by Jodi Taylor
We’d landed exactly where I’d planned. Just about a hundred yards from the northeast entrance. Our idea was to approach Stonehenge from the Avenue, as our ancestors had done, to see what they would have seen. And it was breath-taking.
There had been a hard frost overnight and what would have been a wide, white panorama bisected by blue shadows had been transformed into a golden glowing landscape as the sun rose higher into the sky. It wasn’t the winter solstice or any kind of astronomically important date but even so, to watch the long, dark shadows sweeping across the silent landscape was very special.
‘Are we getting all this?’ I said, suddenly alarmed because I’d allowed myself to be carried away by the view.
‘Of course,’ said Peterson, pulling our gear out of the lockers. ‘Do you want to stop for tea first or shall we get cracking?’
Markham was peering at the screen. ‘It’s not raining. Are you sure we’re in the right place?’
‘Good point,’ said Peterson. ‘I’m always confusing Stonehenge with the palace of Versailles. Should we check the coordinates again?’
I struggled, trying to thrust my arms into my heavy-weather jacket, wind a scarf around my neck, and assemble everything I needed, all at the same time. ‘Everyone ready?’
Raining it might not have been, but it was cold. Bloody cold. We scrambled up onto the roof and stood in the freezing silence, maps, charts, and scratchpads scattered at our feet, orienting ourselves, turning slowly, trying to take it all in at once.
‘Wow,’ said Markham softly, and he was right. ‘All these lumps and bumps…’
‘Barrows and tumuli you mean?’
‘Yeah …’
‘All of which we will be endeavouring to map.’
‘Yeah …’
‘There’s so much more here than we thought,’ said Peterson, staring around in the hushed stillness, his breath puffing in the cold.
‘Yes. A lot of it will be ploughed over in the centuries to come, or will be eroded or destroyed,’ I said. ‘But at the moment it’s a real landscape of the dead.’
‘It’s bloody amazing,’ said Markham, putting the Security Section’s spin on things.
‘Right.’ I said, scrabbling at my scratchpad with gloved fingers. ‘First things first. As in the words of the song, we’ll walk up the Avenue to Stonehenge, approaching the north-east entrance. I want to check out the Station Stones and the two barrows within the henge. We’ll count and plot the positions of the bluestones. Keep your eyes open for any evidence that they’re uncompleted circles. Then we’ll move on to the Aubrey Holes and from there to the ditch and bank which are the oldest components. Let’s go.’
We jumped down. Well, they jumped down and I scrambled ungracefully down after them, much to their amusement. I noticed they stood well back.
‘No, I’m fine. I can manage.’
‘Actually Max, we were concerned you would fall.’
‘Oh,’ I said, slightly mollified. ‘That was thoughtful.’
‘Because let’s face it, if you fell on Markham you’d kill him.’
I stamped back inside the pod.
We gathered our gear together, loading up with total stations, portable laser distance meters, spare batteries, our 3D scanner, cameras and recorders, and something to eat and set off, our feet crunching on the frosty grass. Looking back, I could see our footprints. We were the only people here. The only living people, that is.
We walked slowly up the Avenue, turning occasionally to absorb the full impact of the huge silence around us. Despite the weak sunshine, the air was bitterly cold. There were no birds in the sky. The air was completely still. Apart from us, nothing was moving. There was not so much a sense of age as of agelessness. Of something that had already been here for a very long time.
The Avenue was bordered on each side by the traditional bank and ditch. The frost lay thick at the bottom of the ditches where the sun rarely reached at this time of year.
We paused just inside the entrance, between what today is the Slaughter Stone and its now-disappeared partner. The sun was well risen by now, although it had had no effect on the frost. The icy stones twinkled at us. The whole effect was, as Markham had said – bloody amazing.
We were seeing something that had vanished four thousand years ago. The whole world is familiar with Stonehenge as it is today , but no one for all that time had ever seen this. Just us. God – I love this job!
