He glanced at her in astonishment. ‘But it’s lovely here, Beth. There’s no one about. And if there is it doesn’t matter. They’re not interested in us.’ She had stepped away from him and he followed her. ‘I want to kiss you again. And I need to take some pictures.’ He had his camera slung over his shoulder.
She looked round again, trying to see into the shadows. ‘No. There’s something watching us.’
‘Something?’ He put his arm round her again, this time protectively. ‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. I can feel it. Please, let’s go.’
She caught his hand and dragged him towards the track.
‘No, Beth. Wait. You’ve let all that talk about your grandfather and black magic spook you. Just a couple of photos.’ He disengaged himself from her grip and reached for the camera. Focusing carefully he stepped out to the edge of the rock platform, angling the lens towards the shining water. ‘There. Lovely. And again. That’s beautiful. Don’t you want to make any sketches, take any notes?’
She shook her head. ‘Let’s come again in daylight. Please, Giles, I want to go.’ The skin on the back of her neck was crawling. The silvered beauty of the woods and the water had become suddenly very threatening. This is panic, she thought suddenly. Panic in the true meaning of the word. Fear before Pan, the god of beautiful and wild places. She bit her lip. Or was Giles right? Was it Adam’s books which had frightened her, not the glorious wild beauty of a moonlit burn?
She did not see the narrowed eyes watching her from the shelter of an overhanging rock, or hear the rasp of claws, the sound hidden by the immensity of the rush of falling water.
Broichan was still there waiting, but she had grown clever. She did not return to her bed where he stood watching over her sleeping form. She hovered nearby, unseen even by him, and slowly her strength was returning. She stood near the stone, tracing its carving with her finger, seeing the moss and the old dry lichen of centuries encrusted in the drawings her brother had made and she smiled. No one now could read the code but her. No one could follow the secrets it proclaimed. The mirror on the stone was all but obliterated. When she wanted to see into the reflections of time she stared into the tiny mother-of-pearl mirror in the compact in her old woven bag.
She wandered the hills. Sometimes she returned to Hertfordshire and drifted through the house where once a long time ago A-dam had lived. There were strangers there now, and she did not like them, but she did not touch them. They were nothing. Not worth her notice any more than was the family who lived in Liza’s old house in the Welsh hills.
A-dam was thinking of her again. She could feel him. She could feel his energy questing for hers, but still she could not see him.
When the child of A-dam’s child came to Scotland she had felt it at once in her blood. The tie was there, and the girl was very near. Brid grew stronger.
Broichan sensed it too. He left the hut where Brid lay sleeping and went to his own. There he could scry in the smoke and the water, watching the girl, Beth, with her cloud of dark hair, knowing she would lead him eventually to Adam, the man who had broken the sacred laws, and to Brid. He sharpened his knives and stared out of his hut at the moon and knew that other people in other times watched the same moon and he felt a shiver run across his shoulders.
In the shadows he could sense again the other one, the man from Adam’s age who had followed him for so long. The Welshman was growing stronger and more adept all the time. Broichan frowned to himself. He would have to beware. The Welshman’s power was special and his own was not as strong as it had been. But he could renew it. Once the pathways through the other worlds which Brid had opened and which had allowed this man through were safely closed again and her wild, dangerous search through parallel centuries brought to a halt he, Broichan, would reclaim the strength of his race. Then he would ensure the safety of his world with the sacrifice of blood.
20
The cottage was empty. Standing on the windy Welsh hillside Meryn stared round, puzzled. He was needed. He had heard voices calling. Broichan was prowling angrily through the shadows and his threats had reached out to the farthest corners of the planet. Beth was in danger, he was sure of it, but where was she? He stood for a moment, staring down across the valley, watching the trail of sun and shadow illuminate the landscape, hearing the distant cry of a buzzard wheeling somewhere in the eye of the sun. In the distance, across the water meadows and the Wye he could see the hillside rising steeply against the afternoon sky. It was misty there. Rain was coming from the north. So was something else. A voice, out of the dark. The landscape was calling him.
