Always Forever

by Mark Chadbourn

  "This is what they wanted," Laura said dismally, her words almost drowned out by the thunder of the hooves. "To separate us. To get us into a place where there wasn't the slightest chance we could fight back." She gulped in a mouthful of air to stifle the rising emotion. Then: "Do you think they've got the others?"

  Shavi wasn't listening. The sea of black, roiling bodies moved in rapidly on either side; soon they would be submerged in the deluge. Dread formed a lump in his throat. Always hope, he told himself, a calming mantra repeated over and over. Focus on the source of the hope, not the source of the fear. Gradually the black, oppressive world faded away into the background until all he could see were the streams of brilliant blue. And the deepest, fastest and most brilliant of them blazed a channel between the enclosing darkness. Shavi guided his horse on to it and prayed.

  The scorched grass, blackened trees and thick layer of grey ash that blanketed St. James's Park passed in a blur. The jolt of hooves on hard road. Great George Street. Then the wide open space of Parliament Square, the statue of the great war leader Churchill reduced to a broken stump. Westminster Bridge shattered, ending after only a few yards in broken concrete and twisted iron girders. The Houses of Parliament seething, across the roof, through the smashed windows, bubbling out towards them. The Fomorii that had the ability to fly on leathery bat wings swarmed across the Thames like angry wasps.

  "All around!" Laura yelled. "This is it!"

  The Fomorii surged down Whitehall and Millbank into Parliament Square, black, gleaming bodies as far as the eye could see. Shavi guided his horse round until the dark, majestic bulk of Westminster Abbey rose up in front of them.

  "There," he said.

  They raced their horses to the western entrance, where Shavi saw the Blue Fire swirling into a coruscating pillar of energy, lighting up the ornate columned front with its imposing twin towers. Three of the Tuatha De Danann jumped down to try the handles before putting their shoulders to the heavy oaken doors without budging them in the slightest.

  "Locked," one of the guards said. Panic bloomed in his face. The Square was completely obscured now; the relentless torrent was almost upon them.

  "Who's there?" The voice was timorous, broken.

  Shavi leapt from his horse and threw himself at the door. "Let us in! We need sanctuary!"

  There was one hanging moment when they feared whoever was within had left them to die, but then came the sound of heavy bolts being drawn.

  The Redcaps were ahead of the driving wall of Fomorii, jumping and leaping like crazed tigers. One of the Tuatha De Danann guards attempted to fend them off to give the others more time. They fell on him in a frenzy.

  The door swung open and a voice shouted, "Quick!"

  Shavi led them in, horses and all, and then the doors slammed shut with a sound like the tolling of a bell.

  Within the Abbey there was an abiding stillness. The thick stone walls muffled the noise of the terrible force without, but all Shavi was aware of was the thunder of the blood in his brain. The entire building was filled with the iron tang of the Blue Fire, too potent, he was sure, for the Fomorii to attempt to enter. Yet as he came to terms with the amazing fact that they were safe, he gradually took in his surroundings and was overcome with surprise.

  The vast body of the Abbey was filled as far as he could see with pale, silent faces. Men and women, old, middle-aged and young, babies and children, all looking up with expressions riven by fear. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, turned towards the new arrivals, or slumped on pews or on the stone floor, at first glance barely human; sheep, he thought, even less than that.

  But there was humanity behind the fear, although it was of a pathetic kind, of people desperately trying to cope with a paralysing disbelief that everything they understood had crumbled in an instant.

  "Who are you?" It was the voice of the man who had spoken to them through the door. He was in his early fifties, stylishly dressed, with a sallow face, cropped grey hair and designer glasses. He appeared to notice the Tuatha De Danann for the first time. "Who are they? Are they-?"

  "Friends." Shavi rested a calming hand on the man's shoulder. He glanced once more at the expectant mass. Around the edges of the nave were empty cans and boxes, the remains of whatever food supplies they had brought with them, but many of the faces looked hungry. "How long have you been in here?"

