The Summoning

by Robert Wingfield

  “They won’t be a problem. There’s a gate. Through there. You can climb over, and open it for me.”

  “Yes, miss.” Wesley pretended to tug his forelock. Ankerita didn’t see, because she was scrutinising the barn.

  “It’s there,” she said. “I can feel it. Hurry up.”

  Wesley wrenched the old wooden gate sideways. It bent alarmingly. Ankerita squeezed through, and left him to shut it behind her. As she limped up the field to what appeared to be a windowless stone building, the herd of young bulls galloped down to them. Wesley held his breath, and prepared to climb to safety. It was at that point he saw the sign lying in the mud, ‘Beware of the Bull’.

  “Run,” he shouted to the unsuspecting girl.

  “Don’t be a dewberry,” she said. “They’re only inquisitive. I can’t run. These boots you got me are worse than anything a jester would wear.” She stood her ground. The stampede froze in front of her, apparently confused. She patted the nose of the nearest animal, and it shied away. “Come on,” she called to Wesley. “We haven’t got all day. If I’m wrong, we’ll need to get the bus, again.”

  She forced her way through the herd.

  “I hope you’re right,” muttered Wesley, “but we’d better get this over with. Luckily it’s not raining... yet.”

  The barn was closed and shuttered. Ankerita and Wesley stood inside a ring of bullocks, all jostling for attention. “It’s in there,” said the girl. “I know it’s in there.”

  “The Chariot of Mayflower?”

  “The Chariot of Morgan Mwynfawr, yes.”

  “After all these years?”

  “Oh yes. So, you have to get in, and open the door for us. Come.” Ankerita limped around the side of the barn. “There.” She pointed at a small window halfway up the wall. “That isn’t fastened. The wall is uneven. You can climb up.”

  “Supposing the farmer sees?” Wesley glanced around nervously.

  “I’ll explain that we seek the Chariot,” said Ankerita. “He will understand.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course; why wouldn’t he?”

  “Because we will be breaking and entering.”

  “I’ll tell him who I am,” said Ankerita. “I am not daunted by peasants.”

  “And he will believe you... any more than I do?”

  “Of course he will. Are you going to break in, or do I have to do it myself?”

  “I’ve got no head for heights; I’m no good at climbing.” Wesley had gone pale.

  “Flap-dragon,” said Ankerita. “Give me a leg up and I will stand on your shoulders to reach. Come on, hurry up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Be quick. Bend, and lift me up.”

  Wesley obliged. The girl put her muddy boot into his locked hands.

  “Right... up.”

  She reached the sill and clambered up Wesley’s coat until she was standing on his shoulders. In other circumstances he might have enjoyed the experience, but here, he kept glancing furtively around, worried about the consequences. There was a creak as Ankerita pushed the window aside, and then she stood on his head to get the final push. She was in.

  “See you at the doors,” she shouted over his grumbles.

  Inside was dark. The two young people stood, eyes adjusting to the gloom; Wesley had insisted on closing the barn doors again, and then he rounded on her. “Go on, where is this chariot? Where would you even hide one in here?”

  “Over there.” Ankerita pointed at a pile of mechanical junk, old farm vehicles and other rubbish. “Come on, there’s something under that sheeting.”

  Wesley helped her remove the debris around the tarpaulin, and they pulled it off. Underneath was a car, not a chariot. It was dusty, but a quick wipe over with a discarded old shirt revealed a red Mark 1 Ford Escort.

  “My God,” said Wesley. “It must be fifty years old. Not exactly a chariot, is it?”

  “It’s what we need,” said Ankerita simply. “I guess a chariot would be less convenient; I don’t suppose you have a horse?”

  “Not on me.”

  “Right. Let’s get in, and you can make it go.”

  “It’ll never work after all this time,” Wesley complained. “Either way, we can’t steal it.”

  “It is one of the Treasures of Albion. We are not stealing. The last person to own it was Myrddin the Mage.”