Climbing back into his car he sat for a moment. On the seat next to him a pile of old books, culled from the storehouse where he had left his library, contained all the information he had needed. One of them in particular, an old Victorian guide book, lay open before him. He glanced at it and frowned. Then he knew what he must do. Driving fast, he headed down the lane, round the corner at the bottom, and took the next lane down, diving between high hedges, some of which met overhead turning it into a narrow tunnel, his long strong fingers steady on the wheel as he skidded over loose gravel and bits of shale spilled from the sheer banks, heading for the river and the Glasbury bridge.
The church was open and Meryn let himself into the dim, cold nave. In his hand was the old guide book, his finger marking the page which described St Meilig’s Cross on Bryn-yr-Hydd Common, a place where the fairies were said to dance on Midsummer’s Eve. He paused, glancing down at the woodcut showing the cross. It had no Pictish symbols, of course, and the date they gave was around AD650, a hundred years later than St Columba, but St Meilig had been born in Clydeside, the son of Caw of Pictland. So this Welsh abbot, whose cross had once stood on the common high above Llowes, had been a Pict. Had he inherited any of the knowledge of the Picts? Did he, in his hidden Welsh abbey, still know the secret places in the landscape where the fabric of time was thin and man could come nearer to his God?
The cross was there, at the west end of the aisle. It was huge, grey and heavy, but somehow without the majesty and power which it would have had when it stood under the open sky. Now, like so many ancient stones, its beauty and its historical interest had made it a target, to be garnered in and protected from weather and vandal and even time itself, and in the act of bringing it inside it had been in effect castrated and short-circuited and turned into a bland exhibit for the curious to gape at and move on and forget.
He walked over to it, thinking about Broichan’s stone on the hills of Scotland. That stone was still a wild, living part of the landscape, linked into the circuits of the earth. It contained power in its own right, as well as the power which the carvings on it had instilled. Raising his hands he rested them flat on this great stone for a minute, to feel if anything of its power was still there. It was cold and crudely carved, tamed by the still, silent atmosphere of the church, but somewhere under his palms there was a slight throb, deep within the stone. He nodded in satisfaction. The silence in the church was oppressive, suddenly. He could hear nothing from the village outside, or from the main road beyond the hedge where the traffic between Hereford and Brecon sped on its way along the broad Wye valley. He ran his fingertips lightly over the stone face of the cross. Yes, he could feel it again now. He had awoken the stone from its sleep. He smiled, emptying his mind of everything but the sensation. For a few seconds it seemed to get stronger, then behind him he heard the clatter of the latch being raised on the door. He stepped back angrily. As the door opened noise and light and movement seemed to flood back into the church. The strange unearthly silence had gone.
He waited, arms folded patiently as the visitors pottered around, burying themselves in the guide book, staring up at ceiling and windows, chatting to each other loudly. Then they came to stand beside him near the cross, examining the old green-painted hand plough which for some reason stood there between the pews. The atmosphere had lifted. If he had been about to make any contact with the stone or
its makers, it was too late. With a small, polite smile he turned and left the church.
Outside he stopped for a moment, taking deep breaths of the cold air.
He waited ten minutes to see if they would come out of the church and go away, but there was still no sign of them, and then another car drew up and three old ladies climbed out. Silently he cursed. He turned back to his own car. The fog had come down whilst he was in the church. It was dank and murky now and suddenly cold, but he had to go to a place of power. He paused for a moment to glance at his map, reminding himself where the footpath was, and drove out onto the road.
Parking alongside an old barn, he could see a fingerpost pointing away across a stile beside the barn and up a track. He surveyed the field beyond, which sloped up into the mist with here and there a tree showing as a shadowy silhouette in the distance. The place was deserted.
It was becoming colder and more damp. Rain trickled down into his collar and he shivered as he climbed over the stile, wondering suddenly if this was sensible. He was after all not as young as he used to be, and what he was about to undertake was dangerous in the extreme. He paused, staring round, listening, feeling the distances in the silence. He was right. Close to here was a trackway into the past.
