Third Solstice CALIBRE with cover
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Authors: Harper
Third Solstice
Copyright © December 2015 by Harper Fox
Cover art by Harper Fox
Cover photo licensed through Shutterstock
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Third Solstice
Harper Fox
Chapter One
Going home for Christmas
. A mantra for this time of year, a question, a promise.
Are you going home for Christmas?
Weary office workers, hanging up the phone for the last time. Kids fresh from university, holding down a first London job, lonely in bedsits and remembering once-despised villages and towns:
I’m out of here. Going home for Christmas
.
Heartbreak to the homeless. Salt in the wounds of broken families. Bewildering, drug-like excitement to overstimulated kids, a vortex of tinsel and glitter. If you could feel it all—if you, one ordinary man, could walk the city streets and know about all of it—you’d drown. You’d have to make for higher ground. You’d have to build a wall.
An ordinary man, going home for Christmas. The city streets are quiet to him now. Even the babbling, clattering Tube carriage, quiet as a church. The underground garage where he’s left his car resounds with engines and slammed doors only, not the dreams and schemes and thousand daily niggles of drivers and passengers, amplified and bouncing off the concrete. Then the westbound roads.
Silence on the windswept brow of Lance Hill, but it’s always quiet here. Not many people know the moortop route to Dark. He stops the car in a layby and gets out.
It’s all just a season of lights, isn’t it? Lights are marking Bodmin Moor like crystalline snail-trails tonight, villages clustering round their green centre or winding with the path of their river or main road. There’s a promise of frost in the air. The ordinary man—a family man now—celebrates Christmas with good heart, but he prefers his solstice, the day made doubly sacred by his daughter’s birthday.
He can just see the shimmer of Dark on the horizon. Still half an hour away, but maybe he’ll get there in time to help put her to bed. For Lee, journey’s end isn’t any of the festivals of light. It’s Gideon and Tamsyn, now and forever.
Going home for Christmas, Lee?
No. Just going home.
***
Gid and the baby agreed about most things, but electronic toys in bathwater wasn’t one of them. Gently he removed the talking bear from the starfishing little hands and laid it on the floor behind him. “There. You can have him back when we’re finished.”
Tamsyn, too placid to raise a fuss, smacked him in the eye with a fistful of suds instead. Her aim was good. She could sit up unaided now, so he let go of her long enough to grab a flannel. “Ow, you little blighter. What’s Lee gonna say when he gets home and finds out I let you go down the plughole?”
She let loose a shriek of laughter at the prospect and slapped the surface of the water with her palms, soaking Gideon again. “Pug’ole,” she said, with eerie distinctness, then added solemnly, “Eee.”
“Yes. Lee. He’ll be back any minute, and I promised to have you in bed by seven.”
“Blighter.”
“Oh, shi-... Crikey. Don’t you pick up any more bad language from me.” His sweet-faced infant had transformed overnight into a word-absorbing sponge, startling Ma Frayne and Ezekiel with a crisply-enunciated
bugger
over the lunch table. Gideon rolled his shirt sleeves higher and went back into the fray. “Right. Let me have a go at that potato crop growing behind your ears.”
“Bear.”
“Not yet, sweetheart. As soon as you’re...”
He sat back on his heels, staring. The toy was in her hands again. Had somebody bought her a second one? The various members of her fan club—Ma, Zeke, Sarah and Lorna Kemp, her great-uncle Jago and Mrs Ivey—often doubled up on gifts in their anxiety to get her the latest thing. She’d have been spoiled rotten but for her own imperturbable good nature and the gentle discipline of her home. “Bear.”
Gideon took it from her again. “No. No bear in the bath, Tamsie. Dangerous.”
It was just as well the various thugs and villains he came across in the course of his daily duties couldn’t exert her charm. Even gentle discipline was hard to apply. Something throbbed at the back of his skull, first warning of a headache or a change in the weather. In the corner of the bathroom, Isolde sat up restlessly and began to growl. “Give me a break, dog,” Gideon said, perching the bear firmly on the edge of the sink. “I’m not hurting her. I’m trying to stop her electrocuting herself.”
The growl became a whine. To Gideon’s alarm, his placid old collie—fat and contented, spending her days now sprawled out and farting beside Tamsyn’s cot—lifted her hackles and began to back away. And the toy bear wobbled once on the sink, then sailed straight back into the child’s outstretched hand.
Gideon clamped his mouth shut. He didn’t want Tamsyn to learn any of the words that would have come out of it at that point. He took a deep breath, shook his head. “What did... What did you just do?”
“
Bear
.”
“Yes, I know.” An appeal to her generosity would often succeed where an order failed. “Sweetheart, can I have the bear for a minute?”
She shoved it at him. “Dada.”
“Thank you.” She was more or less clean, so he scooped her out of the bath and wrapped her in a towel. “Right. Let’s put Bear over here on the shelf, and you and I will go and sit on the stool beside Isolde, because...”
