End of the Century (36 page)

They stopped for gas after what seemed an eternity. Alice was surprised to discover they hadn't even left London yet. Greater London, anyway. How big
was
this city?

The gas station had a Help Wanted sign posted in the window, and Alice entertained a brief fantasy about applying for the job, and staying, standing all day behind a counter and selling cigarettes and chewing gum to people with strange accents, making change for monopoly money, forgetting all about home and the accidents and her visions and her special destiny. Like anyone would hire a teenaged runaway epileptic with a nose ring and no marketable job skills.

Back in the car, as they pulled onto the motorway, Alice decided she'd had enough of silence and her own memories. Another Bowie album was playing on the stereo. Alice wasn't sure if Stillman had put it on in honor of the trip, or just because he liked listening to it.

“So, how'd you get into this line of work, anyway?” she asked. “Spying, I mean?”

Stillman had his left arm casually draped over the back of the seat, his right wrist resting on the top of the steering wheel. He peeked around the edges of his clunky sunglasses at her, his expression unreadable.

“That's something of a…complicated question. Or a simple question with a complicated answer, I suppose.” He mulled something over. “What the hell, eh? In for a penny, in for a pound.” He shifted on his seat and put both hands on the wheel. “The simple answer is that I was recruited by the SOE—the Special Operations Executive—during the early days of World War II. I worked for several years as a W/T, or wireless telegraph officer, in the more charming vacation spots of war-torn Europe. By the time SOE was officially dissolved in 1946, I'd been recruited as an agent of Signals Intelligence, MI8, and when it went underground and off the books, I stayed on. I was the first Rook Three, and held damn near every post in the operation by the time I put myself out to pasture.”

She was supposed to believe this? “Just how old
are
you, anyway?” He looked fifty, or a spry sixty at best. “When did you sign up, as a toddler?”

Stillman treated her to a broad smile. “
That's
the more complicated answer.” He watched the road for a moment, in silence. “I was born in 1920. When I was still a kid, I met a man who told me that I was special, that I had a destiny, that I would go on to do great things.”

That sounded familiar. But 1920? That would make him eighty years old? As if…

“When I grew older,” Stillman went on, his tone level, “we became friends. Then…then we became more than friends.”

“Oh.” Alice couldn't see how it was possible that Stillman was older than her grandmother, but she didn't have any trouble believing him when he talked about his friend. They'd been lovers. “Was that the guy in the portrait? And in the photo with you?”

Stillman nodded, his mouth drawn tight. He drew a heavy breath and held it before replying. “My friend came from something of an oppressive background. He was never quite comfortable, even when we were alone. Of course, it wasn't as if he was wrong to be worried. In those days, homosexuality was still illegal in Britain, after all. It was a mental illness, they said. Alan Turing, one of the cryptographers at Bletchley Park, was prosecuted for homosexuality and ended up taking his own life after an unfortunate series of events.” He paused, a sad expression lining his face. “There but for the grace of God go I, if you believe that sort of thing.”

Bowie was still blaring from the stereo, talking about time, who waited in the wings, speaking of senseless things. Stillman was still silent, lost in memory.

“You know, I saw a documentary once,” Alice said, filling the silence. “About Bowie. It was on cable or PBS or something. There was all this footage of kids going to one of his concerts in America back in the early seventies, or hanging out in their bedrooms talking to the camera about how Bowie was God. And when I saw it, I couldn't help but notice how many of those kids were clearly gay. And just loving it, you know? That Bowie was up on stage, being all of these different people, blurring the lines between genders and stuff like that. You know? You could see it in those kids' eyes, that they thought the long hard battle was over, and that from that point on,
they could be anything they wanted to be. Homo superior or whatever, right? But then, what happened? Just a few years later, Bowie moved on to be some other character altogether, and punk came along, and metal. Don't get me wrong, I love punk, but maybe it wasn't as…accepting of gay kids as the whole glam thing had been. And metal? Forget about it.”

Alice was silent for a moment, thinking back to those eager, hopeful faces. They'd be the age her mother was now, she figured. She wondered what had become of them.

“Anyway. I just think about those kids, sometimes. Thinking that the future was here, and that they didn't have to be afraid anymore. What must it have been like, when they realized that they were wrong, and it was just like it had always been?”

