The burly man with the moustache and the young black man with the glasses and the goatee beard were squatting in the centre of the circle. They were picking through the wreckage of Ulverston’s instruments and the tattered rags of his two equipment tents.
‘The Ten Sisters, Mr Odell,’ said the older man pensively, hefting a twisted piece of metal in his hand. He sniffed the air, looked up and around.
‘That’s what they call them, Mr Courtney.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Courtney thoughtfully. ‘Funny, that.’
Behind them yawned the tunnel to the Viking tomb, also guarded by two of the sentries. The entrance to the tomb was ragged and charred, tatters of burnt grass fluttering in the wind like bunting. It looked as if it had been blasted open by high explosive.
‘You know the story of this place? The legend?’
‘It’s fairly well-known, sir. The girls used to come up here and dance in the moonlight. Got themselves a reputation for carrying out pagan rituals and the like. Some people even said they were witches.’
Mr Courtney nodded. ‘Excellent, Mr Odell. We appear to have been reading the same websites.’ Mr Courtney straightened up and smoothed down his coat. ‘The legend goes,’ he said, staring thoughtfully at the nearest stone, ‘that the girls were dancing, their long hair flowing in the silvery moonlight, their bodies garlanded with flowers and woodland herbs.’ His commanding voice had dropped almost to a whisper. ‘They danced and danced into the night, accompanied by the bewitching music of an old fiddle-player. His music worked them into a frenzy beneath the intoxicating light of the full moon. But they forgot it was past midnight, and so it was the Sabbath day - and they didn’t know they were being led astray by the fiddler, who was the Devil in disguise... And when the daylight came, and they were still dancing, the first rays of the morning sun turned them all into stone.’
Mr Odell shot him an admiring look. ‘Poetry, sir. Sheer poetry.’
‘Sheer poppycock, more like!’ Mr Courtney clicked his tongue and shook his head. ‘Typical demonising of the old religions by the new. A common propaganda tool.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I do.’ Mr Courtney patted the nearest stone affectionately. ‘So, to get back to reality, Odell, what we have here would appear to be a big old discharge of raw electrical energy which, somehow, didn’t reach beyond these stones. Must be a good reason, eh, lad?’
Mr Odell nodded. ‘The TV people’s camera-lenses melted, but nobody in the audience even had their eyebrows singed!’
‘And yet,’ said Mr Courtney, ‘our feller Ulverston appears to have been... whadyoucall... vaporised.’
‘Forensics are doing tests, sir,’ Mr Odell said.
Mr Courtney nodded, and pulled on a pair of black gloves as he and Mr Odell stood at the head of the tunnel. ‘All right,’ he said gruffly, ‘let us in, then, lads.’ The sentries moved smartly aside.
Inside, Mr Odell switched on a powerful flashlight. The chamber was small, with just enough room to stand up in. The walls were rough-hewn, shored up with powerful hydraulic props made of metal.
‘Damn cheeky fellow,’ said Mr Courtney, folding his hands and nodding as he looked around. ‘He’d actually done it!’
‘The Professor’s equipment did cut through the main entry wall,’ Mr Odell confirmed.
‘So,’ said Mr Courtney quietly, ‘where’s old George, then?’
‘George?’ Mr Odell didn’t understand.
‘The occupant, man. The corpus horribilis!... Our venerable Viking?’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Odell, swinging the flashlight down to the level of the earth floor. ‘I think you may be standing on him, sir.’
Mr Courtney took a hurried step back as the flashlight’s beam tracked slowly across the floor. There were some fragments of pottery lying in the dirt, and what might have been the rusty handle of a knife. Mr Odell adjusted a button on the flashlight and the beam became broader and more intense.
Then they saw, half-buried in the ground, towards the back of the cavern, something which could have been a yellowish jug or vase. But as they moved closer and Mr Odell brought the flashlight in to bear on it, the object’s shape became clear. Mr Courtney and Mr Odell turned to look at one another, then turned back towards the object buried in the earth. It was undeniably a small, cracked and discoloured human skull.
‘Well, saints preserve us,’ chuckled Mr Courtney. ‘Or in this case, high-quality peaty soil preserve us, eh, Mr Odell?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Odell, sighing indulgently.
