Always Forever

by Mark Chadbourn

  "Sure. What's wrong with that?"

  She hugged him tighter, her fingernails biting through his clothes.

  "I'll do whatever it takes to make sure I'm with you when all this blows over."

  "Cross mighty oceans?"

  "Yes."

  "Climb the highest mountain?"

  "Yes."

  "Travel the length of time and scour the universe?"

  "Yes and yes."

  "You're a lying git, but I love you too." He could feel her tears soaking through his T-shirt. She gave him another playful hit on the arm and then stepped back. "Go on with you, then. Just make sure you're back for lunch."

  Tom was sighing loudly and shifting from foot to foot when Church returned to him. He made to speak, but Church silenced him with a jabbed finger. "Don't say a word."

  Michael stepped in and motioned towards the chapel. "It's this way."

  Church could feel the lines of force buzzing through the soles of his boots; he could have found his way to the destination blindfold.

  Outside the chapel door, Michael paused. He looked both unsure and ecstatic. "This is it, then?"

  Tom took Michael's hand and shook it firmly. "Well done. You've discharged your duty well. The long watch is over."

  "Well, I don't quite know what I'll do with my time."

  "Be patient. And pray to your God for success."

  Tom slapped him on the shoulder to send him on his way back to Ruth before stepping into the chapel with Church at his heel. Inside it was cool and dark, filled with the ages-old smell of damp stone.

  "What am I going to find?" Church asked.

  "You'll know when you get there."

  "You're a great bloody help, aren't you?"

  The very air was charged with the earth energy; from the corner of his eye, Church could see blue sparks, like stardust.

  "There are realities upon realities," Tom said. "You can't rely on anything you see, hear, smell, touch, taste. But that's always been the way. The only thing that matters is what's in here." He levelled his fist at Church's heart.

  "Nothing is fixed in the Fixed Lands," Church said, repeating the words that had haunted his thoughts.

  "Exactly. There are realities that may not be to your taste." He was looking at Church in such a strange way it was troubling; Church tried to make sense of the unease he saw behind Tom's eyes, but it wouldn't come; something else the Rhymer wasn't telling him. "Sour realities. Pinched and mean. Places where there are none of the values that make life worth living-friendship, love, honour and dignity. Where there is only power and greed and money. You don't have to accept them, Jack. Wish the world better. Everything is illusion. You just have to wish hard enough to shape it."

  He looked as if he was about to hug Church, but he caught himself at the last. In the end he stepped aside and pointed to a small stone stairway not far from the altar.

  "What's down there?"

  "A tomb about nine foot square cut out of the rock. In 1275 the monks here came across the bones of a man eight feet tall. A giant."

  "Who was he?"

  "Not important."

  "The place is important?"

  He nodded.

  "Are you coming with me?"

  "No. This is something you have to do alone."

  Church sighed, tried to force a smile but it wouldn't come. Without another word, he put his foot on the first step.

  chapter fifteen

  war is declared

  and battle come down

  lood thundered in Church's head as he made his way down the steps to the chill interior of the tomb. Trepidation filled every part of him, but it was tinged with relief that finally there would be some kind of revelation after so many mysteries.

  Inside the bare tomb was a powerful sense of presence. Narrowing his eyes, Church allowed his deep perception to take over until the walls, floor and ceiling came alive with a vascular system of Blue Fire, interlocking at pulse points, drawing together at one section where the depth of blue glowed in the shape of a hand. He steeled himself, then placed his own palm down hard on the spot. There was an instant of hanging before the wall juddered apart to reveal a dark tunnel beyond. Church slipped through quickly and the rock closed behind him with a resounding clash.

  The tunnel reminded him of so many others he had experienced in the dark, secret places beneath the earth, although he knew that description was not wholly correct. The Celts and the people who came before them understood perfectly the symbolism of the routes they had established; indeed, it was probably the main reason for their location. He was entering the womb, going back to the primal state.

