The Greenstone Grail (32 page)

‘Not you,’ said Bartlemy. ‘Werefolk do not change.’

‘I am not werefolk! I am a spirit, ancient and powerful, prominent in the hierarchy. What do you want of me, fat one?’

‘News of the cup called the
Sangreal
, or Grimthorn Grail. What do you know of its power or its purpose?’

‘It is a pretty toy,’ the child said. ‘Everyone wants it. They say it comes from another world, and can open the Gate itself. Maybe that’s true, maybe it isn’t. But
everyone
wants to find out.’

‘It’s been around for centuries,’ Bartlemy said thoughtfully. ‘Why all the interest
now
?’

‘Its time is coming,’ said the child. ‘Whenever that is. Nobody knows exactly, but they can
feel.
There is a shifting in the pattern, a coming-together of things. It will be soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘There will be signs and portents. There always are.’ The child laughed, a laugh like a chime of silver bells. ‘The mouse runs.’

‘The mouse –?’

The child began to sing in a clear, choirboy voice which was also somehow mocking:

‘
Hickory dickory dock
the mouse runs up the clock
the clock strikes ONE –
the mouse is gone –
hickory … dickory … DOCK!’

‘Very doom-laden,’ Bartlemy said politely. ‘You seem to be well informed. Truly has it been said:
There is a chiel amang ye takin’ notes
. The other Old Ones knew far less – or are not telling. Perhaps you have heard something of a certain water-spirit who is also taking an interest in these affairs.’

‘A water-spirit?’ With one of the quick-change moods of childhood, the small face grew suddenly serious.

‘There are no spirits in the waters any more. The last mermaid died long ago. They hung her bier with weed, and closed her eyes with shells, and the crabs she used to hunt
had their revenge on her. Still, they say that in the deepest, darkest places, far from the reach of Man …’

‘The river here is neither deep nor dark,’ said Bartlemy. ‘But something stirs in the water.’

The child was silent a moment, then began to chant:

‘
Cloud on the sunset
wave on the tide
fish from the deep sea
swim up the Glyde
.

Reed in the river-pool
weed in the stream
one there a-sleeping
too deep to dream
.

Eyes in the mirror
dim as the room;
eyes in the water
deep as the tomb
.

Feet tread the river
hands pluck the tide;
death from the deep sea
swims up the Glyde.’

Bartlemy pondered for a few seconds. Then he asked: ‘Do you know its name?’

‘Maybe – maybe not. Maybe it has no name. What need for names, in the dark of the ocean?’

‘Nonetheless, it has come out of the dark,’ Bartlemy said. ‘It would not have done so unless it had been called, and to be called there must be a name.’

But the child had lost interest, as children do, switching from unnatural maturity to distorted juvenilia. It began to sing a slightly lewd version of some nursery doggerel.

‘Sing a song of sixpence
a pocket full of rye,
go and catch a maidenhead
to bake in a pie
.

When the pie is opened
the head begins to bleed
.
Isn’t that a dainty dish
whereon a king can feed?’

The horrible verse restarted, the tone at once gleeful and derisive, then gradually faded out as Bartlemy murmured a dismissal. The child became a wisp of fog from which eyes gleamed briefly; then it vanished.

Annie said: ‘What was that?’

‘A spirit. Don’t judge by appearances: it’s very old, not wise perhaps but
knowing
. It has told us a good deal – if it spoke the truth. Your water-spirit comes from the sea, probably from the depths of the ocean. Things have hung on there, in the dark where men cannot go. Humanity has overrun the planet – some spirits adapt, and batten on mortal weakness, on superstition and greed and despair. Others retreat to the wild lonely places and hide there, in the heart of desert or jungle. And there is no place wilder and lonelier than the deeps of the sea. They say the Great Sea Serpent still sleeps there, its coils wound so tight around the world they have carved the Marianas trench. There are squid larger than ships, and strange creatures left over from the age of dinosaurs, and the lost lair of the Kraken. Also a few gods and goddesses
of the ancient world whose worship has long been abandoned. I could call one or two, if the circle would hold, and they have not forgotten who they once were. As it is, you cannot call a spirit without a name.’

