"There's been some trouble up there, hasn't there?"
A rawness sprang to Will's face and he shifted uncomfortably; he didn't appear to want to talk about that. "They've closed off part of the city. Terrible business. Terrible. But that's nothing new today, is it? Have you heard any news about what's happening?"
"Only what we've seen with our own eyes." Tom was enjoying the warmth of the heater on his feet.
"They say the Government is on the verge of giving up the ghost. Apparently they've set up a coalition, a Government of National Purpose. As if that will do any good. They're all politicians, aren't they?"
"Anybody who seeks out power should never be allowed to have it," Tom agreed.
"I don't think they've any idea what's going on at all."
"Does anybody? Do you?" Tom watched him curiously. He seemed a little naive and idealistic, like many younger clerics.
"Nobody knows the details, but we have all seen what we've seen. We know science is on the back foot. What should we call it-the supernatural, the strange, the wondrous? Those who believed in that kind of thing always struggled to identify it on the periphery of life. Now it's right there at the heart."
"I would suppose," Tom noted, "that you were one of those believers. Being a clergyman and all."
Will grew quiet, his face lost in the shadows between street lights. After a moment's contemplation he said, "Actually, that's not true. I considered myself one of the new breed. You know, trendy, the papers called us, because we had raves, flashing lights and dry ice instead of hymns. No time for the miracles and magic of the Bible. There was no truth in it, just a true way of living, little stories to teach decency."
In the back, Veitch began to doze. After the exertion of the last few weeks, the warmth, the rhythm of the wipers and the hiss of the wheels created a soothing atmosphere that made his limbs leaden. Will's voice was calming too; he began to drift in and out of the conversation.
"And now you think differently?"
"You're damned right." He paused. "Must watch my cursing these days. My basic belief before was: God is a supernatural entity. If there's no evidence of the supernatural-and I've never seen any-how could there be a God, a virgin birth, even an Ascension? But I carried on because the Church still did good, important work. And then the miracles happened. All over the country-lame people walking, blind people seeing, the dead reviving. All the cliched stuff. But this time there was evidence." He hammered the steering wheel passionately to emphasise his words. "There was a meeting in London. The General Synod was discussing all the monumental events that have been happening all over. I was still quite cynical until I heard all the personal testimonies, from every single part of the country."
"And you think these are some signs from your God?" Tom did little to hide the faint contempt in his voice.
"I honestly don't know. I'd like to think that. Some of my colleagues think the opposite. They say everything they've seen in the world proves there can't be a God-not our God, anyway. How can miracles be special… be miracles… if they're happening randomly every day? It's magic, they say, not God's work. And the reports presented at the meeting of-" he eyed Tom unsurely powerful beings-"
"Not God's creatures," Tom said.
"So they say."
"And you think differently?"
"Until I've seen them with my own eyes… If you believe God created the universe and everything in it, then he could have created the most bizarre, alien beings. Who are we to begin to wonder at His reason for putting them here? The scheme is too big, our perspective too small." He glanced at Tom. "I take it from your words you don't believe in God."
Tom grunted. "I believe in a higher power. Call it God if you will. The common belief is that people who have seen great suffering cannot believe in God, for how could God allow such things to exist? That is shallow and misguided. Only people who have seen great suffering can know without a doubt that God truly exists."
The vicar's brow furrowed. "How can you say that?"
"Work it out for yourself. That's the only way true wisdom comes." Tom watched the dark hedges and closed-off villages flash by.
Will didn't seem offended by Tom's brusque manner. "All I can tell you is what this means for me. Two days ago science told me there was no place for miracles. Now we live in this world where wonders are commonplace. And they may not be caused by nzy God, as you put it, but the fact that they are happening means that for me miracles are now truly possible. Anything is possible. And once I realised that, I just had to rush back to my church to tell everyone about it."
"Well, isn't that a conversion on the Road to Damascus," Tom said drily.
"I can understand your cynicism, I really can," Will stressed. "But despite all the misery that's been caused-and I accept there's been a lot-on a spiritual level, there's also so much more hope. All the things the Bible teaches aren't abstract concepts any more. Life has just become so much more, I don't know, vital. How can you worry about making more money or seeking out power when all this is happening? It focuses the mind on the truly important things."
They continued northwards, the rain finally drifting away to leave a cloudy, warm night. The conversation was punctuated by long periods of silence when they each wrestled with their own thoughts, but that was often too uncomfortable and they would be forced to return to discussing the state of the country and how much life had changed. Veitch was oblivious to it all as he slept soundly, stretched out across the back seat.
As the midnight hour passed and Newcastle drew nearer, the air being sucked in by the heater gained an unpleasant tang of chemicals and burning, Tom glanced over at Will; the vicar's face, oddly, seemed to have lost some of its youthfulness and his expression had grown darker.
"How bad is it back at home?" Tom asked.
A pause. "Very bad."
"You're aiming to pass on some of that hope you feel."
He nodded. "Something magical. The Church lost touch with that, with the reason why people needed it. There's been too much looking inward, too much rationalising and reasoning and not enough heart. Not enough magic."
