Always Forever

Chapter Seven

|Marik Bocat told them little, although they were both convinced he knew more than he was saying. His people had the run of the ship, he explained, and witnessed many things: secrets and slanders, matters of great importance and minor betrayals. The freeing of Callow had been the latest example of their surveillance at work.

"The Portunes will, of course, maintain their vigilance, and if information regarding this situation comes to light I will relate it to you," he said in an oddly formal manner.

"Why are you helping us?" Ruth asked.

"Horses and teeth," he cautioned, before half turning from them and motioning to be put back down on the floor. But as Church lowered him, his voice floated back: "We are all fellows of the flesh in the Great Village."

Church limped off the end of the bed and dressed, surprised at how quickly his leg was healing. He could already walk without the aid of a stick. "That bastard will be coming for us when we least expect it, so we have to expect it all the time."

"Like we haven't got anything else to do."

A thought came to Church as he ransacked a chest in the corner where he had come across a number of seafaring implements, including a bill-hook and a short dagger used for cutting rope, which he stuffed into his belt. "Can you help me find the Walpurgis?" he said turning back to Marik Bocat.

"Now why would you be looking for that bundle of rags?" Church could tell from the suspicion in his voice that the Portune had some information.

"He can help us. He was helping us before he ran away."

"I'll ask around." He eyed Church askance.

"You can trust me."

"So it seems."

Church dug down to the bottom of the chest, but there remained only oily rags, sand and dried seaweed. When he turned back to prompt Marik Bocat further he discovered the Portune had already departed.

Ruth dressed quickly and a little nervously. Their bonding had been truncated and there was still so much they had to discuss.

Now was not the time, Church thought. "We really need to find the Walpurgis," he said redundantly.

Ruth easily accepted the rearrangement of priorities. "Marik Bocat will probably be back once he's had a think about us. He's a suspicious sort." She threw open the windows to let some cool night air into the stifling room, which was still filled with the scents of their lovemaking. The sparse lights of the island twinkled over the waves. "I think he will come back," she stressed. "We need him to, really. It's even more dangerous to venture below decks now, with Callow on the loose as well as the Malignos. I've been down there, and believe me, when you get to the lower levels you can't tell what's a few feet ahead or behind you."

"If I have to-"

She silenced him with a flap of her hand. The silence was broken by a dragging noise on deck. "They're readying a boat," she said. "Looks like they're off to the island."

"What, now? In the dark?"

"Hey, they're the Golden Ones. They don't jump at shadows," she mocked.

Church said, "We ought to go, you know. There might be something important out there."

He looked reluctantly at the dishevelled bed and she laughed quietly. "There'll be time enough for that. Come on."

A cool breeze moved effortlessly across the deck, teasing out the heat of the day, bringing a hint of lush vegetation to the familiar aroma of salty water. The night was filled with the slap and rustle of the flaps hanging from the furled sails and the rusty hinge creaking of the rigging. Up on the mast, Ruth's owl glowed like a ghost, watching ominously. Although lanterns hung at regular intervals, there were still too many dangerous shadows lapping across the deck. Church and Ruth moved as quickly as they could to the small group of figures preparing for the landing party. Taranis was overseeing the activity as the crew prepared to lower the boat into the water, while Niamh and Baccharus hung back ready to board.

Taranis eyed Church and Ruth with cold suspicion, but Church ignored his gaze. Instead, he spoke directly to Baccharus and Niamh. "We'd like to come with you."

"You may accompany us, Brother of Dragons," Baccharus said as Taranis opened his mouth to speak.

Surprisingly, Niamh looked unsure. "There may be danger abroad," she cau tioned. "The arrival of Wave Sweeper is always heralded by the denizens of the Western Isles."

"And you've heard nothing," Church noted. "It could be the Fomorii again. Have you considered this is their first strike in a war against you, catching you off guard as they work their way towards your most sacred lands?"

There wasn't the slightest flicker across the faces of the assembled Tuatha De Danann, but for the first time Church felt that unease was gestating deep inside them.

Wave Sweeper floated in silence as the landing boat was lowered to the waves. There was no sign of Manannan, or any of the thousands of strange creatures who occupied the lower levels. Taranis watched them impassively from the rail until he was swallowed up by the night, and then there was only the gentle lapping of the waves against the side.

As they neared land, Church was surprised to feel the air grow substantially warmer, as if each island had its own microclimate. Here it was almost subtropical, the heat lying heavy on his lungs as his T-shirt grew steadily damp from the spiralling humidity. Their destination was more familiar than their last port of call; it reminded Church of one of the smaller Caribbean islands. From a rocky base where the spectral surf splashed, it rose up sharply through thick vegetation to a mountaintop lost in the dark. It smelled heavily of steaming jungles, rich and evocative, but tainted by an underlying corruption.

A small beach came into sight, at which point the crew had to fight to keep the boat steady against the heavy currents that swirled just off the shore. Church spied the tip of cruel rocks breaking the surface on either side and realised a delicate path was being picked; one miscalculation and they would have been dashed in an instant. As the currents grew more intense, the boat became a stomach-churning rollercoaster ride. Church and Ruth gripped the sides tightly, but the crew were in complete control at all times.

Eventually the shore came up fast and the rowers jumped out into the shallows to haul the boat up on to the white sand. A minute later they were all standing on the beach, allowing the adrenalin to drop while Church and Ruth surveyed the dazzling array of stars overhead. There, with the night sounds of the jungle at their back and the waves crashing before them, there was an exhilarating sense of paradise that outshone any South Pacific dream.

"Do you notice how each of these islands has a different feel?" Church whispered to Ruth.

