Temple of the Winds

by James Follett

  Evans laughed outright at that. `My only regret is that I'm retiring before I've a chance to fathom you out.'

  `Let's make a start now,' said Malone. `Firstly -- I know that taking early retirement is a euphemism for your being pushed into resigning. I also know that you're not the sort of person to give in to a bully like Prescott.'

  `He wasn't always like that,' said Evans. `A bit pompous at times. Hopeless with women. But always prepared to laugh at his golf handicap... God -- how that man has changed. I can't see him laughing at himself now.'

  `If it's any consolation, I misjudged him as well,' said Malone.

  Evans was surprised. `Now that I do find hard to believe.'

  `True,' said Malone. `I thought I was manipulating him over the first Radio Pentworth broadcast, and he ended up manipulating me. So what happened?'

  Evans drained his cup. `He called me into his office and told me that Adrian Roscoe's Southern Area Security mob were to become a separate force responsible for the security of Government House and the centre of Pentworth, under the command of Nelson Faraday, who would be answerable to him. It was totally unacceptable. I said that if he wanted to appoint them as a private security team inside Government House, then that was up to him, but I wasn't prepared to accept them as police officers outside Government House -- especially with a thug like Faraday in charge of them. The only thing he agreed to was that they should have a different uniform. Black.

  `I told him that for every inch of concession I'd agreed to, he'd grabbed a yard, and that enough was enough. So Prescott invited me to resign. He promised me a reasonable pension which I accepted.' He broke off and smiled ruefully. `I was thinking of early retirement long before the Wall. Don't worry about me. I shall become Pentworth's biggest honey producer. My wife started the hives when we first moved here. When she died... Well -- I couldn't bring myself to give them up. And I'm keeping my flying hours up with aerial survey work for the council'

  `So Prescott has appointed himself police commander?' Evans nodded. `He said he'd run the force with morning briefings in his office. He wants you to run the CID. I'd like you to stay on, Malone. I'd be happier knowing that there was at least one sane officer left in the nick. It'll be that much easier picking up the pieces if and when the Wall goes.'

  `I'll stay,' said Malone. `But I'm not going to find it easy taking orders from Prescott.'

  Evans threw back his head and laughed. `That's rich. You've never taken orders from me, Malone. You've always acted on suggestions.'

  Malone smiled wryly and stood. `I'd better be on my way. Thank you for confiding in me, sir.'

  Malone jogged back to Pentworth, turning the conversation over in his mind. As he had suspected, Prescott and Roscoe had done some sort of deal and that Roscoe's handing over of the security team to Prescott was only part of the deal. Whatever it was, Prescott would be unlikely to agree to anything unless it consolidated his grip on Pentworth. On the other hand Roscoe's ambitions were more concerned with the next world so in that respect the two men were not in competition. Strange really: when the crisis had started, Malone had seen Roscoe as the real threat. So what did these two very different men have in common?

  The answer was so obvious that Malone lost his pace when it jumped out on him like a mugger:

  Prescott and Roscoe shared an implacable hatred of Ellen Duncan.

  Chapter 69.

  NEVIL CROSS LIVED UP TO HIS NAME. He glowered at the three morris police on his doorstep, told them to piss off, and slammed the door in their faces. He returned to his kitchen but the thunderous hammering on the front door made listening to the radio impossible. He stormed back to his front door, determined this time to really give these buggers a piece of his mind, but it was thrown open the instant he turned the latch. He was grabbed and dragged, protesting and yelling, to his front gate.

  Apart from being outnumbered, it was an unequal match from the physical point of view; Nevil Cross was a little runt and the morris police weren't, particularly Russell Norris, their foreman. He was two metres of muscle and calm assertiveness. His two colleagues held Nevil Cross off the ground and Norris kicked the householder's wheelie bin over so that a cascade of household refuse spilled onto the pavement. Even tins, which were becoming rare in domestic rubbish these days. Net curtains on the neat housing estate twitched excitedly.

  `Did you listen to Pentworth Drama Society's performance of Dylan Thomas's Under Milk Wood on the radio last night, sir?' Norris inquired with exaggerated politeness as he rescued some tatty paperbacks from the rubbish. The question had to be repeated before Nevil Cross stopped yelling and deigned to admit that he had heard the broadcast.