  After a few minutes, the tunnel opened on to a wide corridor filled with different coloured light filtering through a gently drifting mist; near the roof it was golden, near the ground the rich, sapphire tones of the Blue Fire, and in between were flickers of red and green and purple. The mist gave the place an ethereal quality that was deeply soothing. The air smelled like dry ice.

  For a while he hovered anxiously, concerned that it was impossible to see what lay ahead. Knowing he had no choice, he strode out, feeling the unnatural sensation of feathers on his skin as he entered the mist. If it resembled the other secret places he had visited, somewhere ahead would lie a puzzle with a particularly lethal sting; if Tom's description of the place was correct, this one would be worst of all.

  Within the mist, he lost all his bearing. After a while, a dark smudge appeared in the drifting white, quickly forming into a figure. The Sword was in Church's hand in an instant, electric against his skin. It was a man, dressed in the armour and white silk of a Knight Templar, the red cross on his chest glowing eerily. His face was drawn, his eyes hooded above a drooping white moustache. He rested on the long sword the Templars favoured.

  Church waited for him to adopt a fighting posture, but the Knight simply motioned for Church to continue along the corridor. There was an air of deference about him, but his face was dark and threatening. Inexplicably, Church shuddered as he passed.

  Further on, other figures emerged from the mist. These were Celts ready for battle, naked and tattooed, their hair matted, spiked and bleached with a lime mixture. They stood against the walls on either side, watching him with baleful eyes. Some broke away, loping past him in the direction from which he had come. Again he felt the same old mixture of wariness and reverence, but his fear of a sudden attack had started to wane.

  As he progressed, representatives of the races that preceded the Celts floated in and out of the mist, but most of them were swallowed up again before he got good sight of them. At some point, a troubling noise had started up, so faint at first he hadn't noticed it, but it built until it was pulsing through the walls with steady, rhythmic bass notes that resonated in the pit of his stomach. It sounded like war drums, or the beating of an enormous heart.

  And then, suddenly, the mist cleared and he was looking at something so incongruous it was at first hard to take: a large window, and beyond it people in modern dress stared back at him with hard, uncompromising expressions. Before he could see any more, the mist closed in once again. There had been something dismal and threatening about the scene, although he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. He hurried on and didn't look back.

  Finally he was out of the mist. The corridor was even wider at this pointenough for ten men to lie across-but the most curious thing was that the floor was a mass of intricate patterns carved into the hard bedrock. There were the familiar spirals and cup holes he had seen at prehistoric sites during his days as a working archaeologist, but also the detailed interweaving designs of the Celts. The patterns of hundreds, if not thousands, of years were portrayed there.

  The swirls and fine detail were almost hallucinogenic, but there was no time to waste examining the inconography. He put one foot on the edge of the pattern.

  A spike burst from the ground, through the sole of his boot and into the leather uppers. A bolt of red agony filled his leg and he howled, wre
nching his foot off the iron nail with a sickening sucking sound. The spike disappeared back into the design the moment he was free of it. Feeling sick from the shock and the pain, he crumpled down hard on the cold stone, tearing off his boot. The spike had torn the flesh off the insides of his big toe and his second toe, but luckily, had done no further damage.

  As he laced the boot back up, he surveyed the floor pattern: a trap. The spikes were obviously buried along the length of the design: step on the correct place, you were fine; make the wrong move and you were impaled. The pattern stretched out in delirious confusion. How was he supposed to divine the path through it?

  He retreated a few paces to see if the change in perspective offered any clues, then moved in close; it was a miasma. From a distance, it was a mess, meaningless; near to, the design hinted at great meaning, but none of it made any sense in any context he understood. Sighing, he sat back, trying to ignore the pain stabbing in his foot. He took comfort from the knowledge that all the previous puzzles they had encountered had been soluble if seen from the cultural or philosophical perspective of the Celts and the earlier people who had originated them. His university studies helped him a little in understanding their worldview, but he had never studied in depth the group that seventeenth-century romantics had designated a unique people. He knew the Celts were a fragmented collection of tribes, originally rising from a broad area centred on India, but common threads tied them together, of which their view of life and spirituality were probably the strongest.

