The Age of Ra

39. Courtdene

A blustery summer afternoon on the south coast of England. A pebble beach beleaguered by the Channel, wind-whisked waves rising and lapsing against the breakwaters. A triptych of warships — frigate, destroyer, frigate — steaming from east to west, their grey silhouettes perched right on the horizon line, as though sailing on a knife-edge.

David stood at the midpoint of the mile-long strand, staring off into the distance. At his back rose the chalk cliff that denoted the southern boundary of the family estate. In front of him, at his toes, was the beach's high tide mark, sketched in skeins of dried-out bladderwrack. The wind buffeted him. He shivered inside his jacket. It wasn't at all a cold day, not by British standards, but he'd spent the past few weeks in far hotter climes and his skin had thinned as well as tanned.

He observed the warships' progress, and the mirroring glide of the clouds above. British navy vessels, out of Chatham, bound for the Bay of Biscay. Once assembled there with the rest of the Osirisiac fleet, they would be heading down to the Gulf of Guinea to engage with the Horusites. It was already being heralded as one of the greatest sea battles of all time, a clash that would make the fracas in the Aegean look like model boats bumping into one another on a park pond.

Horus in direct conflict with his own parents.

Under any other circumstances, David might have found that amusing.

He was in the country for just a week, here on a false passport that a friend of a friend of Zafirah's had whipped up. He'd come to visit his parents, gather up a few personal belongings and go. He'd phoned ahead, rather than turn up unannounced, and consequently his father was not at Courtdene. Jack Westwynter was making a point of not being there for that period, electing to board at his London club instead. David's mother, on the other hand, had stayed, and spent the time roaming the corridors of the house, alternately trying to be helpful and trying to talk David out of leaving.

''We've only just got you back,'' pleaded Cleo Westwynter at one point, holding out his monogrammed hairbrush for him to put in his suitcase. ''Back from the dead. Can't you stay a little longer?''

He told her he couldn't. She must see that. He just couldn't. If nothing else, the surname Westwynter was not a comfortable one to have in England at present. The family cartouche had lost its cachet. A Moscow newspaper had unearthed certain facts about the Lightbringer's true identity, embellished them as only a newspaper could, and generated a scandal that had spread across the world. Stock in AW Games had dropped sharply, and David's father was constantly under siege from reporters wanting to know what he thought of his younger son and indeed his older son, who was alleged to have aided and abetted the Lightbringer. Jack Westwynter disavowed his children as vehemently as possible. ''If one could legally divorce one's own offspring,'' he told one journalist, ''I bloody well would.''

There would be no rapprochement, David knew that. Nobody could hold a grudge quite like his dad could, and besides, the man's anger was justified. Steven and David had done nothing but bring shame on the family. It was regrettable, but it was also irremediable. Everyone would simply have to live with it.

David was about to turn and head for the set of concrete steps that climbed the cliff face when he caught sight of someone making their way along the beach towards him. It was an old man dressed in a shabby long-coat and carrying something bundled to his chest. It was only when he saw the bundle writhe that David realised it was alive. Some kind of small animal. A cat.

The man puffed laboriously over the pebbles. Now and then he missed his footing, and pebbles would tumble against one with a sound like the clatter of castanets, and the cat, startled, would tighten its claw-grip on his coat.

David decided to wait and say hello to the man as he passed. After all, they were alone on the beach, the only two people within sight. It would be impolite simply to walk off.

In the event, the old man got in first with a greeting. ''Lovely day for a stroll!'' he called out.

''A little bracing for my liking,'' David replied.

''Oh, I don't mind a bit of a chill,'' the old man said. ''I'm always warm inside.''

He had olive skin, a Mediterranean complexion, and a hint of an accent, although David couldn't pinpoint what country the accent belonged to. He also had one eye that was much paler than its counterpart. Its iris was so mistily pale, in fact, that David wondered if the man didn't have a cataract. Partial albinism, at least, if there was such a thing. As for the cat, it was delicately slender, with a smooth, light-brown pelt that showed just a hint of tabby stripes. The man halted beside David and set the animal down at his feet. The cat yowled plaintively, then set to washing itself.

''Unusual,'' David said. ''Taking a cat for a walk.''

''Ah, can't bear to be parted from her. She comes with me everywhere, don't you, Bast?''

At the sound of her name, the cat glanced up, blinked at the old man, then carried on with her ablutions.

''Bast,'' said David. ''If I had a penny for every cat I'd met called that.''

''Apologies for the lack of originality,'' the old man said genially. ''I like to think this one, though, has a special connection with the feline goddess.''

''If I had a penny for every time I'd heard that too.''

