But she had been intrigued by Tom’s manipulation of the blue fire; more than that, she decided, she wanted to be able to do it for herself. Now there was freedom. The thought of it raised her spirits enough that with the sun and the crowds she finally began to feel optimistic, for the first time since she had left her flat.
After a while she found herself crossing a gushing stretch of the Avon to The Maltings shopping centre, a modernist slab of brown brick at odds with the age of the rest of the city. As she mused whether there would be anything in it worth her attention, she suddenly caught sight of an old woman watching her intently. She had a sun-browned, wizened face with diamond-sparkle eyes and tight grey curls, and although she was slightly hunched with age, she was still tall and slim. Her smile reminded Ruth of the richness of autumn, while the crisp, goldenbrown of her long dress was like fallen leaves. Ruth smiled in return, but the way the woman was focusing on her alone unnerved her and she hurried quickly by.
She picked up an alley that took her around the squat, grey mound of St. Thomas’s Church, but as she glanced over into the churchyard, she felt a sudden tingling deep in her belly. A woman was standing amongst the stones watching her. If Ruth didn’t know better she would have sworn it was the woman she had just seen; the same proud line to her jaw, the same sparkling eyes, the same body shape. Only this woman was years younger; the face had no wrinkles and was rounder, with the apple cheeks of middle age. The dress was the same design too, but the colour was the deep, dark green of summer vegetation. And then she smiled and Ruth felt the tingling turn into a cold shiver; it was the same smile.
Suddenly it was as if her eyes had opened. She felt an odd, unearthly atmosphere around the woman, as if the air was shifting between opaque and translucent. And no one else passing by seemed to notice the woman standing there, staring at Ruth with such eerie intensity. Fearing the worst, Ruth hurried on aimlessly, following the crowds back to the city centre before somehow turning back on herself to arrive at the gently undulating greenery of Queen Elizabeth Gardens along the banks of the Avon.
She glanced around anxiously before flopping on to a bench, where she rested for a moment with her head in her hands, trying to understand what she had experienced. She hadn’t felt any sense of threat from the woman; if anything, she was warm and comforting, almost motherly. But how could she know that was not a deception? Everything was wild and unfamiliar; there was nothing to get a handle on.
After a while Ruth began to relax and watch the children laughing and running in the play area while their mothers chatted secretively nearby. Ducks splashed in the river, then waddled over to sun themselves on the grass, while the air was filled with the intoxicating scents of spring wafting in from the woods and hills that lay just beyond the river’s floodplain. Everything seemed so incongruously peaceful and normal, it was hard even to begin to grasp what was happening.
Then, inexplicably, her left hand began to shake uncontrollably. She gripped the wrist with her right hand to steady it, and when she looked up and around she gasped in shock. The woman now stood directly behind her, her hands resting on the back of the bench. Ruth leapt to her feet, her heart thundering; she hadn’t heard even the slightest sound of the stranger’s approach. And it was the same woman, except now she was in her teens, her face beautiful and pale like the moon, her long, lustrous hair glinting in the sun. The familiar dress was now the bright green of early spring shoots. Her eyes, though, still sparkled with great age and unnerving mystery, and there was a terrible aspect to her face that made Ruth shiver in fear, although there was no malice that she could see; she felt in the presence of something so inhuman, she couldn’t begin to comprehend what it was that stood before her.
“He is missing. The night to my day, the winter to my summer. We must be joined and then you must join us, daughter.” The tone of her voice was eerie, part rustle of wind in the branches, part splash of water on rock.
Ruth backed away slowly, that awful, unblinking stare heavy upon her. “Leave me alone,” she said hoarsely.
Slowly the girl who was not a girl raised her arms in a beckoning gesture. It was too much for Ruth. She turned and hurried away several yards. But when she glanced back, confused and troubled, the girl had gone and in her place was an odd effect, as if gold dust had been sprinkled in a sunbeam. After a few seconds something began to form in the glimmering; light shifted and blazed from nowhere, forming an intense halo around a dark figure which gradually became the Virgin Mary.
