The Paradise War tsoa-1

by Stephen Lawhead

  I watched Susannah descend the stairs and then listened to the quick click of her heels on the flagstones as she crossed the quad and was gone. Then I turned and shuffled back to my room. I hated myself for deceiving her. But no, I hadn't deceived her, I had told her the truth. She had just assumed, for reasons of her own, that I was lying to her, and what could I do about that? Anyway, it was not my fault. It was all down to Simon-I had nothing to do with it.

  Trained monkey, indeed!

  Chapter 7

  Mad Nettles

  My plan, as far as I had one, was simply to carry on as if nothing had happened. Business as usual. If anyone rang up and asked Simon's whereabouts I'd tell them he'd run off to Wolverhampton with a shop assistant from Boots. Serve him right, the toad.

  The way I figured it, he was probably waiting until I panicked and blabbed to the police or something. He wanted to see his name in the headlines, and me looking like a fool explaining to reporters how he'd crawled into a cairn and disappeared. Well, he could just wait until hell froze over. I did not intend giving him the satisfaction.

  For the next few days, I carried on my life in the ordinary way. I behaved exactly as before. I took my meals, browsed at the bookstalls, loitered in the library and lounged in my adviser's office, chatted with acquaintances, pawed through my mail…. In short, I sallied boldly forth into the frantic free-for-all of academic life I had come to know and love so well.

  But work was impossible. How could I work? I could not, truly, ignore Simon's disappearance any more than I could ignore the nose on my face-however hard I tried. The days passed and Simon did not return. The phone did not ring. Doubt began taking a toll on me. I kept thinking: What if it is no joke? What if something happened to him? What if he really is gone?

  Each day that passed brought a new worry. I lurched like a lopsided pendulum between anger and anxiety. Anger at his absurd prank, and anxiety over his safety. Day and night, I suffered a relentless rain of questions: Where was Simon? What was he doing? Where had he gone? Why was this my worry? Why me?

  «When Simon comes back,» I promised myself, «I'll kill him. I'll cheerfully twist off his arms and beat him with the bloody ends. No, I won't. That wouldn't be civilized. I will, instead, sit him down and tell him calmly and rationally what a terrible, tasteless thing he has done. And then I will shoot him through his small, black heart.»

  As the days passed into weeks, I grew steadily more listless, dishevelled, ill-tempered and cranky; I yelled at the scout whenever she poked her nose in, until at last she got fed up and stopped coming by. I roamed aimlessly around the streets muttering to myself and cursing a great deal. My socks didn't match. I did not wash.

  If anyone observed my increasingly debilitated state, they gave no sign. I could not have occasioned less comment if I were a dust ball under the bed. I found myself deeply tempted to grow a hunchback and start swinging from the bell in Tom Tower.

  My rapid descent into the slough of despond was matched by an equally steep decline in mental stability. I did not sleep well. Odd dreams troubled me-visions of leafy green men and extinct oxen rampaging through my bedroom, of wandering lost in a dark forest and the ground opening up beneath me and swallowing me whole, of being hunted down and pierced through the thorax by antique spears, of wolves howling in a forest dark, and a hideous horror with a face of grinning death, pursuing me relentlessly over a cold and desolate land-disturbing images that melted upon waking, leaving me exhausted and all the worse for my night's rest.

  I knew the cause of my slide into oblivion: my conscience was pulling heavy overtime trying to attract my attention. From the moment I crawled into the cairn and realized Simon had vanished, my subconscious had begun hand-to-hand combat with my reason. The object? Getting me to admit to myself that what might have happened actually did happen, and that I had done absolutely nothing about it.

  Still, it wasn't so much Simon's disappearance that hastened my decline. Unnerving as that was, the object of my inner conflict was not Simon's vanishing act, it was his destination. Where, then, had Simon gone? That was the sixty-four trillion dollar question. And I knew the answer.

  But I didn't like to say it.

  No, I would rather stew slowly in my own juices than admit what I knew to be true. Nature, however, has a subtle way of dealing with these amusing little dysfunctional games one enjoys so much. It's called a nervous breakdown.

  I began seeing things.

