Buried Fire (19 page)

Tom and Stephen made their way along the course of the hill-stream, hopping from stone to stone, clambering across the tumbled boulders which were embedded in the long grass of the bank. Never, along all the meandering course of the stream, no matter how rocky the ground, did they stray further than three or four paces from the water's edge. Stephen led the way, Tom following, adjusting his balance to accommodate the spear which he carried in his right hand.

The sunlight of the afternoon no longer penetrated to the depths of the gully, and the steep walls of the Wirrim above were suffused with brown and blue. Somewhere high above, where the light still turned the grass golden and the air was hazy and indistinct, the footpath from Fordrace ran west to High Raise. Tom and Stephen shadowed its route, in the coolness of the gully, moving as swiftly as they were able, pausing here and there to check the skyline.

Once only Stephen had halted.

"There."

Up on the right, away ahead of them, where the incline was less steep than average, they saw a movement – a series of movements – near the hill brow. Tom caught a flash of colour, a glimpse of a little line of stick people moving slowly in single file before they disappeared around some turn in the path.

"It's them, all right," said Stephen.

"Did you see—?"

"I didn't see anyone. Clearly, I mean. But they're there. I felt them."

Stephen did not say what he had felt. Even as he had sensed his brother, he had felt a response, quick and precise, which had surveyed him in his turn and then drawn back.

'He knows,' he thought. 'I shouldn't be coming. But there isn't anything else I can do.'

Ahead of them, the slope of the stream quickly steepened, forcing itself down between great slabs of rock which had fallen from the crags above. The temperature of the valley was cold now, the air around the cascading stream especially so. They stopped beside a vast rectangular boulder, half covered in damp moss, and considered the position.

"We've got two choices," said Stephen, who had explored this way on several occasions in the past. "One is, we head to the left of the stream, which leads up into the crag – that takes us as straight for the Pit as makes no odds and we'll come out a hundred yards or so from its lip. The other is," he paused, and shielded his eyes against the spear-blue light above the hilltop, "to head right. The way up is easier, and we'll hit the path soon enough, but then we'll have to follow it along the level towards the Pit, and we'll be on the skyline."

Tom grunted, scanning the austere face of the crag. It was deeply incised with great cracks and weathered screes. "How easy is it to climb the crag?"

"Difficult, not impossible. We were always warned it was too dangerous. One time Michael and I gave it a go, but we only got halfway, to where that scree starts, and we gave up. It was getting dark."

Tom made a face. "It gets us close to the Pit."

"Without being seen. I'd say we should do it."

"Then let's not waste time."

They crossed the stream. On a whim, Tom trailed the black, misshapen tip of his spear in the churning water. As they began to negotiate the tumble of stones at the foot of the crag, he looked back down the gully. Light was already draining out of it, while above them, sharp and pale, the sky showed eggshell blue. Traces of water glinted on the spear.

No trace had been found of any of the missing. Mr Cleever's door hung open, the window beside it smashed. Across the green, the entrance to the grocer's shop was gaping, villagers congregating on the pavement outside. Two car-loads of tourists, approaching from the direction of the A-road, slowed at the sight of the milling throng, took in the broken glass, the angry faces, and drove off fast. Joe Vernon emerged from Mr Cleever's hallway, blinking in the sunlight. He walked out onto the grass, to be surrounded by the excited crowd, anxious for a new clue before their collective daring drained.

Mrs Gabriel, who had refused to enter either building, had been speaking with Lew Potter, who had not. She turned to Joe.

"Mr Vernon. Lewis has reported what he has seen inside Mr Cleever's house. Images and engravings of evil things."

"Hardly that, Mrs Gabriel—" Joe's voice trailed off. He had been brought up at Fordrace, and even for him, aspects of the ancient sites of the Wirrim carried uneasy connotations.

"There is no doubt about it," she said, and Joe realised that the group was giving all its attention to her. "His obsession with dark things is all too clear."

"But he's not to be found," said Joe. "They've gone, and we don't know where."

"I think I do," said a tall gaunt woman, Mrs Plover from the Post Office. "Mr Cleever collects parcels sometimes, and letters, addressed to Mr Hardraker. Since the old man died, Mr Cleever has been his executor: he collects the post which builds up once in a while, signs for them, and takes them off. He still spends time up at the farm, he told me; he's going to put it on the market when the prices are more beneficial."

