The Fetch

by Robert Holdstock

  Françoise laughed. ‘I’m not angry. I think he already knows. He just hasn’t told you. You tell him what you want. Too many secrets,’ she added with a sideways glance and a smile that sent cold fingers down Susan’s spine. ‘Too many secrets, kept for years, can be unbearable. You’re right. Don’t add more.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by that.’

  ‘Of course you know what I mean by that.’

  ‘Don’t call me a liar! Don’t dare call me a liar.’

  ‘I do dare. Why not? It’s your life. It’s your lie. But Susan, I have seen that lie – oh, I don’t know what it is, of course, and frankly I don’t want to. But I have seen it. And more to the point, I can see it poisoning you.’

  And with that, Françoise turned quickly and led the way grimly back to the car, where Jack Goodman was in deep conversation with Richard. A moment before they arrived she whispered, ‘You wear your darkness like a veil, Susan. I hope you can lift that veil soon.’

  Susan was in a cold sweat, her perception heightened through shock and emotion. ‘I really don’t know what you mean,’ she muttered, but she knew that her face betrayed her.

  At the car, Richard passed Françoise a scroll of paper. ‘From Michael, for you,’ he said with a slight bow.

  ‘Ah. The Castle Keep.’

  She unfurled the paper and looked at the confusion of broken circles and diagonal lines. She was reminded of a maze, or some sort of puzzle. In the centre of the picture was the representation of a sea with mountains behind it. On the area of the beach a small figure had been drawn, standing below a bright sun. Its shadow stretched away from it like a thin cross. Placed outside the circles, standing on a low hill, was a representation of Madame Françoise Jeury every bit as indulgent as Carol’s earlier effort, all bust and auburn hair. She had been outlined in heavy black pen to make her stand out.

  ‘I am not flattered,’ she said with a laugh, ‘but I’m grateful for the gift. Will you tell him that I’m pleased?’

  ‘I will,’ said Richard. Goodman and Françoise Jeury took their leave.

  Watching from the landing window, Michael raised a hand, waved silently as the car pulled out of the drive and on to the London road. Then he went back to his room and sat in the corner, thinking about the woman and the map of the castle that he had given her.

  He smiled, then chuckled. He reached under the bed and pulled out the white sheet on which he had drawn his castle earlier. He ran a finger through the tunnels and in the secret spaces between the walls. He had given Françoise an incomplete map; but she would always be able to find him at the heart, if she ever came back. Michael felt an intuitive trust of the woman, and if she did come back, and he was hiding, she could come to him.

  He grinned and touched the place where heavier doors hid the tunnels.

  He wondered in which of them Chalk Boy was sleeping tonight.

  Jack Goodman’s telephone call a week later was short and to the point. ‘I’m in a rush, Richard. A meeting. But I thought you’d be interested to hear that our metallurgist has examined the blade from the quarry—’

  ‘The bronze dagger?’

  ‘The bronze dagger. I’ll spare you the technical details, if you don’t mind. You know how bad I am at chemistry. I’ll send you a copy of the report, if you’re interested. Essentially: it’s authentic. Southern German manufacture, cast about 900 BC, perhaps a little later. They used a casting process that riddled the metal with a particular impurity. No Victorian copyist – no anytime copyist – would have known how to duplicate that. It’s genuine.’

  Richard sat down and stared into space for a few moments, smiling as he let Goodman’s words sink in. ‘Your colleague, the psychic, said it was only a hundred or so years old.’

  ‘I know. But you know my doubts about that particular lady. The casting, the way it was made, dates it precisely. It’s nearly three thousand years old. I imagine our forensic laboratory will confirm that in time. I’ve already sent the specimen over. The bone, by the way, the painted bone? It’s recent. Radiocarbon dating is quicker than the laborious process of dating metals. It’s from this generation. Even had human skin scales on it.’

  Richard said nothing for a few moments, then smiled. ‘Well. Thanks for calling, Jack. I appreciate the information.’

