His life after leaving his family seemed to have been an odd mix of hedonism and spiritual questing. He freely acknowledged experimenting with various drugs, and, at Laura’s prompting, admitted a healthy sex life fired by curiosity. Yet at the same time he had an insatiable thirst for knowledge, particularly of a spiritual and philosophical kind. “If I indulged in self-analysis I would admit to trying to fill some kind of void,” he said, “but it is more important to me to follow my instincts to see where they take me.”
Laura was curious about a small scar above his top lip, the only blemish on his perfect features; they were both surprised at the downcast expression her question elicited.
“It happened two years ago. I was with a boy in a club in Clapham,” he began. “The Two Brewers. It was quite renowned in London as one of the top gay clubs-“
“You’re gay?” Ruth instantly regretted her exclamation; it sounded faintly bigoted, the way she said it, although she certainly hadn’t meant it that way. “It’s just, you don’t seem gay.”
“I put no boundaries around my life. I have had men and I have had women.” He smiled forgivingly. “Anyway, the Two Brewers had a reputation as the kind of place you could go without encountering any of the trouble you would find in the more unenlightened parts of the capital. The boy I was withLee was his name-had been a very close friend for many years. We had a good night, got a little high, plenty of dancing. When we left in the early hours we thought we’d go for a walk on Clapham Common to look at the stars. It was a beautiful night. We were walking down one of the side streets towards the common when the mood took us to stop and kiss.” He closed his eyes, remembering; at first his face was tranquil, but then a shadow flickered across it. “Somebody hit me, hard.” He tapped the scar. “I think it was a gun, or perhaps a piece of piping-it is very hard to remember. I think I blacked out for a while. When I came to, Lee was struggling with someone further down the street. I called out, tried to get to him, but I was so dazed.”
When he opened his eyes, they were wet, but he made no attempt to hide the emotion. “My vision was fractured-I had concussion-but I could see the man attacking Lee. He was swinging something down on his head. The crack sounded like a piece of wood snapping in two. But even then he did not stop. He kept hitting, and hitting.” He closed his eyes once more. “Lee died. His murderer got away. I cannot even remember what he looked like.”
“I’m so sorry.” Ruth rested a comforting hand on his forearm.
Laura was just as moved by the story. “What a homophobic bastard! If I found out who it was, I’d cut off his dick and shove it down his throat.”
Shavi raised his hands and shrugged. “I have done my best not to let it scar me emotionally as well as physically, but it has been difficult. I try to tell myself there is enough hatred in the world without me adding to it.”
His honesty created a bond with them both; it was impossible not to trust him completely. Ruth found herself almost hypnotised by him. His voice was so calm, it made her feel tranquil, and his eyes were both mischievous and intensely sexual. His body had a graceful power, like a ballet dancer, compact, with muscles she had not expected to see in someone so cerebral. She had watched him performing his t’ai chi after they had awoken from their nap and she had almost cried to see him so at peace with himself. She was glad he was with them.
Despite herself, Laura felt the same way. Shavi’s confidence in his abilities and direction in life was reassuring to someone who felt as if her own existence had been spinning off its axis for most of her adult life. In the disparate crew so far assembled, Shavi felt like the cement that would hold them all together. It gave her secret hope that it might, after all, turn out okay.
“We need to get you some clothes,” Church noted as they rested in the wan sunlight on the lea of an outcropping of grey Dartmoor granite. He felt much better. Tom had found some foul-tasting roots and leaves which had taken the edge off much of the pain and tiredness he had felt following his ordeal in Calatin’s torture chamber. Ahead of them, a large fox picked its way cautiously across the scrubland, its russet fur a splash of colour against the grubby green. Church had a sudden flashback to the one he had seen in the street near Albert Bridge on the night his life changed forever. Oddly, he did not have the same sense of wonder.
