The further north they travelled, the more the people seemed to be untroubled by everything that was happening. They stopped at one farm for supplies of milk, bacon and eggs, only to discover the farmer’s wife who served them knew nothing of the martial law. “We don’t have a telly,” she said in her thick Highlands accent, “and we’re too busy to listen to the radio.”
The final leg of the journey took them on a road that was straight as a die through the Beinn Eighe nature reserve, where pine trees and gorse clustered hard against the road. The wildness of this no man’s land made them all uncomfortable; they felt as if humanity had been driven out by an angry, hateful nature for all the crimes it had committed; the new occupants were more respectful of nature’s rules, and unforgiving of anyone who dared venture back into that dark, green domain. Sometimes strange movements could be glimpsed among the shadows beneath the trees; occasionally the quietness was disturbed by cries that came from no bird or animal they could recognise.
The oppressiveness eased slightly when the road took them along the banks of Loch Maree, which was so clear and still it looked like the sky had been brought down to earth. The scenery all around was breathtaking. Across the loch, the banks rose up sharply to soaring, rocky hillsides which were dappled by purple cloud shadows interspersed with brilliant patches of sunlight. From the top, white waterfalls cascaded down gloriously.
Soon after they arrived at Gairloch, a small fishing village perched on the edge of a sheltered sea loch. It was a balmy late afternoon with the seagulls screeching overhead and the smell of the day’s catch mingling with the salty aroma of seaweed all along the harbour front. Boats sat up on trailers everywhere, but only the gentle lapping of the waves disturbed the lazy atmosphere.
After parking the van overlooking a tiny jetty, Veitch clambered out and stretched his muscles before turning to survey the thickly wooded slopes all around. “I thought we were driving up to the bloody top of the world. Who the hell are we supposed to be seeing up here?”
Ruth turned her face to the warmth of the sun. “Come on, Tom. You’ve kept us in suspense all day.”
“You know, the old git only does it because he knows if he tells us everything we’ll dump him in the nearest rest home.” Laura adjusted her sunglasses, studiously avoiding Tom’s fierce glare.
“You’ll wait until the time’s right,” he said icily. “If you had a little patience and started listening a little more, you might actually gain a little wisdom. We won’t be doing anything until sunset so you may as well make yourself busy.”
They unloaded the camping equipment and split it between them before setting off on foot along a valley that ran up into the hills. They walked for two hours until they were exhausted, continually scanning among the trees for any sign of danger. When they broke above the treeline they pitched camp on the sunlit, grassy slopes, admiring the amazing views across the wildly beautiful countryside. After lighting a fire Shavi cooked the bacon and eggs and prepared beans on toast for Laura, which they devoured hungrily after their exertion.
Tom avoided all their questions in his usual irritatingly brusque manner until the sun started to ease towards the horizon, and then he marshalled them and led them across the slopes and around rocky outcroppings where the only sound was the whistle of the wind. Finally they mounted a bank and looked down on the remnants of a stone circle.
It was only identifiable as a henge at close inspection; to the cursory observer the arrangement of rocks looked almost natural, an illusion that was added to by the few recumbent stones which had not survived the passing of the centuries. Set on the grassy plain, with a vista across the forested landscape towards the setting sun, they could fully understand why their ancestors had located it in that spot; there was a sense of awe from simply being there with only nature all around. A respectful silence came over them the instant they laid eyes on it and, automatically, they all bowed their heads in respect. When they were just a few feet away, Church dipped down and stretched out his fingers to the short grass. A blue spark leapt up from the earth to his fingertips and disappeared up his arm.
“It’s true,” Ruth said. “Can you feel it?”
Shavi closed his eyes and put his head back beatifically. “Yes. The earth power. “
“A few weeks ago I didn’t feel a thing in any of these old sites. Now I’ve got a tingling in my legs, my hands.” Ruth looked round curiously. “A feeling of-“
“Well-being,” Tom interrupted. “The Pendragon Spirit within you has grown stronger through your experiences. The spirit and the earth power come from the same source. Naturally, you sense an affinity.”
“If the spirit inside us grows stronger, where will it end?” Shavi asked with an expression of wonder.
Tom smiled enigmatically. “Millennia ago, when the blue fire pulsed through the arteries of the earth, all men experienced what you feel now. And perhaps they will again. Once you have awakened the sleeping king.”
They processed into the centre of the circle and looked around. All was silent apart from the breeze humming in their ears. The sun was fat and scarlet on the horizon, about to tip below the distant hills, the sky red at the lowest point, merging through purple to dark blue.
“There’s no one anywhere near here,” Veitch protested. “We just going to sit around till somebody turns up?”
“No,” Tom replied. “We are going to summon the Gruagaich and petition them for aid.”
There was suspicion in all their faces, to which Church gave voice. “We’ve had enough of being manipulated by any supernatural force that happens to cross our path-“
“Don’t worry,” Tom interjected sharply. “This time we turn to our own.”
“What do you mean?”