  ‘Before you go: if you want to sell the blade to the collector’s market … I think it will fetch a moderate price.’

  ‘Do it for me, will you? I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘Happy to. Anything else arrived on the scene?’

  Richard transferred the phone to his study and stirred his fingers carefully through the box of remains that was still on his desk, letting the sound travel to the other man.

  ‘Glass?’

  ‘Glass. Glass singular, I think, some sort of drinking vessel. It’s completely shattered. My impression is that it was Roman, one of those exquisite glass-within-glass pieces they produced, like the “Lycergus” cup in your own museum. Michael’s very upset that the cup was destroyed. I’m not sure why.’

  ‘Now that is a shame. That it’s smashed, I mean. Roman glass is a real collector’s item.’

  ‘There’ll be other times,’ Richard said. ‘In the meantime … a reconstruction job? A private commission?’

  ‘Let me think about that,’ Goodman said. ‘I don’t know who could do such work without drawing attention to the object. That may be no-go for a while. Let me think about it.’

  The hesitation at the other end of the phone was tangible and Richard was unable to end the conversation. Eventually Goodman said, ‘Do you think there’s another cache? Is that where the glass came from?’

  ‘Michael has access to another cache,’ Richard agreed quietly.

  Again, after a pause, ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Yes. But I can’t get to it myself. And nor would you be able to.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense, Richard. You know it doesn’t.’

  Almost instantly Richard said, ‘Just sell the blade for me, Jack. Will you do that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And don’t throw away that shaman’s stick. New or not, I think it may have more value than we realize.’

  ‘You’re very mysterious, Richard. I never did like guessing games.’

  ‘Just keep the bone-charm. And look carefully at what’s carved and painted on it. Get a good record.’

  ‘Then I’ll hear from you again, will I? Soon?’

  ‘That all depends on Michael. Good night, Jack. Thanks for your work.’

  PART THREE

  Quest for the Grail

  SIXTEEN

  In the late summer, nearly a year later, Richard was offered photographic work in west Scotland, near a place called Torinturk in Argyll. A lake dwelling, two and a half thousand years old and in a remarkable state of preservation, was being removed from the peat that marked where the lake had once existed. Whether or not to take the job was a difficult decision to make. He was unhappy about leaving the South and his family, especially Michael. As Michael fetched his trickle of precious artefacts, so Richard grew more protective towards the boy. His reluctance to go away for any period of time was founded on a deep sense of distrust, although distrust towards whom or over what he found hard to identify. He just wanted to be there when Michael came running in, grinning, and holding a time-torn object of worth.

  But a photo-opportunity like the crannog was not to be dismissed lightly, especially after Jack Goodman had set it up for him. He had to keep Goodman happy. Jack, after all, was his passport to wealth in two very different ways. Besides, the money offer in Scotland was surprisingly good; and, since it was a major excavation, to be much publicized, including a TV documentary series, his photographs would be seen widely.

  The project would be good for his profile if not for his health: he loathed the climate of west Scotland, which in his experience consisted of gales, dull days and a landscape often so silent that it chilled him.

  The extension
to the house was also under way, a two-storey development that would give Susan more studio space, create a better darkroom facility for himself, and give the children a playroom/studio which they could fill to their hearts’ content.

  The financial situation was uncomfortably tight, however. After a year of splendid, if historically uninteresting gifts, over the last two months all Michael had ‘fetched’ was a battered bronze beaker and an iron decoration with ivory inlay, probably a Carpathian horse trapping. They had not sold for much, and Goodman was taking 25 per cent of everything that he disposed of on the Whitlocks’ behalf. The shaman stick had been sold as Art to an eccentric Swedish businessman, and had fetched two thousand pounds. The extension to the house was costed at ten times that, and there would be an uncomfortable shortfall in funds unless Michael tapped his time-cache of treasures for something more worthwhile.

  The lad was happy, though. He played more naturally than Richard could remember, and was better friends with his sister, now. Every night there was a story and after a few weeks Michael’s possessiveness had passed and Carol was allowed to sit in on the telling too.

