Darkhenge

by Catherine Fisher

  It was all I could stammer out. I was shaking, furious. “I saw Rob! He was there through the trees! Why are you keeping me here!”

  He slammed the bar across the shutters. Snapped ends of vines curled on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Chloe,” he gasped, “but it’s for your own good, believe me. The forest is a terrible thing, relentless. It might destroy us both.”

  “Rubbish!”

  He grabbed my arms. The secret stairway was in the wall; as he pulled me toward it, I shoved him, and he fell against the wall.

  I was so angry I screamed. Then I tore off his mask.

  O wise druids,

  do you prophesy of Arthur?

  Or is it me you dream of?

  THE BOOK OF TALIESIN

  Father Mac came back into his sitting room and stood in front of the empty fireplace. “Want to tell me about it?”

  It wasn’t a request. Rob was silent. Then he said, “I had no idea he could do anything like that. I thought he just wanted to see her....”

  “Your sister is some sort of exhibit now?” It was hard and it hurt, but Rob was too tired and drained to be angry.

  “No.” He turned. “You saw! She had hold of him. Her eyes were open; she spoke. If they hadn’t stopped him…”

  “She might be awake, yes. Or she might be dead. The sister said the readings had gone through the roof. Heart, blood pressure.” Seeing Rob close his eyes, Mac came around and sat on the greasy leather armchair. His voice softened. “Don’t worry. She was stable again before we came away. What exactly did he do?”

  “Sang.” It was the only way Rob could explain, though he knew the words had been more a chant than a song, and Vetch hadn’t spoken them. He lifted his head, hopelessly. “And made a circle of pieces of wood, with letters on them. Like the henge.”

  Mac rasped his stubbly chin. “I told you to stay clear of him. He’s not … safe.”

  Rob looked up. “How?”

  “I can feel a power in him, though I’m loath to admit it. Something old. Ancient. Whether he means well or not I don’t know. I do know that he ought to be in the hospital himself; I’ve seen more sick men than most, and he’s one. Serious, I’d guess.”

  They were silent a moment. Then Mac leaned back, creaking the chair. “Is he homeless?”

  “Not sure. Probably.”

  “You’d both better stay over. Phone them at home.”

  When he did, there was only his father there; Rob said he would be staying at Mac’s. “Fine, you carry on.” His father’s voice sounded preoccupied. “No one else is here. Your mother’s stuck in London. I’ll have Maria’s pizza all to myself.”

  Putting the phone down, Rob stared out at the dim horizon of the downs. The whole family was falling apart. As if Chloe had been some central pin, holding them tight around her, and now there was no center, no focus. As if they weren’t strong enough on their own.

  When Vetch came downstairs he looked pale, the mark on his forehead more noticeable. His hair was wet, and slicked back, as if he’d splashed water over himself. He sat quietly at a table by the window, still in his dark coat.

  “You’re both staying here tonight,” Father Mac said gruffly.

  “Thank you. But—”

  “No buts. I’m not driving you back and the buses have finished.”

  “We could walk.” But Vetch smiled as he said it, and added, “I wonder you want me here, Father.”

  Mac leaned forward. “Tell me about yourself. Explain to me who you are and what you want. This boy is my godson, and more than that, his immortal soul is in my care. I won’t let any harm come to him. And no New Age bullshit, please.”

  Rob stared. Vetch just laughed. He drew in a breath, but Mac held up a hand, went to his sideboard and took out a glass. He poured red wine into it and came back. “Drink that first. You look washed out.”

  Vetch sipped it. When he spoke his voice was stronger; he looked out at the downs. “What I am or who I am is difficult to explain. I’ve had many names and lived in many times and places, but my real home is not here. It’s in a place I call the Unworld, or Annwn. Another dimension, another reality. A wood of dreams, a landscape of sinew and stone. You might call it the Imagination.”

  Mac leaned back and spread his feet out. He looked resigned but said nothing.

  “I was drawn here now because of the Darkhenge. It was built about four thousand years ago, by the men and women of this place, in a certain season when the stars were correct and the harvest was in. I watched them build it.”

