by Nina Milton
With the silken cord connecting us, and the Pokémon toy in my hand, I knew that I would find Laura’s otherworld again.
“Trendle, my faithful companion. How will we do this?”
“By fishing in the dark,” he said, reminding me of how I’d detected a net around Laura as I’d rattled over her body.
We pushed through the willows, passing the fingerpost. Trendle slipped into the mouth of the cave and I followed, taking judicious footstep across the gritty floor until even the last glimmers of daylight were left behind. As I turned the bend in the cave, I began tracing the cave wall with my fingers. I could feel the warmth of my own fast breathing. I screwed my inner eyes up, searching the blackness, and saw a jagged crack shining brilliantly in the distance—a space in the cave wall large enough for the sun to shine through. A shadow moved on the cave walls, as if there was activity just outside the narrow exit. I heard the sound of waves. Of course. There would be sea in Laura’s otherworld. I watched the shadow and made out limbs, a blurred head. I was watching the reflection of some sort of spirit being.
“Please! May I ask you, are you Laura Munroe’s guardian?”
The shadow moved on the wall in a kind of dance. “I am guardian to many. I have watched over Laura since she came into this soultime.” The voice was buoyant, like the song of a boat.
“I saw a kind of caul around her. Was that a true vision?”
“Human souls are crippled with misunderstandings and obsessions,” said the shadow. “They have many and varied burdens.”
I let out a sigh. “Laura is burdened. I can tell. I just don’t know how, or why.”
“Laura’s affliction jolted her soul from its axis. This judders every thought and wipes away peace of mind.”
“Her soul is out of kilter?” I asked. “Like a dislocated shoulder?”
I heard the being laugh. It was a shocking but glorious sound. It was like choirs; like symphonies of laughter. It was almost more than I could bear. I kept my eyes away from the blaze of light outside the cave and concentrated on the shadow form.
“A wonderful correspondence, Sabrina Dare. It will hold good for you. Yes, dislocation and a jail of netting.”
“Please … you know my name … can you tell me yours?”
“I have many. Ask Laura what she calls me.”
I felt my eyes grow wide. “You are Raichu! How … bizarre!”
There was silence. I felt the spirit distance itself, but only when the brilliant light faded completely from the cave exit did I lurch outside. There was sand beneath my feet, the chill of a breeze on my skin. High summer, and Trendle and I were on a beach, leaving trails of footprints in wet sand.
The tide shushed in and dragged out again. Behind me was a low sea wall. Ahead of me were the dark legs of a pier which stretched out into water. This was familiar territory.
“Weston Super Mare,” I called to Trendle. “Laura’s hometown.”
I’d been to Weston many times as a kid. I’d been on the pier for the rides and the slot machines. I shaded my eyes against the sun; I’d noticed a flicker of red which burst from the pier’s platform. “What is that?”
“Come.” Trendle quickened his pace.
The flicker was growing as we ran. I could see individual flames licking the sides of pier booths. I heard a whooshing sound and in an instance fire ran along the wooden slats of the pier walkway.
“Fire!” I yelled. “Fire!”
It took hold fast, consuming the wooden structure. Even though there was nothing I could do, even though the flames were scorching my arms, I ran towards the blaze. I could feel the heat on my face and the smuts in my eyes. Trendle shot ahead, like a dog, and nosed under the pier structure. I ran to him and stopped dead.
Despite the fire above us, it was cool under the pier—cool, dark, and a little mysterious. Trendle was sniffing out something in the flotsam and jetsam, snuffling at some fishermen’s nets tangled in the surf.
There was a bundle wrapped inside netting … trapped inside it. I touched it and it felt cold.
“Is this the juddered piece of Laura’s soul?” I whispered. I pulled at the netting, but whichever way I tugged, I only made things worse, tightening the knots.
A rending creak sounded above our heads. We were surrounded by the falling sparks of the fire above us; red rain in the summer sky. A board collapsed through the walkway and fell, hissing as the charred shape hit the sea.
