Beneath the Tor (31 page)

Star-children
are vulnerable to psychic attack. If Ricky had met someone with charisma, he would be susceptible to sliding under their charms. He'd been the first person to know Alys was dead. His own subtle body would have been raw and open to attack at that moment. And there's always a predator
among a crowd of
love-drenched
, enlightened hippie types. Someone who relishes domination over others. I visualize a silken cloak to ward off such attacks, but Ricky wouldn't know what had hit him.

My phone trilled out, making me leap up from my seat. I grabbed it, in the hope Juke was ringing with new information. It was Wolfsbane.

“Things have gone apeshit,” he began.

“Well, hello to you too.”

“No, honestly Sabbie, why did you have to leave London? I need some support here. It's going to be me and a load of bankers scattering the ashes at this rate.”

“People aren't keen?”

“Yew and Juke are leaving tomorrow for work on Monday. Freaky's still here—he's never stayed in a hotel before and I don't think we'll ever prize him out—but Ricky disappeared right after the funeral, and Shell's gone. Sabbie … I think she's
two-timing
me.”

“You've been
two-timing
her, Wolfs, so that sounds fair.”

“Uh?”

“You and Esme.”

There was a pause, while Wolfsbane processed this.

“Anag saw you both in the Chalice Well Gardens, didn't he? I'm afraid he has trouble keeping his mouth shut.”

“Is that why Shell's done it? She's gone off with that Aussie fucker.”

“Wolfsbane,” I barked. “She's not with Anag.”

“She is now,” he said. “He's going to show her how to walk the Tor labyrinth.” Wolfs's voice had deteriorated to whine. “She asked me to walk the labyrinth with her and I didn't listen. It's on her bucket list, Sabbie, I should have taken her. Now she's not even answering her phone.”

“When is this walk taking place?”

“No idea. It must be soon; she's taken my staff. Said it would add resonance to the occasion, which I couldn't dispute.”

“And you want your staff back.”

“I want her back! Can't you speak to her? Make her see sense? Tell her I'll take her into any labyrinth she chooses.”

I found Anag's number and dialled.

“Sabs!” he began familiarly. “I was gutted I wasn't at the funeral, but I wouldn't have missed my Labyrinth Workshop for a double crate of lager. It was ripper. Hey, did y'know that when you walk into the centre of the labyrinth, you're walking towards you own soul?”

“Look, Anag—”

“We had these lectures on the history of the labyrinth, we went to see this church that's got one in the yard there, then we built our own with a pile of boulders. And yesterday, we walked the Tor. It's not just a question of getting to the bloody top, y'know; it's hours and hours of bloody hard graft.”

“I'll come to the point, Anag. What's this about you taking Shell up the Tor?”

“You got it. It's a full moon tonight. Not a speck of cloud. Perfect for walking the labyrinth path. How's that for a bonzo thrill?”

“I'm asking you to call it off.”

“It's not dangerous. It's life enhancing, right?”

He was right; with the moon lighting the way better that torches, walking the labyrinth should be inspiring, rather than terrifying. “Not the Tor. I don't mean walking the labyrinth. I mean …”

I worked my tongue around a reasonable explanation of things, but I couldn't put my fears into the right words. It was impossible to pass on the monstrous thoughts I was having, and Anag, his mind full of moonlight and labyrinths, would never have believed me.

“Look, Sabs old girl. I gotta go. I'll be as busy as a cat burying shit before we get going.”

“When are you starting out?”

“Sun's gotta be right down, moon's gotta be right up. We're meeting at the Living Rock.”

“Anag, could I come too?”

“Yeah, no worries. Make it merrier. You ever done a thing like this before?”

“Not really.”

It was hard to slot the pieces of the puzzle into place, sitting in someone else's kitchen. In the living room, Eijaz had switched on the TV; canned laughter blared. Above my head was Ricky's bedroom, where long lines of twine connected images of knights rescuing damsels to pictures of the winding paths of Glastonbury Tor.

Shadows in a cave. A
dried-out
wasteland. A bird plunging in attack. A red hind, shyly blinking in a forest glade. Slowly keys were turning in locks.

