Buried Fire (5 page)

"How are you, Mike?" Stephen stood at the end of the bed, holding a tray. "I've brought orange juice, water and sweet weak tea. A choice fit for a king."

Michael was sitting up in bed, plumped up against pillows, with a dressing-gown draped over his shoulders. Sarah had pulled open the curtain furthest from the invalid, and he sat in the dark half of the room. He waved a hand regally.

"I might try the water. Not the juice. My tongue's raw." His voice was thick and clotted, and when he stuck his tongue out at his brother it was an angry red, and scored here and there with thin white sores.

"Your tongue is foul."

"Thanks. Think I'll ever kiss a girl again?"

"Again?"

Michael gingerly took a sip of water. Stephen passed to the window and looked out. Sarah was walking down the garden in bare feet, carrying peelings to the compost heap. There were coils of mist hanging in the shaded meadows beyond the garden, and behind the cold hump of the Wirrim, the early sun burnished the sky. Another hot one.

"I'm pleased to see you can open your eyes this morning—" Stephen said. Sarah was tapping the box empty over the compost heap, stretching out awkwardly with one foot raised to balance her. "—without screaming like a bloody pig." He felt his anger beat hot against the pane.

"Stephen—"

"That was quite a performance you put on last night. You managed to screw us all up before you went to bed. Well, I can tell you pal, that after you were tucked up nice and cosy, Sarah cried for – oh just a couple of hours, and had a blazing row with Tom, over the little matter of whether or not you habitually took drugs."

"Stephen, you know that's crap—"

"Do I? Last night I was ready to kill Tom for his suspicious little puritan mind. But this morning – well, sorry mate, but I'm not so sure. Did you see Sarah's face this morning when she came in to see you? Or did you not dare open your eyes?"

"I saw it."

"Did you? Well so did I. And I'll tell you what I read there, shall I? For all that she fought your corner, and sent Tom away with a flea in his ear – in the end, Michael, she's being worn down by sheer lack of alternatives. And this morning I feel the same way."

He had turned now, and was facing his brother. Michael's face was hidden by shadow.

"So tell me," said Stephen, "what else is there to think?"

There was a long silence. A door slammed somewhere below. Michael was motionless, propped up in the bed. From along the landing corridor came footsteps. The door opened, and Sarah looked in, her face lined and heavy. She had put her shoes on, and was carrying her work bag.

"How are you, Michael?" she asked, and her voice was toneless.

"I'm fine. Really, I'm fine." He leaned forward urgently. "Sarah, I'm sorry about last night. I know it's strange and I don't understand it myself; but I swear to you I haven't . . . taken anything. I swear it. Stephen told me you stood up for me. Thanks."

Sarah looked at him for a moment. Then she turned to Stephen, who was standing mute against the window.

"I'm going to Stanbridge. The number's on the table. I've several tours to make, so I may not be back till six. Dr Pandit's number's there as well. Will you need anything else?"

"No. That's great," said Stephen. "Thanks."

"Right." Sarah went out. They heard her footsteps recede, and presently the front door close. The car started and pulled out into the lane, its busy noise quickly fading into the silence. Michael had slumped back on the pillow. Stephen was staring at an un-preposessing bit of wardrobe. Somewhere in the centre of the room, their gazes bisected each other and went on.

"Open the other curtain, please," said Michael.

The room was filled with light. Michael flinched, but he didn't move. His face was clear again, the redness had faded, and he looked well.

"I'll tell you what happened," he said, looking at his brother for the first time. "But you must promise not to tell anybody."

Stephen shrugged. "All right. But I'm not the only one you're going to have to convince."

"Maybe. The point is though, something strange has happened to me, and you're the only one I can trust to tell. I have to be able to trust you."

Stephen slapped his hands against the edge of the windowsill. "I've said yes, haven't I? Get on with it."

"OK." Michael breathed out hard. "The first thing is, it was like I said. I went up on the Wirrim to read. I didn't go anywhere else. I just climbed up the Burrway to the top, walked along till I got to the Pit and sat down there. Then I read the book for an hour or so until I got to the bit with the sauna."

"What does that prove?" Stephen was aware that his hostility was increasing all the time that Michael was speaking. It did so because he did not expect the truth, and that pained him and fuelled his anger.

"Just listen. I read up to there, and then since you said that was the only bit worth reading, I lost interest, and felt a bit sleepy. So I settled back for a nap."

"In the sun?"

"Yes, that's why I thought I had sunstroke when I woke up."

"The doctor said—"

"I know what the doctor said. I've got ears, haven't I? I know it wasn't sunstroke now, but at the time, it was the only obvious thing. Something happened to me while I was asleep, Stephen."