  He thought back over the previous puzzles and their odd mix of threat and spiritual instruction: the one at Tintagel, where sacrifice was the key, or the clues at Glastonbury that demanded Shavi, Ruth and Laura search for the "signal hidden in the noise," the truth buried in the confusion, a metaphor for life. There it was. Quickly, he crawled forward to the edge of the pattern. The Celtic design showed serpents-or, he thought excitedly, dragons-flowing in a spiral pattern that progressed from side to side along the floor. And the Spiral Path had been the Celtic metaphor for both the journey through life and a ritual procession that allowed access to the Otherworld, like the spiral path carved into the slopes of Glastonbury Tor.

  Was that it? He had no way of knowing for sure until his foot was on the design, so in the end it came down to an act of faith; in himself and his own abilities.

  He cracked his knuckles, then took a deep breath. It was time to embark on the Spiral Dance and move from this life to the next.

  With the air leaden in his lungs, he stepped on to the stylised Celtic serpents. Every muscle hardened. When he realised nothing had happened, he relaxed a little, but the path was barely wider than a curb, a tightrope winding its way through a sea of danger. What happened if he slipped? A spike ripping through his sole, sprawling across the design, spikes punching into his body wherever he landed. With the blood thundering in his ears, he took his second step.

  The path took him from wall to wall, forwards then backwards, in slow progress along the length of the corridor. Sweat soaked through his shirt, ran in rivulets into the nape of his back. His head hurt from staring at the tiny pattern in the half-light. Follow the serpent in the earth to enlightenment. As the ancient Celtic inventors had undoubtedly intended, his stark concentration brought a deep meditation on what he was undertaking; the metaphor of walking a thin path through constant danger did not escape him.

  At one point, he paused briefly to rest his eyes. It was a mistake, for he instantly started wavering and almost pitched forward until he threw out both arms to steady himself. It only just did the trick, but it was enough of a scare to focus him even more sharply. He did one final spiral, more complex than any of the others, and then, abruptly, the design had gone and he was back on safe stone flags. He collapsed on to his back, sucking in soothing breaths.

  He rested for only a moment before following the corridor once more. The Spiral Path had been some kind of transition, for within a few yards the corridor had been replaced by a wall of trees, their tops lost high up in the shadows. Church had long since forgone trying to apply logic to his experiences in such areas, but the sight was still oddly disturbing. The underground wood appeared healthy enough, with full-leafed oaks and ash and hawthorn, with bracken and brambles growing beneath them. An odd green luminescence filtered amongst the trunks, but Church could not identify its source; it was enough to illuminate the way ahead, and gave the impression of first light or twilight.

  The density of the forest added to the deep foreboding that had crept up on him. Anything could be hiding amongst the foliage. As if to echo his suspicions, rustling broke out in the undergrowth. A second later, two rows of sheep emerged from the forest and passed him on either side. The ones on the left were white, the others black, both lines walking in perfect step. The bizarre sight became even more unnerving when one of the white sheep bleated, for then one of the black sheep wandered over to the white queue and immediately became white. The reverse happened when a black sheep bleated. Church looked round to see where they were going, but there were none behind him. When he peered back, the last few sheep emerged from the forest and were gone.

  He was sure it meant something, but he had no idea what, and the image continued to haunt him as he began his journey in the quiet, green world.

  The atmosphere amongst the trees was so ethereal it was difficult to shake the notion that he was dreaming. Odd sensations began to make their way through his body-a tingling in his legs, a feeling that his hands were no longer handsand a moment later the weightlessness that had crept up on him became palpable. It was not a hallucination, for he really was drifting a little way above the ground. He called out in surprise, only to be shocked that his voice sounded like the cry of a bird. His eyes were astonishingly sharp and his arms were wings, covered with thick, brown feathers. He was a hawk, flying up into the branches, and up and up.

