a heap of broken images
espite the danger, Veitch and Church were out of the pub and racing up the High Street within seconds, but there was no sign of where the creatures could have gone. The night was too dark, the countryside too empty. It didn't take them long to locate the victim's home; the shrieks could be heard across the village.
A woman in her late twenties clutched at the door jamb of one of the council houses, her face ruptured by grief. She was trying to propel herself out into the street while a man and another woman fought to restrain her, their expressions of deep dread revealing their motivation. Her dyed black hair flailed all around as she howled like an animal: sometimes Veitch and Church picked out the name Ellie among the incomprehensible wailings of a ruined life.
Lights were coming on all around and soon other neighbours were at the scene. One of them forced some tablets into her mouth and shortly after they managed to calm her enough to get her inside. Veitch and Church waited patiently until the man who had been holding the mother back ventured out, hollow eyes staring out of a chalk face. He was barefoot, still wearing grey pyjama bottoms and a Metallica T-shirt.
"What happened?" Church asked quietly.
It took a second or two for him to register their presence and even then he seemed unable to focus on them. Tears leaked out of the corner of his eyes. He furiously scrubbed them away, saying, "Sorry, mate, sorry. Fuck." He leaned on the gatepost, shaking. "She said it was locked! Fuck." He turned round to look at the open front door. It had once been painted white, but now it was a dirty cream, scuffed with old bootprints near the bottom, some of them very small. Inside the hall the light was stark and unpleasant. The man turned back, stared at them for a long moment as if he were about to say something and then he staggered towards the house next door.
Once he was inside, Veitch slipped down the path to examine the door. "Look at this," he said pointing to the jamb. The wood was splintered. "They forced it open. That Max was wrong."
Church ran his fingertip over the damaged jamb. "Maybe those things are learning new tricks."
The smell of frying bacon, eggs and sausages filled the pub. As the group sat around the tables in the bar, they felt convinced that even aromas were more vibrant in the new world. But even that simple joy couldn't dispel the dismal air that had grown after the night's events. Talk turned quickly to whether the village should be evacuated en masse if the safety of the occupants could no longer be guaranteed.
"That's up to the villagers," Tom pointed out, "but I would say they would be loath to leave their homes, even in the face of such a trial. In this time of crisis, stability is vitally important."
"That poor woman. Her only child." Ruth's face still looked a little grey; since her ordeal she rarely gained her colour until after breakfast. "We have to do something to help."
"As if we haven't got enough on our hands," Laura said sourly.
"No, I agree with Ruth," Church said, to Laura's obvious annoyance. "We can't leave these people high and dry if there's anything at all we can do."
"Max said the creatures leave the village alone for a while after they have secured a victim," Shavi reiterated. "That gives us a little time."
"Then we should start straight away." Church broke open his egg with his fork. "Talk to everyone we can. There must be something we can use, some kind of defence that will keep these things out-"
"I don't believe you lot," Laura snapped. "One minute you're talking about this big mission to save the world, the next you're taking time out to save the waifs and strays. Anything could happen here. You saw what was going on last night. There's no guarantee one of us won't get hurt or worse, and then we won't be able to do what's expected of us. I say we save ourselves."
Veitch eyed her coldly. "It's all about doing the right thing too."
"What must it be like to be you?" Laura sneered. "All those echoes from that one thought rolling around your head-"
"Least it's a good thought."
"Okay, okay!" Church held up his hands to calm the bickering. "Let's see what we can do."
As they filed out into the sunlit street, Shavi hung back until he caught Church's eye. They stood behind in the pub doorway while the others went off to explore the village. The air was already hot and filled with clouds of butterflies drawn by the heavy perfume of the roses. Bees buzzed lazily from bloom to bloom.
Church could see from Shavi's expression it wasn't going to be good news. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"I find this very hard to say," Shavi began hesitantly, "but as soon as we have finished our duties here I am afraid I will have to leave."
Church's heart sank. "You can't leave, Shavi! For God's sake…" He floundered around for the correct words. "We're relying on you. You're the backbone of the whole team. The only stable one among us!"
"I fear you are not doing yourself or any of the others justice. Please do not make this difficult for me. I understand my responsibilities to you and all, and to the mission destiny has delivered to us. It is just-"
"What?" There was an unnecessary hardness to Church's voice.
"It was I who freed Maponus. And every life that is cut down by his hand is on my conscience."
"Look, we asked you to seek him out and free him. You couldn't have-"
Shavi held up a hand to silence his friend. "Whether I knew what I was unleashing or not is immaterial. I certainly exhibited arrogance in my approach which allowed me to be manipulated. Even without apportioning blame, any deaths are my deaths. I have to do something to make amends-"
"Like what?"
"Help to imprison him again."
"Shavi, with all due respect, what can you do? It took a collection of the most powerful people in the land to bind him originally. And not all of them survived."
"I do not know what I can do. But if there is a chance that I can do anything I have to seize it. I will seek out the Bone Inspector and offer my help. Perhaps the two of us can find some way-"
"Shavi, I'm not having any of this."
Shavi smiled. "This goes far beyond our friendship and your leadership, Jack. I am burdened by this responsibility."
Church tried to dredge up some relevant argument. He felt massive failure for all of them staring him in the face. "The Pendragon Spirit called us together to complement each other with our abilities. Losing you would be like losing an arm-there's no way we'd be able to carry on."
"I am not leaving forever, Jack. Just until I have found a solution. Then I will return to help in-"
"Okay, stay a little longer. Take some time to weigh things up-"
"I have-"
"No, listen. The woman in the Watchtower who set us on this path originally. Her name's Niamh. There's some kind of bond between us. Before you make any move, let me contact her. She might have a solution. For God's sake, Maponus is one of their own. They have to help!"
Shavi looked unsure.
"I'm not asking you to change your mind. Just defer it until I've tried this path. "
Shavi nodded politely. "All right. I will do that."
As Church watched Shavi wander down the summery street towards the others, he couldn't escape the feeling that the burdens which had been placed on him as leader were growing with each day. Sooner or later he knew he would be found lacking.
"We should question all the information we've been given. Go back to first principles." Ruth checked the list of victims Max had given her. She was enjoying the opportunity to use her naturally incisive abilities on a problem rather than dwelling on the queasiness and weakness that afflicted her too often now.
Tom sighed in a manner which suggested he could barely find the energy for the task at hand.
Ruth knew him too well to rise to the bait. "I think I've found out your special ability, Tom," she said without raising her eyes from the list.
"Oh?"
"Directional irritation. You turn it on, pick out a target, boom." He snorted in such a comically affronted way Ruth couldn't help a smile. "Look," she continued, "we know nothing about these things. If the information is flawed, any response we decide on could be flawed too. And that might be the fatal flaw."
He shrugged dismissively. "There are more important things-"
"Don't start that again. We've made the decision. Let's stick to it."
He snatched the list from her and compared the addresses to the village around him. "At least the last three are in the same area. We can turn this around quickly."
With Laura and Veitch talking to some of the villagers who had seen the creatures and Shavi already at the house of the first victim, Mrs. Ransom, they headed off to the cluster of other victims. The addresses were all in the vicinity of Recton Close, where the drunk Jimmy Oldfield had lived and died. His council house stood empty, the garden gate wide open, one window shattered from what was probably a randomly thrown stone; one of the local kids, Ruth guessed.
Not too far away they could see the house of the previous night's victim. The curtains were tightly drawn. They thought it best not to trouble the recently bereaved mother and instead concentrated on the neigbours of Oldfield and the other two people who had died.
There was little to distinguish those who had been taken. Oldfield might have been an alcoholic, but he was fondly regarded by those who lived in the small pocket of sixties housing. Of the other two, a young milkman who had been laid off by the local dairy just before the troubles and a middle-aged cleaning woman who worked at some of the more well-to-do houses, there was little to suggest they would have been foolish enough to allow access to their houses after dark.
Ruth and Tom pored over the information they had gathered on a bench overlooking the village green. "It's too much of a coincidence to think all these people could have mistakenly let those things in," Ruth said. "And that poor woman last night… She'd seen at first hand what could happen with her neighbours-"
"Unless the child opened the door," Tom ventured.
"Maybe these things are some sort of sirens," Ruth mused. "Something about them hypnotises people into letting them in."
"Possibly. But Ryan said the door he inspected last night had been broken open."
Ruth chewed on her knuckle, watching the ducks waddle down to the pond in the centre of the green. It was quiet and lazy in the late-morning sun and there was no sign anywhere across the picture-postcard village of any of the suffering that descended on it with nightfall. "Then everyone niust be mistaken," she said. "These creatures have to be able to get in when they want." Even as she said it something didn't seem quite right, but whatever it was stayed hidden in her subconscious.
"No, I cannot stress strongly enough that these creatures cannot get into any property that is shut off. Even a closed but not locked door seems to deter them." Sir Richard stood erect and still, as if he were on parade outside the sprawling, detached house of Mrs. Ransom at the far end of the High Street. The residence was cool beneath the shade of several mature trees around the lowwalled front garden, while the building itself was covered in a sweet-smelling mass of clematis.
Shavi nodded politely. "I hope you do not mind me going over this again-"
"No, no, old chap, not at all." Sir Richard adjusted the Panama hat that shaded his eyes. "I know you're only trying to help. But, really, we have got a very efficient defence force here. We've done everything in our power to protect the village. As to those creatures, well, I've watched them with my own eyes, and I am a very well-trained observer. I am in no doubt of their limitations."
"Then how can-"
"No idea at all. People make mistakes, leave a door ajar at twilight. It's easily done." There was a note of sadness in his voice.
Shavi looked up at the dark face of the large, old house. "A lovely property."
"It certainly is. Been in the Ransom family for generations. Sadly Alma was the last of the line. I come down here every now and again to keep an eye on the old place, make sure the local yobs don't start tearing it apart. It's a very, very sad situation."
"She was the first?"
He nodded. "An awful wake-up call to all of us." He motioned to the rambling, well-heeled properties that lay all around. "You think you're impregnable here, in this beautiful countryside, and this historic village. It was such a safe haven away from the rigours of modern society. I retired here after I lost my seat at the last election. Somewhere to tend the roses, enjoy a relaxing life for a change. And now…" His words dried up.
"Everyone has suffered," Shavi agreed, "all across the country, but people are finding ways to survive."
"True. Very true. It has been an extraordinarily testing time, but I cannot stress enough how much my faith in human nature has been restored. The way everyone in the village pulled together once we understood the nature of the threat facing us. It's been the Blitz spirit all over again." His eyes grew moist as he looked around the quiet street. "I fear for the future, though. If things carry on as they are, all of this could be swept away. It's not fair at all, is it? What's to become of us?"
After the surprising kiss in Callander, Church had been wary of having any further contact with Niamh, but he couldn't see any alternative. Shavi was the backbone of the team: resilient, dependable in every circumstance, fully aware of all his obligations; they couldn't afford to lose him. The real problem was how he should contact her. He had no idea how the system of transfer worked between Otherworld and what he laughingly called the real world, nor what the abilities of the Tuatha De Danann were in hearing communication between the two places. Were they as omnipotent as some of them sometimes appeared? Would it be enough just to call her name? She had, after all, stressed the bond between them; perhaps that was enough.
In the end he decided at least to make things a little easier. He asked around the village for any site that carried folk tales of fairies or supernatural activity. An old woman directed him to a small, overgrown mound on the outskirts where she had seen "the wee folk" playing one night when she was a girl.
He sat on the summit and closed his eyes, feeling the sun hot on the back of his neck. His instinct told him he needed to be in tune with the spiritual power of the blue fire, although he was unsure of attempting it without Tom around to guide him. But after a few minutes trying to clear his mind, he found it surprisingly easy. Perhaps it was a skill that grew commonplace with repetition, or perhaps it was simply that the blue fire was stronger in the land since his success at Edinburgh, but as soon as he could concentrate he was aware of the tracings of power shimmering across the countryside, casting a sapphire tinge across the golden corn, adding new depth to the rich, green grass. When he finally felt he had tapped into it, he whispered her name. At first there was nothing; and not for the first twenty minutes. But just when he was about to give up, a strange vibration hummed in the air, like the sound around an electricity sub-station. An instant later she was standing before him, her smile as mysterious and deep as the ocean.
"You called, Jack. I came."
Before her, he was suddenly aware he felt awkward and faintly embarrassed, his emotions and thoughts stumbling over each other like a schoolboy before his secret sweetheart. "I need help."
She nodded, her eyes heavy-lidded. She took his hand and led him down to the warm grass. As he sat, she leaned near to him, not quite touching, but close enough so that he was constantly aware of her presence; close enough for him easily to breathe in that pleasing aroma of lime and mint. "Why are you interested in me?" He hadn't meant to ask the question, but it had appeared on his lips almost magically.
She gave a soothing, melodious laugh, as if it were the most ridiculous question in the world. He enjoyed the way her eyes crinkled, her face innocently lit up. In that moment it was hard to see her as one of a race so alien they treated people with oblique contempt. "I have seen you grow, Jack. I was there, in the half-light, the moment you were born. I saw your potential take shape, your good heart grow stronger. I stood a whisper away the first time you cried from hurt emotion. I saw you develop decency and honesty and love for your fellow man. I saw you suffer broken hearts, and persevere even at that terrible point when you felt your world was coming to an end. And you came through, Jack. You became the best you could be. So few Fragile Creatures can say that. And I was there in every moment, so much a part of your life in the highs and the lows that I knew every secret thought, every half-wish and barely remembered dream. I was a part of you, Jack. No one knows you better. No one." There was almost a pleading quality to her voice.
"But I don't know you."
"No. No, you do not." And now sadness, so fragilely potent he almost felt it. She looked away briefly, too much going on behind her eyes for him to see.
"What is it you are saying, Niamh?"
"There is nothing I can say. I merely reveal to you the slightest fragment of the minutest strand of my feelings. Our races are as far apart as Otherworld and here. And as close. No good has ever come of any bond forged between the two. One passes so quickly, the other goes on forever, both are bound in tears."
Her voice filled him with a deep melancholy. For the first time, in her eyes, in her body language, the way she held her mouth, he could see how deeply she felt for him and it was monumentally shocking. To be loved so much and not know it was astounding, and truly moving, to such a degree he felt he should seek deep within him to see if there was any way he could repay such a profound investment. But all he found inside was confusion. He thought of Laura and the desperate scramble of emotions he felt around her. And, oddly, Ruth, whom he thought he considered a friend, but when he attempted to examine his emotional response he found it was too complex and deep-seated. And now this woman, who was so open and honest, she was like a cool desert oasis he wanted to dive into and slough off all the corruption that had mired him over the weeks and years.
"I don't know how I feel," he said honestly.
"You are fortunate." More sadness. "To know and not to have is the hardest thing."
He tried to find something comforting to say, but nothing came.
She looked around, at the rolling summer fields, and some of the sadness eked away. "This world is changing. Soon it will be a land of myth once more, where magic lives in every turn." She turned back to him, her smile sweet once again. "A land where anything can happen."
He nodded thoughtfully. "When you put it like that, it doesn't seem such a bad thing."
"How can I help you, Jack?"
He felt almost guilty asking for something when she had bared her soul to him. But once he had told her about Maponus, and seen her face register surprise, then darken, all other thoughts were wiped away.
"The search for the Good Son has never ended," she explained. "The Golden Ones were riven by despair when he was lost, the brightest of all our bright stars, our very hope for the future. There was no knowledge of his disappearance-he was simply there, then not. Of course we must bring him back to us. There will be much rejoicing, scenes of wonder not witnessed since the victory celebrations after the second battle of Magh Tuireadh." The notion excited her greatly, but gradually her face darkened as the implications of Church's information wormed their way through. "If he has been so severely damaged by the Night Walkers, there may be little even the Golden Ones can do to restore the Good Son to his former glory. The Night Walkers' revenge is swift, cruel and usually irreversible."
"But you will attempt to get him back to Otherworld?"
"Of course. He is the jewel of the Golden Ones." She was positive, yet Church could see she was troubled. "Yet he is so powerful." Her voice faded into the wind.
"You're saying even your people might not be able to restrain him?"
"He could cause great destruction to this world. Your people will fall before him like-" she looked around "-like the ripe corn." She turned to Church with fleeting panic in her eyes. "You must not go anywhere near the Good Son. Do you understand?"
"At the moment I'm going where I'm called. We have an obligation-"
"You have an obligation to defend this world. You cannot do that if you are no more."
"I'm asking you for help." He looked her directly in the eye; her irises seemed to swirl with golden fire.
"Then I will help. But I ask something of you in return."
"All right."
"A chance to show you my heart, to prove that universes can be crossed. To show that the love of a Golden One and a Frail Creature can surmount all obstacles."
Church searched her face; suddenly events seemed to be running away from him.
"I know you have a dalliance with another Frail Creature. You must end it. You must give your love solely to me for a period. A chance, that is all I ask. And if our romance does not rise up to the heavens, then we will go our separate ways."
Dismally, Church thought of Laura, how much it would hurt her. Could he do that when there was still a chance they were right for each other? Could he hurt her, knowing how much she would suffer? And once more he thought of Ruth, and wondered what she would think of him. Niamh was watching the play of his thoughts with innocent, sensitive eyes.
He wondered why he was even bothering to deliberate; there was no real choice. He couldn't afford to let Shavi leave. And if he could do anything to stop Maponus's rampage, he had to try. He had learned through bitter experience over the last three months that he couldn't put his own feelings first; that was the burden of his leadership. Sacrifices had to be made. Always. "Okay," he said. "I'll do what you say."
The sudden swell of emotion in her face surprised him, and in that instant he wondered if he really could feel something for her. She took his hand, an act that to her was obviously filled with meaning; it was as if she was some Victorian heroine whose every gesture was infused with import to make up for her stifled emotion. "Much deliberation will need to take place if we are to bring Maponus back with us," she said. "I will need to devote myself to the planning and to attending my brethren in this. You will not see me for a while. But then…" Her cool fingers grew tighter around his hand and her smile deepened. She nodded politely, stood up and walked slowly away. Briefly she turned and flashed him a smile weighted with emotion, and then she was gone in the blink of an eye, as if the sky had folded around her.
Laura and Veitch didn't quite know how they ended up interviewing villagers together, but they managed to do it with as little communication between the two of them as they could manage. If anything, Veitch seemed to Laura a little contrite in his body language and whatever gruff comments he made, but after his rage in the gorge, she wasn't taking any chances. She was thankful for her sunglasses which hid the fear she knew was flickering in her eyes.
Eventually, though, they found themselves walking alone down the sundrenched High Street and there was nothing for it but to make conversation. "Nothing new there, then." Laura broke the silence, stating the obvious because she couldn't think of anything else to say that wasn't heavy with all sorts of difficulties. "Another morning of my life wasted."
Veitch grunted. His own cheap sunglasses gave nothing away.
Laura was suddenly struck by the absurdity of the image. "Look at us. It's like Tarantino meets Enanerdale." That brought a smile to him. It was only a chink, but she felt she had to give it a shot. "About the other day-"
"I'm sorry, all right." It was as if someone had pulled the blinds down on his face. "I've got a bleedin' awful temper and half the time I can't control it. I don't know where it came from. I never used to have it."
"Stress, probably. But that wasn't what I wanted to say. You're right for worrying about one of us selling the others down the river. Nobody else seems to worry about it too much, but it's there-can't ignore it. But it's not me, all right? That's what I wanted to say. It's not me. I don't care if you believe me or not, but I've got to say it out loud. I'm a big fuck-up-and I'll deny I said that if you ever bring it up-but I wouldn't screw over any of us in this group."
Her normal reticence made the honesty in her words palpable. Veitch was taken aback for a moment, but he didn't show it. "Who do you think it is, then?"
She paused, unsure whether to continue, but it wasn't worth turning back at that point. "Are you going to bite my head off?"
"No."
"Okay. I know you've got the hots for Ruth, I know she's been through the worst fucking shit imaginable, but I think it's her."
"Bollocks."
"Thank you for that measured response." She bit her tongue; she could feel the power in his hard body at her side. "I'm not just being a jealous bitch, which I am, but not right now. Here's what I think. She's been waking up with nightmares about what those bastards did to her-"
"Wouldn't you?" He was already starting to bristle. She had to get to the point.
"I think those nightmares are caused by something real. You remember what the Bastards did to Tom under Dartmoor? They stuck one of those creepy little bugs in his head so he'd do everything they wanted."
Veitch's head snapped round. For a second Laura's blood ran cold until she saw the troubled expression on his face. "You think they did that to her?"
"Makes sense."
He considered it for a moment, then shook his head vehemently. "Bollocks."
"Just think about it, that's all. It could've happened. Someone needs to keep an eye on her, and seeing as you've appointed yourself official judge, jury and executioner-" She caught herself. She'd done enough. She could tell from Witch's expression that the notion was already burrowing its way into his head.
"Come on, I need you." Ruth caught Veitch's arm when they all met up outside the pub. She pulled him over to one side where the others couldn't hear them, oblivious to the odd way he was looking at her.
"What's wrong?"
"I want us to have sex."
Witch's expression was so comical she had to stifle a giggle and that wouldn't have helped at all; he was sensitive enough as it was. His mouth moved, no words came out; his whole, stumbling thought process was played out fleetingly on his face. "You're taking the piss now."
That was the first response she expected. "No, I'm not. I'm deadly serious."
Veitch shook his head. There was a pink flush to his cheeks. He was eyeing her askance, still trying to read her motives.
"When we started out on this whole nightmare I was just a normal girl, but I've changed, like we've all changed. I've learned some things. Powerful things. How to change the world around us, things… things I don't want to talk about because I can hardly believe it myself. You know the owl that followed me around?"
His eyes ranged across her face; he seemed to be trying to peer into her head. He nodded.
"That wasn't just an owl. It was… Well, I don't really know what it was. I'm not making much sense, am I? I wish I could understand it all better myself." She became lost in her own confusion of thoughts briefly. "Look, the owl's some kind of familiar. You know what that is? A demon… I don't know… Some kind of supernatural creature, anyway. That took the form of an owl to be with me. But when the Fomorii had me under the castle I found out what it was really like. Not what it looked like. I mean, I couldn't see it. But… it taught me things-"
"What kind of things?"
Her mind sparked and fizzed with wild current when she considered the answer to the question; it was suddenly as if she could look into the infinite. "Things that could help us. Only the trouble is, now the familiar has gone away and I don't know why, but there are still so many things I need to know."
"Well this is all very fucking nice, but what's it got to do with us shagging?"
She sighed. "I'm sorry, Ryan. I really am making a mess of this, aren't I? Let me try again. Sex is at the heart of all magic. Throughout history it's been used in all sorts of rituals. The earth energy, the blue fire in the land is the same energy we have inside us. In our spirits, our souls. It runs in grids over our bodies the same way it does in the land. Like the stone circles are areas where it's at its most powerful, there are places on our bodies where the power is strong. In eastern religion they're called chakras-" She watched him start to glaze over and quickly picked up the pace of the conversation. "Normal sex fills us with this energy which we can use. But a particular kind of sex-it's called tantric sex-supercharges these chakras and-"
"And you know how to do this?"
"The familiar told me. I mean, I've never tried it, but-"
"There has to be a first time."
"Right. Look, I don't want to take advantage of you. This isn't an emotional thing. But you get a good screw out of it and all the experiences you could want. And I get-"
"What?" His brow furrowed. "If you don't want it to be anything serious, what do you get out of it? You're not some slapper-"
"You're so sweet," she said with a mock smile. "I get knowledge, hopefully. Power I can bend to my will."
The incomprehension was chiselled into his face. He felt uncomfortable. It wasn't what he wanted, in the slightest, but it seemed important to Ruth.
"Look, don't waste time thinking about it now. If you're up for it, I'll fill you in as we go along. Are you?" He nodded, unsurely. "Right. Then let's do it." Back in the pub bedroom she drew the curtains and locked the door. None of the others would even think of disturbing them at that time of day. They were downstairs in the bar, picking over the remainder of their lunch, having a quiet drink, chewing over the village's problem. Her breath was ragged from apprehension and, if she admitted it to herself, a sexual charge.
"You're sure about this?" She could hear faint nervousness in Witch's voice. She sensed that if she called it off he would be more than happy.
"I am. Are you?"
"Yes."
Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but what did she expect. "I know this isn't how you expected, Ryan. It's not exactly every maiden's dream either. Not that I'm a maiden." She blushed, looked away. "But it's the only way I can think of-
"It's okay. You don't have to explain any more." She smiled; underneath it all he was quite sweet. "So how do we start?" he continued.
"Take our clothes off first, I suppose."
It felt unduly uncomfortable, so artificial in the way it was drained of all passion, but she knew she couldn't afford to be self-conscious, for Veitch's sake. If he saw her being embarrassed, the atmosphere would completely fall apart and he probably wouldn't be able to perform. She set her mind and tried to act as brazen as possible. She pulled her T-shirt over her head and threw it on the bed, then unhooked her bra. Her nipples were already hard; her breasts almost ached. She tried to fool herself that her instant and powerful arousal was because it had been so long, but she knew in her heart she was physically attracted to Veitch. As he pulled his own T-shirt off she let her gaze run over his lean, muscled torso, watching the flex and ripple of the tattoos, like cartoons in animation. There was a hardness to his body she hadn't experienced in any of her previous lovers; it wasn't even the kind of hardness that came from working out in a gym. It was the kind of compacted yet supple muscle that came only from a life lived at street level, in onerous situations that tested the body on a daily basis in a way the fitness trainers couldn't even imagine. His own nipples were hard; that excited her even more. Briefly, his clear, powerful eyes caught hers and there was no embarrassment there at all. Energy crackled between them. She saw his own passion laid bare as his gaze dropped to her breasts.
She undid her loose belt, unpopped the buttons and dropped her jeans to her ankles. In the same motion she slipped down her briefs and stepped out of them. She felt the chill of the wetness between her legs send a tingling fire into her belly.
Veitch removed his trousers and his shorts. He was very hard, aching for her. A shiver ran through her. He seemed filled with vitality, as if the blue fire burned in every cell, nuclear fission raging out of control, ready to consume her.
She took his hand and pressed him towards the floor. When he was sitting with his legs out in front of him and his hands behind, she climbed astride him and gently lowered herself on her taut leg muscles, gripping his erection in her fist and feeding it into her. His hardness was shocking; it seemed to go in so deep she felt it was almost in her chest. She wrapped her legs around him and supported herself on her hands behind her. Her heart was thundering, the passion crackling through every fibre of her.
"Don't move," she said. "This is the hard part. The aim is to achieve orgasm without moving, through meditation, directing the energy. I've had some guidance how to do it. Normally it takes a long period of training and discipline. Do you think you can do it?"
"I can try." He closed his eyes, his body rigid, still.
Ruth took the opportunity to scan his features; in relaxed mode there was a surprising tenderness to his expression, almost an innocence. In that moment she could imagine how he would have turned out if not for the privations of his early life. And then she lowered her gaze to the startling colours of his torso: the Watchtower was there, swimming in a sea of stars, some kind of sword, a bulky creature in an insectile armour that made her feel so uncomfortable she moved on quickly, a strange ship skimming blue waves, a burning city and, most disturbingly, a single, staring eye which she knew represented Balor.
She put all thoughts out of her mind, leaned forward and kissed his clavicle. A slight shiver ran through him. She moved up, kissed the curve of his throat. Then up further to gently brush his lips. She felt his erection throb inside her.
Leaning back, closing her own eyes, she focused her sharp mind in the way the familiar had told her, the way she had practised during those long, terrible hours of imprisonment. It came to her with surprising ease. She felt the world moving beneath her, the shifting of subtle energies deep in the rock and soil. Whatever Church had done in Edinburgh had worked. The Fiery Network was slowly coming to life, breaking through the dormant areas, joining up the centres that had remained powerful, like blood filling a vascular system. She saw in the darkness in her head the flicker and surge of the blue fire as it ran in the earth, came up through the ground, through the walls of the building, along the floor, burst in coruscating sapphire into the base of her spine. And gradually it started its serpentine coiling up towards her skull.
Time was suspended; they had no idea how long they were there. Their very existence was infused with the dark, shifting landscapes in their heads, the feeling of the engorged blood vessels in their groins. Veitch fought the urge to thrust, although every fibre of his being was telling him to drive hard into her. Her vaginal muscles seemed so tight around him, massaging him gently. Even with his eyes closed he was aware of her body as if he was staring at it: the flatness of her belly, the heaviness of her breasts, the hardness of her nipples, electric sexual signals driving into the depths of his mind.
And then everything came in a rush, the blue fire suddenly crackling up the final inches of their spines, erupting in their heads like the birth of stars; every nerve bursting with fire, rushing back down to their joined groins. Veitch ejaculated in such a fierce manner he felt as if his life was being sucked out of him. The sudden crackling current inside Ruth's vagina danced jaggedly to the tips of her fingers and then to the front of her brain. Their orgasm brought a fleeting moment of blackness that felt like the end of everything.
And in the following instant, Ruth was consumed with a power she had never experienced before. It felt like she was flying high above the earth, deep into the depths of space. And there she saw the thing that had the face of a man and the face of an owl simultaneously, and it was frantically tracing a strange sigil in the air with its hands, desperate to keep her at bay.
"I cannot come near you," it said in its half-shrieking voice. "You are tainted. Seek help now. Seek help or die."
She fell into Witch's arms and he held her tightly while their thundering hearts subsided. But Ruth couldn't enjoy the warm honey glow that infused them both in the aftermath of their passionate experience. She pulled herself back and looked Veitch deep in the eye; he was horrified to see the fear shining brightly within her.
"Something's gone badly wrong," she said in a fractured voice. "What the Fomorii did to me under the castle… it isn't over. It's still going on inside me."
They dressed hurriedly and found the others sunning themselves on the steps in front of the pub while Tom finished his cider.
"Where did you two scuttle off to?" Laura asked suspiciously.
Ruth turned straight to Tom and Church and began to explain her fears, and for the first time told them about the black pearl. Her heart sank as she saw Tom's face at first darken and then blanch.
"Why didn't you tell us this before?" Tom hissed.
"It was too traumatic!" she protested. "I could barely get my head round it myselfl" She tried to look him in the eye. "What's going on?"
"I don't know. But it was a ritual the Fomorii carried out. They wouldn't have done it without a reason."
"You have your suspicions," Ruth pressed.
"I have ideas, but it's best not to say them right now. Not until I'm sure."
Tears stung Ruth's eyes. "It's going to get worse, isn't it? I thought the sickness was just a natural result of all that trauma. I thought it'd pass."
Church stepped in and put a comforting arm round her shoulder. Both Laura and Veitch flinched. "What are we going to do?" he said to Tom.
Tom took off his glasses and cleaned them while he thought. "She needs to be examined by one of the Tuatha De Danann. They are the only ones who might reasonably be able to tell us what the Fomorii have done."
"And they might be able to help," Ruth said hopefully, "like Ogma helped you when you had the Caraprix in your head." Veitch's gaze grew sharp.
"Will they help us?" There was an edge to Church's voice.
"They might." Tom rubbed his chin, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. "If I asked them."
"But what if they don't help?" Church continued. "What's Plan B?"
Tom said nothing. After a long moment he wandered off down the road to weigh his thoughts.
The shadows were growing longer when he eventually returned to them. Ruth had been away to throw up twice in the meantime; Church guessed the stress was already contributing to what was wrong with her. The others waited anxiously around the pub table.
Tom looked around their concerned faces, then said, "One of the Prime Courts of the Tuatha De Danann can be reached through a door not far from here. The Court of the Final Word is the closest translation of its name. Unlike the usual Tuatha De Danann courts, it is a place of quiet reflection, of study. If there is anyone who can provide an insight into Ruth's condition we will find them there."
"Where is it?" The concern in Veitch's voice was palpable.
"Beneath Richmond Castle." Tom glanced at the clock over the bar. "If we move quickly we can be there before nightfall."
"Is it that serious?" Church asked.
Tom's silence was the only answer he needed.
chapter thirteen
where the devil is
d been keeping the full tank of petrol for emergencies," Max said ruefully. `The way things are going, I think it's going to become a priceless commodity." He cast a worried glance at Ruth's drawn face. "But if this isn't an emergency, what is?" He smiled, trying to bolster the atmosphere.
The car was a red Fiesta, peppered with rust on the wings and sills. The inside was a mess. He opened the doors with some embarrassment, then swept the crumpled maps and fast food wrappers out on to the pavement. "Sorry. You can always tell a hack's car."
Tom climbed into the passenger seat while Church took the back seat with Ruth. He slipped an arm across the top of the seat; her head fell naturally on to his shoulder. The others stood on the pavement; Veitch and Shavi were grimfaced, but Laura was impossible to read.
They eventually picked up the B6270 through the ragged, romantic countryside of Swaledale, heading southeast. During the journey Church and Tom tried to explain to Max about Tir n'a n'Og, the Otherworld, and the alien ways of the Tuatha De Danann to prepare him for what lay ahead. In other circumstances his dumbfounded expression would have been comical, but it soon fell away as he assimilated every detail with a speed that surprised them both. It wasn't long before he was babbling excitedly about a new way of seeing the world.
The scenery flashed by in a blur of rolling fields and green hedges; seeming normality. While Max and Tom passed the time in sporadic conversation, enthusiastic on Max's part, barely tolerable on Tom's, Church and Ruth slid down in the back seat and spoke in hushed voices.
"I can't believe this is happening," she said, staring out of the window at the blue sky.
"You're right. You've suffered enough," Church said.
"No, the people out there have suffered enough. I've had a little pain, but at least I know what's happening in the world. What's a few aches and pains compared to having your life turned on its head? I mean, I want to get back to doing something that matters and there's all this-" she gestured irritatedly holding me back."
The weariness was evident on her face. Slowly she lowered her head back on to his shoulder, but Church continued to watch her while she rested, feeling a sense of deep respect that almost overwhelmed him.
They'd just moved on to the A6108 when Tom exclaimed loudly.
"What's wrong?" Church threw himself forward between the seats. He quickly saw it wasn't the right thing to do. Tom was already sliding down as low as he could go. On the side of the road, three policemen stood stiffly around a patrol car. They were gone so quickly Church had no way of telling if they were Fomorii, nor if they had seen him. He ducked down, turned and crawled up the seat just enough to peer out of the back window. The police all appeared to have got into the car, but it wasn't in pursuit. He held his breath and watched until it was out of sight.
"Close shave," he said, still not wholly sure.
Shavi had spent an hour doing his best to boost Veitch's spirits, but the Londoner still wore the broken expression of someone who had seen ultimate victory snatched from his fingertips. "We have to believe Ruth will be all right." Shavi's voice rolled out softly across the quiet bar. His arm rested comfortingly around Veitch's shoulders, and Veitch made no attempt to shake it off. Laura watched them both carefully from behind her sunglasses, but added nothing to the conversation.
"You saw the old man's face. He looked like it was already over." Veitch gently massaged his temples. There was an intensity about him that made the atmosphere uneasy.
"We have to have hope, Ryan. That is the message of this whole era."
Veitch looked up suddenly and curiously into Shavi's face. He seemed surprised at what he saw there. After a moment's contemplation, he said, "Okay, you're right. Course you are." In the centre of the table where they had been abandoned earlier, he noticed the sheaf of notes Ruth had prepared. "We've got to sort this out. Help these poor bastards."
Shavi could see it was merely a displacement activity for the futility Veitch was feeling at his inability to do anything to help Ruth, but if it kept his mind focused on something positive, it was worthwhile. Veitch examined the notes with gusto, making observations as he read before handing each paper he finished to Shavi or Laura. No obvious conclusion presented itself to them, but they continued to turn it over while they ate the dinner Geordie had prepared for them.
"There's nothing new here," Laura protested. "Unless you're thinking of tracking them out to their lair, and then we wouldn't know how to kill them."
"We don't even know where the lair is," Veitch said. He shovelled a forkful of mashed potato into his mouth.
"It must be somewhere in the vicinity of the route we came in." Laura told them about the scarecrow and the glowing red eyes.
"That's something," Veitch said, "but you're right, we don't know how to wipe them out yet. No point looking for them until we get a handle on that. It didn't look like we'd get much of a result with the sword or the crossbow."
Laura re-examined one of the pages of notes. "At least we know where the feeding ground is."
Veitch perked up at this. "What do you mean?"
Laura pointed out the rough sketch of the village layout with the victims' houses highlighted.
"That's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?" he said.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"All those poor bastards in one place."
"The old biddy wasn't anywhere near them. It's probably just that they've settled on this area because it's near to where they come in to the village. Or something." She stared at the map intently, turning it this way and that.
Veitch chewed on a jagged nail thoughtfully. "I'm getting a very fucking unpleasant idea," he said.
The evening was warm and still as they moved through the village. The chorus of birdsong filled the air, but there was no sound of cars or human voices. Even though it was still light, everyone had retreated to their homes.
Witch first took them to the large, detached house of Mrs. Ransom, quiet beneath its canopy of old trees. They slipped through the creaking iron gate and up the brick path to the front door. Instead of knocking, Veitch simply inspected the door jamb before growing suddenly excited. He ran back down the path and vaulted the low brick wall on to the pavement. Shavi and Laura hurried to keep up with him as he ran the two streets to the collection of council houses which had provided all the other victims.
