The Paradise War

by Stephen R. Lawhead

He laughed, breaking the tension somewhat. “So, seeing something one can’t explain qualifies one as insane in your estimation—is that it?”

  “I didn’t say that exactly.” He had a nasty habit of bending my words back on me.

  “Well, you’ll just have to live with it, chum.”

  “Live with it? That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “Until we figure out something better, yes.”

  We had come to a small three-way junction. “This is our turn,” I told him. “Take this road to Nairn.”

  Simon turned onto the easterly route, drove until we were out of the city, and then pulled off the road onto the shoulder. He allowed the car to slow to a halt, then switched off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to sleep. I’m tired. We can get forty winks here and still make it to the farm before sunrise.” He pulled the lever to recline his seat and closed his eyes. In no time at all, he was sound asleep.

  I watched him for a few moments, thinking to myself: Simon Rawnson, what have you gotten us mixed up in?

  4

  AT THE DOOR

  TO THE WEST

  I heard the deep, throaty rumble of a juggernaut and woke to find Simon snoring softly in the seat beside me. The sun was rising beyond the eastern hills, and the early morning traffic was beginning to hum along the road next to us. The clock in the dash read 6:42 a.m. I prodded Simon. “Hey, wake up. We’ve overslept.”

  “Huh?” He stirred at once. “Bugger!”

  “It’s cold in here. Let’s have some heat.”

  He sat up and switched on the ignition. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I just did.”

  “We’ll be too late now.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, checked the rearview mirror, and then pulled out swiftly onto the road.

  “What do you mean? The sun isn’t even up yet. It’s only a few more miles. We’ll get there in plenty of time.”

  “I wanted to be there before sunrise,” Simon told me flatly. “Not after.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  Simon gave me a derisive look. “And you a Celtic scholar.” His tone suggested I should be able to read his mind.

  “The time-between-times—is that what you’re talking about?” I was not aware that Simon knew any ancient Celtic lore. “Is that why we’ve busted our buns to get here so fast?”

  He didn’t answer. I took his silence as affirmation and continued. “Look, if that’s why you’ve been dragging us all over the country, forget it. The time-between-times—that’s just a folk superstition, more poetic device than anything else. It doesn’t exist.”

  “Just like aurochs don’t exist?”

  “Aurochs don’t exist!” And neither do Green Men, I might have added, but saved my breath. There was no need to bring that up at this hour of the morning. “It’s just screwball journalism.”

  “That’s what we’re here to determine, isn’t it?” Simon smiled deviously and turned his attention to the road. We were already in the country again, heading east on the A96 out of Inverness. The last sign I saw indicated that Nairn was only a dozen miles ahead.

  I rummaged around on the floor of the car for the atlas, found it where I’d dropped it the night before, and turned to the proper page. The farm we were looking for was not on the map, but the nearest village was—a mere flyspeck of a hamlet called Craigiemore on a thin squiggle of yellow road which ran through what was optimistically called Darnaway Forest. Probably all that was left of this alleged forest was a hillside or two of rotting stumps and a roadside picnic area.

  “I don’t see Carnwood Farm on here,” I said after giving the map a good once-over. Simon expressed his appreciation for this information with a grunt. Motivated by his encouragement, I continued, “Anyway, it’s seven miles to the B9007 from Nairn. And from there to the farm is probably another two or three miles, minimum.”

  Simon thanked me for my orienteering update with another eloquent grunt and put the accelerator nearer the floor. The hazy, hill-bound countryside fled past in a blur. It was already plenty blurry to begin with. A thickish mist hugged the ground, obscuring all detail beyond a thousand yards or so, and turning the rising sun into a ghostly, blood-red disk.

  Scotland is a strange place. I failed to see the attraction so many otherwise sane people professed for this bleak, wind-bitten scrag of dirt and rock. What wasn’t moors was lochs, and one as damp as the other. And cold. Give me the Costa Del Sol anytime. Better yet, give me the French Riviera and take everything else. The way I figured it, if one could not grow a decent wine grape within shouting distance of the beach, the hell with it.