  There was no time to question his transformation, for he was immediately confronted by another hawk with blazing yellow eyes. "You are one with the birds of the trees," it said in an unsettlingly human voice.

  It swooped down at him, talons raised in attack. Church panicked, losing all control of his form. The hawk raked claws across his back and a shower of brown feathers flew all around. He attempted to steer himself, crashed against a branch and went into a downward spiral.

  The hawk didn't give up its attack, shrieking loudly as it bore down on him. Once more the talons tore through his back, and this time the pain almost made him lose consciousness. But he recovered slightly, and his mind was focused. He didn't fight against the messages that were coming from instinct, and after a slow start, where he only narrowly evaded another scarring, he found he could move swiftly amongst the trees.

  He wasn't about to stand and fight-he didn't see the point of it-so he flew as swiftly as he could, before a weight pressed down hard on his shoulders and forced him to the ground. His wings gone, he hit the turf hard, tumbling athletically.

  Barely able to catch his breath, he rolled to his feet, which were now grey paws. "You are one with the beasts of the field," a rough voice said. He looked round to see a large grey wolf away amongst the trees. It was watching him with the same hateful yellow eyes of the hawk.

  It moved, but Church was quicker, loping through the trunks, leaping the clusters of vegetation, avoiding the pits and hollows with ease. As he ran, he moved further off the ground and his paws became hooves, while a sharp pain in his forehead signalled the sprouting of antlers like those Cernunnos sported.

  The hoofbeats of his pursuer continued to thunder across the soft ground. And then Church was back on his own legs, and in his peripheral vision he could see his own hands; his lungs burned from the exertion. Church didn't know if he had truly transformed or if it had been a hallucination. He tried to look over his shoulder and awkwardly caught his foot in a root, stumbled, and slid down a slight incline.

  What he saw made his blood run cold. There was no man behind him, as there had been a deer, a wolf and
a hawk. At first it was a stark white glow, before he realised that what he was seeing was a pack of dogs, savage and alien, filled with their own brilliance.

  He picked himself up and ran as fast as he could. The beasts' crazed howling made him sick with primal fear. They were not like the dogs of the Wild Hunt, which were fearsome enough, but were filled with an unbridled ferocity and, he was convinced, controlled by one mind. He risked another backwards glance and saw them bounding amongst the trees like spectres, there, then gone, moving on two flanks to capture him in a pincer movement.

  He jumped a stream, almost skidding down the opposite bank, then hurdled a fallen log. The pack was relentless, and drawing closer; he would not be able to outrun them. Their howling became even more blood crazed as they sensed this.

  He came out of the forest so fast he barely realised he had left the last of the trees behind him. The land fell away sharply, becoming hard rock again, and the roof had closed once more twenty feet above his head. In the distance he could make out a brilliant blue glow. Slipping on the rock, he tumbled, cracking his head hard, but he was up and running in one fluid movement, wiping the blood away that had started to puddle in his left eye.

  He had hoped the pack would remain behind in the forest, but now their shrieks were echoing off the walls, growing more intense, more terrifying. If he looked back, he knew he would see them snapping only inches from his heels.

  As he ran, he pulled out the Sword once more. Legend said it could kill anything with a single blow. Swinging it behind him without slowing his step, he felt it connect with two hard forms. A terrible howling rang up from the whole pack.

  He carried on that way for a few minutes more, but his arm muscles were soon burning and his joints ached. There was no time for an alternate strategy: the path ahead of him ended abruptly at a cliff edge, and beyond was a lake of the Blue Fire, the energy rising up in coruscating bursts like the bubbling of lava.

  A few feet from the edge he spun round, lashing out wildly with the sword, but the pack had already halted a few yards away. All the dogs were watching him with their sickly yellow eyes, their mouths open to reveal enormous, sharp fangs; drool ran out in rivulets to splatter on the rock where it gave a hot fat sizzle.