  During the second summer since the discovery of Michael’s gift, each day the boy visited the chalk quarry while Richard paced restlessly among the trees above, behind the plywood walls of a castle he had built for Michael for fun. But so often Michael just played, without result. Richard had tried to remind his son that once, years ago, he had fetched a spear fragment in the woods, near Hawkinge. Didn’t Michael feel that he could see things in other places than just the chalk pit?

  The boy had shaken his head, an almost nervous gesture.

  ‘Chalk Boy lives there. I have to stay in the castle … Otherwise he won’t come.’

  ‘Where was Chalk Boy in the woods that time when you were a toddler? Was he with you then?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Can’t remember.’

  The conclusion was inescapable: Françoise Jeury was correct when she theorized that the chalky, imaginary playmate was Michael’s rationalization of a talent that scared him. He had created an imaginary structure around himself, and was effectively locked into that ‘castle’ as if he were in a prison. Only on this ‘safe’ ground would his mind unlock to time.

  Irritated that the treasures were now so slow in coming, Richard renegotiated the building arrangements with the company, and settled for the outer walls and roof being completed. Inner structures would wait for a later deal. Susan expressed concern that they had realized so little money from Goodman’s sale of their prizes, and questioned Goodman’s honesty. Richard, too, had given thought to the other man’s integrity. He explained to Susan that they were selling treasure-trove illegally, and so they were only earning a fraction of any artefact’s true worth. She was irritable, but accepted this.

  Eventually Richard decided to accept the Argyll job and spent a day in London preparing for it. At the beginning of October he drove north into the Scottish gloom, and was pleasantly surprised to find blue skies and warm breezes. The site was vast and filthy, and over the days he learned to forget the constant stain of peat on his face and hands. It was practically impossible to get clean, though he managed, naturally, to keep his cameras in pristine condition.

  At half-term Susan drove north to meet him, the children a trial of noise and nausea in the back seat. The journey to Haltwhistle, near Hadrian’s Wall, was seven hours, and too long for two children who hated car travel. Once there, however, Michael’s mood transformed into one of intense delight. They stayed at a farm within sight of the ancient frontier, and went on Roman marches, attacked imaginary Picts, the painted men who had harrowed from the Borders in Roman times, and explored the museums and reconstructions at the nearby fortresses.

  Michael adored the museum models. Carol loved the walking. They walked for miles in the crisp wind, feeling remote and isolated from the world, sucking in the silence of the vast, empty land to the north, and the stark shadows of the earthworks and hills to the south.

  ‘Did you bring Chalk Boy with you?’ Richard asked Michael on the third day, as they stood, high on the Wall at Crag Lough, staring through the trees here at the dark sprawl of the conifer forest, a mile away on the land below.

  Michael shivered. ‘He’s in the pit,’ he whispered, his face shadowing. ‘I told you. He stays there.’

  ‘Perhaps if you called to him he’d travel from Castle Limbo to find you … Maybe he can find the right tunnel.’

  Michael squirmed, frowning, brushing irritably at his ginger hair, blown by the wind on this exposed promontory. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Susan was photographing Carol as she stood on the crumbled wall of the Milecastle, a guard’s station in a good state of preservation. Richard watched her, but his mind was on the boy. If only he could unlock Michael’s mind here … what sights might the boy see, what might he be able to reach for?

  At last Richard had inspiration. He said, ‘A Roman guard once walked here, you know. A very famous one. His name was Parnesius. Have I ever told you the story?’

  Michael looked up and shook his head, suddenly interested.

  ‘It’s from Puck of Pook’s Hill. By Rudyard Kipling. Would you like to hear the story?’

  It was a silly question. Michael drank stories like water. He thrived on them.

  ‘Come on then. Back to Housesteads Fort, and I’ll tell you on the way.’

  But at the end of the day, with Kipling mangled hopelessly, often hilariously (it was years since Richard had read the book), Michael remained as closed to the past as he had been on the Wall.

