Darkhenge, Page 2

  “This thing must weigh tons. He’d never have felt a thing. Splat!”

  Rob didn’t answer. He sat away from the vast sarsen, cross-legged and uncomfortable. To him it never felt right even to lean against one of them; they were treacherous and dangerous things, always cold. The eternal puzzle of why they were there kept his mind from accepting them; the faces he imagined in their profiles were sinister, and their lichen-splotched leanings, their seamed and root-holed salmon and cream colors were too strange.

  He tossed the pencil down and lay back. The sky was spattered with cloud, its gaps blue.

  “You could find this dig,” Dan said after a while.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I’ve already got a job.” He looked over. “They might pay you.”

  “Don’t need the money.” It was boasting, but true.

  Dan snorted, because during the holidays he spent most afternoons in the back room of the Lion washing glasses and wiping tables for a pittance.

  “It’ll keep you from thinking about things.”

  They were silent, Rob stricken again by the glimpse of the girl on the horse, and Dan worried too, probably, because he wriggled out from the vast stone and rolled over. Rob had a sudden premonition that Dan was working himself up to ask about Chloe, whether there was any change in her condition; they both knew it was a forbidden topic, so he said quickly, “God. Just look at this lot.”

  A colorful group was trooping through the wooden gate, probably from the tents and benders that were always pitched in the tree clumps at the foot of Green Street. There were about a dozen of them, men and women with a few young kids, dressed in the usual dippy mix of camouflage gear and washed-out tie-dye. They came and stood in a circle around the next stone but one, choosing the spot carefully, circling it, tossing out handfuls of herbs. Then they joined hands and sang. Dan snorted in scorn. But then, this was Avebury. It happened all the time.

  Their ritual finished, the group sat down. A girl began to talk; the others listened.

  “Place is crawling with weirdos.” Dan sounded restless.

  “You should know.”

  The girl speaker wore a purple skirt and a rainbow vest and her hair was short and red. She spoke clearly, and Rob listened, rolling after the pencil and making quick sketches of her on the corner of a page as she said, “Matty’s drawn up the charts, and the stars are right. This is the day, and all the lines of power intersect on this very spot. I’m so glad you could all get here.”

  “They’re cracked,” Dan said darkly. “They think aliens make crop circles, when it’s my uncle Pete’s friend’s brother from Winterbourne Bassett.” He looked at his watch and pulled a face. “I’ve got to go. I’m on the evening shift.”

  Rob nodded, drawing the backs of the people. He pulled the backpack over, searching for the pastels. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Probably. Come over anyway.” Dan dragged himself up and loped off toward the pub, then turned and walked backward, pointing a threatening finger. “Get that job. Why should I be the only one to suffer?”

  Rob grinned. He smoothed a few strokes of turquoise down for the back of a shirt. As he worked, the girl’s words held his attention.

  “We’ve known for months something was happening, that someone is coming here. Long prophesied, long expected. A great soul, one of the Cauldron-born. A walker between the worlds, a sorcerer and a druid. We’ve done a lot of work, and we’re sure he or she will be manifested here today, in the sacred circle. Matty thinks at seven o’clock exactly, when the moon rises over Silbury. So the plan is to meet them with joy.”

  “What if they’re not in human shape?” someone asked.

  The girl looked unconcerned. “They will be. We all know how powerful this place is. Our desire will draw them here, and they’ll be what we need at this time.”

  Rob grinned. Dan would have loved this.

  They waited. They lit incense sticks and lay on the grass and talked; a few seemed asleep or meditating. As the evening dimmed, the tourists in the great circle of stones began to seep away; coaches pulled out of the parking lot, cars full of tired kids turned toward home. The clouds that had gathered earlier began to thicken again; no one would see the moon rise through those, Rob thought acidly. Suddenly tired of sketching, he dumped the pastels in the tin and lay back, gazing up at the darkening sky through a haze of small dancing gnats. He should go home too. Maria would be gone by now. No one would be there at all. His mother would be at the nursing home with Chloe, and Dad still at the theater. It would be safe.

