The Master of Prophecy (The Sawyl Gwilym Chronicles Book 2)

by Benjamin Ford

  It occurred to Joyce that that particular spot of Wicca Hill was only visible from one place – Four Oaks. No other property looked out onto the forbidding Dead Man’s Wood, with the even more foreboding tree lined rock escarpment beyond. No one else other than an occupant of this house could possibly see anyone coming and going from the cave, and then only in the winter – and at such a distance, she could not even really be sure she had seen what she thought she had.

  She did not want to bother Matthew with the matter, though after what he had said, it occurred to her that Liam might have gone up the hill. If he had indeed gone into that cave, he was far more foolish than any local had any right to admit to.

  There was no way Joyce was going up the hill herself – not alone, anyway. Not wishing to add unnecessarily to the burden of Matthew’s own personal concerns, she instead informed Theo about the figure she believed she had seen, and he agreed there was more than a slight possibility that it was Liam, but that it was most likely a trick of the morning light.

  He waited beside her, watching the hill so intently that his eyes watered and became unfocussed.

  ‘Just because it happened yesterday morning, doesn’t mean it will happen today,’ he said to her as he rubbed his fingers against his eyes to clear his vision. ‘If indeed you did actually see anything at all. Not that I doubt you saw something, perhaps just not a person.’

  Joyce did not respond as she squinted at the craggy skyline through the trees. She clutched her son’s arm tightly. ‘Look,’ she whispered. ‘Tell me you see it too.’

  Theo squinted, wishing they had a pair of binoculars with which to bring the hill closer into their field of vision. He frowned. Slightly blurred against the bare branches of the trees lower down the hill-slopes, he could see movement. Little more than a dark shadow, it was nonetheless moving amongst the trees, whatever it was; moving upwards, heading in the direction of the cave.

  It stopped; it turned, and even from this distance, even through the trees, even through his tired, blurry, squinting eyes, Theo quite clearly made out the pale round face of a person. Man or woman, he could not tell, but it was unquestionably human.

  ‘Tell me you see it,’ Joyce repeated softly.

  Theo nodded. ‘I see it, Mum. It’s definitely a person. Could very well be Liam.’

  Abruptly the figure moved and was gone, almost as if hiding from their watching, inquisitive eyes.

  Joyce and Theo stepped back from the French windows slightly and faced one another. ‘What do you reckon?’ Joyce asked. ‘Do we dare risk going up there to see who it is?’

  ‘I think we ought to. Whether it’s Liam or not, that person has a perfect vantage point from which to watch the comings and goings of this house, safe in the knowledge that only someone extremely foolish would go up there.’

  Joyce gasped as she realised what her son implied with his words. ‘You mean someone’s spying on this house?’

  Theo nodded. ‘It’s a likely possibility. That person can easily see when everyone had left the house, and can make their way through the woods to the grounds, and maybe break into the house, and if anyone returns whilst they are in here, they can escape through any of the windows quite easily, and get back up there through the trees.’

  ‘Why would someone want to spy on the house though?’

  Theo shrugged. ‘Why would Lucinda wish to attack Roger? Why would a woman Matthew has never met leave him this house? It seems to me there are a number of unsolved mysteries in this area, and something tells me the answers to some of them lie up in that cave.’

  Joyce took a deep steadying breath. ‘So you really think we ought to investigate?’

  Theo shrugged again. ‘My instinct for self-preservation tells me to keep the hell away from that godforsaken place, but my instinct for rational thought tells me there is nothing to fear from centuries of superstitious nonsense.’

  ‘So, your instincts are fighting their own battle? Which of them is winning?’

  ‘It’s a stalemate. Considering what we know from our dinner with Rachel, self-preservation wins over rational thought, but then curiosity comes into play. I’m curious to see this infamous lair of Sawyl Gwilym for myself, and if we go together and keep our wits about us, I think we’ll be quite safe.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that!’