  "From the moment it all blew up. It took everyone by surprise. We scrambled in here with what we could grab, a few provisions, not enough ... How in heaven's name did you manage to get here? We thought everyone else must be dead by now." His voice died; there were tears in his eyes. "We can't go outside. A few tried it, to get more food." He shook his head, looked at his shoes.

  Laura pulled Shavi over to one side. "This is a nightmare. They're either going to starve or go outside and get slaughtered."

  "We are in the same predicament."

  "Yes, but they're not like us. They're normal people. That shit is part of our job description, not theirs."

  Shavi still couldn't comprehend how much she had altered. Not so long ago she would have been advocating self-preservation at all costs, and now she was urging them to accept their responsibility. Could someone really change that much? "You are right," he said, smiling. "We owe them what little hope we have, at the very least." He turned to the sallow-faced man. "Are you in charge here?"

  He shook his head. "You want Professor Michell, I suppose. He's not really in charge. But he makes decisions. Any decisions that need making."

  "Then," Shavi prompted, "could you take us to him?"

  The nave was beautiful and awe-inspiring, with fabulous monuments on either side. An air of solemnity hung over it. As they passed through, brief hope flared in the eyes of the refugees. Some held out their hands like the Victorian poor, silently begging for food. A Nigerian woman, overweight in a too-tight coat, offered a tentative smile, her eyes flooded with tears. Children stared blankly into the shadows. A girl in a blue dress, Sunday-best smart, as if she'd been on her way to a special function when her life had been arrested, said, "Have you seen my mummy? I'm waiting for her." Babies shuddered with sobs drained of tears. Shavi and Laura tried to offer reassuring smiles to the first few, but the emotional cost was too great and they averted their eyes for the remainder of the long walk.

  To distract herself, Laura nodded to a monument in the centre of the nave. "What's that?"

  "The tomb of the Unknown Soldier." Shavi had stood in front of it before, but this time it was laden with meaning. "An unidentified British soldier brought back from a French battlefield during the Great War. He represents all the victims of that great tragedy, indeed, all the lowly warriors who have since given their lives in conflict."

  Beyond the nave were the aisles to the choir, which was also packed with refugees. Shavi paused to examine the monuments that lined the walls. Now everything he saw was filled with so much meaning, the emotion was welling up and threatening to overflow. "This is what we are losing," he said gravely. "Not fast cars and computers and mobile phones. This is what truly matters." He pointed to each monument in turn. "Elgar. Purcell. John Wesley. William Wilberforce. Charles Darwin." He pointed towards the south transept. "Down there, Poets' Corner: Chaucer, Auden, Shakespeare, Shelley, Blake, Keats, Dryden, Spenser, Jonson, Milton, the Brontes, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Coleridge, Dickens, Kipling-"

  "Don't get maudlin on me, Shav-ster," Laura said gloomily. She wandered off ahead.

  Eventually the sallow-faced man brought them to St. Edward the Confessor's Chapel, the sacred heart of the abbey where its most precious relics lay. Here a man in his sixties, with shoulder-length, straggly grey hair, sat wearily in a Gothic, high-backed chair. He was painfully thin, his wrists protruding skele tally from the fraying arms of an old, woollen overcoat. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his face suggested a man burdened by the greatest of worries, but underneath it Shavi saw integrity and intelligence.

  The sallow-faced man hurried over and whispered in
his ear. Without looking up, the Professor gestured exhaustedly for Shavi and the others to approach. When they were in front of him, he cast a brief eye over them, but if he felt any shock at the sight of the Tuatha De Danann, he didn't register it. "More strays sheltering from the storm?" His voice was achingly tired.

  "We are here to confront the invaders," Shavi said.

  He counted them off silently. "So many of you. Did you really need to come so mob-handed?"

  "We're only part of it," Laura said. "The best part, sure, but there are others. Lots of them. There's a war going on." She gestured towards the Tuatha De Danann. "These-"

  The Professor acknowledged them with a nod. "Old gods made new again. I expected they were around, though I haven't seen any of them till now."

  "Who are you?" Shavi asked.

