2012 The Secret Teachings of the Next Door Neighbour

by Frauke and Simon Lewer

Paul picked himself up, brushing the snow from his legs and tried to get his bearings. It was disorientating being so suddenly in completely different surroundings, yet he could see that the two dimensions shared the same underlying landscape.

  Paul knew the town of St Germaine must be somewhere behind him though the dense pine branches surrounding him, sagging under their weight of snow, gave him a minimum of visibility.

  Now he was back in his own reality, the shimmering ley-line leading to Alesia was no longer visible but strangely still tangible as a feeling inside the cells of his body.

  It was as though, Paul thought, a part of the magic of the Magur’s world was still retained within him and he knew with a certainty, that went deeper than thought, that Alesia lay directly ahead.

  It was a bizarre sensation and one that was hard to put into words but it felt as if he was now perceiving the world around him, not only from his usual material view point but from a more subtle energetic perspective as well.

  Paul let his gaze wander the wooded hillsides for a moment, until, following that inner conviction, he set off, walking briskly down the deeply rutted forestry track aware that if he was to do what needed to be done at sunrise tomorrow, the miles between himself and Alesia needed covering today. It wouldn’t be too long before the light faded and he wondered how much time he had spent inside the Magur world.

  The forestry track led Paul on a long, upward curve and hemmed in as he was by the tree’s dense, snow-laden branches, he would have found it hard to maintain his sense of direction if it were not for the peculiar, tingling vibration he could feel inside himself.

  Paul could tell, as the track swept across the hillside, exactly where Alesia lay as if his body itself had become a compass, magnetized to the pathway of energetic power.

  At last, after a long, steady walk, Paul emerged on a promontory, the land falling steeply away to the south, giving him a view into the distance. Far off beyond the pine woods, Paul could see a high plateau of land and circling above it like vultures waiting for their prey, three, tiny, tell tale specks.

  Paul smile wryly as he watched the distant choppers. Even if he couldn’t instinctively feel the way to go, he could hardly go wrong with them so clearly marking his destination.

  He rested a minute looking down over the tranquil, snow-cloaked treetops. The heavy, grey clouds were dispersing now, breaking up and blowing away in wisps and swirls, giving Paul glimpses of the clear, blue sky above.

  The last rays of the sun illuminated the cloud tips and high up airplane vapor trails in a beautiful display of delicate pinks and mauves.

  The evening held the promise of a cold night and Paul’s breath rose in puffs of steam, the snow crystals already frozen and crunchy beneath his feet.

  He wondered briefly about the ominous space craft that had so rudely broken into the beauty and magic of that ancient reality, recalling the fear that had passed across the Magur’s wizened face as it loomed towards them.

  He spoke her name out of curiosity,

  ‘Magur?’ even though a part of him knew that for now she was unavailable and he was on his own.

  A flurry of snow fell from a branch behind him and Paul span around apprehensively. But no ... it was probably just a bird or squirrel startled by his voice.

  Well, he concluded, turning back, there was no sense in worrying, if anyone could look after themselves, it was her.

  For now, his job was simply to keep walking, putting one foot in front of the other, drawn forward by the just tangible feeling of the ley-line and the sight of the distant helicopters.

  Between himself and the plateau of Alesia was a steep, tree crowded valley and beyond, another hill similar to the one he was now descending, rose up in his path.

  It was difficult to calculate the actual distance, but, however far it was, Paul knew, the journey would be made much longer by the difficulty of the terrain.

  As Paul eventually neared the valley bottom he could hear the sound of a car engine in the distance. Obviously there was a road as yet hidden from his sight and he decided to approach with caution. He leapt the drainage ditch at the edge of the track and scrambled up into the trees. He picked his way forward laboriously, the brittle branches scratching at his face and snagging his hair. After ten difficult minutes, Paul reached a point with good visibility of the road and saw he had been wise to be cautious.

  Through the valley bottom, running parallel to the road, a wide, turbulent river rushed foaming over the scattered, granite boulders in its way.

  Further downstream, where the river dipped beneath the ribbon of tarmac, he could see a high, steel bridge and strategically placed on either side of it, Paul could just make out in the fading light, the figures of four, uniformed gendarmes, their state of the art, BMW motorbikes parked alongside them.

  With a shock that made his heart leap, Paul saw that one of them, leaning on the rail of the bridge, had a pair of binoculars trained on the woodland in which he was hiding.

