Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  “In far lands of dark and high lands and low,

  I hear songs of a place where none ever go;

  A place with no walls and no roof but the sky,

  Where goodness may linger and evil must die.

  Here is our essence, our home and our all,

  Here hope fills the breast with a full-throated call:

  Gather the lost and gather the damned,

  Gather the Suhl, for here we will stand.”

  “And thus at this, our journey’s end, is another just beginning.”

  IT WAS EVACUATION ON a massive scale. Two lines of vehicles had been brought to the front of the hospital, one consisting only of cars and the other of larger vehicles with long, high roofs and closely packed seating. Between the convoys, people in dark green overalls busied themselves with bundles and bags, hoisting them into compartments then packing them down to make room for others. All this was done quickly and quietly, with only the occasional instruction or correction from one of the supervising Merisi. The faces of the workers were grim and pale, but they carried on without a fuss. This escape had been drilled many, many times.

  Naeo and Ash stood with Tasker, watching as the first of the guests were brought out and taken to the large vehicles. Their expressions were anxious, their movements furtive and frightened.

  “You did well in there,” said Tasker, rocking on his heels. He adjusted his tinted glasses, which hid his eyes. “Both of you.”

  “I’m just sorry that we brought all this with us,” said Naeo.

  Tasker gave a mirthless laugh. “‘A crisis before the fever breaks …’” he mumbled.

  “Sorry?” said Naeo.

  He glanced at her. “Just something Mr Zhi said on the way here, Princess. His way of saying that this had to happen for things to get better.” He turned his eyes up to the broken dome, still belching smoke and steam. “Still, I wonder if he knew it would come to this.”

  Just then there was a flurry of activity by the entrance to the hospital and they turned to see a group of Merisi forming two orderly lines either side of the doorway. Shortly afterwards the gaunt figure of Franz Jacob Veeglum emerged from the doorway. To Naeo’s surprise, both lines bowed to him as he passed and he began making his way along them, shaking each gloved hand in turn, murmuring in each ear.

  Ash raised an eyebrow and turned to Tasker. “Your new leader?”

  “It seems so …” he said. “Mr Zhi always said that Herr Veeglum would be good at a time like this.”

  “Good in a crisis?”

  “Good in a war.”

  Herr Veeglum reached the end of the line and for the first time they saw a coffin behind him, carried by four of the Merisi. It was draped with a green cloth, which was embroidered in black and white.

  Veeglum saw Naeo, Ash and Tasker and made his way past the waiting convoy, walking up to them with long, confident strides.

  Tasker straightened his back and as they met he gave a bow, which Herr Veeglum acknowledged with a quick nod. The new leader turned to Ash and Naeo, his expression amiable but cool.

  “So, zis must be farevell,” he said firmly. “Tasker and as many others as I can spare vill come vith you to ze stone circle. Zey will do zer best to ensure your safe passage back to ze Other.”

  He glanced at Tasker, who nodded solemnly.

  “Any questions?” asked Veeglum.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Ash.

  “Ve vill prepare as best ve can for vot is coming,” said Veeglum matter-of-factly, “and ve vill fight.” He blinked at them both, his green eyes showing no emotion at all. He looked at Naeo. “Anysing else?”

  Naeo’s mind went blank. She glanced at Ash but he shook his head.

  “Good zen,” said Herr Veeglum, bowing his head. “I vish you all ze luck in ze vorld.” For the first time he smiled. “In both ze vorlds.”

  With that he turned on his heel and walked away, joined quickly by an escort of Merisi.

  Ash raised his eyebrows. “Zat vas a bit brief!”

  “That was Franz Jacob Veeglum,” said Tasker, with an admiring smile.

  Suddenly Naeo took two steps forward. “Herr Veeglum!”

  He stopped and turned.

  “Can you stop him?” asked Naeo. “Thoth – can you stop him?”

  “No,” he said. “Zat is for you to do.”

  Naeo’s heart fell.

  Then Veeglum added: “But ve vill give you and Sylas ze time you need.” He paused. “And now ve have another Magruman to help.”

