Always Forever

Chapter Fourteen

ater began to flood in around Laura as she shivered in the cold beneath the insipid dawn light. The Bone Inspector attempted to force the rag back into the hole, but it only made matters worse. "We're going to go down like a brick," he hissed.

"I can get a bit further if I throw you overboard." She leaned up just enough to peek over the rim. They hadn't even made it as far as the Dartford river crossing. Nearby, gleaming mudflats lined the bank. There was no movement anywhere, nor was there any sound, not even birdsong. The stillness was unnatural.

"If we drag it over to the side, we might have a better chance of plugging it up again," she hissed.

The Bone Inspector grunted before rolling over the side into the waist-deep water; he appeared oblivious to the cold. Laura allowed him to drag the boat close to the flats before she jumped out to help it across the last few feet.

Once they'd beached it, the water drained out and the Bone Inspector could attempt the repairs a little easier. But it was soon apparent why the previous owner had abandoned the craft. As the Bone Inspector worked the rag in tightly, his hand went right through the bottom, taking out a chunk of rotten wood about a foot square.

"You ham-fisted git!" Laura slapped a shaking hand over her eyes. "Now what do we do?"

The Bone Inspector ignored her attempts at blame. Quickly surveying the area, he pointed toward some streetlights beyond an expanse of waste ground. "The Fomorii may not have spread this far out of the city. If we proceed cautiously, it would be quicker to use the road to put the city behind us."

Laura wrapped her sopping arms around her. "All right. But you go first."

The wasteland had been used as a dump. Burst dustbin bags lay around amidst broken bottles, empty milk crates, a burnt-out car and decaying furniture. It smelled of chemicals and excrement. The road beyond was deserted, apart from a jackknifed petrol tanker.

"Looks safe," Laura mused after ten minutes in the shadows of the hedgerow. "Shall we chance it?"

"No choice." The Bone Inspector sniffed the air, then stepped out on to the pavement.

They'd gone only a few yards down the road when Laura experienced a prickling sensation. Looking back quickly towards the city, all she could see were a few birds swooping in the grey sky. She attempted to dismiss the nagging feeling, but if anything it was growing stronger. She took a few more paces and only then realised that since she had woken in the charnel house she had not seen any birds at all. With a shiver of dread, she turned back.

The dark smudges had moved much closer in the seconds between looks, and now she could see they were far too big for birds. Their uncanny speed held her rapt for a few seconds and by then she could see they were winged Fomorii. "Shit. I didn't know some of them could fly."

The Bone Inspector turned at her strained voice, before grabbing her arm to propel her back the way they had come.

"Away from them!" she yelled.

"There's no cover." His voice was remarkably calm, although his body had dropped into a low, loping posture that reminded her of a hunting wolf.

He was right; their only chance was to attempt to hide and hope the Fomorii couldn't see where they were going, but there was hardly anywhere in the flat open landscape.

The only place in view was the jackknifed tanker. It offered little protection, but if they could crawl beneath it they might be able to scurry into the ditch beyond where the Fomorii would have trouble reaching them. In the heat of the moment Laura didn't have time to consider how sickeningly short-termist that was.

The Fomorii had the terrifying speed of jet fighters. The tanker was still yards away when the wash of driven air buffeted Laura and the Bone Inspector. There was a smell like rotting meat and what sounded like a power drill. Their peripheral vision was filled with constantly changing horrors; a deep, arctic shadow fell across them. The Bone Inspector knocked Laura to the ground and threw himself across her.

They both felt the breeze as the Fomorii tore through the space where they had been. Despite his advancing years, the Bone Inspector was on his feet in an instant, hauling Laura up behind him as if she weighed nothing.

Amidst the frantic activity and danger, Laura was surprised to find an area of deep serenity in which she could step back to observe herself. What she saw surprised her: just weeks ago she would have been paralysed by fear. Instead she felt calm and focused and, if it hadn't sounded so incongruous, brave.

She was thrown out of the moment by a hard impact to her right shoulder. Relieved that the Fomorii had missed clubbing her to the ground she continued a pace before an object came flying past her to skid across the road. It was an arm. Her arm.

The shock of the sight brought her to a halt. Her vision wavered a second; impressions rushed towards the front of her mind, but didn't coalesce. She was dimly aware of several shapes converging on her.

The Bone Inspector was in her frame of vision, yelling something she couldn't hear. A second later she was being lifted across his back as he ran the final few yards. They dived beneath the tanker as the road erupted at their heels.

Laura came out of her daze, aware of a dull ache at her shoulder. She didn't look at all. Shards of metal clattered across the road as the Fomorii tore frenziedly at the side of the tanker to get at them. "Keep moving," she croaked. "I'm fine."

The Bone Inspector cast a searching eye across her face, and then scurried into the ditch. Laura followed, keeping low, feeling brambles tear at her face and hair, not really caring.

The Fomorii continued to attack the tanker. "Stupid bastards," Laura said under her breath.

The two of them had managed to crawl three hundred yards away when the inevitable happened. The tanker went up in a massive explosion that rained burning debris all around them. They had just crawled in a culvert that ran beneath the road as the hedgerow disappeared in a blur of flame; trees turned to charcoal and the field beyond disappeared in red and yellow smoke. For a second or two, Laura couldn't breathe, until fresh air rushed in to fill the vacuum. Her ears rang from the blast.

She slumped back against the culvert, suddenly convulsed in tremors. The Bone Inspector was at her side in an instant, ready to bandage her shoulder with his shirt. When he paused suddenly, she gasped, "I know. Green blood."

