The Greenstone Grail

by Jan Siegel

  Bartlemy steepled his fingers. ‘And none of them caught up. Doesn’t that provide us with food for thought? You said Rianna ran swiftly, and she was close behind you. Supposing they appeared, not to join the chase but to cut her off? I have been wondering about these phantom furies of yours. You thought they followed you here, but actually, they drove you.’

  ‘But why?’ Annie queried, puzzled and unconvinced.

  ‘To bring you to me. I could protect you, and the boy. I have some highly specialized talents. And someone thought you needed that type of protection.’

  ‘But you’re saying that they – these shadow-beings, whatever they are – they’re helping us? I can’t accept that. If they were part of some force for good, surely they wouldn’t be so terrifying?’

  ‘I didn’t say they were good,’ Bartlemy temporized. ‘But they may have helped, once or twice. When they pursued you down the lane, after your first visit to Michael, they could have been trying to keep you away from the water-spirit. Anyway, how do you define “good”, or differentiate it from evil? Even human nature is never black and white. Our moral stance depends so much on upbringing, on the precepts of our society, on thinly veiled self-interest. And for the were-folk – those who are less, or more, than human – morality as we understand it simply doesn’t exist at all.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t believe in good and evil?’ Annie asked very quietly. ‘Because if you are –’

  ‘Not at all. I’m merely pointing out that other beings do not judge as we do.’

  ‘That’s a matter for them,’ Annie said. ‘If I don’t make my own judgements, who will? Even if I’m wrong, I have to go by what I believe, don’t I?’

  He took her hand with an oddly melancholic smile. ‘You are wiser than I,’ he said after a pause. ‘I knew someone like you, once before, someone I loved very dearly. Sometimes, I see a look on your face, a turn of your head …’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She died. But it wasn’t sad, not for her. Only for me, and the others who mourned her. She did something that she believed in. There was a great sickness, and she was a skilled healer, so she went to help, but the plague caught up with her in the end.’

  ‘Plague?’ Annie murmured.

  ‘That may be the reason why I have tried to acquire something of her skill, since she departed. Medicine and food are both about physical well-being. Heal the body, nourish the soul.’ The faint sad smile flickered across his face again. ‘It would have amused her, to hear me talk this way. She was one of those people who never noticed what she ate, even if I cooked it. My Ailean … Ah well, it was all a long time ago.’

  ‘How long?’ Annie said in a whisper. She felt she stood upon the edge of something, of a great discovery, in that moment of recollection and gentle grief. The revelation was coming of a truth she had long sensed without actually knowing it …

  ‘Oh, seven hundred years or so,’ he said. ‘A long time.’

  Annie clasped his hand in silence. She didn’t doubt him; she knew him too well for that. But for the first time she accepted, not only that there were other worlds beyond this one, but that the world she lived in was not as it appeared. Barriers crumpled in her mind, and her imagination reached out, and she was excited, and humbled, and very much afraid.

  FIVE

  The Man on the Beach

  Michael didn’t return until the Saturday. Annie felt a strangeness on seeing him, knowing the truth, finding herself unable to tell him. How could she say that there was a creature walking around in the form of his wife – a creature with whom he had perhaps shared board and bed – who was really a thing of magic and menace, spun from river water, perhaps altogether evil? She couldn’t say it. He would think her mad or deluded, and when he saw Rianna next might mention the matter, and then who knew what she would do. Ignorance kept him safe. Yet he was already troubled – she saw the uncertainty in his face, and knew an impulse to smooth the worry from his forehead, and kiss the smile back onto his mouth, an impulse she had not known before anxiety touched him. She told herself it was just instinct, a natural urge to offer comfort, and pushed it sternly away.

  ‘I meant to see you yesterday,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I stayed the night in London. I wanted to find a way to reach Rianna. Her agent definitely believes she’s in Georgia, but he has no means of contacting her or anyone in the company. They seem to have gone beyond the ken of mobile phones. A primitive place, Georgia. I got hold of the mother of one of the other actors, and the boyfriend of another, but they’re in the same boat as me: they just wait for occasional calls. I’m sure you’re wrong about seeing her. I really can’t imagine why she should lie.’

