World's end taom-1

by Mark Chadbourn

  Shavi found a clearing in the most thickly wooded area and stripped off his clothes, shivering from the chill on his skin. For twenty minutes he worked through his t'ai chi routine to clear his mind and then followed it with twenty minutes of yoga, by which time the sun was beginning to break through the branches. His studies had showed him that ritual and drugs made his abilities considerably more effective, and he had worked hard to develop a shamanistic framework to enable them.

  With his mind wiped free of thoughts, his breathing regulated, he stood and raised his arms to the coming sun; the heat from the first rays licked over him in greeting. He slipped the Mexican mushroom onto his tongue, feeling the bitter taste spread, and then chewed slowly. When he finally swallowed, he lowered himself slowly and took up the full lotus, closing his eyes so the only sensations were the sun on his feet and the gentle breeze breathing on his naked skin.

  "Come to me, spirits," he whispered. "Show me the path."

  Ruth was already up cooking breakfast when Laura emerged from the tent, bleary-eyed and puffy-faced. "Stay up late?" Ruth asked as she flipped the sizzling bacon in the pan.

  "No," Laura lied, slipping on her sunglasses in the bright morning light. "I'm just not a morning person like you, Miss Perky."

  Ruth served up a mug of tea which Laura took with a nod and then proceeded to sip halfheartedly.

  "Shavi must have been up early," Ruth continued; Laura grunted noncommittally. Ruth carried on serving up her breakfast, then suddenly threw the plastic plate down in irritation. "I don't know how much longer we can carry on doing this!"

  Laura looked up in surprise at the outburst. "What do you mean?"

  "Church could be dead! Time is running out! And we're just sitting here!"

  "Okay, don't blow a gasket." Laura took another sip of her tea, then added, "Shavi's going to try something."

  "What?"

  Laura shrugged. "He reckons he can do stuff. You know, spooky stuff. When the world changed, he got super-charged … seeing things, hearing things. He's trying to find a way we can carry on without Church and his little blue lamp."

  "You seem to know a lot about him and what he's thinking," Ruth said suspiciously.

  "That's what talking to a person gets you. You should try it sometime."

  Ruth picked up her plate and took out her frustration on her bacon and beans. She had just decided to have another go at Laura when Shavi emerged from the trees looking tired and haggard. He flopped down next to them, rolled on his back and closed his eyes.

  "That's what comes of taking exercise before breakfast," Laura said.

  "There is something here, in Glastonbury," Shavi muttered.

  "What do you mean?" Ruth asked.

  "One of the talismans. The energy here is so vital it acts as an ultimate defence. None of the dark creatures can enter the Isle of Avalon, so it was the perfect place to locate one of the most powerful objects."

  "Where is it?" Ruth felt a sudden surge of hope that they weren't as powerless as she'd feared.

  "I do not … It would not …" Shavi's eyes suddenly rolled up until all they could see were the whites, and for an instant they thought he was going to have a fit. In his head he flashed back to the ritual in the trees, the moment of awe and terror when the air appeared to fold in on itself and the amorphous cloud which seemed to contain both eyes and teeth suddenly manifested. Somehow he dragged himself back and focused on Ruth's concerned face. "The abbey," he croaked. "There is a sign in the abbey. `Where feet in ancient times walked,' it said." He closed his eyes and rested as best he could.

  By midmorning Shavi had recovered enough to walk with Ruth and Laura into town. The abbey lay just off Magdalene Street, its ruined stone lying at peace amidst acres of well-tended lawns in a tranquil setting that was at odds with its location so near to the bustle of the shops. Despite the bare bones of its once powerful form, it was still easy to see how it had once been the greatest monastic foundation in all of Britain, second only in wealth and size to Westminster. Pilgrims still wandered beatifically along its winding paths as they had done since the Middle Ages, when it had been one of the most important shrines in Europe; even, some said, on a par with Rome itself.

  The sun was bright and hot, but a cool breeze made their wanderings easy; the birdsong within the high walls drowned out the traffic beyond.

