by Julia Hughes
Rhyllann huddled lower, horribly aware he was the only one amongst thousands not dressed in black, the only one not raising a clenched fist in salute to the Blonde. The sword was in her hands again, raised aloft to rain electric blue sparks onto the admiring crowd, any moment one would light up his hiding place marking him out as a non-conformist.
A hand fell on his shoulder; Rhyllann cringed from its touch, pressing into the Lion’s metal flank. A small yelp of pain escaped him as his hair was yanked back, forcing his head upwards. Feeling cool palms against his cheekbones he closed his eyes tightly.
‘Rhyllann. I know you can hear me. Rhyllann, look at me.’
He shook his head twice with child like vehemence. This was a trick. He heard a sigh of exasperation delivered on a breath of cheesy garlic.
‘This is so important. Why won’t you listen? You must get the sword back. It’s our sword. Caliburn. It mustn’t be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. Please Annie.’
The dream seemed to be speeding up now, the rally goers cheering as always, fireworks exploding and the tramp of heavy boots in perfect step as the Blonde left the stage surrounded by her private army. Rhyllann tugged at the hands still against his cheeks, anxious to leave before the Blonde could move amongst her people, pressing flesh.
But the hands wouldn’t be moved. Rhyllann’s eyes flew open in protest and then widened with shock. He was staring into eyes which reflected every shade of blue, like the sky. And he remembered them so well. But the face had changed; narrowing, and the hair was darker. And that was right because this couldn’t be Wren. Even in his dream this couldn’t possibly be Wren. Except at that moment the impostor wearing Wren’s face frowned, his brow wrinkling in delighted surprise.
Rhyllann turned to follow his gaze and saw nothing more remarkable than a black coated yellow spotted ladybird crawling up the lion’s plinth.
Sensing his incomprehension the fake Wren smiled, a smile of pure mischief.
‘Do me this one favour. Humour me. Find the girl. Find the girl, find the sword, our sword and bring them both to Stonehenge.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Back at Stonehenge a party was in full swing. The air reeked of fermented apple juice mingled with a sharp sweet smell just a trifle muskier than new mown grass. Grinning to himself, Wren joined in, wishing some the women were a little younger, a little – well a lot – slimmer and wore their hair a little longer. Carrie. He smiled again. That’s who was missing. He’d done his duty and his spirit felt invigorated, buoyed up by his own personal group of worshippers. Merlin’s warnings seemed over cautious and the disorientation of drifting helplessly a far off memory. He could risk speaking with Carrie one last time, he deserved this. In any case Caliburn would draw him outwards, the Hairy Legged One would pull him home to Stonehenge. Before he could talk himself out of it again Wren closed his eyes and concentrated on finding Caliburn.
Wren found himself in a stark corridor of a room. A fluorescent light shone, stripping the narrow room of colour, the low slung cot like bed almost invisible against whitewashed walls. He stepped closer. Someone slept fitfully propped on three pillows, almost upright. Long streaks of chestnut hair streamed across white linen. Wren’s heart melted. Carrie looked so defenceless, eyelids stretched closed, ending in curly lashes almost reaching down to apple shaped cheeks. She slept with her mouth slightly open showing just a hint of enamel so white it was almost translucent. Wren wanted to trace the outline of her lips with his finger, but that seemed unfair.
Wren smiled at the thought, fighting another urge to stroke the long silky tresses spilling over the pillows. This was hopeless. He could look but not touch and even if he tried touching he’d be unable to actually feel anything. He could watch her chest rise and fall all night, no one would ever know, but even with the purest intentions this still verged on pervy and he’d better either try to wake her or leave. The light flickered; Carrie stirred again raising her hands to her face. Wren had been staring at her for almost five minutes and completely missed the bigger picture. Her hands were wrapped in bandages, pure white mittens and Wren hoped her injuries were accidental. Because if not, he’d find the person responsible and hurt them, hurt them until they begged for her forgiveness.