  Naeo frowned. He was looking past her, at Ash.

  Ash blinked and jabbed his chest with his thumb. “Me?” he cried. He laughed hesitantly. “You can’t mean me! I’m more Muddlemorph than Magruman!”

  Herr Veeglum shrugged his shoulders. “As you vish, but Scarpia vud disagree. As did Mr Zhi.”

  Ash’s mouth fell open. “Mr Zhi?”

  “He said you are a Magruman, if you choose to be one,” said Veeglum. “And for vot it’s vurth, I agree.”

  Ash was dumbstruck. He turned and stared at Naeo and found her smiling: not a mocking smile, but a genuine one.

  “See what you can do when you stop peddling the Three Ways?”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  They all watched as Herr Veeglum and his escort reached the waiting coffin and the bearers fell in behind, forming a grand procession.

  And then Ash blurted out one more question: “Where are you taking him?” he called. “Where are you taking Mr Zhi?”

  “To ze East,” called Veeglum. “To ze place he most loved to be.”

  And with that he turned away and led the procession around the broken frontage of the hospital, people bowing respectfully as they went.

  The moment they disappeared, Tasker clapped his hands.

  “Right then! We need to make tracks!” He strode over to the nearest of the cars – a long, black one with tinted windows – and pulled the rear door open. “Your carriage, Princess.” He doffed an imaginary cap, but his tone was friendly.

  “No,” said Naeo, flatly.

  Tasker turned to her slowly. “And you ask why I call you Princess?”

  “I’m not going without Amelie,” said Naeo. “Sylas and I had a pact. We agreed that I would find his mum and he would find my dad and I’m not leaving here—”

  Suddenly a face appeared in the doorway of the car.

  “Did you really think I was going to let you go without me?” said Amelie, arching her eyebrows. She extended her hand. “Come on – it took a little female persuasion, but they’ve put us in the same car.”

  Naeo looked at Tasker, who grinned. She cleared her throat and took Amelie’s hand.

  They took their places on shiny leather seats: broad and luxuriant like sofas. There was a little table and what looked like a drinks cabinet, and up ahead, next to the driver, there was even one of those large oblong televisions that they had seen in the shop window. The driver sat quietly in the front seat, but he did not turn: he gripped the steering wheel with leather-clad hands, and waited.

  Naeo leaned towards Amelie. “I thought I was going to have to persuade you. I thought the Other was the last place you’d want to go!”

  “It’s the last place I want to go and it’s the only place I want to go. It’s where Sylas is.” She smiled. “Just keep away from me with all that magic. Both of you.”

  “If you think we’re bad,” Ash murmured, playing with his armrest, “you should see your son!”

  Tasker walked round to the front of the car and fixed something to one corner – a green flag, drooped so that its design could not be seen. Once it was in place, he turned and spoke to a group of Merisi, who quickly dispersed to the other cars in front and behind, and began fixing more flags to each of them. The design was still hidden in the limp folds of fabric, but they could see glimpses of black and white embroidery on a green background, like the drape over Mr Zhi’s coffin. Once all were in place, the Merisi pulled on their gloves and climbed into the veh
icles.

  Tasker jumped in beside them and slammed the door.

  “Right, seatbelts on!” he instructed. “This is going to be quite a ride!”

  The car suddenly growled into life, its voice deep and powerful. There was a roar from the rest of the convoy and then Naeo felt herself thrown into the back of her seat as they surged forward on juddering tyres and a cloud of dust. She felt the familiar pain slice through her back, though thankfully the morphine or the poultice seemed to be taking the edge off it. She gripped the armrest and wrestled with the clasp of her seatbelt until, with relief, she heard it click into place. Three or four cars squirming up the track ahead, setting a terrifying pace, so that their own driver struggled to stay behind them. When she looked through the rear window, she saw two more cars skidding at every turn and Winterfern disappearing out of sight.

  The cars bucked and veered as they tore into the tree-lined driveway, the convoy writhing along its length like a snake of steel, rasping and snarling as it went.