  But he didn’t move. The grass was lumpy; its discomfort nagged at him, but the effort of getting up was too great. The August day had been hot and humid; it seemed to have robbed him of all energy, and the twilight gathered as he lay there, the shadows of the stones lengthening vaguely in the purple light. Birds sang in a rowan bush. On the road the cars hummed, quieter than before.

  He rolled his head. The rainbow people were still waiting.

  For an instant then a flicker of the memory of the girl on the horse troubled him and he sat up, breathing the sandalwood mustiness of incense. He had no idea of the time, but it must be nearly seven because the group was getting ready, standing, calling the children together. A man started beating a small drum; the pulse of sound throbbed over the rough grass.

  Rob looked around. Everyone else had gone. Apart from him, Avebury was empty.

  Spots of rain began to darken the red cover of his sketchbook; he thrust it into the bag. He realized he was waiting around in curiosity to see no druid appear, to see the rainbow group’s disappointment. The red-haired girl glanced over at him; then she and the others joined hands, crooning a low chant of three notes, over and over.

  They were like people who predict the end of the world, he thought. Always sure, always waiting. Part of him smirked. But part didn’t. The part that was desperate for a miracle since the accident.

  Rain pattered. He pulled out his rain jacket and dragged it on, but the Barber’s Stone kept the wind off, so he crouched there. There was no sign of the moon, just an ominous gray expanse of cloud, a wind flinging rain. The downs were blotted out. The night would be stormy.

  The Cauldron people looked cold. They kept up the chant, but the wind whipped out their hair. Two of the kids gave up and ran off toward the tents. The red-haired girl looked again at Rob.

  He met her eyes; she glanced away, spoke to another woman, who turned and stared at him too.

  The church clock began to strike seven.

  The group stood, expectant. He saw they had planted pennants and flags with symbols in the grass: a crescent moon, three cranes on a bull’s back, a leaping salmon. A lot of the tribe were looking over at him now; Rob grabbed his bag and scrambled to his feet. Suddenly he was alarmed. Surely they couldn’t think… Did they think it was him?

  He turned, but the red-haired girl said, “Wait! Please!”

  Rob froze. He spun around, embarrassed, wanting Dan. They were coming toward him, the tousled children, the man beating the drum, the frowsy women, even the dogs.

  The red-haired girl was anxious, her voice taut. “We’re waiting for someone. A being of great power, from far away, born again from the Cauldron. We know he’s coming here, at this time, when all the stars are in alignment. There is a word we’ll recognize him by, a secret word.”

  “It’s not me!” Rob stumbled back. He raised his hands, shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t know anything about stars. Still at school, me.” He sounded stupid. He wanted to sound stupid.

  Four strokes of the clock.

  The people studied him. For a heartbeat he knew they despised him, doubted him, weren’t sure. If Dan was here it would have been all right. Dan would have made it all into a huge joke. But the girl’s look was desperate with hope. “Please look into your heart,” she whispered, coming up to him. “Look into your heart and choose a word. Any word. It might be the one we know. No one else is here but you. It could be you, without your know
ing.”

  It was crazy. He licked his lips, rain running down his hair. There was nothing to say, no word, no sound he could make that would satisfy them, but he had to say something, get away, break this circle of rain and faces and the insistent, terrifying clock crashing out the chimes, so he made himself whisper a word and the word that came out was Chloe.

  The girl looked startled.

  The name fell into huge silence. The bell stopped, and the drum. The only sound was the storm, stinging them all with its horizontal rain, whipping the girl’s skirts, a gale that roared over the downs and hurled itself at the high grass banks, streaming in through the ancient gateways, around the leaning, silent stones.

  And as if blown here by its fury, a bird fell from the sky.

  It plummeted, a tiny swallow, exhausted, crashing into the grass beyond the top of the bank, and straight after it, talons down, a hawk shrieked, but the rain blurred and the bird was gone and the claws grabbed only mud.

  The girl gasped. “It’s him,” she breathed. “He’s coming!”

