World's end

Chapter Thirteen

They ate at first light while Marsh slumbered heavily in what must have been his first good rest for weeks. After Veitch had collected eggs from some chickens roosting just off the yard, Tom plucked some new nettle shoots out of an overgrown patch that had obviously once been the garden and scrambled them all up. He claimed it had been a popular Anglo-Saxon dish, and although Veitch ate suspiciously, it tasted remarkably good. They left Marsh enjoying his sleep and were out of the house by 7 a.m.

Church suggested their first aim should be to find some transportation. With technology unreliable, Tom didn't want to risk trains, and buying another car was out of the question.

"Looks like we'll have to rely on the comfort of strangers," Church said. "Hope you're all good at thumbing."

Their first ride took them into Tavistock where they convinced a farmer collecting supplies to let them travel on the back of his truck. He was just trundling west past Liskeard when Church noticed the direction of the lamp flame had turned to the north-west. Angry with himself for not paying more attention, he forced the others to jump off the truck as it slowed at a crossroads. By the time it was out of sight they were already regretting their decision. Ahead of them lay the bleak expanse of Bodmin Moor, rising up in sludgey browns and grey-greens beneath a lowering sky.

"How bad can it be?" Veitch said. "It's half the size of Dartmoor and we're already bang in the middle of it."

"Bad enough if the weather changes," Church said, checking the slate clouds that were backed up over the moor. "And the weather out here can change in a minute."

"Oh, you're a bleedin' wilderness expert are you now?" Veitch said. "The sooner we start, the sooner we finish."

Church grinned at Veitch's bluntness-he had already warmed to their new companion. They chatted aimably for a while, but their conversation faded the further they got out into the moor. The higher the land, the stronger the wind, and although they were in the first burgeoning days of spring, it had a bite to it that reminded him of winter. At least there was a single-track road they could follow which made the going much easier than stumbling across the uneven turf and gorse. Half an hour after leaving the main road they might have been in a different world; there was no sound of civilisation, just the howl of the wind, no stink of car fumes, just the damp, cloying smells of nature.

"How are you doing, city boy?" Church said with a grin.

"Sorry, mate," Veitch deadpanned, "I'm too soft. I should live in a rough place like you to harden myself up."

"What you need is a few archaeological digs on the North Yorkshire moors. That'd put hairs on your chest."

They continued a little way and then a thought came to Church that he had wanted to mention the previous night. "You handled that gun pretty well at the farm."

"I told you I was a bit of a villain. I'm not proud of it." There was a long pause before he added, "There's lots I'm not proud of."

"Last night, that devil-"

"I knew you'd ask sooner or later. He called me a murderer."

"Are you?"

Veitch looked away. "Bang to rights."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I haven't so far, not to anyone outside the family." He thought for a moment, then said, "Fuck it, you might as well know what you're getting in with. You know that building society raid where my brothers got arrested? Well I was in on it too. We knew it was a bleedin' mistake before we set out, but once you start thinking about something like that, it's like it's got a weight of its own-it just carries you along. There were lots of times we could have pulled out, but we'd go to bed and when we got up in the morning it was still on. We were desperate, you know. We'd been listening to all those politicians who told us we could have anything, only we didn't have anything. We had nothing. And just like we thought, it started going wrong from the moment we went in there. But we could have got out, you know, if I hadn't screwed up. We'd all got masks on. Brendan was up there at the counter, Mitch was covering him with his shotgun. I'd got a gun too and then it was like I heard this voice in my head, or just behind me or some shit. It said, `He's going to get you' or something like that.

"Anyway, I turned round and I caught this bloke moving out of the corner of my eye. And I just let him have it. Don't ask me why. I've thought about it a million times and I can't explain it. It wasn't like me at all. But there it was. Blam. Blood, guts and some poor bastard dead. I ran like hell-Brendan and Mitch took the rap. My own brothers banged up because of me! I wanted to give myself up, but they wouldn't let me. Said it'd make it even worse for them if they knew I was inside too." The weight of emotion in his voice made Church regret bringing the subject up. "They didn't blame me for a minute and that just killed me! I wished they'd made me suffer for being such a fuck-up, like they should've done. So they go inside, and I'm just eaten up by what I did to that poor bloke and my own family. And I wasn't even allowed to pay my dues for it."

Church clapped a supportive hand on his shoulder. "It sounds like you're paying for it now."

"But it's not enough, is it?"

"I reckon what lies ahead for us, Ryan, will give you plenty of opportunity for payback."

"I've never done the right thing in my life, ever, even when I tried to. But I'm going to make up for that somehow."

Church decided to turn the conversation to Tom so Veitch could have a break. He was amazed at how quickly the man had recovered; even the scars on his temple had healed. "What about you, Tom? Are you going to break the habit of a lifetime and tell us what that devil's message meant to you?"

