Always Forever

Chapter Nine

A deep shiver ran through Tom as the ground closed behind him. He was far more fearful than when he had entered the Court of the Yearning Heart; another scare on the top of so many others. He had been afraid of losing himself in the Blue Fire, witnessing the deaths of the people he had grown to call friends, seeing the End of Everything. At times he felt fear was taking over.

Yet it was also uplifting, if it was not contradictory to view fear in that way. For so many centuries he hadn't been truly afraid of anything, hadn't felt anything at all, except for a brief period of enlightenment in the sixties. To know he could still feel was almost a price worth paying.

The tunnel drove directly into the heart of the hill, although he knew it was not a tunnel at all. The air was filled with aromas that soothed his heart: hashish, reminding him of warm California nights, red wine plunging him into a memory of a shared bottle with a pretty woman in a hippie dress at the side of the road in Haight-Ashbury, soft rain on vegetation, bringing him back to that first morning at Woodstock.

In the same way that it wasn't a tunnel, none of those pleasant fragrances were truly there; it was the reality, welcoming him with cherished memories, making him feel good.

So why was he afraid? Not because of some incipient threat, certainly, but because of immensity. What lay ahead was the infinite, the source of all meaning. And who could look on the face of God and not be destroyed?

Veitch sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, tapping his foot anxiously. Doing nothing felt like needles being driven into his body. He would rather fight one of the Fomorii than sit quietly; if he admitted it to himself, he actually enjoyed that pastime. While the others were talking their usual intellectual rubbish, he often reflected on the time beneath Edinburgh Castle when he had hacked one of the creatures into bloody chunks. He recalled the super-heated haze that fell across his mind, the adrenalin driving his limbs, the smell of the gore, the uplifting weariness that followed the exertion.

The fading image left an emptiness that disturbed him. Had he always been that way? Surely there had been a time when he could appreciate peace.

His thoughts were disturbed by movement in the branches overhead. Golden flitterings shifted quickly amongst the pattern of light and shade that made up the green canopy. At first he thought they were butterflies searching for the last nectar of summer, but there were too many of them and the activity was too localised. He counted twenty? Thirty?

It was the gossamer-winged tiny people he had seen before in tranquil places. The perfectly formed little men and women moved through the treetops with grace, like sunlight reflected off a belt buckle.

Searching for a position that allowed him to view the soaring creatures more easily, Veitch slipped from the trunk so he was lying on the ground with his head resting against it. Their flight, the wild shifts of light they engendered, was hypnotic. There was a definite calmness about them, but he was dismayed to find he was only aware of it in a detached way; he couldn't feel it, and at that moment it was all he wanted in the world.

"Come to me," he whispered.

There was no way they could have heard his words, but they altered their flight patterns, some of them hanging in midair, as if listening, or musing. Veitch caught his breath, waited, but after a few seconds they returned to their rapid dipping and diving. Sadly, he closed his eyes, thinking of Ruth to cheer him, remembering when they had made love, the smell of her hair, the look of intelligence and sensitivity in her eyes. He loved her more than he had loved anything in his life. If he could have her, his life could be just as he had dreamed as a boy, when he had pictured himself as the storybook hero. A random tear crept out under his eyelashes, surprising him. He blinked it away hastily, not really knowing from where it had come.

When he opened his eyes one of the tiny golden creatures was hovering just above his belly, observing him with a curious expression. The fragility of it was profound, something that went beyond the construction of its body to the very depths of its spirit. He felt that if he touched it, its body would break apart and its soul would disappear into the afternoon breeze. Its eyes were large and dark and it blinked slowly, like a baby observing its parents. Its cheeks were high and refined, its hair long and flowing, like some nineteen forties movie star. The skin, golden from a distance, now looked like the glittering Milky Way.

"You're made of stars," he whispered in awe.

The faintest smile crept across the creature's face. Here was ultimate innocence, supreme peace, a being not troubled by hate or anger or lust or desire for revenge. It held out a hand, fingers so delicate it was hard to imagine how they were formed, and as it moved the air shimmered around it. Slowly, so as not to scare it away, Veitch reached out one long, calloused finger until it was almost touching the creature's hand. He didn't go the final millimetre for fear of overstepping some unknown boundary, but the little figure merely smiled again and reached out the extra distance. When they touched, it felt like honey was flowing into his limbs. Suddenly tears were streaming down his cheeks, soaking into his shirt, and he had no idea where they came from either; there were so many it seemed as if they would never stop.

When they did finally dry up, the creature touched his finger once more and then, with a movement that might well have been a parting wave, rose up to its companions, casting regular backwards glances at Witch's prostrate form.

Veitch watched them for the better part of an hour, his face beatific, but no thoughts that he recognised crossed his mind. And then, with the sun dappling his skin, he drifted into the first peaceful sleep he had had for years.

While he slept, the Woodborn stirred in their silent, leafy homes all around; knowing in his sleep they could not be discovered, they looked down on the still form, frail and insubstantial next to their mighty trunks. And, being spirits, they felt deep currents and saw more than eyes could ever see. After a while a soft shower of leaves fell from their branches all around the sleeping figure, like tears.

Tom thought of Van Morrison singing about "Summertime in England," about Cream in "White Room," the Stones doing "Sympathy for the Devil" and The Doors cranking up "Five to One." Old man's music, Laura would have called it, before rattling off a list of percussive-heavy songs that had been released in the past week. She missed the point. Music was the great communicator. It had nothing to do with fashion; it was part of the central nervous system, linking old memories and sensations and new ideas, joining everything of human experience up into one whole, a single bar releasing it in a torrent. Old music, new music, Gregorian chants, country and western tearjerkers or opera, it didn't matter; it was all power.

Right then, it was a barrier, blocking out all thoughts of what lay ahead. The best songs from his internal jukebox, the soundtrack to his life.

The tunnel curved down and up, and down again. Its serpentine progress reminded him of the tunnels beneath Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh and the Fabulous Beast that slumbered there. Like that site, it was a direct access to the force that bounded everything, but unlike Arthur's Seat this place had-or at least he expected it would have presence; intelligence; whatever it was that the Blue Fire encompassed. The Godhead, he supposed.

"Giants in the earth, you see," he muttered, disturbed at how his words rattled off the walls with a force that changed their tone.

During his time with the wise men of the Culture, he had heard talk of the giants-the metaphor giants, not the real ones that existed in times past. The Culture had understood the power of stories for communicating vital, instructive information, and how metaphors imprinted on the subconscious much better than bald facts. And this metaphor was quite transparent to the trained eye: something like men, only greater, stronger, more vital, something to provide awe and wonder, and a little fear too, responsible for great feats of creation, now sleeping beneath the earth.