  "It's so peaceful here," Ruth remarked as she stood in what had been the nave and looked towards the choir. "No, more than that," she added thoughtfully. "It's spiritual."

  "You notice that too?" Shavi replied. "I wondered if it was a by-product of this new age which seems, to me, to be an age of the spirit after one of materialism. Can we now feel the energy of sacred sites, the cumulative outpourings of generations of the faithful? Or was it always like this?"

  "Perhaps it was like this, just muted." Ruth ignored Laura, who was faintly but obviously sneering at their intellectualising. "You know, some of the things that have come with the change have actually been good. Perhaps this whole new age isn't as bad as it's made out to be," she continued.

  "Yeah, right," Laura said, wandering away from them. "Tell that to the Wild Hunt."

  While Shavi and Ruth mulled over the abbey's uncommon atmosphere, Laura picked her way amongst the stonework until she discovered a sign which made her call the others. It said:

  Site of King Arthur's Tomb. In the year 1191 the bodies of King Arthur and his queen were said to have been found on the south side of the Lady Chapel. On 10th April 1278 their remains were removed in the presence of King Edward I and Queen Eleanor to a black marble tomb on this site. This tomb survived until the dissolution of the abbey in 1539.

  "I thought he was just made up," Laura said.

  "He was," Ruth agreed. "A conglomeration of old heroes that a succession of writers have used to create this romantic myth."

  "Some say," Shavi added, "the monks invented this because it would bring in some funds at a time when they were particularly hard-pressed."

  "I've always said you can't trust the religious," Laura sniffed, before turning away again.

  But Ruth felt a strange frisson tingle along her spine. She recalled Tom talking about the sleeping king who needed to be awakened; the king who, in legend, had been Arthur.

  Shavi noticed her expression. "What is wrong?"

  "It's nothing," she said, before adding, "Coincidences always spook me. I'm starting to see strange connections in all this, recurring themes about legends and religions, Celts and Christianity. But I can't quite fit it all together."

  "These things happen in the subconscious," Shavi advised. "Let it come naturally."

  Taking his own advice, he led her among the ruins, hoping inspiration would come to illuminate the cryptic hints he had received in the ritual; as they walked, they mused over the words.

  "It reminds me of a line from Jerusalem,"' Ruth noted. "`And did those feet in ancient times …

  "And that, of course, is tied in to Glastonbury," Shavi said. "It relates to the legend of the young Jesus, who is supposed to have come here to Glastonbury with his uncle Joseph of Arimathea. The stories say they built the first Christian church out of wattle and daub, somewhere in the abbey's grounds, I think. After Jesus was crucified, Joseph gave up his tomb to house the body. It is said he took the Grail which caught some of Christ's blood at the crucifixion and brought it here where he buried it, possibly on Chalice Hill. According to legend, that is."

  "`Folklore is the secret history,"' Ruth muttered distractedly.

  "What is that?"

  "Something Tom said. That myths, legends and folklore reflected what really happened, although not accurately, or as metaphors. And of course the Grail is part of the Arthurian tales." She felt oddly uneasy. "What does it mean? Anything?"

  Before he could answer, Laura ambled over lazily. "Before you two burst your brains with all that heavy thinking, you should see this." She took them to a wooden cover in the ground in what had been the north transept. Underneath we
re perfectly preserved mediaeval floor tiles still in situ where they had been unearthed by archaeologists. "This is `where feet in ancient times walked,' right?"

  Shavi smiled at the difference in their approach, then ducked down to examine the tiles. Although they had faded with time and the pressure of numerous soles, the intricate design was still clear and the colours shone, but there seemed nothing out of the ordinary.

  Ruth knelt down next to Shavi. "Perhaps there's something hidden in the pattern."

  "Or perhaps it's nothing to do with this at all," Laura added. "Why don't we talk about needles and haystacks instead."

  For the next fifteen minutes they looked at the tiles from every angle, so close their noses were almost brushing the surface, then far away, much to the irritation of the tourists who jostled to see. Eventually Laura wandered off in boredom to throw stones at the fish in the abbey pool while Shavi and Ruth lay on their backs on the grass, desperately trying to solve the conundrum.

