The Greenstone Grail

by Jan Siegel

  The evidence of dematerialization was still more disturbing. Presumably, the more real he became in the dream, the less real was the body he left behind him. As he seemed to become increasingly solid every time, and he could find no way of stopping the process, he began to wonder what would happen if he disappeared completely from the bed in which he slept. Would he ever be able to get back? Instinct told him that his body acted as a kind of anchor, pulling his spirit home; even in alternative universes they were never entirely separate. But if his physical being vanished from this world, perhaps his spirit would be unable to find the way back. He would have to discuss it with his uncle Barty. Somehow, he felt sure, the old man would know what to do. Or if he didn’t feel sure at least he felt hopeful. The relief of having an adult to turn to rushed over him like a sudden warmth, and he headed for his next lesson (French) in a more optimistic frame of mind.

  Even so, French didn’t hold his attention. His thought drifted, back into the now-remembered dream. He was back in the chamber at the top of the tower, where the pale globes rotated slowly, suspended in mid-air, emitting a light that went nowhere. The Grandir moved around the room, studying first one, then another, his footsteps virtually soundless on the dark floor. As the light illuminated so little, Nathan could only see him when he drew close to a globe, then the white mask would glimmer into being as though equally suspended, while his sombre garments made his torso all but invisible. Nathan himself had no trouble finding concealment; all he had to do was keep well away from the spheres. What had Bartlemy called them? Globes of interdimensional space, bound by magic …

  The Grandir approached one of the peripheral spheres, spoke the word he had used before, a word not in the common language of Eos. ‘Fia!’ Nathan trusted the subsequent flash blinded the man as effectively as it did him, otherwise, if the Grandir had looked in the right direction, he must have been revealed. But the ruler was concentrating on the ceiling. A circular image had appeared, inverted; Nathan guessed it was sea. There was just a breadth of dark blue with a thin strip of sky along the bottom, curving slightly as it was refracted by the sphere. He wondered if it was the ocean he had seen in another dream.

  The Grandir obliterated the image with another word and moved on. A different sphere, a different scene. A tumbled mass of reddish rock with what looked like the entrance to a cave, a hi-tech cave with sliding doors emblazoned with a sun-symbol in bronze. Nathan was reminded irresistibly of Thunderbirds, but when the doors opened a figure emerged, far smaller than he anticipated, changing the whole scale of the scene into something huge and magnificent, though it was difficult to appreciate it upside-down. The figure wore futuristic clothes of a dull rainbow sheen and seemed to have a shaven head, but he thought it might be a woman. It descended a flight of steps set among the rocks and was lost to view. The Grandir watched for a few minutes while nothing happened. A featherless bird, like a xaurian, dropped out of the yellow sky and snatched at a snake which stretched its jaws in threat, a spiked ruff extending round its neck. But the Grandir did not wait for the outcome, and the image flicked out.

  Several more scenes followed. There was a world of snow where shaggy beings shuffled around, insulated from the cold by a pelt of fur which might be their clothing or their hide. An enormous creature like a mammoth hove into view, surmounted by a carved seat where three more of the shaggies perched precariously. Then there was something that resembled a mediaeval village, with worn thatch on the roofs and smoking chimneys and a young woman in padded leather trousers whose hair was an extraordinary apricot-gold. Then a woodland scene which for some reason made him uncomfortable, a woodland in autumn – but an autumn richer than any he had ever imagined, where the leaves were yellow and flame-red and crimson and magenta, and vividly spotted fungi swelled from every tree-bole. Other visions unfolded in succession: a desert with riders mounted on two-legged reptilian animals winding across it in a long defile; a city on top of a cliff, where bridges and buildings extruded from the rock as if they were part of it; a forest of giant mushrooms, their ragged caps overhanging a house or temple with scarlet pillars and curling roofs. Lastly there was a wide green lake, mirror-smooth and bordered with spiked bulrushes twenty feet high, and beside it a purple-clad man sat on a flat stone in what might be meditation, still as a tree.

