by T J Green
Beansprout had asked if the watchers were real.
“Of course they are,” Fahey had said, “although they can’t touch you – they’re not real in the sense that we are. They are–” he’d leaned forward for emphasis, raising his feathered eyebrows, “your guilty thoughts, brought to life by the dark night.”
“They’re what?” Beansprout had asked, her face alarmed and confused.
“Every little lie, harsh word or unfair judgement,” Fahey had said, shaking his head. “They’re out there, watching.”
For a moment they had all looked beyond the light of the fire, wondering what they had done that caused a figure to be standing there, watching, before quickly dropping their eyes to the fire again.
However, today Tom was so tired he knew he’d sleep well tonight, regardless of who or what the figures were. The party aimed for the foot of the tor where there was a cave offering proper shelter. From there it was another half a day’s ride to the lake.
Tom adjusted his position behind Brenna. A horse had to be the most uncomfortable method of transport. There were four horses and six riders; he was sharing a ride, as was Beansprout behind Woodsmoke. His grandfather, however, looked very comfortable on his horse.
Tom tried to adjust his movements to the horse’s, but failed miserably. He gave up and bumped along painfully.
They dismounted at the base of Fell Tor and, lighting torches, inspected the interior of the cave. It was large and dry with plenty of room for them to spread out. After satisfying himself that there were no hidden exits, Woodsmoke unpacked the food and Tom built the fire. When it was burning steadily he called to Woodsmoke, “I’m going to walk up the tor to join the others.”
The wind blew fiercely as he rounded the rough path that circled the tor, and he pulled his clothes tightly around him. About halfway up he found the others sheltering in a hollow. They were looking at the silver shine of the lake in the distance, a shine that stopped abruptly as it met the mist dividing the lake.
“That mist never goes,” Fahey said. “No matter how hot the day, it’s always impossible to see the island in the centre.”
“Are you sure it has an island?” Jack asked.
“Well, so the old tales say.”
“Has anyone tried to land on it?”
“It’s impossible to sail anywhere on that lake. You think you’re making headway and then the shore’s back in front of you again. I tried for hours, only to end up back where I started. Until of course … Boom! I was suddenly trapped in a tree.” He didn’t look at them, his attention wrapped up in the lake and the past.
“Are you feeling OK?” Beansprout asked.
“Strange memories, that’s all.”
The moor below them was desolate, its wide expanses of wind-flattened greenery relieved only by blunt-headed rocks rising like whales from the earth.
Down by the lake edge Tom saw a circle of standing stones. They must be huge, he thought, because even from here they were an impressive sight. The circle reminded him of Stonehenge.
Perhaps it was something to do with the tor, but that night, the watchers seemed to Tom to be stronger, more visible, as if they insisted on being acknowledged. They had built the fire as close to the cave entrance as they could without smoking themselves out. The flames flickered and obscured the view of the moor beyond them, but still Tom could see the watchers.
While they ate, they sat close to the fire, piling on wood so that the flames climbed steadily higher. But as they settled down to sleep, they all crept to the back of the cave and sheltered behind bags and blankets. Woodsmoke had said they wouldn’t see the watchers after tonight, as they wouldn’t venture close to the lake. Tom could hear the horses snuffling and shuffling unconcerned outside, and wished he could ignore the visitors too.
They came upon the circle at midday, when the stones’ shadows were at their shortest. The stones looked as if they had stood there for centuries, solid and unyielding to the weather and the passage of time. Carvings jostled for space on every stone, reminding Tom of the carvings under Mishap Folly at home. In the centre of the ring was a smooth floor of white stone.
They walked around and between the stones, their fingers tracing the carvings, the stone cold beneath their touch. The shoreline of the lake was a short distance away, fringed by a narrow beach of sand sculpted by wind and waves. Now they were closer to the lake they could see that the mist rose up like a wall across the water.
Tom walked to the water’s edge. The others joined him, forming a straggling line along the beach. As they gazed across the water Tom turned to them. “What now?”
Fahey pointed to the mist. “Someone’s coming.”
A long, narrow boat slipped out of the mist, gliding through the water without a ripple. The curved bronze peak of its prow rose high above them, topped by a roaring dragon figurehead, its fierce eyes glaring across the water. A huge square sail stretched across the middle of the boat, filled with wind, even though there wasn’t so much as a breeze blowing. Eventually the boat stopped a short distance from the shore.
Tom felt a thrill of anticipation. No one spoke. They stood rapt, as silent and still as statues.
The Lady of the Lake stepped into view on the bow. She looked regal and imposing with her long silver hair flowing around her shoulders and across her vivid green dress. She raised her arm and pointed at them.
Tom felt his head tighten as if there was a band around it, and a soft voice spoke directly in his head. He stumbled and fell to his knees, his hands clutching his head.
Beansprout rushed to his side. “Tom, are you all right?”
“I can hear her, right in here. Can’t you? Damn! It didn’t hurt like this the other day.”
“No, I can’t hear anything. What’s she saying?” Beansprout turned to glare at the woman who stood pointing at Tom. “Stop it!” she yelled at her. “You’re hurting him!”