‘Right,’ said Mr Courtney, ‘Get everything cryo-sealed and then double the guard. I want a full analysis by lunchtime.’
‘Yes, sir... Do you not want it taking back to the labs, sir?’
‘No, Mr Odell - I’ve no idea how fragile this all is. Let’s keep it here for now.
And tell them not to bash the chap about too much, eh?’
‘Very good, sir.’ Mr Odell nodded and hurried out of the tunnel.
Jess and Richie gazed up in astonishment.
The golden eagle, its feathers beautifully plumed and shining with a soft light, flew down between the shelves and landed beside them. Its talons came to rest around the silver globe on a nearby desk. With its beak lowered, the bird tucked its wings back and flicked its stern gaze from Emerald to Jess and Richie and back to Emerald again.
Richie, who was quaking, was not that surprised when the eagle opened its beak and started croaking poetry at them :
‘Who calls the guardian of the books
Down from the eyrie high,
Where on the ancient words he looks,
With never-faltering eye?’
‘That’s a terrible poem,’ said Richie crossly, and his hand flew to his mouth. ‘Sorry!’ he said frantically. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude!’
The Librarian tilted his head on one side and looked him up and down.
‘No, no,’ he said, ‘you’re right, young sir, hmm. Been trying to write a better one for three centuries, but it’s so difficult, hmm? Surrounded by Milton, Shakespeare, Auden... all masters, you see, hmm? Cramps the style. Fellow can’t really compete.’
Emerald Greene smiled indulgently.
‘It was... a much better poem than I could have written,’ said Jess, and glowered at Richie. He shrugged helplessly.
‘Gets quite lonely up in the eyrie,’ the eagle confessed, nodding up towards where the bookcases vanished out of sight. ‘Up there next to Quartos and Apocrypha. Frosty, you know, on those top shelves. Poetry books covered with it. Rhymes covered in rime! Ha-ha!... Hmm, yes, well. You know,’ the Librarian went on, fixing them with his beady eyes, ‘tried limericks for a while. Any idea how difficult ’tis to find rhyme for library, hmm?’ He tut-tutted and flapped his wings.
‘It must be very hard,’ said Jess politely. ‘I can’t think of one myself.’
‘Bribery,’ said Emerald, and produced a banknote from an inside pocket. Richie frowned - it looked to him like old-fashioned money. ‘I’m sorry, Librarian, but I think I was late bringing back that Shakespeare First Folio last week. Ten shillings, I believe?’
‘Thank you, hmm, yes,’ said the eagle, pouncing on the ten-shilling note and secreting it among his golden feathers. ‘Now then, what you want this time, hmm?’
Emerald held up Lore of Albion Guiding the Fullest History, Taming and Containment of Witches.
The effect on the Librarian was startling. The great bird lowered his head, flapped his wings in agitation and made a strange, tortured hissing noise from his beak. ‘No, no. That is, um, restricted loan, yes... Can’t have it.’
‘Why not?’ said Emerald, one hand on her hip and the other holding the book open at the flyleaf. ‘Come on - your stamp, please. We are in a hurry.’
The eagle shook his prou
d head once more. ‘No, hmm, sorry. That book is dangerous in the wrong hands. Book has, mm, unusual energy fields. Restricted loan.’
Emerald sighed. ‘Look, Librarian - I live here now. I am the owner of Rubicon House. You should make an exception for me.’
‘You live here, yes. The owner, no,’ croaked the eagle. The eagle shook his head, made a disapproving clicking noise in his beak and began muttering to himself. ‘Dangerous, hmm. Time fractures, spells and incantations. Leads to chaos. No, can’t have that, no, hmm. Order, what we need, mmm. Order, perfection, yeeessss... The Dewey Decimal system! No talking! No eating! Loans returned by the date stamped, yes.’
Jessica and Richie exchanged glances.
‘It’s no good arguing with librarians,’ said Richie knowledgeably. ‘They always know best.’
‘It is an emergency,’ said Emerald firmly. ‘Can I not make a special request?’
