Always Forever (33 page)

And one other thing: an odd, fractured remembrance of Veitch and Tom, so
quick it could easily have been a memory leaking through from another time.

She came out of what felt like a deep slumber with Church's hands on her shoulders, feeling more refreshed than she had done in months. She took his hand and
smiled beatifically; whatever he saw in her face appeared to shock him briefly.
Then he said, "I was worried when there was no sound so I took a peek in. I saw
you slumped on the floor here, thought something bad had happened. Did I
screw up?"

She turned to Niamh who was sitting up, rubbing her arms, looking faintly
dazed, yet also slightly transcendent. The blue-black mottling on her arms was fading before their eyes, the strength returning to her limbs with amazing
speed.

"You have changed the course of existence, Ruth," Niamh said with deference.
"The alterations to the fabric spinning off from this point will be startling."

Through her bliss, Ruth wasn't wholly sure she liked the sound of that.

Back on Wave Sweeper, an account of what Ruth had achieved passed swiftly
through the crew and passengers. Ruth and Church barely had time to put their
feet on the deck before they were ushered into Manannan's cabin. He stood next
to his table, hands clasped behind his back.

"You have achieved a great thing, Brother and Sister of Dragons." His voice
appeared to come from all parts of the room at once. "The gratitude of the
Golden Ones is with you." He moved around the table, still aloof, barely
looking at them, but Church thought there was a surprising warmth somewhere
far beneath it all. "More than gratitude. You prevented another of our kind
being stripped from existence. You have helped maintain one of the vital props
of the way things are."

"We see all life as equal," Ruth said pointedly. "That's why we helped."

He nodded thoughtfully, as if, for once, he was actually listening, then fixed
a curious gaze on them. "This is indeed an argument that has raged amongst my
own kind. I have never held strong views, allowing my opinions to be swayed by
the voices of one side or the other, dependent on who was speaking. Now, I feel, I
have made my choice." He went to a crystal decanter filled with an unusual golden
liquid. He poured three glasses and brought one each for Church and Ruth.

"Is it given freely and without obligation?" Church asked.

"Of course. Everything on my ship is given freely and without obligation.
That is my way. And it is especially true for Brothers and Sisters of Dragons."

He raised his glass and drained it in one draught. Church and Ruth followed suit, and were stunned by the immediate effect of whatever the drink was.
The aroma was flowers and spices. The instant the drink touched their tastebuds, it created an explosion across all five of their senses, a bizarre synesthaesia,
and as it passed down their throat it filled them with a warmth and light as
golden as the liquid itself, infusing them with a transcendent feeling of wonder
and excitement. Once it settled into their system their vision sparkled around
the edges. Objects in the room took on a strange cast, as if the very essence of
them was visible. Manannan appeared to be made of light, and when Church
and Ruth looked at each other they saw the same illusion-if that was what it
was-although the light was of a slightly different shade.

"What is this?" Church asked in awe.

"The drink of gods. The distillation of all there is."

Church looked at Ruth again; they felt like they could read each other's
thoughts; in one moment they could see the connections that bound them,
something it often took couples a lifetime to discover. They would have
embraced there and then, committed themselves to each other for all time, if
Manannan's foreboding presence had not stopped them.

"Fragile Creatures have rarely tasted this liquid," Manannan continued.
"Some of my kind consider it too rarefied for your tastes, that you are too rough
to appreciate it and so should be denied it." He took the glasses from them and
returned them to the table. "It can make you see like gods." His voice drifted
back to them, disembodied, yet filled with meaning they couldn't discern.

When he came back he took Ruth's hand and pointed to the mark left by
Cernunnos. "My brother, I see, has already come to his decision. Know this,
then: you have an ally here too. I will take my stand with the Fragile Creatures."

"Thank you." Church made a slight bow. "And can we count on your arguments to influence the minds of your brothers when we reach our destination?"

"I will do what I can."

His mood changed abruptly as his attention focused on a number of charts
unfurled on his desk, and it was obvious the audience was over. They thanked
him, but he was already engrossed in new business.

