The Bone House be-2

by Stephen Lawhead

  Ben ran downstairs, his feet clumping heavily on the wooden floorboards as he ran. Arthur followed, retrieving his own coat and hat on the way. Xian-Li was waiting for them in the yard, a bag of provisions in her hand. Arthur gave her a farewell kiss and pressed both her hands in his. “Never fear, I will take good care of him.”

  “Of course you will,” she said, forcing a smile.

  Daybreak was still some time off when the coach rolled out from their farm and into the gently folded hills and valleys of the Cotswolds. Their farm, on the edge of the village of Much Milford, was only a little way off the main thoroughfare linking the nearby towns and hamlets. Timothy, the farm manager, drove along the deep-rutted road, letting the horses trot along easily while keeping a sharp eye for any holes likely to break a wheel or an axle. Arthur opened the bag Xian-Li had prepared for them and passed his son a barley cake, which had been split and buttered. He took one for himself and leaned back in his seat.

  “Papa,” said little Benedict thoughtfully, “will we see God?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You said we will jump up beyond the clouds and stars to a new place,” he said, picking off a bit of his barley cake. He chewed for a moment and observed, “That is where God lives. Can we see him?”

  Arthur recalled the previous conversation with his son when he had just returned from one of his travels. Benedict, only four years old at the time, had asked where he had been, and Arthur had told him, in a lighthearted way, that he had been to a place beyond the clouds and stars. In his childish way, the boy considered this just one more way people travelled whenever they went on long trips to distant places.

  “Would it surprise you,” Arthur replied, “to know that God cannot be seen-even up among the stars?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he is a spirit, and spirits are invisible. No one can see God.”

  “Vicar de Gifftley does,” Ben pointed out. “He talks to God all the time.”

  “I do not doubt it,” allowed his father. “But even the vicar does not see God with his eyes.”

  “Vicar says that if you see Jesus, then you see God,” countered Ben. “Lots of people have seen Jesus.”

  “Well, yes, but that was a long time ago.” Arthur enjoyed these little talks, challenging, as they so often did, his own assumptions of the universe and its exceedingly odd mechanisms. “When we take a journey using the force lines we will see people from other times. The man we are going to visit-Anen, remember me telling about him?-he lived a very long time ago.”

  “Will we see him?”

  “Anen?”

  “No-I mean Jesus. Will we see Jesus?”

  “No, we won’t see him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because Jesus lived in another place and time from the one we are going to visit.”

  He watched his son puzzling over this and resisted the urge to say more. It had long been an ambition to find the line of force that might lead to the Holy Land in the time of Christ. He had yet to find it, but knew it was out there somewhere. The search went on, and Arthur contented himself with the thought that his relentless mapping of the cosmos would eventually yield the location. To this end, Arthur still faithfully recorded the coordinates of his travels on his skin through the tattoos he gathered and meticulously refined with every journey into the ether. He watched his son eating the barley cake. One day soon, he would share with Benedict the meaning of the strange runes that covered his torso, and how to read them-a secret known only to one other: his own dear wife, Xian-Li.

  “How long will it take?”

  “To go to Egypt?” guessed Arthur. “Not long. As I told you, it happens in the blink of an eye. It is travelling to the jumping-off place that takes all the time. The jumping-off place for this journey is very close to our farm.”

  “Black Mixen Tump,” offered Ben, stuffing the remainder of his barley cake into his mouth.

  “That is right.” Arthur scrutinised his son closely. “How do you know about that?”

  “I heard you and Mother talking,” Ben told him. “Can I have another barley cake?”

  “Later. Have a little cheese or an egg instead.” Arthur dug into the bag and brought out a lump of cheese wrapped in muslin and a clutch of eggs boiled in the shell. He offered an egg to his son and took one for himself. He tapped it on the window ledge of the carriage and began to peel it, tossing the shards out the window.

