Buried Fire (16 page)

It took a little under an hour for Mr Cleever to find them.

Stephen and Tom made for the Haw Road under cover of the summer hedges. Stephen was carrying his rucksack, and moved across the fields with a feral swiftness, his blood racing and his eyes bright. Contact with the enemy had brought new life into his bones.

Tom followed him, his shirt singed brown at shoulder and sleeve. There was a new determination in his heart. He did not have the advantage that Stephen had – he could not see Mr Cleever or Mr Pilate as they truly were. The difficulty of reconciling the ordinary appearance of things with what was under them had flummoxed him to start with, and made him slow to think and act. But the flames at his shoulder had changed all that forever. His old respectable trappings were flung off, and he ran low along the hedge lines with a single-minded speed.

They were bound for Hardraker Farm. Stephen and Tom had not discussed it; they had left the village in silence, knowing exactly where they had to go.

But the fields were blocked.

They had entered the croplands which meandered over the gentle folds of the Wirrim's lower slopes. Hardraker Farm lay somewhere above them. As they headed steeply uphill, surrounded by high grass and following a thick hedge studded with beech and oak, Stephen suddenly threw himself flat on his stomach. Tom followed suit, catching his first sight of a head moving just beyond the hedge on the top of the ridge. It was a young man's face, pale and thin. Tom squinted at it for a moment, then looked over at Stephen, who shrugged. Neither of them had met Paul Comfrey.

The head moved along to the furthest corner of the hedge, never once looking in their direction. At the corner, just when they hoped it might disappear from sight, it turned and began to retrace its path back along the skyline. Stephen swore softly.

"They know we're coming," he whispered. "He's waiting for us to show."

"How could they know? He might not be—"

"He's one of them all right. My eyes are tingling. I just hope his aren't too."

"But how could he get here so quickly? We've run all the way."

"Pilate's notified them somehow. They probably read his mind."

The head arrived at the nearest corner of the hedge and turned once more. Stephen drummed his fingers on the ground.

"He'll be here all evening. We'll have to try another way. Follow my move."

He waited for thirty seconds, until the head had left them behind again. Then he stood up, and ducked through the hedge, at a point where it was pierced by a tall beech tree. A moment later, Tom appeared by his side.

"Did he see you?"

"Not a chance."

They were on the edge of a giant wheat field, turned to a lazy gold by the late afternoon sun. A gate at the far side marked the beginnings of the Hardraker fields. Stephen considered it.

"That's our way through," he said.

But it wasn't to be. Before they had gone six steps, Tom caught sight of a figure standing beside the gate, leaning against the trunk of a tree. The face was in shadow, but the sun flashed white on an arm in a sling. Tom pulled Stephen down, knowing it was almost certainly too late.

"It's a trap," he said. "They're waiting for us to get too far in, then they'll cut us off. We've got to get away from here right now, and no arguments. Which way do we go?"

But Stephen was looking over Tom's shoulder as he said this. "Oh no," he murmured.

It seemed at first as if Mr Cleever was standing on the hedge behind them. He stood there like a giant white bird perched on an inadequate twig. His shoes were at least ten feet off the ground, resting on the uppermost branches. His hands were stiffly by his side. What's he doing up there? Tom thought. What's the point?

Then Mr Cleever stepped away from the hedge, and did not fall.

Instead, he raised a hand and pointed his cane towards them. Stephen and Tom were up and crashing away from him through the wheat even as he did so. Behind them, the first heads of corn burst into flame.

Downhill through the wheat they ran, the bristles of the wheat heads slapping against their faces, their feet snapping against stalks, leaving a double trail in the surface of the field. Tom looked over his shoulder: Mr Cleever was not quite keeping pace with them. He moved slowly over the wheat, his face expressionless, his body rigid with tension. At his back, smoke curled slowly into the air. If they continued at the same pace, they might out-distance him. But there, behind him and to the right, Vanessa Sawcroft was coming through the air, her feet curled back a little under her body. And to the left, the pale-faced young man was running down the side of the field, arms and legs moving easily as he kept abreast of them.

"To the right!" Tom shouted. "They can't fly as fast as us, but he can run."

Stephen turned off to the right and headed off in a diagonal down the slope. He speeded up, nerves straining, eyes burning, the fire inside him wrestling with his common sense, demanding that he stand firm and fight.