How could he explain something so monumental to a man like Veitch, who thought deeply about nothing? Veitch hadn't even grasped the enormity of what was being planned. Crossing over to the land of the dead was not some weekend jaunt; humanity had been barred from it for a reason. And only a higher power could grant access.

"Thomas the Rhymer." The voice shocked him, and not because it used the name by which he had moved from humanity to legend, now rarely heard. It was American, barely above a whisper and faintly mocking; and it was familiar.

The empty tunnel ahead filled with a faint, drifting luminescence, like autumn mist caught on a breeze, and when it cleared a figure was leaning against the wall, a bottle of Jack Daniels clutched in one hand.

"Jim?" For a second, Tom forgot where he was. The face, angelic, thicklipped, framed by a lion's mane of hair, transported him back to the Whiskey on Sunset, when his bored wanderings had begun to show him a little meaning for the first time in centuries.

"They were good times, right, Scotty? Good times for poets. Peace, love and understanding. Not bread and brutality." Morrison wandered forward shakily, his stoned smile unable to hide that troubling edge to his character. He tried to focus on Tom, but the cannabis laziness of his left eye kept hindering him. It was the charismatic Morrison Tom remembered from their long, rambling discourse about life and the universe and politics, not the one who had died bloated and bearded in a Parisian bathtub.

The sight was initially disorienting until Tom's razor-sharp mind cut through the shock. "A memory," he said dismissively.

"More than that, Tommy." He proffered the bottle; Tom waved it away.

"A memory given shape."

"You could be on the right road there. The road to excess." He chuckled. "Leads to the palace of wisdom, Tommy. But you still haven't hit that nail on the head." Morrison lurched beside Tom and slipped a friendly arm round his shoulders.

Morrison's body had substance, and smelled of whiskey, smoke and sweat, just like the real Morrison had.

"I'm your…" He drifted for a moment while the drug thoughts played across his face. "Not a guide, exactly. Not a muse. I'm an angel to you, Tommy. Yeah, an angel in leather."

Glancing at him askance, Tom caught sight of a blue light limning his wild hair, a halo, not golden like the ones the mediaeval Christian artists painted believing it more fitting for a sun king, but its true colour. "You're the voice of the Godhead. A form which my mind can communicate with."

"Godhead? Yeah, well… whatever you say, Tommy. But I've gotta tell you, there's some serious shit a little way ahead. Blow your mind, Tommy. Better to turn back now. You sure you don't wanna drink?"

"I have to go on. I need information… more than that… a blessing."

"It's your head, Tommy. I'll walk with you aways. You remember, you can turn back any time."

"I need to speak to the giant." There was a potency to the air-the effect of the Blue Fire, Tom knew-that made him almost delirious.

"No giants here, Tommy. But… yeah, maybe we can do that. Come on, let's go to the bar."

There was a subtle shift in the air, as if paper scenery had been torn away in the blink of an eye. Suddenly Tom was standing in the Whiskey a Go Go, breathing in the familiar odours of stale beer and old smoke, thick with the LA streetlife of 1966. Krieger, Densmore and Manzarek were perched on stools at the end of the bar, chatting lazily with Elmer Valentine, the ex-vice cop who coowned the joint. Tom looked around, dazed. The stage was all ready for the first set of the night-at that point in their career, The Doors were the house band, yet to record their first album. "Incredible," he muttered. It was just as he remembered, only more so. How could it have been plucked from his mind when he was seeing detail he was convinced he had never noticed before: the woman with the bright red hair and headband marked out with astrological symbols, the bikers near the stage, like barrels with arms of oak, blue from tattoos.

"This was the start of things," Morrison said, quietly; his voice rarely rose above a whisper. "For you, for me, for a way of life. The last time of innocence, Tommy. When this innocence died, the last chance of the world went with it. After that, everything was just livin' on borrowed time. There had to be a change."

Tom nodded. "There did."

Morrison ordered two shots of Jack. Tom eyed his suspiciously before knocking it back with one swift movement. He didn't know what he expected-a taste like fluffy clouds-but it burned the back of his throat and made him cough. "Real." He held the glass up to the light. "I suppose I should have been prepared. I've wittered on about the impermanence of so-called reality often enough."

"That's right, Tommy. You wish hard enough, you can live in any world you want. Nothing is fixed. It's like…" He went druggy-dreamy, his hand floating through the air. "… smoke. You see shapes in it. A face. A dog. You look away, look back, see something different."

"Christ," Tom sighed. "I hope I don't sound like this when I'm off my face."

"You know, you got all these people whinin' about how the world is a pile of shit," Morrison continued. "Well, it's their own fault. They want it different, they should do something about it. You can't trust your eyes, you can't trust anything, and a big wish can change it all. I ani the Lizard King, Tommy. I can do anything."

Tom had to drag himself out of the seductive reality that had been presented to make him feel more comfortable. It was easy to slip into it, but wasn't that the point the Morrison thing was making? People settle for the reality shown to them when there could be a better one just a thought away. With an effort, he managed to retreat from his surroundings to gain perspective, and then things did begin to make more sense: he was in a place that allowed direct access to the force that lay behind the Blue Fire and it was communicating with him. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted, or this fake reality to take over.

"I want to talk about that, Jim." He called the barman for another shot, but this time he sipped it slowly. "All this…" He gestured widely. "… it reminds me of the last true happy time in my life, perhaps the only really happy time, when I thought there were values that mattered all around. There was an alignment between the things I held dear to me and the world without. I was always a hippie," he smiled ruefully, "even when I was a mediaeval spy." His face hardened. "But now… now there is something worth fighting for. A world to change. That's why I'm here, to appeal for the rules to be… not broken, bent slightly. For a good cause. For something worth believing in." The illusion that was not an illusion closed in around him again. He eyed Morrison, who was staring into the coloured lights above the stage where the roadies fiddled with the settings on the amps. "You always were a spiritual man, Jim. When you weren't being a drunken oaf and a bastard to women."

"I was a product of my times, Tommy. Hell, you remember the fifties! But we're all flawed, aren't we? Even the greatest. There are no saints in this world. You just have to make sure the balance tips on the side of the angels, that's all. With our nature, that's the best you can hope. No saints, no heroes, just people who try their best most of the time, and fuck up the rest."

"And you think you did that?"

He stared into his shot glass for a long moment, then grinned broadly at Tom, downed the drink and ordered another. "At least I can say I was trying."

Morrison's voice had taken on such an odd quality Tom was drawn to stare deep into his eyes. He was mesmerised by what he saw: stars, whole galaxies, swirling in their depths. "You're very good at making things real."

Morrison's smile was oddly serious. "There are no Fixed Lands, Tommy. Everything is spirit, you know that."

