by Julia Hughes
He didn’t feel hungry if he didn’t eat, he never felt the need to pee, and washing wasn’t a problem either. If he hadn’t been occupied with a more pressing problem he would have given serious consideration to these paradoxes.
His main concern was getting Rhyllann to act. Time marched on relentlessly and each day without action fixed this world a little more firmly into reality. Like a rapidly closing wound soon the fabric of time would heal itself, leaving barely the trace of a scar.
Wren drew up graphs for himself using the bare earth in front of the Altar Stone. When he needed a more permanent marker he wrote on the stone itself, using whatever came to hand. Usually charcoal but sometimes he crushed berries fallen from a nearby rowan tree. Mixed with a little rainwater it dried to a pleasing ochre, but more importantly it didn’t smudge.
Like a miser rationing petrol consumption, Wren calculated spiritual energy multiplied by distance to be travelled divided by Rhyllann’s pig headedness.
He refused to worry over Carrie. She was a tough little cookie. Brave; she’d proved that by diving headlong into that dark cave to retrieve Caliburn. Loyal; the way she stuck by her Gran. And determined. She’d picked herself up after that horrific attack by those thugs and marched straight round Rhyllann’s house. And clever. Even in her sleep she understood what he wanted. She would be just fine he told himself.
At least twenty times a day.
What Wren didn’t build into his calculations was the perversity of human nature.
Chapter Twenty
The worst thing about a room without windows and a light which shone twenty fours hours was the disorientation. Not knowing if it were morning, afternoon, or evening, deprived of the little rituals that defined the day’s activities and separated it from night’s rest. For the first time Carrie wondered if the random arrival of meals was deliberate, calculated to add to her confusion. She sat crossed legged on her neatly made bed spooning cornflakes dashed with watery milk into her mouth. But it felt like the middle of the night. She’d long ago realised this room was sound proofed to deny her even the comfort of hearing another person cough, let alone talk.
Laying in bed at home, sounds were always the first to enter her consciousness. Machinery whirling as the baker in the barn opposite sliced bread: It must be five-ish, she could snooze a little longer. Directly outside milk bottles chinked and she should think about getting up. Finally pipes gurgled and water gushed – Gran putting on the kettle for the first brew. When she heard the strident whistling of the kettle starting low then gathering steam; it was time to take her nice warm feet from her nice warm bed and put them on that cold cold floor, as Granddad used to josh.
Carrie raised the bowl to her lips, tipping it back to slurp the last of the milk, thinking it was the simple things she missed. The only thing to look forward to in here was the sharp prick of a needle or the humiliation of piddling into a specimen jar while efficient strangers stood by and then exited with her body fluids, anxious to get on with the next part of their lives. Although that was becoming less frequent. Three breakfasts ago she told herself only half jokingly.
Now breakfast was over and the day stretched before her. Barely two weeks ago, rushing from shop to shop in her lunch hour, avoiding Mrs Docherty, the village gossip, totting up the chores still to be done after work, she would have given anything for a day spent doing nothing. Now she felt lost, unanchored. But today there was something to look forward to. Placing the bowl on the floor she lay back on her bed, crossed her arms beneath her head and relived last night’s dream, slowing down the action the better to savour the experience of walking arm in arm with Wren. Telling herself next time she dreamed she’d remember to turn her head to the side so she could see his face. Silly, how silly of her, becoming infatuated with someone she’d never met. And yet, what did it matter? She’d probably never meet him now. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, she felt desperately sorry for herself, even sorrier for Wren, and tried not to think about poor little bewildered Gran.
A simple camera and mike hidden above the ceiling light spied on her.
‘She sleeping again?’
‘Looks like it.’ The wardens watched, even more bored with their day than Carrie.
‘Wonder if she’ll start talking again? Did you log that dream last night?’
‘Nah. Weren’t nuffink special.’ He meant his pen had run dry and he’d been too lazy to walk down the corridor to the stationery cupboard for a replacement.
They didn’t get paid enough to do more than minimum requirements.
Swiping the tears away, Carrie forced herself to roll out of bed and start on the exercise routine she’d invented for herself.
