by Graham, Jo
Which meant he was going to have to take it down first.
The knowledge settled over him, a cold certainty. This was what it came down to, just as it always had, hand to hand in the dark forest. He was going to have to kill its host.
And he was going to have to get rid of Alma. He couldn’t guard and hunt at the same time. While she was here, she was his vulnerability. He would guard her with his life, and in so doing, gave up initiative. He had to be free to go after it.
Lewis beckoned to her, his voice dropped low, but not whispering. The sound would carry less that way. “We need to ambush it,” he said. “This is going to take nerve.”
“Ok.” Her eyes met his squarely, light-filled beneath the stars, and it washed over him that this might be the last time he saw her. The last things he said to her would be lies.
Lies that kept her safe. “I want you to head back to the lake toward Mitch and Jerry. Don’t try to be quiet. Make it follow you. I’ll be right behind it, stalking it. That’s the only way I see to get the jump on it. You decoy it, and I’ll get it.”
She stared at him, and he willed her to believe.
“No.” Alma shook her head. “What are you really — Lewis, no.”
“There’s no other way,” he said. “Tell me if there is, you’re the Magister, but — there isn’t one.”
He saw her take a breath, saw her face crumple just for an instant, before she smoothed the fear and grief away. “No,” she said again. “There isn’t.”
He took her by the shoulders, wanting to kiss her, one quick goodbye, just in case, and she lifted her thumb to mark a cross on his forehead.
“God go with you,” she said. “You are the lodge, tonight.”
He did kiss her then, a brush of lips that was almost chaste, and released her. “Go on.”
With a nod she turned, walking straight-backed through the trees, her hair pale in the moonlight. Lewis turned his back on her, knowing it could see him, and lifted his knife. Challenge, a blade glinting in the dappled moonlight through spring branches. The oldest challenge of all.
Two men go into the wood and one returns.
There was a small, swift noise among the trees, a shadow of movement. It was angling off, uphill, deeper into the woods. It knew.
He was the hunter now. He would follow and avoid its traps, follow relentlessly. Every sense sang, and his sweat dried cold on his skin. Branches stirred in the wind, moonbeams making a track through the forest. He would do what had to be done.
Hunter and hunted, they passed into the eaves of the forest.
Alma walked straight-backed down the path that led back toward the lake, too proud to turn, too afraid of what she might already see. She was tempted to turn back, so tempted — she was the Magister, after all, she had more than a knife at her disposal, and Lewis, strong as he was physically, was metaphysically untried. But. She was Magister, and this was her task. The story had passed beyond her. She had given her blessing, and let him go.
Because now she could not mistake the story. Two men go into Diana’s grove, and only one returns, but he returns a king. Two men go into the grove…. He doesn’t need to return a king, Diana, so long as he returns.
She kept walking, careless of the noise she made. The creature was hunting elsewhere, neither she nor Mitch nor Jerry were at risk now, not unless…. She slew that thought. Her clothes were still damp, sticking to her body, and she pulled them free, scowling. Her wrist and ankle stung where the net had chafed them. Her heart leaped then, but Lewis had the tablets. Jerry had given him the other one after he had broken his leg. So he had all the tools, everything he would need except the training.
And that’s why I should be there, she thought, rebelliously. That’s why I should go back. I know what to do, I’ve been trained, and I’m strong. But I wasn’t chosen. She lifted her head, looking for the moon among the leaves above her head. That was the heart of the matter, and the hardship: Lewis had been chosen, and she had not, and by all her oaths and training, she was bound to bless him and walk away. That was what it meant to command, to be Magister, to be able to send the right man and not go herself, even into the heart of danger, and she would pay that price. And if it required more…. She shook her head, refusing to allow the words to form. If it required more, well, she knew loss already. She would survive.
Lewis pushed his way through the undergrowth, leaves catching at his sleeves, slapping at his face. The creature had long since left the trail; he followed the noises it made, and it followed him, the two of them circling in the dark. He had no idea how to find the trail again, but that was a worry for later. Now there was just the dance, the hunt.
