Always Forever

by Mark Chadbourn

  For long seconds they were locked in that connecting stare, and then there was a flurry of rapid movement in the water. The Other-Church's arms shot out of the pool, clamped on Church's shoulders, and before he could resist, dragged him under.

  In the shock, he didn't have time to grab a breath of air. The cold water rushed into his mouth and up his nose before he clamped his lips shut and struggled frantically to push his head up above the surface. But though he fought wildly, turning the pool into a maelstrom, his other self was far too strong. Further down it hauled him, and down even more, until the light from the lantern was too dim to illuminate the water and his lungs seared from the strain. He struck out futilely a few more times, the blows so weak they barely registered, and then his mouth jerked open and the water flooded in, filling his throat, his lungs. Fractured thoughts flared briefly in his mind, but the abiding sense was that it wasn't supposed to be like that.

  Except that one minute later, he realised he was still breathing; inexplicably. His brain fizzed and sparked, somehow found a state of grace that allowed his thoughts to grow ordered once more. He wasn't dead; he was breathing water.

  The Other-Church released his grip, although his face still had that mean cast; Church thought how much older and unattractive a state of mind could make him look. He signed for the Other to tell him what was happening, but it gave an expression of slight contempt before turning and swimming away. Church had no choice but to follow.

  The experience had the distorting feeling of a hallucination. Briefly he wondered if he was dead and this was some final, random activity in his dying brain, but then he noticed a strange sheen across the whole of the pool that resembled the skin of a bubble. The Other swam into it, and through it; Church couldn't see anything on the other side. He hesitated, then followed suit.

  The bubble gave slightly as he touched it, then eased over his body, finally accepting him with a slight give. Emerging on the other side, he was shocked to realise there was no water at all; he was in midair and it was dark. Suddenly he was falling, the water shooting out of his lungs. The sensation lasted for only a few seconds until he found himself standing on a broad plain covered in stubby grass, beneath a star-studded night sky and ringed by black mountains. Before him was a pile of rocks fused into a pillar that rose three feet above his head. The OtherChurch stood on the far side of the pillar, the same distance from it as he was.

  "What is happening here?" His voice resonated strangely in the wide-open spaces. As he spoke, the Other-Church mimicked him silently.

  The pillar of stones began to hum with a low, bass note. Church couldn't take his eyes off it; the atmosphere was heavy with anticipation. As the OtherChurch continued to glower at him, movement became visible within the pillar and gradually a figure stepped out of the solid rock.

  Church's stomach flipped. Marianne looked exactly as she had when she was alive, not the gaunt, spectral figure sent by the Fomorii to torment him. His shoulders sagged; conflicting emotions tore through him: doubt, terrible sadness, a touch of joy. "Marianne."

  She smiled at him weakly.

  "You're another hallucination of this place." He rubbed a hand across his face, but when he looked back up she was still there.

  "I'm here, Church. At least, a part of me, a part they couldn't get to. An echo."

  Tears flooded his eyes. "Really?"

  "Really."

  He made to move forward, arms outstretched, but she held up a sudden hand to warn him back. She shook her head strongly. "We can't."

  "Why not?" Almost a plea.

  "There are rules, Church. Things going on that you can't imagine, beyond what you see here, or there, or anywhere. I can't tell you ... can't explain. I'm not allowed."

  "Not allowed by whom?" Her face grew still. She took a step back towards the pillar. "No! Okay, I won't ask any more about that!"

  She smiled, brighter this time. "It's good to see you, Church."

  For a brief while, he couldn't see for the tears. "Thank you," he choked as a delaying tactic, "for the contact you made in the house ... on Mam Tor ... The writing ...

  "I had to do something, Church. I couldn't bear to see you so broken."

  "You could see me?" No answer. "Okay ... the part of you the Fomorii have-"

  Her face darkened; she hugged her arms around her, a mannerism he recalled her doing when she was distraught; when she was alive. "It feels like it's tearing my heart out."

