Milly Gill shifted on the sofa. It creaked.
'Eh?'
Ernie Dawber smiled in a resigned sort of way. He was sitting on a straight-backed chair, still wearing his old gaberdine mac, his hat on his knees.
'I don't know the story of the Man in the Moss,' he said, 'any more than anybody does. Some say he came all the way from Wales, or even Ireland. That he was sent as a sacrifice. Well, that seems likely, but we don't really know for certain why he was sacrificed.'
Willie said, 'I thought…' Then he shut up.
'Some historians speculate it was to keep the Romans at bay,' said Mr Dawber. 'But we don't know that. And in the end the Romans weren't so bad. They were a relatively civilized people. Bit stiff and starchy, like Joel Beard, but nowt wrong with them really. They taught us how to build proper roads and walls and useful things like that, but I like to think we taught them a lot as well.'
'We?' said Willie.
'The Celts. The earliest real civilization in Europe. Cultured, spiritual. Knew how to fight when it was needed, but not military like the Romans. The Celts never sought to impose order, only to recognise the order that existed around them. And the moods of nature and the atmosphere. "Shades of things," Ma said.'
'Aye,' said Willie, remembering. 'Shades of things.'
'Moderation,' said Mr Dawber. 'Equality. Respect for each other, nature, animals. For religions. A simple, logical philosophy and one I've tried to pass on to generations of schoolkids, just like my forefathers did. And do you know…'
'Aye,' Willie said, it worked. It always worked. Kids leave school, bugger off to the cities, rebel against their parents and their parents' values and that. But there's summat about Bridelow. What we learned here, we didn't reject. I suppose… 'cause it was so different. Radical, like, in its quiet way.'
'Little island, Willie. Sacred island of the Celts. Little island of moderation in an ocean of extremes. Takes some protecting that. A balancing act.'
Mr Dawber turned his hat round on his knees. He's nervous, Willie thought.
'I've written a new edition of The Book of Bridelow. What you might call the unexpurgated edition. Just for me own benefit really. Just to reason things out. You'll find it in a blue typing paper box on top of the big bookcase in my study.'
Willie said, 'Why're you telling us that?'
'Maybe it should be printed. Just one copy, to be kept in safekeeping, for posterity. As a reminder of how Bridelow was and why it was what it was. To look back on when everything's changed, when the outside world's absorbed us.'
Willie looked hard at the stately old chap, trying to remember what Mr Dawber had been like when he was young, when he'd taught him for four years. He couldn't.
He glanced at Milly, who was silent, pensive. 'Mr Dawber,' he said, 'why are you telling us now?'
'You see, that's the obvious explanation to me,' said Mr Dawber, looking down at his hat. 'That's what he died to save. Not to prevent anything as transient as another Roman invasion. He died to protect a way of life, a whole attitude. The Celtic way. Something worth dying for, don't you think?'
'Happen,' Willie said cautiously.
'I think I'd like to die for that,' said Mr Dawber.
Milly Gill leaned forward on the floral sofa and lifted one of his liver-spotted hands from his hat brim. 'What are you trying to say, Mr Dawber?'
The old chap said, 'Difficult times, lass. The outside's invading us. The White. The Black. Joel Beard. Gannons.'
'Yes,' Milly let go of his hand, 'it is an invasion. The worst kind. The kind you don't notice until it's on you.'
'You see, I don't quite know how it's done,' Mr Dawber said, matter-of-factly. 'I thought you might.'
'How what's done, Mr Dawber?'
'Why, the Triple Death, of course.'
'I don't like the way you're talking, Mr Dawber.'
'You see, I wouldn't like to cause any trouble for anybody. That is, I wouldn't like it to look like murder. So what I'll do is happen retire to the seaside. Health reasons. The owd chest's never been good. Got relatives in Bournemouth, you know.'
'Bournemouth,' Milly repeated.
'Aye, and nobody'll be interested enough to prove otherwise. I've packaged up the deeds and stuff, of the house, and I've left them with the manuscript, to go to Hans when he returns. With instructions that the house should be let, peppercorn rent, to somebody as needs one. Happen a new historian. Won't be called Dawber, but that wasn't much of a tradition, was it? Anyroad, I've tied things up very nicely, actually. I'll've gone. To the seaside.'
'Aye,' Willie said. 'You sound like you could use a holiday, Mr Dawber. Good long rest, eh?'
'I'll have that all right. In the Moss.'
Wearing a chilling half-smile, he carried on talking as if he couldn't see the pair of them staring at him, frozen.
'You know, when I first read the British Museum report it sounded quite horrific, but the more I thought about it… Well, the garrotting bit and the cutting of the throat – that was mostly symbolic. He wouldn't have felt any of that because they'd have tapped him on the head first, you see.'
'Mr Dawber…' Milly stood up. 'I can't believe what I'm hearing and I'll not have you talking like this in my house any more.'
I'm an owd man, Millicent. I've done me bit, had some good times.'
'And you'll have some more.'
'No.' He shook his head. 'There'll be no more good times for any of us, unless we do summat drastic. They've taken the Man in the Moss. This is far worse than the University or the British Museum taking him. He's gone to the dark. And it's All-Hallows. The Celtic New Year's Eve.'
'I know what day it is,' Milly snapped. 'I'm supposed to be a bloody witch. '
Time of change. Time to look back, store what's useful and important, discard the old stuff as isn't. Time when worlds overlap. Time to act. Sit down, Millicent.'
'Act?' Willie came aware of the power of the sheeting rain, could hear it smashing at the roof slates. A power surge brought a quiver to Milly's tulip-shaded standard lamp. The lady bartender said, 'Stan, would you take over, I'm sorry,' and steered Mungo Macbeth into a back room, a big, chilly-looking kitchen.
'Who are you?' she demanded.
