Buried Fire

by Jonathan Stroud

  Tom's eyes were dark and staring. "That was Sarah," he whispered.

  "You don't know that."

  "Who else would it be? My God, I need your strength!" He sprang up against the cliff, and began to climb frantically, levering himself over hanging slabs, and gripping the spear with three fingers of his right hand.

  "Go carefully, for heaven's sake!" Stephen set off in his wake, clambering as swiftly as he could, but all the time, in leaps and bounds, the straining figure above him drew further away.

  45

  Only another hour had passed, but to Michael, whose arms throbbed with pain and whose head was bowed, it had seemed an endless stretch. He had borne the chariot along the last section, across the undulating grassy spaces of High Raise, and though the sky spread wide above him, the air was stiflingly close. Sweat dropped from his face into the dust of the path. His palms were red and chafed – blisters were formed at the base of his fingers. At length a daze had come upon him; his sight changed, turning the earth to glass and opening a gulf beneath his stumbling feet. The sounds of the air were fading; with every step, he seemed to fall a little deeper. A distant noise came to his ears, a whisper carried along the tide of the rocks. He listened, but his blood beat too strongly in his head and drowned the whisper out.

  "Michael." A voice. A hand on his arm.

  "We've arrived," said Mr Cleever. "You can stop now. Take some water. You've done very well."

  Michael took the bottle and drank. His whole body was wracked. For a minute or two, he could only stand and stare dumbly out in front of him; figures with lizard heads passed across his gaze, and the sky was an angry red.

  Then he grew aware of his surroundings. They were at the lip of the hollow, where the ground was flecked with harebell, and a boy had woken blinded three long days before. The chariot was resting against the gorse at the side of the path; its occupant facing the Wirrinlow with its chin against its chest. The others sat or stood upon the path, each absorbed in their own thirst, taking focused gulps from the bottles in their rucksacks and studiously ignoring the sunken ground beyond.

  Sarah was standing on the other side of the chariot. Mr Cleever, with his back to her, had taken too hearty a gulp and was coughing heavily. All of a sudden, she began to run, away from the hollow back down the path, her bound hands held tight against her side, her feet slipping on the stones. Vanessa Sawcroft gave a warning cry, Mr Cleever turned, and a column of flame erupted from the dirt track just ahead of Sarah, who screamed and fell back into the dirt. The column of fire dropped, and was gone. Mr Cleever walked heavily down the track and helped Sarah to her feet. Wordlessly, he escorted her back to the party and signalled a place for her. She sat there weeping, and Michael addressed himself to the last drops of water in his bottle.

  After several minutes, Mr Cleever was refreshed, and went to stand on a sizeable stone overlooking the Wirrinlow. He took from his pocket a folded piece of paper, which he studied carefully, checking it regularly against the lay of the land below. The others waited in silence. Michael felt the tension radiate from all sides. High above, some white clouds were blown rapidly north-south along the line of the Wirrim, but down here the air hung heavily and still.

  A sudden image of Sarah came into Michael's head, unwanted and unasked for. She was standing in the kitchen of the cottage, smiling at him. He shook it away with a frown, and went to stand beside Mr Cleever.

  "What do we do?" he asked.

  Mr Cleever's eyes were half-shut; they looked out unblinking across the hollow.

  "Yes," he said, as if he had not heard. "It is the right time. I can feel it, an imminence, all about us. And I am the first to feel this in as many centuries as you can count, Michael my boy. All those others whom the dragon embraced here, they all had the key to it under their noses and failed to find it. Their time has passed and fallen away on the wind. Now it is my time, and what beauty there is in it! That the old enemy should enclose the key to our victory in the very stone he used to trap our master! That the powers which he used to constrict, we should now use to release!"

  He laughed and turning away from the hollow, signalled to the others to approach him. Paul Comfrey got up from where he crouched, nursing his bottle, and walked over. Michael saw fear in his eyes, and used the sight. Comfrey's soul – half-dragon, half-vole – was trembling. Its edges fluctuated, and the pale green surface jittered nervously. In contrast, Vanessa Sawcroft and Geoffrey Pilate's souls were inky dark and as sluggish as treacle. Mr Cleever's was jet black, with the hard confidence of granite.

