Always Forever

by Mark Chadbourn

  "More delays," Ruth said with irritation.

  Church watched the lights for a moment longer, then said, "I think we should try to get on the landing party again. Any information we can pick up is going to help us."

  "Do you really think they're going to let us after the last one?"

  "We can get Baccharus to help-he seems to like our company."

  "Or Niamh."

  Church agreed uncomfortably, "Or Niamh."

  Ruth looked away.

  "We have to-"

  "I know." Curling up on the bed, she rested her head in the crook of her arm and tucked her knees up to her chest. "We have to do what we can to make things right, however unpleasant. It's war."

  The rocking of the ship changed its tempo as Wave Sweeper came to a gradual halt. Chains rumbled and clanked dimly, followed by a splash as the anchor hit the water. Then there was only a gentle swaying as the boat bobbed at its tether.

  Church left the window and returned to the bed, sitting in the small space at the end that Ruth's long limbs weren't occupying. Her feet touched his thigh; she didn't move them away. "Do you remember, just after Beltane, sitting by the campfire?" She shifted slightly, put her feet on top of his legs. "That was a funny time. We'd already been through so much, had this massive blow, yet we felt-"

  "So close."

  "Exactly. This year hasn't been like anything else in my life. I know that's stating the obvious, but I mean on an emotional level. It's been so ... potent. I've never felt more alive." He cupped the top of her pale foot in his hand. It felt so cool, the skin as smooth as vellum. "And it makes me feel guilty."

  "What, we'd be better off moping around?" She stretched lazily. "There was a lot missing from the life everyone led before. Nobody was living at all."

  "Now people are living, but they're dying too. That's not right." He moved his hand up her leg to stroke the gentle curve of her calf through her jeans.

  "We'd forgotten how to feel anything. We were wasting our lives, and it must be one of the great ironies of the moment that when there was a chance we all might lose everything, we finally started to appreciate things."

  "You don't know what you've got until you're in danger of losing it." His hand moved over her knee to her thigh; she didn't flinch, or make any attempt to push it away.

  "Let's face it: this is the place where memories are made. How many people can say that?"

  "Is that enough?"

  "'Course it is." She smiled, put her hand on the back of his. But instead of pushing it off her leg, she pulled it towards her, over her hip, on to her side, and up, until he was overbalanced and falling on top of her. She manoeuvred herself until she was on her back, looking into his face. Her smile was open and honest and for an instant he was back in those early days, just after Albert Bridge, when they had spent their time piecing together the first clues about the unfolding nightmare. And with that remembrance came a blinding revelation: he had felt strongly about her from almost the moment he had seen her, as if they were of one kind, one heart. But in his despairing mood after Marianne's death any emotion had been muffled. Even when that had finally cleared, his feelings had been in such chaos that nothing made sense. But now he saw it clearly.

  He loved her.

  And he could see in the opal shimmer of her eyes that she loved him too; secretly he'd always known it. But the difference now was that she could see his feelings as well.

  She pulled his head down and kissed him gently on the lips; she tasted faintly of lemon, her skin smelled clean, her dark hair felt silky in his fingers. And her smile was strong, with so much in it; it was all so heady. She was right; the end of the world didn't matter, the conflicts and power games of other people, all the petty concerns of the outside world. Inside was all that mattered; inside their heads, inside their relationships. The places where memories were made.

  Ruth felt like crying, she felt like laughing. She'd managed to convince herself it was a package of sensations she'd never ever appreciate, except by proxy, in books and films and the wilting, easily discounted conversations of friends: that ocean swell of the senses, filling her throat, her head. She'd told herself that failure to feel wouldn't be so bad; there were always things to do and see. And now she could see how ridiculous that had been. A life touched by this could never be filled by anything ever again; except more of it, and more, and more, and more. She could keep the fear at bay now; not a fear of being alone, in a holding hands in the park way; she was too strong and confident to need someone to fill her time. But of being alone in the human race; we weren't made that way, she thought.