Outside, they rested against the rail, pleased that the hot, humid microclimate
of the island was no longer with them. The anchor had been raised while they
were in Manannan's room and they were already speeding out into open water.

"You know what?" Church said curiously. "I had a feeling there was a lot
going on behind that conversation, stuff that wasn't said."

"It's like he was talking about something important without telling us
exactly what it was."

"Maybe he thought we already knew."

"These gods don't give anything away unless they have to, even when
they're supposedly being friendly."

Church pulled Ruth close, draping an arm across her shoulders; he still felt
warm and fuzzy from Manannan's drink. "I think it's time we stepped up our
investigations." She rested her head on his shoulder, enjoying the comfort of
contact after the stress of the day. "There's something very strange and disturbing going on here. We've been moving through it, seeing and hearing little
parts of it. I think it takes in Cormorel's murder, and ... lots of things."

"Would you like to elaborate, or are you going to keep talking vaguely just
for the hell of it?"

"I don't know what else to say. It's a gut instinct." In his arms, she felt soft
and hard and warm and cold all at the same time. "I think if we don't find out
what's going on, we're going to lose everything."

"What do you suggest? An inquisition? You know they won't tell us anything."

"I suggest it's time to go searching for the Walpurgis. Tomorrow. Just
after dawn."

An hour before first light they came upon the third of the Western Isles. Taranis
summoned Manannan from his cabin and together they surveyed the rocky outcropping. A thick column of smoke rose from the island and settled in a pall across
the area, the underside of it a dull ruddy brown from the fires that raged there.

Manannan did not even bother dropping anchor. Taranis moved to mobilise
the crew. The itinerary was dropped instantly and they set a course for the island
they called the Green Meadows of Enchantment, with the certain knowledge
that the vile corruption of the Heart of Shadows had extended to the very walls
of their home.

"There weren't really giants," Veitch said as they wandered down the hill from
Gog Magog House.

"There were so." Tom's face had grown sterner as the day passed. He had
been quite rude to Robertson, who had refused to come with them to an area he
claimed was cursed. "Even in my time, before the Queen got her hands on me,
there were still a handful of giants scattered around the island. Some died off,
some wandered through to T'ir n'a n'Og. But they're not the kind of giants
we're interested in right now."

"So ... what? These are short giants?"

Tom snorted with irritation, even though he knew Veitch was only trying
to provoke him. "There are giants in the earth," he muttered to himself. "How
little they knew."

They crossed the path and made their way alongside a defunct electric fence
that once kept sheep from the nature preservation area. The early afternoon sun was
hot. Flies and wasps buzzed along the tree line, while darting mosquitoes made
brief forays from the pond. Under the trees the atmosphere had grown sweaty and
oppressive. Tom picked his way amongst the brambles, scrambling over fallen trees
and amongst the thorny bushes, with Veitch following easily behind.

"So, is it going to be a surprise, then?" Veitch continued to gibe. "Like
always. Blowing up in my face at the last minute. Like in the Queen's court?"

"You were warned about that."

"Well, you didn't do a very good job of it, did you?"

"Sorry. I underestimated your stupidity."

Veitch said something obscene, but Tom had already picked up his step
until he arrived at an area where the topsoil had been cleared to reveal mysterious patterns on the ground.

With a puzzled face, Veitch attempted to make head and tail of them.
"Looks like one of those ink blots they show you when they think you're crazy."

"The Rorschach Test," Tom noted. "That's quite fitting. Everyone who
comes here sees in these patterns what they want to believe."

"Not what's actually there?"

"Nothing is actually there, anywhere. You've not learned anything in all
this, have you?"

Veitch stared at him for a long moment, then said, "I've learned you're a-"

"Archaeologists have been digging around here for decades, ever since the
famous antiquarian T. C. Lethbridge excavated this site on the south side of the
ring in late 1955 and 1956." Tom rested his hands on his knees so he could lean
forward to get a better look. "He pumped metal rods in the ground, claiming
he found different depths, bumps, shapes underneath the surface which marked
out this. He christened this the Gog Magog figure. All told, he claimed he'd discovered a sun goddess, two other male figures and a chariot."

