by Jan Siegel
“Not long,” he said, “in terms of pure acquaintanceship. Yet in some ways I feel I have known her all her life, maybe for many lives. I made the shape of a space, and she was there to fill it. I can sense her moods without having to learn them. Nothing she does surprises me.” (I wonder? thought Fern.) “Some meetings are endowed with a certain fatality. They are part of something that was always going to happen, a minute but significant detail in a vast inscrutable design. Have you never felt that?”
For some reason, Fern thought of the Watcher. She said: “Such as your meeting with Alison?”
“Or yours with me, perhaps.”
The gin-and-tonic was replaced by wine; starters were set before them. Javier savored his meal as a connoisseur, without the relish of pure appetite. Fern paid scant attention to what she ate and little more to what she drank. The burgundy was dark and heavy, clouding her brain with lazy potency. “What is our meeting supposed to signify?” she inquired at last.
“I am not yet sure,” he admitted. “The design, as I said, is inscrutable, and it is given to none of us to see far ahead. Too often we must feel our way, blind as moles in the dark; yet even a mole will reach its allotted destination. You are at a time in your development when you must make certain choices. Oh, not courses or college or career: I am talking about something far more fundamental than that. There are many paths laid at your feet, and all are shrouded. You must choose blindly, like the mole. However, we are higher beings than such creepers and burrowers: we can think beyond our instincts, and glimpse fleeting intimations of fate. It may be that you are powerful. You must learn to use that power. I could teach you.”
“Power?” Her pulse jumped so violently her throat locked; for several seconds she could not swallow her food. “What— what do you mean, power? What could you teach me?”
He did not miss the faint emphasis on the pronoun. “You have youth and beauty,” he said lightly. “That is a kind of power. Youth, however, doesn’t know how to wield its charms, and by the time it has learned they are already fading. I could give you the benefit of my worldly advice.”
“Thank you,” said Fern, relaxing a little, “but I don’t think . . .”
“You don’t require a mentor? That is a pity. Instinct is not always a good guide. The young are prone to trust unwisely, to believe wholeheartedly—but you know that, don’t you, my demure and sensible Fernanda? You know too much . . . for your age.” He switched from lightness to seriousness, from mockery to menace with a swiftness which bemused her. “You would not give your loyalty without due hesitation, without questioning, without examining the alternatives.”
“What are you offering me?” she whispered.
“Education. There are so many things in life that even the best university cannot teach you.” He might have been referring to the standard lessons of the passage to adulthood. Or he might not.
He changed the subject during the main course, turning to art and literature, asking Fern what she thought of Bosch and Dalí, Milton and Macbeth. His rack of lamb was rare in the middle and she found herself watching him bite into the meat with elegant precision, white teeth shearing through raw flesh. If she met his eyes there were moments when she fancied the flecks of brilliance were actually moving, radiating out from the pupil with dizzying velocity. (“It’s a dragon: don’t look into its eyes—”) It was an effort to pull her gaze away.
“Macbeth was an interesting character,” she said, reckless with wine, “but I thought the witches were silly. Like something out of panto.”
“Pantomime is for children,” said Javier. “In the artificial world of the theater, children can laugh at Fear. It is a fairy-tale emotion, safe as play. But adults know that Fear is not a matter for laughter. Are you an adult yet, Fernanda? Pantomime makes game of the real world, but the world is not the less real for all that. Do you believe in witches?”
“Of course not,” she said; but she was pale.
“Have you never dreamed of riding the wind, chasing the clouds, dancing like a sunbeam on the face of the water? Would you not wish to see the past in an empty mirror—or to hear the music of the stars—to pull down the rainbow—to call up the long-lost dead? You have imagination: use it, give it vitality and force. Turn it into your weapon, a weapon more powerful and more deadly than any of the clumsy engines invented by modern Man. And your beauty, Fernanda: have you considered it? Your perishable youth, your ephemeral bloom. You are as an early flower, a snowdrop before the spring—but you could turn that beauty into a thing of crystal and steel that would not fail or fade, unchanging, untouchable. Think of it—to be always lovely, always loved. Would you not have that if you could?” The lights surged in his eyes, but she avoided them. “Do you believe in witchcraft, Fernanda? Or will you still cling to your Fear?”