"The last one was edgy," she agreed. "This one makes me want to kick off my shoes and run across the sand like some moron in a Bounty ad. So relaxing."

"Come," Baccharus interjected. "We have a long walk, and it is dark beneath the trees. We must stay close together."

"Who are we visiting this time?" Church asked.

"This is the Isle of Lost Lament," Baccharus said, as if that explained it all. But then he added, "Six dwell here. Kepta, Quillot…" He waved his hand dismissively instead of listing the remaining names. There was a strange undercurrent in his manner, but Church couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Once Niamh had given the word, the leader of the guards motioned them to move out, his men taking up positions behind and on either side. They quickly passed the tide line on to the dry sand beyond and then into the impenetrable darkness beneath the trees.

It was claustrophobic under the cover of foliage in the hot, steamy atmosphere. The trees were clustered quite tightly in areas, their trunks oddly twisted, with branches resembling arthritic claws. They vaguely reminded Church of ones he had seen in the mangrove swamps of the southeastern United States on a holiday with Marianne, only these trees had thick, fan-like leaves of a shiny green that served to keep the light out and the heat and moisture battened down against the ground. Vines as thick as Ruth's forearm trailed from the upper branches, clinging to their flesh with some unpleasant sticky substance when they brushed past. They weren't the only obstacle: scattered all around were thick bushes covered in thorns like razors; with only the slightest pressure, one drove through Church's jacket and shirt and into the soft flesh just above his waist. Away in the dark they occasionally saw colours glowing, dull starlets and fuschias and sapphires, which they eventually discovered were disturbingly alien blooms, like orchids, only much larger; their perfume was cloying and sickly. They appeared to be straining for the faint moonlight that occasionally made its way through the vegetation.

When they had first crossed the forest boundary they had expected silence, but the jungle was alive with movement and sound. Their feet crunched noisily on the carpet of twigs and branches, sending things scurrying for cover ahead of them: the sinuous motion of snakes, and the creepily rapid and erratic motion of large lizards. Church saw one of them nearby; it resembled an iguana, but when it half turned away in the trees he thought he glimpsed a human face on its scaly body. Spiders as big as his hand dropped from the branches and scuttled across their path, their corpulent bodies coloured rouge and cream.

The screech of night birds, again distressingly human, echoed amongst the treetops. On several occasions, Church and Ruth thought they heard voices whispering comments, but when they looked round they saw only grey shapes fading in the strands of mist that floated around the boles; the dead were restless.

After twenty minutes of hard hacking, with the point men slashing a path through the thickest flora, Niamh dropped back until she was standing beside Church. Despite herself, Ruth tensed.

"You must promise me you will take care of yourself, jack." Niamh kept her head slightly bowed so her hair fell forward, obscuring her face. "There is great risk here."

"I always take care of myself, Niamh."

Ruth was convinced she heard tenderness in his words, though he had managed to keep his face impassive. Despite everything he said, she knew Church still found his emotions as unknowable as the Tuatha De Danann; he could react to them on a superficial level, but he had no idea what was moving far beneath the surface. Ruth could see he felt affection for Niamh, against all his protestations. What was happening here? As Church said, they had experienced little contact, certainly no intimacy, yet sometimes, in little movements or looks, it was as if they had known each other for a lifetime. Now she had found Church, after all those years of looking and knowing exactly what she wanted without even coming close to finding it, she was not about to give him up. She would fight if she had to.

Church and Niamh were engrossed in a conversation about the jungle plants when they were shocked into silence by the sound of something enormous crashing through the trees about half a mile away. The loud splintering was followed by a wail like a crying baby; the effect made them feel sick to the pit of their stomachs.

"What's that?" Church asked anxiously.

Niamh looked puzzled. Ruth thought she spied a glimmer of fear.

The leader of the guards came back to hurry them along the path they were carving ahead. Church and Ruth tried several times to peer through the darkness in the direction of the sounds, but only once did they see movement, and that faded away in an instant.

"Large predators," Church said to Ruth, one eyebrow raised comically.

"There's always something bigger." She tried to lighten the mood, but whatever it was had upset them immensely.

Conversation dried up for the next fifteen minutes. It might have been their imagination, but since they had heard the creature, the atmosphere had grown steadily more oppressive, until they were starting at every crack of wood or bird's cry.

Then, so sharply that Ruth broke out in goosebumps, they entered an area of complete silence: no birdcall, no rustling in the undergrowth. Even the trees appeared to be holding their breath.

Ruth shivered. "What is it?" Her voice was a whisper, but it sounded like a shout in the stillness.

Ahead, the lead guard raised his hand to bring them to a halt. Although he couldn't see the reason for their stop, Church felt his throat close up. The same anxiety was clear in Ruth's face. She looked at him, said nothing.

A change in the mood of the Tuatha De Danann rippled back from the front, like the first tremors before an earthquake. Anxiously, Church pushed his way through the group until he reached the head.

It was the stench that assailed him first, so rich with fruity corruption it made him gag. Across the path lay the carcass of some animal, a cross between a zebra and a warthog. Yet the beast had not been killed by a predator. The body was covered with deep, suppurating sores and a thick, creamy foam frosted its mouth and eyes. Around the belly, the groin and the neck, the tissue had liquefied into an oily black goo.

Church backed away until he found Baccharus. "What's wrong?"

"The creature is diseased." There was more to it than that, but however much Church pressed, he would say nothing more. Neither would Niamh make any comment, but there was evident concern in her face.

"I don't know what's going on here, but they've certainly got the jitters," Church whispered to Ruth. "Watch your back."