Oldfield's house was the first to be inspected. Veitch ran from there to the other two. He didn't bother checking the door of the young mother who had lost her child. Finally he rested breathlessly against the wall of one of the houses. He'd obviously figured something out that everyone had missed, but there was no jubilation in his face; instead, he seemed intensely troubled, and when he looked up Laura saw the familiar glint of cold, hard anger in his eyes.
"Fucking hell," he said.
Max gunned the Fiesta into Richmond just as dusk was falling. The town was dominated by the ruins of the Norman castle which overlooked the River Swale, the keep towers soaring up a hundred feet into the darkening sky. Beneath it, the cobbled market was filled with people enjoying the warm summer evening as they made their way to the pubs.
Max scrutinised the scene. "People carry on trying to be normal even when they realise something is badly wrong," he mused.
"Nothing there to write about," Tom muttered.
A tight, knowing grin crept across Max's face. "That's where you're wrong. That is something to write about. That's something that speaks loudly."
"Yes. And it says `Sheep to the slaughter,"' Tom noted sourly.
Max laughed easily in disagreement. "And that's just what I'm going to do. Write about it. About all this. This is something I can do, let the people know the truth. It's a kind of-"
"Calling?" Church knew just how he felt. Max nodded, still smiling.
They left the car in the centre and headed towards the castle on foot, Ruth trailing apprehensively between Church and Tom. Church surveyed the broken stone silhouetted against the blackening sky.
Tom followed his gaze. "Do you feel it?"
Church nodded. "The blue fire."
"All the clues are there in the legends. The secret history. The story goes that a potter by the name of Thompson found a secret tunnel under the castle. He followed it and found a large cavern where King Arthur and his knights lay asleep. Sound familiar?"
"What are you talking about?" Max asked.
"All the legends have truths stitched up inside them. Important information, vital lessons." Church could see the reporter was soaking up all the information. "The King Arthur legend is a metaphor for the power in the land, what we call the blue fire. The legends surround all the places where this earth energy is most potent, many of them with links direct to Otherworld."
"Like here," Tom said.
"So when the legends say the king needs to be woken to save the country in the bleakest of times, they're really talking about waking the power in the land?" Max looked up at the castle in a new light.
"Thompson found a horn and a sword near to the sleeping knights," Tom continued, obviously irritated that his story had been interrupted. "When he picked up the horn, the knights began to wake. Naturally, he was scared to death. He dropped the horn and ran back down the tunnel, and as he did so a voice came after him. It said, `Potter Thompson, Potter Thompson, If thou hadst drawn the sword or blown the horn, Thou hadst been the luckiest man e'er born."'
"Good story," Max said warmly.
They wound their way up for a while until they looked back and saw the lights of the town coming on before them. They all found it uncannily comforting; Richmond looked bright and at peace in an inky sea.
Tom followed the lines of blue fire as Church had done at Arthur's Seat until he located their confluence on an open spot on the hillside. The sparks flew like molten metal as he pressed his hand down hard. Within seconds, to Max's obvious amazement, the grass, soil and rock tore apart with a groan, revealing a dark path deep into the hillside.
Max peered in nervously. "Are you sure it's okay?"
"No," Tom said, and gave Max a shove between the shoulder blades that propelled him into the shadows.
Otherworld was bathed in the crisp, creamy light of an autumnal morning just after sunrise. Swathes of mist rolled across the wet grass at calf height. The air was rich with the perfume of turning leaves, fallen apples and overripe blackberries. Melodic birdsong floated out from a nearby copse that was painted gold, red and brown in the dawn light.
Max looked around, disoriented. "I don't get it."
"Time moves differently here." Church strode out towards gleaming white Doric columns he could just make out through another thick copse. "Sometimes faster, sometimes slower. It's not fixed."
Max's face showed his difficulty in grasping the concept of this new reality.
"Here are the rules," Tom said curtly. "Eat and drink nothing. If you are offered anything, politely refuse. Treat everyone you meet with respect. Never, ever raise your voice in anger. It would be best if you said nothing at all. Try to stay in the background."
"I'm getting a little nervous now," Max admitted.
"Just pretend you're in a different country with a culture you don't know," Church said. "You have to be cautious until you know the rules of the society, right?"
They moved quickly through the trees, the curling leaves crunching underfoot. Beyond, they had to shield their eyes from the glare of the sun reflecting off the polished white stone of their destination which rested in majesterial splendour among intricately laid out gardens. The Doric columns supported a portico carved with an astonishingly detailed tableau showing aspects of the history of the Tuatha De Danann. Behind it, the Court of the Final Word spread out as far as the eye could see, like some Greek temple reflected in infinite mirrors.
"It's enormous." Max's voice was laden with awe.
"It would seem." The door was made of polished stone. Tom was there first and hammered on it. His fist barely seemed to make a sound, but they could hear the echoes rumbling through the structure into the distance.
When dim footsteps approached Church and Ruth both caught their breath. Despite all they had seen, they were not inured to the wonders and terrors of Otherworld. The life forms were myriad and astonishing in their complexity; even with the Tuatha De Danann, one could never quite be sure what would present itself.
The door swung open silently, as if it weighed no more than a feather. It framed two figures standing in a cool, enormous hall dominated by a large, tinkling fountain and tall trees which oddly seemed to be part of the structure. The young man and woman looked barely in their twenties and were dressed in what appeared to be gleaming white togas, edged with gold braid. Church and the others' eyes had no trouble adapting to their appearance, which meant the Golden Ones were of low level and low power.
"Frail Creatures?" the young man said curiously, his beautiful face like marble, his heavy-lidded eyes moving slowly, like a lizard in the sun.
"I am True Thomas," Tom began. "You may have heard of me. I have been granted the freedom of your realm."
The woman bowed courteously but a little stiffly, her long, black hair shimmering as she moved. "Greetings, True Thomas. We are aware of your prestigious position."
Tom winced at this, although there was no irony in the woman's words. "My companions and I seek the aid of the Council of the Final Word. Are any of them present this day?"
"All the council members are concerned with the business of study, True Thomas," the man said. "A great deal was lost in the storm that followed the Wish-Hex and now so much has been opened up to them once more. The Fixed Lands for one. I am sure you understand."
Tom nodded slowly; Church was puzzled to see a grey cast fall across his face. "They are not involved in any dissections?" The young man said nothing. Tom composed himself and continued, "With the freedom granted to me, I would wish to wait."
"It may be some time. In your perception."
"If you would inform the council of my attendance I am sure one of the Venerated Ones would eventually find a way to greet me."
The man nodded and stepped aside so they could enter. They were led to a room off a long, lofty atrium. It was filled with marble benches and sumptuous cushions piled alongside rushing crystal streams cut into the gleaming stone floor.
"I wish I'd brought Laura's sunglasses," Ruth said feebly.
"How are you feeling?" Church gave her a hug.
"Still sick."
They arranged some of the cushions in a circle and lounged. "They're like the worst kind of arrogant aristocrats," Max whispered. Tom made a silencing move with his hand. Max nodded and continued, "How long are they going to keep us waiting?"
"Hours. Perhaps days. Maybe even weeks."
"Weeks!" Ruth said dismally.
Yet it was only twenty minutes before they heard movement in the corridor without. "Looks like you've still got some clout," Church whispered.
A deep, unfocused light glimmered across the white walls, as if whoever was approaching held a lantern, but when the figure emerged he carried nothing. And this time Church did experience the unnerving shift of perception; faces seemed to float across the figure's head, some of them sickeningly alien and incomprehensible, others cultured and sophisticated. Eventually he settled on a set of educated, aristocratic features that centred on a Roman nose and a high forehead with piercing grey eyes and full lips; his hair was long and grey and tied at the back in a ponytail. There was a sense of tremendous authority about him that made Church almost want to bow, although he was loath to debase himself before any of the invaders.
Tom, however, was already down on one knee. "You honour me, master."
"True Thomas. It pleases me to see you so hale and hearty after everything." His smile was broad and warm; Church felt instantly at ease. "And these companions, are they as resilient as you, True Thomas?"
"Oh, more so by far." Tom stood up and gestured to Church and Ruth. "A Brother of Dragons, a Sister of Dragons." Tom introduced them by name, studiously avoiding bringing any attention to Max. Then he motioned to the gentle, kindly figure while keeping one eye on Ruth. "You are honoured. This is Dian Cecht, High Lord of the Court of the Final Word, seeker of mystery, master healer, supreme smith, builder of the silver hand of Nuada-"
Dian Cecht waved him silent with a pleasant laugh. "There is no need to trumpet my successes unless you also tell of my many failures, True Thomas, and those I would rather leave to the shadows. I would thank you, Brother and Sister of Dragons, for the part you played in freeing us from the privations of the Wish-Hex." Church winced at the memory of how the Tuatha De Danann had manipulated them, made them suffer in the extreme, just for such an occasion. Dian Cecht gestured magniloquently. "Now, tell me your request."
Tom laid a hand on Ruth's shoulder and pressed her forward. "The Night Walkers have inflicted their corruption on this Sister of Dragons, Good Lord. We ask your favour in helping to remove it."
Dian Cecht nodded thoughtfully. "I sensed the whiff of the Night Walkers' presence. Their vile trail is too distinctive to hide. I would not have thought a Sister of Dragons would have allowed herself to be so tainted."
Ruth felt as if she had failed in his eyes.
"There is nothing ignoble in this suffering," Tom said in her defence. "This Sister of Dragons has proved the most hardy of her companions. She succumbed only in the face of overwhelming force." He paused, then added, "Much in the way the Tuatha De Danann succumbed to the first onslaught of the Fomorii."
There was a flicker of coldness in Dian Cecht's eye as he cast it suddenly in Tom's direction. "Ah, True Thomas, one would have thought you would have learned diplomacy during your time among us. Still, I am sure there was no offence intended, and I understand your point." He turned back to Ruth, now smiling warmly. "The Filid I am sure will sing loudly of your courageous struggle. I will do for you what I can."
As he turned to go, he spied Max hovering behind the others. "I see you have left this Fragile Creature out of your accounts, True Thomas."
Tom had the expression of a schoolboy who had been caught out. "He is here to keep a record of these great things transpiring in this world of ours."
"Ah," Dian Cecht nodded thoughtfully. "Then you maintain the traditions of the Filid. Good, good. Wisdom and knowledge needs to be recorded and disseminated."
Once he had glided out of the room to make his preparations, Ruth turned to Tom. "Who is he? Can he do the job?"
"I was speaking correctly when I said you were honoured. Dian Cecht is one of the greatest of the Tuatha De Danann." Tom flopped down on to a cushion as if his conversation with the god had wearied him.
"He seemed… wise," Max ventured.
"Wisdom is the essence of him. He has a vista into the very workings of existence. He sees the building blocks that make up everything, the spirit that runs through them. That is why he is the greatest of physicians, the deepest of thinkers, the best maker of all things." Although his words seemed on the surface to be filled with awe, there was a sour note buried somewhere among them.
"All of the Tuatha De Danann seem very different from each other," Church noted.
Tom nodded. "While obviously a race, they are all set apart as individuals-"
"So he's a top doctor?" Ruth interjected.
Tom sighed at her phraseology. "He is the god of healing in the Tuatha De Danann pantheon. He was renowned for guarding the sacred spring of health, along with his daughter, Airmid. It is believed it has its source here, within this temple complex, though no one knows for sure. Its miraculous waters can cure the sick and bring the dead back to life." Church stirred at this, but he didn't dwell on the thoughts that surfaced. "It can, so they say, even restore the gods."
Ruth could barely contain her relief. "So he shouldn't have any problem with whatever those dirty bastards did to me."
"Then he's one of the good guys," Max said.
"You could say that," Tom replied contemptuously. "The truth is buried in the old stories. When Nuada lost his hand in the first battle of Magh Tuireadh, Dian Cecht made him a new one out of silver. The Tuatha lle Danann were impressed by his handiwork, but it was not enough. Because he was not truly whole, Nuada was no longer allowed to lead them into battle. He coped as best he could with the shame, but eventually he turned to Dian Cecht's son, Miach, who was believed to be an even greater physician. And it was true. Miach knew the workings of existence even better than Dian Cecht. He grew Nuada a new hand, a real one, and fixed it on to him. A remarkable feat, even for the Tuatha lle Danann. Nuada was whole again and once more took up the leadership of the race. A time of celebration, you would think? Instead, Dian Cecht promptly murdered Miach for upstaging him. So, yes, a good guy. That's a fair description, isn't it?"
They all fell silent while they considered this information. Then Church said, "If he's such a big shot, why did he come so quickly when you called instead of sending out some menial?"
"Perhaps," Tom replied, "he was stricken with guilt." But he would not elaborate on his comment any further.
The young man and woman who had greeted them at the door were sent to fetch them an hour later. With Church supporting Ruth, who had been overcome by another bout of nausea, they were led into a massive precinct with a ceiling so lofty they could barely see it through the glare that streamed in through massive glass skylights. Vines crawled around the columns which supported the roof, while some seemed to have trees growing through them as if the stone had formed around the wood.
Dian Cecht stood in a shaft of sunlight in the centre of the room, next to a spring which bubbled up out of the ground. The water was crystal clear and caught the light in a continually changing manner. Although it had no odour, the air near it seemed more fragrant, clearer. They found their gaze was continuously drawn to its sparkle and shimmer, as if it were calling them on some level they didn't understand.
Dian Cecht was wearing robes of the deepest scarlet, which made Ruth instinctively uneasy; he was like a pool of blood in the whiteness of the room. A scarf of red was tied around his head, hiding his hair. He motioned to Ruth to come forward. She glanced briefly at Church for support, then moved in front of the tall, thin god. His eyes were piercing as he silently surveyed her face; she felt he was looking deep into the heart of her, and that made it even more worrying when a troubled expression crossed his face.
"What is it?" she asked.
He shook his head, said nothing. Beside him, a strange object lay on a brass plate that rested atop a short marble column. Ruth tried to see what it was, but her eyes strangely blurred every time she came close to focusing.
He bent over the object and muttered something that sounded like the keening of the wind across a bleak moor. It seemed to respond to the sound, changing, twisting, folding inside out, until it settled on the shape of a bright, white egg with waving tendrils. Ruth instantly recalled the creature she had seen in Ogma's library immediately after the operation to remove the Fomorii equivalent from Tom's brain. "A Caraprix," she said.
Dian Cecht smiled when he looked on it. "My own faithful companion." He said something else in that strange keening voice and the creature glowed even brighter.
"What are you going to do with it?" Ruth asked, suddenly wary.
"Do not worry. You will not be harmed." He took her hand to comfort her, but the moment they touched a shudder ran through him. "The Fomorii have weaved the darkness tightly inside you. I cannot see through it." He retracted his hand a little too quickly. "But my friend here should be able to penetrate to the periphery of the shadows and return with the information we need."
Church's heart leapt when he saw the pang of fear in Ruth's face. "What is inside me? What have they done?" Her voice sounded as if it was about to shatter.
Dian Cecht smiled a little sadly, then gentle brushed her forehead with his fingertips; she went out in an instant, as she had when Tom had utilised the same technique at Stonehenge. Church started forward, but Dian Cecht caught her easily in his deceptively strong arms and carried her to a pristine marble bench nearby. Church was shocked to see her skin was almost the same colour as the stone on which she lay.
The atmosphere grew more tense and Church had the uncomfortable feeling that a cloud had passed across the sun, although the light in the room remained as bright as ever. Dian Cecht knelt down beside Ruth's head and held the gently throbbing Caraprix in his palm. Church glanced to Tom for support, but the Rhymer would not meet his eyes; Max's face was still with queasy concentration.
The Caraprix was brought slowly towards Ruth's right ear. When it was almost touching, the creature burst into life, snapping like elastic in a wild blur before becoming something like a tapeworm that darted into the waiting orifice. Even unconscious, a spasm crossed Ruth's face.
Dian Cecht stood up and took a step back, fingering his chin as he watched Ruth with resolute thoughtfulness. Church fought to contain his disgust. He imagined the Caraprix wriggling through the byways of Ruth's body, probing into the nooks and crannies as it sought out the Fomorii corruption. But he guessed it wasn't like that at all. Instinctively he knew that if a surgeon cut Ruth open he would find no sign of anything unusual in her body at all; the shadow Dian Cecht sensed was lodged in the invisible shell of her spirit.
The moments went by agonisingly slowly. Neither Dian Cecht nor Tom moved, which made Church realise how very alike they were, although he would never have told Tom that. Max, it was obvious, was forcing himself to watch the proceedings: a trained observer, lodging every incident for posterity.
The tableau seemed frozen in time and space; and then everything happened at once. There was a sound like a meteorite shrieking through the atmosphere to the ground. Ruth's face flickered, then grimaced; finally she convulsed, jackknifing her knees up as if she had been punched in the belly. There was a blur in the air erupting from Ruth's ear and then a shush-boon as the shrieking sound crashed into the room with them; Church clutched at his aching ears.
The Caraprix, once more in its egg shape, lay on the floor, surrounded by a pool of gelatinous liquid, throbbing in a manner that Church could only describe as distress. Dian Cecht's face contorted, ran like oil on water until Church found it unrecognisable; it settled only when he was on his knees beside the Caraprix, scooping it up into his hands like a broken-winged sparrow, and then he was hurrying out of the room, the air filled with the terrible keening of the wind.
Ruth came round soon after with the sluggish awareness of someone waking from a deep anaesthetic. She made no sense at first, talking about a ship skimming across the sea, and then her wide eyes focused and locked on Church. He held her hand tightly, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Beads of sweat dappled the pale skin.
"What did he find?" Her voice was a croak. Church maintained his demeanour; she looked past him, at Tom, and then Max, and a single tear crept on to her cheek.
They wondered if Dian Cecht was ever going to return. He kept them waiting for more than two hours in the cathedral silence of the precinct. When he did finally arrive, he was not alone. On either side were the young man and woman who were obviously his attendants, and behind them at least twenty others, some with the stern, shifting faces that signified high power. A grim atmosphere wrapped tightly around them.
Dian Cecht spoke in moderate tones; the others remained silent, but it felt as if they were on the verge of screaming. "We cannot help you or your companions, True Thomas."
Tom stepped forward and bowed slightly. "Thank you for the assistance you have given, High Lord of the Court of the Final Word."
Church couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Hang on a minute," he said incredulously, "you can't just brush us off like that!"
Dian Cecht surveyed him with aristocratic coldness, his warm nature suddenly departed. "It would do well to maintain respect-"
"No," Church said firmly. "You respect me. I represent this world, these people. I'm a Brother of Dragons."
Tom stepped in quickly. "He has not learned the ways of-"
Dian Cecht silenced him with an upraised hand. "For all your power, Brother of Dragons, you are powerless. You are a Frail Creature. Your voice may crow louder than your stature prevails, but in essence that is what you are and that is what you will always be. And even by your own meagre horizons you have failed so dramatically that you are not worthy of whatever position to which you so feebly aspire." His freezing gaze washed over Church's face. "You have no notion what has happened?"
"What did you find?" Church tried to maintain equilibrium in his voice. His contempt for the Tuatha De Danann was growing; he wanted to drive them all from the land at that moment, Niamh included.
Ruth's hand closed tightly on his forearm. "Church. Don't." He ignored her.
"The Sister of Dragons has been corrupted beyond all meaning of the word." Dian Cecht's stare fell on Ruth, but he seemed unable to keep it there. "She is the medium for the return of the Heart of Shadows."
His words fell like stones in the tense atmosphere. There was a sharp intake of breath which Church guessed came from Tom. Church watched the Rhymer's hand go involuntarily to his mouth, but slowly, as if it were only confirmation of an idea he had not dared consider.
"What do you mean?" Church didn't want to hear an answer.
"The black pearl-" Ruth began.
"Was the essence of Balor, the one-eyed god of death, Lord of Evil, Heart of Shadows." Dian Cecht's face filled with thunder.
Church's head was spinning; he looked from Dian Cecht to Ruth to Tom, who seemed to have tears in his eyes, then back to Ruth.
"The black pearl, the Gravidura, was distilled over time by the Night Walkers to maintain the consistency of whatever essence remained from the Heart of Shadows," Dian Cecht continued. Church recalled the drums of the foul black concoction they had come across in Salisbury and under Dartmoor. "It is the seed. He will be reborn into the world at the next festival of the cycles."
Ruth turned to him, her face filled with a terrible dawning realisation. Tears of shock rimmed her eyes. "What are you saying? That I'm pregnant?" Her hands went to her belly; she watched them as if they belonged to someone else, with a look of growing horror. "Inside me?" She started to scratch at her stomach, gently at first, but with growing manic force until Church caught her wrists and held them tight. The look in her eyes was almost unbearable to see. "What will happen?" she asked dismally.
"When the time comes, the Heart of Shadows will burst from your belly fully formed." Church wanted to run over and hit Dian Cecht until he removed the coldness from his voice. "No Fragile Creature could survive that abomination."
Ruth looked dazed, like she was going to faint. Church slipped an arm around her shoulder for support. "Why are you treating her this way? She's a victim, not a-"
"She allowed it to happen."
"Don't be ridiculous-!" Church caught himself, tried a different tack. "Look, you've got him here, your arch-enemy. If you can get the essence… the seed… out of her-"
"We will have nothing to do with the corruption. Even to be in the same presence fills us with…" He made a gesture as if there was a foul smell under his nose.
"But it makes no sense! If Balor is reborn he's not going to leave the Tuatha De Danann alone for long. He'll wipe you out like he's going to wipe out everything-"
The words dried in Church's throat when he saw Dian Cecht's face flare with rage, become insubstantial, shift through a range of alien visages. He suddenly acted as if Church were no longer in the room. "We will deal with the Heart of Shadows and the Night Walkers if they become a problem, True Thomas-"
"Ifl" Church raged.
Tom moved quickly to push him and Ruth towards the door. "Quiet, you idiot!" he hissed. "You're close to having your blood boiled in your veins!"
"Leave now, True Thomas, and do not bring this foul thing to this place again." Dian Cecht turned sharply and led the others from the precinct.
The silence that lay in their wake was all-encompassing. Ruth dropped her head heavily on to Church's shoulder. "God…"
"Are you going to tell us your blinding revelation or what?" Laura tried to keep apace with Veitch as he marched back towards The Green Man. His face was flushed with anger and there was determination in every fibre of his being.
"I'll do more than tell you."
Laura glanced back at Shavi, who shook his head dumbfoundedly.
Veitch burst into the pub like he was looking for a fight. Most of the action group had already gathered there, hunkering in serious conversation at the bar. They looked up in shock as Veitch marched up. He muttered something to one of the group which Laura and Shavi couldn't hear and then he spun round and was heading out of the door again. Laura thought about catching his arm to slow him until she glimpsed his expression. She dropped back several feet and let Shavi move ahead to keep up with the Londoner.
Night had almost fallen by the time they had reached the area of large, old houses at the top of the High Street. Only a thin band of pale blue and gold lay on the horizon and that was disappearing fast. Veitch ranged back and forth along one of the streets, his fists bunching then opening, his breathing ragged. Eventually he found the house he was looking for. One boot burst the wooden gate from its hinges and then he was racing up the path.
The door was locked. He hammered on it so loudly the glass in the front windows rattled. "Open up!"
A hollow voice echoed somewhere inside.
"I said open up or I'll kick the fucking thing down and then you'll have nothing to protect you!" he raged.
Footsteps approached quickly and they heard the sounds of bolts being drawn. The door had opened only a crack when Veitch kicked it sharply, smashing it into the face of whoever was behind it. There was a groan as someone crashed back against the wall of the hall. Veitch pushed his way in with Laura and Shavi close behind. They didn't recognise the man who was desperately trying to staunch the blood pumping from his nose; it had streamed down over his mouth so that he resembled a vampire from some cheap horror movie. He was in his fifties, balding and overweight, with large, unsightly jowls.
But instead of berating him, Veitch marched past, glancing into the first room he came to before moving on to the next. He stopped at a large drawing room at the rear of the house. French windows looked out over a garden so big they couldn't see the bottom in the dark. The room was decorated with an abundance of antiques on a deep carpet; large, gilt-framed paintings hung on the walls and a log fire crackled in the grate, despite the warmth of the day. A piano stood in one corner.
Several people were gathered in the room, their apprehensive, pale faces turned towards Veitch, Shavi and Laura. There were four women, one in her forties with blonde hair so lacquered it resembled a helmet, the others in their sixties or older, but still well turned-out. The rest were men of different ages and shapes, but they had one thing in common which only Veitch could see: the vague air that the world belonged to them.
"I say, what do you think you're doing?" Sir Richard stepped forward from the back of the group, a glass of brandy nestled in his palm. His cheeks were slightly flushed; Laura couldn't tell if it was from the fire, the brandy or the interruption.
Veitch stepped forward and smashed the glass from his grip with the back of his hand. It shattered on the floor.
"Good Lord, are you mad?"
"I fucking hate toffs and rich bastards," Veitch spat. There was a note in his voice which made Laura's blood run cold.
Shavi stepped forward. "Ryan, are you sure-"
He whirled. "Yes, I am fucking sure! You two wouldn't even have thought of this because you've got a good outlook on life. You were brought up right in a modern world where everybody treats each other at face value, and that's how it should be. But there are still people out there, even in this fucking day and age, who think they're better than others, because they were born that way or because they earned a bundle of fucking cash." He turned back to Sir Richard. "Am I right?"
Sir Richard flustered indignantly. "If you're implying that I-"
"Shut the fuck up."
Laura watched the scene with a terrible fascination. The sense of irrational, uncontrollable threat that Veitch was radiating scared even her, so God knows how frightened the great and good of the village felt. She looked round and saw the dismay and worry marked in their faces; they looked as if Veitch was about to shoot them, then rob them; and with her hand on her heart, Laura couldn't say that he wouldn't.
Veitch turned to Shavi, but he was obviously talking to the whole room. "Let me tell you what happened. When the rich old lady was the first to catch it, this lot were horrified. They thought they were fucking untouchable here in their little sanctuary. But that was a big alarm: anybody could get it now the whole world had been turned on its head, and they had no special fucking privileges to protect them. And then when the drunk got it the little lightbulbs started popping over their heads. He was a fucking undesirable, a piss-head and a burden on fucking society. Maybe it wasn't even so bad that he got it. The village would look a lot prettier without his piles of puke in the gutter. And then they thought, it didn't have to be them who ended up as dead meat. There were a few more that the village could do without. Lazy layabouts without a job for a start." He put on a mock high-class voice, but it was still laced with venom. "Wasn't there a little pocket of them down in that part of the village we never went to, where those cheap, dirty little houses were?"
"Now hang on a minute! Those were our neighbours!" a tall, thin man in a dark suit said sharply. "We always got on well with them."
"You tolerated them because you were on top," Veitch snapped. "But when your backs were against the wall, you didn't have far to look for sacrifices. You knew those fucking creatures left you alone for a bit after they'd eaten. But you knew they couldn't get into a house without the door open. So what did you do? One or two of you fucking cowards went down after dark and jimmied a door open."
Laura suddenly realised why Veitch had been examining the door frames; he'd been looking for splinters where the locks had been forced. And she guessed from his past experience he had a perfectly good idea what a jimmied door looked like.
"So you consigned those poor bastards to be meat for another scavenging class we've all had dumped on us."
Shavi was looking from Veitch to the faces of the assembled group and then back; the truth of Witch's account was in the guilt that was heavy in every feature. But Shavi was still puzzled. "I do not understand. If all the doors were locked, the creatures would not have been able to get to anyone-"
Veitch shook his head. "You're too much of a good bloke, Shav. You've got to think like these bastards. They like cash. They'll do anything for cash. It's their fucking god. They hated being prisoners in their own homes. Couldn't make any lucre. But if those creatures laid low for a few days they had a chance to see if they could get their businesses going. Working their fucking big farms or trying to keep their fucking wine-importing business going or whatever the fuck it was." He turned slowly around to them. "That was it, wasn't it?"
Sir Richard began to protest. Veitch stepped forward and hit him sharply in the mouth; his lip burst open and blood splattered on his clean, white shirt. A gasp rippled round the room, and Laura realised she had joined in, so shocking was the image.
One of the old women started to cry. "I'm sorry-"
"Bit fucking late for that. Thought you'd get rid of a single mum last time, didn't you? Instead you got a poor kid."
"We didn't mean-"
"Shut up. Whose idea was it?"
There was a long silence while everyone in the room tried to read what his next actions would be. Finally Sir Richard stopped dabbing at his lip. "It was all of us. We discussed it together." There was an unpleasant defiance in his face that gave the truth to everything Veitch had said.
"Yeah? Fair enough." Veitch nodded reasonably. Then he slowly drew the crossbow out of the harness, loaded it and pointed it at the thin man in the dark suit; his face turned instantly grey. "We'll start here then."
"No, Ryan," Shavi cautioned. Veitch ignored him. He slowly tightened his finger on the trigger.
"No!" The thin man pointed a shaking finger at Sir Richard. "It was his idea! Yes, we all went along with it! But it was his idea!"
"You know what? I fucking thought as much. I'm a good judge of character like that. I know scum when I see it. And I knew you slimy fuckers would all be jumping to save your own skin when the shit hit the fan." He motioned to Sir Richard with the crossbow. "You're coming with me, matey."
"I certainly am not!" Sir Richard's eyes darted round like a hunted animal. Before he could move Veitch had loosed the bolt into the floor and had clubbed him on the side of the head with the crossbow. Sir Richard slumped to the floor unconscious.
Veitch coolly reclaimed the bolt and slipped it back into the harness with the crossbow. Then he bent down and effortlessly slung Sir Richard over his shoulder. He turned to Shavi and Laura as he marched towards the door. "I'll see you at the pub later."
"Where are you going, Ryan?" Shavi asked darkly.
"I said, I'll see you later." He tried to mask what was in his face with a tight smile, but Laura and Shavi both saw, and wished they hadn't.
The journey through the temple, across the autumnal fields, and out into the wide world, resembled a funeral procession. Ruth's face was like jagged shards of glass, her eyes constantly fixed on an inner landscape. She leaned on Church, for emotional rather than physical support, but his tread was heavy. Tom followed behind, unusually disoriented, with Max looking poleaxed at the rear.
In Richmond it was midmorning, the air heavy with an unpleasant heat. Insects buzzed in from the surrounding dales, and traffic fumes choked the market place. They had no idea if it was the next day or several weeks hence; although it remained unspoken, they all knew the date was now mightily significant.
In the back seat of the car, Ruth could no longer contain herself. She undid her jeans and pulled them down over her belly; there was an unmistakable swelling there.
"It doesn't make any sense!" Church protested to Tom. "There's nothing actually, physically inside her! Is there?"
Tom looked away, shaking his head; it could have meant anything. Ruth broke down in sobs of shock.
After they had subsided, she slumped on the back seat in desperate silence. Tom caught Church's eye and the two of them slipped out, leaving Max to keep an eye on her.
"There must be something we can do," Church said when they were far enough away from the car not to be overheard.
"Perhaps. But there is a more immediate problem. The Fomorii will never leave us alone until they have Balor back. Inside her is their entire reason for existence, the Heart of Shadows. They must have regrouped after the devastation in Edinburgh. Once they locate us their pursuit will be relentless." He paused. "They can't take the risk that you'll kill her to prevent Balor being born."
"Kill her?" The thought hadn't even entered Church's head.
Tom nodded gravely. "At the moment it's the only option."
Church cursed Tom furiously for his cold-heartedness, but his reaction was so extreme because he knew, if he could bear to examine his thoughts rationally, that the Rhymer was right. The rebirth of Balor meant the End of Everything. To prevent that, Ruth's life was a small price to pay. Rationally, objectively, from a distance. But from his close perspective she was so dear to him her life was more important than everything. How could he kill her? And he knew, with a terrible, hollow ache, that ultimately the decision would come down to him; one of the burdens of leadership. And whatever his choice, he also knew it would destroy him forever.
The atmosphere on the way back was thick with unspoken thoughts. Church could see Max was seething with questions, but he didn't feel like answering anything; it was too big to consider even in the privacy of his head. Ruth had dried her eyes and was coping with the shock remarkably well; somehow, that made Church feel even worse.
"That's why my familiar has disappeared," she muttered, almost to herself. "It won't come anywhere near me while that thing's inside me."
They drove with all the windows down, but even that couldn't disperse the oppressive heat in the car. They were sleeked in sweat, sticking uncomfortably to the seats, flushed and irritable. There wasn't even a breath of wind across the lush landscape; the trees remained upright, the crops and hedgerow flowers unmoving.
Max drove speedily along the empty roads, leaning forward to peer through the windscreen that was streaked yellow and orange with the remains of a hundred bugs. But as he rounded a corner, he cursed loudly and slammed on the brakes, the Fiesta fishtailing to a sudden halt. A stream of cars filtered past the turning they needed for the route home: ahead were the unmissable signs of another police roadblock.
"They did see us on the way here." Church grabbed Max's shoulder. "You need to back up and get out of here. Find a different route."
The words were barely out of his mouth when a spurt of blue activity broke out at the road junction; someone had already spotted them. Officers wearing body armour and helmets were tumbling out of the back of a van parked on the edge of the road; Church thought he glimpsed guns.
Max slammed the car into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. With a screech of tires, they shot backwards, but they'd only travelled a few yards when he hit the brakes. Church and Ruth crashed into the seats in front. Roaring out of a field behind them where it had been hidden was another police van, lights flashing.
"What now?" Max shouted. Before Church could answer he engaged gears, threw the car to the right and shot through an open gate into another field. The going was easy on the sun-baked ground, but they were still thrown about wildly as the car propelled itself over ridges and furrows.
Church gripped on to the ridge of the back seat so he could watch through the back window. The police were drawing closer. "I hope you watched The Cannonball Run," Church said.
Max grunted something unintelligible. All four wheels left the ground as the car crested a rise. They came down with a bone-jarring crunch and careered sideways on the dusty soil for a short way. "It always looked easier in the movies," Max said.
The police were only yards away when Max swore fitfully and suddenly drove directly at the barbed wire fence ahead. They ploughed through it with a rending and scratching and slid down a steep bank, bouncing over a small ditch on to the road with a shower of sparks.
The police vehicle followed suit, but when it hit the ditch its higher centre of gravity flipped it over. It smashed upside down and slid along the tarmac. Max gave a brief cheer as he watched the scene in the rearview mirror.
"Don't celebrate too soon," Tom said gruffly. They followed his gaze to the bottleneck of traffic at the police checkpoint.
A shadow had risen up ten feet off the ground beyond the vehicles. Its outline shifted ominously in a manner Church had seen too many times before. Max started to retch loudly.
"Don't look at it!" Church snapped. "Whatever you do. Keep your eyes on the road. Drive!"
Max couldn't resist one last look and vomited on to the floor between his feet. It deflected his attention from driving. The engine idled while he wiped his mouth, shook his dazed head.
The shadow moved, began to take on a sharper form. It was enormous, powerful, dense, seeming to suck in all light from the vicinity. It accelerated towards them, oblivious to the vehicles lined up in its path. A Renault flipped up end over end with a sound like a bomb going off, then a Peugeot and a Mondeo. A Jag folded up like paper in an explosion of glass and a rending of metal.
Church was transfixed; it was like a shark ploughing through water, leaving carnage in its wake. Cars flew like sea spray as it surged onwards. "Drive, Max." Church's voice was almost lost beneath the orchestral crashing of metal on tarmac.
It was relentless; as it built up speed it began to change, parts of the dense shadow detaching themselves and folding out, unfurling then reclamping themselves around the figure. It was like the horny carapace of an insect slowly building before their eyes, impenetrable plates, then something that looked like a helmet, but with horns or claws, and all of it in shimmering black. And still it moved.
Finally Church recognised his vision of the monstrous Fomorii warrior in the distorting cavern beneath Arthur's Seat; the same creature Veitch had seen at the ritual under the castle.
A People Carrier went over as if it weighed no more than paper. How powerful is it? Church thought. "Come on, Max!" he yelled again.
The urgency in his voice finally shocked Max into activity. The car shot forward, throwing them all around once more.
"Don't look in the mirror," Church cautioned; he knew Max, who was not inured to the terrible sight of the Fomorii, would black out instantly. "Give it all you've got."
The car began to race just as the Fomorii smashed through the last of the cars and started on the open road between them. Church could feel the thunderous vibrations from its pounding feet through the frame of the car.
"Is it gaining?" Ruth asked. She was clinging on to a corner of the seat to stop herself being thrown around.
"It's making the car jump around!" Max shouted over the racing engine. "I'm having trouble controlling it!"
Agonisingly slowly, the car began to move faster. It didn't appear to be fast enough, but Max kept his foot to the floor, bouncing up and down in his seat as if trying to add to the momentum. And then, although they hardly dared believe it, the bone-jarring vibrations began to subside a little. Church glanced back once more at the nightmarish image of the beast and saw it had started to fall back; but it was still driving on, and he knew that even if they escaped this time, it would always be somewhere at their backs until it had completed its frightful mission.
"We're doing it," he said. "Just pray we don't have another technology failure. And be thankful we've got an open road ahead of us."
Eventually the twists and turns of the road took them out of sight of the pursuing creature, although they could still hear it for several minutes after. Gradually, Church's heart stopped racing and he rested his face on the back of the seat.
"That's it," he said. "That's what they've sent after us."
"One of the things," Tom corrected. "Every resource will be marshalled-"
"Oh, God!" There was a note of hysteria in Ruth's voice.
