The Summoning

by Robert Wingfield

  “This is it,” said Genet. “Dig here. Use the blade.”

  “But the dagger,” said Ankerita. “Won’t it get damaged?”

  There was no answer; obviously Genet was treating the question with the scorn she thought it deserved.

  “I suppose it is the dagger,” the girl mused. “It’s not going to go blunt, as long as my thoughts are pure, is it?”

  As Ankerita attacked the dig, the dagger proved her right. It cut easily through the ground, and clods of earth and stones flew in all directions. As she dug deeper, she came across the oyster shells, animal bones and the bits of broken pottery that archaeologists always go into raptures about. Ankerita was not so easily impressed, and resisted the temptation to identify and catalogue each item, like they would have done; she was on a mission, and was in a desperate hurry. She felt a nagging uneasiness, as though her enemies were closing in. She glanced around nervously, but apart from the inquisitive sheep, she was still alone in the field. She did not notice the black car in the valley below her.

  The hole became deeper, and the girl was starting to lose hope. The feeling of menace was building; she was becoming cold and jittery. “I must not stay here any longer,” she said at last. “Someone’s coming. I’ve got to leave.”

  “Stay another minute,” pleaded Genet’s voice. “You are so nearly there.”

  “Another minute only. No more than another minute.” Ankerita dug frantically, starting at sixty and counting backwards with each thrust. Her energy was nearly spent, as the rain leached her strength. She was deadly tired.

  The count had reached twenty-two, a magic number that Ankerita knew nothing about, but Genet grinned to herself at the coincidence, when her numb fingers closed over a small round object. “Is this it?” she started to wipe it on the surrounding grass.

  “About time too,” said Genet. “Now don’t bother to clean it here. Get thee hence; the devils are on thy tail. Run!”

  “You know something?” Ankerita accused her. “Why didn’t you say?”

  “You would have given up, I trow.”

  “You trow correctly. I would be home by now.”

  Ankerita stuffed ball and artefacts into her bag and had no idea how she found the energy to sprint across the field, to her car. The engine started first time, as she knew it would, and she spun the wheels as she accelerated along the lane in the direction away from that which she’d come.

  Minutes later, a black Mercedes stopped where Ankerita’s car had been parked. Two businessmen in dark coats got out.

  “Boss, said she’ll be in the field over there,” said one.

  “That’s good.” The other slapped a black-jack meaningfully in his gloved hand. “There won’t be any negotiation required this time. Got you, my lovely.”

  13. Visitation

  A

  nkerita had no idea how she got home. One moment it seemed she was driving away from the ancient village, and the next she was being shaken awake in the garage by a concerned looking George.

  “Wee daughter, what has been happening to ye?”

  “I got the treasures, George,” she muttered groggily. “Look.” She tried to get out of the car, but couldn’t find the strength. “I’m stuck,” she murmured.

  “Never mind that, ma poor lamb,” he said, undoing her seatbelt. “You’re a complete mess. Have you been out in the rain without a coat?”

  “Haven’t found the Coat,” she muttered, and then sneezed.

  George dragged her out of the car and heaved her into the house. “You’ll be needing a hot bath,” he said. “Can you manage by yourself, because I’m no’ the man to scrub your back?”

  “I think so.” Ankerita sneezed again.

  George carried her upstairs and propped her on a chair in the bathroom while he ran warm water and bubbles. “I’ll bring you a hot chocolate,” he said, and left her to it.

  “I’m sorry, Boss, we lost her.”

  “I’m sorry too, Mr Jones. She is a tricky one.”

  “She has been here,” said the man. “We expected she’d be in the field, but there were only a few fresh holes full of water, and mud scattered about.”

  “She’s looking for something. No matter. She has to drive around again, sometime. I’ll find her. I can wait. In the meantime, head this way. As soon as the cameras pick her up again, I’ll let you know.”