In the middle of her shoulder stand, legs pin wheeling madly, the door swung open. Father Andrew waited for her to regain her feet, thin lips smirking.
‘Carrie dear, I’ve managed to persuade my superiors that a young girl needs fresh air.’
For one glorious moment she thought they were letting her go.
‘So we’re moving you to Bletchley Park.’ He added.
Carrie sunk to the floor, gibbering with terror.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rhyllann dreamed too. Confused unordered dreams of his short but brutal active army stint in Eastern Europe. Patrolling no man’s land; descending en masse on villages and towns which were supposed to be deserted to wrinkle out refuges. Rounding up scraggy bewildered people trying to scratch a living of some kind, only to be herded onto trains or buses and transported to holding camps awaiting deportation. Sometimes he was part of an ambush reliving the rush of adrenaline, the noise, confusion, stench of cordite; and somehow this seemed a fairer fight. And sometimes he was back in the courtroom, accused of cowardice: the most damming charge any solider could face. Again and again the dreams ended with the Silas family walking across No-Man’s Land towards him; shaking and shivering in their second hand ill fitting uniforms, imploring him silently not to shoot. Begging mutely for mercy and expecting none. This time a blond youth paced beside them, defiance in his face.
“Annie, listen to her. You must listen to the girl. Bring the girl, bring Caliburn. Bring them to Stonehenge. You can stop all this. We can stop all this.”
His housemates complained he kept them awake at nights; Susie sidled up to him with fake concern to ask if he’d considered seeing a shrink.
He was constantly late for work, and when boxes upon boxes of pens arrived because a clerical error transformed an order of 4,000 pens to 400,000; his superior asked if Rhyllann intended to write his autobiography, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
Rhyllann jutted his chin. He might be in Last Chance Saloon, but the very next person to take the piss out of him would end up in hospital. Sensing the anger simmering inside him even total strangers gave a wide berth. Friends and colleagues who’d fallen over themselves to buy him drinks avoided him. There were upsides. Eating breakfast alone he could chose from any cereal box he wanted and use as much sugar as he liked. He also got to read the paper in peace. This morning’s edition featured photos of the strange symbols appearing at Stonehenge. Rhyllann turned the page impatiently, only to turn back to study the grainy images in detail, groping for a memory fluttering at the edge of his mind; like a word balanced on the tip of his tongue it remained elusive.
It wasn’t even coincidence he told himself, the girl had raved about Stonehenge and now he searched for signs that weren’t there, trying to make patterns that didn’t exist. He needed to concentrate more at work, get his head down, maybe join a gym, get out more. If he didn’t give himself time to brood he would cope with this emptiness.
But then the dreams grew darker; turning to full blown nightmares. Strangely they involved someone he’d barely met: The blonde woman who’d shaken hands with him at the police station.
For some reason she stood on a stage placed in front of Nelson’s column. A giant red white and blue union flag flanked with other flags from the British Empire fluttered behind he
r. Half a dozen men in identical uniforms with identical faces lined her either side, shouldering rifles. Trafalgar Square was packed with bodies, all wearing the same black uniform. In the blonde’s hands was a sword. As she finished speaking she raised it aloft – blue lightning skewered the skies, and in front of her the crowd beat their left breast with clenched right hands before raising their fists high in the air and chanting. Rhyllann’s heart beat painfully against his ribs in time to the chanting, and in his dreams he thrust a hand into his mouth so he wouldn’t scream out loud against the blonde’s poisonous words. Somehow he knew the mob would turn and tear any dissenter limb from limb.
Rhyllann could never remember what she said and couldn’t hear the word the crowd chanted. But the first time he woke from that dream he’d lain on sweat drenched sheets, too frightened to move until a dim grey blooming against the curtains brought confirmation of a new day. That’s when Rhyllann discovered the blood stains. In his terror he had gnawed the skin from his knuckles.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Because he was human, Wren built routine into his day. At sunrise he’d stretch, then amble over to the Altar Stone to inspect any new offerings. Breakfast eaten, he’d stroll to his self imposed prison boundary, staring eastwards. Like a timid kid steeling himself to dive into an icy river. He longed to speak with Carrie again, if only even in dreams but it took all his energy to concentrate on the pig headed Rhyllann, who showed no sign of taking action. And lately there’d been something blocking his way; a blackness that chilled his soul and sapped his strength. Wren shuddered, determining to put it from his mind until tonight.