  They talked of what they would see in Egypt and how ley travellers were expected to comport themselves on their journeys. “We must always be respectful of the people we meet. It is their world, and we are guests. We never do anything to call unwanted attention to ourselves. We try to be good guests. We mind our manners.” He regarded the boy, willing him to understand. “Promise me you’ll always mind your manners, son.”

  “I promise, Papa.”

  “Good,” said Arthur. “Now look outside. You can see Black Mixen Tump from here.”

  The great hulking eminence of the Stone Age mound stood out as an ominous dark shadow. A hill in a landscape of hills, it was a place apart, sacred to the ancients who had built it. Early-morning mist wreathed the broad base and swirled up along the winding trail leading up the steep slope to the strangely flattened top. The Three Trolls-the trio of great old oak trees guarding the top-stood out against the greying dawn sky. Black Mixen still kindled in Arthur a singular dread, in spite of his long familiarity with the place. What power the site contained, he hardly knew; but he suspected he had only skimmed the surface of its manifold energies.

  Timothy brought the coach to a halt on the west side of the mound and waited while his passengers climbed out. Then, handing down the leather satchel his employer always carried, he said, “I will wait until you have gone, sir. Just to make certain no one comes by-if you know what I mean.”

  “Thank you, Timothy,” replied Arthur. He reached out for Benedict’s hand. “Ready, son?”

  The boy pulled his hand away. “No.”

  “Now, son.”

  “I don’t want to go.” He crossed his arms over his chest, staring balefully at the great conical hump of Black Mixen rising before them.

  “Why?” said Arthur. “We’ve come all this way.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Nothing bad is going to happen,” Arthur assured him.

  “I’m afraid.”

  “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I don’t like the trolls.”

  “The trolls are trees-just ordinary trees. Now come along, and stop this foolishness at once.”

  “Excuse me interrupting, sir,” said Timothy, speaking up. He indicated the sky with a tilt of his head. “The sun is coming.”

  “We must go. It is time to be a brave boy,” Arthur said firmly. “Now, take my hand and come along. I will be right here beside you. There is nothing to fear.”

  The two travellers followed the serpentine trail to the summit, and Arthur quickly located the stone he had planted a few years ago to mark the location of the prime energy field. Taking his customary stance on the stone, he placed his son before him and said, “Put one hand to my belt.” The boy did as he was told and snaked his fingers around his father’s wide leather belt; with the other hand he held tight to his father’s free hand. “That’s right. Now, whatever happens, do not let go. Remember what I told you about the wind and rain?”

  “I remember-the wind will scream and the rain will sting. And I will feel a bump.”

  “A bump, yes. Who told you that?”

  “Mum said.”

  “She is right. You will probably feel a bump-like a little jump-but do not worry. You won’t fall. I will be there with you to catch you.”

  “And I won’t throw up.”

  “You might,” his father advised, slinging the satchel strap over his shoulder. “But if you do, it is nothing to worry about. Just go ahead and throw up, and you will feel better.”

  Clasping his son’s hand ti
ghtly, Arthur raised his arm in the air above his head. He felt the familiar shimmer of the force field on his skin; the hair on his arms and on the back of his neck stood up. The air crackled with the presage of lightning, and a heavy mist descended around them. The wind howled down as if descending from distant, blizzard-scoured heights. “Hold on!” he cried, shouting into the whirling maelstrom of forces writhing around them. He tightened his grip on the boy’s hand. “Ready! Here we go!”

  The familiar English hilltop dimmed, and the rain flew sideways in stinging torrents. Arthur felt his feet leave the marking stone, but only for an instant-the lurch between steps on uneven ground-and the solid ground of a new land rose beneath them.

  It was done.

  The wail of the wind died away, and the rain ceased abruptly. The mist cleared. The hill was gone, the Trolls, the grey English sky-all replaced by the soft warmth and gleaming bright blues and golds of a desert morning. They were standing in the centre of an avenue lined with crouching sphinxes. Benedict, his eyes wide, stared at the long double row of statues and the empty white desert and rock-bare hills beyond.

