The Paradise War tsoa-1
Page 3
The things I said about Simon were essentially true. He came from a long line of manic depressives, megalomaniacs, and megalomaniac depressives. Still, I had only hoped to get him off his whinging binge. Instead, my impromptu psychoanalysis produced a strained and heavy silence between us. Simon lapsed into sullen withdrawal and would speak only in monosyllabic grunts for the next seven hours. I carried out my navigational duties nevertheless, disregarding his sulk.
The map in my lap put us just south of Inverness. I turned from the window, and peered at the atlas under my thumb.
We were on the A82 approaching a village called Lochend.
The narrow body of the famous monster-bearing lake itself lay a hundred yards off to the right, invisible in the darkness.
«We should see some lights soon,» I said. «Three or four miles.»
I was still bent over the Bartholomew when Simon screamed. «Bloody hell!»
He hit the brakes and swerved. I was thrown against the door. My head thumped the window.
The car dry-skidded to a stop on the road. «Did you see it?» Simon yelled. «Did you see it?»
«Ow!» I rubbed my head. «See what? I didn't see anything.
Simon's eyes glinted wildly in the dim light. He jammed the gearshift into reverse, and the car began rolling backward. «It was one of those things!»
«Things? What things?»
«You know,» he said, twisting around to see out the rear window, «one of those mythical creatures.» His voice was shaky and his hands were trembling.
«A mythical creature-well, that certainly narrows it down.» I craned my neck to look out the back as well, but saw nothing. «What sort of mythical creature exactly?»
«Oh, for God's sake, Lewis!» he shouted, his voice rising hysterically. «Did you see it, or didn't you?»
«All right, calm down. I believe you.» Obviously, he had been driving far too long. «Whatever it was, it's gone now.»
I started to turn away and saw, fleetingly highlighted in the red-and-white glow of the tail lights, the ragged torso of a man. Rather, I saw the upper thigh and lower stomach, and part of an arm as it swung away and out of sight. Judging from the proportions, the body must have been gigantic. I only saw it for the briefest instant, but my strongest impression, the thing that stuck fast in my mind, was that of tree leaves.
«There!» bellowed Simon triumphantly, slamming on the brakes. «There it is again!» He tore at the door handle and burst from the car. He ran up the road a few yards.
«Simon! Get back here!» I yelled, and waited. The sound of his footsteps died away. «Simon?»
Hanging over the seatback, I peered out the rear window. I could not make out a thing beyond the few feet of tarmac illuminated by the tail lights. The engine purred quietly, and through the open car door I heard the sough of wind in the pines like the hissing of giant snakes.
I kept my eyes on the circle of light and presently glimpsed the rapid movement of an approaching figure. A moment later, Simon's face floated into view. He slid into the car, Slammed the door, and locked it. He put his hands on the Steering wheel, but made no other move.
«Well? Did you see anything?»
«You saw it, too, Lewis. I know you did.» He turned to face me. His eyes were bright, his lips drawn back over his teeth. I had never seen him so excited.
«Look, it happened so fast. I don't know what I saw. Let's just get out of here, okay?»
«Describe it.» His voice cracked with the effort it took to hold it level.
«Like I said, I don't think I cou-«
«Describe it!» He smashed the steering wheel with his fists.
«It was a man, I think. It looked like aman. I only saw a leg and an arm, but I think it was a man.»
«What color was it?»
«How should I know what color it was?» I demanded shrilly. «I don't know. It's dark. I didn't see it all that-«
«Tell me what color it was!» Simon's tone was cold and cutting.
«Green, I think. The guy was wearing something green-rags or something.»
Simon nodded slowly and exhaled. «Yeah, green. That's right. You saw it, too.»
«What are we talking about, exactly?» I asked. My stomach twisted itself into a tight knot.
«A huge man,» he answered quietly. «Eight feet tall at least.»
«Right. And wearing a ragged green coat.»
«No.» Simon shook his head firmly. «Not a coat. Not rags.»
«What then?» Tension made my voice sharp.
