Beneath the Tor (4 page)

“Now go in zat hut,” he said.

The cord, only a metre long, should not have stretched the distance of the path, but I reached the doorless entrance without the braid tugging and stepped through.

Suddenly, I was in an English woodland. Trees grew as far and wide as I could see—oak, ash, hazel, and beech. The sun slanted through the branches. A smell of summer came into my nostrils and I stared, bewitched, by the sudden change.

Deep in the trees, a shape moved. I shifted position to get a better look and felt the silken braid tighten on my wrist. I was not allowed to wander. A creature turned tail and fled—a flash of pale rump. A red deer. A female—a hind.

Outside, the old man and my otter waited by the fire. The man tugged at my braid and it slid from both our wrists. He handed it to Trendle for safekeeping.

“Now,” said the man, “quickly; be gone.”

In the same instant I was heading up the earthy tunnel into sunlight. I was at the bole of Magog, where my journey had begun.

Trendle looked up at me, the braid still dangling from his jaws like a fish. “
Call-back
,” he said.

“What?”

On that instant, I felt the chair pressing on my spine and the drum heavy in my left hand. All through my journey I had continued to pound out a regular rhythm. I changed the beat to signal the
call-back
, took a sharp, deep breath, and opened my eyes to the room.

After a communal journeying, there is always silence for a time. For ten minutes or so no one spoke while we scratched away in journals and took sips of water. I made a careful record of my journey. As the drummer for the group, I hadn't expected to drop into a trance so easily, or have such a vivid experience. I wondered if it could have been connected to the fact that my whole body worked the drumbeat.

“Okay,” I said at last. “I'll pass my rattle round so that those who wish to share their journey have the chance.”

Juke was on my left; I passed him the rattle and he read out what he had written. A simple journey, but as his shamanic teacher, it pleased me. I'd first met Juke at a party he was throwing. I'd thought he'd been trying to chat me up, but he sincerely wanted to learn about shamanism. He'd been my student since. Back then, he'd held the world's burdens on his back, and it thrilled me to see how he'd been able to discard these, along with the suit jackets and neatly trimmed hair. Today he was wearing a sleeveless leather jerkin over a
t-shirt
showing a grinning face surrounded by branches and leaves, with vines growing out of its mouth and nostrils—a Green Man. A leather thong around his neck held a pentagram imbedded with a crystal. He passed the rattle to Freaky, who declined to talk about his journey.

Yew went next. Yew had a cultured Kentish accent, which I always enjoyed listening to, long pulls at the vowel sounds as he described the complex conversation he'd had with the oak tree he'd sat under in his journey. “I have an affinity with oak trees,” he said, looking around at us. “I've spent a lot of time living in them.”

“You've lived in trees,” said Ricky, with a tinge of awe.

“Yew was once a road protester, weren't you?” I said. “A
first-wave
eco-warrior
.”

“We'd protest about anything, to be honest. Bypasses, quarries, nuclear power stations, the full McCoy.”

“That's so cool,” said Ricky. “Is that a philosophy you've got, to prevent that sort of destruction of the environment?”

“This was the nineties. A lot of new road plans were threatening rare species. Butterflies, toads, you name it. And the trees—they wanted to take down so many ancient oaks, ashes, yews even. It was criminal. We built platforms up there so that they'd have to fell us, as well as the trees.” He grinned. “Called them ‘twigloos'.”

“It's sort of sad, that all this was before our time.” Juke had a wistful tone to his voice. “We don't protest anymore, do we?”

“There's plenty to challenge.” Yew was still holding my rattle, which meant the others shouldn't really interrupt him, but I let the conversation continue. “Big business never stopped wrecking our environment. GM crops, toxic industry, fracking. Plenty to demonstrate against.”

“I don't know if we've got the bottle, nowadays,” Ricky said.

“You can do a lot online. I miss the protests, but I confess I'm getting a bit old to face a line of coppers in riot gear.”

“You're hardly over the hill, Yew,” I said.

“Come your forties, you start longing for a comfortable bed. And I love my job. Okay, sometimes I get the urge to load my teepee into the van and set off, but …” He gave the rattle a deliberate shake to suggest he'd finished and passed it to Ricky, who looked down at what he'd written for several long moments, before giving a slightly embarrassed laugh.

“I can't equal Yew …”

“You don't have to.” Yew clamped his hand over his Ricky's shoulder. “Tell us.”

“Well … first time I've managed to shape shift successfully.” He bent his knees up and encircled them with his arms, like a girl. “I was a sea eagle.”