“No, Anag,” I repeated. “I have never done anything like this before.”

thirty

the companion-at-arms

A labyrinth is not
a maze. A maze is a puzzle; its paths have many branches and its exits are blocked to trap the unwary adventurer. A labyrinth has one shape only and one path leading to its core. It can be found all over the world, carved into rock as early as the Neolithic, engraved on ancient silver coins and on the floors of cathedrals.

The labyrinth winds over the hillside of the Glastonbury Tor, spiralling seven times round on seven levels, each equal in status to a chakra of the human body. It moves to its central point in a devious manner, round and back, upwards and downwards, through three dimensions—and within those three, the seeker can find the fourth dimension, the magical realm at the summit. The entrance to the Hollow Hill.

And after that, it will be easy. There will be no need for more killing.

The acolyte starts his labyrinth walk at the Living Rock, a smooth outcrop close to the base of the hill. Twilight is approaching and he keeps his eyes on the track hidden in long grass.

“Life from life. This is true. Morgan works entirely with apothegm. Ergo, what she says is always true. The Sleeping King should be woken if there is dire need. No—must—be woken.”

“Ricky?” Shell shimmies close and speaks into his ear. “Stop muttering to yourself, Ricky. We're supposed to walk in silence.”

He withdraws his hand from hers. The texture is clammy. Besides, he's trembling and he doesn't want to transmit his fear to her.

At first the labyrinth walk is not steep; it traces the latitude of the hill. Then all at once the walk is vertical, tough going. As they struggle through knapweed and hogweed, Shell falls slightly behind, her breathing no more than shallow gasps. She could do with losing a few pounds.

He stops to wait for her. Above, he can see the tower on the summit, a tall black box against the darkening sky. Is there movement up there? Is there a shadow within the shadows?

He tramps on, steadily moving towards the entrance into the Hollow Hill. Ring the bell to wake the Sleeping King. Save the wasteland. Save the living world. Crops will flourish, cattle will thrive, children will be born chuckling with delight. He tries to use a measured pace, but his mind is screaming at him.

He is
companion-in
-arms to the goddess Morgan, but she's not here for him. She's always arriving at the wrong time, like when she burst into his room as he was managing to study for an essay and screamed at him.

Find it! Find it now! The world is crashing and burning and you stay here, with your stupid books and pictures when you should sound the Bell of Doomsday!

He had gone to shut the door behind her, so that Eijaz would not hear, and Morgan snatched the spool of black twine and hurled it at him. It had unravelled as it sailed across his bedroom.

Connections! Correspondences! Bind and conjoin!
She'd swept the plastic pot of pins over the floor then shrieked like a hawk …
pick them up! Mind Selkie's little paws
!

The cat is her familiar. He brings the dark edge to Morgan's magic. Morgan wrapped him in her arms, her hand over his small head as if to prevent his hearing from being damaged by her shouts.
There is still one knight to find. One foolish knight to take down. This is what stands in our way!

The acolyte had been so shocked, he'd actually dared to respond,
I
am a
companion-at
-arms!

“I am a
companion-at
-arms!” he repeats now. He's forgotten that Shell doesn't like him muttering. He forces himself back into his body, and, without warning they're at the top of the Tor.

Shell skips along the edge of the flat summit. “We're already at the centre!”

“I don't think so.” He stares at the plan of the labyrinth. Anagarika sent him the plan as an attachment. They were supposed to do this together, but the acolyte doesn't want Anag anywhere near Morgan le Fey. “It's all wrong.”

“What? What's wrong? We're here, aren't we?”

“This is only the fifth turn on the path. It's taken us up here, but now we have to descend, take a couple more turns.”

“Look down there, Ricky. The mist on the valley. Isn't that something?” She gazes over the darkening landscape. He walks past her. He knows where he's going next; he doesn't need the plan.

They reach the Egg Stone as the moon pulls free of the horizon. Neither of them have seen the stone before, and for a long time they cannot utter a word or move in the least way.