After a few moments' reflection away from Church and Ruth, the guards decided to cut a path around the carcass, but even when they were several feet away, the stench still followed them. Not long after that they came across another creature, this time a deer, small, with sharp, furry ridges on its back. It had the same marks of awful illness. The two discoveries in such close proximity only confirmed the worst fears of the Tuatha De Danann. The guards were in two minds whether to press on, but Niamh ordered them to continue.

"Whatever it is, it's not affecting the lizards or birds," Church hissed.

"As long as we don't catch it." Ruth kept her head down, watching Baccharus's heels.

"I don't think the Tuatha De Danann would be carrying on if there were any danger."

"I'm glad you're confident."

The incline increased sharply until they were slipping on the crumbly, peaty soil that quickly turned to mud in the humidity. Breathing was difficult and both Church and Ruth were sleeked in sweat, but at least the arduous progress kept their minds off the disease-ridden animals.

Cresting the slope, they came on to a broad, thickly forested plateau, and were hit by a sudden choking stink worse than anything they had experienced so far. Trees had been smashed down to create a wide clearing, their jagged stumps protruding from the ground like broken teeth. In the centre of the space lay a mound of decomposing flesh: the bodies of a score or more of the jungle's mammals, a range of species, all of them ravaged by disease and leaking the obscene black liquid that puddled and ran off down the slope.

Ruth took in the sight, then picked up trails on the ground. "My God, they've been dragged here."

"Maybe the local residents were clearing up to burn the carcasses. You don't want rotting animals all around your home," Church suggested unconvincingly.

"Baccharus, you know what's doing this," Ruth said sharply. "Please tell us."

He shook his head slowly, but kept his eyes fixed in the depths of the jungle. "It is not the time. Or the place."

The stench was so thick they couldn't stay there a moment longer. Covering their mouths, they bypassed the site as quickly as they could and continued on their upward path. In the eerie silence, the tension was almost unbearable. The lights hadn't been visible since they left the beach so they had no idea how much further they had to travel. The guards had grown particularly jumpy, and when the sounds started up close by, they formed a defensive posture.

"Keep moving," Niamh pressed, but even in motion they were half turned towards the source of the sound-breaking branches, snapping trunks, the noise of a large bulk moving through the vegetation. When the sickening wailing baby cry echoed loudly, they all knew they had not left the mysterious fearsome beast behind.

"Is it coming this way?" Grimacing from the sound, Ruth cocked an ear to hear the rise and fall of the cry, cut off for a moment, then appearing again suddenly. Her realisation dawned at the same time as the rest of the group. "It's coming after us!"

The crashing in the trees grew louder, unmistakably surging towards them. "What the hell is it?" Church asked hoarsely.

They were all frozen to the spot for a moment. It was impossible to tell from which direction the chilling noise was coming; distorting echoes bounced amongst the trees so that it appeared to be approaching them from every direction at once.

Baccharus was the first to move. "Come, quickly!" Surprisingly, it was to Church and Ruth that he turned his attention, grabbing their wrists and dragging them on. "The court is not far ahead-we can take refuge there!"

They moved swiftly, the guards taking up the rear, but before they had progressed far a terrible screeching erupted in the treetops above them. Suddenly the air was alive with frantic movement. Flashes of deepest black crossed Church's vision. A hard form swatted the side of his head. It left him seeing stars, and when he drew the back of his hand across the aching spot, a trail of blood was left behind. The sight of that scarlet line stunned him; he hadn't been hit that hard. Then he saw what was happening: winged creatures whirled amongst the trees, lashing out with claws and sharp teeth. Another one slammed against his head, his chest, his arm. He ducked and ran forward, trying to wave the attackers away. They were moving so quickly it was hard to see what they were; although he had an impression of bats with leathery wings, their faces were lizardlike.

He caught up with Ruth, her pale face also splattered with blood. The guards were on every side, slashing with their swords. The flying things plummeted from the sky in their tens, hacked in half. There was too much blood, like rusty rain, as if their bodies were bloated with the stuff.

Ducking and diving, now feeling the pain from many cuts, Church and Ruth managed to spy a tree with low, thick branch cover. They dived beneath where they could watch the scene. The bat creatures were an airborne maelstrom of fur and teeth, but the Tuatha De Danann stood their ground, their golden skin now an apocalpytic red, striking furiously, though their faces still registered no emotion. The bodies piled high around their feet.

It was soon apparent the bat creatures had simply been disturbed during a period of heightened tension. Eventually those on the fringes began to flap away until only a few fluttered overhead, to be swiftly dispatched by the guards' swords.

Church crawled out into the bloody mire, Ruth close behind. "What the bloody hell was-"

The screeching baby noise was so close, the words caught in his throat and his stomach did a flip. Trees crashed; they felt the tremor of the fall through the soles of their boots.

The guards hurried Niamh away through the trees. Baccharus ran over to collect Church and Ruth. "If you stay here, you will join the beasts on the pile," he said.

They ran with him, slipping on the slick, churned-up ground. Church had to haul Ruth up from her hands and knees, all her clothes now sopping with mud and the blood of the bat creatures. Another baby cry wailed close behind. It instilled in both of them a deep urge to vomit.

"It is slow," Baccharus noted as he ran. "If we move quickly we can evade it. For now."

Church didn't like the sound of his final words, but before he could question him further they had broken out of the trees on to an area of clipped, green lawns, rising up gently to an imposing edifice of white marble built partly into the mountainside. Towers and minarets and columns formed strict lines of grace and power, like some odd mix of Greek and Middle Eastern architecture. Lights burned brightly within, welcoming after the seething darkness of the jungle.