  Paul dropped to his belly on the frozen pine-needles, keeping himself well concealed and let his heart beat settle.

  This was not going to be easy, he realized, eyeing the foam-flecked, churning water of the river.

  It might be shallow enough to wade but getting soaked through in these freezing temperatures wouldn’t be a sensible move. But then again, attempting to pass the police on the bridge wasn’t even an option.

  Paul lay for a long-time on the hard ground of the forest floor, the coldness working its way into his body.

  As he lay there, caught in indecision, he watched a succession of vehicles drive along the road toward the bridge.

  The gendarmes flagged them over thoroughly searching each one before finally letting them go on their way. Would they stay there all night, he wondered, and how long could he wait before he died of hypothermia?

  The last shreds of cloud were breaking up now, dispersing away to the west and a swollen silver moon, surrounded by a resplendent halo was just rising over the hills. Paul drew some courage from the beautiful sight and forced himself to think of a plan.

  Maybe, he thought, looking at the structure of heavy, iron girders that made up the bridge, maybe he could wait till night fell and climb beneath it, hidden from the gendarme’s eyes.

  It wasn’t the greatest of plans he had to admit but without the Magur here to give him advice, it was the best he could come up with.

  Well, the least he could do was get closer and take a better look.

  It was getting too cold for him to sit still for much longer and any plan was an improvement on cowering here, feeling the freezing numbness seep into his fingers and toes.

  Paul crept closer, staying well concealed in the cover of the dense plantation till he was only fifty meters from the bridge and eyed it uncertainly.

  Closer up, the idea seemed even less feasible.

  He knew he was reasonably fit, his body trimmed and muscles toned by the last five days of meagre diet and hard walking but did he have the strength and agility needed to cross those iron girders without slipping into the icy turbulence below? Somehow, he wasn’t so sure.

  As he considered, squatting behind the wide trunk of a pine tree, he saw one of the gendarmes lift a radio from his belt.

  Moments later he replaced it and within seconds the four of them had mounted their bikes and sped off down the road. Paul couldn't believe his luck and as soon as the gendarmes had disappeared from sight, he pushed through the remaining trees, jumped the bank and set out at a hard sprint straight for the bridge, his oversized wellies making his feet cumbersome and clumsy.

  The bridge was a lot longer than it had looked from a distance and his footsteps reverberated through it as he ran. He glanced back over his shoulder, aware that if they should return now, he was well and truly caught without any cover, his only escape the rushing rapids below. But the road remained empty and Paul reached the cover of the forestry woods on the other side, collapsing in a heap and gasping the icy air desper
ately into his lungs.

  The woods on this side were older and taller than those across the bridge behind him, with fewer side branches to impede his progress and as soon as he’d recovered his breath, he set off, up the incline, struggling over the rough ground and through the tree trunks.

  It was a long and laborious climb and by the time he finally stumbled on a track near the hill’s summit he was tired and hot, his sweat making his clothes unpleasantly damp and clammy.

  He could still feel that gentle, tingling flow of the ley line beneath and around him, but he was aware of another conflicting energy that had been steadily increasing since he’d crossed the river. If he’d had to describe it, he would have said that it felt like the exact opposite of the ley line. Where the ley-lines felt flowing and harmonious to his body, lending him strength and enticing him onwards, this new energy was agitated and discordant as though tiny needles were poking into him.

  Paul followed the track upwards, the negative feeling growing stronger with every step until he came to a spacious clearing.

  Directly across from him was a wire mesh compound encircling a low, concrete building and towering up from the centre of it was a high mast with the vertical tubes of mobile phone transmitters securely bolted to it.

  On either side of the clearing, huge piles of logs were stacked ready for loading and Paul, after scraping the frozen snow off the nearest log, sat himself down to rest a moment. He gazed upwards at the top of the mast, wondering if it could be the source of the jarring, antagonistic energy he felt and as he did so he perceived a strange phenomenon.

  By looking at the star-studded sky around the masthead and shifting his eyes slightly out of focus, as he had done to see the elementals, Paul could see that in fact the mast was emitting an energetic haze. It was as if it was broadcasting short, jagged blasts of energy which shattered and ricocheted chaotically into the air around it.

  Paul stared, transfixed, wondering if he was now seeing firsthand what the Magur had referred to as “the frequency net.”