Church took her hand gently. "Once we get back to the village we need to get moving again," he said. "We can't stay in one place too long."
"Why? We've only got to kill time until Lughnasadh. Then it will all be over," Ruth replied bitterly.
He didn't know how to answer that.
"We thought you lot were never coming back," Witch said when the car pulled up in the dusty High Street. He tried to hide his concern behind an irritated facade.
"How long have we been gone?" Church helped Ruth out, wondering how he was going to break the news to the others, in particular to Veitch.
"Three days." Veitch couldn't contain himself any longer. He stepped up so he could look Ruth in the eye and said tenderly, "How are you?"
She forced a smile. "Pregnant." Veitch looked shocked, then worried, and that made her laugh. They retired to The Green Man where Church, Tom and Max had a steadying drink and Ruth attempted to put a brave face on the end of her life.
Witch's face never flickered when they told him what they had learned, but Church knew he would never forget the look buried deep in the Londoner's eyes; it was the mark of someone who had discovered there wasn't a God. Veitch took a drink, put his arm round Ruth, cracked a joke and said they'd find a solution-they always did; all the right noises. But that deep look never went away. Church wondered how Veitch would cope the closer it got to Lughnasadh; and what his response would be if that terrible decision had to be taken.
The mood remained sombre while they caught up over drinks. Shavi's account of what had taken place in the village left the returnees horrified. Max looked dazed, then queasy. "I've known Sir Richard since I've been here. All those others too. I can't say I ever really got on with them, but I thought we were all coming from the same place. And I'm supposed to be a trained observer and a good judge of character." Despite the shock, his spirits soon raised as they always seemed to, and it wasn't long before he was feverishly scribbling everything down in his notebook.
Their attention turned to Witch's success in uncovering the deception. His ears coloured when Church congratulated him effusively; he looked genuinely touched by the praise.
"And I always thought he'd been clouted with the stupid stick," Laura said. "Looks like I'll have to find some other insults. Good job there's a long list." She was getting braver once more; and Veitch, for his part, seemed to take her words in good humour.
"But you haven't told us what happened to Sir Richard," Church said. "You couldn't really take him to the cops, could you?"
Shavi and Laura watched Veitch intently. "I convinced the bastard to leave town," Veitch replied coldly.
Finally it was time to go. Max offered them his car, an act of generosity that brought a warm hug from Ruth and a back-slap from Veitch, but Church knew the police would be watching for it. After a heated discussion they decided to make their way on foot across the deserted countryside far away from the roads, cities and towns, despite the dangers that might lie away from the centres of population; it would give them a better chance of evading the Fomorii while they decided what to do next.
It was midafternoon and still unbearably hot when they left the cool confines of the pub. There was still plenty of the day left to put them deep into the heart of the wild upland country. They shook Max's hand, waved to Geordie, who grunted gruffly, and then they wound their way wearily towards the horizon.
Max stood with Geordie in the middle of the street until they had disappeared from view. "Bloody rum bunch," Geordie muttered.
"No, mate, heroes," Max said. "They might not know it, but they are. They just need writing up. Some of the rough edges taken off them so people can see the wood for the trees."
Geordie grunted dismissively. "Not my kind of heroes."
"You're not seeing it right, Geordie. We're at war now. Under siege. In times like this the people need someone to look up to, someone who'll give them courage to keep fighting." He smiled tightly. "I reckon that lot fit the bill-if their story is told in the right way. And I'm just the man to tell it."
As they passed the outskirts of the village, Laura glanced up at the scarecrow which had unnerved her so much on her way in. She was surprised to see it looked different, although she at first wondered if it was a trick of the glaring sun. Squinting, she tried to pick out what had changed; gradually details emerged. It was no longer just a scarecrow. Something had been tied to it. She squinted again. Another scarecrow appeared to be hanging at the front of the original in the same crucified position, only the bottom two thirds of it was missing. And the head of the second one didn't look very good either.
But something was still jarring. Curious, she took a few steps forward so the sun was away from it. And then, in a moment of pure horror, she realised what it was. It wore a white shirt splattered with something dark near the collar. Instead of straw, something gleamed in the sun; bone that had been picked clean by the creatures in the fields.
Unable to mask her queasy thoughts, she snapped round at Veitch, suddenly aware of the dark, hidden depths of his character. She knew from his body language he realised she was watching him, but he never turned to meet her gaze. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, his expression cold and aloof.
chapter fourteen
wretched times
he clear blue sky was so near they felt like they were in heaven, the air so clean and fresh it burned their throats, which were more used to the particles and fumes of city living. There, high up on the dinosaur-backed ridge of the Pennines, they felt like they had been sucked into the thunderous heart of nature, or into the past where no chimney belched, no meaningless machine disturbed the stillness. Amidst outcropping rock turned bronze by the unflinching sun they picked their way through swaying seas of fern, down sheep-clipped grassy slopes, across bleak upland moors where the wind cut like talons.
Tom navigated by the sun and the stars, leading them on into the remotest parts of the land where the sodium glare had never touched. At night the vast spray of stars looked like a milky river leading them back to the source. They made their camps in hidden corners, dips below the eyeline, behind boulders and in low-hanging caves; all except Ruth took turns keeping watch over the dying campfires.
At times they saw things moving away in the dark or heard sounds that had little to do with any animals they knew; one night Shavi had a conversation with someone unseen whose voice switched between the mewling tones of an infant and the phlegmy crackle of an old man. When the sun began to rise, Shavi heard the mysterious stranger scurry away on many legs, an insectile chittering bouncing among the rocks.
Their decision to steer clear of any centre of population meant finding food was a constant problem, though they were thankful that Tom had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the roots, plants and herbs which grew in secret places where no one would have thought to look. He taught Veitch his many skills at catching rabbits and the occasional game bird, and how to snatch fish from the sparkling streams and rivers they crossed. When cooked on the campfire, the fare was mouth-watering; even so, they soon yearned for a richer and more varied diet.
"This feels like Lord of the Flies," Shavi remarked one calm morning as he watched Veitch carve a spear with his knife; he refused to use his crossbow for hunting.
"Let's hope it doesn't end the same way," Church replied; he attempted to take the edge off his words with a smile.
"Say, why don't you focus on the black side?" Ruth chipped in with cheerful sarcasm. After the initial shock she had put them all to shame with her bright mood, refusing to be bowed by what had been inflicted on her. Church kept waiting for her to crack as the black despair he was sure lurked within came rushing to the surface, but it never did, and as time passed he came to think it wasn't there at all.
"Look around," she continued. "This is the best there is in life. Stars you can see, food and water you can taste, air you can breathe. I've never felt as much at peace. You know, despite everything. Back in London, with work and all that, life had a constant background buzz, like some irritating noise that you force yourself to get used to because it's always around. Now…" She held out her arms. "Nothing. It's not there."
"It always takes a disaster to show you what you're missing in life." Laura's voice dripped with irony, but they all knew she was speaking the truth.
Ruth's health continued to be up and down: morning sickness as if she had a normal pregnancy, which always made her laugh darkly, aches and pains in a belly that continued to grow by the day, then times when she felt as robust as she usually did.
Despite the urgency they all felt with Lughnasadh approaching rapidly, they hadn't been able to reach any decision on what to do next. It was almost as if they were paralysed by the enormity of the task before them, and the certain knowledge that the repercussions of one wrong step would be more than any of them could bear. Instead, most of the days and nights passed in the denial of reality that was small talk, as if they were on a pleasant summer hike. If they could have brought themselves to examine what was in their hearts they would all know they felt there was only going to be one awful, unbearable option.
It was always Tom who was expected to find a solution; he was, after all, the one with the most knowledge of the new rules that underpinned reality. After five days of brooding and weighing of options, of trying to read the stars and muttering away in the thick groves, he thought he had a plan, but the others could tell from his face that he didn't give it much weight. He refused to discuss it there in the open, dangerous high country.
"Talk of such dark matters needs somewhere secure and comforting, where energies can be recharged and preparations made for what lies ahead," he said. Any questions were simply met with a finger pointing towards the horizon.
That night they made their camp in a sheltered spot on the southern slopes of Pen-y-Ghent not far down from the summit. It was a clear evening and after they had eaten they sat looking at the brilliant lights of the West Yorkshire conurbation spread out to the southeast.
After a long period of thought, Ruth said, "It's too big, isn't it?"
"What are you on about?" Veitch put the finishing touches to another spear; he was becoming expert in the construction of weapons.
"Look at it." She outlined the extremes of the lights with a finger. "They used to be just a few settlements. Then they became villages, then towns and cities, and now they're all merging into one. They're driving nature out completely. There's no human scale at all. People need to feel close to nature to be healthy, psychologically and physically."
"I thought you were a city girl," Veitch said.
"I was." Ruth closed her eyes for a moment. "I've changed."
"Perhaps this whole disaster happened for a reason," Shavi mused.
Ruth eyed him, her eyes bright, waiting for him to say what she was beginning to think herself.
"We have had Government after Government concreting over huge swathes of the countryside," he continued. "How many acres have been lost since the Second World War? How much of the ancient woodlands have been cut down? How many hedgerows torn up by greedy farmers? How much moorland destroyed by Army firing ranges? How many rivers polluted, chalklands debased, coastal floodplains disrupted? There was a relentless advance of urbanisation, of what was laughingly called progress-"
"And now it's stopped," Church said thoughtfully.
"Perhaps something drastic had to happen to redress the balance. To save the land." Shavi lay back with his hands behind his head to stare at the stars.
"What are you saying?" Veitch looked confused and a little irritated. "That the Bastards invaded us and slaughtered all those people just to save a few bunny rabbits?"
"Oh, they do not know about it," Shavi mused. "Perhaps they are just part of the plan."
"Plan?" Veitch looked to Ruth for guidance.
"The great scheme of things," she said.
Laura slapped her forehead theatrically. "Tell me you're not going to start talking about God!"
"There is always something higher," Ruth mused. "That's what Ogma said in Otherworld."
Shavi leaned up on his elbows to laugh gently at Veitch's expression. "We are only throwing ideas around, Ryan. Do not let it trouble you."
"Well, it does," Veitch said moodily. "I get worried when people start talking about God. There's enough to worry about down here."
"Exactly!" Shavi said. "We are all crabs living in an enclosed rock pool. Occasionally water rushes in, changes things around, adds something new. We do not know it is the sea. Because the rock pool is all we see, we think it is all there is. We are puzzled by the mystery, but comforted by the regularity of our existence. We could never see that an infinite variety of wonder lies just feet away, that intelligent beings roam that place doing miraculous things. We are stuck in the rock pool and we can never see the big picture. So why try to make sense of something we cannot grasp? Why not just enjoy the wonders the next tide brings in?"
There was a long pause and then Laura said, "You're getting up your own arse again, Shav-ster."
"What I don't get," Veitch said, "is how any of this magic shit really works. I mean, somebody does something, then miles away something else happens with no connection between the two. What's that all about?"
"Look at it this way." Shavi was growing excited that the conversation was moving away from mundane matters. "You play computer games, no? The same as Laura. You both know about cheat codes. You type the code in and it cuts through the reality of the game. You can do anything you want-walk through walls, get all the weapons or secrets. Be a god in that fantasy world. There is a writer by the name of Warren Ellis who described magic as the cheat code for reality, which, I think, is a perfect analogy."
Realisation dawned on Witch's face. "I get it! Blimey, why didn't you put it like that before?"
Even Laura seemed intrigued by this line. "Now those are the kind of cheat codes I could do with."
"This whole world now, it's all about mystery and discovery. It's like being a kid all over again," Church said. He thought for a moment, then added, "When I fell into the pit under Arthur's Seat, feeling like my life was going to be over in an instant, I saw the blue fire come out of thin air. Not thin air, that's wrong. From somewhere else, like Otherworld, but not there." He looked from Ruth to Tom to Shavi. "Where do you think that was?"
"The source of it all?" Tom shrugged, the ashes of his dwindling joint glowing red in the dark. "Is it really worth asking that question? Do you think we'll find out the truth? Not in this life."
"It is worth asking," Church insisted, "even if we can't find the answer. The asking is important. It-"
"Look at that." They followed Ruth's pointing finger into the sky. A serpentine silhouette curled among the stars, riding the night currents on leathery wings. Although they could pick out no detail of the jewelled scales, the Fabulous Beast still filled them with an inspiring sense of wonder; it was a sign of a connection with the infinite that always surrounded them. "You look at that," she continued dreamily, "and then all those city lights destroying the night… there's no comparison, is there."
Instantly the entire landscape was plunged into darkness; it was just another technology failure, but they all audibly caught their breath, the coincidence with Ruth's words seeming unnervingly meaningful.
"Spooky," Laura said. "Now make them come on again."
The brief tension punctured, they all burst out laughing, then lay back to watch the Fabulous Beast gently tracking across the arc of the sky.
Exhausted by their daytime exertions, Ruth, Tom, Veitch and Shavi drifted off to the tents long before midnight. Once they were alone, Laura slumped next to Church, her head resting on his thigh. She had trouble making any first move which might lead to affection, so her actions always followed the same pattern of casual contact. Church tried not to flinch or give any sign things had changed, but he felt guilty he hadn't yet brought the relationship to a close as he had promised Niamh. It was odd; once Niamh had left his side he felt less of an attraction, more inclined to stay with Laura. He was sure Niamh hadn't been consciously manipulating his feelings; it had simply happened, in the same way they had all been subtly influenced by the musical tones of Cormorel and Baccharus. Perhaps there was something in the nature of the Tuatha De Danann that made humans fall under their spell. The old fairy stories that had been based on the ancient memories of the Tuatha De Danann often told how hapless nighttime wanderers were bewitched by the soft voices of the Fair Folk. Even so, he had given Niamh his word. Could he break it? Did he want to risk offending someone so powerful?
"You're starting to become a cliche, Churchill. Sitting there brooding while you've got the world's most glamorous woman lying next to you." He realised she had been staring up at him while he had been lost in his thoughts.
"Sorry. You know… so much to think about…" It sounded feeble, almost insulting. She laughed, but he suddenly realised he could see something squirming deep in her eyes. "What's wrong?"
"We never really talk, do we?"
"You don't like talking."
"No." That look again, even though she was trying to hide it.
"Tell me what's wrong."
Her eyes flickered away from him; she pretended she was watching the dying embers of the campfire away near the tents. Then: "I'm scared." A pause. "And that was about as easy to say as swallowing nails."
"We're all scared."
"Do you think you can be any more glib?"
He sighed. "Don't try to pick another fight. There are easier kinds of sport."
"I'm not. You are being glib." Her voice sounded hurt, the first time he had heard that tone. "I'm scared something's happening to me. Inside."
"What, you're ill?"
"I guess." She flinched, looked unsure. "When that winter witch came after me in the club in Edinburgh something happened that I didn't tell anybody about-"
"Why not?"
"Because I was scared, you dickhead. Are you going to hear me out or talk bollocks for the rest of the night? I was trying to get out, thinking I was dead, regretting being a stupid bitch like usual, and I cut myself. Nothing much." She held up her finger and drew a faint line on her skin where the scratch had been. "Only the blood wasn't red, it was green."
"Some kind of poisoning?"
She shook her head forcefully. "When it splashed, it seemed to have a life of its own. It moved all over some bars on a window, broke them open." She stared at her hand as if it belonged to somebody else. In a quiet voice, she added, "I think I'm jinxed for life."
Church took her hand and examined it closely. Slowly, he turned it over; there was the tattoo of interlocking leaves that had been burned into her flesh on the island in Loch Maree, the mark of Cernunnos.
Gradually realisation crossed her face. "The bastard did something to me! I was so worried I didn't even think of that."
"Maybe. Seems like too much of a coincidence."
"And there are no coincidences," she added bitterly. "So what's happened to me? God…" She slammed her fist against the ground angrily.
"I don't know, but I'm betting we'll find out sooner or later. The way Cernunnos acted, he must have something in mind for you." He felt a surge of anger at how the gods continued to manipulate them all. "Look, you're obviously still healthy, still walking about, try not to worry about it-"
"That's easy for you to say! How would you feel if you'd suddenly got antifreeze for blood?" She brushed at her eye before he saw the stray tear, the only honest admission of all the churning emotions in her.
Suddenly he was aware of how fragile she felt, alone and worrying, trying to do her best for everyone else while keeping her personal fears deep inside. She was more of a mess than all of them and that was saying something: filled with self-loathing, unable to see even the slightest good in her character. Yet still trying to do her best. He brushed the hair from her forehead; she wouldn't look at him. He had responsibilities here too; no one else was looking out for her and she wasn't up to doing it herself. Once again he was trapped by doing what was right and damning the consequences. He couldn't abandon her; that would be inhuman. So what if Niamh found out? He could explain the situation. How bad could it be? Certainly not as bad as leaving Laura to fend for herself when she was at her lowest ebb.
"Come on," he whispered. "Let's go to bed."
Morning came bright and hard. Tom was up before everyone else, lighting the fire and boiling up the remnants of the rabbit stew they'd eaten the night before; it met with uniform disapproval, but there was no alternative so they forced it down despite their protesting stomachs.
By 7 a.m. they were on their way. Using Veitch's book of maps in conjunction with the sun, Tom strode out confidently. He still refused to give them even a hint as to their destination.
"I don't get it," Laura said. "Yesterday my feet were two big, fat blisters. Today they're fine."
Tom snorted derisively from the front of the column. "Don't you ever pay attention? Why do you think your esteemed leader healed so quickly after the Fomorii masters of torture were loose on him under Dartmoor? Do you think they simply didn't do a proper job? Why do you think Ruth has regained her-"
"What's your point, you old git?"
"It's the Pendragon Spirit," Church said. "It helps us heal."
"Pity Tom Bombadil up front hasn't got it, then. He could grow himself a new head when I rip this one off."
Tom replied, but it was deliberately muffled so Laura couldn't hear.
"Keep walking, old man," she shouted. "And watch out for those sudden crevices."
Not long after, Veitch and Shavi broke off from the others to see if they could catch something for lunch. They were wary of getting lost, so they arranged a meeting place they could easily pick out on the landscape. After an hour of futile tracking for rabbit pellets and scanning the landscape for any sign of game birds, they gave up and rested against a young tree which had been so battered by the wind it resembled a hunched old man.
Veitch cracked his knuckles, then progressed through a series of movements to drive the kinks from his muscles. Shavi watched him languidly.
"Do you want to talk about what has happened to Ruth?" he asked eventually.
"No."
"You should. It is better to get these things out in the open."
"You sound like the counsellor my mum and dad dragged me to when I was a kid."
Shavi laughed gently. "I am talking as a friend."
This seemed to bring Veitch up sharp for a second, but then he carried on as before. "I never thought I'd have a queen for a friend."
"These times have changed us all."
Veitch sighed. "You better not say any of this to the others, all right?"
"Of course not."
"'Cause you're the only one I could talk to about it. Yeah, it's doing my head in, course it is. I thought after going through hell to get her back from the Bastards that would be the end of it. And now this. It cuts me up thinking what she's going through. She doesn't deserve that. She deserves…"
He seemed to have trouble saying what he was thinking so Shavi gently prompted him: "What?"
"The best. Whatever makes her happy."
"Even if that is not you?"
Veitch looked away. "Yeah. I just want her to be happy." He was lost in thought for a moment, but then his brow furrowed. "What do you think's going to happen to her?"
"I do not know. I do know we will do our best."
"I know it looks black, but I just can't believe she's going to die. Everyone thought she was a goner when the Bastards had her. They didn't say it, but I know they did. But I never doubted we'd get her out for a minute. And I reckon we'll do it this time."
Shavi smiled; there was something heartwarmingly childlike about Veitch beneath his steely exterior. "You believe in happy endings."
"Never used to. I do now, yeah."
A sound like the roar of some unidentified animal thundered across the landscape. They both started, the hairs standing on the back of their necks. Something in the noise made them instantly terrified, as if some buried race memory had been triggered.
"What the fuck was that?" Veitch dropped low to peer all around.
They could see nothing in the immediate vicinity, so they crawled to the top of a slight rise for a broader vista. At first that area too seemed empty, but as their eyes became used to the patterns of light and shade on the landscape they simultaneously picked out a black shape moving slowly several miles away. The jarring sensation in their heads the moment their eyes locked on it told them instantly what it was.
They squinted, trying to pick out details from the shadow, but all they got were brief glimpses of something that seemed occasionally insectile, occasionally like a man. Yet there was no mistaking the dangerous power washing off it.
Veitch, who had seen it more clearly before, realised what it was. "It's that big Bastard, the warrior, that almost got the others on their way back from Richmond."
"It is hunting," Shavi said instinctively.
"Do you think it knows we're here?"
Shavi chewed his lip as he weighed up the evidence. "It seems to have an idea in which direction we are going, but it does not seem to be able to pinpoint us exactly."
"They've sent it after Ruth, the biggest and baddest they've got to offer. What the fuck are we going to do now?" He answered his own question a moment later. "Keep moving. We can't hang around."
They retreated down the rise, then hurried back to tell the others.
There was no further sighting of whatever was hunting them, its path had appeared to be taking it away to the west while they were moving southeast. Even so, they were now even more on their guard.
As the day drew on, dark clouds swept in from the west and by midafternoon the landscape had taken on a silver sheen beneath the lowering sky. There, on the high ground, the wind had the bite of winter despite the time of year; they all wished they had some warmer clothes, but they had only brought a few changes of underwear and T-shirts.
Dusk came early with the clouds blackening and they knew it was better to find shelter and make camp rather than risk a lightning strike in the open ground. The rain fell in sheets, rippling back and forth across the grass and rocks; the clouds came down even lower and soon visibility was down to a few yards.
Not even Tom's outdoor skills could find any wood dry enough to make a fire. They sat shivering in their tents, observing the storm through the open flaps. Eventually the rain died off and the clouds lifted, the storm drifting away to the east. They watched its progress, the lightning sparking out in jagged explosions of passion, the world thrown into negative, the martial drumroll.
Laura's voice drifted out across the camp site. "We need a band. You can't beat a light show like that with any technology." The wonder in her words raised all their spirits.
It took two more days to reach their destination. The first was dismal with occasional downpours. The going was hard in the face of the gale and the landscape was treacherous in the intermittent mists. They made camp early and slept long.
The second day was much brighter from the onset and by midmorning even the smallest cloud had blown away. Veitch, Shavi and Church stripped to the waist in the growing heat, prompting them to tease the women to follow suit. A mouthful of abuse from Laura brought their jeering to a quick end.
For the first time in days they had to cross major roads and avoid centres of population. They wound their way by Shipton and Ilkley, and whenever the moorland gave way to lanes they ducked behind stone walls every time they heard the sound of a car. After their enforced isolation they felt oddly unnerved when they realised the most populous areas of Yorkshire were close. Tom even claimed to smell Bradford and Leeds on the wind.
Ilkley Moor was almost mystical in the way it responded to the weather conditions and the shifting of light and shade across its robust skin. The green fields on the edge gave way to romantic bleakness the higher they rose, where gorse and scrubland looked copper in the midafternoon sun. There, in the midst of it, the sense of isolation returned, potent yet oddly comforting.
They knew the spot the moment it came into view. The standing stones glowed brightly, their shadows like pointing fingers. But it wasn't the sight of them; after only a few days away from the trappings of the modern age their senses were attuned to changes in the world around them, the crackling energy in the atmosphere that instantly seemed to recharge their flagging vitality, the feel of a powerful force throbbing in the ground as if mighty machines turned just beneath their feet; a sudden overwhelming sense of well-being.
Church closed his eyes and had an instant vision of the blue fire flowing powerfully in mighty arteries away from the circle. "There's nothing dormant about this spot."
Although he tried to hide his emotions as usual, Tom seemed pleased by Church's sensitivity. "This has always been a vital spot. Welcome to the Twelve Apostles of Ilkley Moor."
The twelve standing stones which Tom called the Apostles were roughly four feet high and hacked from the local millstone grit. "There were originally twenty," Tom said. "In the nineteenth century they thought it was a calendar and christened it the Druidical Dial."
Amongst the stones they felt instantly secure and relaxed, as if they instinctively knew nothing could harm them there.
"It feels like Stonehenge on a smaller scale." Ruth felt comforted and hugged her arms around herself.
"All the sacred sites used to be like this," Tom said. "Places of sanctuary. Linked to the Fiery Network. So many have been torn down now."
Shavi stood in the centre of the circle, closed his eyes and raised his arms. "The magic is vibrant."
"It's one of the places that remained potent, even during the Age of Reason," Tom continued. "In 1976 three of the Royal Observer Corps were up here. They saw a white globe of light hovering above the stones. Throughout the eighties there were many other accounts of strange, flashing lights and balls of light descending. That helped the circle regain some of its standing in the local community and every summer solstice there used to be a fine collection of people up here for celebration."
Church drifted away from the others to press his hand on one of the stones; he could feel the power humming within as if there were electronic circuitry just beneath the surface. It seemed so long since Tom had introduced him to the blue fire at Stonehenge, although it was only a matter of weeks, yet now it felt such a part of his life he couldn't imagine living without it. The image of Tom manipulating the blue flames that first night had haunted him and he had begun to realise it was something he desperately wanted to be able to do himself. Cautiously he removed his hand an inch from the stone and concentrated in an effort to produce that leaping blue spark.
Nothing came. Yet he felt no disappointment. He was sure it was only a matter of time.
They set up camp within the tight confines of the circle. In no time at all the earth energy had infused them, recharging them, healing their aches and pains, and Ruth felt better than she had done since Callander; the nausea had almost completely gone. Yet the moor stretched out so bleakly all around and the camp was so exposed they couldn't shake their sense of unease and the feeling they were constantly being watched.
For long periods, Veitch sat half-perched on one of the stones scanning the landscape. "See anything?" Church asked him while the others were preparing dinner.
He shook his head without taking his eyes off the scenery. "Look at it out there. There could be somebody ten feet away lying in the scrub and we'd have trouble seeing them."
"At least if that big Fomor comes up we won't miss seeing him."
"Yeah," Veitch said darkly, "but then where do we run, eh?"
When darkness fell, the sense of isolation became even more disturbing. There was no light, no sign at all of human habitation; they might as well have been Neolithic tribesmen praying to their gods for the coming of the dawn.
Their small talk was more mundane than ever, with none of the usual gibes or abrasiveness, as they all mentally prepared themselves for the discussion to come. Eventually Tom took out his hash tin and rolled himself a joint, which they all recognised as the signal that they were about to begin. Ruth suddenly looked like she was about to be sick.
"Over the last few days we have all done a remarkable job in avoiding the severity of the problem that faces us," Tom began. "That's understandable. It's almost too monumental to consider. But let's speak plainly now so we know exactly where we stand. Here in this circle we have the chance for ultimate victory in the enormous conflict that has enveloped us. And we face a personal, shattering defeat that will devastate us." Church was surprised to hear the raw emotion in Tom's words; the Rhymer had always pretended he cared little about any of them.
"What you're saying," Ruth said, her face pale but strong, "is that if I die, Balor dies, the Fomorii lose, we… humanity… wins. But if you're overcome by sentimentalism and you can't bring yourself to kill me, Balor will be reborn and everybody loses. And I get to die anyway, in the birth. That last point pretty much makes any debate unnecessary. Either way I die. So… we should get on with it as soon as possible."
"Hang on a minute-" Veitch protested.
"Yes," Church said. "I know you'd just love to be a martyr, but maybe we should see if there are any other options before we rush to slit your throat and bury you out on the moors."
"I'm just letting you know I'm prepared," Ruth said.
Shavi leaned forward. "The Tuatha De Danann, certainly at their highest level, seem almost omnipotent. Can we ask them to help us?"
"You didn't see Dian Cecht." The contempt in Church's voice was clear. "The Fomorii are corrupting in their eyes, and Balor is the ultimate corruption. They're not prepared to get their pristine hands dirty, even if they could do something."
"They're like a bunch of toffs telling the labourers what to do," Veitch said venomously.
Laura had been watching Tom closely while the others spoke. He had been drawing on his joint, inspecting the hot ashes at the end, as if he wasn't really listening. "You've got something in mind, haven't you?"
Tom seemed not to hear her, either, but the others all turned to him. "The Tuatha De Danann will not be able to destroy Balor's essence in its current form unless the medium for the rebirth is destroyed," he began. "But, as Shavi said, their abilities are wide ranging. It is possible they may be able to do something to help. I've seen some of the wonders they can perform…" His voice faded; he bit his bottom lip.
"How are we going to get them to help us?" Church said. "They don't want anything to do with anyone who's been touched by the Fomorii."
"I may be able to help." Tom drew on the joint insistently; it was obviously no longer about enjoying the effect or using it for some kind of consciousnessraising-he was trying to anaesthetise himself. "You recall around the campfire in the Allen Gorge, Cormorel told me my Queen had returned to her court?"
"She was the one who first took you into Otherworld," Church said. Whose immense power had taken Tom's body and consciousness apart and reassembled it, who had treated Tom like a toy in the hands of a spoilt but curious brat, his torment so great his mind had almost shattered. And the woman he had grown to love in his captivity and suffering. Church shivered.
"The Faerie Queen, humans called her. She was also known as the Great Goddess by the older races, and a legion of other names."
"So, she's, like, a bigshot?" Veitch said. "The Queen."
"There are many queens among the Tuatha De Danann, all with their own courts, although that term is about as relevant as any other when discussing them. But, yes, she is higher than most."
"And you think she will help?" Church asked, watching Tom carefully for the truth behind his words.
The Rhymer smiled tightly. "How could she not when her pet returns, rolls over and asks so nicely?"
The bitterness in his voice stung them all. Church knew what a sacrifice Tom would be making; after both the agonies and the crushing blow to his ego, to put himself at risk of facing it all again was more than anyone should be expected to do.
Ruth recognised it too, for there were tears rimming her eyes. She wiped them away, stared at the ground desolately.
"There is no guarantee that she can help, though?" Shavi asked.
Tom raised his hands. "There are never any guarantees."
"Then we should have an alternative plan." Shavi rested a comforting hand on Ruth's back; she shivered, seemed to draw strength from it. "We already have patrons among the Tuatha De Danann. Niamh-"
"I don't think I can ask her for any more help. She's trying to sort out Maponus," Church said; but he had a pang of guilt knowing that he was afraid to approach her after failing to end his relationship with Laura.
"More importantly," Shavi continued unfazed, "there is Cernunnos. Ruth saved him from the control of the Fomorii. Now she is in difficulty, perhaps he will return the favour."
"Yes." Ruth's eyes grew wide. "He said the Green was inside me." She struggled to remember his exact words. "He said in the harshest times, you may call for my aid. Seek me out in my Green Home."
"That's it, then!" Veitch said excitedly. "Plan A and Plan B. One of 'em's got to work!"
"We have to be wary not to get too in debt to any of the Tuatha De Danann." The weight in Tom's words gave them all pause.
"This is a desperate situation," Church said. "We have to take risks."
"I know," Tom said. "But you have to be aware there is always a price to pay, and that price may be very high indeed. Do not go into this blindly."
"Then what's the plan? How do we get to these freaks?" Veitch had latched on to the suggestions with the simple hope of a child; the brightness of relief lit his face.
Tom cursed under his breath. "I think a good starting point would be for you to learn how to treat them with respect. If you open your mouth like that you won't have a second chance to speak."
"Right." Veitch looked suitably chastened.
"The Queen's court is accessed under Tom-na-hurich, the Hill of Yews, in Inverness," Tom said. "It will be a long, difficult journey, so I propose to set off at sunrise-
"You're not going alone." Church didn't leave any room for debate in his tone, but he was still surprised when Tom didn't argue. Church quickly looked round the others, then stopped at Veitch. "Ryan, you had better go with him. We can't risk the Queen hanging on to him. There needs to be someone to bring back the goods in an emergency." He hated speaking so baldly, but he could see Tom knew exactly what the potential risks were.
"Not back up to Scotland," Veitch moaned. "We've only just scarpered from there."
"What about Cernunnos?" Ruth asked. "Where's this Green Home?"
"Cernunnos has been most closely linked with the site of the Great Oak in Windsor Park," Tom said. "The oak is no longer there, but the god is rumoured to appear at the spot which was the prime centre of his worship in antiquity. They say," Tom added, "he appears there most at times of national crisis."
"I remember," Church mused, "another legend linked to that site. About Herne the Hunter."
Ruth nodded. "Cernunnos said that was one of the names by which he was known."
"The legends say Herne was a Royal huntsman who saved a king's life by throwing himself in front of a wounded stag that was threatening to kill his master," Tom said. "As Herne lay dying, a magician appeared who told the king the only way he could save his huntsman's life was to cut off the stag's antlers and tie them to Herne's head. He recovered and became the best huntsman in the land. But he was so favoured by the king, the other huntsmen, overcome by jealousy, eventually persuaded the king to dismiss him. Herne was so broken by this he went out and hanged himself. And the king never had the same kind of success in his Royal hunts."
Shavi mused over this story for a moment, then said, "I feel that legend is more metaphor than fact."
Tom agreed. "There is secret information in all these stories that has the power to survive down the years. That one tells of how the people turned their back on the resurrective and empowering force of nature, how they suffered for it, and how nature suffered too. It was a warning, albeit a gentle one, compared with some of the legends.
"You see," he continued, as if the information buried under centuries of experience in his mind was starting to come out in a rush, "Cernunnos and his bright, other half are, if you will, the bridge between the Tuatha De Danann and the natural power of this world. In many ways, they are closer to us than they are to their own. It was a joining that happened in the earliest times, when the two gods pledged themselves to this world and, in doing so, the best interests of the people."
"You'd be good for this one, Shavi," Church said. "You're the shaman. You've developed all those links to nature. You should be able to communicate with Cernunnos."
Church felt Laura shift next to him and he knew exactly what she was thinking: Cernunnos had put his mark on her too; Ruth obviously wasn't in any condition to undertake the journey, but as a favoured of Cernunnos, Laura would have been a natural choice. Church hadn't chosen her because he felt she wasn't up to the task, couldn't be trusted with something so important; and she knew exactly what his reasons were. He felt a pang of guilt at hurting her, but he had to focus on the best interests of the group.
"When I get to the park, how do I contact Cernunnos?" Shavi asked.
"There is a story I recall from my long walk around the world in the sixties," Tom replied. "In 1962 a group of teenagers found a hunting horn in the forest on the edge of a clearing. They blew it and were instantly answered by another horn and the baying of hounds. It was Cernunnos and the Wild Hunt, with the wish hounds. The boys fled in fear."
"And the Hunt, I presume, did not depart until they claimed a life," Shavi noted darkly. "A price to pay indeed."
"Perhaps he won't appear in that form," Ruth suggested hopefully.
Shavi shrugged. "Then I seek out the horn."
Laura avoided Church's gaze when he looked from her to Ruth. "That leaves just the three of us," he said.
"You're sure we're up to protecting the Queen Bee," Laura said acidly.
"We'll do our best, as always." It wasn't a question he really wanted to consider too deeply.
Thunder rolled across the moor; a flash of lightning lit up the northern sky. "Looks like we're in for a storm." Veitch seemed happier now he felt he was doing something positive.
They watched the sky for a while, but the bad weather was skirting the edge of the moor, moving eastwards. Another flash of lightning threw the landscape into stark relief.
"What's that?" Ruth said suddenly. But the night had already swallowed up whatever she had seen.
"What did it look like?" Church asked.
"I don't know." Her voice sounded like she had an idea. She moved to the edge of the circle to get a better look.
"Don't go beyond the stones!" Tom said sharply. "The earth energy gives a modicum of invisibility here if there's anything supernatural in the vicinity. They'd have to stumble right across us to see us."
"I don't know…" Ruth peered into the dark, but it was too deep.
Another flash of lightning, moving away now, so the illumination was not so stark. Even so, Ruth caught her breath; this time it was unmistakable. A large black shape like a sucking void was moving rapidly across the bleak moorland.
"It's here." Her voice barely more than a whisper. She turned, eyes wide; the others could read all they needed in her face.
Tom rushed over and kicked out the campfire. "Stay down, stay quiet! It may pass us by."
At that moment twin beams of light cut through the night, rising high up into the sky like searchlights. A second later they lowered sharply as a car came over a rise and started to head towards them. The headlights briefly washed over the stones as the car came on to the road that ran within sight of the circle.
"Shit," Veitch said under his breath.
Across the quiet landscape music rolled from the car's open windows. Church unconsciously noted it was New Radicals singing "You Get What You Give," but that thought was just a buzz beneath a wash of rising panic. The car's engine droned. Young voices sang along loudly, male and female, four, maybe five of them.
"Shut up," Laura hissed to herself.
"Turn off the headlights," Veitch said.
As if anything will do any good, Church thought.
The car continued its progress, a firefly in the night.
Veitch spun round, his face contorted with anxiety. "We've got to get out there and do something! The Bastard will be on them in a minute and those poor fuckers won't stand a chance!"
Church hesitated; he was right, they ought to try.
Tom seemed to read his mind. "No! No one leaves the circle! If you go out there you will surely die. Even here, your chances are slim-"
"Fuck! We have to do something!" Veitch protested. Church thought he was going to cry.
"You go out there and die in vain, everybody else dies with you!" Tom's voice was a snarl that would brook no dissent. "You're too important now! You have to think of the big picture!"