  The first incident happened very early one morning. I had spent another sleepless night and decided to take a walk along the river. I slipped through the quad and took the lane leading to the meadow and the riverwalk. That early in the morning I had the place to myself, and just as I was passing the field where the college's cattle are kept, I saw a large gray hound loping across the pasture, coming at an angle towards me.

  At first, I didn't think anything of it. There are lots of dogs around, after all. But, as it drew nearer, the size of the thing registered-the animal was seriously large: almost as big as a pony. It had a short, curly coat and extremely long legs that ate up the ground at an astonishing rate. And it was coming right for me. I stopped and stared, as it leapt the cattle fence without breaking stride. The dog landed in the lane a scant few yards away. Only then did it see me, for it turned as if startled and flattened its ears, baring its incredibly long teeth in a snarl.

  I stood stock still, my heart racing. The dog, if that is what it was, growled menacingly low in its throat and raised its hackles. But I did not twitch a muscle-I was too scared to move, The great hound, still growling, turned down the lane and dashed off. It vanished in the morning mist from the river. But, in the instant it turned, I saw that it had an oddlooking collar made of iron chain-the antique kind with curious hand-forged square links.

  Despite the fact that I had never in my life seen a dog so huge, I told myself that someone's pet had escaped from its kennel. Only that, and nothing more.

  And then, a few days later, sitting by the window sipping tea on a rainy afternoon, I glanced out into the quad and saw something brown and hairy moving on the lawn. In the gloom of a thick overcast, I could not be certain exactly what I saw. At the time I would have sworn it was a pig-but a different sort of pig from any I was familiar with. Longlegged and lean, with a thick, bristly coat of dark reddish-brown and two curved tusks issuing from the sides of its pinched and narrow face, it carried its tail in a comical flagpole fashion-straight up over its sloping back.

  With my face pressed against the glass, the window quickly steamed up. When I rubbed away the fog, the creature had disappeared. And with it any certainty that I had seen anything at all.

  Next day, I saw a wolf in Turl Street.

  Tired of being cooped up all day, I had ventured out late and it was growing dark. The streetlights were lit and some of the shops were already closed. I had gone to the covered market for a loaf of bread and, returning, I turned down Turl Street, which bends so that you cannot see either end from the middle. I had just entered the narrow street when my scalp began to prickle-as if someone were watching me with evil intent. I walked a few yards, and the prickly sensation spread down the back of my neck and across my shoulderblades. I felt evil eyes boring into my back. Instantly frightened, I imagined I heard a faint scratching click on the pavement behind me. I walked a few steps further, listening to this strange sound, whereupon, utterly convinced I was being followed, I turned abruptly.

  I had never seen a real live wolf before, and thought it another giant hound, but then saw its shaggy coat and its great pale yellow eyes. It walked with its head low, its long snout to the ground as if scenting a trail. When I stopped, it stopped, giving me the distinct impression that I was being stalked. The door of a camera shop stood not ten feet to the right of me and I thought to run in the door and escape. I took one cautious step sideways. The wolf tensed. I heard a sound like gravel churning in a cauldron, and realized it came from the animal's throat. We stood looking at one another across a d
istance of no more than fifteen or twenty feet. I decided to make a rush for the door, and was just working myself up to it when the door swung open and someone came out of the shop. I half turned, flung out a hand to the stranger to stop him. «Wait!» I said. The fellow grimaced at me-I suppose he thought me a beggar after loose change-and pushed brusquely past. When I looked again, the wolf was running up the Turl towards Broad Street. I saw its gaunt sides gleam silver in the streetlights and then it was gone.

  I told myself I hadn't actually seen it, that the episode with the giant dog had unnerved me. But the next morning the Daily Mail carried a story about a wolf seen running loose in the streets of Oxford. Numerous people had witnessed it. Police had been called out, and animal control, but they couldn't locate the beast. Speculation was that the wolf had escaped from someone's illegal menagerie and had fled to the open countryside.

  I was afraid to leave my rooms for three days after that-afraid of what I might see next. And, when I did screw up my courage to go out again, almost immediately I stepped off the sidewalk on the High Street smack in front of an Oxford Experience bus. I got knocked down, but not run over-those tourist buses do not move very fast and the drivers are skilled at bumping into unwary pedestrians.

