China Garden

by Liz Berry

  Mark found the key for the gates and unlocked them.

  Clare hung back. Suddenly she could not go forward. She could feel her heart beating irregularly in her throat, her hands shaking.

  “... Mark ...”

  He heard her and turned, holding out his hand. He looked pale under his tan.“I know. But it’s something we have to do. It’s all right. We’ll be all right.”

  The wall behind Persephone was dark and shadowed, framed with a collection of precious minerals glinting brilliantly in the light.

  “So, where’s this entrance then? I can’t see anything.”

  They climbed across the dry pool and moved under the lintel, where the water should be falling, stopping inquisitive visitors from approaching too closely.

  Clare caught her breath. At one side, concealed behind the false front of the glinting minerals there was an even darker shadow, and the faint outline of narrow steps leading down.

  Mark’s flashlight played over them.“You were right. Here it is.” He shrugged on his rucksack.“Let’s go.”

  “Mark ... be careful. Please.”

  He smiled and ruffled her hair.“You’re making me nervous.”

  But Clare could not share his amusement. She could feel the sweat cold on her forehead.

  There were forty steep steps curving down before they were standing on the floor of a second chamber, with roughly hewn walls, and a floor set with a design of pebbles.

  It was completely empty. There was no sign of anything that could be the Benison.

  Clare tried to laugh.“I was sure … I mean ...”

  “Over here,” Mark said. Unnoticeable in the far corner was a narrow fissure in the rock—just wide enough for a grown man to get through. The flashlight showed a roughly-cut tunnel, very narrow, running downhill.

  They slid through the gap, and walked along quietly, expecting at any moment to come to its end, but the tunnel ran on, oppressing them with the weight of the rock over and around them.

  “This must be James Edward’s tunnel,” said Clare.“I wonder what excuse he gave the men for making it?”

  “He wouldn’t need to. Sam Kenward was his wife’s father. They would know it was to protect the Benison.

  Ahead of them another tunnel appeared, but it was clearly a natural opening in the rock, and they kept to the man-made one. Nevertheless Mark took a piece of chalk from his pocket and drew an arrow on the wall.“We’ll take no chances about finding the way out.”

  The tunnel grew narrower until it became hardly more than a slit in the rock, and then suddenly they were in a small natural cave with tunnels leading off in all directions.

  “Now what? Which way, Rosie?”

  Clare looked around slowly.“I think this might have been the original entrance, before James Edward and his son made the new garden and dammed the lake.”

  “So, make a choice. One’s as good as another. None of the tunnels look man-made.”

  “All right. Downhill, because we’ve been going downhill all the time, and north-west by the compass. Let’s try this one.”

  “Okay, but why?”

  “I think we’re heading for Barrow Beacon Hill. The Neolithic people put a sacred stone circle on the hill. I think the Benison may be hidden under the hill. Anyway, it just feels right to me.”

  “Okay. Let’s go, then.”

  They plunged into the chosen tunnel which was wider than the one they had left, and at first it seemed as though they were walking through a natural tunnel formed in the living rock.

  Behind her, Clare heard Mark say,“This is odd.”

  “What?” She tried to keep her voice light and even, but she was beginning to feel very strange, as though she was floating, with snatches of distant pipe music in her ears.

  “This rock. It’s not limestone any more. Stop a bit, I want to look closer.”

  They shone the powerful lights across the surprisingly smooth walls and overhead, following the line of the cracks in the stone.

  “See that glitter? It’s some sort of granite. A pink granite, for Pete’s sake! And it’s got these chunks of quartz in it. Like the buried stones on the hill. How did that get here?”

  Clare looked at the narrow crack between the rocks and the shape it enclosed. She licked her dry lips.“Mark, it’s man-made. Look at the joins. They’re massive cut stones.”

  “Can’t be. They never had the technology in the eighteenth century.”