Veitch was starting to move. Tom gripped his shoulder and Veitch tried to shake it off furiously, but Tom held on so effortlessly it seemed incongruous. Veitch half-turned, eyes blazing, but he didn't move any further.
Another diminishing flash, an instant's tableau: the dark hulk of the Fomorii warrior had risen up, started to change as its insectile armour clanked and slid into place, preparing to attack. The car trundled along, the occupants oblivious.
Ruth's eyes were tear-stained. She stared at Church, aghast. He winced, looked away.
"Maybe we could…" Laura stopped, shook her head, walked away until she was out of the others' line of sight.
Shavi was like an iron staff, his face locked, his eyes fixed on the feeble beams of light.
Suddenly there was a sound like aluminium sheeting being torn in two. Several stars were blotted out. And then the ground trembled. There was an instant when they all had their eyes shut, praying. But they had to see, so they would never forget. The darkness swept down like a pouncing lion. There was a crunching of metal. The headlight beams shot up in the sky. Singing voices suddenly became screams that must have torn throats. New Radicals were still singing, just for an instant longer, then snapped off at the same time as the screams. A second later the lights blinked out. More crunching. Silence. And then an explosion which rocketed flames and shards of metal high into the sky as the petrol tank went up.
Everyone in the circle was holding their breath. The universal exhalation came slowly, filled with despair.
"Get down!" Tom hissed.
They dropped flat so they could feel the vibrations in the ground, fast, growing slower. They didn't stir until they had died away completely. When they eventually sat up, everyone looked shell-shocked; faces pale, eyes downcast.
"We did that," Veitch said bluntly. He walked over and leaned on one of the stones, staring out across the moor. The crackling fire cast a hellish glare across the scrub, the smoke rising to obscure the stars.
Ruth leaned in to Shavi who put his arms around her. Church looked over to Laura, but she had her back to him, wrapped in her own isolation.
"You were right," Church said to Tom, "but I don't know how you can be so cold."
All Tom would say as he slumped down at the foot of a stone was, "Life's much more simple when you're young."
It was over an hour before they felt able to talk some more. Veitch still looked broken, the others merely serious.
It was Ruth who voiced the thought that was upmost in all their minds. "If that thing is hunting us, what chance do Church, Laura and I stand? Do you think we can possibly keep ahead of it until one or the other of you gets back?"
"No," Tom said baldly. "But I have a plan-"
"Well, yippee," Laura said flatly.
"There is a place not too far away that has the potency of this circle. Another blindspot. It is big, very big, and if you choose your hiding place carefully you should be able to avoid detection for…" He chewed on a knuckle for a second or two. "… Quite a while."
"That's not the wholehearted answer I was hoping for," Ruth said irritatedly.
"Where is it?" Church asked.
"In the High Peaks. It's a magical hill, more a mountain really, called Mam Tor, the Heights of the Mother, rising up 1,700 feet. The most sacred prehistoric spot in the entire area."
"A mountain to hide in!" Veitch said in astonishment.
"Great. We can play at being the Waltons," Laura said.
"The ancients recognised it as a powerful spot. Nearby there is a hill dedicated to Lugh, now known as Lose Hill. All around there are standing stones and other ceremonial sites, all looking up to the hill of the Mother Goddess. At the foot is the Blue John Cavern, where the semi-precious stone originates. A landscape filled with magic and mystery. The perfect hiding place."
"Great," Church said. "Now all we have to do is get there."
Church woke in the middle of the night with a familiar, uneasy feeling, but one he hadn't felt for a few weeks. He crawled out of the tent, feeling his stomach churn. Laura was on watch, but she was dozing near the dying embers of the fire; he would have to have a word with her in the morning.
Slowly he looked around the darkness that pressed in tightly against the stones. Nothing. The wind blew eerily across the moor, making an odd sighing noise in the scrub. He prayed he was wrong, but in his heart he knew.
"Where are you?" he said softly.
A second later a figure separated from the dark: indistinct, almost blurred, as if he were looking at it through a curling sheet of smoke. He thought after all his brooding, all the weighing of emotions, the logical acceptance, he would feel nothing, but the pang in his heart was as sharp as ever.
"How are you, Marianne?" He held the tears back successfully.
The smoke appeared to clear and there she was, as beautiful as when they had shared a home; when she was alive. She didn't speak, she never did, but he felt he could almost read her thoughts. Her face was so pale, by turns frightening and filled with despair.
"I should have known when they'd failed to find anyone with the big beast, they'd send you to hunt me out," he said softly. "Do they have a message for me, Marianne? Anything? Or have they just sent you here to break my spirit?"
A sighing. Was it still the wind, or was it her?
He smiled sadly, wishing he could leave the circle to try to touch her hand one final time, although he knew that was impossible; he had learned his lesson. He wouldn't break the protection of the stones and put himself under the malign Fomorii influence that inevitably surrounded her. "Did they think I'd fall for it all again?" His voice was low and calm; he didn't even know if she could hear it, anyway. "Tell them it won't work any more-I'm not as weak as I was. If anything, seeing you here, knowing what they've done to you, gives me more strength to carry on. I'm going to set you free, Marianne. And then I'm going to make them pay. If you can take anything back to them, tell them that."
He couldn't be sure, but he hoped, and he hoped: her face seemed to register the faintest smile.
And then she was gone.
chapter fifteen
the ravening
eneath the soaring vault of a gold and blue dawn sky they said their goodbyes. Less than a month remained until Lughnasadh. Conflicting emotions darted among them like electricity between conducting rods, but although the currents ran far beneath the surface, they all recognised the secret signs. Few words were said, but hands were shaken and backs slapped forcefully.
Church surprised himself by the depth of his affection for Shavi, Veitch and even Tom; there was the mutual respect of the survivors of desperate times, certainly, but also a recognition of qualities of decency and bravery which often lay hidden in modern life. It was uplifting to realise even damaged goods carried with them the blueprints for rectitude. He feared for their safety, but he had no doubt that if anyone could overcome such adversity, it was them.
Ruth hugged them all, although Tom looked uncomfortable at the contact; he walked away a few paces so the unpleasant experience would not be repeated. Laura too tried to appear aloof, but her repressed nods to each of them shouted as loudly as if she had thrown her arms round their necks. Then Shavi turned to Veitch with a broad grin.
Veitch brandished his hunting knife threateningly. "If you try to hug me I'm going to kill you. I'm not joking."
Shavi laughed as he pushed the knife to one side. He put his arms around Veitch and pulled him tight. Veitch was like a rod for a second, then relaxed and hugged Shavi just as warmly. It was an act of deep friendship, yet no one was surprised; they had all watched each boundary fall over the weeks until only Veitch had been left to recognise it.
"Fuckin' queen," he muttered as they broke off.
"Thug," Shavi responded.
Despite the gravity of the situation, there was more hope around than they truly deserved to feel.
When they finally felt ready, Veitch and Tom turned to the north and set off across the uneven terrain, carefully avoiding the blackened, still-smouldering wreckage of the car. Shavi, who was to accompany the others to Mam Tor before continuing to Windsor, led the way south.
Away across the moor a lone figure watched the two parties, as they had been watched for so long. The choice was difficult, but eventually the selection was made. As the figure set off across the scrub anyone could have been forgiven for thinking they were seeing an unfeasibly large wolf loping after its prey.
Mam Tor rose up majestically from the stone-walled, patchwork green of the surrounding countryside, a slab of imposing rock, brown and grey against the brilliant blue sky. None of them could believe how tall it was, how sheer were the cliff faces. Far beneath its imposing summit the two valleys of the Hope and Edale rivers stretched out, cool and verdant in the heat of the day.
"I can see what the old git meant." Laura's sunglasses protected her eyes as she peered upwards. "Nobody's going to scramble up there on a whim."
"Bronze Age people forged a settlement there because it was impregnable as long as food supplies lasted," Church said, harking back to his archaeological studies. "An excavation up there in the sixties found a stone ceremonial axe and other bronze axes. It was a ritual place for the Great Mother that protected them all."
"Let's hope it protects us as well," Ruth said.
Their journey to Mam Tor had been without incident, but they all felt exhausted from helping Ruth along the rugged route which wound like a clear, rushing river between the overpopulated, overbuilt sprawl of Greater Manchester and the industrial zone of West Yorkshire. As the days passed, her stomach had started to swell rapidly, straining at her clothes. With it had come a sapping of energy, as if her very life force were being leached from her; but somehow she still managed to keep going. Her nausea, particularly in the morning, had become debilitating, and they had to find regular supplies of clean water to keep her from dehydrating. By night she shook as if she had an ague, her face ghostly white, her skin almost too hot to touch, sweat soaking through even her jeans.
There, looking up at Mam Tor, she had somehow found the strength to stand unaided. It seemed right, important. The place was sacred to her ancestors. And the Mother Goddess, or one of them at least, was her patron now. She prayed this was the place she was supposed to be to survive her ordeal.
"Are you going to be all right from here?" Shavi brushed his long hair from his face where the wind whipped it continuously. He looked remarkably fit despite the exertions of the journey, standing straight and tall, his body lithe, his limbs loose. The others felt calm just being near him.
Church nodded. "We'll be fine."
"Speak for yourself." Laura surveyed the steep, precarious path that rose up to the summit.
"Watch how you go," Church said. "I'm sorry you've got to go on your own."
Shavi smiled. "I am comfortable with my own company. And I can travel faster alone." He hugged Church tightly before giving both the women a warm kiss. Then he turned and continued his journey south.
The wind became more merciless the higher up Mam Tor they ascended. "Well, it's going to be a lot of fun living up here," Laura said sourly. "There's nothing like the harsh elements to give a complexion that wonderful ruddy bloom."
"Just be thankful it's not winter," Church said as he strode off ahead. The truth was, he didn't know how well they would do. None of them had the trapping skills of Tom or Veitch and the environment was truly bleak and exposed. His only plan was to find a sheltered spot to pitch the tent, one which couldn't be seen from any great distance. Beyond that, it would be a matter of taking things a day at a time, which didn't seem the best strategy in the world when so much was at stake.
With Church and Laura virtually having to drag Ruth with each step, it took them nearly two hours to get a significant way up the tor, and by that time the sun had started to set. They turned and looked back over the breathtaking vista as the huge sweep of the country slowly turned golden in the fading light. It was an instant so beautiful they felt a brief frisson of transcendence that pushed their troubles to one side.
But then the high peak called again and they continued on their way. "We need to find a good site by dark." Church scanned the rugged, unforgiving slopes.
"Why don't you just go ahead and state the obvious?" Laura muttered.
"And why don't you just keep on sniping until I get really irritable?" Church snapped. "What's wrong with you?"
"Please don't argue," Ruth said weakly. "Let's just try to get somewhere quickly."
They bit their tongues for her sake, although the tension between them had not been given vent since Church had selected Shavi for the mission to Cernunnos. Church knew Laura had been hurt by the decision, but he couldn't understand why she didn't see it as a tactical choice instead of the personal blow she obviously considered it.
The night seemed to come in uncannily quickly, pooling like an inky sea across the countryside, rising rapidly up the tor. They were all too exhausted to look around much more and their calves felt like they were being burnt by hot pokers after the steepness of the climb.
Church was just about to select a campsite at random when he spotted a series of regular dark shapes among the gloom, hidden in a fold in the mountainside. They were too stark to be natural. He led them over to the place amidst Laura's protestations and was surprised to see an abandoned house hidden in the shadows. It looked like an old hill farmer's home, just three stark rooms on a single level. It had obviously been empty for some time; the door sagged on its hinges, the windows had been put out and the inside was strewn with the detritus of the years: a few slates from the roof, Coke cans, plastic bags, old newspapers, a couple of shrivelled condoms.
"Home, sweet home," Church said, slapping his hand cheerily on the door jamb. "Hey, I can believe in serendipity."
"I don't like it." Ruth stood a few feet back from the shadow the house threw, her arms wrapped around her. She looked it over like it was going to jump out and bite her. "It's spooky."
Laura marched past them both. "Well, I'm sick of tents and if it'll keep the rain and wind off, it's good enough for me."
"It's a good hiding place." Church could see he wasn't going to convince Ruth easily. "Nobody will be able to see us unless they're right on top of us."
"Look at this." Laura's voice floated out from the dim interior.
Ruth followed Church in with some trepidation, unsure if it was worse to be outside in the open night. Laura was pointing to a wall lit by the last meagre rays of the sun. It was covered in a mass of writing, some in huge letters, but vast swathes in an almost microscopic scrawl; most of it seemed unintelligible.
"Kids," Church said.
Laura leaned forward to try to read the tiny print. "They really don't have much to do round here, do they?"
Ruth stood in the corner, her arms still wrapped around her. From the corner of his eye, Church could see her gaze jumping back and forth, as if she was expecting something to come out of the corners of the room. "I feel like something bad has happened here," she said.
And at that moment the sun set and darkness claimed the land.
The rain started as Tom and Veitch reached the lowland slopes with twilight drawing in. By the time they had arrived at a main road, their clothes were soaked through and their hair was plastered to their heads; it was a hard, unforgiving downpour, uncommonly chill for that time of year. The cars hissed by, steaming in the spray, their headlights blazing paths through the night. Most of them were driving too fast for the conditions, desperate to get to the safety of their destinations before the deep night encroached.
After long deliberation during their walk, Tom and Witch had decided to eschew the established policy of tramping through the wilderness. With only two of them, they felt they could move quicker and with a greater chance of being unseen by picking up a vehicle and following the main roads north, at least up to the Scottish Highlands.
But after forty-five minutes standing on the roadside in the splash zone they began to question their choice. No one was prepared to stop to pick up a hardfaced, muscular young man and his older companion who looked like he'd done too many drugs.
"We're going to be here all bleedin' night." Veitch's voice was thin with repressed anger as a Volvo hurtled by in a white glare and a backwash that showered him from the waist down. "This was a stupid idea."
Tom removed his glasses to wipe the droplets off them for the third time in as many minutes. He kept his attention fixed on the stream of traffic.
"It's hardly bleedin' surprising, though, is it? We could be anything here. Everyone must know by now you can't trust stuff at face value. Once we were in the car we could tear their faces off." He took a perfectly timed step back to avoid the splash from a Golf. "I haven't seen this much traffic for ages. Probably 'cause it's a main route. Safety in numbers and all that. I bet the back roads are deserted-"
"You're talking too much."
"Nerves, all right? I'm worried about Ruth."
Tom stuck out his thumb once more with undiminished optimism.
"We don't stand much chance of winning now, do we?" Veitch continued. "I mean, I'm still staying hopeful we can help Ruth, but what's inside her…" He looked into the middle distance. "If it finds its way back, what's it going to be like?"
Tom didn't seem to hear him at first. Then he said, "When Balor led the Fomorii across the land in the first times, it was said daylight was driven from the land. In the eternal night there was only the stink of burning flesh and the rivers ran red with blood. Humanity was driven to the fringes of existence." His pause was filled with the rushing of the wind and the rain. "If he returns once more, there is no hope for anything."
Veitch chewed this over while the cars sped past, and when he spoke again it was as if it hadn't even been mentioned. "How long are you planning on sticking it out here before you realise nobody's going to help us? Come on. We better find some shelter."
"People haven't changed. There are still some who'll help out a fellow in need."
"Yeah-" Veitch began cynically, just as a 2CV indicated and pulled over sharply.
The passenger door opened on to a man in his early thirties, his face surprisingly open and smiling. His cheeks were a little chubby, his eyes heavy-lidded beneath badly cut jet-black hair which made him look more like a boy.
"Where are you going?" he said loudly over the white noise and rumble of the road sounds.
Tom leaned in. "As far north as you can take us."
"Okay. Hop in."
Veitch clambered into the back, scrubbing the excess moisture out of his hair, while Tom took the front. It was only when they were both settled that they saw their driver was wearing a dog collar.
"You must be mad hitching at this time, in this weather," the driver said as he pulled away.
"Needs must." Tom glanced at him askance. "We were counting on a Good Samaritan," he added wryly.
"There're still a few of us around." The driver laughed. "Actually, I had selfish motivations too. I wanted some company." He stuck a hand out sideways. "I'm Will."
Tom and Witch introduced themselves, then fell silent, but Will was keen to talk. "I've been down to London. Came down yesterday and stayed overnight. I've got a parish in Newcastle. Rough area, good people though. I'd be the first to admit it's been a struggle. Still, the last few months have been a struggle for all of us, haven't they?"
"There's been some trouble up there, hasn't there?"
A rawness sprang to Will's face and he shifted uncomfortably; he didn't appear to want to talk about that. "They've closed off part of the city. Terrible business. Terrible. But that's nothing new today, is it? Have you heard any news about what's happening?"
"Only what we've seen with our own eyes." Tom was enjoying the warmth of the heater on his feet.
"They say the Government is on the verge of giving up the ghost. Apparently they've set up a coalition, a Government of National Purpose. As if that will do any good. They're all politicians, aren't they?"
"Anybody who seeks out power should never be allowed to have it," Tom agreed.
"I don't think they've any idea what's going on at all."
"Does anybody? Do you?" Tom watched him curiously. He seemed a little naive and idealistic, like many younger clerics.
"Nobody knows the details, but we have all seen what we've seen. We know science is on the back foot. What should we call it-the supernatural, the strange, the wondrous? Those who believed in that kind of thing always struggled to identify it on the periphery of life. Now it's right there at the heart."
"I would suppose," Tom noted, "that you were one of those believers. Being a clergyman and all."
Will grew quiet, his face lost in the shadows between street lights. After a moment's contemplation he said, "Actually, that's not true. I considered myself one of the new breed. You know, trendy, the papers called us, because we had raves, flashing lights and dry ice instead of hymns. No time for the miracles and magic of the Bible. There was no truth in it, just a true way of living, little stories to teach decency."
In the back, Veitch began to doze. After the exertion of the last few weeks, the warmth, the rhythm of the wipers and the hiss of the wheels created a soothing atmosphere that made his limbs leaden. Will's voice was calming too; he began to drift in and out of the conversation.
"And now you think differently?"
"You're damned right." He paused. "Must watch my cursing these days. My basic belief before was: God is a supernatural entity. If there's no evidence of the supernatural-and I've never seen any-how could there be a God, a virgin birth, even an Ascension? But I carried on because the Church still did good, important work. And then the miracles happened. All over the country-lame people walking, blind people seeing, the dead reviving. All the cliched stuff. But this time there was evidence." He hammered the steering wheel passionately to emphasise his words. "There was a meeting in London. The General Synod was discussing all the monumental events that have been happening all over. I was still quite cynical until I heard all the personal testimonies, from every single part of the country."
"And you think these are some signs from your God?" Tom did little to hide the faint contempt in his voice.
"I honestly don't know. I'd like to think that. Some of my colleagues think the opposite. They say everything they've seen in the world proves there can't be a God-not our God, anyway. How can miracles be special… be miracles… if they're happening randomly every day? It's magic, they say, not God's work. And the reports presented at the meeting of-" he eyed Tom unsurely powerful beings-"
"Not God's creatures," Tom said.
"So they say."
"And you think differently?"
"Until I've seen them with my own eyes… If you believe God created the universe and everything in it, then he could have created the most bizarre, alien beings. Who are we to begin to wonder at His reason for putting them here? The scheme is too big, our perspective too small." He glanced at Tom. "I take it from your words you don't believe in God."
Tom grunted. "I believe in a higher power. Call it God if you will. The common belief is that people who have seen great suffering cannot believe in God, for how could God allow such things to exist? That is shallow and misguided. Only people who have seen great suffering can know without a doubt that God truly exists."
The vicar's brow furrowed. "How can you say that?"
"Work it out for yourself. That's the only way true wisdom comes." Tom watched the dark hedges and closed-off villages flash by.
Will didn't seem offended by Tom's brusque manner. "All I can tell you is what this means for me. Two days ago science told me there was no place for miracles. Now we live in this world where wonders are commonplace. And they may not be caused by nzy God, as you put it, but the fact that they are happening means that for me miracles are now truly possible. Anything is possible. And once I realised that, I just had to rush back to my church to tell everyone about it."
"Well, isn't that a conversion on the Road to Damascus," Tom said drily.
"I can understand your cynicism, I really can," Will stressed. "But despite all the misery that's been caused-and I accept there's been a lot-on a spiritual level, there's also so much more hope. All the things the Bible teaches aren't abstract concepts any more. Life has just become so much more, I don't know, vital. How can you worry about making more money or seeking out power when all this is happening? It focuses the mind on the truly important things."
They continued northwards, the rain finally drifting away to leave a cloudy, warm night. The conversation was punctuated by long periods of silence when they each wrestled with their own thoughts, but that was often too uncomfortable and they would be forced to return to discussing the state of the country and how much life had changed. Veitch was oblivious to it all as he slept soundly, stretched out across the back seat.
As the midnight hour passed and Newcastle drew nearer, the air being sucked in by the heater gained an unpleasant tang of chemicals and burning, Tom glanced over at Will; the vicar's face, oddly, seemed to have lost some of its youthfulness and his expression had grown darker.
"How bad is it back at home?" Tom asked.
A pause. "Very bad."
"You're aiming to pass on some of that hope you feel."
He nodded. "Something magical. The Church lost touch with that, with the reason why people needed it. There's been too much looking inward, too much rationalising and reasoning and not enough heart. Not enough magic."
The sky overhead was briefly lit up, as if it were daylight.
"Good Lord." Will leaned over the wheel to peer up into the sky. "Was that a flare?"
They travelled on for another five minutes without any further disturbance, but then something else caught Will's eye and he slowed the car down. "Look at that." There was awe in his hushed voice.
Lights were moving in complex patterns across the sky. Some were balls, glowing red or white, others cylinders that seemed to have all the colours of the rainbow on them as they rotated slowly.
"UFOs," Will noted.
"That's what they used to call them. Keep going, they won't disturb you."
Will glanced sharply at Tom. "You're saying they're alive? They're just lights."
"Just lights? There is no just anything in this world."
"Then what?" He looked back up to the heavens, slowing the car even further.
"Spirit forms, I suppose you would call them. Sentient beings that reflect what is taking place in our heads."
"How do you know this?"
"I've seen them before."
"They look like cherubs. Or angels." Will chewed on a knuckle excitedly. "Perhaps that's what they are. If they were seen in ancient times…" He paused, holding his head to one side. "I can feel something. Can you feel something?" Will didn't seem to notice Tom's lack of a reply. "It fills me with a sense of wellbeing. Almost of transcendence."
"That's part of their nature too."
A tear trickled from the corner of Will's eye. "You say they're, what, spirit forms? But if I say they're angels, who's to say which of us is right?"
Tom shrugged disinterestedly.
"It's all a matter of perspective." He pulled the car over to the side of the road, transfixed. The lights continued to bob and weave across the sky, their flares lighting the clouds like fireworks. Then, as Will watched intently, their movement ground to a halt. There was a brief period when they hung suspended in the heavens, and then gradually they shifted in unison towards some kind of alignment. A few seconds later they formed a blazing cross of many colours, hanging in the eastern sky.
Will caught a sob in his throat, but the tears streamed down his cheeks. "I've been so wrong."
The lights stayed that way for a long moment, and then the cross slowly broke up and they drifted away to lose themselves among the billowing clouds. Will chewed on the back of his hand; he appeared to be shaking all over.
Tom winced, then sighed, unsure quite how to say what he felt. "It might-"
"I know what you're going to say. It might not be what I think. I might be putting my own interpretation on it. But can't you see-that doesn't matter! It's a sign of something bigger. That's all we really need."
He sat for a while with his head resting on the steering wheel. When he did finally look up, he was transformed, beaming and optimistic. Seeing him, Tom couldn't help but think that perhaps he was right.
Will left them on the outskirts of Newcastle, where Tom caught up on his sleep in a back garden shed. The next morning they picked up a succession of lifts that took them north. They crossed Hadrian's Wall without incident and made better going across the Scottish Lowlands, with several other lifts taking them north of Stirling. They were dogged by repeated technology failures on the outskirts of Perth and, in frustration, decided to proceed on foot. Although it was rough going as they moved into the foothills of the Cairngorms, they knew it was also the best option for safety. With only the A9 as the main route northwards, their chance of discovery would increase tenfold in a vehicle.
The pines in the Forest of Atholl were cool and fragrant and filled with game birds. Veitch even brought down a deer with his crossbow and that night they enjoyed a royal feast, with enough meat left over to last them days. Beyond the trees they headed across the deserted countryside towards Ben Macdui, which dominated the skyline, rugged and brown against the blue sky. Crystalclear springs plummeting down from the peaks provided them with a plentiful supply of refreshing water and away from the pollution the clear air was invigorating; they both felt much better for it.
Their relationship passed through raucous humour, anger and mild bick ering, often in the course of a single hour. Veitch couldn't work Tom out at all; he got lost in the hidden depths of his companion, found himself unable to navigate the subtleties of his intellect and moods. But he couldn't shake the feeling that the stone-faced, grey-haired man was a fraud, trading on his reputation as some hero of myth. Tom seemed to have a great deal of knowledge about every subject, but he rarely volunteered it when it was needed, which was anathema to Veitch, who believed at all times in acting quickly and decisively.
With only twelve days remaining, they had been through a period of uncomfortable silence brought on by an argument over which was the quickest route to take across the hills. The uneasy atmosphere dissipated sharply when Veitch caught sight of a swathe of constant motion, passing across the lower reaches of the mountain range far below them. At first glance it appeared as if the land itself were fluid, rippling and changing in a dark green wave moving slowly across the landscape.
"What is that?" He tried to pick out detail from the glorious sweep of the countryside.
"Look." Tom pointed to what appeared to be a tiny figure moving ahead of the wave.
Veitch continued to stare until he realised what was happening: the wave was actually vegetation; trees were sprouting from the ground and shooting up to full maturity in a matter of minutes, and the uncanny effect seemed to be following the tiny figure.
"The Welsh knew her as Ceridwen," Tom said.
Witch glanced at him disbelievingly. "How can you tell that from here?"
"My vision is better than yours." Tom made no effort to convince Veitch. "Better than any human's."
"Okay, what's she doing then?"
"She's one of the Golden Ones-she comes from the family of Cernunnos. What is she doing? It looks to me like she's returning the primaeval forest to the Highlands, the way it used to be before all the trees were cleared for agriculture and industry."
"What for?"
"To her branch of the Golden Ones, nature is very special, and the trees and their living spirits are the best representation of that. She's bringing magic back to the land in a way that people will truly be able to appreciate. For wherever trees grow, magic thrives."
Veitch dropped to his haunches, balancing himself with the tips of his fingers. He caught a glimpse of black hair, flowing like oil, and what appeared to be a cape swirling behind Ceridwen, sometimes the colour of sapphires, then emeralds. "I don't get it. If they're supposed to be the enemy, how come they're looking after the land? I thought that was our job."
Tom shrugged. "On most levels they're higher beings. They understand the things we take for granted."
The Rhymer wandered off, but Veitch stayed watching the verdant band spread back and forth across the desolate landscape. It filled him with a tremendous sense of well-being that he couldn't quite explain, and when he took his leave five minutes later, he did so reluctantly.
They spent half an hour looking for a place sheltered enough to make camp in the bleak uplands and by that time twilight had turned to near dark. Despite the season, the wind had turned bitter again and there was a hint of icy rain in the air.
"I don't like this," Veitch said as he tramped breathlessly up an incline.
Tom grunted; he was in one of his moods where conversation was a burden.
"The dark, out here in the country." Veitch knew he was talking as much for himself, but it made him feel a little more easy. "I'm a city boy. It never gets dark in the city, even when it's night. You've got other things to worry about there, but at least they're always easy to see." He looked up. "The moon's full. It'd give us more light if not for the bleedin' clouds."
"You're not afraid of a few shadows, are you?" Tom snapped. His brogue had grown a little thicker now he was back in his homeland again.
"Ah, fuck off."
"City boys. You think you're so hard," Tom taunted.
Witch's anger flared white and hot for an instant; sometimes he was afraid of it and the way it seemed to take him over completely. He wondered, when he was in its grip, what he was really capable of. Before he could respond with a comment that would bring about another raging argument, he glimpsed a light high and away to his right that was quickly lost behind an outcropping. He pulled back until he saw it again.
"There's a place up there." The light seemed more than welcoming in the sea of darkness. "Maybe they'll let us bunk down for the night."
Tom wavered for a moment, but the prospect of a night with a roof over his head seemed too attractive. He pushed past Veitch and marched briskly towards the white glow.
It was a crofter's cottage, built out of stone, but still looking as if it had been hammered by the elements almost to the point of submission. Smoke curled out of the chimney to hang briefly and fragrantly in the air; it smelled of peat or some wood they couldn't quite identify. The ghostly outlines of prone sheep glowed faintly on the hillside all around. They both watched the place for a few moments while they weighed up any potential dangers, then, finding none apparent, Tom strode up to knock on the door.
There was a brief period of quiet during which they guessed the occupant was shocked that someone had come calling to such an out-of-the-way place. Then heavy footsteps approached. "Who is it?" a deep voice said in a hesitant Highlands accent.
"We were out walking. There looks to be a storm blowing up," Tom said politely. "Do you think you could give us shelter for the night? We-"
"No. Be off with you." There was a sharp snap in the voice that could have been anger or fear.
"Miserable bastard," Veitch muttered. "Come on, I thought I saw somewhere to make camp just over there. He's probably in-bred anyway."
Before they could move away another, unidentifiable, voice rose up from somewhere at the back of the house. They heard the man move a few steps away from the door and a brief, barely audible argument ensued. A few seconds later the door was jerked open so sharply they both started.
A man in his late forties with dark, unwelcoming eyes barked, "Get in. Quickly now!"
They jumped at his order and he slammed the door behind them, throwing a couple of bolts as if to emphasise his order. He was wearing a faded Miami Tshirt with old blue braces over the top holding up a pair of dirty grey, pinstriped suit trousers. His hair was curly black and grey, but his three-day stubble made him appear harsher than he might otherwise have been. He sized them up suspiciously, then beckoned them over to the fireside with a seemingly approving grunt. "Better get y'sen warmed up. It gets cold up here at night, even in summer."
He disappeared into another room and came back with a woman in her early twenties who had obviously been the source of the argument. Her face was bright and confident, as welcoming as the man was suspicious. Her hair was long and shiny-black, her eyes dark, and she was slim, in a clean white T-shirt and faded Levi's. There was something about her that reminded Veitch of Ruth, although her features had more of country stock in them.
"You'll have to forgive my dad. He doesn't know the meaning of hospitality." The father began to speak, but she silenced him with a flashing glare; a fiery temper clearly lay just beneath the surface. "I'm Anna. Dad here, he's James. Jim."
"Mr. McKendrick," the father mumbled in the background.
Tom and Veitch introduced themselves. "You've been having some trouble," Tom noted, slipping off his rucksack.
"Something's been worrying the sheep." Looking uncomfortable, McKendrick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Worrying? Savaging more like. Six dead in the last two nights. Eight gone last month."
"A wild dog," Tom suggested, not believing it for a minute.
"Sat up with my gun last night. Never saw a damn thing. Found what was left of the carcasses at first light."
Tom nodded. "I can see that would be a problem. And you thought the culprit had come knocking at the door?"
McKendrick ignored him. Anna stepped in. "Have you eaten? I could do you some bacon sandwiches?"
They both agreed this would be a good idea. While McKendrick pulled back the curtains to peer outside, Tom disappeared to use the toilet. Once Veitch heard the spattle of hot oil and smelled the first singe of the bacon he followed Anna into the small kitchen, which was barely big enough for the two of them.
She smiled when he entered and asked him to slice the bread. "You'll have to excuse Dad. He's been under a lot of pressure. You don't make any money with a croft at the best of times, and the last few years certainly haven't been the best of times. He cannae afford to lose sheep at this rate."
"You help him out here?"
"Don't look so surprised!" She slapped him playfully on the shoulder. "My mum died earlier this year. It was a shock to us all, but Dad took it really hard. Went to pieces, really. I was living down in Glasgow, having the time of my life, but I jacked it all in to come back here and get him back on his feet."
Veitch took the spatula from her hand and turned the bacon, but he couldn't take his eyes from her face. Her own eyes matched his, move for move. "That was good of you."
"Don't make me out to be a saint. Anybody would have done it for family. But no good deed goes unpunished, right? Now he doesn't want me stuck in a miserable life like crofting miles away from anything anybody could call society, and he doesn't want to lose me and be on his own either. So we sit here every night stewing in our juices."
"Must be pretty hard."
She shrugged. "So what about you? You don't look the kind to be hillwalking in these times." She looked him in the eye. "Nobody would be up here alone at night in the Troubles. Unless they had a very good reason."
"I have a very good reason."
"Tell me about it, then."
"I'm a big bleedin' hero trying to save the world from disaster."
Her eyes ranged over his deadpan face as she tried to pick the truth from his comment. Eventually she held his gaze, while a smile crept across her lips, and then she turned back to the cooker. But she never told him what she thought.
They ate the sandwiches in front of the fire. McKendrick thawed a little and even offered around a shot of malt which looked, from its unlabelled bottle, as if it had been distilled locally. Veitch still couldn't take his eyes off Anna. He didn't know if it was because she reminded him of Ruth or because of some other attraction, and that thought filled him with guilt about how fickle he really was. For her part, Anna seemed truly taken by him. While Tom and her father talked in quiet, serious tones by the fire, the two of them sat in creaking, threadbare armchairs in one corner, their lighthearted conversation punctuated with humour.
But at one point Veitch looked up and found McKendrick watching him with a cold annoyance bordering on anger. Veitch knew why, didn't care; life was too short.
They were disturbed shortly after midnight by a wild commotion outside: the undeniable sound of sheep in torment, deep rumbling from some unrecognisable animal throat that turned into a guttural roar. Veitch was the first to the window, but the light inside made it impossible to see more than a few feet. McKendrick had his gun and hovered hesitantly at the door, but Veitch was by his side before he had his fingers on the handle.
"Let me go first, all right?" The crossbow was in his hand as he slipped out into the chill night. He regretted it instantly. Even outside it was impossible to see much beyond the small circle of illumination from the croft's windows; he could almost feel the darkness pressing hard against him. He had advanced to the edge of the light before McKendrick came out with a powerful torch. He had never heard the noise the sheep were making before; it was frenzied and high-pitched and at times almost sounded like the shriek of a woman.
"Quick! Over there!" He pointed redundantly in the direction of the noise.
The determination in McKendrick's face didn't quite mask the underlying fear as he swung the torch round wildly. It flashed over undulating grass, the ghostly grey shapes of fleeing sheep, past something that was just a glimmer, but a splash of colour and a jarring shape that shouldn't be caught Veitch's eye. "Back! Back!" he yelled.
McKendrick retraced the arc. They caught a glimpse of a low shadow that moved away like lightning. Left behind was the carcass of a sheep, gleaming slickly, the white bones protruding like enormous teeth. It had been so torn to pieces they had trouble recognising which part was which.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God!" McKendrick hissed. "It is a dog!" He nestled the barrel of his gun over his forearm while still trying to manipulate the torch.
"Careful," Witch said. "It might be rabid."
The white light washed over more grass, its movement jerky with McKendrick's anxiety, so at times it looked like they were glimpsing images illuminated by a strobe: a rock that made them all start; a sheep running in their direction. The carcass again. The wind had whipped up and was moaning across the high land, scudding the clouds across the moon and stars so it became darker than ever. And against it all was the sound of the sheep's hooves constantly driving across the grass, disorienting them so it was impossible to tell where the dog was.
McKendrick gritted his teeth in frustration. "Stay behind me. If I see it I'm just going to let rip with both barrels. Might scare it-"
They had heard tell of animal sounds that could chill the blood; McKendrick had thought it poetic license, but when the howling rose up, at first low and mournful but then higher and more intense, they felt ice water wash through them. The primal sound triggered some long-dormant race warning that was so overpowering that their instinct rose to the fore and instantly drove them towards the house.
Just as their backs were at the door, McKendrick's final sweep with the torch locked on to a prowling shape, so fleeting they caught only a glimpse of golden eyes glowing spectrally in the light. McKendrick fired instantly, but they didn't wait to see the result. They slipped through the door and locked it firmly behind them.
"I think I got it," McKendrick said breathlessly with his back pressed hard against the door. "Winged it, at least."
Veitch wasn't so sure. Anna and Tom waited anxiously in the centre of the room; it was apparent from their faces they had been as disturbed by the howling. McKendrick and Veitch looked at each other, but it was the older man who finally gave voice to what they were both thinking.
"It was a wolf, I'm sure of it."
Anna shook her head furiously. "You're Joking! There haven't been wolves here for centuries."
"But this was once their homeland," Tom mused. "Perhaps they've returned."
"With the forests," Veitch added.
"How?" Anna asked. "That's crazy!"
McKendrick went to the window and peered out cautiously. "Crazy things are happening all the time these days," he mumbled.
"Are you sure it was a wolf?" Tom said pointedly. "Not a man?"
Veitch knew what he was implying. "Bit bigger than normal, but nothing out of the ordinary."
Anna looked at them both curiously, but said nothing.
"If you did hit it, we might be able to track it at first light. Follow the blood," Veitch said confidently. "It would be easier if we could see the bleedin' thing. We don't stand a chance out there in the dark."
This seemed like the most sensible course of action, so while Anna retired to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, the men sat by the fire, slowly feeling their heartbeats return to normal.