“Who are you?” she said.
But she knew. The knowledge had been there in her subconscious for some time, waiting for her to have the courage to confront it. She had known it when she questioned Ragginbone, several days earlier. The aging process may be arrested . . . the hair may turn white or gray . . . Behind the mask the temporary inhabitant smiled at her understanding.
“Who are you?”
The restaurant seemed to dissolve around them, and they were in the midst of a wide bare heath. Mist lay in the hollows; a few ghostly trees floated rootless above it. The stars shivered in the bitter twilight. A wind came down from stony heights, cutting her to the bone. The candleflame burned straight and still between them.
His smile shrank, and the paneled walls were back in place.
“I am Javier Holt,” he said, with a blandness that was not meant to deceive. “Who else should I be?”
“I’ve heard your voice before,” she said, “but it came from a mouth of stone. I assume that was why you sounded so different. You were less polite then too.” She knew she ought to be afraid of him—she should be prudent and silent—but the wine was in her blood and an impulse stronger than wine drove her onward. It was not curiosity but need, a need for certainty and clarity, for an enemy she could categorize, for hard facts, obvious choices.
“You were not called,” he said, and his tone was both sharp and soft.
“I came,” she responded, “uncalled for.”
“Very uncalled for.” He forgot to smile, even in derision. “So you saw the rites of the circle. No matter. The Gifted have vivid dreams: let us leave it at that. As for who I am . . . what’s in a name? I could be Jhavé and Jezreel, Azimuth and Azmordis, Ingré Manu, Babbaloukis, Xicatli. Does a name tell you the essence of the soul? Can you guess, just from a meaningless label, if I am wizard or demon, Man or Superman? Is a child to judge between Good and Evil, or with a name, a mere word, to set all things in their place?”
“I am not a child,” said Fern carelessly, rising to the bait.
“We shall see. Find what you seek, bring it to me—Alison will take it from you if she can, so will others you may have encountered—but I will not take it, I will teach you its secrets and we will share in its power—”
That’s why he told her not to summon me, thought Fern. He doesn’t trust her and he wants to use me in her stead . . .
“Have you shaped a space for me to fill?” she asked abruptly. “Is that the fatality you talked of? Will I ever be able to surprise you?”
“Clever words.” His lips thinned with brief scorn. “Surprise me? I doubt it. You are trammeled by your fears, unable to break free. You will need courage to choose. To hold power, or to give it away. To acquire vision, or to remain mole-blind.” Obvious choices. “The challenge may be too great for you.”
She lifted her chin: the sharp movement brought on a momentary vertigo. It dawned on her that she was very drunk. “I don’t know,” she said shakily. “I must . . . I must think.” And: “Please take me home.”
He might take her home—he might take her anywhere— but she had no means of escape. She had lost touch with Time and Place. When she looked around she was relie
ved to see they were still in the restaurant, though the barroom beyond was in darkness and both guests and staff seemed to have vanished. The candleflame twitched and writhed as the last of the wax was consumed. There was no other light. She could not recall Javier paying the bill, but she supposed he must have done since he was preparing to leave. When she got to her feet the floor tilted. The candle flickered out and she thought she was back on the barren heath, under the icy stars, but Javier picked her up in his arms despite her murmured resistance and carried her to the waiting car.
She did not remember reaching home.
V
Will woke her the following morning, banging on her bedroom door. He came in without awaiting her permission and deposited himself on the edge of the bed. “You were drunk last night,” he announced accusingly. “That man had to carry you inside. I was awake; I saw him. Mrs. Wicklow was here too: she said she wouldn’t go home till she knew you were all right. She’s downstairs now, practicing her disapproving look. You’d better get up.”