“No hurry. It’s not like it’s winter.” Veitch did seem oblivious to the elements, despite his naked torso. In daylight, Church couldn’t stop looking at the startling, colourful pictures tattooed on his flesh. Some were scenes of remarkable beauty, but others were almost too disturbing to consider: deformed faces that looked out at the viewer with a palpable sense of threat; odd, surreal shapes that seemed alien and unrecognisable, but touched disturbing notes in his subconscious; creatures that seemed half-animal, half-human.
Tom scanned the sky thoughtfully where a little blue was breaking through the heavy cloud. “The weather should be fine,” he noted almost to himself before adding to the others, “It will make travel a little easier. We may have a long way to go before we can rest.”
“We need to find Ruth and Laura.” Church fought back any thoughts suggesting they might not have survived the raid on the pub.
“Have you not learned anything yet?” Tom glared at Church through his spectacles, which, against all the odds, he had somehow managed to hang on to throughout the time in the mine. “Time is of the essence! Your world is winding down and you want to dally searching for your friends? You are Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. You will find each other when the time is right.”
Veitch bristled at the man’s tone. “Oi. Nobody made you the gaffer. Keep a civil tongue in your head.”
Tom held his gaze for a minute, then looked to the horizon. Finally he hauled himself unsteadily to his feet and said, “There are many miles ahead of us.”
They set off slowly across the moorland, enveloped by the moan of the wind and the plaintive cries of birds. The going was hard; the ground was uneven and marshy after the rains, while hidden hollows and boulders forced them to be cautious. The lamp was still flickering westwards, and Church wondered how far they could be expected to travel without a car. At the rate they were moving, Beltane would come and go before they left Dartmoor.
“Any idea what the date is?” he asked. “I can’t work out how long we were in that place. The lack of daylight plays havoc with your body clock.” No one had any idea.
Church noticed Tom was eyeing him strangely and asked what was wrong. “You seem different from the last time I saw you,” he said. “More in control of who you are. You might actually be able to live up to what’s expected of you.”
“Thanks,” Church said sarcastically. He even felt different; the vision in the Watchtower, the death of the young Marianne, his terrible experiences at the hands of Calatin, all had altered him on some fundamental level. He himself was still coming to terms with who he now was.
“So, you still haven’t told us what it was like in that Otherworld place,” Veitch said to Tom.
“No, and I’m not about to.”
“Why not?” Veitch said with irritation; Church was a little concerned at how close to the surface his temper lay.
“Because it would be like describing an impressionist painting to a blind man.”
“Are you saying I’m stupid?” Veitch’s fists bunched subconsciously.
“No, I’m saying you’re blind. But perhaps you’ll see it for yourself one day, and then you’ll understand.”
That thought seemed to cheer Veitch immensely. “That would be bleedin’ great! I bet it’s better than this shitty little world.”
“Different,” Tom replied sourly.
Amidst regular ribald humour from Veitch, their step picked up and as the sky turned blue and the sun grew stronger, the miles fell behind them. After the disgusting food in the mine, they were all consumed with hunger and by midmorning they broke off their travelling to hunt for food. Tom did one of his tricks and returned with a couple of rabbits, and while
they were cooking over a spit on the fire he pointed out various herbs for Church to collect and had Witch grubbing for tubers and mushrooms. It was a bizarre meal, half of which Church couldn’t begin to recognise, but it tasted remarkable and they finished every scrap. After a brief nap in the shade of an ancient hawthorn tree, they continued on their way and soon the grim, bleak expanse of the moor gave way to budding trees and hedgerows and, eventually, a tiny, winding lane. With sore feet and aching muscles, they moved slowly, searching for any signs of civilisation.
An hour or so later they found a small farm surrounded by a thick wall of trees. At first glance it seemed deserted; a tractor and equipment sat idle in the yard at the back of the house and there was no sound apart from the mewling of a litter of kittens underneath a broken old cart. After hammering futilely on the door, Church and Veitch searched the outbuildings until Tom’s cry called them back to the farmhouse. A ruddy-faced man with wiry, grey hair was pointing a shotgun at Tom’s head.