  `It was excellent, wasn't it?' said Norris, beaming. `Well, sir, I'm not going to ask you to put your pyjamas in the drawer marked pyjamas as Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard required of her husbands, but I am asking you to put your organic waste in the big bin marked organic waste at the end of your road. I am also requesting that you sort your refuse into separate boxes or heaps for plastic waste, plastic bottles, tins, cardboard, paper, woody garden clippings, and miscellaneous junk. And throwing away books is a serious offence -- they have to be handed in to the library.'

  Nevil Cross's protests that how could be expected to remember all that were countered by Norris's observation that the details were on the instruction sheet circulated to all householders.

  `The tins are being sprayed with hot shellac resin for re-use,' said Norris affably. `And as for woody garden clippings, they're ideal for pulping to make paper and papier mache mouldings.' The three morris police closed around Nevil Cross, hands on staffs, and stared dispassionately down at him. `I'm sure we can look forward to your eager cooperation in this little matter, sir. Like right now.'

  Five minutes later Norris's hopes were fulfilled, not only in respect of Nevil Cross's dwelling but several other houses on the estate -- news of the morris men's presence had spread resulting in a sudden flurry of rubbish-sorting activity.

  `Excellent,' said Norris when the work was finished to his satisfaction. `Unfortunately we have to make a 30 Euro supervision charge for our time, and there's a further 10 Euros to cover our counselling fees as a result of the shock we've suffered at our having to deal so assertively with you.'

  Cross swore roundly and told Norris that he did not have 40 Euros.

  `Not to worry, sir,' was the cheery reply. `In that case we'll seize goods to the value of 40 Euros. We'll give you a receipt so that you can recover your goods within ten days from the government supplies depot at a most favourable rate of interest. We'll start with your radio.'

  Nevil Cross suddenly remembered that he had the required sum.

  The morris police toured the rest of the housing estate in their pony-drawn gig and found all refuse awaiting collection to be graded in accordance with regulations. Their next call was nearby Burntwood Farm where Norris inspected a recently-walled mountain of cow dung, steaming nicely in sun.

  The morris man pointed to several rivulets of brown liquid that were escaping from the base of dung heap's retaining wall and merging into one before streaming down the farmyard approach road and pouring into a drainage ditch. The pollution had first shown up on photographs taken on the recent aerial survey that Harvey Evans had undertaken for the government in his microlight biplane.

  `That has to stop, Mr Allen,' Norris told the farmer. `You've already had two warnings.'

  `But dammit, man, we had heavy rain last night,' Allen protested. `I've lined it as best I can, but there's no way I can stop it.'

  `It has to be stopped from getting into rivers and streams, Mr Allen,' said Norris seriously. `And that's exactly where that ditch is taking it. You'll have to break this heap and top dress with it.'

  `What with? My spreader's been collectivised and I've no diesel allowance left, and no fields that can take any more top-dressing anyway, and I've been told that it'll be another two weeks before the direct labour force can build me a methane digestor. Meanwhile my cattle go
on producing crap.'

  Norris considered. He was a farming man and understood the problem Allen was facing; Burntwood Farm was a major supplier of Pentworth's dairy produce needs. His instructions were to go easy on farmers such as Jeff Allen, but to make it clear that pollution would not be tolerated.

  `I'll see if I can move your digestor up the list, Mr Allen. Meanwhile you'll have to spread it around the yard -- give the sun a chance to dry it.'

  `My wife will kill me! There's about a hundred tonnes of the stuff!'

  Norris signalled to one of his men who rummaged in the gig's boot and produced an envelope which he handed to Norris.

  `In that case, start a new heap asap,' said Norris. `Make sure it's properly lined and transfer about a quarter of this heap. Cover what's left with a layer of top soil and sow these.'

  Allen opened the envelope that Norris gave him and shook some of the contents into the palm of his hand. He picked up one of the seeds and examined it suspiciously. `Melons?'

