Buried Fire (17 page)

On his return, Stephen found Tom still sleeping against the bole of the tree. He woke him unceremoniously, and told him of his encounter. Tom was alarmed.

"But if he knows where we are, what's to stop them attacking us?" he said, trying to get up, but finding his limbs dull, cold and unresponsive.

"He won't tell them. Mad as he is, he's still my brother."

Tom shook his head. The chase in the fields still preyed heavily on his mind. But he groaned aloud when he heard confirmation of Sarah's kidnap, and hid his face.

"We can't do much about it now," said Stephen. "But we may have a chance later. From what Michael said, they'll be too busy later today to keep an eye on us."

"Yes – busy." Tom raised his head back against the tree and sighed deeply. "Too right. Oh, what have I done?"

"You needn't get self-pitying. We don't know what they're up to, and it's hardly—"

"My fault? Of course it is! Who unearthed the seal? Who brought it out, leaving part of it in the ground, so that anyone could steal it? How long had it been safe there, until I came along and dug it up? Until I . . . came . . . along! Oh Lord!"

Stephen said nothing. He too had grasped what Tom knew only by intuition. 'A liberation', Michael had said, and at those words, the dragon in his soul had stirred. His eyes ached, a fiery pleasure seemed to flare within him. He longed to be free, to soar above the forest—

"What are we going to do?" whispered Tom.

Stephen blinked. "Urn . . ." Guiltily, he thrashed around for something constructive to say. "That stuff you read – what did it say about Win – who was it?"

"Wyniddyn."

"Wyniddyn. You said some poem mentioned his fight with the dragon. What did it say?"

"Oh, it was only a fragment. 1 don't remember. It was typical Welsh stuff, totally obscure."

"You must remember some of it, something it mentioned."

"Stephen, I only read it once."

"Well try, damn it!" Stephen kicked out at the trunk of the tree and bruised his toes. He rubbed his foot, cursing. Tom seemed to take an interest in this; he watched him for a moment, then looked above him.

"That was one thing," he said.

"What?" Stephen was in no mood for politeness.

"Oak. That was in it somewhere. And stone."

"Oak what? Stone what? It must have been more specific."

"It wasn't, I promise you. What did it say . . .? Oak . . . stone . . . fire . . . I don't remember. No, wait! Iron was in it too."

"Iron what? – Swords? Spears?"

"Yes! Spears! Willis reckoned that Wyniddyn fought the dragon with a spear made of oak and iron. And there are spears carved on the cross, too."

Stephen walked around the tree, gazing up at the branches. "Spears . . ." he said. "I suppose we could make one." Tom got up and came after him.

"Make a spear? What good would that do? We're up against fire, for heaven's sake!"

Stephen turned on him. "Listen," he said. "We have little time, and less opportunity. Tonight, or sometime today, Cleever is going to try something which may or may not work. If it doesn't work, we are no worse off. If it works, and the dragon does come, neither you, nor I, nor anyone else in the wide world is going to have the faintest clue about what to do. That poem gives us a faint clue. We know it mentions stone: who's to say that isn't the cross? That's real enough. It mentions fire: we've seen plenty of evidence of that too. OK. So iron and oak make little sense, and sound too fragile to work, but they are all we've got to go on. We can't afford to ignore even the slightest chance."

Tom nodded. "All right," he said. "Here's an oak tree. We need a spear. How shall we go about it?"

"I have a penknife," Stephen said.,

Dawn had come at last, and thin hard spears of light were piercing the cracks in the boarded windows, creating a ghostly half-glow in the shrouded room. Pale, hulking forms were illuminated on all sides, lumpen and mysterious, their identities concealed under dusty sheets. A grand piano, grey with sediment, occupied the centre of the room, and it was from under this, soon after dawn, that several sneezes erupted in quick succession.

Sarah had been having a bad time. Escorted to this room the afternoon before, by a silent nervous man who paid no heed to her cries of outrage, she had been forced to remain there ever since, surrounded by decades of allergy-inducing dust. She had made the mistake once of trying to lift a sheet that covered a sofa; the resulting plumes had made her eyes stream for an hour. After that, she avoided touching anything.

Her calls and cries had not been answered. The door was huge and thick; her beatings upon it had been weak and muffled. Through chinks in the boards she had seen the scrubby hillside behind the farmhouse, but her efforts to remove the barrier had only resulted in bleeding nails.

So she had lain in the centre of the carpet, under the piano, and given herself over first to despair, and then exhausted contemplation. Over and over again, through the evening hours, as the half-light faded and the room grew dark, she had tried to make sense of her kidnapping. Time and time again, the memory of Tom's assertions rose up: the cross, the folklore, the theft, the dragon. None of it made sense, but nor did her capture. What were these madmen doing?