«Leaves.»
Yes. He'd seen it, too.
We stopped for gas at an all-night service station just outside of Inverness. The clock in the dash read 2:47 AM. Except for a flying stop to fuel the car and grab some sandwiches in Carlisle, it was exactly eleven hours since our last real rest break. Simon had insisted on driving straight through, in order to be, as he put it, «in situ» by daybreak.
Simon saw to the gas while I scrubbed the bug juice from the windshield. He paid the bill and returned to the car, carrying two styrofoam cups of Nescafй. «Drink up,» he said, shoving one into my hand.
We stood in the garish glare of the overhead fluorescent tubes, sipping coffee and staring at each other. «Well?» I said, after a couple minutes of this. «Are you going to say it, or am I?»
«Say what?» Simon favored me with his cool, bland stare-another of the many little tricks.
«For crying out loud, Simon, you know perfectly well what!» The words came out with more force than I intended. I suppose I was still fairly upset. Simon, however, seemed to be well over it. «What we saw out there.» I waved a hand to the highway behind us.
«Get in the car,» he replied.
«No! I'm not getting in the car until-«
«Shut up, Lewis!» he hissed. «Not here. Get in the car and we'll talk.»
I glanced toward the door of the service station. The attendant had wandered out and was watching us. I don't know how much he had heard. I ducked in and slammed the car door. Simon switched on the ignition and we pulled out onto the road.
«Okay, we're in the car,» I said. «So talk.»
«What do you want me to say?»
«I want you to tell me what you think we saw.»
«But that's obvious, don't you think?»
«I want to hear you say it,» I insisted. «Just for the record.»
Simon indulged me with regal forbearance. «All right, just for the record: I think we saw what used to be called a Green Man.» He sipped some coffee. «Satisfied?»
«Is that all?»
«What else is there to say, Lewis? We saw this big, green man-thing. You and I-we both saw it. I really don't know What else to say.»
«You could add that it's plain impossible. Right? You Could say that men made of oak leaves do not, cannot, and never could exist. You could say that there's no such thing as a Green Man-that it's a figure of antique superstition and legend with no basis in reality. You could say we were exhausted from the drive and seeing things that could not be there.»
«I'll say whatever you like, if it will make you happy,» he conceded. «But I saw what I saw. Explain it how you will.»
«But I can't explain it.»
«Is that what's got to you?»
«Yes-among other things.»
«Just why is an explanation so important to you?»
«Excuse me, but I happen to think it's important for any sane and rational human being to keep at least one foot in reality whenever possible.»
He laughed, breaking the tension somewhat. «So, seeing something one can't explain qualifies one as insane in your estimation-is that it?»
«I didn't say that exactly.» He had a nasty habit of bending my words back on me.
«Well, you'll just have to live with it, chum.»
«Live with it? That's it? That's all you've got to say?»
«Until we figure out something better, yes.»
We had come to a small three-way junction. «This is our turn,» I told him
. «Take this road to Nairn.»
Simon turned onto the easterly route, drove until we were out of the city, and then pulled off the road onto the shoulder. He allowed the car to slow to a halt, then switched off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt.
«What are you doing?»
«I'm going to sleep. I'm tired. We can get forty winks here and still make it to the farm before sunrise.» He pulled the lever to recline his seat and closed his eyes. In no time at all he was sound asleep.
I watched him for a few moments, thinking to myself:
Simon Rawnson, what have you gotten us mixed up in?
Chaper 4
At the Door to the West
I heard the deep, throaty rumble of a juggernaut and woke to find Simon snoring softly in the seat beside me. The sun was rising beyond the eastern hills and the early morning traffic was beginning to hum along the road next to us. The clock in the dash read 6:42 AM. I prodded Simon. «Hey, wake up. We've overslept.»
«Huh?» he stirred at once. «Oh, damn!»
«It's cold in here. Let's have some heat.»
He sat up and switched on the ignition. «Why didn't you wake me?»
«I just did.»