"And not much of it." He pressed the shirt against the protruding socket joint and torn arteries. Despite his comment, it quickly grew wet.

"It had to be the right one," she said miserably. "Now I'll never beat Veitch at darts." Her attempt at humour sounded pathetic. She let her chin slump on to her chest, listening to the roar of the inferno.

"We'll rest here for a while," the Bone Inspector said. "We'll start moving again when the fire dies down."

"Good idea," Laura murmured. "I feel so tired." She closed her eyes and drifted away.

"I'm just saying it's bad strategy, that's all." Veitch finished up the last of his plate of rabbit stew hungrily and eyed the black pan on the old range with a measure of hope. Through Tom's judicious herbal treatments, he had recovered from the shock of the amputation and appeared back to his old irascible self, a piece of white cloth he washed obsessively was tied around his stump.

"Ryan is our strategist, after all." After his dinner of steamed vegetables, Shavi gnawed on a raw carrot, his dessert, much to Witch's disgust.

Tom furiously dunked his homemade bread in the last dregs of gravy. Before he could launch into a bad-tempered tirade, Davenport, the farmer who had taken them in earlier that day, poked his head round the door. He was wearing a dirty, shapeless hat and old coat, protection against the evening chill as he finished up the last of the jobs around the farm. "Everything all right, lads?"

"It was a very enjoyable meal, Mr. Davenport," Shavi said. "Our compliments to your wife. And we offer you our thanks for feeding us, when we have nothing to offer in return. We know there are shortages-"

Embarrassed, Davenport waved him quiet. "We've got enough to go round. I'd be worrying if I was one of the big boys. They won't know what to do now they can't get hold of their pesticides and chemical fertilisers. But I've been organic for a few years now, so, cross fingers, we should be all right for a while."

His wife, Rowena, pushed in next to him. She was in her late thirties, attractive, though weary looking. "Go on, Philip," she said, nudging her husband in the ribs, "ask them."

"I'm not going to ask them." Davenport shifted uncomfortably.

"If you don't, I will."

He sighed with irritation. "The wife wants to know if you're the heroes-"

She slapped him on the arm. "Don't say it like that!"

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "If you're-"

"Oh, get out of the way!" She pushed past him. "People are talking about a group of men and women going round the country trying to put right this awful thing that's happened. The farmers have been talking about it for weeks. They keep saying how some of these people helped out a farmer down in the West Country who'd got one of those spooks or goblins or whatever in his house. That's the story, anyway. But then we heard it from somebody else… a woman in the village. She's part of this parish pump news grapevine that's being set up to let everyone know what's going on. And one of the stories passed down the wire was about this group up in the north somewhere who fought against all those horrible things and saved an entire village. And they were doing all sorts of other… " Her voice faded away as she realised she was starting to ramble. She looked at her husband and added, "And yes, they did call them heroes. Said they could do things no other people could do. Said they were special."

Veitch tried to appear nonchalant, but he was fighting against pride. The woman noticed his fidgeting. "It is you, isn't it?"

"We are not special," Shavi said. "Not really. We are simply trying to do the best we can in a very difficult situation-"

"I told you they were the heroes," the woman said to her husband. She turned back to them excitedly. "What are you-"

Her husband pushed her out with undue roughness. "They don't want to be bothered by us!" He shuffled around uncomfortably. "We'll leave you alone now, lads. I know you'll have important stuff to talk about. But if you've got a moment before you take your leave-"

"We'll fill you in, mate." Once he'd gone, Veitch said conspiratorially, "Can you believe that? They're talking about us!"

"One should never believe one's own publicity, Ryan," Shavi said wryly. He eased back in his chair and sipped on his boiled water.

"Yes, control your ego before your head explodes." Tom collected the plates together and put them in the sink. "It's not important-"

"It's important to me. Nobody's ever called me a hero before."

"And this lot wouldn't either, if they knew you," Tom snapped. "To get back to the matter at hand-"

"Your strategy's all wrong."

Tom picked up his chair and banged it down in irritation. "So you said. Then what do you suggest?"

"You're the big bleedin' psychic. Shav here can talk to the birds. Can't you find out where the others are-exactly-so we can link up with them? We haven't got the time to keep wandering around. I want to be there the moment they roll up, ready to ride on London."

"And do what? Shake your stump at them?" Tom recognised it was a cheap shot the instant the words had left his lips but he refused to be contrite, although he wouldn't meet Veitch's eyes.

Veitch wasn't upset. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table so he wouldn't look so combative. "You know I'm talking sense here. We need a plan. There's only a matter of days until Hallowe'en… Samhain… that's all. There's not even a guarantee Church and the others are coming back."

"Then we're lost," Tom said sharply. "Separately, we are nothing."

"Sometimes you're so bleedin' pathetic."

"They will be back," Shavi said. "I have faith."

"Then we can get down to the fighting." Veitch adjusted the cloth around what remained of his wrist.

"You all appear to be forgetting something vitally important." Tom spun the chair around so he could lean on the back. He looked at Veitch accusingly. "Church will not have forgotten."

"What?" Veitch looked from Tom to Shavi.

"The land," Shavi said.

"Exactly." Tom took out his tin and made a roll-up with his dwindling supply of tobacco. "Wake the land. The primary mission, encoded for generations in myth and legend. There will be no defeating the Fomorii, no future for Britain-or the world for that matter-unless the land is woken from its long sleep."

"Like Church did in Edinburgh," Veitch said, "when the Fire helped blow those Bastards in their lair to kingdom come. But, yeah, it helped. Why's it so important?"