What would they do to her?

She had not seen anyone, though food had been left for her just inside the door while she was in a doze. But she had heard things, things which increased her sense of unreality. There had been a loud bang during the afternoon, and distant sounds of coughing. Voices had passed the door occasionally, and she had definitely recognised Mr Cleever's voice more than once. Mr Cleever, the parish councillor . . . The world had gone mad.

Night had fallen, and apart from occasional footsteps on the floor above her, the farmhouse had been silent. Sarah had slept.

Now, with dawn, she stirred, and this set the dust rolling at her nostrils again. It took five minutes for her streaming eyes to open. When they did, her younger brother was standing in the room.

"Michael!"

Sarah struggled to her feet and rushed to embrace him. Michael stood his ground, accepting the hug without returning it.

"I can't stay long, Sarah dear. I just came to find out how you are."

"I'm fine. How did you get in? No, first get me out of here. They've locked me up."

"Yes. I've got the key. I've pinched it while they slept."

He held it up slowly, rotating it in his fingers.

"Quick then. Let's go."

"Sorry Sarah, you don't seem to understand. I'm not here to let you out."

"What? Don't fool around, Michael! We haven't time—"

"Shut up!" Michael's furious whisper stunned Sarah into silence. "I'm risking enough as it is. In twenty minutes they'll be up. So shut up and listen. You'll be all right. We'll let you out later."

"We'll?"

"Shut up, I said! We've got something to do today, and after it's done you can go free. Even go to the police if you want, we won't care. So just keep quiet."

"Michael, what are you talking about? Give me the key!" Tears of bewilderment appeared in Sarah's eyes. Michael flushed and stamped his foot in the dust.

"Don't give me any of that! It's your stupid fault, coming nosing about here. Trying to spy on me, and stop my power. It just serves you right, that's all! Why didn't you leave me alone?"

Sarah was crying now. "You're mad! I didn't come up here spying! It was my job! He told me the place was deserted! It had nothing to do with you at all. You're mad."

Michael narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, 'He told you'? Who?"

"Mr – Mr Cleever."

"What! Don't lie to me." Michael was furious now. But Sarah just stood there, holding her head in her hands. Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain in her forehead, which flared up and just as suddenly died away. There was silence in the room. She looked up to see her brother staring at her with doubt and indecision on his face.

"Cleever
did
tell you about the farm. He didn't mention that to me." He frowned and clenched his fists. A wave of heat smote Sarah in the face.

"Come on, Michael!" she said. "Let me go. I don't know what you think you're doing, but it's wrong. Can't you see that? Please, whatever's going on here, whatever you've done, we can sort it out, only let me go. I can help you . . ."

"I can help myself!" Michael snarled. "You, Stephen, Aubrey, Cleever – I don't trust any of you! Well, we'll see who has the most power at the end of today. We'll see!"

"Michael, do you know how stupid you sound?" Sarah raised her dirt-and-tear-stained face. "You sound like a spoilt six year old. Just grow up and let me out!"

Michael's face contorted with rage. Then Sarah's disbelief turned to a desperate fury. She leapt towards him, stretching out for the key. But as she reached him, Michael slipped upwards, out through her hands, so that her clutching fingers brushed his shoes. He hovered above her, waving the key and laughing. Sarah gave a moan of terror and sank to the floor.

Her brother floated across to the door. Descending to the ground, he unlocked it and stepped through. He did not look back. The key was turned on the other side.

Sarah's head dropped to the carpet in despair. A halo of dust rose up all around.

It took a long time to make the shaft.

The oak under which they had slept had proven too old and and gnarled to provide anything straight or slender enough for their purposes. Close by, however, Tom had discovered a much younger tree, no doubt a direct descendent of the master oak, which had sprung up in a sunny spot. It had erupted in three or four places, strong, narrow and pliable; of these trunks, one, for perhaps two metres, was ramrod straight. Tom set about sawing this off from near the base, at a point where the wood became narrow enough to grasp firmly in the hand. Stephen held it straight, and busied himself snapping off small leafy offshoots. When Tom grew tired, they swapped roles, and after half-an-hour's sweat had run down their faces, the wood was severed.

The next stage was to chop the foliage from the end of the spear. They decided, arbitrarily, that the spear should be the height of Tom; at this place they made a nick in the bark, and set about carving through. The going was slow, for the penknife was by now growing dulled and blunt. It was while he was struggling with this that Stephen said, between curses, "You know, this spear will never be sharp enough to scratch anything."