  Ankerita was sneezing uncontrollably when George knocked on the bathroom door. “I’ve got your drink,” he said through the wood. “I’ll leave it on the bedside table.” He listened to the sounds from the bathroom. “I think you may have caught a chill,” he said. “Make the water nice and hot, and then straight to bed with you. I’ll be going. Call me if you need anything else.”

  When he had gone, Ankerita levered herself painfully out of the water, and rubbed her body dry on the towel. She shivered and sneezed as she got into another unflattering night-dress that George had brought from the shop. She was too miserable to care: her head pounded, her fingers were raw, nails broken, and her body ached in every joint. She moaned, and shuffled over to the bed, to slip gratefully under the duvet. There was a knock on the door. “Are ye decent?”

  “Please come in.”

  George entered, carrying a glass of cloudy liquid. “Have this before your chocolate,” he said. “It’s a cure for colds—some medicine, but also one of my own recipes.”

  “Are you going to poison me?” Ankerita sniffed and buried her face in the handkerchief he offered.

  “Of course not.” George looked offended.

  “Shame. I feel terrible. I want to die.”

  “It will help you to sleep, instead,” said George. “I’ve never lost a patient yet.”

  “How many patients have you had?” She raised a groggy face.

  “Only you, so don’t you dare bugger up my averages.”

  “Yes, doctor.” Ankerita dejectedly took a sip from the hot liquid. “By the mass...!”

  “Too hot, Pet?”

  “It tastes toad-spotted awful.”

  George grinned. “Aye, that way you know it will do you good. Drink it all up, and I’ll come and tuck you in, presently.”

  A week later, in a four-poster bed in a large house somewhere in a rundown estate, a beautiful girl in her early-twenties dozed. A mass of rich brown hair cascaded on the pillow, and her lips parted as she went through the dream sleep prior to wakening. A tear ran down her cheek as some vision brought fading memories to her. “I’m so wretched; I want to die,” she muttered. “There is nothing here for me.”

  At the foot of the bed stood a monk. His hood was pulled over a shadowed face. His arms were folded into the sleeves of the robe. He watched the sleeping girl for a few moments, as if trying to decide what to do. A sigh escaped the hood at the same time as the girl gave a sob. Slowly he withdrew one of his hands from the sleeve. A knife glinted in the dim light of morning.

  The girl gave a cry and sat up in bed. She saw him immediately. “Mon Dieu!”

  “I am not your god,” said the monk. He pushed his hood back, and the dim light in the room revealed a young man, clean-shaven with short hair and piercing blue eyes. He bowed and the girl noted the shaved part of his head, a monk’s tonsure. She also noted the knife, still in his hand.

  “Brother Francis?” Disbelief made her voice tremble.

  “I am he.” The monk straightened, and loomed over the end of the bed.

  “But, you were at the abbey five-hundred years since. How can that be? Let me see your face; come closer.”

  The monk moved into the light, and their eyes met.

  “It is you.” Ankerita was strangely undisturbed. “You look as remember you when we last met. Do you know me?”

  “My Lady Ankerita.” The monk bowed his head again. “I would know you anywhere, but you too are younger than I remember. I heard you calling for the end of your life, but that is not the reason I am here.”

  “Am I still dreamin
g?” Ankerita smoothed her hair away from her face to view him more closely.

  “What were you dreaming?”

  “I was thinking of Richard, and that guy, Tox, who was him also, reincarnation or something, I don’t know.”

  “You killed him. You killed them both.”

  “Mea culpa,” Ankerita crossed herself. “I was trying to end my own life; I thought it was the only way Richard and I could be together again, and I realised that Tox was Richard, in this life, anyway.”

  “It went wrong?”

  “It did. I live, and he has gone. I cannot contact him in the grave. He plagued me as Tox, but I miss him. I have nothing here.”

  “That is what I heard,” repeated Francis. “You should not wish a return to the grave. You do have something most pressing to do. Have you forgotten?”

  “Forgotten?”

  “I will help you. You have only to take my hands,” the monk reached out towards her.