“Help me, Raichu!” I called.
For a moment nothing happened, and I fretted that Raichu had felt dishonored by my comment in the cave. I stood my ground, waiting.
Through the curtain of raining sparks and burning beams came a figure as tall as the pier. A garment of plain white hung like a sail over its limbs. I saw a glorious face, ablaze and formless as molten rock. Laura’s guardian was ageless and genderless, almost bodiless, and yet it was holding the bundle of netting safely within its luminous form.
“Please? Please tell me what this means!”
The guardian dissolved through the fire, carrying the bundle away, floating high against the clouds. Raichu held Laura’s soul safe, the fishing net trailing behind, suspended by nothing but air.
seventeen
gerald
I had planned to spend the afternoon doing some deep inner study, meditation, and path-working. But after Laura had paid and left, I couldn’t resist a visit to Facebook. I checked my friend requests. No further contact from the chap who called himself Marty-Mac. I went into Twitter and couldn’t find him there. I entered my email inbox and my back rammed straight.
Three emails from Brice. One had arrive late last night, as if, like Rey, he couldn’t sleep. The following two had arrived together an hour ago. I clicked on the first to arrive. It was an open email to all the workshoppers.
This Friday, I need to come to the West Country again. I would like to take the opportunity to see everyone. Shell tells me the Chalice Well Gardens in Glastonbury are worth a visit and I propose we all meet there at midday. There are things to lay to rest about Alys’s death. And I’d like to talk about the funeral, which will be next week on Friday.
Brice Johnson
Shell had already told me that Brice had an early appointment with the Coroner’s department in Wells; the toxicology results were back. It looked like Brice was willing to bring everyone who’d been at Stonedown Farm in on the updates.
What if the truth turned out to be that while at Stonedown Farm, Alys had been sold drugs which had killed her? Was Brice planning a sort of Agatha Christie revelation where he’d point a finger at the perpetrator? I envisaged Stefan rising from his seat and leaping from an upstairs window rather than be arrested and put away.
Luckily, Brice wanted to use the gardens, not the house, so there was no likelihood of suicidal leaps. In fact, he’d chosen one of the most restful spots in Glastonbury—perhaps guided by Shell. Just walking through the turnstile of the Chalice Well had a calming effect. We’d certainly need magical tranquility if Wolfsbane and Stefan, Freaky and Anag, were going to meet face-to-face, not to mention the twisted triangle of Shell, Ricky, and Wolfs.
I clicked on the second message, which had been sent solely to me. It was short.
I’ve had another one. Sick and tired. Don’t want to look. Haven’t opened it. Forwarding directly. Tell no one.
Regards,
Brice
Suddenly I was his storm gauge, the one who would stand outside and take the lightning strike, should it come. Of course he was sick and tired. I didn’t blame him for being curt, although it felt as if, now I’d agreed to take these messages from him, he was blaming me for their arrival.
I opened the third email and studied it, reading it several times. The address was morganlefay@ an obscure server. The Subject was, as always, Morgan le Fay. No marks for original thinking.
Earthly knowl
edge is but adumbration. People are weak; fools not to be trusted. Humans are responsible entirely for the coming of the wasteland.
Blood runs deep through the Hollow Hill and bubbles to the surface, spilling out into a vast, undiscovered cavern. On that day we will gird our loins and walk through blood. Anyone who does not stand to protect Logres is pusillanimous. Foolish knights abound and will be pounded down into the ground. It is presaged.
Morgan le Fay
I looked up the definitions of adumbration, pusillanimous, and presaged (shadowy, cowardly, and foretold). I checked online, to see what sensible people said about the centre of the Tor. Turned out, no one knew anything much, not even where the springs that ran through the hill began.
I pressed print. I had hard copies of both Morgan le Fay’s other emails. I’d read them so closely, I knew them by heart, but I took out those copies and compared them with this new one, treating them as three chapters of one story.
I felt a ghostly tap of the shoulder. I jumped and slammed my hands over the printouts.