  `Marrows,' Norris corrected, making notes in a book. Allen was a dairy farmer who knew nothing about raising crops. `They'll go berserk, growing on a manure heap, specially in this weather. They'll suck out all the contaminated water from that lot, purify it, and pump it into the marrows which you'll be able to sell, and you can store the surplus. They keep well if you hang them from ribbons made from video recorder tapes. Actually, melons aren't a bad idea either if this weather holds. I'll see you get some seeds.' The morris man turned to leave and pointed to the oxtail soup-coloured stream of nitrate-enriched water. `Divert that crap into a soakaway please, Mr Allen. We'll return this time tomorrow. If it's still discharging into the ditch, there'll be an on-the-spot 1000 Euro fine.'

  The morris police drove off, leaving Allen thinking nostalgically of the days of Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Fisheries guidelines: toothless documents -- the equivalent of verbal reprimands -- which allowed farmers to do more or less exactly as they pleased.

  Those days were gone.

  Perhaps forever.

  Chapter 70.

  VICTORIA...

  Vikki stirred in her sleep. The voice was faint, a far away murmur on the very edge of her consciousness.

  Victoria...

  `No one calls me Victoria.'

  A pause, then: What are you called?

  `I can't hear you.'

  What you called?

  `Vikki, of course.'

  Vikki Of Course?

  `Just Vikki.'

  Will you come to us, Just Vikki?

  Vikki opened her eyes. Moonlight filled the bedroom. A slight breeze stirred the curtains at the wide open windows but otherwise all was still in the hot little room. Sarah was asleep in the spare divan, pushed hard against her bed in the cramped bedroom. She was breathing shallowly, lying on her back with the duvet thrown off. As always when waking, Vikki automatically flexed the fingers of her left hand although the fear that she would wake up one day and find it gone had largely faded with the passing months.

  Are you happy with your hand?

  A nudge of alarm at the realisation that this wasn't a dream. She knew she was wide-awake. She sat up and stared around at the familiar surroundings. Soft moonlight illuminated the poster of Dario. The Zulu warrior stared back at her. Sarah gave a snort and rolled onto her side.

  `Sarah!' Vikki hissed. `There's someone in the room!'

  Sarah slumbered on. Vikki was about to shake her friend but the distant voice stilled her hand.

  Come to us please, Just Vikki.

  The mistake over her name and the friendliness of the voice did much to allay Vikki's fear.

  Voice? What voice? It was neither male or female. It seemed to be nowhere and yet everywhere. She drew the duvet fearfully to her chin and stared around the room.

  ‘Where are you?’

  Water.

  A picture of a lake formed in Vikki's mind. It was if as the image was being shaped with difficulty for it came and went. Fading into noise and reappearing. And then, for a few seconds it was startling clear: moonlight making a river of molten silver on a familiar stretch of water.

  Pentworth Lake!

  Almost immediately the image wobbled, as though the sustaining of such a sharp picture in her mind was absorbing a considerable effort, and then it faded away.

  Come to us.

  It was then that Vikki realized that there was no voice, no one in the bedroom, hiding in the shadows. What she was hearing was a coaxing, reassuring voice-picture shaping persuasively in her mind in such a manner that it banished the last vestiges of her fear. For some moments she was undecided, still thinking that perhaps it had been a dream.

  Come to us.

  Why? she asked. For some unaccountable reason she sensed that it was not necessary to speak out loud. Her mind trapped a faint too far in response. It wasn't a dream; the voice that had no body was real and yet she was not frightened. A strange compulsion held her in a gentle grip and urged her to move. She slipped from her bed and changed into a T-shirt, jeans, and trainers, moving carefully to avoid waking Sarah. There was little she could do to prevent the creak of the narrow stairs but night visits to the outside toilet were normal.

  Once clear of the house, she set off at a fast pace down the lane and, keeping the moon to her left, struck out across Prescott's fields. Following the lane would have been easier but she was anxious to travel in as straight a line as possible on her three kilometre trek to Pentworth Lake.