"You're talking like it isn't true."

"Not in the eyes of archaeologists who came after him. All of Lethbridge's
work here is steeped in controversy. Academics and the usual amateur historical
sleuths who want to be seen as professional claim there is absolutely no evidence
for Lethbridge's claim. All this is a figment of his fevered imagination. But if
there's one thing we've learned, it's not to trust the establishment. Is that not so?"

"Too bleedin' right."

"The occult groups always backed Lethbridge because they knew truth does
not always come in facts and figures, quantifiable evidence."

"You've lost me again." Veitch's attention was drifting amongst the trees,
searching for any signs of threat. For a while he had been aware of a deep level
of unease that he couldn't quite understand. He was good at sensing obvious
danger near at hand, or even more subtle signs of peril, but this was different;
it was almost like the threat was there but not there, buried very deeply or
watching from such a distant place it could barely be called a threat. But he felt
it nonetheless.

"Whatever they say, there were certainly some hill figures carved on this
site," Tom continued. "There are many antiquarian sources which confirm that.
And with these hills bearing the name Gog Magog, and the house on the summit, it doesn't take a great detective to know who this sacred site was dedicated to."

"Giants?"

Tom sighed, clambering on to the rough pattern and kneeling down so he
could sweep it with his fingers. "You should know by now, no one knows anything
about the past. Every historian and archaeologist has theories, and yes, they can
make convincing arguments. The ones who shout loudest set the agenda. But the
clever man ignores their voices and looks closely at the evidence. And once he
realises all of it is conflicting, he understands: Nobody. Knows. Anything."

"But you know it all, right?" Veitch took the opportunity to check his
weapons: the crossbow slung across his back, the sword secreted in his jacket,
the dagger strapped to his leg. All in place, all ready for action.

"Who is Gog Magog? Who are they? They are there in the Bible, in Jewish
and Christian apocalyptic literature. In one account, Gog and Magog are two
hostile forces, in another Gog comes from the country of Magog. But the Bible
is adamant they or he is a force for evil in the final battle between God and
Satan. The Battle of Armageddon."

"So they're evil?" Veitch had the blank expression that always irritated Tom.

"The Bible is a book, Ryan. The Church likes to pretend it's the word of God,
but as we all know, it's the word of God as edited by men, by councils of the
religion's great and the good for hundreds of years after Jesus lived. Many of
God's words were thrown out to present a more cohesive story. And man is flawed,
so the Bible tells us. Ergo, the Bible is flawed and cannot be wholly trusted."

Witch chuckled. "They'd have you dragged out and stoned for that in some
places."

"Then they would be morons," Tom said sourly, "mistaking intellectual
questioning for blasphemy. It's all a matter of intent." He stood up and stretched
his old limbs. "In the Guildhall in London are two wooden effigies of Gog and
Magog, supposedly the last of a race of giants. And that itself is a mistake of history, for in ancient times they were statues of Gogmagog, a twelve foot Goliath,
and Corineus, the Trojan general who threw him to his death. Or perhaps we
listen to another story that says Gog and Magog are two mythical London
heroes. Or Geoffrey of Monmouth, the mediaeval historian, who said Gogmagog
was a giant chieftain of Cornwall. Or are we, indeed, talking about the giant oak
trees at Glastonbury, sole survivors of an ancient Druid grove and ceremonial
path? No one knows anything."

"So is this the time for your catch phrase? Mythology is-"

11
-the secret history of the land. Exactly. We read between the lines. We
look for common threads. We search for the metaphors that all the old stories are reaching for. Giants in the earth, Ryan. A sacred site since the earliest times of
man, their bodies buried far beneath our feet, along with a horse, the familiar
metaphor for wild energy, for fertility, and the chariot of spiritual transcendence.
People believed in this enough to keep the myth alive for thousands of years. Isn't
that astonishing? Doesn't that shout out about the power that resides here?"