“What’s up, my friend? You’re deep into something here,” said Freaky.
I lifted my hands. Brice had said, “tell no one,” but I’d already told Rey and it was going to be hard to hide anything from my guest.
“If I show you, can you keep it to yourself?” I waited for the one raised eyebrow, which was followed by a single nod. “Brice has been getting these.”
It was a relief to tell someone who would not scoff at my theories. Freaky read the printouts slowly. “This woman is some nutter, that’s for sure, but she has a point. The wasteland is upon us … She couldn’t be more right, could she?”
“No, but—”
“Just ask Yew. He’d tell you about the wasteland. It’s still evident in our modern world.” He waved his sharp fingernails in the air. “Petrol fumes poisoning the air. Industry poisoning lakes and rivers. Intensive agriculture poisoning the land, washing topsoil away, and the only answer they want to come up with is to genetically modify our food.”
Freaky had a point—although Morgan le Fay talked about ancient legend, threat of famine was perennial.
“You know the story of the wasteland of Logres,” Freaky asked. “The rape of the well maidens?”
I nodded. “It’s the story of the Fisher King and Sir Percival.”
“Ah,” said Freaky. “A good knight.”
“Yes. He’s determined to save the land by finding the grail. The Fisher King shows Percival a strange procession—a bloodied lance and a candelabra, both carried by boys, and a golden cup, held by a maiden. It’s clear to everyone except Percival that he must heal this wounded king to restore the land’s fruitfulness. But he’s too uncertain and the following morning, when he wakes, the castle is empty.”
I thought about that. Percival was an innocent abroad who got everything wrong.
Foolish knights abound and will be pounded down into the ground.
“This Morgan le Fay must be doing Brice’s head in,” Freaky was saying. “Surely he’s gotta let it go.”
“He can’t let it go. These emails are grisly … and Morgan le Fay isn’t kidding.”
“What d’you mean, not kidding?”
I didn’t stop to think further. I told him what I knew about Gerald Evens. “Every time I read the second email, the message screams out at me. The Red Knight has been fatally struck. I don’t think it’s coincidence there was an attack at the abbey. But this latest email is less clear. I’m just hoping someone else hasn’t been attacked. A ‘foolish knight.’”
Freaky read aloud. “Blood runs deep … on this day … … a vast cavern. That’s the red spring, surely. The Blood Spring. The cavern spilling with its water. She’s talking about the chambers from the Chalice Well that used to go into the hill.”
“You told me about that, a while back,” I said, remembering. “Something about dancing all night?”
“Yeah, man. The white spring and the red spring were far out in those days. We Freaks loved the chambers; deep, echoey, perfect for hanging loose. There was no paying to go into the Chalice Well back then.” He paused, thinking things through. “Could we find out if somebody’s been attacked at the Chalice Well?”
As soon as Freaky said it, I could see. Patterns and markers jumped out. Not clear, or precise—more a tingling in my body, a gripping of my intestines. A firewall rolling down. My forehead prickled with cold heat. “That’s what’s different. The other two emails made announcements. This one … it’s a warning. For a future event. On that day we will gird our loins and walk through blood.”
“What day?” said Freaky.
“Three days from now. Brice has asked us all to be at the Chalice Well Friday midday. He’s sent us all an email and I reckon Morgan le Fay is on Brice’s list. This is her response to the invitation.”
In the garden I bedded out all the forgotten trays filled with leggy seedlings. This was the sort of gardening that allowed my mind to wander until I was somewhere else—searching for connections. Freaky’s input had really helped and for the first time, I had a glimmer of how Morgan’s mind worked. His questions about Gerald Evens made me realize I should have chased things up. Before I realized I was doing it, I’d swilled the mud from my fingers and was dialling for Stonedown Farm. Stefan answered.
“Hi, there!” I struggled to sound upbeat and friendly. “It’s Sabbie. How are you?”
