“They’ve sent it after Ruth, the biggest and baddest they’ve got to offer. What the fuck are we going to do now?” He answered his own question a moment later. “Keep moving. We can’t hang around.”
They retreated down the rise, then hurried back to tell the others.
There was no further sighting of whatever was hunting them, its path had appeared to be taking it away to the west while they were moving southeast. Even so, they were now even more on their guard.
As the day drew on, dark clouds swept in from the west and by midafternoon the landscape had taken on a silver sheen beneath the lowering sky. There, on the high ground, the wind had the bite of winter despite the time of year; they all wished they had some warmer clothes, but they had only brought a few changes of underwear and T-shirts.
Dusk came early with the clouds blackening and they knew it was better to find shelter and make camp rather than risk a lightning strike in the open ground. The rain fell in sheets, rippling back and forth across the grass and rocks; the clouds came down even lower and soon visibility was down to a few yards.
Not even Tom’s outdoor skills could find any wood dry enough to make a fire. They sat shivering in their tents, observing the storm through the open flaps. Eventually the rain died off and the clouds lifted, the storm drifting away to the east. They watched its progress, the lightning sparking out in jagged explosions of passion, the world thrown into negative, the martial drumroll.
Laura’s voice drifted out across the camp site. “We need a band. You can’t beat a light show like that with any technology.” The wonder in her words raised all their spirits.
It took two more days to reach their destination. The first was dismal with occasional downpours. The going was hard in the face of the gale and the landscape was treacherous in the intermittent mists. They made camp early and slept long.
The second day was much brighter from the onset and by midmorning even the smallest cloud had blown away. Veitch, Shavi and Church stripped to the waist in the growing heat, prompting them to tease the women to follow suit. A mouthful of abuse from Laura brought their jeering to a quick end.
For the first time in days they had to cross major roads and avoid centres of population. They wound their way by Shipton and Ilkley, and whenever the moorland gave way to lanes they ducked behind stone walls every time they heard the sound of a car. After their enforced isolation they felt oddly unnerved when they realised the most populous areas of Yorkshire were close. Tom even claimed to smell Bradford and Leeds on the wind.
Ilkley Moor was almost mystical in the way it responded to the weather conditions and the shifting of light and shade across its robust skin. The green fields on the edge gave way to romantic bleakness the higher they rose, where gorse and scrubland looked copper in the midafternoon sun. There, in the midst of it, the sense of isolation returned, potent yet oddly comforting.
They knew the spot the moment it came into view. The standing stones glowed brightly, their shadows like pointing fingers. But it wasn’t the sight of them; after only a few days away from the trappings of the modern age their senses were attuned to changes in the world around them, the crackling energy in the atmosphere that instantly seemed to recharge their flagging vitality, the feel of a powerful force throbbing in the ground as if mighty machines turned just beneath their feet; a sudden overwhelming sense of well-being.
Church closed his eyes and had an instant vision of the blue fire flowing powerfully in mighty arteries away from the circle. “There’s nothing dormant about this spot.”
Although he tried to hide his emotions as usual, Tom seemed pleased by Church’s sensitivity. “This has always been a vital spot. Welcome to the Twelve Apostles of Ilkley Moor.”
The twelve standing stones which Tom called the Apostles were roughly four feet high and hacked from the local millstone grit. “There were originally twenty,” Tom said. “In the nineteenth century they thought it was a calendar and christened it the Druidical Dial.”
Amongst the stones they felt instantly secure and relaxed, as if they instinctively knew nothing could harm them there.
“It feels like Stonehenge on a smaller scale.” Ruth felt comforted and hugged her arms around herself.
“All the sacred sites used to be like this,” Tom said. “Places of sanctuary. Linked to the Fiery Network. So many have been torn down now.”
Shavi stood in the centre of the circle, closed his eyes and raised his arms. “The magic is vibrant.”