All of a sudden, Michael rose up out of the wheat ahead of him. Stephen stopped so abruptly that he skidded and fell backwards into the wheat. Michael approached, walking nonchalantly a foot above the wheat heads and smiling as he came. His trainers were six inches clear of the topmost tufts, his arms swung freely at his sides. He stared down at Stephen with his head cocked at an angle.

"Stephen," he said, "you locked me in."

Looking up at him framed against the sky by the orange-brown wheat, Stephen used the sight upon his brother. A tremor went through him. Michael's soul had changed. It was darker, thicker; the little lights and sparks that had shot across it once were dimmed, and the currents which had stirred them were slowed. Far worse than this, the very shape of Michael's soul was different. The feline ears were less pronounced; like wax things they seemed to have melted into the head. Even as Stephen watched, they seemed to shrink and press up against the outline of the soul, which had narrowed hungrily.

Stephen could bear it no longer. He switched his eyes back.

"Oh, Mikey," he said. "You've changed."

"A lot of things have changed round here," said Michael, hovering above his head. "And it's not finished yet." He raised his hands. Stephen could feel the waves of anger washing down on him in fiery folds.

"Do it," said a voice behind him, and Stephen realised that Cleever had caught up with them. He could not see what had happened to Tom, and did not dare turn his face away from his brother. Michael was looking down at him with eyes which had suddenly become grave.

Stephen got painfully to his feet. Even now, his face was barely at the level of his brother's ankles.

"Do it, Michael," Vanessa Sawcroft said. Stephen did not turn round. He was squinting up at Michael, reading his uncertainty like a book, watching his fingers twitch nervously against his jeans, feeling the struggle in the malformed soul.

Three yards away, Tom stood looking around him on all sides. He and Stephen were hemmed in by the three, cocooned under a dome of heat which warped the trees at the edge of the field and gave the sparkling waters of the Race, which ran down the hill behind them, a hazy, lazy shimmer. Something tugged at Tom's memory; he stood there, trying to remember.

"You have the will to do it, Michael." Mr Cleever's voice shimmered like the heat haze, an unreal intrusion into a moment that stretched out forever.

Michael's gaze pierced Stephen like a sword. He saw the fire burning there, ready to erupt, and let a desperate plea form silently in his mind.

'Michael – I'm your brother.'

Michael looked at him. Then his eyes flared, but as they did so, they turned aside, away from Stephen, to the wheat stalks all around.

And the fire began. The wheat, rich, dry and golden-brown, had been almost motionless, only its whiskers waving at the sky. Now it changed – a shudder of movement rippled through the field, as each and every head of wheat around them danced for a moment to its own bright flame. Then, with an explosion of noise, a circle all about them was ablaze.

As the flames licked up, Mr Cleever and Vanessa Sawcroft instinctively rose out of their reach, but Stephen and Tom ducked down, below the blazing heads of wheat, and doubled up, began to push their way through the tinder-dry stalks which burned above them like a forest of giant matches.

"Make for the stream!" Tom shouted, above the crackling and the popping as the ripe corn burst and showered their backs with ash. Stephen did so, embers alighting in his hair and clothes, expecting at every moment the fatal burst of fire to come upon him from the sky.

But those above the flames had their own difficulties. The flames advanced as fast as a man could run, keeping pace with the fleeing victims, blocking a clear view of them with a blanket of smoke flecked with darts of flame. Mr Cleever hovered over their line of flight, looking to find an opening, but the black plumes engulfed him, and he was forced to wheel and retreat. Vanessa Sawcroft was driven back, coughing, to the edge of the field, where Paul Comfrey watched in horror as the crops that he had once helped sow were speedily engulfed.

Michael rose through the air, head reeling with smoke and anger. He had turned aside, at the crucial moment. He had been unable to make the strike. His will had failed him. Had Cleever seen that final failing? It would go ill with him if so.

But there was still time. They had not escaped yet.

Far off, four fields away, a cry went up. The smoke billowed into the cooling evening air, and cast a chill into the heart of Fordrace. Phones were rung, help was called, people ran out onto the green. Three miles away, in Stanbridge Fire Station, the first bell sounded.

