Darkest hour aom-2

by Mark Chadbourn

  There was a long pause that surprised him, and when he looked up at her face he saw the humour had drained from it. "Come on, Church, you're a big boy now. Look around you. There aren't going to be any happy endings."

  Church sighed. "Why's everyone so pessimistic? Ruth said something similar."

  "Yeah, I knew she'd been talking to you. Well… maybe it's a chick thing. You boys have no perception. No happy endings. We just have to make the most of what we've got for as long as we've got it." There was a note of deep sadness in her voice, but a second later she had forced herself to brighten and was tugging him towards the tent. "Come on. I want my brains removing and you've got just the tool to do it."

  Chapter Two

  Turn Off Your Mind, Relax, and float downstream

  "It is beautiful." Pressing her face against the window, Ruth looked out at the tranquil expanse of Loch Maree. The water was as glassy as it had been the previous day, reflecting the overcast sky punctured by bursts of blue and the hillsides that soared up steeply in a breathtaking wall of brown, purple and green. In the centre of the water lay Eilean Maree, serene and secret among its thick trees.

  It had taken them only twenty-five minutes from Gairloch after a hearty breakfast of farmhouse bacon and eggs. They were all eager to continue on to Edinburgh and civilisation, but Tom had convinced them that a brief pause to make an offering to Cernunnos would pay dividends in the long run.

  "I've got some reservations about this," Church said as they parked up on the water's edge. "Making an offering is a tacit admission that we accept they're our gods rather than simply beings that are more powerful than us. I have no intention of doffing my cap and being fawning-"

  "Even if it means saving your life?" Tom interrupted.

  Church radiated defiance. "Even then. I'm not bowing down. I'm not folding up and showing my throat-"

  "Then don't see it as an offering. See it as a bribe." Tom marched off across the pebbles to a small boat that had been pulled up on the bank.

  Witch rowed Laura, Ruth and Tom over first, then came back for Shavi and Church. The island was small and rocky along the shoreline, but heavily wooded with a thick undergrowth. They moved cautiously away from the light at the banks to the shadows that lay beneath the leafy covering. There was a tangible atmosphere of peace which put them at ease; it reminded Shavi of the aura of calm that hung over the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey. Yet despite the idyllic setting, no birds sang at all.

  Tom led them through the trees to the tip of the island. In a grove, out of sight of the road, an obvious altar had been created from a tree stump. Wild flowers lay on it, along with a cup of milk and the remnants of a loaf of bread. The air of sanctity was at its most concentrated in the altar's vicinity.

  "Looks like someone's been here before us," Church noted.

  "The power that Cernunnos represents didn't die away when the old gods left," Tom replied. "In places away from the cities there's been an unbroken chain of worship. Some people are still close to the land. Some refuse to forget."

  "Fuckin' nutters," Veitch muttered.

  "And there's the arrogance of the urban dweller." Tom pressed his spectacles back on to the bridge of his nose, a mannerism which Church recognised as a sign of irritation. "I thought you would have learned by now not to judge by surface. Whales move in deep water and leave no mark of their passing."

  "Whales?" Veitch said distractedly. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  They stood in front of the altar for a moment, deep in thought. Then Ruth said, "I want to make an offering too."

  Church looked at her in surprise, but Tom said, "As you choose. You must respond to your feelings."

  High in the branches above them echoed a long, mournful hoot which seemed to come in response. Church picked out Ruth's owl looking down at them. "Your familiar seems to be happy about that." He had a sudden twinge of uneasiness when he glanced back at Ruth; he couldn't shake the feeling she was being sucked into something she couldn't control.

  "What would make a good oblation, I wonder?" Shavi asked.

  "Something important to us," Tom replied.

  Shavi searched in his pocket for the few remaining magic mushrooms which he used to induce his shamanistic trances. Church thought he laid them on the altar with undue gratitude.