The sky overhead was briefly lit up, as if it were daylight.
"Good Lord." Will leaned over the wheel to peer up into the sky. "Was that a flare?"
They travelled on for another five minutes without any further disturbance, but then something else caught Will's eye and he slowed the car down. "Look at that." There was awe in his hushed voice.
Lights were moving in complex patterns across the sky. Some were balls, glowing red or white, others cylinders that seemed to have all the colours of the rainbow on them as they rotated slowly.
"UFOs," Will noted.
"That's what they used to call them. Keep going, they won't disturb you."
Will glanced sharply at Tom. "You're saying they're alive? They're just lights."
"Just lights? There is no just anything in this world."
"Then what?" He looked back up to the heavens, slowing the car even further.
"Spirit forms, I suppose you would call them. Sentient beings that reflect what is taking place in our heads."
"How do you know this?"
"I've seen them before."
"They look like cherubs. Or angels." Will chewed on a knuckle excitedly. "Perhaps that's what they are. If they were seen in ancient times…" He paused, holding his head to one side. "I can feel something. Can you feel something?" Will didn't seem to notice Tom's lack of a reply. "It fills me with a sense of wellbeing. Almost of transcendence."
"That's part of their nature too."
A tear trickled from the corner of Will's eye. "You say they're, what, spirit forms? But if I say they're angels, who's to say which of us is right?"
Tom shrugged disinterestedly.
"It's all a matter of perspective." He pulled the car over to the side of the road, transfixed. The lights continued to bob and weave across the sky, their flares lighting the clouds like fireworks. Then, as Will watched intently,
their movement ground to a halt. There was a brief period when they hung suspended in the heavens, and then gradually they shifted in unison towards some kind of alignment. A few seconds later they formed a blazing cross of many colours, hanging in the eastern sky.
Will caught a sob in his throat, but the tears streamed down his cheeks. "I've been so wrong."
The lights stayed that way for a long moment, and then the cross slowly broke up and they drifted away to lose themselves among the billowing clouds. Will chewed on the back of his hand; he appeared to be shaking all over.
Tom winced, then sighed, unsure quite how to say what he felt. "It might-"
"I know what you're going to say. It might not be what I think. I might be putting my own interpretation on it. But can't you see-that doesn't matter! It's a sign of something bigger. That's all we really need."
He sat for a while with his head resting on the steering wheel. When he did finally look up, he was transformed, beaming and optimistic. Seeing him, Tom couldn't help but think that perhaps he was right.
Will left them on the outskirts of Newcastle, where Tom caught up on his sleep in a back garden shed. The next morning they picked up a succession of lifts that took them north. They crossed Hadrian's Wall without incident and made better going across the Scottish Lowlands, with several other lifts taking them north of Stirling. They were dogged by repeated technology failures on the outskirts of Perth and, in frustration, decided to proceed on foot. Although it was rough going as they moved into the foothills of the Cairngorms, they knew it was also the best option for safety. With only the A9 as the main route northwards, their chance of discovery would increase tenfold in a vehicle.
The pines in the Forest of Atholl were cool and fragrant and filled with game birds. Veitch even brought down a deer with his crossbow and that night they enjoyed a royal feast, with enough meat left over to last them days. Beyond the trees they headed across the deserted countryside towards Ben Macdui, which dominated the skyline, rugged and brown against the blue sky. Crystalclear springs plummeting down from the peaks provided them with a plentiful supply of refreshing water and away from the pollution the clear air was invigorating; they both felt much better for it.
Their relationship passed through raucous humour, anger and mild bick ering, often in the course of a single hour. Veitch couldn't work Tom out at all; he got lost in the hidden depths of his companion, found himself unable to navigate the subtleties of his intellect and moods. But he couldn't shake the feeling that the stone-faced, grey-haired man was a fraud, trading on his reputation as some hero of myth. Tom seemed to have a great deal of knowledge about every subject, but he rarely volunteered it when it was needed, which was anathema to Veitch, who believed at all times in acting quickly and decisively.
With only twelve days remaining, they had been through a period of uncomfortable silence brought on by an argument over which was the quickest route to take across the hills. The uneasy atmosphere dissipated sharply when Veitch caught sight of a swathe of constant motion, passing across the lower reaches of the mountain range far below them. At first glance it appeared as if the land itself were fluid, rippling and changing in a dark green wave moving slowly across the landscape.
"What is that?" He tried to pick out detail from the glorious sweep of the countryside.
"Look." Tom pointed to what appeared to be a tiny figure moving ahead of the wave.
Veitch continued to stare until he realised what was happening: the wave was actually vegetation; trees were sprouting from the ground and shooting up to full maturity in a matter of minutes, and the uncanny effect seemed to be following the tiny figure.
"The Welsh knew her as Ceridwen," Tom said.
Witch glanced at him disbelievingly. "How can you tell that from here?"
"My vision is better than yours." Tom made no effort to convince Veitch. "Better than any human's."
"Okay, what's she doing then?"
