The Ice King

by Michael Scott Rohan

  ‘Still is,’ chortled Charlie Boot.

  ‘So,’ said Colby. ‘But we don’t show them the Dance. I’ve been studying it ever since – cleaning it up, refining it, taking it back to its original form. It’s fascinating.’

  ‘Yes,’ breathed Paul, vastly excited. A whole mass of things suddenly made sense, most of all what bound Colby to this weird bunch of yobs. ‘It’s fantastic – it’s like being in on opening Tutankhamen’s tomb or something.’ Colby nodded, flattered by the comparison. ‘Jay – you don’t think I could –’

  Colby shrugged. ‘Think of any other reason I’d’ve been telling you all this? But listen, you watch out, y’hear? This isn’t just me researching my next paper or whatever, something I’d sell TV rights on to Latimer or something. I take this seriously, and so do the boys, now. This isn’t dead book archaeology, this is alive – right, you guys?’ There was a deep, menacing rumble of agreement, a scrape of heavy boots on the floor. Paul swallowed. ‘Right,’ nodded Colby His massive hand landed on Paul’s shoulder. ‘So no rubbernecks, no gawker, and – no offence – nobody who can’t keep his mouth shut. I’m not going to be laughed at by a load of moronic hick tourists. You want to along, you join in, and once you’re in, you stay – okay?’

  Paul nodded, threw up his hands, hardly able to talk. ‘Sure,’ he said breathlessly, accidentally imitating Colby. ‘I don’t know – this is amazing – you’re sure you guys don’t mind?’

  ‘Oh naow,’ said Kingfield mildly, mocking Paul’s accent, ‘daon’t mind a bit, do we lads, eh? More the bloody merrier.’

  Despite himself, Paul bridled. ‘If you don’t want me along you can fucking well come out and say so –’

  Kingfield shrugged. ‘All the same to me, sunshine. Jar or two and a Jay special and we’ll all be happy as fuckin’ Larry, won’t we? C’mon, I need a drink.’

  Colby grinned at Paul, and began to get up. ‘So what else is new, Steve? Hey, time’s a’wastin’. Joe, Hog, Charlie, go pick up some stuff at the liquor store, catch us up at the trailhead, okay?’

  ‘On you this time?’ grunted Ashe hopefully.

  ‘Whaddya mean, this time? Since when’ve you had a nickel to your name, lardbutt? The whole evening’s on me – isn’t it always?’ He pulled out a heavy roll of notes, passed out a few and threw one down on the table. He caught up his helmet, and paused to glance out of the grimy window. ‘Moon’s rising. C’mon.’

  An hour later, Paul Harvey was freezing, wet and frightened.

  The sky above him trailed a tattered cloak of cloud across the moon. Behind him was a sheer height of windswept basalt cliff, beneath him a thirty-foot drop into surf that growled and leapt like an angry dog. Its foaming crests were steel-tipped by the wavering moonlight, the spray it flung up and around him became a volley of icy arrowheads through his clothes. Underfoot it added to the half-frozen slush on the narrow path. His only consolation was that Colby’s gang were shuffling along as nervously as he was – except, that is, for Colby himself.

  The big American strode along as casually as he would along a country lane, hardly sparing a glance for the ground he trod, never looking back at his struggling companions. That was what alarmed Paul most of all.

  As they left the cafe Colby had genially waved him aboard his own bike, a massive matt-black and silver beast, called something like Electra Glide, in startling contrast to the battered bikes around it. He had clambered onto the wide pillion, steadying himself awkwardly on Colby’s massive shoulders, clutching frantically as the machine bellowed and surged away under him. The wind needled his eyes and sucked the breath out of him, and they were already down across North Bridge and snarling up Hill Street before he realised he was riding dangerously – and illegally – without a helmet. But Colby was just a vast slab of leather-clad back in front of him, tense and quivering with the effort of controlling the bike, and when he tried to shout the wind lashed the words away. He gave up, hung on tighter and ducked his head down for shelter.

  He’d expected the ride to last hours, but it was only minutes before the huge bike slowed, swung and bounced violently underneath him. Something scraped at his leg, and in his hunched position he saw shadowy gorse bushes sliding by; they’d left the road, and were travelling slowly enough for him to look up. Without warning Colby swung violently off the saddle, toppling him; Paul landed awkwardly, half-crouching, and saw the American run the bike heavily into a thicket ahead. The other bikers were also covering up their machines in the bushes.

