Circle of Stones

by Catherine Fisher

  He went out, slamming the door, & I stared at it in astonishment. Where was there to go in this pig-poke of a place? And yet at once it came to me that this was the real reason we had come, & the sign of the serpent devouring its tail flashed into my mind. In minutes I was up, had caught my coat & slipped out after him.

  The storm was roaring over the downs. The orchard was a howling clamor of threshing branches. But I could see him. He had not gone far—he stood in the shelter of the three stones, & he had his horse with him, saddled & bridled as if he had ordered it earlier.

  I cursed.

  My own beast was tucked up for the night.

  Just as I thought I should run to the stable, Forrest swung himself into the saddle, & I saw in the darkness flickers of light approach. I pressed myself back.

  Men rode out of the night. I counted ten, fourteen. More. They went as silent as they could, just a clinking of harness & a shuffle of hooves, & the storm covered them, whipping their coats. Each was well-wrapped, a dark shape. They came to Forrest & words were spoken, a question was asked but I couldn’t hear what, so I crept closer, behind the nearest great stone.

  “Oroboros.” The answer was clear, shouted against the rising storm. Then the men were turning, & Forrest with them. I slid along the stone, my face to its coldness.

  Hissing.

  An eruption of spitting, an angry cackle at my feet!

  I jumped back, cursing, my heart leaping wildly as the geese came at me, wings wide, necks outstretched, three white furious specters in the night.

  Forrest turned. He saw me. Our eyes met for a moment, through the rain, & I heard the man near him cry, “Someone is there. Watching us!”

  They would find me & drag me out. Someone drew out a sword, its blade glittering briefly in the lantern light.

  Forrest said, “It’s nothing but geese. We alarmed them.” He turned away from me.

  I heard the rider say, “Are you sure?”

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  I edged back from the hissing birds into the stone’s darkness as the men streamed by me, a cavalcade of shadows. After the last was gone & only the storm was left, I backed to the inn door & found it open.

  The fat woman was leaning there, one arm on the lintel.

  “A zore night for a fine laddie to be out in things that don’t conzern ’e,” she drawled.

  I pushed past her.

  She smelled. She laughed at my back.

  Bladud

  So I began to build.

  The first step was to clear the ground. I dug and toiled in the heat of summer.

  I moved stones. I uprooted brambles and rushes and reeds.

  Waterfowl squawked out of my way.

  I was careful. The ground was holy and its inhabitants were hers.

  And yet as the opening was widened the waters came rising up, welling warm, and the heat of them was sometimes too hard to bear so that my fingers were scorched and I gasped for breath.

  If magic is a word for the unknown, then this was magic.

  I had unlocked the heat of the earth’s heart, the lands deep below us, the places men dream of in the night, when they toss and turn and wake in fear.

  This was a heat with nothing human in it.

  One day, when I turned around, a boy was watching me from the greenwood. For hours he watched me, and then, when I was so tired I sat down to rest, he came and took the antler pick and began to work in my place.

  “Master,” he said, “a druid should not dig.”

  I sat and smiled in my weariness.

  Next day, my people came. They came with picks and levers and ropes of twisted hemp. They came with songs for the spirit, with flowers and fruit and skulls for her.

  The spring welled into a pool.

  Its rim was stone, cut and curved.

  Thirty stones, to hold her wildness in place.

  The people stood back, and waited.

  All around I planted acorns. For her crown.

  The Foundations

  Architecture is a term under which

  is comprehended all the Causes

  and Rules of Building.

  Sulis

  “All right?”

  She turned quickly.

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Only I thought you looked a bit . . .”

  “What?”

  Josh shrugged. Then he said, “Scared.”

  She had her coat and scarf on and a woolly hat that came down close over her eyes. Outside, it was raining, the square windswept, the tables stacked by the cafe in rickety heaps. The tourists had gone home.

  The word annoyed her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Right. See you.” He walked away down the marble hall, but she took a step after him at once.

  “Josh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

  He turned. Then he came back. He was taller than her and very thin, all wrist bones and cheekbones, as if he didn’t eat enough. She realized she knew very little about him, and yet in the week that she’d worked in the museum, he’d been the only one who’d really talked to her.

  And yes. She was scared.

  He said, “Tell you what. I’ll get my stuff and we’ll go and get some coffee. Then I’ll walk you home.”

  That was the last thing she wanted. But she had already said “Okay.”

  While he was gone she stood by the window and looked out. It was a wild evening, already autumnal. All around her the buildings were masses of shadow, their Georgian doorways and casements lit by dripping glimmers of light from the lampposts. A few late workers hurried by under umbrellas. She watched them carefully.

  The job was proving harder than she’d thought. Constantly having to talk to strangers, give them change, chat to them, had been fun at first, but after only a few days the fear of being watched had come back and stayed. If a woman glanced at her a little too closely or a man caught her eye and smiled, it turned her cold. Because he was out there. Somewhere.

  Josh came back. “Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  They went out by the front door. Tom, the night guard, muttered, “Aye-aye! He doesn’t waste much time, does he?” to Sulis as he unlocked. She laughed, but Josh said nothing, and outside he walked quickly across the square as if annoyed.