  “This is not going to look good in court,” said Wesley. “I don’t think your argument will save us.”

  “Oh fie,” said Ankerita. “Are you going to drive it or do you want me to?”

  “Can you drive?”

  “I can ride a horse; how difficult can it be?”

  “You’d better let me,” said Wesley. “It’s not going to start, after all these years. Will you then be satisfied, and we can get back to my flat, and live life as it should be?”

  “Try it,” said Ankerita. “You won’t know if you don’t try.”

  “We don’t have the key.”

  They got in. Wesley settled into the leather seat and peered under the steering wheel. “Bugger, they’ve left the thing in the ignition.”

  “Go on, turn it,” said Ankerita. “I’ve watched my friend, Jo, with her little car, and I know that much. Where’s the gear stick? She liked fiddling with that.”

  “It’s an automatic,” said Wesley. “You just pull this lever, point and go.”

  “So get on with it. Turn, pull, point and go.”

  Wesley twisted the key. “Really, nothing is going to happen,” he protested. The shed was filled with a powerful roar as the engine burst into life. “Oh dear. Well, we’re not going any further,” he said, determinedly.

  “Told you it would work,” said Ankerita. “I’ll take over from here. You go and open the doors.”

  “But...”

  “Do it or I’ll drive straight through them, and that will be the ‘breaking’ bit of ‘breaking, entering, repossessing and driving away’. I’ll get to the other crimes afterwards.”

  Ankerita squeezed across behind the wheel as Wesley got out. He went to the main barn doors, removed the locking bar, heaved them open and leapt out of the way as the Escort plummeted through the gap, in a cloud of oily smoke. Gravel and bullocks scattered outside the barn. Wesley ran up as Ankerita stalled the engine.

  “Shut the barn, and go and open the field gate. I’m going to start it again, and get some practice in.”

  Wesley’s knuckles were white as he gripped the passenger seat. Ankerita was shrieking with delight as they thundered down the road. She insisted on having the windows open, and her hair whipped around her face, as they slid around corners and over crossroads without stopping or looking. The scent of the fresh air mixed with the smell of leather, and the oil, as the engine burned off its protective covering.

  “Slow down,” Wesley shouted above the noise, “Please slow down.”

  “If you insist.” The girl took her foot off the accelerator. “What’s this other pedal for? Ah.” The car slid to a halt, as the wheels locked.

  “Gently,” he shouted, but they were already stationary, blocking the narrow lane.

  “Are you telling me,” Wesley faltered, “that you didn’t know how to stop the car until I told you?”

  “I thought it simply came to a halt,” Ankerita replied, “like a horse if you don’t keep geeing it along.”

  Wesley sighed, and put his head in his hands. “I’ll show you what the other controls are for,” he said, tiredly. “You should let me take over.”

  “No, I love it.” She fended him off. “Need more of this.”

  “We have to take it back,” said Wesley. “The car must be someone’s pride and joy. I think it started because they must have been working on it recently. These things take years to restore. It’s someone’s life’s work. We can’t steal it.”

  “We need it,” said Ankerita. “I know it is the Chariot, or at least what it looks like the
se days. It belongs to Albion... and that’s me. You’ll see.”

  “If that’s the case, then who’s that in the mirror?”

  A black Mercedes had pulled up behind them. Ankerita screwed round in her seat. Two men were getting out. “God’s teeth,” she spat. “I know them. How did they find me?”

  “You mean they’re not farmers wanting their car back?”

  “Most certainly not. They are very bad men.”

  “Then, drive!” Wesley almost screamed.

  Ankerita put her foot to the floor and the car leapt forward, scattering stones at the men. Wesley whimpered, as she threw them around more corners, and drove deeper into the hills. “If we should meet anything...” he shouted, but Ankerita was in a world of her own, laughing insanely.

  Across the mountainside, Wesley saw a gleaming silver Mercedes, shooting towards them from the opposite direction. The sun came out, and glinted on its polished paintwork. “Turn right here,” he shouted, “or we’ll be trapped between them.”