Someone called out, “Look! It’s a miracle!” and then people were running from all over the park to the bench where the vision was already beginning to fade. Ruth watched the joy and amazement infuse the crowd for a while longer before walking slowly back to the city centre, the burden of her thoughts heavy upon her.
The Haunch of Venison was almost empty at 7 p.m. when Church and Ruth arrived within minutes of each other. The pub had all the twisty-turny nooks and crannies one would expect of fourteenth century architecture and it took them a while to locate Tom at a table in a shadowy corner. He appeared tired and irritable, nodding emotionlessly when they sat down with their drinks.
Church looked from Ruth to Tom. “I saw something this afternoon.”
“So did I.” Ruth shifted in her seat uncomfortably. She had spent the rest of the day walking, but she still hadn’t been able to escape the memory of what she had seen in the woman’s eyes.
Tom made sure no one was watching, then folded down the upright collar of his jacket to reveal four livid scars on the soft flesh of his neck.
Ruth stared in horror. “My God, what happened?”
“The Baobhan Sith.” Tom winced as he gingerly raised his collar.
“What’s that?” Church asked although he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“In the old tales, they are the sentries of the night. Terrible things that take on the shape of beautiful women to lure passers-by. Get too close and they’ll tear out your throat and drink your blood.”
“And now they’re here too,” Church said, before adding, “You seem to have a good knowledge of folklore.”
“I thought, if the worst came to the worst, we might be able to go back to Stonehenge for the night,” Tom continued. “But I wanted to be sure the road would be open to us so I went out on foot for a couple of miles to check the route. I presumed they would have moved to bar our retreat in some way, but not …” He paused to touch his neck tenderly. “One of the Baobhan Sith was lying in a ditch, waiting. She rose up when I passed.” His face seemed to drain in the halflight. “There were more, I’m sure. We would never get past them.”
“They’re bad, then?” Church asked facetiously. Tom’s expression gave him all the answer he needed.
“How many more things are there going to be?” Ruth fidgeted with her glass, slopping vodka and tonic on to the table. “This afternoon I was followed by a woman, only she wasn’t, she was something more, pretending to be a woman. She kept changing age. There was no sense of threat, but … It was me she wanted. To do something for her. What’s that all about?”
Church took a long draught of his Guinness while he thought. “Is this how it’s going to be from now on?”
“I think it probably is,” Tom replied dismally.
“I suppose only a few people have seen them so far,” Ruth mused. “But what will the response be when it becomes so widespread that everyone realises what’s going on?”
“Chaos. The kind of supernatural fear you used to get in medieval times,” Church said.
“What bothers me is the intelligence behind it,” Ruth said. “What do these things want?”
“At the moment most of them seem to want you and me wiped off the face of the earth,” Church said. “And that’s another thing. A lot of effort is being expended on two people who aren’t very much of a threat. Why should they be even bothering to hunt us down because we know something-and not much at that-when it’s bound to become common knowledge sooner or later? Chri
st, I’m surprised it’s not all over the media now after a big, scaly monster blitzed the M4!”
“It’s not-I checked,” Ruth said. “I can’t understand why nothing’s appeared-you’d have thought the Sun at least would have gone for dragons tearing up the motorway, wouldn’t you?”
Church turned to Tom. “Well? You’re the man with all the answers.”
“I wish I was the man with all the answers.” Tom cupped his cider with both hands and stared into its depths.
The pub had started to fill up quickly, but they still felt alone in their gloomy corner. “Should we be sitting here?” Ruth asked. “If those bloodsuckers that took a bite out of you are on their way, shouldn’t we be hitting the road again?”
“We haven’t heard what Laura has to say yet!” Church protested. “We can’t just keep running until we hit the sea.”
“The Baobhan Sith are supposed to have little intelligence or guile. They’re more like animals, I suppose … hunting dogs … point them in the right direction and they’ll bring you down. But it’s possible to hide from them.”