They sprinted across the lawns, relieved that they had found sanctuary from the many terrors of the preternatural forest, grateful for the cool breeze sweeping in from the sea after the suffocating heat. But when they reached the building their relief evaporated. The front was a mass of glass windows offering panoramic views over the island beneath; all were shattered and the white muslin curtains billowed out into the night. The Tuatha De Danann slowed their run until they were once again advancing cautiously, swords raised. Niamh glanced at Baccharus, but said nothing.

The cry of their pursuer from just beyond the tree line prompted them into action once more and they hurried through the broken windows into an interior which glowed white with the light from scores of lanterns, torches and candles, like some Byzantine impression of heaven.

The leader of the guards made several chopping motions with his hand and within seconds his men were in action. They dragged enormous stone tables and heavy wooden furniture to block up the windows, continuing ceaselessly until the blockade was several feet thick.

"Will that work?" Ruth asked.

"No," Baccharus replied curtly.

"Now," Church stressed, "you've got to tell us. What's out there?"

"The Plague-Bringer." Baccharus peered at the thin gap between the pile of furniture and the top of the window. "Known in your land as the Nuckelavee."

"It carries the plague with it, infecting all higher creatures in its path," Niamh interjected. The baby cry rose up again just beyond the wall; Church and Ruth started, then gagged; every aspect of the creature assailed the senses.

"Even you?" Ruth added once she had recovered.

Niamh looked away, but Baccharus answered for her. "There are some who think the Golden Ones unassailable, the highest of the high in all of existence. That is not be my belief." Niamh flashed him a curious stare and he changed tack. "We have seen two Golden Ones eradicated. There is no doubt an ending can come to our race, though it is blasphemous to admit it. And it is told that that creature, the Nuckelavee, is one of the few things that can bring about that ending."

The baby cry again; Ruth covered her ears. There was a rough sound as if the Plague-Bringer was dragging itself along the foot of the wall.

"And it lives on this island? Near this court?"

Baccharus shook his head. "Like all the Western Isles, this is a safe place for the Golden Ones. It was brought here."

"By the Fomorii," Ruth interjected. "Specifically to kill your people. It is war."

Baccharus nodded slowly.

They were interrupted by a cry of alarm raised by one of the guards. There was activity at one of the large arched doorways that led to the inner chambers. The guards were backing away hastily, half holding up their swords, yet somehow unsure. At first Church could pick out only a long shadow cast along the floor, moving in an odd manner. A few seconds later a figure appeared in the archway.

It was unmistakably one of the Tuatha De Danann; the male's skin had the familiar golden tinge and he was wearing what Church perceived to be a white toga held by a gold shoulder clasp. Yet he was lurching from side to side, his legs buckling every now and then, until he caught himself at the last. The smell reached them a moment later. As he closed in, Church could see the terrible ravages of whatever disease the Nuckelavee carried: part of his face had been eaten away, revealing what should have been a cheekbone and part of his jaw, but instead there was only a golden light. An unsightly black stain scarred the front of his pristine toga and left a trail as he passed. He had one arm outstretched, in greeting or pleading, Church couldn't tell, and although he opened his mouth to speak to them, the only thing that came out was a stream of shimmering moths, drifting up to the ceiling.

Niamh's jaw dropped in horror; the guards looked to her for direction. Baccharus stepped forward and said firmly, "Do not let him near."

"But he's still alive!" Church protested. "Surely you can do something to help him."

Baccharus turned and there was a shocking emotion alive in his face. "There is nothing I would like to do more," he said in a cracked voice. "He is a kinsman; we are all brothers of the same village. But if he comes near he will infect us all, and what is the good in that?"

Church watched the pitiful figure advance slowly, with a very human air of desperation. "Definitely not gods," he whispered.

"Hold him back," Baccharus ordered. "He is not long for this existence."

Ruth was about to protest that Baccharus was acting too harshly when his face grew suddenly sorrowful. He ran forward until he stood as close as he could to the diseased god. "Know this, brother. We are all people, all joined. I am filled with the great sorrow of the Golden Ones for your plight. Not because it is a crime against existence, but because of you. My brother. But, know this and forgive: I cannot let you near. You will take us all with you."

The diseased god appeared to hear this, for he paused in his relentless forward motion. The weight of the decision Baccharus had been forced to make was heavy on his face, but he could only hold out his arms impotently as the guards stepped forward to drive the ailing god back. They herded him through the archway and then Church heard the slam of a heavy door and the piling up of more furniture.

When Baccharus trailed back to them, his face a lie of composure, Church laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry you were forced to do that," he said.

Baccharus looked honestly touched by this gesture, and a warm smile briefly overrode the air of sadness. It was just one of many little incidents he had witnessed in Baccharus over the previous few days: cracks in the arrogant composure of the Tuatha De Danann that suggested something approaching humanity within, if that was not a contradiction. Perhaps he had been wrong in judging all the gods so harshly.

His thoughts were driven away as the bile rose in his throat at another bout of wailing just beyond the blockade. This time the heap of furniture rattled and a heavy oak chair rolled off the top and splintered on the marble floor.

"Can it force its way through?" Ruth asked anxiously.

"Seems like it's got some muscle. I'm going to take a look at it." Church ran forward and began to climb the unsteady mound, Ruth's shrill warnings echoing behind him. It probably would have been safer to have kept his distance from the barricade, but if he knew what it looked like he thought he would be more able to contain his fears, and maybe even find a way to strike back.

But the moment he crested the rocking pile of furniture and wriggled forward on his stomach to peer over the edge, he wished he hadn't. His gorge rose as he peered down at the Nuckelavee moving backwards and forwards at the base of the wall, not knowing if his disgust was at what he saw or what he felt coming off the beast. It was as big as three cars in a row, with a barrel-shaped body and a snakelike head that lolled sickeningly from side to side, as if its neck were broken. It had no legs, instead dragging its slug body along on stubby, multi-jointed arms that looked too thin to support its bulk. Most foul of all was that it had no skin; there was only a thin membrane covering its body so the blood could be seen pumping through the network of veins as its muscles slithered and stretched like an obscene anatomy textbook.

Church allowed himself only a few seconds to take it all in before he turned his eyes away in relief. He retreated cautiously down the blockade and returned to the others, his pale expression telling Ruth everything she wanted to know.

"Is there another way out of here?" Church asked. Niamh and Baccharus were almost paralysed by what they had found on the island.

"No." In the white light that flooded the room, Niamh's face was uncommonly pale. "Perhaps the Master will send others to fetch us back."

Baccharus eyed her with a curious expression. "Or perhaps he will listen to the whispered words and sail away at dawn."

A table flipped off the top of the barricade, forcing them to move aside hastily as it crashed into the floor. "I don't think we have the luxury of waiting," Ruth noted.

"We cannot run," Niamh said. "Nor can we confront the Plague-Bringer, or we will all be destroyed. What do you suggest?"

There was a brief, hanging moment of confusion until a shiver ran through Church: the gods were looking to him and Ruth for a solution. How could they have faith in Fragile Creatures? He turned to face the rocking barricade, feeling the cold weight of responsibility. They were saying there was nothing they could do; they were elevating him to a height beyond his capabilities.

Beyond the barricade, the baby cry began again, but this time it didn't sound like it was going to stop: it rose higher and higher until his ears rang and his teeth were set on edge; mingled in it somewhere he was sure he heard a note of triumph.

In T'ir n'a n'Og, time moved fast, or slow, or stood still with no rhyme or reason, but in the Fixed Lands life crept on at its solemn, relentless pace. Veitch and Tom could not be frozen between moments or see the days and weeks flash by like the view from a train, but they both felt it was moving quicker than they could handle.

They had spent twenty minutes with their own thoughts, preparing for the trial that lay ahead, watching the birds or the swaying branches of the trees, but never straying too far from the cairn at Corrimony. It felt like sanctuary: the Blue Fire that could be tapped so easily there was both protector and energiser, filling them up and giving them purpose.

Veitch was still enthused with all the energies his encounter with the archetype had instilled in him; to him, he had met Robin Hood, a hero of Britain whose good deeds transcended time. Veitch barely dared admit to himself how much that excited him; and how much he wanted something similar. He wouldn't even mind dying if he could become a hero people would remember, wiping out in an instant the petty, twisted parts of his nature, the waste he'd made of his life.

For the first time in many years, Tom was feeling bewildered, and it wasn't from the two joints he'd smoked in quick succession as he ambled around the cairn, fascinated by the shape of the stones, their colour in the sun. He'd lived for hundreds of years. His memory was a vast library stretching into deep, subterranean chambers, but his own character he knew with weary boredom. Or thought he did. But Veitch, rough, uneducated, shallow, had made several sharp comments during the course of the night that suggested he didn't know himself very well at all. In his own eyes, he was compromised by the complexity of an age when things could no longer be seen in black and white. To Veitch, he was a hero, a conclusion born from observation, for not so long ago the Londoner had railed against his mythological status. What had Veitch seen that he couldn't see himself? It troubled him, yet excited him a little too. But it was a frisson nonetheless, and for anything that stirred his blood after such a long life he was eternally grateful.

When he finished his last joint, he peered over the top of the cairn and shouted, "It's time."

"You know you're not supposed to drive on that stuff," Veitch said as he wandered over. "I'm not so sure I want you in charge when we're throwing ourselves into the Universal Transporter."

"Oh, shut up. We had a name for you back in the sixties."

"I have a name for you right now. Get on with it."

They crawled on their bellies through the symbolic tunnel until they were sitting cross-legged inside the cairn. After the previous night, when the stones had been alive with the crackling blue energy, the place looked flat and dead, but they both could feel the vitality deep down in the earth, waiting to be brought out.

"You're sure you're ready for this?" Tom said.

Witch peered up into the blue September sky. "It's for a mate. I'm ready."

"As long as you know what you're letting yourself in for. Don't forget-this isn't a test. No trial runs."

"In life or anything else. Just get on with it."

At first Tom was annoyed that Veitch hadn't grasped the true dangers of what they were attempting, but as he watched the Londoner's face he saw that wasn't right; Veitch simply didn't care. The dangers paled into insignificance compared to what they might achieve: bringing a trusted, much-loved friend back from the other side of death.

"So what do we have to do?" Veitch asked blithely.

"We rip out our souls and throw them to the four winds."

Veitch shrugged.

Tom shook his head wearily before taking in a deep breath to clear his head. The drug lifted him one step beyond day-to-day existence. Closing his eyes, he said in a dreamy, hypnotic voice, "Stone has strange properties. It vibrates, did you know that? It collects and responds to the energies at the heart of everything. That's why so many ghosts are seen in places made of stone-castles and old houses and monasteries. The power affects the brain, raises the consciousness. Lets you see the Invisible World." He took another deep, calming breath. "These old, sacred places, these circles and cairns, were constructed out of stone for that reason, not simply because that was the only material at hand. The peculiar qualities of stone made it easier to release the stored energy our ancestors needed to transcend. All they had to do was make the stones vibrate. Do you know how they did it?"

Veitch was gripped by Tom's mesmerising voice weaving a spell around him.

"Sound. All these places are designed for auditory effect. Consider the fougous in Cornwall. The great chambered cairns. They have the sonic qualities of the best musical halls. The perfect pitch, the exact timbre. All are achieved within their confines. Yet they look so rough, just thrown together." To illustrate his point, he made one low note, which bounced around the walls without losing any of its sharpness. "When this place was complete, with a roof of stone to contain the sound, it would have been even more effective. Primitive woodwind instruments, carved from bone or wood, rhythmic chanting, the tools of the shaman the world over. Sound has power. Music has power-even on a mundane level. Yes, sound releases the energy in the stone, but it shifts something in our brain too, making us more receptive to the transcendent experience. That's why hymns are sung in church. The music provides direct access to the god centre, helping us to see the wonder that is around us all the time."

He waited for Veitch to make some deflating comment, but his companion was rapt. Tom hadn't expected that. He was only really using the rhythm of his words, the rise and fall of the sound levels, to make Veitch more receptive to the kind of sonic manipulation he was describing. And there he was, actually listening.

"So, it's like pop songs…" Witch winced. "Tell me if I'm being stupid, all right? But it's like some crappy little pop record. You hear it on the radio or somethin', and suddenly that moment that you heard it is… locked in. It's, like, more real than all the moments around it. Brighter, you can remember what things smelled like and sounded like, all the detail, even years after, when you've forgotten every other moment that got you to that point."

"You have it." Tom restrained a smile of deep affection. "Now, say no more. Prepare yourself. Don't see or smell or touch. Hear."

Veitch closed his eyes, surprised at how centred he felt. Even the anger that in recent times had become a constant background buzz had faded away.

Tom took another deep breath and when he released it, he made a low, rumbling sound deep in his throat, sustaining it until every part of the breath had been expelled from his lungs. Sooooooooooooooooo. Another breath, and then he repeated the sound. This routine continued, building up a mantra that filled the whole of the cairn. After a while Veitch felt confident enough to introduce his own chant into the breaks when Tom gathered his breath. It created a constant wall of sound swirling around the walls in ripples and eddies.

The first thing Veitch noticed was a tingling in his fingertips. Gradually that sensitivity progressed along his arms, while a similar force rose up from his spine, like a snake sinuously progressing round the bony stem, a sensation he recognised from the time Ruth had practised her sex magic on him. Flares burst at different points as the snake passed on its journey towards the back of his brain.

All around, the sharp edges of the stones were limned with the now-familiar blue glow. And it wasn't just in the stones, but in the ground, and in Tom, and in him, everything linked.

The snake passed his shoulder blades, wriggled its way up to his neck, ready to make that final leap. Veitch prepared himself for the rocket ride he had experienced previously.

Only this time it was different. At the final moment, he heard, or thought he did, Tom utter a word, one that he couldn't remember a second later, but which was filled with a tremendous weight of power, and then he felt like he was slipping into a warm bath. The tension was stripped from him in an instant; the tingling transferred to his groin; he felt as light as a leaf caught in the wind.

A tremendous sense of well-being washed over him. No problem was important, no financial worries, no argument with his friends or his family, no doubts about his own abilities; not even death. He was consumed with perspective, of being part of something enormous, that crossed the boundaries of time and space, life and death. From that vista, everything dragging him down was meaningless. The true meaning was all around.

He wanted to communicate this enlightenment to Tom, but when he opened his eyes again all he saw was blue. It wasn't a flat colour, more like a diffuse light, a glow, a liquid, warm and enriching, but he wasn't drowning or choking. Out of curiosity he tried to call Tom's name, but either his vocal chords wouldn't respond or sound wouldn't travel in that medium.

Where was he? he thought without any panic. Floating… drifting… happy… content…

There wasn't any sense of real motion. It reminded him of lying in the sun in the back garden as a teenager, floating in a ring at the lido on a Saturday afternoon. Cocooning. No need to worry about anything at all, ever again. In fact, all negativity had been thoroughly expunged from his thoughts; he couldn't think of anything unpleasant even if he tried. He found himself dwelling on the truly good things in his life: the moment he first saw the mermaid swimming next to the boat on the way to Caldey Island, his friends, particularly Church, his role model whom he admired more than anything; and then Ruth, whom he loved in a way he had never thought possible, so acute it was almost physically painful not to be with her.

And that thought did trigger something unpleasant in his head, just the faint tremor in the deepest reaches, but it was there. What was it? Why wouldn't it go away and let him enjoy the experience of floating?

What was it?

Something… something about Tom. No, something Tom had said. His head was stuffed with candy floss, in consistency and sweetness; dredging up any kind of rational thought progress was a struggle. Ruth. Tom. Ruth.

And then he had it. Tom had warned him of the dangers of getting lost in the blue fire, of its seductive qualities that would make him not want to return to the real world. It was seductive, but if he didn't go back he would never see Ruth again; all the joys of the Blue Fire paled next to that.

The thought that he might already be trapped brought a bubble of panic, but the moment it surfaced he was moving. The blue sheen in front of his eyes still looked the same, but he could feel motion; he was shifting, faster and faster, until he felt he was speeding at a hundred miles an hour.

Before he could consider any further action, he sensed a presence beside him, Tom, although he could see nothing but blue when he looked around. More, he could sense his companion's mind, and what he saw there left him with a potent, bittersweet sensation. Laid bare was Tom's affection for all the travelling companions, which was both a shock, and humbling. But lying behind it all was a powerful self-loathing triggered by Tom's fear of what the Tuatha De Danann had truly done to him. He felt like an outsider, filled with a loneliness Veitch could not even begin to imagine; the only thing that gave his life meaning was the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons and the success of their mission.

Then he was moving again, only this time Tom was directing him. Soon he was whizzing faster even than he had before. A burst like TV interference crackled across his mind; another; and another; and then he was overcome with a monumental anticipation.

Another burst of static, and images began to flash across his mind so fast he could barely keep track. Some, though, were important enough to stick: Ruth, standing on the deck of a storm-tossed ship as black tentacles lashed through the air; Church, standing at a pool as the grim spectre of a woman rose out of the waters; Church and Ruth, sitting close beside each other on a cabin bed; the vampiric Baobhan Sith, grey and merciless, rising from the dusty ground; Laura, sitting in a damp warehouse, her skin an odd tinge of green, and a figure with white, papery skin scarred with inky-black veins looming over Church.

The images and the pure blue of the energy vanished with the feeling of passing through a membranous wall. For a brief moment an unending whiteness filled both his vision and his thoughts, and then he was thrust roughly into sensation: the wind and sun on his skin, the sight of trees and sky, the smell of fresh vegetation, made all the more powerful by their brief absence. It was followed by the realisation that he was several feet above the ground. He had no chance to prepare himself-he hit hard, winding himself. There was a crunch a split second later as Tom landed beside him.

"Can't you do anything about re-entry?" Veitch sat up, irritatedly rubbing his bruised ribs. His annoyance was less to do with the pain of the landing than the fading memories of his overwhelmingly joyous experience in the Blue Fire; it had left him hollow and dissolute. He controlled his rumbling temper when he saw Tom was undergoing the same separation pangs.

The Rhymer struggled to his feet, obviously in some discomfort, plucking his spectacles from a bush where they had landed in the fall. They were on a gently sloping hillside in the deep shadow cast by heavy tree cover, although the sun burned brightly on a grassy path cutting through the wood nearby. There, the last Brimstone butterflies of summer fluttered amongst the burdock flowers. Bees buzzed lazily round the boles while midges danced in a sunbeam. The chattering of birds was everywhere. The air smelled dank and peaty from the leaf mould that covered the wood floor, obscured in areas by patches of bramble and nettles and the occasional pile of coppiced wood.

"I saw things. Just before we got here." Some of the images lay heavily on Witch's mind, pregnant with meaning he couldn't discern. "Church. And Ruth…"

"I noticed that the last time." Tom grumpily checked his faded haversack to ensure nothing had fallen out. "When you are about to exit the energy stream you pass through an area where you can see through time and space. Neither of those things are fixed anyway, except in your limited perceptions."

Veitch checked his watch. Barely a second had passed since they had been in the cairn at Corrimony.

"You were right." He stood up to see if he could discern their next direction. "That was some smart bleedin' place. It was-"

"Heavenly."

"Right. I didn't want to leave. But you know what? It didn't feel like that before when we went from Cornwall to Glastonbury."

"Then you were panicking in the sea, blacking out, trapped in the mundane so you couldn't perceive the ultimate." Tom readjusted his ponytail, then strode up the slope.

"You know where we're going?"

"Yes, out of the trees so I can get my bearings."

Tom had retreated into his usual state of ill-tempered reticence, but Veitch wanted to talk about the many confusing thoughts the experience had engendered. "That was amazing," he said quietly as they walked.

"And dangerous."

"You know what? I don't think it is. I reckon I've got it figured out."

"My. Aren't you the smart one?"

"It's only really dangerous if you've given up on living."

This struck Tom sharply. "What do you mean?"

"You're all right as long as you've got something to hold on to in the real world. If you haven't got anything here, you give up, float away. If you have unfinished business, something important, you drag yourself back. You don't really mind leaving 'cause you know that sooner or later you're going to end up back there. You can wait."

Tom thought about this for a long moment. "And you had something to bring you back?"

"That's right. I've got stuff still to do here. But when it's all over, you know, when my number's up, I wouldn't mind going back there. Just knowing it's there changes the way you look at life, y'know?"

"Yes. I know."

They emerged on the sunlit path and followed it up to a tarmac-covered route where an information board showed a tourist map of Wandlebury Camp.

"We made it, then. We could have ended up anywhere in that stuff, but we came to exactly the right place. We thought ourselves here, didn't we?"

Tom read the sign's notes on the historical background to the camp, then estimated their position from the noon sun. He pointed back down the slope. "That way, but later. First we need to see if Shavi's body is here."

Veitch shifted uncomfortably. "What if something's got at him? Some animal?"

"Do you really think Cernunnos would allow that to happen?"

He set out along the path that curled around the eastern side of the low hill. A thick bank of trees obscured the top. The path drew tightly past a small nature reserve settled on a pond that was thick with rushes where jewelled dragonflies dipped and dived. Beyond, it took a sudden turn, cresting a slight rise to present them with a view of a magnificent mansion house, its grand eighteenthcentury architecture oddly out of place on the flat-topped summit. The house looked out on to gardens given up to lawns where a flock of sheep nibbled aimlessly. A large, old-brick wall marked the boundary, beyond which thick trees rose up imposingly. There was stillness to the place, odd, though not unpleasant.

Witch sauntered over to another tourist sign. "Gog Magog House. Used to be a big place for horse racing, breeding and all that. Funny old spot to do horse racing, on a bleedin' hill."

"People are instinctively drawn to these places of power." Tom cleaned his glasses to get a better look at the ornate clock on the cupola mounting the stable block. A gold weathervane stirred slightly in the breeze.

From the corner of his eye, Veitch caught the faintest movement, but it was enough to lock his muscles and still the breath in his lungs. Tom continued ambling around, surveying the scenery. Just to be sure, Veitch waited and watched, and when he picked it up again, he launched into action. Tom whirled in shock, but Veitch had already hurdled a low fence and was sprinting towards the stable block. A figure lurked at the base of the wall, too slow to take evasive action before Veitch was upon him.