He could hear something moving off to his right, a sudden thrashing in the underbrush. He took a quick step back, and a deer leaped through the gap between two trees, disappeared again into the dark. Disturbed by the creature, he guessed, and braced himself for the attack. For an instant, he caught the smell of it, sweat and fear, and then it was backing away, the sounds receding, surprise lost.
Lewis took a deep breath, let heart slow, and touched the tablets in his pocket. Ok, he thought, still there. Jerry said if it was dragged out of its host and couldn’t go anywhere else, it would go into the tablets, and, let’s face it, I’m probably going to have to kill this guy to get anywhere. And then it will be in the tablets, and I can take them back to Al and Mitch and Jerry and they can do whatever they have to do to bind and bury it. Maybe, if I’m really, really lucky, I won’t have to kill him. But somehow I’m going to have to force it back into the tablets. Somehow. If that was the story.
He looked up at the moon, just visible now between the leaves. Whatever else this was, it was her story, Diana’s story, her grove and her injury and her ancient enemy, out there in the wood. He’d seen it when he sent Alma away, though he hadn’t fully understood, and now that he did understand, he felt the chill of fear on his skin. Who was he to do this? Nobody, a washed up ex-Army pilot with a failed marriage, a weak sister who was happy to sponge off his friends, to let his girlfriend wear the pants, too cowardly to risk doing the right thing….
Alma’s voice spoke in memory: if we don’t do this, who will?
Who am I? A wry smile twisted his lips. I’m who there is.
I am yours, he said to the moon. Merciless one, untouched and untouchable, I am yours.
He passed between the trees where the deer had jumped, and found the path its herd had worn through the forest. The creature had moved off, out of earshot for now, but Lewis knew it was waiting, ready to strike. He followed the deer track anyway, figuring he’d trade mobility for exposure, and came abruptly to a fork in the path, the track dividing beneath the trees. The hairs at the back of his neck prickled. Crossroads.
He knelt down on the loam to taste the wind, to look for tracks and consider.
The procession came among the trees in bright sunlight, maidens in white leading it, their arms loaded with flowers. Youths followed, their tunics ungirdled, freshly leafing branches in their hands. And behind the ram walked, his horns wreathed with ivy, fresh to the sacrifice….
This way. This way was the grove, the original temple. It had not been a building of marble by the lake, not to begin with. It had been a grove in truth, a place in the wild wood where Diana laid Her hand long before Rome was built, before black ships plowed the seas.
The paths divided in the wood. Lewis took the left hand one.
Alma made her way out between the trees and found Mitch and Jerry waiting in the clearing where she had left them. Jerry had his cane ready to hand, a pitiful weapon, and Mitch bent over him as though he were bandaging Jerry’s wooden leg. No, she realized, splinting it, mending it — so very Mitch, to ready himself for the future even at the worst of times. They both looked up at her approach, and Jerry closed his eyes, seeing her alone.
“Lewis?” Mitch sat back on his heels, frowning.
“Back in the woods,” Alma said. Her voice threatened to break, and she controll
ed it ruthlessly.
“You didn’t leave him,” Mitch began, and she glared down at him.
“Yes, I did. It was necessary.”
“But you’re our Magister. It’s your job to protect him.”
“I did everything I could,” Alma answered, stung, “and this is the way the cards fell.”
“He’s gone to the grove,” Jerry said, and Mitch gave him a startled look.
“Damn it. It should have been me," Mitch said.
“Or me, or Jerry, or anyone, yes, I know.” Alma made her voice hard so that no one could hear the tears. “But it’s not our choice, it’s moved beyond our choice. He’s gone to the grove.”
Jerry stretched out his arm and she came into its shelter, settling herself beside him on the cold ground. Mitch patted her knee, apology and proffered comfort, and went back to fixing Jerry’s leg. The clouds were clearing, the quarter moon sailing free. The mist was fading from the lake, and the moon’s reflection was visible, Diana’s Mirror in truth. Jerry’s arm tightened around her shoulder, and just for a moment longer she let herself lean against his warmth, and breathe in the smell of sweat and tobacco and the amber of his cologne. Then she pushed herself to her feet and went to stand on the edge of the slope, looking out onto the lake, her back to the grove.