“Wow.” Juke passed him his water bottle. “Nice one.”

Ricky wrapped his fingers around the damp plastic and gulped. “I hardly knew such a bird existed. Don't think they live in Britain.”

“Highlands of Scotland, they do,” said Freaky.

“Tell us about it,” I said.

“Well, I was outside this ancient barrow. You know, where Neolithic people used to bury their dead. Sitting on the top was this massive bird with a bright white edge to his tail and a beak shaped like a bowie knife. I put out my hand and the bird flapped wildly. Scared me, actually. It landed on my wrist. Its talons really hurt. It started calling. God! What a sound. Like a screechy laugh, getting more and more manic. I said, ‘Are you my power animal?' As I spoke, I entered its body. I sort of
was
… the bird.”

“You shape shifted,” said Anagarika. “What a corker. I've always wanted to do that.”

“Anag, Anag,” Freaky's voice was despairing. “Recommendation number four: if you want great journeys, you have to practice. Then practice harder. Everything you need to know is right inside you.”

“You can stop knocking at me, you bloody bastard,” said Anag.

I jumped from my chair and it clattered backwards, falling with a thud onto the carpet. That took the fight out of both of them. “You should all know better than to interrupt someone when they're holding the rattle.”

“It's okay.” Ricky put up his hand. “I'm not saying more.” He tried to pass the rattle to Anag, but the Australian dropped it onto the carpet.

“I'm off to pack my havvie.”

“We need to centre ourselves before we leave this room.” I fumbled for Anag's hand. He took it; I felt him calm. I badly needed Wolfsbane's clear leadership. I couldn't believe he was still in Stefan's half of the house. Maybe they'd made up their differences and were trying out some of the homemade mead Esme brewed from their own hives.

“You never told us about your journey,” Juke said to me.

“It's okay. Like Freaky, I intended to leave it recorded in my journal.”

One by one, the workshoppers stood and joined hands. I led them into taking some deep breaths and thanking the spirits. We began a round of goodbye hugs. I went into the kitchen, put the kettle on, and got the biscuits out.

Where was Wolfsbane?

I slipped into Stefan's side of Stonedown Farm. The house was rambling, with two staircases—one originally, I assumed, for the servants. This made it ideal for letting out; Stefan and Esme were able to hide in their half of the house when the rooms were in use. I moved into the living room.

Summer sun streaked through roughly pulled curtains. Dust motes danced in the shaft of light where the three of them were standing, Esme between Wolfsbane and Stefan, the two men facing each other like warriors.

“I will never forgive that,” Stefan was saying.

“You've got it wrong.” Wolfsbane's voice was hushed, as if anger had made him breathless.

“Yes,” said Esme. She put her hands to her mouth, biting on the knuckles. “Wrong end of the stick.” She was in a
skin-tight
pair of black leather trousers which showed off her flat stomach. Her black top was equally tight over muscular shoulders, sequined around the low neckline to enhance her bulging breasts. Her short hair, a shock of royal purple, was half hidden by the silky tangerine scarf wrapped round her head. Her height rivalled both Stefan's and Wolfsbane's.

There was shuffling at the doorway. I turned. The workshoppers had followed me, even Anag.

Stefan stared dramatically at the six of us, then turned to Wolfsbane. “Get your
hangers-on
out of my house. Now.”

Wolfs didn't budge. If anything he seemed to be squaring up for a fight. “You're not listening. I said you were mistaken. I want an apology.”

“Fuck off.”

They'd reached that moment of anger when all you see is redness and hate. Stefan
side-stepped
Esme and grasped Wolfsbane by the shoulders and shoved hard,
off-balancing
him and following through with further shoves to his chest, pushing him towards where we stood, gaping, in the doorway. “Get—out—of —my—house!”

All at once things went up a gear. Wolfsbane grabbed Stefan roughly by the arm. Stefan shook him free, tightened both his fists and raised them to his face. Neither of these men were natural pugilists, but Wolfsbane ate sparingly and exercised regularly, while Stefan was getting portly; he was puffing already, suggesting his heart would not bear sudden exertion.

“Cut it out, you dipsticks,” said Anag. He pushed between them. “You are both way outta fucking order.”

He fisted his right hand into Stefan's jaw, then stepped back, gripping and
re-gripping
his fist, like it needed a
cooling-down
exercise.

Ricky shot me a pleading glance, as if I was the only person there who could stop this thing, but I was too busy disbelieving my eyes.