“It’s one of the places that remained potent, even during the Age of Reason,” Tom continued. “In 1976 three of the Royal Observer Corps were up here. They saw a white globe of light hovering above the stones. Throughout the eighties there were many other accounts of strange, flashing lights and balls of light descending. That helped the circle regain some of its standing in the local community and every summer solstice there used to be a fine collection of people up here for celebration.”
Church drifted away from the others to press his hand on one of the stones; he could feel the power humming within as if there were electronic circuitry just beneath the surface. It seemed so long since Tom had introduced him to the blue fire at Stonehenge, although it was only a matter of weeks, yet now it felt such a part of his life he couldn’t imagine living without it. The image of Tom manipulating the blue flames that first night had haunted him and he had begun to realise it was something he desperately wanted to be able to do himself. Cautiously he removed his hand an inch from the stone and concentrated in an effort to produce that leaping blue spark.
Nothing came. Yet he felt no disappointment. He was sure it was only a matter of time.
They set up camp within the tight confines of the circle. In no time at all the earth energy had infused them, recharging them, healing their aches and pains, and Ruth felt better than she had done since Callander; the nausea had almost completely gone. Yet the moor stretched out so bleakly all around and the camp was so exposed they couldn’t shake their sense of unease and the feeling they were constantly being watched.
For long periods, Veitch sat half-perched on one of the stones scanning the landscape. “See anything?” Church asked him while the others were preparing dinner.
He shook his head without taking his eyes off the scenery. “Look at it out there. There could be somebody ten feet away lying in the scrub and we’d have trouble seeing them.”
“At least if that big Fomor comes up we won’t miss seeing him.”
“Yeah,” Veitch said darkly, “but then where do we run, eh?”
When darkness fell, the sense of isolation became even more disturbing. There was no light, no sign at all of human habitation; they might as well have been Neolithic tribesmen praying to their gods for the coming of the dawn.
Their small talk was more mundane than ever, with none of the usual gibes or abrasiveness, as they all mentally prepared themselves for the discussion to come. Eventually Tom took out his hash tin and rolled himself a joint, which they all recognised as the signal that they were about to begin. Ruth suddenly looked like she was about to be sick.
“Over the last few days we have all done a remarkable job in avoiding the severity of the problem that faces us,” Tom began. “That’s understandable. It’s almost too monumental to consider. But let’s speak plainly now so we know exactly where we stand. Here in this circle we have the chance for ultimate victory in the enormous conflict that has enveloped us. And we face a personal, shattering defeat that will devastate us.” Church was surprised to hear the raw emotion in Tom’s words; the Rhymer had always pretended he cared little about any of them.
“What you’re saying,” Ruth said, her face pale but strong, “is that if I die, Balor dies, the Fomorii lose, we … humanity … wins. But if you’re overcome by sentimentalism and you can’t bring yourself to kill me, Balor will be reborn and everybody loses. And I get to die anyway, in the birth. That last point pretty much makes any debate unnecessary. Either way I die. So … we should ge
t on with it as soon as possible.”
“Hang on a minute-” Veitch protested.
“Yes,” Church said. “I know you’d just love to be a martyr, but maybe we should see if there are any other options before we rush to slit your throat and bury you out on the moors.”
“I’m just letting you know I’m prepared,” Ruth said.
Shavi leaned forward. “The Tuatha De Danann, certainly at their highest level, seem almost omnipotent. Can we ask them to help us?”
“You didn’t see Dian Cecht.” The contempt in Church’s voice was clear. “The Fomorii are corrupting in their eyes, and Balor is the ultimate corruption. They’re not prepared to get their pristine hands dirty, even if they could do something.”
“They’re like a bunch of toffs telling the labourers what to do,” Veitch said venomously.
Laura had been watching Tom closely while the others spoke. He had been drawing on his joint, inspecting the hot ashes at the end, as if he wasn’t really listening. “You’ve got something in mind, haven’t you?”