  Ash nodded out to one of the following cars. “Isn’t that the Yin thing Mr Zhi showed you?”

  Naeo turned and saw two flags fluttering and snapping from the roof. There, at the centre of an expanse of green, was the black and white disc that Mr Zhi had pointed to on the book cover.

  “The Yin Yang symbol,” said Tasker.

  “What’s it for?” asked Naeo.

  “It’s the mark of the Merisi.”

  Naeo turned back to watch the convoy. Then she asked: “But why do you need all the flags?”

  “They may just save our lives,” he said.

  Just then a new sound pierced the rumble of the car – a howl from above. Everyone pressed their faces against the windows and saw a strange shape streak across the sky. Naeo squinted at the pointed nose; the flat, outstretched arms, two larger and two smaller; the dark circles along its flank that looked like portholes; and at the rear, its flat, upright tail, marked with a symbol: a disc, half black and half white, on a background of green.

  Tasker appeared at her side and they both watched it disappear into the distance. As it was swallowed into sunlight Tasker bowed his head.

  “Goodbye, Mr Zhi,” he said. “Fly home.”

  Sylas could still hear the last strains of the song as he stepped on to the quayside and looked into a wall of blackness. He could smell the stench of the river and ahead there was the glint and swirl of an inky surface.

  “What do you reckon?” said Simia quietly, between clenched teeth.

  Sylas swallowed. “I reckon we’d better start hoping.”

  They fell silent and waited. In the distance they could hear the many thousands of Suhl beginning a new song: a lighter, more rhythmical melody that sounded more like a march – a chorus to bear them on, through the slums and out on to the Barrens.

  But the weak and sick did not take it up. They shuffled to a halt behind their young guides and peered ahead into the blackness. Silence poured back into the narrow canal.

  And then there was a noise in their midst – a commotion that travelled up the ranks towards Sylas and Simia. They turned and looked back along the line and saw someone in the thick of the crowd pushing their way through, muttering and chattering.

  It was an old man with long flowing locks, walking with a slight stoop and a perpetual frown, as though pondering an impossible riddle. He murmured a jumble of words to people as he passed: long, fussy words like “salutations!” and “humble apologies!” and “extenuating circumstances!” And as he lifted his wrinkled old face towards Sylas and Simia, the locks fell away to reveal a large nose and little wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “Fathray!” they cried in unison.

  The old man beamed. “Any use for an old Scribe?” He opened his arms, taking them in a rather unsteady embrace. “To corrupt an old saying from myth and legend,” he chuckled, “‘so, at last, we are one!’”

  Sylas laughed. “Good to see you, Fathray! We were so worried about you at the Mill.”

  “No need to worry about an old octogenarian like me! We’re infuriatingly hard to get rid of!” He hooted into his moustache. “Now, let’s look at you! What a splendiferous sight for sore old eyes!” He frowned at Simia’s injuries. “Sorely ruffled, young Simia?”

  “Sore for sure,” grinned Simia, “but you should see the Rager!”

  “That’s the spirit, little one!” laughed Fathray. He patted her arm, his eyes travelling to her companion. “And so here you are, Sylas, the boy extraordinary!”

  Sylas smiled. “I’m not sure about that.”

  “But look what wonders you have done!” said Fathray, gesturing to the long line of freed prisoners. “And the rumour is that you have seen Isia herself!”

  Sylas nodded, feeling rather proud. “We’ve just come from the temple.”

  “What auspicious times!” cried the old scribe, clapping his hands in delight. Still beaming, he turned to look out into the black expanse, the smile fading a little. “So … what is your plan?”

  Sylas exchanged an embarrassed look with Simia.

  Suddenly there was a noise somewhere out in the blackness. It was faint but definite, and everyone on the quayside turned and gazed out into the night, searching for its source. It was more harmonious than the noise of the storm, more measured than the sounds of the river. It sounded like the high strains of violins, ebbing and flowing as though drifting upon the waves. And then Sylas thought he heard the rise and fall of cellos, then horns – lots and lots of horns.