‘Hmmm,’ said the eagle thoughtfully, gazing up into the shelves as if it had spotted something to eat. ‘Must fill in a special request form, yes. Will be considered.’ With his beak, he rummaged in his feathers for a moment and produced a rolled-up piece of parchment. He stamped his claw on it, making a mark, and pushed it towards Emerald Greene. ‘Sign there,’ he ordered.
Emerald took an old quill pen from the desk, dipped it in ink and scrawled an illegible signature. ‘Is that it?’ she asked with a sigh.
‘It will be processed. Must leave the book here, yes, mmm.’
Emerald reluctantly put the book back down on the table. ‘All right. Good day.’
‘Good day,’ said the eagle, and swivelled away with a flourish of his golden plumage.
Emerald steered them back through the dusty bookshelves to the door. The Librarian, spreading his wings, rose high into the reaches of the bookshelves, the leather-bound tome grasped firmly in his talons.
Half an hour later, Emerald Greene, Richie and Jessica stood on the glittering lawn in the impossible summer sunlight. Jess could still not quite believe that the house and gardens were real, and kept expecting them to vanish in a puff of smoke. Anoushka lazed on the lawn, preening himself.
‘You know,’ Jess began hesitantly, ‘there are a lot of things about this I still don’t understand.’
Emerald sighed, folded her arms. ‘Just focus on what I have told you already.’ Jess began to speak again, but Emerald held up a hand. ‘Trust me.’
‘All right,’ said Jessica bravely. ‘Rich?’
He scowled. ‘I suppose so. For now.’
Jessica leaned down to stroke Anoushka’s fur, but the cat gave a threatening hiss and she withdrew her hand sharply. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Look, um, I don’t mean to be... uneasy around you. It’s just that I’ve, er, never had a cat actually speak to me before.’
‘I should think not,’ drawled Anoushka, turning away from her. ‘We don’t converse with any old riff-raff, you know.’
Emerald was checking her watch. ‘It is only about... eight-thirty out there. You should be fine.’
‘Gabi’s ready to send out the search parties,’ said Richie apologetically. ‘I tried to cover as best I could, but...’
Jess turned towards the end of the garden. Beyond the clipped hedges, the sky shimmered in a heat-haze. ‘What do we do?’ she asked. ‘Say the magic word?’
‘Just walk through. Walk through, and believe it is there.’
‘It’s that simple?’
Emerald nodded.
Jess took a deep breath and rubbed her hands together. She started to walk, and did not look back.
‘Richie?’ she said, looking over her shoulder.
‘All right, all right.’ He glowered at Emerald again. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re up to,’ he said, ‘but it had better be good.’ He ran over to Jess and grabbed hold of her sleeve.
They shut their eyes, swung their arms, kept walking.
There was a noise like slurping mud, a flash of blue light, and then they fell -
But like in a dream, Jess thought, when you fall into your bed but you’ve been there all the time -
And they were sprawled face-down on the dewy grass of the forest clearing. The warmth of the sunlight had gone, and the light was newer, greyer.
Jess rolled over one elbow, shivering. At the edge of her vision, there was a flash of blue and a slurping noise as the barrier closed. Then, silence.
They scrambled to their feet, suddenly fearful.
‘You okay?’ Richie asked, brushing leaves off himself.
She nodded. ‘You?’
‘Think so.’
And then they turned and ran, ran, ran through the trees towards the morning sunlight, until they emerged from the woods and found the little lane, canopied with chestnut trees, which led back down to the main Meresbury road. Fallen conkers split and squashed under their feet as they hit the lane running.
They did not look back.
Luckily.
Fifty metres down the winding lane, still and silent in the dawnlight, a grey figure stood, watching the retreating pair.
The figure was hunched, quivering, pale as a smudge against the woodland. It was leaning on a long, slender staff and it seemed to shimmer as if not quite there.
As it saw the girl and boy running down the lane, heading for the great road with its noise and clamour of early morning, the figure nodded, perhaps at something understood.
Then it swung abruptly round, as if to head back into the trees.
As it turned, its hunched body seemed to twist in on itself.