McKendrick retired an hour later, and while Tom dozed fitfully in a chair in front of the fire, Veitch attempted to make up a bed on the floor in one corner. Anna helped him, talking animatedly in a hushed voice.
"Sorry if I'm rattling on," she said with a giggle. "It seems like ages since I've had a body to talk to. Apart from my da', that is."
Veitch lay back on the collection of cushions with his arms behind his head. "He seems like he's got it pretty much together now. He's a tough bloke. Bit of a no-nonsense life he's got going up here. Maybe it's time to get back to your life."
She looked wistful. "I don't know. I can't be selfish-"
"You've got to be, sometimes. Otherwise you can just give up your life to all these responsibilities everyone throws at you. They'll never stop."
She stifled a yawn, then lay down next to him, staring up at the ceiling. "That sounds like a lot of sense. Right now. But then I'll catch him looking at Mum's photo and crying when he doesn't think I'm around-"
"Don't you get lonely?"
She turned to look at him with her deep, dark eyes. "Sometimes."
He rolled on to his side and propped his head with his arm. "You look like you like big fun. You're gonna go stir crazy in this place after a while."
"Sometimes I think I already have." She shrugged. "You know how everybody needs something in their lives they believe in? Well, this croft is Dad's thing. For all the blood and sweat that goes into it and the poverty that comes out, he loves it. He'd die if he moved away. It looks boring, bleak, hard. But then you get up on an autumn morning to see the dawn slowly moving across the mountains in orange and brown. And you hear the wind across the hillsides on a winter's night, almost like it's a real person."
"So what do you believe in?"
"Right now, looking after a man who raised a bairn while managing to keep body and soul together in a place like this. He's sacrificed for me. It's the least I can do in return. The very least."
Veitch rolled back, his expression faintly puzzled, vaguely troubled.
"And what do you believe in?"
That question troubled him even more. "Still looking for it, I reckon."
She leaned over and gently touched the tattoo on his forearm; her fingers were cool, the contact hot. "Tell me about these." She smiled with mock lasciviousness. "Do they go all the way down?"
Before he could reply, the door to the bedroom swung open and McKendrick glared out. "Anna! To bed. Now," he hissed.
She smiled at Veitch a little sadly, but there was nothing else to say.
The gale picked up during the night, whistling in the chimney and clattering around the eaves. Veitch woke repeatedly, reminded of Anna's description of the wind as a real person; at times he was convinced he could hear an insistent voice, warning or challenging. Over near the dying embers of the fire, Tom grumbled and twitched in his sleep. Veitch checked his watch: 3 a.m. Shouldn't be too long until dawn.
A rattling ran along the length of the roof. He sat bolt upright in shock an instant before he realised it was still the wind. He wouldn't be surprised if half the tiles were off come morning. He lay back down, but the rattling sound came back in the opposite direction.
His instincts jangled. Slowly he raised himself on his elbows and listened. It didn't sound like the wind at all. It sounded like there was someone on the roof.
A shower of soot fell down the chimney and the fire flared. His attention snapped to it, but his mind was already racing ahead. The resounding crash against the front door had him to his feet in an instant; it was so hard he thought it was going to burst the door from its hinges.
Tom staggered to his feet, still half asleep. "What… what in heaven's name…?"
Veitch ran to the window and peeked out. A large grey wolf which looked, in his state of heightened tension, as big as a Shetland pony, was hurling itself at the door. With each impact, the hinges strained a little more. Veitch struggled briefly to make sense of the wolf's unnatural actions before jumping back and yelling, "McKendrick! Bring your gun!"
But the crofter was already half out of the bedroom with his shotgun, looking dazed. "You better see this," he said.
Veitch ran into the bedroom. Anna was sitting up in a Z-bed, trying to make sense of what was happening. The curtains had been dragged back and outside Veitch could see several sleek wolves circling, all as big as the one battering the front door. The rattling on the roof echoed again; at least one of them was up there too.
"There must be eight or nine of them!" McKendrick said in disbelief.
"Have you got another gun?" Veitch snapped. The crofter shook his head.
Cursing, Veitch ran back to the living room and scrambled for his crossbow, suddenly aware of how feeble it really was. He barely had time to load a bolt when the door burst open and the wind howled in; the curtains flew wildly. The wolf struck him full in the chest with the force of a sledgehammer. He went down, winded, and then it was on top of him, jaws snapping barely an inch from his face. Its meaty breath blasted into his nostrils, its saliva dripped hot on his chin. He could barely breathe from the weight of it.
He forced his face to one side in desperate, futile evasion, anticipating the enormous power of the jaws stripping the meat from his skull. And then the strangest thing happened: deep in his head he felt an uncomfortable tickling sensation, like a dim radio signal on the end of a band. Slowly he found his face drawn back round until he was looking deep into the wolf's eyes, golden with the cold circle of black floating at the centre; they drew him in until he was lost in a gleaming intelligent soup, at once alien, yet a part of him.
The terrible spell was broken with the sound of smashing glass. Another wolf burst through the window and sprawled in the centre of the floor before righting itself. And then the rest of the pack was inside, circling low and fast. Tom tried to fend one off with a wooden chair. The wolf played the game for a second, then suddenly unleashed its jaws in a frenzied snapping that turned the chair to splinters in an instant.
From the corner of his eye Veitch could see his crossbow where it had fallen. Slowly he crept his hand spider-like along the floor towards it; it was already loaded, so he could put a bolt through the wolf's head with just one hand.
He was halfway to it when the wolf noticed what he was doing. A low, bass rumble started somewhere deep in its throat then rolled upwards into a bloodchilling snarl. Its movement was so swift Veitch barely saw it. Those golden eyes were shining before him, and then suddenly he was encompassed in darkness and the foul stink of the beast's breath. He felt its fangs sink into the flesh at the top of either cheekbone; fiery pain ran deep into his temple. It had his entire head in its mouth; it had to exert only slightly more pressure and his skull would shatter.
It held him like that for a few seconds while every desperate thought he had ever had rattled through his mind, and then, mysteriously, it released its grip. Before he could begin to fathom what was happening, it had released the crushing pressure on his chest and was padding away and out of the door.
All the other wolves had gone too, but the room looked as if it had been torn apart by a tornado. Shattered furniture lay all around, covered with shards of glass and torn material. Tom was slumped in a daze in one corner, but as he struggled to sit up it became apparent he wasn't badly hurt.
McKendrick, however, lay on his back half in, half out of the bedroom. His face was covered in blood and his gun was nowhere to be seen. Veitch scrambled over to him and raised his head so he could dab at the wounds with a remnant of curtain. After the shock of his appearance, the cuts seemed mainly superficial and it wasn't long before his eyes flickered open. Veitch began to speak, but the panic that flared in McKendrick's face silenced him instantly.
"They've taken Anna," he croaked.
The winds had moved off across the mountains with the first light of dawn as they picked their way across the chill, dew-laden hillsides in search of Anna. Veitch took pole position with Tom at the rear; between them was McKendrick, who looked like a spectre, his skin grey, his eyes filled with a painful desolation; it was the face of a man who had seen his entire world destroyed in an instant.
They hadn't been able to bring themselves to discuss Anna or what was likely to have happened to her after the wolves took her. Instead they had attempted to understand why the pack had acted so unnaturally, and there were no easy answers there either. And so, silently and unanimously, they had agreed to pursue the creatures to bring back Anna, or what was left of her.
Veitch felt numb. His emotions about Anna and Ruth had been so confused, although even his usually superficial self-analysis admitted that Anna's minor problems were a psychological substitute for Ruth's more intractable ones; solving the former had been his unrecognised key to achieving his heart's desire. And he had been thwarted again.
The track was easy to pick up, even for the untrained eye: flattened grass and too many splatters of blood, which they tried to convince themselves belonged to the wolf McKendrick had wounded. They made quick progress downhill, but there was no sign of the wolves ahead of them. The pack had moved away from the croft with alarming speed.
They soon found themselves on the perimeter of the new-grown forest, which already seemed to have attained its own ecosystem: thick forest floor vegetation, woodland flowers and a wide array of birds. Mist had settled in the depths of the valley and among the trees like candyfloss. The more they penetrated the shade beneath the verdant canopy, the thicker it became, blanketing all sound, obscuring what lay on every side.
After they had moved through it a little way, Tom pulled Veitch on one side. "This is insanity. If the pack attacks here we don't stand a chance. They could be circling five feet away from us now and we wouldn't know."
Veitch agreed, but he couldn't turn back. "If we retreat now we'll lose the trail."
"You can't help saving damsels in distress, can you?" Tom said sourly. "It's a pathological obsession."
"I might listen to what you're saying if you weren't so fucked up yourself." Veitch marched back into the lead with an irritation that came from knowing Tom was right. He had to save Anna because that was what heroes did. And if he couldn't be a hero, he had to be the person he always had been, and who could live with that?
They'd progressed about half a mile into the thickest part of the forest when they first heard movement, all around. McKendrick's finger jumped to the trigger and Veitch had to rest his hand on the barrel to calm the crofter; he looked like he was about to have a breakdown.
"Take it easy, mate," he whispered in a strong, calm voice. "You'll end up blowing one of us away."
McKendrick's bottom lip was trembling. He plunged his teeth into it and a trickle of blood ran down on to his chin.
The mist continued to distort the forest sounds; the birdsong seemed to come and go, and when they heard the vegetation crushed beneath loping paws it was impossible to pinpoint the location. But the pack was undoubtedly nearby, possibly surrounding them, as Tom had feared. Twigs cracked from somewhere behind them, grass or a bush swished just ahead. Yet despite the muffled nature of the sounds, something about them didn't sound right to Witch's heightened awareness; the weight burden was wrong, the movements not as sleekly lupine as he would have expected.
"They're moving closer," he hissed.
"How can you tell?" McKendrick's gun was wavering so much Veitch thought there was more danger there.
"I can hear things clearly." These days, he mentally added. He truly did feel a different person to the woolly-minded, sluggish old Ryan Veitch. The Pendragon Spirit had given him the chance to rise above himself.
Tom moved in close so only Veitch could hear him. "So what's the big strategy now, warrior-boy?"
A large figure shimmered in and out of the tendrils. "There!" McKendrick cried and raised his gun.
Another shape erupted out of the mist and knocked McKendrick flying; the gun disappeared into the undergrowth. Veitch lashed out instinctively and caught the attacker a glancing blow. It howled sharply before it was gone.
He dropped low, whirling around. "That wasn't a wolfl"
As if in response to his words, another figure dropped out of the air in front of him, obviously from a tree branch above. It was a man, but oddly different to any man Veitch had seen before. His long, matted hair was a deep black and his skin swarthy, with an excess of body hair. His bone structure was clearly defined above his sharp jaw, forming handsome features which suggested both pride and an incisive intelligence. He was naked, his body lithely muscled, filled with power. But it was his hands and feet that caught Veitch's attention; they were over-sized, the fingers long and gnarled, with sharp, jagged nails that more resembled talons. He was sweating profusely from his exertions and there was a sheen of forest dirt across his skin. Gradually Veitch's attention was drawn to his thick, dark eyebrows which menacingly overhung glowing golden eyes; Veitch knew instantly he had seen those eyes before.
Veitch went to lift his crossbow in warning, but the man raised his arm quickly with a strange hand gesture that had the little finger and index finger extended while the others were folded back; oddly, it was filled with a threat Veitch didn't feel comfortable opposing, and he let the crossbow drop.
"Who is this?" McKendrick said in a broken, uncomprehending voice. Tom helped him to his feet.
"The Lupinari have returned to the deep forests," the man said in a deep, almost growling voice which rang with an unplaceable accent.
Recognition suddenly dawned on Tom's face and he took a step towards the strange, beast-like man to communicate, but he was halted in his tracks by the same threatening hand gesture.
Tom held his open hands up, palms outwards; a primal gesture. "I never encountered your people in the Far Lands."
The man eyed him coldly. "Then you never ventured into the forests of the night."
"No, I never did."
The man let his hand drop slightly and used it to gesture around. "The Far Lands, for all their twilight appeal, were uncommon grounds to us. These are our homelands. This is our world, where we have hunted since time began."
Other figures began to appear out of the mists, both men and women, all naked, dark-haired and swarthy-skinned; they moved low and sinuously, like animals; occasionally their eyes gleamed like cats'.
"In the days of our ancestors, we lived side-by-side with humankind. The wild men of the woods, you called us, and in the dark wintertime you even came to look upon us fondly, as you yet feared us. For sometimes we would bring gifts to your door, and keep away the privations of the long, dark nights. For it is in our nature to help fellow creatures of intellect." There was a hint of anger in this last sentence. "Your people knew us, and our powers, and never hunted us, for they knew we never ate human flesh. For if we did, the taste of it would consume us and we would desire it ever more and there would be nothing but war between our races."
The other members of the pack circled round, filtering in and out of the mists. Witch kept a wary eye on them; the mention of human flesh had unnerved him.
"And if one of our people turned rogue, and ate mortal meat, we would hunt him down and destroy him ourselves," the leader continued. There was a long pause while he looked into each of their faces, and then he said, "But this night gone you did attack us."
Veitch suddenly noticed the splatter of dried blood across his left ribcage. "You attacked his sheep."
The leader fixed his cold eyes on Veitch. "But we never ate human flesh."
Tom took a cautious step forward to attract the leader's attention away from Witch's lack of diplomacy. "We had no idea the Lupinari had returned to these lands," he said in as conciliatory a tone as he could muster. "We would never wish to offend you. We would hope to live in peace, as we always did in times past."
Golden eyes blinked slowly, implacably. "Nevertheless, a blow has been struck. There must be some retribution before we agree a pact." His face contained no emotions they could understand, and they all feared the worst.
McKendrick had seemed in a daze to this point, but in that moment he appeared to grasp what was happening. "Not Anna," he whimpered.
"His sheep, given freely," Tom suggested hastily.
The leader shook his head slowly. "We had no knowledge they were his beasts or we would not have taken them. We can easily find other prey. For that is what we do."
"Not Anna," McKendrick said again.
"You better not have killed her," Veitch snapped.
The leader's eyes flashed towards him, filled with such bestial rage Veitch instinctively went to protect his throat. "I held your head in my jaws," the leader growled. "You are nothing to me."
"You don't eat human flesh," Tom noted. "You said."
As if on cue, another figure advanced from the mists; it was Anna. At first she moved with the sluggish pace of someone who had been hypnotised, but when she neared them, recognition dawned in her eyes and she ran to her father. They held each other, crying silently.
"What do you require?" Tom asked quietly.
The leader fixed his unflinching stare on the Rhymer. "For one night, every year, she will leave her father to be with us."
McKendrick's eyes grew wider. "What will happen to her?"
"She will learn to hunt with the Lupinari."
"To hunt?" McKendrick brought the back of his hand to his mouth. "My wee girl?"
Veitch saw something else. "She isn't going to stay around here forever."
The leader's eyes narrowed. "If the pact is broken the Lupinari will seek retribution through the hunt."
"It is agreed," Tom said.
"No!" McKendrick was blazing with righteous anger now. "I won't leave my daughter with these things!"
Tom placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "There isn't another way. If you want to save her life, and yours, then you'll do this." He turned back to the leader and repeated, "It is agreed."
The leader nodded slowly. "Then perhaps in times to come our peoples can live closely and wisely once more."
There was a note of conciliation in his voice. Veitch herded McKendrick away before he could put up any opposition, relieved that it hadn't come down to a fight, knowing they wouldn't have stood a chance if it had.
After a few paces he glanced back, just to be sure they were not being followed. But all he saw were vague impressions as the Lupinari melted back into the mist, and not a single footfall was heard to mark their passing.
Back at the croft McKendrick was in a state of shock, but Anna seemed to have accepted her tribulation with equanimity. When she saw Veitch watching her intently, she left her father sitting on the floor next to the hearth and pulled him to one side.
"No grim faces now," she cautioned with a gentle finger on his cheek. "It's not the end of the world."
"You don't know what they'll be expecting of you on your nights with them."
"I'll deal with it when it happens."
"And it's going to be hard for you ever to get away from here now."
"What's to stop me coming back just for the night?" But they both knew it wasn't going to happen. "I just wanted to say, thanks for helping us." She seemed to read every troubled thought passing through his head. Then she took his face in her hands, stood on tiptoes and gave him a long, deep kiss. Afterwards she said, "It's a shame you have to go-"
"I have to."
"I know. But it's a shame." And then she smiled once and turned to her father. Veitch watched her for a while, kneeling next to McKendrick, one hand round his shoulder, whispering comforting words that only the two of them could hear. But then Tom caught his eye and nodded towards the door.
They made their goodbyes as best they could, and then when they were out walking over the sun-drenched hillsides, Veitch asked, "Is this always how it is?"
"What do you mean?"
"When you're trying to do the right thing in the world. When you've got all these responsibilities. Like a big fucking rock on your shoulder."
Oddly, Tom appeared pleasantly surprised by the comment. He clapped Veitch warmly on the shoulder. "That's how it is. You get your reward later."
"How much later?"
Tom's tight smile seemed filled with meaning, but Veitch couldn't understand it at all. "Much, much later," the Rhymer said before turning his attention to the path ahead.
They walked nonstop for the next day across the exhausting mountainous landscape and made camp in a gorge as night fell. They hadn't seen or heard anyone since they had left the croft; in the desolation, humanity could have been stripped from the face of the planet and they would never have known.
Since he had left Anna, Veitch hadn't been able to settle. He had found his thoughts turning to the others he had spent so long with over the past months. Why did they act the way they did? Why did they say one thing while believing another? His own thoughts had always moved swiftly and directly into words, and in the past he had judged others by the same standard, although he had known subconsciously that was rarely the case. And finally his attention had turned to Tom; he had spent the day secretly watching the way he moved, the subtleties of his facial expressions, his strange choice of words, and by the evening he knew that he didn't know the man at all.
As they sat around the fire finishing up the last of the provisions McKendrick had given them, the questions were plaguing Veitch so much he couldn't keep them in any longer. "You said yesterday your eyes were better than mine." Tom nodded. "How much else has changed?"
The Rhymer prodded the fire, sending the sparks soaring. "A great deal."
"Like what?"
"I can hear better. Smell things more acutely. Can't really taste very much any more, though."
Veitch gnawed on a crust while he thought. "If a doc cut you open," he began, "what would he find inside?"
Tom stared into the fire, said nothing.
"If you don't want to talk about it-"
"I don't think I'm quite human any more."
"Don't think?" Veitch watched Tom's face in the firelight, wondering why it was always so hard to tell what he was thinking or feeling.
"I don't know. I don't know if I should be here with people, or back in Otherworld with the rest of the strange things. I don't know if I can trust my feelings, if I really have any feelings, or if I just pretend to myself I have feelings. I don't know if I cut myself open if I'll find straw inside, or diamonds, or fishes, or if all the component parts are there, just in the wrong order." He continued to watch the flames.
Veitch had a sudden, sweeping awareness of Tom's tragedy. He had lost everything; not just his family and friends, who were separated from him by centuries, but his kinship with humanity, his sense of who or what he was. He was more alone than anyone ever could be. Yet he still wished and hoped and felt and yearned; and he still tried to do his best for everyone, despite his own suffering.
"I think you're just a bloke, like me and the others," Veitch said.
Tom looked at him curiously.
"And I think you'll find what you're looking for."
Tom returned his attention to the fire. "Thank you for that."
"It must be hard to go back to that bitch who wrecked your life."
Tom remained silent, but Witch noticed the faint tremor of a nerve near his mouth.
"You know when I said I couldn't understand why everybody thought you were a hero. I'm sorry about that."
Tom threw some more wood on the fire and it crackled like gunfire. "We need to get some sleep."
"Okay, I'll take first watch." He stood up and stretched, breathing deeply of the night air. "What are we going to find when we get where we're going?"
"Everything we ever dreamed of." Tom wandered towards the tent. "And everything we ever feared."
Tom had been in the tent barely five minutes when an awful sound echoed between the steep walls of the gorge. All the hairs on the back of Veitch's neck stood erect instantly and a queasy sensation burrowed deep in the pit of his stomach. Veitch hoped it was just an unusual effect of the wind rushing down from the mountains, but then Tom came scrambling out of the tent, his face unnaturally pale, and Veitch knew his first instincts were correct: it was the crying of a woman burdened by an unbearable grief.
At first he wondered if it was Anna, who had followed them, but Tom caught at his sleeve as he made to investigate. "Don't. You won't find anyone."
"What do you mean?" Veitch felt strangely cold; his left hand was trembling.
"You can always hear the Caoineag's lament, but you will never see her."
Veitch peered into the dark. The wailing set his teeth on edge, dragged out a wave of despair from deep within him. He wanted to crawl into the tent and never come out again. "What is it?"
"She is one of the sisters of the Washer at the Ford." Tom's voice was so low Veitch could barely hear it. "A grim spirit."
"Is this her place, up here in the mountains?"
Tom shook his head. "She is here for us."
"For us?" Veitch dreaded what Tom was to say next.
"Those who hear the sound of the Caoineag's mourning are doomed to face death or great sorrow." And with that he turned and dismally retreated to the tent.
chapter sixteen
on the night road
he light from the fire glowed through the trees like a beacon in the darkness of the night. Another technology failure had left Shavi breathless as the sea of illumination that spread out across the Midlands winked out in an instant; even after all this time it still chilled him deeply to see it.
He had just been coming down the final, gentle slopes of the Pennines after Ashbourne when it happened. He never travelled at night, particularly in the wild country, but he wanted to complete the last leg of that difficult part of the journey before he reached the more comforting built-up areas that lay towards the south. Now he wondered if he had made the wrong decision.
More than anything, he was aware of time running away from him; Lughnasadh was only eleven days away, little enough time to put everything right. He still found it hard to believe their great victory in Edinburgh had turned to such a potentially huge failure. His mind kept flashing back to Ruth and the suffering she must be feeling. But more, he was aware of the looming presence of Balor, in the shadows beneath the trees, or the chill in the wind, or the deep dark of a cloudy night. There had been no sign of the Fomorii, but he knew they were out there, searching for him. He could palpably sense the god of death and evil close to their reality. He felt it like a queasiness in the pit of his stomach and in the many dreams that had increasingly afflicted his sleep. An overpowering atmosphere of dread was beginning to fall over everything he saw and heard.
Although the night was warm and there were plenty of stars, a smattering of clouds kept obscuring the moon. That made the darkness almost impenetrable and he was sure he could hear something moving nearby. On several occasions he had been convinced someone was following; not too close, but tracking him from afar, sometimes off to one side, sometimes the other, always out of sight. He tried to pretend it was paranoia, but he had learned to trust his sharpened senses.
His main comfort was that if it were some kind of stalking beast, it had had plenty of opportunity to attack him while he slept. Yet it kept its distance, almost as if it were sizing him up. A twig snapped, too loud in the still of the night. He looked round briefly, then hurried towards the fire.
Almost forty people were seated around a blazing campfire next to a copse on the edge of a field. In the gloom beyond were parked a motley collection of vehicles: a black, single-decker bus of fifties vintage, a beat-up Luton van spray-painted in Day-Glo colours, other coaches, obsolete and heavily modified, minibuses stocked high with effects. The gathered crowd were obviously travellers, camouflaged by old army fatigues, leather and denim, hair long, spikey or shorn, piercings glinting everywhere, tattoos glowing darkly in the flickering light. They were all ages: children playing on the edge of the firelight, a few babes in arms, several pensioners, and a good selection of those in their twenties, thirties, forties and fifties. The hubbub of conversation that drowned out the cracking, spitting wood dried up the moment Shavi stepped into the circle of light.
Shavi scanned their faces, expecting the suspicion and anger that came when a tight-knit group was disrupted, but there was nothing. He looked for anyone who might be a leader or spokesman.
A thickset man with long black hair and a bushy beard waved Shavi over with a lazy motion of an arm as thick as Shavi's thigh. He wore a cut-off denim jacket over a bare chest and had a gold band straining around his tattooed bicep; a matching gold gypsy earring shone amidst the black curls. He was grinning broadly; one of his front teeth was chipped.
"The last brave man of England!" His voice had the rich, deep resonance of a drum. "Come over here and tell us what it takes to walk alone in the countryside at night!"
Shavi squatted down next to him, perfectly balanced with the tips of his fingers on the ground. "I did not intend to be out so late-"
The man's bellowed laugh cut Shavi short. "Now how many times have we heard that before?"
The others laughed in response, but it wasn't directed at Shavi. "Come on, pull up a pew." The man slapped the dry ground next to him. "You don't want to be going back out there in a hurry, do you?"
Shavi accepted his hospitality with a smile. The easy conversation resumed immediately, as if he were an old friend who had just returned to the fold. A second later a cup of warm cider was pressed into his hands. He could smell hash on the wind and soon someone switched on an eighties beat-box. It pumped out music which seemed to switch without rhyme or reason from upbeat to ambient, jungle to folk. There was a strange, relaxed mood that was oddly timeless. He felt quite at home.
Shavi's host introduced himself as Breaker Gibson. He'd been with the convoy for six years. As a group, the travellers had followed the road for most of the nineties, their number ebbing and flowing as people tagged along at different sites or drifted away without explanation; an extended family that owed as much to a gaggle of mediaeval itinerants as it did to any concept of modern grouping. Their neverending journey was seasonal, taking in most of the festivals: Glastonbury and Reading, some of the counterculture get-togethers in Cornwall and Somerset, the summer solstice at Stonehenge, Beltane in Scotland. They had their own code of conduct, their own stories and traditions that were related and embellished around the campfire most nights, their own myths and belief systems: a society within a society.
Breaker didn't want to talk about his life before he joined the collective; Shavi got the sense it was an unhappy time that he was trying to leave far behind, and the constant motion of his new existence appeared to be working. But of his time with the group he was robustly happy to discuss, and had a plethora of stories to tell, most of which he wildly exaggerated like a storyteller of old, all of which seemed to involve some kind of run-in with the law. After an hour Shavi liked him immensely.
For his part, Shavi was completely open about what had happened to him over the long weeks since he had hooked up with Church and the others, but he said nothing about the reasons for his mission south, nor his destination; it was too important to trust to someone he had only just met.
Breaker peered into the night beyond the light of the campfire. "Aye, we've seen some rum things over the last few weeks. We stopped to pick up a guy hitch-hiking near Bromsgrove. Dressed all in green, he was. But each to his own-I'm not a fashion cop." He chuckled throatily. "We got to the point where we'd promised to drop him off. Looked around-he wasn't anywhere on the bus! And we hadn't stopped anywhere he could have jumped off. Next thing, someone discovered all the pound coins had turned to chocolate! The kids had a feast that night, I tell you!" His chuckle turned to a deep laugh. "Could have been worse, I suppose." A shadow suddenly crossed his face. "'Course, we've seen some rotten things at night." Now a tight smile; Shavi knew what he meant.
"Still," he said, raising his mug of cider, "it's wonderful to be alive."
As they drank and chatted, two women came over. One was in her late twenties, with a pleasant, open manner and sharp, intelligent eyes. She had a short sandy bob and wore a thick, hand-knitted cardigan over a long hippie skirt. Her name was Meg. With her was a Gothy woman about ten years older with a hardened face and distinctly predatory eyes, but a smile that was welcoming enough. She said her name was Carolina. They both seemed eager to talk to Breaker, who obviously had some standing within their community.
"Mikey doesn't want to do the late watch," Meg said, drawing out a list of names and quickly running her eyes down it.
"The little git says we keep picking on him to do it," Carolina interjected sharply.
"But I've checked the rota and it's been divided up fairly," Meg added.
Breaker sipped on his cider, suddenly serious. "I'll have a quiet word with him. We can't afford to have too much dissent in the ranks." He turned to Shavi. "We had to instigate the watches a few weeks back after some bad shit happened."
Shavi could feel the eyes of the women sizing him up. "What was it?" he asked.
"Woke up one morning, hell of a commotion. Penny over there-" he motioned to a thin, pale woman whose eyes bulged as if she had a thyroid problem "-she was in a right state, understandably. Her baby, Jack, he'd gone missing. Taken in the night. And in the cot where he'd been lying was a little figure made out of twigs tied up with strands of corn." Breaker's cheerful face sagged for a second. "Naturally we told the cops, went through all their rigmarole, getting the usual treatment that it was partly our fault for the way we lived. It was just going through the motions. Everyone knew what had really happened. Since then we've had the watches going through the night. No more trouble, so I suppose you can say it's worked. But some of our… lesscommitted… friends don't like having their sleep disturbed." This was obviously a source of great irritation for him, but he maintained his composure.
"So what's your deal?" Carolina said to Shavi bluntly. "Why are you walking the land?"
"A friend of mine is very ill. I need to find some way of helping her."
"Medicine?" Meg asked.
"Something like that."
"So where are you going? Maybe we could give you a lift." Carolina glanced at Breaker, who nodded in agreement.
Shavi weighed up whether to tell them. "South," he said. "To Windsor."
Breaker tugged at his beard thoughtfully. "We could do south."
"Yeah, haven't been that way for a while." Carolina winked at Shavi. "We tend to steer clear of some of the posher areas. The residents used to run us out with pitchforks in case we robbed them blind."
The two women were called over by a teenager who looked as if he hadn't bathed for days; thick mud coated his face and arms like some Pictish warrior. Once they were out of earshot, Breaker said, "They just about run this place, those two. We couldn't do without them, though I wouldn't say it to their faces. Give 'em bigger heads than they've got." He looked Shavi in the eye. "So, are you with us?"
"I would be honoured."
"Good. One more for the watch rota!"
The camp was already alive when Shavi awoke from the best night's sleep he'd had in days. In the light it was easier to get a better handle on the people roaming around, and to see the vehicles, which looked like they would have trouble travelling a mile, let alone thousands. He ate a breakfast of poached eggs on toast with Meg, who had an insatiable desire for information about what was happening in the country; she was bright and sparky and he warmed to her. Afterwards he had his first mug of tea since The Green Man; it made his morning complete.
Once everyone had started preparing for departure, Breaker hailed him to invite him to sit up front in his sixties vintage bus, which had been painted white and vermilion like an ice cream van. The back was jammed with an enormous sound system and what appeared to be the cooking and camping equipment for the entire community.
"Hell-bent or heaven-sent," Breaker said with a grin as he clicked the ignition. He pulled in behind the black fifties bus and the convoy set out across the country.
The open road rolled out clearly ahead of them, with no traffic to spoil the view of overhanging trees and overgrown hedges.
"You have experienced the technology failures," Shavi said with a teasing smile, his gaze fixed ahead.
Breaker eyed him askance, then laughed at the game that was being played. "Oh yes, we've had our fair share of problems with that." He winked. "Some of us were even kinda happy to see it. Bunch of Luddites, I ask you! Travelling around on the Devil's Machines!"
"And what happens if the technology fails completely?"
"Well, that's why God invented horses, matey! If it's good enough for the old ancestors, it's good enough for me and mine. I can see it now: a big, old, yellow caravan… " He burst out laughing. "Bloody hell! Mr. Toad! Poot, poot!" He was laughing so much tears streamed down his cheeks and he rested his head on the steering wheel to calm himself. Shavi had a sudden pang of anxiety and considered grabbing the wheel, but Breaker pulled his head up a second later and righted the bus as it drifted towards the hedge.
Shavi noticed an ornate Celtic cross hanging from the rearview mirror. "For safety on the road?"
Breaker nodded. "Though not in the way you think. That symbol was around long before the Christians got hold of it." He muttered something under his breath. "Bloody Christians stamping all over any other religion. Some of 'em are the worst advert there is for Christianity. On paper it's not a bad religion. Love thy neighbour, and all that. But once they start mangling the words, anything can happen. Having said that, we've got a few Christians here, but they're not the kind where you can see the whites of their eyes, if you know what I mean. The rest of us are a mixed bag of Pagans and Wiccans, an Odinist, a few Buddhists, some I don't even bloody well know what they're called, and I don't reckon they know themselves either!"
"In these times faith has come into its own. It really can move mountains."
"What do you believe in, then?"
Shavi rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Everything."
Breaker guffawed. "Good answer! I tell you, the people you have to watch are those bastards who don't believe in anything. You can see them all around. Scientists who reckon they know how the universe works 'cause they know how one molecule bumps into another. Bloody businessmen who think they can screw anyone over in this life to get what they want because there's no afterlife so no comeuppance. Property developers flattening the land…" He chewed on his lip. "Making a fast buck, that's too many people's faith." He raised a hopeful eyebrow in Shavi's direction. "Looks like they could have a few problems in this new world."
"Oh, let us hope."
They laughed together.
The convoy avoided the motorways and kept to the quiet backroads. It was a slow route that involved much doubling back, but Breaker explained it meant they could more easily avoid undue police attention. As they cruised down the A444 towards Nuneaton they passed another convoy coming in the opposite direction, but these were the army. Grim-faced soldiers peered out from behind dusty windscreens; they looked exhausted and threatened.
"We live in a time of constant danger," Shavi said.
"Something big's been happening, but we never get to hear about it. They go bringing in martial law, then they haven't got the resources to police it because everybody's off fighting somewhere. At least that's what the rumours say." He glanced at Shavi. "You hear anything?"
"I have seen signs… a little, here and there. The authorities have no idea what they are doing. They are trying to fight with old thinking."
"They don't stand a chance, do they?" He mused for a second. "We always wanted the Establishment to leave us alone. I wonder what the world's gonna be like without them?"
As they rounded a corner they were hit by a moment of pure irony: a police roadblock barred their way.
They were held there for half an hour. Everyone was forced out of their vehicles on to the side of the road while they and all their possessions were searched. Nothing untoward was found; those who did carry drugs had found much better hiding places, after years of bitter experience. Even so, the indignities were ladled on: verbal abuse, women pushed around, homes turned upside down and left in chaos. All the travellers remained calm. They had obviously learned any opposition would result in a rapid escalation into a confrontation they could never win.
Shavi expected the police to pounce on him in a second, but they seemed to have no idea who he was. Eventually, once the police had had their sport, the convoy was turned around for no good reason that anyone could see; other cars and lorries were waved right through.
Breaker's face was stony as he headed back north and looked for a side road. "Just like the bleeding miners' strike. And they call this a free country."
They eventually made their way around the blocked area and pitched camp for the night in the deserted countryside to the east of Stratford-on-Avon. The area was thickly wooded enough for their vehicles not to be seen from any of the roads in the area.
"One of the good things about all this-we never get hassled at night any more," Breaker said. "Everybody's too afraid to leave their homes once the sun goes down."
Once they were all parked up, they assembled for the tasks to be handed out. Three went off to dig the latrines while others scouted the area for wood for the fire; no one was allowed to touch any living tree. The cooking range was erected from Breaker's bus and several volunteers set about preparing a vat of vegetarian chilli. The mouth-watering aromas drifted over the campsite.
After everyone had eaten their fill, Shavi sat with Breaker, Meg and Carolina next to the fire, watching the gloom gather. He had spent the day mulling over the story Breaker had told him about the abducted child and he had grown increasingly disturbed that so little had been done.
"What could be done?" Carolina said dismally.
Meg agreed. "We've seen the things away in the field. Enough of us have come across all the strange, freaky shit that hovers around the camp at night. We're not stupid."
"I am not suggesting you are," Shavi said. "But if you believe in the reality of the things you talk about, then you should not be surprised when I tell you I have certain abilities which may be of use to you." He explained the gradual development of his shamanic skills over the weeks since the world had changed. It was a difficult task-he knew most people were still mired in the old way of thinking-but after all he had seen of the travellers' nonconformist lifestyle, he guessed they would not be so blinkered.
"So what do you suggest?" Carolina suggested. "A shamanic ritual?"
"That might be effective. It is a matter of trying to peel back the layers to achieve contact with the invisible world, where all knowledge lies."
"And you think you've got what it takes?" Carolina gave a wry smile.
"Bloody hell, Carolina! Give the bloke a chance!" Breaker berated loudly. "He's right-we've done bugger-all so far. It wouldn't hurt to take a shot at this."
Meg nodded. "I'm in agreement. We can do it tonight, if you like. What do you need?"
"A quiet place among the trees, a handful of us to provide the focus of energies, some mushrooms or hash preferably, natural highs to alter consciousness. If not, we will have to make do with alcohol."
The others looked from one to the other and laughed. "Yeah, I think that's doable," Carolina said with a smirk.
Penny broke down in a sobbing fit once Meg told her what was planned. She pushed her way past the others to clutch at Shavi's clothes, her tearful face contorted by all the emotions she had not been able to vent. "Please God, help me find jack!" she wailed.
Meg led her away to calm her down with a cup of tea while Breaker rounded up a few people to help with the ritual. By the end there were eight of them: Shavi, Breaker, Meg and Carolina, a woman in her sixties with long white hair tied in a ponytail, the mud-covered eighteen-year-old, who was known as Spink, a ratty-faced man with curly ginger hair and his partner, a heavyset woman who smiled a lot.
They found a clearing in the woods where they couldn't see the camp or hear any voices. Breaker had been wary of straying so far from the safety of the fire, but Shavi had convinced him the ritual would protect them as much as any physical defence.
The evening was warm. They sat in a circle, breathing in the woody, verdant aroma of the trees, listening to the soothing rustle of the leaves in the cooling breeze. It wasn't as dark as they had feared under the trees. The night was clear and the near-full moon provided beams of silver luminescence that broke through spaces in the canopy like spotlights picking out circles on the wood floor. The patterns of light and shade it created provided an attractive, stimulating backdrop to what they were about to do.