Stillman glanced at her but didn't say a word. They continued on up the motorway, finally leaving London behind.

Alice had decided to take it as a given that Stillman was as old as he said he was. Because, really, was that any stranger than anything else he'd said?

“So what happened to your friend? Your mentor, or whatever?”

It was early afternoon, and the signs said they'd reach their destination in another hour at most, barring traffic.

Stillman looked her way and sighed.

“Just making conversation,” Alice said, a little defensively.

Stillman nodded, and gave her a weak, weary smile. “All right. Fair enough. It's all been years ago, anyway.” He glanced at the backpack shoved beneath Alice's legs on the floorboards. “How about another of those cigarettes, though, eh?”

Lighting the butt from the orange-glowing coils of the cigarette lighter, Stillman took in a lungful, and then with the smoke streaming from his nostrils, began to speak.

“You see, we were hunting an escaped Nazi sorcerer named Otto Rahn.” Stillman slid his eyes left, and caught Alice's disbelieving look. “Yes, I said ‘sorcerer.' If you like, you can think of it as someone who dabbles in the dark corners, as it were, a scientific researcher into unknown science. But our lot, we always just called them sorcerers. Anyway, Rahn was one of the Ahnenerbe, the Nazis who the SID had been eavesdropping on back in the war, but he'd faked his death before the war had even really started and gone into hiding. It was ironic, perhaps, that my friend and I were the ones to end up hunting him down, since Rahn had been forced to fake his death in the first place when it was revealed to his superiors that he was a homosexual. But there you have it.”

Stillman drew on the cigarette, the burning ember at its end glowing brightly.

“The Ahnenerbe, you'll recall, believed all sorts of strange nonsense, and Rahn was no exception. His contention was that the Eddas, the old Norse poems, contained hints about the burial place of the guardian of the Holy Grail. In 1936, while he was still ‘alive,' he led a whole team of SS archeologists to Iceland to look for it. In 1947, after the war and under a new identity, he went back again, but this time my friend and I were on his heels. MI8 wanted to bring Rahn in, to pick his brains and see what sort of secrets he carried around between his ears. In any event, we were just a few steps behind Rahn when we lost the trail in Reykjavík and scoured the countryside looking for him. We split up but found no sign of Rahn. My friend did turn up an antique silver chalice, though, which he brought to our hotel and insisted that I accept as a token of his affection. Our own personal grail, he called it. He was always sentimental that way. He also brought with him an old friend of his who he'd run into along the way, a man named John Delamere, who was in Iceland on business of his own. As Delamere's purpose and our own were complementary, he joined us, and it was a few days later the three of us caught up with Rahn and his team, at the mouth of an erupting volcano.” A dark cloud passed over his face. “I…I was the only survivor, on either side, everyone else lost to the flames. I returned home, taking the silver chalice with me. That, and the portrait, and the photograph, were all I had left of him.”

Alice's brows were knit. “Wait, did you say
volcano
?”

Stillman looked at her, his eyes narrowed behind the clunky frames. “What of it?”

“I think my
grandmother
was in Iceland at the same time. She talked about a volcano in, yeah, in 1947!”

“Really?” Stillman was genuinely surprised. “How strange.”

ON THE MORNING OF THEIR THIRD DAY
in Llongborth, reasonably well rested and recuperated, Artor and his captains prepared to continue on their journey, only this time by land and not sea. Geraint had agreed to escort them himself to the hedge of mist of which he'd spoken and to outfit them with horses from his personal stables. The animals had been too long cooped up in their stalls, the Dumnonian king had insisted, and could do with the fresh air and exercise.

Artor's captains had brought their own saddles and tack along with them on board White Aspect, as a matter of course, and so while Geraint's people prepared the animals, Galaad and the others were sent to see to the gear.

The thought of mounting a horse made Galaad feel nauseated, even lightheaded. He'd not been on horseback since the accident, not since the spring morning when he and Flora had ridden out together and not ridden back. He knew, however, that if he refused to ride, he'd be left behind while the others rode out without him. For the others this journey might have begun with a whim on the part of Artor, the High King looking for some ready excuse to escape the tedium into which his life had sunk, but now it was clear that Artor burned with the same curiosity that had driven Galaad to his court in the first place. Having come face to face with the inhuman Huntsman and the unearthly hounds, Artor was determined to see this hedge of mist for himself and to see what lay within. And though they'd come this
distance on the strength of Galaad's visions, at least initially, Galaad was sure that Artor would not hesitate to continue on the journey without him if the need arose.

