"Willis didn't know. He was only speculating. Wyniddyn might have come at the time when the first missionaries were reaching these parts. Maybe he was a partly Christian magician. Who can tell?"
"And this is his seal?"
"I think so. And Sarah – I dug it up."
"Yes. Oh, Tom – look." The excitement had won her over. She traced around the great circle with her finger. "A stone band, surrounding the dragon. Well, almost surrounding it."
Tom felt a sudden guilty pang. "I didn't break it," he said, more sharply than he would have wished. "It was broken already, when we found it in the ground."
"I know that, Tom. You don't have to shout."
"I wasn't shouting."
"You were. Anyway, forget it. It's a pity, but there it is."
"But Sarah, someone stole the arm, and you remember that last bit in the book, about people still having ties to the dragon legend? I didn't understand it quite, but he was connecting it to those stories of witchcraft long ago, and implying that some form of magic belief was continuing, behind all the fairy tales and nursery rhymes."
"Tom, he was writing a hundred years ago."
"I know, but if it survived till then, who's to say it hasn't survived till now?"
"Oh, come on, Tom. People aren't stupid. They wouldn't—"
"So why steal the cross?"
"Don't interrupt me! It's all very interesting, Tom, and may have some relevance to the cross, but don't try and take it too far. There are other things to think about."
"But I haven't finished, Sarah. Listen to what else I found out. On the way home I called in on the Stanbridge Herald and had a little browse in their archives. I read a couple of articles from 1895 about Willis's death – he died in a house fire – and there were rumours of foul play."
"So?"
"Arson was the theory. Only no one could work out how it had been done. Willis's house wasn't made of matchsticks. It was a solid brick affair. The weather had been wet. Yet the thing was an inferno in moments, according to witnesses."
"Probably just a study lamp knocked over, or a spark from his grate."
"Possibly. Except Willis had only just returned to the house after a few days' absence. He'd been in it for a matter of minutes when the place went up, according to friends who'd left him. Would he have had time to get a fire going?"
"Don't ask me. Now, Tom . . ."
Tom reached over and grabbed her by the arm. "But don't you see, Sarah? What if it all links together? What if Willis's ideas about some sort of conspiracy weren't utter moonshine? What if he was closing in upon something which had been kept hidden for hundreds of years?"
"Tom—"
"They'd have been only too glad to shut him up, Sarah, don't you see? And think of all the talk of fire in his book, and how he died. Could that be a coincidence?"
"Yes," said Sarah. "It could. Honestly, Tom, you're beginning to sound like Mrs Gabriel:*'
"But that's the point. Arthur Willis has been forgotten, but the undercurrent of belief he was investigating hasn't gone by any means. Mrs Gabriel's tapped into it even now. That's what set me thinking in the first place. The cross is at the centre of all this, Sarah, and part of it has been stolen."
"So part of it has been stolen! Perhaps somebody somewhere hasn't let the old ways drop! Maybe! Or maybe it's all a series of coincidences and it doesn't amount to anything. You haven't proof either way, and I'm fed up of wasting time. Are you coming back to see Michael, or aren't you?"
"Just one more thing, Sarah, and I'm all yours. Listen, I got this book at Birmingham Research Library. I went there because Vanessa Sawcroft looked up in the Hereford and Worcester Central Library Index and couldn't find Willis there."
"I'm going, Tom."
"Wait. It turns out she was right. The one at Birmingham is one of only two copies in the whole country."
"Well?"
"The Research Library keeps records of who comes to take its books out. You have to join it, leaving name and address, and pay a membership fee. Well, I enquired whether I was the first to ask for 'The Book of the Worm', and it turned out I wasn't. The man at the desk even gave me the other person's name, so I could share my research with them. He gave me a name and address. Want to know who it was?"
Sarah looked at him stony-faced.
"Well, I'll tell you. Vanessa Sawcroft."
"So?"
"Sarah, she told me she knew nothing of the book! She lied to me! Or deliberately misled me, anyway. Why should she do that? And that's not all. Guess where she lives? Hardraker Farm."