Sensing a presence, Carrie’s eyes opened and she stared about the room blankly. As gently as he could Wren phrased a question in her mind.
“Who did this to you Carrie, what happened to your hands?”
His heart pounded as he waited for her answer.
‘Caliburn.’ The ghost of a smile showed. ‘Caliburn burns.’
Wren closed his eyes and moaned.
“They make you touch the sacred sword? Without any preparation or protection?”
His chest heaved with the effort of keeping his rage in check. “Who? Who made you touch the sword?”
Carrie gave a muffled cry of fear.
‘Don’t please don’t. You mustn’t. You’ll use up all your energy, and for nothing.’
She was right. Settling on the bed beside her, stroking her mind against his, he diverted her by replaying the memory of the Hairy Legged One and his handmaiden, the Red Headed Woman. Merlin had shown him how to do this a lifetime ago; a simple enough lesson, as easy now as streaming a video online.
When she’d relaxed into a dreamy state he explained his thoughts on how best to handle Caliburn.
“Don’t hesitate. No hesitation. And keep your mind free of everything but Caliburn. Okay? One thought and one thought only. You need a one track mind. If it helps imagine you’re a man.” Men could be single minded to the point of obsession. One reason he believed Caliburn wasn’t too receptive to women. Well most women. He didn’t want to think about the Blonde. Not now. Her time would come.
Women had multi-tasking off to a fine art; one eye on the stove, another on their children, while simultaneously calculating how much coal would be needed for the coming winter, usually whilst wielding a needle of some kind and keeping up their end of any conversation or gossip that might be flying around the room. Times and chores might change, but women excelled at multi-tasking; and the slightest lapse of concentration would be exploited by Caliburn.
“Carrie, you have to man up. Grow a pair.”
Almost asleep now Carrie smiled. ‘Think of the most arrogant single minded pig headed man I’ve ever met.’ Sighing she breathed the word. ‘Rhyllann.’
For Rhyllann self doubt was something other people suffered from.
“That should do it.” Wren agreed.
The next part was really important but he mustn’t scare her.
“You’ve seen what Caliburn can do. You know what it’s capable of.”
She grew agitated, throwing her head from side to side. ‘No. No, not that.’
“No sweetheart, I don’t expect you to. I know you can’t.”
Though he would in a heartbeat – explode Caliburn’s power against those who dared hurt this girl.
“But no-one else knows that. And you will have Caliburn. Make them take you outside. You must be outside, do you understand?”
Carrie nodded, looking fretful.
“Is Jeff Holden still knocking around?”
A faint smile. ‘Jeff. Yes. He’s always trying to look out for me.’
“Make sure he’s there. Give them some bull about a sympathetic Celtic soul. This is important. Choose a target. Choose your target carefully before you even think about touching the sword. Then grasp Caliburn’s hilt firmly. Be in control. Become Rhyllann. Don’t for a single moment allow Caliburn’s power to backfire. Concentrate on your target and project Caliburn’s force in that direction. If someone does get in your way, that’s their fault, not yours. Don’t regret anything. Then move. Run. Don’t let go of the sword. Can you drive?”
Carrie let out a shuddering breath before nodding doubtfully. It would have to do. With luck Jeff Holden might show his hand, but they couldn’t count on that.
“Get as far away from here as quickly as you can
then dump the car. Make your way to Stonehenge. I’ll be waiting.” It was all he could offer. But the thought seemed to please her, she smiled in her sleep.
Leaning forward he brushed his lips against her forehead. His throat tightened with emotion and he would have given anything to remain with her, to help her through the ordeal to come.
“You’ll do it. I know you will. Be brave Carrie and do this for yourself.”
Carrie moved her head slightly in a nod, and Wren prepared to depart, concentrating hard on transporting back to Stonehenge. Just before the room disappeared on him, Wren thought he heard Carrie whisper: 'I'll do it for you, Wren, I promise.'