There was a buzzing, fizzing noise like an electrical discharge, and then the cowled figure shrank to a pale vertical line as if an invisible door had closed on it. The line shrank to a dot, which popped out of sight as if it had never been there.
A second later, the birds in the clearing began to sing again.
5
Manifestations and Ruminations
‘Good evening - this is County TV, and I’m Mike Devenish, bringing you sixty minutes of news, weather and features.
‘Investigations are continuing into the tragic death of the eminent archaeologist Professor Edwin Ulverston at the Ten Sisters stone circle, near Meresbury. Experts are now saying the Professor’s death was caused by a freak emission of ball lightning.
‘It is understood that Professor Ulverston - who was 56 and divorced - absorbed the full impact of the multi-volt discharge of lightning and was killed instantly, although investigators at the site have yet to confirm the recovery of his body.
‘The tomb which the Professor and his assistants uncovered appears to be that of a Viking warrior from approximately 800 A.D. The archaeological world, while mourning Professor Ulverston, is marvelling at his exciting discovery. The tomb is strikingly unusual, not only for being located within a Neolithic circle, but also for containing what seems to be a well-preserved skeleton - Viking burial custom was normally to cremate the dead and bury the ashes, usually in a clay pot, with a variety of different utensils. You’ll find more on this story at our website, and you can follow me on Twitter...’
The black Mercedes carrying Mr Courtney and Mr Odell churned its way along a muddy track.
The car stereo was blasting Verdi’s Nabucco at a volume which made Mr Odell’s teeth vibrate as he drove. He wondered whether his boss realised quite how loud it was - but, as Mr Courtney was happily singing along to the opera, he supposed he liked it at that volume.
‘Is that, ah, a new stereo system, sir?’ Mr Odell asked.
‘Fantastic, isn’t it, lad? Enhanced digital octophonic sound. Just like being there, eh?’
‘Marvellous, sir,’ said Mr Odell drily.
He should be grateful his boss wasn’t into techno or gangsta rap, he reflected as they locked the car and walked over to the barrier around the stones. A
t least opera wouldn’t put a strain on the car’s suspension.
They showed their passes at the roadblock, and were waved on.
The car stopped on Scratchcombe Edge. Here, black-capped Special Measures operatives still surrounded the stone circle, looking tense and alert. Parked beside the stones now was a Transit van, sporting a large dish-shaped aerial, and several white-coated technicians were deep in conversation outside it.
‘By the way,’ Mr Courtney said as they got out of the car, ‘top-notch work on the cover story. The media chaps seem to have swallowed the “ball lightning” nonsense like a bunch of kids. Well done.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ murmured Mr Odell with a modest smile. ‘I got my best spin-doctors on the job.’
The tomb entrance had been draped with white plastic, but the guard pulled it aside when he saw them coming.
Inside, it looked very different. The walls were covered with plastic, while spotlights illuminated every crevice with a gentle blood-red glow. Against the rugged walls, several probes had been set up, pointing down at the cracked skull. Its eye-sockets stared vacantly upwards.
Despite himself, Mr Odell felt a slight shiver.
‘Therein lies the answer, Mr Odell,’ said Mr Courtney. ‘Damn sure of it, I am... Well, Strickland?’ he barked at the white-coated, bespectacled lackey who had hurried up behind them, clipboard in hand. ‘Any luck?’
‘Several energy surges while you were away, sir. All pinpointed and fully logged.’
Mr Courtney nodded to the scientist. ‘Jolly good. That all?’
‘The analysis team have run all those tests you requested, sir,’ said Strickland. He handed Mr Courtney the clipboard and hovered nervously.
Mr Courtney waved him away and flicked through the pages, his moustache bristling. He raised his bushy eyebrows at one point and made a ‘Hmmm’ noise, but otherwise he betrayed no emotion. Mr Odell stood with his hands behind his back, awaiting his superior’s verdict.
‘Well, Mr Odell,’ muttered the older man, ‘we have ourselves a jolly interesting skeleton.’ He looked up sharply, fixing his colleague with his surprisingly piercing blue eyes. ‘It seems there’s one thing about old George that we’ve overlooked until now.’
Emerald Greene and the Witch Stones Page 8