Darkest hour

Chapter Fifteen

Beneath the soaring vault of a gold and blue dawn sky they said their goodbyes. Less than a month remained until Lughnasadh. Conflicting emotions darted among them like electricity between conducting rods, but although the currents ran far beneath the surface, they all recognised the secret signs. Few words were said, but hands were shaken and backs slapped forcefully.

Church surprised himself by the depth of his affection for Shavi, Veitch and even Tom; there was the mutual respect of the survivors of desperate times, certainly, but also a recognition of qualities of decency and bravery which often lay hidden in modern life. It was uplifting to realise even damaged goods carried with them the blueprints for rectitude. He feared for their safety, but he had no doubt that if anyone could overcome such adversity, it was them.

Ruth hugged them all, although Tom looked uncomfortable at the contact; he walked away a few paces so the unpleasant experience would not be repeated. Laura too tried to appear aloof, but her repressed nods to each of them shouted as loudly as if she had thrown her arms round their necks. Then Shavi turned to Veitch with a broad grin.

Veitch brandished his hunting knife threateningly. "If you try to hug me I'm going to kill you. I'm not joking."

Shavi laughed as he pushed the knife to one side. He put his arms around Veitch and pulled him tight. Veitch was like a rod for a second, then relaxed and hugged Shavi just as warmly. It was an act of deep friendship, yet no one was surprised; they had all watched each boundary fall over the weeks until only Veitch had been left to recognise it.

"Fuckin' queen," he muttered as they broke off.

"Thug," Shavi responded.

Despite the gravity of the situation, there was more hope around than they truly deserved to feel.

When they finally felt ready, Veitch and Tom turned to the north and set off across the uneven terrain, carefully avoiding the blackened, still-smouldering wreckage of the car. Shavi, who was to accompany the others to Mam Tor before continuing to Windsor, led the way south.

Away across the moor a lone figure watched the two parties, as they had been watched for so long. The choice was difficult, but eventually the selection was made. As the figure set off across the scrub anyone could have been forgiven for thinking they were seeing an unfeasibly large wolf loping after its prey.

Mam Tor rose up majestically from the stone-walled, patchwork green of the surrounding countryside, a slab of imposing rock, brown and grey against the brilliant blue sky. None of them could believe how tall it was, how sheer were the cliff faces. Far beneath its imposing summit the two valleys of the Hope and Edale rivers stretched out, cool and verdant in the heat of the day.

"I can see what the old git meant." Laura's sunglasses protected her eyes as she peered upwards. "Nobody's going to scramble up there on a whim."

"Bronze Age people forged a settlement there because it was impregnable as long as food supplies lasted," Church said, harking back to his archaeological studies. "An excavation up there in the sixties found a stone ceremonial axe and other bronze axes. It was a ritual place for the Great Mother that protected them all."

"Let's hope it protects us as well," Ruth said.

Their journey to Mam Tor had been without incident, but they all felt exhausted from helping Ruth along the rugged route which wound like a clear, rushing river between the overpopulated, overbuilt sprawl of Greater Manchester and the industrial zone of West Yorkshire. As the days passed, her stomach had started to swell rapidly, straining at her clothes. With it had come a sapping of energy, as if her very life force were being leached from her; but somehow she still managed to keep going. Her nausea, particularly in the morning, had become debilitating, and they had to find regular supplies of clean water to keep her from dehydrating. By night she shook as if she had an ague, her face ghostly white, her skin almost too hot to touch, sweat soaking through even her jeans.

There, looking up at Mam Tor, she had somehow found the strength to stand unaided. It seemed right, important. The place was sacred to her ancestors. And the Mother Goddess, or one of them at least, was her patron now. She prayed this was the place she was supposed to be to survive her ordeal.

"Are you going to be all right from here?" Shavi brushed his long hair from his face where the wind whipped it continuously. He looked remarkably fit despite the exertions of the journey, standing straight and tall, his body lithe, his limbs loose. The others felt calm just being near him.

Church nodded. "We'll be fine."

"Speak for yourself." Laura surveyed the steep, precarious path that rose up to the summit.

"Watch how you go," Church said. "I'm sorry you've got to go on your own."

Shavi smiled. "I am comfortable with my own company. And I can travel faster alone." He hugged Church tightly before giving both the women a warm kiss. Then he turned and continued his journey south.

The wind became more merciless the higher up Mam Tor they ascended. "Well, it's going to be a lot of fun living up here," Laura said sourly. "There's nothing like the harsh elements to give a complexion that wonderful ruddy bloom."

"Just be thankful it's not winter," Church said as he strode off ahead. The truth was, he didn't know how well they would do. None of them had the trapping skills of Tom or Veitch and the environment was truly bleak and exposed. His only plan was to find a sheltered spot to pitch the tent, one which couldn't be seen from any great distance. Beyond that, it would be a matter of taking things a day at a time, which didn't seem the best strategy in the world when so much was at stake.

With Church and Laura virtually having to drag Ruth with each step, it took them nearly two hours to get a significant way up the tor, and by that time the sun had started to set. They turned and looked back over the breathtaking vista as the huge sweep of the country slowly turned golden in the fading light. It was an instant so beautiful they felt a brief frisson of transcendence that pushed their troubles to one side.

But then the high peak called again and they continued on their way. "We need to find a good site by dark." Church scanned the rugged, unforgiving slopes.

"Why don't you just go ahead and state the obvious?" Laura muttered.

"And why don't you just keep on sniping until I get really irritable?" Church snapped. "What's wrong with you?"

"Please don't argue," Ruth said weakly. "Let's just try to get somewhere quickly."

They bit their tongues for her sake, although the tension between them had not been given vent since Church had selected Shavi for the mission to Cernunnos. Church knew Laura had been hurt by the decision, but he couldn't understand why she didn't see it as a tactical choice instead of the personal blow she obviously considered it.

The night seemed to come in uncannily quickly, pooling like an inky sea across the countryside, rising rapidly up the tor. They were all too exhausted to look around much more and their calves felt like they were being burnt by hot pokers after the steepness of the climb.

Church was just about to select a campsite at random when he spotted a series of regular dark shapes among the gloom, hidden in a fold in the mountainside. They were too stark to be natural. He led them over to the place amidst Laura's protestations and was surprised to see an abandoned house hidden in the shadows. It looked like an old hill farmer's home, just three stark rooms on a single level. It had obviously been empty for some time; the door sagged on its hinges, the windows had been put out and the inside was strewn with the detritus of the years: a few slates from the roof, Coke cans, plastic bags, old newspapers, a couple of shrivelled condoms.

"Home, sweet home," Church said, slapping his hand cheerily on the door jamb. "Hey, I can believe in serendipity."

"I don't like it." Ruth stood a few feet back from the shadow the house threw, her arms wrapped around her. She looked it over like it was going to jump out and bite her. "It's spooky."