There was a long silence, and when Church glanced up he saw the strangest thing: Tom was trying to speak, but it was as if he couldn't control his jaw. No words would come out, and in the end he turned away in frustration.

"Are you okay?" Church asked, concerned. But Tom dismissed him with a wave of his hand, his eyes focused on the road ahead.

In the cold dark before dawn, Shavi slipped away from the camp and lost himself among the trees. He could sense the sun coming in a way that still surprised him, although he had discovered his odd sensitivity a few months earlier. It was just one of several subtle changes which, inexplicably, had been thrust upon him overnight at the same time that the change came upon the world, a transformation that was so distinct at first he thought he was suffering some sudden, debilitating brain ailment. There were the psychic flashes which he initially thought were hallucinations, but which he came to recognise as precognitive, or visions of distant events. The odd sensations he received when he handled objects were as if he could feel what had happened to them in the past. And he seemed to understand what animals were thinking, although he didn't know if it was an increased awareness of their rituals and routines, or if he were actually picking up what was passing through their heads. It was all still quite unfocused, but all his abilities were growing much sharper, as if his mind were learning to use them now he had them at his disposal. He accepted it without question as a gift from some higher authority, and he was determined to use it as best he could.

Shavi found a clearing in the most thickly wooded area and stripped off his clothes, shivering from the chill on his skin. For twenty minutes he worked through his t'ai chi routine to clear his mind and then followed it with twenty minutes of yoga, by which time the sun was beginning to break through the branches. His studies had showed him that ritual and drugs made his abilities considerably more effective, and he had worked hard to develop a shamanistic framework to enable them.

With his mind wiped free of thoughts, his breathing regulated, he stood and raised his arms to the coming sun; the heat from the first rays licked over him in greeting. He slipped the Mexican mushroom onto his tongue, feeling the bitter taste spread, and then chewed slowly. When he finally swallowed, he lowered himself slowly and took up the full lotus, closing his eyes so the only sensations were the sun on his feet and the gentle breeze breathing on his naked skin.

"Come to me, spirits," he whispered. "Show me the path."

Ruth was already up cooking breakfast when Laura emerged from the tent, bleary-eyed and puffy-faced. "Stay up late?" Ruth asked as she flipped the sizzling bacon in the pan.

"No," Laura lied, slipping on her sunglasses in the bright morning light. "I'm just not a morning person like you, Miss Perky."

Ruth served up a mug of tea which Laura took with a nod and then proceeded to sip halfheartedly.

"Shavi must have been up early," Ruth continued; Laura grunted noncommittally. Ruth carried on serving up her breakfast, then suddenly threw the plastic plate down in irritation. "I don't know how much longer we can carry on doing this!"

Laura looked up in surprise at the outburst. "What do you mean?"

"Church could be dead! Time is running out! And we're just sitting here!"

"Okay, don't blow a gasket." Laura took another sip of her tea, then added, "Shavi's going to try something."

"What?"

Laura shrugged. "He reckons he can do stuff. You know, spooky stuff. When the world changed, he got super-charged … seeing things, hearing things. He's trying to find a way we can carry on without Church and his little blue lamp."

"You seem to know a lot about him and what he's thinking," Ruth said suspiciously.

"That's what talking to a person gets you. You should try it sometime."

Ruth picked up her plate and took out her frustration on her bacon and beans. She had just decided to have another go at Laura when Shavi emerged from the trees looking tired and haggard. He flopped down next to them, rolled on his back and closed his eyes.

"That's what comes of taking exercise before breakfast," Laura said.

"There is something here, in Glastonbury," Shavi muttered.

"What do you mean?" Ruth asked.

"One of the talismans. The energy here is so vital it acts as an ultimate defence. None of the dark creatures can enter the Isle of Avalon, so it was the perfect place to locate one of the most powerful objects."

"Where is it?" Ruth felt a sudden surge of hope that they weren't as powerless as she'd feared.

"I do not … It would not …" Shavi's eyes suddenly rolled up until all they could see were the whites, and for an instant they thought he was going to have a fit. In his head he flashed back to the ritual in the trees, the moment of awe and terror when the air appeared to fold in on itself and the amorphous cloud which seemed to contain both eyes and teeth suddenly manifested. Somehow he dragged himself back and focused on Ruth's concerned face. "The abbey," he croaked. "There is a sign in the abbey. `Where feet in ancient times walked,' it said." He closed his eyes and rested as best he could.

By midmorning Shavi had recovered enough to walk with Ruth and Laura into town. The abbey lay just off Magdalene Street, its ruined stone lying at peace amidst acres of well-tended lawns in a tranquil setting that was at odds with its location so near to the bustle of the shops. Despite the bare bones of its once powerful form, it was still easy to see how it had once been the greatest monastic foundation in all of Britain, second only in wealth and size to Westminster. Pilgrims still wandered beatifically along its winding paths as they had done since the Middle Ages, when it had been one of the most important shrines in Europe; even, some said, on a par with Rome itself.