  Over the top of the glass his gray eyes met Mac’s; the priest stared back, expressionless. “That must have been fascinating.”

  Vetch smiled. “Oh, it was.”

  “You didn’t help?”

  “I sang to them. Sang of the Cauldron, and the trees. When the great oak was stripped of its bark I chanted the poet’s secret words.”

  Mac took out a cigarette. “Go on.”

  “The henge is a ritual enclosure, something like a church, something like a healing place. Those who have the knowledge and the ability may use it as a gateway. I’ve been here too long; my existence is thinning, being eaten away. It’s time I went home. The henge is my way back.”

  “And Chloe?”

  Vetch sighed. Then he said, “I had hoped I could find her, but she’s moving deeper in. She’s trapped in there, in herself, her memories, her fears. If I get back, I’ll look for her. I can’t promise anything though. I think it’s possible she’s being held against her will.”

  Mac glanced at the clock as it struck eleven, but he wasn’t seeing it. He had that look Rob recognized from painting his portrait, that focused, formidable hardness. “You seem to know a great deal about this.”

  “Knowledge is my business.”

  “As a poet.”

  Vetch gave his quiet smile. “As one of the Cauldron-born, yes.”

  “A druid.”

  “Perhaps bard is a better word. Perhaps priest.”

  Mac scowled. “I should throw you out now.”

  “I don’t think you will, Father. Because time is short. Now the authorities know about the henge they will act quickly; it will be uncovered and probably removed for conservation. Has Rob told you about the central deposit?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a tree.” Vetch put the glass down and leaned forward. All at once he seemed tense with excitement. “A great oak. It was a holy tree, a shaman’s tree, lightning-struck, bone white. It was selected with great care; a whole tribe working on uprooting it for months, at special times and seasons, digging around it, easing it out entire, a vast tangle of roots. Once they had dragged it to the site, they stripped it of bark, trimmed the trunk and inverted it. It has become an axis, a pole linking this place and the Unworld. It leads inside. To the world within.”

  Mac blew out smoke and glanced at Rob. “Is that so.”

  He was elaborately sarcastic, but Vetch was watching him carefully. “I see you also know about this.”

  Mac looked back at him hard. “You may well be eternal. But so am I. So are all of us. And yes, I know there are other worlds. Places outside this reality. We call one of them Hell.”

  Vetch looked down, fingering the string of the bag that trailed from his pocket. “She’s not there,” he said softly. “You don’t think that.”

  To Rob’s surprise Mac snorted out a laugh. “No,” he said. “She’s not there.”

  “Nor do I come from such a place.”

  Mac stood up, a great upheaval from the leather chair. “No, my son,” he said, looking down. “I don’t think you do. Judging by the remnants of your accent, I’d say you came from Wales.”

  By eleven o’clock next morning the tree roots were uncovered.

  Pausing a moment in the welter of mud and midge-haunted heat, Rob put a hand out and rubbed the smooth black bole, the hollow center. Already Marcus had begun to speculate: the hollow had held water, or blood, or a sacred object, or a corpse to be picked clean
by hawks.

  It had been photographed from every angle; Rob had a longing to draw it, to involve himself with that tangle of seamed and smooth wooden threads, but there wasn’t time.

  Everything had speeded up. For a start, Clare was no longer in charge. A bearded man in battered wellingtons and a blue waterproof coat over his suit was conducting a hurried press conference at the entrance to the metal fence; his name was Warrington and he was from English Heritage. Other new people came and went, talking, photographing, making excited comments. Clare was around; she had spent most of the morning in the trailer being interviewed on the phone, and now he saw her talking volubly at some camera. It seemed she was getting her say in, at least.

  When she finished, she hurried over, looking pleased.

  “Lab’s available for the dendro and the carbon dating,” she said to Jimmy, over Rob’s head. “Take the samples this afternoon.”

  When she was gone, Rob said, “Dendro…?”

  “Chronology. Tree rings. You count them and work out the date the tree was cut.”

  Rob cleaned a scrape of soil. Another inch of the tree’s side emerged into daylight. Perhaps he was the first to see it for thousands of years. Then a thought pierced like a cold sliver into his mind. He looked up. “How?”

