The sound he made was not remotely human, but she guessed, in its ringing, howling rhythms, its essence was laughter. “You have the spear, most glorious and wonderful of the Quadrillax. The eternal bane of the Night Walkers, the source of the sun’s light!”
His words were strange, but she was slowly piecing it together. “It freed you from their control?”
“I have as many faces as the day, yet I was trapped in form like you frail creatures, walking the Night Walk. Damned and tormented!”
She looked deep into his face and was almost overwhelmed by an awe, perhaps inspired by some submerged race memory. “Who are you?” she whispered.
“Know you not my names? Has it been so long? Of all the Golden Ones, I stayed in the World the longest, dancing through even when the barriers were closed. Yet still forgotten?” His sigh was caught by the wind. “My names are legion, changing with the season. In the first times, when the World was home, the people of the west knew me as Gwynn ap Nudd, White Son of Night, Lord of the Underworld, leader of the Wild Hunt, master of the Cwm Annwn, a Lord of Faery, a King of Annwn. In the great land, across the waves, I was Cernunnos, the Horned One, Lord of the Dance, Giver of Gifts. In the cold lands I was Woden, leader of the Herlethingus; heroism, victory and spiritual life were my domain. Each new frail creature saw me differently, yet knew my heart. Green Man. Herne the Hunter. Serpent Son. Wish Huntsman. Robin Hood. My home is the Green, my time the dark half of the year. Do you know me now?”
Ruth nodded, terrified yet entranced. Images tumbled across her mind, scenes from childhood stories, ancient myths, all pieces of an archetype that walked the world before history began. Whatever stood before her, it was impossible to grasp him in totality; he had as many aspects as nature, his form depending on the viewer and the occasion. The Erl-King, the dark side in which he had been locked and controlled, was now gone. “What do I call you?” she whispered.
She trembled as he bent down, but when he brushed her forehead with the side of his thumb, the touch was gentle. “Call me whichever name comes to your heart.”
She plucked a name from the long list. “Cernunnos,” she said. His description made it seem a gentler aspect. And then she realised why he had seemed familiar: he was in the vision the mysterious young girl had shown her at the camp outside Bristol; the one for whom the girl had been searching. The night to nay day, the winter to nay sunanaer, the girl had said. Twin aspects of the same powerful force.
He rose to his full height, still looking down on her. “One face of the Green lives within you, another in one of your companions-their eyes, and yours, will open in time. As a Sister of Dragons, your path will be difficult, but my guidance will be with you until your blossoming. And in the harshest times, you may call for my aid. By this mark will you be known.”
He reached down and took her hand. She shuddered at his touch; his fingers didn’t feel like fingers at all. A second later a bolt of searing pain scorched her palm. She screamed, but the agony subsided in an instant. Turning over her hand, she saw burned into it a circle which contained a design of what seemed to be interlocking leaves.
He was already turning away as he said, “Seek me out in my Green Home.” He smiled and pointed to the owl which was circling majestically over their heads.
“What are you going to do now?” Ruth enquired reverentially.
“Once the Hunt has been summoned, it cannot retire without a soul.”
Ruth shivered at the awful meaning in his words. She began to protest, but his glance was so terrible the words caught in her throat.
He raised his head and sniffed the wind, and then, swifter than she could have imagined for his size, he loped off into the night; she was already forgotten, insignificant. A moment later the rain stopped and the wind fell, and when she looked up in the sky she saw the storm clouds sweeping away unnaturally to reveal a clear, star-speckled sky. She hung her head low, desperately trying to cope with the shock of an encounter with something so awesome it had transformed her entire existence. But when she closed her eyes, she could still see his face, and when she covered her ears, she could still hear his voice, and she feared she would never be the same again.
chapter eighteen
the shark has pretty teeth
he moment Ruth disappeared with the Erl-King, Church thought all their lives were about to end. He was hacking blindly with the sword, watching the hounds crisp and fade, but seeing another replace each one he killed, realising Laura and Veitch were within an instant of being overwhelmed. Yet in that instant that the spear pierced the Erl-King, the Hunt seemed to freeze in its attack, and a second later the dogs were milling round in confusion, while the remaining riders were reining their horses back and retreating beyond the churchyard wall.
“She’s done it,” he gasped, barely able to believe it.
Laura’s eyes were filled with tears of fear and strain and blood was dripping from a score of wounds. “I thought we were dead,” she moaned.
Veitch, who was just as injured, still held the iron bar high. “Don’t relax! They might just be gearing up for a new attack!” he barked.
Church knew he was right and returned to the alert, but he couldn’t help calling out Ruth’s name. When there was no reply, his heart sank.
They remained watching the Hunt for what seemed like hours, fighting against the exhaustion that racked them all. And then, as if in answer to a silent call, the riders simply turned their mounts and galloped away, the hounds baying behind them. Church looked to the wall in the corner of the graveyard; the glowering presence of Black Shuck was gone too.