"I suspected it."

"It's all a matter of perception. You see things a certain way to make you feel comfortable, but there is no space and there is no time." Morrison was altering before his eyes, although it was in such a subtle way-the cadence of his voice, a change of expression-Tom couldn't quite put his finger on it. He fixed Tom with a deep, unwavering stare that had the weight of the universe behind it. "I told you, Tommy. You can wish things the way you want them to be if you know how. Is that predestination?"

Tom couldn't bear the weight of his gaze, broke it to stare at the optics behind the bar.

"We are all gods, Tommy."

Tom's head began to spin. The words were delivered simply, but there was something hidden deep in them that suggested here was the most important message of all. His heart started to pound as he attempted to peel the true meaning from the heart of the comment, but before he could ask any further questions, Morrison held up his hand to silence him. He shook his head slowly; his eyes told Tom there would be no further discussion on that subject.

Tom was overcome with the drugged atmosphere; his thoughts ebbed and flowed and he was drawn continually to detail in the surroundings, instead of the heaviness that was building up in his thoughts.

"Tell me," he asked hurriedly, "the gods… the ones who call themselves gods… the Tuatha De Danann… do they speak for you? Are they part of you?"

Morrison smiled mockingly. "Me?"

"You know what I mean."

He thought about this for a while, his eyes glinting in the flashing coloured stage-lights. "The gods reflect aspects of what lies beyond," he began in his whispery voice. "Some reflect it more than others, some better than others. But that light shines through all living creatures, Tommy. Even the smallest is a part of something bigger. It's all linked."

Once more the grip of the illusion loosened slightly, as if he was caught in the ebb and flow of a supernatural tide. "I'm running out of time, Jim. I can't afford these diversions. You must help me to stay on the path."

Morrison nodded slowly. "You want help."

"I need to talk to the giant, Jim. The physical representation of the source. You must take me to it."

"You know what you're getting into?"

"I know my mind might not be able to cope with it. It's a risk I'm prepared to take."

"Yeah? But you know what you're getting into with the big shit back home. You know what I'm getting at?"

"Yes. I'm aware of it."

"But do you know?" His eyes went hazy, focusing through the walls of the club, across Sunset and LA, across worlds. "There are things moving out there that haven't been seen in your place for a long, long time, man. It's like when you move a rock and all these spiders come running out. They were born way out, and I mean way out. Right on the edge of the universe, where there's no light. They don't like the light. They're worse than your worst nightmare, man. You can't even dream these things."

"My friends and I have no choice, Jim." But a chill ran through him nonetheless.

"Just so you know, though." He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small blotter with little pictures of Mickey Mouse and offered one to Tom. The Rhymer declined. Morrison swallowed one and washed it down with the Jack. "I wouldn't be doing my job properly if I didn't do the warning thing. These are bad times, Tommy. It's the End of Everything. Some people would be running and hiding-"

"It may well be the End of Everything-'

"Don't listen to me, listen to them." He motioned over Tom's shoulder. The Rhymer turned round to see The Doors, the roadies, the barflies had all disappeared. In their place were a mass of people Tom instantly recognised as Celts. Long-haired and dark of eye, some had distinctive sweeping moustaches. Others were prepared for war, their manes matted with a bleaching lime mixture that made it stick out in spikes like latter-day punks. "I called them to announce sadness," Morrison said with a faint smile.

One of them moved forward. He had a face of unbearable seriousness, framed by long hair, eyes limpid with emotion. Beside him were two women, sisters, skin like porcelain, hair shining black. Tom saw pride in all their faces, and strength. "In the days before days they washed across the land like a giant wave from the cold, black sea." The man's voice appeared from nowhere although his lips were not moving. "We fought, and died, and fought again. And died. Many, many of us driven to the Land of Always Summer."

"See?" Morrison said, tapping Tom firmly on the chest.

The Celt shook his head slowly from side to side. It moved jerkily, like an old movie rattling through a worn projector. There was the faintest smile on his face, despite the darkness of his words. Tom watched it curiously until he realised he was seeing defiance and self-belief and righteousness.

"The hand of bones comes for all," the Celt began. He pointed at Tom. "Fear is right, but fear must not rule. Death means the same to all, however they might die. But life has value. How you live, with fear at your back. What choices you make. Do you turn your back and live? Or do you face the threat and die? Which has more value? Which has more meaning?"

Tom looked at Morrison. "You're not very good at presenting an argument." Morrison smiled, unabashed.

"Know this," the Celt continued, "you know no fear like the fear you will know in times to come. Your death will be the worst death imaginable. But you will not die enfeebled. You will go as you should have lived, with the blood in your head and a song in your heart."

Tom turned back to the bar and finished his mysteriously full glass. "You're wasting your time. I'm under no illusions. Apart from this one. Remember, I can see the future. Not all of it, granted, but snapshots. Once you have that gift you stop worrying so much about what's to come."

Morrison made a clicking song in his cheek and raised Tom's eyeline with a finger. On the periphery of Tom's vision, the bar was warping. The row of optics stretched into infinity, the lights above the low stage were running like treacle. The whole of it swelled, then receded as if it were scenery painted on the rubbery skin of a giant balloon.

"Is everybody in?" Morrison leaned in close to Tom and whispered in his ear, "The ceremony is about to begin."

Tom turned slowly on his stool, but the bar was already gone. Instead he was standing on a grassy area next to a wooden roundhouse with a turf roof in a night torn by lightning of such ferocity he bowed his head. There were other houses around, half hidden in the unnatural gloom. A cacophony of frightened animal noises filled the air-pigs, sheep, cattle and horses. The boom of thunder sounded like cannon and there was a cruel wind making him stagger from side to side. But there was no rain, not even the slightest hint of it.

Morrison's eyes were lost to the acid. "You see the future, you say, but you don't see everything."

"Where are we?"

"The last time your world faced the End of Everything."

The Celt who had spoken to Tom in the Whiskey staggered from the bar clutching a spear, naked and ready for battle. Others followed him, defiant, moving quickly. The quality of the lightning changed slightly, until it was more like flashes of gold, raging against the encroaching night.

"They called this in their legends the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh." Morrison was still whispering, but somehow his voice carried above the wind.

"The night of victory," Tom said in awe. "When Balor was slain."

"One way of seeing it, Tommy. Or you could say it was a night of ultimate suffering. When the hills and dales ran red with blood and bodies clogged the rivers. This is why the Celts left their coded warnings hidden in the landscape, Tommy. This is when humanity looked into the face of the storm and almost became extinct."

The atmosphere was loaded with tension. Tom felt his teeth go on edge, his stomach start to knot.