  It came home. . . as I lay in the street. . . staring up into the ring of ripely disgusted faces gathered above me… that something had to give. A bus today, a train tomorrow. Or would it be a screaming freefall from one of the dreaming spires? More to the point: was this denial really worth my sanity, my life?

  One gets a singular perspective on life while gazing up from the gutter. When the policeman who helped me to my feet asked, «You all right, then, son?» I was forced to consider the question in all its greater philosophical implications. No, I decided, I was definitely not all right. Not by any stretch of logic or imagination.

  I spent the rest of the day wandering around the streets, aimless and sick at heart. I lost myself in the usual stream of shoppers and simply drifted. I shuffled here and there; I watched chalk artists and Street musicians without heeding what they drew or played. I knew something was happening. I knew it had something to do with me. I knew also that I could not hold out against it much longer. But what was I to do? What was required of me?

  These and other questions, barely formed, occupied me all afternoon. And when I finally gave up and headed back to my rooms it was nearly dark and the weather had turned rainy. The streets were all but deserted. At Carfax I stopped for the traffic light, though there were no cars on the street. I felt silly standing in the rain, so I ducked under a nearby awning.

  As I stood there, waiting for the light to change, a very strange feeling came over me. I was suddenly lightheaded and weak in the knees, woozy and unsteady as if I might pass out any second. Perhaps getting knocked down by the bus had hurt me more than I knew, I thought. Perhaps I've injured myself after all. I grabbed my head with both hands. I gulped air, and my throat felt tight. I couldn't breathe.

  The pavement beneath my feet seemed to buckle and heave. I glanced down, and my heart skipped a beat. For I was standing in the center of an elaborate Celtic circle drawn on the sidewalk squares with chalk. The street artists-I had seen them working earlier in the day and paid them no attention-had drawn a primitive maze pattern surrounded by a knotwork border of interwoven colored lines. 1 had often seen sidewalk portraits and landscapes. But never anything like this. Why had they drawn this particular design? Why, of all things, a Celtic maze?

  I stood there, clutching my head, staring at the intricately interlaced lines and the dizzying pattern of the maze. I stood there for a long time, the traffic light blinking from red to green over and over, the rain pelting down on me. Staring, staring, unable to move, trapped in that charmed circle-inexplicably bound by those interlocking threads of brightcolored chalk. I might still be standing there, but for the fact that my condition had not gone entirely unnoticed.

  For I felt the light touch of a hand on my elbow and became aware of a kindly voice in my ear. «Let me help you,» said the voice.

  I swivelled my head toward the sound and found myself lace to face with a white-haired old gent dressed like Central Casting's idea of an aging country squire complete with porkpie hat and black briar walking stick.

  «N-no thanks,» I told him. «I'm okay. Thanks.»

  But the grip on my elbow tightened. «Pardon me, but I think you need a hand,» he insisted. He raised his walking stick before my face and then lowered it, pointing to the strange drawing on the pavement. He tapped the chalk with the tip of his stick three times. This simple action, deliberate and slow, gave me to know that our meeting was not mere happenchance and he was no ordinary passer-by. He knew something.

  «I had better see you home, I think,» he told me. «Come along.»

  I looked helplessly at my feet, for I still could not move them. «There's nothing to fear,» the old man said. «Come.»

  At his word, my feet came free and I stepped easily from the circle. We crossed the street and, by the time we reached the other side, I was thoroughly humiliated. «Thanks,» I said, stepping up on the sidewalk. «Really, thanks a lot. I'm okay, though. I just got a little dizzy, you know. I had a bump on the head earlier, but I'm okay now.» The words just tumbled out. «I'll be fine. Thanks for your help. . . .»

  But the old gent did not release his grip on my arm. rhinking that he maybe didn't hear so good, I raised my voice. He stopped suddenly and turned to me. «You should have that bump looked at.»

  «Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks.» I tried to disengage his hand from my arm, but he would not let go. «You've been a big ielp. I won't trouble you any further.»

