“Doesn’t make any difference for what we’re doing now,” Felix said.
Clare nodded. “I’d just like to know.”
“Mr. Goninan didn’t say anything about another group of people,” Janey said.
“Doesn’t mean there isn’t,” Clare said.
“I suppose.”
The road they were on now would take them all the way to the village of Trevowhan if they kept following it. A little farther past the village and they would be at the Morvah cliffs where, far below, the Atlantic washed against the tiny islands of Manakas and Wolf Rocks. They’d often picnicked on those cliffs in the years before Janey and Felix broke up—sometimes just the three of them, other times with Dinny and his sister Bridget joining them.
There was good music at those picnics—little sessions with the sound of the wind and the waves adding their own counterpointing rhythms to the sounds of fiddle and accordion, whistle, flute, and the two sets of pipes, Northumbrian and Uillean, that Janey and Dinny invariably brought. Janey was half inclined to go there now and never mind all the mad things that had come along to turn their lives topsy-turvy. But when they reached the Men-an-Tol print studio, housed in the old Bosullow schoolhouse, she dutifully turned the little Reliant up the dirt track that would take them across Bosullow Common and most of the distance to the Men-an-Tol itself.
The holed stone wasn’t the only stonework in this area—just the most famous. It was the largest tolmen in the British Isles, which often surprised visitors who were expecting something along the scale of Stonehenge. Instead, what they got for their twenty-minute walk from the B3312 was a round wheel of a stone with a large hole in its center, two short menhir on either side of the hole, with a third stone lying flat on the ground beside the easternmost longstone. The hole in the tolmen was large enough for a grown man to crawl through, although someone with shoulders as broad as Felix’s might have some trouble.
Besides the Men-an-Tol, there were only two other major stoneworks nearby: the Boskednan, or Nine Maidens, stone circle to the east, and an inscribed stone known as the Men Scryfu to the north. But the area was riddled with smaller stoneworks, both ancient and more modern. A little farther north of the Men Scryfu was a point called the Four Parishes, a large slab of rock bearing an incised cross-hole where one could stand heel and toe with the parishes of Gulval, Madron, Morvah, and Zennor. There were also any number of cairns and crosses, solitary stones and hut circles, tumuli and all the remnants of the old tin mines: shafts, pits, and the disused mines themselves.
Janey stopped the car when the track finally gave out and they could go no farther. They all got out, Felix rooting about in the glove compartment for the flashlight that he knew Janey kept there. The night was quiet, the moon still below the horizon, but they could see its glow. As their eyes adjusted to the dark, Felix thrust the flashlight into his pocket in case they needed it later.
“We should get moving,” he said.
“Just a minute,” Janey said.
She was looking back down the track towards the Coronation House farm that lay on the other side of a privet hedge that they had passed earlier.
“We don’t have long,” Felix reminded her.
“She knows,” Clare said. “She’s just waiting for Kempy.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.”
Janey put her fingers to her lips and let a shrill whistle sound out across the land. A few moments later they all heard an answering bark.
“Kempy?” Felix asked.
Clare nodded.
Kempy was a mad border collie that invariably followed any visitor on their walk to the Men-an-Tol. His biggest thrill was to have stones tossed for him that he would then fetch and bring back to lay at the thrower’s feet, a lunatic grin on his face as he barked for the game to begin again.
Janey had always loved the name of the moorland here—the Ding-Dong Moors. It was an old name, and she knew that the inspiration for it couldn’t have been taken from Kempy, but she couldn’t help but believe that if it hadn’t been named for Kempy’s antics, then one of the border collie’s forebears had had that dubious honour of being responsible for it, which was “Almost the same difference,” as Chalkie liked to say.
The name actually came from the bottle or bell mines from which the ancient Romans had excavated rich lodes of ore, particularly from the one known as the Ding-Dong Mine on the eastern edge of the moor where, during the last century, a loud bell was rung to summon the miners to work.
Kempy himself came charging up just then. Janey bent down to accept an enthusiastic faceful of licks before she finally stood up.
“Want to go for a walk, Kempy?” she asked.
The dog barked happily. He went and danced about Felix, sniffing at him, tail wagging, then tried to stick his head up Clare’s skirt. She pushed him away with a laugh.
“Pervert,” she muttered.
Janey threw a stone that rattled off farther down the narrowing track when it landed. Kempy raced after it, charging through the darkness, leaving the others to follow at a slower pace. About fifty yards on they came to a stile on their right that took them directly onto the moor. From there a path led off through the thick gorse, ling, and bell heather to the holed stone.
8.
Madden had no trouble tracking the artifact that was Dunthorn’s secret—and it was an artifact, he had decided by now. A talisman of some sort. He could almost see it. It occupied space, had physical weight. All he lacked now was an understanding of its actual shape.
But although he could track the artifact as Janey Little ferried it across the countryside, his unfamiliarity with the area itself slowed him down. He knew exactly where the object was at all times, but found himself going down too many dead ends where he had to back up and start again, or following narrow lanes that, after leading him in the correct direction for a time, unaccountably veered off, taking him out of his way.