  She’d described it as a vibration sent out with the intention of blocking both the Earth’s power and human genetic evolution, and feeling this, he was inclined to believe her.

  It wasn’t the right place to rest, as if the energy was draining his positivity and resolve, wrapping his jacket tightly around himself and thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, Paul got back on the move.

  There was no track from here leading down the far side of the hill and not wanting to deviate, Paul decided to plunge onwards through the trees.

  He could see in the moonlight that at the next valley bottom, the miles of forestry plantation that he’d crossed ended and the final climb up to the plateau of Alesia would be over fields of grazed land.

  Paul set off, shouldering his way past the needle tipped, spruce branches and made his way zigzagging down the hillside.

  After an hour or so of steady descent, Paul emerged from the trees, finding himself unexpectedly on the top of a small but steep limestone cliff with a wide view over the valley. He looked down in amazement at the scene spread out below him.

  As in the previous valley a road ran along from left to right, but here, a smaller single track road turned off and climbed up towards the plateau. Positioned at the start of this turning was a roadblock composed of two, mesh windowed police vans, brightly lit with portable floodlights and a couple of sections of galvanized fencing weighted down with lumps of concrete.

  The main road in both directions was totally congested with queues of cars, vans, trucks and coaches, obviously all attempting to turn up the road.

  Dozens of people could be seen milling around in the glare of the halogen lights, a few arguing with the handful of police who stood out in the freezing air, manning the roadblock, while police bikes cruised up and down the line of vehicles in a futile attempt to keep order.

  With all the congestion there was no way anyone could leave and from what Paul could see from his vantage point, more cars were arriving every minute from both directions. From the right, Paul could make out flashing blue lights as more police vehicles attempted to wind their way through the chaos.

  Before Paul had had much time to consider his next move, he saw a huge, four wheel drive, flat-fronted, army lorry pull out from the jam on the left and ignoring the whistles and orders of the gendarmes, trundle steadily towards the roadblock. Immediately behind it, three other vehicles pulled out, following closely. Paul looked on, wondering whether they’d given up and were attempting to leave.

  But as the leading truck came under the harsh, white glare of the floodlights, Paul could see a roughly painted, black anarchy “A” daubed over its front and what looked like an RSJ beam welded in place of a bumper. The truck, turning onto the road-blocked lane changed up a gear, Paul watched open-mouthed as its speed increased, forcing the gendarmes to jump out of its way as it ploughed straight into the police vans, effortlessly caving their front wings and bonnets in and pushing them out of its way. The mesh fences crumpled, were caught for a few seconds on its battering ram, dragged along the road, sparking and grating on the tarmac, before falling, discarded onto the verge.

  A roar of triumph erupted from the crowd and as the police clambered out from their crumpled vans, the truck was followed by a stream of smaller vehicles, horns blaring wildly into the night, winding jubilantly up the lane.

  The police appeared dazed, aware that they were hopelessly outnumbered, they watched as the convoy of vehicles rolled past.

  Now was the moment to act, Paul realized, before back-up could arrive to reconsolidate the barrier.

  Paul moved along the top of the cliff, peering desperately down into the darkness, looking for the least hazardous route. He settled on a spot where a few stunted trees clung to the cliff-face. They’d at least give him some hand-holds for the first, steepest part of the descent. Throwing caution to the wind, Paul lowered himself over the ledge. The first ten meters were even steeper than he’d thought and he was forced to go slowly and carefully, his fingers wrapping tightly round the slender trees and feet scrabbling blindly, searching for footholds.

  But soon the gradient became shallower and Paul found he could slither and slide, his jacket riding up his back and the loose shale descending in an avalanche around him.

  On reaching the main road, Paul set off walking fast alongside the stream of traffic crawling toward the T-junction. He realized quickly that if he wanted to save himself a long, uphill hike, now was the moment to hitch a lift. The flustered police were hardly going to recognize him amongst so much mayhem. Just ahead he spotted a flatbed truck piled high with bundles of sapling poles, rolls of tarpaulin and a heap of building site salvaged firewood.

  Crammed in amongst all the clutter, facing back from the cab was an old sofa on which sat a group of crusty looking youths, passing a bottle of spirits between them and yelling with drunken glee into the night.

