Darkhenge (3 page)

The church clock began to strike seven.

The group stood, expectant. He saw they had planted pennants and flags with symbols in the grass: a crescent moon, three cranes on a bull's back, a leaping salmon. A lot of the tribe were looking over at him now; Rob grabbed his bag and scrambled to his feet. Suddenly he was alarmed. Surely they couldn't think… Did they think it was him?

He turned, but the red-haired girl said, “Wait! Please!”

Rob froze. He spun around, embarrassed, wanting Dan. They were coming toward him, the tousled children, the man beating the drum, the frowsy women, even the dogs.

The red-haired girl was anxious, her voice taut. “We're waiting for someone. A being of great power, from far away, born again from the Cauldron. We know he's coming here, at this time, when all the stars are in alignment. There is a word we'll recognize him by, a secret word.”

“It's not me!” Rob stumbled back. He raised his hands, shook his head. “Sorry. I don't know anything about stars. Still at school, me.” He sounded stupid. He
wanted
to sound stupid.

Four strokes of the clock.

The people studied him. For a heartbeat he knew they despised him, doubted him, weren't sure. If Dan was here it would have been all right. Dan would have made it all into a huge joke. But the girl's look was desperate with hope. “Please look into your heart,” she whispered, coming up to him. “Look into your heart and choose a word. Any word. It might be the one we know. No one else is here but you. It could be you, without your knowing.”

It was crazy. He licked his lips, rain running down his hair. There was nothing to say, no word, no sound he could make that would satisfy them, but he had to say something, get away, break this circle of rain and faces and the insistent, terrifying clock crashing out the chimes, so he made himself whisper a word and the word that came out was
Chloe.

The girl looked startled.

The name fell into huge silence. The bell stopped, and the drum. The only sound was the storm, stinging them all with its horizontal rain, whipping the girl's skirts, a gale that roared over the downs and hurled itself at the high grass banks, streaming in through the ancient gateways, around the leaning, silent stones.

And as if blown here by its fury, a bird fell from the sky.

It plummeted, a tiny swallow, exhausted, crashing into the grass beyond the top of the bank, and straight after it, talons down, a hawk shrieked, but the rain blurred and the bird was gone and the claws grabbed only mud.

The girl gasped. “It's him,” she breathed.
“He's coming!”

Wind roared. Out of the flattened grass something shot like a bolt. Rob saw a hare hurtle along the top of the bank, its great back legs thudding, and out of the place where the hawk had come down, the rain re-formed into the swift outline of a slim dog that solidified as it streaked in arrow-straight pursuit.

The hare's eyes were wide with terror. Remorselessly the greyhound sped after it, teeth snapping.

The girl turned. “He's in trouble! Make the horseshoe!”

The hare leaped. It flung itself down the crippling slope into the ditch, falling and tumbling. Behind it the dog shape skidded, sending chunks of chalk flying.

The girl pushed Rob. “Help him!”

He had no idea who she was talking about. The group formed a hasty semicircle around the stone, open ends facing the deep ditch. They clutched hands; the drum began a rapid patter, and two men dragged the colored pennants up and rearranged them frantically, thrusting the pliant sticks into the ground, the thin silk flapping and slashing into streamers, red and gold as flames.

The hare crashed into the bottom of the ditch. Rob threw himself on his stomach, wriggled to the edge and looked down.

The ditch was flooded. Through its rain-spattered surface he could see grass, weeds, an object that became a fish. The fish dived deep with a flick of its tail; in the same instant the dog entered the water with an almighty splash.

Its shape streamlined with bubbles, lengthened, shivered. An otter sleeked by, its round head glistening.

“Now!”
the girl screamed.

Rob scrambled down the slope; flung his hand into the water.

He caught something. Cold and slithery, scaled and slippery.

A fish.

It flexed, tightened, slid into a cold, soaked grip.

Fingers.

To his astonishment he realized a man was looking up at him, struggling out of the water. Rob held tight, clutching the grass.

Soaked, breathless, the man heaved himself up, his eyes dark with exhaustion. He coughed, grabbed tighter. “Is that you, Prince?” he whispered.

The sleek rain-slashed pelt of the otter leaped. Its snarl was ferocious.

“Into the circle!”
the girl yelled at Rob.

Rob pulled. The man made a desperate scramble and flung himself up the sheer wall of grass. He almost slid back; then Rob was stretching, hanging on with both hands. The stranger grabbed, a firm wet grip; Rob hauled and the man dug his feet in, clawing at the tussocks of grass. Above them the streamers crackled and burned; now they really were flames, their smoke whipped away by the wind, and the otter shape curled and slithered back down into the ditch, the sparks of the burning falling on it, making it yelp and howl.

“I've got you!” Rob gasped.

The man looked up at him. “I know,” he breathed. “I know you have,” and Rob saw his shape was strengthening as he coughed and climbed, the mud making him slip, the ditch wall a treacherous rampart, smooth and running with rain. And then he was at the top; he grabbed Rob's shoulder and dragged himself upright and stood breathless in the opening of the horseshoe, the banners on each side of him subsiding to streamers of silk and orange. He didn't look back.

But, scuffed and sore, his hands hot, Rob did.

The otter was watching. It looked up at him, its eyes blue. Then the rain blurred over it, and for a second Rob saw it shiver into a human outline, a woman's slim shape, her face spiteful and strange.

“Tell him I'll be waiting
,” she whispered.
“At the foot of the tree.”

Rain blurred the grass. When he blinked, the ditch was empty.

The stranger rubbed mud from his face. He looked worn, and all at once a little wary. “Thank you for bringing me in,” he said, his voice oddly husky.