  “James Edward didn’t make this part,” Clare said, with certainty.“He just made a new entrance and tunnel to hide and protect the Benison better. This part is ancient. Look at the size of the stones. Like Stonehenge. Even the Roman Guardians couldn’t have cut these.” In her mind she heard Mr Aylward’s voice gasping, Thirty thousand years, and felt at once the strangeness of immense age around her.

  Once again they came to a division of the way. The pink granite continued in both directions.

  “Left,” said Clare, unhesitatingly, and wondered how she knew.

  There were more and more tunnels now, all identical, made to confuse.

  Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Right. Right. Each time she knew automatically which choice to make. It felt almost as though they were turning back on themselves. Could she hear a faint drift of the pipe music?

  “Are you sure we’re right?” Mark sounded increasingly uneasy.“We could get lost. It’s a bloody maze.”

  Clare stopped so abruptly that Mark cannoned into her.“You’re right,” she said, understanding at last.“It is a maze. A huge maze. The true Ravensmere Maze. It’s one of their little jokes, don’t you see? A maze within a maze. A Chinese puzzle. You tread a maze to find a maze.”

  “Some joke,” said Mark, banging his head on the low roof; and swearing.“How far have we got to go?”

  “A long way. We haven’t done a quarter of the maze yet. And there’s the return too.”

  “The return?”

  “We have to come back from the centre.”

  Mark swore again.“You mean all this is unnecessary? We come back to where we started?”

  “We come back but not to where we started. It’s different. And it’s not unnecessary. Don’t you see how clever it is?” She had worked it all out now.

  “The Maze in the China Garden picks out the girl with psychic abilities to be the next Guardian, but it’s also a training ground. You have to keep doing the Maze Dance to open the Moon Gates, so you learn the Maze too, then you can find your way through this Maze. That’s how I knew I was choosing the right tunnels. It’s a marvellous way of protecting the Benison. A stranger would get lost in all these alternative passages.”

  “Just so long as we don’t,” Mark said grimly.“I just hope you’re right.”

  “There’ll be seven doors or gates too. We’ve already passed five—the Temple door, the iron grille to the Sanctuary, Demeter’s waterfall might be another when it’s working, the entrance in the under chamber, and the entrance to this maze system.”

  The maze continued to wind down and around. They stopped talking and pushed along silently. Clare knew that Mark was really hating it, feeling trapped and confused by the constantly changing directions, entangled in the coiling passages.

  There was no obvious sign when they reached the centre and began the return, but Clare became aware that they had begun to move faster and more freely. She could hear the pipe music clearly now, and her body fell into the familiar pattern of the Maze Dance, lift, sway, turn and turn again.

  Mark was following her with difficulty, his large bulk, carrying the rucksack, only just making it through the narrowing passages.

  Just as he began to give up hope, sure they had taken a wrong turn somewhere, the passage swung out in a long curve and straightened, heading westward according to the compass.

  They stepped through a huge stone with a square hole cut through it.

  “Six,” Clare said.“One more.”

  Beyond the holed stone, the walls of the passage had been carved in
to huge triple spirals curling over the whole surface.“Impressive,” said Mark.

  But Clare was uneasy. Her stomach had tightened, and the strange floating feeling had come back.“It’s a lot of trouble to go to just to bury an old bowl.” She stopped, shocked.“We can’t go on. Look. We’ve come to the end.”

  The way ahead was blocked by another great stone covered with deeply carved lines which resolved into a series of joined spirals and a great bird with outstretched wings forbidding entry.

  Mark pushed past.“Let’s have a look. See if we can shift it.”

  Clare said, doubtfully,“Maybe somebody’s buried behind it. This bird is meant to be a raven, I think. It’s a symbol of rebirth or death. It’s to stop people.”

  “Not us,” Mark said.“We’re the Guardians, remember? One of us put that stone there in the past. I know how you feel, Clare, but we have to go on. The Benison is behind that stone.”

