The Paradise War

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “What now?” I asked softly.

  “I’d like to examine that cairn.”

  I looked at the men, and something told me that they were not likely to let us, or anyone else, come near the cairn. “I don’t think that’s going to be easy,” I muttered.

  “No,” Nettles agreed, his eyes narrow and sharp in the gloaming. “Nevertheless, we have come all this way.”

  Twilight comes early to Scotland this time of year. Still only midafternoon by the clock, the sun was already sinking toward the west. The time-between-times would soon be upon us. The realization filled me with dull alarm. My heart palpitated, lumping awkwardly in my chest. My stomach felt like a ball of worms. The professor stepped into the clearing of the glen. “What are you going to do?” My voice grated like the sound of the crows filling the trees around us.

  “Hello!” Nettles called, stepping boldly into the clearing. “Hello, there!”

  I watched him stride boldly toward the men, then plucked up my sagging courage and followed. “Hello, hello,” he called, flapping his hands amiably, the very picture of a Hail-Fellow-Well-Met eccentric.

  The two men’s heads turned as one, their eyes automatically swinging toward the sound of the disturbance. Despite Nettles’s kindly greeting, neither man smiled. Their faces remained expressionless and unwelcoming.

  Together, Nettles and I trooped up to the digging site. The man with the drawing board put it aside and stood up. He opened his mouth to speak, but the professor did not allow him the first word.

  “Oh, this is splendid,” Nettles burbled. “I had not expected to find anyone here. It is so late in the year.”

  Again the man drew breath to speak, but the professor rushed on. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Dr. Nettleton, and this is my colleague, Mr. Gillies.” He placed his hand on my shoulder as I stepped beside him.

  “How do you do?” I said.

  “I was just saying to my friend here,” Nettles continued, “I hope we don’t come too late. I see that we haven’t. Indeed, I think we have come just in time. You will be packing up soon, I should think, and—”

  “What do you want?” the man with the drawing board asked bluntly. The crows in the treetops squawked loudly, shifting in the upper branches like wind-tossed rags.

  “What do we want?” the professor replied, ignoring the man’s rudeness. “Why, we have come to see the site, of course.”

  “It’s closed,” the man declared. “You’re going to have to leave.”

  “Closed? I don’t think I understand.” Nettles blinked at me in apparent confusion.

  “This is a private dig,” the man replied. “The public is not allowed.”

  “The public!” Nettles reprimanded lightly. “I assure you, my good man, we are not the general public.”

  “We have a special interest in this site,” I added. I could feel my armpits dripping inside my coat.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear,” the second man said, pointing his trowel. He slowly stood. “The dig is closed. You don’t have permission to be here. You’ll have to leave.”

  “But we’ve come a very long way,” the professor protested.

  “I’m sorry,” the first man said. He seemed about as sorry as a sack-ful of snakes. “You had better leave.” He shot a glance at his partner, who tossed aside the trowel and took a deliberate step toward us.

  Just then a head poked out from the flap of the tent. “Hello!” it called, and all four of us turned as a tall, distinguished-looking man with a nattily trimmed gray beard emerged. Unlike the others, he was dressed in a long, dark coat and Wellington boots. “Andrew,” he said, stepping quickly over the tools and debris scattered around the site, “why didn’t you tell me we had visitors?” To Nettles and me he said, “I’m Nevil Weston, project director. How do you do?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Weston, I daresay,” the professor replied, managing to convey a slight irritation at the way we’d been treated thus far. “Dr. Nettleton and my colleague, Mr. Gillies,” he announced. “We have no wish to disturb you, but, as I was telling your friend here, we have traveled a very great distance to see the site. We have a particular interest in the history of this locality, you see.”

  “I quite understand,” Weston replied. He nodded to his men. “Thank you, Andrew, Edward. I’ll deal with this.” He smiled at us, but the smile lacked any real warmth. “It’s just that this is a privately sponsored project, so regrettably we cannot allow visitors without prior permission. It is the policy of the board of directors, I’m afraid. It’s out of my hands.”