Because I’m about to raise my hackles and start whining myself.
“Isolde! Hush, stupid. Everything’s all right.”
He sat with the baby on his lap and one soothing hand on the dog’s head. Tamsyn gazed around until she located the toy on the shelf. She reached out, then suddenly looked up at him for permission with a clarity that pierced his heart. “Bear now?”
She was smart as a fresh coat of paint. Every day she said or did something that revealed to Gideon how the universe was unfolding for her and within her. “Yes,” he said unsteadily. “That’s a clever girl. There’s no water now, so... you can have your bear.”
She stretched out her hand. Again Gideon felt the throbbing tug deep in his brain. Isolde tucked her tail between her legs, nosed the bathroom door open and fled, and the bear lifted slowly off the shelf.
Whatever Tamsyn was doing, she wasn’t quite strong enough yet to pull it off. Gravity and reality took over when the toy was halfway across the room. She gave a little wail of disappointment and began to wriggle in Gideon’s arms. “All right,” he said, as calmly as he could with his heart pounding and ice cubes slithering down his spine. “Let’s do it the old-fashioned way. Come on.”
He scooped the toy off the floor, gave it to Tamsyn and helped her pull the string that would make it talk. This was the bear whose porridge was just right—he had two less contented siblings in the little girl’s bedroom—and his high-pitched porridge song was enough to drive a strong man demented. Tonight Gideon barely noticed. He carried Tamsyn through into the living room and stood with her in front of the fire, jouncing her gently, rubbing one end of the towel over her dark curls. There were so many things he had to do. It was quarter to seven, and he had no sense yet of Lee coming home. Lee liked to help bed her down, but she had a set bedtime and both he and Gideon tried to observe it. Once she was asleep, Gideon could tidy the bathroom and get some supper ready, tidy up the trail of devastation he and his daughter had left after a week alone together.
At least this room was ready. Like every other child born in late December, she was doomed to spend her birthdays in the shadow of a Christmas tree, to combination birthday-and-Christmas presents wrapped in reindeer paper. “Sorry, kiddo,” he said, turning her so she could see the tinsel and the lights. She didn’t seem to mind. She’d stopped tugging at the bear’s cord and was beginning to fall asleep, purring in pleasure at the sight of the glimmering tree. Lee and Gideon had put her party back a day so that all the major players could be present. There would scarcely be room for them all in the tiny vacant flat their landlord had loaned them while their own was being rebuilt.
Of course they’d invited Elowen and Michel. God alone knew what she was feeling, the day before her baby’s first birthday. Gideon let his mind skid away from the thought. He had plenty of unknowns to be going along with for now. He carried Tamsyn over to the sofa and sat down. Just for a minute, he told himself, just until she dropped off properly and he could put her to bed without the usual three-ring circus of stories, songs and games. He leaned back, cradling her, and her head drooped on his chest like a weary flower. “That was all my imagination, wasn’t it?” he asked her, stroking her velvety cheek. “You didn’t just start...
levitating
things, did you?”
She wasn’t quite out. She blew him a long raspberry, watching him sleepily. God, she was starting to look like Lee—those agate-green eyes, turning pure silver in certain lights. Like her mother, too.
That was a good thing. Elowen was a lovely woman, and that dark-haired, olive-skinned Cornish bloodline ran strong. Gideon was sure that his nightmares would eventually stop, that one day he’d quit triple-checking the window lock on the nursery. Elowen with wings, bird-footed Lilith Elowen, swooping down on the cradle...
He twitched, eliciting a grunt of complaint from the baby. But her solid little weight on him was like a drug, and he’d found his week of solo fatherhood exhausting. Still no sign of Lee on his inner radar. The dog emerged from wherever she’d hidden to avoid the poltergeist activity, and sensing his weakness, seized the chance for a forbidden jump onto the sofa. Well, she was a good guardian now she had a baby of her own to watch, and she would alert him to any trouble or noise. He’d just switch the TV on and catch the news. Just close his eyes for five minutes...
Chapter Two
How long had Lee been sitting there? Gideon sat up, catching his sleeping infant before she could slide off his chest. The so-called watchdog was flat on her back, legs sprawled, hairy paws flickering with dreams. “Lee! Um... Hi, sweetheart. I wasn’t... I didn’t think you’d be back yet.”
“Clearly.” Lee’s face was bright with amusement. He’d had to sit on the edge of the coffee table for want of room on the sofa. “I got in about five minutes ago. I pulled up a pew to watch you three.”
“Sorry.” Gideon yawned hugely. “Sorry. I meant to have supper ready.”
“I stuck a lasagne into the microwave to defrost. We’ll have that.”
A huge tide of pleasure swept Gideon, as if he’d been offered champagne cocktails under the stars on a luxury liner. This week was the longest time he and Lee had been apart since their wedding. “Sweetheart,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss him, keeping Tamsyn out of the way of crushing or suffocation. “Did the last of the filming go well? How was your journey? How come I didn’t know you were nearly home?”