Lewis slipped between the trees, the knife ready in his hand. He knew the creature was ahead of him in the dark, could guess that it was circling to his right, trying to drive him back onto the broken ground he had just crossed. The footing would be bad there for a fight. He edged left instead, between saplings springing from a shattered stump, feeling his way up the gentle slope.
The sudden movement had him turning even before his mind had fully registered what he’d seen, so that the rushing attack caught him on the flank and shoulder, not the back. The man it wore was young and strong, taller than Lewis by a finger’s breadth, and heavier. Lewis went down under the onslaught, landed kicking and rolled free as his heel hit the other man’s knee and his elbow caught him in the gut. He caught a quick glimpse of the stranger — young, fair, hair cut short over staring eyes — and then the creature was on him again, flourishing what looked like a gardener’s pruning knife. Lewis dodged the first sweep, but the second touched him, the wicked hooked tip of the knife slicing across the point of his shoulder. He ignored the flaring pain, stepped into the younger man’s guard, felt his own knife slice cloth and flesh, skipping along the other’s ribs. The young man hissed with the shock and pulled away, vanishing into the dark.
One of the Marines, Lewis thought. One of the French Marines from the wreck. It must have jumped from Henry to him, and then dragged him south to the dig. Ok, he’s younger than me, and it felt like he’s faster, but I might be a little stronger. And I’ve killed, and I don’t believe he has. He’s too young to have fought in the War. I can take him.
He circled to his right, remembering the rocks behind him, remembering the pitch of the ground. It had been like this over France, time stretching between heartbeats, all the pieces of the dance sharp and clear in his mind. Here’s the Fokker, there’s the ack-ack, there’s our line and theirs and the steeple with the sniper, and there’s only one right move that brings you onto the enemy’s tail, guns spitting fire, until the stranger crumples and falls from the sky, flames eating the wings…. He had loved the hunt then, that was his dirty secret, and a part of him reveled in it even now.
He moved deeper into the trees, ears cocked for the slightest hint of sound. It was darker here, the undergrowth ready to trip and tangle, but he moved with patience, the knife ready in his hand. The Marine was turning, trying to get on his tail; Lewis shifted his hand on the knife, shortening his grip, and moved left, edging into the greater darkness. He heard the Marine stumble, turned slowly. Yes, there he was, a black shape facing the path. Lewis gathered himself and sprang.
The Marine turned at the last moment, and the blow Lewis had meant for his heart sliced between ribs and arm. He ducked under the Marine’s slashing counterstroke, and kicked out, trying to bring him down. The Marine dodged the blow, and brought the hooked knife around in another wild sweep. Lewis leaned out of the way, grabbed left-handed for the Marine’s jacket, but the torn fabric ripped under his hand. The Marine yanked free, and disappeared into the shadows.
Lewis braced himself, and when no counterattack came, made himself stop and listen. He didn’t think he’d touched him this time, but maybe he’d winded him. Yes, the other was moving away again, into the heart of the woods. He followed.
The underbrush opened up again, trees parting on a narrow clearing thick with grass. He could smell something sweet, some flower crushed by the Marine’s passing, knew he was waiting in the dark between the trees. It was brighter now, the moon fully free of the clouds, caught in the branches of the trees that surrounded the clearing. Time to draw him out, he thought, and stepped into the open. He lifted his blade in salute, and the creature rushed him. Lewis swung to meet him, blocked the first wild sweep of the knife, but the second curled across his biceps, drawing a line of fire. He ducked, grabbed for the knife hand, and blocked the knee that rose for his groin. The Marine was off balance, and he drove his shoulder hard into the younger man’s chest, flattening him as though they were playing football, playing for money and pride and without many rules. The Marine flailed, trying to throw him off, trying to free his knife hand; Lewis slammed his wrist against the ground, trying to get him to drop the knife, but the turf was too soft to do much good. He planted his knee in the younger man’s gut, felt him try to double up, retching, and caught him by hair and arm, pulling him up to his knees so he could get his knife against the other’s neck
The Marine froze, trembling. His fingers opened, the knife falling to the turf. Lewis marked where it fell, but he had no chance to push it away. He could see the Marine’s face clearly now, the moonlight at last falling full into the grove: a plain, slightly pock-marked kid, dirty and unshaven and terrified.
