Buried Fire (11 page)

However, strong witchcraft traditions are linked to the Wirrim, and to Wirrinlow in particular. It may well be that the story of the ancient struggle between hero and dragon has left many magical associations in these parts.

(Our friend's continuous manuscript breaks off at this point. However, we include below a few disconnected notes, found tucked in his manuscript, which we suppose were to be worked into his book, had he lived.

J.G, N.P, W.B.)

Fire seems to crop up often in a lot of the tales.

July 1896: I have discovered that Meg Pooley and Mary Barratt were themselves Hardrakers!! They lived on that farm before their marriages in 1733. Perhaps this is the source of that farm's bad reputation? Perhaps not. Their brother, William Hardraker, lived on after them to a great age, dying in 1803.

Is it possible that the link to the past is stronger than I thought?

I have come across rumours – rumours only, mark you – which suggest that certain people in the village (I shall not write their names yet) have closer ties to the dragon legend than might be expected. Can there be a conspiracy? People will believe strange things. I must probe closer.

One boy says he saw something . . . He is scared, but I think I can offer him enough. All rumours. I must be careful.

In the Nineteenth Century!!

There is too much silence in this place. We shall see what is said when when the book is published. If it ever will be!

I must apply myself.

And there the book ended. Tom sat for a long time, deep in thought, with the faded pamphlet on his knee. Then he got up and went to look at the cross.

When Stephen came downstairs, Sarah was sitting out on the lawn drinking coffee and finishing off her grapefruit. She was in casual clothes, and there was an air about her of relaxation.

"You look dreadful," she said.

"Thanks."

Stephen sat himself in a garden chair. He surveyed the table. Raucous birdsong sounded from every tree.

"Oh. No cup," he said at last. He got up and wandered back into the kitchen.

"Sorry, I only made my breakfast this morning. You'll need a bowl as well, and the grapefruit's in the fridge."

"The cup will do."

Sarah appraised him as he returned. "Couldn't you at least put some trousers on?" she asked, surveying his boxer shorts and rumpled T-shirt.

"No." He poured out the coffee and looked over at the rose bed beneath the house. In the fragile sunshine of the early morning he could just see the marks where the soil had been rucked and flattened by a heavy weight.

Sarah blew her nose loudly. "It's going to be a bad day for hay fever," she said. "Again."

"This coffee's cold."

"Well, make some more. It's not my fault you get up late. Why are you in such a foul mood?"

Stephen made no response. He poured another cup of cold coffee. Then he said, "Are you going out this morning?"

"Well, no. I've got no houses to view till after lunch. So I thought I'd stay with you and Michael. I haven't seen enough of you lately." Sarah added a winning smile, but Stephen just looked sullen. She did her best to remain calm.

"Did you see Michael last night?" she asked, trying to keep her voice cheerful. Stephen looked at her. He nodded.

"Was he OK? Only I sent him down to Mr Cleever's on a pretext. He was going to have a word with him, about – you know. I'm not sure it was the right thing to do, but it might make a difference . . ."

"It certainly had an effect."

"Oh. Good. I hope it was the right thing."

Stephen sat back in the chair and stretched his neck back to where it ached, looking straight up at the sky. He yawned savagely. Such sleep as he had had in the hours before dawn had done him few favours. His whole body was out of sorts.

He hoped Sarah would change her mind and go away. He had a few things he wanted to discuss with his brother.

After waiting by the window for a time, Stephen had tried to rouse Michael, but without success. His breathing had been slow and deep, as if heavily asleep; there had been a reddish tinge about his eyes, and his colouring was pale. At last Stephen had lifted him into bed, and gone downstairs, switching on all the lights and checking the locks. He had felt sick with fatigue and stress, but no longer sensed a threat from outside the house. The tingling in his own eyes, which had burned strongly ever since he saw the reptile souls, had subsided almost immediately after the incident at the window. The assault had ended. For the time being.

"There you are; at least one of you has the decency to put his trousers on."

Stephen had not seen Michael appear at the kitchen door, and he looked him over sharply. Michael was dressed and seemingly washed, and his face was perfectly dreadful. He had a dazed expression, and there was a blankness somewhere in his eyes which made Stephen squirm in his chair, even as he gave his brother a careless greeting. Surely Sarah would notice the eyes too, and think of Tom's accusations.