"The Tuatha De Danann would not have beaten the Fomorii before if the power in the land had not been vibrant."

"I do not remember you telling us that before," Shavi said suspiciously.

Tom sucked on the roll-up a few times to get it alight. "The power in the land, at its height, weakens the Fomorii. The Blue Fire-and what it represents-is the antithesis of the Night Walkers, and what they represent."

"So it's everywhere-" Veitch began.

Tom had no patience left. "It is powered by belief and faith and hope, by humanity and nature in conjunction. By all that is good in us. And for generations it has been slowly growing dormant. Several hundred years ago humanity took a wrong path. We gave up all that was most important for the promise of shiny things, home comforts, products. There was a time we could have had both, to a degree. But the ones who shape our thoughts, in politics and business, and the fools who invested their faith in science alone, convinced us to trade one off for the other. And without the belief of the people, the energy slowly withered, like a stream in a drought. Not gone for ever, just sleeping."

"But you know how it can be woken," Shavi said. "You have always known."

Veitch watched Shavi's face and then turned his narrowing eyes to Tom. "Another thing you've kept from us. You can't be trusted at all, can you, you old bastard? We could have done it weeks ago and saved us all a load of trouble."

"The time was not right then. Church was not right. The Fomorii corruption in him would have brought failure. And to fail once would have meant failing for all time."

Shavi watched Tom carefully. "What else do you know?"

"More things than you could ever dream." Tom was unbowed. "Some have to be learned through hardship and ritual-they can't be imparted over a quiet cup of tea. Others, well, the telling of them could alter the outcome of what is being told. I ask you to trust me, as I always have."

"We do trust you," Veitch said irritably. "That doesn't mean you don't get on our tits half the time."

"At least we have some common ground," Tom said acidly. The strain of events was eating away at all of them.

"Then what needs to be done?" Shavi asked. "And can it be done in the time that remains?"

Tom sucked on the roll-up thoughtfully; they couldn't quite divine his mood: dismal or hopeful? "The energy in the earth crisscrosses the globe, interlinking like the lines of latitude and longitude, only not so uniform. The Fire is not a straight line thing. It splits and winds in two strands around a central point, so that from above it resembles the double helix, the map of life, or perhaps the caduceus, the ageold symbol of two serpents coiled around a staff. Imagine, if you will, powerpoints where the energy rushes in, or is refocused and driven out into the network. The Well of Fire at Edinburgh was one, and Stonehenge and Avebury and Glastonbury Tor. The last three are important for they all fall on the divining line for Britain."

"The St. Michael Line," Shavi noted. "A ley running from Carn Les Boel at Land's End to St. Margaret's Church at Hopton on the east coast in Norfolk."

"Along that line are many of those powerpoints. They feed the whole network. For the land to come alive with the earth energy, the St. Michael Line must be vibrant and powerful. But it is fractured in part, sluggish in others, a trickle in many places."

"And to wake it?" Shavi asked.

"On the tip of Cornwall there is an ancient and mysterious place known as St. Michael's Mount. It is the lynchpin of the entire line. I have spoken in the past about the Celts and the other ancient races encoding great secrets in the earth itself. At St. Michael's Mount is the greatest secret of all. Locked under that place, Church-and Church alone-will uncover the key to bringing the line, and the land, back to life. Or he will find death."

Veitch tapped out a monotonous beat on the kitchen table with a teaspoon. "They'll have the place well defended," he said, staring into space. "Those tricks and traps they lined up to guard the spear, sword and the rest of it were bad enough. If this is their biggest secret-"

"Exactly," Tom said.

"Then," Shavi said, "we need to get Church to St. Michael's Mount as soon as we can."

In a quiet orchard at the back of the farmhouse, with the yellowing, autumn leaves glowing spectrally in the moonlight, Shavi sat cross-legged and listened to the sound of the night. Amongst the surrounding vegetation, eyes glittered-a fox, a rabbit, a badger, several stray cats-all of whom had come to see the shaman at work. The ritual, his first since leaving the Grim Lands, had been wearying, necessitating some of the tricks of concentration he thought he had become too experienced to need. But it had worked.

A few feet above the ground, the air was boiling as what appeared to be liquid metal bubbled out and drifted down; it was accompanied by the familiar smell of burnt iron. Behind it came one of the bone-white, featureless creatures Shavi had summoned before, a human-shaped construct used by one of the denizens of the Invisible World. It pulled itself forward and hung half in and half out of the hole in space.

"Who brings me to this place?" Its voice was like the wind on a winter sea.

"It is I, Brother of Dragons."

"I know you, Brother of Dragons. Have you not learned your lesson, of reaching out to the worlds beyond your own?"

"I know my place, and I know yours. I seek guidance."

"You did not heed our words before." The creature put its head on one side in a faintly mocking style.

Shavi recalled the prophetic message one of these creatures had given him about his murder at Callow's hands, but it had been couched in such cryptic terms he had not realised its meaning until it was too late to do anything about it. "I chose my path. And I am here to hear your words again."

"There is a price."

Shavi ran a thumb over the rough pad of his left hand, now crisscrossed with a score of tiny scars, chose a spot, then slit it with a knife. The blood dripped on to the damp grass.

"You give freely of your essence, Brother of Dragons." An underlying note of warning.

"Another Brother of Dragons, our leader, known as Church, is currently abroad in the Far Lands. Firstly, how does he fare?"

"He fares well. You have achieved all that you desire, but what you desire may do more harm than good."