"I was thinking about that. If you don't mind persevering with the knife, I thought I might test an idea."

"Such as?"

"Something I saw a day or two back. Don't worry, I won't leave the forest." He stood up. "Which way's the road?"

Stephen indicated. "Where are you going?"

But Tom was already heading off. "Oak on its own is not enough," he said over his shoulder. "I won't be long."

Stephen shrugged and turned his attention back to the spear. He was nearly half-way through, but the penknife was very blunt. Stephen flexed his aching arm, massaged his fingers and methodically began to saw.

There were always insects in Crow Wood. The strong sunlight, which flooded the ruins with a green-gold haze, was awhirl, alive with movement. Quick, delicate things passed by Tom's head, too swift to be sensed in full – a white wing-tip beside his eyes, a brief hum against his ear. But Tom walked unawares, stalking through the mortuary of bricks, his face turned to the ground.

A fluttering of birds in the topmost branches watched him pause in his stride, bend suddenly, straighten empty-handed, and walk on.

From narrow cracks under angular boulders of brick and mortar, lizards followed him with eyes that turned implausible degrees in oily sockets. Every now and again, at shutter-speed, their filmy lids blinked his image in the darkness.

Him scouring the rubble.

Him levering a beam free of the clinging weeds.

Him plucking a piece of blackened metal from the ground, scanning it intently, casting it aside:

Him kicking a charcoal beam in frustration, smearing his shoe black.

Him looking, always looking, as an hour passed.

Up on the slopes of the Wirrim, in the Hardraker farmyard, there was much activity. Shortly after nine, Paul Comfrey had entered an adjoining shed, carrying a toolbox and a saw. Since then, the sound of sawing had filtered through the half-closed door, punctuated occasionally by furious hammering.

Mr Pilate, teeth bared in a rictus of displeasure, had left the farm soon after, driving back to the village to open his shop and assess the implications of the previous evening's fire.

Mr Cleever had seen him off, then returned to the house with instructions not to be disturbed. He had not been seen since.

Vanessa Sawcroft, looking pale and tired, had then emerged, and spent a lot of time coming in and out of the main door, carrying several rucksacks. She had opened the boot of her car, and arranged the rucksacks there in a row, carefully checking and rechecking the contents.

Michael sat on an old grindstone, examining his nails. He had lied to Stephen about the watch on the Russet, which was indeed far too big for any feasible cordon to be erected around. In fact, the night before, Mr Cleever had dismissed the idea of pursuit. He had opted instead to ignore them, realising that their desperation cut them off from the world outside.

Even as he sat idle, Michael was reading the atmosphere of the farm, opening his mind to the Fourth Gift. From the shed he caught Paul Comfrey's excitement – confused and nervy – mixed with a plodding concentration at his unknown task. In contrast, Pilate's mind, as it had passed, was dark and furious, and Michael knew that Stephen was the cause. Geoffrey Pilate was not the kind of man to forgive an injury.

Vanessa Sawcroft, seemingly absorbed with the rucksacks, gave Michael the strongest readings. Her antagonism flowed out from her, washed against the walls of the farm-buildings and crashed back upon him from all sides. A day ago, he might have been inundated: now he absorbed it without effort.

Throw at me what you like, Michael thought. I am a rock.

He could sense Cleever too, somewhere deep in the house, a reading full of hard intensity of purpose. Michael frowned. Cleever had lied to him about Sarah. Though it was her own stupid fault for coming up here unannounced, it had been Cleever's invitation to value the farm that had got her interested in it in the first place. Cleever hadn't thought fit to admit this to Michael. Well, he would pay him back for that. Soon.

After a time, Michael grew aware that all these sensations were being swallowed by a subtler and greater presence, the source of which puzzled him. He could not trace it; it seemed to rise up from the dirty whitewashed stones of the farm-buildings all around – beside, behind, beneath him. It was almost as if it lacked a human centre, and that the ancient farm itself was alive.

Hardraker, thought Michael. It must be.

Perhaps the dreadful shrivelled body which had lingered long beyond its time could not encompass its own power. Perhaps that power had seeped out over the silent decades, to stain the stones of the farm around it, to sink in and lie there, awaiting the time when it could be harnessed again in full.

Michael felt the trickling movement all about him; sensed how every beam and stone was brim-full of a biding, dormant energy, and knew it to be true.

He's stirring, he thought. Ready for tonight.

For a moment, Michael knew himself to be small, bare and vulnerable. He closed his eyes, and a strange vision came to him. The farm was distorting, the barn roofs swelling and buckling in their centres, the beams breaking upwards through the roof in an explosion of spines and spikes. Lines of brickwork on every wall began to shift, and overlap each other like endless layers of scales. Whole rows of outbuildings twitched with a fitful impatience, and behind his back, the Wirrim rose to a colossal height, blocking out the sun.