  "Keep an eye on the girl," Vanessa Sawcroft said. "We don't want her running away from us now."

  "She won't," said Mr Cleever gaily. "She's tied in with the fate of things now! Can't you feel it? We won't leave the hilltop, any one of us, until this thing is done."

  And Michael did feel it. A great pressure hung over them, as if a distant storm was coming, and it seemed to bear them down to the earth. The weight of it told in their eyes.

  "My friends," said Mr Cleever, for all the world as if he were addressing a parish meeting, "I don't mind telling you I'm nervous. We're all nervous, because of what will come. But there is no point in waiting. We know why we must do this, and we know the rewards. The dangers we also know. The people of the village are stirring against us. Even now, they may be searching for some sign – of us, or Miss MacIntyre – ready to threaten us out of fear and ignorance. Well, within the hour, they will be nothing more than beasts in the field to us, nothing but cattle. Our time has come.

  "Listen to me carefully. I shall speak with mouth and soul." His audience gathered closer. Michael loosened his defences, and saw a mental picture appear of the diagram on Mr Cleever's paper.

  "The cross carried the essential pattern on it," Mr Cleever said. Between us, we shall recreate the pattern, and summon the master from his sleep. The carvings in the stone represent the Four Gifts. On the right arm is the eye – the First Gift. That shall be Paul's responsibility. The symbol on the shaft represents the Second Gift – Geoffrey, you have always been good at that: you shall conjure fire. The opposite, uppermost symbol, that is levitation – the Third Gift. Vanessa, if you would. I shall undertake the Fourth – the power of mind, represented by the head. We shall stand in a circle . . . Michael, do you mind?"

  "I'm sorry." Into Michael's mind unbidden had come an image of his mother, more clearly visual than any he could remember. Where . . .? It had distracted him, and Mr Cleever's razor sensitivity had noticed the slackening of attention.

  "To continue." Mr Cleever brought the diagram back into focus. "We shall stand in the circle, and call forth these gifts at a given moment, using them to our utmost. Each has its role. The First shall see the dragon, the Second will awaken it, the Third will remind it of the joys of movement, and the Fourth shall summon it. All those impulses we will direct to the centre of the circle. At that centre shall be Mr Hardraker and Michael. Michael – listen carefully."

  "Yes." Another picture had sought to break through his concentration, but Michael had thrust it away without being aware of its contents. He brought all his mind to bear on the implications of Mr Cleever's words.

  "Mr Hardraker is the sump or storehouse of all our power, but he cannot use it without a trigger. The four of us will provide that trigger. Michael, who has the greatest raw energy, the greatest range of movement – you, Michael – must encompass the power that will erupt from Mr Hardraker, and direct it."

  "Direct it, where?" Michael's voice was weak; he remembered his last encounter with Mr Hardraker's power.

  "Downwards. Into the ground. We shall split the earth and bring the dragon forth. He is deep, but not too deep – and we could break the hill in two if necessary, and create a gap running from Fordrace to the Chettons!" He laughed again, and the image flickered.

  "I'm not sure," said Michael, "that I could handle all that power."

  "You are simply the conduit," said Mr Cleever. "It shall pass through you, providing you di
rect it. You are strong enough, believe me. If you don't direct it, well . . . there would be problems, of course. But I have confidence in you, Michael. You are a special man."

  Michael felt the others' resentment and was gratified. "I'll do it," he said.

  "What about the girl?" said Vanessa Sawcroft. Sarah was sitting several feet away with her legs drawn up, watching them with wild eyes.

  "Well," said Mr Cleever. "I think Miss MacIntyre should sit within the circle. Out of harm's way. Once the thing is done, she can go where she wishes."

  That was what Michael heard. In the others' heads, Cleever's voice whispered something more: 'Since we're lumbered with her, I think we may as well put her to good use. Just in case our master requires any special encouragement. He must be hungry, after all.''

  For a second, Michael was aware of a slight break in the mental pictures Mr Cleever was sending him, as if something was being edited out. He tried to navigate round the barrier, but then it was gone, and the picture of the cross diagram returned. A flicker of annoyance, which he quickly disguised, flared through him. What had he missed?