Tom seemed not to hear her, either, but the others all turned to him. “The Tuatha De Danann will not be able to destroy Balor’s essence in its current form unless the medium for the rebirth is destroyed,” he began. “But, as Shavi said, their abilities are wide ranging. It is possible they may be able to do something to help. I’ve seen some of the wonders they can perform …” His voice faded; he bit his bottom lip.
“How are we going to get them to help us?” Church said. “They don’t want anything to do with anyone who’s been touched by the Fomorii.”
“I may be able to help.” Tom drew on the joint insistently; it was obviously no longer about enjoying the effect or using it for some kind of consciousnessraising-he was trying to anaesthetise himself. “You recall around the campfire in the Allen Gorge, Cormorel told me my Queen had returned to her court?”
“She was the one who first took you into Otherworld,” Church said. Whose immense power had taken Tom’s body and consciousness apart and reassembled it, who had treated Tom like a toy in the hands of a spoilt but curious brat, his torment so great his mind had almost shattered. And the woman he had grown to love in his captivity and suffering. Church shivered.
“The Faerie Queen, humans called her. She was also known as the Great Goddess by the older races, and a legion of other names.”
“So, she’s, like, a bigshot?” Veitch said. “The Queen.”
“There are many queens among the Tuatha De Danann, all with their own courts, although that term is about as relevant as any other when discussing them. But, yes, she is higher than most.”
“And you think she will help?” Church asked, watching Tom carefully for the truth behind his words.
The Rhymer smiled tightly. “How could she not when her pet returns, rolls over and asks so nicely?”
The bitterness in his voice stung them all. Church knew what a sacrifice Tom would be making; after both the agonies and the crushing blow to his ego, to put himself at risk of facing it all again was more than anyone should be expected to do.
Ruth recognised it too, for there were tears rimming her eyes. She wiped them away, stared at the ground desolately.
“There is no guarantee that she can help, though?” Shavi asked.
Tom raised his hands. “There are never any guarantees.”
“Then we should have an alternative plan.” Shavi rested a comforting hand on Ruth’s back; she shivered, seemed to draw strength from it. “We already have patrons among the Tuatha De Danann. Niamh-“
“I don’t think I can ask her for any more help. She’s trying to sort out Maponus,” Church said; but he had a pang of guilt knowing that he was afraid to approach her after failing to end his relationship with Laura.
“More importantly,” Shavi continued unfazed, “there is Cernunnos. Ruth saved him from the control of the Fomorii. Now she is in difficulty, perhaps he will return the favour.”
“Yes.” Ruth’s eyes grew wide. “He said the Green was inside me.” She struggled to remember his exact words. “He said in the harshest times, you may call for my aid. Seek me out in my Green Home.”
“That’s it, then!” Veitch said excitedly. “Plan A and Plan B. One of ‘em’s got to work!”
“We have to be wary not to get too in debt to any of the Tuatha De Danann.” The weight in Tom’s words gave them all pause.
“This is a desperate situation,” Church said. “We have to take risks.”
“I know,” Tom said. “But you have to be aware there is always a price to pay, and that price may be very high indeed. Do not go into this blindly.”
“Then what’s the plan? How do we get to these freaks?” Veitch had latched on to the suggestions with the simple hope of a child; the brightness of relief lit his face.
Tom cursed under his breath. “I think a good starting point would be for you to learn how to treat them with respect. If you open your mouth like that you won’t have a second chance to speak.”
“Right.” Veitch looked suitably chastened.
“The Queen’s court is accessed under Tom-na-hurich, the Hill of Yews, in Inverness,” Tom said. “It will be a long, difficult journey, so I propose to set off at sunrise-
“You’re not going alone.” Church didn’t leave any room for debate in his tone, but he was still surprised when Tom didn’t argue. Church quickly looked round the others, then stopped at Veitch. “Ryan, you had better go with him. We can’t risk the Queen hanging on to him. There needs to be someone to bring back the goods in an emergency.” He hated speaking so baldly, but he could see Tom knew exactly what the potential risks were.
