‘He’s in intensive care.’
The nurse turned on her heel. ‘Follow me, and kindly don’t run,’ she sniffed haughtily.
They walked behind her, angered at her dawdling pace, but said nothing, and eventually she brought them into intensive care, where she left them with a more sympathetic doctor.
They could see Liam through the window of the door that led to his private room, a tube fixed in his mouth, with a drip attached to his right arm, his left arm encased in plaster, and his head heavily bandaged.
Chloe’s hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a gasp of horror. Ainsley wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder, forcing himself to turn away from his son to face the doctor.
‘What happened to him, Doctor?’
The doctor fixed Ainsley with piercing blue eyes. ‘We’re not entirely sure. The driver of the car that knocked him down said she didn’t have a chance to stop in time, that he just staggered out of the forest right in front of her car. She thought he might have been drunk, but blood tests show no signs of alcohol in his bloodstream. He has a broken arm and a couple of broken ribs, and numerous cuts and bruises all over his body that are not consistent with his being struck by the car. My guess would be that he suffered some other mishap earlier, which was why he was staggering. The head trauma he suffered could be from hitting it on the road, but again, indications show that he suffered multiple blows to the head.’
Ainsley felt his blood boil, and all his momentary concern for Liam evaporated. ‘I bet the idiot was in the woods looking for action. I bet he was attacked by someone offended by his actions, and I can’t say I blame them!’
Chloe shook off her husband’s hand, angrily turning on him. ‘If you really think that’s what your son does, then get out of my sight now, Ainsley! I can assure you that Liam does not go looking for action, as you called it, in the woods!’
The doctor held up his hand, having no desire to be caught in the crossfire of what was clearly an ongoing family argument. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘your son’s injuries would not seem to indicate that he was attacked. It seems more likely that he fell down a rock-face somewhere, and as to what he was actually doing in the forest when he suffered the accident, well that’s really rather irrelevant, and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your voices down. This is a hospital, after all!’
‘Yes, Doctor. Sorry,’ mumbled Ainsley.
‘Where exactly was he found?’ asked Chloe.
‘Not far from the address on his driving licence,’ said the doctor. ‘Lucky he had it in his wallet, along with his bank cards, otherwise we wouldn’t have known where to contact you.’
‘So he was in the forest near Elendale?’
The doctor nodded.
‘He was in Dead Man’s Wood! My God, why the hell would he go in there?’
Ainsley did not trust himself to respond. ‘Is he going to be all right?’ he asked instead.
‘Well, we’re monitoring his condition, which is stable. So long as he hasn’t suffered brain damage from his head injuries then I see no reason why he shouldn’t make a full recovery.’
‘So in other words, we have to wait until he wakes up?’
The doctor smiled reassuringly, his voice filled with genuine compassion. ‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Samwell. There’s nothing else for it than to be patient. I’m sorry I can’t give you any more information than that.’
‘May we go in to be with him?’ asked Ainsley.
The doctor frowned. ‘Are you certain you wish to be by his bedside, Mr Samwell? Your son requires peace if he is to recover!’
‘Of course I am. He’s my son. I do care what happens to him.’
Chloe emitted a non-committal grunt of disbelief at his statement, but remained otherwise silent, hardly trusting herself to speak. She might have been married to Ainsley for a quarter of a century, but he never ceased to amaze her with his constantly changing demeanour. He seemed to follow his own notion of what he felt to be right or wrong, and this notion changed from day to day depending on whether or not it suited his personal agenda.
Today he wanted outsiders to believe he was a caring father to his son; had he not already shown his true emotions, he might have convinced the doctor.
Still, Chloe was not about to tell her husband that he could not see his son. ‘It’s all right, Doctor, I’ll make sure he behaves himself. May we go in?’
The doctor nodded. ‘Be sure that he causes no trouble, Mrs Samwell, or I shall have you both ejected from the hospital.’ He glowered at Ainsley. ‘And don’t think I won’t!’
Ainsley did not care for the doctor’s tone of voice, but remained silent, knowing instinctively that it was no idle threat. He followed Chloe into the room, remaining at the foot of the bed whilst his wife went to stand beside Liam’s head. He watched as she tearfully stroked their son’s cheek. Years ago, he might have behaved in the same way, back at a time when he could have openly displayed love towards his son.
But not now.
He was horrified to find himself thinking it a pity the apparent fall down a rock face had not ended his torment.
Perhaps when Liam woke up, the concussion might have knocked some sanity into the lad, or maybe he might even have amnesia. How simple it would then be to condition the boy’s mind into normal thoughts and desires, turn him away from the abhorrent aberration that was his lifestyle.
A slight smile twitched at the corner of Ainsley’s mouth as he forgave himself his earlier thoughts.
Ah yes – it was definitely time to start praying.
1560
It’s time to start praying, thought the man as he stood at the rear of the chanting crowd, who were baying for the blood of an innocent man. Unless something was done soon, the poor soul would be executed.
He knew Obadiah to be innocent; in his dreams, he had witnessed the terrible events that led to the poor unfortunate girl’s murder – at the hands of her new husband.