Laura marched past them both. "Well, I'm sick of tents and if it'll keep the rain and wind off, it's good enough for me."

"It's a good hiding place." Church could see he wasn't going to convince Ruth easily. "Nobody will be able to see us unless they're right on top of us."

"Look at this." Laura's voice floated out from the dim interior.

Ruth followed Church in with some trepidation, unsure if it was worse to be outside in the open night. Laura was pointing to a wall lit by the last meagre rays of the sun. It was covered in a mass of writing, some in huge letters, but vast swathes in an almost microscopic scrawl; most of it seemed unintelligible.

"Kids," Church said.

Laura leaned forward to try to read the tiny print. "They really don't have much to do round here, do they?"

Ruth stood in the corner, her arms still wrapped around her. From the corner of his eye, Church could see her gaze jumping back and forth, as if she was expecting something to come out of the corners of the room. "I feel like something bad has happened here," she said.

And at that moment the sun set and darkness claimed the land.

The rain started as Tom and Veitch reached the lowland slopes with twilight drawing in. By the time they had arrived at a main road, their clothes were soaked through and their hair was plastered to their heads; it was a hard, unforgiving downpour, uncommonly chill for that time of year. The cars hissed by, steaming in the spray, their headlights blazing paths through the night. Most of them were driving too fast for the conditions, desperate to get to the safety of their destinations before the deep night encroached.

After long deliberation during their walk, Tom and Witch had decided to eschew the established policy of tramping through the wilderness. With only two of them, they felt they could move quicker and with a greater chance of being unseen by picking up a vehicle and following the main roads north, at least up to the Scottish Highlands.

But after forty-five minutes standing on the roadside in the splash zone they began to question their choice. No one was prepared to stop to pick up a hardfaced, muscular young man and his older companion who looked like he'd done too many drugs.

"We're going to be here all bleedin' night." Veitch's voice was thin with repressed anger as a Volvo hurtled by in a white glare and a backwash that showered him from the waist down. "This was a stupid idea."

Tom removed his glasses to wipe the droplets off them for the third time in as many minutes. He kept his attention fixed on the stream of traffic.

"It's hardly bleedin' surprising, though, is it? We could be anything here. Everyone must know by now you can't trust stuff at face value. Once we were in the car we could tear their faces off." He took a perfectly timed step back to avoid the splash from a Golf. "I haven't seen this much traffic for ages. Probably 'cause it's a main route. Safety in numbers and all that. I bet the back roads are deserted-"

"You're talking too much."

"Nerves, all right? I'm worried about Ruth."

Tom stuck out his thumb once more with undiminished optimism.

"We don't stand much chance of winning now, do we?" Veitch continued. "I mean, I'm still staying hopeful we can help Ruth, but what's inside her…" He looked into the middle distance. "If it finds its way back, what's it going to be like?"

Tom didn't seem to hear him at first. Then he said, "When Balor led the Fomorii across the land in the first times, it was said daylight was driven from the land. In the eternal night there was only the stink of burning flesh and the rivers ran red with blood. Humanity was driven to the fringes of existence." His pause was filled with the rushing of the wind and the rain. "If he returns once more, there is no hope for anything."

Veitch chewed this over while the cars sped past, and when he spoke again it was as if it hadn't even been mentioned. "How long are you planning on sticking it out here before you realise nobody's going to help us? Come on. We better find some shelter."

"People haven't changed. There are still some who'll help out a fellow in need."

"Yeah-" Veitch began cynically, just as a 2CV indicated and pulled over sharply.

The passenger door opened on to a man in his early thirties, his face surprisingly open and smiling. His cheeks were a little chubby, his eyes heavy-lidded beneath badly cut jet-black hair which made him look more like a boy.

"Where are you going?" he said loudly over the white noise and rumble of the road sounds.

Tom leaned in. "As far north as you can take us."

"Okay. Hop in."

Veitch clambered into the back, scrubbing the excess moisture out of his hair, while Tom took the front. It was only when they were both settled that they saw their driver was wearing a dog collar.

"You must be mad hitching at this time, in this weather," the driver said as he pulled away.

"Needs must." Tom glanced at him askance. "We were counting on a Good Samaritan," he added wryly.

"There're still a few of us around." The driver laughed. "Actually, I had selfish motivations too. I wanted some company." He stuck a hand out sideways. "I'm Will."

Tom and Witch introduced themselves, then fell silent, but Will was keen to talk. "I've been down to London. Came down yesterday and stayed overnight. I've got a parish in Newcastle. Rough area, good people though. I'd be the first to admit it's been a struggle. Still, the last few months have been a struggle for all of us, haven't they?"

"There's been some trouble up there, hasn't there?"

A rawness sprang to Will's face and he shifted uncomfortably; he didn't appear to want to talk about that. "They've closed off part of the city. Terrible business. Terrible. But that's nothing new today, is it? Have you heard any news about what's happening?"

"Only what we've seen with our own eyes." Tom was enjoying the warmth of the heater on his feet.

"They say the Government is on the verge of giving up the ghost. Apparently they've set up a coalition, a Government of National Purpose. As if that will do any good. They're all politicians, aren't they?"

"Anybody who seeks out power should never be allowed to have it," Tom agreed.

"I don't think they've any idea what's going on at all."

"Does anybody? Do you?" Tom watched him curiously. He seemed a little naive and idealistic, like many younger clerics.

"Nobody knows the details, but we have all seen what we've seen. We know science is on the back foot. What should we call it-the supernatural, the strange, the wondrous? Those who believed in that kind of thing always struggled to identify it on the periphery of life. Now it's right there at the heart."

"I would suppose," Tom noted, "that you were one of those believers. Being a clergyman and all."

Will grew quiet, his face lost in the shadows between street lights. After a moment's contemplation he said, "Actually, that's not true. I considered myself one of the new breed. You know, trendy, the papers called us, because we had raves, flashing lights and dry ice instead of hymns. No time for the miracles and magic of the Bible. There was no truth in it, just a true way of living, little stories to teach decency."

In the back, Veitch began to doze. After the exertion of the last few weeks, the warmth, the rhythm of the wipers and the hiss of the wheels created a soothing atmosphere that made his limbs leaden. Will's voice was calming too; he began to drift in and out of the conversation.

"And now you think differently?"

"You're damned right." He paused. "Must watch my cursing these days. My basic belief before was: God is a supernatural entity. If there's no evidence of the supernatural-and I've never seen any-how could there be a God, a virgin birth, even an Ascension? But I carried on because the Church still did good, important work. And then the miracles happened. All over the country-lame people walking, blind people seeing, the dead reviving. All the cliched stuff. But this time there was evidence." He hammered the steering wheel passionately to emphasise his words. "There was a meeting in London. The General Synod was discussing all the monumental events that have been happening all over. I was still quite cynical until I heard all the personal testimonies, from every single part of the country."

