Always Forever (30 page)

"You were right." He stood up to see if he could discern their next direction. "That was some smart bleedin' place. It was-"

"Heavenly."

"Right. I didn't want to leave. But you know what? It didn't feel like that
before when we went from Cornwall to Glastonbury."

"Then you were panicking in the sea, blacking out, trapped in the mundane so you couldn't perceive the ultimate." Tom readjusted his ponytail, then strode
up the slope.

"You know where we're going?"

"Yes, out of the trees so I can get my bearings."

Tom had retreated into his usual state of ill-tempered reticence, but Veitch
wanted to talk about the many confusing thoughts the experience had engendered. "That was amazing," he said quietly as they walked.

"And dangerous."

"You know what? I don't think it is. I reckon I've got it figured out."

"My. Aren't you the smart one?"

"It's only really dangerous if you've given up on living."

This struck Tom sharply. "What do you mean?"

"You're all right as long as you've got something to hold on to in the real
world. If you haven't got anything here, you give up, float away. If you have
unfinished business, something important, you drag yourself back. You don't
really mind leaving 'cause you know that sooner or later you're going to end up
back there. You can wait."

Tom thought about this for a long moment. "And you had something to
bring you back?"

"That's right. I've got stuff still to do here. But when it's all over, you know,
when my number's up, I wouldn't mind going back there. Just knowing it's
there changes the way you look at life, y'know?"

"Yes. I know."

They emerged on the sunlit path and followed it up to a tarmac-covered
route where an information board showed a tourist map of Wandlebury Camp.

"We made it, then. We could have ended up anywhere in that stuff, but we
came to exactly the right place. We thought ourselves here, didn't we?"

Tom read the sign's notes on the historical background to the camp, then
estimated their position from the noon sun. He pointed back down the slope.
"That way, but later. First we need to see if Shavi's body is here."

Veitch shifted uncomfortably. "What if something's got at him? Some
animal?"

"Do you really think Cernunnos would allow that to happen?"

He set out along the path that curled around the eastern side of the low hill.
A thick bank of trees obscured the top. The path drew tightly past a small
nature reserve settled on a pond that was thick with rushes where jewelled dragonflies dipped and dived. Beyond, it took a sudden turn, cresting a slight rise to
present them with a view of a magnificent mansion house, its grand eighteenthcentury architecture oddly out of place on the flat-topped summit. The house looked out on to gardens given up to lawns where a flock of sheep nibbled aimlessly. A large, old-brick wall marked the boundary, beyond which thick trees
rose up imposingly. There was stillness to the place, odd, though not unpleasant.

Witch sauntered over to another tourist sign. "Gog Magog House. Used to
be a big place for horse racing, breeding and all that. Funny old spot to do horse
racing, on a bleedin' hill."

"People are instinctively drawn to these places of power." Tom cleaned his
glasses to get a better look at the ornate clock on the cupola mounting the stable
block. A gold weathervane stirred slightly in the breeze.

From the corner of his eye, Veitch caught the faintest movement, but it was
enough to lock his muscles and still the breath in his lungs. Tom continued
ambling around, surveying the scenery. Just to be sure, Veitch waited and
watched, and when he picked it up again, he launched into action. Tom whirled
in shock, but Veitch had already hurdled a low fence and was sprinting towards
the stable block. A figure lurked at the base of the wall, too slow to take evasive
action before Veitch was upon him.

It was a man, short and plump, with a ruddy, wind-blasted face. He wore a
checked flat cap pulled low on his brow and a gaberdine mackintosh fastened
tightly over his broad belly. "Don't hit me! You can have everything!"

"Chill out, mate." Taken aback by the response, Veitch adopted an easygoing posture. "You can't be too careful these days."

The man composed himself, but still looked wary. "You're lucky you caught
me without my shotgun."

"You live here?" Veitch scanned the courtyard and windows for any other
sign of life.

"What's it to you?" The man backed off a few paces as Tom wandered up.
He appeared to be considering whether he could make a break for it.

"We're not looking for trouble." The edge of Witch's voice suggested that
trouble could, however, be on hand if necessary. "We've got some business in
these parts. We're not going to rob you or nothin' like that."

"We're here to collect the body of a friend." Tom held out a hand as he introduced himself.

The man took it, intrigued; his name was Robertson. "A body, you say." His
eyes flickered towards the lawned area.

"Is that where it is?" Tom followed his gaze, but could see nothing.

Robertson rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then beckoned for them to follow
him. He crossed the courtyard and entered the mansion. From the lonely air of
emptiness, it appeared Robertson was the sole occupant. The wind blew through
a broken window that hadn't been fixed and there was tracked mud across the tiled floor. Despite the grandness of the building, Robertson only lived in a
couple of adjoining rooms that had a makeshift appearance, with furniture obviously dragged from other parts of the house. The first thing that caught their eye
as he led them into his quarters was the strange array of items hanging around
the door. Over the top was a large, ornate cross. Beside it were horseshoes, another
cross made out of twigs of rowan, the old symbol for protection from witchcraft
and fairies, the withered remnants of a mistletoe sprig for protection from
thunder, lightning and evil, a bunch of St. John's wort to ward off spirits, a
roughly carved wooden swallow for insurance against fire, and many more.

Robertson caught Tom's inspection. "Like your friend said, you can't be too
careful."

Once safely inside his room, he crossed himself and touched wood before
offering them chairs next to the unlit fire. "I'd make you some tea, but with the
way things are I've got to conserve. Even water," Robertson said. "I hope they
get the bloody thing sorted out soon. We can't go on like this much longer.
Bloody government."