So it was that Galaad resolved to overcome his fears, just as Pryder had said, to be the master of his emotions and not their slave.

Handling the saddle and tack was only the first step, Galaad knew. Even so, he questioned his ability to keep his morning meal down, already feeling his gorge rise at the mere touch of the saddle leather.

Having carried their gear to the stables, the captains began the business of dressing their horses for travel. Galaad hung back, the sting of bile at the back of his throat, and handed over saddles, bridles, and reins when requested.

“Here, Galaad,” Artor called from the stable's door, Geraint at his side. The High King carried some sort of staff and bundle in his arms.

Galaad handed Bedwyr his saddle, and then gratefully stepped away towards the door, grateful for the opportunity to move away from horses, if only briefly.

“Yes, majesty?” Galaad couldn't help but fear that Artor had seen his disease with the animals and intended to ask after its cause. He tried to soften his queasy expression of distaste, to mask the quaver in his voice.

“It is because of you that we have come this far,” Artor answered, leaning on a wooden staff almost as tall as he was, topped with some sort of bundle. “Whatever lies before us, whether danger or glory or death, it is down to you.”

“Um, thank you?” Galaad was unsure whether to apologize or express gratitude, given Artor's manner. It sounded to him as though the High King
welcomed
danger.

“Yes,” Artor said, nodding. “Well, it seems to me only fitting, given your pivotal role in our enterprise, that you should bear our standard when we ride out this morning.”

Artor held forth the staff, and now Galaad got his first clear look at the bundle at its top. It was a representation of a dragon's head made of hammered bronze over wood, trailing a wind sock of red linen. The head was affixed to the end of the staff, so that when the staff was held aloft, the wind sock hung like the red tail of the dragon.

“This was once the draco standard of the Equites Honoriani Seniores,” Artor explained, proudly. “It was left behind when the Roman army left Britannia to her own defenses and later adopted by Ambrosius as a symbol of the continuity of Roman culture on the island.”

“Artor's own father, Utor, had been the standard bearer in Ambrosius's army when we were just boys,” Geraint put in, “earning the epithet Utor Dragon's Head for the ferocity with which he defended the standard in battle.”

A proud smile curled Artor's lip, while a wistful look came into his eyes. He paused for a moment, some memories playing back before his mind's eye, and then blinked rapidly, returning to the present moment. “Yes,” he said, taking a deep breath and sighing, “but it has been some years since the draco has seen battle, and still more since she needed defending. But whenever my captains and I ride forth now, we carry it proudly, to remember those who have gone before us and to remind us why we struggle.”

Artor handed the staff to Galaad, who accepted it nervously.

“I'm…I'm honored,” Galaad said, unsure of the proper protocol. “But…” He trailed off, and cast an uneasy glance at the animals across the stable, snorting clouds of steam in the chill air.

“I know,” Artor said, gently, his expression softening.

Galaad looked back at the High King, eyes widening.
Did
he know? There seemed no way that he could know the reasons for Galaad's fear, but then Galaad had once lived in a world free of corpse-white huntsmen and spectral hounds, so who was to say what was impossible?

“You need a saddle,” Artor added with a smile.

All of the breath left Galaad's body, and he stood rigid for a long moment, before assaying a curt nod. “Y-yes,” he said at length. “A…a saddle. Of course.”

“Not to worry,” Geraint said with an avuncular chuckle, patting Galaad on the shoulder. “I've had my people outfit my wife's roan for you. She's an obedient mare and will get you where you want to go.” He paused, and laughed louder. “The horse, that is. Not my wife.”

Artor joined in the laughter, and Galaad managed a weak smile. “Ah,” he said. “Quite right.”

It seemed the question had been decided for him, after all. He would ride out with the captains, and as their standard bearer, no less.

He only hoped he didn't vomit on the Dumnonian queen's horse.