"And you think these are some signs from your God?" Tom did little to hide the faint contempt in his voice.

"I honestly don't know. I'd like to think that. Some of my colleagues think the opposite. They say everything they've seen in the world proves there can't be a God-not our God, anyway. How can miracles be special… be miracles… if they're happening randomly every day? It's magic, they say, not God's work. And the reports presented at the meeting of-" he eyed Tom unsurely powerful beings-"

"Not God's creatures," Tom said.

"So they say."

"And you think differently?"

"Until I've seen them with my own eyes… If you believe God created the universe and everything in it, then he could have created the most bizarre, alien beings. Who are we to begin to wonder at His reason for putting them here? The scheme is too big, our perspective too small." He glanced at Tom. "I take it from your words you don't believe in God."

Tom grunted. "I believe in a higher power. Call it God if you will. The common belief is that people who have seen great suffering cannot believe in God, for how could God allow such things to exist? That is shallow and misguided. Only people who have seen great suffering can know without a doubt that God truly exists."

The vicar's brow furrowed. "How can you say that?"

"Work it out for yourself. That's the only way true wisdom comes." Tom watched the dark hedges and closed-off villages flash by.

Will didn't seem offended by Tom's brusque manner. "All I can tell you is what this means for me. Two days ago science told me there was no place for miracles. Now we live in this world where wonders are commonplace. And they may not be caused by nzy God, as you put it, but the fact that they are happening means that for me miracles are now truly possible. Anything is possible. And once I realised that, I just had to rush back to my church to tell everyone about it."

"Well, isn't that a conversion on the Road to Damascus," Tom said drily.

"I can understand your cynicism, I really can," Will stressed. "But despite all the misery that's been caused-and I accept there's been a lot-on a spiritual level, there's also so much more hope. All the things the Bible teaches aren't abstract concepts any more. Life has just become so much more, I don't know, vital. How can you worry about making more money or seeking out power when all this is happening? It focuses the mind on the truly important things."

They continued northwards, the rain finally drifting away to leave a cloudy, warm night. The conversation was punctuated by long periods of silence when they each wrestled with their own thoughts, but that was often too uncomfortable and they would be forced to return to discussing the state of the country and how much life had changed. Veitch was oblivious to it all as he slept soundly, stretched out across the back seat.

As the midnight hour passed and Newcastle drew nearer, the air being sucked in by the heater gained an unpleasant tang of chemicals and burning, Tom glanced over at Will; the vicar's face, oddly, seemed to have lost some of its youthfulness and his expression had grown darker.

"How bad is it back at home?" Tom asked.

A pause. "Very bad."

"You're aiming to pass on some of that hope you feel."

He nodded. "Something magical. The Church lost touch with that, with the reason why people needed it. There's been too much looking inward, too much rationalising and reasoning and not enough heart. Not enough magic."

The sky overhead was briefly lit up, as if it were daylight.

"Good Lord." Will leaned over the wheel to peer up into the sky. "Was that a flare?"

They travelled on for another five minutes without any further disturbance, but then something else caught Will's eye and he slowed the car down. "Look at that." There was awe in his hushed voice.

Lights were moving in complex patterns across the sky. Some were balls, glowing red or white, others cylinders that seemed to have all the colours of the rainbow on them as they rotated slowly.

"UFOs," Will noted.

"That's what they used to call them. Keep going, they won't disturb you."

Will glanced sharply at Tom. "You're saying they're alive? They're just lights."

"Just lights? There is no just anything in this world."

"Then what?" He looked back up to the heavens, slowing the car even further.

"Spirit forms, I suppose you would call them. Sentient beings that reflect what is taking place in our heads."

"How do you know this?"

"I've seen them before."

"They look like cherubs. Or angels." Will chewed on a knuckle excitedly. "Perhaps that's what they are. If they were seen in ancient times…" He paused, holding his head to one side. "I can feel something. Can you feel something?" Will didn't seem to notice Tom's lack of a reply. "It fills me with a sense of wellbeing. Almost of transcendence."

"That's part of their nature too."

A tear trickled from the corner of Will's eye. "You say they're, what, spirit forms? But if I say they're angels, who's to say which of us is right?"

Tom shrugged disinterestedly.

"It's all a matter of perspective." He pulled the car over to the side of the road, transfixed. The lights continued to bob and weave across the sky, their flares lighting the clouds like fireworks. Then, as Will watched intently, their movement ground to a halt. There was a brief period when they hung suspended in the heavens, and then gradually they shifted in unison towards some kind of alignment. A few seconds later they formed a blazing cross of many colours, hanging in the eastern sky.

Will caught a sob in his throat, but the tears streamed down his cheeks. "I've been so wrong."

The lights stayed that way for a long moment, and then the cross slowly broke up and they drifted away to lose themselves among the billowing clouds. Will chewed on the back of his hand; he appeared to be shaking all over.

Tom winced, then sighed, unsure quite how to say what he felt. "It might-"

"I know what you're going to say. It might not be what I think. I might be putting my own interpretation on it. But can't you see-that doesn't matter! It's a sign of something bigger. That's all we really need."

He sat for a while with his head resting on the steering wheel. When he did finally look up, he was transformed, beaming and optimistic. Seeing him, Tom couldn't help but think that perhaps he was right.

Will left them on the outskirts of Newcastle, where Tom caught up on his sleep in a back garden shed. The next morning they picked up a succession of lifts that took them north. They crossed Hadrian's Wall without incident and made better going across the Scottish Lowlands, with several other lifts taking them north of Stirling. They were dogged by repeated technology failures on the outskirts of Perth and, in frustration, decided to proceed on foot. Although it was rough going as they moved into the foothills of the Cairngorms, they knew it was also the best option for safety. With only the A9 as the main route northwards, their chance of discovery would increase tenfold in a vehicle.

The pines in the Forest of Atholl were cool and fragrant and filled with game birds. Veitch even brought down a deer with his crossbow and that night they enjoyed a royal feast, with enough meat left over to last them days. Beyond the trees they headed across the deserted countryside towards Ben Macdui, which dominated the skyline, rugged and brown against the blue sky. Crystalclear springs plummeting down from the peaks provided them with a plentiful supply of refreshing water and away from the pollution the clear air was invigorating; they both felt much better for it.

Their relationship passed through raucous humour, anger and mild bick ering, often in the course of a single hour. Veitch couldn't work Tom out at all; he got lost in the hidden depths of his companion, found himself unable to navigate the subtleties of his intellect and moods. But he couldn't shake the feeling that the stone-faced, grey-haired man was a fraud, trading on his reputation as some hero of myth. Tom seemed to have a great deal of knowledge about every subject, but he rarely volunteered it when it was needed, which was anathema to Veitch, who believed at all times in acting quickly and decisively.