Resolutely he plodded on, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes on the muddy path in front of him. Behind him the mist closed in, drifted away, then closed back again. He could hear nothing of the road in the distance. Only the sound of the wind and the silence impinged on his consciousness. He was very close now. He could feel the pull of the earth. He paused, allowing himself to feel the pulses beating beneath his feet. The cross had stood near here, on the summit of a small hill, its shaft driven into the web of veins which carried the life force of the ages. From here he could find Broichan and Brid, and Beth and Liza and Adam Craig and, if necessary, he could project himself into the very heart of Scotland.
Beth and Giles were enjoying dinner in the dining room at Loch Dubh when Dave appeared in the doorway. ‘Beth? Sorry to interrupt.’ They had notes and sketches spread on the table between the knives and forks and plates of delicately pink salmon. ‘Phone for you I’m afraid. Ken Maclaren?’
Beth stood up. ‘That’s the minister. Oh God, I wonder what’s happened.’
Dave waved her towards his office. ‘Take it in there, it’ll save you going upstairs.’
Giles followed her and stood by the door as she picked up the receiver. ‘Miss Craig? I thought you should know. Your grandfather has come home. I saw him this afternoon just after you had left.’ Ken hesitated. ‘He seems very agitated. Upset and angry. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I think maybe it would be a good thing if you could come over.’
‘Now? This evening?’ Adrenaline shot through her stomach. She glanced at Giles, white-faced. He was watching her anxiously. ‘I don’t know if there is anything I can do. I hardly know him, and I don’t think I’d be a help in any way.’
‘Please, Beth. I really think somebody needs to talk to him and he won’t listen to me.’
She had grabbed a pencil and was drawing frantic small rings and swirls on Dave’s neat blotter. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. Just come and speak to him. Reassure him that there is someone there for him. Warn him that what he’s doing is dangerous. Please.’ The voice at the other end of the line had the calm strength of someone who is used to getting their own way.
‘What could I say?’ She put down the phone and looked at Giles miserably.
‘You could have said no.’ He frowned at her. ‘If you go I am coming with you.’
‘It’s silly, but I’m scared.’
‘You don’t have to do it, Beth.’ Giles put his hands on her shoulders. ‘You really don’t. Just ring Maclaren back and say you can’t come. Or I will. He is using emotional blackmail and that is so unfair.’
‘But he’s right. Grandfather is all alone. Perhaps he is frightened too. He would never have come to Wales if he hadn’t needed some kind of help.’
He sighed. ‘Then ring Liza again. Perhaps she’s home by now. She’s the one who should speak to him, not you.’
Beth hesitated. It was a nice idea. A comforting one. But then she shook her head. ‘No, she’s miles away. What can she do anyway? If anyone is going to go, it had better be me. We don’t know there’s anything wrong at all. Perhaps he’s just confused. Or ill.’
Or conjuring up some sort of devil there in the mountains in his lonely house.
They left twenty minutes later. Dave had made them a thermos of coffee and a packet of rare-beef sandwiches, spread with rich butter and grainy mustard. ‘Instead of supper. I can’t have my guests starving to death. It’s bad for my reputation.’ He had looked at them both carefully as he gave Beth the keys to the Porsche. ‘Just how much whisky did you drink this evening before dinner?’
She smiled reassuringly. ‘Not enough to register, Dave, I promise. I’m okay, honestly.’
He shrugged. ‘I hope so. I don’t want to lose my last perk!’
‘You won’t.’
She drove fast but carefully through the dark winding lanes, very aware that Giles, seated beside her, was unusually silent. The headlights cut swathes across the countryside at every bend, lighting heather and bracken, rock and water with the same narrow, pitiless beam. They drove mile after mile without passing another car and then at last turned down onto the A9. ‘Nearly there.’ She risked a glance.
‘Go more slowly. There’s no hurry.’
‘The sooner we get there, the sooner we can go back.’ Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She swung the car off the main road again towards the east. A spattering of raindrops hit the windscreen and she realised that the moon had disappeared behind black streaming cloud. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after nine. Is Maclaren going to meet us there?’
