Always Forever

by Mark Chadbourn

  He ran across the road and threw his arms around the figure. "Tom!"

  The Rhymer pulled back his hood to reveal a face worn by exhaustion, the edge taken off it by the flicker of a smile. "If you knew the trouble I'd had to get here-"

  "We wondered if you were dead!"

  "If only." He blushed as Ruth bowled up and planted a large kiss on his cheek before throwing her arms around him. "Enough of that." He tried to recapture his grizzly demeanour, but they could both see his true feelings. "We have serious business ahead."

  He filled them in quickly before motioning towards three horses he had tied up at the side of the pub. "We can be at St. Michael's Mount soon after dawn, if we hurry."

  "And what do I get to do while Mr. Hero goes off and does all his testosterone business?" Despite her tone, Church knew Ruth wasn't offended that she had to sit it out; she was afraid for him and wanted to help.

  "It'll be okay," he said. "I have to do it alone. It's a destiny thing. You know, like the old stories. Except this time they've got me instead of King Arthur. Bummer, eh?"

  Baccharus sauntered over when he saw the three of them conversing. "Greetings, True Thomas. I knew you would not let hardship come between us meeting again."

  "Baccharus. So your people have finally decided to stir themselves into action, I see."

  "The Golden Ones like to conserve their energy so they are more effective when the time is ripe."

  Tom tried to read his face, but the god gave nothing away. "You better watch yourself, Baccharus. Humour? What's next: laughter, tears and broken hearts? They'll be drumming you out of the Arrogance Club for good behaviour."

  "Oh, I can still be arrogant, True Thomas. When one is highborn, one does not lose that trait."

  Tom shook his head, stifling a grin. They told Baccharus that they would have to take their leave, without giving him details of their mission, in case news leaked out to those of the Tuatha De Danann not sympathetic to humanity.

  Baccharus shook their hands in turn. "Then I wish you all well, for you have been the best of companions. We shall meet again before battle is joined."

  As the three horses left the melee behind, Church felt sad. Baccharus had proved both a good comrade-in-arms and a friend, despite his difficulty in expressing emotion. But soon the night closed in around them and all thoughts turned to the dangers that lurked beyond the black hedgerows.

  The village of Marazion was peaceful in the pale, early morning sunlight. Tom, who had amassed several lifetimes of knowledge, gave them a potted history of the oldest chartered town in Cornwall, its great age marked by the twisty-turny thirteenth-century streets running down to the wide stretch of sandy beach.

  Ahead of them, St. Michael's Mount rose up majestically, a throne of stone in the bay bearing the crumbling castle and ancient chapel silhouetted against the sky; it had been the source of dreams for generations. Legends clustered hard around the bulky island, hazy in the morning mist; stories of giants and angels, lovers and redeemers.

  Ruth reined in her horse, closed her eyes and put her face up to the sun as she took a deep breath of the cool, soothing air. She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "It's weird. It's only been a matter of weeks, but already it smells different ... sweeter."

  Church knew what she meant: no traffic fumes, no faint aroma of burning plastics, no hint of the modern world that made all the senses recoil, but that everyone had simply grown to accept. He followed the sweep of golden sands to the break of surf on the edge of the blue sea. "We've got everything here that makes life worth living. So tell me again why we need to go back?"

  Tom slid off his mount and tied it to a tree. "Leave the horses. From here, we go on foot. Like pilgrims."

  He led them across the dunes to a rough stone causeway. The tide was out so they could walk easily to the Mount. Despite the time of year and the salty sea breeze, it was peculiarly warm, reminding Ruth of the same unseasonal weather she had appreciated at Glastonbury. "I feel safe here," she said.

  As they walked, Tom spoke in a dreamy monotone, describing the history and symbolism of the place that now towered over them. The beat and tone of his words made it almost a ritualistic chant, lulling them into deep thoughts born in the dark subconscious.

