Darkhenge

by Catherine Fisher

  He stopped so suddenly I banged into him, breathless.

  “Listen!”

  He caught my arm. Far off, the faintest whine. As if in the forest someone had started up a saw, had begun to cut the trees.

  I couldn’t answer. Pain was soaking my side. Blood dripped from my arm.

  “Chloe!” he gasped.

  I have been a roebuck on the hill,

  I have been a tree stump …

  I have been an axe in the hand.

  THE BOOK OF TALIESIN

  All afternoon the noise was incredible.

  As Rob sat on the wheelbarrow, he saw how Clare prowled inside the metal fence, never coming out, as if she guarded the henge herself.

  Her scream of rage when the tribe had burst through the perimeter fence still haunted him. But there was no battle.

  It was a standoff.

  For hours the tribe had held the field. They lounged in patient groups, occupied the trailer, gave balloons to the press and the three bemused policemen who talked to them gravely. To remove them would have meant force, and evidently that was going to be a last resort.

  When the TV cameras came back—more than this morning, Rob saw—the whole thing developed into an interview frenzy, with heated arguments and backings-down and denials.

  “Of course,” the man called Warrington repeated endlessly to a heckling reporter, “the henge is our first priority. Rumors of the use of a chain saw are totally exaggerated. At most a sliver would be removed....”

  Howls of protest drowned him from the tribe. And they weren’t alone. As Rosa had said, people were arriving all the time. There were cars and bikes backed up for miles down the lane. Local Women’s Institute types turned up with garden chairs and sandwiches. Men who looked like archaeologists and birdwatchers and stalwarts of local history societies were everywhere. Somewhere a radio was playing “The Ride of the Valkyries.” Someone said a coven from Swindon was on the way.

  “Protest!” Dan muttered. “It’s more like a garden fête.”

  Rob nodded absently. Clare was beckoning him.

  He went over, stepping between a line of sprawled Hell’s Angels lying across the trampled grass.

  “You brought them here, didn’t you?” she said quietly.

  He licked dry lips. The quietness of her anger was scary. But he was angry too.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He couldn’t bring himself to explain about Chloe. So he said, “It isn’t right, to take a chain saw to it.”

  She nodded, controlled, her cold blue eyes surveying the chaos her site had become. “So we leave it, do we? We live in ignorance. We never know how old it is or who built it or why. We let it rot in the wind and the rain.”

  “It’s survived this long. You brought it into the open.”

  “Do you think I shouldn’t have?”

  He couldn’t say he did. He couldn’t say anything.

  Suddenly she stabbed a furious finger at the crowd. “Look at them! Living in dreams, in crazy dreams of druids and UFOs and ley lines. Imagining magic in stones, inventing hopeless lunatic theories of star sitings and earth goddesses. These are the people who condemn scientific progress and go home and switch on their computers and e-mail other nutcases just like them. They hate animal experiments, but give them cancer and they’d be screaming for a cure like the rest of us. Hypocrites, all of them! Knowledge is all that keeps us human, and knowledge costs. That’s why we walked out of Eden.”

  “But the Garden of Eden is a myth.” Vetch was leaning behind her, one arm on the metal fence. “And we were expelled.”

  She turned instantly, drawing breath. For a long moment they looked at each other. Then she said, “I knew you were behind this.”

  He smiled sadly. “You’ve changed, Clare.”

  “But you’re the same.” She shook her head. “Still thinking you’re immortal.”

  Vetch looked unhappy. “Don’t blame Rob,” he said. “There are things at stake here for him you don’t know about. And speaking of knowledge, yes, you’re right, it costs. It cost us Eden and will cost you the henge, but not the knowledge you mean, of facts and dates. These people you despise want a different knowledge, one that comes from the heart. You remember it. It speaks in myths and stories and dreams. It makes us human.”

  She snorted. “If the henge isn’t removed it will rot here. That’s a fact.”

  “Then it must rot.” Vetch looked over at some men in suits climbing the gate. “Death is a part of life. It comes to everything.”

  “Even you?”