"You think you know everything, Tommy." Morrison's smile had an unpleasant edge to it which Tom couldn't quite read. He raised his hand and pointed slowly to the roundhouse. "Do you know what's in the hut? Do you want to look in there?"

Tom stared at the gaping door of the house, and felt what might have been dread, but wasn't quite; like fate come calling. Something he didn't want to see lurked just beyond the shadowy entrance. A part of him wanted to go in there, to see what was on the edge of his mind, but tantalisingly just out of reach. Another part of him knew it would break him to see it. Defeat in victory, he knew, and victory in defeat.

"Why are you trying to frighten me away?" he said to Morrison.

"Because you can't come in here and ask for the world without showing you really want it." Morrison's smile was easier now. He clapped an arm around Tom's shoulder and shook him roughly, amicably.

"I wish you'd just tell me about Texas Radio and the Big Beat," Tom sighed. "Take me to GogMagog."

The Celtic village had been replaced by the tunnels once more, although Tom still quietly yearned for the Whiskey; one more drink would have been nice, a time to rest. Morrison had not made the journey.

After about half an hour he noticed the quality of light was growing brighter, richer. At the same time the tunnel dropped into a steep incline, where he had to clutch on to the rocky walls to prevent himself sliding down into the unknown. The temperature rose rapidly; sweat soaked his shirt and dripped from his brow; the heated air choked his lungs.

Finally, he came out into a large cavern so bright at first he had to shield his eyes. In the centre was an enormous lake of bubbling, popping lava, occasion ally shooting up in miniature geysers. The heat radiated off it, but there was none of the sulphurous stink that should have poisoned the air.

Covering his mouth with his shirt to prevent his lungs searing, he eased forward until he stood at the edge of the red lake. The air pulsed.

Tom wondered if madness were only seconds away. He knew it would be best not to be there, but how could he turn back? The others had put him to shame with their continued risk taking, like he was a child, not the mentor. It was time to face up to his responsibility.

"I plead for help!" he said in a commanding voice, while at the same time bowing his head to show deference. It also helped to hide the fear in his face.

The pressure in the air ratcheted up a notch and he had to swallow to make his ears pop.

"I know that to look upon you could mean the end of me… I know that I'm not supposed to be here. But I have to. So much is at risk."

Would it come? Or was he wasting his time?

"I'm prepared to sacrifice myself if that's what it takes. That the world should survive is more important than me."

The pressure finally burst and a cooling wind rushed across his face, bringing with it a deep apprehension. His words had touched a chord. Something was coming.

The lava in the centre of the lake erupted, showering burning coals all around, although, miraculously, none of them touched him. Tom threw himself back in shock, dropping to his knees, one arm across his mouth. The lava bubbled up higher in a fountain of fire and smoke, up and up, gaining weight and consistency. And when it appeared it would finally come crashing down on him in a tidal wave, it stopped, hanging silently. It stayed that way for just a moment and then the lava shifted until shape came out of its globular form: an oval, indentations folding out of it, two slits halfway up, an elongated one running vertically and a horizontal slash below. Within seconds a rough-hewn face had grown from the glutinous lava, appearing remarkably like one of the statues that looked to the endless horizon on Easter Island.

Tom climbed to his feet, but a deafening roar burst forth from the lava thing, knocking him back to his knees, his ears ringing. This time he stayed there.

For a long moment he didn't dare speak. The cavern was filled with ebbing sound, dull and reverberate, as if the thing was breathing.

"Are you the Godhead?" Tom whispered. His voice carried with remarkable clarity. "The source?"

"I am GogMagog." The voice was the eruption of a volcano, an earthquake turning the ground to fluid. Tom knew he wasn't really hearing it; it was something else prepared for his limited perception. And he also knew this wasn't the Godhead either; he had been presented with another intermediary, albeit a much more powerful one. He felt both relieved and disappointed at the same time. "You have been judged," the force continued.

"But I haven't made my case yet," Tom protested. "Please-"

"We see through you. Your shell, to the essence inside. We see it all. Saw it as soon as you crossed over."

Tom's spirits plummeted. It saw through him, just like that; picked the worthlessness from his soul, the cowardice, the indecision, the hopelessness, all the things he had tried so hard to hide. He had failed.

"You shine. A star in miniature." The voice became richer, less elemental. Tom looked up curiously; the face could almost have been smiling. "Stand tall, little light. You do good work, as do your companions. You do the work of existence."

"I do?" Tom felt befuddled. "I expected to be presented to the Godhead."

"Do you really wish that, little light?" The lava glowed brighter. "There is no going back from that. Only forward, only forward."

"I hoped-"

"Your mission has been recognised. You need to return to the world."

A part of Tom still yearned for the bliss of giving himself up to the spiritual source, and he accepted that some of what drove him to follow the path underground was akin to a death wish. But what lay beyond had saved him from himself by interposing GogMagog at the last moment. That affirmation was both surprising and affecting; he could feel it warming the cold, dark parts of him.

"The path you have chosen is fraught with danger," GogMagog said, "but it is the most important path. Many things hang in the balance, both now and in the years to come. In the great cycle, a change has taken place. There will be no peace until the period of transformation has passed and the new order has been established."

"I understand."

"No. You do not. The Adversary awaits on the edge of everything. Choosing his time carefully. Preparing for the ultimate battle."

"Balor?" Tom asked. "But he-"

"That is but one small part of the Adversary. A fragment of shadow within the greater shadow."

"There's something else?" Tom's heart fell. "Something worse?"

"There is always something more. Your kind must always be on its guard. There is no peaceful home on this side of the inviolate boundary." The lava rose, then receded.

"When?" Tom asked. There was no reply. After a while, Tom put the matter to the back of his mind to concentrate on the issue at hand. "A friend must cross into the Grim Lands to bring back someone vitally important to ridding the world of the evil now occupying it. This friend is not dead, nor is he alive, but his spirit is trapped in the Grim Lands. That itself is a transgression of the rules. I ask that you allow my agent to cross over. And to return with our friend."

There was a long silence, filled only with the sighing of the heated air currents in the cavern. The more time passed, the more Tom feared rejection. But then GogMagog spoke: "The inviolate boundary may be traversed. Your agent can make the voyage from which your kind may not return."

"Is he given safe passage?"

"He is."

"And for the return?"

"Yes. But know this: your agent faces great peril. He may cross the inviolate boundary as the rules say."

Tom thought about this for a second, until realisation suddenly dawned with a cold chill. "He might die?"

Another silence, the shush-boom of the lava breathing. "Night is drawing in. The beast is preparing to snap at his heels."

Tom cursed quietly; had Veitch not obeyed his order to vacate the camp at nightfall? "Then I must return to help him."

