Siding Star
Page 27
Again the voice said, “Come!”
He was standing in sunshine on a grassy slope with daffodils. Far below him to his left he could see a vast shimmering ocean stretching to the horizon. Above and to his right the ground continued to rise, steeply at first (but not so steep he couldn’t walk up it), then gently, slope upon grassy slope, until at last it met the blue sky. The air was soft and sweet yet exhilarating, and every breath he drew seemed to fill him with life. There were birds singing. And still there was the music, which seemed softer now but was everywhere, like the sunlight and the air, flowing into him so that he sighed with delight. He felt peace as if he were in the holiest of shrines and at the same time zest as if he were about to begin the most exciting of adventures.
He turned eagerly and set his face to climb the hill. Then he became aware of one who was all light and color and joy, a glorious one who barred his way.
“Not yet, Charlie. You will climb the mountain and you will join the others, but not yet. You aren’t yet strong enough for that joy and your eyes aren’t bright enough for that light. So be still, Charlie, and watch, while your limbs grow strong and your eyes get used to the light. And wait for your friend, Charlie, since she, it seems, chooses to wait for you. Then you can go on together.”
siding stAr 391 For a moment Charlie stood still, somewhat nonplussed. The glorious one spoke again.
“And now, Charlie…” Was that a hint of amusement in the
voice of the glorious one? “Look behind you!” Charlie looked back. A black tail, upright like a poker, was moving towards him through the long grass. He cried out with pleasure as his old friend bounded toward him—though to tell the truth, bigger and glossier and fuller of life than he’d ever been—now purring loudly and pressing against his feet, warm and solid and intensely alive.
ABout the Author
Christopher Bryan is an Anglican priest and C. K. Benedict Professor of New Testament at The University of the South. He was born and grew up in London, and was educated at Oxford. He is the author of several non-fiction books, includ- ing Render to Caesar and The Resurrection of the Messiah. He and his wife Wendy now make their home in Sewanee, Tennessee, and in Exeter, England. Find out more at www.christopherbryanonline.com or at his author’s page at Amazon.com.
Read the upcoming sequel to Siding Star:
PeACekeePer to be published December 2012.
one
Near Tintagel, Cornwall. Saturday, 25April, 2009. 11.55 a.m.
It was very nearly noon, but the skies were dark and there was thunder in the air.
A gleaming black Mercedes S-class limousine moved cautiously down the narrow, rutted lane, the bright beams of its headlights gleaming on wet leaves, grass, and the occasional eye of a small, curious creature. It came finally to a halt in shad- ows by an almost concealed gate, and there idled for several minutes, windshield wipers sweeping to and fro. Then the wipers were stilled and the headlights dimmed. After another minute the engine ceased.
There was now only the sound of wind, gusting and sighing through the branches.
“I think this is it, sir,” the chauffeur said through the intercom. “I’m afraid I can’t get you any closer to the front door. But at least it seems to have stopped raining.”
The man in the back nodded. “The car boot,” he said, “you can open it from where you sit?”
“Yes sir. The control’s here on the dashboard. Do you want me to open it for you, sir?”
“No, not yet. Listen carefully. I’m going to go to the cottage and you are to wait here for me – perhaps an hour, perhaps more. When I return, I will come to the window beside you and tap the glass. You will remain seated while you open the boot for me and I place some equipment in it. I will not need assistance. You will not try to see what I am doing. Then when I’ve closed the boot and got back into the car, you will drive me back to London. Is all that clear?”
“Yes, sir. Perfectly clear sir. I stay here. I open the boot from here when you say so. I don’t watch what you do. And then when you’ve finished and get back in the limo, I drive you back to London.”
“That is correct. Now wait.”
The man got out of the limousine, closed the door, and stood for a moment.
The downpour had indeed stopped, but rain threatened again at any moment. He could hear thunder, and it was not, he thought, very far away. He looked around him. To tell the truth, leaden skies suited him. All things die, sooner or later, and dark clouds spoke more realistically of such a universe than did the jovial pleasantries of sunshine and blue skies.
And he was in favor of realism.
He turned toward the cottage.
As he started forward a small dog darted out from the ditch and barked at him—lip curled, eyes bright with fury, barring his approach—then made off, as if answering a sudden call, to disappear in long grass.
The man hesitated only a moment before continuing through the gate and along an untidy path toward the front door.
The woman who answered it looked tired.
“Yes?” she said. “What do you want?”
“I am the chairman,” he said. “I wrote to you. I am chairman of the academy.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “The chairman. The new chairman. They come and they go. The last one wanted to destroy the galaxy.”
“He overstepped himself. He achieved nothing.”
“And now you want to use the cave.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I would create servants.”
She gazed at him.
He was tall and gray-haired, with a bearing that might have been described as soldierly, even distinguished, and piercing eyes that most people could not meet. His English was perfect— though perfect in just such a way as to suggest that English was not his first language.
The woman looked into his eyes and seemed unimpressed.
“Be careful what you want,” she said. “It’s not been used for ninety years.”
“I know.”
“And then,” she said, ignoring his interruption, “it made a servant that finally killed its master and sixty-five million others with him.”
“I know. I was there.”
The woman stared at him. Then she nodded.
“So you were,” she said. “I recognize you now.” She considered him again. “You have the ointment?” she said at last.
“I have it.”
“How did you get it?”
“A consultant supplied it. He has advised me on its use.”
“And you have a purpose for these servants?”
“I…” The tall man hesitated. For the first time he seemed slightly disconcerted, even confused. Then he said, “My consultant and I, we have devised a plan.”
The woman shrugged but said no more. Instead she signaled him to wait, went for a cape, then led him around to the back of the cottage and down through the woods. They made their way along an overgrown path past stinging nettles, docks, and brambles, alongside a stream and out at last onto a bluff. The rocks on the left fell away into a valley and the stream splashed down them over a tumble of stones, leaves, and dead branches. On the right the rocks rose steeply but were still suitable for climbing.
“Up there.” She pointed. “Follow the path, you’ll find it easily enough. It can always be found by those who look for it. And do not come to me again.”
Order your copy of PeACekeePer at www.christopherbryanonline.com or wherever books are sold.