  Wind roared. Out of the flattened grass something shot like a bolt. Rob saw a hare hurtle along the top of the bank, its great back legs thudding, and out of the place where the hawk had come down, the rain re-formed into the swift outline of a slim dog that solidified as it streaked in arrow-straight pursuit.

  The hare’s eyes were wide with terror. Remorselessly the greyhound sped after it, teeth snapping.

  The girl turned. “He’s in trouble! Make the horseshoe!”

  The hare leaped. It flung itself down the crippling slope into the ditch, falling and tumbling. Behind it the dog shape skidded, sending chunks of chalk flying.

  The girl pushed Rob. “Help him!”

  He had no idea who she was talking about. The group formed a hasty semicircle around the stone, open ends facing the deep ditch. They clutched hands; the drum began a rapid patter, and two men dragged the colored pennants up and rearranged them frantically, thrusting the pliant sticks into the ground, the thin silk flapping and slashing into streamers, red and gold as flames.

  The hare crashed into the bottom of the ditch. Rob threw himself on his stomach, wriggled to the edge and looked down.

  The ditch was flooded. Through its rain-spattered surface he could see grass, weeds, an object that became a fish. The fish dived deep with a flick of its tail; in the same instant the dog entered the water with an almighty splash.

  Its shape streamlined with bubbles, lengthened, shivered. An otter sleeked by, its round head glistening.

  “Now!” the girl screamed.

  Rob scrambled down the slope; flung his hand into the water.

  He caught something. Cold and slithery, scaled and slippery.

  A fish.

  It flexed, tightened, slid into a cold, soaked grip.

  Fingers.

  To his astonishment he realized a man was looking up at him, struggling out of the water. Rob held tight, clutching the grass.

  Soaked, breathless, the man heaved himself up, his eyes dark with exhaustion. He coughed, grabbed tighter. “Is that you, Prince?” he whispered.

  The sleek rain-slashed pelt of the otter leaped. Its snarl was ferocious.

  “Into the circle!” the girl yelled at Rob.

  Rob pulled. The man made a desperate scramble and flung himself up the sheer wall of grass. He almost slid back; then Rob was stretching, hanging on with both hands. The stranger grabbed, a firm wet grip; Rob hauled and the man dug his feet in, clawing at the tussocks of grass. Above them the streamers crackled and burned; now they really were flames, their smoke whipped away by the wind, and the otter shape curled and slithered back down into the ditch, the sparks of the burning falling on it, making it yelp and howl.

  “I’ve got you!” Rob gasped.

  The man looked up at him. “I know,” he breathed. “I know you have,” and Rob saw his shape was strengthening as he coughed and climbed, the mud making him slip, the ditch wall a treacherous rampart, smooth and running with rain. And then he was at the top; he grabbed Rob’s shoulder and dragged himself upright and stood breathless in the opening of the horseshoe, the banners on each side of him subsiding to streamers of silk and orange. He didn’t look back.

  But, scuffed and sore, his hands hot, Rob did.

  The otter was watching. It looked up at him, its eyes blue. Then the rain blurred over it, and for a second Rob saw it shiver into a human outline, a woman’s slim shape, her face spiteful and strange.

  “Tell him I’ll be waiting,” she whispered. “At the foot of the tree.”

  Rain blurred the grass. When he blinked, the ditch was empty.

  The stranger rubbed mud from his face. He looked worn, and all at once a little wary. “Thank you for bringing me in,” he said, his voice oddly husky.

  Bewildered, Rob shook his head. “Those animals—”

  “There were no animals. Forget what you saw.” He turned to the group.

  The red-haired girl was in the center of the horseshoe. Without unlinking her hands, she gave a nod, and the people of the Cauldron stepped forward slowly, the children nudged by their parents. The ring closed around Rob. He and the stranger were trapped inside it.

  It worried him, but the tall man seemed not to care. He folded his arms, as if preparing himself. His clothes were dark and unremarkable, but his face was narrow, his hair long on the nape of his neck, and touched with silvery gray, as if he should be old, though he seemed no more than thirty. A peculiar star-shaped scar slid over the end of one eyebrow, and his eyes were dark and quick, taking everything in. Around his neck, half-hidden inside his coat on a green cord, hung a small bag made of what looked like leather.