  “What?”

  “How do you count them? The thing’s still in the ground…”

  “Not for long. But I’ll cut a slice out.”

  Appalled, Rob said, “Cut?”

  Jimmy grinned. “With a chain saw, clever boy.”

  Rob didn’t move, chilled with fear. When he looked back down, he barely saw what he was doing.

  “She’s linked to the henge,” Vetch had said that morning on the bus. “The henge is the way to her, and by the ogham twigs I may have made the connection even stronger.” He had sounded anxious. Maybe this was what he had feared. It was the only way to Chloe. And if they took a chain saw to it …

  Twelve o’clock was the lunch break and it was five to now. Suddenly Rob scraped the trowel clean, dumped it in the bucket and raced for his bike, pushing it past the parked cars and swinging on. Clare came out and yelled after him, “Don’t be late! This afternoon is crucial!” He waved back, wobbling off over the white chalk ruts, swerving to avoid a tractor coming around. He rode hard, the wind in his face, the muscles in his calves tight.

  A chain saw! He had to find Vetch!

  Cutting through the lanes, he turned onto the A4 and struck recklessly across it, almost hit by a truck blaring past. Across the road he whipped into the lane to Avebury.

  Whizzing past Falkner’s Circle, where Chloe had fallen, he thought briefly again about the girl on the horse he had seen there, and glanced up the track by the hedge, but it was overgrown and silent.

  “Be careful!” he hissed aloud. “Wherever you are, Chloe, be careful!”

  The camp under the beech trees was quiet. Smoke rose from a fire and a little girl played in some mud. The woman he remembered as Megan came out of a tent and stared as the bike slewed over.

  “Where’s Vetch?” Rob gasped.

  “At the Cove. They’re waiting for you.”

  He stared, then turned and ran back inside the vast embankment, clicking open the gate on the right and squeezing into the long grass of the northeast quadrant of the massive Avebury ring. The grass was ankle high and tussocky, chewed by sheep who stared and wandered away from him, unbothered by people. Few stones still stood here, and visitors usually walked along the high bank looking down, the white trails of erosion clear in the chalk.

  In the center of a fragmented inner ring an enormous triad of stones had once made an open-sided square, called the Cove. One was gone, fallen centuries ago; the two remaining stones leaned with their heads together, a right angle of mystery.

  The Cauldron tribe was there. All of them, with backpacks, flags, banners, kindling, drums. One man held a vast cloud of multicolored balloons with SAVE DARKHENGE printed on them. Dogs barked; a few children ran around with streamers.

  Vetch was sitting with his back against the larger Cove stone, looking up onto the Ridgeway. When he saw Rob, he stood.

  Breathless, Rob doubled over.

  “They’ve started?” Vetch said.

  “This afternoon … chain saw…” He could barely speak. He could only think of Chloe, lying in bed. So unprotected. “Will it hurt her? This link…”

  “Don’t worry,” Vetch said quietly. But his face was white. He looked at Rosa. “Are you ready?”

  She pulled a hairgrip open with her teeth and pushed it into her hair. “Ready. Cars are in the lane.”

  Vetch nodded, then, seeing Rob frown, looked over his shoulder. Dan was jumping the fence from the road. Vetch picked up the crane-skin bag and slipped it in his pocket. “Not much time, Rob.”

  Rob nodded. As Vetch and Rosa led the tribe through the grass, Dan ran up. “What’s going on? What are you doing with this crowd?”

  “Are you working this afternoon?”

  “No. Why?”

  “There’s going to be some trouble at the dig.”

  Dan’s eyes lit. “Trouble? What sort?”

  “Protests… I don’t know. The henge is important, Dan. Vetch thinks he can wake Chloe, but the henge is part of it; we have to keep it safe and it’s under threat. Will you come?” It was blurted out and he knew it sounded unhinged, because of the way Dan was looking at him.

  “Chloe? Come on, Rob—”

  “I know, I know, but he’s… He can do it.”

  Dan shrugged, bemused. “I never thought you’d get mixed up with all that crazy stuff. Does Father Mac know?”

  “Mac!” Rob grabbed his arm, hauled him toward the lane. “We need him! Have you got your phone?”