“We’re just looking for a place to stay for the night,” Church protested.
The farmer eyed them suspiciously, but didn’t lower his weapon.
“Bloody hell, it’s Deliverance,” Veitch hissed under his breath.
“Okay, we’ll go!” Church said. “So much for West Country hospitality.”
“Christ, a night sleeping under a hedge,” Veitch moaned as they turned away.
The farmer brought the shotgun to his side. “You can’t be staying out there at night,” he said, hesitantly. Church saw fear in his eyes. “Don’t you know what’s happening?”
“What do you mean?” Church asked.
“It’s changed. It’s all bloody well changed.” He looked away uncomfortably.
“What’s troubling you?” Tom attempted a note of concern which came across as insincere, but it didn’t seem to trouble the farmer.
“Don’t tell me you don’t bloody see it. Everybody in the countryside knows it’s different now, only nobody talks about it!” His voice rose, then cracked, on the edge of hysteria. He looked from one to the other frantically. “You can’t bloody go out at night! You take your life in your hands if you go into the wilder places! There’re all sorts of things out there-“
“You’ve seen them?” Church asked.
The farmer’s mouth clamped shut as his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Oh, ah, I’m not bloody mad, you know.”
“We’ve seen them too.” The farmer looked at Church with such sudden hope it was almost childlike. “Things have changed.”
“What’s gone wrong?” the farmer pleaded. “What are they?” There were tears of relief moistening his eyes; Church thought he was going to hug them.
“You better come inside.”
The kitchen was dark despite the sunlight outside; it didn’t look like it had been modernised in years. There was a large, heavily scored wooden table in the centre of the room, and a stove on the far wall over which hung a line of fading clothes drying in the dull heat. The floor was tiled and muddy and the kitchen was filled with old cooking smells and the underlying aroma of wet dogs. The farmer introduced himself as Daniel Marsh. He’d worked the land since he was a boy, as had generations of his family before him, but Church couldn’t see any signs of other family members. He put a battered kettle on the stove and boiled up the water for an enormous pot of tea, which he served in chipped mugs. It soon become apparent to Church and the others that some heavy burden was lying on his shoulders beyond his obvious fear of the change in the countryside. After half an hour of small talk, he couldn’t stop himself anymore.
“When the sun goes down, I’m never the same,” he began cautiously. His eyes looked hollow from too little sleep and his face muscles had sagged under the weight of an array of dismal emotions. “One of those things out there, it comes here.” He motioned to the house. “Not every night, but enough so I can’t rest.”
“What sort of thing?” Veitch eyed the farmer askance.
“A devil. A little devil, ‘bout as high as this here table.” His head fell until his face was hidden and he was racked by a juddering sob. “I don’t know how I’m going to go on. I thought about taking that”-he waved towards the shotgun-“and blowing my bloody head off, but I don’t know, I don’t know …”
“What does it do?” Church asked anxiously.
“It talks to me, pinches me. Hurts me. I know that doesn’t sound much, but the things it says!” He covered his face for a moment, then seemed to catch himself. “You can stay here tonight if you like,” he said, unable to hide his desperation.
“Sure. You’ve sold it to us so well,” Veitch said.
Marsh acted as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders. He promised them good food for dinner, then left them alone while he headed out to do some work in the fields.
“Do you think it’s happening like this all over?” Veitch asked as they sat around the table gorging themselves on the farmer’s bread and cheese.
“What do you mean?” Church was looking at deep score marks in the kitchen walls, as if they had been swiped by razor-sharp nails.
“People all around the country dealing with this weird shit, but too scared or too worried their neighbours will think them crazy to talk about it. So they just keep it all to themselves and nobody knows what’s going down.”