The sun was bright and hot, but a cool breeze made their wanderings easy; the birdsong within the high walls drowned out the traffic beyond.

"It's so peaceful here," Ruth remarked as she stood in what had been the nave and looked towards the choir. "No, more than that," she added thoughtfully. "It's spiritual."

"You notice that too?" Shavi replied. "I wondered if it was a by-product of this new age which seems, to me, to be an age of the spirit after one of materialism. Can we now feel the energy of sacred sites, the cumulative outpourings of generations of the faithful? Or was it always like this?"

"Perhaps it was like this, just muted." Ruth ignored Laura, who was faintly but obviously sneering at their intellectualising. "You know, some of the things that have come with the change have actually been good. Perhaps this whole new age isn't as bad as it's made out to be," she continued.

"Yeah, right," Laura said, wandering away from them. "Tell that to the Wild Hunt."

While Shavi and Ruth mulled over the abbey's uncommon atmosphere, Laura picked her way amongst the stonework until she discovered a sign which made her call the others. It said:

Site of King Arthur's Tomb. In the year 1191 the bodies of King Arthur and his queen were said to have been found on the south side of the Lady Chapel. On 10th April 1278 their remains were removed in the presence of King Edward I and Queen Eleanor to a black marble tomb on this site. This tomb survived until the dissolution of the abbey in 1539.

"I thought he was just made up," Laura said.

"He was," Ruth agreed. "A conglomeration of old heroes that a succession of writers have used to create this romantic myth."

"Some say," Shavi added, "the monks invented this because it would bring in some funds at a time when they were particularly hard-pressed."

"I've always said you can't trust the religious," Laura sniffed, before turning away again.

But Ruth felt a strange frisson tingle along her spine. She recalled Tom talking about the sleeping king who needed to be awakened; the king who, in legend, had been Arthur.

Shavi noticed her expression. "What is wrong?"

"It's nothing," she said, before adding, "Coincidences always spook me. I'm starting to see strange connections in all this, recurring themes about legends and religions, Celts and Christianity. But I can't quite fit it all together."

"These things happen in the subconscious," Shavi advised. "Let it come naturally."

Taking his own advice, he led her among the ruins, hoping inspiration would come to illuminate the cryptic hints he had received in the ritual; as they walked, they mused over the words.

"It reminds me of a line from Jerusalem,"' Ruth noted. "`And did those feet in ancient times …

"And that, of course, is tied in to Glastonbury," Shavi said. "It relates to the legend of the young Jesus, who is supposed to have come here to Glastonbury with his uncle Joseph of Arimathea. The stories say they built the first Christian church out of wattle and daub, somewhere in the abbey's grounds, I think. After Jesus was crucified, Joseph gave up his tomb to house the body. It is said he took the Grail which caught some of Christ's blood at the crucifixion and brought it here where he buried it, possibly on Chalice Hill. According to legend, that is."

"`Folklore is the secret history,"' Ruth muttered distractedly.

"What is that?"

"Something Tom said. That myths, legends and folklore reflected what really happened, although not accurately, or as metaphors. And of course the Grail is part of the Arthurian tales." She felt oddly uneasy. "What does it mean? Anything?"

Before he could answer, Laura ambled over lazily. "Before you two burst your brains with all that heavy thinking, you should see this." She took them to a wooden cover in the ground in what had been the north transept. Underneath were perfectly preserved mediaeval floor tiles still in situ where they had been unearthed by archaeologists. "This is `where feet in ancient times walked,' right?"

Shavi smiled at the difference in their approach, then ducked down to examine the tiles. Although they had faded with time and the pressure of numerous soles, the intricate design was still clear and the colours shone, but there seemed nothing out of the ordinary.

Ruth knelt down next to Shavi. "Perhaps there's something hidden in the pattern."

"Or perhaps it's nothing to do with this at all," Laura added. "Why don't we talk about needles and haystacks instead."

For the next fifteen minutes they looked at the tiles from every angle, so close their noses were almost brushing the surface, then far away, much to the irritation of the tourists who jostled to see. Eventually Laura wandered off in boredom to throw stones at the fish in the abbey pool while Shavi and Ruth lay on their backs on the grass, desperately trying to solve the conundrum.

"We must be looking in the wrong place," Ruth said.

Shavi disagreed. "I feel instinctively that this is it. We simply need to look at it in the correct way."

"But can you trust the information you were given?"

"According to tradition, sometimes the spirits lie, dissemble, obscure the truth. Again, I intuitively believe that it was the correct guidance. The problem lies with us and our vision."

"Okay," Ruth sighed, "lateral thinking time."