Shavi noted this subtle warning, knowing there was no point attempting to get the construct to elucidate. "Then he will be back shortly. My second question: where will he arrive?"

"He will return to the Fixed Lands at the point from which he departed, where Merlin's Rock marks a doorway between worlds."

Shavi didn't recognise the name, but he guessed Tom probably would. "Then I thank you for your guidance. Return safely to the Invisible World." He paused. "No final words of warning?"

Although the construct had no features, Shavi was convinced it was smiling. "No warning would ever do justice to what lies ahead for you and your Brothers and Sisters."

And then it was gone.

Tom and Veitch sat around the range in the candlelight, drinking homemade beer. They were used to Shavi's ragged appearance after making contact with the Invisible World, but were eager to discover what he had learned. As he had expected, Tom knew the location instantly.

"Mousehole," the Rhymer said gruffly. "Then he joined Manannan's sick crew."

"Where's that, then?" Veitch swilled the beer down rapidly; six large mugs in a quarter of an hour.

"Cornwall." Tom stared at the red coals in the open door of the range. "In the furthest tip. The part of the country where the Celts buried their greatest secrets, and subsequently the most spiritual part of the land."

"Bloody hell, it's going to take us ages to get down there." Veitch took another swig, then looked up suddenly. "You could make another jump."

Tom waved him silent, his eyes still fixed on the fire, deep in thought. Shavi asked what Veitch meant and the Londoner spent the next five minutes attempting to explain how they had slipped into the energy flow between Scotland and Wandlebury Camp. Shavi was enthused by the entire concept and excitedly questioned Tom about it.

"Didn't you hear me say the St. Michael Line is fractured?" he snapped. "If we attempt to travel along it and hit a dead spot we will be unceremoniously spewed out into the world. Perhaps over a gorge or a cliff face or above a river in torrent. Now what good will that do?"

Veitch examined the deep lines of Tom's face, the fix of his eyes, until Tom could no longer pretend he hadn't seen him. "What?"

"You're thinking about it."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I can see it in your face, you old bastard. And I know exactly what you're thinking. You're thinking it's too much of a risk for all three of us, but one of us needs to try it because we're running out of time."

Tom was particularly irritated at Veitch's sudden insight.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"Oh, shut up." Tom rose from his chair and went over to the window to peer out into the dark. "It has to be me because only I can give Church the guidance he needs. Only I can point him towards St. Michael's Mount." A few beats of silence. "And the two of you are too valuable to risk. Five of you are needed to put this square. Any less… if any of you don't make it through the next two weeks…" He made a dismissive gesture.

"Then what should we do?" Shavi asked.

Tom was already gathering his things together in his haversack. "You must make your way to a meeting place, somewhere just beyond the reach of the Fomorii influence on the outskirts of London. I would suggest the west-"

The door crashed open and Davenport lurched in, his face pale and drawn. Shavi helped the farmer to a chair. Veitch's eyes went instantly to the door and window; the farmhouse was sprawling, impossible to defend.

"Down at the pub," Davenport gasped between juddering breaths. "I was talking to some bloke about you lot. Never seen him before. He was asking a lot of questions. I thought he'd just heard the stories, like the rest of us-"

"What happened?" Veitch gripped Davenport's shoulders and had to be prised off by Shavi.

"After I told him you were up here, his face started to change… melt… I thought I was going mad. Then I thought I was going to black out. One of the other blokes down there was sharp. Chucked a pint glass at him. I got away, still thought I was going to puke my guts up."

"Fomorii," Shavi snapped.

"There were more of them," Davenport continued. "I saw as I ran up here. They were following me-"

His sentence was cut off by a crashing at the front door.

"No time," Tom said. "We will find each other in the west, along the M4 between Reading and London." He nodded to them all, then darted through the back door where he snatched Davenport's bicycle from its resting place against the wall.

"Hide," Shavi said to the farmer. "They are after us. They will leave you alone." He saw Veitch's fixed expression and knew he was considering a fight. "This is not the time. We cannot afford to fail now."

Veitch backed down, and then they were both out of the door, running across the orchard and into the fields beyond.

His joints aching, Tom pedalled as fast as he could. The evening was alive with monkey shrieks, dark shapes flitting across the fields towards the farmhouse, the candlelit rooms surprisingly bright in the sea of night. He desperately hoped Witch and Shavi would escape-if anyone could, they could-but he had his doubts for Davenport and his wife.

That the Fomorii were still looking for them had taken him by surprise. He had thought that in the aftermath of their great success at bringing back Balor, the Night Walkers would have little time for failed insurrectionists.

He narrowed his eyes and concentrated until the thin tracings of Blue Fire rose from the shadowy background, like silver filigree glinting off the blades of grass in the fields. It was not strong in that area, but he could still pick out the ebb and flow. Driving himself on as fast as he could, he searched for a confluence on the St. Michael's Line.

An hour later he found himself in the Hertfordshire town of Royston, at a point where the ancient Royal Roads of Britain, the Icknield Way and Ermine Street, crossed. The town was still, although candles glowed in many windows. The moment he saw the town name, he knew where he was heading. The old stories enshrined the mythic power of certain locations so they would never be forgotten by the adepts, however much locals became inured to their mystery.

A grating in the pavement showed his destination, but it took him a while longer to raise one of the residents to point him in the direction of an old wooden door. Taking a candle, he made his way along a tunnel to a thirty-foothigh, bell-shaped chamber cut into the solid chalk lying just beneath the street. He remembered how one of the Culture had told him of its rediscovery in the eighteenth century when a group of workmen digging a hole found a millstone sunk in the earth; beneath it was a shaft that led into the cave.