  She hurried after him. “He didn’t mean anything.”

  “He’s a pain. You don’t have to work with him.” He paused in the rain. “Which way?”

  “Up the hill.”

  “Good. I’ve got to go to the bookshop.”

  “You read?”

  He managed a smile. “No, I just look at the pictures.”

  They walked up past the closing shops, the flapping canvas of the market stalls. Rain pattered on the plastic covers of postcards; Sulis caught the frown of the gorgon face through the trickling drops.

  Josh was silent. Really they were strangers, she thought. She had no idea what to say. And he walked fast. Always a little ahead of her. He said, “Must be strange, moving so far.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Sheffield’s a big city . . .”

  She almost stopped walking. “How did you know . . . ?”

  “Ruth said.”

  “She shouldn’t have said.” Sulis caught up with him. “Have you been talking about me?” Her breath was tight.

  Josh laughed. “Everyone gets talked about in that place. Don’t worry about it.”

  Rain dripped down her fingers. She shoved her hands in her pockets. “It’s just . . .”

  “Really. No one’s said anything bad.” He looked uneasy now.

  After a minute she said, “Don’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “What?”

  “Where I came from. Don’t.”

  Josh shrugged. At the bookshop he
said, “I won’t be long.”

  “Take your time.” She was glad to stand in the blast of heat at the entrance.

  “It’s upstairs.” He strode off quickly between the tables of best sellers. She stared after him, the word Sheffield ringing like the echo of an alarm in her head. But it was nothing. It meant nothing.

  There were a few people browsing—she studied each of them carefully. None of them were him. She moved toward the stairs along the shelf labeled Crime, trailing her hand over copies of Agatha Christie. She’d seen some of these on television. Bodies in the library, murder on the Orient Express. Scornful, she flipped one with her finger. What did they know? How many of these writers had witnessed a murder, seen a girl fall out into the blue emptiness of the sky, arms wide, screaming?

  She stopped beside a tall mirror, seeing her own face.

  And there behind her, on a shelf. The photograph. For a moment she couldn’t move. The shock was too great. The startled gaze of the little girl caught in the flash met her like a challenge.

  Then she turned and snatched the book up.

  It was called Bizarre Mysteries and Strange Deaths.

  She glanced around. No one was near; the stairs were empty.

  The book was thick, a paperback. The photograph was in black and white, so that the little girl looked unnaturally pale, her hand in the policewoman’s grip white as a ghost’s.

  Sulis touched it. Her fingers—those same fingers—lingered on the face, closed tight on the spine. She wanted to steal the book, cram it into her bag, so that no one else would see it. Her back was cold with sweat because the book felt like a grenade, a trembling explosive that might detonate and destroy her life. Carefully, she turned it over.

  A fascinating account of recent real-life unsolved cases, including . . . Her eyes flew down the list until she came to . . . The Flying Girl, the mysterious case of Caitlin Morgan and M . . .

  “I didn’t know you were into that crap,” Josh said, running down the stairs.

  She dropped the book. It crashed to the floor and he bent and picked it up.

  Her heart thudded like a drum.

  Josh turned the book over. He looked at the photograph.

  She felt as if all the sound in the shop had faded, all the people had dwindled to shadows, all the universe focused down to his gaze on the hated image.

  He would recognize her.

  The Perfect City would fracture like a cracked mirror.

  He said, “Grisly stuff. Murders!”

  “I knocked it off the shelf. By accident. I was just picking it up.” She licked dry lips, knowing she was talking too much. “I didn’t want to read it or anything. Yuck! Are you kidding!”

  “Mmm.” His eyes were fixed on the little girl’s face.

  Desperate, she said, “Did you get what you wanted?” There was a plastic bag under his arm.

  “Yes, thanks.” Slowly he propped Bizarre Mysteries back on the shelf and said, “There’s a coffee place upstairs. We can sit in the window and look down at the street. If you like.”

  “Fine.”

  Anything. Anywhere but here. She ran up the stairs and into the cafe, pulling out her purse, her heart still thudding in her chest, her ears ringing as if a silent bomb had exploded right beside her. Had he recognized her? He couldn’t have. Could he?

  They both had hot chocolate, and Josh insisted on extra sugar in his, which she said was disgusting, and then they sat at a round, ring-stained table and looked down at the slanted umbrellas and cars. Sulis sipped the hot drink; it scalded her tongue.

  Josh’s phone burbled. He took it out, read the message, and switched it off. Then he said, “Better?”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s quiet up here. No one but us.”

  She glanced at the girl reading a magazine behind the counter. “So?”

  “So tell me.”

  Cold, she stared. He shrugged, impatient. “Come on, Sulis, what do you think you’re hiding? You were white as a sheet down there and you ran up here like scared cat. And at work you’re always . . .”

  “What?” She was angry now.

  He rubbed the tabletop with a grubby finger. “Watchful. I’ve seen you. Always checking people out. As if there’s someone you don’t want to meet.”