As they lay in silence, Ruth's mind gradually turned to her surroundings. Even in ruins there was a majesty to the abbey, the cumulative power of centuries of faith and worship; she felt dwarfed in its presence, and at the same time, adrift in her inability to feel what generations had obviously found so comforting.

"I wish I had something to believe in," she said, almost to herself.

"You are not alone." Shavi's voice floated to her dreamily. "That is the only true quest that we all find ourselves on."

"When my father died I wished … I wished like a child … that there was a God to give some reason to his passing. And at the same time I hated myself for being so weak that I needed a crutch to help me through life. It's all so pointless." There was a note of self-loathing in her voice. She looked over at him. "What is your religion, anyway?"

There was a faint smile on his lips. "My religion? Spirituality. A belief that there are foundations and walls and a roof encapsulating this life of ours. A belief in a reason. In a force for overwhelming good that all religions touch."

"Why should there be some higher power? There's no sign when you look around. Just people fooling themselves."

"It is important to-" He paused, then sat up suddenly and stared at the tiles. "To ignore the noise of everyday life and focus on the signal that lies behind it." He scrambled on his hands and knees to the tiles excitedly.

"What is it? What have you thought of?"

Ruth crawled next to him; she still couldn't see anything in the patterns. Shavi leaned forward and gently traced his finger on the glass that covered the tiles. "Here," he said triumphantly.

"I can't see anything," she said in frustration.

"It is all a matter of perspective. Look past the colour and design. Look past all the noise to find the signal. It is a lesson. For life."

Ruth followed the tracing of his finger. There was a faint indentation in the baked clay of the tile, partially obscured by the design painted over it. It was an arrow. They both looked up to follow its direction. It pointed straight at the remains of the wall in the choir and through it to the tor rising high up above the town with the remaining tower of St. Michael's Chapel perched on top.

"The tor," she said. "Of course. With all the legends tied to it, it had to be the key."

"Not just the tor," Shavi corrected. "The wall too. Both of them."

"What do you mean?"

He wandered forward, his eyes fixed on the crumbling stonework. "So much of this new age seems to be about duality-the light and the dark, the two forces opposing each other. And there have been dual meanings so far today. The link to `Jerusalem,' Joseph and the Grail and to the tiles. Now this dual meaningthe wall and the tor. It makes sense."

"What can the wall have to do with it?" Then she realised what he had said. "You think this is about the Grail!"

"I do not know." He turned and smiled so she wouldn't be offended by his words. "Let me concentrate."

She backed away and sat down; Laura joined her a moment later. After she had watched Shavi staring up at the stonework for five minutes, she said, "He's done too many drugs, hasn't he?"

"He's a smart guy," Ruth replied. "I wish he'd been with us from the start."

"Don't tell me you've got damp knickers for him as well."

"I admire him, that's all," Ruth said tartly. "And what do you mean as well?"

Laura smiled and looked away, her sunglasses somehow adding to her supercilious expression. Ruth bit her tongue and simmered silently.

Half an hour later he called them over excitedly. "Look! The sun is in the right position now. You can see it clearly."

"Yeah, right," Laura said sarcastically. It says, `Shavi, you are a big dickhead.'

"No, he's right," Ruth corrected, adding in as superior manner as she could muster, "You have to look for the signal, not the noise, Laura."

"Do not look at the stonework," Shavi explained. "Look at the shadows cast by the lumps and indentations in the stone."

And then, when they squinted and focused, they could both see exactly what he meant: the shadows spelled out words in thin, spidery writing that would not have been visible to the casual observer, nor from any other perspective. Some of it, however, seemed to be missing where the wall had crumbled.

"Aqua something," Ruth said.

"Aqua fortis," Laura corrected sharply. "That's nitric acid."

"Nitric acid?" Ruth asked.

"I know my chemistry-"

"I do not think that is the context here," Shavi corrected gently. "The literal translation is something like strong water."

"That's right," Ruth said.

"Oh, yeah, that really makes sense," Laura huffed.

They continued to study the wall intently and eventually they decided the rest of the remaining message read sic itur ad astra.

"Astra is `stars,"' Ruth said. "I studied Latin before I did my law degree, but I can't remember much …" She paused thoughtfully. "Something like `such is the way to the stars.' That's it."

"It doesn't make much sense without the rest of the message," Laura complained.

"There doesn't seem to be a great deal missing," Shavi said.

"Perhaps, then," Ruth said quietly, "we just have to make a leap of faith."

The wind somehow seemed to find its way through their jackets and shirts as Church, Witch and Tom worked their way across the moor. Although the sky regularly threatened rain, the gale managed to keep the clouds scudding along so that patches of blue and bursts of sunshine occasionally broke through. Away from the main road however, the atmosphere became almost as bleak as the landscape. Strange shapes moved ominously across the scrubland in the distance and every now and then flocks of birds would soar up into the sky, suddenly disturbed by something none of them could see. The sense of threat was palpable and growing.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" Church said, shielding his eyes to peer at the horizon.