  A tiny voice whispered in her mind, “No.”

  Ankerita pulled away. “No,” she echoed. “What have you got there?”

  The monk slipped the knife up his sleeve.

  “Give it to me.”

  “I would advise against it. It is not good for you.”

  “Give it to me... please.”

  “As you wish.” The monk bowed and held it out for her.

  Ankerita took the blade, and turned it over in her hands. “The rondel,” she said. “The one I found in the abandoned village. How did you get it?”

  “It was on the table over there.”

  “Of course it was. I’ve been ill. I can barely remember what happened. So this is the one I found, the Sword or Dagger, one of the Albion Treasures.”

  “Or perhaps two.”

  “I’m starting to remember.” Her face clouded. “The search at Siwaldston. Genet hid something?”

  “Not exactly hid. I’ve been custodian for many years. It was I who buried it, awaiting the return of the witch.”

  “Enchantress,” said Ankerita. “Do not speak ill of her. But how did you come by it?”

  “Genet tasked me with its safety.”

  “Did she?” Ankerita pouted. “Surely you died?”

  “Many years ago.”

  “So, you have passed over? Tell me, have you seen my husband? Is he waiting for me?”

  “He is not in my own realm, between life and death, but at the end of your life, you may meet him again.”

  “May? Do you not know?”

  “I am sorry, my lady,” said the monk. “He is beyond my reach. You have a purpose, a mission.”

  “You are right. My friend. I need to help Jo.”

  “That is correct.” Francis bowed again. “Tell me though, what do you intend to do with the dagger?”

  “I will keep it,” said Ankerita. “If nothing else it will serve as a reminder to me.”

  “Tua est,” replied the monk. “It is yours. Keep it, but it will give you no peace.”

  “The old dagger allowed me to see those who were also waiting in the world between life and death,” Ankerita said hopefully. “Is that where you are? Is that why I can see you?”

  The monk shook his head. “There are many worlds, but the power of the knife was spent when you killed your husband.”

  “Alas, again.”

  “Et iterum,” agreed the monk. “Be careful. It is sharp.”

  “Yes, yes, I know about the keenness of its blade. Are you going to explain to me how you come to be here, after all this time?”

  “I was tasked with protecting you all that time ago. I failed. This existence is my punishment for failing. I exist to survive, waiting until I am needed.”

  “And are you needed?”

  “Creation is on the brink. Civilisation is breaking down. More and more people are taking their lives out of desperation. I can only try to stop them, but if I cannot, then I help them pass over. Yes, I am needed.”

  “And are you needed for me?” The girl stiffly brought her knees up under her chin beneath the covers.

  “I will take my leave.” The monk seemed to shimmer in the faint light. He began to back away.

  “Do not forsake me,” Ankerita pleaded.

  The monk became more solid. He sighed. “I can say no more. The blade called me. I will try to help you when I can, but the Dying are what is holding me.”

  “You have already helped me recollect. I thought I had nothing, could do nothing. When I had the old dagger, I saw the Dead, and could help them pass over; I had a friend who was of both worlds.”

  “If you mean the demon, Didiubas,” said Francis, “he was not your friend; he is nobody’s friend. I know him well, after five-hundred years of watching his antics. He is evil.”

  “Misguided perhaps.”

  “If you think that, do you remember the events leading up to your own passing away?”

  Ankerita furrowed her brow. “Vaguely. I remember being told to eat that last meal. It was to contain a sleeping compound. I would be revived, and take a new life. You said it would be so.” She glared at him.

  “The demon that Genet conjured up to help, manipulated events, caused us to fail, but ultimately, it was my fault.” Francis hung his head. “That is why I am still here. The book has been passed down to you?”

  “I have it,” said Ankerita. “I can understand some.”

  “I am pleased,” said Francis. “It holds the meaning of your rebirth and...”

  “I am already reborn, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Ankerita bristled. “And all without this sodding book.” Annoyed, she threw off the covers, and realised that she was only wearing the skimpy nightdress.

