Giffen’s paces seemed to slow unconsciously as his thoughts overtook him. He turned to Peter and visibly shook off his sombre mood.
“We will cut across the grounds here. It brings us out near a shopping centre where we can find some clothes, books, whatever you need for the next little while.”
He cut off between the redwoods, where a faint path could just be discerned wending across the dense mat of fallen needles.
“You can’t read me?” Peter asked as he caught up again.
“Not much,” Giffen said. “I can’t tell you how much I like that in a man. I see so many things, things that I cannot change and so it seems kinder not to speak of them at all. There are dark times ahead, and you can still choose not to be part of it.”
Giffen’s face was cased in an expression of resigned sorrow. Peter stifled his urge to ask ‘what things?’ If Giffen did not wish to speak of it, well ... As they walked, Peter caught a flickering glimpse of something amongst the trees up on the ridge.
“What is up there?” he asked.
Giffen started slightly and looked up the same way. “There’s nothing up there,” he said. He stopped and turned to Peter. “It might help things if you make it clear that the matter cuts both ways. Roman’s not sure we should welcome you. You might think better of staying. There are two people in a partnership, and the good of both of them must be taken into account.”
“What else would I do?”
“That’s for you to say. Don’t let them bully you, Peter. Each of us has something to contribute, or withhold, as we see fit. They are not considering you for an honour; they are preparing to lay a burden on you -- and experience has shown that it is often one too heavy to bear.”
Peter felt a sudden reversal. He had been looking upon Giffen as a person who could possibly help and guide him; now he saw a man very much lost. Giffen was carrying his own burden and wondering just how much further he would go with it.
“Do you think you made the right decision?” he asked with genuine concern.
Giffen stood just a little higher on the path, where it started to crest a small hill. He regarded Peter for a good long while. Peter waited, knowing never to rush an answer. Birdsong encroached on his awareness, faint chirps and trills from all around them against the subtle singing of the wind. Giffen looked down at the ground.
“You want know my story, Peter? The sight told me that I was meant to be partnered to an elf, but she never came and I never found her. In the end, I came here all by myself. And, for lack of a better purpose, I have stayed.”
Giffen’s dark eyes dropped their armour for a moment. “Stay if you have good reason,” he said. “But if you cannot find that reason, go. Veleur will follow you; he must. He has found his calling, but that does not mean that it is yours. He does not need to be yours.”
Peter started walking again. He remarked, as casually as he could, “Perhaps you need to take your own advice?”
Giffen fell in with him with a snort. “Perhaps, but I have reason to stay -- reason of a sort. Now let’s get you some decent clothes, and don’t worry -- I won’t offer any fashion advice.” Giffen changed the subject with a conspiratorial tone. “Roman is an elf, you know. They are an intractable lot, for the most part, except when it comes to their partners. And, to be fair, he has rather a lot to accommodate in Archer. Archer is an objectionable young man full of prejudices and fire. Lots of fire.”
“Roman is an elf?”
“Oh, yes. To win the young man, Roman changed his appearance, and he has been ‘passing’ ever since. I have to wonder, though ... love that makes you change who you are -- is it worth having?”
Peter fell silent at that and stayed so all the rest of the way.
Chapter Three
“... the Congregation took note of the distinction commonly drawn between the homosexual condition or tendency and individual homosexual actions. These were described as ... ‘intrinsically disordered,’ and able in no case to be approved of ...”
Letter to the Bishops of the Catholic Church on the Pastoral Care of Homosexual Persons
Giffen proved a good companion -- often quiet, but ready with some barbed observation or wry comment if prompted. They wandered the small strip-mall and steered conversation away from weightier issues. Giffen eased into the antechamber of a friendship so easily, it made returning back to the house an unwelcome contrast. The big house was even more unappealing approached from the back. It had been built to address the grounds, with their neglected fountain and gardens, and it reserved its most imposing aspect for the task.