The others remained motionless, gazing towards the boat.
“I don’t think she meant to hurt me, it’s OK.” Tom’s face eased and he straightened up. “She wants me to go with her.”
“Go where?”
“Where do you think? The island in the lake!”
“On your own? What about me? Ow!” Beansprout clutched her head too.
“What did she say?” Tom asked, guessing what had caused the pain.
“She told me to wait.”
“Well then, I’d better go.” He smiled nervously at Beansprout and added, “Wish me luck.”
He walked across the narrow beach and into the water, every step taking him deeper, until the water lapped his thighs. When he reached the boat he grabbed the side and hauled himself over. As soon as Tom’s feet touched the deck the boat started to move, back towards the mist. The sail flapped and turned, and the shoreline disappeared.
The mist pressed into his skin, eyes and hair. Every time he breathed in, moisture rushed into his mouth and lungs, until he felt saturated. Beads of water formed on the hairs on the back of his hands. His jeans were already soaked through and he shivered in the cold. The ends of the ship were invisible, and he couldn’t even see the water.
The Lady of the Lake had gone and he stood alone. Seeking shelter, he looked for a hatch in the deck, but saw nothing except wet planks of wood. It was very un-boat-like. There were no stores or ropes, no helm or anchor.
He shrugged off his backpack and took out a fleece. He didn’t change his wet jeans, thinking he may have to wade into the water again when they reached the next shore – if there was one.
He couldn’t even detect movement. There was no wind, no sign of rippling water, no noise of any kind that might indicate where land was. For all he knew he was motionless, stranded in the middle of the lake, freezing to death.
At least his head felt better now her voice was out of it. He tried to remember her exact words, but struggled, as if he had heard them a long time ago. Well he knew what he had to do, just not how.
He decided it was pointl
ess to keep standing. No matter how hard he looked, the mist was impenetrable, so he sat with his back against the mast, his pack in the small of his back, closed his eyes and tried to rest.
Tom was awoken by the boat scraping across the ground. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep for. He was cold and stiff, and it was only with difficulty that he pushed himself up off the deck to see where he was.
The mist had cleared to reveal a pale blue sky, although tendrils still ribboned through the air and wrapped themselves about the rocks on the shore in front of him. Gnarled trees lined the beach, and beyond were steep hills thickly clad in tangled trees and bushes. On the summit of the highest hill was a stand of trees, light trickling through the gaps. To the right, a narrow crevasse punctured the smooth line of the hills.
He was utterly alone. The only sound was of an unseen bird calling high above, its cry eerie and forlorn, emphasising his solitude. The waves hushed insistently against the shingle, and Tom realised he was going to have to get wet again.
He slid over the side of the boat and waded to the shore, then tried to squeeze the water out of his jeans, telling himself, “It’s not cold, you’re just imagining it.” He debated building a fire, but curiosity drew him onwards, away from the shore towards the break in the hills.
The shingle slid beneath his feet, making his movements awkward, but once he entered the crevasse the ground flattened and hardened. The shadowed sides were cushioned with moss and dripping with slime and trickling water. The sky was a narrow band of blue high above him, and his footsteps echoed as he walked further in.
After a while the path climbed and curled around the hill. The undergrowth was dense and crowded the path, and he began to sweat with the effort of the climb. Finally he emerged into a clearing and saw a broad vale below, filled with fertile fields, green meadows and trees. It was the scene from the dream he’d had on the flat rock, and although it was beautiful, his stomach tightened with dread. On the far side of the vale he made out a long low building of golden stone, glowing in the sunlight, while in the centre was a rocky hill and the dark mouth of a cave. Tom sank on to the sandy path, drank from a bottle of water and wondered what to do.
The light was falling, the sun sinking rapidly, the sky turning from pale blue to smoky violet. Stars appeared, brighter and closer to him than they had ever been before.
Below him in the vale the woman appeared beneath the trees. She gazed up at him and he felt a gentle push inside his head, before she turned and walked towards the cave.
“OK, so you want me to follow you? I get it,” Tom muttered, and he scrambled to his feet and down the path.
The valley was silent. Odd shapes appeared at the edges of his vision, and although he turned quickly, he saw only shadows of an uncertain size and shape. The woman flitted like a ghost, always just ahead of him, through the soft twilight. No matter how he hurried, he couldn’t seem to get closer. Arriving at the cave, she stepped in and disappeared.
Tom jogged to keep up with her and arrived breathing heavily. He stopped at the threshold and peered into the murky gloom. She waited in the shadows beyond a small fire burning in the centre. To the left was a cavernous hole, and Tom could see the start of a narrow staircase descending into the blackness.
He took a few steps. “What is this place?”
For the first time she actually spoke, and her voice was odd, like wind chimes. “It’s the place where things end, rest, wait, and watch.”
“And why am I here?”
“Tom, you know why! You have to wake the King.”
“Why? What for?”
“He has to stop the Queen. She is destroying everything. He must go to the old forest.”
She had the most maddening way of talking, as if he should know this.
“But why me? Why blood? And how do you know? You might be making it up!”