  Moving in a straight line across country was easier now. The countryside was undergoing a profound change. Patches of long-neglected, ivy-choked woodland were being cleared to provide biomass for alcohol production, and trees thinned out to give deciduous saplings a chance to flourish as a source of hardwood in years to come. A few surviving elms from the ravages of Dutch Elm disease were receiving particular care because wheelwrights needed elm to make wheel hubs on their lathes. Broad verges once abandoned to weeds were now close-cropped by tethered goats and sheep, and she had to make several detours around hurdled enclosures that penned chickens, guinea fowl and geese. Not since the Second World War had the land been so productive.

  Her determination to maintain a straight line faltered when she crossed cropped fields and came to a stand of maize. This was not the usual shoulder-high sweet corn that grew in England, but an alien, towering forest. Warmth, high humidity, pure rainfall had enabled Pentworth precious supply of maize seed to achieve its full potential. Midges arose around her as pushed her way through the tall fronds. Tasselled ears of corn, nearly the size of rugby footballs, brushed against her hips.

  Rather wishing she hadn't become such an avid reader of horror novels now that there was no television, Vikki thrust steadfastly through the dense forest, telling herself that the scurrying noises at her approach were caused by creatures more scared of her than she was of them. Nevertheless Stephen King's bloodlust Children of the Corn tormented her imagination and she was immensely relieved when the stand of maize ended abruptly, giving way to clumps of sunflowers separated by wide fire breaks. Like the maize, the crop was valuable; its progeny would provide the seed stock for the basis of large-scale vegetable oil production if the Wall persisted. All the crops were early; there had even been talk on the radio of the possibility of a second crop between autumn and Christmas.

  Fifteen minutes later, her hair slicked with perspiration, her ankles weary from the cross-country trudge, and her arms aching from futile flailing at mosquitoes, she emerged onto the road that passed David Weir's Temple Farm.

  She was about to cross when she saw the flare of approaching headlamps. For a second she was blinded by the lights before she threw herself flat into a newly-cut drainage ditch. The two-man morris police patrol swept past in their commandeered Range Rover. There was a trial period curfew on children being out after dark. As Sarah had discovered the week before after returning in the small hours from seeing her latest boyfriend, it was no use lying about one's age because every police patrol, even those tha
t used ponies and traps, had a CB radio link with the police station which maintained a card index on everyone in Pentworth.

  Vikki waited a few minutes before resuming her journey. She knew that David Weir's employees, the Crittendens, had dogs so she took a wide arc around Temple Farm, crossed several pastures close-cropped by David's sheep, and found herself in the more familiar territory of Ellen Duncan's land. She breasted a rise and climbed a stile. To her right rose the brooding scarp of the Temple of the Winds. Straight ahead was her objective: Pentworth Lake spread below her, silver filigreed in the moonlight. It had shrunk to its normal size from the huge expanse of flood plain of March. The margins were still soft underfoot but no longer dangerous. Ellen and the council had given up persuading people to stay away. Instead the council had recognised that people needed a bathing and picnic spot therefore a roped-off sandy lido and beach had been created.

  The coolness of the water was a pleasant shock. Vikki stopped when it covered her ankles and stood still, staring across the water. `I'm here,' she said in loud whisper.

  The response took Vikki by surprise. She was engulfed by a sudden sensation of warmth -- welcoming, yet overpowering in its wordless intensity. Her instinct was to turn and run but the warmth smothered her reactions. A thousand questions swam crazily in her mind. She plucked one at random.

  `Who are you?'

  The answering kaleidoscope of images and concepts of free will and and endless searching for the truths of the universe were meaningless to the girl. They seemed to realise this and condensed their answer to a single concept that shaped in her mind as a single word:

  Seekers.

  `Where are you from?'

  The myriads of star patterns and constellations that Vikki saw confused her. But she knew what a star map was and made a desperate attempt to understand. As before, this must have been sensed because the star maps disappeared and she felt a compunction to turn her head to the south-east.

  Sirius, the dog star, had just risen above the line of distant hills that were now paling with the first light of dawn. It was the brightest star, the only one visible during the close, humid nights and consequently one that Vikki could recognise. But with the coming of the dog days of summer, when it rose and set with the sun, early morning and late evening were the only times of day when it could be seen.