“I’m okay,” said Stefan in a tone that suggested he had also received Brice’s invitation to the Chalice Well and was wary of anyone connected to it.
“I’m actually phoning for some information on your friend. The one that was attacked.”
“Er …”
“Gerald Evens. The volunteer at Glastonbury Abbey.”
“You saw it in the paper?”
“No,” I said, making a mental note to check this up. “Esme told me. What did the papers say?”
“Oh, you know … no clear sighting of assailant … no motive for attack …”
“I was wondering how he is.”
“Gerald? D’you know him then?”
I’d like to, I wanted to say. “How is he?”
“He was bad for a couple of days. They ambulanced him to the Head Injury Unit. I had to drive behind with his things. Out of the woods now, I think.”
“Brilliant news, Stef! Can he talk to people?”
“Er … I guess. I’ve not seen him for a while. I do ring up, but Bristol’s a long way. Tomorrow, he’s being transferred to West Mendip Hospital.”
“He’s coming back to Glastonbury. That has to be good, doesn’t it? Has he talked of the attack?”
“Glad to say he can’t remember the attack. He’s a bit … sluggish, you know? Not the full shilling yet. Why ever do you want to know that?”
“I … you know me, Stef. Always looking for auguries. I wondered if he’d let me introduce myself.”
“You?” His tone became suddenly enthusiastic. “Could you go tomorrow? Visiting’s in the afternoon. It would save me the trip.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, immediately irritated that my visit would prevent Stefan getting off his butt. “Thanks, Stef. Send my blessings to Esme.”
Gerald Evens stared out from under swollen eyelids. Nearly a fortnight had not lessened the signs of his brutal attack. His eye sockets were yellow and blue from bruising and his lips were swollen into a rounded ball. His forehead was hidden by a dressing. The front of his head had been shaved so close his hair was just a shadow, but it hung in a greasy tangle at the back. There was a nasty split high on his cheek, closed up with stitches. He was sitting in a winged chair next to his bed in clothes that no longer seemed to fit. Every so often his hand would reach up and touch the stitches, visible under their plastic coating, then stray to his forehead to finger the bandage.
I managed to get my facial expression under
control as I walked into his room, wipe off the horror. I held out my hand. “I’m Stefan’s friend, Sabbie Dare.”
“Hi,” said Gerald. He took my hand with caution, as if touch still mostly hurt. He tried to smile. One of his front teeth was missing.
“I was in town and wondered if you’d mind me visiting.”
“To be honest, people are not forming queues. My partner’s in every evening, but people are at work in the day.”
He was trying to speak clearly, but it was hard to pick up every word Gerald said. The vowel sounds felt whispery, as if his voice box had been wrecked in the attack, and the consonants that needed tongue and lips were muffled.
“I was shocked when I heard what happened.”
“The abbey people came in, but they haven’t been back.” His mind was still on visitors. “I’ve brought them bad publicity.”
“Surely not!”
“Want to sit down?”
I sank onto an adjacent hard chair. I was still clutching my carrier bag. I’d piled some old magazines together, before I’d left the house. I laid it on the bed. “I brought this for you. Didn’t know if you were up to grapes, so …”
Gerald pulled the magazines out and flicked through the pile.
“They’re a bit specialized. Wasn’t sure what you were into. There’s a couple of old Avalon issues, and the latest copy of Current Archeology, but most of them are gardening mags.”
“These will take my mind off things.”
“I’m sure you’ll—well, make a full recovery.”
“That’s what they’re saying.” He swallowed. “I work in the Glastonbury library. Quiet job. They say I’ll be back in no time.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Bit of a headache.” He touched his stitches again.
“Don’t think you have to talk. Not if it’s difficult. I just thought you might like some company. Although …”
Gerald opened a Gardener’s World and flicked through as if my comment on not talking was an instruction. I held the pause for a bit. He didn’t seem to wonder why I’d come to visit. Maybe his mind was too fogged. He’d taken me at face value, and now I was going to have trouble explaining that I’d come for information.