Always Forever (36 page)

Tom stared at the gaping door of the house, and felt what might have been
dread, but wasn't quite; like fate come calling. Something he didn't want to see
lurked just beyond the shadowy entrance. A part of him wanted to go in there,
to see what was on the edge of his mind, but tantalisingly just out of reach.
Another part of him knew it would break him to see it. Defeat in victory, he
knew, and victory in defeat.

"Why are you trying to frighten me away?" he said to Morrison.

"Because you can't come in here and ask for the world without showing you
really want it." Morrison's smile was easier now. He clapped an arm around
Tom's shoulder and shook him roughly, amicably.

"I wish you'd just tell me about Texas Radio and the Big Beat," Tom sighed.
"Take me to GogMagog."

The Celtic village had been replaced by the tunnels once more, although Tom
still quietly yearned for the Whiskey; one more drink would have been nice, a
time to rest. Morrison had not made the journey.

After about half an hour he noticed the quality of light was growing
brighter, richer. At the same time the tunnel dropped into a steep incline, where
he had to clutch on to the rocky walls to prevent himself sliding down into the
unknown. The temperature rose rapidly; sweat soaked his shirt and dripped
from his brow; the heated air choked his lungs.

Finally, he came out into a large cavern so bright at first he had to shield his
eyes. In the centre was an enormous lake of bubbling, popping lava, occasion ally shooting up in miniature geysers. The heat radiated off it, but there was
none of the sulphurous stink that should have poisoned the air.

Covering his mouth with his shirt to prevent his lungs searing, he eased forward until he stood at the edge of the red lake. The air pulsed.

Tom wondered if madness were only seconds away. He knew it would be
best not to be there, but how could he turn back? The others had put him to
shame with their continued risk taking, like he was a child, not the mentor. It
was time to face up to his responsibility.

"I plead for help!" he said in a commanding voice, while at the same time
bowing his head to show deference. It also helped to hide the fear in his face.

The pressure in the air ratcheted up a notch and he had to swallow to make
his ears pop.

"I know that to look upon you could mean the end of me ... I know that
I'm not supposed to be here. But I have to. So much is at risk."

Would it come? Or was he wasting his time?

"I'm prepared to sacrifice myself if that's what it takes. That the world
should survive is more important than me."

The pressure finally burst and a cooling wind rushed across his face,
bringing with it a deep apprehension. His words had touched a chord. Something was coming.

The lava in the centre of the lake erupted, showering burning coals all
around, although, miraculously, none of them touched him. Tom threw himself
back in shock, dropping to his knees, one arm across his mouth. The lava bubbled up higher in a fountain of fire and smoke, up and up, gaining weight and
consistency. And when it appeared it would finally come crashing down on him
in a tidal wave, it stopped, hanging silently. It stayed that way for just a moment
and then the lava shifted until shape came out of its globular form: an oval,
indentations folding out of it, two slits halfway up, an elongated one running
vertically and a horizontal slash below. Within seconds a rough-hewn face had
grown from the glutinous lava, appearing remarkably like one of the statues that
looked to the endless horizon on Easter Island.

Tom climbed to his feet, but a deafening roar burst forth from the lava
thing, knocking him back to his knees, his ears ringing. This time he stayed
there.

For a long moment he didn't dare speak. The cavern was filled with ebbing
sound, dull and reverberate, as if the thing was breathing.

"Are you the Godhead?" Tom whispered. His voice carried with remarkable
clarity. "The source?"

"I am GogMagog." The voice was the eruption of a volcano, an earthquake turning the ground to fluid. Tom knew he wasn't really hearing it; it was something else prepared for his limited perception. And he also knew this wasn't the
Godhead either; he had been presented with another intermediary, albeit a much
more powerful one. He felt both relieved and disappointed at the same time.
"You have been judged," the force continued.

"But I haven't made my case yet," Tom protested. "Please-"

"We see through you. Your shell, to the essence inside. We see it all. Saw it
as soon as you crossed over."

Tom's spirits plummeted. It saw through him, just like that; picked the
worthlessness from his soul, the cowardice, the indecision, the hopelessness, all
the things he had tried so hard to hide. He had failed.

"You shine. A star in miniature." The voice became richer, less elemental. Tom
looked up curiously; the face could almost have been smiling. "Stand tall, little
light. You do good work, as do your companions. You do the work of existence."

"I do?" Tom felt befuddled. "I expected to be presented to the Godhead."

"Do you really wish that, little light?" The lava glowed brighter. "There is
no going back from that. Only forward, only forward."

"I hoped-"

"Your mission has been recognised. You need to return to the world."

A part of Tom still yearned for the bliss of giving himself up to the spiritual
source, and he accepted that some of what drove him to follow the path underground was akin to a death wish. But what lay beyond had saved him from himself by interposing GogMagog at the last moment. That affirmation was both surprising and affecting; he could feel it warming the cold, dark parts of him.

"The path you have chosen is fraught with danger," GogMagog said, "but
it is the most important path. Many things hang in the balance, both now and
in the years to come. In the great cycle, a change has taken place. There will be
no peace until the period of transformation has passed and the new order has
been established."

"I understand."

"No. You do not. The Adversary awaits on the edge of everything. Choosing
his time carefully. Preparing for the ultimate battle."

"Balor?" Tom asked. "But he-"

"That is but one small part of the Adversary. A fragment of shadow within
the greater shadow."

"There's something else?" Tom's heart fell. "Something worse?"

"There is always something more. Your kind must always be on its guard.
There is no peaceful home on this side of the inviolate boundary." The lava rose,
then receded.