"Also, beware: when he crosses the inviolate boundary, the dead will be waiting. You know what that means?"

Dismally, Tom nodded. "How can the doorway be opened?"

"Here, I will give you knowledge." A tendril of lava extended from the lake just below the swaying head, slowly covering the gulf between them. The superheated smell of it was powerful; his skin bloomed when it wavered in front of his face. Like a snake, it started, striking the centre of his forehead. He yelped in pain and recoiled as the flesh sizzled, but in that moment the information he required was transmitted.

"Know this also: you have seen more than any of your kind in an age. Carry this memory with you, but never return. There are boundaries that must not be crossed, and information that must never be learned, until your transformation…"

The last word was drawn out like toffee as the cavern receded at great speed. Tom's head spun with the sudden warping effect, and then he was lifted on a blast of super-hot air, flying backwards out of the cavern and up the tunnel so fast the breath was crushed from his lungs. He hurtled through the Whiskey, with Morrison smiling at him mockingly, through the Celtic village, and then the pain in his lungs became unbearable and the dark folded around him sharply.

Veitch emerged from a deep sleep, disoriented and aching; some hidden branch had been digging in his back and his thighs felt like they'd been stoned. A string of drool soaked his cheek. It was not a sudden awakening; his dream still had its talons in him-an upsetting scenario of Ruth telling him something he couldn't bear to hear-leaving him feeling irritated and out of sorts. As he came to his senses, he was aware of a chill in his limbs. The patches of warming sunlight had departed, taking the tiny flying creatures with them. Colour was slowly leeching from the vegetation as twilight took hold.

"Shit, how long have I been out?" He dragged himself awkwardly to his feet, shaking his arms to get the blood flow moving.

In the half light, the woods appeared less idyllic. Unease scurried under rustling nettles and made branches sway wildly when there was no breeze. Shadows crept along the ground menacingly from the boles of trees, clustered under bushes, waiting. Rubbing his wrists, Veitch wandered down the slope a little way to a path. From there he could see the sun so low on the horizon it was really just a glow of red and gold.

Tom's warning came back to him, but he had never given it serious consideration-he had faced too many bad things to run at the first sign of trouble. Even if he did heed it, where would he go? And what if Tom returned from wherever he was, only to find himself alone, at night, in a place he considered dangerous? He might be a miserable git at times, but he deserved better than that.

Weighing his options, Veitch decided to return to the mansion to sit with Robertson while the superstitious squatter rubbed his mojos till dawn. He strode out through the forest, the chill in the air telling him the deceptively warm season was slipping out quietly. Unsure of his direction, he paused at the system of paths leading from the car park around the hill. Everywhere looked different in the growing gloom. He still hadn't adjusted to the dramatic change the night brought to a land free from electric lights: deep, still darkness heavy on the countryside and the stars so bright overhead it was as if he had never seen them before. The last few midges drifted away to wherever they spent the night, pursued by the flitting shape of a bat darting from the trees across the open areas. The jarring screech of an owl echoed away in the woods. All the night creatures were coming out to hunt.

At a fork in the path, Veitch took the one he thought he remembered, but it was soon apparent he'd taken a wrong turning. The Tarmac gave way to stones and then hard-packed soil as the path became a thin trail amongst the bushes. Ahead of him he could see the outline of the house silhouetted against the night sky; it didn't appear too far away.

The path bore down steeply until Veitch found himself in a strange, broad ditch that looked as if it ran around the circumference of the hill. He vaguely recalled Tom muttering something about the fortifications of the old Iron Age fort, but, as usual, he hadn't been paying much attention. The bottom of the ditch was flat, some six to eight feet wide, and obviously used regularly as a footpath from the hardness of the soil. On either side the banks rose up steeply. Clustering firs formed a natural roof that only added to the gloom. As his eyes adjusted he made out festooning ivy, chest-high nettles and thick banks of bramble that made the sides of the ditch impenetrable. On the house side there was also some kind of high wall or fence at the top of the bank.

Sooner or later there would be a path up to the truncated summit, he guessed, so he set off clockwise round the fortification. The low level of the ditch and its flat bottom against the steep banks reminded him of a racetrack, and he briefly fantasised about scrambling round on a motorcycle; just another thing he missed with the passing of technology.

At intermittent points, crumbling flint walls protruded like ghostly fingers from the bank, while gnarled roots snaked out of the ground, threatening to trip him. He kept his eyes down, his ears alert and walked slowly; the last thing he needed was a broken ankle.

The first sign that something was wrong was a wall of cold wind that came from nowhere, raising goosebumps on his arms before continuing along the ditch behind him. It was starkly unnatural the way it clung to the bottom of the trough; the vegetation on either side never moved and the trees that hung overhead were still. Even when he could hear its whispering disappearing far behind him, the goosebumps remained. It felt like a sign delineating a change, as if something profound had shifted in nature itself; the old time had gone, the new time was near.

He found it disconcertingly eerie there in the darkness of the ditch, where the banks were so steep his only way of escape was forward or back. The place was intensely still and each footstep sounded like the crack of a whip. Perhaps it was the odd acoustics of the place, but no sound came from outside the ditch, not even the cries of owls. An unpleasant loneliness hung over all.

Veitch started having second thoughts about his choice of route, but it was too late to go back. His bravery took a further knock when he heard a long, low noise; he couldn't tell if it came from ahead or behind, nor what kind of animal had made it. After the heavy silence, it was deeply unnerving. It rolled along the bottom of the ditch as the wind had done, suggesting something akin to the whinnying snort of a horse, but different enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

He turned slowly, full circle, trying to pinpoint the location, while his mind raced to plan a course of action.

Just a horse, he told himself. The place used to be famous for horse breeding and racing; that was the rational explanation. But he couldn't forget the story Tom had told him about the Night Rider.

It's coming. The words jumped into his mind unprompted.

Just ahead of him, the left bank was cut through with a path that ran down the slope of the hill. Hurrying up it to get a better view, Witch saw only thick vegetation and open fields ahead; nowhere to hide if he was pursued. His best bet was still to get to the house and bar the door; suddenly Robertson's superstitions made a lot more sense.

Back on the floor of the ditch, the silence had returned, now weighted with anticipation. The familiar pressure drop that always accompanied some unnatural event left his ears humming, and he could taste iron at the back of his mouth. Almost loping, he moved forward, trying to avoid any twig or stone that might give his location away.

A hard, clicking sound brought him up sharp: hoofbeats, slow and measured; just a few and then silence, as if whatever was out there was also advancing and listening. It was still impossible to identify the location. The clack-clackclack appeared to circle him, loud and crystal clear in the stillness. Cautiously, Veitch withdrew his crossbow and carefully fitted a bolt. The dark would make it hard to get a clear shot, but he felt more comfortable being able to launch an attack from afar.

