The Paradise War

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Closer, the mélange of junk turned out to be one long table with benches on either side and two smaller tables with chairs all around. Behind the tables rose a Persian carpet, draped like a collapsed tapestry over a lopsided frame. The carpet formed a wall, and several perforated wooden screens formed partitions. An absolutely mammoth oil painting of the Jacobite rebellion hung down from the ceiling on wires. A stuffed moosehead decked one of the partitions, and a fake medieval shield made of spray-painted tin graced another. A well- preserved piano sat nearby, on which a large portrait of the Queen held pride of place.

  There were flowers everywhere. Flowers in baskets, flowers in urns, flowers in vases and jars and jugs, cut flowers and potted flowers, fountains of flowers, cascades of flowers on every available surface. In and among the flowers, I made out people actually eating at a long table; four of them. They glanced warily at us, speaking in hushed tones, as Deimos ushered us in.

  Our giant host placed us at the opposite end of the long table, a good ten yards away from his other guests. “I saved this for you,” he said, as if he had reserved, against all comers, the best seats in the house especially for us. “Be pleased to sit down.” His voice boomed like that of an Olympian god in the empty space. I lowered myself onto a bench on one side of the table, Nettles sat across from me, and Deimos smacked a vase of flowers down between us. Then he disappeared, humming loudly.

  “It’s a fascinating place,” Nettles said, pushing the vase aside. “Utterly unique.”

  “Yeah,” I said, peering around. “Loads of atmosphere. How did you find it?”

  “A friend introduced me. One must be introduced—initiated, you might say.” He smiled mysteriously.

  Deimos appeared out of the gloom with a crockery pitcher and two filmy glasses. He threw the glasses before us and splashed a frothy red liquid into them. Wine? An exploratory sip confirmed my suspicion.

  Professor Nettleton raised his glass. “Slàinte!” he chortled.

  To which I replied, “Cheers!”

  I don’t know a lot about wine, but the stuff in my glass was wet and fruity, with just a spicy hint of cinnamon in the nose. The deep-hued liquid tingled on my tongue, and its warmth spread through me. “Not bad,” I allowed. “Uh, where are the menus?”

  “Deimos will serve what he thinks we will enjoy,” Nettles explained. “It depends largely on what he has found in the markets today.”

  As if answering the professor’s remark, our whale of a headwaiter appeared with two big brass bowls in his hands. One bowl held a greenish mush, over which oil and paprika had been drizzled, and the other something swathed in a towel. “Bulakki!” he announced, and left.

  Nettles unwrapped the towel to reveal a mound of warm flatbread. He withdrew a piece, tore off a hunk, and passed the remaining portion to me. The professor dipped the bread into the oily mush and scooped up a big glob. He popped it into his mouth, closed his eyes, and chewed.

  “Food of the gods,” he declared rapturously. “Do try some, Lewis.”

  I dabbed a bit of the stuff on a corner of bread and touched it to my tongue—and found it very tasty indeed. At least we wouldn’t starve. The bread was good too—yeasty, buttery, with a slightly rubbery texture that suggested flour-dusted maidens kneading dough in troughs and singing lusty baking songs.

  We tore bread, dipped bread, and ate bread, and we drank our good dark wine. And I, for one, was disappointed when the bottom of the bowl began showing through the bulakki. This hardship proved short-lived, however, for Deimos appeared at just the right moment with a platter of salad.

  I think it was a salad. It might have been another floral arrangement. “Do we eat it or admire it?”

  “Both,” replied Nettles, reaching for a fistful of ripe olives. “You’ve no idea how I have missed this place. It is years since I’ve been here. I just had to come again.”

  The professor set to with a will. He ooohed over the olives, and ahhhed over the artichoke hearts. The fuss he made over the marinated beets and bulgar wheat was not to be believed.

  Nettles was enjoying himself so much, it made me laugh just to see him. Or maybe it was the wine. Anyway, it felt good. I had not laughed like that in a long time. A very long time.