  While the others discussed the offering, Laura drifted away. She had little interest in what they were doing, certainly little belief, and sometimes she was overcome by an abiding need to be on her own, alone with her thoughts; since they had joined forces there had been little opportunity for that.

  She leaned on one of the trunks and looked through the trees, watching the rippling waves sparkle in the scant sunlight. The place made her feel good in a way she hadn't really experienced before; it was so peaceful she wouldn't have complained if they'd decided to pitch camp there for a few days, maybe even longer.

  It was only when the tranquility blanketed her that she realised how anxious she always felt, a constant buzz that set her teeth on edge and locked her shoulder muscles. Gradually, though, the stress began to ease away, and the droning voices of the others slipped into dim awareness. It stayed that way for long enough that she felt a wash of damp emotion when she realised something had changed. It took her a second or two to grasp what it was: no one was speaking in the background. An unsettling tingle started at the base of her spine. Her first thought was that they had all stopped talking to stare at her. She prepared an acid response and turned to confront them.

  She was surprised and unsettled to see they were still standing in the same position, unmoving; a deep unnatural silence lay over them. They weren't holding their breath, or listening for something. Everyone was frozen, hands mid-gesture, mouths poised in question or response, as if time had stopped in that one small spot.

  Laura felt a chill creep over her. A change had come to the soothing atmosphere on the island too; it was now heavy with anticipation.

  Soniething''s conning, she thought, without quite knowing how she had recognised that.

  Her eyes darted among the trees. The island wasn't so big that someone could creep up on them unannounced; they would have heard something. As if in answer to her thought, she did hear a sound. Branches cracked, leaves rustled suddenly. She spun round quickly, her heart hammering.

  Light and shadow changed on the periphery of her vision. It could have been an illusion caused by her blinking, but, coupled with the sound, she was sure: something big was lumbering around in the trees. But whenever she tried to pin it down among the undergrowth it had already moved on to somewhere else. She caught a flicker of a silhouette, then gone. A heavy footstep that sounded only feet away, then another one near the water's edge.

  She backed up hastily to the others, tugged at Church's arm in the hope of somehow waking him, but when her fingers brushed his skin, it felt as cold as marble. Something like a stone seemed to grow in her throat. She crouched down to lower herself below the line of sight, then moved forward through the vegetation. If she could get to the boat, she could row out on to the water and reassess the situation, possibly go around the island until she could get a good view of what she was up against. Either that, or she could just run back to the van and drive off.

  But the moment she was away from the tiny clearing surrounding the altar, things became even more confusing. Sounds were distorted by the undergrowth, the shape began to move faster, its thrashing becoming more animal-like. Anxiety knotted in her chest. She put her head down and dashed, but she hadn't gone far when her foot caught on a branch which she was convinced hadn't been there before. She went sprawling; the impact knocked the wind out of her. As she attempted to scramble back to her feet, a dark shape loomed above her like a cloud moving across the sun. Cold, unforgiving. She glanced up into a face which registered for only the merest instant before her consciousness winked out under the protest of an incomprehensible, alien sight.

  When she came round, Church was crouching next to her. The others h
ad gathered a few feet away, watching her with concern.

  "Stop looking at me," she snapped.

  "What happened?" Church asked.

  "There was something here, in the trees." As her thoughts whizzed, she became aware of a dull ache on the back of her right hand. She raised it slowly, turning it until she located the right spot. Burned into the flesh was a familiar design: interlocking leaves in a circle.

  Laura's attention snapped on to Ruth who was staring in shock at the tattoo. It matched the one she carried: the mark of Cernunnos delivered to her after the confrontation in Wales.

  "Get a grip. It doesn't make us sisters." Laura rubbed her hand, obscuring the sign.

  "It looks as if our great nature god has decided to honour two of our number," Shavi said thoughtfully.

  "He told me there were two of us." Ruth looked at Laura curiously.

