Beneath the Tor (33 page)

He called out shrilly, like a girl. The cry flew off the hillside.“I am a
companion-at
-arms! The door to the Hollow Hill should open for me!” And as he cried out, he lifted his arms, both of them, into the air. “I hate you, Morgan!”

“SHELL!” I screamed and made my grab at the staff. We both yanked at it and the stick flew up. Ricky's eyes hardened and I felt my fingers burn. The staff rushed through them leaving me holding air. He rammed it down, hard, fast.

Shell was no longer there. She had rolled with the last of her strength. She was up on her knees, retching into the grass, dry painful heaves, only a
hands-breathe
from where the point of the staff now juddered in hard soil.

The impact from the staff as it hit the ground was so fierce it threw Ricky like the recoil of a rifle. The staff sprang out of his hands and he keeled backwards. I flew at him, wrapping both my arms tight around him, both an embrace and a straitjacket. He half collapsed into me, and over his sunken shoulder I saw Shell get to her feet. She was coughing, hard and dry coughs, but she was up.

“
Go
,” I hissed at her. She looked at me once. Perhaps she thought I was giving myself up for her, an exchange of sacrifice. Perhaps I was—I hardly knew. She stumbled away, her choice made for her.

“Help me.” Ricky's voice was still drear with lack of emotion, but he wasn't speaking to Morgan. He was asking me. “You're the one, Sabbie. You always worked things out.”

We were so close I felt the warm breath from his nostrils. His wide eyes reflected the moon's rays—black mirrors, crystal lakes, chasms of despair. I stared, unblinking, and my mind toppled in, as if falling into black crystal lakes.

I was standing on rutted, dried out soil, the plain that stretched to infinity. Nothing had changed since Sabrina had last sent me here.

The sky above was dark, filled with low clouds—cumulonimbus, which herald thunderstorms—but there was no dampness in the air, not a stirring of wind, just the clinging scent of cordite.

Lightning flashed across the vast, black horizon. It crashed at my ears. Hair lifted from my scalp as the electrical charge passed over the land.

This was Ricky's otherworld.

The worms were still waiting for moisture. I recoiled from them but could not escape them. There was nowhere these worms did not writhe and struggle. I stumbled about, but with each step I crushed worms, their innards oozing over other worms.

“You know this place.” Trendle spoke into my ear. I relaxed. Trendle only accompanied me where I was meant to go. “Now do you understand?”

I creaked a nod. Yes. I understood. The worms belonged to Morgan le Fay. They were symbols of the thoughts she'd implanted within Ricky's otherworld, intrusions of his spirit; a swirling mass that filled his head and blocked out all other thoughts with the words he muttered.

“
Too-many
-blows,
pound-and
-pound. Death of beauty!”

Far out towards the dusty horizon, I saw a single figure walked on her own path—a clear circle of hard, black earth lay around and under her fine shoes and opened before her. No worm came close.

She was taller than Ricky. Her face was bolder, stronger. Her eyes were blacker, with sweeping lashes and plucked brows. She had a
size-zero
figure and clothes to die for. She had lips of blood. She was just as Babette had drawn her, except, in her hand was a silken leash. At the end of it was the most beautiful feline creature I had ever seen.

“She's inside of you, Ricky. Like a parasite. An intrusion. A possession. I can sense them both, inside you. They're taking you over.”

“Both? You see them both?”

It seemed to be confirmation for him. I was still holding him as tightly as I could, and now he wrapped his arms round me and we fell full onto the damp night grass. He didn't struggle, didn't fight free. The time for fighting was over.

“I have to wake the Sleeping King, Sabbie. It is my quest.”

I was less than half a blink away from subtle realms. I trained my eyes into his eyes. “Hold onto me,” I said. “I'll come with you.”

thirty-two

the sleeping king

A gaping hole in
the rutted desert dust. The blackness below is unremitting.

Here, at last, is the way into the Hollow Hill. A break in the dry land. An opening deep into the earth. He knew he could locate it. If only it hadn't taken so long to find.

The wasteland is all around. It stretches in all directions. It is barren and sterile. Not a blade of grass grows here; no rodent scuttles to its burrow. The only life is the thick film of seething worms. And yet, Sabbie's arms are tight around him, the protection of a friend.

Together they move to the very edge of the opening. Nothing is visible at the base of the gaping hole. Is this really the Hollow Hill?

“Take them singly,” Sabbie says.