Tom held up the candle and the walls came alive; carved pictures swelled and receded in the flickering light. Here Sheela-na-Gig, one of the old fertility goddesses, there Christian images of the crucifixion, and then a mix of the two, with St. Catherine holding the symbolic eight-spoked wheel of the sun disc. It had the same resonances as Rosslyn Chapel, where Shavi and Laura had freed the mad god Maponus, and like that place, it had also been a haunt of the Knights Templar, the old guardians of secret mysteries and the last people to truly understand the earth energy.

Cautiously he set down the candle and sat cross-legged in the centre of the chill cave, allowing its symbolism to work its magic on his subconscious. The shape of an inverted womb and the female images on the wall showed it was a place where the Earth Goddess was honoured by the ancients; more, it was a place where the life-giving power of the earth was celebrated.

The atmosphere was already crackling, setting the hairs alive across his arms and neck. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and prepared for his trip.

The deep dark of predawn clustered along the coastline as Wave Sweeper sailed in to the sleeping land. The waves crashed in bursts of white along the rocky coast and the salty scent of seaweed filled the air. Church stood at the rail, filled with excitement at the prospect of returning home after too long in the strangest of strange lands. Behind it, though, was apprehension at what lay ahead.

Ruth gave the back of his hand a squeeze with a reassuring smile. Her hair had been tied back, but the force of the wind still lashed it around. "Ready for the final act?"

"I don't like the way that sounds." He slipped an arm round her shoulders, comforted by her warmth.

All around them the deck milled with the Tuatha De Danann readying the ship for landing. The decks below were crammed with even more of the force: horses, and strange, gleaming chariots with spiked wheels, an entire deck of armaments prepared by Goibhniu and his brothers, plus tents and supplies and all the other minutiae needed by an army on the move.

"I wonder if we'll see the others?" he mused.

"When. It's only a matter of time. We were drawn together in the first place, and it'll happen again." Her thoughts turned to Veitch; she quickly drove them out.

"It's funny that it's going to end in London." The spray flew up around him. "We've come full circle."

"The Universe speaks to us in symbols, that's what Tom would say. I still can't get over how much we've all changed. If the stakes weren't so high, that would be… an achievement in itself."

"You feel better for it all?" He gently touched the space where her finger had been.

She only had to think for an instant. "As stupid as it seems, I do. Between this and the rest of my days stretching out in a safe but mundane legal world, there's no contest. It's such an obvious thing, but we never, ever grasp it: life's short, so why spend it bumping along in a secure existence that stops you feeling anything? Life should be about snatching as many great experiences as you can before you die, trading them in for wisdom. But if you want that, you've got to take the risk of great lows as well. Any sane person would say there's no contest, but we keep doing it."

"It's society. Conditioning. That's what we all need to break."

She laughed. "Life in the Age of Reason isn't all the brochures say."

"Reminds me of an old song."

"One nobody else has heard of, I suppose."

"I guess." As they neared the coast, he picked out a few lights in Mousehole; either early risers or the night watch.

Ruth watched the shadow of thoughts play on his face. "What's wrong?"

`Just wishing the Walpurgis hadn't died before he could tell me what he knew."

"About the one of us who's going to sell all the others down the river?" She kept her eyes fixed on the shoreline.

"I just hope that wasn't a turning point, the one moment when we could have saved everything, only to lose out by a hair's breadth. And Callow's treachery."

"No point worrying about it now." Her face was dark, unreadable. "We've just got to play the cards as they fall. That, and other cliches."

If the residents of Mousehole knew an alien ship was disgorging some of the most powerful beings of all existence in their midst, they never showed it. Doors and windows remained resolutely closed, despite the clatter of metal and the grind of wheels on stone and the whinnying of horses that looked like any other until one saw the unnaturally intelligent gleam in their eye.

Yet there was one figure, waiting near the pub where they had stayed on their arrival. He was wrapped in a voluminous, extreme-weather anorak, the snorkel hood pulled far forward against the chill so his features were lost to shadow. Even so, Church recognised him in an instant from the stance, at once relaxed, yet, conversely, taut.

He ran across the road and threw his arms around the figure. "Tom!"

The Rhymer pulled back his hood to reveal a face worn by exhaustion, the edge taken off it by the flicker of a smile. "If you knew the trouble I'd had to get here-"

"We wondered if you were dead!"

"If only." He blushed as Ruth bowled up and planted a large kiss on his cheek before throwing her arms around him. "Enough of that." He tried to recapture his grizzly demeanour, but they could both see his true feelings. "We have serious business ahead."

He filled them in quickly before motioning towards three horses he had tied up at the side of the pub. "We can be at St. Michael's Mount soon after dawn, if we hurry."

"And what do I get to do while Mr. Hero goes off and does all his testosterone business?" Despite her tone, Church knew Ruth wasn't offended that she had to sit it out; she was afraid for him and wanted to help.

"It'll be okay," he said. "I have to do it alone. It's a destiny thing. You know, like the old stories. Except this time they've got me instead of King Arthur. Bummer, eh?"

Baccharus sauntered over when he saw the three of them conversing. "Greetings, True Thomas. I knew you would not let hardship come between us meeting again."

"Baccharus. So your people have finally decided to stir themselves into action, I see."

"The Golden Ones like to conserve their energy so they are more effective when the time is ripe."

Tom tried to read his face, but the god gave nothing away. "You better watch yourself, Baccharus. Humour? What's next: laughter, tears and broken hearts? They'll be drumming you out of the Arrogance Club for good behaviour."