"What?"
"Hardraker Farm. That was the address she gave the library. And you read what Willis had to say about that place!"
"Tom—" Sarah seemed to be having difficulty controlling herself. "Tom, I've listened to you for twenty minutes now. I'm not listening to you any more. You're not making any sense. The bit about the cross is great – I'm not surprised you're excited. But the rest – look, it's just nonsense. I don't know why Vanessa Sawcroft didn't tell you about the book. Maybe she forgot."
"Oh, come on—"
"Maybe she didn't. Maybe she's pissed off with you for going on and on about your obsessions and wanted to get you out of her hair. Who knows? But she doesn't live at Hardraker Farm, and I know that because only yesterday I was invited to look round it with a view to a valuation. It's empty, Tom. No one lives there. Stop trying to find patterns where none exists."
Tom looked doubtful. "Who says it's empty?"
"Mr Cleever. Remember him? Parish councillor, church warden – you know the one. He's the executor. Are you saying he's lying too?"
"Well, no – but the whole thing's too much—"
"Bloody hell, Tom!" Sarah was furious now. "That's it. Here's what we'll do. In two hours, I want you at my house for lunch, to talk to Michael. In the meantime, I'm going to do you a favour. I shall go up to Hardraker Farm right now and take a good look round. And while I'm there, I shall keep my eyes open for flying wizards, lying librarians or cross thieves. OK? If I see any of them, I shall let you know. If I don't, perhaps you will stop wittering on about this bloody cross!"
With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard that the nave echoed. Tom was left staring after her, still trying to think up what to say.
24
Stephen bided his time once Sarah had gone. He loitered inside the house, showering and getting dressed, and all the time keeping an eye out of various windows to make sure his prey made no run for it. But Michael seemed content to sit in the garden, drinking the remains of the cold coffee and gazing out into the hills.
"That's fine," thought Stephen. "Just stay right where you are."
By and by, Michael seemed to gain a slight lease of life. He stretched, yawned and walked back into the kitchen, where he opened various cupboards in an aimless fashion. But if he was hungry, nothing took his fancy. He stood undecided for a moment, a vacuous expression on his face. Then at last he made for the hall. As he passed a darkened recess, a silent figure stepped out behind him. An iron arm looped round his neck and began to throttle him, while another hand pulled his arm up behind his back in a policeman's grip. Michael struggled wildly, but the figure had no mercy and marched him up the stairs. When he hesitated, he was encouraged by kicks and twists of the arm; when he stumbled, he was wrenched onwards by the loop round his neck. In this manner, gasping and dishevelled, he soon arrived in the bathroom, where the shower waited.
"Right," said Stephen. "Time for a little chat."
Michael squirmed sullenly. "There's nothing to talk about. I'm tired. I want to sleep."
"Nothing to talk about? Oh dear, we are in a bad way." Stephen gripped still harder. "Firstly—" (Here he took Michael firmly by the neck and forced his head down into the basin.) "—we're going to talk about last night. Then—" (Here he turned the dial to freezing and took the shower head off the holder.) "—we're going to talk about what's going on in that stupid head of yours. Any que
stions, before we start?"
"Get off, you fool," came a voice, echoing up from the basin.
"Fine." Stephen turned on the water and stuck the shower head down the back of Michael's shirt. The water jetted down, briefly ballooning the shirt outwards before it erupted out at his waistline in an icy waterfall. His trousers were soon saturated, and a pleasing pool spread out on the tiles of the floor. Michael struggled manfully, but Stephen's years told.
"How's it going?" he asked pleasantly, after three minutes.
"You'll regret this, you bloody idiot," was the only reply, and for several minutes more the water gushed, until the back of Michael's clothes hung so heavy that his trousers fell down.
"Still not talking?" Stephen seemed regretful and surprised. The answer was forcible, and in the negative.
Stephen was thus pushed into more extreme measures, which were justified by the almost immediate response.