  As he talked, Weston stepped between us, turned us around, and began gently to escort us away from the cairn. It was smoothly done, but Nettles was not diverted. He stopped dead. “Oh, I know how it is, believe me. We wouldn’t dream of interfering.” He turned to the cairn. “But we’ve come all the way from Oxford, you see.”

  “Yes,” Weston agreed sympathetically. “I’m sure we can work something out. Perhaps you would like to call again tomorrow. It’s getting late; we’ll be closing the site for the evening very soon.”

  Nettles stepped toward the cairn and put out a hand, as if imploring it to help him. “That’s quite out of the question,” he said. “We had no way of knowing it would be occupied, you see. We’ve made other arrangements.”

  “I’m sorry,” answered Weston firmly, flashing his empty smile again. I could see him coming to the end of his tether.

  “He’s right, professor. It is getting late,” I said, breaking in abruptly. “Maybe we should go.”

  Nettles sighed heavily; his shoulders sagged. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said, but he did not move.

  To Weston I said, “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we just had a quick look around the cairn before we go? Wouldn’t take a minute.” I tried to make it sound as if this simple request was too reasonable to refuse. “We have a very long way to go tonight. Won’t take a minute, and it would mean so much to us both.”

  I could see the refusal forming on Weston’s lips. Whatever these metaphysical archaeologists were about, they were certainly a hardhearted lot, secretive and hostile. It all added up to nothing good. Before Weston could answer, I played my trump card. “That way,” I explained to Nettles—for Weston’s benefit—“we wouldn’t have to bother Robert and Morag with any of this.”

  Nettles, bless him, was as sharp as his namesake. “Yes,” he agreed quickly, “I’m sure the Grants would rather not get involved in our trifling affairs. Mr. Grant is such a busy man. One doesn’t like to disturb him unnecessarily.”

  I could see Weston weighing the risks his refusal would bring. He hesitated, and I moved to close the sale. “A quick walk around, and we’re on our way. What do you say?”

  “Very well,” he said. “I really shouldn’t allow it. But, as we’re here at the Grants’ guests, I definitely wouldn’t like them disturbed.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t agree more,” replied the professor happily. “Come, Lewis, let’s just take a quick look around the cairn before we go.” He was already moving away from Weston as he said it.

  We walked quickly to the cairn. At our approach a tremendous fluttering ruckus took place in the trees above us. I looked and saw dozens . . . scores . . . hundreds of crows flocking to the upper branches of the nearby trees. Their black shapes against the iron-dark sky gave me an eerie feeling. The birds raised an unholy racket as they hopped from branch to branch and flitted from tree to tree, scolding, shrieking, challenging.

  On reaching the base of the cairn, Nettles pulled me close. “Ignore them,” he said. I could not tell whether he meant the crows or the men. I fell into step beside him as we stalked around the cairn on the rough, overgrown ground. Weston watched us, his arms crossed over his chest and a pained expression on his face. As soon as we were out of Weston’s sight, Nettles said, “What was it you said you left for Simon?”

  “A bank card,” I replied. “I left his Barclaycard—I stuck it in a crack at the entran
ce.”

  “We must try to retrieve it,” he said. “It would not do for them to find it.”

  We rounded the cairn and came in sight of the tent and the excavation beyond. The two men had not moved. They watched us as we continued on around. Weston stood where we had left him, waiting for us to finish our circumnavigation of the cairn. As we drew near him, Nettles said, speaking loudly, “You see, Lewis, this is quite in keeping with cairns of this age. The stone is undressed; it will have come from the glen nearby—they used whatever came readily to hand . . .”

  With a nod to the frowning Weston, we continued our inspection amid a raucous chorus of crow complaint. Their awful shrieking filled my ears. I gazed up into the branches of the circling trees and almost fell over backwards: every twig, bough, and limb of every tree in the glen was occupied by the ragged black form of a squawking crow. There were so many crows it was scary. Masses of birds! Fluttering, flapping, rippling over the branches. Crows by the treeful. And they were angry!