‘You want to summon that – thing – here?’ Annie said.

‘We ought to see it. That’s why I asked you to attend this conjuration. I need you to identify what we see.’ He gave her the familiar smile of reassurance, though in this case she was not much reassured. ‘Know your enemy, the saying goes. Don’t be afraid. The circle will contain it.’

‘But you said you can’t summon it without using its name?’ Annie said hopefully.

‘That’s the rule. So I shall have to do what all wizards do at such times.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Cheat.’

He resumed the incantation, but this time, she heard a name she recognized.
Rianna. Rianna Sardou.

‘It is a name this spirit has worn and maybe still wears,’ said Bartlemy. ‘It cannot lightly be cast off. When it comes – if it comes – don’t speak. Watch.’

It came. In the circle the mist congealed, becoming a wavering column not unlike the one Annie had seen rising from the river. In the same way it gradually assumed a form and face, like and unlike Rianna. Its hair streamed as weed in the current, and its long robe rippled ceaselessly in many folds, and the ground beneath it seemed to move like water.

It said: ‘I told you I will decide when to contact you. I must not be called like this. And don’t use the woman’s name. It forces me into her image.’ The voice was Rianna’s, but there was an echo behind it of something else.

‘Which name would you have me use?’ Bartlemy inquired softly.

Annie thought the spirit couldn’t see clearly beyond the perimeter, but evidently it could hear.

‘Who are you?’

‘One who called you.’

‘You have no right! I am not to be called by any stray wizard who can draw a circle! Release me!’

Bartlemy persisted, ignoring its anger. ‘What is your interest in the boy Nathan?’

‘You cannot question me!’

‘What do you know of the Grimthorn Grail?’

‘What do
you
know? The Grail is the lock, the boy – may be the key. The Gate can be opened. We thought it was shut forever, save to the mortal dead, but it
can
be opened. You are another, aren’t you? Another petty human who calls yourself Gifted, grasping at the chance of power. You don’t know what power means. Let me but open the Gate, and I will show you power. Do you know how strong I am, even now? Your little circle cannot hold
me
–’ It flung back its head, raising its arms, dissolving into water which fountained upwards like a geyser, smashing against the ceiling, spraying the room. Annie’s scream was cut off as a vicious jet caught her full in the face.

Bartlemy spoke a single word, not loud but very clear, unmistakably a Command. His hand thrust outwards in a gesture of repudiation. The water-jet shrank back into a fluid pillar which dwindled, bubbled, and was gone. Outside the perimeter, steam rose from sodden floor and furniture, clothing and hair, and streamed back into the circle, vanishing in upon itself as if swallowed by the air. Annie was panting for breath. Hoover started to shake himself, but his fur was already dry.

‘Well,’ said Bartlemy, ‘I think that will do for tonight. A little more action than I had expected. Was that the spirit you saw?’

‘Yes. It thought you were someone else, didn’t it? To begin with, anyway. So … someone else has summoned it?’

‘That I already suspected. The question is who.’ While he talked, Bartlemy stretched out his hand, palm downwards. The flickering circle was extinguished. The room went very dark, and Annie realized night had fallen, unnoticed, beyond the curtained windows. Bartlemy switched on the lights and began to mop up the residual powder.

‘Effie Carlow?’ Annie asked.

‘Possibly.’

‘Except that she’s dead, and the child hinted that the water-spirit drowned her, but it still thought
someone
was calling it.’

‘Exactly.’

Bartlemy took a bottle from a cupboard and poured a little of the contents into a glass. It was of a red so dark it looked black, and it smelled strongly of fruit, and even more strongly of alcohol. He handed it to Annie, who sipped cautiously. Colour flooded her cheeks. ‘In a minute we’ll have something to eat, then I’ll call a taxi to take you home.’

Much later, when she had gone, he sat in an armchair by candlelight – he liked candlelight, it was restful – gazing through the curtains, now half open, catching a glimmer of the wandering moon.