  “That I can see.” The monk scowled, disapprovingly.

  “Is this what you have passed down the centuries for?”

  “I have no more answers. Perhaps the witch will know more, but you need to find your friend, before you can rest. And now, may I take my leave?”

  “You may depart.” Ankerita dismissed him with a wave. Her mind was racing.

  “Remember that the Book holds the key.”

  “The key to what?” She stared sharply at him.

  “The Forgotten Path.” The monk responded as though she would know what he was talking about.

  “What?”

  “All I can say is that the Book holds that information somewhere.”

  “To what? What is the Forgotten Path?”

  “I don’t think I ever knew,” said Francis, seriously. “It was something the demon said. It must be somewhere buried in your mind. You have only to unlock it.”

  “You are no bat-fouling help! I read through the Book. Yes there are rituals I can’t understand, and pictures of things I might like to try if I ever found the right man, but nothing about a path, or a road, or a Hell-hated motorway...”

  “I have to leave.”

  “Go, but make sure you return when I call you, and no more of this disappearing and sneaking around in the dark, trying to steal my soul, or whatever game you are playing. Behave like a normal person when you are with me.”

  “As you wish.” The monk bowed and left though the bedroom door, closing it quietly behind him.

  “It is a waste of time locking that bloody door,” murmured Ankerita. She absently turned the knife over in her hands, before putting it under the pillow. “If I get any more uninvited visitors, they will taste my steel, big time.” She stared at where Francis had been standing, shook her head, and lay back, to try to make sense of her dreams, before they faded from memory.

  Ankerita woke again with a start. She gazed around an unfamiliar room, wondering where she was, and twisted in pain. She had been lying on something, something hard and cold. She reached under the blankets, and gave a gasp. In her hand was a knife from the middle-ages; a long bladed rondel, sharp and deadly, used by foot-soldiers, for finishing off a fallen man in armour. A tingle ran up her arm.

  “Where did th
is come from?” she muttered.

  As she held the knife, it slowly faded and melted away. She tried to hang on to it, but there was nothing she could do. It was the knife she had killed her husband, Richard, with, some five-hundred years in the past, and she knew it held the key to her future...

  Ankerita gave a wail and sat straight up in bed. Sunlight forced its way through a crack in the curtains, as she awoke properly this time. “George!” she yelled, and continued yelling until there was a knock. George poked his head in.

  “I see ye’re awake at last, Pet,” he said, averting his gaze when he saw her nightdress.

  “I feel terrible,” she said. “I’ve had some awful dreams.”

  “I’m not surprised, kiddo. You’ve been suffering with a fever for the last week or so.”

  “I have? Last I remember was getting home and you dumping me in the bathroom.”

  “Aye, you’ve been a sick wee girlie. You were silly to go out in the rain without a coat.”

  “The Coat,” said Ankerita. “I remember, that’s what I need to find next.”

  “What coat?”

  “Pass me the Book, please. Is that it over there?”

  “I dropped it in last night. I thought you might be wanting to swot up on your quest, once you woke.” He handed it over to her, and she turned the pages thoughtfully.

  “Here.” She showed him an illustration.

  “That looks very modern. Are you sure this book is as old as you think?”

  “Maybe that’s what it looks like these days. It worked for the car, why not the coat too?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. According to this, it is called the Mantle of Tegau Eurfon. It would have kept me dry. I half wondered if I would find it at the village.”

  “Ah, but look what you did find.”

  “The treasures.” Ankerita looked alarmed. “Did I discover anything, or was it all merely a dream?” She fished under the pillow. There was nothing there. “It was a dream. I saw a monk...”

  “You certainly went somewhere.” George wrapped a dressing-gown around her. “You were in a right state when I got you to bed. I thought you were going to die, but you insisted that I shouldn’t send for a doctor. You said ‘They are after me’. You said ‘I’d rather die than be caught again’. You said, ‘If you tell anyone I’m here, I’ll rip your heart out’.”