  In the midst of this hilarity, Deimos appeared once more, bearing two heavy brass platters—one on either arm. These he placed before us with a genuine flourish of pride. “Eat, my friends!” he commanded. “Eat and be satisfied! Enjoy!”

  On the meat platter, there was chicken, I think. And most of a duck, maybe. Part of a pig, certainly—or a goat. I don’t know what roast goat looks like, so it may well have been goat. Or lamb. And there were birds! Whole cooked birds—complete with tiny little birdy feet and beaks sticking out. And there were some meaty joints of something else, I don’t know what. Among the various meat portions there were bowls of sauces and condiments: creamy, sweet-flavored balms, and singe-the-hair-in-your-nose liquid flamethrowers; astringent herbal unctions, and soothing aromatic blends. The discovery process turned into a culinary adventure.

  The vegetable platter was no less enigmatic. There were piles of potatoes and mounds of rice—these were the only familiars of my acquaintance, and even these had been boiled in a spice-laden liquor which rendered them unspeakably alien. Bulb-shaped tubers held center stage, boiled in nectar, I guess, for they were among the sweetest objects I have ever put in my mouth. There were several bowls of concoctions that looked and tasted like curries, each highly seasoned and spiced, but each distinct and peculiar in its own way. And all equally enjoyable.

  We ate and talked and drank and ate and talked, filling the vast dark sanctuary of the warehouse with our ebullience and fellowship. Our meal was made more jovial, more exuberant, more cheerful and carefree, by the simple lack of plates or utensils. We ate from the platters with our hands, licking our digits like naughty schoolboys. Professor Nettleton showed me which hand to use, the proper way to hold my fingers, and I became, if only for the space of an evening, a sultan and potentate of exotic mien.

  At last—too soon—Deimos appeared to clear away the debris. He brought a plate of flat almond biscuits and a large bowl of oranges. And he brought an urn of oily black scalding liquid which he said was coffee. We peeled oranges and sipped the coffee from tiny porcelain cups hardly larger than thimbles. Alas, I felt the blissful glow of my inebriation dissipating in the bracing surge of strong coffee.

  I looked down the table to discover that the other diners had gone. I did not remember them leaving. But we were alone at the table all the same. When Deimos came to refill the coffee urn, the professor bade him sit with us. He brought himself a chair, took a cup—miniscule between enormous thumb and forefinger—and sipped delicately.

  “Deimos,” Nettles said, “your food is, as ever, worthy of kings—of the gods themselves! I cannot think when I have enjoyed a meal more.”

  “It was fabulous,” I added, languidly lifting a segment of orange to my mouth. “I may never eat again, but it was magnificent. And these oranges are delicious!”

  Deimos, inspired by our praise, toasted us with coffee, raising his dinky cup and saying, “To friends! Life belongs to those we love, and where love reigns is man truly king!”

  A strange toast, but I heartily concurred with the sentiment. Then he and the professor reminisced about old times; their friendship went way back. When this ritual had been observed, our host asked, “Why have you come to me this night?”

  “We are wayfarers on a journey, Deimos. We required nourishment for our bodies and our souls,” Nettles answered happily. “You have served both gloriously.”

  Deimos nodded gravely, as if he understood all about the needs of wayfarers and their souls. “It is my happiness to serve you,” he said, in a voice solemn and low.

  And then our strange, wonderful evening was over. We rose, bade good night to our host, and were led to the entrance by candelight. Deimos held the door for us, placed a huge, heavy hand on our heads, and blessed us as we
passed before him. “May God go with you on your journey, my wayfaring friends. A thousand angels go before you; a thousand prayers for your return. Peace! Good night.”

  Stepping out into the night, we stood for a moment huddled under the lamp before striking out to find a taxi. As we turned to move away, the weathered door opened once more. Deimos ducked his head beneath the lintel and held out a white paper bag. “Please,” he said to me. “For you.”

  I accepted the bag and opened it. “Thanks,” I said simply. “Thanks.”

  Our genial giant bobbed his head and ducked quickly back inside. “Oranges,” I told Nettles, reaching into the bag and bringing out a bright globe for his inspection. “He gave me oranges,” I said, a little embarrassed by the man’s peculiar largess.