  «Oh, it's no trouble. I assure you,» he said airily. «I'm afraid I must insist.»

  «Are you a doctor?» I asked. I don't know why-something about his solicitous nature suggested it.

  «I'm all the doctor you need,» came the reply, and next thing I knew we were stumping along the all-but-deserted street, arm in arm. He seemed determined to have a look at my bump, and I seemed to have no choice in the matter. After the trauma of the last few days, my will power was at low ebb, so I took the path of least resistance and went with him.

  After much twisting and turning down this street and that, we eventually arrived at a low door in Brewer's Lane. A brass plaque proclaimed the residence of D. M. Campbell, Tutor. He put a key in the lock, jiggled it open and ushered me in.

  «Come in, please,» said the old man. «Come in out of the cold, my friend. Make yourself at home. I'll get something warm on the hotplate. Put your coat there.»

  He peered at me myopically, patting his pockets absently. I stepped into his dim apartment. «Kind of you to invite me. But, really, it isn't necessary. I'm fine.»

  He smiled and bustled off into the dark interior, unbirnoning his coat as he went. His voice lingered behind him. «A pleasure. My load is light this term. As it is, I don't have enough visitors. Come, sit down. Won't be a moment.»

  I found an ancient, overstuffed chair and dropped into it, wondering why I was there. Well, I thought, I don't want to hurt his feelings. Just a quick cup of tea and I'll be on my way.

  For his part, the old gent drifted in and out, snapping on lights here and there to no great effect. The room remained dark as before. At one point he came to stand before me, gazing down at me as if he had won me in a turkey shoot.

  «Introductions,» he said abruptly. «Professor Nettleton. Merton College. How do you do?»

  «Not Campbell?» I wondered aloud.

  «A former occupant,» he explained. «I value my privacy.»

  «And you are?»

  «Oh, right. My name is Lewis-Lewis Gillies.»

  «Glad to meet you Mr. Gillies,» he began. At that moment a kettle in another room whistled and he bustled to attend it. He returned a moment later, «Best give its moment,» he said pleasantly, and proceeded to clear off a table piled high with papers. It gave me a chance to study him.

  Nettleton was the archetypal
Oxford don. Shortish, baldish, sixtyish, slightly stooped and near-sighted from deciphering the crabbed text of too many illegible manuscripts. What hair he possessed was wispy and white like candy floss; it floated over his head rather than resting there. His apparel was a subdued riot of mismatched tweed-all of ambiguous hue. He wore a Balliol tie, a bright-blue woolen waistcoat, and stout, brown Irish brogues on his feet.

  The kettle sounded again, and while my host busied himself with the practicalities-I could hear him clanking around in the dim recesses-I took the opportunity to examine my immediate surroundings. The professor's room was one of those immense Victorian caverns in which Oxford abounds, and no less eccentric than its occupant: twelve foot ceilings; a forest of ancient dark oak panelling; mammoth carved mahogany sideboards, mantles, bookcases, and tables; a desk that could easily serve as the bridge of a battleship; great soft chairs one could get lost in. The dark oak floors were covered with about an acre of faded, threadbare carpet; the lighting apparently dated from the Dark Ages; and the heating system was older than Moses.

  I glanced around at the various shelves, which were crammed with knickknacks and whatnots. Curiosity drew me from my chair and I approached the shelves for a closer look. They supported a pack rat's museum of queer artifacts: odd-shaped stones; peculiar knobs of polished wood; tablet-sized slabs of slate with strange inscriptions scratched on them; gleaming nuggets of misshapen coins; a collection of carved-horn combs and buttons made from animal teeth. Bristling from a nook was a stuffed yellow cat the size of a Cocker Spaniel, and a gross black-feathered carcass I took to be a mounted raven.

  So deeply engrossed in this inventory was I, that I did not hear Nettleton creep up behind me. I felt a prickly sensation on my neck and swung around to find him gazing placidly at me, two steaming mugs of something in his hands. I say mugs-the vessels were tall and had no handles, and they appeared to be made of a sort of crude stoneware. I'd seen a similar style of pottery before-in the Ashmolean Museum next to stag which read Beaker, Neolithic, ca 2500 BC.