Tom nodded. "These places where man has a feeble hold were always going to be the first to go. The old things can re-establish themselves without much confrontation. I think it will not be long before they move in towards the centres of population."

"And then the shit really hits the fan," Veitch said morosely.

In the late afternoon, they wearily mounted a ridge to look down on a wide expanse of water, grey and somehow threatening in its isolation. The wind howled around them as they moved down the slope; even when it dropped there was still the eerie sound of waves rippling across the lake, giving the uneasy sensation that something was emerging from the depths. Church felt his fear grow as they neared; he could tell from Tom's face that he felt it too.

"It's just the spooky atmosphere," Church said hopefully.

Tom's face remained dark and troubled. "I would have thought by now you would have learned to trust your instincts. In this new age, what you sense is as important as what you see." He stretched out his arm, bringing them up sharply.

Veitch squinted at the murky surface of the water. "What's that moving? Is it the shadows of clouds? Or is there something in there?"

"This is Dozmary Pool, a place of legend." Tom said. "Local stories claim it is the lake where Sir Bedivere threw Excalibur after Arthur's death. A hand rose from the water to pluck the sword and take it down beneath the waves."

Church tried to read his face. "None of that Arthurian stuff is true," he ventured.

"Not literally, no. But all legends reflect some aspect of a greater truth. I told you before-lakes and hills are liminal zones, the boundaries between this world and the place where the old races went after they retreated from the land. There are doors in all of them. Some of them have remained closed tight down the years. But not here."

He wouldn't venture any closer to the lakeshore, so they took a long, circuitous journey along the ridge, their eyes constantly drawn to the lapping waves. It wasn't until the lake had long disappeared from view that the sense of brooding and menace slowly started to fade.

A mile and a half further down a tiny, winding lane they reached the village of Bolventor, little more than a small group of houses huddling together for shelter. And just beyond it was Jamaica Inn, its lamps already burning in the growing gloom. It had been heavily commercialised since the days when Daphne du Maurier had used its heritage of smugglers and violence as the basis for her story, yet it still retained an atmosphere that transcended the trappings of the late twentieth century. History lived on in its aged timbers, brooding slate and heavy stone walls which kept out the harsh Bodmin weather. Exhausted, and with little sign of welcome in the surrounding moorland, they were drawn to its cheer and decided to take a room for the night. As they crossed the cobbled yard where stagecoaches once clattered and heard the inn-sign creaking in the breeze, Church felt he had been flung back hundreds of years. A few months earlier, it would have been romantic; now it seemed like a warning of what lay ahead.

They ate steak in the restaurant and drank a little too heavily in the bar before settling into their room. The wind rattled the windows and thumped against the walls and they were thankful they were secure indoors. But Church knew that however sturdy the building, it wouldn't amount to anything if the things that ranged through the night decided they wanted to break inside.

At the window he tried to pierce the darkness, but beyond the lights of the car park there was nothing but a sea of black; they could have been alone in the void, and for an instant he was disturbed by a memory of his view into the abyss from the Watchtower window.

"I hope Ruth and Laura are okay," he said; then, to Tom, "Do you think the Wild Hunt will be back?"

"Devon and Cornwall is their favourite hunting ground. I have tried to mask our presence as much as possible, but they will not leave until the blood of their prey has been spilled. It is only a matter of time."

"`Mask our presence'?" Veitch repeated. "Is that one of your little tricks?" Tom ignored him.

Outside, the gale clattered like iron horseshoes on stone and howled in the eaves like the baying of hounds. Church drew the curtains tightly and retired to his bed.

The stark red digits of the clock radio displayed 3 a.m. when Church woke with a start from nightmares of a pursuer that snapped relentlessly at his heels. Tom and Veitch both slept deeply, although Tom occasionally twitched and mumbled deliriously. Church stumbled out of bed and headed to the bathroom for a glass of water. On his return he had the odd sensation someone was standing outside the door, although he could hear nothing. He dismissed it as another by-product of the nightmare, but after he had slid back under the sheets it didn't diminish and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep until he had investigated.

Sleepily cursing his own obsessive tendencies, he unlocked the door carefully so as not to wake the others, his natural caution blanked out by his halfawake state. As he had thought, there was no one without. But if anything, his uneasiness had grown stronger now the door was open. Cautiously, he leaned out and looked up and down the corridor. For the briefest instant he thought he glimpsed a figure disappearing round the corner at the far end. He weighed up his options and then closed the door behind him and hurried in pursuit.

The gale was still in full force and the creak of the inn-sign echoed ominously throughout the building; there was no other sign of life at all. But as he rounded the corner he was brought up sharply, his breath catching in his throat. Facing him twenty feet away was Marianne, as pale and dark-eyed as the last time he had seen her at Stonehenge.