Besides him, there had been no witnesses to the terrible deed, and nothing he could do would prevent the grave injustice.
Having come to the startling realisation that he really might be dead, the man had shouted after the young couple who had ignored him; as if to reiterate his point, no sound had issued forth from his lips. Bending to pick up a stone from the ground, intent upon throwing it after the departing couple, his fingers had passed right through it.
There was then no shred of doubt, no iota of insincerity to his thoughts: he was dead; he would have to deal with it.
It did not answer the question of how he found himself in this other time, centuries before he was born, nor did it explain how he recognised Obadiah.
He had frowned, struggling to recall something on the cusp of his comprehension. He could remember nothing leading up to his death, yet he could picture a house; a stone house, standing in immense grounds, with a great sweeping driveway and huge wrought iron gates: his home.
No, not his home; someone else lived there, someone from this time, perhaps? Was the house in this area, maybe?
He had traipsed the lanes, beneath overhanging tree canopies, for what seemed like hours. Fatigue did not visit him, nor hunger nor thirst.
Maybe being dead was not so bad, after all?
Then he had found himself back beside Obadiah, just as the unfortunate young man was arrested for murder. He had quickly realised the crime of which Obadiah was accused was the one he himself had witnessed, but with no way of communicating with the locals, he decided that if he could do nothing to set right a tragic wrong, then being dead was no blessing in disguise after all.
To right a wrongdoing.
Somehow, the man had a sense that something very like this had happened once before.
Déjà vu.
No – more than once before!
Have I lived yet other lives, farther in the past, he wondered? Am I somehow travelling backwards through time to get to the origin of some other wrongdoing?
Is this what dead people do, he pondered
in his perpetual twilight of silence? Do all dead people find themselves trapped in some other time? Is this one final challenge for those with a disreputable streak to pass in order to redeem themselves? If I somehow prevent Obadiah’s execution, will I be granted safe passage to Heaven?
He nodded to himself. Yes indeed, that was the task that lay ahead of him.
For a week, he tried many different ways to try to gain someone’s attention, but it seemed only the cats and dogs he encountered could sense his presence: the cats hissed, the dogs growled, and they all stared right at him every time.
Oh yes, they know I’m here all right! If I could only make them understand.
Now, though, time had finally run out for Obadiah. The gallows had been constructed on the village green; the crowd bayed for his blood.
And on the far side of the village green, one person stood slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, a slight smile on his face – staring right at the man.
The man’s heart leapt into his throat as he realised this other person could see him, but it would do no good, for this other person was Luke, the man who had killed Matilda: he was not about to prevent the execution of Obadiah Ridley.
Obadiah Ridley was doomed – there would be no salvation for the tragic young man.
2002
Having dropped the twins off at school and lied most effectively to the headmaster, Phil drove back towards Neville Hill in contemplative silence. He wondered why exactly Louise had wanted to keep Glory off school when there was clearly nothing wrong with the girl.
It was most unlike Louise, who always insisted the children must be at death’s door before she was even prepared to consider keeping them home from school. Unlike many parents, who were happy to pussyfoot around their own children, succumbing to every false tale of feigned illness just to get out of their most loathed lesson, because they had not bothered to do their homework, Louise was a tough disciplinarian. At times, Phil felt she was being a little too strict with the children, but it had certainly done them no harm and each excelled in most of their studies, each did their homework with very little persuasion, and so each had plenty of free time in which to occupy themselves with their various hobbies.
The scenario had worked well, even when Glory had started playing them up; children needed to know the difference between right and wrong, and that even in the adult world they could not merely do just as they pleased without serious repercussions sometimes.
Keeping Glory home from school for no good reason was against Louise’s nature, so Phil felt that she must have a very good reason for doing so, especially as it meant he had had to lie – to the esteemed headmaster, no less.
Still, the lie was told now, and believably so; Phil wanted to know what was going on, and so drove rather more quickly than he usually did, recalling Peter Neville’s dire warnings that Sawyl Gwilym walked amongst them once more. Was it possible that Louise thought the vessel to be their daughter?
He shook his head. In such a time of implausibility, it was oddly plausible – except for the fact that Peter Neville would surely have sensed it last year, even though he had no idea when, where, or in whom the warlock would reappear. Now Sawyl Gwilym had returned, and yet still Peter could not tell in whose body the evil man was manifest.
They had all taken it for granted that everything Peter told them was true because he had not been wrong before. Phil began to wonder whether Peter did in fact know the identity of Sawyl Gwilym’s new keeper, maintaining silence for his own purpose.
Pulling over into the entrance to a field, Phil turned off the car engine and sat in silence for a few moments.
Peter, I would have a word with you.
I am here, Phil McFadyen. What troubles you?
I want to know the truth, however unpleasant it might be.
Have I not always been honest with you, shared my thoughts with you?
Peter frowned, but tried to keep his mind clear of his troubling thoughts as he picked up slight reverberations of unease within Peter Neville.
Yes, you have, but tell me this: would you lie if it suited your purpose?
Why would the telling of a lie suit my purpose?
I don’t know. Perhaps to prevent Louise or myself from getting hurt?
Perhaps.