But Sarah seemed to notice nothing.

"The cups are in the kitchen," she said. "I didn't expect you down so early. There's grapefruit in the frid—"

"I couldn't get your pamphlets." Michael's voice cut in tonelessly as he walked over the grass.

"Oh, that's all right—"

"For the simple reason that they didn't exist."

"I don't—" Sarah turned the red of confusion. Stephen frowned. His eyes had tingled faintly.

Michael rested his hands on the vacant chair and considered his sister. "What were you trying to do, sending me to Cleever?" he said. "Did you think he'd give me a talking to? Did you think he might Do Me Good? I told you the truth yesterday morning, and it wasn't good enough for you, was it? Before the day was out you sold me for your peace of mind. Well, don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes. You can't any more. All I want to know now is—was it his idea, or yours?"

Stephen stirred in his chair. "Forget it, Michael," he said.

But Michael took no notice. "Was it his idea, or yours?" he repeated, raising his voice. "Was it his idea, or yours?" By now Sarah had had enough.

"It was his idea! Does that satisfy you? I was worried. He said he would talk to you. If it was a mistake, I'm sorry. Can't you see? I was upset and it seemed like the right thing at the time."

"Fair enough," said Stephen. "Now do us a favour, Michael, and shut up."

But a sudden curtain of contempt had fallen across Michael's mind. Out of the confused images and feelings awash within him rose suddenly a clear picture of his sister's grotesque stupidity. Her miserable ignorance, her trifling weariness, her pathetic and shabby emotional games – all were suddenly made plain. Stephen, sitting next to him, felt the shift in the atmosphere, a heat grow in his own eyes. He stole a glance sideways at his brother and saw the eyes refocus, becoming distant and unreflective. He saw him staring at his sister.

"Michael," he said at once, "leave it. Leave it alone."

He stood up, but before he could act he knew Sarah had already sensed Michael's invisible attack. She shivered, and something behind her eyes seemed to crumple as if a sudden grief had come upon her. She looked like she was about to cry, and did not know why she did so, but instead she got up, whey-faced and shaking.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" she cried. "Stop it! God, you're sick! What's wrong with you?" Then she shuddered and half-ran towards the kitchen door.

Michael turned to follow her with his eyes. He didn't blink.

"Sarah!" Stephen caught up with her at the door, and hugged her. She was still shivering.

"He didn't mean it," he found himself saying inanely. "He's a little confused." Sarah hugged him tighter.

"I felt—" she began, and stopped, at a loss for words. Stephen did not blame her.

"Go and see Tom," he said. "You need a break from us this morning." He paused, and looked over at the motionless figure by the table. "I'll deal with him."

Michael, at that moment, was filled with a ferocious joy. The colours of another's soul had been revealed naked before him, and where he had once been in awe of that hidden thing, his awe was now turned entirely in on himself and his own power. He had seen that slow and stupid dog-shaped soul quail before his gaze. He had seen its surface shudder, its outline weaken and its colours grow pale and indistinct. The flow of motion had slowed perceptibly, and the life-force in it had stuttered, and all of this because of his own clear gaze. All of this through fear!

Fear.

The soul had sensed it. The colours had revealed it. And Michael had fed on it in that moment with a wild delight, drawing strength on the fragility of his sister's soul.

He laughed to himself.

The soul was a pretty bauble, it was true. He had noticed that right from the start. Even his stupid sister's was exquisite, beautiful as jewels. But what right did she have to it? She would never see it, never weigh its beauty in the balance. Never know the subtlety and scope of its fluctuations, its endless vibrations which made the heart sing to see them. It was wasted on her.

Michael felt like a collector of great wealth and wisdom, who sees a priceless gem owned by an ignorant amateur, someone who would never truly know what she held in her hand.

And with that perception came a contempt for the owner, and all such owners like her, and a new distaste for the gaudy objects in their possession.

"You fools," he whispered under his breath, looking over at his brother and sister by the kitchen door. "You're poor sad fools."

It was only when she closed the kissing gate behind her and started walking up the path to the church door that Sarah began to feel better. Throughout the short drive down to the village, her hands had shaken at the wheel and her head had spun; so much so, that she had once had to pull into the side until her vision cleared.

Now, as she walked up past the gravestones, the memory of Michael's anger grew less acute and her spirits rose. There were answers to all problems, no matter how insoluble they might seem.