  “Right,” she said, acid. “And who’s that, then? My ex-boyfriend? The school bully?”

  “I think it’s that weirdo.”

  She looked up. “Weirdo?” It came out as a whisper.

  Josh shrugged and turned his cup in the saucer. He didn’t look at her. “I saw you dive into that shop the other day. I suppose I thought it was me you wanted to avoid, and so I hung about outside looking in the window, waiting for you. Just to embarrass you. But there was someone else waiting too. A thin bloke in a dark coat. He saw me looking at him and he walked off. But I recognized him, and I’ve seen him since. He hangs around outside the museum sometimes, watches the buskers, reads the paper, sits at the pavement tables. Once he came in on one of the tours.”

  She was shaking. Her hands were icy on the hot cup. She put it down with a clatter.

  “He was there again today.” Josh’s voice was quiet. Now he was looking at her. “Outside, as we were closing, I saw him standing in the doorway of the abbey. That’s why I said I’d walk you home.” He was silent a moment. Then he said, “It’s none of my business. But if this guy is bothering you . . .”

  “He’s not.” She said it so sharply the girl at the counter looked up from reading.

  Josh made a face. He sipped his sweet hot chocolate and said nothing.

  Sulis felt sick. She was suddenly trapped, like a bird in a cage, as if there were bars every way she turned. A woman came in and ordered coffee; the espresso machine started up in a hiss and rattle of steam.

  “All right.” She sat up and faced him. “Maybe he is. But that’s not all of it. You recognized me, didn’t you? On the cover of that book.”

  He stirred the chocolate. For a moment she knew she had made a terrible mistake. Then he said quietly, “You haven’t changed that much.”

  Had he recognized her? Or was he covering his astonishment? She said, “Listen to me, Josh. I can’t talk here. I can’t tell you here. But I need you to do something for me. Go downstairs and buy that book.”

  He stared. “I can’t afford it.”

  “I mean for me.” She was groping in her bag; had the money out. She pushed it across the table. “I don’t want it there. I don’t want people looking at it . . .”

  Josh put his spoon down. Whatever he saw in her face seemed to alarm him. “You don’t want this guy to see it?”

  “Anyone.”

  “Is he some sort of reporter? Police?”

  “I’ll tell you! I promise. I’ll explain everything. Just go, Josh, please! Now! Just get it off the shelf!”

  The rising panic in her voice was clear, even to her. She pushed the note closer and he took it. He stood up.

  “You will tell me?”

  “Yes. Yes!”

  “All right. Wait here. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I won’t. Just be quick.”

  When he was gone she pushed the chocolate away with a shiver. What if the book was gone? If someone had bought it? It must have been there for days, maybe weeks. And in other shops, all over the country, were hundreds of identical copies—her face staring out from shelf after shelf.

  She realized she was rocking gently in the chair. Because she had done it now—she’d promised to tell him. And if she did, someone else would know about Caitlin and her and him. Unless she went, at once. Forget the job. Just completely vanish.

  She stood, grabbing her coat, but Josh was back already with a small package in his hand. He gave it to her and she shoved it into her bag without even looking inside.

  “Here’s the change
.”

  “Keep it.” She pushed past him. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Josh . . .”

  “I’m coming. You need to tell me about all this. Come on, Sulis. We made a deal.”

  She couldn’t argue. They left the shop after Josh had looked carefully along the street, and they walked up the hill in silence under his big umbrella. When they turned into the Circus and stopped by the house, he was astonished. He gazed up at the windows and whistled. “You live here?”

  She shrugged. “Just a flat. Look, I can’t ask you in now but . . .”

  He gazed around at the perfect circle of stone, the ring of acorns that crowned it. Then he said, “Okay. I’ll come by tomorrow. We’ll go somewhere. Ten o’clock?”

  “Where?” she asked, noticing Hannah peeping through the blind upstairs.

  He turned, walking backward along the sidewalk, the umbrella dripping around him. “Wait and see.”

  She stood till he had turned out of the Circus. Then she climbed the steps and groped in her pocket for the key. As she put it in the keyhole, the carved images over the door caught her eye. One was of two hands holding a ring between them. The other was a snake swallowing its tail.

  Zac

  I confess I loitered by the door trying to look inconspicuous, but my striped waistcoat drew plenty of admiring glances.

  I’m vain, I know that. It’s a failing. And yet Sylvia’s mockery galls me. Tonight, as I slipped out of the house past the room where Forrest was working, she had been there, sitting on the stairs, watching. “Have a good time, Master Peacock,” she had whispered.

  A peacock is a stupid, brainless creature. I’m not stupid. Whatever her secrets are, I intend to know all about them.

  Gibson’s Assembly Rooms for Gentlemen of Taste turned out to be a great florid building all lit with lamps. I entered it between two braziers hot with coals, where sedan-men in livery warmed their hands & a few beggars cadged coins from the drunks who staggered out.

  Inside, the rooms were hot & airless, the fug of tobacco & spirits nearly choking me, the salons slightly tawdry with too many glittering mirrors. When the flunky came back it was a relief.