"Oh, I can still be arrogant, True Thomas. When one is highborn, one does not lose that trait."

Tom shook his head, stifling a grin. They told Baccharus that they would have to take their leave, without giving him details of their mission, in case news leaked out to those of the Tuatha De Danann not sympathetic to humanity.

Baccharus shook their hands in turn. "Then I wish you all well, for you have been the best of companions. We shall meet again before battle is joined."

As the three horses left the melee behind, Church felt sad. Baccharus had proved both a good comrade-in-arms and a friend, despite his difficulty in expressing emotion. But soon the night closed in around them and all thoughts turned to the dangers that lurked beyond the black hedgerows.

The village of Marazion was peaceful in the pale, early morning sunlight. Tom, who had amassed several lifetimes of knowledge, gave them a potted history of the oldest chartered town in Cornwall, its great age marked by the twisty-turny thirteenth-century streets running down to the wide stretch of sandy beach.

Ahead of them, St. Michael's Mount rose up majestically, a throne of stone in the bay bearing the crumbling castle and ancient chapel silhouetted against the sky; it had been the source of dreams for generations. Legends clustered hard around the bulky island, hazy in the morning mist; stories of giants and angels, lovers and redeemers.

Ruth reined in her horse, closed her eyes and put her face up to the sun as she took a deep breath of the cool, soothing air. She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "It's weird. It's only been a matter of weeks, but already it smells different… sweeter."

Church knew what she meant: no traffic fumes, no faint aroma of burning plastics, no hint of the modern world that made all the senses recoil, but that everyone had simply grown to accept. He followed the sweep of golden sands to the break of surf on the edge of the blue sea. "We've got everything here that makes life worth living. So tell me again why we need to go back?"

Tom slid off his mount and tied it to a tree. "Leave the horses. From here, we go on foot. Like pilgrims."

He led them across the dunes to a rough stone causeway. The tide was out so they could walk easily to the Mount. Despite the time of year and the salty sea breeze, it was peculiarly warm, reminding Ruth of the same unseasonal weather she had appreciated at Glastonbury. "I feel safe here," she said.

As they walked, Tom spoke in a dreamy monotone, describing the history and symbolism of the place that now towered over them. The beat and tone of his words made it almost a ritualistic chant, lulling them into deep thoughts born in the dark subconscious.

"In the old Cornish language this place was called Carreg Luz en Kuz, translated as the Hoar Rock in the Wood. In the ancient Celtic language, hoar often refers to a standing stone. There is no standing stone now, but who knows? You now know what the stones mark…" His words were caught by the wind, disappeared. When they picked up his monologue again, he had changed tack. "Once this place was known as Dinsul, or Citadel of the Sun. This is where the wise men of the Celts called up their god of light. There is a very clear tradition of sun worship at this site. Then the cult of St. Michael grew up in the Middle Ages after a vision of the saint filled with light appeared atop the Mount. So the old ways were passed on through the Christian religion where the site became dedicated to St. Michael, a saint who became a symbol associated with light. In the language of symbols, there is no differentiation between the old religion and the new. The same source, different names."

Tom's words had begun to nag at the back of Church's mind; it wasn't just travelogue. "Why are you telling us this?"

Tom ignored him. "Christ, too, another symbol of light, in legend is believed to have landed with his uncle Joseph of Arimathea at St. Michael's Mount before making his way to Glastonbury. He began to sing softly, "`And did those feet, in ancient times…"'

Church glanced at him uneasily. "I said, why are you telling nie this?"

"St. Michael-some writers once described him as the Spirit of Revelation, and that is a fair description," Tom said. "For if he stands for anything, it is this: there are mysteries heaped on mysteries and nothing should be taken at face value. Religions, all religions, are ninety percent politics and ten percent belief. The belief continues eternally, only shaped by the politics to appear this, or that, but it always is as it was. One thing; one belief." Tom took a deep breath. "Old stories," he said with pride; he thought of the Mount's legends of giants in the earth, as there had been at Wandlebury Camp.

"In Cornwall," Tom continued, "there's a legend that St. Michael sleeps beneath the land, waiting to be woken."

Church felt a shiver down his spine as the threads of disparate ancient sto- ties drew together to reveal a pattern behind the chaos. There were similar threads drawing together different religions, all leading back to the same source, though he was sure many worshippers of those faiths would refuse to see the connections. Yet it was all there for anyone who chose to see it. What did it mean, that was the question? Possibly the most important question he would ever have to consider in his life: a pattern behind everything. That was the message that had underpinned every step of his journey around the country since that cold night beneath Albert Bridge.

They reached the end of the causeway. A steep path wound upwards in the shadow of the mount. By the time they were halfway up, they were sweating in the morning heat.

"All these secrets hidden in the earth, buried in old stories, it makes me feel queasy," Ruth said.

"That's because you are being spoken to in the true language of symbols, the ur-language, but you are not yet educated enough to understand it." Tom rested briefly to catch his breath. "Yet your subconscious hears and it grasps the importance, if not the meaning. The signals it sounds out to your forebrain causes conflict, upsetting your equilibrium. Secrets and mysteries-hints at the true universe that lies behind the one you see."

They fell silent, meditating on his words, until they reached the summit and the ancient buildings. Church suddenly felt heady and had to reach out for a wall to support himself.

"You can feel it?" Tom asked.

He could: a tremendous surge of the earth energy, running through every stone, as if the place were an enormous battery. His flesh tingled and there was a corresponding tightness across his chest that eventually eased, to be replaced by euphoria.