Bewildered, Rob shook his head. “Those animals—”

“There were no animals. Forget what you saw.” He turned to the group.

The red-haired girl was in the center of the horseshoe. Without unlinking her hands, she gave a nod, and the people of the Cauldron stepped forward slowly, the children nudged by their parents. The ring closed around Rob. He and the stranger were trapped inside it.

It worried him, but the tall man seemed not to care. He folded his arms, as if preparing himself. His clothes were dark and unremarkable, but his face was narrow, his hair long on the nape of his neck, and touched with silvery gray, as if he should be old, though he seemed no more than thirty. A peculiar star-shaped scar slid over the end of one eyebrow, and his eyes were dark and quick, taking everything in. Around his neck, half-hidden inside his coat on a green cord, hung a small bag made of what looked like leather.

The girl stepped forward. “You're the one, aren't you?” She sounded awestruck.

The man smiled. Then he said quietly, “‘
I have been in many forms. A blue salmon, a stag, a roebuck on the mountain. The foam of the ninth wave. A moth in a lantern, a harp note on the wind. Before I was born I lived. After I die, I will be born.
'” He glanced around at them, their intent faces. “I'm a poet. Is that what you're waiting for?”

They eyed one another. Uneasily, Rob thought. He edged a step away from the stranger.

“Tell us your name,” the girl said.

The man shivered, glanced down at the grass, the tiny plants growing at the foot of the stone. “I have many names,” he said. “Why not call me Vetch?”

“That isn't the word we're waiting for.”

“Word?” The stranger's calm eyes considered her.

The girl was impatient now. “Don't you know? Nine of us dreamed of a letter. Or it came in some way, in the ashes of the fire, in the whorls of wood. We put them together, rearranged them. They made a word. If you
are
the one we're waiting for, you should know it.”

Vetch sighed. He was soaked and shivering uncontrollably, his arms wrapped around himself, the wind flapping his hair and coat. “I do know it. The word is the reason I've come, and that you're all here. The word is the time and the place and the danger.” He looked around at them all, at Rob, at the darkness closing beyond the stones. Then he said wearily, “Couldn't we go somewhere a little drier than this?”

“First we need to know,” the girl insisted. No one moved, or unlinked their fingers. Rain dripped relentlessly down Rob's neck.

The stranger coughed. “Poets know that words can be deceptive.” He lifted his chin and, with an effort, drew himself upright. “But the word you want,” he said quietly, “is
Darkhenge.
”

He said my name. Chloe. I don't know how he knows it. There are no days anymore but he keeps the clocks ticking, and the food on the long table is regularly changed. Sometimes it's salmon, sometimes hazelnuts or apples. A bird sings somewhere in the building—I've thought I heard it, but I can never find it.

The walls are not so thick after all. The trees scrape at them. The trees seem alive, scrabbling up the stones, over the roofs, and two of the windows I've found are already overgrown, smothered with leaf.

I think the trees terrify him.

I've asked him about it. He won't say.

But I'm sure he's scared.

Don't be sorry at your catch.
Though I'm weak
My words hold wonders.

T
HE
B
OOK OF
T
ALIESIN

R
ob came in quietly and closed the door. He wheeled the bike into the garage, then went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. His heart was thudding from the ride back against the wind; he was soaked and shivering. Pouring orange juice, he drank it thirstily, leaning against the sink.

It was 8:35 pm.

The kitchen was quiet. Rain pattered on the windows and the tabby, Oscar, came in through the cat flap, eyed his empty plate and then Rob with a green glare. Rob couldn't take the guilt; he found a can and dumped cat food on the plate, then as he climbed the stairs, his father's key turned in the lock.

“What happened to you?” John Drew came in and stared.

“I got wet. On the bike.”

“Just come in?”

He nodded. His father dropped into a chair and loosened his tie. “I don't suppose there's anything to eat?”

“Haven't looked.”

“Mail?”

“On the table.”

Upstairs Rob washed and changed, tossing his soaked jeans onto the heap of dirty clothes in the basket. There were so many the lid wouldn't go down. What was Maria doing all day? What had she left for dinner? Last week she'd taken huge offense at his father trying to be tactful. “I'm from Napoli!” she'd stormed. “I know about Italian cooking. What you know, eh?”

His father had had to admit he knew nothing, absolutely nothing, but it was too late. Since then she'd left them the blandest of British: soggy fish and chips, deadly steak and kidney. But her fits of pique rarely lasted more than a week, so there might be pizza. Her pizza was legendary.

He ran downstairs; his father said, “It's lasagne. We're forgiven.”

Rob shrugged; he'd had it for lunch at the pub, but he didn't say anything.

The oven was lit; already the smell was making him realize how late it was. He set the table.

“Good day?” his father asked.

Rob hardly knew what to say. “So-so. Got some good studies at Avebury. Then it rained.”

“Dan?”

“Mad. Thinks he's a seventies rock god.”

His father laughed, checking the oven.

“What about you?” Rob muttered.

“Oh, some tiresome technical hitches with the stage. There's a touring opera production of
Tosca
due to open tomorrow and their battlements are too big for us.” He wrapped the tea towel around his hands and juggled the hot plates to the table. “Get stuck in.”

As they ate, Chloe's unspoken name lay between them, like the flowers in the vase on the table. It lodged in Rob's throat like an unchewed morsel. They lapsed into silence, and then dumped the dishes in the sink. While his father put the news on, Rob went upstairs. The door of Chloe's room was ajar.

He stared at it.

It was always kept closed.

Perhaps Maria had been cleaning in there, though she wasn't supposed to. It wasn't to be touched. His mother insisted.

Rob pushed the door, very gently, and it opened, making that familiar little creak on the bottom hinge. He went in.