  He nodded gravely. “Even me. Fear makes you want to preserve the henge. Fear of losing it. Of seeing it weather down, season by season. Seeing the lichen and the beetles eat it away. But take it out and what have you got? A pile of wood in a tank in some museum. It’s unnatural to preserve life at any cost.”

  “Life!” She laughed. “You talk as if it was alive.”

  “It is. It’s just been sleeping.”

  They looked at each other. Then she said quietly, “You have changed, Vetch. You look ill.”

  He laughed, linking his hands so that the three harsh burns were visible. “I’m dying, Goddess,” he said simply.

  Dark movement slithered around the henge timbers. Rob turned, gasped.

  Clare opened her mouth to screech, until Vetch clamped a hand over it.

  The snake was long and green. It flowed out from the timbers of the henge, over the forked entrance, tongue flickering, heading straight for the gap in the metal fence. Rob said, “Is it from—”

  “Yes.” Vetch glanced behind. “Don’t let it get out into the field.” Quietly, keeping his voice calm, he said, “Close the gate.”

  Rob pulled it to. One of the tribe gave a yell, but Rob waved, and when they saw Vetch was there, the men lay down again, snapping open a new beer can.

  Against the inside of the fence the snake turned. Its cool scales rippled against the metal; the sound was a fine slithering, a rattle. It moved astonishingly quickly, so that Clare jumped back and Rob felt sweat break out on his spine.

  The snake encircled the henge.

  Its length amazed them, its thickness.

  It took its own tail into its mouth and lay still, one eye unslitted, watching them.

  Clare swallowed. She seemed to have no words left, but Vetch murmured, “In Eden too there was a snake—”

  “It’s not real.”

  “Touch it. I’m sure you’ll find it is.”

  She bent down, then, hesitant, her fingers went out. Rob stared. She had nerve, he thought. Her fingers reached the snake, and felt its scales. It didn’t move. When she drew back, she stood upright and faced Vetch.

  He stepped toward her, close, holding her arms. “Goddess—”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “Clare, then. You know as well as I do where it came from. From the center of the henge, from the tree I have to climb down. From the world you used to believe in, and maybe still do. The world where part of you, the immortal part, is waiting for me.”

  She shrugged him off angrily, a strand of hair unwinding from her plait. “Leave me alone, Vetch. You’ve done enough damage.” She marched out and closed the gate behind her.

  Dan ran up. “Look out.”

  The police were coming over, and Rosa was with them.

  “Police. We’re here to arbitrate,” the first man said. “All parties need to get together and talk.” He glanced at Vetch, but Vetch just smiled calmly back at him.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Rosa snapped. “They use a chain saw on this over our dead bodies.”

  “I’m sure a full and frank discussion will clear the air. Perhaps in the trailer?”

  Rosa took a breath to retort and caught Vetch’s eye. Slowly, she nodded. “All right. I’ll arrange for representatives of all the groups here. But you guard the henge. Nothing is done to it until there’s an agreement. Right?”

  The police officer nodded. Then he loo
ked again at Vetch. “You lead these people, I gather?”

  The poet shook his head, amused. He scratched his cheek with frail fingers. “I’m a stranger here. I think you’ve been misinformed.”

  “I disagree.” Giving Rob a sharp glance, the officer jerked his head at the fence. “Can I see this mysterious henge? It would be helpful to know what all the fuss is about.”

  Vetch smiled at Clare. She looked horrified, but before she could open her mouth to say no, he had pushed the gate wide.

  The policeman stepped in and looked at the timbers. “Fantastic,” he muttered.

  Rob gazed past him, astonished. There was no snake.

  Vetch raised an eyebrow at Clare, then took Rosa’s arm and led her away toward the caravan. “We need till moonrise,” he said quietly. “Tell everyone to keep it going. Plenty of full and frank discussion, Rosa. Plenty of words. Words are the only weapon we have.”

  She grinned. “Don’t worry, Master. Trust us for that.”

  Father Mac turned up about seven. Seeing Dan and Rob lounging on the grass, he came over and lowered his heavy body down. “You were all on the evening news. What’s the state of play?”

  “They’re still talking.”

  “With your druid?”