With only twelve days remaining, they had been through a period of uncomfortable silence brought on by an argument over which was the quickest route to take across the hills. The uneasy atmosphere dissipated sharply when Veitch caught sight of a swathe of constant motion, passing across the lower reaches of the mountain range far below them. At first glance it appeared as if the land itself were fluid, rippling and changing in a dark green wave moving slowly across the landscape.

"What is that?" He tried to pick out detail from the glorious sweep of the countryside.

"Look." Tom pointed to what appeared to be a tiny figure moving ahead of the wave.

Veitch continued to stare until he realised what was happening: the wave was actually vegetation; trees were sprouting from the ground and shooting up to full maturity in a matter of minutes, and the uncanny effect seemed to be following the tiny figure.

"The Welsh knew her as Ceridwen," Tom said.

Witch glanced at him disbelievingly. "How can you tell that from here?"

"My vision is better than yours." Tom made no effort to convince Veitch. "Better than any human's."

"Okay, what's she doing then?"

"She's one of the Golden Ones-she comes from the family of Cernunnos. What is she doing? It looks to me like she's returning the primaeval forest to the Highlands, the way it used to be before all the trees were cleared for agriculture and industry."

"What for?"

"To her branch of the Golden Ones, nature is very special, and the trees and their living spirits are the best representation of that. She's bringing magic back to the land in a way that people will truly be able to appreciate. For wherever trees grow, magic thrives."

Veitch dropped to his haunches, balancing himself with the tips of his fingers. He caught a glimpse of black hair, flowing like oil, and what appeared to be a cape swirling behind Ceridwen, sometimes the colour of sapphires, then emeralds. "I don't get it. If they're supposed to be the enemy, how come they're looking after the land? I thought that was our job."

Tom shrugged. "On most levels they're higher beings. They understand the things we take for granted."

The Rhymer wandered off, but Veitch stayed watching the verdant band spread back and forth across the desolate landscape. It filled him with a tremendous sense of well-being that he couldn't quite explain, and when he took his leave five minutes later, he did so reluctantly.

They spent half an hour looking for a place sheltered enough to make camp in the bleak uplands and by that time twilight had turned to near dark. Despite the season, the wind had turned bitter again and there was a hint of icy rain in the air.

"I don't like this," Veitch said as he tramped breathlessly up an incline.

Tom grunted; he was in one of his moods where conversation was a burden.

"The dark, out here in the country." Veitch knew he was talking as much for himself, but it made him feel a little more easy. "I'm a city boy. It never gets dark in the city, even when it's night. You've got other things to worry about there, but at least they're always easy to see." He looked up. "The moon's full. It'd give us more light if not for the bleedin' clouds."

"You're not afraid of a few shadows, are you?" Tom snapped. His brogue had grown a little thicker now he was back in his homeland again.

"Ah, fuck off."

"City boys. You think you're so hard," Tom taunted.

Witch's anger flared white and hot for an instant; sometimes he was afraid of it and the way it seemed to take him over completely. He wondered, when he was in its grip, what he was really capable of. Before he could respond with a comment that would bring about another raging argument, he glimpsed a light high and away to his right that was quickly lost behind an outcropping. He pulled back until he saw it again.

"There's a place up there." The light seemed more than welcoming in the sea of darkness. "Maybe they'll let us bunk down for the night."

Tom wavered for a moment, but the prospect of a night with a roof over his head seemed too attractive. He pushed past Veitch and marched briskly towards the white glow.

It was a crofter's cottage, built out of stone, but still looking as if it had been hammered by the elements almost to the point of submission. Smoke curled out of the chimney to hang briefly and fragrantly in the air; it smelled of peat or some wood they couldn't quite identify. The ghostly outlines of prone sheep glowed faintly on the hillside all around. They both watched the place for a few moments while they weighed up any potential dangers, then, finding none apparent, Tom strode up to knock on the door.

There was a brief period of quiet during which they guessed the occupant was shocked that someone had come calling to such an out-of-the-way place. Then heavy footsteps approached. "Who is it?" a deep voice said in a hesitant Highlands accent.

"We were out walking. There looks to be a storm blowing up," Tom said politely. "Do you think you could give us shelter for the night? We-"

"No. Be off with you." There was a sharp snap in the voice that could have been anger or fear.

"Miserable bastard," Veitch muttered. "Come on, I thought I saw somewhere to make camp just over there. He's probably in-bred anyway."

Before they could move away another, unidentifiable, voice rose up from somewhere at the back of the house. They heard the man move a few steps away from the door and a brief, barely audible argument ensued. A few seconds later the door was jerked open so sharply they both started.

A man in his late forties with dark, unwelcoming eyes barked, "Get in. Quickly now!"

They jumped at his order and he slammed the door behind them, throwing a couple of bolts as if to emphasise his order. He was wearing a faded Miami Tshirt with old blue braces over the top holding up a pair of dirty grey, pinstriped suit trousers. His hair was curly black and grey, but his three-day stubble made him appear harsher than he might otherwise have been. He sized them up suspiciously, then beckoned them over to the fireside with a seemingly approving grunt. "Better get y'sen warmed up. It gets cold up here at night, even in summer."

He disappeared into another room and came back with a woman in her early twenties who had obviously been the source of the argument. Her face was bright and confident, as welcoming as the man was suspicious. Her hair was long and shiny-black, her eyes dark, and she was slim, in a clean white T-shirt and faded Levi's. There was something about her that reminded Veitch of Ruth, although her features had more of country stock in them.

"You'll have to forgive my dad. He doesn't know the meaning of hospitality." The father began to speak, but she silenced him with a flashing glare; a fiery temper clearly lay just beneath the surface. "I'm Anna. Dad here, he's James. Jim."

"Mr. McKendrick," the father mumbled in the background.

Tom and Veitch introduced themselves. "You've been having some trouble," Tom noted, slipping off his rucksack.

"Something's been worrying the sheep." Looking uncomfortable, McKendrick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Worrying? Savaging more like. Six dead in the last two nights. Eight gone last month."

"A wild dog," Tom suggested, not believing it for a minute.

"Sat up with my gun last night. Never saw a damn thing. Found what was left of the carcasses at first light."

Tom nodded. "I can see that would be a problem. And you thought the culprit had come knocking at the door?"

McKendrick ignored him. Anna stepped in. "Have you eaten? I could do you some bacon sandwiches?"

They both agreed this would be a good idea. While McKendrick pulled back the curtains to peer outside, Tom disappeared to use the toilet. Once Veitch heard the spattle of hot oil and smelled the first singe of the bacon he followed Anna into the small kitchen, which was barely big enough for the two of them.

She smiled when he entered and asked him to slice the bread. "You'll have to excuse Dad. He's been under a lot of pressure. You don't make any money with a croft at the best of times, and the last few years certainly haven't been the best of times. He cannae afford to lose sheep at this rate."

"You help him out here?"