  Paul picked himself up shakily and looked around. They were in a small stand of trees, within sight and sound of the main road leading up along the cliffs; this couldn’t be the place so convenient to take girls. Then he looked over to the other side, and in the dim moonlight saw the broken-down fencing that cut off the narrow beginnings of a cliff path, the weathered danger notice dangling drunkenly from it. He turned to look for Colby, determined that however far it was home he’d be happy to foot it – stuff the ritual. But Colby was in the middle of a noisy knot of bikers, and before Paul could open his mouth a bottle was thrust into his hand; right now that seemed a very good idea, and he took an experimental swig. It was Scotch, malt Scotch at that. He took another swig, because it was a rare treat and quietened his shakes; good malt Scotch. These guys had expensive tastes for bikers – developed at Colby’s expense, evidently. He swigged again – and suddenly a hand jogged the bottle, so that a good third of the stuff cascaded down his gullet and he had to swallow or choke. It burned his throat, leaving him gasping and speechless, and before he’d recovered Colby was shouting something, a hand was at his back and he was being propelled forward to the fence, bundled over a gap where someone trod the barbed wire down, and out onto the first uneven steps of the path. And now the whisky was churning his stomach and fogging his mind, and he was inching along a narrow thread of pathway, caught neatly between the gang and Colby – Colby, whose friendly, confiding manner seemed to have slid away like a discarded glove, completely. Colby, whom he’d been relying on among this gang of thugs and yobbos –

  He swallowed and inched his way onward, out and around a thin edge of headland, and u towards an out-thrust, isolated portion of cliff that faced northward across the estuary. He looked out to avoid looking down, and was surprised how close the new lights on the dam seemed. He looked a minute longer, and almost bumped into Colby, who’d stopped dead beside some glossy-looking bushes growing in the remains of an old rockfall. The enormous silhouette paused for an instant, then plunged straight at the central bush – and through. Strong hands at Paul’s back shot him through next, so hard he stumbled and got scratched. The bushes were thicker and deeper than they looked. Beyond them everything was dark, and he thought of caves; he could hear the sound of water trickling nearby. But he seemed to be sitting in short damp grass, in a wide open space. As his eyes adjusted he could see it in front of him, a bare grassy floor, slightly dished. Steep rock walls ringed it right the way round, broken only by the cleft. In their shadow lurked dense shrubbery, through which he could hear the bikers crashing and cursing, and a few trees, thin and stunted – except for one majestic shadow that nodded against the open sky, near where the rising moon just topped the wall. Their arrival had been carefully timed.

  By the time Paul had collected enough of his wits to stagger up, the bikers were gathering around him again. There was a sudden sharp crackle and a glimmer of light in the tree; somebody was lighting a fire in the centre of the dip. ‘J-Jay?’ he stammered. ‘Th-this is the place, th-then?’ The mixture of drink and fright the heard in himself made him cringe.

  ‘Sure is,’ said Colby’s deep voice from behind him, as warm and friendly as ever. ‘And quite a place it is – I’m no geologist, but I guess it was a cave once, till the roof fell in. There’s a stream back there, may be that carved it out – makes it kind a damp, but the fire’ll warm us up. And the ceremony. You’ll see.’ A couple of the bikers guffawed, a harsh mocking sound, and all the reassurance melted away.<
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  Paul rounded on them, still clutching his half-empty bottle by the neck. ‘Whas’ – what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Hey, hey,’ said Colby smoothly, ‘hang on, Paul, don’t go getting all aggressive – you’re as bad as these dumbells. Settle on down, y’hear? An’ if you’re goin’ to hit a body with that bottle, at least finish it first. And you guys, can it, y’hear? He’s with us, he’s goin’ through with this same’s we all have, and when he does he’s one of us, right? Hell, he gave you a chance to object back at the cafe – now you just button your fuckin’ lips, y’hear, or I’ll do it – if he doesn’t beat me to it!’ He turned to Paul. ‘You heard? There’s no ringside seats at this – this is religion, demands respect. You want to see, you’ve got to be part of it, an initiate – a brother. We are, all of us – we’ve all faced the same tests you’ll have. Nobody’ll ask more than that, understand?’

