Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  “So do we even know what we’re supposed to be looking for?” he asked no one in particular, stifling a belch.

  The others gave a general grumble in the negative, none of them lifting their eyes from their screens.

  “This is a WS3 nuclear weapons storage facility!” snapped Major Briskett, who had entered without anyone noticing. “All you need to know is that we’re on high alert! Now keep those eyes peeled, people, or I’ll peel them for you!”

  There was a chorus of slightly weary “Yes, sir.”

  “And Lucien—”

  The corporal swivelled in his chair and snapped to attention. “Sir?”

  “Remove that doughnut from my bunker, you slovenly excuse for a WASTE–OF–SPACE!”

  “Yes, sir!” shouted Lucien, reaching for it and raising it to his mouth.

  “Not down your throat, you CRETIN! Throw it away!”

  Lucien winced – that was a criminal waste of good doughnut. But he knew better than to argue. It was arguing that had landed him in this pen-pushing detail in the first place. He leaned heavily on his desk to push himself up and glanced briefly at his monitor.

  Instantly his eyes drew into sharp focus. He leaned a little closer.

  There was nothing there now but he was sure he had seen a slight movement at the edge of the screen. He put down the doughnut, wiped his fingers, then swiped them across the image to swivel the camera.

  “Lucien! Get your—”

  “Two seconds, sir!”

  He stared at the screen. The floodlights on the wire perimeter sent great arcs of light out on to the plain, but they showed nothing. Something had moved, he knew it – something beyond the light. He shifted to the adjacent screen, tapping it to bring it to life. It glowed with the dull greens and greys of infrared imagery.

  “What did you just say, Lucien?” Briskett was at his ear now, standing over him. “Did you just tell me to w—”

  “Shut up!” snapped Lucien, bringing everyone in the bunker to a stunned standstill. “Look!”

  He drew his fingers across the screen to align the camera, then placed four fingers in the centre and spread them wide.

  Briskett brought his shaven head towards the screen. “This better be good, Lucien,” he muttered.

  The infrared camera zoomed, then focused.

  The two men blinked, hardly able to believe their eyes.

  “What cure is there for a broken spirit? What salve for an ailing soul?”

  NAEO GAZED UP AT the peculiar structure, wondering at its clinical beauty: its seamless blend of glass and earth. But it was not the imposing building that made her stomach tighten and her mouth run dry: it was the sudden realisation that there, just beyond the wall of glass, was the mother Sylas had thought lost, the mother he had longed for and searched for. The mother she had come to find. And there was something else too, something deep in her still-dreamy thoughts. Now that she was here, could it be that Sylas was in the passages of the Dirgheon, with her father? Could that be why she had felt so suffocated in her sleep? Was that the reason for the darkness of her dreams?

  The car drew to a halt by the great dome, gave a throaty growl and fell silent.

  Tasker stretched his shoulders and rubbed his neck. “Let’s hope everyone else is here.”

  “Everyone else?” probed Ash.

  “The Merisi,” said Mr Zhi, opening his door. “This should be quite a meeting.”

  They all heaved themselves stiffly out of the car, grabbed their bags and made their way along a short gravel pathway that ran alongside the glass wall. Suddenly Naeo felt a knife-edge of pain through her spine. She dropped her bag and arched her back. Ash saw her at once.

  “You OK?” he asked, taking her by the shoulders.

  As the pain eased, she bent over and rested on her knees, panting. “I think I’m OK,” she said.

  “You think,” said Ash. “It’s the Black, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know why but it got much worse in the car, while I was sleeping.”

  Mr Zhi appeared at her side and bent down to look at her. He brushed the hair away from her face. “The Black, you say?” he murmured, looking concerned. “From the Dirgheon?”

  Naeo straightened stiffly, then winced and nodded.

  “Indeed,” said Mr Zhi, casting a worried glance at Tasker. “We will have to see what we can do about that. Can you walk?”

  She picked up her bag. “I’m OK,” she said. “I think it’s just sitting still for so long.”

  “Well, either way, you have come to the right place,” said the old man. “Come on, let me show you Winterfern.”

