Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2)

by Mark Chadbourn

  “That’s because you are not looking correctly,” Tom replied with exasperation.

  Church squinted in the feeble hope it would reveal some hitherto obscured detail, but it only brought an irritated snort from Tom. “Haven’t you learned anything yet?”

  “I’ve learned you’re an annoying bastard,” Church snapped.

  “The mistake you people constantly make is that you see the five senses as separate, and as the only tools at your disposal. Haven’t I told you to trust your intuition? Sense where the switch is. Feel the power of the earth energy in this spot, its arteries and veins, where it pulses the strongest. Then let it inform each sense in turn, until they are all working together. Smell the switch, taste it in the air. Hear it calling to you.”

  Church attempted to do what Tom said. After a few seconds he said, “It’s not working.”

  Tom cuffed his shoulder so that Church spun round in irritation. “You’re not trying hard enough. Concentrate. Open your mind and your heart to it. If you don’t believe, you won’t do it.”

  “Why should I be able to do it?”

  “Why? Because you’re special, though God knows why. You are a manifestation of the Pendragon Spirit. Its force moves through you. You’re closer to the land and the energy than I am. In an ideal world, you should be teaching me!”

  Church sighed and turned back to the well-head. “It’s not easy to believe in something like that.”

  “Stop whining. Get on with it.”

  Church concentrated. After a while he gave up trying to look at the detail in the stone and closed his eyes; that seemed to help. In the dark behind his eyelids he imagined he could see blue tracings like the trails left by firework sparklers. But then he realised it wasn’t his imagination, and if he concentrated, he could make the paths stronger, see the faint web they made. A little more concentration and he could hear them fizzing, as if he were standing near a hightension power line; they smelled and tasted like burnt iron.

  And then he opened his eyes and he could still see the blue trails glowing beneath the surface of the stone and the surrounding grass. “It’s there.” His awed voice was hushed. He let his gaze slip slightly to the side and he could see the blue arteries continuing out and up into Arthur’s Seat, across the ground behind him towards the city. “It’s in everything. Everywhere.”

  He noticed that some of the arteries and veins glowed with a paler blue and others appeared oddly truncated, as if they had withered and died. With this realisation and the conscious stream of thoughts it generated, he began to lose control of the vision. It flickered as his senses fragmented, became individual units again. Desperately he launched himself forward and hammered the palm of his hand on to the point on the well-head where the blue fire had appeared to converge. There was a surge of needle-pain in his fingertips and blue sparks flew. With a deep rumble, the well-head split open, flooding water out, but giving access to a dark tunnel which lay beyond the spout of the spring.

  Tom grabbed his elbow and propelled him in. The moment they set foot in the tunnel the well-head ground shut behind them. Church had expected stifling darkness, but there was a faint phosphorescent glow to the slick rock walls which gave the passage the gloomy appearance of the last minutes of twilight. But it was enough to see by, and Tom was already marching ahead.

  Church caught up with him with a double-step, breathing in the dank air and shivering slightly. His footsteps echoed off the walls. “That was amazing.” Although there was no reason for it, he spoke in a whisper. “Is that how you see things?”

  “Sometimes. When I allow myself.”

  “It’s-” He searched for the right word, but couldn’t find one to match the immensity of what he felt. He settled for, “Tremendous. I can understand how people could get all religious about that. It showed the interconnectedness of everything. That blue, spiritual fire, in the land, in the rocks.” He gazed at the back of his hand. “In us.”

  “It’s the neolithic mindset. Once everybody could see things that way.”

  “Then what happened? Why did we lose it?”

  Tom shrugged. “The more we developed the rational side of the brain, the more we lost touch with the intuitive. We simply forgot the skill to combine the senses, to be holistic in feeling. It’s one of the great arrogances of man that we consider we are constantly evolving, that to dwell wholly on reason and science and logic is somehow better. But what would you think of a man who chopped off his left arm to make his right arm stronger? That ability to combine the senses, to feel, that was the most amazing skill of all. Man hasn’t been whole for a long time, yet everyone in this century thinks they’re some kind of superman, the pinnacle of existence. If it wasn’t so bitter, the irony would make me laugh.”