  As Paul inched towards them, the queue of traffic accelerated and he had to break into a jog, his feet pounding over the icy slush on the road.

  The crusties laughed, shouting encouragement as Paul reached forward, his fingers stretching for the top of the tailgate. With an almighty effort, Paul leapt and managed to hook one leg over the side. Helpful hands hauled him in and grinning, passed him the bottle as he found himself a seat on a rolled up carpet.

  Moments later they’d taken the turn past the destroyed roadblock, the gendarmes now urgently talking into their radios, watching the crazy convoy with stony expressions.

  ‘Viva la libertad!’ shouted one of the guys, a colorful, wooly hat with ear flaps pulled low over his pierced eyebrows.

  ‘Y coja la policia!’ shouted the skinny girl next to him and they erupted into peals of raucous laughter.

  Paul took a swig at the bottle, the fiery liquid sending a pleasant sensation of warmth down his throat and handed it back.

  The convoy snaked up the hill for several minutes, their headlights illuminating the frozen
ice crystals on the roadside trees, until the convoy again ground to a halt.

  Shouting, ‘muchas gracias,’ Paul scrambled over the drop sides and strode onwards up the hill, past the column of idling vehicles. He had no problem knowing where he was going now. There was a power in the land, an inaudible hum that he could feel reverberating inside his bones and when he reached into his pocket and touched the crystal he could feel a corresponding tingle within it. But quite apart from that, the trio of whining helicopters could still be seen, hovering like guarding sentinels high over the plateau.

  Then, rounding a bend, Paul spotted a familiar looking, yellow renault 4, its suspension low on the road under the weight of bodies inside.

  It couldn’t be, could it? he wondered, as reaching the drivers door he peered in to see Crousti’s grinning face.

  ‘Hey my Eeenglishman!’ Crousti shouted, jumping out and wrapping Paul in a rough bear hug, ‘you make it! It’s gonna be crazy party yeah!’

  Paul laughed, surprised at how genuinely pleased to meet him he was. The rest of the gang piled out, clapping Paul on the shoulder like a long-lost friend.

  ‘Hey, is lucky Babou tell you fuck off,’ said Toxico, his lanky frame and spiky mohican towering over Paul.

  ‘Crousti and you go Troyes sell acid ... Pigs come, find nothing, house clean!’ he grinned delightedly at his own story as Crousti interrupted, pointing back down the hill.

  “Hey! You see pigs faces? Ha! Very funny thing!’

  He looked Paul up and down approvingly,

  ‘Nice beard man. Hey! No more shit shoes!’ he pointed at Paul’s wellies before his expression became serious,

  ‘Watch out for Babou yeah, he real pissed ... they his top jeans!’

  Paul couldn’t help smiling, Babou wanting his jeans back would have to wait as he definitely didn’t fancy dimension jumping in nothing but his underpants.

  ‘Listen guys, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at the festival yeah?’ Paul said.

  He could feel a sense of inner urgency drawing him onwards but Crousti grabbed his shoulder as he turned to leave,

  ‘Hey, you want Ecstasy?’ he asked, ‘I make you good price. Acid? Mayan circles, we make it special for tonight?’

  ‘Big Mindfuck man!’ Toxico said, adding his personal approval.

  ‘Err, ... no, but thanks anyway,’ Paul said, giving Crousti a parting, friendly slap on the shoulder and striding on up the hill.

  As he walked past the line of stationary vehicles, watching out for the almost continuous stream of motorbikes and scooters weaving their way through the jam, he was amazed to see number plates from all over Europe.

  The big, outlandish traveler's rigs were mostly British, whilst the french vehicles were a scruffy collection of old peugeot and Citroen vans, a lot of them scrawled with scribbled graffiti tags.

  But also, mixed in amongst them, were more respectable looking Mercedes and Audis on German and Swiss plates.

  Whoever had organized this festival, Paul realized, had done an impressive job of the publicity, attracting so many people to this isolated spot in the eastern hills of France.

  The further up the road Paul got, the more people he saw abandoning their vehicles, grabbing bags and rucksacks of essentials and joining Paul in the walk up the hill. Very soon he found he was part of a multi-lingual, advancing tide of people moving like an unstoppable wave, onwards and upwards.

  From listening to snatches of conversation around him it became clear that there were at least three or four festivals all billed to take place tonight on the same spot.