  His voice grew rough and fractured. "I'm going to save you, Marianne."

  Her expression was, if not quite patronising, then certainly pitying.

  "I am." Reassuring at first, then defiantly: "I am."

  His emotions felt they would break him in two. He wanted to ask her about her death, about who had killed her, how bad it had been, whether she had really suffered as he always imagined, but looking into her face where the Marianne he loved still resided, he couldn't bring himself to do it. There were a thousand questions, but his overwhelming desire was for the one thing every bereaved person wished for above all else, but could never, ever achieve: to tell her how he truly felt.

  As he was about to speak, she silenced him with a raised finger. "I know how you feel, Church, and I always felt the same about you. You were the only person I ever loved."

  He covered his eyes.

  "I know your thoughts now, Church. I know your hopes. And that's a good thing, truly. In the days that follow, remember that. And I know about Ruth, and that's okay. She's a remarkable person. You've made a lot of silly mistakes since I died, but she was the right one. You stick with her, she'll stick with you."

  A sob choked in his throat. "I miss you."

  "I know. But you should have learned a lot of things by now. That nothing is truly fixed in the Fixed Lands." Her use of words he had heard before brought him up sharp. He blinked away his tears and started to listen. "You see things from your own perspective, but in the broad sweep of existence, things look very different. When you know the rules, everything changes. Things are switched right around when they're put in context: what seems a bad experience becomes good, good, bad. I can't explain better than that at the moment, but you can't judge now, Church. Just accept things, and know there's something more."

  "I know, I do."

  "But sometimes it's hard."

  He nodded.

  "Feel it, don't think it. The Age of Reason is long gone."

  "I feel so tired, Marianne. I want a rest from all this."

  Her smile grew sad. "There won't be any rest, Church."

  "I heard that before."

  "It's true. No rest. But there'll be a balance. You'll know why there's no rest, and though it'll be hard, it'll make you feel good to know that what you do is valuable."

  "Life's good as long as you don't weaken."

  She laughed, and he was surprised at how wonderful it sounded, even in that place. "That's the kind of person you are, Church. A good person. Someone for people to look up to-"

  "You haven't been watching very closely over the last few months, have you?" Church moved around the circle a few paces to get away from the glowering stare of the Other-Church, but it matched him pace for pace.

  -you shoulder your burden and still focus on what's important in life. It won't grind you down. Life's too good."

  He shrugged. His surroundings had started to intrude and so he asked, although he didn't want to, "What are you doing here, Marianne?"

  "You called me."

  "No, I didn't."

  "Yes, you just don't know you did."

  He turned his thoughts over rapidly, trying to make sense. "I'm here to get rid of the Fomorii corruption that's eaten its way into me from the Kiss of Frost that you-that Calatin made you-give me. That's why I'm here. At least, I think that's why. Nothing makes sense any more. Nothing ever has."

  There was movement in the shadowy distance, high above the mountains, against the sky. At first he thought it was clouds, but it looked briefly like a Caraprix, only enor
mous, hundreds of feet larger than the tiny creatures the Tuatha De Danann and the Fomorii carried with them. It was gone so quickly he could easily have dismissed it as a bizarre hallucination, except that he was convinced it had been there. The part of his back brain that always attempted to make sense of what was happening told him he had glimpsed something of a much larger truth, although what it was, and why the Caraprix felt so at home in that place, was beyond him.

  "Church." Marianne called his attention back. "The symbolism is bigger than the reality. In the wider sweep of existence, symbols tell the truth. I'm the cause of all your misery, Church. I'm what's holding you back from achieving your destiny. The stain of the Night Walkers is minor compared to that, and it wouldn't even be there if I wasn't holding it in place."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you want to talk like smart people?" Her expression was teasing. "Or shall we carry on as we always have done?" He motioned for her to continue. "Thanatos, the death urge. When I died, you were consumed by it. That's what infected you. It made your days black, your thoughts worse. You couldn't see life, you couldn't see yourself. You've pulled away from the worst part of it, but it's still there, a little black cancer of the soul. A mess on that Fiery Network that makes up the real you, stopping the true flow. Making something so vital and powerful grow dormant. You have to wake the sleeping king if you want to save the world."