Chapter Twenty-Five
Carrie lingered on the borders of sleep, reliving every moment of her dream, when the door opened and the fat orderly waddled in with her breakfast tray.
For the first time since they’d brought her to this place, she didn’t shrink back, trying to hide herself away.
Fatty didn’t like her new confidence and unwrapped her bandages roughly, his thick lips tugging downwards. The new skin forming pink and shiny under her scabs itched like crazy as the bandages came off. But Carrie smiled and nodded as though pleased with the healing process. And her hands did feel better, she felt better; a new invigoration ran through her.
The orderly’s fingers dipped into a tub of lanolin, poised to slap a dollop onto her hands. Carrie jerked them away.
‘No. Let the air get to them.’
‘Orders is orders.’ He tugged her wrist down managing to smear the meaty part of her hand between thumb and forefinger.
Carrie wiped it off on his tunic.
‘And I said no.’ She spoke in a matter of fact tone without defiance. Reaching over for her breakfast bowl she dismissed him without another word.
Slurping the last of the milk, Carrie planned her next move. Rhyllann popped into her mind. She nodded to herself. Good idea! Adopt Rhyllann’s attitude. And what would Rhyllann do next? Alone in a bed in a empty cell?
She crossed her arms behind her head and lay back. Wincing in pain, she hurriedly rearranged her hands so they were resting on the covers.
All she had to do was empty her mind and relax. No matter what came through that door she could handle it; because sooner or later they would let her near Caliburn again and this time she would be ready.
The next person to walk through the door was Father Andrew. The old Carrie would have speculated on whether he waited and watched for her to start exercising in order to embarrass her. The new Carrie spared him a sideways glance and continued with her leg stretches. She didn’t even react when he cleared his throat, and he was forced to wait for her to finish, resentment glittering in his beady eyes.
Even then she walked over to the wash hand basin, sloshed water into it and immersed her face before patting it dry; acknowledging him with:
‘I need more water,’ she thrust the jug at him as she spoke. Father Andrew sat on the bed clutching it, looking foolish. Slithering down the wall opposite him, Carrie sank to the floor and hugged her knees to her chest.
‘Social visit?’ She enquired when he didn’t speak. At this he recollected himself adopting his usual condescending expression, barely stretching his lips as though it pained him to speak.
‘I, that is we, think it might be advantageous to repeat last Tuesday’s experiment.’
She raised her eyebrows, indicating her damaged hands, beefing up her role.
‘Umm, Carrie, I don’t wish to remind you … have you forgotten your Gran? We really don’t want to deprive her of … the nicer things in life.’ His face screwed with regret as he said this.
Carrie inclined her head. Time to make her own threats. She had no bargaining power whatsoever and convincing this worm otherwise would be crucial.
‘I wanna see her.’ She aimed high.
Father Andrew frowned, flicking at a speck of dust on his trousers.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
Carrie shrugged, propped her elbows on her knees, and with her chin in her hands, tilted her gaze to the ceiling. She scratched at her neck then massaged with a few head swivels, then started on her shoulder rolls.
‘Carrie? I said I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
She carried on with her neck and shoulder rolls really letting her head rotate, hair swirling round her shoulders as it followed her movements.
‘Carrie!’
‘Umm? Sorry what did you say?’
He got up and stormed out the room, still carrying the jug.
‘Don’t forget my water.’ She called after him.
The Blonde would be next, Carrie told herself. She conjured up a vision of Caliburn and held it in front of her. She mustn’t show any fear, either to the Blonde harridan or Caliburn. It’s my right. I’ve got a right to hold it. A right to be free. She told herself.
“Grow a pair.” Wren said, as though that made men so superior. Well she didn’t need to. She was Carina Thomas Treraven, and that was enough.
She didn’t wait long. The door swung open, two black suits with identical crew cuts, one salt and pepper, one dark brown, crammed into the room and positioned themselves either side of the door. Followed by the Blonde, also dressed in mufti: A frilly blouse of pale lilac teamed with a grey ‘A’ line skirt. Reclining on her pillows, Carrie forced her heart rate to slow and reminded herself to think very carefully before she spoke and not to show any fear.