  These are other worlds, Nathan thought, awe mingling with a strange excitement. The globes are like peepholes in the very fabric of space and time, and I can see through into different realities, different states of being. And these are just a few. There must be thousands of them, millions, perhaps billions, many of them far more alien and bizarre. There could be places where the world is flat, or the sea is pink, or the most intelligent life form is a talking rabbit. Infinity has room for everything. And everything seemed to him suddenly such a big word, he had never known how big, a huge word, encompassing realms beyond imagination, and galaxies beyond counting, and creatures of every size or shape or form. His mind could not stretch far enough to take it in.

  He looked round and saw, almost with relief, that he was still in the circular chamber, and the multi-world visions had gone, and there were only the spheres turning slowly, and the rays of light that never reached the walls. The Grandir was in the centre now, his hands encircling the largest globe, not touching but apparently locating a particular facet. The brilliance flared, and an image appeared above him. Not the bookshop this time but a section of riverbank. It must be near Michael’s house, where they found Effie Carlow. A woman was walking along the path, a dark-haired woman whose face Nathan glimpsed only briefly. He saw the jut of prominent cheekbones, the downward sweep of brooding eyebrows. He was sure he knew her, but it took him a few seconds to remember. Rianna Sardou, the actress and film star, Michael’s absentee wife. He wondered why she was back, now of all times, and what it meant, seeing her walk along that stretch of river – if indeed it meant anything at all. She had a perfect right to come back if she wished to, he told himself; after all, she lived there.

  As she went past the long grasses beside the path parted, and a face peered out. A swarthy, warty face half covered in hair, the narrow eyes netted with wrinkles, the expression both sly and somehow desperate. Nathan had only seen that face once before, and then just for an instant, but he recognized it immediately. The prisoner in the Darkwood. He started, twisting his head, trying to see better, but the dream had begun to slip away, and the picture vanished. There was a moment when the white mask seemed to rotate slowly amongst the globes, as though seeking him out, then sleep engulfed him again.

  He emerged from his recollections to find the class had fallen silent and the teacher was eying him expectantly. A page of French prose was open in front of him. With only a little prompting, he began to translate.

  Dave Bagot turned up at the house on Thursday evening. Hazel, listening at the kitchen door, heard him say to her mother: ‘Now the old witch has gone you’ll take me back, won’t you? Kicking me out wasn’t your idea. It was all her. She hated men. Evil old hag.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Lily said listlessly.

  ‘Can’t say I’m sorry. I know, I know, she was your grandmother, but –’

  ‘I don’t want you back. I don’t want you to come back at all.’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking silly. You’re my wife, this is my home, I’ve got a right to be here. You can’t turn me out.’ More four-letter words followed, and shouting, and eventually the sound of a blow. He gets to that part much sooner these days, Hazel thought. Her mind whizzed round, Wondering what to do, who to turn to. If only that police detective were still around – but he hadn’t proved much use after all. She slipped out, hearing her mother sob, feeling a tug at her insides which made it hard to go. But she must get help.

  It was just after eight when she arrived at the bookshop, rattling the knocker, clutching at Annie when she opened the door. ‘Nathan said, come to you,’ she explained. ‘No – you mustn’t go back there. Dad’s too strong. Find someone. Call someone.’
>
  They found Michael, on his way to the pub for a quick pint. Seeing him, Annie thought for a confused moment that he looked like the answer to a prayer, her knight in shining armour – then she remembered that Dave Bagot was a big man, heavily built, where Michael was thin and whippy, and suddenly she was afraid for him, and terrified for Lily, and all the mixed-up fears made her behave stupidly, stammering and clasping his arm. ‘Call the police,’ he said tersely. ‘No – don’t come with me. Just show me the way.’

  But they went with him, of course, while Annie rang the police on her mobile, hearing the shiver of panic as she spoke. ‘Please c-come. Come quickly.’