  "All that Arthurian stuff is a metaphor. For waking the Blue Fire in the land. Nothing to do with me."

  "As without, so within. This whole business is about celebrating life in all its forms, Church. Seeing death as part of a cycle: life, death, rebirth. You've been through the damn thing yourself, as have most of your merry little group. Haven't you got the picture yet?"

  "I have to let go of you, is that what you're saying?"

  "You don't have to forget me. Just remember the good parts. Don't let death rule your life."

  The Other-Church's expression was even darker now, murderous. "Am I really seeing you?" Church asked. "Or is this some hallucination, some part of my subconscious speaking to me?"

  "You should know better than to ask questions like that by now."

  "Then what do I have to do? It's one thing saying I won't obsess about death, but it's a subconscious thing-"

  "Just wish, Church. Wish so hard it changes you from inside out. Kids know best how existence works. We unlearn as we go through all those things the Age of Reason saw fit to throw at us during our formative years. The Celts never had that, all those ancient people who shaped the world. You know I'm not some stupid, anti-progress Luddite. But the truth is, we took a wrong turn and now it's time to get back to how things should really be. A time to feel. The world's been waiting for this for a long time."

  "For all the death and suffering?"

  "No, of course not. It's your job to minimise that. But it's not your job to take things back to the way they were. You've got a bigger destiny than you ever thought, Church. It's all down to you to make things better."

  His lips attempted to form words, but nothing would come.

  "Just wish, Church." A whisper. "Just wish."

  He closed his eyes. And wished; not with a thought, but with every fibre of his being, and he found power was given to that wishing from somewhere else, either deep within himself, or without, in the distance where strange things moved against the sky.

  And when he opened his eyes, Marianne was smiling. "If you could only see yourself as I see you. We're all stars, Church. All stars." She drifted back towards the pillar of stones.

  "Is that it? Have I done enough?" His question was answered by the OtherChurch, who began to fade, slipping back into the shadows that had gathered around the area until he was no longer there.

  "From here it gets hard. Harder than anything you've been through so far. Pain and death and suffering and sacrifice and misery. It'll be a trial, Church, but you always knew that." Parts of her became misty, merging with the rock. "If you stay true, you'll see it through. Have faith, Church, like I have faith in you."

  The tears were flooding down his face now; he had never cried so much since he was a child. "Thank you." His voice, autumnal. "For this, and for everything else you gave me. I'll never forget you."

  "Until we meet again." The smile again, filled with long, beautiful days, fading as she was fading. And then she was gone.

  It was like a rope tied around his waist had suddenly been attached to a speeding truck. He shot straight up into the air, that strange place disappearing in the blink of an eye, the sky and the stars whizzing by, rocketing so hard he blacked out.

  And when he woke, he was sitting on the edge of the Pool of Wishes.

  He made his way back along the worn path in a daze, trying to separate reality from hallucination and to make sense of the true weight of what he had learned.

  When he reached the others, Ruth said curiously, "What's wrong?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You've only been gone about five minutes. Isn't there anything there?"

  His smile gave nothing away. He climbed on his horse and spurred it back down the slope, feeling brighter and less burdened than at any time before in his life.

  The Palace of High Regard lay at the centre of a confusing geometric design of streets, laden with symbolism. Church and Ruth's winding progress along the route was an intricately designed ritual, affecting their minds as well as their hearts; it was an odd sensation when simply turning a corner resulted in a flash of long-lost memory or insight, a fugitive aroma or barely heard sound. By the time they reached the enormous doors of ivory and silver, it had worked its magic on their deep subconscious so their heads felt charged with a disorienting energy, as if they were about to embark on a drug trip.