  The sudden strange voice from behind them startled Joyce and Theo, causing both to squeal like little girls, and they whirled around as one to find a slightly overweight young man with black hair standing behind them. He wore an immaculate black suit, and from what Matthew had told them, they both instinctively knew who he was, but it did not prevent Theo from demanding he identify himself and explain how he had gained entry to the house, and what he was doing there.

  ‘My name is Max Revenant. I am here at the behest of my mother.’

  Indeed: Max Revenant, the mysterious estate agent who seemed – according to Matthew – to appear and disappear at will. The fact that he had somehow managed to get inside the house and into the room without them hearing added credence to that statement.

  ‘So, you are Max Revenant? Matt has mentioned you several times,’ Theo muttered. ‘You say you are here at the behest of your mother?’

  His expression neutral, Max nodded. ‘Indeed I am. She has asked that I bring you to her.’

  ‘You say that in such a manner that implies we should know who she is! What’s her name?’

  ‘She has had many names, but you might know her as Elaine Oakhurst.’

  Joyce choked back a breath of fear. ‘But… Elaine Oakhurst is dead! She died last year, and left this house to Matthew.’

  Max nodded. ‘It is true, Elaine Oakhurst is dead, but my mother lives on. She wishes to gather together all parties to set right a tragic wrong.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Theo.

  Max smiled slightly. ‘All will become clear to you. Please, you must come with me.’

  As Max turned to leave, Theo made a move to grab him, and his hand passed right through the estate agent’s shoulder, causing a scream to well up in Joyce’s throat.

  Max turned back to the pair, a look of great sadness on his face. ‘Yes, my friends, I too am dead. I can touch things, but I cannot be touched by anything else. Please, you must not be afraid. Mother and I mean you no harm, but you must come with me right now. Time is of the essence. I have others I must fetch, and so little time to do so. Please, make haste.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Joyce, feeling more than a little queasy at the thought that she was conversing with an actual ghost. ‘I think you should at least tell us that if you expect us to follow you.’

  Max pointed to Wicca Hill. ‘We are most definitely not going up there! That place is to be avoided at all costs, though I fear for some, any warning comes too late.’ He moved his hand lower, until it pointed at Dead Man’s Wood. ‘Mother lives within the forest, which has been her home for countless millennia.’

  Theo gasped as he grasped the enormity of what Max meant. ‘Oh my god – Elaine Oakhurst is Elen, isn’t she? You’re telling us that your mother is the deity from whom Elendale gets its very name.’

  Max inclined his head. ‘Indeed she is. Now please, we must hurry.’

  Theo squeezed Joyce’s hand and smiled at her. ‘Come on, Mum, it’s all right. We’ll be quite safe… I think.’

  Joyce returned his smile, though her own indicated a false sense of security, when all she really felt was unrelenting apprehension. ‘I hope you’re right, Theo. I hope you’re right!’

  *

  Louise glanced over the packet of cornflakes at her eldest daughter, seated opposite. Glory ate her breakfast in silence, not chattering away as she usually did, not listening to her walkman or casually flicking through the various Breakfast TV channels, which were both her irksome usual routine.

  Louise simply could not fathom what had come over her daughter in recent weeks. From petulant prepubescent to tiresome teenage tantrums, Glory’s behavi
our had grown steadily worse. She was so unruly that Louise frequently despaired that anyone could tame the increasingly wild child. She tried to be tolerant, recalling what she had been like at Glory’s age with more than a degree of shame but little regret. Teenage angst was all about raging hormones and rebelling against parental constraints, which was what Glory had been doing.

  Until a little over a week ago.

  The overnight change in her daughter continued to unnerve Louise. Peter Neville claimed Glory hid no spirit, but Louise was unconvinced. How else could Glory’s behavioural change be explained? A gradual change over weeks, months or years could be accepted as the natural order of things, but not a literal overnight metamorphosis into an angelic treasure who helped around the house, did not argue, answer back or fight with her siblings, yet was quietly introverted.