She nodded, her eyes glued to the hairpin bends in the road. Larch and pine clung to the steep banks on either side of the tarmac and the headlights flung skyward as the car began to climb steeply.
When they drew up at last there was no sign of the minister’s car. Beth parked beside Adam’s blue Peugeot and turned off the engine. There were no lights visible in the house.
Giles peered through the streaked windscreen. ‘Are you sure you understood him correctly? Perhaps we should have gone straight to the manse.’
She shook her head. Her stomach was turning over with apprehension. Groping for the door handle she climbed out and stood still for a moment, breathing deep lungfuls of the sweet, cold air. ‘No. He said here. Shieling House.’
She hesitated, and Giles followed her. He put his arm round her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. ‘It’ll be okay. Maclaren will be on his way. I don’t expect he thought we’d get here so quickly.’ He gripped her hand firmly and led the way round the back.
Light poured from the kitchen windows and almost immediately they saw Adam standing at the kitchen table, looking down at something lying in front of him. Beth glanced at Giles. ‘Shall I knock?’
He nodded.
Adam looked up startled at the sound, then slowly he walked over to the door and pulled it open. ‘So, young woman. Ken told me you’d been here.’ He did not smile. ‘You’d best come in. You and your young man.’ He peered at Giles. ‘You’re fools, both of you.’
‘We wanted to be sure you were all right,’ Beth said quietly as Adam closed the door behind them. She glanced round the kitchen nervously. It seemed much as it had been when they had left it earlier, but there was a kettle on the hob this time and Adam had laid out a mug and a jar of instant coffee on the table amongst his books.
‘I’m all right.’ He stood still, staring at them.
‘We came yesterday because I was worried. The door was unlocked and it looked as though you’d been away for some time.’ The plate of mouldy food had, she realised suddenly, disappeared from the draining board. She suspected Ken Maclaren had thrown it out before he went home.
; ‘And you needed to interfere.’ He said it quite mildly. ‘Beth, my dear. I didn’t want you to come up here for a very good reason. I am not so old and doddery I can’t look after myself. I’m perfectly compos mentis. I was trying to protect you.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But now you’re here I suppose I had better tell you the whole story.’ He picked up the coffee jar and lifted two more mugs from the hooks on the dresser. ‘I’ve sent Ken home. He warned me he had rung you. He’s a pleasant enough young man, but a lightweight when it comes to what I am doing here. He does not understand. It is better he stays out of it.’
‘And what are you doing, Doctor?’ Giles spoke at last.
Adam cocked an eyebrow in his direction. A flash of amusement sparked in the brown eyes as he stirred hot water into the coffee. ‘Dr Jekyll or Dr Frankenstein? I can see the way your mind is working, young man – what did you say your name was? – no, I’m not conjuring monsters.’ He paused, the spoon dripping on the table, and stared for a moment into space. ‘Or perhaps I am. Who knows?’
Turning, he led the way to his living room and threw himself down on the sofa. With a glance at Giles, Beth followed him. Giles picked up the two remaining mugs.
The three sat for a minute or two in silence, illuminated by the soft glow of one single desk lamp in the corner. Outside, the wind had increased and they all heard the splatter of raindrops against the window.
Adam roused himself and looked at Beth. ‘I don’t suppose Liza told you much about me,’ he began slowly. ‘Why should she? I was never a grandfather to you.’
Beth shrugged. ‘She told me a bit.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Did she ever tell you about Brid?’
Beth glanced at Giles. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said cautiously.
He sighed. There was a long pause then he began to speak. The room was totally silent save for the sound of the wind soughing round the eaves of the old slate roof and the quiet, almost monotonous sound of his voice. ‘When my Jane died, I cursed Brid. I sent her back to whatever hell she came from. She killed your father, my Calum –’ His voice broke and he looked away, his hand over his eyes. He took a deep breath and then he went on. ‘She killed Phil Stevenson. She killed your mother.’
On the Edge of Darkness Page 48