  They all looked at one another, wondering if it was imagined, but then, in an instant, any doubt fell away. The sharp report of a horn, or something sharper – a cornet – pierced the night: six rapid notes, cutting through the whirl and flurry of the winds.

  Then again. And again.

  Responding to the cornet, the violins and cellos and horns surged, their voice singing through the blanket of darkness, their pitch soaring, rising and falling, then building, up and up and up until they were joined by oboes, clarinets, and finally, as they climbed to a deafening crescendo, the magical metallic swell of the cymbals.

  Sylas turned to Simia, his eyes bright and expectant, and he found her grinning back at him.

  “A symphony!” she whispered, looking out into the blackness.

  As the instruments tumbled over one another towards their zenith, as giant drums rolled like thunder and the strings reached new heights of a final, soul-shattering note, something moved in the night.

  It was a ship of astonishing beauty, with elegant lines and intricate carvings, glorious paintwork and gilded designs. And of all these designs, none were more exquisite than the bold and looping nameplate, its letters picked out in pigments of green, purple, silver and gold:

  The Windrush.

  Standing high on the prow next to the gleaming horn of a gramophone was a lone figure, one foot up on the railing. He wore long, black flowing robes, which billowed in the breeze, but it was his dark hair and round spectacles that drew a murmur from the gathered Suhl.

  “Paiscion!” they whispered. “It’s Paiscion!”

  The Magruman smiled a fatherly smile and raised a single hand in greeting.

  Sylas waved excitedly, his eyes drifting upwards to the rigging and sails, along the great girth of the mast as it tapered into the gloom high above. At the fringes of the lamplight, he could see the brassy gleam of the crow’s nest and above, fluttering and furling in the wind, a gigantic flag.

  There, in an expanse of green and picked out in purple braid, was the bright white feather of the Suhl.

  “But is this not a perilous path? What will come when these two parts meet? These parts that stand entire in separate worlds?”

  THE MERISI FLAGS SNAPPED and cracked as the convoy sped along the open road, passing the last of the hills. Ahead, the open plains were broad and bright and the sky was cloudless but for an ugly smudge of black smoke on the horizon. It was a tranquil lowland scene of open countryside and empty rural roads with not a soul to be see
n.

  Naeo gazed into the blur of hedgerows, playing idly with the old bootlace from her pocket, weaving it into an ever more complex design.

  “It’s so quiet,” she said.

  “Too quiet,” said Tasker, gnawing his lip.

  He turned to rummage in a compartment at his side and produced a black oblong, which he pointed at the television mounted behind the driver. The black screen beeped and sprang into life, revealing the head and shoulders of a woman who appeared to be speaking directly to the occupants of the car, her voice charged and urgent.

  “—reports from as far afield as Germany, the United States and Russia. All speak of some kind of attack, always brief, always very targeted. In most cases the phenomenon seems to be linked to stone circles, but in others, most notably New York City—”

  Tasker pressed a button and the image changed. This time a man was talking to them, against the backdrop of a glass and steel building.

  “—broke into the Berlin-based facility late last night and caused massive destruction, killing several security guards and stealing objects described as ‘of tactical military value’. A spokesman for the—”

  Tasker shook his head and jabbed at the oblong. The screen flickered and changed again, this time to a man standing at a podium in front of a shiny black door bearing a stark white ‘10’.

  “—above all, I urge you to stay in your homes. Lock your doors. Do not venture out unless you are told to evacuate by a member of the security forces. We are working with the United Nations, allied governments and other friendly forces to—”

  Tasker ran his fingers through his hair and pressed more buttons, changing the image several times.

  “What was that?” said Amelie, suddenly leaning forward and waving at the screen. “Go back!”

  Tasker pressed another button and suddenly they saw an image taken from the air, drifting high above open green plains as though looking down from the clouds. Naeo stopped breathing. There, surrounded by what looked like hundreds of uniformed figures and a ring of blockish dark green vehicles, was Stonehenge. And at the centre of the circle of stone were more figures: large and black, their bodies stooped and muscular, defending the central space. There were scores of them.