  "The wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time." He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes for a long period. "An academic. Just what the world needs now. Even better, one versed in anthropology." He laughed bitterly.

  "So how did you get the top job?" Laura watched the sallow-faced man slope away.

  "Someone had to do it. Not that there's anything to do, apart from preventing everyone from killing themselves. Though even that may be an exercise in futility."

  The Tuatha De Danann shifted awkwardly until Baccharus silently motioned to Shavi that he was taking them back to the horses.

  "So, introductions. My name is Brian Michell. And you are?"

  Shavi and Laura introduced themselves before briefly outlining what was happening in the city. Michell listened thoughtfully, nodding at the correct moments. When they had finished, he said, "When I first saw those horrible things out there I knew they were the template for all the worst things in our old myths. There was something inexpressibly ancient about them, something laden with symbolism. It was only a matter of time before the ones responsible for the other archetypes appeared."

  "You'd get on well with our own old git," Laura said. "Same language, same old bollocks."

  "I still haven't worked out why they haven't come in here to tear us apart."

  Shavi explained as best he could about the Blue Fire, but Michell picked up on the concept quickly. "Good old woolly-minded New Agers. I always knew they were on to something. The spiritual wellhead, eh? Then I suppose it's only natural this place is a potent source of it. It's been a sacred spot for as long as man's been around, so the legends say. A divine island in prehistoric times, bounded by the Thames and the two arms of the River Tyburn that's now buried in pipes. The old Isle of Thorns, sacred to the Druids. Later, sacred to Apollo, where his temple was sited. Home of numerous other now long-lost religious monuments. And still giving up all it has to our generation. Amazing." He forced a smile.

  "What have you been doing for all those people?" Laura asked.

  "Ensuring the little food we had was distributed fairly. Not much to do in that quarter now. In the early days, mediate in disputes. Try to keep them from taking their frustrations out on each other. They turned to me because they thought, being an educated man, I know about things. Now isn't that a laugh? I haven't even been able to look after my own life. The wife, God bless her, left long ago. Sick of all my cant. And the booze, I suppose. Haven't had a drink since I came in here. Now isn't that a thing? They should have examined my curriculum vitae a little more closely."

  "Whatever you say, I am sure you are the right man for the job. You have held them together," Shavi said. Michell shrugged, wouldn't meet Shavi's eye. "I would like to talk to them," Shavi continued.

  Michell chewed on a flayed nail, his eyes now fixed on Shavi's face. "And say what to them? I don't want you making their last days any more miserable."

  "He's not going to do that." Laura grinned. "Shavi here's the preacher-boy. He's going to uplift their souls."

  "I want to tell them there is still hope."

  The Professor winced, shook his head. "I think we've all had enough fairy stories."

  Shavi rested a hand on the Professor's thin fingers, which felt unbearably cold. "I ask you to trust me."

  A tremor ran through Shavi as he ascended to the pulpit and looked down at the array of pale faces turned towards him. There was too much emotion there. It made him feel he wasn't up to the task, not even slightly. I am just a London boy, he wanted to say. Not a shaman, not a hero, not a saviour.

  But after a moment, his heart took over and the words flowed to his mouth without any thought. "For centuries, this has been a place of miracles ..

  They made their base in one of the Sir Christopher Wren-designed twin towers on the western side. Outside, night had fallen; without any lights in the city, the Abbey felt like it was suspended in space.

  The Tuatha De Danann settled easily in one corner of the gloomy old room and rested their eyes. Shavi was still not sure if they actually slept.

  "That was a good thing you did," Laura said quietly as she, Shavi and Baccharus sat around a stubby candle from the Abbey's store. "You could see it in their faces. What you did for them ... amazing. I couldn't have done it. No one else could have done it." She gave Shavi's thigh a squeeze. "You missed your calling, preacher-boy."

  "Hope is a human essential."

  "Hope is essential for all things in the sweep of existence." Baccharus stared at the flickering candle flame. It is common currency, too often in short supply." He looked up at Shavi. "And to give hope is the greatest gift of all."