  Simon stirred me from my reverie with an impromptu recitation, as startling as it was spontaneous. Without taking his eyes from the road, he said:

  “I am the singer at the dawn of the age,

  and I stand at the door to the West.

  Three fifties of warriors uphold me,

  whose names are lauded in the halls of chieftains; great lords make haste to do their bidding.

  Royal blood flows in my veins,

  my kinship is not humble; yet my portion is despised.

  Truth is at the root of my tongue,

  wisdom is the breath of my speech; but my words find no honor among men.

  I am the singer at the dawn of the age,

  and I stand at the door to the West.”

  Well, knock me over with a feather. You live with someone for a few years, and you think you know them. “Where on earth did you get that?” I asked when I finished gawping.

  “Like it?” He smirked at me like a naughty schoolboy.

  “It’s okay,” I conceded. “Where did you find it?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” Simon answered. “Must have tumbled across it somewhere in my reading. You know how it is.”

  I knew how it was, all right. Simon the dutiful scholar hadn’t so much as winked at a book in months. “Have you any idea what it means?” I asked.

  “Actually, I was hoping you’d fill me in,” he replied diffidently. “It’s a bit out of my line, I’m afraid. More in yours, I would have thought.”

  “Simon, what’s going on? First this extinct ox business; then you get all bothered about the time-between-times thing; now you’re quoting Celtic riddles at me. What gives?”

  He shrugged. “It just seemed apropos, I suppose. The hills, the sunrise, Scotland . . . that sort of thing.”

  I would get more information from an oyster, so I changed the subject. “What about breakfast?” Simon didn’t answer. He seemed stubbornly preoccupied with driving. “How about we stop in Nairn for a bite to eat?”

  We didn’t stop in Nairn. We whizzed through that town so fast I thought Simon might be trying for a land speed record. “Slow down!” I yelled, stiff-arming the dashboard. But Simon merely downshifted and drove on.

  Coming out of Nairn, Simon picked up the A939 and we flew, almost literally, over the hills. Luckily, we had the road to ourselves. It unwound in a seamless, if convoluted, strip and we beat it along with respectable haste. Just beyond the Findhorn River we came to the village of Ferness located at the crossroads of the A939 and the B9007. “This is our turn,” I told Simon. “Take a right.”

  The B9007 proved to be a narrow tarmac trail along the bottom of the Findhorn Glen, and the principal way into the remains of the Darnaway Forest, which, to my surprise, possessed all the earmarks of a proper forest. That is to say, hills thickly covered with tall pines, morning mist wafting among the trees, and little streams coursing down to the river below. After a mile we reached a tiny village called Mills of Airdrie.

  I knew enough Gaelic to figure that the word Airdrie was a contraction for the ancient Celtic term Aird Righ, meaning High King. While there was nothing strange about a king having a mill on the river, I found it slightly peculiar that he should have been a High King. In antiquity, that title would have been re
served for only the most elite of royalty, and rarely in Scotland.

  The village itself wasn’t much: a wide spot in the road with an inn and combination grocer’s-newsagent’s-post office. We continued on another mile and reached an unmarked road. A weathered sign stood at the crossing; it had “Carnwood Farm” written on it in bright blue with an arrow pointing the way. We turned left and soon came to a stone bridge. We crossed the Findhorn once again and drove on deeper into the heart of Darnaway.

  Carnwood Farm lay on the flat ground between two broad tree-clad hills. Small, neat, and spare, the place appeared efficient and prosperous. But it also had about it an air of . . . I don’t know . . . emptiness. As if it were long abandoned. Not neglected, not deserted. Just untouched. Or, more precisely, as if the land were somehow resistant to human occupation. This was patently absurd. The buildings, the fields, and the tumbled ruin of an old moss-grown stone tower hard beside the farmhouse spoke of generations of continual habitation.

  “Well,” said Simon, “this is the place.” He had slowed the car to a crawl upon our approach and now stopped on the shoulder of the road. A large gray stone house and outbuildings stood at the end of a long, tree-lined drive. A black-painted wooden gate separated the drive from the road. A tin mailbox bore the name Grant in bold white letters.