“And you’re basing this knowledge on, what?” Church said sharply. “Some old fairytale you read? There might be some truths in the folklore and legends and myths, but we can’t take them as gospel. People add bits to spice them up. Take things out. Mis-tell them.”
“And what do you suggest we do?” Tom snapped.
“Okay, we should calm down.” Ruth raised her hands between them. “Same team and all that. I vote we sleep together tonight and take it in turns to keep watch. You’re right, we need to check out what that Laura woman has to say and we’ve only got to get through the night.”
They agreed, but before they could return to their drinks, Ruth turned to Church and asked, “And what did you see?”
“A black dog, but like no-“
Tom froze with his glass halfway to his lips. “My God,” he said in a thin voice.
As Church related what had happened that afternoon in the cathedral cloisters, Tom’s face grew darker. “Black Shuck,” he said when Church had finished. “The Devil Dog. I hoped it would just be the Baobhan Sith-“
“What is it?” Ruth said.
“A demon, some claim. And the precursor of something far worse. It was here long before the first settlement was hacked out, trailing disaster in its wake. I remember once, in Scotland, lying awake one night listening to its awful howling above the raging of the worst storm of the year, and I knew some poor bastard was about to die horribly.” Tom took a deep swig of his cider. “Before you encountered it, or just after, did you see something-like a shadow flitting across your vision, or a misty figure passing nearby?”
Church nodded. “In the cathedral. It seemed to be watching.”
Tom took a breath and said, “Black Shuck marks the way for the Grey Walker. The Erl-King, the leader of the Wild Hunt.”
Church stared into his Guinness, recalling a snippet from the reading he had done for a strand of his degree. “The hunt that hounds lost souls to damnation.”
There was a commotion at the bar as a tall, thin man with swept-back silver hair and a hollow face was berated by a group of drinkers. He was smiling obsequiously, but one woman seemed on the verge of attacking him.
Ruth raised her glass. “Here’s to the end of the world.”
“Now there’s a toast to which one can really drink.” The silver-haired man had slid up behind her, clutching the dregs of a half-pint. His broad smile revealed a gap between his middle teeth, which were stained with nicotine. His black suit had the grey sheen of overuse, but it was offset with a red brocade waistcoat. His boots were dusty and worn; the smell of the road came off him, of muddy verges and damp hedges, a hint of sweat and the bloom of being caught in too many downpours. Despite the colour of his hair, he couldn’t have been more than forty-five. Tom eyed him suspiciously; Church finished his drink.
“Knock it all down and start again, I say. Deconstruction before reconstruction.” He raised his glass heartily. “Cheers!” Ruth smiled in return, and the man gave her a wink.
Church picked up his empty glass and offered the others a refill with a nod. As he turned towards the bar, the silver-haired man quickly drained his glass and held it out. “As you’re going, old boy, do me a favour and fill this up. I’ll get the next one in.”
A sarcastic comment at the stranger’s audacity sprang to Church’s lips, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth. Grudgingly, he snatched the glass as he passed.
“Cider, please,” the man said, slipping into Church’s seat. “And thank you kindly.” He turned to Ruth and took her hand. “Charmed to meet you, my dear. I have many names, though the one I like the most is Callow. I hope you don’t mind me resting my old bones. It’s been a long day’s travelling. The romance of the open road is a fine thing, but no one talks about the exhaustion at the end of the day.”
“Where are you going?” Ruth asked politely.
Callow laughed. “Oh, from here to there and back again. There’s too much to see on this beautiful, beautiful island of ours to be resting in one place for too long. I’ve done all that, you see. Worn a strangling tie in an office prison, filed the papers, counted the paper clips, watched the clock mark the passing of my life. Slow death for a poor wage. But how much could they pay you to make it worth dying? One needs to hear oneself think. In the words of Longfellow, `Not in the clamour of the crowded street, Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.’ And if you can’t find a reason for being in one place, or even for being, then you have to look elsewhere.”