  The girl stepped forward. “You’re the one, aren’t you?” She sounded awestruck.

  The man smiled. Then he said quietly, “‘I have been in many forms. A blue salmon, a stag, a roebuck on the mountain. The foam of the ninth wave. A moth in a lantern, a harp note on the wind. Before I was born I lived. After I die, I will be born.’” He glanced around at them, their intent faces. “I’m a poet. Is that what you’re waiting for?”

  They eyed one another. Uneasily, Rob thought. He edged a step away from the stranger.

  “Tell us your name,” the girl said.

  The man shivered, glanced down at the grass, the tiny plants growing at the foot of the stone. “I have many names,” he said. “Why not call me Vetch?”

  “That isn’t the word we’re waiting for.”

  “Word?” The stranger’s calm eyes considered her.

  The girl was impatient now. “Don’t you know? Nine of us dreamed of a letter. Or it came in some way, in the ashes of the fire, in the whorls of wood. We put them together, rearranged them. They made a word. If you are the one we’re waiting for, you should know it.”

  Vetch sighed. He was soaked and shivering uncontrollably, his arms wrapped around himself, the wind flapping his hair and coat. “I do know it. The word is the reason I’ve come, and that you’re all here. The word is the time and the place and the danger.” He looked around at them all, at Rob, at the darkness closing beyond the stones. Then he said wearily, “Couldn’t we go somewhere a little drier than this?”

  “First we need to know,” the girl insisted. No one moved, or unlinked their fingers. Rain dripped relentlessly down Rob’s neck.

  The stranger coughed. “Poets know that words can be deceptive.” He lifted his chin and, with an effort, drew himself upright. “But the word you want,” he said quietly, “is Darkhenge.”

  N. NION: ASH

  He said my name. Chloe. I don’t know how he knows it. There are no days anymore but he keeps the clocks ticking, and the food on the long table is regularly changed. Sometimes it’s salmon, sometimes hazelnuts or apples. A bird sings somewhere in the building—I’ve thought I heard it, but I can never find it.

  The walls are not so thick after all. The trees scrape at them. The trees seem alive, scrabbling up the stones, over the roofs, and two of the windows I
’ve found are already overgrown, smothered with leaf.

  I think the trees terrify him.

  I’ve asked him about it. He won’t say.

  But I’m sure he’s scared.

  Don’t be sorry at your catch.

  Though I’m weak

  My words hold wonders.

  THE BOOK OF TALIESIN

  Rob came in quietly and closed the door. He wheeled the bike into the garage, then went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. His heart was thudding from the ride back against the wind; he was soaked and shivering. Pouring orange juice, he drank it thirstily, leaning against the sink.

  It was 8:35 pm.

  The kitchen was quiet. Rain pattered on the windows and the tabby, Oscar, came in through the cat flap, eyed his empty plate and then Rob with a green glare. Rob couldn’t take the guilt; he found a can and dumped cat food on the plate, then as he climbed the stairs, his father’s key turned in the lock.

  “What happened to you?” John Drew came in and stared.

  “I got wet. On the bike.”

  “Just come in?”

  He nodded. His father dropped into a chair and loosened his tie. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat?”

  “Haven’t looked.”

  “Mail?”

  “On the table.”

  Upstairs Rob washed and changed, tossing his soaked jeans onto the heap of dirty clothes in the basket. There were so many the lid wouldn’t go down. What was Maria doing all day? What had she left for dinner? Last week she’d taken huge offense at his father trying to be tactful. “I’m from Napoli!” she’d stormed. “I know about Italian cooking. What you know, eh?”

  His father had had to admit he knew nothing, absolutely nothing, but it was too late. Since then she’d left them the blandest of British: soggy fish and chips, deadly steak and kidney. But her fits of pique rarely lasted more than a week, so there might be pizza. Her pizza was legendary.

  He ran downstairs; his father said, “It’s lasagne. We’re forgiven.”

  Rob shrugged; he’d had it for lunch at the pub, but he didn’t say anything.