Church shrugged. “It can’t stay bottled up for much longer. Sooner or later it’s going to blow up and the Government is going to have to do something about it. It’ll be on the front page of the Sun-“
“Unless things reach a head before then.” Tom pushed his chair away from the table and rested his hands on his belly. “By the time anyone really realises what’s happening, there might not be any Government, or newspapers. Just people running for their lives with nowhere to go.”
There was a long moment of silence and then Veitch said, “You’re a bundle of laughs, aren’t you. I’m surprised the army or M15 or some of those bastards aren’t on to it already.”
Church considered the lack of media coverage about what events they had witnessed, and then thought about the stone-faced men clustered around the charred skeletons at the Salisbury depot and the helicopters they had seen scouring the landscape. “Maybe they already are. Maybe they don’t know what to do either.”
The evening was so balmy it could have been summer, and it was filled with the kind of perfumes that shouldn’t have been expected for several weeks: rose, jasmine, clematis and the sweet bloom of night-scented stock. Overhead the clear sky sparkled with an array of stars that had Ruth, Laura and Shavi gazing up in awe.
“You never see that in the city.” Laura was unable to hide the wonder in her voice.
“I can’t believe this place. It’s almost magical.” Ruth felt a shiver run through her. “If this is part of the New Age too then it can’t all be bad.”
“A time of terrors and wonders,” Shavi agreed. “Perhaps all the other focal points for the power in the earth are like this-a sanctuary, a place to rest and recharge your own energy where the Evil outside cannot touch you.”
“I feel like staying here forever,” Ruth said regretfully.
“Somewhere safe.” Laura glanced from Ruth to Shavi.
His faint smile suggested he knew what they were feeling, but that it could never be. “Let us make the most of this time,” he added, leading the way along the street to the pub. But his unspoken words lay heavy on all of them.
In the King William pub next to the Market Cross they ordered three pints of potent scrumpy. The cloudy drink had a rough quality and a powerful aroma of apples that was completely dissimilar to the mass-produced cider they had all tried before, but whether it was the invigorating, dreamlike atmosphere that pervaded the town or the sudden infusion of alcohol, within moments it felt like the best drink they had ever had.
Shavi nodded. “This is what our ancestors used to feel. The body, mind and soul need to be in perfect balance. The trinity leading to enlightenment represented by the eye opening in the p
yramid. Knowledge is fine, but the Age of Reason’s focus upon it above all else threw us out of balance. Our souls became weakened. Instinctively, we all recognised it-that feeling of discontent with our lives and our jobs that has pervaded us all for the last few decades. You must have noticed it?” They nodded, entranced by his voice. “We need to learn to feel again.”
“Well, aren’t you the guru.” Laura grinned at him, but there was none of the spite that usually infused her comments; Ruth wondered if the magic was working on her character too.
“Perhaps that is part of this quest we are all on,” Shavi mused. “Not merely to find physical objects of power to defend ourselves, but in some way to discover and unlock the truly alchemical part of our souls that will make us whole and more able to cope with the trials ahead. A quest for the spiritual rather than the physical, a search that goes inward-“
“Why don’t you shut up and do a quest to the bar,” Laura Jibed.
His smile warmed them both. “I talk too much,” he apologised, “or perhaps I think too much. Either way, now is the time for enjoyment.”
At the end of the evening they made their way back to the camp in a drunken haze of laughter and joking. But the first thing they saw when they reached the tents was clothes scattered across their sleeping bags and their possessions ransacked. Nothing seemed to have been taken.
“This is weird,” Ruth said. “Just like the car at the service station. It feels like someone’s following us.”
Even that didn’t dampen their spirits, nor remove their feeling that Glastonbury was an oasis of safety for them that night. Ruth and Laura tidied up while Shavi lit a fire, and once it was roaring, they lazed around it. The atmosphere felt so relaxing and secure, Ruth only managed ten minutes before her eyes started to close. She crawled into her tent, leaving Laura and Shavi to talk dreamily into the night.
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