There was nothing to warn him that this day was going to be any different. He’d grown used to the donated food, now piled to one side of the Altar Stone. True the apples grew crisper, the grapes plumper and juicer and instead of the odd crust of sandwich, he now expected as his right fresh baked bread and soft crumbly cheese.
Wren sat on a fallen Dolman stone finishing off breakfast with a peach, scrutinising the hieroglyphics covering the Altar Stone. He slavered over pink stained yellow flesh; absently raising his arm to lick at a stray trickle of juice.
To his right a murder of crows squabbled over discarded scraps. One strutted over to him, its black feathers glistening with iridescent sheens of green and blue, it croaked a greeting and regarded him with its head on one side. Wren loved them for their cheekiness, he’d observed them taking to the air just to lark about on the wind, flying in ragged clouds buffeted by unseen squalls, breaking off in pairs to chase each other across the skies. Best of all was when the kites hovered too close to their nursery. Three or four sentry crows would fly inches above the raptors, shadowing them, croaking threats and giving them no rest until the kites retreated to a safer distance. Davids and Goliaths.
About to tease the last sliver of peach free from the stone with his teeth Wren paused, then chucked it to the bird, amused when it fumbled its beak around the stone and took off, made clumsy with its burden.
Seconds later a fierce scolding filled the air as the remainder of the flock took off in almost vertical flight.
Alarmed, Wren jumped to his feet, then onto the Dolman stone for a better view.
A trail of people headed his way, towards the stones. At the front of the mob, a fat man with flowing hair and beard wearing a tent like garment brandished a thick pole. And now Wren could hear drumming and chanting and the tinkling of bells.
This, he told himself, was just what he didn’t need. For some reason he didn’t want to risk being seen by these people, though god only knew where he was going to hide. He rushed to the Altar Stone to gather up as much food as he could carry, ducking hurriedly behind its far side.
The ground lurched sideways as though trying to tip him off. Wren curled into a ball, hugging his knees, sticky juices squirting through his t-shirt, trying to plan his next move, despite an unexplainable vertigo swirling through his senses. Gradually he became aware that the drum beats were fainter now. Maybe this was some sort of annual procession and he’d panicked too quickly. He raised his head, listening intently. He could still hear voices but it was as though they were several rooms away. Yet the crows hadn’t returned. Neither had the torpid buzz of insects that usually invaded quiet spaces. Cautiously he swivelled round, tipping his head back to peer over the Altar Stone, into the horseshoe stone formation. A pair of hairy legs obscured his view. But only partially. They wavered in and out of focus as Caliburn sometimes did. And sitting on the Dolman stone he’d recently vacated were three men, wearing the short red tunics and bronze breastplates he associated with Roman Legionnaires. They were a lot more solid than the crowd paying rapt attention to the owner of the hairy legs.
Catching sight of Wren, one pointed and nudged his neighbour. All three grinned broadly, no doubt at the expression on his face. With an international gesture of welcome, the bald one waved him over.
The Romans understood the few words of Welsh that hadn’t changed since ancient Britain, Wren tried a couple of Latin phrases but mainly they just grinned at each other, pulling faces and making rude hand signals when the chanting grew too loud or the chief druid grew over excited and nearly fell off the Altar Stone.
Wren decided that he and the legionnaires were in a little pocket of time hidden from view. That was good to know. Apparently the local druidic society were excited by the appearance of mysterious symbols at their main temple. This together with rumours of an angel appearing to villagers in Cornwall flared new interest in the “Old Religion” as Chief Hairy Legs insisted on calling it. Now he was calling loudly for the Angel to put in an appearance.