Peterson and Markham stayed behind me as I recorded everything, rotating slowly to get the full effect. I didn’t want any of our frosty footprints to mar this perfect shot. I got the four Station Stones, the North and South Barrows and the horseshoes of bluestones, all perfectly aligned and upright. Finally, I snapped off the recorder. ‘OK guys, let’s get cracking.’
We had a plan of action. Using the 3D scanner, Peterson would scan the stones. Making multiple scans from different directions, he’d create an image of every surface.
Markham had the hand-held laser scanner to plot the position of each individual stone, its measurements and its relationship to the others.
I was in charge of the cameras and recorders. I’d get details of the colours and textures. All this mass of information would form a point cloud, and the computer would turn it all into a stunning, full-size, navigable 3D holo. Thirsk were going to love this. I could just see Dr Bairstow’s face as he presented it to them. Closely followed by his massive invoice.
I moved slowly from stone to stone, dictating as I went and cursing as the biting cold made my eyes stream. I was looking for tool markings or carvings of any kind, screwing up my eyes in the brilliant light.
A slight breeze got up, making my cheeks tingle. I pulled my jacket more closely around me and began to examine the bluestones, gently touching each one as I passed. Touching History. And avoiding standing in their shadows. You can call it superstition if you like, but not until you’ve stood, alone, in a stone circle four thousand years ago and heard strange noises in the wind. Then you can call it superstition. If you dare.
My circle complete, I wandered again into the centre and stood looking around me, taking it all in. I could see our footprints in the frosty grass, criss-crossing the circle. The wind sighed softly through the stones.
We stopped for lunch, taking it outside the henge by unspoken consent. For some reason, none of us wanted to eat inside. You don’t sit down and start scarfing ham sandwiches in Canterbury Cathedral and this was exactly the same.
The afternoon was shorter than we expected. Only an hour or so after we’d eaten, the sun hid behind the clouds moving up from the horizon and I found I was shivering.
‘Come on,’ said Peterson. ‘There’s no time limit on this job. Let’s call it a day and see what we’ve got so far.’
After the Arctic temperatures outside, the inside of the pod was warm and full of light. We dumped our gear, shrugged out of our heavy clothes and began to download the info. I plugged my recorder into the screen as Peterson rummaged through the meal trays. We pulled the heating tabs and sat down with a hot meal to view what we had so far.
‘Tomorrow,’ I said to Markham, ‘we’ll measure the bank and ditches. Tim, can you make a start with the Aubrey Holes. When we’ve finished here, we’ll move across country to see what we can see.’
‘I want to walk the Cursus,’ said Peterson, mouth full of treacle tart. ‘It’s older than Stonehenge, you know.’
‘You will,’ I said. ‘We’ve plenty of time on this.’
After we’d finished, we cleared away and went outside for a look at Stonehenge under the stars.
The night was clear and very, very cold. ‘It’s going to be another lovely sunny day tomorrow,’ said Markham, demonstrating why it was so fortunate for the world of weather forecasting that he’d taken up a career in security.
I looked up at the stars. Today, with light pollution everywhere, we’re used to just a few faint dots in an orange night sky, or, if we’re lucky, the odd constellation or two, but this �
�� this was amazing.
Arching overhead, brilliant in the night sky, a whole galaxy floated by. The Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon. I tried to pick out the constellations I knew – Orion with his belt and the one I always called The Milk Saucepan. I should be able to find the North Star, something I’d learned to do in basic training. Ian Guthrie had spent hours trying to install the rudiments of night-time navigation in me, but there was no chance tonight. Polaris was only one brilliant star among many. So many stars. Some were big and bright and solitary; others were grouped in clusters so dim and distant they looked like stellar dust sprinkled across the sky.
This was what our ancestors saw when they looked up. When they saw pictures in the sky. Gods, heroes, fabulous animals – they all whirled overhead in some intricate celestial dance. I was sure if I stood in the right place at the right time and said the right words, I would hear the Music of the Spheres. Tonight was a night for wonder. And mystery. And magic.