Soon after, they heard a noise in the bracken and Ruth emerged from the shadows, pale and shaking. As she clambered over the wall awkwardly, Church ran forward and grabbed her.
“You did it!” he said, unable to contain his relief. “I could kiss you!”
“Well do it now, before I faint,” she gasped. And then she did.
After retrieving the battered tent, they lit a fire on the edge of the beach and enjoyed the calm which had followed the departure of the storm. Though not fully recovered, Shavi seemed well enough to talk, which raised their already high spirits. With the van’s minimal medical kit, they tended to their wounds, and by the time the warmth had started to penetrate their bones, Ruth was ready to tell them what she had experienced.
Afterwards, they stared into the heart of the fire, trying to assimilate all the new information. “So,” Ruth said, summing up, “the way I see it is this: for some reason we don’t yet know, the doors between Otherworld and here were opened. The Danann were preparing to return when the Fomorii launched something called the Wish-Hex, which I imagine as a kind of nuclear bomb in their terms. When the blast swept out, it took the majority of the Danann to some place from where they can’t return on their own. But some of the Danann were corrupted by this Wish-Hex radiation and, against their basic nature, fell under the control of the Fomorii. The Erl-King … Cernunnos … was one of them. And some of the other creatures of Otherworld must have been affected too. I think this explains the Fabulous Beast that attacked Church and I near Stonehenge. Obviously they’re linked to the earth spirit, power, whatever, so they wouldn’t have done the Fomorii’s bidding against us unless they were forced.”
“And a few of the Danann escaped entirely,” Church added. “Like the woman in the Watchtower. But she didn’t tell me the doors between the two worlds were already open and the Danann were planning on coming through. She implied everything happened because the Fomorii broke the Covenant.”
“Maybe she was spinning you a line,” Veitch said.
Church shifted uncomfortably. Could they really trust a race that was so far beyond them that their motivations were almost incomprehensible? And what did that mean for the woman in the Watchtower’s promise that his prize for success in freeing her people would be knowledge of Marianne’s fate? He had a sudden image of cynical, educated western explorers conning indigenous people out of land and resources for
a few paltry beads.
“So it was like a first strike,” Veitch continued. “The Fomorii tried to wipe out all the opposition in one swoop, leaving them free to do whatever horrible stuff they wanted once they got over here.”
“But what was he like?” Shavi asked shakily. He was in a sleeping bag, propped up by a pile of rucksacks. “Did you get a sense of something divine?”
Ruth saw the excitement in his eyes, but it was an issue she didn’t really want to face. °I don’t believe in God,” she replied, but her voice wavered enough that she knew he wouldn’t let her leave it there. “Yes, I have tailored my beliefs a little. I couldn’t be a humanist in the face of something like that. There is an existence beyond our own, and he was certainly unknowable. But divine? You might consider him a god. Others might call him an alien, or a higher being.” She couldn’t tell if it was Shavi’s smile or her own unsureness after a lifetime of disbelief that irritated her the most.
“But do you not see? This is the question. The thing we spend all our lives searching for-“
“Oh, I don’t know,” she snapped.
Church stepped in quickly. “This isn’t the time for intense theological debate-“
“No, it’s the time for a party!” Veitch held out his arms in jubilation. “We won!”
“That’s poultry you’re calculating,” Laura snorted. She finally seemed to be coming out of the fearful mood that had gripped her since the encounter in the graveyard.
“What do you mean?” Veitch threw a box of Elastoplast at her with a little more force than was necessary. “We’ve found all the talismans. The Hunt has gone for good. And we’re all alive!”
“As much as we ever were,” Laura said coolly.
“But we still don’t know what to do with the talismans.” Ruth turned to Tom. “When are you going to spill the beans?”
“When we’re nearly where we need to be and there’s no chance of anything going wrong,” he replied gruffly.
“At least we’re well under the wire on the deadline,” Church said. “More than three weeks to go. I never thought we’d do it so quickly.”
Despite their certain knowledge that their trials were not over, they slept more easily than they had done in weeks. When they awoke to the sound of seagulls, the sun was already up and the fire had burned out. They all laughed when a man out walking his dog avoided them by a wide margin, realising they must look like dirty itinerants with their matted hair and crumpled clothes.
The sea air was invigorating and by 8 a.m. they felt fully rested and ravenously hungry. Their supplies were low, so Veitch volunteered to walk up to the village to see if he could find something for breakfast. Church, Shavi and Tom said they wanted to come too, to stretch their legs, and once Ruth saw she would be left alone with Laura she opted to join them.
“You lot are freaks,” Laura gibed. “Choosing physical exercise when you can lounge around and chill?” Tom convinced her she should sit in the van to guard the talismans so she could drive away at the first sign of trouble. Church borrowed Laura’s small knapsack and tucked the Wayfinder inside it. “I’m never letting this out of my sight again, whether we need it or not,” he said with a grin.
They strode up the leafy lane to the village with a lively step, despite the exertions of the night before.
“You know what?” Veitch said to Church ahead of the others. “I never felt as alive as I do now.”