The crowd gave a mutter, whether of gratitude, eagerness or uncertainty, Joe Vernon could not tell.

"Well then!" One of the young men flourished his stick in the air. "To the Hardraker farm it is. We'll take our cars and see who we can root out. Come on!"

The crowd split into several knots, running towards their vehicles. Joe Vernon and Mrs Gabriel were left on the Green, Joe rubbing his wrist in indecision, Mrs Gabriel standing silent, brows furrowed, as if trying to remember something she had long forgotten.

"We seem to be the only ones who haven't got a lift," he said at last. "Would you care for a ride in a police car, Mrs Gabriel?"

The band of stone is broken.

(Time suggests itself once more. The pin-prick flares to an acorn's size, to that of a large pebble. At the centre is a white heat. It glows in response to the movement it senses, away and above, but growing closer. And to an intent which it recognises as its own.

The earth has grown deep now, compacted through millennia, yet the flame, though weak, remembers.) Men dying but among them a white arm raised, unburning, though the sky itself was scorched and a force closed in, squeezing the scales till they burst and buckled with the pain of it. Men died but among them, one man laughed as the earth rose, shutting out the light and the circle of stone lay like a dead weight all around. (So the worm reminds itself of the age with which it has been forgotten. Time impinges on its brain. Impatience flares. In the fiery heart of the blackness, it feeds quickly on its rage, and the heat grows stronger.)

The way up the crag was easy enough at first; an old scree, turfed over, which rose by gradually steepening increments, until it met the true rock face almost halfway to the top of the bluff. Thereafter, a series of irregular cracks and chimneys in the stone allowed Tom and Stephen to continue the climb, but the going was slow and difficult, particularly for Tom, who was carrying the spear.

Stephen was thankful for one thing. The crag bulged to their right, cutting off all view of the top of the gully, where the true path ran. The vulnerability he had felt earlier faded, and he was able to concentrate on the practicalities of the climb.

After half an hour, he passed the point where he and Michael had given up their ascent. The going was tougher here, but by no means impossible, although the rock was brittle and occasionally treacherous. Once or twice, he took the spear from Tom to enable him to negotiate a tricky stretch. Each time, he felt the reluctance of Tom to part with it, and noticed how swiftly he took it back when the difficulty was over.

It's becoming part of him, he thought, and for a moment tried to recapture the picture of Sarah's Tom that he had known – was it two or three days ago? But that image seemed frail; it faded almost as he thought of it, to be replaced with the harder, more determined man scrabbling against the rock six foot below him. Sarah won't recognise you now, boyo, Stephen thought, and addressed himself to the next stretch.

A little way ahead, the rocks became slippery with water, which dribbled from a narrow fissure in the cliff. After warning Tom to take care, Stephen negotiated the wet stone until he was level with the opening. A sudden cry made Tom lift his head and squint upwards.

"What is it? What's happened."

"The water. Get yourself up here, Tom. Quick. And I can smell it as well."

Tom drew himself up. "What is it? Good Lord, that's sulphur."

"Yes, and feel the water."

"Warm!"

"Put your hand against the rock of the opening. Just inside the hole. Feel it?"

"Yes – the rock's warm."

"And this is right against the open air. There's something very hot in there."

They looked at each other for a moment. Tom said, "How much further to the top, do you think?"

"Not too far. You can see we're higher than much of the spur. The Pit can't be too much beyond that break in the rocks, though it's difficult to judge."

"When we get there—"

"We'll lie low and wait for our moment. There's no point in planning it. We don't know what—Christ!"

A short scream of despair sounded above them against the sky, then floated down the gully, echoing off the rocks on either side.

Tom's eyes were dark and staring. "That was Sarah," he whispered.

"You don't know that."

"Who else would it be? My God, I need your strength!" He sprang up against the cliff, and began to climb frantically, levering himself over hanging slabs, and gripping the spear with three fingers of his right hand.

"Go carefully, for heaven's sake!" Stephen set off in his wake, clambering as swiftly as he could, but all the time, in leaps and bounds, the straining figure above him drew further away.