Sarah pushed open the door and looked inside. She could see Tom standing by the vestry curtains, looking down at the cross. He paid no attention as she entered and pushed the door to, nor even when she came up close behind him.

"Tom."

He visibly started. "Oh – Hi, Sarah! You gave me quite a shock." He hugged her, distractedly. "Sorry about last night."

"That's all right. What are you doing? You were completely lost."

"I was thinking. Listen, Sarah, it's crazy, but you know what I was talking about last night? I think I'm on to something."

"It can wait, Tom. I need your help with Michael. He's just – done something which is really hard to explain, but it was bad, and I need your help."

"Of course. Sit down and fire away."

As Sarah spoke, she became uncomfortably aware that the morning's argument didn't sound nearly as horrid as it had actually been, and she was unable to express quite why it had upset her so much. But Tom listened carefully, and nodded as she finished.

"I'll come and talk to him. I should have done so yesterday. He does sound unsettled, and it may be that his talk with Cleever has made him worse. But Sarah, why on earth did you send him there? Cleever would infuriate a saint."

Sarah felt herself frown. "All right, it may not have been the best idea, but at least he seemed interested."

"Meaning I'm not? Well, let's not argue about it. I'll come back with you in a minute. But listen, Sarah, I've got to tell you something first. It won't take a sec, and it's too exciting to wait. I think I know what this cross is!"

He grinned with scarcely controlled excitement. "Look, you remember what I was telling you about yesterday? Well, read this. It won't take a minute. It's really short. And there are some strange things about it that you won't believe! Please, Sarah. Have a read."

He handed her a faded pamphlet. Sarah looked at it dubiously.

"Go on, Sarah. Please. You'll think I'm mad otherwise."

She sighed with exasperation. "All right, Tom, but I'm acting under protest."

"OK, OK." While she read, Tom hopped about her, seemingly unable to keep still. He looked over her shoulder, scuttled over to look at the cross, and came back again, all the time making little laughs of amazement to himself. Sarah grew extremely irritated. Finally, she looked up.

"All right, I've read it. Now what's the point? I want to go back home, and I want you to come back with me.

"In a minute. How did it strike you?"

"The ravings of a madman. Where on earth did you get it?"

"The Birmingham Research Library. I went up especially early this morning. Listen, Sarah, didn't anything strike you about it? When he talks about that Welsh poem, and the seal, the seal that he thought was buried on church land?"

"You think the cross—?"

"Is the seal. Yes. Yes I do. Come and look at it."

She came over, her interest jostling with her impatience. The stone lay below her, ornately carved and very old.

"It is a dragon, isn't it?" he said.

Sarah nodded. She followed the sinuous lines around the interlacing body from the long thin head, with its rows of teeth, round the looping back, past the splaying claws and so on to the endless tail.

"And you think—" Sarah cleared her throat. Suddenly the air seemed heavy. She was not quite sure what she was going to say. "But this is a cross. Willis said that Wyniddyn was pre-Christian. He wouldn't have made this, would he?"

"Willis didn't know. He was only speculating. Wyniddyn might have come at the time when the first missionaries were reaching these parts. Maybe he was a partly Christian magician. Who can tell?"

"And this is his seal?"

"I think so. And Sarah – I dug it up."

"Yes. Oh, Tom – look." The excitement had won her over. She traced around the great circle with her finger. "A stone band, surrounding the dragon. Well, almost surrounding it."

Tom felt a sudden guilty pang. "I didn't break it," he said, more sharply than he would have wished. "It was broken already, when we found it in the ground."

"I know that, Tom. You don't have to shout."

"I wasn't shouting."

"You were. Anyway, forget it. It's a pity, but there it is."

"But Sarah, someone stole the arm, and you remember that last bit in the book, about people still having ties to the dragon legend? I didn't understand it quite, but he was connecting it to those stories of witchcraft long ago, and implying that some form of magic belief was continuing, behind all the fairy tales and nursery rhymes."

"Tom, he was writing a hundred years ago."

"I know, but if it survived till then, who's to say it hasn't survived till now?"

"Oh, come on, Tom. People aren't stupid. They wouldn't—"

"So why steal the cross?"

"Don't interrupt me! It's all very interesting, Tom, and may have some relevance to the cross, but don't try and take it too far. There are other things to think about."