Tom motioned to the stones. “This has been a place of summoning for as long as people have settled in the area. You see that stone over there? It is the clack na Gruagaich, one of several by that name scattered around Scotland. This site is hardly known by anyone outside the locals, who would leave an offering in its hollow for the spirits they knew could be contacted here-mainly milk, for protection of the cattle. They believed the spirits were brownies or some other daoine- sith.” He smiled contemptuously. “The good neighbours, their euphemistic term for the beings of Otherworld, or Elfame as they called it. Faerie.”
“But they weren’t?”
“No. The clue is in the name. Gruagaich. Long-haired ones.” He watched the sun for a long moment. Only a thin arc was visible now above the silhouetted hills. “The first among the old tribes. The people who took up the mantle of the power discovered by the ones who put up these stones. The Celts.”
After a long pause, Veitch said doubtfully, “You’re going to talk to ghosts?”
“We will summon the Celtic dead,” Tom stated emphatically.
Ruth’s brow knit. “What can they know that could help us?”
“In the spirit world, all vistas are open. And these are not just any spirits. They are linked to you through time, the first Brothers and Sisters of Dragons.”
Tom’s words sent a shiver running through all of them just as the sun slipped completely below the horizon and darkness swept across the land. But a second later, a cloud drifted away and the moon cast its silver light on the circle, limning every stone, throwing long shadows across the grass.
“It’s time,” Tom said.
From his left pocket, he took a plastic bag which appeared to contain pieces of twig and dried vegetable matter. “The sacred mushroom,” he said.
“You’re a regular drugstore.” Laura’s normally confident tones were softened by apprehension. “I know where to come when I want to get blasted.”
Tom ignored her. He took a handful of the psychoactive mushrooms from the bag and moved among them, placing small quantities in their mouths. They chewed the rubbery, metallic-tasting pieces and swallowed with distaste.
Tom ingested several himself, then took out the battered tin in which he kept his hash and meticulou
sly constructed a joint. When he was done, he lit it and inhaled before walking over to the altar stone. There, he blew out the smoke gently. It rose like a ghost in the moonlight. Using his lighter, he charred the edge of the remaining hash and crumbled some of it into the hollow on the stone. Then, head bowed, he took a few paces back and sat cross-legged, drawing the pungent smoke deep inside him.
Veitch and Laura shifted uneasily, but Shavi, Church and Ruth were overcome by an atmosphere of sanctity. On some level they couldn’t quite comprehend, they sensed a change begin to take place around them, as if the air itself were growing heavier, filled with the weight of what was to come. Church swallowed and tasted iron filings in his mouth; his heart began to beat faster as a tingling sensation ran from his groin along his spine to his head. He wondered how much was the drugs and how much was actually happening.
It felt like they waited for an age, feeling the wind gently brush their skin, filled with the summery scent of the warm pine forests. But then they noticed a distant movement away in the night. Initially it seemed to be only moonshadows on the rolling terrain, except it became too insistent; the blurred edges of the shadows hardened, the undulating movement became more defined into smaller units. Slowly, Church scanned the area, squinting to draw form from the gloom. Another shiver ran through him when the images finally took shape.
Figures were separating themselves from the landscape in a wide arc, advancing slowly on the stone; he estimated there must have been about a hundred of them, mostly men, but some women. At first they were just silhouettes against a lighter dark, but in their eerie, silent advance, details began to emerge. Long, dark hair; skin that was swarthy where visible but in the main covered by what appeared to be mud, as if they had camouflaged themselves for guerrilla warfare; with the furs and hides that kept them warm and the way they moved, in a low, loping way, they resembled some odd half-beast creatures.
Finally they came to a halt thirty feet from the stone. The breeze blew among them, rustling hair and furs, but they were so unmoving in the gloom they merged with the stones and the outcropping rocks. It was impossible to discern their faces; pools of shadows filled their eye sockets, leaving Church and the others with the horrible sensation that if the shadows cleared, there would be no eyes there at all. The night was suddenly alive with anxiety and danger; Church knew in some instinctive way that however insubstantial the revenants appeared, they were not passive creatures; he couldn’t shake the feeling that, with the wrong word or movement, they would attack. From the corner of his eye he could see the others staring at Tom, silently urging him to break the oppressive mood.
After what felt like an age, Tom rose to address the dark assembly; he held out his hands in the universal sign of friendly greeting.
“What do you want, teacher?”
The voice seemed to be in Church’s head. The words rumbled with a strange accent, but they were clearly modern English, although he couldn’t begin to understand how the communication was taking place. One of the figures moved out of the mass. He didn’t appear to walk; it was almost as if, in the blink of Church’s eyelid, the figure had shifted forwards several feet. There was nothing about him that signified he was a leader or spokesman.
“We come in this time of crisis to call upon your great wisdom, revered ancestor.” Tom’s head was slightly bowed in respect.
“It must be a matter of import to summon us back from the Grim Lands.” There was a worrying note in the words, but then the speaker inclined his head slightly towards Church and the others and his tone became more respectful. “I sense in these the shimmering blue fire of the Great Mother Bridgit.”
“They are Brothers and Sisters of Dragons.”
The Celt bowed his head. “The fire of life has found a good home.”