  "What's the matter? Can't believe you're not special any more?" Laura let Church haul her to her feet, then quickly thrust her hand into her trouser pocket. "So does this mean I'm going to be a witch-bitch too?"

  "It simply means," Tom said, "that Cernunnos has some plan for you."

  "That's a relief," Laura said sourly. "I thought it was something bad."

  They rowed back across the water in silence. Laura seemed even more locked-off than normal, ignoring all their attempts to get her to talk about her experience, but they could see it lay on her shoulders like a rock. Church, who probably understood her the best-and even then, not very well at all-saw something in her eyes that made him want to take her on one side and hold her; it was a look that suggested she was ready to run from something with which she could no longer cope.

  As they gathered at the water's edge, mulling over what the encounter meant, Shavi glanced towards the van and raised the alarm. They all scrambled over the rocks as one, but Church was the first one to reach it, not quite believing what he was seeing. On the bonnet was a dead rabbit, its blood trickling down towards the radiator grille. It had been gutted, the stomach cavity splayed to the air, its internal organs carefully laid out beside it.

  "What the fuck's this?" Veitch said in disgust.

  Shavi stepped forward and examined the carcass without touching it. "It was left for us particularly," he said after a brief moment. "You can see the precise nature of the cuts. Someone took the time to do this."

  "Is it linked to what happened on the island?" Ruth asked.

  Tom shook his head. "I wouldn't think-"

  "Wait!" Shavi leaned forward to peer into the stomach cavity. "There is something in here."

  "Don't touch it," Ruth pleaded.

  Church watched her from the corner of his eye; she seemed unnaturally fearful, as if she were sensing something without being aware of it. "Be careful," he cautioned.

  Shavi looked around until he located two twigs which he held like chopsticks. Cautiously he used them to investigate the rabbit's interior. A second later he retracted what at first appeared to be a small pink slug smeared in blood.

  "That is gross!" Laura screwed up her face, but couldn't tear her eyes away.

  It was a finger, severed at the knuckle.

  Shavi laid it on the bonnet and they all gathered round, as if they expected it to move. "Who could it belong to?" Shavi mused. "And why was it left here for us?"

  Veitch scanned the deserted hillsides, which were suddenly unwelcoming and lonely. "We should be getting out of here."

  The grisly discovery cast a pall over their journey south. For the first few miles they travelled without speaking, struggling to make sense of it all, feeling a deep dread creeping out of the mystery. There was something about the image that was inherently evil, ritualistic, beyond mere threat. Yet it made no sense, and it was that which wormed its way into their subconscious and lay there, gnawing silently.

  They picked up the A9 just north of Inverness and followed it south through the rugged, desolate landscape of the Cairngorms. Two technology crashes slowed them up and it soon became apparent they would be searching for somewhere to stay in Edinburgh by the time the curfew came around. The best option seemed to be to break their journey and set off for the city fresh and early the next day. So, hungry and bored with the road, they arrived in the small town of Callander at the foot of the Highlands in the late afternoon.

  The jumbled collection of stone buildings nestled so hard against the thickly wooded foothills that, with the mountains soaring up in the background all around, they felt instantly enveloped and protected; it was a pleasant sensation after all the wide open spaces. The town smelled of fish and chips and pine, but that too was oddly soothing. A lot more people were wandering around than they had seen for days, their faces free of the taint of fear. It gave hope that the major centres of population still hadn't been too affected.

  It was a long time since they had experienced the comfort of a soft bed so they opted to spend the night in a hotel. The Excelsior lay at the end of the main street, a Gothic-styled pile of stone that resembled a fortress with its turrets on four corners and enormous windows looking out on all sides. The thick, wild forest swept down almost to the very back of it, but it still seemed a place that could be secure.

  While the others rested or abluted, Church and Veitch went down to the hotel bar. It was comfortingly cool and dark away from the bright afternoon sun and had the cosy feel of a place which had grown organically rather than been designed to fit the frenzied drive for increased profits. Veitch had a Stella, Church a Guinness, and they took their drinks to a table in a window bay where they could look out on to the sun-drenched main street.