  "In the old Cornish language this place was called Carreg Luz en Kuz, translated as the Hoar Rock in the Wood. In the ancient Celtic language, hoar often refers to a standing stone. There is no standing stone now, but who knows? You now know what the stones mark ..." His words were caught by the wind, disappeared. When they picked up his monologue again, he had changed tack. "Once this place was known as Dinsul, or Citadel of the Sun. This is where the wise men of the Celts called up their god of light. There is a very clear tradition of sun worship at this site. Then the cult of St. Michael grew up in the Middle Ages after a vision of the saint filled with light appeared atop the Mount. So the old ways were passed on through the Christian religion where the site became dedicated to St. Michael, a saint who became a symbol associated with light. In the language of symbols, there is no differentiation between the old religion and the new. The same source, different names."

  Tom's words had begun to nag at the back of Church's mind; it wasn't just travelogue. "Why are you telling us this?"

  Tom ignored him. "Christ, too, another symbol of light, in legend is believed to have landed with his uncle Joseph of Arimathea at St. Michael's Mount before making his way to Glastonbury. He began to sing softly, "`And did those feet, in ancient times ..."'

  Church glanced at him uneasily. "I said, why are you telling nie this?"

  "St. Michael-some writers once described him as the Spirit of Revelation, and that is a fair description," Tom said. "For if he stands for anything, it is this: there are mysteries heaped on mysteries and nothing should be taken at face value. Religions, all religions, are ninety percent politics and ten percent belief. The belief continues eternally, only shaped by the politics to appear this, or that, but it always is as it was. One thing; one belief." Tom took a deep breath. "Old stories," he said with pride; he thought of the Mount's legends of giants in the earth, as there had been at Wandlebury Camp.

  "In Cornwall," Tom continued, "there's a legend that St. Michael sleeps beneath the land, waiting to be woken."

  Church felt a shiver down his spine as the threads of disparate ancient sto- ties drew together to reveal a pattern behind the chaos. There were similar threads drawing together different religions, all leading back to the same source, though he was sure many worshippers of those faiths would refuse to see the connections. Yet it was all there for anyone who chose to see it. What did it mean, that was the question? Possibly the most important question he would ever have to consider in his life: a pattern behind everything. That was the message that had underpinned every step of his journey around the country since that cold night beneath Albert Bridge.

  They reached the end of the causeway. A steep path wound upwards in the shadow of the mount. By the time they were halfway up, they were sweating in the morning heat.

  "All these secrets hidden in the earth, buried in old stories, it makes me feel queasy," Ruth said.

  "That's because you are being spoken to in the true language of symbols, the ur-language, but you are not yet educated enough to understand it." Tom rested briefly to catch his breath. "Yet your subconscious hears and it grasps the importance, if not the meaning. The signals it sounds out to your forebrain causes conflict, upsetting your equilibrium. Secrets and mysteries-hints at the true universe that lies behind the one you see."

  They fell silent, meditating on his words, until they reached the summit and the ancient buildings. Church suddenly felt heady and had to reach out for a wall to support himself.

  "You can feel it?" Tom asked.

  He could: a tremendous surge of the earth energy, running through every stone, as if the place were an enormous battery. His flesh tingled and there was a corresponding tightness across his chest that eventually eased, to be replaced by euphori
a.

  "What a rush." Church laughed; he could see Ruth was experiencing it too.

  "This is why people take drugs," Tom said, "to attempt to reach this state that they only have a vague race memory of, from the days when their ancestors could manipulate the subtle energies at the ancient sites. But nothing earthly can ever come close to it."

  They moved slowly in the long shadows of the castle until they came to an ancient stone cross rising out of the ground. At first glance it was nothing special, but once they drew closer they saw a double swirl of the Blue Fire continually flowing all around it.

  "This is where the lines all draw together," Church said. It was so potent he almost felt like kneeling before it.