Clack-clack-clack. This time he was sure it was behind him. Witch peered into the gloom, waiting for the sound to stop. Only this time it didn't. The horse was coming towards him at a measured but relentless pace. Now he was convinced it was ahead of him. He turned back, raising the crossbow until it was lined up for anything advancing along the ditch.

Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack.

He continued to wait for the dark to peel back, until, with a sudden frisson, he realised the sound wasn't ahead of him at all. He spun round to see a creamy cloud filled with sparkling stars twisting and turning as it hurtled along the path right at him. A buzzing like a swarm of angry bees filled the air, setting his teeth on edge.

Expecting a horse, the sight caught him unawares. The cloud rushed towards him at great speed, then, just as he decided to loose a bolt, it winked out; the disembodied hoofbeats continued thunderously.

Veitch paused for a split second before his instinct kicked in, then he was sprinting along the bottom of the ditch, not sure if he could outrun it, knowing there was no other way out.

Twisted roots threatened to trip him before retreating back into the shadows, but his reactions were electric fast. Behind him the storm clatter of hooves grew louder and louder, matching the beats of his heart. Twenty feet away, then ten, then at his heels.

From out of the dark, an obstacle rushed at him: a pile of hard earth forming a bridge path between the two banks piled as high as his head. He went up it with what felt like snorts of fire burning the back of his neck, threw himself down the other side and rolled into a ball. A large form tore over his head and landed with a heavy crash before pounding on for several yards. Looking up, he saw a shimmering in the air like malleable glass rein itself to a halt, then whirl round, catching the light with pools and glints. The limning of moonlight indeed suggested a horse with a bulky figure on its back before it was lost to the dark. The hooves began to pound once more, building up speed.

Veitch waited until the last moment before throwing himself back over the bridge path to perform the same manoeuvre. Again his pursuer passed overhead. This time he launched himself to gain a few vital yards before the Night Rider could round.

As the horse rattled down on him, he whirled and rolled, loosing a bolt in the same motion. A second later a tear of fire appeared in thin air, followed by a cry like a metal crate being dragged on a concrete floor.

He had no time to discover how much damage he had wrought, for the sound continued to bear down on him. He threw himself to one side at the last moment, but it was not quite far enough. His jacket and shirt tore open, his flesh mysteriously burst as a raw red line rushed up towards his neck. He just had time to jerk his head before the invisible blade could rip through his jugular, and then he was rolling backwards against the bank, his shirt growing hot and wet.

The pain sharpened his thoughts. When he moved, the rest of the world felt like it was frozen; he was scrambling to one side, rolling, ignoring the pain, reloading the crossbow, readjusting the balance of his body like a machine.

He landed on the balls of his feet, poised to attack, but though his eyes and ears were charged to pick up even the slightest sound of his attacker, there was nothing. The bottom of the ditch was still; even the faintest hoofbeat would have sounded out loud. Not even a hint of movement, the barest shift in air currents.

His blood thundered in his head. Where had it gone? He turned slowly, but the thing really had disappeared. Perhaps the bolt had caused some damage.

He waited for a few seconds longer, just to be sure, and then set off at a slow lope around the ditch. He was under no illusion that the Night Rider had gone for good, but its absence might just provide him with the time to find a route to the house.

His feet padded on the hard-packed mud as he ran, his breath ragged; the night air was chill and fragrant. Every sensation was heightened. The enveloping trees that made the ditch feel like a tunnel instilled an oppressive claustrophobia in him; he was trapped, like an animal. The thought brought a burst of adrenalin and he threw himself up the side of the ditch, feeling the thorns of the brambles tear at his flesh, the nettles stabbing with their poison needles. Somehow he made it to the top, but the trees there were impenetrable, and beyond them the brick garden wall was too tall to climb. He still tried to force his way through, but the trees acted as if they were alive, forcing him back until he was slipping down the slope to land on his back at the bottom of the ditch once more.

As he lay there while his breath subsided, tremors ran through the ground into his bones: rhythmic, powerful. He was up in an instant, running once more. This time, when he actually heard the hoofbeats, it was almost hallucinogenic; they faded in and out of his hearing, the rider here, then not here. And then they disappeared completely again, leaving only silence.

A moment of clarity overwhelmed him. Tom had spoken of liminal zones where the boundaries between this world and T'ir n'a n'Og were blurred. The camp must be such a place, he realised, and the Rider was shifting in and out of the worlds as it pursued him.

Veitch whirled, crossbow at the ready. His nerve endings prickled as he slowly surveyed the scene. His pursuer could be anywhere. How did it make itself invisible? Or was that its natural state? Yet he knew now what he had to do: attack at the moment it was fully in this world, when-he hoped-it would be most vulnerable.

Another low whinny drifted along the ditch. It sounded unimaginably distant, but it brought back the gooseflesh. And then, as it wound its way through the undergrowth on the ditch banks, it began to change; slowly at first, but definitely, losing its equine characteristics. The sound became shorter, broke up into linked sounds; became words.

That eerie noise made the snake around Veitch's spine pull the coils in tighter. "What the hell is that?" he hissed.

He was already moving when the words rattled around him like pebbles on a frozen lake, devoid of emotion, but threatening. "Run fast, run fast, at your back."

They were barely audible, could almost have been the distant echoes of hoofbeats, but the chill they brought to his blood drove him on. Faster and faster still, with the rumble of pursuit building behind him. He glanced over his shoulder as he hurdled a twisted mass of root: nothing yet. The words were all around him, some indecipherable, hidden in the snort of a horse, others barely registering on his consciousness, but disturbing him nonetheless.

As he rounded the curve of the ditch, running faster than he ever had in his life, an arching shape loomed up out of the night. The mass of trees had thinned out and the light of the moon revealed a brick bridge across the ditch. He was sure he would be able to scramble up the side to get to it and then it would be only a short sprint to the house. With the thunder of hooves almost at his heels, the sight gave him enough of a filip to drive himself that little bit harder.

But just as he thought he would make it, his foot caught one of the roots that had threatened to trip him ever since he had ventured down there. He hit the ground so hard all the air was driven out of his lungs; the pain in his chest felt like someone had swung a hammer there. At first he was stunned, but then his mind scrambled in panic. It was too late.

He looked back and was briefly hypnotised by the strangest thing: little flames, like will o' the wisps, alighted at ground level, drawing towards him. It took him a second to realise what it was: invisible hooves striking the flints that were scattered across the ditch.

The moment locked. He wondered what it would be like to be trampled to death; wondered if anyone would mourn him.