  It was definitely too weird to be a coincidence, Paul thought, and whoever was behind it’s organization, he reasoned, was more than likely trying to help him succeed in his mission, under the cover of so much chaos and confusion.

  Could it possibly be Elodie? he wondered, doing a double take as he passed a funeral hearse with a gigantic, inflatable banana in place of a coffin.

  And if it was, would she be here tonight?

  By the time Paul had walked another kilometer or so, he could hear the distant pulse of techno music behind the chug of idling engines and the whine of the choppers high overhead.

  The narrow lane wound on between crumbling stone walls and Paul could see picked out in the headlights the shadowy outlines of gorse and small, stunted oaks in the fields to either side. Finally the road leveled and opened out at a three-way intersection of lanes, seven or eight stone houses and assorted barns and sheds made up a generously spaced hamlet around the junction.

  All three routes here, Paul noticed were jammed with solid traffic.

  Just beyond the hamlet, on the open heath land of the plateau, Paul could see a buzz of activity illuminated in the random glare of headlights as trucks and buses were unloaded and the festival got set up. Beyond that again, he could see a bright, white glow of light above which the choppers incessantly circled.

  That, it seemed clear, was where his destination lay.

  As the mass of walking people passed the bottlenecked traffic of the junction, one of the choppers swung free, dropping fast to swoop low and threateningly over the heads of the crowd.

  Paul could see curtains twitching as the anxious faces of the villagers peered out at the invasion outside.

  They’d soon passed the hamlet and were swarming through the narrow gateway onto the open land beyond.

  Paul squeezed past a route master double decker, painted in a profusion of stars, planets and flying saucers, wedged diagonally across the gateway, one back wheel suspended dangerously over the ditch.

  Well, that explained the congestion, Paul thought, watching as an ancient, army tow-truck backed up over the frozen, compacted ground to the decker and a heavy-duty tow-chain was unrolled from it’s winch.

  Once on the site, Paul could see that people had obviously been arriving for at least the last few hours, maybe longer.

  He could see a curtain side trailer where shadowy figures were busy stacking speakers and amps four high and plugging them in from a tangled spaghetti of cables and wires.

  Beyond, Paul could see the long, straight poles of skeletal teepees as people hauled the canvas covers over their frames, illuminated in the flickering, dancing orange light of a huge bonfire. If he’d thought the site at St Germaine had been big, it was nothing to the scale of the gathering he was now looking at.

  Overhead, the ever present choppers whined like angry wasps in the cold, starry sky, and Paul touching the crystal in his pocket yet again for reassurance felt glad to be so well concealed in this mass of people.

  He picked his way through the mayhem, drawn forward both by the sense of power he could feel in the land and by that mysterious glare of white light he could see ahead.

  There really were a staggering number of people who’d found their way to this remote spot; freaks, hippies, and weirdoes of every description.

  In fact, he’d never realized that that many people from the fringes of society even existed.

  Attracted by the heat of a roaring fire, Paul stopped to warm his face and hands.

  A gang of bikers were sat around it, drinking beer and laughing uproariously at jokes in a Scandinavian language he didn’t understand, maybe Danish or Norwegian.

  They moved over to offer Paul a log to sit on and he accepted, glad to take the weight off his feet for a minute.

  They reminded him of a horde of viking raiders from the past, with their shaved heads and mustaches and beards up-lit in the light of the dancing flames.

  A bottle of whisky was passing the round and as it came to Paul, he heard a firm voice inside his head say, ‘No!”

  He passed the bottle on untouched, realizing with a smile that it wasn’t the Magur’s voice but his own.

  Paul knew he was right. He had to stay focused and drinking alcohol was not going to help him in any way with the task he had to complete in just a few hours time.

  Paul moved on, heading towards a rigid lorry that had been transformed into an instant stage
.

  A guy was standing on the truck bed, tapping a mike,

  ‘Testing, testing, one ... two ... one,’ and ear-splitting blasts of feedback erupted as guitars were tuned and amps adjusted.

  The sides of the stage were colorfully painted in fairground scrolls and spirals and above, in huge circus lettering was written

  “Wango Rileys Traveling Stage”

  All around it was grouped a semicircle of british plated trucks and buses, canvas awnings and marquees stretched in front of them.

  Paul wandered through, looking for Rusty and Kate’s old, green coach.