«We'll be too late now.» He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, checked the rear-view mirror, and then pulled out swiftly onto the road.
«What do you mean? The sun isn't even up yet. It's only a few more miles. We'll get there in plenty of time.»
«I wanted to be there before sunrise,» Simon told me flatly. «Not after.»
«What difference does that make?»
Simon gave me a derisive look. «And you a Celtic scholar.» His tone suggested I should be able to read his mind.
«The time-between-times-is that what you're talking about?» I was not aware that Simon knew any ancient Celtic lore. «Is that why we've busted our buns to get here so fast?»
He didn't answer. I took his silence as affirmation, and continued. «Look, if that's why you've been dragging us all Over the country, forget it. The time-between-times-that's just a folk superstition, more poetic device than anything else. It doesn't exist.»
«Just like aurochs don't exist?»
«Aurochs don't exist!» And neither do Green Men, I might have added, but saved my breath. There was no need to bring that up at this hour of the morning. «It's just screwball journalism.»
«That's what we're here to determine, isn't it?» Simon smiled deviously and turned his attention to the road. We were already in the country again, heading east on the A96 out of Inverness. The last sign I saw indicated that Nairn was only a dozen miles ahead.
I rummaged around on the floor of the car for the atlas, found it where I'd dropped it the night before, and turned to the proper page. The farm we were looking for was not on the map, but the nearest village was a mere flyspeck of a hamlet called Craigiemore on a thin squiggle of yellow road which ran through what was optimistically called Darnaway Forest. Probably all that was left of this alleged forest was a hillside or two of rotting stumps and a roadside picnic area.
«I don't see Carnwood Farm on here,» I said, after giving the map a good once-over. Simon expressed his appreciation for this information with a grunt. Motivated by his encouragement, I continued, «Anyway, it's seven miles to the B9007 from Nairn. And from there to the farm is probably another two or three miles, minimum.»
Simon thanked me for my orienteering update with another eloquent grunt and put the accelerator nearer the floor. The hazy, hill-bound countryside fled past in a blur. It was already plenty blurry to begin with. A thickish mist hugged the ground, obscuring all detail beyond a thousand yards or so, and turning the rising sun into a ghostly, blood-red disk.
Scotland is a strange place. I failed to see the attraction so many otherwise sane people professed for this bleak, wind-bitten scrag of dirt and rock. What wasn't moors was Iochs, and one as damp as the other. And cold. Give me the Costa Del Sol anytime. Better yet, give me the French Riviera and take everything else. The way I figured it, if one could not grow a decent wine grape within shouting distance of the beach, the hell with it.
Simon stirred me from my reverie with an impromptu recitation, as startling as it was spontaneous. Without taking his eyes from the road, he said:
«I am the singer at the dawn of the age,
and I stand at the door to the west.
Three fifties of warriors uphold me,
whose names are lauded in the halls of chieftains;
great lords make haste to do their bidding.
Royal blood flows in my veins,
my kinship is not humble;
yet my portion is despised.
Truth is the root of my tongue,
wisdom is the breath of my speech;
but my words find no honor among men.
I am the singer at the dawn of the age,
and I stand at the door to the west.»
Well, knock me over with a feather. You live with someone for a few years and you think you know them. «Where on earth did you get that?» I asked when I finished gawping.
«Like it?» He smirked at me like a naughty schoolboy confiding a guilty secret to his headteacher.
«It's okay,» I conceded. «Where did you find it?»
«Haven't the foggiest,» Simon answered. «Must have tumbled across it somewhere in my reading. You know how it is.»
I knew how it was, all right. Simon the dutiful scholar hadn't so much as winked at a book in months. «Have you any idea what it means?» I asked.
«Actual1y, I was hoping you'd fill me in,» he replied diffidently. «It's a bit out of my line, I'm afraid. More in yours, I would have thought.»
«Simon, what's going on? First this extinct ox business, then you get all bothered about the time-between-times thing, now you're quoting Celtic riddles at me. What gives?»
