Buried Fire

by Jonathan Stroud

  Finally Stephen told him of Michael, and his behaviour that morning.

  "When Michael was at Cleever's, and first saw under the surface, there was something Cleever said to him. 'What you see, you will become.' And something is happening to him, something which is right up Cleever's street. That's why I've told you this, because I don't know what to do about it. Please don't think I'm mad."

  He finished, almost hopefully, because Tom's silence throughout his speech had puzzled him.

  Tom said, "I don't think you're mad, Stephen, although it's very hard to accept your story about . . . the soul. But other things . . . Other things are not as difficult for me to believe as you'd imagine."

  Stephen sat stony-faced. "To be honest, I'd almost prefer it if you laughed at me. It would be a little more believable. I would in your position."

  "On its own, your story about the sight, and the . . . attack would be impossible to believe. But I was with you when we found Michael. I saw his condition, and was with the doctor when he said he was stumped. But more importantly – I've been having some . . . problems of my own in the last couple of days."

  "Like what?" asked Stephen.

  He told him. It seemed the only proper thing to do.

  "It isn't difficult," he said at last, "to see how people with the sight could mistake the souls they saw for imps and devils, and it isn't difficult either to see why others thought them witches."

  Stephen flushed. "Oh right, so you think I'm a witch."

  "No, but I'm saying this power comes from a very dubious source. And you've no right, either, to assume that what you see are souls."

  "What else could they be? Don't get on your high religious horse about it!"

  "I'm not!"

  "You bloody are."

  "OK, OK." Tom controlled himself with difficulty. "We're losing valuable time. Cleever poses some threat to Michael and we shouldn't leave him alone until we understand things better. Oh Lord! Sarah!" He broke off suddenly, horror-struck.

  "What? What about her?"

  "She's gone to Hardraker Farm."

  "Is that a problem?"

  "Cleever asked her to go there. And it was mentioned in the book. A bad place."

  "What! And you let her go?"

  "Look, I didn't know about Cleever then. All right, enough. We don't know that she's in any danger. Michael we know is. I say we get Michael here, to the church. Historically it must have the best protection, if it was Wyniddyn's hall."

  "It didn't prevent them breaking in before," objected Stephen.

  "Have you a better idea? We get him here, then we'll look for Sarah. Then we'll consider the position. I think we need that bit of cross."

  "They've probably destroyed it," said Stephen, "or flung it down a mine."

  "They may have done, but I don't think we should assume it. Something is going on which is making them get pushy. Why are they so keen on influencing your brother? What are they after, and why aren't they after you?"

  "Don't forget, I only got a little dose. Michael might have been soaking it up for hours, for all we know. Maybe that makes him more useful."

  "The question is, for what? But come on, let's get moving."

  Tom's car was parked on the other side of the green, in a small lot reserved for the public servants of Fordrace. He and Stephen crossed over the road and headed across the grass, which was worn into an August yellow and flecked all over with toddlers and litter. A Punch-and-Judy man was setting up his booth in the very centre of the green, and a small excited crowd was gathered in front of the red and white striped awning in anticipation of a show. Nearby, queues had formed around Captain Cone.

  They had almost reached the centre of the green when Mr Cleever walked down his garden path towards them. He walked swiftly, wearing a white suit and carrying a cane by his side. Stephen and Mr Cleever caught sight of each other at the self-same moment. Stephen saw the large head jerk forward suddenly, like a dog that has just picked up a scent.

  Stephen started to utter a warning to Tom, but an explosion of pain erupted in his head and sent him reeling. As he cried out, clasping his hands over his eyes, he sensed something enter his mind; an alien presence, which moved clumsily here and there, filthy and searching. This trespass into his most private self was too much for Stephen. The heat flared within him, and with a furious thrust he drove the questing presence from his mind.

  All this happened in the briefest of moments. Tom had barely registered the boy's discomfort by the time Stephen had driven the intruder from within him and began to run.