Romanesque columns supported two floors, with one long wing to the right and a curtailed wall to the left, where another wing must once have been planned. Two statues decorated the frontage: one Saint George, the other Andrew the apostle. The thought ran almost audibly through Peter’s mind: Behold, I shall make you a fisher of men. Hardly that, in the end. In fact, he was not sure that he would manage to save himself. He still stood between two pillars. The scripture laid down specific laws, but the church told each man to develop his own conscience carefully and act upon it. He simply could not reconcile the two, but nor could he sacrifice either. He was left thinking of the old tale of the donkey standing equidistantly between two equally lush piles of hay; it could not choose, and so starved to death. Only, the consequence of this choice had implications even beyond death.
Within the house he found Roman and Veleur talking in low tones, and after a stilted meal, Veleur suggested they retire. In the privacy of his pale rooms, Veleur showed no interest in Peter’s new clothes. It was, in truth, a modest selection, as Peter had resisted Giffen’s far more lavish suggestions in favour of simple pants and shirts in natural tones. His current clothes were almost falling apart, or he would have avoided spending the Society’s money at all while his welcome was still uncertain.
After failing several times to draw Veleur into proper conversation, Peter tried to drive himself instead into sleep, in the hope that tomorrow would indeed be another day. Veleur came to curl against his side long after the lights went out. Peter lay sleepless a long time, following strands of thought and doubt, tracing the imbroglio in which he lay wrapped. He firmly believed that religion was needed to give men rules that were absolute and outside themselves, God’s guidance to avoid the mire of sin. But now, as when he first put aside his robes, he could not reconcile God’s love with a condemnation of love between men. On top of that, what of magic?
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live -- so surely no man should seek to become one? Was that the problem? He had tried to ‘try’ during the test, but maybe in his soul he feared to. Peter lay sleepless in the darkness and acknowledged the wounds upon his soul. He had not found a way to resolve the distance between the morality his mind accepted and the acceptance his heart craved -- he wondered what the final cost of his hypocrisy would be.
* * * * *
The next day, Peter awoke alone again. He dressed and wandered listlessly about the sparsely furnished room. Finally he put on his shoes and went down to the main floor. He could feel his own growing resolve as a tension in his jaw and across his temples.
He went to the large room on the ground floor. Wolfy and Bear were sitting together on the sofa, watching a small television in the corner, where the BBC news was playing at low volume. Giffen was bent over a slanted drafting table on which a number of books lay open. Several of the glass cases were open also, revealing the aged tomes within. Giffen looked up briefly and gave a welcoming nod.
Wolfy gave one of her feral smiles, leaning forward out of Bear’s casual embrace.
“Good,” she said. “There are a few things we can try to get a spark out of you.”
Peter sat down opposite in what was already coming to feel like ‘his’ place.
“No,” he said.
Wolfy paused, her face fading to stern neutrality.
“I have been promised a few answers to my questions, and now seems like a good time,” Peter pre
ssed.
“I really don’t think we should say too much until ...” Wolfy began.
Peter bowed his head. He had never counted himself as particularly clever or brave, and his moral centre certainly had a habit of shifting, but there was one quality in him he could count on. Peter could be stubborn when he had to, more stubborn than any other person he had ever known. He looked up into Wolfy’s eyes, and they didn’t scare him anymore. He remembered then what Giffen had said out on the path.
“If this a house of secrets,” he said, “of those who know and those who are not told, then I am no better off now than when I was with the League. I will not be led through some initiation of faith and darkness. I will walk into this with my eyes open, or I will walk away.”
“You think this is something you can just walk out of?” Wolfy snapped.
“Do you want to see me try?”
Wolfy sat back again, and turned to Bear. “I think he’s right,” Bear said.
“You would. Do you ever disagree with anyone?”
Bear just smiled pleasantly, apparently immune to the tension in the room. “Let’s hear what questions he has to ask.”
Peter was ready to make that clear. If he could get these questions cleared up, he had a few more for Veleur, too. “I want to know who is in the Society, what elves are exactly, what the Society’s goals are, and who opposes them.”