  He shook his head, and the irrelevance fled.

  "What happens then?" said Paul Comfrey. "Pardon me, but we need to know."

  "We cannot know!" Mr Cleever gripped both Comfrey's thin shoulders and squeezed them reassuringly. "That is the peril and beauty of it! But think of sinking into the endless blackness of Joseph's old age, and tell me which is the better option. Eh, Paul? Exactly."

  "I shall get out the things." Vanessa turned to her rucksack. Cleever nodded.

  "We've brought some quartz brooches and flint knives," he said. "They may help to harness the power. Just a guess. Quartz and flint appear in some old stories, and it won't hurt to have them on us. Paul, take the poles off the chariot. We'll carry the chair down on its own. Michael, come with me."

  He moved off to the edge of the depression, and ran down the grassy bank. Michael followed slowly.

  At the very centre, Cleever stopped, and crouching, pressed his palm flat against the grass, motioning Michael to do the same. Michael did so; the afternoon coolness of the grass met his skin, and then a faint warmth, almost undetectable, rising up from the soil beneath.

  "He's ready," Mr Cleever whispered.

  Straightening, his voice thick with excitement, he called over to the others. "Come on, damn you! Paul, get those poles off, or I'll burn your hide. Miss MacIntyre, down here please!"

  He marched away, and left Michael standing. All of a sudden, Michael knew Stephen was close. He sensed a movement, a rapid reconnaissance, darting out in Cleever's wake. Somewhere nearby . . . Where? In the rocks of the crag perhaps, or in the gorse . . . The fool! He had told him to stay clear. It was lucky the probing thought was too weak for Cleever to notice in his current state, but that luck would run out soon enough.

  'Go away.'

  He framed the thought with deliberate care, directing it out over the rim of the Wirrinlow towards the East. A delicate thought, barely audible; even so, he shuddered as he glanced over at Cleever, who with Pilate was straining to carry the Hardraker chair down the slope.

  'Go away. Or you'll die. I told you.'

  The thought that returned, whether through intention or inability, was very weak. 'You have to stop this.'

  'Get lost. They'll sense you and kill you.'

  'What do you think they are doing with Sarah?'

  'Go away, or I'll kill you myself. I won't let you compromise—'

  "Michael!"

  Oh no . . . "Mr Cleever?"

  "Geoffrey and I need your help. Mr Hardraker's weight is too much for us here. We're at the epicentre of his power."

  Michael was sweating uncontrollably as he ran over to the edge of the hollow. The shrivelled face of Joseph Hardraker had grown animated. It twitched all over with a sort of current.

  "Take this side," said Cleever. "And use the Third if you have to. We're too close to split hairs."

  The three closed on the chair and gripped. Michael smelt a strong odour – a mix of scented talcum powder and minerals. He wanted to be sick, but turned his mind to the effort of lifting. Only by all three directing the Third Gift upon the chair, did it consent to leave the ground. Michael suspected that at the present moment he would have had difficulty lifting either one of the frail wrists from the desiccated lap. Together, almost running in their desire to be rid of the burden, they guided the chair across to the centre of the Wirrinlow.

  "Which way should he face?" Pilate asked.

  "Doesn't matter. No, let him face me . . . align him roughly towards the west – that's it."

  "The ground's hot!" exclaimed Pilate. "I can feel it through my shoes."

  "Vanessa, bring the baubles over. Hand them out."

  "Does it matter who has what?"

  "Any will do. Give me that brooch. Michael, fix this on Mr Hardraker's clothes. Take this knife. You won't need it, but the stone blade comes from the earth of the Wirrinlow."

  "Where do we stand?"

  "Are we doing it now?"

  "Where's the girl? Oh, I see her. Geoffrey, fetch her down. She can stand by Michael and Joseph. Right, Paul, you've got your stone? Good. You're to be opposite me. I'll be over on this side, twenty paces from the centre. I'll measure it out with the string. Michael, hold this end and stay here."

  Michael stood by the chair, and pivoted the string, as the others began to align themselves in position. Sarah was brought into the circle. Her eyes glinted defiantly as Pilate motioned her to sit a little way from Michael's feet.