Stefan staggered round in a circle and fell heavily onto his back. His head hit the carpet, so sticky with
long-standing
grime that he seemed to bounce.

Esme let out a tremulous cry—it hardly felt as if it had come from her; Esme wasn't the sort to show emotion—and ran to him, cradling his head with her hands.

Stefan groaned. “What the fuck?” He put his hand to his injured jaw.

Esme turned to us all. “Get OUT!” she yelled. “GET OUT!”

Anag supported Wolfsbane from the room, although he hadn't been hurt at all. The other men followed, like an armed guard. I stood my ground.

“What was that about?” I asked at last. My voice was breathy, but I had it under control.

“Piss off, Sabbie,” said Stefan, struggling to sit up.

“I'm going, don't worry. I just want to know; why row on this dreadful day?”

“No need to bring Alys into it. She's got nothing to do with this.”

“She's dead, Stefan!”

“I could've been dead, if I'd landed on that thing.” He nodded at the ancient stone hearth.

I glared at Esme. “What was it about?”

“Don't ask me.”

“But I am. Because you were here.”

“Nothing. Really. Loss of control, that's what it was. Bloody men, if you ask me. They have no idea how to cope with stress.”

“Who was under the stress, Stefan or Wolfs?”

“It was …” Her eyes were burning. She was having trouble managing her own anger. “None of your business.”

I hunkered down and looked Stefan in the face. The redness from Anag's punch glowed under his chin stubble. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He nodded once.

“Is this about that pack of white tablets you showed Wolfs?”

“What?”

“Was it about the tablets? The ones you wanted us to all take. Did you give one to Alys?”

Esme pushed between us, closing her arms round Stefan. He buried his face close to the foam of her bosoms, so that his voice was muffled. “Go away, Sabbie. Please.”

five

ricky

We got our bags
out of Stonedown Farm as fast as we could. There'd been no powwow over rescheduling the cancelled workshop. Never was too soon for my liking, especially when Wolfs began thanking Anag for what he seemed to think was a rescue, rather than a violent attack on the host.

We said our goodbyes on the gravel area near the garages. Freaky disappeared back to his caravan, which had stood for years at the edge of Stonedown's land. Anag strode along the drive towards his digs in town, flourishing his hand as each of the cars passed him.

Soon, it was just Ricky and me on the driveway. “Can I drop you anywhere?” I asked him.

“Er …” He passed his bag from one hand to the other.

“Where're you headed?”

“North Bristol.”

“That's where I was brought up. I'll give you a lift, if you like.”

“You can't do that!”

“'Course I can. Hop in.”

“It's out your way.”

“I'll drop in on my family. They can't live too far from you.”

He slung his bag in the back and climbed into the front. “Thanks.”

A sort of gloom settled between us in the car that wasn't easy to shift. I fell to wondering if Alys's death had to be the most shocking event to ever happen on the Tor. The hill was millions of years old and had seen lifetimes of things. Once it had been surrounded by inland sea, creating myths of gods and kings and saints. Perhaps for the spirit of the Tor, Alys's death was trifling; one moment's breath over millions of years.

I realized how silent we had both become. Ricky was staring out of the window, but, I fancied, not seeing anything.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He stretched, as if he'd only realized how tense he'd been. “Processing.”

“Mmm. And if it's like this for us, how must it be for Brice and Alys's family?”

“Don't think I'll ever forget.” He paused, went to speak again, but didn't quite make it, sinking back into silence.

I waited until I'd taken the
slip-road
onto the motorway then said, “It's not just Alys, is it? Something's playing on your mind.”

Ricky looked at me sharply, but didn't respond straight away. His eyes were thick with eyeliner and mascara and there was a fine layer of talcum powder over his cheeks, which made him seem even more vulnerable—as if the makeup helped him face the world.

“I … I heard a lot about you, before I came to the workshop. Juke told me how you spot things about people. He said you can locate things, like the shaman of old.”

I wasn't keen to confirm this. Any success I'd had in the past might never be repeated. I hated raising people's hopes. I tried
half-changing
the subject. “I'm sorry the workshop didn't go to plan. Especially as you had such a great
shape-shifting
experience.”

His face was open and as puzzled as a child's. “How does that work? I don't understand … like … being the eagle was partly my imagination … but …” His voice dropped. “It was so
real
. I didn't even know about sea eagles, but all at once, I was one. I could feel this tiny heart beating and it was inside me—my skeleton felt light as balsa wood.” He stretched his legs into the well of the car. “My brothers and I used to make these model aircraft when we were kids, out of balsa wood.”