Stephen and Tom scrambled down the slope towards the stream. Behind them, the path they cut among the cringing stalks disappeared into the mouth of the fire. There was a sighing in the air; a dark shape swooped down through the smoke and buffeted Tom on the back of the head. He struck backwards as he ran, and his fist hit something hard and solid, which cursed and fell away.

Before them, a space opened up. Wheat gave way to grass, which gave way to the line of trees. They ploughed through, as something struck against the branches high above them, and together half rolled, half fell down the slope into the waters of the Mill Race.

In the air above the stream, Michael found his power suddenly ebb away. He kicked backwards, losing height all the time, and made it to the safety of a beech tree, where he perched, his face black as an imp's, his breathing ragged, watching Stephen and Tom splash off down the centre of the stream, until the arching branches of the beech trees covered them from view.

There was a movement at his shoulder. Mr Cleever appeared, his face red, his suit stained with soot. Behind him, the field was an inferno.

"They're heading downstream," said Michael, as levelly as he could.

"Damnation," Mr Cleever said, coming to rest on a large branch. "We can't get at them while they're in the water. It saps the power."

"Will they head into the village, do you think?" Michael asked.

"Not by that tributary they won't. It goes to the Russet."

"Then we'll meet them there."

Mr Cleever studied Michael's face intently. "I know that you found it difficult," he said. "You've only had the power in you for two days. But the power demands certain things. You must leave your brother behind you, and act against him, or he will betray us to the outside world again and again. If you had struck straight at him and not at the crops at his side, he would not have been able to resist."

Michael lowered his head. "I know," he said.

"Vanessa also knows, and she would act against you in revenge. She is strong that way, and stupid that way too."

Michael looked at him, then tried to look aside, but Mr Cleever held him with his eyes.

"Lord knows, Michael, I would kill you myself for your cowardice, but I know how we must raise the dragon. And without you it cannot be done. You must be strong."

"We must head them off," Michael said.

They left the tree, the leaves of which were already smouldering from the sparks of the fire below, and headed off along the edge of the field, following the route of the stream as best they could. Before long, Vanessa Sawcroft joined them. She was no longer in the air, but trudging on foot, and her eyes when she looked at Michael were evil. But she said nothing, and they passed beyond her over the hedgerows into the next field. Then Paul Comfrey met them.

'They're still following the stream,' said his voice in Michael's head. 'But people are coming.'

'Where?' Mr Cleever's thought cut across him like a knife.

'Down all the farm tracks. And over the Moss Bridge. They're bringing things to fight the fire. The whole damn village is out.'

'Are they blocking our route?'

'The point is, George, we might be seen. We can't let that—'

'I know what the bloody point is, Paul. All right, we'll retreat back to the farm. Then we'll see. If they hole up in the Russet, we may yet be able to pin them down.'

Paul Comfrey's anxiety whined in Michael's head. 'But George, what if they go to the police?'

'They won't go to anyone, Paul. Animals are driven by fear into dark holes and lonely corners. And they are as isolated by all this as we are. What could they say to our simple Constable Vernon? – they wouldn't know where to start. No, their knowledge cuts them off, and they'll try to finish it alone. I felt their rage down there in the field. I saw their souls, hard as adamant and broiling with a single-minded purpose. We have things belonging to them, and that makes them dangerous.'

He glanced over at Michael, who was hovering above him, looking back towards the fire.

"But time is running out for them," Mr Cleever said aloud. "And we have our bargaining chips. If necessary, we shall not fail to use them."

He descended to the ground. There was shouting somewhere in the distance, and then the sirens began to sound above the burning of the fields.

The Russet at the hour of dawn was the colour of ink. The endless layers of trees were stained with shades of blue-black darkening into black, and the sharp chill of a summer's night lay on every leaf and trunk. Tom and Stephen, sitting against the mottled bark of a giant oak tree, had felt this chill for several hours, and even demolishing most of the chocolate and sandwiches from Stephen's singed rucksack had done little to keep it at bay.

Tom was sleeping, his head against the oak. Stephen had slept only fitfully, and was awake again. He faced the east, where a band of feeble yellow appeared beyond the most distant trees.