Dark against a star-filled sky, the stones cast long shadows. I stared, entranced, at a black and silver landscape under a black and silver sky, imagining I could hear the stones whispering their secrets to one another as they drove their roots deep into time itself.
It’s on nights such as these that the Wild Hunt streams across the sky in relentless pursuit of their human prey. Time out of mind they’ve hunted their quarry across this landscape; pursued them to the edge of sanity and beyond. Once caught, their victims, doomed and damned, would be dragged back to the Hollow Hills, never to be seen in this world again. The only protection for humans is to stay indoors, bolt the door and shutter the windows. Whole families would huddle around the hearth, keeping up the fire and praying to their gods as Herne the Hunter and the rest of that furious host swept across the starlit skies.
I shivered, and not because of the cold, either. I wouldn’t want to be here alone. Not at night, anyway. Stones have long memories.
I looked around the desolate plain and listened to the lonely wind. I even looked up to the sky, half convinced I could hear the baying hounds and thunder of hooves as Herne and his huntsmen galloped overhead. This was an eerie landscape. Haunted even before the arrival of man. Back in the Ancient Days. Before History began.
I shivered again.
‘Me too,’ said Peterson. ‘Let’s get back inside. Busy day tomorrow.’
We woke early the next morning, all ready to get going again.
‘What a lovely sunny day,’ said Peterson sarcastically, staring at the enormous clouds building in an already overcast sky. ‘Let’s go outside and listen to the wind shriek.’
We wrapped up well and set off towards Stonehenge again, walking directly into the icy wind. My ears throbbed.
‘This is bracing,’ said Peterson, cheerily.
I stopped just inside the entrance and looked around me. This was not the same place as yesterday. Today there was no golden sunshine. No specks of light glinted off the icy stones. Today the bluestones were dark and sullen. Something tightened at the base of my skull. Something had changed. Were the stones closer together? Did they reach towards us like fingers? I shivered.
We – the three of us – have been rattling around History for years now. Admittedly, things haven’t always gone according to plan and sometimes that’s no bad thing, because as historians, you get to develop a kind of sixth sense. It’s that little tickle at the back of the brain that defies all the evidence of eyes and ears and says, ‘Something’s not quite right.’ It’s the triumph of experience over optimism. The prudent historian heeds this tiny tickle.
I think we’ve established that the ‘p’ word doesn’t really apply in my case, but contrary to all the evidence so far, I’m not completely stupid. I stood still, turning my head from left to right, trying to identify the reason for this flickering unease.
There was nothing. Nothing I could see that would account for my sudden feeling of disquiet but even so … We may be modern and urban these days, but when we really need them, the instincts of our ancestors are not that far away.
I stood, listening to the wind’s song in the stones.
A single snowflake drifted down and landed on my sleeve. Then another. And another. I looked up and saw many more, swirling above my head, light against the darkening sky.
Peterson and Markham were on the other side of the henge, unpacking their gear. I trudged across the iron-hard ground.
‘I don’t like the look of this, guys. We can’t work in this weather. Let’s get back and wait it out.’
Obediently, they began to pack up again.
‘Nothing changes, does it,’ said Markham, chattily, shouldering his backpack. ‘Anything more than three snowflakes brings the entire country to a complete standstill.’
‘We can leave you outside if you like,’ said Peterson. ‘All the more room for Max and me.’
‘You don’t want to set a precedent. If she gets any bigger then you’ll be joining me outside.’
I poked him. ‘You do know I’m standing right here, don’t you? And that I have sharpened hairpins and I’m not afraid to use them.’
‘Just saying,’ he said.
We pulled up our scarves, turned our faces to the snow-laden icy blast, and set off for the pod. There was always tomorrow.
I don’t often dream. Well, no, that’s not true. I probably dream as much as other people do, but many of my dreams are best not remembered.
I remember this one. This one was vivid. Intense. Terrifying. And very memorable.
