Beltane

by Alys West

  He stepped out of the shadows, bent low, ready to run for the steps. Glancing to his right, he froze. The darkness was fading. He recoiled into the shadow of the tower. Globes of light floated away from Maeve, one hovering over the path in front of her, the other drifting towards the steps.

  They looked like Chinese lanterns but Finn knew they were hunting him. That Maeve could convert them to a weapon in a second. The steps were cut off to him now. Even at this distance, if she saw him move, she was strong enough to kill him. Without his staff he couldn’t defend himself.

  He looked behind him at the flat plateau encircled with darkness. The steep side of the Tor was slightly less precipitous than a cliff face. His only escape was down it.

  He checked the position of the figure on the path. She moved quickly, head bowed against the wind. Wrenching the binoculars from around his neck, he stuffed them in his pack, stood with his back against the cold stone. The tower would hide him from Maeve’s sight so long as he kept its walls between them. He peered around the edge of the empty doorway, checking he couldn’t see her. It was clear. He had to go now before she got close enough to see through the arches and there was nowhere left to hide.

  He sucked in a deep breath and sprinted for the darkness at the rear of the Tor. His feet pounded, sounding thunderous in his ears. He glanced over his shoulder. He couldn’t see Maeve. But a globe floated closer, approaching the steps to his right, diluting the night into twilight.

  He pushed his legs to go faster. Fixed his eyes on the comforting darkness. Too late he looked down, saw a low pedestal of stone in front of him. He swerved, banged his shin. Bit back the pain. Kept running.

  Three more paces brought him to the edge. He didn’t hesitate. Holding his breath, he grabbed a tussock of grass with one hand and launched his feet out into the night.

  He landed heavily, the ground slamming painfully into the right side of his body, knocking the breath from him. Momentum took him further. He couldn’t hold on as he slid downwards, his feet instinctively scrabbling for grip. He grasped a tussock, found a toe hold. Lay still, desperately sucking in air. When he’d stopped gasping, he rolled over onto his back. Looked up. Saw a dim formless glow, a lightening of the night. He swore under his breath. She was getting closer.

  Slowly, trying to make no sound, he eased his feet down the hill. Slid a couple of feet. Froze when he saw a movement above him. He glanced up. Saw a light directly above his head. Beneath it the grass was illuminated as bright as day. He glanced left, thinking he’d move that way. Another globe hovered. Same to his right.

  How many globes could the bloody woman control at once? He fought down the desire to pop them. Without his staff it would be suicide. A direct assault on Maeve’s magic would confirm his presence and she’d hunt him like hounds after a fox. His only option was to creep away. Then, with luck, he’d live to fight another day.

  Very carefully, he inched towards the safety of the darkness below. His feet landed on something solid. He lowered himself on to it. Realised he stood on one of the turf terraces that wound around the Tor. Crouching, he looked up.

  The globes floated about three metres above him. Between them stood a dark figure, bent forward, looking down. Finn flattened himself against the side of the Tor. If Maeve saw him now he was a dead man.

  He needed a distraction. His fingers scrabbled, found a pebble. Releasing his shield, he drew on awen. Without his staff it was puny but he felt a little less helpless. He welcomed the energy into his body; breathed with it, controlled it, shaped it. The pebble rose above his palm, and as he formed the thought, it flew in a high arc towards the steps, bouncing and rattling on the concrete as it fell. He glanced up in time to see Maeve spin away, her coat billowing around her. The globes followed.

  Bent over Finn ran along the turf terrace heading away from the steps. Should he keep going, run round the Tor until he reached the gentler incline along the ridge? But then he’d be exposed, in easy sight of anyone on the top. Instead he crouched, gripped the edge of the terrace with both hands and walked his feet down the slope.

  Gravity pulled his body down, his arms extending until he held on with only his fingertips. Bracing his feet, he let go. Slid a few feet further. One foot landed in a hole, kicked its way out. A moment later he realised he’d disturbed its occupant. He heard a scrabble of earth. A rabbit shot past him up the slope.