"All right, you bastard," said Michael. "You can stop. I'll talk with you, but it won't do you any good."
Stephen allowed his victim to return to his bedroom, dry himself and recline at leisure on the bed. He stood by the door, leaning against the wall nonchalantly in an effort to maintain the authority he had won over his brother in such a messy fashion.
"Well?" he said, finally. "What happened?"
In a sullen monotone, Michael told him what he could remember of his dream; the sense of depth, the perceptive eye from under the earth, and the beauty of the souls, which their owners could never comprehend. But he chose not to talk about the voice, and what it had told him.
"And why were you by the window?" asked Stephen.
"I don't remember." Michael's lie came easily, and he made a smooth change of direction. "You must see it too," he said, a touch of colour returning to his voice. "No matter how stupid you are, you must see what a tragedy it is, How can we respect them? They just don't understand what they have there, what they lose every time they die. But we can understand the value of it – at least I can."
"And what," asked Stephen, "is this value?"
"The beauty of the souls, of course – you must see that! The beauty of those shining things! They're like jewels."
"They don't look much like jewels to me. There's too much movement in them."
"The movement's not important. That's just caused by thoughts and feelings – it's bound up with the characters of the people who own the souls. Well, who cares about that?"
"Hold on, how d'you mean, 'own them'? They are them, aren't they?"
"Maybe, but it's not something we can understand, and the souls are far more beautiful than the people themselves, anyway. We've worried too much into what the shape and colour actually mean, but that's all pointless. It doesn't get us anywhere. The beauty is all that counts." Michael spoke slowly, carefully, as if remembering something he had learned long ago.
"The point is, with the sight, we can own the souls too. Switch them on just by willing it. Make them change colour, too . . ." A wistful note entered his voice. "I wish I could see like that all the time. It stops my eyes hurting." Michael refocused suddenly with practised ease. He gazed at Stephen for a minute.
"Even yours is precious. Even yours. Like something made of pearl."
Stephen felt a sharp pain in his forehead and a slight sense of nausea. He shuddered, but did his best to conceal it.
"Snap out of it," he said. "I don't like you looking like that at me."
Michael gave a snort of mirth. "I know. I can see that easily enough. Your soul's quivering like a leaf. Our stupid sister's quivered just the same. Strange, they're still pretty when they're scared. More than ever, if anything."
Stephen gritted his teeth and forced himself to look straight into the curiously swirling blanks of his brother's eyes. He felt a strong urge to make the change himself, but he resisted it. "That's another thing," he said. "What kind of worm are you, to turn on Sarah like that?"
There was a lessening of the pain; a flicker of concern passed across Michael's face. Then he laughed, and his eyes changed back. The pain in Stephen's forehead vanished.
"All right, granted," he said. "It was unnecessary. I just wanted to see what it felt like. I won't do it again, if you don't want me to."
"You'd better not, mate," said Stephen.
"Are you finished?" asked Michael. "I'm tired, as I think I mentioned."
"No." Stephen forced himself to think. What had he been saying?
"How come," he said at last, "you're suddenly ignoring the connection between soul and character? You were obsessed by that yesterday, when you saw Cleever. Remember that?" He looked straight at Michael as he spoke.
He'd scored a point, he could see that at once. A faint cloud crossed his brother's brow, a flash of a memory that had been pushed into a recess and forgotten. Michael spoke faintly, as out of a distant gulf.
"The shape . . ." He paused.
"Was a reptile," reminded Stephen.
"I was taken in by the shape. It doesn't matter what the shape is. I said that just now."
"That's not what you thought yesterday. It was evil, you said. And I agreed with you. It was."
"The dream changed all that. Evil, good . . . no, that's not what souls are about. They're about beauty, and if you've got the power, and the will, like I have, you can see that beauty whenever you want. You should know what I mean, Stephen. You've got the gift too. Perhaps you'll have the same dream tonight."
"I hope not."
"You will, I expect. You're a little bit behind me. It'll come."
