Darkhenge (2 page)

Dan was propped against the wooden fence opposite; nervously he straightened. “Be careful!” As if he'd just remembered this was the place the accident had been.

“Where is she?” Rob gasped.

“Who?”

“The girl on the horse.”

Dan looked at him in disbelief. Then he said, “What horse?”

There was no horse. It was quite obvious, and it terrified him. On each side the downs were wide open and empty, the rain raking the crop. The road ran visible for at least a mile. Even the tourists had scattered from the downpour.

He could see the whole world.

There was no horse.

Dan was looking at him unhappily. “You okay?” His voice was subdued. “We shouldn't have come this way. I should have thought. Sorry.”

Rob didn't know what to answer. So he got on his bike and pedaled toward Avebury, wobbling a little, then going fast so Dan wouldn't catch up.

There was no real way to think about it. The shock of the horse not being there was like an electric jolt inside him; it seemed to fracture the world, was a black crack down the screen of his mind. It had been real, had brushed his side with its flank, had crushed the grass, had clinked, been heavy.

And the girl had said his name.

But it wasn't Chloe. That would be an extra terror, because Chloe was in the nursing home, lying in the bed in the expensive room, with the tubes in her arm and the electronic monitors throbbing all around her. And his mother wiping the dribbles from her mouth.

Dan sped past him. “I'm an idiot, Rob,” he muttered.

For once, Avebury was fairly quiet. Usually on summer afternoons the grass between the ancient stones was a patchwork of picnicking tourists or Reiki practitioners or groups beating drums around the obelisk marker. But the rain had driven them in, to the tea rooms or the museum, or maybe into Avebury Manor for the guided tours. Splashing up the main street through the constant stream of traffic that ran through the village, Rob watched Dan ride into the pub parking lot, dodge some travelers and their dogs, and disappear around the back.

He rode after him, more slowly.

Propping the bike in the shed full of chopped logs, he went in.

Midafternoon, the Red Lion was busy. Dan's mother worked here. She came over, took one look at Rob, and said, “Have you two had any dinner?”

“What, with Leonardo da Vinci drawing anything that moves?” Dan grabbed a packet of chips from a box. Efficiently, she took it from him.

“Then I'll get you something decent. Go into the dining room and find a table.”

Dan's mother was short and patchily blond, an unnatural yellow that jarred on Rob every time he saw her. Now he focused his distaste on her blowsiness, the way she said
dinner
instead of
lunch
, her red fingernails. It helped. It made him feel better, even though he liked her. It blotted out the girl and the horse.

They had lasagne and fries and it was hot and tasty. Dan dolloped tomato ketchup on his.

“Peasant,” Rob muttered.

“Afraid so. Not been to Italy, me. Not cultured.”

“You can say that again.”

Dracula-like, Dan leered through two fry-fangs. Rob made the effort and laughed, though they both knew he didn't want to. Neither of them said anything about Falkner's Circle.

The room was full, with a comforting, steamy heat. In the window seat Americans from a tour bus, their accents loud and strange, ate and argued over maps. At the next table were some archaeology students; Rob knew them by sight because they were staying at the B and B down the road from Dan's house. One of the girls was very pretty; Dan leaned across. “Get an eyeful of her.”

“She'd make a great model.”

Dan grinned. Then he said, “Ask her.”

“Don't be stupid.”

“I will then.” Before Rob could move, he'd turned. “Hello. Excuse me. My friend is an artist. He wonders if you'd model for him.”

They all stared at Rob. “Shut up, Dan,” he muttered, furiously red.

The girl said, “How much do you pay?” She was straight faced, but the others were grinning.

One man picked up their bill and went off with it; another snorted and said, “She's too old for you, kid.”

“Forget it,” Rob muttered. “Honestly, it's just him. He's an idiot. He's always like this.”

She smiled. “Well, I'm flattered. But sorry, I'm going on holiday tomorrow. Are you any good?”

She was just being nice. Dan seemed to think it was for him. “He's the best. Doing art at university next year.”

“Which one?”

“I'm not sure.... I'm getting a portfolio together....” Rob was mumbling stupidly. He didn't want to be talking to her about this, he didn't even know her, but they were going now, all her smirking friends, and she was standing up. Then she turned, and her smile had gone.

“Look. Seriously. They need someone out on the new dig to do drawings, recording finds. With the holidays everyone's away.”

“What dig?” Dan asked.

She frowned. “It's a big secret. Something unusual. In a field over toward East Kennet. Ask for Dr. Kavanagh; you might be just what they need.”

She picked up her jacket and then turned back. “Don't say I sent you, mind. No one's supposed to talk. Though they won't be able to keep it quiet for long.”

“Keep what quiet?” Dan was overacting; his eyes were wide.

She smiled and shrugged. As if she was already regretting saying anything about it.

I was on Callie and we were riding down to the lane. Something came along. It wasn't a car. Or was it?

It was big and dark and we rode through it like a gateway, and when I dismounted he was waiting on the other side, in the courtyard of this house. “Welcome to Royal Castle, Chloe,” he said. On the banners behind him were three cranes, on a bull's back.

He always wears a mask, of rowan leaves with a few orange berries. His eyes watch me carefully.

I think… Well, I think it's possible I may be dead.

I speak what no one else can speak.

T
HE
B
OOK OF
T
ALIESIN

T
hey sprawled in the grass by the Outer Circle, near the Barber's Stone, which had once fallen and crushed a man in the fourteenth century. Lying on his back, Dan squirmed beneath its perilous overhang so that the shadow fell across his face.

“Don't,” Rob muttered, uneasy.