“You can find out more about your sea eagle,” I said. “You can just lie down, close your eyes, and let yourself go to meet him.”

“I will. I like the quietude of journeying. It's healing. I got sick, first time I went to university. I had to leave my business studies course and go home.” He grinned to himself. “Couldn't cope with all the partying. I learnt to meditate while I was getting my health back.”

“You look pretty fit to me. And you're back at uni?”

“Yeah, I've started another degree from scratch. Philosophy. Very cerebral, but working with shamanism balances that out. ‘We're so engaged in doing things to achieve purposes of outer value that we forget the inner value, the rapture that is associated with being alive.'”

“Wow, that's profound, Ricky.”

“It wasn't me. It's a quote from Joseph Campbell,
The Power of Myth
. We don't connect to nature anymore. It's the constant frenzy of the
twenty-first
century. I find that hard, sometimes; that's why I got ill.” He gave a short laugh and pinked under his white makeup. “Sorry, Sabbie, I don't usually go on like this.”

“'S okay with me.” I liked the way he was opening up; he had been quiet among the pushy, downright combative males at Stonedown Farm.

“My family didn't want me to come back to uni. They thought I'd fall sick again, but I've been fine.”

“Were you all boys in the family?” I asked, remembering the model planes.

“Two older brothers and a sister a bit younger than me.” He paused for a long time. “Babette,” he said at last. “But we all called her Babe.” And then he closed down, locking his hands together and tucking them between his knees, as if that would keep his thoughts together. I knew something was bothering him. We had all watched Alys drop to the ground, but I didn't think it was entirely to do with that. I recalled his grim face, staring out from under the shared duvet, while Shell's hand rested on his thigh. I'd've loved to get Ricky's version of what had gone on there. Shell should be careful if she wanted to keep Wolfsbane; he was flighty with girlfriends, tiring of each one as soon as they demonstrated any trend he didn't like. And he definitely didn't like girlfriends who flirted with other men.

Not that I was quite able to think of Ricky as a man. His boyishness clung to him, a kind of inculpability.

The sun was fierce on my left side as I drove in a straight, northbound line. It had not ducked behind cloud for the entire solstice day and a golden evening looked certain. Gloria and Philip might be eating on the flagged patio at the back of their house tonight; it faced west and would catch and hold the balmy weather right up to sundown. I should find a local shop and arrive with some chilled white wine.

I came off the motorway and Ricky directed me through the housing estates of north Bristol. “Take this little road coming up on the left and we're there … this house, with the high blue gable. That's my room, under the gable.”

I pulled up to the kerb. “Sounds lovely.”

“Yeah …” He drummed his fingers on the dashboard again. “Sabbie,” he began.

“Tell me.”

“I've wanted to ask you something since … since I met you yesterday … but now I've held you up long enough.”

I cut the engine. “Never leave with regrets.”

He gave a brief laugh, though he was close to tears. “I promised myself I'd ask you. I lost my nerve.”

“You've found it again now.”

“Yeah.” He put his hand over his chest as if afraid his heart might jump right out. “Five years have gone past. Would that make a difference?”

“That depends. Is this something you've lost?”

“My sister.” He'd been staring straight out through the car windscreen, but now he turned to me, unashamed of his wet face. “My Babe.”

“Your sister is lost?”

Ricky dashed the back of a hand over his face, smearing his eyeliner. “She was sixteen. A bit spirited, you know?”

“You … lost her when she was sixteen?

“She disappeared. Wretched, wretched time.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“They started this countywide search. Didn't find a button.”

“Had she run away, Ricky?”

“We'll never know. Never. It wrecked my parents. We thought they were going to split over it. Mum did blame Dad, for a while. Babe was the only girl and he gave her less freedom than we'd had. I mean, like, going into town, clubbing, that sort of thing.” He reached over the seat back and swung his bag onto his lap, ready to leave. “Telling you feels bloody stupid. It's so long ago.”

“Ricky, do you have anything of Babe's? A small keepsake?”

“Mum might. I dunno.” He rubbed at his wet eyes. “Oh! I've got her sketchbook. Is that the sort of thing?”

“Ricky, that's perfect.”

I followed Ricky into his house, a typical student residence darkened by forgotten curtains and smelling of ancient socks.

“Eijaz,” Ricky called. “Eijaz?”

A lanky boy with
sharp-nosed
Asian features and a
two-day
dark beard appeared at the top of the stairs. “
Wass-a
-time,” he asked, peering hard at his own watch.