"What a rush." Church laughed; he could see Ruth was experiencing it too.

"This is why people take drugs," Tom said, "to attempt to reach this state that they only have a vague race memory of, from the days when their ancestors could manipulate the subtle energies at the ancient sites. But nothing earthly can ever come close to it."

They moved slowly in the long shadows of the castle until they came to an ancient stone cross rising out of the ground. At first glance it was nothing special, but once they drew closer they saw a double swirl of the Blue Fire continually flowing all around it.

"This is where the lines all draw together," Church said. It was so potent he almost felt like kneeling before it.

The mood was broken when, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a dark figure away to his left. He whirled, half drawing the sword, only to see a man dozing in the sun on a low wall, his dog collar just visible beneath a lightweight blue cagoule. He was in his late sixties, his face sun-browned and lined, his hair a shock of white. He stirred, as if Church's gaze had disturbed him, and then jumped to his feet, straightening his clothes with a mixture of embarrassment and anticipation.

Once he had calmed he looked penetratingly into their faces in turn. "Is this it?" he asked with a note of excitement. "Is this the time?"

"It is the time," Tom said, stepping forward. Church and Ruth looked at him curiously.

"That's a relief, you know. After all that waiting and waiting. Of course, when I saw the signs… the failure of technology and all that… I supposed it must be the time. But when the message has been lying around for hundreds of years… longer, of course… it's difficult to believe it's actually going to happen in your lifetime." His cheeks coloured at the realisation that he was rambling. He held out a cautious hand and greeted them in turn. "I'm Michael." He smiled at what some would have considered a coincidence. "Watchman of St. Michael's Mount." He paused. "Chief Watchman, of this time, and this land. There. That seems so odd to say, after thirty years of never being able to say it to anybody. When the obligation was first passed to me, it felt such an honour… the mysteries that were opened to me!.. and I can honestly say that has never diminished with time." He stared into Church's face so deeply Church felt uncomfortable. "Is this the one?"

"It is," Tom replied.

"Yes. I can see it. In his eyes, always in the eyes. The one good man." He cupped Church's right hand in both of his. "May God go with you, my boy." Then he did the most curious thing: he dropped to his knee and gently kissed Church's hand.

Ruth, who had been watching the scenario intently, inexplicably grew angry. "What's going on here?" she snapped.

Church looked around puzzled. "That's a very good question."

"It's time, Jack." There was a strange cast to Tom's face that Church had not seen before, and it took him a second or two to realise what it was: Tom's features were unguarded; completely open.

Church was a little disturbed by this out-of-character intensity. "What do you mean?"

"Time to tell you something I've been keeping a secret ever since I've known you. A big secret."

Church thought of the Celtic dead talking of the traitor in their midst and his hand instinctively went to the sword.

Tom smiled and shook his head, as if he knew exactly what Church was thinking. "A big secret, Jack," he said softly. "So big you might not be able to take it all in. From the very beginning, this has all been about you, more than anything. You're on a journey to enlightenment. You think you've been doing one thing, but instead you've been doing this." He took a deep breath; there was a faint tremor in his voice. "You need to gain illumination for what lies ahead, to prepare you for the next step. The biggest step of all. There will be a long period of trial, but after that..

"So what are you saying? That he's some kind of Messiah?" Fury waiting to burst forth was buried in Ruth's voice.

"That's a particularly stupid way of putting it," Tom said sharply.

"But it's essentially true." There were tears in her eyes. What is she thinking? Church wondered.

Tom dismissed Ruth with a curt wave of his hand and turned to Church. "Jack, you have died and been reborn. You have the essence of the gods in your veins. You are the next step."

Church felt sick; his head was spinning and he couldn't breathe as the full weight of what Tom was saying finally crushed down on him.

"What you are about to embark on is the final stage of your transformation." Tom's words were droning like flies. "This is what the old alchemists were talking about. You, Jack. The transformation of lead into gold was a metaphor for what you are undergoing."

"This was all about nze?"

"The future of humanity, the rising and advancing of our race towards the next stage, depends on you. The prophecy has been with us since the earliest times. In Britain's Darkest Hour, a hero shall arise. You will arise, Jack. You will awaken the land, and through your tribulations you will make the next step of spiritual evolution that will lead humanity from the shadows to-"

"Godhood?"

"Perhaps. The Watchmen were established to help defend the land against incursions by the old gods, but they were also brought together to see this through. To find the one on whom the whole of the future rested, and to help shape him."

"I've been manipulated by the Tuatha De Danann, the Fomorii and now humanity?" Church felt like he was going to be sick. It was too much, both of comprehension and responsibility. And it was stupid! So many people had called him a hero, but he knew what he was like inside: flawed, unsure, conflicted. And now they were trying to thrust all of humanity's future on to his shoulders. Who could cope with that?

"Not manipulated. You had a choice every step of the way. You still have a choice. No one would blame you for turning away from this. But you need to know what rests on your decision."

"Am I going to change?"

"Physically? No, it's much more subtle than that-the great leaps forward always are, at the time. But inside, you will change, and you will wish that change in all humanity. It will move through people like a virus, altering their thought processes, making them look up from the gutters to the stars-"

"It's not fair!" The hurt in Ruth's voice was almost painful. "How can he turn away? Who could throw down that responsibility for selfish reasons?"

She was right. He tried to comfort her, but she was having none of it.

"We just wanted to be together, to appreciate what we've got now, to appreciate life, if we ever sort out this mess we're in. That was always the slim hope that kept us going, but now what you're saying means there's never going to be any rest! Not for Church, who deserves it the most. Not for me."