  "We must be looking in the wrong place," Ruth said.

  Shavi disagreed. "I feel instinctively that this is it. We simply need to look at it in the correct way."

  "But can you trust the information you were given?"

  "According to tradition, sometimes the spirits lie, dissemble, obscure the truth. Again, I intuitively believe that it was the correct guidance. The problem lies with us and our vision."

  "Okay," Ruth sighed, "lateral thinking time."

  As they lay in silence, Ruth's mind gradually turned to her surroundings. Even in ruins there was a majesty to the abbey, the cumulative power of centuries of faith and worship; she felt dwarfed in its presence, and at the same time, adrift in her inability to feel what generations had obviously found so comforting.

  "I wish I had something to believe in," she said, almost to herself.

  "You are not alone." Shavi's voice floated to her dreamily. "That is the only true quest that we all find ourselves on."

  "When my father died I wished … I wished like a child … that there was a God to give some reason to his passing. And at the same time I hated myself for being so weak that I needed a crutch to help me through life. It's all so pointless." There was a note of self-loathing in her voice. She looked over at him. "What is your religion, anyway?"

  There was a faint smile on his lips. "My religion? Spirituality. A belief that there are foundations and walls and a roof encapsulating this life of ours. A belief in a reason. In a force for overwhelming good that all religions touch."

  "Why should there be some higher power? There's no sign when you look around. Just people fooling themselves."

  "It is important to-" He paused, then sat up suddenly and stared at the tiles. "To ignore the noise of everyday life and focus on the signal that lies behind it." He scrambled on his hands and knees to the tiles excitedly.

  "What is it? What have you thought of?"

  Ruth crawled next to him; she still couldn't see anything in the patterns. Shavi leaned forward and gently traced his finger on the glass that covered the tiles. "Here," he said triumphantly.

  "I can't see anything," she said in frustration.

  "It is all a matter of perspective. Look past the colour and design. Look past all the noise to find the signal. It is a lesson. For life."

  Ruth followed the tracing of his finger. There was a faint indentation in the baked clay of the tile, partially obscured by the design painted over it. It was an arrow. They both looked up to follow its direction. It pointed straight at the remains of the wall in the choir and through it to the tor rising high up above the town with the remaining tower of St. Michael's Chapel perched on top.

  "The tor," she said. "Of course. With all the legends tied to it, it had to be the key."

  "Not just the tor," Shavi corrected. "The wall too. Both of them."

  "What do you mean?"

  He wandered forward, his eyes fixed on the crumbling stonework. "So much of this new age seems to be about duality-the light and the dark, the two forces opposing each other. And there have been dual meanings so far today. The link to `Jerusalem,' Joseph and the Grail and to the tiles. Now this dual meaningthe wall and the tor. It makes sense."

  "What can the wall have to do with it?" Then she realised what he had said. "You think this is about the Grail!"

  "I do not know." He turned and smiled so she wouldn't be offended by his words. "Let me concentrate."

  She backed away and sat down; Laura joined her a moment later. After she had watched Shavi staring up at the stonework for five minutes, she said, "He's done too many drugs, hasn't he?"

  "He's a smart guy," Ruth replied. "I wish he'd been with us from the start."

  "Don't tell me you've got damp knickers for him as well."

  "I admire him, that's all," Ruth said tartly. "And what do you mean as well?"

  Laura smiled and looked away, her sunglasses somehow adding to her supercilious expression. Ruth bit her tongue and simmered silently.

  Half an hour later he called them over excitedly. "Look! The sun is in the right position now. You can see it clearly."

  "Yeah, right," Laura said sarcastically. It says, `Shavi, you are a big dickhead.'

  "No, he's right," Ruth corrected, adding in as superior manner as she could muster, "You have to look for the signal, not the noise, Laura."

  "Do not look at the stonework," Shavi explained. "Look at the shadows cast by the lumps and indentations in the stone."

  And then, when they squinted and focused, they could both see exactly what he meant: the shadows spelled out words in thin, spidery writing that would not have been visible to the casual observer, nor from any other perspective. Some of it, however, seemed to be missing where the wall had crumbled.