He shrugged. «It just seemed apropos, I suppose. The hills, the sunrise, Scotland. . . that sort of thing.»
I would get more information from an oyster, so I changed the subject. «What about breakfast?» Simon didn't answer.
He seemed suddenly preoccupied with driving. «How about we stop in Nairn for a bite to eat?»
We didn't stop in Nairn. We whizzed through that town so fast I thought Simon might be trying for a land speed record. «Slow down!» I yelled, stiff-arming the dashboard. But Simon merely down-shifted and drove on.
Coming out of Nairn, Simon picked up the A939 and we flew, almost literally, across the hills. Luckily, we had the road to ourselves. It unwound in a seamless, if convoluted, strip and we beat it along with respectable haste. Just beyond the Findhorn river we came to the village of Ferness located at the crossroads of the A939 and the B9007. «This is our turn,» I told Simon. «Take a right.»
The B9007 proved to be a narrow tarmac trail along the bottom of the Findhorn glen, and the principal way into the remains of Darnaway Forest, which, to my surprise, possessed all the earmarks of a proper forest. That is to say, hills thickly covered with tall pines, morning mist waking among the trees, and little streams coursing down to the river below. After a mile we reached a tiny village called Mills of Airdrie.
I knew enough Gaelic to figure that the word «Airdrie» was a contraction for the ancient Celtic term «Aird Righ,» meaning High King. While there was nothing strange about a king having a mill on the river, I found it slightly peculiar that he should have been a High King. In antiquity, that title would have been reserved for only the most elite of royalty, and rarely in Scotland.
The village itself wasn't much: a wide spot in the road with an inn and combination grocer's-newsagent's-post office. We continued on another mile and reached an unmarked road. A weathered sign stood at the crossing; it had «Carnwood Farm» written on it in bright blue with an arrow pointing the way. We turned left and soon came to a stone bridge. We crossed the Findhorn once again and drove on deeper into the heart of Darnaway.
Carnwood Farm lay on the flat ground between two broad tree-clad hills.
Small, neat, and spare, the place appeared efficient and prosperous. But it also had about it an air of… I don't know… emptiness. As if it were long abandoned. Not neglected, not deserted. Just untouched. Or, more precisely, as if the land were somehow resistant to human occupation. This was patently absurd. The buildings, the fields, and the tumbled niin~of an old moss-grown stone tower hard beside the farmhouse spoke of generations of continual habitation.
«Well,» said Simon, «this is the place.» He had slowed the car to a crawl upon our approach and now stopped on the shoulder of the road. A large gray stone house and outbuildings stood at the end of a long, tree-lined drive. A black-painted wooden gate separated the drive from the road.
A tin mailbox bore the name Grant in bold white letters.
«So?» I wondered. «Are we just going to sit out here, or are we going in?»
«We go in.»
He switched off the engine and took the keys. We got out and walked to the gate. «It's cold out here,» I said, shivering. My poncho was in the car. Simon tried the gate; it wasn't locked, and swung open easily.
A great floppy dog met us halfway up the drive. The animal did not bark, but ran to greet us, wagging its tail happily. It licked both my hands before I could stuff them in my pockets. Simon whistled the accommodating animal to him.
«Hey, Pooch, is your master at home?»
«He's home,» I said. «And here he comes.»
From around the corner of the barn approached a man in a shapeless brown tweed hat, a black overcoat, and green wellies. He carried a long stick in one hand, and looked as if he knew how to use it.
«Good morning, sir,» Simon called, turning on the Rawnson charm. «Nice place you've got here.»
«Mornin'.» The farmer did not smile, but neither did he hit us with his stick. I took this as a good sign.
«We've come up from Oxford,» Simon volunteered, as if this should explain everything.
«All that way?» The farmer gave a slight shake of his head. Apparently Oxford could not easily be compassed in his geography. «You'll be wanting to see the beastie, then.»
I thought he meant the dog, and was about to point out that we had already enjoyed that pleasure, when Simon said, «That's right. If it's no trouble, of course. I wouldn't want to put you out.»