  ‘But you’re worried,’ Annie said. Had he seen Rianna’s top in the linen basket? Of course not – or if he had, it would mean nothing to him. Men didn’t notice anything to do with clothes.

  ‘No – no I’m not. Well, not much. Just confused. Any danger of coffee?’

  She made it, while Michael seemed to be hesitating, teetering on the verge of some perilous plunge. ‘Where’s the man of the house?’ he asked, evidently playing for time. ‘Shouldn’t he be around this morning?’

  ‘Nathan’s out with his friends,’ Annie said. Actually, she knew, Nathan was out with a stranger, the unknown asylum-seeker, but she didn’t feel ready to discuss all that now. Besides, no doubt his friends came into it somewhere.

  ‘I was wondering,’ Michael said, plunging, ‘about his father … You said something, before I left. You said he wasn’t the man in your life …?’

  ‘No,’ Annie said. ‘Daniel died. Nathan was the result of a – I suppose you could call it a one-night stand, just after. I didn’t even know the man.’ She lifted her chin, looking out of the kitchen window. In some obscure way she felt this was part of her penance, for the crime she hadn’t committed, for surrendering, for letting it happen. ‘Are you shocked?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He moved closer – she felt it – and laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. ‘We all do things – when we’re upset, when we’re hurt, when we’re grieving – which are out of character. You’d lost the man you loved. You needed … consolation. Was that how it was?’

  ‘In a way,’ Annie said.

  The kettle boiled, and she made the coffee. Michael didn’t try to touch her again. ‘Human lives are a mess,’ she said, ‘aren’t they?’ And inhuman lives.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Michael.

  ‘Incidentally,’ she struggled to resume casual conversation, ‘I’ve been checking some old stock lately, and I’ve come across a couple of books which might interest you. I’m always unearthing stuff in this place – stuff I hadn’t catalogued, some that’s been here since before I came. It’s a bottomless pit of bookdom.’

  ‘All right,’ he conceded, ‘let’s talk about books.’

  Nathan was waiting at the bus stop on the edge of the village. He had had an uncomfortable scene with Hazel, not quite a quarrel, because she wanted to come with him, and he felt he had to see the man on his own, at Least for the first time. ‘Two of us might alarm him,’ he suggested.

  ‘He’s a grown-up,’ Hazel said shortly. ‘He’s not going to be frightened by two kids.’

  ‘Not frightened, but … put off. Anyway, you have to divert George. We can’t tell him all this, not yet, anyway. Please, Hazel.’

  ‘I don’t want to hang out with George. He’s geeky.’

  ‘That’s unkind, and untrue. Hazel …’

  In the end, she agreed, but reluctantly. And now Nathan was waiting for the bus from Crowford, knowing it wouldn’t be on time, because buses never were, and shaking inwardly as the wait stretched out and the morning grew longer and longer. When the bus finally appeared, he thought the tension was almost unbearable. This was where dream became reality, where the other world came home. A woman got off with a shopping basket, someone he vaguely knew, so he forced himself to smile and say hello, then a young mother with toddler and pushchair. Will I r
ecognize him? Nathan wondered. I’ve never seen his face. How will I know …? A man was approaching the exit with a stumbling stride, a very tall man. ‘This Eade?’ he asked the driver.

  ‘That’s right.’

  And there he was. The man on the beach. The immigrant from another universe. Nathan’s first thought was that he was a very tall man. He had realized in his dreams that the inhabitants of that alternative cosmos were taller than average, but seeing one of them in the flesh brought it home to him. The exile must have been seven feet high, broad-shouldered but very lean, dressed in garments no doubt assembled from a charity shop: a flapping raincoat, trousers that didn’t quite cover his ankles, a rugby shirt striped in blue and maroon. The clothes seemed only to accentuate his differentness; Nathan was reminded of Dr Who in some old episodes which George’s brother had on video. His skin was sallow and dark, ochre not brown, and his face showed similar proportions to that of the woman Halmé, though it was striking rather than beautiful. His jaw curved down from high cheekbones to the narrow jut of the chin; his hair was long and black and wild; his eyes glinted in cadaverous sockets, the irises deeply purple and bright as if lit from within. You could see he was special, Nathan thought; everyone must see that. It explained the attitude of Jillian Squires: she too had seen and respected his uniqueness. As the bright eyes sought him out he extended his hand. ‘I’m Nathan Ward.’

