grin on his face as though seeking approval…and getting it。 'Good！' Schmid grunted。 'You serve a worthy cause； child！'
The demonic priest's foot went up and back； drove down catching the open door wi