  “What an extraordinary place.” Tucking the bag under my arm, I fell into step beside Nettles. “You brought me there on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “I thought you needed a night out.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” I said. “What was the point?”

  “Nourishment, Lewis.”

  “Food for the journey—is that it?”

  The professor only smiled and strolled away, humming to himself. I followed, too full of food and too sleepy to do anything other than let my feet fall where they would. Once, as we walked along a pitch-black street, I glanced up into the sky and saw a spray of stars, fiercely bright in the clear, cold air. The sight almost took my breath away. When had I ever seen a sky so vivid and alive?

  11

  THE CROSSING

  Getting to Carnwood Farm proved tedious, but not difficult. There was, it turned out, a train service from Edinburgh to Inverness, from Inverness to Nairn, and a bus from Nairn to the Mills of Airdrie. We could walk from there to the cairn. It was after four in the afternoon, and already dark, when we reached Nairn on the Moray Firth.

  We stayed the night at a bed-and-breakfast place overlooking the sandy sweep of the bay. After a rousing breakfast of kippers, porridge, scrambled eggs, oatcakes, and coffee, provided by our plump and fastidious landlady, we bundled ourselves along to the bus stop in the town square. At ten past eleven in the morning, a maroon bus rolled up; we boarded and rode to the Mills of Airdrie. The driver dropped us off at the Carnwood Farm road; we stood beside the weathered sign, and the bus rambled on.

  We walked through rich farmland, dusted now with a white powdering of windblown snow. The day was cold and misty, the wind crisp out of the north. A day to stay indoors by a fire. We spoke little. The professor seemed preoccupied with his thoughts, so I did not disturb him.

  The chill silence unnerved me. It seemed as if we were trespassing, intruding in forbidden lands. The thick Scottish mist made everything appear broody and unearthly, and every step carried us deeper into this alien place.

  Presently, the road led down and we descended into the small valley, arriving again at the stone bridge across the meandering Findhorn River. We crossed the bridge, continuing on into Darnaway Forest. The woods were quiet. The trees seemed sunk into winter hibernation.

  Carnwood Farm appeared exactly as I had last seen it. The close-clustered buildings, the fields, and the broken, moss-grown tower beside the farmhouse—all exactly as before. This time, however, it seemed that the air of emptiness and abandonment I had noticed before clung more heavily to the place. In this serene and secluded part of the world, the silence was almost oppressive—a physical force gripping the land, choking off all sound. Even from a distance I could tell that the Grants were not at home.

  Nettles insisted on knocking at the door, just in case. But no one answered; Robert and Morag were elsewhere. So we continued on our way to the cairn, following the deep-rutted farm road across the compact hills. As before, we met no one on the road—until we arrived at the gate leading to the field and glen which contained the cairn. And there, where Simon had parked his car, sat a gray van with the initials SMA lettered on the side, and some kind of logo.

  Upon seeing the van, the professor stopped in his tracks. “What is it? What’s the matter?” I asked.

  Nettles turned and looked across the field toward the glen. “Is the cairn down there?”

  “Yes,” I told him. “It’s just there—where you see the tops of those trees.” I pointed out the line of treetops just visible above the broad flank of the hillside. “Do you wan—”

  “Listen!” snapped Nettles.

  “What? I don’t hear anything.”

  “Quick! We don’t want to be seen!”

  “I don’t hear anything,” I protested. “Are you sure?”

  “Hurry!” Nettles began running back along the road to a small rise where a stand of trees overlooked it. I followed reluctantly and joined the professor on hands and knees, peering at the road from behind a large ash tree.

  I squatted beside him, listened for a moment, and decided we were being overly skittish. I was about to say so when I heard the soft burr of a car’s engine and wheels on gravel. I rose up to look at the road below us. The professor grabbed my wrist and yanked hard.

  “Get down!” he rasped. “Don’t let them see you!”

  I slumped down beside him. “Why are we hiding?”