  Or so it seemed at first.

  The sound of someone breathing close to his ear woke Richard abruptly from a deep, heavy sleep. When the children had gone to bed, he and Susan had dined on steak and red wine: too much red wine by far and he felt wretched now, his mouth dry, his scalp tight. But he almost jumped out of his skin as he saw the small figure by him, its eyes wide, reflecting stray light from the porch lamp that shone all night outside.

  The room smelled strongly and familiarly of earth.

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ a small voice whispered.

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘I’ve seen Parnesius. I think I’ve done something bad …’

  Susan stirred next to him but didn’t wake. The clock showed five in the morning. It would soon be day.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Richard asked quietly. He climbed out of bed, pulled on trousers and shirt and led the boy to the bathroom.

  Michael was caked in mud from head to foot. His shirt – his brand-new shirt, bought only yesterday – was torn down the front, and one sleeve hung ragged on him. His new trainers were torn and filthy.

  He had blood on his face, a splash that had mingled with the dry earth, but which was unmistakable.

  Richard’s heart began to race with excitement. He knew, now, what such marks, such filth meant, but first he searched for the cut.

  ‘I’m not hurt, Daddy.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ Richard said grimly. He couldn’t find a cut, which was first puzzling, then alarming. He sat back on the toilet seat and stared at the trembling boy. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Outside. I had a dream. It was really exciting. I dreamed I saw Parnesius. I did.’

  ‘The Soldier on the Wall?’

  ‘He spoke to me.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Frowning slightly, Michael said, ‘I didn’t understand him. I tried. But he was speaking a funny language.’

  ‘Can you remember any of the words? Any at all?’

  Michael thought for a moment, then said, ‘Spaycter. He kept saying spaycter.’

  Another missed beat of the heart. Spaycter: spectre?

  Richard tried to remember which legions had been on the middle section of the Wall, near to the farm. He had a memory that Spanish and Belgian auxiliaries had been here at one time. Spaycter sounded more Germanic.

  ‘You haven’t been up to the Wall itself, have you?’

  ‘I to
ld you. I was dreaming. When I woke up I was outside the farmhouse, in the porch. But in my dream I walked up to the little castle and went inside. The Roman gave me this …’

  With a triumphant grin Michael held out his hand. Silver gleamed there, with a dark, twisted leather cord looped through it. Richard reached for the amulet and turned it over. It was crude, the silver of low grade, the workmanship coarse. It showed the face of a bearded man, with a crescent behind him. It was a protective charm, unmistakable.

  It had been offered to a ‘spectre’ in propitiation.

  ‘He gave it to you?’

  ‘I had to fetch it,’ Michael said quietly, and bit his lower lip, averting his eyes.

  ‘Show me where. Show me where you fetched it. Take me to the castle.’

  ‘It was in a dream,’ Michael repeated nervously, but Richard rubbed a finger down the boy’s face and showed him the dirt.

  ‘This isn’t a dream, Michael. This is very solid filth. This is mud. Show me where you went.’

  Outside, the first grey light was hinting at the trees on the eastern horizon. It was bitterly cold. They put on their anoraks and walked up the steep hill to the main road running between Carlisle and Newcastle.

  Across that road, clearly visible on the line of the Wall, were the square remains of a Milecastle, the guard house and shelter for perhaps forty men who had patrolled the Wall eighteen hundred years before. Even from the distance of half a mile, Richard could see that something about this tiny ruin was different now.

  ‘Did you cross the road?’ he asked his son.

  Michael nodded. ‘But only in my dream.’

  ‘Didn’t we tell you when we first came here that you weren’t to cross this road? It’s a dangerous road, Michael. You can’t see the traffic because of the hollows. Didn’t we tell you that?’

  ‘But it was only in my dream,’ Michael protested feebly. His father’s hand on his shoulder seemed to reassure him. The road was empty at the moment and they crossed it quickly, into the field where thistles grew thickly on the grassy slope leading up to the ruin.