And if I ask you now for the truth, would you lie if that truth should cause me terrible pain?
I see clearly. You fear Sawyl Gwilym has manifested his spirit within your daughter.
Phil sighed, and spoke aloud. ‘Yes. Is it true? Please, spare me no harsh details, just tell me the truth.’
No, Phil McFadyen, Glory is not the reincarnation of Sawyl Gwilym, neither is she possessed by his spirit nor anyone else’s. Glory is Glory. She follows her own path.
It was a great relief for Phil to learn that, and privy as he was to some of Peter’s innermost thoughts when the spirit chose, he knew it to be the truth.
So, have you yet discovered in whose body Sawyl has returned?
I have not, and such a fact vexes me.
Phil decided that did not sound like good news. Peter had been an almost constant companion his entire life, departing in 1987 for many glorious, wonderfully free and languid years following Sawyl Gwilym’s last defeat.
When that had happened, Phil initially suffered a variety of confused emotions. Lingering memories of Peter’s jostled with his own for many months, leaving Phil bereft without his inner voice whispering comforting words of explanation. The memories were confusing and troubled Phil greatly. He knew them to be Peter Neville’s memories, but he understood none of their meaning now Peter was gone from his mind.
The joy of freedom was short lived, tempered with the anxiety he felt at the lingering memories that gradually faded from his thoughts, remaining as mere spectral echoes in his mind. The loneliness that suddenly swamped Phil drained him emotionally, and he had been very glad at the warm reception generated by his sudden arrival at Louise’s house.
From the very start, the pair had no secrets. Both openly discussed their possessions with each other, but with the passing of the months, the memories began to dissipate until even the sense of loneliness gradually vanished, and Phil was left with just contentment that he had once shared such a close bond with another.
When Peter Neville reappeared last year akin to a blast from the past, his return was like a reunion of old friends - though it also reawakened the sense of unease, in both Phil and Louise.
Phil was perceptive enough to realise Peter Neville was keeping certain facts from him, though, and it troubled him. He managed to keep those fears to himself, for he also instinctively sensed that Peter meant no ill; he was there to help in whatever small way he could when the evil warlock finally returned from beyond the grave. Peter never revealed how he knew the warlock was coming back, and often as Peter slept, Phil learned how to inveigle his curious thoughts into the slumbering spirit’s thoughts in the hope of discovering answers.
No amount of probing over the following months by Phil uncovered anything. Peter seemed unaware of what Phil had managed, but at the same time he was also very adept at keeping the door to his innermost secret thoughts firmly closed.
Then, last week, he had made the startling revelations about where he came from, and the very answers Phil had sought were answered, but they threw up more mysteries in their wake.
The thought that at some point in the future there would exist a race of humans who had shed their physical form to become pure energy, able to travel through time – on the pretext of preserving fractured timelines – and take over other people – on yet another pretext of preserving history – unnerved Phil greatly.
That Sawyl Gwilym was allegedly one of these beings troubled Phil even more. What was to stop him from travelling further back in time to take over someone else in the past?
That Peter still had no idea as to the warlock’s whereabouts troubled Phil still further.
One further thought truly terrified Phil, and he was not
quite certain where the thought came from: what if Sawyl Gwilym somehow travelled back in time to take over Peter Neville? Would that mean the spirit he now carried within him was not Peter Neville after all, but Sawyl Gwilym himself? It would explain not only the hidden memories he had failed to access whilst probing the spirit’s mind, but also why ‘Peter Neville’ could not – or would not – explain where the warlock was.
With these thoughts running through his mind, and with Peter Neville suddenly ominously silent, Phil started the engine, put the car into gear and sped off, heading once more for home.
*
Rachel walked the relatively short distance from her cottage in Elendale to Louise and Phil’s house in Neville Hill with remarkable speed for someone of seventy-nine, and in the course of her brisk walk, she completely ignored her surroundings, her mind elsewhere. She instinctively walked the journey on autopilot, not noticing any of the oncoming traffic, yet avoiding it subconsciously. Not even the cheery wave of George Palmer going about his business in his front garden disturbed her mental solitude.
She was thinking of her daughter.
She did not like to dwell long on memories of Gloria, for the joyful scenes she pictured in her mind were tinged with great sadness. She should at least be happy in the knowledge that Gloria had lived a long and prosperous life, yet it pained Rachel enormously that contact with Gloria should have been curtailed, not by a hundred miles, but a hundred years.
She always became inordinately upset whenever she thought of the granddaughter she had never seen grow up. Relatively speaking, Elizabeth would be fifteen now, a year older than Glory.
Following Jeremy’s death, Rachel dwelled upon memories of both her husband and her daughter, before deciding she had to move on. She had started to pack away all of her daughter’s novels, written both under her own name and also the pseudonym, Ria Neville, and whilst sorting them out, Rachel had found herself browsing through the books – many of which had once languished gathering dust upon the shelves of the library at Ravenscreag Hall. Flicking open the cover of Ria Neville’s first novel, she had choked with emotion when she found a hand-written inscription that she had not known was there.
The Master of Prophecy (The Sawyl Gwilym Chronicles Book 2) Page 23