  Baccharus was waiting to admit them. He carried a long staff carved from black volcanic rock. When Church and Ruth paused ten feet away, as they had been instructed, he tapped the doors gently with the staff. The resultant echoes were so loud Ruth put her hands to her ears.

  The doors swung open of their own accord. Within was a hallway flooded with sunlight from a glass dome a hundred feet above. There were columns and carvings, niches filled with statues and braziers smouldering with incense. The floor had an inner path of black and white tiles, but on the edge was a pattern Ruth remembered from the floor tile at Glastonbury, with its hidden message that had pointed them towards T'ir n'a n'Og.

  They waited for an age at the second set of doors, eventually being admitted to a room so large it took their breath away. It resembled the Coliseum in size and layout: rising tiers of seats in a circle around a vast floor area that made them feel insignificant. There was enough distortion of perception around the edges that Church wondered what it really looked like. The power of the Tuatha De Danann was focused there in all its unknowable, fearful glory. Ahead of them, the highest tier of gods was obviously seated, but the golden light that came off them was so forceful Church couldn't look at it. At the centre was the being the Celts had called Dagda, the Allfather, and around him others of the oldest and most powerful branch of the Golden Ones. On the perimeter he could just make out the ones the Celts had characterised as Lugh, and Nuada, whom he had first met on Skye when he had been brought back from the dead.

  The air was crushing down on his shoulders and deep vibrations ran through him. It made him feel queasy, and he didn't know how long he would be able to endure it; it was apparent Fragile Creatures were not meant to be in that place, or to spend time in close proximity to those potent gods.

  They waited, uncomfortable beneath the oppressive attention of the Golden Ones; the weight of all those fearsome intellects focused upon them was almost palpable. The debate started soon after. Nuada rose to deliver a speech to the assembled mass, although they couldn't understand a word he was saying; it sounded like a song caught in the wind, lilting and beautiful, with occasional threatening notes. Others spoke: some from the rank of the highest, many from the lower levels. Back and forth the disco
urse ranged. It felt odd to be under the scrutiny of such powerful beings, having hopes dissected with the very fate of the world hanging in the balance, but Church refused to be cowed by it. He held his head high and looked every speaker in the face.

  Eventually Manannan rose, but instead of making his speech from the tier of the highest, he descended to the floor and stood beside Church and Ruth. He spoke with a passion and belief not previously visible in his reticent nature. Standing next to him, his ringing, incomprehensible voice resonating in the cavities of their bodies, they had an even deeper sense of the power around them.

  Though Manannan never acknowledged their presence in the slightest, they knew he was arguing their case powerfully. The Tuatha De Danann hung on his every word, and when he finished speaking, a ripple of obvious disagreement ran around the arena. The tension in some of the comments that followed suggested that even Manannan's involvement might not swing the Golden Ones' support behind humanity.

  But when the notes of dissent threatened to become a tumult, a hush suddenly fell across the arena. It was eerie the way it went from noise to silence in the merest moment. Church turned, searching for the source, and saw a large shadow fall across the arena. Cernunnos strode forward, his partner at his side. As she moved, her shape changed from that of a young, innocent girl, to a round-checked, middle-aged woman to a wizened crone and back again.

  They stopped beside Manannan, and when Cernunnos spoke in a clear, booming voice it was in words Church could understand. "No more. The seasons have turned. The days of holding on to faint beliefs have long since passed. Some of us have been wiped from existence for all time. Is this not a sign that it is time to act? How many more Golden Ones must lose the shining light before a reckoning comes? You have heard my brother speak of many things, of the warp and weft of existence, of reasons and truth and change, of the rising and advancing of spirits. Yet at the last, it must come down to this: do we sit proud and true and wait for the Night Walkers to bring their foul corruption to our door-even to this hallowed place itself-or do we fight as we have done in the past, for what is ours and for our place in the scheme of things? We aid these Fragile Creatures in their task, and thereby aid ourselves. The greater questions that trouble you need not be considered at this time. This is about the Golden Ones, and the Night Walkers, and the age-old history of lies and treachery and destruction that lie between us."