This time he was more ready to confront her. "What do you want, Marianne?" he asked softly.

There was a ripple like a sigh that seemed to run through her whole body. Church felt the shiver echo within him, filled with the terrible ache of loss that he was convinced he would never lose. He tried to look in her eyes, but couldn't; the things he glimpsed there were too awful. But her face held the same delicate combination of beauty and sensitivity with which he had fallen in love. He bit his lip to prevent the tears.

She didn't reply, although he hadn't expected it; he had come to believe speech was no longer within her power. Instead she stretched out her right arm and gently touched the wall. Where her pale fingertips brushed the plaster a spot of red bubbled out, like a thumb that had been pricked by a rose. Gradually she began to retreat, in that same unmoving, horrible way he had witnessed at Stonehenge, her fearful aspect turned upon him like the light of a beacon. And as she receded, the blood spread out from her fingertip as if it had a mind of its own, tracing words that sprang to life like a speeded-up film of flowers bursting in the sun.

Somehow Church managed to draw himself from her face to look at the message, and in that instant he felt as if he had been blasted with an arctic wind. It said:

Murder. Avenge my death.

Church thought for a moment his legs were going to buckle. Marianne had reached the far end of the corridor and was now fading into the wall as if she were slipping below waves. And in the last instant he thought he saw her expression change. The look that frightened him so much became, briefly, tender and sad and if he had had any doubt this was truly Marianne it was gone then. But it was too quick, and he was left with an aching emptiness that made him feel sick.

Back in the room he couldn't sleep. Suddenly his whole life felt like it had been turned on its head; his guilt that he had been somehow complicit in Marianne's suicide had been a part of him for so long, he could barely consider the prospect that she had been murdered. It was such an upheaval that he considered whether it had been some instance of supernatural trickery designed to destabilise him. If that were true, it had worked well. But he knew it was Marianne as well as he knew himself and instinctively he felt her message was genuine. He was shaking so much he could barely consider what that meant for him. To calm himself, he took out the locket the young Marianne had given him and rested it in the palm of his hand. Although he couldn't explain why, it seemed to do the trick.

At that moment he became aware of a strange, unearthly cold that washed out from his jacket on the chair next to him. Anxiously he pulled the Roisin Dubh from the inside pocket and examined it secretively. All of the shining black petals were spotted with droplets of blood.

Ruth, Shavi, and Laura spent the next morning studying information about Glastonbury in the local bookshop Gothic Image. A mountain of words had been written about the town, more than any other place they had visited, and most of it formed an intricate tapestry of tradition, fact and romance, with little sign where one ended and another began. But after wading through numerous books, they stumbled across a locally printed pamphlet which gave them their breakthrough: the translation of the Latin phrase.

The Chalice Well lay at the foot of Chalice Hill, the third and gentlest of the three hills that surrounded Glastonbury; of all the many mystical sites in the Isle of Avalon, it was the most revered, and the most ancient. The well was fed by a spring rising on the slopes of the hill which provided water so iron-impregnated it flowed red. That had earned it the alternative name of Blood Spring, adding to the ancient legend that the Grail was hidden somewhere near.

Following its centuries-long veneration by pilgrims from around the world, a garden had been established to create a tranquil atmosphere for contemplation and prayer. Shavi, Ruth and Laura entered it just before noon, in the bright of the sun beneath clear blue skies. They recognised the same rare, sanctified atmosphere they had experienced at the abbey.

"In Celtic and pre-Christian cultures, springs were renowned for their magical, life-giving properties," Shavi noted. "They were sites of worship, the homes of fertility spirits. Genius Locii. Sacred groves often grew up around them. And Christianity has always followed in the footsteps of pagan worship. At all the most important sites, the old religion was there first. Who is to say," he mused, "that they were not worshipping the same power?"

The path to the well wound around the outskirts of the garden like a route of pilgrimage, twisting through clumps of trees and bushes where hidden seats surrounded by fragrant flowers were placed for meditation. Eventually it folded back on itself and they found themselves at the wellhead, set against mediaeval stone beneath the hanging branches of ancient trees; the light in that one spot seemed to have an unusual quality; an uncommon calm lay over everything. The well itself was covered with a lid of wood and fine wrought-iron which showed two interlocking circles revealing at their centre the ancient symbol of a fish. The pamphlet they had been given at the entrance called it the Vesica Pisces. The design pre-dated Christianity and represented the overlapping of the visible and invisible worlds, yin and yang, the conscious and the unconscious, masculine and feminine natures. More duality, Ruth thought.

Shavi noticed the troubled expression on her face. "Are you okay?"

"That design is similar to the layouts of some of the stone circles. I think it has something to do with the earth power, the Blue Fire." She chewed on a nail. "Everywhere I look I see hidden knowledge, signs, portents, things that point to something unimaginably big. It makes me feel so … uneasy."