  The exile didn’t take Nathan’s hand; perhaps he was not yet familiar with the gesture. ‘I remember you,’ he said.

  ‘Will you tell me your name?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘I am Errek Moy Rhindon. Here they call me Eric. Eric Rhindon.’

  Man and boy studied each other, curiosity matched with curiosity. Nathan hoped he wasn’t being impolite. It is difficult to subscribe to the manners of another world when you don’t know what they are. ‘Thank you very much for coming.’

  Eric nodded, accepting the courtesy as his due. ‘Maybe I must thank you for saving me,’ he said. ‘But this world strange to me. Is hard to adapt. Your society have decline from noble past, I think.’

  ‘You mean, ancient Greece?’ Nathan hazarded. ‘Or Egypt?’ They had begun to walk along as they talked. Nathan was heading for a café where there were several quiet corners suitable for private conversation.

  ‘Egypt? Greece?’ Eric shrugged. ‘They are other planets?’

  ‘Countries. On this planet. Part of our – noble past.’

  ‘No! I mean, great civilization in space. Advanced technology.’ He pronounced the word with care. Evidently it was a recent acquisition. ‘Also much force. Like in my world. Force very strong there. Not strong here now. All used up.’

  ‘What kind of force?’ Nathan was baffled.

  ‘Energy. Special energy. Like electrics, but special. Controlled by mind, hand, words. May the force be with you.’

  Nathan laughed. ‘You mean magic,’ he said. ‘We don’t have any magic here. Just in stories.’

  ‘Stories must be true. I have seen films, this week, at Mrs Squires’ house, about the noble past. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away … This cannot be a lie. To lie is a crime.’ He stopped abruptly, and stared at Nathan. ‘Do they lie in your world?’

  ‘Not lies,’ Nathan said, fumbling for the right words. ‘Stories. Made-up stories, for fun. Are there no stories in your world?’

  Eric was scowling with a mixture of concentration and bewilderment. ‘Stories must be true. To make up, is wrong. Evil. Lies corrupt.’

  ‘In our world,’ Nathan said, ‘we differentiate between lies and stories. If we know a story is made up, then it doesn’t matter. It’s good. We learn from stories. Don’t you do that in your world?’

  ‘No,’ Eric said curtly.

  They walked on. ‘You watched Star Wars?’ Nathan inquired cautiously.

  ‘History,’ Eric said. ‘I thought – is history. I thought I learn about this world. I understand the force.’

  ‘Me too,’ Nathan said. ‘Without made-up stories, I wouldn’t understand. There’s magic in your world – I saw that, I understood, because of made-up stories about magic, in this world. Do you see?’

  Eric thought about it for a while. Then he nodded.

  ‘You’re very clever,’ Nathan said diffidently. ‘You understand things very quickly. And you’ve learnt our language in no time at all. You must have been very important in your world. A scientist or something?’

  Eric smiled, and shrugged. ‘I was not important,’ he said. ‘I was not … scientist.’ He obviously didn’t know the word. ‘Once, I was fisherman. But fish died as air grew thin. Special layer of air, protecting from sun. We destroyed it, let in sundeath. Force poisoned. Sea poisoned. Not many fish now. Only monsters. I work in factory, make food to taste of fish, but not real.’

  ‘So you do have made-up things,’ Nathan said. ‘You have made-up food. Your food is a lie.’

  ‘You are wise,’ Eric declared. ‘Made-up food bad.’

  ‘You said, the force was poisoned. Is that what they meant when they talked of the contamination?’ Eric looked uncomprehending, and Nathan strove to recollect his dreams, and the sound of the language. ‘Unvarhu-sag?’

  ‘Yes! Unvarhu-sag. Force poisoned. What word you say? Contamination. I will remember.’

  They had reached the café, which did vegetarian lunches. It was early for lunch, but Nathan decided that didn’t matter. ‘Come and have some real food,’ he said, glad he hadn’t chosen anything like a McDonald’s – not that there was one in Eade. They sat down at a corner table and Nathan ordered baked potatoes with cheese and a salad. He hoped that would be real enough.

  ‘What exactly is the contamination?’ he asked Eric. ‘What were they doing when they closed off Maali?’