  He ran his fingers along the edge of the stone which fitted so closely to the side walls that even a penknife could not penetrate the crack. He grunted with satisfaction.

  “It’s a blocking stone. We roll it or push it out of the way, somehow.”

  Clare laughed.“Move that?”

  But Mark was right. Under their combined effort; the stone pivoted slowly, grating, allowing enough room for them to squeeze through.

  Behind was an immense dark space.

  Chapter 29

  Their flashlights could not penetrate the darkness, but they were conscious of the overarching space around them. There was something about the quality of the sound that suggested distance and vastness, and something else, beyond the silence. Something waiting.

  At the far edge of Clare’s hearing there was soft movement.“Water?” she whispered.

  “A spring maybe. An underground river.”

  “Where are we?”

  “At a guess, directly under Barrow Beacon Hill. I think we’ve hit a cave system.”

  “It’s like a great womb under the hill,” Clare said, awed.

  “Don’t move. There’s a sheer drop.” Mark swung his flashlight urgently, and Clare saw that they were on a ledge, very high up.

  “Can we get down?”

  “I think...yes, there are steps here, cut out of the rock,

  and hand holds too. I’ll go first. For God’s sake hold on tight, Clare. It’s a long way down.”

  The steps were steep, but cut smoothly into the rock face. They climbed down carefully, taking their time.

  It was almost as though they were stepping down into a clear cold pool of sparkling water, Clare thought, and shivered as the clarity spread over her, filling her body, filling her mind. She gripped Mark’s shoulder.

  “What is it?”

  “Can’t you feel it?”

  “Feel what?” Mark sounded irritable, nervous almost.“For God’s sake, let’s get on.”

  “It’s different ... There’s a difference.”

  They had reached the cave floor of rippled white flowstone.

  “We need more light.” Mark shrugged off his rucksack, and lit a barbecue light. He moved forward impatiently, holding the light high. It flared extravagantly, like white phosphorus, as the air took it and transformed it.

  The flame lengthened and spread upwards, incandescent, illuminating glittering white walls of towering stalactites and stalagmites joined together, lace-like curtains of them hanging from high spears of rock, forests of pencil-thin spines, delicately coloured. blue and amber. Along the floor of the chamber, a dark river moved stealthily, almost imperceptibly, reflecting the splendour.

  “Rats’ bellys!”

  Clare stared at the leaping light.“I told you. Can’t you feel it now?”

  Mark did not reply. He could feel it. Feel the strangeness, the clarity. His whole body tensed.

  Clare had moved on almost in a daze, wandering among the stalagmites staring at their shapes and colours. She was desperately trying to hold on to herself. She was beginning to feel even more disorientated, as though her feet were several inches above the ground, and that she was being sucked forward into a vortex.

  She looked up and in the flickering light of Mark’s torch thought she could see a pair of horns. Not just horns—two great bulls’ heads in the stone above swung into focus, and disappeared as she moved her head, and she could not find them again. Imagination. Who would have carved such a thing? She felt sick and giddy, and her head had begun to pound.

  As she moved her flashlight, another shape crystallized, and she cried out in alarm seeing the massive figure, four metres tall and very thin, like a stick man towering over her. The image of a hideous bird like a great vulture with a wing span of three metres flew down at her until she jerked away and saw it flatten into an overhang of rock.

  There were sounds now, too. She could hear the pipe music, getting louder and higher all the time, shrilling, an agonizing high-pitched screaming in her ears. It was in her head, filling the cavity until she was stumbling, losing her balance, nauseous.

  A life-size herd of mastodon flickered along in the distance. How did she know they were mastodon? And a great leopard crouched on a ledge to her right, snarling, and seemed to leap at her, arching over her. She screamed and twisted away into a tall figure with pendulous breasts and a beaked head, her arms and neck wreathed with snakes. A thousand Valkyrie voices were rising up, crystalline, unearthly, swelling into a scream at the edge of her hearing.