Michael rolled over on the bed, and pushed his face into the pillow. His eyes were shut, and Stephen suddenly noticed, with a shock, the hollowness of his face. The cheeks were pale and the area around the eyes was chafed, as if he had been crying.
"And why were you at the window?" Stephen asked again.
"I told you, I don't remember anything about it. I just remember waking up this morning, in my bed. Now I'm going to sleep. I'll see you soon."
Stephen left the room. His head ached.
For an hour or more he lay on his own bed, where the need for thinking won over the desire for sleep. He could no longer ignore it: the change to his sight was beginning to affect Michael's mind, in a way which Stephen did not like, nor begin to understand. It was tied up with Cleever somehow and the woman at the window, and if Michael had forgotten the look of the reptile souls, Stephen had not. The hunger in their eyes . . . What were they after? What did they want?
Cleever . . . Ms Sawcroft . . . He groaned aloud. All the village might be in on it for all he knew!
Well, not quite all. Not Sarah. Not Tom.
Tom. He put the half-formed idea out of his mind. The man was a minister. If he heard one word of this, he'd bring out the bible, bells and candles and start an exorcism. Besides, he was biased against Michael, no question of that, and probably didn't want anything to do with him again.
So he was on his own. A thrill of anxiety ran through his body and his eyes began to ache. All of a sudden, he knew that whatever was happening to Michael was slowly happening to himself.
"It's no good," he said aloud. "We need help. We need help badly."
He went down to the kitchen, raided the pantry and opened two cans of spaghetti hoops. By the time he'd polished them off cold, with a fork, from the tin, he had made up his mind.
Before leaving, he looked in at his brother, and discovered him still asleep. His breathing was very slow and the room was thick and stuffy. Stephen opened the window, then thought better of it, and closed it again. He remembered his brother's last mumbled words. 'I'll see you soon.'
Not till I say so, you won't, thought Stephen.
Slipping his hand round the door, Stephen found the key in the lock. He withdrew it stealthily, shut the door and locked it. Then he put the key in his pocket and left the house.
25
When Stephen rounded the corner onto the green, and was faced with the brash, careless summer face of the village, his res
olution nearly failed him. The middle-aged gossiped outside the grocers, Captain Cone sat in his van, handing out soft ice-cream to sticky children, and the sun beat down pleasantly on all ordinary things. How absurd it seemed, to bring forth into that ordered world experiences so confused and strange. And how much more absurd it was to imagine anyone would believe them. Stephen almost despaired. Twice he halted his bicycle on the edge of the green, twice he stood astride it, deep in thought, and twice he cycled slowly on. Absurd though it was, for the moment his hope was all he had.
As he passed into St Wyndham's churchyard, a sudden pain behind his eyes flared up and died away. With it went the feeling of suppressed panic at his own absurdity which had beset him since setting out. Behind his back, the bustle of the village grew dim, and the tumbled gravestones and bent yews beside the wall signalled an older scale of values, longer of memory and slower to judge or condemn.
When he entered the church, and felt the restful solemnity of cool grey stone all about him, his reassurance had grown still further. He found it easier to tell than he had imagined.
"Tom," he said, "I have something important to say, though you will think I'm mad."
Perhaps Tom could have suggested a reason for the reassurance Stephen felt on entering the church. But he did not think of it; he was too busy wrestling with the implications.
Stephen told him nearly all. He began by telling him of the Pit and what had happened there, to Michael and to him. When he said this, Tom took a sharp breath, but said nothing.
He spoke of the sight and what it could do. When he said this, Tom frowned and almost interrupted, but instead held himself back and stared intently at the diamond panes on the window above the chancel.
He spoke of Mr Cleever and the nature of his soul. When he said this, Tom started and cursed under his breath, shifting his gaze for a second to the cross, lying quietly in its corner.
He spoke of the assault on Michael's room the night before. When he mentioned the name of the figure at the window, Tom rose and began pacing the nave furiously, rubbing his head with his hand.
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