"Do you work here?" Veitch asked.

"Nobody works anywhere any more, do they? Not in the old sense,"
Robertson replied. He settled into a comfortable armchair within easy reach of
the shotgun resting against the wall. "I used to have a business down in Cambridge. Got out of there when the riots started."

"What riots?" Veitch looked puzzled.

"What riots?" Robertson replied incredulously. "I don't know where you
come from, but round these parts it seems that's all there's been. When they
brought in the fuel rationing. When the supermarkets stopped filling their
shelves. Then when everything stopped working ..." Suppressed emotions
briefly turned his face into that of a child and he covered it with his hand until
he had composed himself. "I left the city when my Susie died. She was a diabetic, couldn't get her insulin."

"I'm sorry." Tom was honestly sympathetic.

"This place was abandoned so I moved in," Robertson continued. "I soon
found out why they'd left. Still, at least there's no riots, and it's not too bad as
long as you don't go out at night." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Strange
things happen round here," he said, obviously not wanting to go into detail.
"Never used to believe in those things, but now ..." He nodded to the charms
on the door. "I don't know what's happened to the world. Do you find it's like a
dream, where none of the rules apply? Where you can run as fast as you can but
never get anywhere, and rooms are bigger inside than out? Sometimes I wonder
if it's ever going to be right again."

He sounded on the edge of a breakdown. Stress had brought twitches to his
hands and a tic to a muscle beneath his eye.

"The body?" Tom prompted.

He nodded a few times too often. "In the lawns out there, there's a large
hollow. You can see it easily if you stand by the stable block. It's a dew pond,
manmade, dates back to the Stone Age or something, according to the signs. If
you go down there at certain times-sunset, sunrise-you can see it. Only not,
which sounds a queer way of putting it, but that's how it is. The first time I saw
it, it scared the living daylights out of me, but when I realised it came back regular as clockwork, just lying there, there was no point getting worked up about
it. There are worse things." He looked down at his hands, which he quickly
clasped together.

"What do you mean, there only not there?" Tom leaned forward so he could
read Robertson's face.

"How can I describe it? It's like it's half there and half not. If you stand at
the right point, so the light's coming in just so, it almost looks solid. Take one
step to the left or right and it disappears."

"Can you see who it is?" Veitch asked.

"Looks like some Indian or something. Hard to tell. He's lying on his back,
hands across his chest."

Witch looked at Tom excitedly, but the Rhymer kept his face emotionless.
"Can you show us?" Tom said.

"I can. But you won't see anything at this time. Sunset's probably the best
time, but you won't be getting me out there then."

"So what is out there?" Veitch asked.

Robertson rose quickly, suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, I don't rightly
know. And even if I did, I wouldn't want to be talking about it. They can hear
everything that's said, you know. Take their name in vain, they'll make you pay."
He crossed himself, then once more for luck. "You want to be careful what you
say."

"We don't bow our heads to anything undeserving," Tom said curtly.

Robertson looked on them pityingly before leading them out, stopping
briefly to touch all the charms around the door.

The September sun was warm on the backs of their necks as they wandered
across the lawns to the dew pond. Robertson was right; there was nothing to be
seen. The ground was hard baked from the summer sun, the grass clipped close
by the sheep.

Robertson looked up cautiously to check the sky. "Two days ago there was a rain of frogs. A carpet of them all around here, hopping like mad. Do you
think it was a sign?"

"Yeah, it was a sign we're all going to croak." Veitch knelt down, brushing
his fingers across the grass as he surveyed the area; it was too open. If they
returned at sunset they would be easy targets. "So what do we do now?"

"Now," Tom said, "we go to talk to the giant."

he night was hot and humid, filled with the distant cries of alien birds.
Beyond the barricade, the Nuckelavee roamed relentlessly, testing its
strength with repeated attacks that sent furniture rolling off the top. Time and
again the Tuatha De Danann guards clambered up to replace them, but it was a
futile act. Sooner or later the Plague-Bringer was going to break through.

Church had led Ruth and Baccharus on a tour of the building to try to find
something they could use to escape, but had given up after an hour. The rooms
went on forever, filled with insane bric-a-brac and useless objets d'art. When
they tried to retrace their steps the layout of the house had changed, just like
Wave Sweeper, but after a while they passed through the chamber where the
dying god had been imprisoned. All it held now was a noxious black stain on
the floor to mark his passing.

When they finally made it back to the main area, the baby cry was rising
and falling until Ruth wanted to tear at her ears. She dragged Church to one
side. "What are we going to do?" Before he could protest, she added, "You're the
leader."

"Don't worry, I know my responsibility." He scrubbed his hand roughly
through his long hair; he had only one option. "We need a diversion. Someone
to pull that thing over to one side so the rest of us can get out, get back, or-"

"Attack it."

"You've got an idea?"

"I can do some stuff." She tapped her head. "It's all locked up here."

"You've been trying it out?"

"Little things. Here and there. Just to get a feel for it." For some reason she
looked guilty, wouldn't meet his eyes.

"How much can you do?"

There was a long pause before she said, "I honestly don't know. But it's like
I've been made the receptacle for all the knowledge that exists about the Craft.
It's like being supercharged." Still not meeting his eyes, she added, "Sometimes
I feel like I can do anything."

Church rested a hand on her shoulder, played with her hair. He was worried
about how distant and troubled she appeared. Most of the time she had a blase
attitude to her new-found abilities, but it was obvious that behind it lay a deepseated concern. "What are you planning on pulling out of the bag this time?"