The night was clear and bright. Stars crackled with cold in the night sky. I stood alone in the centre of the henge. I dreamed I heard a horn sound, faint but crystal-clear. Something was coming and suddenly I was very, very afraid. I tried to get away, but the pod had gone. Peterson and Markham had left me. There was nowhere to run to. A single thought pounded through my brain. Get out of the circle.
I turned and ran – past the two rings of bluestones, towards the entrance. Where the Slaughter Stone had stood, two tall figures barred the way. I wheeled away. Back the way I had come. I would scramble over the ditch and the bank. Escape that way.
I couldn’t get out. The same tall black figures stood where the Aubrey Holes had been. All fifty-six of them. Once there had been stones here. Now they were gone, but do stones have ghosts?
I shouted, ‘Let me out,’ and in my dream, I spoke in some strange tongue that I understood at the time but could never remember afterwards.
In the manner of stones, they stood, unmoving.
The world began to slide away from me. I looked up and saw the White Horse of Uffington running wild among the stars.
Something was coming. Something was coming for me.
I ran and ran, zigzagging backwards and forwards around the circle, but I couldn’t get out. They wouldn’t let me out until finally, I sprawled, panting on the ground. A voice in my head said, ‘Don’t look up.’
I clung to a tuft of grass, knuckles white in the starlight. I don’t know why I did that. Whether it was a primitive urge to earth myself, to escape the merciless sky gods and seek the protection of Mother Earth, Gaia herself, I don’t know.
‘Don’t look at them. Let them pass.’
Now, seemingly coming up through the ground, I could hear hounds baying, horns sounding.
They were here.
I turned my head slightly and looked up. Who wouldn’t? And I was in good company. Pandora. Orpheus. Lot’s wife. They all looked. Of course, it never ends well, but they looked just the same. And now, so did I.
The hunt hurtled across the sky. This was not some gentle phantom host, pale and ethereal. These were monsters, bursting from the clouds, pounding the sky with their hooves. Things with beaks urged on horses whose hooves struck blue sparks from the sky. Harsh, discordant horns echoed amongst the stones. I heard them urging each other on with voices from the underworld. Whips cracked blue lightning. Some rode goats, crouching on their backs and clinging to their horns.
At th
e front tore a huge figure, horned like a stag and riding a giant boar. Sweat and foam trailed long streamers from them both. The cold, crackling night air was suddenly full of the nostril-searing smell of urine and blood and fear.
They all followed hounds too big to be of this world. Great slavering beasts whose eyes flickered a deep and bloody red and from whom no prey could ever escape.
‘Don’t look at them. Don’t let them see you.’
Then – suddenly – they saw me.
‘Wake up, Max.’
I opened my eyes to find Leon standing beside the bed. The dream flew away on wisps of wind.
I smiled drowsily at him and snuggled down further into the glorious softness. After the icy cold of Stonehenge, this was just wonderful.
‘Come on, Max. Time to wake up.’
I struggled with my usual morning dysfunction, mumbling, ‘I am awake.’
He was holding a mug of tea. I blinked up at him, trying to focus. ‘Oh, that’s nice. Thank you.’
He put the mug down on the bedside table. I felt the bed tip as he settled himself beside me. I snuggled against him, enjoying his solid, comfortable warmth. He put his arms around me and I felt my eyelids droop again. My bed was warm and soft. Leon was here. There was tea. Today was a good day for a bit of a lie-in. ‘Mmm, this is nice. Can you pass me my tea, please?’
‘You can’t have your tea until you wake up.’
I smiled and buried my head deeper into his shoulder, saying sleepily, ‘I am awake.’
‘No, you’re not, Max. You’re not awake. And if you don’t wake up right now then you never will.’
I had no idea what he was on about and I was so warm and comfortable. I said drowsily, ‘Don’t understand.’
‘I’m trying to tell you. You must wake up. This instant. You’re dying Max.’
‘What …?’
He shook me hard. ‘MAX – WAKE UP!’
I struggled to open gummy eyes. I was comfortable. I was floating in delicious warmth. Why did he want me to get cold all over again?