"When?" Tom asked. There was no reply. After a while, Tom put the matter
to the back of his mind to concentrate on the issue at hand. "A friend must cross
into the Grim Lands to bring back someone vitally important to ridding the
world of the evil now occupying it. This friend is not dead, nor is he alive, but
his spirit is trapped in the Grim Lands. That itself is a transgression of the rules.
I ask that you allow my agent to cross over. And to return with our friend."

There was a long silence, filled only with the sighing of the heated air currents in the cavern. The more time passed, the more Tom feared rejection. But
then GogMagog spoke: "The inviolate boundary may be traversed. Your agent
can make the voyage from which your kind may not return."

"Is he given safe passage?"

"He is."

"And for the return?"

"Yes. But know this: your agent faces great peril. He may cross the inviolate boundary as the rules say."

Tom thought about this for a second, until realisation suddenly dawned
with a cold chill. "He might die?"

Another silence, the shush-boom of the lava breathing. "Night is drawing
in. The beast is preparing to snap at his heels."

Tom cursed quietly; had Veitch not obeyed his order to vacate the camp at
nightfall? "Then I must return to help him."

"Also, beware: when he crosses the inviolate boundary, the dead will be
waiting. You know what that means?"

Dismally, Tom nodded. "How can the doorway be opened?"

"Here, I will give you knowledge." A tendril of lava extended from the lake
just below the swaying head, slowly covering the gulf between them. The superheated smell of it was powerful; his skin bloomed when it wavered in front of
his face. Like a snake, it started, striking the centre of his forehead. He yelped
in pain and recoiled as the flesh sizzled, but in that moment the information he
required was transmitted.

"Know this also: you have seen more than any of your kind in an age. Carry
this memory with you, but never return. There are boundaries that must not be
crossed, and information that must never be learned, until your transformation ..."

The last word was drawn out like toffee as the cavern receded at great speed.
Tom's head spun with the sudden warping effect, and then he was lifted on a blast
of super-hot air, flying backwards out of the cavern and up the tunnel so fast the
breath was crushed from his lungs. He hurtled through the Whiskey, with Morrison smiling at him mockingly, through the Celtic village, and then the pain in
his lungs became unbearable and the dark folded around him sharply.

Veitch emerged from a deep sleep, disoriented and aching; some hidden branch
had been digging in his back and his thighs felt like they'd been stoned. A
string of drool soaked his cheek. It was not a sudden awakening; his dream still
had its talons in him-an upsetting scenario of Ruth telling him something he
couldn't bear to hear-leaving him feeling irritated and out of sorts. As he came
to his senses, he was aware of a chill in his limbs. The patches of warming sunlight had departed, taking the tiny flying creatures with them. Colour was
slowly leeching from the vegetation as twilight took hold.

"Shit, how long have I been out?" He dragged himself awkwardly to his
feet, shaking his arms to get the blood flow moving.

In the half light, the woods appeared less idyllic. Unease scurried under
rustling nettles and made branches sway wildly when there was no breeze.
Shadows crept along the ground menacingly from the boles of trees, clustered
under bushes, waiting. Rubbing his wrists, Veitch wandered down the slope a
little way to a path. From there he could see the sun so low on the horizon it was
really just a glow of red and gold.

Tom's warning came back to him, but he had never given it serious
consideration-he had faced too many bad things to run at the first sign of trouble.
Even if he did heed it, where would he go? And what if Tom returned from wherever he was, only to find himself alone, at night, in a place he considered dangerous?
He might be a miserable git at times, but he deserved better than that.

Weighing his options, Veitch decided to return to the mansion to sit with
Robertson while the superstitious squatter rubbed his mojos till dawn. He
strode out through the forest, the chill in the air telling him the deceptively
warm season was slipping out quietly. Unsure of his direction, he paused at the
system of paths leading from the car park around the hill. Everywhere looked
different in the growing gloom. He still hadn't adjusted to the dramatic change
the night brought to a land free from electric lights: deep, still darkness heavy
on the countryside and the stars so bright overhead it was as if he had never seen
them before. The last few midges drifted away to wherever they spent the night,
pursued by the flitting shape of a bat darting from the trees across the open
areas. The jarring screech of an owl echoed away in the woods. All the night
creatures were coming out to hunt.

At a fork in the path, Veitch took the one he thought he remembered, but
it was soon apparent he'd taken a wrong turning. The Tarmac gave way to stones
and then hard-packed soil as the path became a thin trail amongst the bushes. Ahead of him he could see the outline of the house silhouetted against the night
sky; it didn't appear too far away.

The path bore down steeply until Veitch found himself in a strange, broad
ditch that looked as if it ran around the circumference of the hill. He vaguely
recalled Tom muttering something about the fortifications of the old Iron Age
fort, but, as usual, he hadn't been paying much attention. The bottom of the
ditch was flat, some six to eight feet wide, and obviously used regularly as a footpath from the hardness of the soil. On either side the banks rose up steeply.
Clustering firs formed a natural roof that only added to the gloom. As his eyes
adjusted he made out festooning ivy, chest-high nettles and thick banks of
bramble that made the sides of the ditch impenetrable. On the house side there
was also some kind of high wall or fence at the top of the bank.

Sooner or later there would be a path up to the truncated summit, he
guessed, so he set off clockwise round the fortification. The low level of the ditch
and its flat bottom against the steep banks reminded him of a racetrack, and he
briefly fantasised about scrambling round on a motorcycle; just another thing he
missed with the passing of technology.