  “Shit!” Finn breathed, covering his head with his hands. A second later, he felt the quiver in the earth as the light ball smacked into the turf. In his peripheral vision, he saw the rabbit tumble down the hill, falling over and over, its neck broken.

  Seconds later the protective cover of darkness thinned to a dusky grey. He couldn’t move. Could only imagine the lights floating down the slope, Maeve waiting on the edge poised to strike. He hardly breathed. The wind flattened his clothes to his body. He waited. Each breath felt like a minute.

  The slope returned to darkness. The globes must be moving away. He didn’t move. Didn’t trust his legs. The wind moaned through the empty arches of the tower. Finn listened to it for long minutes, then with a deep breath inched further down. His feet hit another turf terrace.

  He crouched low on it. The steps were ten, maybe twelve, feet below him. The gradient had lessened. He could scramble the rest of the way. He glanced up. The globes had disappeared. He took two steps down the slope and froze. A light emerged around the curve of the hill, shining on the steps beneath.

  He spun and keeping low, sprinted around the curve of the hill. His foot slipped on the slope. He fell to his knees. One hand landed on a stone. It ripped through his glove, lanced into his palm. Glancing back, he saw another light emerge. Dropping to the ground, he rolled to face the side of the Tor, shaped his body to it. A second later, above the sound of the wind, he heard the sharp tap of heels on concrete.

  He didn’t move. Could only hope that his black clothes hid him. The feet moved down the steps. He counted them. Sixteen, seventeen. They came closer again. Twenty eight, twenty nine. Moving away. Thirty nine, forty, forty one. They faded after fifty five.

  Finn waited. He lost track of how long he lay there. When he felt the energy of the Tor start to emerge, he cautiously rolled up to sitting. He took a deep breath. His ribs ached liked he’d been punched, his shin throbbed. Hearing rustling from the undergrowth he froze. A fox slunk out of the hedge and trotted away.

  He felt sure Maeve had left the Tor but there were plenty of places near the road where she could lurk in wait for him. He limped around the Tor, heading away from the steps. Between the hill and the hedge lining the road was a gully where sheep slept protected from the storm. He walked along it until he reached a five bar gate, climbed that, skirted around a field and came to the road. Cautiously he looked left and right, listened. Then he sprinted across it, took the path over Chalice Hill.

  He didn’t slow his pace, didn’t stop glancing behind him every few seconds. Passing through a gate the path entered a tunnel between a tangle of hawthorn trees and bramble bushes.

  His feet faltered, then stopped. He pulled his hat off, scrubbed his hand over his eyes. How the hell had Maeve known he was there?

  Chapter 16

  A few hours later, Finn was woken by a light. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the brightness. “Zoe?”

  “Sorry.”

  Propping himself up on his elbows, he looked at her over the back of the sofa. Hair hanging in front of her face, she crouched on the floor at the side of the bed, rummaging in her bag. Her legs were bare. Her t-shirt rode up her back, revealing a tight arse in purple knickers.

  He closed his eyes for a second, wondered if he were dreaming. “What are you doing?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just have to...” Her voice rose until it was almost squeaky.

  He looked again. She sounded upset. She’d sunk to the floor, her back against the bed. Her hair, hanging like curtains, obscured her face. Definitely not a dream. He recognised the posture.
He’d seen his sister curl up like that far too many times.

  Flinging the bed clothes back, he got up. “What’s wrong?” He sounded exhausted. There was a stain of daylight behind the curtains. He guessed it was around five o’clock. He’d had two hours sleep.

  Zoe seemed oblivious to his approach. “What’s going on?” he said, irritated now. He’d had a bad night. He didn’t need ignoring as well. There was no response. “Zoe?” He crouched next to her, wincing when the dull pain in his ribs sharpened.

  Her sketchpad balanced on her bent knees. Surprised, he tilted his head to look at her face. Her eyes were fixed on the paper in front of her, her brow furrowed with concentration. She gripped the pencil so tightly her knuckles were white. It moved swiftly, scoring the paper with rapid lines, shading between them. “Okay, you’re drawing.” He shoved his hand through his hair. “Why?”