  He ran at breakneck speed across the green, squinting between the fingers that shielded his burning eyes from the light. Conscious only of the need to escape the approaching enemy, he created havoc where he went, bowling toddlers over like ninepins, stumbling over prone couples, dashing ice creams from several hands, leaving a screaming, cursing, gasping stress of citizens in his wake. Twice he received kicks and punches of his own, as furious bystanders sought revenge, but he dared not stop. Indeed, he hardly noticed them, since all the time he was aware of a presence following him, circling his mind and probing for entry.

  Off the green and over the road between the cars he ran, towards the Olde Mille Tea Room and its white chairs and tablecloths arranged in gleaming order on the tarmac. Three chairs he spun over, one old lady he caused to drop a sticky bun into her flowery lap, and one old colonel he inspired to lash out with a stick, before he had vaulted over the wall, and disappeared into the alley that ran down beside the Tea Room towards the mill stream.

  As he disappeared from view, so he passed beyond Mr Cleever's range, and that gentleman was forced to turn his attention elsewhere.

  The Reverend Tom Aubrey had been stock still, watching Stephen's erratic progress with an open mouth. Now he turned, and noticed for the first time the man in white approaching him.

  Oh no, he thought. For an instant he was tempted to follow Stephen's example and run for it, but the image of the Vicar of Fordrace cantering across the green encouraged him to stay put and bluff it out. After all, he told himself, he doesn't know I suspect him.

  "Good afternoon, Reverend." Mr Cleever was saluting Tom with a cheery wave of his stick, and smiling. "And what a fine afternoon it is. Encourages the young to unleash their energy, which does them good. Young MacIntyre can fairly pelt, can't he? Should get him in the Youth Athletics Team."

  "Yes, quite." Tom searched desperately for some mundane piece of church procedure to discuss. To his horror, he found he could not remember which committees Mr Cleever was on, let alone any suitable details which could be used in conversation. What could he say? What—

  A small, firm pressure, in the centre of his forehead, as if a stick was being gently pushed into his skull. And then—

  Suddenly the pressure became a tear, and with a mental ripping, his mind was wrenched open and exposed. He felt something enter, and the force of it was so great that he nearly fainted.

  A voice in his head. 'What do you know?'

  He could not refuse. The occupying presence squeezed his mind and the information came vomiting out of him in gobbets of thought.

  'The cross. I know you stole it. And Vanessa Sawcroft is in it too. I know because of Willis's book. She tried to put us off the scent, but I found out anyway. And I intend to protect Michael from you.'

  A small girl with blonde hair, carrying an immense cone of melting ice cream, wandered between them. Some ice cream dripped from the cone onto the grass. She stopped and turned round to look at it, and some ice cream splashed on Mr Cleever's shoe. Both he and Tom were statue-still. A mother's voice called and the small girl tottered away.

  'We don't know why you want him. But Stephen has seen your soul and that is enough. Also, I believe you are linked to the dragon.'

  Mr Cleever's eyes never blinked. Tom looked into them and could not escape. Around them the hubbub of the village green was dulled, as if heard from under water.

  'We are going to the cottage now,
to pick Michael up. Then we shall find Sarah at the farm.'

  For the first time, Mr Cleever's expression flickered. His eyes narrowed slightly.

  'Hardraker farm.' Tom sicked the thought up.

  Mr Cleever's head was bent slightly forward in an attitude of extreme concentration. All of a sudden, he straightened. Tom's mind juddered as the presence withdrew. His ears popped. He felt the noise of the green erupt all around him. Screaming, laughing, shouting, cars starting . . . Mr Punch was beating the living daylights out of Judy with a stout oak cudgel. "That's the way to do it!" he screamed in triumph.

  "Thank you, Reverend," said Mr Cleever. "It's always a pleasure to talk with you. And very instructive. Goodbye." He gave a wave of his stick, and walked swiftly back towards his house.

  Tom stood expressionless in the centre of the green, eyes wide with an inner horror.