  The sound of the vehicle grew louder and then I saw it on the road below, not more than fifty yards from us—a standard-looking, gray van, with the same logo painted in white on the side: a representation of the earth with rings radiating outward from it like ripples or emanating vibrations. Beneath the logo were the letters SMA.

  “Down!” rasped the professor as the second van rolled to a stop behind the first.

  Two men climbed out of the vehicle, passed through the gate, and struck off across the field toward the glen. We watched them until they were out of sight.

  “Well, they’re gone. Now what?” I asked.

  Nettles shook his head gravely. “This is not good.”

  “Why? Who were they?”

  “For many years, different groups have been pursuing the secrets of the cairns and rings and stone circles, attempting to force entry into the Otherworld. The men we just saw belong to such a group, and a very dangerous one at that: the Society of Metaphysical Archaeologists.”

  “You’re joking.” I would have laughed if Nettles had not been so serious. “Metaphysical archaeologists, is that what you said?” “They are scientists, for the most part—rather, they are men acquainted with scientific principles and techniques. I have run into them from time to time at various sites, conducting their ‘researches.’ They would love nothing more than to know what we know, and I have reason to believe they would stop at nothing to obtain this knowledge.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Entirely serious!” the professor exclaimed. “We’ve got to think this over very carefully. We can afford no mistakes at this juncture. Care for some chocolate?” He reached into a deep pocket, withdrawing a large bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk which he unwrapped and passed to me.

  “You think they know about the cairn?” I broke off a piece of chocolate and popped it into my mouth.

  “I think we must assume that they do.”

  “But maybe they don’t know. Maybe they’re just looking around. Yeah, they’re just looking around,” I offered, trying to convince myself. “Anyway, we should go down there and find out if they’ve seen any sign of Simon.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  I climbed to my feet and scrambled down to the road. We approached the parked vans, walked around them to the gate, and would have started across the field to the glen—but Nettles thought better of it. “Let’s go another way.”

  “What other way?”

  He pointed up the road a little distance, to where I could see the line of the glen curve as the stream wandered among the hills. “We can follow the river.”

  “Whatever you say. Lead on.”

  A mile or so along, the road dipped to meet the glen. We found a sheep trail along the brookside and began making our way back toward the ca
irn. Almost at once, the trail entered a thick wood. Dark and silent, every step a creak or a crack—I thought we must sound like a mob of buffalo bulling through the bracken. In the gloom of the close-grown wood, the sheep trail disappeared, and we soon had our hands full, parrying low branches and preventing twigs from poking out our eyes.

  We thrashed our way along, stopping every few minutes to listen— I don’t know what for. What I heard was crows. Faintly, at first. But each time we stopped, it seemed that there were more crows, and louder than before. Judging from the racket, they were gathering in the wood for the night. Soon their raucous croaks and squawks were all around us, although I could not see any of the birds. We continued on, the day growing colder, the sky darker.

  Carnwood Cairn stood in the center of the glen. As before, it presented an unassuming aspect to the world: no more than a hulking heap of earth and moss-dark stone, very nearly shapeless in the feeble light. I gave it a cursory glance, for the thing that commanded my immediate attention was not the cairn, but the crow: a big, black, spread-winged menace watching us with a baleful bead of an eye from a low branch, its sharp black beak open. I fought down the urge to pick up a stick to protect myself.

  Preoccupied with the crow, at first I did not see the camp set up on the further side of the glen. Nettles nudged me with his elbow, and I looked in the direction he indicated. I saw a large canvas tent surrounded by the gear of what appeared to be an archaeological dig: lots of wooden stakes driven into the ground with white plastic flags on them, a gridwork of string overlaying a shallow excavation where the snow and dirt had been cleared away, shovels and picks standing in piles of fresh-dug earth. On a pole before the tent hung a blue flag bearing the words Society of Metaphysical Archaeologists, and the vibrating world logo in white.

  Two men in khaki overalls hunched over their work at the grid, one sitting on a camp stool and holding a large drawing board, the other on his knees, scraping at something with a trowel. Their backs were to us, and, because of the crows’ unearthly racket, they had not heard our approach.