Fern said nothing, blinking through her headache. Fragments of conversation from the previous evening floated through her reviving consciousness, gradually coalescing into unfinished recollection. Fresh doubts, half-formed questions invaded her hangover, disturbing her few certainties; the throb in her skull made lucid reasoning impossible.
“How did it go with Javier?” Will demanded. “Did he try it on?”
“Did he try what on?”
“Fern—!”
“No he didn’t. Not in that sense. He tried something, though. I think.” She knew him for her enemy but his subtle words had upset her confidence: she found herself wanting proof that Ragginbone was her friend. Instinct no longer seemed a safe guide. In a sudden nightmare vision she saw herself hemmed in with spidery nets, ethereal strands of treachery and untruth, with no clue how to pick her way between them. “Could you get me some aspirin?” she murmured.
“What did he try?” Will persisted. “Is he part of it—this witchcraft business, and the hunt for the key, and all that?”
“He’s an ambulant,” said Fern, sitting up cautiously to avoid aggravating the hammer-beat in her head.
“A what?”
“An ambulant. Don’t you remember what Ragginbone said? A human being dominated—possessed—by something else. He’s got the signs: prematurely gray hair, an unnaturally young face . . .”
“Are you sure?” Will’s initial shock was tempered by doubt. “You really were awfully pissed.”
“Of course I’m sure. He was the idol. They’re the same. He all but told me. He’s the Oldest Spirit, the one Ragginbone wouldn’t name. The one we can’t fight.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“In a way,” Fern said, struggling to arrange her memories in the right order. “He said he could be Jhavé or Jezreel . . . other strange names . . . Azimuth, Azmordis . . . I don’t remember the rest. Anyway, it was obvious what he meant. He controls both the statue and the man, he is many people, many ancient gods—one Spirit with many faces. Just as Ragginbone said.”
“Azmordis,” mused Will. “That sounds like something else he mentioned. A valley or something. But I don’t understand why Javier—or whoever—why did he tell you all this?”
“He wants to use me,” said Fern. “He’s another one who seems to believe I’m going to find the key. He doesn’t trust Alison. He thinks . . .”
He thinks I have the Gift.
“What?”
“Nothing. Please get me some aspirin. Then maybe I’ll be able to function properly.”
The aspirin cleared her headache but not her head. In her newfound state of indecision, she rejected Will’s suggestion that they should go looking for Lougarry and Ragginbone to report the latest developments; she wanted only to be alone, and to sift through the muddle in her mind. In the kitchen, she did her best to reassure Mrs. Wicklow, receiving support from an unexpected quarter. “Said t’ wine was too strong for you, he did,” the housekeeper conceded grudgingly. “Said as how it was his fault for ordering it, and he should have known better. Very apologetic he was, overdoing it if you ask me. Still, if you say he behaved like a gentleman . . .”
“Oh yes,” said Fern, “he behaved.”
He turned the restaurant into an empty heath under a frost-spangled sky, but he behaved.
Avoiding Will, she went for a walk, not up the hillside where she might meet unwanted allies but down toward the river. A wayward path led her eventually along the bank and she sat down on the hump-end of a tree-root overlooking a bend in the Yarrow. A fallen sapling sprawled across the water and a shallow step where the riverbed dropped was bolstered with rocks, dividing the flow into a string of tiny falls. Beyond, the Yarrow ran suddenly dark and deep under pendant trees. Even in the green of summer it was a faintly sinister place, secretive and mysterious, leaf-shadows dancing over water-shadows, admitting only the occasional ray of sunlight to strike a spark from the surface of the river. Fern sat there for a long while, mulling over the discussions of the previous evening and her own uncertain conclusions, listening with semi-conscious ears to the chirping and piping of invisible birds and the many notes of the water bubbling over the rocks. Gradually her mind emptied of thought; birdsong and river-song flowed into her; as once before, on the walk to find Ragginbone, she felt herself blending with her surroundings, merging her still limbs and beating heart with the stillness of the trees and the earth’s slow pulse. She was leaf and shadow, root and twig: the air breathed through her and the sap of all life ran in her veins. One of the unseen singers alighted nearby, a diminutive bundle of brown feathers with tilting tail and darting eye, as oblivious to her presence as if she were a part of the stump on which she sat. Later, a dragonfly zoomed downstream, a gleam of iridescence borne on whirring wings. Time slipped by unmeasured and unremarked.