"But I haven't finished, Sarah. Listen to what else I found out. On the way home I called in on the Stanbridge Herald and had a little browse in their archives. I read a couple of articles from 1895 about Willis's death – he died in a house fire – and there were rumours of foul play."

"So?"

"Arson was the theory. Only no one could work out how it had been done. Willis's house wasn't made of matchsticks. It was a solid brick affair. The weather had been wet. Yet the thing was an inferno in moments, according to witnesses."

"Probably just a study lamp knocked over, or a spark from his grate."

"Possibly. Except Willis had only just returned to the house after a few days' absence. He'd been in it for a matter of minutes when the place went up, according to friends who'd left him. Would he have had time to get a fire going?"

"Don't ask me. Now, Tom . . ."

Tom reached over and grabbed her by the arm. "But don't you see, Sarah? What if it all links together? What if Willis's ideas about some sort of conspiracy weren't utter moonshine? What if he was closing in upon something which had been kept hidden for hundreds of years?"

"Tom—"

"They'd have been only too glad to shut him up, Sarah, don't you see? And think of all the talk of fire in his book, and how he died. Could that be a coincidence?"

"Yes," said Sarah. "It could. Honestly, Tom, you're beginning to sound like Mrs Gabriel:*'

"But that's the point. Arthur Willis has been forgotten, but the undercurrent of belief he was investigating hasn't gone by any means. Mrs Gabriel's tapped into it even now. That's what set me thinking in the first place. The cross is at the centre of all this, Sarah, and part of it has been stolen."

"So part of it has been stolen! Perhaps somebody somewhere hasn't let the old ways drop! Maybe! Or maybe it's all a series of coincidences and it doesn't amount to anything. You haven't proof either way, and I'm fed up of wasting time. Are you coming back to see Michael, or aren't you?"

"Just one more thing, Sarah, and I'm all yours. Listen, I got this book at Birmingham Research Library. I went there because Vanessa Sawcroft looked up in the Hereford and Worcester Central Library Index and couldn't find Willis there."

"I'm going, Tom."

"Wait. It turns out she was right. The one at Birmingham is one of only two copies in the whole country."

"Well?"

"The Research Library keeps records of who comes to take its books out. You have to join it, leaving name and address, and pay a membership fee. Well, I enquired whether I was the first to ask for 'The Book of the Worm', and it turned out I wasn't. The man at the desk even gave me the other person's name, so I could share my research with them. He gave me a name and address. Want to know who it was?"

Sarah looked at him stony-faced.

"Well, I'll tell you. Vanessa Sawcroft."

"So?"

"Sarah, she told me she knew nothing of the book! She lied to me! Or deliberately misled me, anyway. Why should she do that? And that's not all. Guess where she lives? Hardraker Farm."

"What?"

"Hardraker Farm. That was the address she gave the library. And you read what Willis had to say about that place!"

"Tom—" Sarah seemed to be having difficulty controlling herself. "Tom, I've listened to you for twenty minutes now. I'm not listening to you any more. You're not making any sense. The bit about the cross is great – I'm not surprised you're excited. But the rest – look, it's just nonsense. I don't know why Vanessa Sawcroft didn't tell you about the book. Maybe she forgot."

"Oh, come on—"

"Maybe she didn't. Maybe she's pissed off with you for going on and on about your obsessions and wanted to get you out of her hair. Who knows? But she doesn't live at Hardraker Farm, and I know that because only yesterday I was invited to look round it with a view to a valuation. It's empty, Tom. No one lives there. Stop trying to find patterns where none exists."

Tom looked doubtful. "Who says it's empty?"

"Mr Cleever. Remember him? Parish councillor, church warden – you know the one. He's the executor. Are you saying he's lying too?"

"Well, no – but the whole thing's too much—"

"Bloody hell, Tom!" Sarah was furious now. "That's it. Here's what we'll do. In two hours, I want you at my house for lunch, to talk to Michael. In the meantime, I'm going to do you a favour. I shall go up to Hardraker Farm right now and take a good look round. And while I'm there, I shall keep my eyes open for flying wizards, lying librarians or cross thieves. OK? If I see any of them, I shall let you know. If I don't, perhaps you will stop wittering on about this bloody cross!"

With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard that the nave echoed. Tom was left staring after her, still trying to think up what to say.