‘It responded to the name of Rianna Sardou,’ he remarked, probably to Hoover, since no one else was listening. ‘But Rianna herself should have been the first to answer to her name. Unless she cannot …’

Nathan pulled the back door closed behind them but didn’t run the risk of dropping the latch: the sound it made was too distinctive, even among a host of other noises. The latch on the drawing room door had almost been a risk too far. And then they had lurked in the kitchen, peering out only when Bartlemy and Annie were sufficiently engrossed not to notice. Hoover, loyally, hadn’t barked or even thumped his tail. Now, they crept through the garden and into the woods, too stunned by what they had seen to be wary of the darkness or any potential danger. When they reached the road, the shadows slunk after them, but they were carrying their modern talismans of iron and the ripple in the night was content merely to follow.

‘He’s a wizard,’ Hazel said when they were some distance from the house. ‘A real wizard. Your uncle Barty. Or maybe a warlock.’

‘He can’t be a warlock. He’s too fat. Whoever heard of a fat warlock?’

‘He’s a w-wizard,’ Hazel repeated, her tongue falling over the words as if they constituted a verbal obstacle race.

‘Your great-grandmother was a witch,’ Nathan pointed out.

‘Yes, but … not like that. Just charms, and whispered curses; small-time stuff. Not like
that
…’

‘Anyhow, you don’t believe in magic.’

‘Do I have a choice?’ Hazel muttered.

They walked on for a while without speaking. Behind them, the shadows played at grandmother’s footsteps on the empty road, falling silent when Nathan looked back. ‘
They’re
there,’ he said. ‘The gnomons.’ They felt the fear reaching out for them, but it could not take hold on their minds: they had too many other things to trouble them. They walked a little faster; that was all.

When they were clear of the trees Hazel said: ‘What was all that about Michael’s wife, and your mum recognizing that spirit thing?’ She still didn’t want to discuss her own encounter with the head in the basin.

‘Mum’s not telling me everything,’ Nathan said, disquieted. But then, he wasn’t telling her everything either.

‘They never do,’ Hazel said wisely. ‘My mum never tells me
anything
.’

‘Your mum hasn’t been running into malignant water-demons,’ Nathan retorted.

‘She might of. I told you, she never tells me –’

But Nathan wasn’t attending. ‘
Why
didn’t she tell me? Does she still think I need protecting? I can look after myself in
other worlds
…’

‘That’s why you’ve got that weird sunburn,’ Hazel remarked dampingly.

‘All right – I make mistakes. To tell you the truth, the whole business scares the life out of me. But there’s no point in anyone trying to protect me ’cos they can’t. I’ve gone beyond that. She should at least trust me.’

Hazel didn’t know what to say to that, but Nathan didn’t seem to require an answer: he was too busy brooding. They
had walked some distance further when she said, abruptly: ‘What’s that?’

‘What’s what?’

‘
That.
’

The wood had finished but they were still a fair way from the first houses. There was a sudden scuffling in the hedgerow, a shaking of grasses, a twitching of briars. Something was in there, hidden by the leaf-tangle and the matted stems. Something bigger than a gnomon and far more solid. The grasses parted: for an instant, a face peeped out, barely visible in the darkness; but they knew who it must be.

‘The prisoner!’ Hazel hissed in a savage whisper. ‘He’s spying on us.’

‘He’s spying on
someone
,’ Nathan amended. He moved towards the hedgerow with a purposeful air, though he himself had no idea what his purpose might be. The face vanished. The leaf-tangle quivered once, and was still.

Nathan said: ‘That’s got rid of that,’ as if he had merely been intent on frightening the creature, but privately he was worried. It should have run away, not stayed in the vicinity of its long imprisonment, watching people it didn’t even know. And … why had it been imprisoned, and by whom? For that matter, when? No answers were likely to materialize in the near future, and he turned back to Hazel, eager now to get home and suddenly hungry. It seemed a long time since the pizza they had eaten earlier.