  Something was wrong, and Louise was ashamed to admit she was not altogether sure how to approach Glory on the subject for fear of returning the girl to her old petulant self.

  As anodyne as it was to have peace around the house, it was not worth it if something was upsetting her daughter, and Glory looked anything but happy as she munched her toast.

  ‘Okay you two,’ Louise said to the twins as they finished their cornflakes, ‘go and get ready for school.’

  As Byron and Bryony scampered off up the stairs to change out of their pyjamas into their school uniforms, Louise scooted across the vacated chairs until she was adjacent with her eldest daughter. She touched Glory’s arm gently, making the girl jump.

  ‘Sorry darling, I didn’t mean to startle you. You were in a world of your own there.’

  Glory looked into her mother’s eyes, and Louise was shocked to see the sadness and tears brimming in the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Oh Glory, whatever is the matter?’ she asked, with genuine maternal concern, which prompted floods of tears. ‘Come on, darling, you can tell me,’ she added gently when Glory remained silent.

  ‘I can’t tell you, Mummy, you’ll laugh at me, just like everyone else laughed at me.’

  Louise patted her daughter’s arm affectionately. ‘I most certainly will not laugh, darling. What’s happened? Has someone been bullying you at school or something? Because if they have, I’m going to have words with the headmaster.’

  Glory wiped her eyes. ‘No, it’s nothing like that, Mummy.’

  ‘Shall I get Daddy to take the twins to school and tell your teacher you’re not feeling well today? Then you and I can have a girly day together, and you can tell me all about it. Whatever is bothering you, I’ll try and help you sort it out.’

  Glory seemed to cheer up at the notion, though whether it was from the thought of not going to school, or the thought of spending the day with her mother, remained unclear to Louise for the moment.

  ‘You’d get Daddy to lie to the school so I can stay home?’

  Louise nodded. ‘If it helps get to the bottom of your recent changes, then yes, a white lie will do no harm.’

  Glory grinned, a little sadistically Louise thought. ‘All right then. It’ll be fun.’

  Louise chuckled. ‘What will? Having your father lie to the headmaster, or spending the day with me?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘And if I get Daddy to do this monumental thing, will you be completely truthful with me and tell me what’s going on?’

  Glory nodded solemnly. ‘I will tell you everything.’

  ‘Okay then, when your father comes down to breakfast I shall give him the happy news. I wonder what’s keeping him anyway? It’s most unlike him to be late getting up.’

  ‘Shall I take him a cup of tea, Mummy?’

  Louise shook her head. ‘No, I’ll go. You finish your breakfast.’

  She found Phil, sitting on their bed, eyes fixed on some event in the past, eyes glazed over to all that was happening around him. Louise knew better than to try to wake him from his trance-like state. She thought it must be Peter Neville conversing with him again, though she had not seen him in this kind of trance before.

  His lips moved, though no words formed in the air, while his vacant eyes stared straight through her.

  Then, with a rattling gasp, Phil came back from wherever he had been.

  ‘Are you all right?’ whispered Louise from the doorway.

  Blinking his eyes rapidly, Phil stared at her, shaking his head. When he spoke, Louise was momentarily startled to hear Peter Neville’s voice. ‘No, I am not, none of us is all right. He has finally returned. He walks among us again. None of us is safe!’

  *

  He awoke from the darkness once more, and once again his cognitive abilities were impaired for a few short moments, until he realised he had reawakened in the child he had visited once before.

  All would proceed smoothly now; the crumbling jigsaw of his life strengthened once more by the fact that history repeated itself. The very nature of this déjà vu gave him the necessary strength.

  He had been patient for so many years, and the youth had returned to him. His patience now rewarded by the reawakening of old wounds, those same old wounds gave him power.

  As all eyes would be firmly fixed upon those other events, his resurrection would go unnoticed.

  By the time the poor pathetic fools realised he had returned it would be far too late.

  Nothing would stop him this time.

  No one was going to prevent him from becoming the Master of Time.