"She's one of the Golden Ones-she comes from the family of Cernunnos. What is she doing? It looks to me like she's returning the primaeval forest to the Highlands, the way it used to be before all the trees were cleared for agriculture and industry."
"What for?"
"To her branch of the Golden Ones, nature is very special, and the trees and their living spirits are the best representation of that. She's bringing magic back to the land in a way that people will truly be able to appreciate. For wherever trees grow, magic thrives."
Veitch dropped to his haunches, balancing himself with the tips of his fingers. He caught a glimpse of black hair, flowing like oil, and what appeared to be a cape swirling behind Ceridwen, sometimes the colour of sapphires, then emeralds. "I don't get it. If they're supposed to be the enemy, how come they're looking after the land? I thought that was our job."
Tom shrugged. "On most levels they're higher beings. They understand the things we take for granted."
The Rhymer wandered off, but Veitch stayed watching the verdant band spread back and forth across the desolate landscape. It filled him with a tremendous sense of well-being that he couldn't quite explain, and when he took his leave five minutes later, he did so reluctantly.
They spent half an hour looking for a place sheltered enough to make camp in the bleak uplands and by that time twilight had turned to near dark. Despite the season, the wind had turned bitter again and there was a hint of icy rain in the air.
"I don't like this," Veitch said as he tramped breathlessly up an incline.
Tom grunted; he was in one of his moods where conversation was a burden.
"The dark, out here in the country." Veitch knew he was talking as much for himself, but it made him feel a little more easy. "I'm a city boy. It never gets dark in the city, even when it's night. You've got other things to worry about there, but at least they're always easy to see." He looked up. "The moon's full. It'd give us more light if not for the bleedin' clouds."
"You're not afraid of a few shadows, are you?" Tom snapped. His brogue had grown a little thicker now he was back in his homeland again.
"Ah, fuck off."
"City boys. You think you're so hard," Tom taunted.
Witch's anger flared white and hot for an instant; sometimes he was afraid of it and the way it seemed to take him over completely. He wondered, when he was in its grip, what he was really capable of. Before he could respond with a comment that would bring about another raging argument, he glimpsed a light high and away to his right that was quickly lost behind an outcropping. He pulled back until he saw it again.
"There's a place up there." The light seemed more than welcoming in the sea of darkness. "Maybe they'll let us bunk down for the night."
Tom wavered for a moment, but the prospect of a night with a roof over his head seemed too attractive. He pushed past Veitch and marched briskly towards the white glow.
It was a crofter's cottage, built out of stone, but still looking as if it had been hammered by the elements almost to the point of submission. Smoke curled out of the chimney to hang briefly and fragrantly in the air; it smelled of peat or some wood they couldn't quite identify. The ghostly outlines of prone sheep glowed faintly on the hillside all around. They both watched the place for a few moments while they weighed up any potential dangers, then, finding none apparent, Tom strode up to knock on the door.
There was a brief period of quiet during which they guessed the occupant was shocked that someone had come calling to such an out-of-the-way place. Then heavy footsteps approached. "Who is it?" a deep voice said in a hesitant Highlands accent.
"We were out walking. There looks to be a storm blowing up," Tom said politely. "Do you think you could give us shelter for the night? We-"
"No. Be off with you." There was a sharp snap in the voice that could have been anger or fear.
"Miserable bastard," Veitch muttered. "Come on, I thought I saw somewhere to make camp just over there. He's probably in-bred anyway."
Before they could move away another, unidentifiable, vo
ice rose up from somewhere at the back of the house. They heard the man move a few steps away from the door and a brief, barely audible argument ensued. A few seconds later the door was jerked open so sharply they both started.
A man in his late forties with dark, unwelcoming eyes barked, "Get in. Quickly now!"
They jumped at his order and he slammed the door behind them, throwing a couple of bolts as if to emphasise his order. He was wearing a faded Miami Tshirt with old blue braces over the top holding up a pair of dirty grey, pinstriped suit trousers. His hair was curly black and grey, but his three-day stubble made him appear harsher than he might otherwise have been. He sized them up suspiciously, then beckoned them over to the fireside with a seemingly approving grunt. "Better get y'sen warmed up. It gets cold up here at night, even in summer."
He disappeared into another room and came back with a woman in her early twenties who had obviously been the source of the argument. Her face was bright and confident, as welcoming as the man was suspicious. Her hair was long and shiny-black, her eyes dark, and she was slim, in a clean white T-shirt and faded Levi's. There was something about her that reminded Veitch of Ruth, although her features had more of country stock in them.
"You'll have to forgive my dad. He doesn't know the meaning of hospitality." The father began to speak, but she silenced him with a flashing glare; a fiery temper clearly lay just beneath the surface. "I'm Anna. Dad here, he's James. Jim."
"Mr. McKendrick," the father mumbled in the background.
Tom and Veitch introduced themselves. "You've been having some trouble," Tom noted, slipping off his rucksack.
"Something's been worrying the sheep." Looking uncomfortable, McKendrick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Worrying? Savaging more like. Six dead in the last two nights. Eight gone last month."
"A wild dog," Tom suggested, not believing it for a minute.
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