“Not back up to Scotland,” Veitch moaned. “We’ve only just scarpered from there.”
“What about Cernunnos?” Ruth asked. “Where’s this Green Home?”
“Cernunnos has been most closely linked with the site of the Great Oak in Windsor Park,” Tom said. “The oak is no longer there, but the god is rumoured to appear at the spot which was the prime centre of his worship in antiquity. They say,” Tom added, “he appears there most at times of national crisis.”
“I remember,” Church mused, “another legend linked to that site. About Herne the Hunter.”
Ruth nodded. “Cernunnos said that was one of the names by which he was known.”
“The legends say Herne was a Royal huntsman who saved a king’s life by throwing himself in front of a wounded stag that was threatening to kill his master,” Tom said. “As Herne lay dying, a magician appeared who told the king the only way he could save his huntsman’s life was to cut off the stag’s antlers and tie them to Herne’s head. He recovered and became the best huntsman in the land. But he was so favoured by the king, the other huntsmen, overcome by jealousy, eventually persuaded the king to dismiss him. Herne was so broken by this he went out and hanged himself. And the king never had the same kind of success in his Royal hunts.”
Shavi mused over this story for a moment, then said, “I feel that legend is more metaphor than fact.”
Tom agreed. “There is secret information in all these stories that has the power to survive down the years. That one tells of how the people turned their back on the resurrective and empowering force of nature, how they suffered for it, and how nature suffered too. It was a warning, albeit a gentle one, compared with some of the legends.
“You see,” he continued, as if the information buried under centuries of experience in his mind was starting to come out in a rush, “Cernunnos and his bright, other half are, if you will, the bridge between the Tuatha De Danann and the natural power of this world. In many ways, they are closer to us than they are to their own. It was a joining that happened in the earliest times, when the two gods pledged themselves to this world and, in doing so, the best interests of the people.”
“You’d be good for this one, Shavi,” Church said. “You’re the shaman. You’ve developed all those links to nature. You should be able to communicate with Cernunnos.”
<
br /> Church felt Laura shift next to him and he knew exactly what she was thinking: Cernunnos had put his mark on her too; Ruth obviously wasn’t in any condition to undertake the journey, but as a favoured of Cernunnos, Laura would have been a natural choice. Church hadn’t chosen her because he felt she wasn’t up to the task, couldn’t be trusted with something so important; and she knew exactly what his reasons were. He felt a pang of guilt at hurting her, but he had to focus on the best interests of the group.
“When I get to the park, how do I contact Cernunnos?” Shavi asked.
“There is a story I recall from my long walk around the world in the sixties,” Tom replied. “In 1962 a group of teenagers found a hunting horn in the forest on the edge of a clearing. They blew it and were instantly answered by another horn and the baying of hounds. It was Cernunnos and the Wild Hunt, with the wish hounds. The boys fled in fear.”
“And the Hunt, I presume, did not depart until they claimed a life,” Shavi noted darkly. “A price to pay indeed.”
“Perhaps he won’t appear in that form,” Ruth suggested hopefully.
Shavi shrugged. “Then I seek out the horn.”
Laura avoided Church’s gaze when he looked from her to Ruth. “That leaves just the three of us,” he said.
“You’re sure we’re up to protecting the Queen Bee,” Laura said acidly.
“We’ll do our best, as always.” It wasn’t a question he really wanted to consider too deeply.
Thunder rolled across the moor; a flash of lightning lit up the northern sky. “Looks like we’re in for a storm.” Veitch seemed happier now he felt he was doing something positive.
They watched the sky for a while, but the bad weather was skirting the edge of the moor, moving eastwards. Another flash of lightning threw the landscape into stark relief.
“What’s that?” Ruth said suddenly. But the night had already swallowed up whatever she had seen.
“What did it look like?” Church asked.
“I don’t know.” Her voice sounded like she had an idea. She moved to the edge of the circle to get a better look.
Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) Page 44