  Ankerita spun the wheel, and floored the accelerator again. Tyres howled, but were drowned by the engine, as a turbocharger cut in. “What the Hell is under the hood?” Wesley gripped the sides of his seat as Ankerita took yet another corner faster than was physically possible. The other two cars had disappeared, left way behind.

  “Serve them right if they run head-on into each other,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “That happens often, does it,” Ankerita yelled over the noise of the engine.

  “Yes, usually when I need help. There was this fight at school where two bullies turned on each other for the privilege of relieving me of my pocket-money; both ended up in hospital.”

  “Great, but let me concentrate. We need to get away.”

  “Who are those guys?”

  “Some of the people who I was hiding from; I certainly don’t want to meet them again.” Ankerita laughed as she accelerated down a long straight incline. “This chariot is fantastic!”

  “Oh Hell, we’re going down into the floods,” shouted Wesley. “Will the bridge over the beck still be there? Shit... stop before we die!”

  Ankerita stamped on the brake pedal, and they slithered to a halt. The road was blocked by a plastic barrier. There was a large notice: ‘Weak Bridge, Do Not Cross’.

  “Shall I drive over?” Ankerita looked uncertainly at her passenger. “I’ll wind the window up to keep the water out if we fall in.” She worked the handle.

  “The parapet has gone already,” said Wesley. “Look, stones have fallen on to the side of the road and water’s seeping through. That’s the end of it, I guess. The bridge is definitely out. We’re caught.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t see where we went,” Ankerita suggested hopefully.

  “No such luck. They are here.”

  Both of the pursuit cars had appeared round the corner. The Escort was blocking the road, so they were forced to stop behind. Doors opened and a suited man got out of each car.

  “Are they going to kill us?”

  “It’s me they’re after,” said Ankerita.

  “Not just to reclaim the car?”

  “We go back a long way.” She sighed, hopelessly. “They probably want to send me back to a life of prostitution, addiction and murder.”

  “Why you, though?”

  “It’s a long story, but all to do with the fact that I don’t have any identity or family in your world.”

  “And the slight detail you are completely gorgeous,” muttered Wesley.

  There was a polite tap at the driver’s window. One of the men was standing beside the car. He tried the door, but it was locked. “Good day, miss.” He peered through the condensation on the glass. “It is fortuitous we meet again.” He looked across at the cowering Wesley. “I see you’ve bought a gnome at the garden centre. No worries, we will make sure he gets planted properly, with plenty of water to help him grow.”

  Wesley gave a moan. Ankerita wound the window down slightly. “What do you mean?”

  “We cannot have witnesses, can we?” The man rubbed his gloved hands together.

  “Look, he’s nothing to do with me,” said Ankerita. “You can let him go. He knows nothing. He’s an innocent bystander, er, a hiker I picked up.”

  “You and I both know that’s not true,” said the man. “You were seen together on the security cameras at the bus-station. That is of no consequence. There is always collateral damage; you know that. We’ve had enough trouble with you so far. Are you going to step out or do we have to break the window and spoil this museum piece you are driving?”

  “Not until you promise that you won’t harm my passenger.” Ankerita folded her arms, obstinately.

  “Fine,” said the man. He waved to his colleague, who was standing by the car behind, idly kicking the tyres. “Go and get the hammer please, Mr Praed.”

  The man smirked, and started towards the nearest car.

  “Oh, and Chris...”

  “Yes, Mr Jones?”

  “Make it the big one.”

  “You’re going to have to make a run for it,” Ankerita muttered to her passenger. “You look as though you might get away across the fields. You have the right boots. Those guys are only wearing shoes.”

  “And supposing they’ve got guns?”

  “Wouldn’t they be threatening us with them, if so?”

  “Good point, but I’m not leaving you.”

  “And what can you do?” Ankerita’s voice was sadly mocking.