Mr Cleever had been right when he predicted that the fugitives would lie low and not seek outside help. The conflict they had entered now consumed them utterly, and events in the world beyond seemed meaningless to them. The elemental forces that sought to destroy them could not be countered by traditional means, by police or magistrate, doctor or journalist. They needed sanctuary, and the forest provided it: it had been as simple as that. They had made their way there, keeping to the stream, and had hidden themselves among the trees.

Half the night the fire had raged and the sirens sounded. Until well past three, the sky itself had seemed ablaze, and shouts and cries of exhausted farmers and villagers had echoed hoarsely on the air. The lanes around the Russet had been alive as never before, with cars, people, fire engines and an ambulance all negotiating the narrow bends.

Three fields had been gutted, and two others damaged. Tom and Stephen had witnessed the sorry struggle from the undergrowth close to the forest stream, watching always for signs of the enemy that followed them. Once they had seen what Tom swore was Mr Cleever's car, flashing past only metres away, but they had not seen its occupant, and it did not slow.

With the dying down of the fire, and the quietening of the night, they withdrew deeper into the forest fastness, and settled down beside the tree to rest.

But now Stephen was awake, his body riddled with chill, stiff as a corpse against the trunk. Something had woken him from deep sleep. What was it? On all sides the forest slumbered, cold and deep. The first birds had not yet woken.

'Stephen.'

Grimacing with the effort, he got to his feet and flexed his deadened limbs. He studied the emptiness around him on all sides, looking keenly into the dusk. Nothing, save the beating of his heart.

He walked a few steps, feeling his burns flare with pain as the circulation hit them. His feet made scuffling noises in the dirt. After a moment, Stephen looked back to where Tom slept on, a pale smudge against the dark tree. Then he turned and set off through the trees.

The daub of yellow in the eastern sky smeared itself wider and higher on the horizon. More and more of the forest became half-distinguishable, ancient trees leaning at odd angles in the blue-grey twilight. Stephen walked slowly, carefully, brushing his way past low branches heavy with leaves.

Then he was in a small clearing, where the ground was covered with ivy, and a huge dead tree, rotten with age, sprawled diagonally before him, across the centre of the space. Its crown was wedged somewhere in the foliage of the forest, its roots protruded like a mass of frozen serpents from the earth. Stephen halted. Sitting high above him, in a crook of trunk and branch, was Michael, still and watchful as an owl.

"Why not come down?" said Stephen, after several moments of silence. As it broke across the forest, his voice sounded curiously muffled.

"Where's Aubrey?" Michael said.

"Somewhere around."

"Don't play games with me. I can read your mind. But it doesn't matter. I would have known if he were close."

"Have you come to kill us, then?" Stephen asked.

"No – though I could, of course. I've come to warn you."

"Sure, like you warned us in the field."

"I didn't kill you then, and I won't now – as long as you're not stupid. If you want proof, chew on this: I sensed you almost an hour ago, when I entered the Russet. I knew you were asleep; I could have tracked you down while you slept, or brought Cleever to you. But did I?"

"I don't know," said Stephen.

"Don't be a fool!" Michael struck the bark with his fist and the whole tree shuddered. "Listen to me for once in your life! What I've got to say is for your own good."

"Well?" Stephen stood waiting, his body tense, his mind as calm as possible, trying to be receptive to any psychic disturbances in the dawn forest around him. He felt no threat, no presence, save the emanations of anger and anxiety beating strongly from his brother. 'He's probably telling the truth,' he thought. 'For what it's worth.'

On his branch, Michael shivered suddenly, violently. "God, it's cold," he said. "Listen, Stephen, my power is stronger than theirs, though they only half realise it. They couldn't have picked you up in the forest, and even now they don't know I've done it. Probably, they'll never know."

He broke off, as if doubting himself. The darkness of the sky behind him was shot through with a pale light.

Michael's shoulders were slightly hunched as he spoke again. "I've come to you, Stephen, even though you didn't believe me once, even though you locked me in. Because we were brothers. So listen: something will happen today, and you can do nothing about it. It's a good thing, at least for us, and if you had any sense you'd keep quiet, wait the day through, and see what happened. But you haven't, so I'll be blunt. They know you're in the Russet, and will be watching the fringes."

"Why don't they come in and get us?" asked Stephen.