  After a moment Dan took it out. “Not much left on it.”

  Rob pushed Mac’s number, then, when the priest answered, said quickly, “It’s the henge. It’s in danger. Can you come?”

  Mac hesitated. “I’ve got someone here. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  “Do something else for me. In Chloe’s room, under the covers, there’s a book. Her diary. Bring it with you.”

  Mac made a grunting noise. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be an hour or so. Stay calm.” Then, just before the phone went down, his voice growled, “And keep an eye on that bloody druid.”

  They piled out of cars and vans, a noisy multicolored crowd surging up the lane. The security guard had barely time to open his mouth before he was firmly pushed into the hedge. The tribe swarmed into the field, onto the trailer, around the metal fence that protected the henge. One or two of them leaped up and pulled at it, tugging and yelling; it shook and Jimmy came running out. He stopped dead; Rob grinned at the dismay on his face.

  Easing back into the shadow of the trees, he said, “What about me?”

  “We need you on the inside,” Rosa said. “Go back to work as usual. Is this chain saw already on site?”

  “There are tools in the van. It may be there.”

  Rosa gave a jerk of her head; two of the tribe raced off.

  “And the dog?”

  “Don’t worry about the dog,” Vetch said quietly. He was crouched against the hedge, looking pale. His breathing seemed shallow.

  Rosa crouched by him, anxious. “Master, tell us what you want us to do.”

  His fingers working open the drawstring, Vetch said, “I’m all right, Rosa. I can last out. As soon as the moon rises I can enter the henge, but we have to keep it untouched until then.” He tipped out a whorled shell, a beetle that crawled away, a piece of antler, and three white berries that looked like mistletoe. He scooped the berries up and ate them quickly. Pulling a face, as if they were sour, he looked at her. “Untouched. That means you have to make as much of a fuss as you can.”

  “No problem! We’ve phoned every TV company and conservation group for miles around. Wiltshire Sound, pagans, archaeologists, locals. It’ll be the biggest gathering her
e since the Silbury Hill work gangs packed up.”

  Vetch smiled, and touched her arm lightly. “Thank you, Rosa.”

  She blushed. “We’ll get you back home, Master. I promise you. You should rest now.”

  “One more thing.” He looked at Rob. “The henge has emerged. It’s open. Other things may come through. Be warned.”

  Rob nodded. He turned, straight into Dan, then pushed past him into the lane.

  “Rob.” Breathless, Dan caught up and grabbed him. “He’s sick, you can see that. On something too, probably. You mustn’t… None of this has anything to do with Chloe…”

  “He woke her.” Rob turned. “Just for a second. I was there, I saw it. And he can do it again.”

  “You’re… It’s been so long. You’re clutching at straws.”

  Rob stopped. He looked up and knew his face was stricken and hard. “Yes. All right. Straws, pieces of twig, a timber henge, anything. It’s all gone, Dan, all our lives, everything. We’re like hollow people, getting up, going to work, eating, sleeping, and none of it’s real, it’s all pretending, acting. My mother’s living out one of her films; my father’s directing an invisible play. And all I can do is draw, because that makes sense of the terror; I can tidy it, arrange it on a page. Till Vetch came I hid it all away, inside colors, buried it under layers of paint. But it’s like Darkhenge, it’s emerging, second by second, and it’s huge and all around me and I can’t ignore it anymore.” His voice almost broke. “I can’t!”

  Dan was silent. Then he put an awkward hand out. “All right. I’m with you.”

  Behind, in the field, the drums began to beat.

  G. GORT: IVY

  I should have guessed.

  As we ran down the glass stair and the bubble-seamed tunnel, reflections of ourselves ran beside us, a figure with my lichen-stained hair, and another in the mask he wore under the other; a face made of ivy leaves.

  Above, through the transparent roof, I could see all the roots of the forest, an unguessable tangle, a million filaments stretching and reaching down into the soil, from gnarled lumps vast as boulders to threads tinier than worms. The forest drank, and in its depths snakes slid and insects burrowed. Billions of ants scurried like thoughts below it; its millennia of leaves fell and crushed and soaked and rotted.