When he eventually reached the Men-an-Tol print studio, the moon was already rising. He turned up the lane, following it until he reached a Reliant Robin that had been parked there ahead of him. He pulled in behind what he assumed was Janey Little’s car and stepped out onto the lane. Closing his eyes, he turned slowly in one spot until he had the object’s position fixed once more.
He was about to start off down the narrowing track when he heard a call from the direction of the Coronation House farm he had passed earlier. He turned to see the beam of a flashlight bobbing along the dirt. The man following it was short and stout. He had a Cornishman’s round face, wellie boots on his feet, a rain slicker, and the unavoidable cloth cap on his head.
“You there,” the farmer called out as he approached. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Parking my car.”
The farmer shook his head. “Not allowed. This is private land. You’ll have to move it.”
“But this other vehicle . . . ?”
“That belongs to a friend of mine—she can park there anytime she likes—but you’ll have to park back at the road.”
Madden had no patience for this sort of nonsense—not now, not when he was so close. He locked gazes with the farmer, his annoyance making him use far more force than was necessary. The man staggered back, clutching at his head with one hand. The beam of his flashlight pointed skyward, weaving back and forth as the man fought for balance against the fierce, sharp fire that was hammering behind his eyes.
“You don’t mind if I park my car here, do you?” Madden asked.
The farmer shook his head slowly. He didn’t glance at Madden; he simply pressed his hands against his temples in a vain hope to alleviate the pain.
“Perhaps you should lie down—get to bed a little early tonight,” Madden suggested. “You appear as though you could use the extra hours of sleep.”
“Think I will,” the farmer said.
His voice was dull with pain.
A dim-witted sheep, Madden thought as he watched th
e farmer walk slowly back the way he’d come. That was all the man was. That was all any of them were—the world teemed with them.
He sighed, flexed his fingers, then turned to look across the dark moorland once more.
He concentrated for a moment, marking the location of Dunthorn’s artifact, then set off along the narrowing track that he’d been about to follow before the farmer had interrupted him. He knew this area. He could even guess, when he reached the stile that would let him out onto the moor, where Janey Little and her friends were going.
To the Men-an-Tol.
What he couldn’t comprehend was why.
And that troubled him more than he would care to admit to anyone—including himself.
9.
The moon was peeping over the horizon when Janey and the others finally reached the Men-an-Tol. As always happened when she found herself in an ancient site such as this, she couldn’t help but shiver with its sense of mystery—no matter how small or insignificant the stonework might be, no matter if it was out on a moor like this, or stuck in a farmer’s field with cows placidly chewing their cuds around it.
The moor around this tolmen was one of her favorite spots—and it had obviously been one of William Dunthorn’s as well, considering how much it had played a part in his writing, not only its significant role in The Little Country, but also in a number of articles he’d written for various journals. She’d often brought her pipes up here, enjoying the mood that their music woke in her when it mingled with the antiquity of the place. She smiled as she remembered the face of more than one tourist who’d followed the sound of her music to the stone. She was never sure if they were disappointed or relieved to find that it was only her toodling tunes by the tolmen and not some faerie piper.
“Well,” she said.
She looked at Felix and Clare who were both waiting for her to make the first move. Kempy lay at the edge of cleared ground that surrounded the stone, smack dab in the middle of where the path from the lane joined it. His tongue lolled from his mouth and she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was grinning at her.
If he was, she knew why.
The tingly feelings she got from places like this, that sense of old mysteries lying thick in the air just waiting to be called up, that was one thing. What had brought them tonight . . .
“I feel kind of dumb,” she said.
“You have to give it a try,” Felix said.
“I know. It’s just . . .”
She sighed, taking the satchel with the book in it from her shoulder.
“Is there anything we should do?” Clare asked.
Janey smiled. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.”
But she did. Hadn’t Dunthorn told her, his counsel crossing the boundary of the years by way of the book? Maybe it was her story that she’d read in The Little Country, her phrasing, her voice, but it was still Bill Dunthorn speaking to her.
Nine times through the hole at moonrise.
“Better get to it,” Felix said.
Janey nodded and walked over to the stone. “Give me a hand?”
He stepped over to the opposite side of the hole. She looked at him through the gap in the stone, still feeling foolish. He smiled reassuringly.
“Here goes nothing,” she said.
She passed the satchel through to him. He took it and handed it back to her. She put it through the hole again.
That was twice.
And she felt more than dumb: She felt downright harebrained. But she kept passing the satchel through, counting off the times softly under her breath.
Six.
What if there really was another world on the other side of the stone? Who would end up guarding the book, then? Some little pointy-eared piskie?
The whole situation was mad. But the book itself—there was a magic in it. They’d proved that, because they’d each read a different story in it.
Seven.
She paused as she got the satchel back from Felix, thinking she’d heard something. She cocked her head, listening. The sensation grew in her that something was approaching. She felt it, not in the rational part of her mind, but in the intuitive side: an odd, inexpressible feeling that crept into the marrow of her bones and resonated there.
