Weaveworld

2

It had taken Cal some time to locate Rayment’s Hill amongst Gluck’s comprehensive supply of maps, but he found it eventually: it was in Somerset, South of Glastonbury. In ordinary conditions it was perhaps an hour’s drive down the M5. Today, however, God alone knew how long it would take.

Gluck, of course, wanted to come with him, but Cal suspected that if the Seerkind were indeed in hiding at the hill they’d not take kindly to his bringing a stranger into their midst. He put the point to Gluck as gently as he could. Try as he might Gluck couldn’t conceal his disappointment, but said he understood how delicate these encounters could be; he’d been preparing himself for just such a meeting all his life; he would not insist. And yes, of course Cal could take one of the cars, though neither was exactly reliable.

As Cal prepared to leave, bundled up as best they could devise against the cold, Gluck presented him with a parcel, roughly tied up with string.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘The jacket,’ Gluck replied. ‘And some of the other evidence I picked up.’

‘I don’t want to take it. Especially not the jacket.’

‘It’s their magic, isn’t it?’ Gluck said. ‘Take it, damn you. Don’t make a thief of me.’

‘Under protest.’

‘I put some cigars in too. A little peace offering from a friend.’ He grinned, ‘I envy you, Cal; every frozen mile.’

He had time to doubt as he drove; time to call himself a fool for hoping again, for even daring to believe some memory he’d dredged up would lead him to the lost ones. But his dream, or a part of it at least, was validated as he drove. England was a blank page; the blizzard had blotted everything out. Somewhere beneath its shroud people were presumably about their lives, but there was little sign of that. Doors were locked and curtains closed against a day that had begun back towards night somewhere around noon. Those few hardy souls who were out in the storm hurried along the pavements as fast as the ice underfoot would allow, eager to be back beside their fires, where the television would be promising a Christmas of plastic snow and sentiment.

There was practically no traffic on the roads, which allowed Cal to take liberties with the Law: crossing intersections on red and ignoring one-way systems as he escaped the city. Gluck had helped him plan his route before he left, and the news bulletins kept him alerted to road closures, so he made reasonably good progress at first, joining the M5 South of Birmingham, and managing a steady forty miles an hour until – just North of the Worcester junction – the radio informed him that a fata) accident had closed the motorway between junctions eight and nine. Cursing, he was obliged to leave the motorway and take the A38 through Great Malvern, Tewkesbury and Gloucester. Going was much slower here. No attempt had been made to clear or grit the road, and several vehicles had simply been abandoned by drivers who’d decided that to press on was tantamount to suicide.

The weather worsened as he approached Bristol, obliging him to cut his speed to a crawl. Blinded by snow, he missed the turn for the A37 and had to retrace his route, the sky now almost pitch black though it was still only the middle of the afternoon. A mile or so short of Shepton Mallet he stopped for petrol and chocolate, to be told by a garage attendant that most of the roads south of the town were blocked. He began to feel plotted against. It was as though the weather was somehow part of the Scourge’s masterplan, that it knew he was near and was throwing obstacles in his path to see just how hard he’d fight to reach his place of execution.

But if that were so then at least it meant he was on the right track; that somewhere in the wilderness ahead his loved ones were waiting.