  He would have liked to let them know he’d got here safely and hear about what had happened in St Germaine after he’d escaped.

  But with quite so many people here, he soon realized his chances of coming across them were slim.

  Besides, there was still that powerful inner urge drawing him forward towards the glare of light above which the choppers threateningly hovered and he couldn’t afford to waste time.

  As he walked on, Paul could feel the charged atmosphere of excitement bubbling through the diverse crowds gathered here and he wondered if they too were picking up on the tingling power of the ley-lines beneath their feet. Now, at last, Paul could see that the source of the white glare came from a collection of large, oblong halogen lights, suspended from tubular, metal scaffold poles.

  The crowd of people around them was so dense he could see nothing through the silhouettes of their heads and shoulders.

  If Elodie was here, Paul knew, that was where she’d be and where he had to go.

  He was soon shouldering and squeezing his way deep into the throng, until, on finally pushing through to the last rows of people, Paul’s eyes widened in wonder at the sight in front on him.

  Maybe thirty meters from the goggling eyes of the bemused festival goers, Paul could see a ring of uncoiled razor wire, gleaming wickedly in the halogen glare. It rose waist-high, viciously sharp and impenetrable.

  Inside it was a loose circle of riot police in full, black, body armor. Behind perspex shields, their visored faces stared back blankly at the crowd.

  Paul’s eyes took in the bizarre scene and he scanned the outlandish hairstyles and ragged clothes of the crowd, feeling as if history was repeating itself and he was standing within the amassed ranks of the Gaulish tribes, facing off against the might of the Imperial Roman legions. But what was really crazy about the scene, was that, enclosed by that formidable barrier of silent police, there was nothing but a brilliantly illuminated, empty expanse of sheep cropped grass.

  Of course, Paul realized, it was just as the Magur had told him, the stone-circle of her time had long ago been destroyed. Nevertheless there was something pretty damn surreal about the sight.

  Suddenly, behind the orderly ranks of the police ring, Paul spotted the slicked grey hair, angular face and mirrored shades of an Agent, and then another, and another!

  Shit!

  There were three of them and from where he stood, it appeared they were all staring directly at him. How he hadn’t noticed them before he didn’t know.

  Paul quickly ducked and slunk back a couple of rows, his heart pounding, before he dared to look back.

  A helicopter loomed down like a predatory beast, its searchlight swooping across the heads of the crowd towards him. Paul realized his vulnerability so close to so many Agents and remembered the Magur’s previous advice.

  ‘Change your thoughts,’ she had said.

  Spotting a sound system surrounded by a crowd of dancing people, Paul moved closer and forcing himself to concentrate on the hypnotic beat, Paul let himself go to the music.

  As he moved his body to the electronic pulse, feeling the melody sway through him, the helicopter veered upwards and away and the Agents heads continued their steady scan of the crowd. Paul breathed a long sigh of relief.

  A pretty, teenage girl dancing next to Paul, nudged him saying,

  ‘Ils sont fous ces Romains, non?’ and tapping her head with her finger, she pointed at the helicopter. Paul smiled in response.

  From her perspective, he agreed, it did look pretty crazy but from his, it was a formidable barrier to cross and sent thoughts of doubt and anxiety racing across his mind.

  The magnitude of what he was about to attempt struck him more strongly than ever before. He realized that all the risks he had taken and close escapes he had survived over the last five days would count for nothing unless he could pull off the flying finale of jumping into the ancient dimension when the crucial moment came.

  Did he have what it would take to do it?

  Alone, without the help of his mentor the Magur?

  Well, he was going to make a fine fool of himself if he got sliced to ribbons on the razor wire in front of this massive audience, he thought, trying to shake his anxiety off. He could feel the crystal in his pocket, vibrating as if it knew that it was now only steps away from it’s source.

  He remembered the first vision he’d seen, of the tribe of Magur creating it, awed in the knowledge that he was now standing in the very same place, so many thousands of years later. Paul made his way out of the crowd of dancers, magnetized unwillingly back to that heavily guarded circle. Although just being so close to Agents was dangerous, he felt compelled to have another look.

  The helicopters were still cruising the skies above and Paul knew that they almost certainly contained more Agents, scanning the minds below in their search for him. Now he was so close, he must be more cautious than ever. Fiercely keeping his mind on the music and body bouncing to the beat, he moved forward again through the crush, when his eyes were arrested by the sight of a very familiar face.