"What?"

"I don't know. But I can tell you the result. Something's happened to my eyesight. There's nothing else wrong with me, and even my eyes feel fine this morning, but that's where the change is. The only difference is that I can control it this morning."

"Michael, you're not making any more sense than you were last night. What happened to your eyes?"

"Looking at you now, like this, there's no problem. Nothing wrong. But if I do this—" He paused. "God, Stephen, you should see yourself. You look beautiful, out of this world."

"Right, that's it." Stephen straightened himself. "I'm going to beat a little sense into you, you drugged-up little rat."

"And if I do this," Michael continued, uncomprehending, "you're back to normal again. Your ordinary self. It's wonderful." And Stephen, in his uneasiness and disgust, saw that tears were running down his brother's smiling cheeks. He cursed and dropped into the bedroom chair.

"Tell me," said Michael, "was there any change in me just then?"

"No, you seemed quite continuously mad," replied Stephen flatly.

"What about last night, when you were close to me? When I screamed."

"Your face contorted, as faces do when they're barking."

"What about my eyes? That's what I'm interested in." Michael was sitting on the end of his bed now, leaning forward earnestly, with an air of scientific interest. Stephen frowned. He seemed reluctant to answer.

"Come on – you did see something. What was it?"

Stephen breathed out slowly. "Yes," he said at last. "I did see something." He paused. "I thought – and don't think I'm in any way supporting you – I thought I saw a movement in your eyes. In the centre. Just before you flipped."

"Yes!" Michael clapped his hands. "That's what I was after. When I woke up, I couldn't open my eyes for a while. Later, I found I was seeing things in a different way. Everything was washed out, like it was painted in red watercolours. There were red flecks all over the sky, the rocks, everywhere. And it was all 2-D – I'd lost the perspective somehow.

"But that was just the start of it. I'll tell you what really freaked me, and why I couldn't bear to open my eyes. It was the rabbit, and the couple, and then you."

Stephen hid his head in his hands.

"It's like you're not solid, as if all living things are ghosts. I sort of see through you, except for where your head should be, and that – that doesn't look like you at all."

His brother made an unintelligible sound. Michael lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

"It's as if your head has become a jewel, a precious stone carved in a shape unique to you. I've only seen a few of you so far, but I'll bet everyone is different. Your head is – can you guess? Well, it's like a horse's. A horse's head made of gemstones. They move all the time, spiralling full of colour as you breathe. A horse! Who would have guessed that? But it makes sense, as I realised when I thought about it last night. It's got your wildness there, and your stubbornness too. I'd know I could depend on you, even if you weren't my brother, just by looking at it. It's weird. It is you, even though it doesn't look like you. Sarah's one is different. She's a dog of some kind. I'm not good with breeds, but when you think about it, she has got all the nervy faithfulness of one of those red setter things, hasn't she? So it reflects a kind of truth, though it startled me at first. I'd love to have seen the Pope's face too, but I hadn't cracked it then.

"It was only this morning that I've been able to control it. Yesterday my eyes kept changing automatically; that's why I thought I was mad. But now, it's just like when you hold your finger right up to your face, so it all goes blurred, and then you suddenly focus on it. It pops into view. Like magic. And Stephen, you can't know how beautiful it is."

Stephen was resting his chin on his hands. After a pause he said, "I wasn't around in the Sixties; and I've never been to San Francisco, but you sound to me like you've missed your time by thirty years."

"You fool!" Michael sprang to his feet, stood in his pyjamas on his bed and kicked the duvet savagely towards his brother. "Do you think I don't know how ridiculous I sound? I ought to have known better than to try and tell you, you stubborn horse-head, but I know something that'll convince you all right. What is it we've never sworn by?"

"No." Stephen looked up, his face blanched. "You wouldn't. Not for this crap."

"Maybe now you'll give me the benefit of the doubt. I swear—"

"Don't you bloody dare!" But Michael was already spitting the words out through gritted teeth.

"I swear. On the graves of our parents I swear that all I've said is true."

"You little shit!" Stephen launched himself towards his brother. Michael leapt back off the bed on the other side, and pointed his finger towards him like a dagger to the face.

"That's how serious I am!" he shouted.

"My God." Stephen's hands fell to his sides. "If you're lying . . ."

"You know I'm not," said Michael. "And if you want to see where it happened, I'll take you to the place."