  At the Bagots’ house the front door was open the way Hazel had left it. Michael went in, and they heard his voice raised, sharp and cold and unfamiliar – a scuffling sound – a thump – a fall. ‘Wait,’ Annie told Hazel, and rushed in. They were in the kitchen. There was a chair upset, and broken crockery on the floor – Lily had been washing up – and she was crouching by the wall with her hands trying to cover her face. Michael was struggling to his feet with blood running from his nose, but Dave Bagot hit him again before he could stand up, and again, calling him interfering, a busybody, and the usual foul names. Annie screamed to him to stop, but he paid no attention – she made a grab for him but he knocked her aside. Then she saw the saucepan on the draining board, the kind of heavy-duty saucepan which could also go in the oven, and she picked it up with both hands, and swung it, bringing it crashing down on his head. And then he crumpled to the floor – as much as his substantial figure could crumple – and Michael’s face was all blood, anger and amazement. Lily uncurled herself, forgetting her damaged face, and Annie stared down at what she had done, totally horrified.

  ‘Maybe I’ve killed him …’

  ‘No such luck,’ Michael said grimly, and suddenly he hugged her. ‘You star. You star.’

  ‘You’re bleeding on me,’ Annie said. ‘Let me clean you up.’

  ‘I’ll get something,’ Lily offered. Her face was bruised but not bloodied and she seemed to be pulling herself together.

  ‘I wasn’t much use,’ Michael said ruefully, ‘was I?’

  ‘You were wonderful,’ Annie whispered. ‘Should we try to revive him?’

  ‘No.’

  Then Hazel came in with a neighbour, and about ten minutes later uniformed police arrived, and there were cups of tea, and offers of help, and Lily was adjured to call her lawyer about an injunction, and Dave Bagot came to himself with a severe headache to find he was being bundled into a police car and taken away. ‘Is he being arrested?’ Hazel asked one of the officers.

  ‘Not at the moment, unless your mother decides to press charges. But CID want to question him about the death of the old woman, and a night in the cells won’t hurt.’

  ‘It was brilliant,’ Hazel told Nathan the next evening. ‘I don’t care if he is my dad. It was totally brilliant. I think your mum is the bravest person in the world.’

  Nathan grinned, bursting with suppressed pride. ‘I like her too.’

  He added presently: ‘I wish I hadn’t missed it. I don’t suppose I could have done anything, but –’

  ‘You didn’t need to. Your mum did it.’

  ‘School’s fine, but boarding is a pain. With all this stuff happening, I ought to be here. Thank God the holidays start soon.’ As he was at a private school, his term finished well before Hazel’s.

  ‘The best part is the police think he might have pushed Great-grandma in the river.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s obvious,’ Hazel said. ‘That’s what they meant by “holding him for questioning”, or whatever they call it.’

  ‘But he didn’t do it – did he?’

  ‘Of course not. It was something she … called up, conjured … something not – not human. I wanted the police to come, I hoped they would find out things, but then I realized it was no good. I never thought of them arresting Dad. It’s really neat.’

  ‘But what if he goes to prison?’

  ‘I hope he does,’ Hazel said. There was a note of defiance in her voice, and Nathan didn’t push it any further.

  Later, he asked his mother about it.

  ‘Do the police really think Hazel’s dad shoved Effie Carlow in the river?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Annie said. ‘They haven’t told me.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  She sighed. At heart, she wished she did. ‘No. That would take planning – sneaking after her, catching her unawares, picking the right spot to do it. His violence is always impulsive, not planned. I hate the way he behaves, that goes without saying, but there’s a big difference between hitting someone in anger and killing someone in cold blood. I’m sure Effie’s death was just an accident.’

  There was a pause, loaded with thoughts unspoken.

  ‘Well anyway,’ Nathan said, ‘you hit him with a saucepan. That was just – wow.’

  Annie couldn’t help smiling at the glow in his eyes. After recent misunderstandings, and despite burgeoning problems, suddenly life felt good. ‘Michael was amazing,’ she said. ‘It was brave of him to tackle Dave Bagot. Dave’s much bigger than he is.’

  ‘Yes, but you did for him,’ Nathan said. She gave him a squeeze, and noticed how tall he was getting, taller than her now. ‘Have you seen Eric?’