"We always feel that way when we glimpse movement behind the curtain," he replied. "And, as you rightly point out, the signs are everywhere if you only look."

"More signals behind the noise," she said wearily. "I don't think I can cope with it all." Ruth half-expected Laura to make some sarcastic comment, but she stayed staring at the well, her face impassive behind her sunglasses.

They were about to return to the path when Ruth became aware someone was behind them. She spun round with a start. In the shadows under the trees stood a man in his late forties, his pate balding, but his greying hair bushy at the back. He was wearing the dog collar of a cleric, a black jacket and trousers, and around his neck hung a gold crucifix, glinting in the morning light.

"I'm sorry," he said. He smiled gently; his face was honest and open. "I didn't mean to startle you." There was a long pause while he looked into all their faces, then he said, "I saw you at the abbey yesterday. You discovered the message, didn't you?"

"Yes, and it said Don't talk to strangers," Laura blurted defensively.

He laughed bashfully, his hands rubbing together in faint embarrassment. "I suppose I deserved that, sneaking up on you this way."

"Are you going to try to stop us?" Ruth asked combatively.

He shook his head, still smiling. "The path is there for everyone who has the patience and insight to look for it. If not, do you think we would have kept those particular tiles there in that particular position? Hundreds more were unearthed and discarded. I simply wanted to be sure you were aware of the risks." The others eyed him cautiously. "Shall we sit?" he said, motioning towards a seat near the wellhead.

Shavi nodded and joined him on the bench, but Laura hung well back, with Ruth hovering somewhere between the two.

Once they had settled, the cleric said, "My name is Father James, or Jim if you like. I must apologise for approaching you like this, but it seemed the best time and the surroundings are certainly conducive to contemplation." He paused, as if to search for the correct words, then continued, "We keep watch on the tiles in the abbey, just in case, but I don't think any of us ever expected the secret to be discovered."

"Who's we?" Ruth asked.

"A few of us, chosen every ten years from the local parishes and abbey establishment. People who can be trusted to keep the secret. We're known as the Watchmen." He laughed. "I know what you're thinking: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes!"

"Yeah. That's just what I was thinking," Laura said sourly.

"A vast amount of knowledge has always been stored at the abbey," he continued. "In the early days, the library had a collection of ancient manuscripts that was unmatched in all Christendom. Great wisdom. And much secret knowledge handed down the years. It was all supposedly destroyed in a great fire, and any manuscripts that escaped were lost during the dissolution."

"But it was not all lost," Shavi mused.

"Typical double-dealing Christians," Laura said spitefully.

James didn't seem offended by her words. "The great twelfth century historian William of Malmesbury was allowed to study some of those manuscripts before he wrote his Antiquities of Glaston. He quotes the story of Joseph of Arimathea's arrival at Glastonbury, and his burial here, recounted in several manuscripts. And although his reading was heavily censored, he dropped broad hints about a `sacred mystery' encrypted in the mosaic of the church floor. William had no idea what that mystery was. But we, as I'm sure you can see, had every idea and it has been passed down among a select few of us throughout the centuries. That, and another … prophecy? … legend? I'm not quite sure of the right word. Of a saviour rising in the world's darkest hour. Although the word is in the singular, in context it seems to be plural. Curious." He eyed them thoughtfully. "And these are certainly dark times."

Shavi nodded. "We are aware of these things."

"Excellent. I am particularly interested to find out what this has to do with King Arthur. William speaks of reading a connected manuscript referring to him, but that knowledge has been lost to us." Jim nodded excitedly and clapped his hands. "This is like being at the end of history. So many different threads leading to this point. You know what you are to do next?"

Shavi stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Take some of the water from the well-"

"Yes, yes, the strong water," Jim interjected.

— up to the top of the tor."

"After that we get a bit vague," Ruth added.

"Of course, part of the guidance is lost. And do you know what this all leads to?" To Ruth's surprise, Jim actually seemed pleased with their discovery. She had warmed to his pleasant, optimistic manner very quickly; and more, she trusted him, which surprised her even more.

"I would guess," Shavi answered, "the Grail."

"Of course. All the legends, all the mythology, centuries of stories would suggest that is the only answer. But do you know what the Grail is?" He seemed to be enjoying the intellectual game he was playing with them.

Ruth glanced at Shavi, but he didn't respond so she said, "Everyone knows the Grail is the cup that was supposed to have been used to catch Christ's blood at the crucifixion. It had amazing magical powers, and in the romances the Knights of the Round Table spent their time searching for it."

"To heal the land. To bring purity to the world," Shavi interposed.

"But we're actually looking for a Celtic artefact," Ruth added. She turned to Shavi once again. "I suppose, of the four, the nearest to a cup would be the cauldron?"