  Church thought about this. The passage began to slope down, but just as he thought they were going to head into the bowels of the earth it rose up sharply, then descended again. Soon he’d lost all sense of direction.

  “I’ve got a question,” he said eventually.

  “Go ahead.”

  “In all the stories there’s a myth that the fairies are scared of iron. The Fomorii and Tuatha De Danann don’t seem to have any problem with it.”

  “Correct.”

  “But I noticed the earth energy seems to smell and taste of iron-” Tom’s sudden grin brought him up sharp.

  “Very perceptive! You’ve found the source of the myth! It’s the blue fire and everything it represents that fills them with fear. That’s what can bind them. And in its most potent form, that’s what can destroy them.”

  Church surprised himself with the awe he felt. “I didn’t realise the power of it. Then if we can control it-“

  “The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons truly can be the defenders of the land.”

  “We have to awaken it,” Church said firmly, almost to himself.

  “That’s your destiny,” Tom added.

  Ahead of them the tunnel dipped down into the darkness again. Church found himself subconsciously going for the locket given him by the young Marianne; it filled him with strength in a way he still couldn’t quite understand.

  “What lies ahead, then?” he said uneasily.

  Tom shrugged. “It won’t be an easy journey. This close to such a powerful source of the earth energy, time and space will warp. It will be disorientating. We will have to keep our wits about us.”

  “And when we get to where we’re going, how are we supposed to get the blue fire moving again?”

  “Do I look like the fount of all knowledge?” Tom said irritably. “We’ll find out when we get there. Hopefully.”

  And with that he set off into the darkness.

  The hotel seemed empty without the others around. Veitch ate dinner early, steak and potatoes with a good red wine, but the high life he could never have afforded before did little to raise his spirits. With everything in such a state of flux, so many pressures and so much at risk, there was too much even to think about. And it wasn’t just that the world was changing, it was the deep things shifting within him. Here, finally, was a chance to change; he could leave behind the Ryan Veitch he had despised all his life and become the person he always dreamed he would be: good, decent, unselfish, caring. Until chaos had descended on the world, he had dismissed the idea with the certain knowledge that he was who he was-he would never change. But now he had a chance, he was determined not to let it slip through his fingers.

  When the sun started to go down he took his brooding with him to the bar. The room was near-deserted. It would have been wiser to stick with wine, but he couldn’t resist ordering a pint of lager, which he took to a table where he could see the door; an old habit.

  He’d got halfway down his drink when he noticed the elderly gentleman who’d come up to him in the lobby the previous day. He was smiling at Veitch from a nearby table, as elegant as ever with his smart suit and his swept-back white hair. He sat with his hands crossed on top of his cane.

  “You know, this old pla
ce used to be thronging at this time of year,” the man said. Veitch smiled politely, but he had never been one for small talk, particularly with a higher class. Toffs always made him feel insignificant, stupid and uncultured, whatever his better judgement. But this man seemed pleasant enough; his smile was warm and open, and there didn’t seem any judgment in the way he looked at Veitch. “Do you mind if I join you?” He smiled at Veitch’s reticence. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not some predatory shirtlifter. I merely wish to share your company and, well, and perhaps my thoughts.” His smile changed key, but Veitch couldn’t read what it signified.

  “Okay,” Veitch said, recognising his own loneliness. “I’ll have a drink with you.” He took his lager over to the man’s table and sat opposite him. Up close, he could see the man’s eyes sparkled with a youthfulness that belied his age. He smelled of expensive aftershave and pipe tobacco.

  “Gordon Reynolds,” the old man said holding out a well-tended hand. Veitch shook it and introduced himself.