“Merlin insisted that whoever woke Arthur must be related by blood. It was one of his conditions during our negotiations, and so it was woven into the spell.”
Before he could speak, images appeared in Tom’s mind. An old man and a young woman, sitting around a fire at the edge of the lake, under a star-filled sky. Between them a long silver sword, flashing with firelight and shadow. The old man shouting, “Vivian! I insist. If he must awake here, he must not be alone. One of his kin must wake him.”
“You are a sentimental old fool. He will not be alone!”
“If you deny this request, I deny you him!”
“And I keep the sword.”
He softens. “Please, he is like my son.”
She hesitates and eventually nods. “Then his descendants will be marked, and I shall follow them all.” She reaches into a bag at her side and pulls out herbs and a small cauldron, and together they start to chant.
Tom shook his head and blinked. “Was that you? You’re Vivian?”
“A very young me.”
“But you aren’t one of them. The fey. What are you?”
“I am human, like you. I dedicated my life to magic and decided to stay here, a very long time ago. I helped negotiate the sword.”
“But why me?” he insisted.
“I followed all of you. Some of you are too old, some too young, some too weak. Who sent Fahey to your world, Tom? Who did he bring here? Who followed? Was it chance? Luck? Design? And you have the mark, do you not? A dark sword-shaped birthmark across your arm.”
Again he had a feeling of being out of his depth; a pawn in someone else’s game. His hand moved subconsciously over the top of his right arm, over the long birthmark, and he remembered his mother’s mark and wondered if either of her parents had had one too. “How do you know that?”
“I put it there.”
He had a sudden rush of dizziness at the implications of her words. Feeling a little sick, he asked, “So what now?”
She pointed to the stairway. “Down there. Follow the steps to the bottom, and then go along the passageway. Remember to use the bough I gave you. It will help you speak to Arthur, too.”
“Oh great,” he said sarcastically. “I seem to spend my time in dark underground tunnels. I suppose it would be too much to expect his tomb to be somewhere light and pleasant. And how do I find my way in the dark?” He had visions of his torch battery failing and leaving him in the blackness.
She leaned forward and pulled a flaming branch from the fire, muttering a few words over it. She handed it to Tom wordlessly.
Tom grabbed the torch and headed towards the steps, wondering why he’d allowed himself to become involved.
As he started down the steps she shouted, “Do not turn off the main path!”
Tom had been descending for hours, slithering on the steps that widened and narrowed, switching between earth and stone, sometimes crumbling beneath his feet. The torch spluttered and flared as he encountered unexpected breezes carrying damp rotten smells. Crumbling side passages led off into blackness. The air grew stale, and several times he considered turning back, before realising he might not get off the island if he didn’t fulfil this quest. His limbs ached and he was hungry and thirsty. He sat down occasionally to rest his legs and drink some water, but the steps were so uncomfortable that he didn’t stop for long.
Eventually he came to a wider space – a break in the stairs where he could wedge his light upright and rest properly. He was so tired he could barely think, so although this was probably the worst place in which he would ever attempt to sleep, he decided he had to get some rest. The silence that settled around him was unnerving, but he convinced himself he was safe. He rolled his pack under his head, trying to get comfortable, wondering as he settled down what the others were doing, out there in the sunlight. And what of Finnlugh? Would he come?
12 The Lakeside
For a few minutes Beansprout stood watching as Tom disappeared behind the mist, heading to some distant place she would never know.
A chill swept through her. The boat was clearly ancient; it reminded her of images she had seen
of similar boats from the past. Its familiarity scared her – it was as if the past had crossed an invisible barrier and was suddenly right next to her. It challenged everything she had ever known.
Trying to shake off the feeling, and realising there was nothing she could do now to help Tom, she hurried across to where the others stood, still motionless. She stopped in front of her grandfather. His eyes were filled with tears and he gazed beyond her into the distance. She hesitated, wondering if it would be dangerous to disturb him and the others, but decided she couldn’t just leave them standing there.
She reached out her hand and laid it gently on his arm. “Granddad, wake up.” He remained motionless, so she shook him, watching his eyes carefully. “Granddad, can you hear me? It’s me, Beansprout.” She thought she detected a flicker of movement in his eyes, but then it was gone.
She sighed and moved to Woodsmoke. He was much taller than her, so she couldn’t see his eyes properly. Feeling self-conscious, she touched his sleeve and then his hand, shaking it. “Woodsmoke, wake up.”
He didn’t stir and she sighed again. With her back to the wide expanse of grey water, she looked at the desolate moor, the windswept grass, the trees, knotted and bent, and the tall standing stones, mysterious and indifferent to her needs. She felt overwhelmingly lonely.
She panicked. “Woodsmoke, I’m scared. Don’t leave me here alone!” She shook him more aggressively, and felt a pressure on her hand as he squeezed back. He shook his head as if emerging from a deep sleep, blinked a few times, and then looked down at her. She suddenly became aware that she was still holding his hand, and released it quickly, asking, “Are you OK?”
“I think so. I had the weirdest dream.” He looked around. “What’s going on? Where’s Tom?”