"Some things are more important-"

"Don't give me that!" Her eyes blazed, and away on the mainland a wind rushed wildly through the trees. Church stealthily signalled to Tom not to anger her further.

"We've all sacrificed so much! We deserve a break!"

He tried to take her in his arms, but she fended him off. "Ruth, it's okay-"

"It's not, Church. It's not okay, and it's never going to be okay. This is like some stupid, sad old story where the heroes go through hardship and end up sacrificing themselves so everybody else can have a good life. It's just not fair!"

Her tears were flowing freely now. She couldn't bear to look at any of them. She wandered away and faced the sea, her head bowed as if she had been struck.

"Why couldn't you tell me all this before?" Church said to Tom.

"You wouldn't have reacted the same way in your trials if you knew they were trials. All your achievements are wholly your own. Your choices were made by your own sense of goodness."

Church rubbed his eyes, overcome by what he had been told. "Baccharus told me the gods were afraid humanity would come up and take their place."

Tom rested a friendly hand on Church's shoulder. "They know. Thousands of years have led to this one point. Millions of variables falling into line. No coincidences, Church. Make no mistake, there are no coincidences. The gods may not have known you were the one, but they knew the whole game was coming to a head-"

"It isn't a game!" His voice broke.

"I'm sorry, that was the wrong word." As Tom shifted, the sun fell behind him so Church could not see his features in the dazzle of light. "But I knew you were the one, Church, from the very first moment I met you. As Michael said, you can see it in the eyes. I knew you were the one, good man."

The note of respect and friendship in his voice brought a swell of emotion in Church. He looked over to Ruth, frail against the rugged surroundings, and he felt both love and sadness at the same time. More than anything he wanted to spend the rest of his days with her, but the obligation was too much. He had no choice. He never had a choice from the moment he was born.

"Ruth."

She ignored him, wrapped her arms a little tighter around herself.

Standing behind her, he hesitated briefly before putting his hands on her waist. "Don't do this."

"Why not? You're going to do it."

"Of course I'm going to do it."

"That's typical of you. No doubt at all." Her voice trembled. "You're throwing us away."

"I'm not going to do that. You're more important to me than anything."

A long pause. "You never said that before."

"There are a lot of things I've not said. I'm not very good at expressing my emotions in words. But I do love you, Ruth."

Another pause, and then she turned slowly and rested her head on his shoulder. "This thing isn't like anything else. It's too big. Christ, the responsibility for leading humanity into the Promised Land!"

"You're mixing your Biblical stories."

She took a deep breath to regain her equilibrium, then cuffed him gently on the shoulder to break the mood. "They'll never let you back after this. It's like the Mafia. You're a Made Man. You don't get out alive."

"I believe things have a way of working themselves out."

"That's a very childish and naive view of existence."

"Sure. What's wrong with that?"

She hugged him tighter, her fingernails biting through his clothes.

"I'll do whatever it takes to make sure I'm with you when all this blows over."

"Cross mighty oceans?"

"Yes."

"Climb the highest mountain?"

"Yes."

"Travel the length of time and scour the universe?"

"Yes and yes."

"You're a lying git, but I love you too." He could feel her tears soaking through his T-shirt. She gave him another playful hit on the arm and then stepped back. "Go on with you, then. Just make sure you're back for lunch."

Tom was sighing loudly and shifting from foot to foot when Church returned to him. He made to speak, but Church silenced him with a jabbed finger. "Don't say a word."

Michael stepped in and motioned towards the chapel. "It's this way."

Church could feel the lines of force buzzing through the soles of his boots; he could have found his way to the destination blindfold.

Outside the chapel door, Michael paused. He looked both unsure and ecstatic. "This is it, then?"

Tom took Michael's hand and shook it firmly. "Well done. You've discharged your duty well. The long watch is over."

"Well, I don't quite know what I'll do with my time."

"Be patient. And pray to your God for success."

Tom slapped him on the shoulder to send him on his way back to Ruth before stepping into the chapel with Church at his heel. Inside it was cool and dark, filled with the ages-old smell of damp stone.

"What am I going to find?" Church asked.

"You'll know when you get there."

"You're a great bloody help, aren't you?"

The very air was charged with the earth energy; from the corner of his eye, Church could see blue sparks, like stardust.

"There are realities upon realities," Tom said. "You can't rely on anything you see, hear, smell, touch, taste. But that's always been the way. The only thing that matters is what's in here." He levelled his fist at Church's heart.

"Nothing is fixed in the Fixed Lands," Church said, repeating the words that had haunted his thoughts.

"Exactly. There are realities that may not be to your taste." He was looking at Church in such a strange way it was troubling; Church tried to make sense of the unease he saw behind Tom's eyes, but it wouldn't come; something else the Rhymer wasn't telling him. "Sour realities. Pinched and mean. Places where there are none of the values that make life worth living-friendship, love, honour and dignity. Where there is only power and greed and money. You don't have to accept them, Jack. Wish the world better. Everything is illusion. You just have to wish hard enough to shape it."

He looked as if he was about to hug Church, but he caught himself at the last. In the end he stepped aside and pointed to a small stone stairway not far from the altar.

"What's down there?"

"A tomb about nine foot square cut out of the rock. In 1275 the monks here came across the bones of a man eight feet tall. A giant."

"Who was he?"

"Not important."

"The place is important?"

He nodded.

"Are you coming with me?"

"No. This is something you have to do alone."

Church sighed, tried to force a smile but it wouldn't come. Without another word, he put his foot on the first step.