  26

  Michael woke suddenly. He lay a while in the bed without moving, tasting a sharp acidic flavour in his mouth. The room was very hot; his pillow was damp against his face. He had been dreaming again; he knew it, although he could not recall anything about what he had dreamed. Only a faint writhing sensation in his stomach, just before he awoke. Strange: now it had entirely gone.

  He sat up with difficulty, and looked at the clock, blinking to remove a slight film that had formed upon his eyes. It was 1.35. He had slept for four hours, longer than he would have guessed. He should have been well refreshed by now, but, as often happened when he slept during the day, he instead felt irritable and out of sorts. His body was raw and tingly, as if he had slid down a cheese-grater. And he was hot. The window was closed and the sunlight had pooled in upon the bed. He would have a shower.

  Showering reminded him of Stephen, and a hot flush came to his face. There had been no call for what he'd done. Oh, he might strut and threaten, and use his size to bully, but he'd still wriggled and squirmed when he'd had the sight turned on him. And soon there'd come a time when physical strength would matter not at all.

  Michael would have a shower, and then . . . he'd see.

  He got off the bed and walked towards the closed door. Before he'd taken two strides, he noticed a tiny change in the familiar surroundings. The key had been taken from the lock. A sudden suspicion quickened his step. He rattled the handle.

  Locked. And no need to guess who by.

  For a moment, Michael could not believe it. Stephen had locked him in, in his own bedroom. His own brother. The shock of the discovery disorientated him. 'Am I my brother's keeper?', he thought, 'and is he mine?' With an upsurge of fury he kicked the door, jarring his toes and causing a further burst of rage. As he did so, his focus changed, drowning the room in red. Heat burst from his eyes; he snarled like an animal.

  At that moment, in the distant hall, the telephone rang.

  He froze in his anger. He knew it was for him, that he must answer it. The beating of his pulse in his forehead told him so. And he was locked in.

  The telephone rang again.

  Michael fell to his knees in frustration, his hands clenched, pointing towards the door that barred the way.

  Stephen – I'll kill you when I catch you—

  The telephone rang again.

  —when I get out.

  Somewhere in Michael's brain, his anger concentrated into a block so hot and dense he felt he had a burning coal lodged in his skull. His eyes had closed, but it seemed a red curtain billowed behind his lids. Across his body, every limb relaxed. His hands fell against the carpet, his back sagged slightly where he knelt. All the rage and tension rushed upwards into his head, to a hidden place, where it grew, with mounting speed, until the pain and pressure became unbearable and it seemed his head must split.

  Then he opened his eyes.

  And the door caught fire.

  Michael did not see the flame come springing from the centre of the panel. For the moment he was blind; red shooting lines, like veins, crossed and recrossed along the surface of his eyes. His mouth hung slightly open, but no noise came out. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the timber and the popping of the paint as it shrank and blistered on both sides of the wood. And behind it all, the telephone rang on.

  So intense was the heat concentrated on the door that within three minutes the centre of the panel had fallen away, and still the flames were licking outwards on all sides, a ring of fire expanding. Through the growing hole, the passage was filled with smoke.

  All at once, Michael coughed, his lungs drawing in their first breath since he had sunk to the floor. His chest heaved and wracked, his lips drawn back like a beast's. At last, his eyes watered and cleared. His red sight had gone. He gazed ahead, uncomprehending, at the blazing hoop that had nearly severed his bedroom door in two. Beyond it, somewhere far away, beyond a corridor of smoke and scattered ash, a telephone was ringing for him.

  He stood up, legs weak as water, and a new strength poured into them. With it, a terrible confidence awoke within. The fire was dying, having reached the fringes of the door. Only the corners remained, smouldering, attached to each other with thin blackened strips of wood. Halfway down, the rectangular metal lock protruded from the frame, naked of wood. It had warped under the heat.

  Michael stepped up to the halo of charred wood and touched one edge lightly with a finger. It was warm, crispy. Then he stepped through the space, small flakes of ash settling in his hair as he bowed his head to pass beneath. He walked across a pile of debris and down the passageway, leaving a trail of grey footprints in the carpet. As he walked, he laughed quietly to himself.