Church knew what he meant. “It’s like you don’t fully appreciate life until you’ve faced up to death. I know that’s a real cliche-all those adrenalin junkies doing dangerous sports say it all the time. But I never thought for a moment it might be true.”
“Makes you think how bad we’re leading our lives, with awful office jobs and poxy suburban houses.” Veitch thought for a moment, then glanced at Church. “Maybe we’re on the wrong side.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re fighting to keep the things the way they always have been, right? What happens if that’s not the best way? What if all this magic and shit is the way it really should be?”
Church recalled a conversation he had with Ruth soon after they first met about his dismay at the way magic seemed to have drained out of life. “But what about all the death and suffering? People getting slaughtered, medical technology failing?”
“Maybe that’s all part and parcel of having a richer life. What’s better-big highs and deep lows or a flatline?”
Church smiled. “I never took you for a philosopher, Ryan. But it all sounds a little Nietzchean to me.”
“You what?”
At that point Tom and Shavi caught up with them and introduced a vociferous religious debate. Veitch listened for a moment, then dropped back until he was walking just in front of Ruth. She eyed him contemptuously. “Don’t even think of talking to me.”
“I just wanted to say that was a really brave thing you did last night. You saved us all.”
“Do you really think I need your validation?”
Veitch went to reply, but her face was filled with such cold fury he knew it was pointless. He dropped back further and trailed behind them all.
The village shop was just opening up for the morning. Church and Shavi both picked up wire baskets and loaded them up with essentials. Just before they reached the checkout, a short, ruddy-faced man in his fifties with white hair and a checked flat cap rushed in, leaving the door wide open.
“Born in a barn, Rhys?” the woman behind the counter said.
Ruth, who was nearest, saw that he wasn’t in the mood to banter. His face was flushed and he was breathless, as if he’d run all the way there. “Did you hear about Dermott?” he gasped. The woman shook her head, suddenly intrigued. “Missing, he is. They found his bike and a shoe up near the old Pirate’s Lantern. Edith is in a right old state. She expected to find him in bed after the night shift and when he wasn’t there she called the police.”
The woman and the man launched into a lurid conversation about what might have happened to their friend, but Ruth was no longer listening. She knew what had happened to him. The Hunt had found their sacrificial soul. Feeling suddenly sick, she dashed out of the shop and sat on the pavement, her head in her hands. How many people who had crossed their path had suffered? she wondered.
The others emerged soon after, laughing and joking, but she found it impossible to join in. Even when they won, there was a price to pay.
The knock at the passenger door window came just as Laura had settled out in the back, mulling over whether or not she had fallen for Church, hating herself for it. It was brief, friendly; not at all insistent. Deciding it was kids playing or the part-time car park attendant wanting to check their ticket, she decided she couldn’t be bothered to answer it. But when it came again thirty seconds later, she sighed irritably and then scrambled over the back of the passenger seat. She was surprised to see a man who looked like a tramp in his shabby black suit. Yet his red brocade waistcoat added a note of flamboyance, as did his swept-back silver hair and sparkling eyes, which suggested a rich, deep humour. His skin had that weathered, suntanned appearance that only came from a life on the road, but his smile was pleasant enough.
Laura wound down the window. “I haven’t got any spare change. I like to sharpen it to throw at authority figures.”
“An admirable pursuit, my dear,” he said in a rich, theatrical voice. “But I am not seeking financial remuneration. Although I must say I am a little down on my luck at the moment. Travelling great distances can be an expensive business. But that is by-the-by. In actual fact, I am seeking young Mr. Churchill. Is he around, by any chance?”
Laura laughed in surprise. “You know Church?”
“We had a wonderful evening of great humour, fantastic storytelling and, frankly, serious inebriation at a Salisbury hostel. Why, your generous friend even allowed me to drink his health into the night on his hotel tab. A wonderful fellow, and no mistaking.” Laura laughed at his faux dramatic persona, which seeme
d to have been culled from old films and older books, but his charm was unmistakable. “And, as is his genial nature, he asked me to look him up the next time I was in the vicinity. And here I am!” He suddenly clapped his hands into a praying posture and half buried his face between them. “Oh, forgive me! I have forgotten the very basis of good manners-the introduction. My name, my dear, is Callow.”
He held out his hand. Laura hesitated for a moment, then took it. “Laura DuSantiago,” she said, aping his theatrical style.
“And will you allow me to rest a while in your vehicle until young Mr. Churchill’s return? I fear my legs are weary.”
Laura began to open the door, but then a thought jarred: Church didn’t have the van when Callow would have met him, and there was no way he could have known they’d be there in an obscure Welsh village. She looked into his face suspiciously.
Callow smiled, said nothing. He was still holding on to her hand and his grip was growing tighter. “Let go.” Her voice was suddenly hard and frosty.
She tried to drag her hand free, but Callow’s strength belied his appearance. His smile now seemed grotesque. He forced his head through the open window and she was hit by a blast of foul breath. She realised he was trying to prevent anyone seeing what was happening. “You bastard-“
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