The Burning Man

4

Across rolling green downs and rushing white-foamed rivers, up steep boulder-strewn hills and over sweeping barren moors, Hunter carried Laura, fighting exhaustion, focusing on the horizon, driving one foot relentlessly in front of the other. Slow, laborious, wearing progress. Many times he felt he would fall to his knees and never get up again, but still he kept going. Even though there was not the slightest sign of life; nor was there any hint of a real, abiding death; and so he had hope.

‘Nearly there,’ he whispered. It had become his mantra, repeated too many times to count, although for all he knew they were a thousand miles away from their destination.

Finally the landscape gave way to a barren region where it appeared there had been a great fire. Charcoal trees sprouted from scorched earth peppered with blackened rocks. The air smelled like the industrial zone of a great city.

Tying his handkerchief across his mouth, he descended a slope that ended on the banks of a river of blood. To weary to be shocked, he followed it upstream to a sprawling white marble building: the Court of the Final Word.

Filled with relief, he found the energy to run the last few yards to the imposing doors, where he hammered furiously.

The doors were flung open by a startled, golden-skinned youth in red robes and a red skullcap. A red surgical mask hung from his neck. Behind him, more of the red-robed Tuatha De Danann moved with frantic purpose, carrying trays of strange implements, disappearing through doors into the bowels of the court.

‘Begone, Fragile Creature,’ the youth said angrily, before catching himself. He peered into Hunter’s face. Whatever he saw there prompted him to turn and hurry into the depths of the building.

Hunter staggered in and yelled, ‘I need help here! And if I don’t get it I’m going to start breaking things.’

The youth returned at a clip accompanied by an elderly man with an aquiline nose and an aristocratic face. He gave a curt bow. ‘Brother of Dragons, forgive any disrespect. I am Dian Cecht. This is my court. In our defence, these are difficult times. How may I be of service?’

Hunter held Laura out. ‘She’s hurt … could be dying. I was told you might be able to help.’

Dian Cecht eyed Laura. ‘She has the mark of one of my brothers upon her.’

‘You’ve got to help,’ Hunter urged. ‘Whatever it takes.’

Dian Cecht smiled but gave nothing away. He conducted a cursory examination of Laura. ‘I cannot say for certain that there is anything I can do. And if there is, there may well be a severe price to pay.’

‘Whatever. Just help her.’

This appeared to please Dian Cecht. He nodded to the youth, who took Laura and carried her carefully into the court.

‘You are weary, Brother of Dragons. You need rest, food.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘It will not help the Sister of Dragons if you fall sick yourself. I will arrange for you to be taken to the rest quarters where you will be given sustenance. To such an esteemed guest, all is offered freely and without obligation.’

‘Tell me the minute you know something.’

Dian Cecht clapped his hands and the nearest Tuatha De Danann put down the tray he was carrying and guided Hunter into a white marble room with crystal-clear water running in a channel from a spout in one wall. There was a low couch with sumptuous cushions. The god went away to fetch food and drink, but by the time he returned Hunter was fast asleep.

Dreams came in force, and he hadn’t dreamed for a long time. They were hallucinatory, as if every image stored up since his first kill had been released as one, shouting and stamping their feet for attention, desperate to be set free. Though there was no clear narrative, he could pick meaning from the fires and the bones, the ravens and the single beacon glowing away in the dark that he could never reach.

He awoke slowly, fighting for freedom, to discover Dian Cecht sitting on a stool, studying him dispassionately.

‘What have you found?’ Hunter asked blearily.

‘She is gone,’ Dian Cecht replied.

Those three words took all the hope out of Hunter’s life.