  "Aqua something," Ruth said.

  "Aqua fortis," Laura corrected sharply. "That's nitric acid."

  "Nitric acid?" Ruth asked.

  "I know my chemistry-"

  "I do not think that is the context here," Shavi corrected gently. "The literal translation is something like strong water."

  "That's right," Ruth said.

  "Oh, yeah, that really makes sense," Laura huffed.

  They continued to study the wall intently and eventually they decided the rest of the remaining message read sic itur ad astra.

  "Astra is `stars,"' Ruth said. "I studied Latin before I did my law degree, but I can't remember much …" She paused thoughtfully. "Something like `such is the way to the stars.' That's it."

  "It doesn't make much sense without the rest of the message," Laura complained.

  "There doesn't seem to be a great deal missing," Shavi said.

  "Perhaps, then," Ruth said quietly, "we just have to make a leap of faith."

  The wind somehow seemed to find its way through their jackets and shirts as Church, Witch and Tom worked their way across the moor. Although the sky regularly threatened rain, the gale managed to keep the clouds scudding along so that patches of blue and bursts of sunshine occasionally broke through. Away from the main road however, the atmosphere became almost as bleak as the landscape. Strange shapes moved ominously across the scrubland in the distance and every now and then flocks of birds would soar up into the sky, suddenly disturbed by something none of them could see. The sense of threat was palpable and growing.

  "It's getting worse, isn't it?" Church said, shielding his eyes to peer at the horizon.

  Tom nodded. "These places where man has a feeble hold were always going to be the first to go. The old things can re-establish themselves without much confrontation. I think it will not be long before they move in towards the centres of population."

  "And then the shit really hits the fan," Veitch said morosely.

  In the late afternoon, they wearily mounted a ridge to look down on a wide expanse of water, grey and somehow threatening in its isolation. The wind howled around them as they moved down the slope; even when it dropped there was still the eerie sound of waves rippling across the lake, giving the uneasy sensation that somethin
g was emerging from the depths. Church felt his fear grow as they neared; he could tell from Tom's face that he felt it too.

  "It's just the spooky atmosphere," Church said hopefully.

  Tom's face remained dark and troubled. "I would have thought by now you would have learned to trust your instincts. In this new age, what you sense is as important as what you see." He stretched out his arm, bringing them up sharply.

  Veitch squinted at the murky surface of the water. "What's that moving? Is it the shadows of clouds? Or is there something in there?"

  "This is Dozmary Pool, a place of legend." Tom said. "Local stories claim it is the lake where Sir Bedivere threw Excalibur after Arthur's death. A hand rose from the water to pluck the sword and take it down beneath the waves."

  Church tried to read his face. "None of that Arthurian stuff is true," he ventured.

  "Not literally, no. But all legends reflect some aspect of a greater truth. I told you before-lakes and hills are liminal zones, the boundaries between this world and the place where the old races went after they retreated from the land. There are doors in all of them. Some of them have remained closed tight down the years. But not here."

  He wouldn't venture any closer to the lakeshore, so they took a long, circuitous journey along the ridge, their eyes constantly drawn to the lapping waves. It wasn't until the lake had long disappeared from view that the sense of brooding and menace slowly started to fade.

  A mile and a half further down a tiny, winding lane they reached the village of Bolventor, little more than a small group of houses huddling together for shelter. And just beyond it was Jamaica Inn, its lamps already burning in the growing gloom. It had been heavily commercialised since the days when Daphne du Maurier had used its heritage of smugglers and violence as the basis for her story, yet it still retained an atmosphere that transcended the trappings of the late twentieth century. History lived on in its aged timbers, brooding slate and heavy stone walls which kept out the harsh Bodmin weather. Exhausted, and with little sign of welcome in the surrounding moorland, they were drawn to its cheer and decided to take a room for the night. As they crossed the cobbled yard where stagecoaches once clattered and heard the inn-sign creaking in the breeze, Church felt he had been flung back hundreds of years. A few months earlier, it would have been romantic; now it seemed like a warning of what lay ahead.