  “Not him. I think he’s asleep.” Rob nodded toward Vetch’s dark shape, curled in a blanket under the trees at the side of the field.

  Mac pulled a parcel out of his pocket, waving off mosquitoes. “Brought you some meat pastries.”

  “I should get back to the pub.” Then Dan smelled the pastry and sat back down. “Oh well. Maybe I’ll put that out of its misery first.”

  Across the way, at the trailer, Clare came out. She was red-faced and furious. Flicking one stinging look over at them, she marched around to the lane, flung the gate open, and pushed through the small gathering of journalists.

  “Looks like things are not going her way,” Mac said drily. He looked at Rob. “You should go home. You weren’t there at all yesterday. Your mother will be back.”

  “Not yet.” Rob tied a shoelace that didn’t need tying. “Not till ten o’clock.”

  He knew they exchanged glances over his head. He knew they were worried about him.

  “What happens then?”

  Dan gulped the last of his pastry. “The moon rises,” he said indistinctly.

  Father Mac took out a cigarette and a lighter. “God help us,” he growled.

  By ten to ten the field was dark. Moths crisped and fluttered; beyond the hedge the ripe crop made tiny crackling noises, as if seed was splitting, the whole field releasing the pent-up heat of the afternoon.

  Most people had gone. In the trailer the voices argued on. A few die-hard reporters sat in their cars and listened to music.

  Dan had rushed off for work. “Don’t get arrested,” he’d said, joking, and had taken Mac aside and talked to him anxiously. Then, after only a few steps, he’d turned and come back, crouching down, his voice gone serious. “Please go home, Rob.”

  Rob watched Vetch sit up. “Soon now.”

  Dan glanced at Mac. The priest shook his head. “I’ll stay with him. You get off.”

  If Vetch had been asleep it hadn’t helped him. As he walked over, he looked thinner and paler than ever; he sat very carefully, and Mac said, “You should be in bed.”

  Vetch shrugged. “I should be home. A matter of minutes, and I will be.”

  He looked at the tribe around their fires, the dim outlines of hedgerows. Above the trees a faint star glittered. “Everyone’s done well,” he said. “Very soon now, the moon will come.”

  Worried, Mac said, “Son, you’re sicker than you think. What difference will the moon make?”

  “All the difference, Father.”

  “I’m taking you to a hospital. Right now.”

  “No.”

  Mac was on his feet, bulky and ominous. “This has gone on long enough. You need help. You have no home.”

  Vetch looked down. Then he said, “You’ve brought something for Rob.”

  For a moment Mac just stood glaring. Then he took out the diary, looked at it, and sat. He held it out, but when Rob took it, he didn’t let it go. “I read a few pages,” he said quietly. His expression was grim.

  Rob said, “How bad is it?”

  The priest pushed it at him. “I should have seen. I should have realized how she felt.”

  Cold, Rob’s fingers closed around the purple book, the silver stars. He wanted to give it back, to push it away. Instead he shoved it into the pocket of his shirt.

  A faint rustle and click, from the direction of the henge.

  “What was that?” Vetch turned, alert.

  They listened. In the stillness distant voices drifted, a radio announcement, flames crackling. Then again, a tiny, rhythmic creak.

  Vetch caught his breath. He clutched his side, as if it hurt. “Clare,” he whispered.

  The night erupted. The creak burst into a shrill whine, high and fierce.

  Vetch was up and racing for the henge, Rob behind him; the door of the trailer was flung wide and Rosa came hurtling down the steps, a burly policeman framed in the bright doorway.

  The metal gate was locked from the inside. Vetch flung himself against it, hands splayed. “Clare!” He banged it with his fists. “For God’s sake! Clare! Stop!”

  The saw whined, a high electric vibration that went through Rob’s teeth and nerves, as if it was Chloe, screaming in terror. He shoved Vetch aside and began kicking at the metal gate. “Get it open!” he yelled. Father Mac was there; his great bulk shuddered and crashed against the fence. It creaked, then all the tribe was on it, howling with rage, pulling and tearing, Rosa kicking furiously at the lock.