  The mood was broken when, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a dark figure away to his left. He whirled, half drawing the sword, only to see a man dozing in the sun on a low wall, his dog collar just visible beneath a lightweight blue cagoule. He was in his late sixties, his face sun-browned and lined, his hair a shock of white. He stirred, as if Church's gaze had disturbed him, and then jumped to his feet, straightening his clothes with a mixture of embarrassment and anticipation.

  Once he had calmed he looked penetratingly into their faces in turn. "Is this it?" he asked with a note of excitement. "Is this the time?"

  "It is the time," Tom said, stepping forward. Church and Ruth looked at him curiously.

  "That's a relief, you know. After all that waiting and waiting. Of course, when I saw the signs ... the failure of technology and all that ... I supposed it must be the time. But when the message has been lying around for hundreds of years ... longer, of course ... it's difficult to believe it's actually going to happen in your lifetime." His cheeks coloured at the realisation that he was rambling. He held out a cautious hand and greeted them in turn. "I'm Michael." He smiled at what some would have considered a coincidence. "Watchman of St. Michael's Mount." He paused. "Chief Watchman, of this time, and this land. There. That seems so odd to say, after thirty years of never being able to say it to anybody. When the obligation was first passed to me, it felt such an honour ... the mysteries that were opened to me! ... and I can honestly say that has never diminished with time." He stared into Church's face so deeply Church felt uncomfortable. "Is this the one?"

  "It is," Tom replied.

  "Yes. I can see it. In his eyes, always in the eyes. The one good man." He cupped Church's right hand in both of his. "May God go with you, my boy." Then he did the most curious thing: he dropped to his knee and gently kissed Church's hand.

  Ruth, who had been watching the scenario intently, inexplicably grew angry. "What's going on here?" she snapped.

  Church looked around puzzled. "That's a very good question."

  "It's time, Jack." There was a strange cast to Tom's face that Church had not seen before, and it took him a second or two to realise what it was: Tom's features were unguarded; completely open.

  Church was a little disturbed by this out-of-character intensity. "What do you mean?"

  "Time to tell you something I've been keeping a secret ever since I've known you. A big secret."

  Church thought of the Celtic dead talking of the traitor in their midst and his hand instinctively went to the sword.

  Tom smiled and shook his head, as if he knew exactly what Church was thinking. "A big secret, Jack," he said softly. "So big you might not be able to take it all in. From the very beginning, this has all been about you, more than anything. You're on a journey to enlightenment. You think you've been doing one thing, but instead you've been doing this." He took a deep breath; there was a faint tremor in his voice. "You need to gain illumination for what lies ahead, to prepare you for the next step. The biggest step of all. There will be a long period of trial, but after that ..

  "So what are you saying? That he's some kind of Messiah?" Fury waiting to burst forth was buried in Ruth's voice.

  "That's a particularly stupid way of putting it," Tom said sharply.

  "But it's essentially true." There were tears in her eyes. What is she thinking? Church wondered.

  Tom dismissed Ruth with a curt wave of his hand and turned to Church. "Jack, you have died and been reborn. You have the essence of the gods in your veins. You are the next step."

  Church felt sick; his head was spinning and he couldn't breathe as the full weight of what Tom was saying finally crushed down on him.

  "What you are about to embark on is the final stage of your transformation." Tom's words were droning like flies. "This is what the old alchemists were talking about. You, Jack. The transformation of lead into gold was a metaphor for what you are undergoing."

  "This was all about nze?"

  "The future of humanity, the rising and advancing of our race towards the next stage, depends on you. The prophecy has been with us since the earliest times. In Britain's Darkest Hour, a hero shall arise. You will arise, Jack. You will awaken the land, and through your tribulations you will make the next step of spiritual evolution that will lead humanity from the shadows to-"

  "Godhood?"

  "Perhaps. The Watchmen were established to help defend the land against incursions by the old gods, but they were also brought together to see this through. To find the one on whom the whole of the future rested, and to help shape him."