And then he was transfixed by something else. As the little flames closed on him, the air above shimmered and began to peel back. It looked to him like the Night Rider was shedding his skin: at first there was nothing, then the translucent glassy substance, until that slipped away to reveal the true form of his pursuer, or as true a form as his perceptions would allow. The first shock was that the picture he had created in his head was so wrong: this was no mediaeval knight with a broadsword or a lance on a black charger. There wasn't even a man and a horse. What bore down on him in a rage of clattering hooves was both man and horse, the two forms constantly flowing together, never staying the same for too long. A head that had the flowing hair of an Iron Age warrior, becoming a wild mane, the face growing longer, nostrils flaring, blasting clouds of steam in the chill night; two legs, then four, then two again. It wasn't like a classical centaur, but was half formed, or still forming, or never quite forming; continually halfway between the two in the same way that the sounds had appeared to be coming halfway between here and there.

The intoxicating shock was riven out by a burst of blood in Veitch's brain. Suddenly he was ready to move. He tried to fling himself to one side, but even as he was moving, the futility of it was strangling his thoughts. The Night Rider was on him, rising up, iron-shod hooves glinting in the moonlight. One of them caught Veitch on the temple, knocking him back to the ground where stars flew briefly.

When they cleared, all he could see was the creature's terrible face framed against the night sky. It was filled with all the fury of the animal kingdom, wild and unfocused, the eyes ruddy and smoky as they branded him. Its musk was thick and choking, blanking out all his senses, yet behind it all Witch sensed something resolutely human; once a man, and now greater than a man.

"I ride the courses between the worlds." Those stony words again; Veitch wanted to cover his ears at the unbearable force of them. Everything about the thing was so vital. "I am the power and the fecundity of the stallion, the speed and the strength. Worlds are dashed beneath my feet."

Veitch snatched his head away as the Night Rider brought a hoof down sharply. It slammed the ground an inch from his ear, jolting his head upwards so powerfully he knew his skull would have been crushed if contact had been made. With the next blow, sparks burned his cheek. He was trapped beneath the body of the creature, with no way of wriggling free.

"This sacred place belongs to the Machan who made me. Totem of Rig Antona, our Great High Queen, who made the sky and the stars and the green grass on which we run." The words reminded Veitch of a recorded announcement programmed to be delivered to intruders in the earliest of days. "In this place, where the barrier is thin, the wild, untamed spirits of the horse gallop to the Grey Lands and back."

Another hoof came down in punctuation, this time clipping Witch's shoulder; a bolt of pain shot down his arm.

"No one but the Machan may ride here betwixt sunset and sunrise. That is the law." The horse had human features, but the Night Rider's face was now wholly that of a demonic horse with blazing red eyes, an alien conqueror who would brook no trespass on his domain. Veitch felt swallowed up by that scarlet glow, forced to accept his place in the scheme of things. You are nothing, it said. Insignificant in the face of a higher power. You will obey, and you will die.

It meant nothing to Veitch. As the Night Rider rose up high, its hooves tearing at the air ready for the killing blow, Veitch brought the crossbow up and loosed a bolt directly into the creature's belly. That unmistakable metal-onconcrete roar erupted from its wildly shifting face as it threw itself into a furious downward drive at Veitch's head.

But the bolt had unbalanced it. In a sinuous movement, Veitch pulled out the short sword from his belt and drove it upwards at the same time as he kicked himself backwards. The sword ripped into the belly and tore upwards. "Nothing scares me any more," Veitch growled defiantly.

He was too busy doing a backward roll to see the results of his attack, but he could hear the Night Rider's hideous cries. And then he was sprinting for the bridge, scrambling up the bank at the side of it, his feet slipping on the weeds, but gaining enough purchase to propel himself to the top.

Only when he was on the bridge did he allow himself a glance back. There was neither blood nor intestines, but the Rider was lurching from side to side in obvious discomfort, his head held back, roaring his pain to the night. Once his gaze fell on Veitch, the face changed once more to the demonic horse's head and, with the eyes shining like red lanterns, the Rider overcame his agony to spur himself into pursuit.

Veitch paused to give him the finger, then flipped over the wall of the bridge and landed on the Tarmac path that curved around the trees into the flat summit of the hill. Nearly there, he thought breathlessly, energised by his escape and his defiance. For a moment he felt indestructible, until he heard the Night Rider thunder effortlessly up the side of the ditch and the hooves clatter on the Tarmac surface.

Veitch weighed up the prospects of loosing some more bolts, but he estimated the effect would be negligible. It was now all down to his fitness and his energy reserves. He followed the curve of the path until he saw the lawns laid out before him, silver-grey in the moonlight with the dry dew pond at the centre. Before him the dark bulk of the house loomed up. The comforting golden glow of candlelight illuminated a square on the courtyard from the window of Robertson's quarters.

Behind, the rumble of hooves came on like a runaway train.

I can make it, Veitch told himself.

He ran as if caught by the north wind, hurdling the small fence and pounding across the courtyard. The hooves grew closer, only yards now. He couldn't outrun a horse, but the house was close enough to reach before it got to him. Past the stable block with its silent ghosts of horses past. Their energy was everywhere, he thought.

Now he could hear the beast's breath, explosive bursts punctuated by the gnashing of its teeth. He waited for the hot bloom of it on the back of his neck.

He slammed into the door, sending the panes ringing in their frames. Fumbling around, he caught the handle and yanked. Locked.

"Robertson!" His throat was torn by the yell.

Robertson appeared at the window, his face pale and desperate. Veitch was already reading the signs, recalling the man's nature. "Come on, you bastard," he said under his breath. The sound of hooves was deafening; Veitch forced himself not to look. As Robertson took in the situation in a glance, an expression of revelation crossed his face; and the revelation was that the world was the hell he had always imagined, where reason didn't exist and superstition crushed lives at random. He backed away rapidly, waving his hands in front of him.

From behind, there was a hiss like escaping steam, loaded with a note of triumph.

Veitch cursed under his breath and turned, the house heavy at his back, the enclosing walls of the courtyard too oppressive; nowhere to run.

The Night Rider had slowed his speed, revelling in the cornering of his prey. In the candlelight, Veitch could make out more details of his pursuer. The rider's legs went directly into the body of the horse, not just fused there, but utilising the same muscular and vascular system. The rider's arms disappeared into the mane, the horse hair wrapping round, becoming part of the human flesh; and still the features on both the heads were hideously changing places.

Nowhere to run.

The rider came to a halt. Slowly one hoof dragged along the ground, raising sparks. The head at the front lowered, the rider leaned forward.

Still a chance to move, Veitch told himself optimistically. Don't give up. Never give up.

Before he could break away from the door, a voice boomed across the courtyard. The tone and volume made Veitch jump in shock. It was in a language he didn't comprehend, but the words-if that was what they were-made his ears hurt just by hearing them.