But the Angel was busy breaking bread and encouraging his new friends to help themselves to any fruit that wasn’t too badly bruised. After a few burps to show appreciation, the Romans got to their feet, tugged down their tunics and marched off, disappearing abruptly at the perimeter of the stones. Wren hoped they weren’t on their way to put down the Iceni revolt.
Reclining back on his elbows he settled down to enjoy the rest of the show. He decided his favourite was the woman with dyed red hair who writhed on the ground shouting gibberish. She definitely had the “X” factor. In an act of pure mischief he scrolled aside the veil of time, waved cheekily then ducked back again. He regretted it. The result was pandemonium and he’d never get any peace tonight. Mentally girding his loins Wren prepared to send his spirit dream walking.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rhyllann climbed into bed through an alcoholic haze, a pleasant weariness soaking his limbs. For the third night running he’d volunteered to work overtime before jogging home. Then used the remaining hour of daylight to wax and polish the Stag to a showroom gleam. For the past two hours he’d soaked in the bath, ignoring his housemates’ hammerings, threats and pleadings to use the bathroom, constantly topping up with hot water and sipping from a whiskey bottle.
They’d congregated on the staircase waiting for him to emerge.
‘We’re reporting you, Jones.’ Lanky Dan acted as spokesman.
‘Yeah? Tell someone who gives a damn Dan,’ Rhyllann said. This sent him into hysterical laughter and pretending to flash the girls, sending them squealing back to their bedroom, he staggered upstairs for a well earned night’s sleep. Despite a physical and mental tiredness, despite the whiskey, no matter how hard he tried sleep wouldn’t come. Again and again a pair of greeny brown eyes pleaded with him, begging him to believe that Wren still lived.
Rolling onto his stomach, Rhyllann pulled a pillow firmly over his head, and tried counting sheep, hoping the nightmares would stay away tonight.
Instead a memory of a twelve year old Wren bounding into the classroom struck him. Somehow he’d persuaded half the class to keep a dream diary. For Rhyllann, it had been a gift. For once he chose to sit next to Wren, barely able to contain his giggles as his cousin studied page after page of his classmates’ writing, detailing more or less the same dream; Wren’s dream of the night before. They kept the hoax goi
ng for almost a week before Sandra Lewis, always soft on Wren, spilt the beans and ruined Wren’s speculations that somehow his little dream group were experiencing a physic phenomenon. But Wren had spoiled it all by dying. He couldn’t even get that right. Rhyllann managed to save his life by pulling him from Dozemary Lake. But not knowing about secondary or dry drowning, he’d been forced to watch helplessly as hours later Wren’s lungs succumbed to the water still swilling around the delicate tissues. Rhyllann closed his eyes tightly willing sleep to come more than ever. Wren with his crazy mad ideas. The crazier the scheme, the more his hair seemed to stick up on end. Somehow, Rhyllann just knew Wren would have come up with some fantastical plan when Mum … when Mum … Cursing, Rhyllann jumped up and ran to the bathroom, mercifully empty at two in the morning. At the back of the medicine cabinet he found a couple of Susie’s sleepers, and swallowed them back, washing them down with spearmint tasting water from the toothbrush glass. That should do it! Striding back to his room, he threw himself down on the bed and pulled the covers over his head, thinking he really couldn’t care less if he didn’t wake up again.
Just before the darkness took him, he reassured himself once more that anyone of his old classmates could have revealed that Wren often called him Annie. A small quiet voice piped up. But you never called Wren brawd. Not out-loud. To speak Welsh meant being humiliated in front of the whole class. One slip of the tongue and you’d be forced to stand on a chair with a wooden ‘not’ board hung around your neck until the next offender spoke Welsh. Since early last century, the Welsh language had been frowned upon and fallen into disuse. The few Welsh words Rhyllann knew were kept firmly inside his own head.
******
Rhyllann crouched behind one of the bronze Lions guarding Nelson’s Column. She was in full torrent, and this time he heard every strident word. She was Boudica, Queen Elizabeth the Golden and mother of this Great Britain all rolled into one. They were all her children thus they would all wish to do as she commanded. Who wasn’t with her was against her, whoever was against her was against this great nation and did not deserve to live.