  Zoe didn’t reply. It was as if he wasn’t there. He briefly considered going back to bed. It didn’t look like she’d notice. Then the fascination he’d felt on Monday when he’d seen her by the river resurfaced. He eased himself down to the floor and watched the picture take shape.

  It was night. The sky clear, the moon close to full. A cloaked figure stood in the centre of a stone circle. The ring was small and incomplete, some of the stones almost swallowed by the ground. A fire burned in the centre of the circle. A hood hid the figure’s face. One claw like hand was raised towards the sky.

  Zoe’s pencil moved on, revealing a person kneeling on the ground on the opposite side of the fire. The person became a man; wearing combats, walking boots, a fleece. His hands were behind his back. Finn bent his head to peer closer. A rope bound the man’s hands. The pencil moved to the face, shaded untidy hair, outlined square lines of a chin.

  “No!” Zoe gasped, her eyes widening.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Her hands covered her face, her shoulders shook. Knees bent, she curled into a ball. The sketchpad slipped to the floor.

  “Hey, it’s alright.” He gently touched her shoulder. For a moment, she didn’t respond then suddenly she turned, folding in on him until her head rested on his chest. Instinctively his hand rose to her shoulder. Her hair cascaded over it, the colour of conkers, silky against his fingers. Her bare legs touched his, her skin warm.

  Swallowing hard he focused his eyes on the wall and tried not to think. Her shoulders heaved as she cried and the scent of her hair – coconut and honey – wafted up to him. He swore silently and held his breath. He’d given into impulse and stroked her hair once already. He would not take advantage of a crying woman. No matter how badly he wanted to.

  He looked for a distraction, saw the sketchpad on the floor and grabbed it with his free hand. Holding it above her head, he studied it. The finished picture had a touch of Gothic melodrama about it that didn’t erase its sense of menace. Whether it was a man or woman behind the hood he couldn’t tell, except that the hands were perhaps too small to be a man’s. They looked like an old person’s; the joints distorted, the skin too large for the bones beneath.

  Why hadn’t she drawn the man’s face? The rest of the sketch was incredibly detailed. He could see logs crumbling in the fire, a talisman suspended from a thong around the man’s neck, mud on his boot.

  Abruptly she pulled away, wiping tears from her face with her fingers. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “That’s okay. You alright now?”

  She looked at the floor. Following her gaze, Finn saw her pale, slim legs. He forced himself to look away. “I had a bad dream,” she said, her voice so low he had to bend his head to catch her words. “Really bad. And then I had to draw it.” She hesitated. “I know it sounds crazy. But if I draw the dream then it’s like it can’t hurt me anymore. If I don’t draw it, it gets stuck in my head and I’m awake for the rest of the night.”

  Finn held the sketchpad out to her. “This is what you dreamt?”

  Zoe flinched away from him. “I don’t want to see it!”

  “O-kay.” Finn’s voice was gentle, the one he used at work to sooth frightened creatures. “We won’t look at it now.”

  “Sorry,” Zoe repeated, pushing her hair away from her face. “I know I sound crazy. But it’s just that if I look at the picture the dream will get back in my head.”

  Ignoring the stabbing pain in his ribs Finn levered himself up from the floor. “Putting it over here,” he said as he crossed to the coffee table. He dropped the sketchpad within easy reach of the sofa. He’d look at it again later.

  When he turned, Zoe had moved to sit on the bed. She looked up, biting her lip uncertainly. “Sorry about that. I know I sound like a crazy woman.” She folded her arms, across her chest. Her t-shirt pulled tight against her breasts. No bra.

  Finn wrenched his eyes back to her face. “A little eccentric but not crazy,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.

  Her brown eyes were smudged with makeup, her hair was a mess. And still she looked hot. He wanted her, had wanted her all evening if he were being honest. She’d been giving out all the right signals in the pub. Would she knock him back if he made a move now? He sat next to her on the bed. Deliberately close.

  “I’m so sorry that I woke you,” Zoe said. “I wasn’t thinking at all. I’d forgotten where I was and I just put the light on like I would at home...”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, you can’t have been back for all that long. You’ll have had no sleep at all.” Zoe’s worried eyes met his.

  “I’ll be fine,” he lied, stifling a yawn. “Do you always draw your dreams?”