“The hedge of mist now stands a half dozen miles to the north and east,” Geraint explained as their company mounted up and rode out of Llongborth, the sun's glow in the east hidden by thick gray clouds. “On a clear day, you could likely see it from here. Even with the roads and hillsides as iced as they are, we should reach it soon after midday at the latest.”

The captains traveled light but well armored. Each man wore a scale hauberk, except for Bedwyr, who wore one of mail, and Lugh, who complained of the weight and the chill of the metal. All wore helmets of various types and designs, Artor's own set with semiprecious stones, and each man had a shield slung on his back or else hanging from his saddle. The only other supplies they carried were sacks of comestibles and flasks of wine and water hung from their saddles. Their other effects they had left in Geraint's keeping.

In their marital finery, their cloaks flapping in the chill wind, the captains presented an imposing sight. And Geraint, who rode out with them as escort, was likewise caparisoned, his fittings if anything even grander than those worn by Artor, whose own armor had a well-traveled and utilitarian look to it. Only Galaad and Geraint's two pages were unarmored, though one of the pages carried their king's shield and the other his helmet, which was topped by an impressively large plume.

Galaad tugged his cloak more tightly around his shoulders and shivered, though his chattering teeth owed as much to his nerves as to the freezing winds. He held the staff in one hand, its foot supported against his saddle, the dragon's tail flapping in the wind.

“If it's so close,” Artor said, gripping his horse's reins, “then I'd sooner be there than dawdle and talk about it. Let's
ride
, for pity's sake.” With that, he kicked his heels into his horse's flanks, spurring it into motion, and the horse took off at a gallop.

“You heard the High King,” Geraint said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Ride out!”

The rest of the party, the captains, the king, and his pages, urged their horses to gallop, coursing over the frozen ground after Artor.

Galaad cantered forward, delaying so long that his horse looked back over her shoulder at him, an almost human expression of curiosity in her big wet eye.

“Damn,” Galaad cursed. He felt an emptiness within, a mounting anxiety creeping up his spine. He remembered that spring day, the last time he'd ridden a-gallop. And he remembered everything he'd lost that day. But if he remained behind, he stood to lose even more.

“Go, damn your hide!” Galaad yelled, kicking his heels, and as the horse thudded across the frozen ground, the dragon above his head ate the wind, its tail coursing behind.

Their progress was slow across the icy countryside, and with the sun hidden behind a thick blanket of gray clouds it was difficult to say how much time had passed, but it must have been near midday when the hedge of mist finally came into view. At first Galaad thought that it was simply more clouds obscuring the distance, but as they drew nearer, it became clear that they rode towards a seemingly unbroken wall of white different from the darker shade of the cloud cover overhead.

The party reduced their speed to a trot as they neared the mist, warily. The mist seemed indistinct, its exact edges difficult to discern, and Galaad found that his eyes watered when he stared too long at it.

“There it is, my friends,” Geraint called, pulling on his horse's reins and coming to a halt some hundreds of yards from the mist. The icy ground ran right up to the white wall and then disappeared entirely from view.

The captains exchanged uneasy glances while their horses whickered and brayed, disquieted.

“I would not have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes,” Artor said, reverentially.

“Had I not lived in such close quarters with it these long years,” Geraint answered, “I'd scarcely credit it myself, but the evidence is before you. The hedge of mist is real.”

“And none who have ever ridden through have ever returned?” Gwrol asked, his expression wary.

“None have ever ridden through at all,” Geraint said, and indicated their uneasy steeds. “Beasts seem to have better sense than men in that regard and refuse to enter the mist. But no man who has ever walked through has ever been seen again, no.”

Artor leaned forward, his hands resting on his saddle, and narrowed his eyes. “I'd not thought it could be so…large.”

Geraint nodded, his lips thin. “It now stands some two dozen miles in circumference, by our best estimates. Considering that it began no larger than a few dozen feet across, it has grown to a remarkable extent in such a relatively short time.”

Artor nodded, thoughtfully. “Well, we learn nothing staring at it from a distance.” Then he swung his leg over the saddle and dropped with a thud to the icy ground, the scales of his hauberk clinking. He slung his shield over his back and laid his hand on the hilt of his scabbarded spatha. “If we're to plumb the depths of this mystery, we must go through.”

The captains, with visible reluctance, arranged their weapons about themselves and swung down from their horses, boots crunching on the ice underfoot.