  “So?” I wondered. “Are we just going to sit out here, or are we going in?”

  “We go in.”

  He switched off the engine and took the keys. We got out and walked to the gate. “It’s cold out here,” I said, shivering. My poncho was in the car. Simon tried the gate; it wasn’t locked and swung open easily.

  A great floppy dog met us halfway up the drive. The animal did not bark, but ran to greet us, wagging its tail happily. It licked both my hands before I could stuff them in my pockets. Simon whistled the accommodating animal to him. “Hey, Pooch, is your master at home?”

  “He’s home,” I said. “And here he comes.”

  From around the corner of the barn approached a man in a shapeless brown tweed hat, a black overcoat, and green wellies. He carried a long stick in one hand and looked as if he knew how to use it.

  “Good morning, sir,” Simon called, turning on the Rawnson charm. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “Mornin’.” The farmer did not smile, but neither did he hit us with the stick. I took this as a good sign.

  “We’ve come up from Oxford,” Simon volunteered, as if this should explain everything.

  “All that way?” The farmer gave a slight shake of his head. Apparently Oxford could not easily be compassed in his geography. “You’ll be wanting to see the beastie, then.”

  I thought he meant the dog and was about to point out that we had already enjoyed that pleasure, when Simon said, “That’s right. If it’s no trouble, of course. I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  If it’s no trouble! We’ve driven day and night to get here expressly to see this aurochs creature, and he wouldn’t want to put anybody out. Give me a break!

  “Oh, it wouldn’t put me out,” the farmer replied agreeably. “I’ll take you now.”

  He led us out behind the barn to a small field. The frosted grass crunched underfoot with a sound like eggshells. I scanned the field for any sign of the unfortunate ice-age relic but saw nothing.

  Presently we stopped and the farmer thrust the end of his stick at the ground before us. “T’was here he fell,” he said. “You can see the way he bent the grass.”

  I could see no such thing. I could see nothing at all, in fact. “Where is it?” I asked. Disappointment made my voice sharp. That, or desperation.

  The farmer gazed placidly at me—much, I suppose, as one might regard the village idiot—pity and amusement mingled in equal parts. “But it’s no here, is it?”

  “I can see it’s no here—not here. Where has it gone?” I didn’t mean to be short with the man. But no one else seemed to think it mattered that we had driven eight zillion miles for the express purpose of looking at a bare patch in an empty field.

  “They came and took it away yesterday afternoon,” the farmer answered.

  Simon crouched down and put his hand on the flattened straw. “Who took it?” he asked idly. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Ah dinna mind,” the farmer replied. “The men from the university.”

  “Which university?” I demanded, feeling more of a dope with each passing second.

  “Edinburgh,” the farmer answered—as if there were only one possible institution of higher learning on the entire planet, and it was a wonder I should even ask. “Archaeologists they were. Had a wee van and trailer and everything.”

  Simon steered the inquiry back on course. “Yesterday afternoon, you say? About what time?”

  “Quarter past four, it was. I was just going in for my tea when they came,” the farmer said, crouching down beside him and waving the stick over the nonexistent body. “There, you can see how it fell. Ah reckon it rolled onto its side. The heid was there.” He tapped the ground with the stick. “They took pictures and all. Said there’d be some other chappies along to set it down in writing.”

  “That’s right,” Simon confirmed, implying we were the very chappies. “We got here as soon as we could.”

  “You don’t have a manure heap around here, do you?” I asked.

  “Dung?” the farmer asked quizzically. “Is it ma dung heap you’re after seeing now?”

  Simon rolled his eyes at me. To the farmer he said, “Where did the university chaps take the carcass?”

  “To the lab,” the farmer said. “That’s where they take them—to the lab. Tests and all. The things they do.” He shook his head. Clearly, it was all beyond him. “Is it breakfast you’ll be wanting?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “No,” said Simon; he shot me a threatening look. “That’s far too much trouble. If you don’t mind, we’d just like to ask a few more questions and we’ll be on our way. Now then, when did you first notice the beast was in your field?”