  "Oh, don't. His head's big enough already." Laura rested on Shavi's shoulder. After a moment she said, "So what are we going to do? We can't sit here forever."

  "I fear we have been removed from the conflict," Baccharus said. "Unless my people can fight their way through to us, or one of the others achieves something remarkable that changes the situation, there is little we can do." His voice suggested he didn't expect it to happen.

  "But it's so pathetic," Laura protested. "We didn't do anything! We barely got into the city!"

  "No," Shavi said. "I have to ensure the cauldron is there for the final battle. Laura and I both need to be there. We have to find a way."

  Baccharus held out his hand in equanimity. "But there is nothing we can do. We are surrounded by a city of Night Walkers where we cannot move the slightest step without being cut down. The wise one accepts when events are beyond control."

  Laura looked from Baccharus to Shavi. "So we sit here waiting to die?"

  "Or," Shavi said, "waiting to live."

  At some point the quiet conversation became a distant drone and Laura's eyelids grew heavy, although a dim part of her was amazed that she could even consider sleeping. When she next stirred she realised the talk had stopped. Baccharus was lying next to the guttering candle, his eyes closed. Shavi was nowhere to be seen.

  She stood up and stretched, although since her transformation her limbs no longer really ached. But she did feel the cold more, and her breath was clouding. She pulled her jacket tightly around her, the chill of the stone flags rising through the soles of her boots.

  She found Shavi in an adjoining corridor lined with windows that looked out over the city. She might not have seen him in the pervasive gloom if not for a brief instant when the smoke and mist cleared to allow the moonlight to break through. Then he was limned in silver, like a ghost, leaning against the wall.

  As Laura approached quietly, she was disturbed to see a strange cast to his face. It was heavy with dark thoughts and deep troubles, and she suddenly wondered whether his experience in the Grim Lands had affected him more than they thought. What if it had twisted a part of him, and even he didn't know?

  She was considering retreating when he looked up to see her. His warm smile instantly dispelled all her doubts.

  "Planning a suicide mission?" she asked.

  He held out an arm so she could slide in next to him. "I was thinking about the others."

  She felt warm and secure wrapped against his body. The smell of him brought back memories in a rush and she was surprised how happy
they made her feel, but there was an edge of sadness to them as well. "That time we did the monkey dance in Glastonbury," she began, "I was being a little manipulator."

  "I know."

  "Not in a bad way. I just wanted to get close to you. I thought nobody would do that if I didn't try to play them. Anyway, I'm sorry. I should have been more honest."

  "Why do you feel the need to tell me this now?"

  She thought about this for a moment. "If I screw up ... if I'm not up to what you expected of me ... I just don't want you thinking I'm all bad. Too bad."

  "I could never think badly of you, Laura."

  "Yeah, well, you don't know what lies ahead. I might run off screaming at a vital moment. Or something."

  "I have faith in you." He gave her a squeeze. "I wonder where the others are now. Ryan and Ruth should have realised how dense the Fomorii forces are in the city by now. I hope their regiment of the Tuatha De Danann had more success than ours."

  "The worst thing is that we might never find out, just be stuck here while everything winds down, not knowing if the people we care about are alive or dead."

  "And Church-"

  "Church will be fine." She nuzzled into Shavi's shoulder. "He's got God on his side. Too damn decent to screw up."

  "It must hurt you to still love him."

  "Not really. Yes, I still love him. But I've got my head round the fact that we're never going to be together." She put on a fake voice. "It's just one of those terribly tragic love stories."

  "It is not the end, you know."

  She laughed silently. "That's a good thing to say in this predicament. But if we're just talking about our stupid personal lives, then I know you're right. For the first time I feel optimistic about me. About what I could do. Which is ludicrous when there might only be a day left, and I've got green blood running through my veins. But, you know, I feel ... hopeful. And I never thought I'd feel that in my life."

  Shavi rested his head against hers, smelling her hair, relishing the new aromas she generated since her change. Above all, he was happy for her, even if there were only hours left. "What do you want to do now?" he asked quietly.