A sound.
She remembered what had happened in the Dunthorn book and then, as though that memory was a catalyst, she recognized what it was that she heard.
A faint trace of music, distant and eerie.
And familiar.
It was the same music that she’d heard coming from the book. . . .
She looked at Felix, wanting to ask if he heard it too, but she didn’t need to ask. She could tell by the look on his face that it wasn’t just her imagination. There was a look of wonder in his eyes, a slight loosening of his jaw.
It had to be real, because he was hearing it as well.
She passed the satchel through again.
Eight, she counted to herself.
And now she could pick out individual instruments: whistle and pipes; the clear ring of harp strings and the long, slow notes of a bow drawn across a fiddle’s strings; the soft rhythm of a drumbeat—
Dhumm-dum. Dhumm-dum.
—that seemed to twin her own heartbeat.
And there, in the center of the Men-an-Tol’s hole, a pinprick of light. A faint glow. A glimmering.
Her breath caught in her throat and she found it impossible to take another. She was numbed with awe.
It’s real, she thought. There was a real magic here. . . .
Beyond the tolmen, mists were rising from the moorland. Slowly Janey took the satchel that held the Dunthorn book and passed it through the hole for the last time.
Nine.
Light flared, blinding her. The music rose to a crescendo. Janey let the satchel go. The flare died down, fading on the last strains of the music that seemed to be moving away, over one hill, over another, until it was gone. The silence around the stone lay heavy and deep, sweet with wonder.
When Janey could see again, she found Felix looking at her through the Men-an-Tol’s hole. His hands were empty.
“The—the book . . . ?” he asked haltingly.
“Gone,” Janey said.
Her heart sang. She could still hear the music—the memory of it—inside her, its rhythm still twinning her heartbeat. She fumbled in her purse for the tin whistle that she’d brought with her, her fingers trembling as she put the two parts together and then brought the mouthpiece up to her lips.
“It was unbelievable,” she heard Felix say.
His voice seemed to come from a great distance. Clare was kneeling on the grass beside her, one hand reaching out to touch the stone. Janey felt aware of everything and nothing in that moment. She started to blow into the whistle, wanting to capture that music, or at least what she could of it, before the memory was completely gone, but then Kempy barked, and the moment of wonder came thundering down in a crash.
She turned to look at the path leading up to the stone. Kempy was backing up into the clearing, still barking. Standing there on the path was a tall figure; an angry figure. His eyes seemed to glow with his rage. They were red coals that caught the moonlight and took it inside them, swallowing it.
“What have you done?” he cried.
The voice was like ice, promising pain. Power crackled in the air around the man. He shot a gaze at the dog and Kempy abruptly stopped barking. Whining, the dog crawled on its belly away from the dark figure.
It didn’t take much insight for Janey to realize that they were finally face-to-face with John Madden.
10.
Grimes was in a foul mood by the time he finally pulled up across from the Men-an-Tol print studio on the B3312. He looked at the darkened building, then over to the signpost on the other side of the road that indicated the beginning of a public footpath to the Men-an-Tol.
It had taken him longer than he’d expected to get here. The maps that Bett had left i
n the glove compartment of the rental car had been more than adequate. It was matching them up to the often unmarked roads that had been a bitch. Especially at night.
He looked past the signpost, off into the darkened moorland. So how far was this stone anyway?
Turning on the interior light, he pulled the map up from the seat beside him and spread it out across the steering wheel.
Not too far. Close enough so that he could leave the car here and walk up. That’d save the sound of the engine carrying across the moor.
He didn’t want to give Madden any more of a warning than he could possibly help. When he thought of the man’s eyes—
His missing hand started to ache again.
Uh-uh, he thought. This time it ends differently.
He parked his car over in the small lot near the print studio and crossed back over to the lane that led up to the Men-an-Tol. Removing his .38 from his pocket, where the cloth might snag against its trigger if he had to get it out quickly, he thrust it into his belt, under his jacket. Then he started up the lane.
He walked at a steady clip, reaching a pair of parked cars in under fifteen minutes.
Bingo. One red Fiesta.
Thank you, Bett. I owe you one.
The other vehicle was one of those weird three-wheeled Reliants. He wouldn’t ride in one of those if you paid him to. Damn thing looked like it’d tip over the first time it went around a sharp curve.
He studied the surrounding landscape, trying to decide where Madden and the owner of the other car might have gone, then figured he’d just stay put. Wandering out on those moors, who knew where the hell he’d end up? Getting lost he didn’t need—not when he was this close. Sooner or later Madden would be coming back for his car. He’d just wait here for him.
Grimes stepped over into the deeper shadows of the hedgerow on the west side of the lane and leaned up against a stone. He slowed his breathing, relaxing until a deep calm settled over him. It was a simple hunter’s trick. You just melted into the background—became a part of the background. Until you made your move.
The Little Country Page 53