"Don't look so surprised!" She slapped him playfully on the shoulder. "My mum died earlier this year. It was a shock to us all, but Dad took it really hard. Went to pieces, really. I was living down in Glasgow, having the time of my life, but I jacked it all in to come back here and get him back on his feet."

Veitch took the spatula from her hand and turned the bacon, but he couldn't take his eyes from her face. Her own eyes matched his, move for move. "That was good of you."

"Don't make me out to be a saint. Anybody would have done it for family. But no good deed goes unpunished, right? Now he doesn't want me stuck in a miserable life like crofting miles away from anything anybody could call society, and he doesn't want to lose me and be on his own either. So we sit here every night stewing in our juices."

"Must be pretty hard."

She shrugged. "So what about you? You don't look the kind to be hillwalking in these times." She looked him in the eye. "Nobody would be up here alone at night in the Troubles. Unless they had a very good reason."

"I have a very good reason."

"Tell me about it, then."

"I'm a big bleedin' hero trying to save the world from disaster."

Her eyes ranged over his deadpan face as she tried to pick the truth from his comment. Eventually she held his gaze, while a smile crept across her lips, and then she turned back to the cooker. But she never told him what she thought.

They ate the sandwiches in front of the fire. McKendrick thawed a little and even offered around a shot of malt which looked, from its unlabelled bottle, as if it had been distilled locally. Veitch still couldn't take his eyes off Anna. He didn't know if it was because she reminded him of Ruth or because of some other attraction, and that thought filled him with guilt about how fickle he really was. For her part, Anna seemed truly taken by him. While Tom and her father talked in quiet, serious tones by the fire, the two of them sat in creaking, threadbare armchairs in one corner, their lighthearted conversation punctuated with humour.

But at one point Veitch looked up and found McKendrick watching him with a cold annoyance bordering on anger. Veitch knew why, didn't care; life was too short.

They were disturbed shortly after midnight by a wild commotion outside: the undeniable sound of sheep in torment, deep rumbling from some unrecognisable animal throat that turned into a guttural roar. Veitch was the first to the window, but the light inside made it impossible to see more than a few feet. McKendrick had his gun and hovered hesitantly at the door, but Veitch was by his side before he had his fingers on the handle.

"Let me go first, all right?" The crossbow was in his hand as he slipped out into the chill night. He regretted it instantly. Even outside it was impossible to see much beyond the small circle of illumination from the croft's windows; he could almost feel the darkness pressing hard against him. He had advanced to the edge of the light before McKendrick came out with a powerful torch. He had never heard the noise the sheep were making before; it was frenzied and high-pitched and at times almost sounded like the shriek of a woman.

"Quick! Over there!" He pointed redundantly in the direction of the noise.

The determination in McKendrick's face didn't quite mask the underlying fear as he swung the torch round wildly. It flashed over undulating grass, the ghostly grey shapes of fleeing sheep, past something that was just a glimmer, but a splash of colour and a jarring shape that shouldn't be caught Veitch's eye. "Back! Back!" he yelled.

McKendrick retraced the arc. They caught a glimpse of a low shadow that moved away like lightning. Left behind was the carcass of a sheep, gleaming slickly, the white bones protruding like enormous teeth. It had been so torn to pieces they had trouble recognising which part was which.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God!" McKendrick hissed. "It is a dog!" He nestled the barrel of his gun over his forearm while still trying to manipulate the torch.

"Careful," Witch said. "It might be rabid."

The white light washed over more grass, its movement jerky with McKendrick's anxiety, so at times it looked like they were glimpsing images illuminated by a strobe: a rock that made them all start; a sheep running in their direction. The carcass again. The wind had whipped up and was moaning across the high land, scudding the clouds across the moon and stars so it became darker than ever. And against it all was the sound of the sheep's hooves constantly driving across the grass, disorienting them so it was impossible to tell where the dog was.

McKendrick gritted his teeth in frustration. "Stay behind me. If I see it I'm just going to let rip with both barrels. Might scare it-"

They had heard tell of animal sounds that could chill the blood; McKendrick had thought it poetic license, but when the howling rose up, at first low and mournful but then higher and more intense, they felt ice water wash through them. The primal sound triggered some long-dormant race warning that was so overpowering that their instinct rose to the fore and instantly drove them towards the house.

Just as their backs were at the door, McKendrick's final sweep with the torch locked on to a prowling shape, so fleeting they caught only a glimpse of golden eyes glowing spectrally in the light. McKendrick fired instantly, but they didn't wait to see the result. They slipped through the door and locked it firmly behind them.

"I think I got it," McKendrick said breathlessly with his back pressed hard against the door. "Winged it, at least."

Veitch wasn't so sure. Anna and Tom waited anxiously in the centre of the room; it was apparent from their faces they had been as disturbed by the howling. McKendrick and Veitch looked at each other, but it was the older man who finally gave voice to what they were both thinking.

"It was a wolf, I'm sure of it."

Anna shook her head furiously. "You're Joking! There haven't been wolves here for centuries."

"But this was once their homeland," Tom mused. "Perhaps they've returned."

"With the forests," Veitch added.

"How?" Anna asked. "That's crazy!"

McKendrick went to the window and peered out cautiously. "Crazy things are happening all the time these days," he mumbled.

"Are you sure it was a wolf?" Tom said pointedly. "Not a man?"

Veitch knew what he was implying. "Bit bigger than normal, but nothing out of the ordinary."

Anna looked at them both curiously, but said nothing.

"If you did hit it, we might be able to track it at first light. Follow the blood," Veitch said confidently. "It would be easier if we could see the bleedin' thing. We don't stand a chance out there in the dark."

This seemed like the most sensible course of action, so while Anna retired to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, the men sat by the fire, slowly feeling their heartbeats return to normal.

McKendrick retired an hour later, and while Tom dozed fitfully in a chair in front of the fire, Veitch attempted to make up a bed on the floor in one corner. Anna helped him, talking animatedly in a hushed voice.

"Sorry if I'm rattling on," she said with a giggle. "It seems like ages since I've had a body to talk to. Apart from my da', that is."

Veitch lay back on the collection of cushions with his arms behind his head. "He seems like he's got it pretty much together now. He's a tough bloke. Bit of a no-nonsense life he's got going up here. Maybe it's time to get back to your life."

She looked wistful. "I don't know. I can't be selfish-"

"You've got to be, sometimes. Otherwise you can just give up your life to all these responsibilities everyone throws at you. They'll never stop."

She stifled a yawn, then lay down next to him, staring up at the ceiling. "That sounds like a lot of sense. Right now. But then I'll catch him looking at Mum's photo and crying when he doesn't think I'm around-"

"Don't you get lonely?"

She turned to look at him with her deep, dark eyes. "Sometimes."

He rolled on to his side and propped his head with his arm. "You look like you like big fun. You're gonna go stir crazy in this place after a while."