  He gave a cry of delight and darted forward, remembered himself, and halted. Far from being made sick by the experience, the boy positively enjoyed the wild, disorienting leap across the dimensional divide. Here was something new in Arthur’s experience; perhaps the very young did not experience the effects of what was for older folks a most uncomfortable transition. It had taken him a fair few journeys before he finally became inured to the more unpleasant sensations; the minor inconveniences of extreme temporal dislocation no longer bothered him.

  “Let’s do it again,” Ben chirped, his earlier anxiety entirely forgotten.

  “We will do it again, yes,” replied Arthur. “When it is time to go home. Just now we are going to visit Anen.”

  “Is this Egypt? It’s hot!”

  “It is very hot.” Arthur opened the satchel and pulled out two lightweight linen cloths. He wrapped one around his son’s head, and then fashioned a turban for himself. “There. That’s better.” He held out his hand. “Come along. We should be on our way before it gets even hotter. When we get there Anen will have a cool drink for us.”

  CHAPTER 16

  In Which Ruffled Feathers Are Smoothed

  Engelbert folded the edge of his apron over the hot baking tray and lifted a fresh batch of muffins from the oven. He turned and closed the oven door with the heel of his shoe-a move both deft and quaint, and which never failed to amuse Wilhelmina. He removed his soft hat and wiped his face with the back of his hand and, glancing up, noticed her watching him.

  Etzel smiled, his plump cherubic face flushed from the heat. “These are the best yet, Liebste,” he said, placing the tray on the table. “Our people are going to love them.” He rarely called them customers anymore; he spoke of the Grand Imperial clientele as our people -as if they were tribesmen or family members.

  “The muffins smell wonderful,” she assured him. “You have mastered the recipe in no time at all.”

  “Jawhohl! ” he agreed, his broad, good-natured face alight. “You have good ideas, Mina.”

  Introducing muffins to seventeenth-century Prague was Wilhelmina’s idea, that was true; but the design of the baking trays and the execution of the recipe were all due to Engelbert’s singular expertise. Since opening the coffeehouse, the German baker had gone from strength to strength as his confidence rose, and his skill was rewarded by the success. The shop enjoyed a steady and lucrative trade-enough to keep eight helpers busy: three servers dressed in green livery; two additional bakers to help with roasting the beans, mixing dough, and preparing pastry fillings; a general helper to prepare fuel, feed the ovens, and run errands; a dishwasher; and a cleaner. From the moment the shutters opened at dawn until they closed again at dusk, the Grand Imperial Kaffeehaus was heaving with activity.

  Wilhelmina had taken the position of chief overseer of the enterprise, maintaining a gentle but firm control over the business. But she also indulged her latest, and necessarily secret, passion: ley exploring. Since making that first successful journey, she had attempted three more using her copy of Burleigh’s device, discovering two new leys in the process: one leading to an arid desert of red earth and towering rocks and cacti, and one to a bleak steppe, treeless and windswept beneath low grey skies. She had also made a second trip using the ley she had discovered previously, which led to that massive limestone gorge. Though she still could not yet fit a name to that destination, nor a time, she had nevertheless begun to nurture a growing insight into ley travel in general, as well as finer points such as how individual lines might be manipulated. For, while she was content with merely mapping the leys and trying to determine how to calibrate her crossings, Wilhelmina had begun to wonder about the incredible possibilities of her new avocation-as well as the inherent implications and problems. For example, what would happen if she attempted a “double cross”-using two ley lines in two separate dimensions to travel to a third? She had no idea, but was intrigued by the possibility nonetheless. Once she felt secure in using the leys she knew, she would push the boat out a little, so to speak, with her experiments.

  Very occasionally she thought about returning to her home in London-if only to reassure anyone who might be concerned about her disappearance, and to wrap up her affairs. However, that would obviously mean returning to the ley that had brought her to this dimension, and that was several long days’ journey away from Prague. When it came down to it, the prospect always seemed like a huge bother for such a piddling payoff. Then, too, she was not at all certain she could return to the same London she had left. What if she got the time horribly wrong? There was no guarantee she could even get back to the twenty-first century anyway.