  He was sat so close to her, their legs almost touching, that he felt her tense. “Only the bad ones,” she said quietly.

  He glanced at her. She was biting her bottom lip again. That wasn’t very promising. He regrouped and tried a different tack. “You know, you had me worried for a minute when you were drawing. It was like you were in a trance or something.” His voice was light, teasing. He nudged her shoulder gently with his.

  “Was I? Sorry, I didn’t realise. There’s not usually anyone with me when it happens.”

  “Will you stop saying sorry? I don’t mind that you woke me, okay. I don’t even mind you crying on me.” He pulled his t-shirt away from his chest, pointed to a darker patch. “Look, I’m drying out already.”

  Zoe smiled weakly. “Okay.”

  “That’s better.”

  “I don’t know why I cried.” Zoe looked down, her hair falling forward. “I don’t normally.” She rubbed at the pile of the carpet with her toes. Her toenails were purple. Before he could shut it down his brain logged that they matched her knickers. Which was not a visual he needed now! He closed his eyes, sat entirely still and willed his body not to betray him.

  Silence hovered between them for long seconds. When he’d got enough control, he reached out, gently swept her hair away from her face and let it fall over her shoulder. He bent to look at her face. “I told you I don’t mind,” he said, his voice a little huskier than normal. He cleared his throat, hoped she’d not noticed.

  Zoe looked up at him. “I know. It’s just that you invite me to stay and I repay you by waking you up in the middle of the night and crying all over you.”

  “But you made my bed for me. That counts for something.”

  “Seemed only fair after you’d given up this bed for me.” She smiled, a wide genuine smile that lit up her eyes.

  Now we’re getting somewhere. He gestured towards the bed, raised his eyebrows. “And are you finding it comfortable?”

  “Absolutely.” She grinned. Then her face froze. She grabbed his hand, stared at the deep gash on his palm. “What happened to your hand?”

  Finn tugged it away. “I fell.” He stared at the carpet, hoping she’d get the message that he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “And you banged your leg as well.” Zoe gestured to the ugly red slash on his shin, crusted with dried black blood. “That must really hurt.
”

  “It does.”

  “You poor thing,” she said, her eyes full of concern.

  “I’ll live.” He stood. The moment had gone. She’d reminded him why it shouldn’t have been there in the first place. “Try and get some sleep,” he said. Walking stiffly back to the sofa, he heard the swish of the duvet, the creak of the bed. He eased himself down, sank into the sofa’s soft embrace. It was the only one he was going to get tonight.

  The light went off. He heard Zoe turn over. He tried to shut out the awareness of her closeness, to forget she was only feet away. He lay entirely still, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. The bed creaked again and he fought down the urge to go to her.

  Think of something else. Think of Maeve. That was guaranteed to cool desire.

  “Finn?” Zoe whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  He opened his mouth to ask what she was thanking him for. Then realising he didn’t want to get into that, he said, “You’re welcome.”

  He waited - his ribs aching, his leg throbbing evilly - until he heard her breathing slow. Then sitting, he glanced at the bed. She slept curled on her side, her hair spread over the pillow. He sighed. He’d massively overestimated his self-control when he’d offered her a bed for the night.

  He put his hand on his aching ribs, rubbed his fingers along each one, testing they weren’t broken. He’d ignored his injuries when he came in; been so exhausted he’d literally fallen into bed. Now he’d slept a little, the pain had become insistent. He should be rested enough to do something about it.

  Deciding he’d no broken bones he placed his hands on his ribcage. Closing his eyes he drew on the energy around him, let it seep through his hands, visualised it breaking down the blood trapped in the tissue. Then he did the same with his leg, was pleased when he took his hands away to see that the wound had shrunk to a thin red line.

  Bending easily now, he grabbed his pack from the floor and unzipped it. He took out a pen torch, held it over the drawing. Knowing it was a dream, he looked at it with new eyes. Padraig had taught him not to underestimate the power of dreams. The difficulty was knowing which ones had meaning and which were simply nightmares. That was hard enough with his own dreams. Figuring out someone else’s was entirely new to him.