An enticing vapour rises, perhaps from the two trees that grow there, one on either side of the outcrop, sentinels of the Egg Stone, its protectors, pushing aslant from the steep slope like fingerposts. The first is an elder tree, and old at that—stunted and almost bare of leaf. Its branches glimmer pale, reminiscent of the White Tree of Gondor. It is arrayed with a rainbow of ribbons, feathers, beads, and dying flowers. A postcard wrapped in polythene is rammed in the fork of two branches.

The second tree is in full health, a hawthorn of perfect shape and colour, but less bedecked, as if the elder tree is also the most noble.

“
Fuu-uuck
, Ricky,” says Shell. “It's awesome.”

She tucks her arm into his. He wishes she would not. She's wearing the perfume again, the one that makes him so nauseous. He's asked her to only wash with soap, but she seems never to hear.

Enchantment is everywhere—redolent. The moon's rays illuminate the Egg Stone, making it glow so that the surface shines out like a reflected moon caught on the hillside. Everything magnified. That surely is how magic works? In the day, the stone would be grey as ashes.

This is where he should step into the otherworld. Where could the opening be? And where—where is Morgan le Fay?

Something tips in him. This is all levels of peril. He's given everything to Morgan that she's asked for. Done every deed. When he needs her most, when he's supposed to be leading her into the middle of the Hollow Hill, she has deserted him.

He knows she's not here, because his head is clear and free from pain. She's left him to do it alone.

“We should be able to get through, Shell, open the way by magic.”

“Pardon, Ricky?”

The Egg Stone is an outcrop of hard sandstone, a burr of a good size. It could be four, five metric tons. What would Morgan do? A word—a tap from a wand. “Give me your staff.”

“What?”

He stamps his foot. “The way into the otherworld should open!”

“Right.” She lowers her voice. “And why should you think it won't? Hmm?”

He takes Wolfsbane's staff, gripping low on the shaft. It sings with power. Whatever comes to hand. He's no longer an acolyte.
Pound and pound.
Crack and it's opened. He raps the Egg Stone hard with the staff.
Crack, crack.

Nothing. Did he expect it to split into two?

Shell has scrabbled up the hillside, her jeans stretched over her rump as she bends to clutch at tufts of grass. Surely that's not how it should end, pulling at grass in an effort to reach the top. She shouts back at him. “What're you waiting for?”

“We should enter the otherworld here, at the Egg Stone. It's got to be dignified.
Hallowed.”

“C'mon, Ricky.” She reaches the top of the Tor, balances on its extreme edge. “I know exactly where the entrance to the otherworld is.”

And then, she's gone.

The summit feels different in the dark. The moon is the only light. The concrete path leading through the tower gleams white. The wind moans past his ears, deafens him to other sounds he might be vigilant for—Morgan's snigger, the cat's rasped meow.

Where is she? It's crazy. She's playing games. She begged for this.
Find the way into the Hollow Hill.

“I've done it, Morgan.” The wind blows away the words.

Within the black centre of the tower, something moves. A shadow.

“Morgan?”

Shell steps out. She's pulled off her jeans and her biker's jacket and—and all her clothes. She's standing there in leather boots and black lace, knickers and bra. There's
moon-sheen
on her shoulders and thighs. She raises her arms and draws her fingers through her short hair. “There's no one here,” she says. “A full moon and a warm night. I thought there might be loads up here, didn't you? It's a miracle. We have the place to ourselves.” She reaches out a hand. “C'mon.”

She wants love. She always wants love. She is demanding. All his women are demanding. Shell asks for sex, Morgan for blood.

“Too much blood,” he says.

“Shush …” She's whispering, close to him, tight to him. He feels the warmth of her, and the coolness too, at the top of her arms where he lays his hands. He can hardly bear the touch of her. He's groaning. “Where's the otherworld? Where?”

“Here,” she says. “Inside of me.”

“I have to find the bell. Ring the bell.”

“Ding dong?” She's trying to pull him through the tower. “It's perfect, Ricky. Tantric love on the Tor, in the labyrinth, in the moonlight.”