Wolfy’s head canted quizzically, and her mood became more open. “Has Veleur told you nothing?”
“Little enough.”
Speak of the devil, Veleur appeared from the kitchen. “I was not aware you were so curious,” he said blandly.
This was the other side of Veleur. It took so little for the shutter to close, leaving nothing but the cool porcelain exterior of a statue. Peter felt his heart clench at any suggestion of displeasure. He so wanted to please his lover, but he resented the impulse even as he felt it. He could abide this limbo no longer, though speaking out in front of Veleur made his heart pound.
“You seemed to want me here before we spoke about it, Veleur. Well, we are here, and I do not even know what to feel about it. I don’t know where I stand.”
He met Veleur’s eyes with difficulty. He felt acutely conscious of his own breath, rising and falling.
Giffen’s voice broke the silence. “Take the rod out of your arse, Veleur. It’s a different world, and he needs to know the facts.”
“And what is it to you?” Veleur snapped. “You seem to be taking quite the interest in my partner.”
Peter heard a book slam shut.
“Somebody had to.”
Bear huffed and shifted in his seat. “That’s quite enough from both of you,” he said. “From all of you, in fact. Sit down.”
He spoke with his usual friendly burr, but a hint of command stirred beneath it. Peter found Veleur settling stiffly by his side, Giffen taking his usual chair.
Bear draped his arm over Wolfy’s shoulder. “Allow me to say just a little. It will take some time to become clear, but let us at least begin.
“There are exactly five hundred and ninety-two sworn members of the Society, in hundreds of locations largely in the British Isles. Three hundred and two of these are elves. The best we can understand, elves are a kind of human. Different in appearance and in their magic, most different in their ability to go to a realm we call the underhill, where no human can enter. The children of a human and an elf are always elven and must be raised in underhill if they are to survive.
“Our goal is to protect humans from the effects of malignant magic, and protect in turn magic-users from persecution of any sort. Malignant magic comes from humans and from other groups of elves we call the unseelie, whose numbers we do not clearly know. The League of Maewyn, you know of. They seek mainly to banish all magic, but they also employ it by means of bespelled objects, or what we rather inaccurately call their alchemy.”
Peter tried to draw it all in. “In truth, what does this mean? What do you actually do?”
Giffen laughed. “Respond to emergencies as they arise, bang our heads against the impenetrable barrier that is Patrick’s Irish ward, and do our best to survive intermittent attacks from the unseelie and the League.”
“It is no small matter,” Wolfy snapped. “Who knows how many of our number are lost in Ireland and what it has done to them? Perhaps it is Patrick’s curse that has robbed Peter of his arts.”
“That is hardly possible,” Bear said calmly. “Buried maybe, stunted even -- but only the magic-worker themselves could destroy their own power at the root.”
They all looked at Peter, as if wondering.
“As far as I knew, it was never there,” Peter said truthfully. “Not until I was with Veleur. But I’ll confess that I am in no great hurry to discover it. I’m not sure I’m ready yet.”
“Not this again.” Veleur sighed. “We have to know what you are, just to protect you. Now you are away from Ireland, there are things, creatures and maladies of magic, that you will be susceptible to, depending on the exact nature of your talent.”
“That’s true,” Bear conceded. “And as Wolfy was going to suggest, a quickening is the simplest way to be sure.”
“A what?” Peter asked.
Veleur squeezed his knee. “It is a simple procedure. We pass a pure form of magic to you, and your body will transform it into the form most natural to you. It is in inexact test, but a beginning.”
Even the thought of it made Peter’s heart beat faster in his chest. This was pushing him closer to the precipice that he feared. Without thought, he felt himself leaning more towards Veleur. He wanted to know what was inside of him; it would make a difference somehow. Would it be some talent God might have given him for a purpose, or some kind of evil he would know he should never develop? As much as he feared it, this was the next step he must take on his chosen path.