Breaker had rustled up a plastic bag of dried mushrooms and a block of hash, which they shared out equally. They didn't have to wait long for it to take effect. Shavi had primed them to begin a regular, low chant. He knew, instinctively, that the insistent vibrations coupled with the psychoactive drugs stimulated the particular region of his brain he needed to achieve the higher level. He didn't know how he knew that, but it was there in the same way that he knew it was the technique employed by their ancestors in the stone circles and chambered tombs millennia ago.
The chant moved among the trees until it became a solid, living thing, circling back and forth, then inserting probing fingers deep into his mind. He closed his eyes and raised his face so the breeze caressed his skin. The blood was singing in his veins as a tremendous sense of well-being consumed him; he felt roots going down from his body into the soil, moving underground until they joined with the trees and the shrubs. He felt a part of it all.
The next step was the hardest. There was a deep anxiety locked inside him from the time his mind had been almost lost to the sea serpent just off Skye, and he had to fight to ensure the drugs didn't amplify it to the point where it overwhelmed him. He regulated his breathing and focused, riding the waves with mastery. And then it was just a matter of falling back into his head, and back and back, as if he were plummeting into a deep well. Paradoxically, that journey deep within saw him suddenly out of his body. He was in the air over the clearing, looking down at himself and the others, still chanting. The view was strange, fractured; colours seemed oddly out of sorts and the dark was almost a living, breathing thing. He had only the warped perspective for an instant before his mind was jumping like lightning through the woods. There was a sensation like pinpricks all over his body, and then he was blinking, seeing the world at ground level; a wrinkle of his nose and a bound; he was a rabbit investigating the strange scene. Another lightning leap and suddenly he was up in the treetops, seeing with astonishing precision. There was the rabbit, white cotton-tail twitching. He was consumed by raptor-lust; his big owl eyes blinked twice and then he was on the wing. The lightning leap plucked him away again, to a badger snuffling in the undergrowth further afield, to a fox probing the outer reaches of the campsite for any food to steal, to a moth battering against the windscreen of a bus, trying to reach the light inside.
And then, suddenly, he was jolted back into his own body, only this time he was seeing with different eyes, feeling and hearing and smelling with completely new senses. The invisible world was opening to him.
"Come to us," he said loudly. There was a ripple in the chanting, but he felt Breaker glance round the others to maintain the rhythm.
Above him, in the centre of the clearing, the air seemed to be folding back on itself. What looked like liquid metal bubbled out and lapped around the edges of the disturbance. There was an odour like burned iron. Shavi could feel the nascent fear of those sitting near him, but to their credit they all held firm in their trust in him. A hand thrust out of the seething rift with the white colour and texture of blind fish that spent their lives in lightless caverns. Then another hand, followed by arms, elbows wedged, heaving itself out into the night. A head and shoulders protruded between them, featureless, apart from slight indentations where the eyes, nose and mouth should have been. Shavi knew from experience it was one of the human-form constructs shaped out of the aether that the residents of the Invisible World often used to communicate.
"Who calls?" It was suspended half out of the rift, as if it were hanging from a window.
"I call." Shavi knew better than to give his true name. "I seek knowledge. The whereabouts of a mortal child."
The white head moved from side to side in a strange pastiche of thinking. "Know you there is a price to pay for information."
Shavi held up his hand and slit the fleshy pad of his thumb with a hunting knife he had brought from the camp. Several droplets of blood splashed on to the ground.
"Good," the construct said. "A tasty morsel of soul. How is Lee?"
Shavi winced at the mention of his dead boyfriend's name. "No games. Now, information. The mortal child was stolen from this group several weeks ago. A twig doll was left in its place."
"The child is in the Far Lands."
"Alive and well?"
"As well as can be expected."
"Who took him?"
"The Golden Ones enjoy the company of mortals." There was a faint hint of irony in its voice. "They pretend they like to play with their pets, which they do, but that is not the true reason."
This sounded like it could be dissembling, but he pressed on anyhow. "What is the true reason?"
"That answer is too large and important for one such as I to give." This gave Shavi pause; he made a mental note to consider it at a later date. "Rather you should ask me if there is hope the child will be returned," the construct continued.
"Is there?"
"No hope."
"None?"
"Unless the Golden Ones can be made to bow to your will. Or you can provide them with something they need in exchange." There was none of the mockery Shavi had expected in these comments. What was the construct really saying?
"Where is the child?"
"In the Court of the Final Word."
Where Church and Tom had encountered Dian Cecht. Where the Tuatha De Danann carried out their hideous experiments on humans.
"I thank you for your aid. I wish you well on your return to the Invisible World."
"One more thing." There was a note of caution in the construct's voice. "Turn quickly when the howling begins or the world will fall beneath your feet."
Before Shavi could ask about this unsolicited, oblique advice, the construct had wriggled back into the rift and it had folded around him. The warning, if that was what it was, turned slowly in his mind, but he didn't have a second to consider it. Carolina yelled sharply; Shavi followed her wide-eyed, frightened stare.
He was shocked to see Meg, who had been sitting cross-legged at the foot of a mighty oak, was now being swallowed up by the tree. The wood appeared to be fluid and was sucking her into it like quicksand. Her eyes were wide with horror, but she couldn't scream for what looked to be a hand made out of the wood of the trunk had folded across her mouth. It dragged her further in; soon she would be lost completely.
Breaker leapt to his feet and grabbed her right arm, but to no avail. Then all the others joined in, but however much they tugged, they couldn't halt Meg's inexorable progress.
"Wait!" Shavi yelled. He pushed past them and placed his hand on the rough bark. It slid like oil beneath his fingers, attempting to pull him in too. The others fell back, waiting to see what he would do. "Be at peace, Man of Oak. We summoned the Invisible World for information. There is no harm intended to you."
For a moment the repellent sucking at Shavi's hand continued, but then gradually it subsided. The trunk appeared to ripple and an unmistakable face grew out of the ridged bark, overhanging brow shadowing deepset eyes, a protruding nose and a gash for a mouth.
"We know of you, Brother of Dragons." The voice sounded like wood splintering.
There was a gasp of surprise from the others. "I know of your kith and kin too, Man of Oak, though I have never spoken with any of you before," Shavi said.
"We remain silent when mortals walk beneath our leaves. They have never treated the Wood-born with respect." A sound like the sighing of wind in branches escaped the mouth. "But we know you are a friend of the Green and the people of the trees and the people of the lakes, Brother of Dragons. Do you vouch for these others?"
"I do."
There was a moment's pause, and then Meg was slowly ejected from the tree trunk. She fell gasping on to the ground, where Breaker and Carolina ran to help her to her feet. She looked unhurt, but Shavi asked gently, "Are you all right?" She nodded, bewildered; her eyes were still rimmed with tears. Shavi felt a wave of relief that she was safe. He'd read of the dryads and naiads, the tree and water spirits, and he had sensed them at times during his previous explorations of his abilities, but it was the first time they had manifested. This time he had responded instinctively and it seemed to have worked.
"Those who move within the Invisible World are dangerous to call, Brother of Dragons," the tree spirit said.
"I proceed with caution, as always, Man of Oak. How do your people fare?"
"In our groves, our woods and deep forests we are as strong as we ever were in our prime. Strong enough to repel any who try to fell us. Already blood has been spilled in the north country and in the west, and after nightfall the people have learned to avoid the coppices where our fallen bodies lie."
The grim note in the creaking voice was so powerful the others blanched and took a step away. But Shavi sensed an opportunity and persevered. "Our stories say there was not always such enmity between man and tree."
"In the days before your people turned away from the wisdom of the land we were treated with respect and we, in turn, respected the men who moved among us."
"It could be that way again."
"It may still be too early, Brother of Dragons. The new season has not been long in the-"
"No." Meg stepped up to Shavi's side. The tree creaked in protest at being interrupted. "I'm sorry for speaking out of turn," Meg continued hurriedly, "but not all people are the same. We've always respected trees, nature. It's part of our belief. We never cut green wood. We don't pollute the land." Shavi saw the wild intelligence bright in her eyes; she knew, as he did, that the Oak Men would be strong allies.
A whispering like the crackling of dry leaves seemed to run through the ground to nearby trees, then out through the wood. "They're talking," Carolina said, a little too loudly.
Soon after lights appeared in the deep dark, far among the trees, flickering will-o'-the-wisps that, oddly, put them all at ease. "Spirit lights," Shavi said in awe. "The spirits of the trees moving out from the wood."
"It has not been seen by mortals for many lives, even by how the Wood-born measure time," the oak said. "We accept your words. We call you to come to us as friends. Embrace the wood. Move through our home, listen to the whisper of our hearts. Show respect for us, men and women of flesh and bone, and we in turn shall forever grant you the good fortune that comes from our protection. Let this be the first act of a new age."
"I thank you, Men of Oak, for your good grace in forgiving the sins of the past." Shavi rested his hand on the bark once more; it was warm and comforting to the touch.
"Seasons come and go. A fresh start will be to the benefit of both our people."
Shavi turned to face the others. They were watching the lights floating gently among the trees, their faces almost beatific. Race memories, long buried echoes of wonder and awe had been released in them. In one moment they had become their ancestors.
Gradually, one by one, they drifted off lazily among the trees. Shavi watched their transcendental expressions as they reached out to the lights, touched the wood, caressed the leaves, lost to the mystery. The Oak Man had been right: this was a moment of vital importance for the new age, the reforming of a bond that had been so powerful in times long gone.
Shavi followed a little way behind, observing the change that had come over the travellers as they wandered in and out of the circles of moonlight; they were more at peace than he would have believed. Deep in the woods some of them came across a glassy, moonlit pool where water trickled melodically over mildewed rocks from a tiny spring, a green and silver world that smelled as clear and fresh as a wilderness mountaintop.
Carolina sat on a rock at the edge and trailed her hand dreamily in the water. She retracted it suddenly when she saw a face floating just beneath the surface, big eyes blinking curiously. The figure was not solid; in fact it seemed to be continuously flowing and reforming. But no sense of threat came off it. Cautiously, Carolina reached out her hand and paused a few inches above the surface. The water rose up in a gentle crystal spiral to touch her fingertips briefly before rushing away. There was a sound like gently bubbling laughter. Carolina looked up and smiled, her face as innocent as the moon.
Hours later, back at the camp site, the eight of them tried to express to the others what had happened. Amidst the gushing enthusiasm it wasn't hard to communicate the overwhelming sense of wonder that possessed them, and by the time midnight turned they all felt they had been part of an epochal shift.
Penny was overjoyed that her son was still alive, but the thought that he wasn't even in the world left her dismal. "You've got to help me," she said to Shavi, clutching at his sleeve like he was the Saviour; her face was pitiful, broken.
"I will do what I can," he replied, and it wasn't quite a lie. He didn't tell her what was likely to be her son's fate in the Court of the Final Word, that even if he could find some way to bring the boy back, his mother might not recognise him.
Still, his brief words seemed to cheer her. She left the fireside hurriedly to wander among the trees in the hope that the Wood-born's promise of good fortune would find its way to her.
Shavi retired to his tent early, exhausted by his experience. As the firelight began to die he had also seen a grey shape flickering like reflected light among the vehicles, and he did not feel strong enough to deal with Lee that night. His guilt at his boyfriend's death had not been assuaged by the knowledge that it had been part of some overarching scheme by the Tuatha De Danann; he still could have done something to save Lee, he was sure of it, but fear for his own safety had paralysed him. If being taunted and berated by his dead lover on a nightly basis was the price he had to pay to purge the emotions that were eating away at him, then that was how it would have to be; even if the words he heard were driving him insane.
There was a faint scratching on the canvas. A silhouette he would never forget. He buried his face in his bag and tried to sleep.
And then the whispering began.
At some point he must finally have dozed off for he woke with a start to a rustling at the entrance to the tent. His first befuddled thought was that it was Lee until Carolina pushed her way in past the flaps. Behind her was Spink, now miraculously cleaned of the mud that had grimed him from head to toe. He was handsome, dark-eyed and black-haired beneath his disguise. Shavi switched on his torch and positioned it so it illuminated the tent.
"Do you mind if we come in?" Carolina said when she was already inside.
Shavi gestured magnanimously; if truth be told, he was keen for company. "How can I help you?"
Spink seemed awestruck in his presence, so it was Carolina who did all the talking. "The people out there are talking about you like you're some kind of Messiah." Her eyes sparkled in the torchlight.
"I am no Messiah."
"They saw what you did in the wood. You've got powers of some kind. You do things that no ordinary person can do."
Shavi nodded. "But inside I am just a man. Flawed, frightened, unable to know what is the right decision."
She shook her head; her black hair shifted languorously. "You're not convincing me. You told us yourself, you're a man with a mission. You're here to deliver us all from evil."
"Not like that."
"Not a Messiah, then. But a mystic, a wise man. Shaman. You used the word yourself." This he had to concede. "Then you could teach us all things-"
"I am not a teacher."
"Look at us all here!" she protested. "Why do you think we've opted for this kind of life when we could be living in warm homes where there's always plenty of food on the table, where there's always some nice loving husband or boyfriend there to make sure everything's all right?" There was a sliver of bitterness in her voice; she swallowed it with difficulty and continued. "We're all searching for something, something better. It was a spiritual choice. You must understand that?" He nodded. "We've been failed by society, failed by the Church, all the religions. But there's a deep hole inside us that we want filled." She hit her chest hard. "You can help fill that."
Shavi was humbled by her passion and eloquence. "So you are saying that you want to be my disciples?"
She glanced at Spink, whose eyes brightened. "That's exactly what we're saying."
"Let me tell you something," he began slowly. "I grew up in West London in a family of brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews and… too many even to count. As a child, it was quite idyllic. I never wanted for love. I studied hard at school to make my father proud of me, and he was proud, and I was happier than any boy had any right to be. My father… The thing I remember about him sometimes when I am drifting off to sleep is the way his eyes would light up when I would bring him my school books to show him my work. They would crinkle round the edge, and then he would smile and pull me over to him. There was such integrity and honesty in his face, all I wanted was to be like him."
He closed his eyes, the memories flashed across his mind almost too painful to bear. "My family was very strictly Muslim. It was the glue that held everything together. The mosque was as much a part of our life as the kitchen. And for my father and mother, for all my relatives, it was the thing that gave them strength to face all the privations the world brought to their door. But it was not right for me. I tried. I tried so hard I could not sleep, I could not eat, because I knew it would make my mother and father proud. But it did not speak to me, here…" he touched his chest, then his forehead "… and here. It did not feel right, or comforting, or secure, or even begin to explain the way the world works. For me. For I still believe, of all the religions, it is one of the strongest. But it did not speak to nze. And so, in all good faith, I could not continue with it."
Carolina and Spink watched every flicker of his face, his deathly seriousness reflected in their own.
"I told my father. The shock I saw in his features destroyed me. It was as if, for one brief instant, I was a stranger who had washed into his room. And I never saw his eyes light up again. At first he tried to force me to be a good Muslim. And then, when that did not work, at sixteen he drove me out of the house for good. I stood crying on the doorstep, the same good son who had pleased him all his life. And he would not look me in the face. And he would not speak a word. And when the door closed it was plain it would be forever."
"What a bastard," Carolina said.
"No. I could never blame my father. He was who he was and always had been. And there is not a night goes by that I do not think of him warmly."
"Why are you telling us this?"
"Because I have spent all my life since then searching for something which would give me the same feeling of warmth and security I felt as a child, and which would fill that void inside."
"But you've found-"
"No. I have not. Once you set off along that path to enlightenment it is a very dark road indeed, and I have not seen even the slightest glimmer of light at the end. It is a journey we must all make, alone. What worked for my father did not work for me. What will be right for me, will not be so for you. Do not seek out masters. Look into yourself."
There was a long pause. Then she said, "Can't you see? That's just the kind of guidance I was looking for-"
He sighed.
"Okay, okay, I hear what you're saying. But I tell you now, we are going to be your disciples. We'll just do it from a distance." Her smile was facetious, teasing; he smiled in response.
He could see in her face there was something else. "What do you want?"
"We want to be with you."
It took him a second or two to realise what she was truly saying. "That may not be a good idea."
"Why? Because you think we're being manipulated somehow? We know what we're doing. This isn't an emotional thing, it's a… it's a…" She searched for the right words.
"A ritual thing," Spink said suddenly.
Shavi nodded. He understood the transfer of power through the sexual act and he certainly understood the power of directed hedonism. But he was uncomfortable with how they were elevating him to the position of some potent seer and hoping that some of whatever he had would rub off on them during intimacy.
Before he had a chance to order his thoughts, Carolina had stripped off her T-shirt. Her breasts were small and pale in the torchlight. Spink followed suit; his chest was hard and bony, the ribs casting strips of shadow across his skin.
"Spink's bi," Carolina said. "Or maybe gay, I don't think he's decided yet."
She leaned forward and kissed Shavi, her mouth open and wet. Spink moved in and began to nuzzle at Shavi's neck. There was too much sensory stimulation for Shavi to keep his thoughts ordered and eventually he gave in to the pleasures of the moment.
The torch was switched off. His fingers slid over warm flesh. Hands caressed his body, stripping him naked. Their bodies moved over his, both of them hard, at times impossible to tell who was whom. The atmosphere became heightened with energy and for that brief moment he felt renewed.
The scream cut through the early morning stillness, snapping Shavi out of a deep sleep. He untangled himself from draping limbs, only just stirring, before pulling on his clothes and scrambling out on to the dewy ground. The air was chill; it couldn't have been long after dawn.
The first thing he saw brought that cold deep into his veins. There, in the tufted grass by the tent opening, was a slim, pale, severed finger.
All over the campsite people were falling out of camper vans, buses and cars, staggering bleary-eyed into the light. Shavi lurched past the finger, barely able to take his eyes off it, then tried to estimate the direction from which the scream had come. He didn't have to look far. In the no-man's land between the vehicles and the wood, a woman silently dipped down, then rose up, dipped down, rose up, a surreal image until Shavi saw her face was contorted with such grief she couldn't give voice to it. A shapeless mass lay at her feet.
Shavi ran as fast as he could, but several people reached the site before him.
He pushed through them a little too roughly. Lying at the centre of the shocked circle of travellers was Penny, the ground stained in a wide arc around where her finger should have been. She was white with death.
Shavi felt his stomach knot, his mind fizz and spark with the awful realisation that he had brought this horror to the gentle, peaceful travellers. The ground seemed to shift beneath his feet and he had to stagger away where he could no longer see the body.
chapter seventeen
dust of creeds outworn
hat do you mean, it's all your fault?" Breaker's face was shattered, his cheeks still stinging red from tears. Carolina stood beside him like a ghost while Meg squatted nearby, her hands pressed against her eyes, as if she were trying to stop the image from entering her brain.
Shavi explained everything, from when it had all begun on the banks of Loch Maree. The others listened intently, their faces impassive; Shavi couldn't tell if they were judging him. Afterwards Carolina asked in a breaking voice, "So why is it hunting you?"
"I have no idea." He swallowed, composed himself. "I thought we had seen the last of it in Edinburgh. I had no idea it was following me or I would not have brought it to your door. You must believe me-"
"We do." Meg came forward and hugged him tightly. "We can all see you're all right. You wouldn't have put us at risk if you'd known." She glanced over to where the body lay covered by a sheet. "Poor Penny. Just after she'd found out what'd happened to jack."
"That is why it happened," Shavi said morosely.
"What do you mean?" Breaker asked.
"The attack was meant to show there is no hope. Penny was snuffed out just as she achieved it." Shavi chewed his lip until he tasted blood. "It was a message for me. The finger was left outside the tent, a sign that the killer could have come for me while I slept."
"But why?" Carolina looked like she was about to vomit.
"To make me suffer, I would think. To make me frightened, always looking over my shoulder, so never knowing when the attack will come."
"What's the obsession with fingers?" Breaker asked.
"I have no idea. Are you going to report this to the police?"
Breaker toyed with his beard, but it was Meg who gave voice to the thoughts in all their minds. "There's no point. With all the shit going down, the cops haven't got time to look into this. They'll probably just use it as another excuse to harass us."
"Then I would suggest we bury her among the trees. The Wood-born will watch over her," Shavi suggested.
The grave party ensured the hole was six feet deep, carefully avoiding all the roots that criss-crossed the area. There were enough of them to ensure the work was done quickly, then everyone in the camp gathered for the ceremony; their faces were disbelieving, angry, distraught. Their lives had been disrupted so suddenly and completely no one had quite been able to assimilate what had happened. Breaker and Meg said a few words in a ritual which echoed the cycles of the seasons and spoke to the overwhelming force of nature.
Once the grave was filled, everyone was surprised to see a spontaneous shower of leaves from all the surrounding trees, until the overturned soil was covered by a crisp blanket of green; it was an act of such respect several people wept at the sight. Shavi felt, in a grimly ironic way, that the bond between the two groups had been strengthened further.
They decided to postpone any wake until everyone had had time to come to terms with what had happened. Instead, Breaker, Carolina, Meg, and Shavi gathered around a makeshift table in the back of Breaker's bus.
"Of course, I will be leaving shortly," Shavi announced once they were seated.
"Why?" Meg's eyes blazed.
"This sickening thing is pursuing me. When I leave he will follow me and you will be left to return to your lives."
"No," Meg said forcefully.
"I agree," Carolina added. "You're one of us now. We're not going to desert you."
"They're right," Breaker said. "They're always right about everything, that's why we love them." His words seemed honest rather than patronising. "There's safety in numbers, Shavi. You go off on your own across that deserted countryside, well, that bastard could pick you off at any time. We're organised here. We can do more, better, watches. We'll get you where you need to go."
"But-"
"Don't fucking argue," Carolina said wearily. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Think of your friend. Think of the big picture, all you're trying to do. Here's where we do our bit too."
Shavi sagged back against the window and slowly rubbed a hand across his eyes. "Thank you. You are true friends."
"Just do one thing for us," Breaker said.
"What is that?"
"If you get a chance, any time, ever, bring Jack back. For Penny."
Shavi put one hand on his heart and held the other up, palm out. "For Penny."
Church perched on a rocky outcropping over a precipitous drop, contemplating how quickly the remaining nine days would pass. Before him the Derbyshire countryside rolled out in the hazy, late morning sunshine, a patchwork of green fields, shimmering water, ribbon roads and small, peaceful villages. But it wasn't the great beauty of the scene that caught his attention.
Nearby, houses were burning. The tangled wreckage of vehicles glinted in the sunlight. Things he couldn't quite comprehend moved along the hedgerows or kept to the dark at the edge of copses. Occasionally one would be forced to cross a field, like a cloud shadow moving across the land. It always made him shiver to see it.
The Fomorii appeared to be growing in force, more daring in their desperation as Lughnasadh neared. They sensed Ruth and what she contained were somewhere in the area, but the magic Tom had identified at Mam Tor was, so far, enough to blind them to the exact location. But if he allowed himself to admit it, he knew it was only a question of time. For once, he could do nothing; it was a matter of placing his faith in Shavi, Veitch, and Tom.
Sometimes he saw the Fomorii hunter-warrior circling the area, more intense and threatening than the other shifting shapes, like a localised storm filled with lightning fury. It left him feeling fearful and nauseous. And something more than that: he was starting to feel the bitter taint of hopelessness. Only days to go. What could they do? They were going to fail again, and it would be the end of everything.
Cautiously he crept back from the edge. What would he do when the black tide did begin to surge up the mountain? Fight them off with sticks and stones like schoolboy war games? Or sit back and pray there really, truly was a God in His heaven?
Ruth lay in her sleeping bag on a bed made of flattened fern in a corner of the room. Her skin was ashen, her hair matted from the bouts of sweating and delirium that were coming with increasing regularity. Her eyes flickered, her features trembled; terrible thoughts that did not seem to come from her own mind stumbled through her head.
They had cleaned up the place as best they could. Church and Laura had spent a morning sweeping out the rubbish and depositing it in the shadows at the back of the house. Church had patched up the roof with dead wood and vegetation, but the wind still whipped through the broken windows and sometimes it was uncommonly cold for that time of year; perhaps it was the altitude. Food was a problem. There was little to trap on the mountain and none of them were any good at it anyway. Church had made several forays into a nearby village and had stocked up the larder as best he could. The increasing Fomorii activity in the area made it too risky to go foraging any more. They all prayed the provisions would hold out.
Laura squatted in the corner, occasionally casting a subdued glance to Ruth's restlessly sleeping form. The sunglasses rarely came off these days, even at night. Her brooding consumed her. She hated the way Church cared for Ruth; there was real tenderness in his touch, an honesty in his words that made her yearn; the feeling between the two ran so deep it was as if it had formed when the earth was just cooling. She knew it was jealousy, pure and simple; it was the kind of relationship she had always dreamed about, had expected once she had hooked up with Church, yet even though all the facets seemed in place, it had never materialised, and that was the bitterest blow of all. If she couldn't find it with Church, who could she plumb those depths with?
And she could see Ruth was dying; they all knew it, though no one spoke it aloud. Yet there she was, being petty and jealous and bitter. That filled her with guilt and self-loathing, which once more fed all those negative emotions; a terrible, dark spiral that had no end.
"What are you thinking?"
Laura started; she hadn't realised Ruth was awake. "I'm thinking, `Boy, I hope she doesn't start whining any time soon."'
Ruth managed a weak laugh; her voice sounded like autumn leaves. "You'll never change, will you?"
"Count on it."
Ruth tried to lever herself into a sitting position. Her arms were feeble and her belly was enormous; she seemed to have gone almost full-term of a natural pregnancy in a matter of days. Eventually she gave up and settled for halfsitting, half-lying. She snorted with laughter at her own pathetic attempt.
"How do you keep so up? You've had the bum deal to end all bum deals. Some psycho slicing off your finger. Getting tortured by the Bastards. Now this-"
"Now I'm pregnant with the one-eyed God of Death and he's going to burst out of my stomach in a few days and tear me apart. Well, when you put it like that…" She laughed again, before breaking into a coughing fit.
"What is it with you? When I first met you, you were such a poker-up-the arse kind of girl. Some spoilt little middle-class moron. I thought you'd fall apart at the first sign of trouble."
"What's the matter? Jealous?"
Her words were lighthearted but they stung Laura as if she'd been slapped. "You have a real sense of the absurd, don't you?"
"I'm dying. You're supposed to be nice to me."
Laura watched her impassively.
"That was the point where you were supposed to say, `Course you're not dying. Everything will work out in the end."' Ruth threw an arm across her eyes. Laura couldn't tell if she was trying to hide her emotions, but she felt bad anyway.
But not bad enough she could bring herself to be nice. Nice was for losers. "What do you expect me to say?"
"I don't know. Nothing to say, is there? I'm dying. I know I'm dying. And any chance I have is the longest of long shots." She removed her arm and Laura was surprised to see a remarkable peace in her face.
That twisted the knife in her gut even more and suddenly she felt like crying; the words just bubbled out. "What is it? Church, you can see he's a hero. It's stitched right into the heart of him, always beating himself up about responsibilities and obligations and doing the right thing. Shavi's just Mister Decency. You know he'd give up his life if the cause was right. Even Veitch, the Testosterone Kid, a fucking murderer by his own admission! Even he's fighting against type to be good, to be a hero. And despite all his very obvious limitations, you know he's going to come through, when the chips are down and all those other cliches. And then there's you, kicked around and tortured from pillar to post, taking all this shit that nobody should have to take. And dying with dignity. I don't fit in here. You give me a choice between saving my own skin and doing the right thing and you watch my dust!" The self-pity was sickening, but she seemed unable to control herself.
"You're not being fair on yourself-"
"Don't start analysing me. I don't need it. And for God's sake, don't start being nice to me."
"I won't-"
"Just don't."
"Look, can't we just be friends? Even now?" Ruth's eyes filled with tears; despite her calm, her emotions were on a knife edge.
Laura remained silent, staring at the wall. The mass of scrawled writing disturbed her immensely and in all their time there none of them had felt up to making any effort to decipher it. It was just part of the oppressive mood that lurked in the comers of the house. She was sure Ruth sensed things there that she wasn't talking about, and there were times when she felt it acutely herself, and she was less sensitive than anyone she knew. Something bad had happened, Ruth had said, and something bad was going to happen. Perhaps that was it: not an echo of the past, but a premonition. She felt it so strongly she could almost touch it.
"You've always hidden yourself away from all of us." Ruth's voice was hazy and Laura could tell she was on the verge of drifting into one of her intermittent periods of delirium. "Hiding behind your sunglasses, trying to be smart and glib all the time so no one knew what you were really thinking. Even that name-Laura DuSantiago. That's got to be an alias, a new persona to hide in." She swallowed; her mouth sounded sticky with mucus. "Tell you what," she continued weakly. "You tell me your real name now. I won't tell a soul. A dying woman's last wish." She laughed hollowly.
Laura sat quietly for a moment, then moved to the bedside and knelt so her mouth was close to Ruth's ear. Ruth strained to hear.
"Go fuck yourself," Laura said softly.
Then she rose and calmly walked out of the room in search of Church.
Breaker cursed under his breath as the lead bus began another difficult threepoint turn in the middle of the road. About half a mile ahead they could see the tailback leading up to the police checkpoint. It looked like the police were barring every road they tried; Shavi had lost count of the times they had turned around and sought an alternative route. But that wasn't what was troubling him. It was the things he increasingly caught glimpses of from the corner of his eye, moving as fast as foxes, or slipping back into shadows when he half-turned his head. He hadn't mentioned them to Breaker or the others, but he knew what they were: the Fomorii were abroad.
He took some relief from the fact that they were still wary enough to stay out of plain sight; just. They must be terrified about having let the essence of their god slip through their fingers, if it were possible for such creatures to feel fear. But he was concerned about how widespread they were and how their number appeared to be increasing. If they were this close to the surface now, what would happen when desperation set in as Lughnasadh neared?
He knew they were searching for any sign of Balor, but was it possible they could sniff out the Pendragon Spirit too?
"You look worried." Breaker cast a sideways glance as he pulled up behind the bumper of the bus in front.
"I was merely trying to second-guess the obstacles which might lie between us and my destination."
"You reckon the Finger Hunter is somewhere nearby? I don't see how he could be keeping up with us unless he's smelling us on the wind."
Shavi thought that was a distinct possibility, but said nothing.
"The biggest problem is the cops. We need to stay out of their way. I don't know what's happened to them. They were always bugging us, but now they seem to be hassling everyone. All these checkpoints. What the hell do they think they're trying to do?"
Some of the police at every checkpoint had waxy faces, Shavi had noticed; it was obvious to him what they were trying to do. And it appeared that there was some link between what Breaker called the Finger Hunter and the Fomorii too. Shavi had an overpowering image of a net closing around him. Perhaps he would never reach Windsor at all.
After leaving the camp where Penny had been buried, they had taken a couple of days to pick a relatively short route past Banbury before cutting through the lanes between Oxford and Bicester to reach their current position just north of the M40. On the map Windsor looked to be only forty minutes' drive away. Two rapidly successive technology failures slowed them down even more, but every attempt to cross the motorway failed and they were continually pushed east towards London. With only a week remaining before Lughnasadh Shavi could ill afford any more delays.
"We can't get too close to the Smoke," Breaker said, concerned. "A convoy this size'll draw too much attention. We'll get snarled up and they'll have us off the road in a minute. Plus, some of our valued members get very uneasy whenever they're near any built-up area. All that pollution."
Shavi barely spoke any more; his attention was directed at the apparently empty countryside. Thoughts were piling up inside his head, forcing him down a very worrying path. The one who killed Penny was obviously not Fomorii, but possibly had some kind of link with the Night Walkers. The killer knew who Shavi was travelling with, probably knew exactly where he was. What if the killer decided to point the Fomorii in his direction? Shavi scanned the fields cautiously. He had not seen any sign of the Fomorii for some time. Perhaps they too were wary of getting too close to the Capital. Still, he would be on his guard.
They paused in a lay-by on the A40 east of Postcombe to weigh up their options. Most people stayed in their vehicles, taking the opportunity to have a quick snack or a drink, but the ones who had naturally gravitated towards the leading group gathered on the roadside for a conference. There were Breaker, Meg, Carolina, and four others whom Shavi didn't know by name. While they spoke hear- edly, Shavi circled the group, focusing his attention on the fields that swept out to the north and east.
It was late afternoon and the sweltering temperature of the day had been made worse by thick cloud cover rolling in to trap the heat. They would have to consider making camp soon, and that was a prospect Shavi did not relish.
Exhausted by the day's driving, still shattered by what had happened to Penny, the travellers' nerves were fraying, their voices growing harsh. Shavi tried to ignore them to concentrate on the darkening landscape, but their debate grew louder and more hectoring until he turned and snapped, "Quiet!"
They all looked at him. A car roared by and then the road grew still. "What is it?" Carolina said. "There's nothing-"
He waved her quiet with a chopping motion of his hand. Something was jarring on his nerves, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. There was the wind in the trees. Distant traffic noise from the motorway. Nothing, nothing… And then he had it. The field birds were cawing harshly; on the surface it was not unusual, but instinctively he seemed to know what they were saying. He could hear the tonal differences, the faint nuances, almost as if it was speech. They were frightened.
He spun round to the others. "Back to the vehicles. Quickly. It is not safe here."
The words had barely left his mouth when there was movement along all the hedgerows of the fields: darkness separating from the shadows near the hedge bottoms, rising out of ditches; the Fomorii were moving.
Most of the travellers obeyed him instantly and ran towards their vehicles. One of the men whom Shavi didn't know turned to look at the fields curiously; his eyes started to roll and nausea passed across his face. Shavi gave him a violent shove in the direction of his camper van before he could see any more.
"Do not look at the fields!" Shavi yelled. "Get on the road and keep driving! Follow Breaker's lead!"
He threw himself in beside Breaker and the bus lurched out on to the road. A horn blared furiously as a Porsche overtook at high speed. "What's going on?" Breaker asked.
"The Fomorii are attacking," Shavi said darkly, one eye fixed on the wing mirror. "They want me. And they will destroy you all to get at me."
The vehicles surged on to the road in a wave of creaking, protesting metal. But age lay heavy on some of them and their response was poor. Shavi held himself tense as he watched the trail pull out of the lay-by as the fields turned black with movement; it was as if a termites' nest had suddenly been vacated.
"Are they all with us?" Breaker asked anxiously.
Shavi counted the vehicles out. "Nearly there." A bus. Another. A mini-van. "One more." The straggler was the camper van belonging to the traveller Shavi had forced into action. It was slow, weaving unnecessarily, and Shavi knew the driver was trying to see what was in the fields through his mirror. "Do not look," he prayed under his breath.
The camper van slewed suddenly to one side and came to a halt. Shavi pictured the driver vomiting, then passing out. He slammed a hand against the side window as if it would jolt the driver awake.
In the mirror Shavi watched the darkness sweep over the hedgerow into the lay-by. He had an impression of teeth and body armour, wings and too many legs, all shimmering sable, and although he had grown almost immune to the appearance of the Night Walkers, he still felt his stomach churn.
The Fomorii hit the camper van like a tidal wave. It crumpled as if it were made of paper, then shredded into a million pieces. Shavi looked away quickly.
Breaker glanced at him, but didn't have to ask. After a long silence, the traveller said, "Do you think they'll follow us into London?"
"They will not be able to keep up with the vehicles if you travel at speed. But now they know I am with you they will continue to hunt you down. If we go into London there is a danger we will be obstructed, slowed down."
"Then what?" Breaker's thumb was banging on the wheel in an anxious rhythm.
Shavi thought for a moment. "We must speed up, but not go completely out of sight. They must see you drop me off-"
"We can't abandon you to them!" Breaker flashed him a dismayed glance.
"I will have a better chance of hiding from them alone. There must be somewhere near here where I can attempt to lose them." He snatched up Breaker's dog-eared book of maps and hastily riffled through the pages. When he found the page they were on, he pored over it for a minute, then stabbed his finger down. "Here."
When Breaker was convinced the convoy was going to go straight into the centre of High Wycombe, Shavi indicated a turning. They came to a stop at West Wycombe and waited anxiously, with constant reference to the mirror. Meg and Carolina could contain themselves no longer, and ran from their respective vehicles to see what was planned. They pleaded with him not to go, but he would not be deterred; his leaving was the only chance they had.
When he spied movement in the countryside on either side, he kissed them both, shook Breaker's hand forcefully, then sent them on their way. His last view of the travellers was a series of pale, frightened faces trying to comprehend what was happening in their lives.
He waited alone in the road for as long as he could. It quickly became obvious the dark stream of Fomorii had realised he had left the convoy, for they hurtled towards him relentlessly, without heeding the disappearing vehicles.
Once he was sure of that, he dashed through a gate and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.
The lowering clouds made the late afternoon into twilight. The very air around him seemed to have a gun-metal sheen and he could taste iron on the back of his tongue; a storm was brewing, which he hoped would be to his advantage, although he had the unnerving feeling the Fomorii could see in the gloomiest weather conditions.
But at least he was sure he could make the location work for him. Once he saw the name on the map, the information about myths, legends and history that he had amassed over a lifetime instantly came into play.