  At the foot of the stairs, in a niche beside the stick rack and the hat stand, the telephone was ringing. Michael picked it up.

  "I'm glad you could make it, Michael," Mr Cleever said.

  27

  The Hardraker farmstead lay two miles from Fordrace, hunkered down on the slopes of an outstretched spur of the Wirrim. As Sarah drove along the untarmaced road, she passed endless small fields filled with pinched rootcrops, untended high pasture, and scrawny coppices of pine. These were the Hardraker lands.

  Sarah knew a little of the farm. To her grandmother, the name Hardraker had been a byword for sloth and criminal neglect. The family had a bad reputation and they had let their farm drift to rack and ruin. Once it had been a viable estate – now, with the death of the last Hardraker, it was forlorn and deserted. In summer, no one worked the fields; in autumn, the rains turned the wild crops to green-black sludge.

  Good, then, that it was coming on the market. Someone would turn it back into a working farm. Sarah spotted the huddled rooftops of the Hardraker buildings appear from behind the hill at last. By now, the road itself had disintegrated into a grassy track, pock-marked with stones and jagged pieces of old brick. It petered out finally on the edge of the grass-grown cobbles of the farm yard, under the black silhouette of the farmhouse. There, at the edge of the yard, she stopped.

  The farm had once been huge. Its yard was bounded on three sides by stables and enormous barns filled with dust-covered debris. Beyond these, through side gates and covered passages, lay a maze of further barns, storerooms and animal sheds, thrown up on the hillside with no regard for regularity or form. The tiled roofs of most of the buildings were punctured with gaping holes, through which rafters jutted like black ribs picked clean of flesh.

  Sarah tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. During the drive, her anger at Tom had subsided a little, and now she paused to take stock. Technically, she was now trespassing. Although Mr Cleever had invited her to see the farm, he hadn't said she could come up on her own at any time she pleased.

  But it was hardly likely to matter. The place was clearly quite deserted. A quick look round would do no harm, and might force a little sense into Tom Aubrey's head.

  Sarah stepped out of the car. The dust of the track scuffed round her shoes and the heavy pollen-laden air made her sniff and her face itch. She gazed round at the desolation.

  "Oh Tom," she said to herself, "You
are an idiot. There's no way Vanessa Sawcroft would live here. She's far too neat."

  A sudden onslaught of pollen brought on a sneeze. Sarah dabbed her eyes with a tissue, and took her clipboard from the car. She would take a quick look only, and then head home.

  Black windows stared emptily down at her from the dull grey front of the farmhouse. Instinctively recoiling, Sarah turned to the outbuildings. The main house could wait for another day.

  The nearest outhouse was distinguished by a gaping hole in the wall. Inside, it was empty, except for a pile of sacking in one corner. The next barn was filled with fallen timber and twisted ploughshares, although there was still a strong animal smell inside which made her nose tingle. She sighed, and made a few brief notes. Mr Cleever would have his job cut out getting much money for this.

  Passing along the edge of the yard, she reached what had once been a side gate, although the wood had rotted on the hinges and fallen away. A flag-stoned passage ran down between two barns and turned a corner out of sight. She passed along it, noting the rough size and contents of the barns on either side: echoing cow sheds, cobwebby stores, piles of brick, rusted scythes, grain bags, mouldering heaps of meal, decay, decay, decay.

  After a while, the relentless desolation began to oppress Sarah's spirits. She entered a cow house, moving quickly along past the empty milking stalls to the far end, where there was a dirty yellow door.

  Idly, she tried the handle. It opened, scraping stiffly on the flagstones, and she stepped through. To her surprise, she found that the door opened not onto some further yard or barn, but into what was evidently part of the farmhouse. She frowned. The geography of the place had begun to confuse her. Still, she might as well look round, now that she was in.

  The room was evidently a scullery. A large iron tub was suspended from a hook in the ceiling, and a wooden scrubbing brush lay on a counter, next to a tap. Stone steps led up to a low arch, beyond which Sarah caught sight of dark panelled flooring.