Only another hour had passed, but to Michael, whose arms throbbed with pain and whose head was bowed, it had seemed an endless stretch. He had borne the chariot along the last section, across the undulating grassy spaces of High Raise, and though the sky spread wide above him, the air was stiflingly close. Sweat dropped from his face into the dust of the path. His palms were red and chafed – blisters were formed at the base of his fingers. At length a daze had come upon him; his sight changed, turning the earth to glass and opening a gulf beneath his stumbling feet. The sounds of the air were fading; with every step, he seemed to fall a little deeper. A distant noise came to his ears, a whisper carried along the tide of the rocks. He listened, but his blood beat too strongly in his head and drowned the whisper out.

"Michael." A voice. A hand on his arm.

"We've arrived," said Mr Cleever. "You can stop now. Take some water. You've done very well."

Michael took the bottle and drank. His whole body was wracked. For a minute or two, he could only stand and stare dumbly out in front of him; figures with lizard heads passed across his gaze, and the sky was an angry red.

Then he grew aware of his surroundings. They were at the lip of the hollow, where the ground was flecked with harebell, and a boy had woken blinded three long days before. The chariot was resting against the gorse at the side of the path; its occupant facing the Wirrinlow with its chin against its chest. The others sat or stood upon the path, each absorbed in their own thirst, taking focused gulps from the bottles in their rucksacks and studiously ignoring the sunken ground beyond.

Sarah was standing on the other side of the chariot. Mr Cleever, with his back to her, had taken too hearty a gulp and was coughing heavily. All of a sudden, she began to run, away from the hollow back down the path, her bound hands held tight against her side, her feet slipping on the stones. Vanessa Sawcroft gave a warning cry, Mr Cleever turned, and a column of flame erupted from the dirt track just ahead of Sarah, who screamed and fell back into the dirt. The column of fire dropped, and was gone. Mr Cleever walked heavily down the track and helped Sarah to her feet. Wordlessly, he escorted her back to the party and signalled a place for her. She sat there weeping, and Michael addressed himself to the last drops of water in his bottle.

After several minutes, Mr Cleever was refreshed, and went to stand on a sizeable stone overlooking the Wirrinlow. He took from his pocket a folded piece of paper, which he studied carefully, checking it regularly against the lay of the land below. The others waited in silence. Michael felt the tension radiate from all sides. High above, some white clouds were blown rapidly north-south along the line of the Wirrim, but down here the air hung heavily and still.

A sudden image of Sarah came into Michael's head, unwanted and unasked for. She was standing in the kitchen of the cottage, smiling at him. He shook it away with a frown, and went to stand beside Mr Cleever.

"What do we do?" he asked.

Mr Cleever's eyes were half-shut; they looked out unblinking across the hollow.

"Yes," he said, as if he had not heard. "It is the right time. I can feel it, an imminence, all about us. And I am the first to feel this in as many centuries as you can count, Michael my boy. All those others whom the dragon embraced here, they all had the key to it under their noses and failed to find it. Their time has passed and fallen away on the wind. Now it is my time, and what beauty there is in it! That the old enemy should enclose the key to our victory in the very stone he used to trap our master! That the powers which he used to constrict, we should now use to release!"

He laughed and turning away from the hollow, signalled to the others to approach him. Paul Comfrey got up from where he crouched, nursing his bottle, and walked over. Michael saw fear in his eyes, and used the sight. Comfrey's soul – half-dragon, half-vole – was trembling. Its edges fluctuated, and the pale green surface jittered nervously. In contrast, Vanessa Sawcroft and Geoffrey Pilate's souls were inky dark and as sluggish as treacle. Mr Cleever's was jet black, with the hard confidence of granite.

"Keep an eye on the girl," Vanessa Sawcroft said. "We don't want her running away from us now."

"She won't," said Mr Cleever gaily. "She's tied in with the fate of things now! Can't you feel it? We won't leave the hilltop, any one of us, until this thing is done."

And Michael did feel it. A great pressure hung over them, as if a distant storm was coming, and it seemed to bear them down to the earth. The weight of it told in their eyes.