Today the Blonde was in motherly mode. Seating herself at the end of Carrie’s bed, she gave a small smile.
‘Father Andrew tells me you’re missing your Gran.’ She began.
Carrie examined the scars on her hands before looking at the Blonde. She kept her voice neutral.
‘I do miss Gran. I’ve only got your word that she’s being treated well, I want to see for myself.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s only natural. I’m all she’s got.’
The Blonde nodded sympathetically, if it were up to her, Carrie would be whisked back to Cornwall immediately. She sighed.
‘I understand my dear, understand completely. It’s just not possible at the moment.’ Her voice was honey smooth.
Carrie opened her eyes to express surprise, drawing her legs up to her chest to rest her chin on her knees. They regarded each other in silence, apart from the odd crackle from one of the bodyguard’s radio. Eventually the blonde broke first.
‘Dear, if only you could remember where you found the sword. It really is very important you know.’ She leaned into Carrie, stroking back a tendril of hair. Carrie counted to five before answering.
‘I’ve explained. You’ve recorded me explaining. The lights went out. I remember nothing. When I came to, Gran picked up the sword and we walked home. People started following us then Gran started talking to …’ She paused, finishing with: ‘Sorry. That’s all I can remember.’
‘So your Gran can handle the sword?’ The Blonde took a sharp intake of breath.
‘Of course. So can I. But not in here. It needs to be out in the open. This isn’t right. I’ve said all this before.’ She said in a whine, hoping no one would contradict her.
The Blonde sat poker straight. ‘You mean you can touch the sword?’ She glanced at Carrie’s hands.
‘If the conditions are right. I don’t know why you keep making me touch it inside when it hates this place. It wants outside. It needs to be surrounded by natural elements not man-made.’ Carrie added, careful to keep her eyes lowered.
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ The honey tone turned acid.
‘Well duh! I did. No one listened!’ Carrie gave her best teenage sneer, examining her burns again, peeling a flake of skin off, holding it two inches from her face before dropping it onto her tongue. All three adults watched fascinated and she sensed their collective shudder but didn’t look up from teasing the next flake of skin away.
‘Stop that! I mean – don’t do that dear, you’ll get infected.’
In answer Carrie started fiddling with her hair, i
nspecting it for split ends, biting them off with a snapping motion and spitting them onto the bedclothes.
The Blonde rose to her feet, straightening her skirt, a smile still pasted on her face.
‘I can quite see how bored you are.’ Her smile broadened as though a thought just occurred to her.
‘You like to exercise don’t you?’
‘Suppose.’ Carrie spoke through a mouthful of hair.
‘Well – we should organise some gym sessions for you. Maybe an hour a day?’ She let the question linger.
Carrie pretended to consider; wrinkling her nose she gave a begrudging nod.
‘That’s settled! And this afternoon – we’ll all go outside and you can show everyone how you handle the sword.’ She prepared to depart.
‘No.’
The Blonde paused at the door, her face hardening.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Not this afternoon. The sword likes sunrise best.’ She needed time to recover.
‘Sunrise?’
‘You know. Dawn. All the natural elements and so on.’ Carrie gestured off handedly.
‘Right. Dawn it is!’ She turned to leave again.
‘Oh, and if Jeff Holden’s about – it likes having Celtic people around.’
That sounded really lame. But the Blonde simply nodded and left.
‘Don’t forget about the gym.’ Carrie called after her.
Throwing herself back against the pillows she closed her eyes and let go a long sigh of relief. She smiled. Wren would be proud of her.
******
When the orderly came for her the next day, it was with a new air of respect, and a set of clean clothes. Shorts and a tee-shirt, no doubt hinting at the promised gym session. The two minders appeared and Carrie followed them out of the building in silence, head down, gathering her thoughts, inhaling deeply.