  “What’s with these crows?” I wondered.

  “They are guardians of the threshold,” replied the professor.

  “I thought you said the man with the dogs was the guardian.”

  “Oh, there are any number of guardians. Their purpose is to daunt the unworthy. Ignore them, and you will pass by unharmed; fear them, and they will tear you to ribbons.” Nettles’s eyes scanned the cairn wall beside us. “Now where is the entrance? I have not seen it, have you?”

  “No—but we should have passed it. That’s strange . . .”

  Continuing our circuit, we came upon the camp once more. The two men had joined Weston, and all three were standing in consultation together, watching us. Nettles made a show of pointing out something to me, waving his hand airily. “Don’t look at them,” he said softly. “I did not see the entrance you described.”

  “Neither did I. But there was one. I swear it.”

  “We will look again.”

  Once more around the cairn. The crows flapped and screamed, raising a horrific din. Scores circled the cairn, turning the air black with their darting wings. I kept stealing fearful glances skyward as we hurried around the base of the cairn. As a result, I missed the entrance once again. How odd. “It’s got to be here,” I insisted. “Simon went in—I went in!”

  We came abreast of where the three stood waiting. “Well, that’s fine. Good,” Weston said, stepping forward. When we did not slacken our pace, he called, “Here! I think that’s enough. Here, now! Stop!”

  “Go on looking,” Nettles instructed. “I will keep them busy for as long as I can.” He continued beside me for a few more steps. I felt his hand on my arm. “Good luck, Lewis.”

  Then he stopped. I glanced quickly over my shoulder and saw that Weston was hastening toward him. Nettles raised his hand, as if in farewell, then turned to confront Weston. The cairn wall took them from view as I passed out of sight.

  I hurried over the uneven ground, searching the cairn wall for the entrance we had somehow missed again. The sound of the screaming crows filled my ears, as scores of black shapes erupted from the winter-bare branches and took to the sky overhead. The crows! Of course, I thought, the crows were distracting me and trying to prevent me from finding the opening.

  I hurried on, slipping on the long, wet grass that grew at the cairn’s base, scanning the undulating mound beside me for the dark hole through which Simon had vanished. Awful shrieks assaulted the air. If I stepped one foot nearer the cairn, the birds would attack. They would swoop down and peck my eyes out. They would rip me to bloody tatters with their sharp beaks.

  Again I rounded the side of the cairn facing the camp. I saw Weston and his henchmen clustered around Professor Nettleton. The one called Andrew had a hand on Nettles’s arm and was attempting to lead him away. Nettles, hands waving wildly, voice lifted in rebuke, was doing his best to distract them. I put my head down and raced on.

  As I drew even with them, Weston saw me. But I was already dodging away again, around the base of the cairn.

  “Stop him!” Weston shouted, his voice sharp as a gunshot in the stillness. Andrew released the professor’s arm, and he and his colleague leaped after me at once.

  I ran on, my only thought to keep the cairn between me and my pursuers. But, pounding over the uneven turf, I caught my foot on a stone. I fell, sprawling headlong onto the wet turf. Instantly, the crows were on me, dropping from the sky like black buzz bombs. They flew at me, wings flashing, buffeting, glossy black beaks snapping like scissors. I threw my arms over my head to protect my face and wriggled through the long grass, struggling to regain my feet.

  Ignore them, Nettles had said. With an effort of will, I lowered my hands and pushed myself up off the ground. The big, angry birds shrieked bloody murder as they swooped and dived, executing their mad challenge, but I turned my eyes away from the crow-filled sky and looked instead at the cairn wall. I heard the rustle and slash of their wings all around me, but I was not grazed by a single feather.

  Bless you, Nettles, I thought. It works!

  The thought had no more than crossed my mind when I heard a low grating sound next to me—the sound of stone grinding against stone. I had no time to wonder what it might be, for I looked at the section of cairn just ahead of me and saw the doorway. I do not know how I could have missed it before, but there it was—smaller even than I remembered and half-hidden by that wiry little thicket— a squat fissure at the base of the edifice.