  "I've been manipulated by the Tuatha De Danann, the Fomorii and now humanity?" Church felt like he was going to be sick. It was too much, both of comprehension and responsibility. And it was stupid! So many people had called him a hero, but he knew what he was like inside: flawed, unsure, conflicted. And now they were trying to thrust all of humanity's future on to his shoulders. Who could cope with that?

  "Not manipulated. You had a choice every step of the way. You still have a choice. No one would blame you for turning away from this. But you need to know what rests on your decision."

  "Am I going to change?"

  "Physically? No, it's much more subtle than that-the great leaps forward always are, at the time. But inside, you will change, and you will wish that change in all humanity. It will move through people like a virus, altering their thought processes, making them look up from the gutters to the stars-"

  "It's not fair!" The hurt in Ruth's voice was almost painful. "How can he turn away? Who could throw down that responsibility for selfish reasons?"

  She was right. He tried to comfort her, but she was having none of it.

  "We just wanted to be together, to appreciate what we've got now, to appreciate life, if we ever sort out this mess we're in. That was always the slim hope that kept us going, but now what you're saying means there's never going to be any rest! Not for Church, who deserves it the most. Not for me."

  "Some things are more important-"

  "Don't give me that!" Her eyes blazed, and away on the mainland a wind rushed wildly through the trees. Church stealthily signalled to Tom not to anger her further.

  "We've all sacrificed so much! We deserve a break!"

  He tried to take her in his arms, but she fended him off. "Ruth, it's okay-"

  "It's not, Church. It's not okay, and it's never going to be okay. This is like some stupid, sad old story where the heroes go through hardship and end up sacrificing themselves so everybody else can have a good life. It's just not fair!"

  Her tears were flowing freely now. She couldn't bear to look at any of them. She wandered away and faced the sea, her head bowed as if she had been struck.

  "Why couldn't you tell me all this before?" Church said to Tom.

  "You wouldn't have reacted the same way in your trials if you knew they were trials. All your achievements are wholly your own. Your choices were made by your own sense of goodness."

  Church rubbed his eyes, overcome by what he had been told. "Baccharus told me the gods were afraid humanity would come up and take their place."

  Tom rested a friendly hand on Church's shoulder. "They know. Thousands of years have led to this one point. Millions of variables falling into line. No coincidences, Chu
rch. Make no mistake, there are no coincidences. The gods may not have known you were the one, but they knew the whole game was coming to a head-"

  "It isn't a game!" His voice broke.

  "I'm sorry, that was the wrong word." As Tom shifted, the sun fell behind him so Church could not see his features in the dazzle of light. "But I knew you were the one, Church, from the very first moment I met you. As Michael said, you can see it in the eyes. I knew you were the one, good man."

  The note of respect and friendship in his voice brought a swell of emotion in Church. He looked over to Ruth, frail against the rugged surroundings, and he felt both love and sadness at the same time. More than anything he wanted to spend the rest of his days with her, but the obligation was too much. He had no choice. He never had a choice from the moment he was born.

  "Ruth."

  She ignored him, wrapped her arms a little tighter around herself.

  Standing behind her, he hesitated briefly before putting his hands on her waist. "Don't do this."

  "Why not? You're going to do it."

  "Of course I'm going to do it."

  "That's typical of you. No doubt at all." Her voice trembled. "You're throwing us away."

  "I'm not going to do that. You're more important to me than anything."

  A long pause. "You never said that before."

  "There are a lot of things I've not said. I'm not very good at expressing my emotions in words. But I do love you, Ruth."

  Another pause, and then she turned slowly and rested her head on his shoulder. "This thing isn't like anything else. It's too big. Christ, the responsibility for leading humanity into the Promised Land!"

  "You're mixing your Biblical stories."

  She took a deep breath to regain her equilibrium, then cuffed him gently on the shoulder to break the mood. "They'll never let you back after this. It's like the Mafia. You're a Made Man. You don't get out alive."

  "I believe things have a way of working themselves out."

  "That's a very childish and naive view of existence."