  "It's the little things I'm going to miss," Veitch said introspectively.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Like this." He held up the pint so it glowed golden in a sunbeam. "If things carry on falling apart, we're not going to keep getting things like this, are we? It won't be important. All the bigshots will be making sure everyone just has enough food, trying to keep the riots to a minimum."

  Church laughed quietly. "So that's your motivation, is it? Fight for the pint?"

  "No," Witch replied indignantly, missing the humour. "It's just the little things that bring all this shit home. You look out there and you can almost believe everything's the same as it always was. But it's right on the brink of going belly-up. How long do you think it's got?"

  Church shrugged. "Depends how soon the Fomorii and the Tuatha De Danann start flexing their muscles and really screwing things up. Maybe they'll leave us alone enough to carry on with some kind of normality." Even to himself, he didn't sound very convincing.

  There was a long pause while they both sipped their beer and then Veitch said, "You know what those spooks said. About one of us being a snake in the grass. It isn't me, you know." He looked at Church uncomfortably. "Because with my past record, I know that's what everyone's going to be thinking."

  "I don't think that's true, Ryan."

  "Don't get me wrong, I don't blame them. Everything I've ever done points in that direction. I'm just saying. It's not me." His gaze shifted away as he asked, "Do you believe me? It's important that you believe me. The others, I don't-" He held back from whatever he was about to say.

  Church thought for a moment, then replied, "I believe you."

  Veitch's shoulders relaxed and he couldn't restrain a small, relieved smile which crept around the lip of his glass. He finished the lager with a long draught. "All right, then. Who do you think it is?"

  "It's hard to believe any of us could be some kind of traitor. I think I'm a pretty good judge of human nature and I don't see anything that makes me even slightly suspicious."

  "The old hippie sold us down the river once."

  "But that wasn't his doing. Anyway, that's been sorted out. Once the parasite was removed from his head he was back to normal."

  Veitch leaned back in his seat and rested one foot on a stool. "You reckon they were making it up then?"

  "Not making it up exactly. It seems to me that whenever any informat
ion comes over from some supernatural source, it's never quite how you think it is. They're saying one thing, you hear another. I think they do it on purpose, another power thing," he added with weary exasperation.

  "Well, I'm going to be watching everyone very carefully."

  "That's what I'm worried about. I don't want paranoia screwing things up from within. There's enough of a threat outside."

  An old man with a spine curved by the years and a face that was little more than skin on bone shuffled in and cast a curious glance in their direction before making his way to the bar. He was wearing a checked, flat cap and a long brown overcoat, despite the warmth of the day. Pint in hand, he headed towards a seat in a shadowy corner, then seemed to think twice and moved over to the table next to them.

  "Mind if I sit here?" His accent had the gentle, lilting quality of the Highlands, his voice steady, despite his appearance. Once he'd settled, he glanced at them with jovial slyness. "Out-of-towners?"

  "We're travelling down to Edinburgh," Church said noncommittally.

  "On holiday?"

  "Something like that."

  The old man sipped his beer thoughtfully. "You wouldn't happen to know what's going on in the world, would you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "With the papers all printing junk and the TV and the radio playing the same old rubbish from the Government, you can't get any news worth hearing. It's got to be something bad to shut down the TV. We always get lots of tourists travelling through here from the cities, but there's been nary a soul over the last few days. So what have you seen?"

  Church wondered how he could begin to explain to the man what was happening; wondered if he should. Veitch interjected before he could reply, "All seems pretty normal to me, mate."

  "Aye, that's what everyone round here is saying. Oh, there was a bit of panic when those Government messages started repeating, but once the police went round calming everyone down and we all saw it wasn't the end of the world, everyone carried on as normal." He chuckled. "What are we going to do with us, eh?"