"Sometimes I think I already have." She shrugged. "You know how everybody needs something in their lives they believe in? Well, this croft is Dad's thing. For all the blood and sweat that goes into it and the poverty that comes out, he loves it. He'd die if he moved away. It looks boring, bleak, hard. But then you get up on an autumn morning to see the dawn slowly moving across the mountains in orange and brown. And you hear the wind across the hillsides on a winter's night, almost like it's a real person."

"So what do you believe in?"

"Right now, looking after a man who raised a bairn while managing to keep body and soul together in a place like this. He's sacrificed for me. It's the least I can do in return. The very least."

Veitch rolled back, his expression faintly puzzled, vaguely troubled.

"And what do you believe in?"

That question troubled him even more. "Still looking for it, I reckon."

She leaned over and gently touched the tattoo on his forearm; her fingers were cool, the contact hot. "Tell me about these." She smiled with mock lasciviousness. "Do they go all the way down?"

Before he could reply, the door to the bedroom swung open and McKendrick glared out. "Anna! To bed. Now," he hissed.

She smiled at Veitch a little sadly, but there was nothing else to say.

The gale picked up during the night, whistling in the chimney and clattering around the eaves. Veitch woke repeatedly, reminded of Anna's description of the wind as a real person; at times he was convinced he could hear an insistent voice, warning or challenging. Over near the dying embers of the fire, Tom grumbled and twitched in his sleep. Veitch checked his watch: 3 a.m. Shouldn't be too long until dawn.

A rattling ran along the length of the roof. He sat bolt upright in shock an instant before he realised it was still the wind. He wouldn't be surprised if half the tiles were off come morning. He lay back down, but the rattling sound came back in the opposite direction.

His instincts jangled. Slowly he raised himself on his elbows and listened. It didn't sound like the wind at all. It sounded like there was someone on the roof.

A shower of soot fell down the chimney and the fire flared. His attention snapped to it, but his mind was already racing ahead. The resounding crash against the front door had him to his feet in an instant; it was so hard he thought it was going to burst the door from its hinges.

Tom staggered to his feet, still half asleep. "What… what in heaven's name…?"

Veitch ran to the window and peeked out. A large grey wolf which looked, in his state of heightened tension, as big as a Shetland pony, was hurling itself at the door. With each impact, the hinges strained a little more. Veitch struggled briefly to make sense of the wolf's unnatural actions before jumping back and yelling, "McKendrick! Bring your gun!"

But the crofter was already half out of the bedroom with his shotgun, looking dazed. "You better see this," he said.

Veitch ran into the bedroom. Anna was sitting up in a Z-bed, trying to make sense of what was happening. The curtains had been dragged back and outside Veitch could see several sleek wolves circling, all as big as the one battering the front door. The rattling on the roof echoed again; at least one of them was up there too.

"There must be eight or nine of them!" McKendrick said in disbelief.

"Have you got another gun?" Veitch snapped. The crofter shook his head.

Cursing, Veitch ran back to the living room and scrambled for his crossbow, suddenly aware of how feeble it really was. He barely had time to load a bolt when the door burst open and the wind howled in; the curtains flew wildly. The wolf struck him full in the chest with the force of a sledgehammer. He went down, winded, and then it was on top of him, jaws snapping barely an inch from his face. Its meaty breath blasted into his nostrils, its saliva dripped hot on his chin. He could barely breathe from the weight of it.

He forced his face to one side in desperate, futile evasion, anticipating the enormous power of the jaws stripping the meat from his skull. And then the strangest thing happened: deep in his head he felt an uncomfortable tickling sensation, like a dim radio signal on the end of a band. Slowly he found his face drawn back round until he was looking deep into the wolf's eyes, golden with the cold circle of black floating at the centre; they drew him in until he was lost in a gleaming intelligent soup, at once alien, yet a part of him.

The terrible spell was broken with the sound of smashing glass. Another wolf burst through the window and sprawled in the centre of the floor before righting itself. And then the rest of the pack was inside, circling low and fast. Tom tried to fend one off with a wooden chair. The wolf played the game for a second, then suddenly unleashed its jaws in a frenzied snapping that turned the chair to splinters in an instant.

From the corner of his eye Veitch could see his crossbow where it had fallen. Slowly he crept his hand spider-like along the floor towards it; it was already loaded, so he could put a bolt through the wolf's head with just one hand.

He was halfway to it when the wolf noticed what he was doing. A low, bass rumble started somewhere deep in its throat then rolled upwards into a bloodchilling snarl. Its movement was so swift Veitch barely saw it. Those golden eyes were shining before him, and then suddenly he was encompassed in darkness and the foul stink of the beast's breath. He felt its fangs sink into the flesh at the top of either cheekbone; fiery pain ran deep into his temple. It had his entire head in its mouth; it had to exert only slightly more pressure and his skull would shatter.

It held him like that for a few seconds while every desperate thought he had ever had rattled through his mind, and then, mysteriously, it released its grip. Before he could begin to fathom what was happening, it had released the crushing pressure on his chest and was padding away and out of the door.

All the other wolves had gone too, but the room looked as if it had been torn apart by a tornado. Shattered furniture lay all around, covered with shards of glass and torn material. Tom was slumped in a daze in one corner, but as he struggled to sit up it became apparent he wasn't badly hurt.

McKendrick, however, lay on his back half in, half out of the bedroom. His face was covered in blood and his gun was nowhere to be seen. Veitch scrambled over to him and raised his head so he could dab at the wounds with a remnant of curtain. After the shock of his appearance, the cuts seemed mainly superficial and it wasn't long before his eyes flickered open. Veitch began to speak, but the panic that flared in McKendrick's face silenced him instantly.

"They've taken Anna," he croaked.

The winds had moved off across the mountains with the first light of dawn as they picked their way across the chill, dew-laden hillsides in search of Anna. Veitch took pole position with Tom at the rear; between them was McKendrick, who looked like a spectre, his skin grey, his eyes filled with a painful desolation; it was the face of a man who had seen his entire world destroyed in an instant.

They hadn't been able to bring themselves to discuss Anna or what was likely to have happened to her after the wolves took her. Instead they had attempted to understand why the pack had acted so unnaturally, and there were no easy answers there either. And so, silently and unanimously, they had agreed to pursue the creatures to bring back Anna, or what was left of her.

Veitch felt numb. His emotions about Anna and Ruth had been so confused, although even his usually superficial self-analysis admitted that Anna's minor problems were a psychological substitute for Ruth's more intractable ones; solving the former had been his unrecognised key to achieving his heart's desire. And he had been thwarted again.

The track was easy to pick up, even for the untrained eye: flattened grass and too many splatters of blood, which they tried to convince themselves belonged to the wolf McKendrick had wounded. They made quick progress downhill, but there was no sign of the wolves ahead of them. The pack had moved away from the croft with alarming speed.