“I know what you’re saying.” Ruth was entertained by his attitude. It was an act he had obviously perfected over time, a mix of music hall comedian and slightly fey theatre ham. If it managed to get him a few free drinks, who was she to judge?
“Ah, a kindred spirit. And have you broken the shackles of mundanity for the life of quicksilver heels?”
“We’re just touring around,” Tom interjected coldly before Ruth could answer.
Callow reached across the table. “Pleased to meet you.” He nodded towards the badges on Tom’s holdall at the edge of the table. “A veteran of the road too, I see. Ah, the Isle of Wight Festival. I remember it well. Hendrix played guitar like an angel. And Glastonbury, so many weeks there in the summer. The mud! You must remember the mud! Terrible. But fun. If you know what I mean. The Stonehenge Free Festivals too! Ah, how I miss them. The Battle of the Beanfield. I was there, I was there. Took a truncheon from a stormtrooper in blue. Saved some poor young girl from getting her head stove in.” He shook his head sadly. “Ah me, the end of the world. And not a day too soon.”
Church placed the others’ drinks before them, then pointedly held Callow’s cider up high for him to vacate his seat. Callow stood up to take it, then sat down quickly and snatched a thirsty sip. “And cheers to all of you!”
“That’s my seat,” Church snapped.
“There’s one over there, old boy.” Callow waved his hand dismissively to a stool next to Tom. “Don’t interrupt us now. We’re reminiscing about the good old days.”
Ruth couldn’t help a giggle at the irritation on Church’s face. It deflated the moment, making it churlish for him to have stood his ground. With obvious annoyance, he took up his new position.
Callow didn’t leave a gap in the conversation long enough for the others to throw him out, and soon his constant spiel mingling with the effects of the alcohol had almost lulled them into a hypnotic acceptance. As their guards dropped, they loosened up and the conversation became fourway. There was no doubting that Callow was entertaining, with a knowledge of every subject, it seemed, and a colourful use of language that was bizarrely at odds with his lifestyle, although, if they had been sober, they would have admitted to themselves he was accepted more because he was a distraction from the worries that lay heavily upon them.
When Callow finally felt comfortable enough to go to the toilet, Church said
, “How did we get lumbered with that freak?”
“Oh, he’s harmless,” Ruth said, “and entertaining, which is a relief after listening to you and Tom go at each other with knives.”
“I’d be happier if he stood his round,” Church said. “He’s freeloading his way to getting well and truly pissed.”
Ruth punched him on the shoulder a little harder than she intended. “Don’t be so miserable. You can afford it-spread a little happiness.”
As the night progressed, the pub became more and more crowded, the air filling with smoke, shouts and laughter. Ruth surprised them all with a tale of her engagement to a political activist whom her father had admired and whom she had jilted on her wedding day after a panic attack that had almost resulted in a call for an ambulance. Church related the story of his brief, aborted career as a guitarist in a band which ended at his debut gig in a pub backroom when he vomited on stage through a mixture of nerves and too much drink. And Tom, loosened by several pints of cider, had several outlandish tales of his wanderings, most of them involving drug abuse: to Goa, and a frantic escape from the local police; to California, and a trip over the border to Mexico in search of the fabled hallucinogenic cactus; how he had raised the alarm about the brown acid at Woodstock; and his brief time as a “spiritual advisor” to The Grateful Dead which seemed to involve little more than handing out vast quantities of drugs.
As drinking-up time rolled around, Church leaned across the table to Tom and said drunkenly, “So when will we get the Wild Hunt knocking at our door?”
Tom waved him away with a dismissive snort, but Callow’s eyes sparkled and his brow furrowed curiously. “The Wild Hunt?”
“Don’t you know?” Church slurred. “Every fairytale you ever heard is true! Bloody goblins and bogles and beasties are real-they’ve just been hiding away! And now they’ve come back!”
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