“Time you were up. Try being awake for the solstice dawn.”

“I was up half the night, working on my thesis. Dawn musta come, but I didn't take no notice.” Eijaz was in crumpled lounge pants and an
inside-out
t-shirt
. His face had a crushed look too but nothing would have mussed his hair; it was clipped short on top and shaved short at the sides. To add to his trendy look, he fished a pair of sunglasses from the pocket of his lounge pants and pulled them on, as if ordinary daylight defeated him.

Ricky ushered me up the stairs and into his room. I'd expected the usual student riot, but Ricky's bedroom was tidier than mine. On the small wooden table which functioned as his desk was a laptop, a writing pad, a ruler, a row of pens, and a folded pair of spectacles, all positioned so neatly it made me wonder if he'd used the ruler to lay the rows out. Stacked against the wall were tall piles of philosophy books in order of size. The walls were covered with posters of old men—philosophers, I had to assume—but between these were photos of Glastonbury, Avebury, Stonehenge, and other sacred sites,
Blu-Tacked
with geometric precision. There was still the fusty smell of
closed-down
living; stale beer and ancient dust, and I could see a greying pile of old jeans and smeared tops had been pushed under the bunklike bed, but the room would still take a medal if there had been one, for student sleep/work environments.

“The photos are lovely.”

“Yeah, I took some of them myself. But I must get on with my dissertation. I have a tendency to fall behind and I can't let that happen this time. I've got my ideas all lined up; I've just got to start writing.”

“What's it on?”

“‘The Concept of Light and Darkness in Plato's Analogy of the Cave.'”

“The what?”

“That's the title. It's about perception of goodness. Plato uses a cave as an analogy of lack of virtue. He associates goodness with the sun—knowledge of The Good. The sun can't be seen directly from the cave. That's the point, you see. My tutor suggests I compare him to Locke, who says the sun differs from other objects because light comes directly from it and reveals all other objects to us, but I've decided to bring in someone more recent. Iris Murdoch. She was an atheist, and wanted us to rethink what goodness is without the inclusion of God—”

He broke off, realizing his student brain had gone into overdrive. “Sorry, I should be looking for Babe's sketchbook.”

“No hurry. No one's expecting me at any particular time. What do you think goodness is, Ricky?”

“Me?” He ran a hand through his upright hair. “Doesn't matter what I think. I'm just a degree student. My job is to work out what the philosophers thought.”

“Surely you have an opinion.”

“I like the idea that goodness has something to do with love. Murdoch says—” He clamped his teeth together to stop himself.

“I like that idea too.”

Ricky pulled a
sports-bag
out from under the bed which was filled with things from home; things maybe he'd never unpacked but didn't want to throw away. “This was Babette's.” He passed me a
standard-sized
sketchpad
half-full
with pencil drawings and some watercolour paintings.

I turned the first couple of pages, taking in chalk sketches of woodland, studies of trees and butterflies. “Where is this?”

“New Forest. The four of us were given a lot of freedom in the woods, with our bikes and that.” Ricky sat down on the bed as if his legs couldn't support him any longer. “I was in Bristol, of course, when Babette disappeared, first year of my business degree. It was easy for me to get back, but Claude was stuck into his finals and Jacob was working in Dubai. Still is.”

“So you had to contend with your parents' distress.”

“I had to contend with my own! Babe and me, we'd been inseparable when we were kids. You know how a family of four can split off into two? Well, it was always me and Babes.”

“Were the woods … I mean, they're quite extensive, aren't they?”

“Yeah, they were searched.” He held himself rigid and stared at wall opposite.

“Was it … was it after all that you fell ill?”

“After she went, business studies seemed pretty lame. Not worth the effort. I guess I had a bit of a breakdown.”

“That's not at all surprising,” I said. “You've recovered really well.”

“Yeah.” He got up from the bed, as if to demonstrate his renewed energy. He found a crumpled carrier bag and we slid the sketchpad into it.

“She's a talented artist,” I said.

“I hope she still uses that talent,” said Ricky. “If she still can. If she still
is
.”

Ricky did not ask me what I was going to do with Babette's sketchpad, which was as well, for I had not yet worked that out. I knew I should study it more carefully; possibly journey with it as my lodestone, but for now I took a quick look through, turning the pages with care until I came to a pen and ink sketch of a girl. It could have been one of her friends, of course, but I decided it was a self-­portrait, partly because the girl had the same buttony mushroom-shaped nose as Ricky.