  And here it was. If the world fell apart, and the stars rained into the void, it was all right. It was all all right.

  They stripped the clothes from each other with a sensuality that was slow and measured; unfocused passion would let it all slip through their fingers too quickly. It was something to be savoured, not just by the body but by the mind, and that was how they knew it was exactly right. Church wondered how he had never known that before.

  They knew each other's shape from embraces, but the fiery skin beneath the clothes made it all new and different. They were each surprised at how hard their bodies were, freed of the fat of lazy living by their punishing existence on the road. As he penetrated her, they kissed deeply, filling each other with soft darkness illuminated by purple flashes that reminded Church of the view across space from the Watchtower. He moved slowly at first, then harder as she enveloped him with her legs, and her arms, and her kisses, and her thoughts. His mind had one brief instant of complete awareness and then it switched off so there was only everything he felt, wrapped tightly in the moment; as timeless as Otherworld.

  They lay together in silence while the sweat and semen dried on their bodies, listening to their breathing subside, their hearts slow down. Their thoughts were like the movement of luminescent fish in the deepest, darkest fathoms, slow yet graceful under the gargantuan pressure, struggling with the immensity of what they had felt. After a while, Ruth fumbled for Church's hand and he took it. Two, as one, passing through time.

  A movement somewhere in the shadows of the cabin roused them from their introspection; a mouse, they both thought. But then something that at first sight was a large spider scurried into the flickering circle of lantern light. It was a human figure barely half an inch tall. Ruth recognised Marik Bocat, the Portune she had encountered after escaping the Malignos.

  She rolled over to cover herself. "How long have you been there?"

  "I have more to do than watch you make the beast with two backs," he said sharply. He sprinted to the edge of the bed where he looked up at Church's bemused face. "Ho, Simple Jack! Heave me up and mind how you do it!"

  Church leaned down so Marik Bocat could clamber on to his palm. Once the tiny man was level with their eyes it was obvious concern lay heavy on his brown, wizened face.

  "What is it?" Ruth asked.

  "I come out of respect for fellow denizens of the Fixed Lands, and, of course, in respect for your exalted roles as champions of our home." He raised one minuscule finger. "A warning, then. Danger is abroad and your lives may be at risk. The door lies open, the cage is empty." He paused while he looked from one face to the other. "Callow is gone. The Malignos have freed him."

  Away across the water, the Islands of the Dead breathed steadily and silently and the night was filled with the terrible chill of their exhalation.

  chapter seven

  peine forte et dure

  arik Bocat told them little, although they were both convinced he knew more than he was saying. His people had the run of the ship, he explained, and witnessed many things: secrets and slanders, matters of great importance and minor betrayals. The freeing of Callow had been the latest example of their surveillance at work.

  "The Portunes will, of course, maintain their vigilance, and if information regarding this situation comes to light I will relate it to you," he said in an oddly formal manner.

  "Why are you
helping us?" Ruth asked.

  "Horses and teeth," he cautioned, before half turning from them and motioning to be put back down on the floor. But as Church lowered him, his voice floated back: "We are all fellows of the flesh in the Great Village."

  Church limped off the end of the bed and dressed, surprised at how quickly his leg was healing. He could already walk without the aid of a stick. "That bastard will be coming for us when we least expect it, so we have to expect it all the time."

  "Like we haven't got anything else to do."

  A thought came to Church as he ransacked a chest in the corner where he had come across a number of seafaring implements, including a bill-hook and a short dagger used for cutting rope, which he stuffed into his belt. "Can you help me find the Walpurgis?" he said turning back to Marik Bocat.

  "Now why would you be looking for that bundle of rags?" Church could tell from the suspicion in his voice that the Portune had some information.

  "He can help us. He was helping us before he ran away."

  "I'll ask around." He eyed Church askance.

  "You can trust me."

  "So it seems."