  Without a second thought or a backward glance, I threw myself at the hole, shrugging off the pack and tearing at the thicket with my hands. There! I saw the glint of blue plastic—the Barclaycard! Just where I had left it. I reached out to take it; I heard footsteps thudding behind me—and loud curses as the crows turned their attack on my pursuers. The dark entrance of the cairn yawned before me. I could smell the dry musty scent of the cairn’s interior. I swallowed hard and lunged into the entrance, banging the top of my head as I tumbled into the deep blackness of the cairn. Little sparkly stars danced before my eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain and slumped back against the stonework to rub the throbbing goose-egg already rising on my temple.

  When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in the world I knew.

  12

  PARADISE

  One whole side of the interior wall of the cairn seemed to have collapsed; I could see through it to the hillside beyond. My first thought was to make a dash for it, before the metaphysical thugs caught up with me.

  I stood, clutching my head, and lurched toward the broken wall. The moment I stepped forward, I heard a rushing sound behind me. It must be my pursuers. I glanced fearfully over my shoulder and saw the wall behind me inexplicably receding—as if I were striding rapidly away from it down a long, narrow corridor. And I felt a dark surge of air, a great churning, upswelling billow. In the same instant, the green hillside before me dimmed and disappeared from sight.

  I stopped. It took me a moment to steady myself. My head was pulsing to an aching throb, as if I were being beaten rhythmically over the head with a brick. Each concussion brought bright pinpricks of light and angry red spots. Taking a deep breath, I carefully, cautiously placed one foot in front of the other and stepped forward. My clothes snapped and rippled in the upsurging air. With sickening dread, I realized that my first mistaken step had somehow set me upon the narrowest of spans over a vast, invisible chasm.

  The bridge beneath my feet was thin as a sword blade. I could actually feel the sharp steel cutting into the leather of my shoes. I swayed dangerously, fighting to keep my balance on this ridiculously slender span. The slightest misstep and I would plunge into the unknown depths below, from which I could hear the restless echo of powerful forces shifting and colliding—like empty freightcars in a midnight train yard. Yet, with every nerve and sinew screaming Fool! I forced myself to take another step, knowing in my soul the step would be my last.

  I teetered precariously as my weight shifted forward. Suddenly, the upswelli
ng air blast stopped. All became quiet. But a moment later I realized that I could not breathe.

  There was no air. I gulped and gasped, but my lungs could not draw. My mouth formed a yelp of surprise, but no sound penetrated the vacuum. I poised trembling on the sword-bridge, dizzy and lightheaded with fear. I swayed precariously, but did not fall.

  I forced my foot forward an inch, and then another. Only the solid blade beneath my feet seemed real. I could no longer see anything before me or around me. All was darkness—piercing darkness, and searing silence. And then arose the most horrendous gale of wind, shrieking out of nowhere, striking me full force, head-on. It felt as if the skin of my face was being slowly peeled away, as if my clothing was being shredded and my flesh pared to the bone.

  Somehow, I found the presence of mind to take another step, and instantly regretted it. My foot missed the blade-span entirely and for a single, heart-stopping moment I felt myself balanced for flight— arms flung wide, head up, legs bent and loose . . .

  I fell.

  But instead of spinning headfirst into the fathomless void, almost at once my knee struck a solid surface and I pitched forward, sprawling on my chest in the soft dirt outside the cairn in the full light of day.

  I still could not breathe. I lay on my stomach like a beached whale, mouth gaping, gasping, fighting for air. Breathe! Breathe! My lungs heaved in my chest, convulsing with the effort. My vision dimmed and I thought, It is over—I am dying.

  I raised myself up on an elbow and rolled onto my back. The effort released something inside me, and I felt cool air gushing into my lungs. The air was raw and sharp; it burned my lungs like fire, but I could not stop inhaling the stuff in great gagging gulps. I lay on my side, panting and gulping, my limbs quivering, my eyes watering and fingers tingling. My heart beat a triple tattoo, and my head palpitated with the rhythm.