  The farmer glanced at the sky. The sun had risen above the hills, burning off the mist. “Och, it would be no trouble,” he said.

  “Thanks just the same,” Simon said, with one of his warm and winning smiles. “Still, it’s awfully kind of you to offer.”

  “Will you no have a wee cup of coffee, then?” The farmer shoved his hands into his pockets.

  Simon rose slowly. “Only if it’s no trouble. We wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time,” he said. “I know what an intrusion all this can be.”

  The farmer smiled. “My Morag will have the coffee already in the cups. Just you come wi’ me.” He thrust out his hand. “Ma name’s Grant—Robert Grant.”

  “I am Simon Rawnson,” Simon said, shaking hands with the farmer. “And this is my colleague, Lewis Gillies.”

  I shook hands with the farmer and, having observed the ritual greeting, we fell into step behind our host. As we started toward the house, Simon grabbed me by the arm. “You can’t come on to these people like that,” he whispered tersely.

  “Like what? He offered. I’m hungry.”

  Simon frowned. “Of course he offered—what’d you expect? But you have to let them coax you.”

  “Whatever you say, Kemo Sabe. This is your show.”

  “Don’t screw up again,” Simon hissed. “I’m warning you.”

  “Awright already! Geesh!”

  We followed the farmer into the house and waited while he shed his coat. His wife, Morag, met us in the kitchen, where, as the farmer had predicted, she was pouring out the coffee as we trooped in. “These laddies are up from Oxford,” the farmer told her. Something about the way he said it made it sound like we’d hopped all the way on one foot.

  “Oxford, is it?” his wife said, visibly impressed. “Then you’d best sit down. The porridge is hot. How do you like your eggs?”

  My lips formed the word “fried,” but Simon beat me to it. “Please,” he said sweetly, “coffee is
enough for us. Thanks just the same.”

  The farmer pulled two more chairs to the table. “Sit ye down,” he said. We sat.

  “But ye canna keep body and soul taegither wi’ just coffee,” the farmer’s wife said. “I’ll no have it said you went from my table hungry.” She placed her hands firmly on her hips. “I hope ye dinna mind eating in the kitchen.”

  “You’re very kind,” Simon told her. “The kitchen is splendid.” He blessed her with his best beatific smile. I’d seen him use the same simpering smirk to remarkable effect on librarians and waitresses. Some people found it irresistible.

  In moments we were all tucking in to steaming bowls of thick, gooey porridge. Eggs, toast with homemade gooseberry jam, thick-cut country bacon, farmhouse cheese, and oatcakes came next. Morag presided over the table with red-faced, fussy pride. Clearly, she was enjoying herself massively.

  It wasn’t until the dishes were being cleared away that talk turned once again to the absent aurochs. “It’s very strange, you know,” the farmer said, gazing into the coffee mug gripped between his hands. “I crossed that field but five minutes earlier. There was no a sign of the beastie then.”

  Simon nodded sympathetically. “It must have been something of a shock.”

  The farmer nodded slightly. His wife, who had been hovering over the table, broke in. “Oh, that’s no the half of it. Tell them about the spear, Robert.”

  “Spear?” Simon leaned forward. “Excuse me, but no one said anything about a spear. There was nothing about a spear in the—ah, report.”

  The farmer permitted himself a slow, sly, prideful smile. “True, true. Ah haven’a told anyone else, have I?”

  “Told them what, exactly?” I asked.

  “The beastie in ma field was kilt wi’ a spear,” Farmer Robert replied matter-of-factly. “Clean through the heart.” He turned his head to his wife and nodded. Morag stepped to a small nook beside the big stove. She reached in and brought out a slender length of ash-wood over five feet long. It was tipped with a flat, leaf-shaped blade of iron which was affixed to the shaft with rawhide. The blade, rawhide, and wooden shaft were much discolored with a ruddy brown stain that appeared to be blood.