  Paul looked up at him for a moment, then nodded dumbly. It all sounded reasonable enough – and yet there was something new in Colby’s voice, under all the reassurances, a soft gloating that was almost worse than the bikers’ laughter. But he was here, and backing out might be more dangerous than going ahead – and scared or not, he was still excited by the whole idea. ‘As long as that’s all,’ he said thickly. There was a heavy crackle, and the fire blazed up. Shadows reared up against the rock wall, swollen troll-like silhouettes of the gang. And above them loomed the great tree, a broad ash, its branches swaying and rustling softly – but oddly bowed down, by things that hung from them, like strange fruit –

  Paul swallowed hard, trying to choke down the swell of vomit in his gullet. He had seen bare bones before, even human ones in trenches up at Fern Farm; he had helped sort them in finds trays, washed and cleaned them for museum cases. This was only a sheep’s skull. But there was still flesh on it, hanging in shreds, putrid and maggot-run. A gust of wind whipped the fire to roaring, spun eddies of smoke into the dancing branches. There were other things hanging there – dark grotesque things. Bones. Birds and animals, half rotted. Animal heads, impaled on branches or lodged in crooks, heads with jaws that sagged or had fallen away completely, shrivelled half-mummified heads, bare bony skulls. The flower of the tree was death, its fruit corruption.

  Paul turned away, gagging, and found Colby watching him, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his hard features. ‘Just sacrifices,’ he said calmly. ‘Just like in the Bible. Only the offerings aren’t burnt. They hang there for the ravens to take, and the heroes feast on the bodies.’

  Paul couldn’t say anything; he hardly dared open his mouth in case he was sick. He just shook his head and made as if to turn away. Colby caught his arm in massive fingers, gentle but immovable. ‘Now listen here. You’re here because you wanted to be. What’s so wrong with the sacrifice? It’s just a feast, like an ox-roast, a barbecue, only the head’s not thrown away, it’s offered. Anyhow, there’s none of that tonight, no feast. This is special – an initiation. And we’re running late.’ He turned to the lounging bikers and clapped his hands sharply. ‘Shape up, you guys! Hog! Apps! Dig out the gear! Ashe! Charlie! Staves – jump to it! Steve, c’mon, break out the stash! Let’s go-go-go!’ He grinned down at Paul. ‘That’s the secret of handling these guys. You’ve got to organise them – like a team. Keep ’em on the hop – like this …’ Kingfield was straining to lift the end of a large flat boulder. ‘Hey, Steve, ya mother, can’t you get anything up today? C’mon, shift ass!’ Kingfield snarled and narrowly missed dropping the boulder on his foot. Instantly Colby ducked, seized the sides and in one violent heave ripped the whole stone free of the ground. The biker had to fling himself aside as he toppled it down with a thud. Beneath it was a small chamber lined with flat stones. Out of it Colby scooped two clear plastic boxes with what looked like rolls of tinfoil inside, handed them to Paul and with another heave toppled the stone back into place. Kingfield slouched off towards the fire, grumbling, while Colby chuckled softly and began to prise open a box. ‘See what I mean? Show ’em who’s boss an’ they’ll jump through hoops for you. But you’ve gotta come up with the carrot as well as the stick … And here it is.’ The first twist of foil was full of what even Paul recognised as joints, fat and neatly rolled. ‘C’mon, let’s go warm up.’

  Paul shook his head dazedly as he was led over to the fire. Back at the cafe he’d thought the ritual explained the link between Colby and the gang. But now, dimly, he could see there was more to it than that, and it made him deeply uneasy. They were sitting in a neat, almost formal, circle around the fire, passing a bottle from hand to hand. Colby thumped himself down at a vacant spot, patted the ground for Paul to join him, and tugged a burning twig out of the fire. He lit one of the joints, took a deep drag, and – as Paul had been afraid he would – passed it to him. Paul had been offered a joint once before, at a school party, refused nervously and been half thankful and half annoyed with himself ever since. He hesitated more than ever now, but Colby frowned at him. ‘C’mon, it won’t bite. Hell, the whole Rayner team was floatin’ on the stuff the year we took the Bowl. Fitter bunch of guys you never saw, some of ’em real bright too.’