It was late morning and the sun was climbing to its zenith when she finally stirred. In the vacant hours her fears and suspicions had not altered, rather they had been set aside: she now knew what she must do. She had to find the key. Ragginbone said she must find it, Javier believed she would find it, therefore the clue must be there, waiting for her alone: she could feel it, tantalizingly close, something glimpsed from the corner of her eye, a word she had misread, a question on the tip of her tongue. She remembered Alison summoning the spirits to the circle, her ruthless probing, her impatience, her abrupt dismissals. And the idol’s scorn—Javier’s scorn—the contempt of an all-powerful entity for the small and furtive. And suddenly, though she did not yet know the question, Fern knew whom she should ask.
Back at Dale House, Rollo and his two assistants had gone to the pub for a lunchbreak. “They’ve forgotten to lock the barn,” said Will. “Let’s take a look.” But there was little to see. Now the Seawitch had been removed the building seemed to have lost its purpose: it was gloomy with shadows, hollow with emptiness, the loft hayless, the stepladder which had once provided access to it missing more than one rung. Planks of pale new wood were stacked against the wall with the frames for ground-floor windows which had yet to be made. There was a scattering of tools, a flurry of wood-shavings. A single ray of sunshine slanted down from an upper casement, a misty band of radiance in which motes of dust described slow spirals. And facing them, a rectangle of protective sheeting covered a tall plaque or painting which had evidently been secured to the brickwork. Mindful of the unicorn which Alison had trapped in a picture, Fern lifted the cover for a stealthy glance underneath. What she saw made her wrench the sheet from its anchorage regardless of caution. The arch was higher than she remembered, perhaps ten feet at the apex, the rusty iron ring looked polished, and flowers, not fungi, overhung the lintel—strangely repellent flowers that resembled speckled fingers and bloodred lips and eyes on stalks. A tiny bronze lizard crawled on the uneven boards. But initially, it appeared unmistakable.
“It’s the Gate,” Will whispered.
“Y-yes . . .”
“Ragginbone said it does
n’t always look exactly the same.”
“It ought to feel the same, though. It’s meant to be the Gate—Alison wants it to be the Gate—but things aren’t always what you want them to be. There’s something else on the other side of that door, something . . .”
“It’s a painting, ducks,” said Rollo’s voice behind them. “What they call a trompe l’oeil. That’s French: deceives the eye. It should be kept covered to protect it from dust and wood-chippings.”
“We know what a trompe l’oeil is,” said Fern, recovering from a momentary shock. “What I don’t understand is, why did Alison put it here? It doesn’t look at all convincing against the bricks—and anyway, it’s an outside door. Surely she should have chosen an inside one?”
“That’s what I told her,” said Rollo, his artistic sensibilities clearly stirred. “Have a window, I said. A section of formal garden—moorland in the snow—something like that. Huh! She had her own ideas. I told her it didn’t make sense, but she wouldn’t listen. Rather obstinate, the fair Alison. An exquisite creature, of course—for a hag.” A sideways glance invited Fern’s agreement, but she ignored it. “So palely shadowed! so thinly curved! so porcelain-hard—so latex-soft! Alas, that her natural creativity should be stunted by an equally natural lack of vision. Poor bitch, she’d have told Michelangelo to paint the bloody floor.”