  Church dug down to the bottom of the chest, but there remained only oily rags, sand and dried seaweed. When he turned back to prompt Marik Bocat further he discovered the Portune had already departed.

  Ruth dressed quickly and a little nervously. Their bonding had been truncated and there was still so much they had to discuss.

  Now was not the time, Church thought. "We really need to find the Walpurgis," he said redundantly.

  Ruth easily accepted the rearrangement of priorities. "Marik Bocat will probably be back once he's had a think about us. He's a suspicious sort." She threw open the windows to let some cool night air into the stifling room, which was still filled with the scents of their lovemaking. The sparse lights of the island twinkled over the waves. "I think he will come back," she stressed. "We need him to, really. It's even more dangerous to venture below decks now, with Callow on the loose as well as the Malignos. I've been down there, and believe me, when you get to the lower levels you can't tell what's a few feet ahead or behind you."

  "If I have to-"

  She silenced him with a flap of her hand. The silence was broken by a dragging noise on deck. "They're readying a boat," she said. "Looks like they're off to the island."

  "What, now? In the dark?"

  "Hey, they're the Golden Ones. They don't jump at shadows," she mocked.

  Church said, "We ought to go, you know. There might be something important out there."

  He looked reluctantly at the dishevelled bed and she laughed quietly. "There'll be time enough for that. Come on."

  A cool breeze moved effortlessly across the deck, teasing out the heat of the day, bringing a hint of lush vegetation to the familiar aroma of salty water. The night was filled with the slap and rustle of the flaps hanging from the furled sails and the rusty hinge creaking of the rigging. Up on the mast, Ruth's owl glowed like a ghost, watching ominously. Although lanterns hung at regular intervals, there were still too many dangerous shadows lapping across the deck. Church and Ruth moved as quickly as they could to the small group of figures preparing for the landing party. Taranis was overseeing the activity as the crew prepared to lower the boat into the water, while Niamh and Baccharus hung back ready to board.

  Taranis eyed Church and Ruth with cold suspicion, but Church ignored his gaze. Instead, he spoke directly to Baccharus and Niamh. "We'd like to come with you."

  "You may accompany us, Brother of Dragons," Baccharus said as Taranis opened his mouth to speak.

  Surprisingly, Niamh looked unsure. "There may be danger abroad," she cau tioned. "The arrival of Wave Sweeper is always heralded by the denizens of the Western Isles."

  "And you've heard nothing," Church noted. "It could be the Fomorii again. Have you considered this is their first strike in a war against you, catching you off guard as they work their way towards your most sacred lands?"

  There wasn't the slightest flicker across the faces of the assembled Tuatha De Danann, but for the first time Church felt that unease was gestating deep inside them.

  Wave Sweeper floated in silence as the landing boat was lowered to the waves. There was no sign of Manannan, or any of the thousands of strange creatures who occupied the lower levels. Taranis watched them impassively from the rail until he was swallowed up by the night, and then there was only the gentle lapping of the waves against the side.

  As they neared land, Church was surprised to feel the air grow substantially warmer, as if each island had its own microclimate. Here it was almost subtropical, the heat lying heavy on his lungs as his T-shirt grew steadily damp from the spiralling humidity. Their destination was more familiar than their last port of call; it reminded Church of one of the smaller Caribbean islands. From a rocky base where the spectral surf splashed, it rose up sharply through thick vegetation to a mountaintop lost in the dark. It smelled heavily of steaming jungles, rich and evocative, but tainted by an underlying corruption.

  A small beach came into sight, at which point the crew had to fight to keep the boat steady against the heavy currents that swirled just off the shore. Church spied the tip of cruel rocks breaking the surface on either side and realised a delicate path was being picked; one miscalculation and they would have been dashed in an instant. As the currents grew more intense, the boat became a stomach-churning rollercoaster ride. Church and Ruth gripped the sides tightly, but the crew were in complete control at all times.