  He took her arm and led her up to the giant glass panes, which reflected the majestic, dawning sky behind them. The interior was masked behind the pink and orange light so Ash walked straight up to the glass and leaned in with cupped hands. Even as his fingers touched the glass there was a loud sigh and a clunk. He jumped back, nearly stumbling over Tasker and treading on his foot in the process.

  “Steady!” said Tasker, rubbing his shoe on his trouser leg. “Italian shoes!”

  Mr Zhi shot him a sharp look. “Jeremy, really!”

  Suddenly there was a whirring sound as the huge glass panel slid slowly to one side. Sounds echoed from beyond the shaded threshold: a deep, ringing roar, like the sound of falling water thundering into a pool; the bright song and chatter of birds; voices, some talking, some laughing and calling out.

  “Welcome to our sanctuary,” said Mr Zhi with a quick bow.

  Ash and Naeo peered past him and were astonished to see a new wilderness beyond the wall, this one enclosed by the vast dome. Ahead was a simple dirt track, winding up a grassy bank to a large pool bordered by bracken, bushes and saplings, mossy rocks and clusters of flowers.

  “There’s no time for the full tour now,” continued Mr Zhi, “but I will show you a little along the way. Only please do remember that this is a hospital.” Then he added in a lower voice: “There are patients here who would find the truth about you deeply upsetting. It would be best if you do not speak to them.” He paused for a moment, looking with concern at Naeo. “Come,” he said, holding out his gloved hand.

  Naeo found the gentle squeeze of his fingers strangely reassuring as he led her inside.

  “We’ll not be seeing Sylas’s mother quite yet,” said Mr Zhi, seeming to sense her anxiety about the meeting to come. “We’ll first go to the Merisi.”

  Naeo heard him but her eyes were elsewhere.

  Everywhere.

  Above, fingers of spray curled from a waterfall, which fell the full height of the building in a thin white column of churning foam. Behind it the hillside rose in a steepening bank until it became a cliff, its sheer face climbing all the way to the glassy ceiling. It was at that highest point, just where rock met glass, that the waters cascaded forth, tumbling down in sheets and veils to the plunge pool far below. Perhaps most beautiful of all, the silver falls were girdled by a rainbow, which sent its magical bands of colour far out into the void, almost touching the glass dome.

  Around the pool and ranging across the broad sweep of the building, were the most gorgeous gardens. They looked at once wild and carefully tended – great trees laced with vines, verdant undergrowth bordered by splashes of red and white blooms, walkways through rushes and shrubs opening out into lawns of well-trimmed grass.

  “There is no balm greater than Nature herself,” said Mr Zhi, patting Naeo’s hand. “And Winterfern is truly a Salve for the soul.”

  They heard some voices off to their right and turned to see two women strolling across an open lawn. They were dressed in matching, loose-fitting green clothes.

  “Some of our guests,” said Mr Zhi. “The gardens are popular at dawn.”

  The women seemed unaware of the visitors and continued their conversation, disappearing into a copse of trees.

  “We have some five hundred guests at present,” said Mr Zhi. “Come and see for yourself.”

  He led them up the winding pat
h towards the plunge pool, and they soon felt the refreshing spray from the waterfall on their faces. Naeo saw more of the hospital’s ‘guests’, some ambling through the gardens, others resting on grassy banks or beds of moss. One man was sitting by the path reading a book. He glanced up and smiled as they approached and they gave a friendly nod in response. Naeo noticed dark rings under his eyes and the sallowness of his skin.

  “A new arrival, I suspect,” Mr Zhi whispered in her ear.

  As they skirted the pool, Ash bent down and scooped up some of the crystal-clear water, examined it, gave it a sniff, then drank it down. He nodded approvingly.

  “Spring water from the heart of the hills,” said Tasker proudly.

  Ash scooped up a little more water and ran it gratefully through his hair, sighing with satisfaction, then shook his shaggy locks, sending out a shower of droplets. Tasker blinked incredulously at his shoes and opened his mouth to complain but seemed to think better of it. Instead he gave Ash a disapproving stare, lingering on his rough boots and ill-kempt clothes. Ash simply grinned, patted Tasker on the shoulder with a dripping-wet hand and walked on.