She pulls so hard his feet move anyway, even against his will. He stumbles through the tower's short, dark passage. The Tor. The dark. Is this the otherworld? Is he now inside the Hollow Hill?

Shell tightens her arms round him, pushing her pelvis against him, opening his shirt, button by button. He puts his hands over hers.

“It should be hallowed.”

“It will be. It's what we planned.”

Had they planned this? He can't remember.

“Ricky.”

She's lying on the grass now. Her legs are slightly splayed and her arms are by her side. Passive. He drops to his knees. He lays down the staff. He straddles her, hands kneading the chill of her arms.

“Make love to me, Ricky. The way will open.”

Will it? If they lie together now, at the centre of this
hard-won
labyrinth, will he find the passage into the Hollow Hill? He lowers his face to hers. The kisses feel damp, her breasts are slippy with sweat beneath his fingers. Humidity is rising from her flesh, clouded with the scent she's sprayed on her neck. A wave of sickness grips him. He can't bear it. “I shouldn't have brought you here,” he says, almost before he's thought it.

“Ricky?”

He draws in a long ragged breath and roars out his agony. “MORGAN! WHERE ARE YOU! MORGAAAAN!”

And instantly, she's beside him. She comes down like sudden darkness. His head yanks back on his neck, as the pain arrives. Her dagger slashes between his eyes, slicing in. The pain can't be silenced, and he cries out with it. “Yowwww!”

“Ricky! What is it?”

The pain stops all speech, all thought. He's breathless with the agony of her presence. It's like never before. Nothing functions.

Whatever comes to hand. Extemporize, acolyte. Take whatever comes to hand!

His head is overripe, a watermelon splitting open from its own internal pressure. He remembers the Black Knight's skull, bashed, oozing, red, but also pink and grey. He should not have brought Shell. It's so clear now, he cannot understand why he did so.

“Pound and pound.” He tries not to mutter, but he can't help it. “Be swift, be swift. Death of beauty. Death of love.” He pulls back and screams. “RUN! RUN! GET OUT OF HERE!”

Shell's face puckers. She tightens her arms round him, rocks him a little. “It's okay. It's okay.”

Her features break into black and white dots. The scent and the heat coming from her are sickening, and her face is broken into pieces. His stomach contracts. “I won't do it, I
won't
do it.”

“Okay,” says Shell. “That's okay.”

“I'm not her acolyte. I'm not. I am a
companion-at
-arms. She can't make me.”

“Hush, Ricky it's okay …”

Bile bitters the back of his throat. He gives a small cough. The headache is massive now, preventing thought, stopping words. Like a block. A damn. A plug in the mind.

Morgan is standing at the mouth of the Tower, and even though no ray of moonlight touches her, she's clear in his sight—her ridiculous heels, balanced perfectly, Selkie leaping on his leash after some flitting moth. She yanks the leash and a bleaching yowl stuns the night air. Morgan laughs, a high burst with a cruel edge.

“Don't look,” he whispers to Shell. “Don't listen.”

“Ricky,” Shell says. “Tell me, what's the
matter
?”

He can hardly hear her, because Morgan's voice is like thunder.

You were instructed to find the basilica where the king sleeps. You were instructed to save the wasteland.
She gestures to Shell, lying below him, deliberately harsh.
Yet you waste your time on this girl.

“I'm not your acolyte anymore.”

Morgan's eyes are black pits. With one touch of her cool hand, she could lift his migraine. He feels a touch, but when he opens his eyes, it is Shell who is stroking his face.

“What is wrong, Ricky?”

He manages a gargling cry, half swallowed in his throat. “Run, run, please … run.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” says Shell. “We're going to work out what's wrong together.”

Morgan has made herself invisible to the girl, unheard. He tries to explain this, but the words get muddled in his mouth, and he's saying
foolish, foolish, foolish,
for he realizes now that the Foolish Knight had always been Shell. Always had to be.

He uncouples Shell's hands from around his neck and pulls back from her, using Wolfsbane's staff to lever himself up.

“Go,” he says. It comes out as a sob. “Get away from us. Run, Shell. Run, now.”