It’s not his fault. The voice that whispered in his ears came from nowhere. He’s innocent, he had no choice. You cannot kill him for this. It’s only me you want.
Above them, the moon was silent.
Lewis hesitated, though he didn’t loosen his grip. It wasn’t the kid’s fault — he hadn’t asked the demon to possess him, had just been in the wrong place, trying to help the survivors of a terrible crash. But if he let him go — the creature controlled him, any weakness, any mercy would just be an invitation for another attack. Or it would flee, and they’d have to begin all over again, at the cost of God knew how many deaths. If the others were here, maybe they could have driven the creature out, but he’d passed beyond that point a long time ago. They had come to the heart of the grove, beyond mercy, and there was only one way out.
“No,” Lewis said. Innocents died in war, he’d killed a few himself. The men he’d killed then were no more guilty than himself. And he had more to protect now, he had chosen his path. He drew the knife across the young Marine’s throat.
Blood spurted, black in the moonlight. He jerked away from it, shivering, knew this was not the first time this grove had seen the sacrifice. This was where the kings were made, this was where they died — this was where the thing had first been imprisoned, the demon held at bay, bound by the bargain, the gamble of desperate men. He could see that now, the first priest, the first killer, squatting in the dark by an open grave, his life forfeit to any successful challenger, all to keep the creature bound beneath stone earth. The Thracian gladiator had never made that bargain, never looked up to the merciless sky and known his life was given, forfeit, win or lose. If he had, it could never have touched him.
He knelt on the turf, looked up at the quarter moon sailing free of the trees. This was supposed to be Jerry’s job, Alma’s, Mitch’s…. If there were spells, prayers to be uttered, he didn’t know them. I’m yours, he said silently. I took your bargain gladly. Help me now.
This was the grove. The oldest temple, older even than the
procession he had glimpsed, old as the gods themselves. This was the oldest rite of all. Life for death. Two men enter the wood and one returns. He saw them then, king after king, young and old, scarred and whole, each one scraping a grave from the broken ground, burying either the challenger or the defeated king, digging the hole with knife and hands. The one who does not return is forgotten, unknown, unremarked, except by the man who killed him. The kings remember. That is also the bargain of Diana’s grove.
He touched the Marine’s face, feeling the skin already cool, and curled him into a fetal position so that he would be easier to move when the grave was ready. He took the tablets from his pockets, tucked them into the Marine’s shirt, against the skin of his chest. Then, methodically, he began to carve the turf, marking out a grave.
The dawn was coming over the lake, stars paling though only at the far horizon was there the faintest flush of pink.
Jerry sat silent, waiting. He could only watch through the night, and so that was the thing he would do. Not for anything would he have ever watched through another night like this with her. Gil had passed at dawn, as the dying so often do. He and the doctor and Alma…. Mitch had made coffee. Because it was what he could do.
Now there was no coffee, only silence. Only the sound of the distant pumps, the first chirpings of birds in the eaves of the woods, singing aloud to their mates.
Alma sat with her knees drawn up, her arms around them, staring at the lake.
Mitch said nothing.
But sooner or later one of them would have to. One of them would have to say, "Let's go back to the dig." One of them would have to say, "Alma…."
It could damn well be Mitch this time. Jerry bent his head, his face against his arms.
Alma made a tiny sound, some strangled sort of cry, and Jerry's eyes popped open.
Lewis was coming through the edge of the woods. His hands and clothes were smeared with blood and dirt, a day's growth of beard on his face. He walked stiffly and he bore no weapon.