  ‘Not lately, but we’re going to Thornyhill on Sunday. Uncle Barty says we’ve something important to discuss.’

  That night before he went to bed, he climbed up to the skylight to look at the star. He hadn’t done it for a while, things had been so busy, and there had been such a lot to think about. Sometimes it seemed to him that his head was becoming so crowded soon his thoughts, maybe even his dreams, would start spilling out of his ears and eyes, taking shape around him. But then, perhaps they already had. There was Eric – and there was the star. It looked very ordinary and star-like, except that it didn’t twinkle: it was just a steady white pinpoint of radiance. What else had it seen? he wondered. The prisoner from the Darkwood, who had evidently escaped the gnomons, and was hanging around for some secret purpose … the death of Effie Carlow … Hazel knew something, he was certain, something she wasn’t telling him, but maybe, as with his inhibition in speaking of the grail, it was something she couldn’t tell him even if she wanted to. And then he let go of his thoughts, because they were too many for him, and gazed at the stars of his own world, arranged in their grand familiar design, spelling out stories and mysteries for soothsayers, luring astroscientists into the wilderness of space. There were nights when the vastness of the universe oppressed him, but this time it seemed to him that the constellations were like signposts, and the routes were well-known, somewhere in his spirit, and all of it – every nebula, every galaxy – was home. His stars, his place, his world. He gave the intruder one last hard look, and scrambled down from the Den and went to bed.

  ‘Magic,’ Bartlemy was saying after lunch, ‘is part of what we think of as the spiritual plane. You will see if you take a quick look at history that mankind, as a species, tends towards overenthusiasm. We latch on to one big idea and try to use it to cover everything. Whatever it is, it has to be the only truth, the explanation for every single detail, every niggle, every hiccup in reality. First it was religion, then science. Right now, we are trying to cut our world to fit the scientific laws. But there is a dimension of the spirit which exists apart from those laws – there are elementals everywhere, mostly in an incorporeal state, and they express themselves through what we call magic. Humans originally had no such powers, but power was given to them, or to some – never mind how, the theory is too long for now – and that power is known as the Gift. It has spread genetically, so these days there is probably a little of it in all of us. In its most extreme form, it can include intensive telepathic and telekinetic abilities, spellbinding, separation of spirit from body, influence over or control of other minds. If developed, it can lead to longevity, though beyond the normal lifespan this
is usually accompanied by sterility. If over-used, it will corrupt the user, and turn to madness. But owing to our present penchant for science, extreme magic is not widely used here. Perhaps that is fortunate.’

  ‘But it is in Eric’s world,’ Nathan said.

  ‘Evidently. Such power may be native to humans there. What is clear is that so much – er – force has been generated that it is, so to speak, floating around loose, like electric storms: hence the contamination. Uncontrolled magic is very dangerous, in any world. I’m not sure how it could be poisoned in the way Eric describes, possibly by the misuse of an exceptionally potent spell. The people there are plainly so imbued with power that they habitually live for thousands of years and no longer have children. Someone like Eric uses his power only to extend his life: he has nothing left for anything else. In this world, with no extraneous magic to draw on, that ability may wane. I have explained to him that he can expect to age here.’

  ‘Is no matter,’ Eric said. ‘I have thought much on this, read much poetry. Life is maybe more beautiful, if it does not reach end of page.’

  Annie met his eyes as he spoke, and found them very bright, not knowing that brightness was mirrored in her own.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Nathan asked. ‘Do you – have you –’

  ‘I have the Gift in a small way. I rarely use it. I have seen what it can do to people. I only ever wanted to heal – heal the body to heal the spirit – and cook beautiful food. The right food, too, is good for the soul, or so I believe.’

  ‘Is fine idea,’ Eric said, full of lunch. There was general agreement.

  ‘How – how old are you?’ Nathan inquired tentatively, studying his friend with new perception.

  ‘Dear me, don’t you know that is not a polite question? Old enough. I have seen many things, both real and unreal. But this is the first time I have had anything to do with matters beyond this entire universe. I am working on theory here; I have no personal experience. This time, Nathan, you are the expert.’