There came the sound of a car approaching along the track. Michael opened his eyes. Geoff Pilate's battered transit turned into the yard and stopped abruptly. He got out, and stood uncertainly beside the open door, sending out strongly anxious signals which Michael knew Mr Cleever would soon pick up.

Vanessa Sawcroft put down a rucksack she had been drawing to and fastening, and addressed the grocer.

"Well?" she said.

Pilate's brows knitted and he grunted dismissively. "It's bad," he said. "They're not up in arms yet, but it won't be long. I can't tell you when exactly."

"You should have stayed. Why didn't you stay longer? We were to call you at one." Michael noticed Vanessa Sawcroft's voice was shriller than normal, heightened with tension.

Pilate shrugged. "I had to close up almost as soon as I opened. Some of the old ones are coming over all enlightened, remembering things they heard when kids and had forgotten long ago. They began poisoning the others' minds. A few of the younger ones came in early on, but they soon dried up. I'm under suspicion too." His voice was low and dulled.

Sawcroft made no attempt to disguise her apprehension. "You're a fool," she said. "You can't be. We were well away from the field by the time they got there."

"It's not the field that did for me. It was that bloody boy. Yesterday, on the green, in full view of half the village. They don't understand the connection, but they know there is one." Suddenly, Pilate slammed his fist down on the roof of his car. The yard echoed with the sound. "That boy! We should have killed him!"

Sawcroft sniffed. "We could have. But we set the field alight instead."

"There's no we about it," Pilate snarled. "We were betrayed, by that little—"

"I'm right here," said Michael. "If you've got something you want to say, go right ahead. Or are you scared?"

Pilate's eyes narrowed and his fists clenched. He hesitated a moment, then began to move around the side of the car. Vanessa Sawcroft moved back slightly to let him pass. Michael sat waiting on the stone, watching him from the corner of his eye. He sensed a ripple run through the farm, whether of anticipation or anxiety he did not know.

Pilate stopped. Michael raised his mental guard, protecting his mind from any attack, ready to mount his counter-assault.

A sudden mental blow struck the side of his head, from a direction he could not have predicted. It was a cuff, a bit like the one his father had once given him, long ago. Both he and Pilate turned to the front door of the farmhouse. Cleever stood there, hands on the back of Hardraker's wheelchair. The occupant of the chair was now wearing a bright orange anorak and his lap was smothered in blankets. The head was hidden inside the jutting anorak hood.

"Geoffrey," Cleever said, "Mr Hardraker wants to know exactly what has made you leave your post."

Pilate, who had turned pale, stumbled through his explanation again. "It got so bad," he said at last, "that there were groups of them watching me from the green. Watching, and never coming in. All the time there were little parties of them hurrying to and fro, knocking on doors and huddling in groups. And several times I saw them going up to the church."

"And you think they are nearing the truth?"

"There's no doubt about it. That old hag Gabriel was being consulted by half the young men, sitting in state on the bench by the pond, warbling away, pointing at the church, and towards me." His voice took on an hysterical note. "I got out while I could. That's all there was to it."

Mr Cleever said nothing. Michael said, "But there have always been summer fires. It's the easiest thing in the world for one to start in August."

"Not within two days of the seal being found, raised and split," Cleever said.

"And not all of them result in a death either," Pilate added, and Michael felt a chill run through him. "They're angry about this. Vernon was marching about with a face like a beetroot."

Michael desperately wanted to ask about the death. Images of the fire flicking up from the dried wheat-heads came to him. But he knew the others would pounce on the question for a weakness, and with an effort he said nothing.

Cleever left the wheelchair on the step and strode down to the forecourt. "They suspect you, Geoffrey, because of the incident in the street yesterday. Which means they know Aubrey and the boy are mixed up in it. Good. Aubrey is doubly compromised. They'll be looking for him now."

"Why?" asked Sawcroft. The fear was apparent in the lines of her face.

"Don't be stupid, Vanessa. He's compromised because he's the one who raised the cross. Those of them who have half-remembered knowledge their sweet old grannies told them always knew he was reckless to dig it up. They just didn't know why. Now our fire will have triggered off a few connections. They probably blame it all on poor Tom."

"With luck," added Pilate, "he'll be hunted down and pitchforked before he can do any more harm."

"But what about us?" Sawcroft said. "We know they're after you, Geoffrey. Do they know about us?"

"It doesn't matter," Cleever said. "What they know won't matter a scrap after the summoning. We just need to get moving, that's all."