This time Jim laughed aloud. "We live in a universe where the language is one of symbols. Through it, the cosmos speaks directly to our subconscious, the sym bols and messages repeating across the millennia. Words written by man are only interpretations of those symbols, so it's never wise to trust them implicitly-"

"Does that include the Bible?" Laura said pointedly.

The cleric ignored her. "Grails and cauldrons. Same thing, different names. A vessel of great power. Do you feel comfortable enough for a little instructional dialogue?"

"I suppose you're not going to let us go until you do it," Ruth sighed.

"Officially, the Church doesn't believe that Joseph brought the Chalice of the Last Supper to Britain," he began. "Our scholars recognise that the myth surrounding it goes back much further than Christ's death. Back, in fact, to the pagan cup of plenty, the Graal, which had power over life and death, healing and riches. But somehow the Graal became the sangreal or the sang real-Holy Blood. You can see the connection. The Church has always been very good at using the religions of other cultures to further its own ends-and I don't mean that in any disrespectful way. But the Graal is one of those symbols I spoke about, representing the ultimate prize, only attainable by the most pure. Something that we constantly strive for, but can never reach. And in all the stories about it, there are always the same elements: the King, a Good Knight, a Maiden, the powers of Life and Death, a Hermit. What is the universe trying to say to us? Well, I could spend ages discussing that with you, but there's no way of truly knowing. It is simply a matter of faith."

"So it's a big prize-how come you and your crew haven't cherry-picked it?" Laura asked.

"More than anyone, I would say, we're aware of responsibilities. It isn't meant for us."

"For something that's so unattainable we seem to have broken into the mystery remarkably easily," Ruth said.

"You haven't got it yet." There was some quality to his reply that made Ruth shiver. "Come, let us collect your water."

He led them from the wellhead along a path to a partly walled area where the water tumbled from a lion-headed fountain. Shavi filled one of the two goblets that stood nearby and tasted it.

"Amazing!" he said. "I can actually feel it lifting my spirits."

"I bet you love it when the doc gives you a placebo." Laura still refused to stand with them.

"Doubting Thomas," Jim said with a laugh. "Did you know the Elizabethan magician John Dee announced that he had discovered the elixir vitae-the water of life-at Glastonbury?"

"You seem remarkably at ease with the fact that so much of your religion is based on older beliefs," Ruth said as Shavi filled a plastic water bottle from the spring. "Don't you feel it undermines your faith?"

Jim shrugged. "I can be very pragmatic. But Christianity still speaks to me more clearly than anything else; I can't ignore that. And I suppose, in my heart, I don't see a conflict between the Old Ways and the new. There are always higher levels."

Once Shavi had taken enough water, they continued along the path past two yew trees to another decorative pool in a sun-drenched lawn area.

"I'm very happy to be here," Jim continued. "Glastonbury has always been somewhere special, sacred even, right back to neolithic times. The druids set up a college here to pass on their beliefs and wisdom. What is it about Glastonbury? You see, I believe the power of Christ is here, in the land itself. And I'm sure the pagans recognised the same thing, although they called it something different."

Ruth wondered how much he knew about the Blue Fire, but she didn't raise the point. "You said you wanted us to be aware of the risks."

He nodded, suddenly serious. "No one has ever followed this to its conclusion, the Grail itself. But we know enough. We know it isn't buried in any physical sense; it's in some place that lies alongside our own world. I can't really explain it any better than that. The ritual you're about to embark on will unlock the door-that has been done before, once, long ago. But after that … Well, we only have the stories to go on."

"What stories?" Ruth asked. Shavi was listening intently, as if there was no one in the world apart from Jim.

The cleric wandered over to the shade beneath a tree and leaned against the trunk. "In the third century BC the Celts established a lake village near here. In those days all the lowlands around here were underwater-there really was an Isle of Avalon. One reading has that name coming from the Celtic legend of the demi-god Avalloc or Avallach who ruled the underworld, and this was supposed to be the meeting place of the dead where they passed over to the next level of existence. Our knowledge of the Celtic tradition is limited and confusingcharacters were called by different names in different parts of the Celtic world. Others said the subterranean kingdom of Annwn exists beneath the tor, ruled over by Arawn, the lord of the dead, and anyone who ventures into it encounters demons rather than the land of bliss that greeted those who were invited. Others said the place was the home of Gwynn ap Nud, Lord of the Wild Hunt, which local stories say haunts the hills around Glastonbury."

Ruth went pale at this information, but he didn't seem to notice.

"The names don't matter. The common thread is that the place you will visit is terribly dangerous. And," he continued darkly, "we discovered that for ourselves when we opened the door long ago on that one occasion I mentioned. Never again. So I will ask you now to consider carefully before you continue."

Shavi stepped forward deferentially. "I feel we have no choice," he said gently.

Jim nodded. "I guessed that would be your answer. Then know this: the part of the message that is missing would have told you the timing is vital. You must take the water up on the tor at first light. And then God help you."