"There's been too much activity stirred up by the fire. They need to calm things down now, not set the woods alight. And anyway, there are more important things for them to do. So they're content to watch the Russet for most of the day, and the roads to the village, and if they see you, they won't rely on me to do things for them."

"The Russet is a big place to watch."

"True. But the other thing, which I doubt you'd have forgotten, and which I know the dear Pope won't have forgotten, is this: we have Sarah too. If either you, or Tom Aubrey, makes any serious disturbance today, she's the one who'll feel the consequences. Do you understand, Stevie?"

"Michael, you're talking about Sarah! Your own sister! My sister! What the hell do you mean 'feel the consequences'? Are you going to murder her?" Nothing that had happened so far had hit Stephen harder than this.

"Calm down." Light was pooling into the glade faster and faster. Stephen saw his brother's pale skin, his smoke-stained clothes, the red flash of his eyes when the light hit them. "Of course I'm not going to murder her. No one is. She'll be fine." Michael spoke quicker than before, more uneasily. "I'm just telling you what Cleever said. He won't do anything to her; we're just keeping her quiet till today is over."

"What the hell are you doing, Michael? You're all mad."

"Mad!" Michael raised his head and laughed, a high-pitched shrillness in the thin dawn. From somewhere far away, a cockerel answered him; the noises blended, until the laughter in him drained away. He sat still again on the branch.

"It's to prevent madness that we're doing this, Stephen. You don't know the price we pay for the Four Gifts. If you'd accepted the dragon's breath, as you were meant to, you'd know a whole lot of things you don't. But that's your stupid fault."

"I know about the dragon, Michael."

"In part. But not nearly as much as you think you do. You've taken an outsider's point of view, Stephen, ignoring the fact that you are bonded to it, and us, body and soul."

Stephen shifted from one foot to another. "You're no longer like me, Michael. In the field . . . your soul was melting. Changing shape and colour. Becoming like the others'."

"And what do you think is happening to yours?" There was a slow grin of pleasure; the eyes flashed. "It's only a small change so far, but the horse is no longer what it was, Stevie-boy."

Suddenly he leapt from the tree, came down to the ground fast, but still slower than gravity would have taken him. He was close to Stephen now, holding out his hand.

"Don't you feel the aching in your eyes, Stephen? Don't you feel the deep desire to change, to use the sight? Yes, I know you do. And soon you will want to use the sight forever, to pick out the jewelled souls around you, gather them to you, toy with them, discard them, feel the fire course through you and soar above the world like a bird in flight."

Stephen made to speak, but his brother cut in on him. "Don't bother to deny it. Your gifts are weak and you are weak with it, but you're fated to this. So listen, keep your head down today, and you might still profit by tonight."

"What's happening tonight, Michael?"

The smile flashed back. For an instant, even without the sight, Stephen sensed the tapering snout, the array of teeth. He shuddered.

"A liberation for us all," said Michael.

With a wave of his hands he was back in the crook of the tree. The glade was streaming with early morning light, but Michael, leaning against the toppled trunk, seemed curiously insubstantial, still cast in shadow.

"I'd better go," he said. "They'll be up at eight."

"What about Sarah?" asked Stephen.

"All being well, we'll let her go tomorrow. Maybe even later tonight. She'll be OK."

Stephen sensed a tremor in his head, a flinch in the shared wavelength, and knew that somewhere deep down, Michael was unsure.

He said, "I don't see any reason why I should trust you."

Michael made a dismissive gesture. He was looking up at the sky, sniffing the air. "Because I've risked myself to come here. You don't think they would trust me enough to send me, do you? Not after the cock-up in the fields? Sawcroft and Pilate would rather I burn!"

"In that case, Michael, why stay?"

"Because their fear is rather a compliment. And because they need me. But most of all because I need them. And so do you, Stephen. We're in serious trouble, you and I. But I'll cure it for us, you'll see."

He rose suddenly, into the space at the centre of the glade. Stephen felt a rush of air as it was whipped upwards by the heat above him. There was a rustling. Michael passed in among the smooth, canyon-deep folds of leaves high above the earth.

His voice came calling back from nowhere: "Body and soul, Stephen, body and soul! You'll thank me for it – one day!"

The voice faded. Stephen was alone in the forest. All of a sudden, birds from every tree about him came screeching, wheeling, calling, erupting endlessly into the anxious sky.