"My friends," said Mr Cleever, for all the world as if he were addressing a parish meeting, "I don't mind telling you I'm nervous. We're all nervous, because of what will come. But there is no point in waiting. We know why we must do this, and we know the rewards. The dangers we also know. The people of the village are stirring against us. Even now, they may be searching for some sign – of us, or Miss MacIntyre – ready to threaten us out of fear and ignorance. Well, within the hour, they will be nothing more than beasts in the field to us, nothing but cattle. Our time has come.

"Listen to me carefully. I shall speak with mouth and soul." His audience gathered closer. Michael loosened his defences, and saw a mental picture appear of the diagram on Mr Cleever's paper.

"The cross carried the essential pattern on it," Mr Cleever said. Between us, we shall recreate the pattern, and summon the master from his sleep. The carvings in the stone represent the Four Gifts. On the right arm is the eye – the First Gift. That shall be Paul's responsibility. The symbol on the shaft represents the Second Gift – Geoffrey, you have always been good at that: you shall conjure fire. The opposite, uppermost symbol, that is levitation – the Third Gift. Vanessa, if you would. I shall undertake the Fourth – the power of mind, represented by the head. We shall stand in a circle . . . Michael, do you mind?"

"I'm sorry." Into Michael's mind unbidden had come an image of his mother, more clearly visual than any he could remember. Where . . .? It had distracted him, and Mr Cleever's razor sensitivity had noticed the slackening of attention.

"To continue." Mr Cleever brought the diagram back into focus. "We shall stand in the circle, and call forth these gifts at a given moment, using them to our utmost. Each has its role. The First shall see the dragon, the Second will awaken it, the Third will remind it of the joys of movement, and the Fourth shall summon it. All those impulses we will direct to the centre of the circle. At that centre shall be Mr Hardraker and Michael. Michael – listen carefully."

"Yes." Another picture had sought to break through his concentration, but Michael had thrust it away without being aware of its contents. He brought all his mind to bear on the implications of Mr Cleever's words.

"Mr Hardraker is the sump or storehouse of all our power, but he cannot use it without a trigger. The four of us will provide that trigger. Michael, who has the greatest raw energy, the greatest range of movement – you, Michael – must encompass the power that will erupt from Mr Hardraker, and direct it."

"Direct it, where?" Michael's voice was weak; he remembered his last encounter with Mr Hardraker's power.

"Downwards. Into the ground. We shall split the earth and bring the dragon forth. He is deep, but not too deep – and we could break the hill in two if necessary, and create a gap running from Fordrace to the Chettons!" He laughed again, and the image flickered.

"I'm not sure," said Michael, "that I could handle all that power."

"You are simply the conduit," said Mr Cleever. "It shall pass through you, providing you direct it. You are strong enough, believe me. If you don't direct it, well . . . there would be problems, of course. But I have confidence in you, Michael. You are a special man."

Michael felt the others' resentment and was gratified. "I'll do it," he said.

"What about the girl?" said Vanessa Sawcroft. Sarah was sitting several feet away with her legs drawn up, watching them with wild eyes.

"Well," said Mr Cleever. "I think Miss MacIntyre should sit within the circle. Out of harm's way. Once the thing is done, she can go where she wishes."

That was what Michael heard. In the others' heads, Cleever's voice whispered something more:
'Since we're lumbered with her, I think we may as well put her to good use. Just in case our master requires any special encouragement. He must be hungry, after all.''

For a second, Michael was aware of a slight break in the mental pictures Mr Cleever was sending him, as if something was being edited out. He tried to navigate round the barrier, but then it was gone, and the picture of the cross diagram returned. A flicker of annoyance, which he quickly disguised, flared through him. What had he missed?

He shook his head, and the irrelevance fled.

"What happens then?" said Paul Comfrey. "Pardon me, but we need to know."

"We cannot know!" Mr Cleever gripped both Comfrey's thin shoulders and squeezed them reassuringly. "That is the peril and beauty of it! But think of sinking into the endless blackness of Joseph's old age, and tell me which is the better option. Eh, Paul? Exactly."

"I shall get out the things." Vanessa turned to her rucksack. Cleever nodded.

"We've brought some quartz brooches and flint knives," he said. "They may help to harness the power. Just a guess. Quartz and flint appear in some old stories, and it won't hurt to have them on us. Paul, take the poles off the chariot. We'll carry the chair down on its own. Michael, come with me."

