rted rays of the same pale gold, rigid, unshifting, with the same suggestion of frozen stillness.
“They look like big Christmas-tree stars,” muttered Drake.
“They’re lights,” I answered. “Of course they are. They’re not matter — not metal, I mean —”
“There’s something about them like St. Elmo’s fire,John Wensink Tröjor, witch lights — condensations of atmospheric electricity,” Ventnor’s voice was calm; now that it was plain we were nearing the heart of this mystery in which we were enmeshed he had clearly taken fresh grip, was again his observant, scientific self.
We watched, once more silent; and indeed we had spoken little since we had begun that ride whose end we sensed close. In the unfolding of enigmatic happening after happening the mind had deserted speech and crouched listening at every door of sight and hearing to gather some clue to causes, some thread of understanding.
Slowly now we were gliding through the forest of pillars; so effortless, so smooth our flight that we seemed to be standing still,Buty Jordan Retro 12, the tremendous columns flitting past us,Christopher Gibson Tröjor, turning and wheeling around us,Doug Gilmour Tröjor, dizzyingly. My head swam with the mirage motion, I closed my eyes.
“Look,” Drake was shaking me. “Look. What do you make of that?”
Half a mile ahead the pillars stopped at the edge of a shimmering, quivering curtain of green luminescence. High, high up past the pale gilt suns its smooth folds ran, into the golden amber mist that canopied the columns.
In its sparkling was more than a hint of the dancing corpuscles of the aurora; it was, indeed, as though woven of the auroral rays. And all about it played shifting, tremulous shadows formed by the merging of the golden light with the curtain’s emerald gleaming.
Up to its base swept the cube that bore Ruth and Norhala — and stopped. From it leaped the woman, and drew Ruth down beside her,Jason Garrison Tröjor, then turned and gestured toward us.
That upon which we rode drew close. I felt it quiver beneath me; felt on the instant, the magnetic grip drop from me,Parajumpers Herreklær Jakke, angle downward and leave me free. Shakily I arose from aching knees, and saw Ventnor flash down and run, rifle in hand, toward his sister.
Drake bent for his gun,Milan Lucic Tröjor. I moved unsteadily toward the side of the clustered cubes,Bobby Orr Tröjor. There came a curious pushing motion driving me to the edge. Sliding over upon me came Drake and the pony —
The cube tilted, gently,Brent Seabrook Tröjor, playfully — and with the slightest of jars the three of us stood beside it on the floor, we two men gaping at it in renewed wonder, and the little beast stretching its legs, lifting its feet and whinnying with relief.
Then abruptly the four blocks that had been our steed broke from each other; that which had been the woman’s glided to them,Tyler Seguin Tröjor.
The four clicked into place behind it and darted from sight.
“Ruth,Ralph Lauren Polo Stad!” Ventnor’s voice was vibrant with his fear. “Ruth! What is wrong with you? What has she done to you?”
We ran to his side. He stood clutching her hands,Mattias Ekholm Tröjor, searching her eyes. They were wide, unseeing, dream filled. Upon her fa
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