  ‘Unvarhu-sag is … poisoning. People sick, animals, birds – few left after air grow thin, but contamination take them. In time trees, plants die too. All die. It begin long ago –’ he gave a wry smile ‘– in galaxy far, far away. Powerful men use force to destroy, in war. Create bad force, evil, poison. Like dark side, but … illness. Illness of everything. Galaxy cut off with good force, but all force same power, same energy. In the end, bad corrupt good. Where is force, is contamination. It spread through universe. First, we poison with technology, make air thin, water unclean, but that is slow, slow, many thousand years to destroy one planet. Contamination quicker. Maali cut off, maybe gone in two, three seasons. Nothing can do. All die. All die …’

  ‘You had family,’ Nathan said, realizing. ‘A wife, children …’

  ‘No children. In my world, we use force to live long. Force inside us, make us strong, not much sick, never old. Only contamination kill. But long life mean, no children. Force change you.’

  ‘The force – magic – makes you sterile?’

  ‘Sterile.’ Once again, Nathan saw him committing a word to memory. ‘Yes. No children now for many hundred years.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘None.’ Suddenly, Eric’s face lightened. ‘Many children here. Is good to see children. Your world younger, cleaner. You save me – a child save me. In old legend, angels are children. Legends made up – is crime to make up story now, against law, but legend very old, before crime, before law. I think – you are right. We learn from made-up story, perhaps more than from history.’ He repeated, emphatically: ‘You are wise.’

  Nathan didn’t feel at all wise, but he pushed away his embarrassment. When you were talking to someone from another universe, there were bound to be misunderstandings. Their baked potatoes arrived; Eric sniffed enthusiastically. ‘I have this before,’ he explained. ‘In hostel.’ He forked up a lavish mouthful. ‘Taste better here.’

  ‘This is a good place,’ Nathan said, meaning the café. ‘Do you live in the hostel?’

  ‘No. I go for meals, sometimes. Also to Mrs Squires and her friends, kind people. But I like to sleep under sky, to be free. In my world, dangerous to stay outside too long, even at night. Moons reflect sunrays.’ There was a pause while
he concentrated on eating. ‘They say, I am asylum-seeker. Must apply to government to stay, or go back. But I think, they cannot send me back.’ He grinned wolfishly through the baked potato. ‘But you say, no force here except in made-up story. This not true. You bring me here. The force is strong in you. There is force in every world. Like electrics, like gravity. Is part of life.’

  ‘Not here,’ Nathan said positively. ‘I don’t know how I brought you here. I dream about your world, but I can’t control what happens in my dream, or what I do.’ He thought about the last dream, when they could see him, or almost see him, and shivered. ‘It frightens me.’

  Eric nodded sagely. ‘To have power is fearful,’ he said. ‘Is good you know that. You learn control, in time.’

  ‘There’s no one to teach me,’ Nathan said. ‘Not in this world.’ He continued, awkwardly: ‘Are you angry about being here? On the telephone, you said you found our society backward. I know it must seem sort of primitive to you; I’ve seen enough of your world to realize that. Would you like – if I could do it – would you want to go home?’

  ‘Of course not. I go home, I die. Many good things here. I like to sleep under sky, to see children. My world very far away now, like long ago. Memory old, not sharp, not bad pain. Much to learn here, to fill my mind. I grow accustomed very soon.’ He added, after an intermission with salad and more potato: ‘Food good. No real food in my world now. I like real food.’

  ‘I think,’ Nathan said, ‘my mother suggested – I should take you to see Uncle Barty. He’s the wisest person I know. We should tell him the truth about you.’ Nobody meeting Eric, he thought, could possibly doubt him. He wondered what Jillian Squires had really made of the exile. ‘Besides, he’s the best cook in the whole world.’

  ‘I always tell truth,’ Eric said. ‘But people believe I come from another country, not another world. There is place called Maali here?’

  ‘In Africa,’ Nathan affirmed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Mali. It’s nearly the same name. Like Errek and Eric. I suppose … names could be similar in all worlds.’ He found himself inventing addresses like Paris, Narnia and Timbuktu, Tattooine. That sounded reasonable, but what if you tried it with Manchester, or Worthing? Worthing, Naboo, for instance?