He moved off to the edge of the depression, and ran down the grassy bank. Michael followed slowly.

At the very centre, Cleever stopped, and crouching, pressed his palm flat against the grass, motioning Michael to do the same. Michael did so; the afternoon coolness of the grass met his skin, and then a faint warmth, almost undetectable, rising up from the soil beneath.

"He's ready," Mr Cleever whispered.

Straightening, his voice thick with excitement, he called over to the others. "Come on, damn you! Paul, get those poles off, or I'll burn your hide. Miss MacIntyre, down here please!"

He marched away, and left Michael standing. All of a sudden, Michael knew Stephen was close. He sensed a movement, a rapid reconnaissance, darting out in Cleever's wake. Somewhere nearby . . . Where? In the rocks of the crag perhaps, or in the gorse . . . The fool! He had told him to stay clear. It was lucky the probing thought was too weak for Cleever to notice in his current state, but that luck would run out soon enough.

'Go away.'

He framed the thought with deliberate care, directing it out over the rim of the Wirrinlow towards the East. A delicate thought, barely audible; even so, he shuddered as he glanced over at Cleever, who with Pilate was straining to carry the Hardraker chair down the slope.

'Go away. Or you'll die. I told you.'

The thought that returned, whether through intention or inability, was very weak. 'You have to stop this.'

'Get lost. They'll sense you and kill you.'

'What do you think they are doing with Sarah?'

'Go away, or I'll kill you myself. I won't let you compromise—'

"Michael!"

Oh no . . . "Mr Cleever?"

"Geoffrey and I need your help. Mr Hardraker's weight is too much for us here. We're at the epicentre of his power."

Michael was sweating uncontrollably as he ran over to the edge of the hollow. The shrivelled face of Joseph Hardraker had grown animated. It twitched all over with a sort of current.

"Take this side," said Cleever. "And use the Third if you have to. We're too close to split hairs."

The three closed on the chair and gripped. Michael smelt a strong odour – a mix of scented talcum powder and minerals. He wanted to be sick, but turned his mind to the effort of lifting. Only by all three directing the Third Gift upon the chair, did it consent to leave the ground. Michael suspected that at the present moment he would have had difficulty lifting either one of the frail wrists from the desiccated lap. Together, almost running in their desire to be rid of the burden, they guided the chair across to the centre of the Wirrinlow.

"Which way should he face?" Pilate asked.

"Doesn't matter. No, let him face me . . . align him roughly towards the west – that's it."

"The ground's hot!" exclaimed Pilate. "I can feel it through my shoes."

"Vanessa, bring the baubles over. Hand them out."

"Does it matter who has what?"

"Any will do. Give me that brooch. Michael, fix this on Mr Hardraker's clothes. Take this knife. You won't need it, but the stone blade comes from the earth of the Wirrinlow."

"Where do we stand?"

"Are we doing it now?"

"Where's the girl? Oh, I see her. Geoffrey, fetch her down. She can stand by Michael and Joseph. Right, Paul, you've got your stone? Good. You're to be opposite me. I'll be over on this side, twenty paces from the centre. I'll measure it out with the string. Michael, hold this end and stay here."

Michael stood by the chair, and pivoted the string, as the others began to align themselves in position. Sarah was brought into the circle. Her eyes glinted defiantly as Pilate motioned her to sit a little way from Michael's feet.

"Watch her," said Pilate, and turned his back.

Michael looked her over, sensed her readiness to run, to attack, to escape, and shrugged. Once he had gained his full power he might grant her mercy. Until then, she could wait. Somewhere inside him, a half-formed doubt cried out, but then some of the countless wrongs he had suffered at Sarah's hands came back to him and he crushed the doubt back down. He turned his attention to the others. They were a bedraggled lot, all hot and dirty from the day's climb; one pale and wounded, the rest flushed with apprehension. The sun was dropping swiftly now towards the west, and their shadows threaded long across the grass. Michael looked over towards the rocks to the east, but saw nothing, and his quick mind scan picked up no trace of his recalcitrant brother.

A thin unfamiliar voice beside him. 'If he meddles, he will die.'