  Was it really her?

  At that same moment her eyes made contact with his, in a flash of recognition.

  It was!

  Paul’s heart leapt.

  She was about one-third of the way around the circle and knowing that running to greet her across the shadow-less space of no-mans land between the wire and the crowd wasn’t an option, Paul started pushing his way around the ring towards her, trying to keep her in sight as he went. She was also dodging towards him and a minute later they were facing each other. There was so much to say that Paul found himself lost for words.

  ‘Elodie,’ he said.

  ‘Paul,’ she replied, giving him a brief embrace, ‘You made it!’

  ‘Well, if I’d known what your little delivery job involved, I think I might have stayed in bed.’

  Taking his hand in hers she led him back through the crowd away from the Agents and police, to the safety of the festival beyond.

  They stared at each other intently again for a moment, oblivious of the party raging around them, as Elodie said,

  ‘I cannot believe it is really you ... You look so different.’

  Paul shrugged, self deprecatingly, knowing she was referring to more than his change of clothing.

  ‘Yeah, I guess I am different. A lot has happened in the last five days.’

  As his eyes rested on her face, he knew he could say the same about her. She looked exhausted, an air of total depletion and fatigue surrounding her, from her roughly cropped hair to the bags under her almond eyes.

  ‘It looks to me like you’ve been missing out a bit on your yoga and tofu ...’ he said and Elodie smiled tiredly in response, choosing her words carefully.

  ‘Yes, I too have had an eventful week.’

  As she spoke, Paul realized what he’d guessed all along.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he asked, waving his arm to encompass the scene around them. ‘You made this happen!’

  It was a statement and not a question. Elodie smiled, a gleam of smugness lighting up her tired eyes.

  ‘It was important to provide you with cover,’ she said, at once her face becoming serious.

  ‘Paul? You have it still?’ she asked, her voice betraying the intensity of emotion she felt.

  Paul’s hand reached automatically to his trouser pocke
t and he pulled the crystal out to hand it to her, when an impulse from somewhere deep inside stopped him.

  His hand paused in mid-air, the crystal entangled in the necklace he’d bought for Elodie so long ago, clasped in his fist.

  ‘No,’ he said, shocking even himself, ‘I’m doing it.’

  Elodie’s eyes widened, boring into him,

  ‘But do you know how?’ she asked in a whisper.

  ‘Yes,’ Paul replied, surprised at his own confidence, adding, ‘I think so. I’ve just done a five day crash course.’

  Elodie gaped in incomprehension,

  ‘What? Who taught you?’

  ‘It’s a long story ... ’ Paul replied, ‘let’s just say it involved some pretty scary aliens and a 78,000 year old mind-reading dimension jumping old lady.’

  A charged silence hung between them for a moment as their eyes locked together, until Elodie’s head suddenly dropped, breaking the eye contact and looking down she said,

  ‘Maybe you are right. Maybe it is meant to be like this.’

  She looked up at him appraisingly.

  ‘Your aura is strong,’ she said, before adding sadly in a low voice, ‘and I’m in a mess. I do not know if I could raise the power.’

  Paul slowly disentangled the heart-shaped necklace entwined in his fingers, saying haltingly,

  ‘I was going to give this to you after dinner.’

  Elodie smiled,

  ‘Yes, I was worried you might do something foolish of that sort.’

  Paul continued, ‘well, that moment never came ... ‘

  He paused, lifting the necklace towards her, ‘but, anyway ... just as a friend ... here it is.’

  Their eyes met again and a current of understanding passed between them as Elodie accepted the necklace and smiled, saying simply,

  ‘Thank you Paul.’

  They embraced again for a long moment, not needing to say anything else, until Elodie finally withdrew from his arms and led him back through the crowd towards the traveler's encampment.

  They approached a bus painted in garish, psychedelic swirls, with a wide, striped awning stretched along its length. A brightly painted, plywood sign hung off it saying,

  “End of Time Cafe”

  and a menu sandwich-board was propped underneath. Thick carpets and cushions crowded with people eating and drinking were laid out beneath its awning and a long-haired, smiling couple about Paul’s age were serving from a laden trestle table.

  Paul and Elodie ducked under a string of tibetan prayer flags to warm their hands at the heat of an oil-drum brassier, running their eyes down the neatly chalked up menu board: