Corbenic

Chapter Eight

Men of the Island of Britain most courteous to guests and strangers: Gwalchmai, son of Gwyar . . .

Trioedd Ynys Prydein

“What’ll it be? I’ve got a few cans.”

Cal lowered himself painfully into the chair. His whole body ached. “I don’t drink,” he muttered.

“He needs hot sweet tea.” The girl ducked under the curtain that screened the door of the van and put the sword carefully on the table. “Don’t you . . . ?” She left a space for his name so he said, “Cal,” and shrugged, numb. “Whatever.” Now it was over he couldn’t stop shaking.

The man nodded, putting the kettle on. “No problem.” He was older than the girl; muscular, his hair razored short. Even in this cold he wore only a check shirt, tight over his shoulders, and jeans. The girl sat opposite. “He’s the Hawk. You can call me Shadow.”

Cal was looking at his hands, and his trousers. Blood, mud, everywhere. “God what a mess,” he mumbled.

“Did they get anything?”

“Nothing to get.”

She had a clean cloth; she squeezed water out of it and gave it to him, then went to a cluttered cupboard on the wall and rummaged there, coming back with a small tube of ointment. “Let’s have a look at you.”

Before he could object she had his coat off; he pulled his shirt up gingerly. The cut was shallow under his ribs, beaded with blood, but it had slashed right through shirt and jacket. He felt suddenly very sick. “God,” he whispered.

“Mmm. A bit deeper and it doesn’t bear thinking about.” She cleaned it quickly, and he hissed with the sting, looking around at the inside of the van, trying to get his mind clear, to get the terror out that had come now, too late. The van was warm and stuffy. It smelled of incense and dirty socks and bananas. Some sort of camp stove sizzled in one corner, and it was incredibly untidy. Every surface was draped and swathed with colorful fabrics, wall hangings and curtains, subtle rich velvets of purple and maroon embroidered with gold, beaded with tiny crystals. Sunflowers were painted on the table, almost obliterated now with brown rings from the bottoms of mugs, and down one window a great sun rose in stained glass, glowing with haloes of brilliant color. Tasteful it was not, he thought wryly. Next to it, hanging on the wall, were swords. Real swords. Cal flinched.

“Sorry,” the girl said absently.

A shield was propped by the door. A pentangle was painted on it. A stack of spears, or lances. A helmet. He gave a quick glance at the big man pouring tea, then at the dog-eared books on the yellow shelf. Armor of the Fifteenth Century. The Sword in Medieval Combat. Sir Gawayne and the Grene Knight. What sort of madhouse had he stumbled into this time? The mess annoyed him, reminded him of the flat. He had a desperate desire to start cleaning it all up.

“Right.” The girl looked up, the tattoo on her face a lacework in the lamplight. “That doesn’t look too bad. What else?” He opened his sticky, slashed palms.

“Yuck. Keep still, it’ll hurt.” Her long glossy hair fell forward as she worked. He saw she wore only black; filmy layers of it, skirt over skirt over trousers, and heavy men’s boots.

“Tea.” Hawk came and put it down. He sat on the cluttered sofa, pushing off a small cat, put his feet up, and watched. “You were lucky there, laddie. If we hadn’t come along . . .”

“Yes. Thanks.” Cal felt annoyance welling up. “If he’d been on his own I could have handled him.”

“Maybe. You were up for it. But not with that technique.”

“What?”

“Swordplay. You were wide open, slashing like that. If they’d had any sense one would have been in under your arm.”

“Hawk,” the girl said quietly.

He stopped, then raised his eyebrows. “Just saying, lady.”

“Then stop saying.”

The big man leaned back. “Well, I knocked a couple of their heads together for you. And she marked one on the face, didn’t you?”

Shadow smiled coyly. “Get him something to eat.” She dropped the bloodstained cloth into the dish and looked at Cal’s hands carefully. “I’ll bandage them up, if you like.” He frowned, thinking instantly of Trevor. If Trevor thought he’d been in some fight . . . “Have you got any Band-Aids?” he asked quickly. “It’s just, they wouldn’t show so much.”

She gave him a glance. Then she said, “I’ll see if I can find any.”

Hawk came back and put some plates on the table; there was a new, garlicky smell in the warm air. “Microwave,” he explained. “Bit high-tech, I know, but I can run it off the solar panel. My brother fixed it up.” He sat. “Unless you want to go to the hospital.”

Cal tried to pick up the hot cup. “I hate hospitals.”

“Might need a stitch in that side.”

“No.”

“Police then?”

Cal shrugged, unbearably weary. “I’d rather not.” It was Trevor he kept thinking of. This wouldn’t impress him. And behind it all, thin as an icy thread, the terror of being sent back home.

They sat in silence until Shadow came back and made him open his palms; she pressed the Band-Aids on gently, but it still hurt, and he bit his lip.

“That’s the best I can do.”

“Thanks.” The tea was hot, but it helped. He felt very strange; weak and trembly. He hadn’t felt scared out there, but now it was all coming over him in waves. Maybe the girl noticed. She said, “Who were they?”

“Muggers. Wanted money.”

“Black Knights,” Hawk said, rubbing the cat. “Or this century’s version. You won’t see them again. We’ll walk you home later. You live close?”

“Otter’s Brook.” He was intensely proud, for a second. Then the name seemed shallow and ridiculous.

Hawk whistled. “Nice. Expensive. So, now, I’m desperate to know: What’s a nice suburban lad in a suit doing with a sword in Castle Dell?”

Cal felt hot. The microwave pinged, and the big man groaned and got up to see to it. Shadow said quickly, “He could teach you how to use the sword properly.” She reached out and touched its edge. “It deserves someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Cal sipped the tea. “I’m selling it.”

They both stared at him, astonished. Hawk left the food and came back fast. “What? You can’t!”

“Make me an offer.”

“Do you know what that weapon is?”

“A pain in the neck.”

“Cal, this is serious.” Hawk picked the sword up, carefully as the girl had done, weighing it in both hands. Then he took the corded grip firmly and raised the blade upright so that it shone in the bright room. “This is a very powerful weapon. Magical. We should take it to the Company and let them see it. Arthur will know what to do. You can’t sell it, it’s not that sort of possession.”

Cal glared at him. “It started that fight,” he said.

Hawk didn’t flinch. “I can well believe it. I’ve come across such weapons before. They have their own will. How did you get it?”

Miserable, Cal shrugged. “A man gave it to me.”

Hawk glanced at Shadow. “Go on,” she said. And quite suddenly Cal knew that he wanted to tell them, and that he was hungry, as if he hadn’t eaten for days. “Dish that stuff up. And I will.”

“Won’t they be expecting you at home?”

Cal almost laughed. He had discovered that Trevor always ate out. Cal had spent every evening on his own so far, and though he was used to that, he didn’t want it tonight, he realized.

“No.” He put the empty cup down. “Deal?”

Hawk wrapped the sword. “Deal.”

To his own amazement Cal enjoyed all of it. The spicy food, the chipped plates, the warm, cluttered, comfortable room; after a while all of them stopped hurting him. Hawk lay on the sofa with his feet up and plate balanced on his chest, and Shadow sat cross-legged on the floor and fed the cat tidbits. They drank beer out of cans, and he told them. About the train, and the walk in the dark, and about Corbenic. It was strange; he didn’t know them, but he trusted them. He told them about Bron, the man’s tormented unhappiness, and about the great banquet. And then he told them about the Grail.

At first Hawk chipped in, asking questions, but when Cal described the procession, the power of the shining cup, the spear that bled on the floor, he was silent. Except that in the curved reflection of the shield, Cal saw him glance at Shadow, and her shake of the head. He stopped, suspicious. “Have you heard this story before? From someone else?” He sat up. “Do you know about this place?”

Shadow looked uneasy. “We’ve heard of it. Tell us the end. What happened after?”

Cal put the plate down and picked at his sore hands. Then he said, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Bron . . . he seemed to want me to do something. Ask him something.”

“And you didn’t?”

“No,” he whispered. The cat got up and wandered out, beyond the bright hangings. “I said I hadn’t seen anything.”

The van was silent. Only the stove hissed, and the wind outside, over the castle walls. Suddenly, Cal looked up. “I know, I lied. It was . . . I just couldn’t understand what was going on. I thought it was . . . the drink. And in the morning, it was gone. As if it was all a dream.” He couldn’t explain. Not about his mother and her voices. Not about home.

Shadow said, “Cal, listen to me. Have you tried to get back to this place?”

“Why should I?”

She looked at Hawk. “Tell him.”

The big man was sitting up now, his great arms folded over his chest. He looked grave. “There was once a King . . .” he said.

“I don’t want some fairy tale!” Cal almost stood, but Hawk reached over and shoved him down, hard.

“You’re not getting one. This man was the ruler over a great country. In his castle were secrets, terrible secrets. He was the guardian of the Grail, a cup that held great mysteries, some say a cauldron, or the chalice of the Last Supper. Also the Lance, the Sword, the Stone; ancient Hallows. The Grail came to this island centuries ago, and while the King was whole the land was at peace. But these things are dangerous, they give pain as well as joy. It happened that the King was wounded by a blow from the Lance itself, and completely crippled, and his pain . . . it infected all the land. The country became a waste land. Desolate. Wintry. The people’s hearts became hard.”

“Don’t tell me,” Cal sneered. “Murders and muggings and sink estates. Pollution, pornography. Drugs. Right?”

“In one.” Hawk wouldn’t let him go; the man’s hand was heavy, a hard grip. “It might not be like that in Otter’s Brook, my son, but not everyone’s as privileged as you. And the King moaned and wept but he couldn’t be cured, he can never be cured, until someone comes, someone they all wait for.”

“And he spends his time fishing, and they call him the Fisher King?” Cal twisted away. “Get real. I thought you were different but you’re not. You’re just winding me up.” It was all wrong. They didn’t believe him. He should never have told them. And Bron’s words were whispering in his ear. You ask me. That’s all you need to do. Ask me about what you saw.

Shadow knelt up and put her drink down; her fingernails were black too, with delicate crystals stuck on her nails. “We’re not. Listen to him.”

“It’s just a story! Fine! I suppose if I’d asked Bron about the Grail he’d have been cured, would he? On the spot? He’d have jumped up and gone dancing? And I’d have come back and found us all living in country cottages with roses growing round the door? No one in the jails or sleeping rough or ill and my mother . . .” He stopped instantly, confused, cursing himself. Then he shoved Hawk’s hand away and looked around for his coat.

“It’s a story, yes,” Shadow said urgently, “but stories mean things. You must have dreamed it for a reason . . .”

“Sure.” He pulled his coat on, ignoring her, ignoring the stab of pain in his side. “I must be crazy talking to a pair of New Age weirdos. Look at you!” he gestured around angrily. “Look at this place!”

Hawk folded his arms. “Cal,” he said gently.

Hurt, furious, Cal shoved him aside, pulled the curtain so hard he almost tore it, and fumbled blindly for the door. To his horror hot tears were pricking his eyes. He had to get out. To get away. He stumbled down the steps of the van into the frosty fog and half walked, half ran over the mud.

“Wait!” Shadow’s darkness loomed after him. “You’ve left the sword. Cal!”

“Keep it,” he growled, not caring if she heard him or not. “Keep the bloody thing.”

He walked fast, unthinking, wiping his face. He didn’t care where he went, but in the swirls of fog the streets opened before him, uphill, past the shuttered shops, under the town arch, past the lit fronts of pubs where voices and music and cigarette smoke drifted out through opened windows.

By Otter’s Brook the fog was thinner, and he was weary, slower, his side and chest throbbing, and he shivered in the cheap suit. The key was ice cold; he fumbled with it, opened the door, and slid in quickly, leaning with his back against it, breathing deep, harshly, every gasp almost a sob. Calm down. He had to calm down.

The room was warm, and spotless. Nothing disturbed it. It smelled of Thérèse’s perfume. He kicked his shoes off, ran upstairs and pulled off trousers and shirt frantically, then ran down and stuffed them into the washing machine. It started, a heavy thumping. Then he dressed, put the TV on and went and sat in front of it, watching, not seeing. He only wanted noise. People laughing. People he didn’t know, laughing.

There was a note on the table. He had stared at it a long while before he even saw it; then the words jumped out at him, in Trevor’s fastidious handwriting. Your mother rang. Wants you to phone back. Sounds desperate.

“God,” he said aloud. God. He couldn’t. Not now, not tonight. Tomorrow. Not now.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he remembered the slashed jacket, and he searched desperately for some matching thread, and found it in one of the orderly kitchen cupboards. He sewed the slash in the jacket carefully, hurriedly, stabbing his thumb, but he couldn’t do it fast enough, because even as he finished and bit the thread the phone rang with a jolt that seemed to go right through him. He stared at it, unmoving. It rang. Over and over. Never stopping. Never changing.

“Hang up,” he whispered, in agony. “Hang up.” But she didn’t. The same two notes, insistent, urgent, getting to him, getting inside him till his nerves were so tight his chest ached and he wanted to scream. And then it stopped, halfway through a ring. The silence was shocking. It was only nine o’clock but he had to hide from it; he flicked the TV off and ran upstairs and got into bed and lay there, breathless. He thought he had loved the silence, but it was a threat now; it could be broken. Sweating, he waited, every muscle tense in the bed. The torment lasted ten minutes. Then the phone rang. And rang.

He groped for the Walkman, for anything. The only CD on the bedside table was the opera the girl had shoved in his pocket. Now, hands shaking, sobbing, he tore the frail plastic off and jammed it in, switching on and pulling the earphones on, curling deep under the bedclothes.

The music was loud. It swallowed everything. It blocked out the whole world. It was a great orchestra and choruses of voices, men and women, conflicting and chiming and rising and falling with each other. He didn’t know what they sang about, only that it was passionate, it was pure and holy, it could protect him, that while it played he couldn’t hear the phone, feel the bruises, didn’t have to remember his mother, the guilt, his fear of sliding into mental illness.

Hours later, when Trevor looked in and muttered, “Good night, Cal,” he lay still, exhausted, as if asleep, his ears numb. But his heart beat too fast in his chest, like a bird’s.