  Eventually the shore came up fast and the rowers jumped out into the shallows to haul the boat up on to the white sand. A minute later they were all standing on the beach, allowing the adrenalin to drop while Church and Ruth surveyed the dazzling array of stars overhead. There, with the night sounds of the jungle at their back and the waves crashing before them, there was an exhilarating sense of paradise that outshone any South Pacific dream.

  "Do you notice how each of these islands has a different feel?" Church whispered to Ruth.

  "The last one was edgy," she agreed. "This one makes me want to kick off my shoes and run across the sand like some moron in a Bounty ad. So relaxing."

  "Come," Baccharus interjected. "We have a long walk, and it is dark beneath the trees. We must stay close together."

  "Who are we visiting this time?" Church asked.

  "This is the Isle of Lost Lament," Baccharus said, as if that explained it all. But then he added, "Six dwell here. Kepta, Quillot ..." He waved his hand dismissively instead of listing the remaining names. There was a strange undercurrent in his manner, but Church couldn't quite put his finger on it.

  Once Niamh had given the word, the leader of the guards motioned them to move out, his men taking up positions behind and on either side. They quickly passed the tide line on to the dry sand beyond and then into the impenetrable darkness beneath the trees.

  It was claustrophobic under the cover of foliage in the hot, steamy atmosphere. The trees were clustered quite tightly in areas, their trunks oddly twisted, with branches resembling arthritic claws. They vaguely reminded Church of ones he had seen in the mangrove swamps of the southeastern United States on a holiday with Marianne, only these trees had thick, fan-like leaves of a shiny green that served to keep the light out and the heat and moisture battened down against the ground. Vines as thick as Ruth's forearm trailed from the upper branches, clinging to their flesh with some unpleasant sticky substance when they brushed past. They weren't the only obstacle: scattered all around were thick bushes covered in thorns like razors; with only the slightest pressure, one drove through Church's jacket and shirt and into the soft flesh just above his waist. Away in the dark they occasionally saw colours glowing, dull starlets and fuschias and sapphires, which they eventually discovered were disturbingly alien blooms, like orchids, only much larger; their perfume was cloying and sickly. They appeared to be straining for the faint moonlight that occasionally made its way through the vegetation.

&
nbsp; When they had first crossed the forest boundary they had expected silence, but the jungle was alive with movement and sound. Their feet crunched noisily on the carpet of twigs and branches, sending things scurrying for cover ahead of them: the sinuous motion of snakes, and the creepily rapid and erratic motion of large lizards. Church saw one of them nearby; it resembled an iguana, but when it half turned away in the trees he thought he glimpsed a human face on its scaly body. Spiders as big as his hand dropped from the branches and scuttled across their path, their corpulent bodies coloured rouge and cream.

  The screech of night birds, again distressingly human, echoed amongst the treetops. On several occasions, Church and Ruth thought they heard voices whispering comments, but when they looked round they saw only grey shapes fading in the strands of mist that floated around the boles; the dead were restless.

  After twenty minutes of hard hacking, with the point men slashing a path through the thickest flora, Niamh dropped back until she was standing beside Church. Despite herself, Ruth tensed.

  "You must promise me you will take care of yourself, jack." Niamh kept her head slightly bowed so her hair fell forward, obscuring her face. "There is great risk here."

  "I always take care of myself, Niamh."

  Ruth was convinced she heard tenderness in his words, though he had managed to keep his face impassive. Despite everything he said, she knew Church still found his emotions as unknowable as the Tuatha De Danann; he could react to them on a superficial level, but he had no idea what was moving far beneath the surface. Ruth could see he felt affection for Niamh, against all his protestations. What was happening here? As Church said, they had experienced little contact, certainly no intimacy, yet sometimes, in little movements or looks, it was as if they had known each other for a lifetime. Now she had found Church, after all those years of looking and knowing exactly what she wanted without even coming close to finding it, she was not about to give him up. She would fight if she had to.