They soon found themselves on the perimeter of the new-grown forest, which already seemed to have attained its own ecosystem: thick forest floor vegetation, woodland flowers and a wide array of birds. Mist had settled in the depths of the valley and among the trees like candyfloss. The more they penetrated the shade beneath the verdant canopy, the thicker it became, blanketing all sound, obscuring what lay on every side.

After they had moved through it a little way, Tom pulled Veitch on one side. "This is insanity. If the pack attacks here we don't stand a chance. They could be circling five feet away from us now and we wouldn't know."

Veitch agreed, but he couldn't turn back. "If we retreat now we'll lose the trail."

"You can't help saving damsels in distress, can you?" Tom said sourly. "It's a pathological obsession."

"I might listen to what you're saying if you weren't so fucked up yourself." Veitch marched back into the lead with an irritation that came from knowing Tom was right. He had to save Anna because that was what heroes did. And if he couldn't be a hero, he had to be the person he always had been, and who could live with that?

They'd progressed about half a mile into the thickest part of the forest when they first heard movement, all around. McKendrick's finger jumped to the trigger and Veitch had to rest his hand on the barrel to calm the crofter; he looked like he was about to have a breakdown.

"Take it easy, mate," he whispered in a strong, calm voice. "You'll end up blowing one of us away."

McKendrick's bottom lip was trembling. He plunged his teeth into it and a trickle of blood ran down on to his chin.

The mist continued to distort the forest sounds; the birdsong seemed to come and go, and when they heard the vegetation crushed beneath loping paws it was impossible to pinpoint the location. But the pack was undoubtedly nearby, possibly surrounding them, as Tom had feared. Twigs cracked from somewhere behind them, grass or a bush swished just ahead. Yet despite the muffled nature of the sounds, something about them didn't sound right to Witch's heightened awareness; the weight burden was wrong, the movements not as sleekly lupine as he would have expected.

"They're moving closer," he hissed.

"How can you tell?" McKendrick's gun was wavering so much Veitch thought there was more danger there.

"I can hear things clearly." These days, he mentally added. He truly did feel a different person to the woolly-minded, sluggish old Ryan Veitch. The Pendragon Spirit had given him the chance to rise above himself.

Tom moved in close so only Veitch could hear him. "So what's the big strategy now, warrior-boy?"

A large figure shimmered in and out of the tendrils. "There!" McKendrick cried and raised his gun.

Another shape erupted out of the mist and knocked McKendrick flying; the gun disappeared into the undergrowth. Veitch lashed out instinctively and caught the attacker a glancing blow. It howled sharply before it was gone.

He dropped low, whirling around. "That wasn't a wolfl"

As if in response to his words, another figure dropped out of the air in front of him, obviously from a tree branch above. It was a man, but oddly different to any man Veitch had seen before. His long, matted hair was a deep black and his skin swarthy, with an excess of body hair. His bone structure was clearly defined above his sharp jaw, forming handsome features which suggested both pride and an incisive intelligence. He was naked, his body lithely muscled, filled with power. But it was his hands and feet that caught Veitch's attention; they were over-sized, the fingers long and gnarled, with sharp, jagged nails that more resembled talons. He was sweating profusely from his exertions and there was a sheen of forest dirt across his skin. Gradually Veitch's attention was drawn to his thick, dark eyebrows which menacingly overhung glowing golden eyes; Veitch knew instantly he had seen those eyes before.

Veitch went to lift his crossbow in warning, but the man raised his arm quickly with a strange hand gesture that had the little finger and index finger extended while the others were folded back; oddly, it was filled with a threat Veitch didn't feel comfortable opposing, and he let the crossbow drop.

"Who is this?" McKendrick said in a broken, uncomprehending voice. Tom helped him to his feet.

"The Lupinari have returned to the deep forests," the man said in a deep, almost growling voice which rang with an unplaceable accent.

Recognition suddenly dawned on Tom's face and he took a step towards the strange, beast-like man to communicate, but he was halted in his tracks by the same threatening hand gesture.

Tom held his open hands up, palms outwards; a primal gesture. "I never encountered your people in the Far Lands."

The man eyed him coldly. "Then you never ventured into the forests of the night."

"No, I never did."

The man let his hand drop slightly and used it to gesture around. "The Far Lands, for all their twilight appeal, were uncommon grounds to us. These are our homelands. This is our world, where we have hunted since time began."

Other figures began to appear out of the mists, both men and women, all naked, dark-haired and swarthy-skinned; they moved low and sinuously, like animals; occasionally their eyes gleamed like cats'.

"In the days of our ancestors, we lived side-by-side with humankind. The wild men of the woods, you called us, and in the dark wintertime you even came to look upon us fondly, as you yet feared us. For sometimes we would bring gifts to your door, and keep away the privations of the long, dark nights. For it is in our nature to help fellow creatures of intellect." There was a hint of anger in this last sentence. "Your people knew us, and our powers, and never hunted us, for they knew we never ate human flesh. For if we did, the taste of it would consume us and we would desire it ever more and there would be nothing but war between our races."

The other members of the pack circled round, filtering in and out of the mists. Witch kept a wary eye on them; the mention of human flesh had unnerved him.

"And if one of our people turned rogue, and ate mortal meat, we would hunt him down and destroy him ourselves," the leader continued. There was a long pause while he looked into each of their faces, and then he said, "But this night gone you did attack us."

Veitch suddenly noticed the splatter of dried blood across his left ribcage. "You attacked his sheep."

The leader fixed his cold eyes on Veitch. "But we never ate human flesh."

Tom took a cautious step forward to attract the leader's attention away from Witch's lack of diplomacy. "We had no idea the Lupinari had returned to these lands," he said in as conciliatory a tone as he could muster. "We would never wish to offend you. We would hope to live in peace, as we always did in times past."

Golden eyes blinked slowly, implacably. "Nevertheless, a blow has been struck. There must be some retribution before we agree a pact." His face contained no emotions they could understand, and they all feared the worst.

McKendrick had seemed in a daze to this point, but in that moment he appeared to grasp what was happening. "Not Anna," he whimpered.

"His sheep, given freely," Tom suggested hastily.

The leader shook his head slowly. "We had no knowledge they were his beasts or we would not have taken them. We can easily find other prey. For that is what we do."

"Not Anna," McKendrick said again.

"You better not have killed her," Veitch snapped.

The leader's eyes flashed towards him, filled with such bestial rage Veitch instinctively went to protect his throat. "I held your head in my jaws," the leader growled. "You are nothing to me."

"You don't eat human flesh," Tom noted. "You said."

As if on cue, another figure advanced from the mists; it was Anna. At first she moved with the sluggish pace of someone who had been hypnotised, but when she neared them, recognition dawned in her eyes and she ran to her father. They held each other, crying silently.