  In the racket a cell phone shrilled and shrilled.

  The gate went down. Vetch jumped over, caught hold of the timbers of the henge and dragged himself in. He turned, white-faced. “Keep them out! All of you. Stay outside!”

  Behind him the archaeologists tried to shoulder through; the tribe quickly closed ranks.

  Breathless, Rob scrambled after Vetch.

  Clare had a small handsaw; it was blade deep in the roots of the central oak. She looked up at them over its whine.

  “Turn it off,” Vetch begged.

  She smiled, cold.

  “Is this some sort of revenge? Then take it on me. Please, Clare. Please. On me!” He was devastated, could hardly stand.

  Her hair was tied firmly back; her eyes red but dry. “Where are your poems now, then?” she snapped. “All that guff about Gwydion and Merlin you used to spin me? Turn yourself into something, Vetch; enchant me, freeze me with a look. It ought to be easy for you.” She glared over his shoulder. “Don’t waste your time with him, Rob. He’s useless and dangerous. He’ll eat up your life with false dreams. He cost me my career once, my life, my inspiration. He ran from me as if he was terrified.”

  “Clare—”

  “Don’t move.” Her fingers tightened; the blade sliced into the wood with a drone that ached in Rob’s bones. “This is my discovery, my dig. Nobody stops me. If I want a sample I take it, and don’t you dare tell me I don’t care for the henge.”

  The cell phone. It had been Mac’s. Rob knew the call was from the nursing home. He pushed past Vetch and right up to Clare. “You’re killing my sister,” he breathed.

  She stared, amazed, then switched the saw off. In the utter silence she looked at Vetch with hatred. “You’ve told him that? I can’t believe even you would stoop that low.”

  Vetch moved. Beyond the trees the moon had risen, its full circle lighting his face. Ducking under the tangle of tree roots, he grabbed the saw and pulled it; it switched on and Vetch yelled and leaped back, as if it had cut him.

  Tiny flecks of blood spattered the dark wood.

  “Rob!” he gasped. Rob jerked Clare’s arm. She screamed and the saw fell, whining, churning the mud.

  Outside, Mac was thundering, “Rob! We’ve got to go. We’ve got to go now! It’s
Chloe!”

  “Hold her,” Vetch said, straightening.

  “My sister—”

  “Hold her.” He moved to the tree, put his hands on it, spoke words that were strange and remote.

  Clare stopped struggling. “He’s mad,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t care about me or you. He never did.”

  In the circle of moonlight, the henge was lit. A pool of rain that had gathered in the roots gleamed silver. Tall and black, the timbers enclosed them like a wall of shadow, head high, moths and midges the only movement.

  Except that the tree was growing downward.

  Rob stared. Out on the field Mac was yelling and shoving everyone aside, but he couldn’t move, because the oak was going down and down, its trunk ridged and green with lichen, its boughs and branches sprouting out into darkness, into another place, like a brain stem, like the network of a million cortexes, and a lizard ran up it and slid away, birds squawked in it, disturbed.

  Vetch stumbled. He held onto the tree and put his foot on the branches and began to descend, and there was no earth below him, no surface, only darkness that smelled cold and rich, like a forest smells.

  After two steps he slipped, weak, leaning his head on the trunk. Rob pushed Clare away and grabbed the poet tight.

  “I’m falling,” Vetch whispered. He seemed barely able to speak. “Let me fall.”

  “No. I’m coming with you.” Rob began to descend rapidly, pulling the man’s feet down, placing his hands.

  Vetch’s eyes were dark in his pale face. “I can’t let you do this—”

  “I’m coming. I’m coming with you. To find Chloe. Come on! Show me!”

  They were climbing down. Branch to branch. Leaves moved against his face, living leaves. Small creatures pattered around him. Vetch’s weight slumped against him. Far above, Mac had burst through the crowd, was yelling for him, but there was no sound from up there now but the leaves and the wind. A great wind, roaring and gusting, swaying the branches of the mighty tree, and he clambered and slithered into it, his feet finding holes and forks, slipping on lichen, his toes scraping down and down into greener shadows, the rich decaying stench of a forest.