''Ha! Yes.'' The old man glanced out to sea, eyeing the warships, which had by now almost disappeared from view past the next headland. His face grew sombre. ''There they go,'' he said. ''Bad business. Another few thousand young men and women destined for the seabed. And nothing will come of it, you mark my words. After the battle's over, nothing will have changed. More warships will be built to replace the ones lost. More young men and women will volunteer to man — and indeed woman — them. The cycle will go on. It's sad. So sad.''

David grunted.

''You don't agree?''

''Huh? No. No, I do. Very much so. It's futile, utterly futile. Achieves nothing. But you have to be philosophical. This is how it's always going to be. Unless we can tell the gods to bugger off and leave us alone, this is the future, for all time. We'll keep fighting in their name, killing each other with their ba. I can't foresee an end to it.''

''I can,'' said the old man. ''Or at least, I hope I can. It may not seem that way right now, but I honestly believe a change is coming. I have grounds for optimism.''

''I wish I did.''

''Not that long ago, you see, one man stood up and led a rebellion. You know who I'm talking about, of course.''

David half laughed. ''I have a fairly shrewd idea.''

The old man looked at him sidelong. ''Thought you might. And although this man turned out to be a charlatan, and the poor people who followed him just a bunch of well-meaning dupes, he nonetheless proved a point.''

''He did? And what was it? There's a sucker born every minute?''

''He proved that it was possible. Possible to stand up and tell the gods to, as you so decorously put it, bugger off. Possible to do that and have a significant number of others fall in line behind him.''

''But he was a fake. An opportunist. They're also saying he was a Setic stooge. The Setics set him up as a patsy, then shot him down once he'd done what they needed him to.''

''Maybe so,'' said the old man. ''But, for all that, he got a message out to the world. And perhaps someone, somewhere, has heard that message and been inspired by it. Perhaps, even as we speak, there's a young man, a young woman, who's seen what the Lightbringer stood for, not what he was, and is thinking, 'Yes, I understand. I refuse to be dictated to by the gods.' And that person will gather like-minded individuals around them, and another revolution will begin. A quieter, non-violent one this time. The kind of revolution that has a chance of success precisely because nobody has to die to promote it. A movement that spreads via word of mouth rather than the sound of a gun. And gradually, but in increasing numbers, people will turn their backs on the Pantheon, until a time will come when the gods have no more power here and there will be peace.''

''You're quite the dreamer, aren't you?''

''I am. Oh, that I am. But my feeling is, if I say this sort of thing to enough people, spread a message of my own, then I'm doing my bit. With every stranger I speak to, such as yourself, I'm helping pave the way for this other revolution to happen.''

''You do this a lot, then?''

''All the time now, my friend. All the time. It has become my vocation. Once I was quite an important chap, you know. Held high office. But I gave that up to become this. A wanderer. A traveller. From king of the earth to king of the road, you might say.''

David grinned. ''I could spin you a similar yarn. About giving up status.''

''Tell me, did you do it for a good cause too?''

''I thought so. The first time. I'm sort of doing it again now, and this time I know it's for a good cause.''

''Love?''

''How did you guess?''

The old man tapped his forehead. ''I'm smart. And, you have that look about you. It's in your eyes. You're seeing beyond that horizon over there. You're seeing something — someone — far away. And that's where your heart lies.''

''Couple of days and I'll be back there. Freegypt.''

''Freegypt? Fine place to be. Been meaning to visit it myself again, one day.''

''Again?''

''Oh, I was there. Long time ago. Before you were born. If I could call anywhere home, that's it.''

''Maybe we'll run into each other there, sometime.''

''That would be nice, I think.''

''I'm down Luxor way.''

''I like Luxor.''

Bast the cat let out an impatient meow.

''All right, little one, all right,'' the old man said, picking her up and stroking her. ''Let's move on then, if you insist. No manners, cats,'' he said to David. ''They do as they please. Mind you, they let you do the same. They don't judge. They don't make demands. That's why I like them.''

He held out a hand to David.

''Nice chatting with you,'' he said, as David grasped and shook it. ''And don't forget what I said. It's not hopeless. This age we're in — the age of Ra, I suppose you could call it — it won't last. The time has to come when an age of wisdom and clarity takes over, an age of Reason. We just have to keep hoping and trying, and it will happen.''

He shuffled away, petting his cat. David watched him and watched him till he was a dot at the far end of the beach.

He didn't know what to make of the encounter, or of the man himself. Crazy tramp with delusions of having been some sort of dignitary once? Eccentric ex-dignitary with delusions of being a tramp? Who could say?

The wind continued to bluster and the waves to crash, and the glitter of sunlight on the sea deepened from platinum to gold. David kept wanting to turn and head for the house, but his feet seemed entrenched in the pebbles, stuck fast. The tide crawled in. The day ebbed.

Soon the sky was red and the sun was setting.

David thought of Ra on his barge, and Set slaying Apophis.

And then, with an effort, but not a great one, he banished the thought.

And the sun went down like…

… like…

… like the sun going down.