“This thing must weigh tons. He'd never have felt a thing. Splat!”

Rob didn't answer. He sat away from the vast sarsen, cross-legged and uncomfortable. To him it never felt right even to lean against one of them; they were treacherous and dangerous things, always cold. The eternal puzzle of why they were there kept his mind from accepting them; the faces he imagined in their profiles were sinister, and their lichen-splotched leanings, their seamed and root-holed salmon and cream colors were too strange.

He tossed the pencil down and lay back. The sky was spattered with cloud, its gaps blue.

“You could find this dig,” Dan said after a while.

“Why don't you?”

“I've already got a job.” He looked over. “They might pay you.”

“Don't need the money.” It was boasting, but true.

Dan snorted, because during the holidays he spent most afternoons in the back room of the Lion washing glasses and wiping tables for a pittance.

“It'll keep you from thinking about things.”

They were silent, Rob stricken again by the glimpse of the girl on the horse, and Dan worried too, probably, because he wriggled out from the vast stone and rolled over. Rob had a sudden premonition that Dan was working himself up to ask about Chloe, whether there was any change in her condition; they both knew it was a forbidden topic, so he said quickly, “God. Just look at this lot.”

A colorful group was trooping through the wooden gate, probably from the tents and benders that were always pitched in the tree clumps at the foot of Green Street. There were about a dozen of them, men and women with a few young kids, dressed in the usual dippy mix of camouflage gear and washed-out tie-dye. They came and stood in a circle around the next stone but one, choosing the spot carefully, circling it, tossing out handfuls of herbs. Then they joined hands and sang. Dan snorted in scorn. But then, this was Avebury. It happened all the time.

Their ritual finished, the group sat down. A girl began to talk; the others listened.

“Place is crawling with weirdos.” Dan sounded restless.

“You should know.”

The girl speaker wore a purple skirt and a rainbow vest and her hair was short and red. She spoke clearly, and Rob listened, rolling after the pencil and making quick sketches of her on the corner of a page as she said, “Matty's drawn up the charts, and the stars are right. This is the day, and all the lines of power intersect on this very spot. I'm so glad you could all get here.”

“They're cracked,” Dan said darkly. “They think aliens make crop circles, when it's my uncle Pete's friend's brother from Winterbourne Bassett.” He looked at his watch and pulled a face. “I've got to go. I'm on the evening shift.”

Rob nodded, drawing the backs of the people. He pulled the backpack over, searching for the pastels. “See you tomorrow?”

“Probably. Come over anyway.” Dan dragged himself up and loped off toward the pub, then turned and walked backward, pointing a threatening finger. “Get that job. Why should I be the only one to suffer?”

Rob grinned. He smoothed a few strokes of turquoise down for the back of a shirt. As he worked, the girl's words held his attention.

“We've known for months something was happening, that someone is coming here. Long prophesied, long expected. A great soul, one of the Cauldron-born. A walker between the worlds, a sorcerer and a druid. We've done a lot of work, and we're sure he or she will be manifested here today, in the sacred circle. Matty thinks at seven o'clock exactly, when the moon rises over Silbury. So the plan is to meet them with joy.”

“What if they're not in human shape?” someone asked.

The girl looked unconcerned. “They will be. We all know how powerful this place is. Our desire will draw them here, and they'll be what we need at this time.”

Rob grinned. Dan would have loved this.

They waited. They lit incense sticks and lay on the grass and talked; a few seemed asleep or meditating. As the evening dimmed, the tourists in the great circle of stones began to seep away; coaches pulled out of the parking lot, cars full of tired kids turned toward home. The clouds that had gathered earlier began to thicken again; no one would see the moon rise through those, Rob thought acidly. Suddenly tired of sketching, he dumped the pastels in the tin and lay back, gazing up at the darkening sky through a haze of small dancing gnats. He should go home too. Maria would be gone by now. No one would be there at all. His mother would be at the nursing home with Chloe, and Dad still at the theater. It would be safe.

But he didn't move. The grass was lumpy; its discomfort nagged at him, but the effort of getting up was too great. The August day had been hot and humid; it seemed to have robbed him of all energy, and the twilight gathered as he lay there, the shadows of the stones lengthening vaguely in the purple light. Birds sang in a rowan bush. On the road the cars hummed, quieter than before.

He rolled his head. The rainbow people were still waiting.

For an instant then a flicker of the memory of the girl on the horse troubled him and he sat up, breathing the sandalwood mustiness of incense. He had no idea of the time, but it must be nearly seven because the group was getting ready, standing, calling the children together. A man started beating a small drum; the pulse of sound throbbed over the rough grass.

Rob looked around. Everyone else had gone. Apart from him, Avebury was empty.

Spots of rain began to darken the red cover of his sketchbook; he thrust it into the bag. He realized he was waiting around in curiosity to see no druid appear, to see the rainbow group's disappointment. The red-haired girl glanced over at him; then she and the others joined hands, crooning a low chant of three notes, over and over.

They were like people who predict the end of the world, he thought. Always sure, always waiting. Part of him smirked. But part didn't. The part that was desperate for a miracle since the accident.

Rain pattered. He pulled out his rain jacket and dragged it on, but the Barber's Stone kept the wind off, so he crouched there. There was no sign of the moon, just an ominous gray expanse of cloud, a wind flinging rain. The downs were blotted out. The night would be stormy.

The Cauldron people looked cold. They kept up the chant, but the wind whipped out their hair. Two of the kids gave up and ran off toward the tents. The red-haired girl looked again at Rob.

He met her eyes; she glanced away, spoke to another woman, who turned and stared at him too.