"What do you require?" Tom asked quietly.

The leader fixed his unflinching stare on the Rhymer. "For one night, every year, she will leave her father to be with us."

McKendrick's eyes grew wider. "What will happen to her?"

"She will learn to hunt with the Lupinari."

"To hunt?" McKendrick brought the back of his hand to his mouth. "My wee girl?"

Veitch saw something else. "She isn't going to stay around here forever."

The leader's eyes narrowed. "If the pact is broken the Lupinari will seek retribution through the hunt."

"It is agreed," Tom said.

"No!" McKendrick was blazing with righteous anger now. "I won't leave my daughter with these things!"

Tom placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "There isn't another way. If you want to save her life, and yours, then you'll do this." He turned back to the leader and repeated, "It is agreed."

The leader nodded slowly. "Then perhaps in times to come our peoples can live closely and wisely once more."

There was a note of conciliation in his voice. Veitch herded McKendrick away before he could put up any opposition, relieved that it hadn't come down to a fight, knowing they wouldn't have stood a chance if it had.

After a few paces he glanced back, just to be sure they were not being followed. But all he saw were vague impressions as the Lupinari melted back into the mist, and not a single footfall was heard to mark their passing.

Back at the croft McKendrick was in a state of shock, but Anna seemed to have accepted her tribulation with equanimity. When she saw Veitch watching her intently, she left her father sitting on the floor next to the hearth and pulled him to one side.

"No grim faces now," she cautioned with a gentle finger on his cheek. "It's not the end of the world."

"You don't know what they'll be expecting of you on your nights with them."

"I'll deal with it when it happens."

"And it's going to be hard for you ever to get away from here now."

"What's to stop me coming back just for the night?" But they both knew it wasn't going to happen. "I just wanted to say, thanks for helping us." She seemed to read every troubled thought passing through his head. Then she took his face in her hands, stood on tiptoes and gave him a long, deep kiss. Afterwards she said, "It's a shame you have to go-"

"I have to."

"I know. But it's a shame." And then she smiled once and turned to her father. Veitch watched her for a while, kneeling next to McKendrick, one hand round his shoulder, whispering comforting words that only the two of them could hear. But then Tom caught his eye and nodded towards the door.

They made their goodbyes as best they could, and then when they were out walking over the sun-drenched hillsides, Veitch asked, "Is this always how it is?"

"What do you mean?"

"When you're trying to do the right thing in the world. When you've got all these responsibilities. Like a big fucking rock on your shoulder."

Oddly, Tom appeared pleasantly surprised by the comment. He clapped Veitch warmly on the shoulder. "That's how it is. You get your reward later."

"How much later?"

Tom's tight smile seemed filled with meaning, but Veitch couldn't understand it at all. "Much, much later," the Rhymer said before turning his attention to the path ahead.

They walked nonstop for the next day across the exhausting mountainous landscape and made camp in a gorge as night fell. They hadn't seen or heard anyone since they had left the croft; in the desolation, humanity could have been stripped from the face of the planet and they would never have known.

Since he had left Anna, Veitch hadn't been able to settle. He had found his thoughts turning to the others he had spent so long with over the past months. Why did they act the way they did? Why did they say one thing while believing another? His own thoughts had always moved swiftly and directly into words, and in the past he had judged others by the same standard, although he had known subconsciously that was rarely the case. And finally his attention had turned to Tom; he had spent the day secretly watching the way he moved, the subtleties of his facial expressions, his strange choice of words, and by the evening he knew that he didn't know the man at all.

As they sat around the fire finishing up the last of the provisions McKendrick had given them, the questions were plaguing Veitch so much he couldn't keep them in any longer. "You said yesterday your eyes were better than mine." Tom nodded. "How much else has changed?"

The Rhymer prodded the fire, sending the sparks soaring. "A great deal."

"Like what?"

"I can hear better. Smell things more acutely. Can't really taste very much any more, though."

Veitch gnawed on a crust while he thought. "If a doc cut you open," he began, "what would he find inside?"

Tom stared into the fire, said nothing.

"If you don't want to talk about it-"

"I don't think I'm quite human any more."

"Don't think?" Veitch watched Tom's face in the firelight, wondering why it was always so hard to tell what he was thinking or feeling.

"I don't know. I don't know if I should be here with people, or back in Otherworld with the rest of the strange things. I don't know if I can trust my feelings, if I really have any feelings, or if I just pretend to myself I have feelings. I don't know if I cut myself open if I'll find straw inside, or diamonds, or fishes, or if all the component parts are there, just in the wrong order." He continued to watch the flames.

Veitch had a sudden, sweeping awareness of Tom's tragedy. He had lost everything; not just his family and friends, who were separated from him by centuries, but his kinship with humanity, his sense of who or what he was. He was more alone than anyone ever could be. Yet he still wished and hoped and felt and yearned; and he still tried to do his best for everyone, despite his own suffering.

"I think you're just a bloke, like me and the others," Veitch said.

Tom looked at him curiously.

"And I think you'll find what you're looking for."

Tom returned his attention to the fire. "Thank you for that."

"It must be hard to go back to that bitch who wrecked your life."

Tom remained silent, but Witch noticed the faint tremor of a nerve near his mouth.

"You know when I said I couldn't understand why everybody thought you were a hero. I'm sorry about that."

Tom threw some more wood on the fire and it crackled like gunfire. "We need to get some sleep."

"Okay, I'll take first watch." He stood up and stretched, breathing deeply of the night air. "What are we going to find when we get where we're going?"

"Everything we ever dreamed of." Tom wandered towards the tent. "And everything we ever feared."

Tom had been in the tent barely five minutes when an awful sound echoed between the steep walls of the gorge. All the hairs on the back of Veitch's neck stood erect instantly and a queasy sensation burrowed deep in the pit of his stomach. Veitch hoped it was just an unusual effect of the wind rushing down from the mountains, but then Tom came scrambling out of the tent, his face unnaturally pale, and Veitch knew his first instincts were correct: it was the crying of a woman burdened by an unbearable grief.

At first he wondered if it was Anna, who had followed them, but Tom caught at his sleeve as he made to investigate. "Don't. You won't find anyone."

"What do you mean?" Veitch felt strangely cold; his left hand was trembling.

"You can always hear the Caoineag's lament, but you will never see her."

Veitch peered into the dark. The wailing set his teeth on edge, dragged out a wave of despair from deep within him. He wanted to crawl into the tent and never come out again. "What is it?"

"She is one of the sisters of the Washer at the Ford." Tom's voice was so low Veitch could barely hear it. "A grim spirit."

"Is this her place, up here in the mountains?"

Tom shook his head. "She is here for us."

"For us?" Veitch dreaded what Tom was to say next.

"Those who hear the sound of the Caoineag's mourning are doomed to face death or great sorrow." And with that he turned and dismally retreated to the tent.