  They made their way around the pool until they could see the full face of the cliff, which swept around behind the waterfall. They saw at once that it was not a rock face at all, or at least, it was a rock face no longer. What had once been a wall of stone was now riddled with openings and galleries, ramps and staircases, all cut into the dark grey surface. It was alive with activity: people walking here and there, leaning over the balconies to watch the dawn, some carrying trays of food, others gathered around in comfortable-looking chairs, deep in conversation. All of them were wearing the same light green clothes that they had seen in the gardens.

  Naeo gazed at it in wonder. “And that’s the hospital?”

  Mr Zhi nodded. “Here, and deeper in the hillside. I do wish I could show you the whole thing but that will have to wait. Nearly there now.”

  They climbed some turfed steps and entered through a doorway cut into the stone. A twisting stairway carried them up through the cliff face to the light of an open gallery. As they reached the top step, they saw the back of the waterfall off to their side, its spray wafting across their path, casting a pleasant dew. They walked quickly past a number of closed doors to a broad doorway at the end of the gallery. Mr Zhi ignored another staircase and instead followed a passageway that headed directly into the hillside.

  Naeo’s step slowed when she saw where they were going, but Mr Zhi drew her forward.

  “This is no Dirgheon,” he whispered.

  When she looked down the tunnel, she was surprised to see that it was lighter than the gallery they had just left, lit by broad discs of daylight set into the ceiling. She peered upwards and saw a tiny circle of sky in the far distance, fringed by a silvered shaft.

  “Light tunnels,” said Tasker. “They take the sunlight straight through the hillside.”

  “Through it?” repeated Ash, squinting to one of them.

  Tasker shrugged and walked on. “You have your magic, this is ours.”

  Ash gazed at the perfectly smooth interior of the shaft, shaking his head in wonderment.

  They descended the broad, cool passageway into the hillside, passing many doors and passages leading off to the left and right. They saw more of the guests going about their daily business in their strange garments of green, some accompanied by people wearing a darker green studded with symbols down one arm, which ended seamlessly in a single green glove: a plainer version of the one Mr Zhi was wearing.

  “Merisi,” murmured Ash to Naeo.

  “Not quite,” said Mr Zhi, somehow hearing them even though he was some distance ahead. “Though they wish to be. They’re what we call Initiates. If they work hard enough and show themselves able, they may join us one day, like Tasker. Until then, their service here is invaluable.”

  He slowed to a stop at the end of the corridor, beside two large, beautifully carved timber doors. Naeo noticed that one depicted the sun and the other the moon.

  Mr Zhi took hold of the two door handles.

  “Now,” he said, “time to meet the Merisi.”

  “Isia is the bond that binds all things. Her eyes are the sun and the moon, her body is the bosom of the earth.”

  CORPORAL LUCIEN STARED AT the monitor.

  There, just beyond the arcs of the floodlights, were scores of shifting shadows, prowling at the fringes of the security zone. Their shapes were hard to discern, but their eyes were wide and white on the green screen: too large to be human, too purposeful to be animal, too many to be mistaken. They were completely still, as though waiting for something.

  Lucien’s skin turned to gooseflesh. In one motion, he and Briskett lunged forward and struck the large red button on the back of the desk. Instantly the light in the bunker blinked and dimmed and then a klaxon wail shattered the silence. An automated female voice blasted from speakers in the ceiling:

  “ALERT … ALERT …” she declared in a silky monotone. “REPORT TO STATIONS. ALERT … ALERT …”

  Lucien and Briskett’s eyes were still glued to the screen as the phone on the desk gave a shrill ring. Briskett raised it to his ear.

  “Yes, sir, they’re all along the Northern boundary … ten, fifteen maybe. I’m just checking the other cameras.” He clicked his fingers at his staff. They busied themselves at their screens and then swivelled their monitors in his direction. His eyes moved quickly across them and he paled, shaking his head. “Sir, I’m afraid they seem to be on all boundaries. That’s right, fifty at least. But they’re not doing anyth—” He stopped, swore under his breath, then dropped the phone.