“Alright,” Peter said. “Let’s do it. Now.”
Giffen clasped Peter on the shoulder. “The quickening might cause your abilities to advance suddenly or become more unpredictable. You’ll need to stay near people who can help you get control of them.”
Giffen’s face was pinched with concern. Veleur appeared at his back. “Gif, I love you like a brother, but back off.”
“Bollocks, Veleur. You don’t even like me very much.”
“All the more reason.”
Giffen stepped away, but for once Peter was the one receiving the significant look. You don’t have to do this, it said. But in truth, he did. But when he saw Giffen slip from the room, he felt strangely anxious.
“It is simple,” Bear said. “Kneel here on the floor, and take my hand.”
Peter knelt awkwardly on the scuffed carpet. Bear took one of his hands and Wolfy the other as they joined him. They both reached for Veleur, who completed the circle. Peter looked directly at Veleur, searching for some reassurance.
Veleur mouthed to him silently: ‘I love you.’ And that was more than enough. Peter felt strong enough to go on. He loves me.
“What should I do?”
“You don’t need to do anything, Peter. Just relax, and if you feel anything is wrong, just let go of our hands and it will all stop.”
Peter looked across three pairs of calm, confident eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
He felt it first as pins and needles across the palms of his hands. The sensation spread like crawling ants up along the outside of his arms in spiralling swirls. He closed his eyes. A warm, fluid rush flowed up both arms and mixed in a disorienting squall within his chest.
“Let it in, Peter,” Veleur urged. “Let me in.”
There was a rather disquieting irony to that plea, but Peter felt it only dimly. He felt as if his body were awash, his soul afloat. The tide rose within him, suffocating. Peter tolerated it, determined to see this through. He was fighting down a rising panic when a searing chord of fire shot up his spine and burst into his head like a fiery flower. He gasped and felt his body jolt.
&nb
sp; “Peter?” Veleur’s voice was embedded in a thick, static roar that flooded into his mind.
Peter held his face impassive. Let it in. Make it mine. He looked within himself at all the power running through his body. It felt like a river, with him clinging to the last stick of driftwood he could find. It felt like the stupidest thing he could do, but he did it. He let go and gave himself ...
It was like being hit by a train. A scream, a shuddering crash. He felt himself flying into the darkness. Wet pain blossomed across his chest, and air rushed from his lungs. In an instant Peter knew that he was going to meet his maker, all of his important decisions unmade.
“Oh, no, no.” The voice creaked with age, but the hand that snatched him from the air was uncanny in its strength. “I do not think so, my dear boy. Not just yet.”
In a blink Peter found himself lying upon his back amongst a whispering blanket of long-dead autumn leaves.
“What do you think, Mary Clare?”
“Oh, quite right, Mary Helena. Not his time. Not his time at all. Don’t you agree, Mary Rosalina?”
A circle of three elderly nuns peered down at him, their heads decorated with the starched wimples of old.
Mary Helena adjusted her spectacles, harrumphed, and leaned back. “Well, get up, young man,” she said. “I can’t be bending over like that. Not with my back.”
Peter stood carefully. He was on the grounds of Scott House, up on the hill that he had seen from the path yesterday. They were all gathered in a small clearing with nothing much around but the encircling bare-branched trees and a cluster of tilting, moss-covered slabs. Tombstones. With garish colours, everything had a bright, shining look to it, and every sound seemed a little too loud.
“Am I dead?” Peter asked. If this was limbo, it was not unpleasant.
Mary Helena laughed. “Is he dead, he wants to know?” she said to her stooped companion.
It was the third and smallest of the nuns who answered, peering up as she leaned on a stout wooden cane.
“No, you’re not dead,” she said kindly, reaching out one frail hand. “But you had best go back now, or you soon will be. But come back when you can and see us. There is something you need to do for us. I’ll tell you now, just in case you can’t see us later.”
Maewyn's Prophecy: Pilgrim Heart Page 3