It was a man, short and plump, with a ruddy, wind-blasted face. He wore a checked flat cap pulled low on his brow and a gaberdine mackintosh fastened tightly over his broad belly. "Don't hit me! You can have everything!"

"Chill out, mate." Taken aback by the response, Veitch adopted an easygoing posture. "You can't be too careful these days."

The man composed himself, but still looked wary. "You're lucky you caught me without my shotgun."

"You live here?" Veitch scanned the courtyard and windows for any other sign of life.

"What's it to you?" The man backed off a few paces as Tom wandered up. He appeared to be considering whether he could make a break for it.

"We're not looking for trouble." The edge of Witch's voice suggested that trouble could, however, be on hand if necessary. "We've got some business in these parts. We're not going to rob you or nothin' like that."

"We're here to collect the body of a friend." Tom held out a hand as he introduced himself.

The man took it, intrigued; his name was Robertson. "A body, you say." His eyes flickered towards the lawned area.

"Is that where it is?" Tom followed his gaze, but could see nothing.

Robertson rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then beckoned for them to follow him. He crossed the courtyard and entered the mansion. From the lonely air of emptiness, it appeared Robertson was the sole occupant. The wind blew through a broken window that hadn't been fixed and there was tracked mud across the tiled floor. Despite the grandness of the building, Robertson only lived in a couple of adjoining rooms that had a makeshift appearance, with furniture obviously dragged from other parts of the house. The first thing that caught their eye as he led them into his quarters was the strange array of items hanging around the door. Over the top was a large, ornate cross. Beside it were horseshoes, another cross made out of twigs of rowan, the old symbol for protection from witchcraft and fairies, the withered remnants of a mistletoe sprig for protection from thunder, lightning and evil, a bunch of St. John's wort to ward off spirits, a roughly carved wooden swallow for insurance against fire, and many more.

Robertson caught Tom's inspection. "Like your friend said, you can't be too careful."

Once safely inside his room, he crossed himself and touched wood before offering them chairs next to the unlit fire. "I'd make you some tea, but with the way things are I've got to conserve. Even water," Robertson said. "I hope they get the bloody thing sorted out soon. We can't go on like this much longer. Bloody government."

"Do you work here?" Veitch asked.

"Nobody works anywhere any more, do they? Not in the old sense," Robertson replied. He settled into a comfortable armchair within easy reach of the shotgun resting against the wall. "I used to have a business down in Cambridge. Got out of there when the riots started."

"What riots?" Veitch looked puzzled.

"What riots?" Robertson replied incredulously. "I don't know where you come from, but round these parts it seems that's all there's been. When they brought in the fuel rationing. When the supermarkets stopped filling their shelves. Then when everything stopped working…" Suppressed emotions briefly turned his face into that of a child and he covered it with his hand until he had composed himself. "I left the city when my Susie died. She was a diabetic, couldn't get her insulin."

"I'm sorry." Tom was honestly sympathetic.

"This place was abandoned so I moved in," Robertson continued. "I soon found out why they'd left. Still, at least there's no riots, and it's not too bad as long as you don't go out at night." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Strange things happen round here," he said, obviously not wanting to go into detail. "Never used to believe in those things, but now…" He nodded to the charms on the door. "I don't know what's happened to the world. Do you find it's like a dream, where none of the rules apply? Where you can run as fast as you can but never get anywhere, and rooms are bigger inside than out? Sometimes I wonder if it's ever going to be right again."

He sounded on the edge of a breakdown. Stress had brought twitches to his hands and a tic to a muscle beneath his eye.

"The body?" Tom prompted.

He nodded a few times too often. "In the lawns out there, there's a large hollow. You can see it easily if you stand by the stable block. It's a dew pond, manmade, dates back to the Stone Age or something, according to the signs. If you go down there at certain times-sunset, sunrise-you can see it. Only not, which sounds a queer way of putting it, but that's how it is. The first time I saw it, it scared the living daylights out of me, but when I realised it came back regular as clockwork, just lying there, there was no point getting worked up about it. There are worse things." He looked down at his hands, which he quickly clasped together.

"What do you mean, there only not there?" Tom leaned forward so he could read Robertson's face.

"How can I describe it? It's like it's half there and half not. If you stand at the right point, so the light's coming in just so, it almost looks solid. Take one step to the left or right and it disappears."

"Can you see who it is?" Veitch asked.

"Looks like some Indian or something. Hard to tell. He's lying on his back, hands across his chest."

Witch looked at Tom excitedly, but the Rhymer kept his face emotionless. "Can you show us?" Tom said.

"I can. But you won't see anything at this time. Sunset's probably the best time, but you won't be getting me out there then."

"So what is out there?" Veitch asked.

Robertson rose quickly, suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, I don't rightly know. And even if I did, I wouldn't want to be talking about it. They can hear everything that's said, you know. Take their name in vain, they'll make you pay." He crossed himself, then once more for luck. "You want to be careful what you say."

"We don't bow our heads to anything undeserving," Tom said curtly.

Robertson looked on them pityingly before leading them out, stopping briefly to touch all the charms around the door.

The September sun was warm on the backs of their necks as they wandered across the lawns to the dew pond. Robertson was right; there was nothing to be seen. The ground was hard baked from the summer sun, the grass clipped close by the sheep.

Robertson looked up cautiously to check the sky. "Two days ago there was a rain of frogs. A carpet of them all around here, hopping like mad. Do you think it was a sign?"

"Yeah, it was a sign we're all going to croak." Veitch knelt down, brushing his fingers across the grass as he surveyed the area; it was too open. If they returned at sunset they would be easy targets. "So what do we do now?"

"Now," Tom said, "we go to talk to the giant."