He told her his name again. He insisted he was a friend of Moira's. He repeated what he'd said in the bar, that he needed to talk to her. Urgently.
'She's not here. Why did you think she would be?'
The woman was good-looking with a strong face, but she also looked like she was carrying a lot of trouble, her eyes vibrant with anxiety. She crossed the flagged floor to a big iron stove and laid her hands on it.
Macbeth said, 'I didn't think she'd be here, specially. Not this inn. This was the first place I came to, is all. With lights on. After I crossed the bridge.'
'What bridge?'
'Over the water.'
'It's a bog,' she said, it's not water.'
'I'm a stranger. Never came this way before. I'm sorry if I seem ignorant, Mrs…'
'Castle,' she said.
'Oh, Jesus,' Macbeth said, 'I guess that means you're Matt Castle's…'
'Widow.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Why should you be?' she said sharply. 'You didn't know him, did you?'
All you could hear in the kitchen was the sound of rain splashing on the yard outside with the force of a broken fire-hydrant.
'No,' he said, 'I knew that Moira… thought a lot about him.' Shit. What'd I walk into here?
'Yes.' She bit her lip. 'Look, the last I heard, Moira was staying at the Rectory.'
'I called the Rectory. There were quite a few people there. They said she was, uh, no longer around.'
'The Born Agains, that would be. What would they know? How far've you come?'
'From Glasgow.'
'Glasgow? You drove all the way down from Glasgow? In this? Well, Mr… I'm sorry…'
'Macbeth.'
'Yes. Well, I suppose it isn't too surprising. Quite a few blokes have done crazy things for Moira Cairns.' A faint smile penetrated the anxiety. 'Look, we'll make some phone calls, shall we? See if we can find out where she is. There's a chap called Willie Wagstaff who might just know. It's funny he's not in tonight, actually. I'll give him a ring.'
'You're very kind. I'm sorry. I just had no idea who you were.'
'That's all right.'
'Is this your inn? What I mean is, you, uh…'
'Do you need somewhere to stay tonight, Mr Macbeth?'
She gave him a look that was almost a plea.
'I guess I do,' he said. 'You have a room?'
'Yes,' she said gratefully, 'I have a room.' 'I've spent the last couple of days studying and thinking,' Mr Dawber said. 'In the end, you see, I'm a man of logic.'
Christ, Willie thought, preserve us from logic
'Bridelow's is a peculiar logic, but logic it is. But our grasp of it has been gradually weakened.'
'Can't build a wall,' Willie said. 'Can't keep the modern world out for ever.'
'We did have a wall,' Milly said despondently. 'But I don't think I was cut out to be a brickie.'
Willie longed to give her a cuddle. For his benefit as much as hers. Longed to build up the fire, with crackling logs to block out the rain. His kind of wall. He thought about Joel Beard and his born-again mob, exulting and singing in tongues in the dying church: their kind of wall.
Mr Dawber picked up Milly's chubby hand and held it. 'Tonight, lass. If this wall finally comes down, it'll most likely be tonight, because somebody has the Man and they'll use him for evil. And that'll finish it.'
Old bugger's spent more than a couple of days on this, Willie thought. Ma's been schooling him. They're looking for openings. Looking for cracks in the wall. Been gathering out there for years, hundreds of years.
Mr Dawber looked steadily at Milly. 'You've got to replace the Man, my dear.'
'Her?' Willie spluttered. 'She has?'
'Ma would have taken charge, but sadly, she's not here. Which puts you in the firing line, Millicent, I'm afraid, and you've got to be strong. You're a big girl, if you don't mind me saying so. Big enough to wield the knife.'
Milly screamed and dragged her hand away.
Mr Dawber said, 'I know it'll hurt you more than it hurts me, and I'm sorry, I really am, lass.'
He stood up and straightened out the skirts of his mac. 'When I said I didn't go out on the Moss any more, I wasn't being strictly truthful. I spent a lot of time out there last summer after the Man was found, working out where he lay in relation to the village and also in relation to the path marked out by the Beacon of the Moss. Result is, I know just the place to do it.'
'Nay,' Willie said. 'Moss'll have shifted. Besides, there were no beacon in them days.'
'You mean there was no church clock. The beacon was a real beacon on the hill where the church now stands. And the Moss was more like a lake. Water to reflect the light.'
Willie stood up. 'Look, Mr Dawber, we'll forget you ever sad all this if you will.'
Mr Dawber put on his hat. 'I'll leave you two for a bit. Perhaps you might summon the Mothers, what's left of them as are well enough to come out on a night like this, and have a chat about it.'
"Hey, come on,' Willie said. 'Get some sleep, Mr Dawber. We'll see you tomorrow, have a proper chat. All right?'
'No, I'll not sleep. I've a few things to sort out. Few private things to burn. Letters and such.' He looked at his watch, it's ten to nine now. I'll be back for you soon after eleven.'
Milly shrank away from him. 'Mr Dawber, you don't seriously…'
'I do,' he said sternly. 'And it's got to be tonight. Tonight has the power. The word is Samhain, Millicent, although I realise the Mothers have gradually dropped the old terminology. And on a practical level, the Moss is swollen with rain; when it goes down, things will be absorbed again, taken in.'
'Mr Dawber,' Milly Gill whispered, 'don't do this to me. Please.'
'Perhaps, before I return, something'll have happened this night to make you see the sense of it. Ma dead? That young lad up on the moors? How many do you want? Where, for instance, is…?' He pulled down his hat. 'Never mind.'
He turned round at the door, and a broad smile was channelled through the wrinkles, from the corners of his mouth to his eyes, and his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
'I'm not unhappy, tha knows. Be a lovely thing.'
Mr Dawber turned the key in the double lock and unbolted the front door to the fierce rain and the night.