  Nothing and no one would stand in the way of Sawyl Gwilym.

  The master had returned at last for his scrolls.

  1560

  He awakened in shadow, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep as he glanced around, taking in his less than salubrious surroundings.

  He was in a muddy ditch, beneath a bush on the edge of Dead Man’s Wood, and he was not alone.

  He recognised the man who lay beside him in the ditch as Obadiah Ridley, though he knew not how he came by this realisation, for he was certain he had never before set eyes upon the man.

  It was most perplexing, though not as perplexing as the question of how he came to be lying in the ditch himself. He had no recollection of events leading up to this moment of awakening. Enlightenment evaded his cloudy mind, which refused to relinquish its memories.

  Who am I?

  He was only vaguely aware that he did not belong here, though he had no knowledge of where he was supposed to be, if that was the case.

  He shuddered suddenly, as though someone had just walked over his grave. He closed his eyes for a moment, and in his mind’s eye witnessed the murder of a young woman as she slept. She did not cry out at the death stroke; she did not move as her life ebbed away into the bed linen. As she lay dying, her killer wiped clean the blade and then whispered something in her ear, before screaming aloud and fleeing the room.

  His eyes opened again, and as the startling images coursed through his diminished field of vision, swamping him with dizziness, he was unsure whose murder he had witnessed. Who was the young woman? Who was the killer? Why had he screamed as he fled the scene of his crime?

  Why did I witness those events?

  He opened his eyes and looked down at the limp body of Obadiah Ridley, wondering how he knew who the man was.

  Obadiah emitted a soft groan from the sodden ground and shifted position slightly, before succumbing to restfulness once more.

  I cannot stay here, thought the man. I must find out what’s going on, and why I am here.

  He knew where he was now, having recognised the imposing rock face looming upwards behind him as being Wicca Hill, home to the legendary warlock, Sawyl Gwilym. He was in Elendale, and he knew it was 1560, though he had a curious feeling that he did not belong here in either this time or place.

  I still don’t know who I am though!

  Perhaps if I took a walk I might clear my head and awaken my thoughts and memories?

  He did not like to leave the clearly inebriated Obadiah, who in his condition seemed horribly exposed and vulnerable beneat
h the bush, but then he also had the curious feeling that Obadiah’s fate was already sealed.

  He walked along the pathway that bordered the edge of Dead Man’s Wood, sensing he was heading in the direction of the village, though he was reasonably certain he had never been to the village, nor walked this path before.

  So why does the area seem so damn familiar, he thought? It’s almost as if I’m sharing someone else’s memories!

  That’s ridiculous! How can there be a duality about me, joining my mind to that of another?

  Because you are possessed!

  The sudden added voice within his mind caused him to cry out, though the sound seemed constricted within his throat, for the cry remained silent.

  Who had spoken in his head?

  No one; the voice was gone; the presence had disappeared as swiftly as it had come to him: he was alone once more, with only his own jumbled thoughts for company.

  As he walked the pathway and drew closer to the village itself, he saw two young people coming towards him. A man and a woman, both in their twenties, both wearing coarse homespun garments that looked decidedly itchy.

  He glanced down at what he was wearing, and was surprised to find he was dressed in clothes of his own time: faded denims, sneakers, a check shirt, and a fleecy jacket.

  How odd, he thought, that I should know these clothes to be of my own time, yet I don’t know when my own time is!

  Never mind the fact that I have somehow managed to travel back in time! How the hell is that possible?

  As the young couple approached him, he became a little concerned at what their reactions might be upon seeing him in his anachronistic ensemble.

  Should I hide from them, he wondered? Should I duck into the bushes until they have passed?

  A silly idea. Surely they would have seen me by now? If I start playing hide and seek, they might find such behaviour a tad suspicious.

  The couple approached; he continued walking, head bowed, avoiding eye contact, yet surreptitiously keeping his eyes fixed upon the pair instead of the path ahead, and he was rather perturbed when they passed him by without comment; not to him, not to each other.