  For the next hour they exchanged small talk: about how Veitch was finding Edinburgh, about the weather, the best tourist sites, the malts that really ought to be sampled and a host of other minor issues. Reynolds broke off to sip at his whisky and when he replaced his glass there was a gleam in his eye. “You look like a bright young man,” he said. “You are aware, of course, that something very strange is going on in the world.”

  “I’ve seen some funny things.” Veitch sipped at his lager.

  “They closed off the Old Town today.”

  Veitch nodded.

  “You’re very reticent.” Reynolds smiled. “I suspect you know much more than you’re saying.”

  “I know a bit. Don’t like to talk about it.”

  “It’s bad, then. No, don’t bother telling me otherwise. I’ve some friends in Wick who used to keep in touch before the telephones went down. They were keen hill-walkers, used to go off into the wilderness. Well, rather them than me. Give me a warm fire and an old malt by it any day. But one day, not so long ago, they went off into the wilds and saw some … quite terrible things. Quite terrible. Now they never leave the town. No one does. The wilderness is offlimits.” He scanned Veitch with a dissecting gaze, taking in every minute movement of the Londoner’s face. “But you know all this, I can see. Then you know it’s not just happening up in Wick. There’s word coming from all over. Here in Auld Reekie, with our sophisticated ways, we could laugh at the superstitions of our country cousins. And now they’ve closed off the Old Town.”

  “It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

  “I’m sure it is, I’m sure it is. And there’s the Government with the hints and whispers and `it’s a crisis, we can’t give you too much information,’ trying to make us think it’s the Russkies or the Iraqis or God knows who while they desperately flounder around for an answer that will constantly evade them. Never trust the Establishment, my boy. They’re in-bred with arrogance. They think we’re too stupid to be told anything as radical as the truth.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Veitch drained his pint and glanced towards the bar, hoping for a lull in the conversation so he could get a refill.

  “The ironic thing is that most of the people are starting to know better than they. The Establishment is too inflexible and this new age needs people who are prepared to take great leaps forward. They’ll be left behind. Only the fleet of mind will survive. What do you think of that?”

  “I think-” Veitch raised his glass “-I need another lager.”

  Reynolds looked up and motioned to the barman. A minute later another round of drinks arrived at their table.

  “How did you manage that?” Veitch asked. “They don’t do table service.”

  “Oh, I’ve been a resident here for many years, my boy. They grant me my little indulgences out of respect for my great age and my deep wallet.”

  Veitch laughed. “You’re all right, Gordon.”

  “That’s very decent of you to say, my boy. But tell me, you’re troubled, aren’t you? I could see it written all over your face whenever I saw you around the hotel. Share your burden. I may, may, I stress, be able to help.”

  Veitch sighed, looked away. “No, best not.” But when he caught Reynolds’ eye, the elderly man seemed so supportive he said, “Oh, bollocks, what’s the harm.”

  He wasn’t sure it was completely wise of him, but over the next hour he proceeded to tell Reynolds everything that had happened since he had encountered Church in the old mine beneath Dartmoor. He was sure some of it made no sense-he could barely grasp the intricacies himself-but Reynolds kept smiling and nodding.

  “So that’s the way it is, Gordon,” he said after he had related the latest impending crisis. “Sometimes I wonder, what’s the fucking point.” He caught himself and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Bad habit.”

  Reynolds dismissed his apology with a flourish of his hand. “So, you feel it’s hopeless. Hopeless in that you feel there’s only five, or six, or whatever, ineffectual people facing down the hordes of hell. And hopeless because the girl you love is locked away in some dismal place with no chance of a rescue.”

  “I never said I loved her!” Veitch said indignantly.

  Reynolds waved him away again. “Of course you do! It’s obvious!”

  Veitch coloured and shook his head. “And I’m not saying it’s hopeless. I mean, I’m going in there to get her, you know. I’m giving it my best bleedin’ shot.”

  “But you don’t hold out much hope of getting out again.”

  “Ah, who knows?”

  Reynolds sat back in his chair and thought for a moment, sipped at his whisky, then thought again. Veitch watched him with growing impatience. Eventually, tweaking his moustache, Reynolds said, “Are you in the mood for a story, my boy?”