He was sprinting through the classically designed grounds of West Wycombe Park in full view of the gleaming Palladian mansion where the Dashwood family had made their home for hundreds of years. It was one of their ancestors who had earned the place such notoriety. In the mid-eighteenth century Sir Francis Dashwood founded a private brotherhood of the upper crust, which he ironically named the Knights of St. Francis. There was little of the chivalrous about a secret society dedicated to orgies and blasphemous religious ceremonies, acts which earned it the nickname the Hellfire Club and a motto Do what thou wilt. The truth had turned into legend, which had haunted the family and the area ever since, but somewhere in the grounds was another part of Sir Francis' grim legacy which Shavi thought might save his life; if only he could find it.
He headed for the unmistakable landmark of St. Lawrence's Church, built by Dashwood, with a meeting place for ten of his Hellfire Knights in a gleaming, golden ball on the top of the tower. Shavi had half expected to be met by security guards or someone trying to make him buy a ticket, but things were falling apart quickly all over; what was the point of maintaining tourist locations when everyone was trying to live on a day-to-day basis in a climate of increasing fear?
At the church he stopped and glanced back. The shadowy shapes were closer now, massing as they flowed down the sweeping green slopes of the garden. Quickly he scanned the area.
Eventually he found what he was looking for: an entrance cut into the hillside overlooking the park. Within lay a network of artificial caves going deep underground where the Hellfire Club had held its magic rituals and orgies. It was tucked away at just such an angle that the approaching Fomorii would not see him take the detour and would presume he had continued on through the grounds; and it was discreet enough that unless they knew it was there, they would not see it. He hoped.
He skidded inside, his chest aching from his ragged breathing; even fit as he now was, he hadn't moved at such a clip for a long time. The catacombs were filled with an inky darkness. Lights had been installed for the tourists, but he didn't dare attempt to put them on, even if he could have located the light switch. He moved as swiftly as he could while feeling his way along the chill, dank walls. When he rounded a corner and the ambient light was extinguished, the gloom was complete. He had a sudden flashback to the grim ruins of Mary King's Close and felt his heart begin to pound. He had attempted to bend the supernatural to his will, but the more he had learned about the Invisible World, the more he realised how much there was that terrified him. He wondered if any remnant of the monstrous rituals carried out by the Hellfire Club had been imprinted in the rock walls; if Sir Francis Dashwood's spirit still walked the place, trying to expunge his lifetime's sins; if there were other, worse, things there that had been called up by the Club's desire to be an affront to natural law.
But more than the otherworldly threat was the certain knowledge that if the Fomorii did enter the catacombs he would not be aware of them until they were upon him.
When he felt he had progressed deep enough into the heart of the tunnels, he slumped down against the foot of the wall and took a deep breath. His whole body was shaking from the strain and the fear, his blood pumping so loudly he didn't think he would hear if a column of hobnailed soldiers were marching towards him; he forced himself to do a series of breathing exercises to calm himself. Once he had relaxed as much as he could he tried to concentrate all his energies on his hearing. In his mind's eye he pictured the scene above ground: the oppressive force of Fomorii smashing down small trees, tearing through shrubs and flowers, sweeping up and around the church. By now they should have reached the entrance to the catacombs.
He listened intently. Nothing.
Perhaps they had already passed, thundering through the rest of the grounds, not stopping for miles, like robot drones pointed in one direction and turned on. Of the Fomorii he had encountered, there appeared little of independent thought and cunning; that rested in large quantities with their leader Calatin, and Mollecht, the Fomor who appeared as a swirling mass of crows, whom Shavi had not seen since that night in the Lake District when they thought they had snatched victory.
Time passed in deep silence. How long should he wait there, he wondered? In the dark he found he was losing track of the hours. If the Fomorii had not already found him, it would be logical, he supposed, to wait until morning before attempting to leave. They would be scouring the countryside for him and the night was not the best time to be trying to evade them. But even if he did make it through the night undiscovered, what chance would he have of reaching Windsor Park? It was not far on the map, but if there were an army of Fomorii between him and his destination, it might as well have been a million miles away.
At some point he fell asleep, and he must have been out for a while, for on awakening suddenly his mouth and throat were uncommonly dry and every muscle ached. When he opened his eyes he was completely disorientated by the dark and had to struggle to recall where he was. But as soon as his memory clicked into action he became alert; he knew something had woken him.
His first thought was that the Fomorii had finally tracked him down, but the dark caves around him seemed as empty as they ever had been. His next thought was of some supernatural presence; his instincts were as attuned to the Invisible as the visible world. But he didn't have that queasy sensation which always materialised in the pit of his stomach whenever something uncanny was nearby.
He held his breath and listened. At first, nothing; then a sound, just the slightest scuffle of dust from a footstep that many would have missed, but his own hearing had grown hyper-sensitive in the dark. There was someone else in the caves, and they were creeping, so as not to be discovered.
The construction of the caves meant all sound was distorted, so it was impossible to tell from which direction the footfall had come. In the all-consuming darkness Shavi was loath to move one way or the other in case he bumped into the intruder. But then neither could he sit there and wait to be discovered.
Weighing the odds, he decided to attempt to make his way back to the door; at least then he would have the option of fleeing if necessary. He stood up and rested his left hand on the wall before moving forward a few paces. He paused and listened. Another few paces and he stopped again.
The unmistakable scrape of a foot on the gritty floor. A tingle ran down his spine. It seemed to come from somewhere over to his right. Cautiously he continued ahead, placing each foot down slowly and carefully, so as not to make even the slightest noise.
His breath was held tightly in his chest. He half expected to come face to face with something terrible; the dark was so deep he wouldn't have known if there were someone standing motionless even six inches in front of him. With an effort he drove those thoughts from his head; it would do him no good; he had to stay calm.
Another noise, this time in front of him. The echoes were mesmerising. He couldn't tell if the intruder was circling or if he was misreading the direction of the sounds. He moved back a few paces and waited again.
In the claustrophobic space of the caves, Shavi knew it was only a matter of time before his pursuer caught him. Yet there was a slim chance to weight the odds a little more in his favour. He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath, focusing far within himself. He still couldn't turn his nascent shamanistic abilities on and off like a light switch, but with concentration there were little tricks he had practised. He felt the force rising within him like a billowing sheet, filling him, moving out through his mouth, to wrap itself around him. The first time he had attempted this he had been standing within a few feet of Veitch, yet the Londoner had not even noticed him, at least for a moment or two. He didn't know how it worked, but he perceived it as a cloak which made him merge in with the surroundings. It was a subtle trick and easily punctured, yet in the gloom of the cavern it might have more force. He hoped it would be enough.
His throat had grown painfully dry. After several minutes without a sound, he moved off again. This time he progressed a long way through the caves, but somewhere in the dark he must have taken a wrong turning, for he knew he should have come across the door by then. There was no point retracing his steps-he wouldn't have any idea when he arrived back at where he had slept anyway. His only option was to keep going left, in the hope that it would lead him to an outside wall which would eventually take him around the perimeter of the catacombs to the exit.
As he moved he listened as intently as he could, but there was no sign of anyone; at the same time he had an overwhelming and unpleasant sense of presence. And then he froze as every nerve seemed to fire at once. Was someone standing right behind him? His mind screamed at him to run, but somehow he held his ground. In that heightened moment his senses started playing tricks on him. Was that the bloom of a breath on his neck? An involuntary spasm ran through him; he didn't even dare swallow. The most natural thing in the world would have been to run away, but he was as sure as anything in his life that that would be the end of him.
And so he waited, and after several minutes the feeling slowly ebbed away. He didn't know if the intruder had been there, just inches away, listening, unable to see him, or if it was all in his mind. But the nausea he felt at the strain was certainly real.
He began moving again, hugging the wall, straining not to be heard.
His journey seemed to take hours, punctuated by long pauses brought on by dim echoes, the faintest footfalls, that might very well have been all in his mind.
And then, just as he was about to dismiss the entire experience as a flight of fancy, he happened to glance behind him, though his eyes were useless. The intensity of the darkness was almost hallucinatory and for a while his mind had been conjuring up flashes of colours, streaks of light, that were just brief electrical bursts on his retina. He could have dismissed it as another mind-flash, but what he saw made him stop and stare. No flash, no streak. Two tiny points of yellow away in the dark.
But then they disappeared and reappeared and he knew what they were: eyes, glinting with an awful inner light.
In his shock, he turned back and there was a thin grey band of dim light. It was seeping through the entrance. He moved towards it as quickly but as quietly as he could.
Steeling himself, his hand hovered over the handle. Then he wrenched it open and hurled himself out into a world just coming to life. On the threshold, he couldn't resist making the most of that pre-dawn light and threw one glance over his shoulder before sprinting across the park as fast as he could go.
And then he ran and he ran, that briefest glimpse staying with him as he put as much distance between him and his pursuer as he could. What he half saw in the gloom was a shape that looked like a giant wolf, its eyes growing with a malignant fire. But an instant later his mind had started to rearrange it into something else: a human figure. The killer was still close behind him, as relentless in its pursuit as the wolf his mind presumed it to be.
But what troubled him more than the knowledge that he had escaped death only by a hair's breadth was that in that instant when the shape had started to change he was almost convinced he knew the person it was becoming. In the gloom and the fear, he hadn't been able to harden up the vision, and the connection remained disturbingly elusive.
To his infinite relief, there was no pursuit; nor were there any Fomorii in the immediate vicinity. But what he had half seen continued to haunt him long after the sun had driven the greyness out of the landscape.
chapter eighteen
The court of the
queen of elfland
nverness appeared out of the dark Highlands landscape like a small island of light in a vast sea of shadows. Witch and Tom walked down from the hills with leaden legs, burdened with the crushing weight of exhaustion. They had spent the last few days endlessly dodging the Fomorii, who were swarming across the purple moorland in increasing numbers. Tom had utilised some of his tricksa ritual, some foul-tasting brew made from herbs and roots-which made the two of them oblivious to the Night Walkers unless they were in direct line of sight. But that still entailed endless hours of creeping along rocky gullies, taking the hard route over peaks or skulking in woods until the danger had passed.
It was a far cry from the first leg of their Scottish journey, when they had dined out on wholesome provisions from the villages they dropped in on. Now Veitch was heartily sick of wild game, roots and herbs, however well Tom cooked it. He had an almost unbearable craving for pizza or a curry, washed down with a beer.
"You reckon we'll get time to stop off for a ruby?" he said wearily as they trudged into the outskirts of town.
Tom looked at him blankly.
"Ruby Murray. Curry. It rhymes."
Tom shook his head contemptuously. "Eight days left. Why don't we go on a pub crawl while we're at it? We could have a few drinks for Ruth. That should make her well."
"All right. No need to act so bleedin' crabby." He took a few steps, then muttered, "Twat," under his breath. That made him feel better.
The truth was, their nerves were growing frayed. Time was running away from them. Lughnasadh was close, and the presence of Balor was almost tangible. They had both dreamed of a single eye watching them malignantly from the dark, and had woken sweaty and sick, with the feeling that the monstrous god of the Fomorii was aware of them. Even when they walked, they could feel his attention sweeping over them, the air thick with dread; with it came an overpowering sense of black despair that conjured thoughts of suicide, which they had to fight constantly to repel.
The weariness shucked off their shoulders the more they progressed into town. It felt good to see sodium lights after the oppression of a country night, to smell motor oil and the aroma of home cooking. But the closer they got into the centre, the more they began to realise something was wrong. No cars had passed them at all. Nobody walked the streets, even though it was only just past ten. The pubs were all locked, the curtains drawn, although Veitch could hear people drinking within; when he hammered on the doors a deep silence fell, but no one ever came to answer.
Eventually an old man swung open an upstairs window and hung out, his face filled with such fear Veitch gaped for a second.
"For God's sake, man, get yourself to your hearth!" The old man glanced up and down the street; he hadn't noticed Veitch wasn't alone. "Can you not see it's after dark!" He slammed the window shut and drew the curtains before Veitch could question him; Veitch shouted to him several times, but there was no further response.
"What's up?" Veitch asked Tom with disquiet.
Tom continued to walk briskly, seemingly oblivious to the sense of threat. "What' up? Old friends have come to visit Inverness and they won't leave until they've expressed their infinite kindness." Sarcasm dripped from his words.
"You're talking about the ones we're going to see?"
"The Queen of Elfland-"
A curiously amused expression jumped on Veitch's face. "You're kidding me."
"The Queen of Elfland. That's what they used to call her in the old stories. As if to pretend she was some kind of nice, acceptable fairy-" the word was filled with bitterness "-would somehow deflect her attentions."
"So what would you call her?"
"Nothing she could hear." He looked away so Veitch could not see his face. "The moment we cross over, we must be on our guard."
"You make her sound like some witch ready to tear our bleedin' heads off."
"She will be filled with charisma, magnetic and alluring. That is her danger."
"Okay. No problem."
"No, you do not understand. The slightest wrong move could be the end of you. Every court of the Tuatha De Danann is different. The Court of the Yearning Heart embraces chaos and madness, which is why it is given over to pleasure. It is very easy to be seduced by it." The deep tone of personal experience was unmiss able. "Listen carefully. You know the rules of Otherworld, and they go doubly here. You must accept no food nor drink from anyone or you will instantly fall under the power of the Queen. And she will find it greatly entertaining to trick you into doing so. You have to be sharp, Ryan. You have to be sharp."
Veitch was shocked by the familiarity of Tom's use of his Christian name. For the first time, he felt the Rhymer was truly concerned about his safety. "What'll happen, you know, if I do-?"
"Don't."
"But if I do?"
Tom sighed. "You will not be allowed to leave the Court of the Yearning Heart, at least not until the Queen has taken you apart down to your very molecules and has rebuilt you in whatever way her whims take her at the time. Until you have suffered every pain and pleasure imaginable, until it has become such a way of life that you want such suffering. And when she has finished, you will no longer be the man you are. You will no longer be a man."
If Tom had tried to scare him, he'd succeeded.
"There isn't a man alive who couldn't love her," Tom continued. "But she dishes out joy and cruelty in equal measure; sometimes she isn't even aware that's what she's doing. The gates at Tom-na-hurich remained intermittently open long after the Sundering. There is a story of two itinerant fiddlers who crossed over. The Queen paid them to entertain the Court and allowed them to eat one of the sumptuous meals that are always laid out there. The fiddlers played their hearts out for the rest of the night. But when they were taken back to the Hill of Yews come the morning, they crumbled into dust. Two hundred years had passed without them knowing, and the Queen had taken great pleasure in hiding this from them."
Veitch was silent for a moment. "So how come you didn't turn to dust?"
Tom laughed hollowly. "Why, only humans suffer such fates! The Queen has seen that I can never fit that bill." He stopped in the middle of the road and looked out across the city to beyond the River Ness; Veitch guessed their destination lay in that direction. "The legends say I lie under Tom-na-hurich with my men and white horse, ready to save Scotland in her hour of need."
"Well, that's what you're doing, ain't it?"
Tom snorted. "Heroes only exist in stories. There's no nobility in what people do. We're all driven by a complex stew of emotions and it's down to fate whether people see us as good or bad."
"You're a cynical git," Veitch said dismissively. "And you're wrong."
They continued in silence for the next fifteen minutes until Veitch noticed a golden glow washing over the shops of the High Street. It was moving gradually towards them, casting strange shadows up the grim brick walls of Eastgate Centre. "What's that?" His hand went to his sword under his coat.
"The welcoming committee."
As the glow drew nearer, Veitch saw it was coming off a small group of people wandering along the road, although there was no sign of any light source. The moment he looked at the figures he experienced the now-familiar disorientating effect.
Tom drew himself up; the faintest tremor ran through his body, but his face was a mask of calmness. Veitch moved in next to him, tight with apprehension.
Five figures were approaching, all of them wearing outlandish clothes which mixed golden armour and red silk, topped by unusual helmets like enormous sea shells.
"The Queen's guard," Tom noted. "Out hunting for entertainment."
Veitch took his lead from Tom, although his instinct was to hide. He watched as the guard progressed down the street, glancing into alleyways and side streets, shining their terrible regard into windows.
When they first clapped eyes on Tom and Veitch, sly smiles spread across their faces and they picked up their step as if they expected their quarry to flee for their lives. As they neared, their expressions became even more triumphal with recognition.
"True Thomas!" the leader of the guard exclaimed; there was a dark glee in his words, a contemptuous sneer shaping his mouth.
"Melliflor," Tom said in greeting, giving nothing away.
"Why, we thought you had gone from our doors for all time, True Thomas!" Melliflor smiled with barely disguised mockery. "The many wonders of the Court of the Yearning Heart are hard to resist, are they not? It calls to you always, even when you do not want to hear. Or," he mused, "is it your mistress who has brought you back? Our Lady of Light would be overjoyed to see you, True Thomas."
Two of the guards had moved behind Veitch and Tom, to prevent any retreat. Veitch watched them suspiciously from the corner of his eye.
"Then take me to her, Melliflor," Tom said. "It will be good to see my Queen again after so long."
Melliflor made an exaggerated sweeping gesture with his right hand to allow Tom to lead the way. After a few steps he arrived by Tom's side; Veitch might as well not have been there.
"May I enquire why you have returned to our doorstep?" Melliflor asked artfully.
"To renew acquaintances, Melliflor."
"I hear you played a significant part in our return to the solid lands. I am sure our Queen will wish to offer her gratitude in her usual way."
"Lead on, Melliflor. I have come far these last few days and I am too weary for conversation."
Melliflor's sneering smile suggested he knew the meaning behind Tom's words; Veitch could quite easily have loosed the crossbow at him there and then.
They moved silently at a fast pace through the deserted streets, crossing Ness Bridge with the water rolling silently beneath, then along Glenurquhart Road, past suburban houses all deserted; some were merely burnt-out shells. Tomna- hurich Cemetery loomed up suddenly, the white ghosts of stones gleaming. Melliflor led them past the neatly tended plots to a road running up a hill which looked strangely unnatural on the flat valley bottom. It soared steeply, cloaked in a thick swathe of trees: yews, oaks, holly, pine, sycamore, all interspersed with thick clumps of spiny gorse; the air was heady with the summery aromas of the wood. Hundreds of graves were hidden among the trees right up the hillside, as if they too had grown there. The road curved in a spiral dance around the hill to the summit, modern in construction but hinting at an ancient processional route. "Welcome to the Hill of Yews," Melliflor said respectfully, "known by the local people as Tom-na-hurich."
They followed the road round until they were swallowed by the trees and the lights of Inverness were lost. It was a strange, mysterious place, eerily still, yet their footfalls echoed in an unusual and unnerving manner; no one felt like talking until they had reached the summit. Here a large area had been cleared at the centre and filled with the jarringly regimented rows of a Victorian cemetery. The fringes were thickly treed with the oldest yews and oaks. At the highest point a cross had been raised to mark Remembrance Day.
They stopped at a nondescript spot among the crumbling, brown gravestones. Melliflor took a step forward and bowed his head before muttering something under his breath. A second later the ground vibrated with a deep bass rumble, as if enormous machinery had come to life, then the grass and soil prised itself apart. From within the long, dark tunnel which had materialised Veitch could hear faint music that immediately made him want to dance; the tang of rich spices wafted out into the balmy night and he was suddenly ravenously hungry. But then he glanced up at Tom and all his desires were wiped clean; the Rhymer's face was as white as a sheet and taut with the effort of keeping in his fear; a faint tick was pulsing near his mouth which, in the emotionless dish of his face, made him look like he was screaming.
At the other end of the tunnel were a pair of long, scarlet curtains. Melliflor held them aside for Veitch and Tom to pass into a great hall which appeared to be the venue for a riotous party. The music was almost deafening; Veitch heard fiddles, drums, a flute, other instruments he couldn't quite place, although he could see no sign of a band. A roaring fire in one corner made the air very warm, but not as uncomfortable as he would have expected at the height of summer. It was filled with an amazing range of scents, with each fresh waft bringing a new one: lime, pepper, roast beef, strawberries, cardamom, hops-so many it made his head spin.
So much was happening in the hall, he couldn't concentrate on one sense for too long. Long tables ranged around the outside of the room on which were heaped every food imaginable, though many he couldn't recognise and some made him turn away, although he couldn't explain why. In the centre of the room the Tuatha De Danann were dancing. Scores of them whirled round and round with wild abandon to the odd music, which occasionally flew off the register of Witch's hearing. It was like a turbulent sea of gold waves crashing against the tables and the walls; it made him queasy to watch.
The assault on Witch's senses was so great he felt his knees go weak and for a moment he was afraid he was going to faint. But then the rush hit him powerfully and he was swept up in it all. His body was reacting as if he had taken a cocktail of drugs, some mild hallucinogen and an amphetamine; he wanted to fling himself into the seething mass.
He was vaguely aware of someone on his right proffering a goblet of deep, red wine. Unconsciously he reached out to take it, his gaze still fixed on the dance floor.
He was jolted alert by the weight of Tom's hand on his forearm. The Rhymer was already thanking the young girl who had offered the wine with the studied politeness which seemed necessary to prevent any retribution. The girl looked disappointed and her face darkened as she turned away.
Veitch bowed his head sheepishly as Tom glared at him; he couldn't believe how quickly he had almost gone against all of Tom's deeply stressed cautions. He would not forget again.
His attention was drawn back to the dancing, and beyond it to the shadows that clustered along the edges. There he could just spy writhing bodies; the gods looked to be in coitus. He could just make out bobbing heads, violent thrusting, sensuous movements, and occasionally the sounds of passion broke through the music; but there was something about it which did not seem quite right, as if the bodies were not penetrating and enveloping, but flowing in and out of each other like mercury; merging. He looked away.
Melliflor was at Tom's side, hands cupped, falsely oleaginous. "The Queen was overjoyed to know you had returned, True Thomas. She will see you shortly. In the meantime, you and your companion be accepted as our guests. There is food and wine aplenty, the finest music in all of the Far Lands. Make merry, True Thomas, and be a perfect son of the Court of the Yearning Heart."
"And is it all given freely and without obligation?" Tom asked dispassionately.
"Ah, True Thomas," Melliflor said cunningly, "you know we can make no promises here."
Veitch and Tom found a pile of luxurious cushions in one corner from where they could watch the dancing. Veitch felt so comfortable after the exhaustions of the previous weeks he could have fallen asleep in an instant, but he was sure that was not wise. He was afraid to do anything in case he committed himself to something unpleasant and he wished he had listened more carefully to Tom's instructions during the long walk to Inverness.
Several times revellers walked up to offer jugs of wine or plates lavishly filled with juicy fruit or spiced meat, but always Tom politely refused. It was like a game the Tuatha De Danann were playing to see if they could catch their guests out; Witch could see them talking excitedly and pointing at him before an even more tasty offering was brought up. By the end Veitch's mouth was watering and his stomach rumbling, and all he could do was think how long ago his last meal had been.
Eventually Melliflor glided up. He bowed deeply. "The Queen will see you and your companion now, True Thomas."
The two of them were led out of the great hall along stone corridors hung with intricately embroidered tapestries and rich brocaded cloth. Braziers burned with scented wood so the atmosphere was constantly heady. They passed many closed doors and from behind them came strange, unnerving sounds; some sounded like yelps of pain, others like moans of pleasure; some it was impossible to distinguish.
They were eventually presented to a chamber draped throughout its length and breadth with gossamer ivory silk which filtered the flickering light of the torches on the walls so that the room was infused with a dreamy white glow. The material was almost transparent, but hung in so many places it was impossible to see what lay at the centre. Melliflor bowed and retreated, silently urging them to continue. They pushed their way through the gently swaying silk, which felt like the wings of butterflies when it brushed their skin. As each layer was passed they could see shapes more clearly. Veitch's heart began to beat hard in anticipation.
Finally they were through to the middle of the room. The Queen lay on a bed made of luxuriant cushions, so deep they looked as if they would swallow her. Her face was more beautiful than anything Veitch had seen in his life; there was a cruelty there which counterpointed the beauty in such a way it made her even more desirable. Her black hair was long and lustrous, her lips full and red; her eyes sparkled with an inner green light. And she was naked, her golden skin shimmering in the filtered light. Her breasts were large, her nipples tautly erect, her waist slim, her hips shapely, her belly flat; the epitome of what many would consider a male fantasy, truly the Queen of Desire. Veitch wondered if that was how she really looked, or if it was a form she thought could manipulate him; he tried to tell himself that with the Tuatha De Danann nothing could be trusted.
But then his eyes were drawn to her sleek, black pubic hair. She lay with her legs curled round so he could see her vagina. She made no attempt to hide herself; indeed, she seemed to be presenting herself to them. Veitch could see how Tom had been so entranced by her.
"It is wonderful to see you again, True Thomas." Her voice was lazy and filled with strange, enticing notes.
"My Queen." Tom bowed.
"Come." She waved them nearer. "Who is your companion, True Thomas?"
They stood so close Veitch could smell the warm perfume of her skin. She looked at his face intently, her eyes dark beneath half-lids; Witch felt sucked in by them.
"This is Ryan Veitch, my Queen. He is a Brother of Dragons."
"Ah, one of the champions of the solid lands." There was none of the mockery or contempt in her voice that Veitch had heard in so many of the other Tuatha lle Danann. She sounded honestly interested, even impressed. He attempted an awkward bow, which seemed to please her. "You did us a great service by freeing us from the Night Walkers' place of exile," she said directly to Veitch. "You are in our gratitude. If there is anything you require here in my court, you only have to ask."
"Thank you." Veitch was embarrassed his voice sounded so strained.
The Queen suddenly noticed the colourful tattoos only half-covered by the sleeve of his jacket. Her brow furrowed in curiosity. "What have we here? Is that the Staff of Heart's Desire?" She looked up brightly into Veitch's face. "Please. Remove your shirt. I must see."
Veitch glanced at Tom who nodded curtly. Self-consciously he slipped off his jacket and shirt; on his naked skin, the tattoos gleamed vibrantly. The Queen leaned forward until her face was close to his hard stomach muscles; Veitch could feel her breath. "The Watchtower," she mused. "And here, the sword, Caledfwlch. Amazing. You are a walking picture book."
She smiled seductively. Then, while her eyes were fixed firmly on his, she reached out gently until her fingers touched his skin just above his belt. A deep, uncontrollable shiver ran through him. Within an instant he had an erection so hard it was painful. The Queen kept her fingertips there a moment longer, then withdrew them just before he came. Veitch took an involuntary step back and sucked in a juddering breath.
Her little game won, the Queen turned from Veitch as though he were no longer there and spoke directly to Tom. "You were always my favourite, True Thomas."
He bowed. "You are gracious, my Queen."
"Why have you returned to me? I thought it likely I would never see you again. I presume you are not here to seek my affection?"
"We request your aid in a matter of great importance, my Queen."
"We, True Thomas?" Her gaze was incisive.
"I request your aid, my Queen. And I will be forever in your debt if you will help me."
"That is indeed a gift worth having, True Thomas."
Veitch had the impression of an owner curbing her dog. Suddenly he could see the huge edifice of power and malice that lay behind her eyes, but that did not stop him desiring her.
"One of the Sisters of Dragons has been infected with the taint of the Night Walkers," Tom began. He paused while he formed his argument, knowing that everything depended on it. "That understates the situation. It is not a taint, it is the ultimate corruption. The essence of the Heart of Shadows grows within her. The Night Walkers seek to bring back the End of Everything."
"That is indeed a serious development." Her gaze never wavered from Tom's face; she didn't seem even slightly troubled by the news. She shifted her position, raising her behind slightly so Veitch once again had a perfect view of her sex. "What is your primary wish?"
Tom collected himself before he said, "To destroy the End of Everything."
Veitch started. "To save Ruth's life," he corrected sharply.
The Queen's smile grew as she looked from one to the other. "A disagreement?"
"No disagreement." Tom fixed a cold eye on Veitch.
"There is no need to argue." Her voice was like honey. "There is a possibility I may be able to help you achieve both your aims."
Tom bowed again. "Anything you can do to help us would be gratefully received, my Queen." She glanced at Veitch and he realised he was supposed to prostrate himself too. He bowed awkwardly once more and muttered something that approximated Tom's statement.
It appeared to please her; she nodded and smiled. "There are many secrets here in the Court of the Yearning Heart, some which are hidden even from my brethren; even from the Court of the Final Word. Here, all things are given up eventually." She sucked on her index finger as she thought deeply for a moment. "The Eddy-Ball," she said with a certain nod. "A gift of great value to me." A smile; the game had begun. "The orb opens out into the void between worlds. It has the ability to suck the essence from the solid."
"And this could be done without harming the Sister of Dragons?"
"Of course. And the Heart of Shadows will find itself in a place where no shadows are cast." This amused her.
Veitch could barely contain his relief. Although Tom maintained his plain expression, Veitch could see the signs in the Rhymer's face too.
"Thank you, my Queen," Tom said.
"And you will do something for me. True Thomas?"
His face grew taut. "Of course, my Queen." Tom waited for her to demand he stay behind.
She pretended to think, toying with him. "No, True Thomas, not you. This Brother of Dragons." She glanced seductively at Veitch. "I will give the Eddy-Ball to him and him alone, and in return he will carry out a simple request for me."
"Anything," Veitch replied before Tom could stop him.
There was a triumphant note in her smile that made Veitch uneasy. "The Questing Beast has again escaped from the pits beneath us. It is loose in the solid world. It is my heart's desire that this Brother of Dragons seek it out and destroy it, or at least lead it back here to the Court of the Yearning Heart."
Veitch could hear her words, but all he could see was Tom's face, which had grown eerily bloodless. "The Questing Beast-" he began.
The Queen silenced him with an upraised hand, her eyes watching Veitch's face intently. "Will you do this for me?"
Whatever doubts Tom felt, Veitch knew he didn't have an option. "All right."
"Then I will make the arrangements. Go with Melliflor and he will provide you with all you require."
They moved slowly away until the gently stirring sheets of silk had swallowed up the Queen once more. As they walked, Veitch brushed against Tom and felt the trembling that was running through the Rhymer's body.
They were provided with two connecting chambers far from the noise of the Great Hall where they could rest and prepare themselves. They were both ravenously hungry, made worse by the plates of food left for them on tables in the corners of the room. Tom plucked from his ever-present haversack two bags of roasted peanuts he had been saving as a last resort, and they munched on them hungrily.
Veitch was filled with questions, but at first Tom wouldn't speak to him; it was almost as if he couldn't bring himself to do it. He retreated to his chamber for an hour where he smoked a joint quietly on the deep, comforting bed.
Veitch couldn't begin to rest. His mind turned over all that he had experienced, but kept returning to the image of the naked Queen; it was beginning to torment him. And when he forced himself not to think about her, his eyes drifted to the food.
When Tom finally walked in, he sat bolt upright with relief and said, "Come on. Spill the fucking beans. What am I up against?"
Tom pulled up a chair and sat on it backwards, folding his arms on top of the backrest. "You and your big mouth, agreeing to anything she said."
"We didn't have any choice."
"Of course we had a choice. They play games, barter, throw things back and forth. You don't take the first thing offered. You were too hypnotised by the sight of her cunt."
"And you weren't? You were almost down on your knees with your tongue hanging out!"
Tom cursed under his breath and put a hand on his eyes. "There's no point arguing about it. It's done. We have to find a way to make sure you survive."
Veitch kicked the other chair so hard it flew across the room. "Come on, then. Talk. What's this thing I've got to hunt?"
"The Questing Beast. It's a living nightmare, something that even the Tuatha De Danann are wary of facing head-on. Their own legends say it was there in Otherworld long before they arrived, one of the first creatures to exist after the universe was formed. They call it a Rough Creature. A prototype for what was to come, if you will. Not fully formed."
Veitch sat carefully on the edge of the bed. "If it's in their legends-"
"Exactly."
"So they're sending me out there because they don't want to have a go themselves. That's par for the course, isn't it? Those Bastards don't like getting their hands dirty. So if they're so wary of it, what was it doing here? And how the fuck am I going to kill it?"
"The Queen keeps many dangerous things here at the Court. It's a mark of prestige. How are you going to kill it?" He shrugged wearily. "I don't know enough about it. Neither do the Tuatha De Danann. But their distaste for it isn't because of its power, it's because of its imperfect form, which they find abhorrent in the same way they react to the Fomorii. Us, they can just about tolerate. Anything less is to be despised."
"So how dangerous is it?"
"Very. Make no mistake about that. It escaped into our world several centuries ago, before my time, and many people died before it was driven back to Otherworld. The general belief of the time was that a mortal girl gave birth to it after having sex with the Devil. The legends that grew up around it described it as having the head of a snake, the body of a big cat and the hindquarters of a lion, which is just another way of saying the people of the time couldn't describe it. It was said to give off a sound like forty hounds baying, or questing, in its stomach, and that's how it got its name."
"So we don't know what it looks like, just that it's very fucking bad." Veitch jumped to his feet and started pacing round the room; his eyes repeatedly strayed to the appetising food. "Well, it was driven off, so it can be done. It sounds like a big deal, but I'll be hunting it, not the other way round. Anyway, it's got to be, for Ruth, for Church and everything. Can't fuck up now."
Tom realised he was talking to himself, planning, bolstering; it was like the ritual of a boxer preparing for a fight.
After another moment's pacing, he turned to Tom and said, "Okay, I've got my head round it. I'm going to get some Zs in now. We'll do it when I wake."
As he left the room, Tom hid the fact that he was secretly impressed; once a conflict situation had been established Witch's developing abilities made him like a machine. Fear or overconfidence didn't burden him; he simply weighed up all the available evidence and decided what needed to be done. Tom hoped that would be enough.
In the court it was impossible to know if it was night or day. But when Veitch woke his body told him he had had a good rest; the exhaustion had seeped from his muscles and he felt ready for anything. He was still hungry, but he knew he could find something to eat back in the real world.
Tom joined him soon after, as if he had been waiting for the sounds of stirring. Together they stepped out into the corridor where Melliflor was waiting.
Veitch had hoped the Queen would have come to see him off, but she was nowhere around. Instead, Melliflor led them to the armoury, a long, lowceilinged chamber where the walls were covered with a variety of bizarre weapons and strangely shaped body armour. Veitch picked up one of the weapons which looked like an axe with a spiked ball hanging from it, but in his hands it felt a different shape completely to how it appeared and he replaced it quickly.
While Melliflor oversaw, three other members of the guard brought Veitch different pieces of armour. They strapped across his chest a breastplate which shone like silver, but which was covered with an intricate filigree. Shoulder plates were fastened on, and he was given a helmet which vaguely resembled a Roman centurion's, but was much more ornate. After mulling over the weapons for fifteen minutes he eschewed them all for his own sword and crossbow.
He had no idea of what the armour was constructed, but it was surprisingly lightweight; he could have walked for miles in it. He didn't have to, though, for as soon as he was ready Melliflor took him through to an adjoining stable which contained enough horses for a small army.
"Stolen from our world," Tom muttered. It allows the lesser members of the Tuatha De Danann to travel quickly when they cross over."
"This is no bleedin' good, I've never ridden before," Veitch moaned.
"The steed will respond to your every movement. We have adapted it," Melliflor said ominously.
Melliflor offered Veitch a handsome white charger, but he didn't feel comfortable with it. "Too flash," he grumbled. Instead he chose a nut-brown stallion indistinguishable from many of the others.
Once he had mounted the steed, Melliflor led it by its reins to a blank stone wall at one end of the stable. He made a strange hand gesture and the wall opened with a deep, rumbling judder. They were high up on a hillside with a vista over Loch Ness. Mist drifted across the water in the post-dawn light. From all around came the sweet aroma of pine trees. Everywhere was still and quiet.
Veitch turned to view the scene in the stables, but he couldn't think of anything to say to Tom. Instead, he merely waved; Tom nodded curtly in reply, but there was much hidden in the two gestures. Then Veitch spurred his horse and galloped off into the world.
The darkness licked at the foot of Mam Tor, an angry sea crashing on the rocks. From his vantage point beneath a burning sun and a brilliant blue sky, Church watched as hopelessness washed over him.
"They'll be coming up soon." Laura's voice made him start.
"Best not to think about that."
"Sure. Do you want me to help bury your head or can you do it yourself?"
Church managed a tight smile; he didn't have much humour left in him. With Ruth's condition worsening by the day, the strain of their isolation and the constant fear that their hiding place would be discovered at any moment, it was surprising he hadn't lapsed into permanent silence.
"No sign of the others yet?" Laura rested on his shoulder and peered out to the horizon. It was a running joke; she asked the same thing every day, knowing the answer.
"Not yet. Maybe tomorrow." He tried, but he couldn't help believing that they wouldn't be coming back at all. He knew they had long distances to travel, with huge obstacles along the way, but they still seemed to have been gone a long time. Even if they did return, how would they be able to slip past the mass of Fomorii? He had been right the first time: best not to think about it.
"She's asking for you." Laura continued to scan the horizon, as if by doing it everything in the foreground could be forgotten.
"How is she?"
"Not talking like she's pissed up for a change." Ruth's lucid moments were increasingly few and far between; at times she ranted and raged in the throes of her delirium so much they thought they would have to restrain her. It always happened at night, in the small hours, snapping them out of sleep and filling them with fear that they were being attacked. Sometimes she would hold conversations with someone neither of them could see; on those occasions they didn't go to sleep again.
Church turned despondently to wander back to the house, but he hadn't gone more than a few steps when Laura grabbed him and gave him a long, romantic kiss. It was an astonishing show of emotion for someone who seemed ever more locked up with each passing day.