It had an effect on the Rider too; he paused as he prepared for the charge, cantered round, backed off. Veitch noted the mutating appearance had speeded up; the features were now just a blur, suggesting uneasiness.

For a time the whole of the world hung in abeyance. With his heart in his mouth, Veitch saw movement in the shadows surrounding the stable block. Whatever had spoken was there. Veitch wanted to flee to a secure hiding place immediately, but the figure was now emerging from the gloom. The Night Rider, too, appeared to be waiting with something like apprehension.

When the figure stepped into the moonlight, Veitch was shocked to see it was Tom. He was staggering a little, as if exhausted, but the most curious detail was that he was smoking, as if he had been singed by a blaze. The Rider focused all his attention on the slight figure. When Tom was ten feet away he made a strange hand movement which appeared to involve another set of joints in the wrist. It was followed by another word; Tom whispered it, but it crashed like the peal of cathedral bells.

The Rider responded as if chastened by a whip. The front of the horse bowed down, bending its front legs until its head was almost on the ground. The Rider followed suit with a similar act of deference. Then it rose back up and, without a second glance at Veitch, calmly cantered off.

Veitch remained tense for a few seconds, barely believing what he was seeing, but then his shoulders relaxed and he turned to Tom with a broad grin. "You old bastard! Like the bleedin' cavalry!"

Tom marched over and stabbed a finger into Veitch's face. "I thought I told you to get off the hill at nightfall!"

Veitch's expression soured. "Since when did I do what you say, you senile old bastard?" The adrenalin still pumped deliriously around his system. "Hang on a minute." He turned and launched a hefty kick at the door, which burst off its hinges, shattering all the panes at once.

Tom recognised the expression on Veitch's face, the consuming rage that he carried with him at all times. "Now, steady on-"

Veitch had already marched inside. There was a loud crashing within and a moment later he emerged, dragging a writhing Robertson behind him. The squatter was almost insane with fear, his eyes rolling, his jaw sagging.

"Ryan! He's scared!"

"Yeah? Well, here's something to be scared of." He thumped Robertson so hard on the side of the head, Tom was afraid his neck had snapped. He slumped to the ground in a stupor.

It took fifteen minutes before Veitch had calmed enough to have a reasonable conversation with Tom. Robertson had scurried back indoors, barricading the doorway with furniture. Even then Veitch couldn't sit and spent the time pacing in circles around Tom, who sat cross-legged, drawing on a joint, unable to hide the shake in his hands.

"What was that thing?" Veitch asked.

"This place has been linked to horses much longer than the racing fraternity realised. Back in the earliest times, it was dedicated to Epona. Her name derives from the Celtic word for horse and she was one of the greatest goddesses of the Celts. All riders-warriors, travellers, whoever-bowed their head to Epona. In Wales, she was known as Rhiannon, in Ireland Etain or Macha." Tom let the smoke drift into the wind. "She was the patron of journeys, particularly the most important journey of all: from this life to the next. She was usually pictured carrying a key that unlocked the door to Otherworld."

"Yeah? Then it ties into this place. The doorway to the Land of the Dead, and all that."

"Yes. Amazing how it all fits together." Veitch didn't appear to notice the sarcasm in Tom's voice; he was lost in his own childlike amazement. "The Night Rider was her avatar. Once he was probably a man like you or me, perhaps a man who even lived at this site. But at some point he became infused with the essence of Epona, became, in a way, the totem he worshipped. And so he eternally guards this sacred spot were she canters back and forth between the worlds."

"Horses." Veitch kicked a stray stone across the yard. "Don't see the bleedin' attraction. Smelly animals."

"Horse worship persisted from the earliest times of the nomadic people in this land. To them, the horse was a symbol of fertility, energy and power." Dreamily, Tom nodded his head to some inner soundtrack. "Worshipping is wishing by any other name, and if you wish hard enough you can create something from nothing." Words from another world came back to him.

"What's that, then? You're saying all those folk gave her the powers. Made her. She's one of the Danann bastards, right?"

"Yes and yes and yes, and no and no and no."

"Oh, shut the fuck up. I'm not going to talk to you any more when you're smoking." He marched irritatedly into Robertson's apartment.

The chill before dawn brought a deep ache to their bones. They sat on a bench, watching the moon scud across the heavens, the sky slowly turn from midnight blue to pink and gold, the grass growing from grey to green. An affecting peace lay over everything. When the birds came alive in the trees that ringed the lawned area, Veitch turned to Tom and smiled. "It'll be all right, you know."

Tom nodded noncommittally.

"What happened? You know, when you met the giant?"

Tom considered how to put the experience into words, then simply shook his head. "That's a story for another time. All you need to know now is you've got the necessary permission to bring Shavi back."

The sun came up soon after. The diffuse golden light glimmered through the branches, eventually making its way across the lawn until it reached the dew pond. At first nothing happened, but when the light was just right they could make out a shimmering image of Shavi's body lying in a flower-bedecked bower. It was insubstantial, fading in and out like a poor hologram. He appeared to be sleeping; only the stark paleness of his skin gave a clue to his true state.

Tom thought he saw the glint of tears in Veitch's eyes, but the Londoner looked away before he could be sure.

"We better do it," Veitch said solemnly.

"Are you sure? This is your last chance to back out."

"Yes."

"You understand where you're going? What lies ahead? What it could do to your mind? You know you might not be coming back?"

Veitch fixed a cold eye on him. "Just get on with it."

A pang of guilt clutched at Tom's heart. He knew what lay ahead, and he knew Veitch could not even begin to guess the extent of the horrors that lurked in the Grim Lands. How could he send the man to face that? But even as he thought it, he knew he had no choice; only Veitch stood a chance of bringing Shavi back. And therein lay the tragedy.

On the edge of the dew pond, Tom knelt down and kissed the damp grass. When he stood back up, he had composed himself. "Are you ready?"

"Bring it on," Veitch replied in a cod-American accent.

Tom closed his eyes and attempted to access the knowledge GogMagog had implanted there. He had already used the secret words of power to dismiss the guardian. Now there was one remaining: the key to the door. He couldn't reach it in his memory by normal means. He simply made a space, and then it leapt into it. He didn't remember speaking, but when he opened his eyes, Veitch was clutching his ears and grimacing.

There was a sound like a jammed door being wrenched open and the air over the dew pond peeled back. Through it Tom could see thick grey fog, swirling in the wind.

Veitch made to say something, but couldn't find the words. Instead, he grinned, winked and then launched himself through the hole in the air. The wrenching noise echoed again as the door closed, leaving Tom alone to stare at the fading visage of Shavi.