  “A story?”

  “Yes. A true-life story. Like they have in the women’s magazines. It’s about a young man of style and elegance, dashing and debonair, not really one for books, but a whizz with the girls-” He laughed richly. “Now I can’t fool you, can I? Yes, it’s my story. Still interested?”

  Veitch nodded. He had warmed to Reynolds; his old prejudices had been forgotten for the moment.

  “Let me tell you then. I was twenty-four, from a very good family with a little money in my pocket and a lot of confidence. A dangerous combination. My mother and father had always considered me for a career in the law. Edinburgh is the lawyers’ city, after all. But, you know, that thing with the books …” He shook his head. “No, not for me. I wanted something a little more colourful. Why should I consign myself to a prison of dusty old books when I could run off to sea or enlist in some war in an exotic clime? And that’s just what I did. I set off on foot for Leith with a head full of Robert Louis Stevenson and dreams of hiring aboard some tramp steamer to the Orient.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Veitch mused. “Better than getting stuck in a rut at home.”

  “Exactly! But then the strangest thing happened to me. As I walked towards Leith with the sun climbing in the sky, I came across a vision of such beauty it made me stop in my tracks. Now this wasn’t film star beauty, do you understand? But she was beautiful to me.” Veitch nodded. “Even to this day I don’t know why I did it. Perhaps it was because I was filled with the kind of joy you can only experience when you embark on something new, or perhaps it was the quality of light, or the fresh tang on the wind, or all those things aligned in an unrepeatable harmonious conjunction. But that moment was so special it felt like my skin was singing.”

  He caressed the ornately styled head of his cane for a long moment, so deep in thought he appeared oblivious to the people around him. But when he spoke again, his voice was so infused with happiness Veitch felt warmed simply to hear it. “Her name was Maureen. She had red hair that fell in gorgeous ringlets and skin so pale it made her eyes seem uncommonly dark. She was walking into town on the other side of the street. What did I do? Why, I threw all my plans in the air and ran across th
e road to talk to her.”

  “You’re an old romantic, Gordon.”

  “Oh, indeed,” he chuckled. “I thought perhaps I’d pick up my plans later in the day, or the next day, or the next week. But as we walked and talked, and as she laughed, and as we recognised, in our looks and our gentle touches, that we were carved from the same clay, I realised I would never set sail from Leith. It takes someone very, very special for you to give up all your dreams in a single moment. But it was there, love at first sight, like all the poets say. Do you believe in that?”

  Witch sat back in his chair and looked up into the dark sky through the window. “I’m not sure, Gordon. I think I’d like to, but it’s not the kind of thing you get to think about too much in Greenwich, know what I mean?”

  “I think you’re not being very honest with yourself,” Reynolds said with a knowing smile. “Maureen and I quickly became inseparable. On the surface we had very little in common. She came from a good, upstanding family, but they had little money, little of any material possessions. She had been forced to leave school at thirteen to help earn the family’s keep. But those things don’t matter, do they?”

  “S’pose not.”

  He pressed his fist against his heart. “These are where the real bonds are made.” Then he touched his temple. “Not here. But there was one difference even we could not overcome.” He paused; the muscles around his mouth grew taut with an old anger. “I was a Protestant and Maureen was a Catholic, you see. That means nothing to you, I can see, and that’s good. You’re a modern manyou’re not burdened with centuries of stupidity. Everybody thinks of that kind of prejudice as the Irish problem, but it’s always been here in Scotland, even to this day. You told me you’d heard the stories in the city about Mary King’s Close, the street boarded up to let the Black Death sufferers die.”

  Veitch flinched at the coincidence. He nodded.

  “The people of Mary King’s Close were Catholics. Demonised, made less than human. Mothers of the time would frighten their children by saying the terrible people of Mary King’s Close would get them if they weren’t good. Would the horrors inflicted on them have happened if they were Protestants in this most Protestant of cities? I think not.”