And then he sees—steps of black marble lead down. They are dizzyingly steep and built uneven, to trick unwary knights.

Take them singly, tread deep into the hill in the soft grip of a friend. This is perfect, just as Morgan said it would be. This is truth. This is truly good. This is The Good.

“Murdoch suggests that we must restore the notion of vision. She had such courage. She pushed against the crowd. If she were here, she would be the first to ring the bell.”

“Not her, Ricky. You must be the one. Take the steps. Lift the first burning brand you pass. Hold it high to light the way.”

Light the way. Morgan le Fay first described it to him. She who was here on that fateful day to lay Arthur to rest. Sconces of candles throwing their light on marble steps which lead to the basilica. Gothic pillars support the vaulted ceiling. Arthur's crown, hovering eternally above the Sleeping King. Knights in a perfect circle, their feet pointing towards his bier, ready to rise when the bell is rung.

The great Bell of Doomsday hangs at the bottom of the marble way. The huge bronze dome, the orate rim, the thick rope attached to the clanger. He has held this in his mind's eye for such an age and now, all he has to do is walk down and haul the rope. The bell will ring. The knights will spring up. Arthur will wake. The crown will be lifted on the tip of a spear. The wasteland will be healed. The Holy Thorn will grow again. All will be at peace.

The friend with the soft hold squeezes him a little. “I'll be with you.”

He looks down into the darkness. He manages to raise a trembling hand and point. “Morgan.”

She's standing there. On the marble steps. Illuminated by a candle sconce.

Blocking the way.

Morgan knew the way! Through all his efforts, through pound and pound, through forcing him to take life from life, Morgan, all along, knew the way. She is able to enter the basilica of the Sleeping King at will! She has tricked him. She tricks him still. She stands in the way.

She moves up the steps until he can see the bloodstone tied with velvet around her throat. There is that cold smile. It flickers, then dies.

A life from a life, acolyte.

What?

Your little friend, here. She is the Foolish Knight. She must be, or she would never have come so far. Life from life, my acolyte.

“You deserve better,” Sabbie whispers. “She is an oppressor, Ricky. She has possessed you.”

“I—” He coughs the word. The sickness rises in his belly. The pain slams against his temples. “I …”

He knows what to do. Only he can do it. A life from a life. She's been on at him since the start. Since Babe drew the picture.

He remembers how he described Morgan le Fay and how Babe formed a likeness. She loved to hear about the goddess blood in Morgan's veins, as in the Golden Age, when demigods walked the Earth. Babe understood that Morgan le Fay was a living psychopomp. She took up her pen and got the likeness perfectly. He took Babe's lovely picture to uni and placed it beside his bed.

Her blood red lips whispered in the night.

Life from life, acolyte
.

And the worms came. They burrowed into his head. They blocked the synapses and chewed through the nerve endings. They plugged his mind.

He couldn't write a single essay while Morgan hissed …
life-from
-life …
life-from
-life.
He slid into the slough of worms. He walked through anguish. Through hell.

An end. He wanted an end. Wanted it to end. End a life. Miserable life.

She had whispered the words and he had believed them.
Take a life. Save your own. The worms will go away … if you make the sacrifice.

He knew the forest so well; they all did, the brothers and the little sister. It was easy to find Babette, to call to her. She threw down her bike and ran into his arms. Easy to lead her deeper, to where great trees had become uprooted by a recent storm. They gazed down into the hole the trees had made, both marvelling.

Then Morgan began to whisper.
Take what is to hand. Pound and pound.

A lot of blood. It seeped between the roots. He stood above and all at once he was himself—Ricky, first year uni student. Babette was lying a decade of metres below him, a cold, pale, shrunken body.

For the first time in a long time, he felt something. Fear. Dread. He could never explain this to his parents. He could never look at them and tell them. Morgan le Fay passed him the strength to lift the sapling trunks—lever them upright, let them crash down in the gaping grave. As if in some massive grinder, Babette's body was crushed. He tore the roots from the crater sides and soft soil fell in like rain, became a landslide. The body—pale, awful, small—disappeared under tons of loam, dry from the summer. He dragged the bigger trunks over the grave as best he could. Morgan gave him the strength to succeed, and the invisibility to get back to his student room, blooded and filthy as he was.

No one knew he'd been home. He lay on his bed and waited for the worms to leave him alone.