"What was that for?" he asked, pleasantly surprised.
"What's the matter? Can't I show you I love you?" She had turned and was walking away before he had a chance to grasp what she had said.
He mulled over it until he was in the house, but the moment he saw Ruth it was driven from his mind. Her skin was like snow, emphasised by the darkness of her hair, which was plastered with sweat to her head. There were purple rings under her eyes and her cheeks had grown increasingly hollow. Beneath the sleeping bag, her belly was hugely swollen. Her appearance was so shocking he had a horrible feeling she was going to die before Balor's rebirth. A part of himself that he never faced hoped that was the case; then he would be saved from having to make the awful decision to kill her.
Although he was creeping quietly, she looked up before he had crossed the threshold. "Hi. You're starting to get a tan." Her voice was just a rustle.
"You know how it is. Nothing to do apart from lie by the pool with a good book." He knelt down next to her to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. When he rested his hand against her cheek, her skin felt like it was burning up.
She put her hand on top of his and gave it a squeeze. "I'm glad you're here."
"Sure. I'm doing so much-"
"I just feel better having you around." He smiled; her eyes brightened briefly before she was forced to close them; a tear squeezed out and trickled down her cheek.
"I'm sorry you've had to go through all this," he said gently. "You've had the worst of all of us. One bad thing after another."
"You know, bad things happen." She pulled his hand round so she could softly kiss his fingers; her lips were too dry.
"You don't have any right to take it so well. You're giving us all too much to live up to. You git."
They laughed together, and the sound of it in that dismal room made Church's own eyes burn. He blinked them dry. "Sometimes I feel like I've known you forever. I know it's only been a few months since that night under Albert Bridge, but it seems like a lifetime ago."
"Maybe we have known each other forever. Maybe it's that old Pendragon Spirit speaking. Telling you we've stood side by side across the centuries."
"You're an old romantic."
She tried to laugh again, but it broke up into a hacking cough. When the attack had subsided, her mood had grown forlorn. "I just wish it wasn't happening here. This house feels bad, sour. I don't know what happened here, but sometimes I can hear voices whispering to me. The things they say… that Ryan's going to die… that other terrible things are going to happen-"
"Hush."
"That writing on the wall… Sometimes words seem to leap out at me-"
He put two fingers on her lips to silence her. Gradually the delirium returned to her eyes as they started to roll upwards. After a moment or two she began to rave, occasionally speaking in tongues, thrashing from side to side. Church sat patiently beside her during the worst of it, then stroked her head until she eventually drifted off to sleep.
Sometimes Church thought he had never seen a night sky like the one above Mam Tor. Unencumbered by light pollution, benefiting in some indescribable way from the sheer height above sea level, they seemed to be enveloped by the sparkling heavens. If not for their circumstances, it would have been a sublime experience.
He stood with Laura in his arms, looking up at the celestial vault; for once she had removed her sunglasses. "We've come a long way, despite everything. Pity if it had to end here."
"No fat lady singing yet, boy."
"No, not yet." He watched a meteor burn up over their heads, wondering if it were some kind of sign. "Sometimes it's hard to take a step back and appreciate exactly what we're doing here. You know, I look at myself, look at you and the others, and all I see is normal people with all the stupid kinds of problems everybody has. And that's who we are, but at the same time we're something else as well-the champions of a race, a planet. The living embodiment of the Pendragon Spirit, whatever that might be-"
"Maybe we're not special."
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe this thing the old git calls the Pendragon Spirit is in everybody. Maybe it's the spirit of man, or some shit. Listen to me, I sound like some wetbrained New Age idiot. What I'm trying to say is, what if he's just calling us special to keep us on board. So we think sorting out this whole mess is just down to us."
"Or so we dig deep to find the best in us to get the job done."
"That too." She rested her forehead on his shoulder. "That would explain why we all seem like such a bunch of losers. We are a bunch of losers."
"Doing the best we can. And doing a damn good job-"
"So far. But if we've not got any special dispensation, the chances of us fucking up are even greater. We've got through on a wing and a prayer and too much confidence. But sooner or later the blind, stupid luck is going to run out."
Church thought about this while he continued to watch the stars. Then: "I might have agreed with you a few weeks back, when we first met each other. But in all the shit we've waded through, everybody has shown a real goodness at the heart of them. There isn't anybody else I'd want around me at this time and there isn't anybody else I think could do a better job-"
"You don't know the thoughts in my head-"
"I can guess at them."
"No, you can't. There are sick, twisted things crawling around up there. Take Little Miss Goody-Shoes back there. Sometimes I wish she'd hurry up and die so she wouldn't carry on getting between me and you. I know it's a nasty, evil little part of me and I hate myself for it. But I still do it."
"She doesn't get between us."
"You're too stupid to see it. She loves you and I think you love her, and if there wasn't a constant state of crisis you'd recognise that."
Her words sparked rampant, brilliant bursts in his mind, but they were all too fleeting to get a handle on. He pulled back slightly so he could try to read her; she half-turned her head away. "You're a good person, Laura."
"You're a good liar."
"You've got an answer for everything."
"If I had, I wouldn't be feeling like my brains were leaking out of my ears. Too much thinking isn't good for anyone."
"Look-"
She slammed her hand on his mouth. "Don't say anything. It'll sort itself out one way or the other." He didn't like the look that crossed her face when she said that.
He hated to think anything unpleasant of her, so instead he kissed her. At first she seemed to be resisting him, but then she gave in, and for the briefest instant everything seemed in perfect harmony.
But then an unseasonally cold wind came whipping across the tor and buffeted them. Church broke off the kiss, shivering. Away in the west, billowing clouds were sweeping towards them at an unnatural rate. Lightning flashed within them, illuminating the underside of the roiling mass; one bolt burst out in a jagged streak to the ground. But they were not storm clouds, and there was no thunder.
The wind grew stronger as the clouds neared until it was lashing their hair, then threatening to throw them to the ground.
"What's going on?" Laura said. "Is this it?"
The clouds came down until they were rolling across the ground, and at that point Church realised there was a figure among them. At first it was just a silhouette almost lost beneath the shrouding mist, but then it came closer to the fore and Church realised who it was, and what was happening.
"Get back to the house." The snap in his voice stifled any questions instantly. Laura took one more glance at the clouds, then ran for the cottage. Halfway across the turf she realised Church wasn't behind her, but when she looked back he waved frantically for her to continue.
Then the wind did knock him to his knees and as he tried to scramble to his feet again, it hit him with all the force of a rampaging bull. He rolled over and it kept him rolling, driving him towards the jagged cliff edge and the precipitous drop to the rocks far below. Desperately he tried to dig his fingers in the grass, but they were torn out immediately; his bones cracked on stones, his face was dragged across the rough ground until it burned and bled.
The cliff rushed towards him. He had a fleeting vision of his broken, bloody body smashed at the foot of the tor and then the wind eased off just as he was half-hanging over the edge. He sucked in a deep breath, shaking with shock, tried to scramble back using his heels for purchase, but another gust came and pinned him on the cusp between life and death.
He had to calm himself, order his thoughts; it was his only chance. The gulf beneath him tugged at his hair, made his head spin.
Niamh hovered in front of him a foot above the ground, wrapped in the clouds of her discontent. He barely recognised her. The beautiful face was lost; instead, it rippled and twisted, unable to settle in a vision his mind could comprehend; her fury and dismay had reduced her to her primal form.
"Betrayal!" The word seemed to come from all around them, not spoken by any human voice, filled with strange vibrations that reverberated in the pit of his stomach.
"I didn't-"
"You gave me your word! You promised me your love solely! You lied! Untrustworthy, like all Frail Creatures!" A gust pushed him another inch over the drop. His fingers ached from clinging on to the rock lip.
"I'm sorry!" He had to raise his voice to be heard above the wind that was rushing all around the tor.
"No more lies!" Her voice exploded with the fury of a breaking storm, but at the centre of it Church could hear her heartache.
"I'm sorry!" he shouted again. This time she seemed to hear him, for there was a faint lull. He seized the opportunity. "I was stupid… confused-"
The wind hit him hard; he moved another inch. One more and he wouldn't be able to stop himself falling. His fingers felt like they were breaking from clutching on; the panic in his throat made it difficult to catch his breath.
"Lies." Her voice sounded less frenzied, more openly emotional, more humanity creeping into it. Church forced his head up so he could see. Her face had settled back into the features he knew, but they were broken with hurt. At that moment his heart went out to her and he was consumed with guilt at how he had disregarded her feelings. "We Golden Ones live our lives in the extremes of passion. We feel too strongly. You cannot even begin to understand the slightest working of our hearts and minds!"
The clouds continued to churn behind her, occasionally lifting her a few more inches higher before she settled down at the same level. Church wanted to say something to calm her, but he didn't have any grounds to defend himself and he was afraid he would only make it worse.
She floated closer to him, almost to the lip of the edge, so he could see her face without straining. Her pain had now turned to a cold, hard anger; he feared for his life once again. "My people always said nothing good could ever come of an affair with a Fragile Creature, and it appears they were correct. I have watched you too long from afar, Jack Churchill, and I have allowed my judgement to be swayed by what I saw."
The gale began to press on his chest; he could feel himself sliding. In that moment, thoughts went rushing through Church's head and he was surprised to realise he was less scared for himself than angry that he had once again allowed his emotions to ruin everything; if he died, every hope would die with him.
Before he could say anything the wind retracted and Niamh began to drift away, her face still cold and hard. "Our agreement is broken." Church followed her pointing finger towards the dark horizon; there, golden light flashed ominously. "The Good Son will soon be paying you a visit."
And with that, the clouds folded around her so she was completely lost to him, and the whole mass moved quickly back over the landscape until it disappeared beyond the summit of the tor.
Church scrambled back. When he was lying on solid ground, he gulped in mouthfuls of air and felt his pumping heart slowly return to normal. As he dragged himself to his feet, Laura ran from the house.
"You really know how to fuck women up, don't you?" she said breathlessly.
He could barely hear her. His attention was drawn to the occasional bursts of light in the distance and the engulfing darkness closer to home.
"I've done it again," he said quietly.
"What?"
"Screwed everything up." He couldn't even bring himself to tell her that a near-hopeless situation had suddenly become much worse. With his head bowed, he turned and trudged back to the house.
Veitch spent the first two days roaming through the heavily wooded slopes which enclosed the loch. It was a place like none he had experienced before, enveloped in its own strange, eerie atmosphere; purple hillsides cloaked in mist just beyond the tree boundary, outcroppings of orange, brown and black rocks, ancient trees, gnarled and twisted and scarred with green lichen that showed their great age, and over all the constant, soothing sound of the waves lapping against the pink shale and pebbles at the water's edge. The way the pines clustered so deeply to the shore on the south bank made him feel penned in, and there was an unshakeable sense that he was being watched from somewhere in their depths. But there was also a deep serenity, almost mystical in its intensity, with the birdsong hanging melodically in the air. At times the water was as still as glass, reflecting the verdant landscape and clear blue skies so perfectly he felt he could dive in and walk among the cool glades. At other times storms sprang from nowhere, sweeping up odd, eddying waves that crashed against the steep banks. Fog came and went among the trees, like ghosts, and at night, beneath a shimmering moon and diamond stars the valley was filled with the pregnant hush that came before a conversation.
He saw no traffic at all along the sinuous road that ran along the banks of the loch, and he didn't know if that was down to the Questing Beast or if everyone had simply fled to the cities. In Drumnadrochit, the quiet village that lay where Glen Urquhart intersected the Great Glen, the houses were still and locked, although a wisp of smoke rose from the occasional chimney. At the loch's southern tip, Fort Augustus was near empty too, and the occasional resident who saw him coming quickly ran for cover.
He made camp on both nights in a tree-lined gorge not far from Fort Augustus. Without even the slightest sign of the Questing Beast, he had started to wonder if it was another of the Queen's incomprehensible machinations, perhaps to separate him from Tom.
On the third day, he realised his hunt was true. In the early morning, he travelled alongside the tumbling river at the bottom of Glen Urquhart. The valley was blanketed beneath the drifting white mist that seemed to come and go with a mind of its own, muffling and distorting the splashing of the water and the clipped echoes of the horse's hooves. In a lonely spot surrounded by acres of sheep-clipped grass he came across an old stone cairn. There was a fading majesty to it, and even he, who was usually insensitive to the blue fire, felt a hint of its power there. But among the standing stones beyond the cairn he came across the remains of a man, half-strung over a barbed-wire fence. From his clothes, he looked like a farmer or an agricultural labourer. He was partially disembowelled as if he had been gored by a bull or a boar, but he had been out there long enough for the carrion birds to have been at his eyes and genitals, so it was impossible to tell if the Beast had consumed any of him as well. Veitch inspected the corpse and the surrounding area for anything that might help him, but there was no spoor or other discernible sign. The only thing that troubled him was that the poor man's blood had splattered randomly on the ground in a shape that resembled a screaming face. After spending time with Shavi he had grown reasonably adept at reading meaning in things that appeared to have none, and that image began to eat away at his subconscious. As he moved away his mind's eye had already begun to paint a picture of the true appearance of the Questing Beast.
That night he made camp among the trees high up on the hillside where he had a clear view of the loch and the bleak southern slopes. The setting sun painted the water red and purple; it was once again so still the water gave the illusion of glass. The air was sweet with the aroma of pine and wild flowers, and an abiding peace lay over the landscape. Yet it was hard for him to rest knowing that the thing could come at him from any direction at any time; he had even started to think of it as invisible or as something that flew on silent wings. All he wanted was something solid to latch on to, something he could stab or shoot or hack at, and then he would be fine.
As he had done the other nights, he dined on chocolate, biscuits and crisps he'd taken from a mysteriously deserted garage in Fort Augustus; the sugar and the processed taste sickened him, but he would have felt ridiculous striding into a supermarket for something more sustaining in the armour bequeathed him by the Tuatha De Danann. He was almost too distracted to think of food. Whenever he rested, Ruth loomed heavy in his thoughts, her face, darkened by fear after her discovery of what she carried with her, a frequent, troubling image he never seemed able to shake. Spurred by Church's right-thinking motivations, he had set out to help in the fight, but he knew his own motivation had been a quest for redemption for his past crimes. The chance to become a better person still weighed on him, but now, more than anything, he was doing it for her; to find some solution to heal her in the short term, to save her in the long term, whatever the cost to himself. Being driven by love was a strange experience for him and he was surprised how much he liked it.
As darkness fell, he stoked up the campfire for warmth during the cold night ahead, before taking time to groom the horse of which he had grown increasingly fond. When he had asked Melliflor for its name, the reply had been something indecipherable, so he had secretly decided to call it Thunder after the horse of some cowboy hero in an American comic he had read as a child. He would never tell the others something like that, but it gave him a deep, personal comfort. He got pleasure from treating it with affection, although he privately wished it were a little more responsive. It seemed unduly wary of him, almost as if it were scared, which he guessed must have come from whatever treatment had been meted out in the strange stables of the Court of the Yearning Heart. I can't even get a horse to like nze, he thought as he stroked its flank; the notion was so ridiculous it made him laugh out loud.
It was Thunder who alerted him to danger as he settled down to sleep next to the fire under the fragrant canopy of a pine. It whinnied and stamped its hooves long before Veitch heard any sign, and he was up on his feet with the sword in his hands as the howl of fear came from somewhere near the road on his side of the loch. The cry was suddenly infused with pain, before being snapped off.
Veitch jumped on to Thunder and spurred him through the trees on the steep slopes down to the road. The horse was uneasy, but it responded to his heels and it didn't take him long to find the mangled remains of a motorbike. There was a pool of blood on the tarmac, but no sign of any body. He dismounted and examined the road surface. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but the splatters of blood appeared to point in the direction of the inlet overlooked by the ruins of Castle Urquhart. Briefly, he stopped and listened, but the night was as quiet as ever. He wondered how swiftly the Beast could move; perhaps it was already miles away. Cautiously he climbed back on Thunder and headed in the direction indicated by the blood.
The clatter of the hooves echoed loudly in the quiet. It still surprised him to be riding down the middle of a road without seeing any sign of headlights in the deep night that hung over the water.
Ten minutes later he passed the still ruins of Urquhart Castle. There was no anxiety within him, just a quiet, intense concentration that took over his mind and permeated his being. His instinct told him his quarry was somewhere in the vicinity; there was a constant resonance vibrating inside him that he had come to trust: a warning to be as alert as he could be.
Around the bend in the road that led to Drumnadrochit he came across a few shreds of bloodied clothing. He jumped down to investigate without once lessening the sharp focus of his attention. He could hear nothing, smell nothing. The Beast left no sign in its passing, but Thunder seemed to sense something; its eyes rolled and it stamped its hooves again.
From the shape of the clump of clothing he could at least discern the direction in which the Beast had been travelling when the remnants were dropped. It was moving towards the area where the road was darkest and the trees clustered claustrophobically close. Back on Thunder, he gently urged it on; slowly, slowly, eyes constantly searching the surroundings. He rounded the small bay; ahead, the road moved off towards Inverness.
From the corner of his eye he caught a sudden movement in the trees away to his left. It was a darkness deeper than the surrounding shadows, moving so quickly it disturbed him.
He spurred Thunder into the trees, his crossbow held over the crook of his arm, his finger poised on the trigger. At that point there was little opportunity to manoeuvre among the trees. The movement of the branches in the faint breeze made odd shifts in the ambient light that at times made him feel something was creeping up on him. His heart pounding, he kept glancing all around to reassure himself.
Another movement, again away to his left. Was it trying to circle him, come up from behind? He suddenly realised it was a mistake to be in such a constricted space and he quickly sent Thunder back on to the road. From some where came the sound which Tom had described as forty hounds baying. That didn't even begin to capture the bone-chilling noise which now drifted out across the deserted countryside: high-pitched and filled with an abiding hunger, it didn't sound like anything earthly at all.
Something shifted back up the road. This time he was ready. In an instant his mind weighed up all the evidence, projected the path of the Beast; he aimed the crossbow, loosed the bolt. It shot into the shadows, bringing what could have been a squeal of pain. His teeth went on edge. He spurred Thunder on while managing to use the crank to draw the crossbow for another shot.
There was no sign of the Beast at the point where he had hit it, but he hadn't expected to bring it down with just one bolt. But there were dark splatters on the tarmac which smelled like charred batteries. So it could bleed, he thought. It could be hurt. That was all he needed to know.
It was heading back towards the castle ruins which rose up like bleached bones in the cold moonlight. Once it got on to the rugged, irregular promontory jutting into the icy waters, he would have it cornered. Could he take it out with just a crossbow and a sword? His blood thundered with the thrill of the hunt. He thought he probably could.
The car park for the castle was lit for tourists who would probably never come again. Across the shadowed edge of it the deeper darkness moved. Veitch got another impression of something big and dangerous. He loosed another bolt. It rattled across the car park, slammed into the fleeing rear of the creature. Another squeal of pain. It was proving easier than he thought.
His horse trotted down the steep path from the car park that eventually ran across an open stretch of grassland up to the castle's defensive ditch. At the drawbridge he dismounted and left Thunder next to a light. He had more freedom to move and react quickly on foot.
The castle was ruined, but still robust enough to glimpse the majesty of the fortress that had looked out over the loch, in one form or another, since the Pictish kings ruled the land in the Dark Ages. The grey stone of the impenetrable walls stretched out on either side, while the still-standing tower loomed like a sentinel away to his left.
There was more ichor splashed across the path that ran under the gatehouse; it looked like the Beast had been seriously injured. Veitch reclaimed the two bolts that had been knocked loose and prepared for another shot.
He could hear movement within the castle compound. He entered through the gatehouse slowly, aware that the enclosed space, with its dips and hillocks and many ruined buildings, could be a dangerous maze. Cautiously he scanned the area. There were too many places in which the Beast could hide.
Another sound sent him sprinting up the steps across the grass to the Upper Bailey. From this vantage point he had a view across the castle and the loch beyond. Nothing moved. Sooner or later it would give itself away, especially if it was badly injured, he told himself; but it was possible, if he was clever enough, to herd it to the area around the tower where it would have no escape.
He spent a few minutes convincing himself it was nowhere in the Upper Bailey and then he advanced slowly towards the hulking ruins of the chapel, Great Hall and kitchens. A brief wind swept up from the black water, singing in his ears.
But as he crossed into the Nether Bailey a figure erupted out of the periphery of his vision. He had only the briefest instant to register what was happening and then he was flying through the air. The landing stunned him for a second, but his sense of self-preservation took over and he shook himself awake. He lay on the grass in the shadow of the North Lodge; nothing moved near him. There was a chill wetness across his chest. When he looked down he saw his jacket and shirt lay in ribbons and there were three deep gashes cut into his flesh. The blood was pumping out through his ruptured armour. Desperately he tried to staunch it with a torn-off piece of his shirt, but as he tended to himself there was another blur of movement. His head snapped round so sharply he thought his neck had broken. Stars flashed across his vision; then the pain came, thundering out in a wave across his temples. By the time he had caught himself, his eyes were filling with liquid. He wiped them clear with the back of his hand, glanced down, saw the dark smear, dripping on his trousers.
The blow had dazed him; everything seemed to be moving too slowly, fractured, as if a strobe had been activated. The terrible hunting cry rose up all around him, different this time, triumphant.
No, he thought. I had it.
A shimmer of activity, so quick he barely saw it. Somehow he managed to fire off a bolt. The Questing Beast avoided it with ease.
As it could have done before, he realised. How stupid was he? He searched for a path back to Thunder, the images coming in broken, stinging form; he had to get away, recover. But the blur of movement was going around too fast, circling, forcing him back. It had cut off all escape routes. He was trapped, his back coming up against a stone wall. Then he stumbled through the gap of the Water Gate and rolled over and over down a steep bank, coming up hard against more stone blocks beyond which was a small, pebbled beach and the dark, lapping water.
As his thoughts started to come free from his daze, he realised: the Questing Beast had shown a ferocious intelligence and cunning, recognising the danger from him, probably over the days he thought he had been stalking it. He had been treating it like a stupid beast; it had been waiting for the opportunity to neutralise him.
It lashed forward from the dark and retreated in the blink of an eye. A gout of blood erupted from his forearm.
The pain was lost in the wild reel of his thoughts. He tumbled over the stone blocks on to the beach; now there was only water at his back.
The Questing Beast knew he was wounded; fatally, he realised, the same time the word entered his head. He could feel his clothes heavy with blood. How much longer did he have? The fragility of his thoughts gave him an answer. He'd failed: himself, Ruth, all the others. His stupidity had come through as it always did.
The Beast no longer seemed to be hiding from him. Through the haze he could pick it out more clearly than he had before. Its shape was not fixed and did not settle down like the Tuatha De Danann did once his mind had formed an analog; it was as if it preceded form, shouting across the aeons from a time when there was only intelligence and emotion. He glimpsed writhing, serpentine coils, something hard and bony, something that moved like gelatin and lashed with the spike of a scorpion's tail; felt, in one terrible moment, the cold, hard fury of its mind, as if it could reach out physically and strike him. This was bigger than him, better than him.
And then he realised, with some primal instinct, that it was gearing up for the final blow. He had little sense left through the pain; most of it was leaking out with his life's blood. But he asked himself this question: how cunning was he?
How cunning?
Blackness formed a tunnel around the periphery of his vision. He dropped the crossbow, went down to his knees, blood pooling in his eyes; he only had his instinct to go on. He bowed his head, prepared himself for the final blow.
The Questing Beast came forward in a wave of night; it was as if the wind had teeth and was roaring at him.
Veitch threw himself down on his stomach. At the same time he somehow managed to pull the sword free and raised it above his head. He held it firm when he felt it bite deep, and even when the sheer force of the Questing Beast's attack threatened to knock it from his grasp, he dug in and angled. The stink of charred batteries filled the air. The liquid swamped him in one awful deluge. The Questing Beast's momentum carried it over his head, screaming so loudly his eardrums burst.
And then he was in a syrupy world of silence, didn't hear the splash as the creature plummeted into the water. He turned on his back, saw stars and the moon; knew, in a damp, sad way, it would be the last time he would see them. He'd lost feeling in every part of his body. There were just his thoughts now, bursting like fireworks, slowly winding down.
The play of light on the lapping water was hypnotic. It was a good sight to see as the last sight. But it wasn't the end, it wasn't the end. The Beast wasn't dead; not yet. The black shape was moving through the water like a stalking shark. Thoughts triggered, stumbled into each other and then ran away obliquely; and he wondered how many times in the past it had broken through before Otherworld sucked it back, slinking through the waves, creating ripples of mythology on flickering black and white frames.
And as he thought this, it suddenly spurred into life, sending a V-shaped ripple breaking out on either side as it hurtled towards him. He had only a second to force himself up on his elbows before it erupted out of the water in front of him. He had a brief impression of a blackness as deep as space, of sharp, clacking teeth, and things that could have been tendrils or tentacles or arms, and then he closed his eyes and waited for pain that never came.
Somehow his lids flickered open again, and this time he wondered if he was already dead, for the scene around him had changed dramatically. There was a flurry of activity. Melliflor was there with the rest of the Queen's guard, oddly twisted spears catching the moonlight, and nets that billowed like the sails of a ship. And there was Tom looming over him, looking like Veitch had never seen him before; not stern nor angry, but caring and frightened, and in that instant he knew he was dead; or dreaming; or both.
The tunnel around his vision closed in tightly. And as everything faded into oblivion, his mind flashed back to that brief contact with the alien mind of the Questing Beast. It was a moment of sublime mystery, but there were some human reference points he could grasp: loneliness, a terrible yearning for another of its kind, long, long gone, lost in those early days when the world was new. That was why it was questing. Pain and hurt as brittle as glass; not a beast at all.
How awful, he thought. To be hunting it in that way. For it to be imprisoned by the Tuatha De Danann in the stinking bowels of their court. How awful and stupid and meaningless.
"You'll be okay now."
The voice: in his head, or somewhere outside? Then, like treacle flowing into his mind, the realisation that he was hearing; how could that be? When Witch's eyes finally responded he saw through a haze the stables in the Court of the Yearning Heart. His blood stained the dirty straw. Thunder stood nearby, stamping its hooves.
With the return of consciousness, agony exploded throughout his body. He was slumped against the wall in the mangled remnants of his armour, now coloured browny-purple with his dried blood. The deep gash across his chest was still ragged, but it didn't look quite as deep; even so, Veitch couldn't understand how he was still alive. From the way he had started to shiver, his death still seemed a definite possibility. But he could hear again, although he knew his drums had burst at the lochside.
Tom hove into view, dropping down on to his haunches; it was his familiar Scottish brogue Veitch had heard earlier. "What happened?" Witch's voice a feeble croak.
"The Queen saw-"
"I saw your tremendous victory." Tom stood up and walked over to the other side of the stables as the Queen knelt down next to Veitch. She was wearing flowing, diaphanous white robes that were startlingly out of place in the bloody grime of the stables. "You proved yourself a great champion. My champion." There was great pride in her voice. "I had you brought here, for in my court nothing truly dies if I so wish it. Here your wounds will have time to heal. You will be well again, Ryan Veitch." Melliflor laid a crystal bowl of water next to her. She took a white cloth from him, dipped it in the water and began to dab gently at his forehead, slowly wiping away the splatters of his blood.
"I can't believe it," he muttered deliriously. "A Queen… tending to me..
"Even Queens must recognise great bravery. Your name will be exalted, even among the Tuatha De Danann. And that bravery was carried out in my name, a fitting tribute to the Queen of the Yearning Heart. The Questing Beast is back in its chamber-"
"It survived?"
"It exists, as always."
Witch had the sudden feeling the Beast had been released merely for him to hunt it down, a perverse sport for the Tuatha De Danann so they could see what depths existed within him; and on that front he had even surprised himself. "Will you help Ruth?"
The Queen continued to dab at his forehead. Some of the water ran into his eyes and she wiped it away softly. A drop trickled down the bridge of his nose. "I will be as good as my word, Ryan Veitch." A smile he couldn't quite read.
Veitch could feel himself starting to black out again. The Queen's ministrations were so soothing, her touch so gentle; the coolness of her fingers seemed to ease his pain wherever they touched.
She wiped down his cheeks, brushed the drips from his chin. He had lost so much liquid his body felt like sand inside.
She dabbed at his brow, smiled enigmatically. Then she held the cloth before his face and squeezed tightly. A single droplet eked out of the bottom, hung for a second, then dropped. He stuck out the tip of his tongue.
"No!" Tom's voice, filled with the most indescribable anguish.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the Rhymer rushing forward. Melliflor and another guard restraining him harshly. The droplet hitting his tongue, so cool and refreshing, belying its size. Slowly seeing the Queen's expression change, from gentle care to something much darker, like a shadow falling across the face of the moon. Still not grasping what had happened. Hearing Tom shouting his pain to the heavens.
The Queen put the bowl to one side sharply, stood up and swirled her robes around her as she strode to the door; there she turned and flashed a smile that was both triumphant and proud, the expression of someone who always gets her way. Veitch, in his befuddled state, still tried to grasp why the ministrations had stopped. The break had been so harsh; he wanted to feel that cool touch of her fingers.
And hearing Tom's words for the first time and feeling instantly cold and hopeless: "You took a drink, you fool! You took a drink and you're in her power now! She'll never you let go!"
Then she was gone, and Melliflor and the guards trailed out behind her, each of them smirking in turn at Veitch and Tom, knowing there was no longer any need to guard them.
Witch's thoughts turned instantly to Ruth and the three days she had left. An awful emptiness opened up within him at the knowledge that he had failed her; he might as well have killed her himself. His part in everything was over. He was scum; when it all came down to it, that was all he was and all he could ever be.
"I can't leave you here," Tom croaked. "Not on your own. I'm going to stay with you."
"The others need you."
"You need me more." Tom's face was filled with the all the terror and suffering that lay ahead for Veitch; that stretched out for years and decades and centuries.
Veitch looked through him, two thoughts turning over and over in his mind: that he wouldn't have the resilience that Tom had exhibited to survive the relentless tearing apart of his body and mind; and that he would never see the world, and Church, and Ruth, ever again.
Tom dropped to his knees and took Veitch in his arms. Veitch could feel vibration running through him, felt moisture splash on his face, and realised Tom was sobbing. And somehow that was more terrifying than everything, for all it said about what the future held for him there, in the Queen's incisive power.
chapter nineteen
gifts freely given
t was a perfect summer's day, echoing warm memories of half-remembered childhoods, infused with the scent of grass and trees and heated tarmac; and it was only two days before Lughnasadh. Church sat on his favourite rock with the sun hot on the back of his neck and thought of how he would kill his closest, dearest friend. He'd weighed up the problem, on and off, for three hours, between checks on Ruth's condition, and he could still barely comprehend it.
"You going to sit out here until you turn into a crispy piece of bacon?" Laura had come up behind him quietly and had spent almost a full minute watching him silently, wishing more than anything she could connect with him on a level deep enough to help.
When he looked up at her, her heart went out to him at the desolation that lay in his eyes. Her first reaction was some asinine comment just to get a cheap laugh, but the weight on him was too great. "What's the big deal?" she said, pretending to look distracted.
He shook his head, barely able to bring himself to talk to her, but when he started it all came flooding out. "How do people deal with these kinds of decisions? You know, the big-shots, the leaders of countries, the people who make the world turn? You reckon they've got some kind of equation to make everything square in their minds? Because otherwise how can they live with themselves? On paper it looks great. You sacrifice this nameless, faceless person here and save this many lives. Simple maths. Any kid can do it. But when it's someone you know and care for, it doesn't balance out the same any more. The rational side of your brain tells you one thing. The other side says this person is too valuable to sacrifice, whatever the outcome." A long pause. "And that's the truth, isn't it? Everybody is too valuable. Life is too important. This isn't a decision for people. It's for God."
Her sunglasses stripped the emotion from her stare. "So what are you going to do?"
He cursed loudly, looked round as if searching for something to lash out at. "I'm going to kill her. Of course I am, and I'm going to damn myself for all eternity and I'm probably going to kill myself straight after."
Laura snorted derisively. "You know, I'm appalled you're even considering that." She grasped for the words to express the unfocused dismay she was feeling.
"Can't you get real? We're talking the End of Everything. The life of one person-" he made an overstated weighing act with his hands "-it doesn't balance. Any idiot can see it doesn't balance."
"I thought this New Age was supposed to be a good time for women more than anything else. Feminine values and all that shit after hundreds of years of testosterone stupidity. Look at her, in that house, what she's been through. You could at least have hoped it would be Veitch or the old git-"
"We've all suffered." He knew he was only arguing as a distraction; it wasn't even relevant. "I was tortured-"
"Yeah? How bad? That bad?"
"All right. What do you think we do? Wish upon a star? She's going to die anyway, when Balor comes through."
"Oh, fuck off. I don't know. But I know she's one of the good guys and it shouldn't be her." She walked off a few paces angrily, then turned and said, "Don't ever, ever tell her I said that, even when she's acting like she's got a bug in her head."
He had a sudden vision of when he and Ruth first met, when everything had seemed confounding, but the choices simpler. "What the hell am I supposed to be doing?" he muttered.
"You're the leader, Church-dude. Why are you asking me?" She picked up a handful of stones and began to hurl them out into the void without a thought for where they might land. "I'm just along for sarcastic comments and pithy asides. Go with your instinct or whatever you leaders do."
She threw the last pebble then turned and sauntered back to the house as if she didn't have a care in the world.
The dawn of the final day broke through the ragged cottage window in pink and gold, but when Church went to get a little sun on his face he saw the sky was painted red along the horizon; the folklore warning of bad weather ahead wasn't wasted on him.
At least the faint warmth refreshed him after the dismal night. He hadn't slept at all. Ruth had spent the long, dark hours in the grip of a delusion that had left her screaming and clawing at her face and belly until blood flowed. It had been almost unbearable to see, the cracking screech of her voice so dismaying he'd wanted to cover his ears and run from the place rather than listen to the magnitude of her pain or face the extent of her decline. But he'd stayed by her side for all that harrowing time, caring for her, doing his best to prevent her harming herself, and now he felt drained of every last emotion. Laura was huddled in a corner like a child, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted now that Ruth's ravings had subsided with the coming of the light. Several times during the night she'd had to leave the room, crying, unable to cope with what she was seeing. Church had pretended he hadn't noticed.
The faint breeze that came with the dawn stirred the stagnant air with a hint of freshness. He stretched the kinks out, then walked back to look over Ruth. Her sleeping face gave no signs of the terrible things he had seen during the night. Her chest rose and fell with an incongruous peace. She was beautiful, he thought, inside and out; it wasn't fair that she was suffering. For a moment he drank in that innocence and then a jarring thought crept into his mind: he could do it there and then. Smother her with the sleeping bag. Strangle her, gently at first so she didn't wake. It would be perfect; he wouldn't have to look into her eyes; he could remember her this way instead of twisted by the torments that were sure to come. It wouldn't really seem like murder at all, would it?
The thought hovered for a second and then he felt a twist in his gut so sharp he thought he was going to vomit. He couldn't do it now-he was too tired. But later, certainly; he had, at last, accepted it was an inevitability.
As he turned away so he wouldn't have to look at her, his eyes fell on the insane scribbling that covered the wall. From a distance the minute writing resembled some intricate pattern; swirls and waves like a Middle Eastern carpet. Only up close were the hidden messages revealed, incomprehensible, but with some sort of intelligence behind them. There was something in this observation which tugged at him, but he didn't have the energy to start getting philosophical. Instead he blanked his mind and allowed himself to be drawn in by the mesmerising scrawl, a Zen meditation where obvious meaning was discarded for an overall sense. He stayed in that state where all the words blurred into one mass for what must have been minutes, feeling the stresses of the night begin to slough off him, until he gradually realised he was becoming aware of certain words rising out of the morass. It was almost as if the wall was speaking to him. And what was it saying?
I love you.
A nice sentiment, he thought ironically. Perhaps Ruth had been wrong about something bad happening there. The house may have been a place where forbidden lovers trysted, or was that his stupid, sentimental, romantic side coming out? He thought he'd finally eradicated that on the hilltop overlooking Skye.
Church.
His breath stung the back of his throat, hung there, suspended. The word seemed to glow, then fade, so that he couldn't quite be sure it was his name he'd seen.
Marianne.
This time he felt sick. His head began to whirl and he thought he might pitch forward. Marianne, speaking to him. A tingle ran along his spine, warning him not to analyse what he was seeing too much or the spell might be broken. Just wait, he told himself. Be open to it.
For a moment or two he saw nothing else. His eyes started to burn from the effort of not concentrating on what was before him. He had that queasy feeling he always got when he looked at Magic Eye pictures.
Then: Be brave.
Be wary.
The end is
coming soon.
There was a cold sweat stinging the back of his neck. He wanted to ask questions, make some kind of direct contact, but he was afraid it would break the moment.
You have it
within
you, I always knew
that.
Don't fear for me. Don't
hold on to me.
Face the future.
Go forward.
Church wondered how long the words had been there, hidden in the garbled, idiot pattern, and he had never seen them till now; by accident. At the moment he needed them most. He knew what Tom would say: no accidents, no coincidences; there was meaning in every little thing. But if only he had seen it before, how much strength he might have drawn from it during the long, painful days they had waited there.