  "Watch her," said Pilate, and turned his back.

  Michael looked her over, sensed her readiness to run, to attack, to escape, and shrugged. Once he had gained his full power he might grant her mercy. Until then, she could wait. Somewhere inside him, a half-formed doubt cried out, but then some of the countless wrongs he had suffered at Sarah's hands came back to him and he crushed the doubt back down. He turned his attention to the others. They were a bedraggled lot, all hot and dirty from the day's climb; one pale and wounded, the rest flushed with apprehension. The sun was dropping swiftly now towards the west, and their shadows threaded long across the grass. Michael looked over towards the rocks to the east, but saw nothing, and his quick mind scan picked up no trace of his recalcitrant brother.

  A thin unfamiliar voice beside him. 'If he meddles, he will die.'

  Michael turned in shock. The limp body was motionless, the white hairs on the skull twitched not an inch. Had it spoken? Had the voice sounded in his head? Impossible to tell. He looked across the hollow, but Mr Cleever was busy marking distances. Already Comfrey and Sawcroft were standing ready, and Pilate was adopting his position to the North. He felt a sudden urge to run, but as soon as he made a step, Mr Cleever felt the string go slack and waved him back. His jaw locked, his hands damp, Michael resumed his place by Joseph Hardraker's side.

  At last, Mr Cleever fixed his own place to the west of the Wirrinlow. He marked it with a stick and walked over to Michael, rolling up the string and grinning amiably.

  "I hope you are ready, Michael," he said. "When you feel the power around you, focus it downward into the earth. We keep it up until we get results, which judging by the heat of the ground, won't be very long. Good luck."

  He turned away. "Good luck to you all!"

  The same salute was echoed from every side.

  A whisper from Sarah. "Michael. Don't do this. They're mad. You're not the same."

  And at that moment, an attack from Stephen – a childhood scene, a family, his mother . . .

  "Shut up," Michael said. "Both of you, just shut up."

  'Michael,' said the thin voice in his ear, 'hold my hand.'

  'Don't be a fool,' said Stephen, faint and far away, and Sarah ground her nails into the hot earth with the agony of her pleading: "The dragon is evil, Michael, can't you see it? Look at these creatures! Do you want to become one of them?"

  "I am one of them, goddamit!" Michael snarled. "I
t's too late!" And the thin voice said again, "Hold my hand, Michael, and feel our power."

  "If you are all ready," called Mr Cleever, "we shall begin."

  'Michael—'

  "Michael—"

  'My hand, Michael.'

  "Oh God—"

  Then he reached out and took it, and the calling of the voices faded into nothing.

  46

  It began with a flicker, which Stephen, crouched among the rocks and gorse of the head of the crag, felt like a tap at the base of his skull. It was fearful in its gentleness; it seemed to have no source and no direction, but at that moment he was swept away from his brother's mind as if carried by a great wave. For a moment he was dizzy and confused. Then consciousness steadied itself, and he raised his head and looked down into the Wirrinlow.

  From the platform of the rocks, he had a view into three-quarters of the hollow. The young willowy man with the sandy hair stood nearest. His back was turned, his shoulders hunched, and his head, which radiated a baleful concentration, was bowed towards the earth. Stephen did not have to see his eyes to know that he was using the sight, sending it downwards at an angle under the hollow.

  A moment passed. The vibration of the sight spread around the circle. The other participants, rigid with attention, waited in silence. At the centre, beside the chair, Michael stood as if carved from stone.

  Now a new vibration, discordant with the first, sprang up. Its source was Geoffrey Pilate, the Fordrace grocer. His hands were together as if in prayer, but with their fingertips pointing outwards, towards the centre of the circle. As Stephen watched, the tips rotated down. Then, with a violence that stung the air, a silent flame of dark orange sprang from them. A few tendrils leapt eagerly inwards towards the two figures at the centre, but Pilate, his face white, eyes turned upwards, seemed anxious to keep the fire under his control. It remained steady, flickering about his fingers, while the frequency of its note passed around the hollow, rebounding off rocks and earth walls and growing in strength. Stephen rubbed his ears, which were growing sore, as if he was diving deep into a bottomless pool.