When the shriek of the awful, agonizing phone call finally came, it was a shock. His sister was missing. He should have known this, but he did not; not for one moment, as he had pounded down, had he believed he was killing his sister. He thought he was getting rid of Morgan. In fact, he was cementing himself to her. His mind was plugged and useless and the thread which leashed him to Morgan le Fay was already pulled taut.

Life from life.

Morgan le Fay continues to mount the marble steps. Below her is the Bell of Doomsday. Above her, the acolyte and his friend, who holds him close—who holds him
up
, for without her support he would crumple into dust and worms.

Sabbie has the nicest eyes. She has the courage of great philosophers. She does not give a fig. She grips his wrist—maybe a sign of solidarity, but no—it's a signal. She hoists his entire arm above his head. As if to call. She is calling with his raised arm. She is making his arm call as the falconers did of yore.

Sea Eagle comes in from the very horizon of the wasteland. The arcing tail is white as quartz as it catches the sun. The span of his wings stretches across the sun. At their ends are feathery fingers, and he has stroked these, as he befriended the bird. He knows they feel like silk.

The bird settles on his outstretched wrist. It is almost too heavy to support. His arm groans under the weight, longs to drop. Hold on. Hold on. Sea Eagle turns one eye, bright as a raindrop, and observes the acolyte steadily.

“Tell him,” says Sabbie. “He's waiting for your instruction.”

What instruction? Until that second, he had no idea, but now, he knows implicitly what Sea Eagle must do.

“TAKE THE CAT!”

Sea Eagle lifts up, flaps once, moving stale air into strong wind. He swoops and his feet, the great, sharp claws, reach for his prey.

Even Morgan le Fay does not expect it. All are rooted to the spot as Sea Eagle tightens its horny feet around Selkie.

The cat lets out a yowl. Morgan screeches and lunges at the bird. It has gone, up from the hole where the black steps plunge. Its wings stretch and pull with a deafening beat.

In its claws is Selkie, caterwauling his plight as Sea Eagle rises and soars.

Morgan le Fay pushes past them, out into the wasteland, arms reaching up, crying to the lost cat, following the flight of the eagle. For the first time—for the first time ever—she trips on her dagger heels. The worms crawl over her prostrate body.

The power in him is so great, he feels the thread between them snap and when he takes a breath, his sinuses are clear. His migraine lifts. He points the hand that held his bird and screams at the worms.

“She is soil! Eat her!”

At first, he doesn't think his cry has been heard. She's stumbled, but she's on her knees, she's getting up. She looks round at him, as if she will return, cat or no cat.

By the worms have begun.

They have begun their crawl, their slithering, squirming, skewing journey, up her legs, over the backs of her hands, into her armpits, to her neck, to her mouth, to her eyes …

She collapses onto the dried out land, writhing as if she were a worm herself. Her body distorts. Skin from skin, flesh from flesh, limb from limb, bone from bone.

Life from life.

She disintegrates, until there is nothing. Nothing but
worm-casts
.

Sabbie is still focusing on his eyes. All this time, her gaze has bored into his gaze. But now she stands to one side and looks down into the shaft that opens below.

“Go on,” she says.

The acolyte drops a single steep step, turns back, holds his hand out to his friend.

“No,” says Sabbie. “You alone should do this.”

He take the marble steps, one by one. He lifts the first burning brand, holds it high to light the way.

Pillars bring breakneck height. They are painted gold and red to reflect the
ever-burning
candles in the sconces mounted on the walls. Their golden glow lights the central arena. The king sleeps on his canopied bier. He is still as young as the day he came here, skin unlined, eyes loosely closed. A sleep light enough to wake to an alarm. Above the canopy is the crown, ready to be taken down on the tip of a spear. His knights lie stretched upon their backs in full armour, ready to spring up if the bell rings. Lancelot, Galahad, Percival, Gawain, Kaye … twelve in number, all chivalric knights.

The great Bell of Doomsday hangs mute, high in the vaulted ceiling. Its thick bell rope dangles to the floor. It is rough in his hand.

The clang is deafening. It throws him to the ground.

For a moment, as the buzzing recedes, all is silent.

Then a scrape. A shift. A creak of amour after long sleep.

The knights spring up.

They take up their arms—long swords and short.

They lift the crown on the tip of a spear.

They shout out, “Doomsday!”

And the Sleeping King awakes.

They climb hand in hand, Sabbie and Ricky, from inside the Hollow Hill. As they leave the deep shaft, they find the wasteland transformed. Children play in the lush grass, collecting meadow flowers. A maiden draws clear water from a well. And the Holy Thorn is in full blossom.