  The plain truth was she missed nothing about London or her mundane, drudging life there-not when set against the possibility of roaming a multidimensional universe with its offer of infinite worlds awaiting her discovery. That being the case, she could effortlessly think up a thousand more exciting things than returning to her flat to examine the mound of junk mail piling up on the doormat.

  Chocolate, for one.

  Wilhelmina was ever mindful of the fact that she had, quite unwittingly, introduced coffee to Prague, and was now reaping enormous benefit from that happy accident. Not only was she half owner of the first coffee shop in Bohemia, she was also a partner in an increasingly successful shipping company that supplied her coffee beans. Lately she had begun to think of importing beans of another sort: cocoa. It was only a matter of persuading Herr Arnostovi, her principal partner, to expand their import business to other commodities-specifically sugar and cocoa beans-and if that likewise proved successful, her future would be secured. For if she could secure sufficient quantities of those two items, she could make chocolate, a luxury as yet unknown in this Europe. The main problem with the scheme was getting her hands on a ready supply of the raw materials, which meant forging a partnership with a Spanish shipping company. Tricky, but not impossible, and well worth attempting. When she considered the rewards that would flow from that revelatory introduction, even her most modestly placed estimate was well nigh astronomical.

  There was simply no telling how rich she could become from a venture like that. And once loosed from the constraints of having to work to earn a living, she would be free to travel and explore. Plus, of course, she would have chocolate.

  These thoughts were in her mind as she placed the fresh-baked muffins on a cooling rack. As she finished, she turned just at the moment that her accomplice entered the shop. The emperor’s assistant chief alchemist was wearing his customary green robe with purple stole and fox trim, and his hat shaped like a collapsed bag with a brim. He took a seat in his usual place-the farthest corner of the room near the Kachelofen -and folded his hands on the table. In a moment one of the serving girls hurried to take his order, and Wilhelmina, placing a fresh muffin on a plate, went to greet her friend.

  “Greetings, mein Herr,”
she said, perching on the edge of the chair next to him. “Here, I want you to try something.” She pushed the plate in front of him. “It is a new kind of pastry we are thinking of introducing-one that has never been seen before in Prague.”

  “ Gruss Gott, Fraulein Wilhelmina.” He smiled wanly at her, swiped off his hat, and dipped his head in a polite bow. “Very interesting,” he said, peering at the speckled little cake. He prodded one of the tiny black specks with a fingertip.

  “Those are poppy seeds,” she informed him. “They’re good. You’ll like them.”

  “I have no doubt whatsoever that it is very nice,” he said, looking at the plate doubtfully.

  “What is wrong, mein Fruend? Is something the matter at the palace?”

  “Oh, nothing of consequence,” he answered quickly. “I am very busy just now, and-” He hesitated.

  “And?” she prodded. “Go on, we are friends. You can tell me. What’s wrong?”

  “It is that man-that Englander!” he blurted, as if releasing a pressure valve.

  It took a moment for Wilhelmina to think whom he was talking about. “Lord Burleigh, you mean?” she guessed.

  “The English earl, ja. He is insufferable!”

  “No doubt,” conceded Wilhelmina mildly. “But why do you trouble about him?”

  “He has returned!”

  “Has he, indeed?”

  “ Ja, he has returned with even greater demands-impossible demands! That is bad enough, but he treats us with utmost disdain-as if we were mere slaves bound to do his bidding. The man is a tyrant and a bully. If he were to fall down a well I would not lift one finger to fling him a rope.”

  Wilhelmina gazed at her companion. Clearly, he was frustrated and angry. It was probably good to allow him to vent a little steam, and she was more than happy to assist the process. Anything she could learn about Burleigh and his dealings with the imperial court, she counted to her advantage.