  “I learned to fight. I had to, to survive at school.”

  “Did you win?”

  “No, but I managed to inflict some harm before they flattened me. I will defend you.” His voice faltered.

  “Against four big men? Do you think you’ve got any chance?”

  “I could try and hold them off while you got away...”

  “I can’t run in these shoes,” said Ankerita. “Brave man though; I’ll save you. Stay right where you are, my bully duck. And hold on.”

  “You can’t...”

  Wesley wailed, but Ankerita had already stamped on the accelerator. The Escort screamed in a cloud of tyre smoke, and hurtled straight towards the roadblock. Wesley covered his eyes. The car crashed through the flimsy plastic barrier, and leaped in the air as it hit the humpback bridge. There was a brief glimpse of the swollen stream below, and they cleared the rubble, landing with a sickening crunch on the road at the other side. As the Escort careered away, Wesley looked backwards, to see the whole construction washed sideways and disappearing into the torrent. “You can slow down,” he shouted. “The bridge has gone.”

  Ankerita stopped the car, and Wesley got shakily out. He looked at the stream. The men beyond were standing, scratching heads, and looking anything but impressed with Ankerita’s escape.

  “Are we safe?” she asked. “Do we need to keep moving?”

  “I don’t think they can catch us without a big detour.” Wesley unfolded his map. “We should be okay for the moment, if the car suspension isn’t damaged so badly it won’t move anymore.”

  “It’s the chariot. It will be fine.” She started the engine again. It sounded as good as when they first got in.

  “And drive more slowly.”

  “Shame,” said the girl. “I was starting to enjoy that.”

  W

  esley took over the driving once he had navigated them out of the maze of lanes in the hills. It took him some time to stop shaking, but Ankerita seemed to take it all in her stride.

  “You look very calm,” he said.

  “I’ve been through a few similar situations,” she said. “Mind you, in those cases, I had a guardian angel to look after me. Perhaps it’s this car.” She patted the dashboard. “It is ‘The Chariot’ you know.”

  Wesley concentrated on the road for a few minutes, and then fidgeted. “Is there anything to listen to?” he asked. “I hate driving without music.”

  “I
don’t know.”

  “Have a look in the glove compartment; in front of you.”

  Ankerita pulled the drawer open. “Some CDs.”

  “What bands?”

  She read the labels. “Karibow, Mostly Autumn, Delain, Arena, Fields of the Nephilim, Rush...”

  “Sounds good,” said Wesley. “I know most of those. Stick any of them into the player.”

  The music came on, and they both settled down as the car rolled along the motorway.

  “My favourite music,” said Wesley.

  “My head’s spinning. They had nothing like this when I was young.”

  “I don’t think we have any Benedictine chants to put on instead.”

  “Pity, but it was an Augustinian abbey I lived in, so I’m not too disappointed.”

  Wesley eventually stopped the car in a leafy suburb. “We’re here.” He shook his head. “How fast was that? I don’t remember anything of the journey, do you?”

  “I told you it was The Chariot,” said Ankerita. “One minute you start, the next, you’re at your destination. Is this your estate?”

  “That house,” said Wesley.

  “You must be living in poverty,” said Ankerita. “I was unaware the family had fallen upon hard times.”

  “No, this is where we live,” Wesley retorted. “It’s comfortable, and the mortgage is paid.”

  “I will see that our estates are returned to us when all this nonsense is over,” said Ankerita. “I will have money from the music. There is a lot of money in music. I will buy you a new mansion for all your help.”

  “Are you going?”

  “I will leave you here, and take the car.”

  “I don’t know whether you will get far,” said Wesley. “We have driven many miles. Oddly though, the fuel gauge still shows full.”

  “More evidence, that this is The Chariot.”

  “It must be broken. I ought to refill the tank for you.”

  “No need,” replied Ankerita. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “You’re really going, then?”

  The girl nodded, absently.

  “Suppose my family don’t want me back?”