  Paul shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, and took a deep slow drag, imitating Colby. It was like inhaling a garden bonfire, and he coughed and spluttered. The Hog, next man along, took it from him, inhaled sharply and, to Paul’s relief, spluttered nearly as much. Paul didn’t notice any difference in himself, but by the time the joint came around again he was feeling less nauseous, less afraid, and didn’t cough this time. He grinned at the Hog as he passed it on, and got a grin of sorts in return. Somebody threw more wood on the fire, and the heat became hard to bear in the confined space. The others were stripping off bike jackets and shirts, and Paul did the same. Looking around, he noticed that all of them had a mark roughly painted or tattooed on shoulder or chest – three intertwining triangles. He knew that mark. He had seen it every day, in the Museum, the labs, the ruined walls of the Fern Farm temple itself and the boat-graves around it – a three-sided knot, mazy, intricate, endless.

  The half-finished joint reappeared again with what seemed like surprising speed. As he took another long pull he realised that the bikers were standing up, retreating into the shadows. He made to follow them, but Colby’s hand pressed him back down. ‘Just hang on there, kid. Relax, smoke a little, watch the fire. We’re goin’ t’set things up.’

  Relax? Paul sighed and slumped over on his back. He’d seldom felt more relaxed; he was even getting to like the taste of this stuff. The branches and their burdens danced grotesquely over his head, but now they seemed more funny than horrible. All those nodding heads –

  Abruptly somebody was back, helping him up, plucking the stub from his hand and flicking it into the fire. A large hand moved in front of his face, and Colby’s voice told him to sniff sharply. He obeyed without thinking, and almost sneezed as his nose suddenly filled with something fine and powdery. But almost at once it faded into a sharp, soothing tingle, and the muzzy world around him seemed to explode into brightness.

  ‘What’d I tell you?’ said Colby’s voice with a very peculiar ringing echo. ‘The very best crystal, pure. Dynamite.’

  It sounded like the funniest thing Paul had ever heard, and he was on the verge of creasing up with laughter when the row of figures trod into his vision, circling the fire with slow, solemn ungainly steps. In their hands, held upright, were long spearlike staves, which they drummed lightly on the ground in midstride. One by one their voices took up the soft insistent rhythm, soft words half-chanted, half muttered, in accents so thick he couldn’t catch a single syllable. His head was reeling, but he felt a wild urge to join in, to drum and chant, and leap up with their fire-shadows on the rock face above. He tried to jump forward, and found he was held fast. Heavy hands clamped each of his arms, others fell on his shoulders and forced him down to kneel before the circling dancers. ‘Hey, stop it, Jay –’ he bleated, and then as he struggled feebly he realised it was someone
else holding him, weird figures it took him a moment to recognise as Ashe and Kingfield. Like the dancers, they wore strange jumbled costumes – rough cloaks and jerkins of fake fur scraps, ragged leather jackets so covered with heavy studs they looked like armour, denim tops and combat jackets stiff with silver paint, a genuine age-blackened deerskin with antlered head still attached and worn like a helmet, old crash-helmets painted bronze, some with cheekbars and nose-pieces added, others spattered with black-and-red swastikas and SS runes, studded wristlets, crude swords and axes cut out of scrap metal, and here and there the cheap replica Viking jewellery sold in the town’s souvenir shops. Ashe wore a crash helmet with a metal face-mask added, Kingfield a Nazi helmet with horns on the sides. Somewhere else, at some other time, Paul might have found it all funny – the gimcrack outfits, the leaden-footed dance. But here, between the dark and the flickering firelight, it took on a sinister rightness and reality of its own. With the artificial clarity of drugs he saw beyond the dancers to their looming, leaping shadows; the costumes were surely to make them real, to recreate them as they’d hopped and flickered in this place a thousand years gone by.

  Dimly he became aware that his clothes were being pulled off him, that he was being wrapped in a rough, stale-smelling fur. He hung there, past resistance now, swaying to the drum and hiss of the chant. Suddenly there came a shout from the background, and the dancers stopped, swung, froze in strange uneasy poses, staves held out high.