  All of the displays were suddenly alive. A surge of dark figures bounded across the open space, illuminated by automatic, high-intensity floodlights. The monitoring station thrummed with the rapid fire of robotic sentinel guns, interspersed with thumps of exploding mortar shells and mines.

  “What the hell …” murmured Lucien.

  Even under fire, the attackers devoured the open plain, sprinting at inconceivable speeds between the first lines of tracer fire and mortar blasts. Some were thickset and muscular like giant hounds, tearing up the turf with gigantic claws; others were slim and lithe, darting and leaping through the hail of bullets with feline agility. Behind them, still at the fringes of the light, were upright forms, almost human but not quite, with shoulders that were too broad, heads that hung too low. And beyond them were eight or ten slighter, more human forms, their arms held aloft, their hands closed in fists. Suddenly they threw their arms forward and in the same instant something moved in the far darkness, launching up into the air. Whatever it was flew quickly above the range of the camera, so Lucien immediately casting his fingers up the screen to tilt it.

  He stumbled backwards into his chair.

  There, just passing within range of the floodlights, were dozens of spinning shapes, all of them at least the size of a house. They were colossal clods of earth, torn up from the plain and sent hurtling into the heavens, arcing through the sky.

  Lucien glanced at the Major but he was frozen, staring with wide eyes at the screens, still holding the screaming handset.

  Lucien turned and screamed at the radio controller at the back of the bunker.

  “Send a Mayday! NOW!”

  The young private pulled his eyes away from the screens and hunched over his panel.

  “Mayday! Mayday!” he bellowed into the microphone as the bunker shook with the first impact. “All stations, this is Weapons Storage Facility Whisky-Sierra-Three-Alpha-Yankee-Oscar requesting immediate assistance. Mayday! Mayday!”

  Isia led Sylas and Simia across a patchwork of carpets embroidered with yet more images of people, gazing at them with fixed eyes. They headed towards the far side of the chamber, weaving a path through some of the statues. These grand creations of pure white marble were so lifelike that they seemed to look down at them as they passed. Sylas found himself looking into the wizened face of an elderly man w
ith long flowing locks and a thick, tumbling beard. The man’s hands were open in front of him, as though making an offering, but his palms were empty. The more Sylas looked, the more he understood that this was a man making a heartfelt, desperate plea.

  “Beautiful, isn’t he?” said Isia.

  Sylas started – he hadn’t realised that she was beside him. “Yes. Who is it?”

  “I’m not sure it matters!” said Isia. “What I love about these statues, these paintings, is not who is in them but what is in them. They all capture something very precious.”

  Sylas looked from one statue to another. “What?”

  “A moment when someone reaches out and touches us!” said Isia excitedly. “A moment of connection! If you had lived as long as I, you would know that they are the most important moments of all.”

  “Is that why you have so many paintings?” asked Simia, peering up at the walls.

  “They are such a comfort to me,” said Isia. “They fill me with hope. After all, if a painter can do this with pigment and canvas, just think what connections we might forge in our own lives. Real connections.” She looked from one to the other. “But you are students of Essenfayle, I don’t need to tell you the importance of connections.”

  She turned and walked on.

  Soon they drew near to a large table covered with silver platters and bowls containing all manner of gastronomic wonders: luscious fruits, steaming breads, fish, meats and cheeses. Sylas and Simia’s eyes grew wide – they had almost forgotten how ravenously hungry they were.

  “Is this for us?” asked Simia, barely able to contain herself.

  “As much as you can eat,” said Isia, ushering them with a blur of hands to three places that had been set at the end. Sylas and Simia filled their plates and tucked in ravenously while Isia simply sat quietly, watching, as though enjoying the novelty of sharing her table. The only time her smile faded was when she noticed the black mark on Sylas’s neck, now larger than ever, but her composure quickly returned.

  It was only after many mouthfuls that the conversation resumed.