Church felt a sudden surge in his heart. In the Celt’s words was a regard and acceptance that cut through his own fears about his abilities.
“In our hearts and spirits, we make our offerings,” Tom continued. “Will you hear me?”
“We know you too, brother. Your kind administered to us from the sacred groves. It is good to know the lore survives the years. We will hear you.”
Church saw the tension go out of Tom’s shoulders. “You will be aware, as in the first days, that there is darkness on the land and blood in the wind. The Fomorii have returned.” A tremor seemed to run through the throng; Church’s heightened senses felt a wave of threat. “They wish to trap the people in the Eternal Night. That must never happen again. We can no longer rely on the comfort of the Children of Danu. But, as in your days, though the arm is weak, the heart is strong. Yet, still, we need something more to aid us in our struggle. Guide us with your wisdom.”
There was a moment of hanging tension when Church thought the spirits weren’t going to answer. Then: “You must find the Luck of the Land if you are ever to unleash the true power of the people.”
“What is the Luck of the Land?”
Silence; just the soughing of the wind. Tom chewed on his lip. “Then tell me this, I beseech you: in the Grim Lands, all existence is laid out before you. Where is the Fomorii nest where Balor will be reborn?”
“The Heart of Shadows will rejoin this world betwixt here and there, but he will find his home where the Luck of the Land is kept.”
Church could sense Tom fighting with his normally irritable nature at their opaque answers, but the Rhymer knew a word out of line would not only ruin their opportunity to discover more information, it could prove fatal to them. The spirits may once have been kin, Church thought, but their time in what they called the Grim Lands had changed them immeasureably; he didn’t want to antagonise them at all. Cautiously scanning the massed ranks for any sign of attack, he saw a shape that seemed familiar. It was only a fleeting glimpse of a profile against the starlit sky, but it struck a chord with him. He lost it almost instantly and before he had chance to seek it out again, Tom’s measured tones distracted him.
“Revered ancestors, is there any guidance you can give us which will aid us in our great task? Anything at all?”
“Wise teacher, in my words lies your salvation. You require more? Then heed this: for the source of threat, look within as well as without. For direction, follow your hearts south to the city of the Well of Fire. For success in battle, cleanse the darkness from the spirit of your chieftain. And remember this: an ally already stands tall among the Children of Danu. Treat him with respect to keep his comfort close. Now, your offering was gratefully received, but it will buy no more of my patience. If you require anything else, you must pay for it with a life. Do you wish to proceed?”
Suddenly, the arc of Celts seemed too close, ready to cut off any retreat. As Church looked round, they seemed to waver like an image in a heat haze and for a moment he sensed something very like hunger; anxiety began to turn to fear deep in the pit of his stomach.
“Revered ancestor, we have been enlightened by your wisdom,” Tom began. “And we offer our gracious thanks for your time. We shall delay you no more. We wish you well on your return to the Grim Lands.”
The Celt who had addressed them lowered his head slightly in parting and, for the briefest instant, the shadows that covered his eyes seemed to clear; what Church glimpsed there made his mind squirm and he had to stop himself fleeing back to the campfire.
It was several minutes after the Celts had melted back into the landscape before anyone spoke. It was as if they were coming out of a dream, one tinged with incipient menace where strange truths had been made known, so strange that they could barely be comprehended upon awakening. The feeling was heightened when they realised they could only hazily remember what they had seen, although the words still rang out in their minds.
“Did we actually experience that, or was it the mushrooms?” Ruth asked. Church saw she was gripping her hands together to prevent them shaking.
“A little of both,” Tom replied.
Shavi nodded in agreement. “The mushrooms are the key to opening t
he doors of perception.”
Tom smiled suddenly. “I remember seeing Jim Morrison perform in Florida-“
“Most old gits talk about the war,” Laura interrupted. “We get reminiscences of the happy hippie trail. Now can we get back to the fire-it’s freezing out here.”
Veitch pulled out a bottle of single malt he’d found in the grocery store on Kyleakin and they drank it from plastic cups around the fire.
“So, correct me if I’m wrong, but that was just a load of cryptic bollocks that wasted our time, right?” Although Laura sat next to Church, she was careful not to make the others feel uncomfortable by showing any sign of her affection for him, though Church had sensed an obvious proprietary instinct in the way she had taken her seat just as Ruth was walking up.
Tom shook his head. “They didn’t make it easy for us, but all the information they offered is vital.”
“Except we probably won’t crack the code until it’s too late,” Church noted. “What’s the Luck of the Land?”
“I have no idea. The Celts believed it was dangerous to name a sacred thing by its true name, which is why these exercises end up in irritating circumlocution.” Tom took a deep swig of the whisky and then said tartly, “But we can pull some pearls from the verbal ordure. The city of the Well of Fire is Edinburgh. There’s an extinct volcanic feature in the city called Arthur’s Seat.”
“More Arthurian code for a site linked to the earth power?” Church mused.
“It’s a very powerful source, the most powerful in Scotland. The Well lies under Arthur’s Seat.”
“Then that’s where we’ve got to go. Shouldn’t take too long from here.” Veitch lay back with his hands behind his head.
Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) Page 7