  She dropped the torch, holding her ears, but the sound was inside her head. The floor seemed to be heaving under her feet and her brain felt on the point of bursting. Her stomach churned with sickness. It was difficult to breathe.

  She crouched, groping for the flashlight and found it still alight. But even without the torch she could see now. The whole place was glowing with a ghostly phosphorescence.

  Mark had not stopped. He was moving ahead slowly, bent forward as though he was walking against a high wind. She went after him, tugging at his arm.“Mark, we’ve got to get out of here. It’s terribly dangerous. It’s too powerful for us. Mark!”

  But his eyes were fixed and blank.“Find the Benison. The Mother must drink.”

  They were being tossed in a high wind, an electrical storm, driven along with no way of regaining control, like children with their fingers in an electrical socket, being jerked about like rag dolls.

  “Mark! We can’t stay here.” She caught his arm again, but he shook her off angrily.

  “The Mother must drink.” His face was ashen and he was weaving from side to side, stumbling on through the labyrinth of stalactites and stalagmites.“The Mother must drink. He said so. The Mother must drink.”

  He had gone mad, lost control, Clare thought, panic-stricken. His voice sounded mad, with that high-pitched chanting that made her blood run cold.“The Mother must drink; the Mother must drink ...”

  “What Mother? What are you talking about? There’s nothing ...”

  But there was something. Through a glistening white tracery of calcite she could see another, smaller chamber glowing gold under their lights. Covering most of the floor of the chamber was a pool of shining water, bubbling with springs rising from the living rock. To one side, set on a low block carved with running spirals, there was a great stone, bigger than Mark. It was irregularly faceted, like a piece of quartz, roughly the shape of a huge pregnant woman. Its surface was iron black, matt and dull. Surrounding it there was a faint sparkling haze.

  The Mother. The words slid into her mind with a sudden knowledge of immediate disaster.

  “Mark don’t!” She shouted the warning, but already he had his arms wrapped around the stone and appeared to be trying to lift it.

  Her eyes on the stone, Clare began to back away. The noise was screaming through her brain, and shaking her limbs violently out of control. She turned and ran.

  But Mark did not follow her.

  In the big cave Clare got a grip on her terror, and forced herself to stop and look back.

 
; Mark had gathered all his great strength. His muscles bulged and lengthened as he once again tried to lift the stone from its base. It did not move. He dropped to his knees gasping.

  “Mark,” Clare cried.“Please leave it. It’s no good. You’ll hurt yourself. Please . . .”

  He would never move the stone. It was impossible.

  Mark got to his feet. He took off his leather jacket and his shirt. He seemed to be attempting to balance himself carefully, his legs wide apart. Then, as she watched disbelievingly, he threw back his head and began a strange wild chant, half song, half shout, in a language she had never heard spoken.

  Then he bent to the stone again, and this time she could see that the stone moved fractionally. Mark was on his knees again, gasping for breath, his face and body running with sweat and blood where the sharp stone had cut his skin.

  Surely he wouldn’t try again? He would kill himself. Reluctantly she started back, her feet dragging, her heart pounding. She must go to help. She couldn’t leave him in this crazy, deranged state.

  Mark had climbed to his feet again. He bent his knees, and wrapped his arms completely around the stone. His muscles flexed, strained, and now, suddenly, the big stone came loose, swung towards his chest and was in his arms. He hefted it, and in a mad access of strength, swung it round and gave a great shout of exaltation and triumph, which turned instantly to a scream of utmost agony.

  For a moment Clare saw the stone was glowing a dark and angry red, like a coal, and Mark’s arms and hands holding the stone were glowing too, like a living X-ray. She saw the bones of his spine and ribs dark in the glowing flesh, saw the flesh darken, grow black and crack.

  He staggered the few steps to the pool and with a last surge of strength, hurled the stone away from him into the centre of the bubbling springs. He shouted words in the language she had never heard, and then fell screaming, rolled, and was still.