He cocked his head as if listening. Michael sensed a rustling in the stones and timbers of the farm. The figure in the wheelchair was quite still, but a breeze fluttered the fabric of the concealing hood.

"Mr Hardraker is ready," Cleever said. "It is time for Paul to bring out his transportation."

All eyes turned to the door of the shed, where for some time now the sounds of activity had been stilled. Michael felt Mr Cleever's mental summons pass; he waited for Paul Comfrey's response, but none came.

There was an embarrassing pause. Mr Cleever's tongue clicked. "Surely he can't be that incompetent," he muttered under his breath. The pause continued. Finally, Mr Cleever lost his patience, and surrendered his dignity to the walk across to the shed door. He rapped on it imperiously.

The door opened. Paul Comfrey's face appeared, blinking at the light. "Oh," he said, somewhat startled. "Did you knock?"

"I did. Have you finished? We need to be going."

"Yes. I'll need someone to take the other end."

Mr Cleever looked over at Michael, who rose from the grindstone and came over to the shed. Uncertain of what to expect, he ducked under the low door and looked about him.

The shed smelt of woodshavings. Littered around on every side were the tools with which Paul Comfrey had worked all morning. In the centre of the shed, lit by the feeble light from the single window, was the contraption in which Mr Hardraker, the oldest and most powerful of the dragon's disciples, would make the ascent of the Wirrim.

It was a sedan chair. Of sorts. A huge, high-backed dining chair had been brought to the shed. Two incredibly long thin wooden poles had been attached to its armrests, fixed so that the chair was at the centre of their spans. The ends of the poles had been wrapped with cloth to make gripping easier. Up the back of the chair ran several bamboo sticks, supporting the centre of a broad canopy, which Michael saw was made mainly of an old umbrella. This was a special addition Paul had just finished, and he was very pleased with it.

"Keep the sun off him," he said. "Keep him cool."

"Delightful," Michael said.

They each took up the supporting poles, Michael at the back and Paul Comfrey at the front. Then, at the count of three they raised the chair. The canopy waved and juddered alarmingly, but remained in place. With Mr Cleever holding the door open for them, they emerged out into the yard and proceeded uncertainly towards the porch. By the time they lowered it to the ground, Michael's arms were already aching.

'Why don't we just fly him up?' he thought to himself.

'Because—' Mr Cleever's voice sounded in his head, 'we need all our mental strength for the summoning. We shall carry him in shifts, and rest frequently.' Michael was shocked once more by the ease with which Cleever read his mind. He cursed his lack of protection and reinforced his defences.

Sawcroft and Pilate were staring at the sedan chair with little joy.

"This is it?" asked Pilate.

"It is, and you will help me transfer Mr Hardraker to his new chair." Together, he and Pilate bent to lift the fragile body. Michael watched curiously as they tensed and lifted, sweat breaking out on their foreheads, their muscles cracking. For something that was emaciated almost to bare bones, their burden seemed strangely heavy. It rose with painful slowness, both men gritting their teeth as they carted it across the narrow gap to the waiting chair. The breeze in the yard picked up and set the fringes of the canopy ruffling. Michael sensed movement everywhere. He heard floorboards groan and creak in the dusty bedrooms and iron cattlepens grind and scrape their joints in far corners of the farm. But at length, with great effort, the body of Joseph Hardraker was placed in the high-backed sedan chair, and covered over again with blankets.

Sawcroft now began handing out the rucksacks. Michael took his without bothering to open it. He was feeling surly and dispirited. After the glories of flight, the forthcoming climb promised to be a tedious and interminable one. The prospect of being pole-bearer filled him with a sour despondency.

But Mr Cleever's spirits were high again. He clapped Michael on the back as he passed him. "Everything's in place!" he cried. "The six of us, my friends, are setting off on the final journey we shall ever need to make on foot! Michael and I shall take the first stint at the pole. But first, we must bring out our fellow traveller."

He disappeared into the house on light feet. A moment later he returned, with Sarah at his side. She stumbled, blinking in the sunlight, her face grimy and tear-stained, her hands bound with a cord. When she saw the others assembled there, she called them all an evil name, then lapsed into a resolute silence.

Michael frowned. "Why's she got to come?" he asked. "Can't she just stay here? She might spoil things."

"Because, Michael, I want to keep a close eye on her," Mr Cleever said. "And besides, if she is with us, she can be set free the instant we have accomplished our objectives."

If Michael had been concentrating at that moment, he would have seen Vanessa Sawcroft catch Mr Cleever's eye and smile thinly. But he was too busy avoiding his sister's own gaze to notice anything at all.