It was twelve o'clock by the time Mrs Troughton had been convinced of the theft. Despite Tom's insistence that the churchyard desecrators had dug at the precise edge of the trench where the missing arm of the cross would have been, she was resolved to check this for herself. To this end, Mr Purdew had been summoned, his cigarette drooping more dejectedly than ever, and the earth around the roots of the suffering yew tree had been scraped clear for a further foot in every direction. Nothing was found, and, at the warden's behest, the roots were covered over again. There followed a dismal half hour in which Tom was sandwiched between police constable and archaeologist, discussing the crime from every possible angle. Mrs Troughton, who was in a wild state of fury, took immediate exception to Tom's comment that such a theft was inexplicable.

"You do realise," she said, glaring through glasses in Tom's direction, "that this cross is utterly unique. It is clearly of very early Christian date, and may represent a fusion of Saxon and Celtic art unlike anything found before. Who knows, vicar – your little church may stand on a truly ancient site! For even a fraction of the cross to be stolen is an absolute tragedy, and may stop us from decyphering the primitive symbolism on its carvings!"

"There's no firm proof that the missing piece was ever down there," Tom said. "But even if it was, the bulk of the cross has not been touched, and will still be a monument to the early Church. I just don't understand why anyone should try to steal the one arm. Why not take the rest as well?"

"It was too heavy," said PC Vernon, and wrote this down in his book.

"Obviously," said Mrs Troughton.

"But why bother scrabbling round in the dirt in the middle of the night just to pinch a piece of stone, which must itself have been too heavy for anyone to lift without help?"

"Maybe," said PC Vernon, "they're going to ransom it."

Tom didn't know quite how to answer this, though in fact he thought it wasn't such a stupid idea. It was better than any of his own, which were laced with confusion. His head was awhirl with disordered objections to the events of the morning. Even if a ransom was farfetched, there was no other conceivable explanation for the theft, except plain malice. But malice would have led to vandalism, and the rest of the cross had not been touched. And what was all the scorching in the trench? You didn't use a welding torch to shift earth. Tom gave up. It made no sense.

By the time Mrs Troughton had made an ill-tempered departure, Tom was unable to string a coherent thought together. His mood was not improved by the arrival of Mrs Gabriel in his office to complain about the further desecration.

"It's your example they're following," she said, "and thank you no I won't sit down. You started this, vicar, and who knows if there isn't worse to come. Already they've breached the church!"

Tom sighed; to his ears came the accusing sound of Mr Purdew's workmen, mending the door.

"To move the cross!" Mrs Gabriel shook her head at the thought. "Maybe it was there for a reason, did you think of that?"

"Mrs Gabriel, you do not go round burying crosses six feet underground for a reason. And even if someone did, it's been there for hundreds of years and it's time it was found and restored. The people of this day and age would like to see it and enjoy it. They can get spiritual comfort from its antiquity."

"For some people the splitting of the cross would give greater comfort," said Mrs Gabriel. Tom frowned with bewilderment.

"What do you mean? The cross was already split," he said.

"Maybe, but now it's split and separated," said Mrs Gabriel, with firm conviction. Tom felt he was missing something.

"I know it is a great shame, and was a wicked act to steal this relic," he said, "but Mrs Gabriel, we still have most of the cross, and can raise it in the churchyard. It won't be moved, I assure you."

"That will do no good," she said, and turned to the door. Tom straightened himself and addressed her back with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Mrs Gabriel," he said, "is there something that I don't know? Which you could tell me?"

Her voice came from beyond the door. "What do any of us know about this Church, or its history? Least of all you, young man."

The door shut. Twenty minutes later, Tom was walking through the doorway of Fordrace library.

Vanessa Sawcroft rewarded Tom with a wide smile of welcome as he cautiously approached her desk, wondering not for the first time how she managed to wear her grey twill suit in the throes of midsummer. The library windows were open, but the air was sluggish and smelt of lilac and leather. Ms Sawcroft, a spare, neat woman in her fifties, wore her shirt done up to the neck and her hair in a crisp grey bob, which shimmered slightly as she moved. She fixed Tom with an efficient eye.

"Hallo," said Tom. "I was wondering—"

"You look awfully tired, Reverend," she said.

"Call me Tom," said Tom. "Yes, I am rather. We've had some trouble up at St Wyndham's. There may have been a theft."

"I'm sorry to hear it. Have you come to drown your sorrows in literature?"

"Something like that. I'm after your section on local history."

"Over there on the third shelf. Anything in particular?"

"Church history, local legends, that sort of thing."

"It's all there."

Tom took himself to the shelf indicated, which was pleasantly sited by a high window in a remote corner. A wicker chair with a green cushioned seat awaited him. Scanning the shelves, he plucked from them a pamphlet published by the Fordrace Women's Institute, entitled 'Our Church and its People', and two glossy books about the parish churches of Hereford and Worcester, which would include St Wyndham's.

Neither of the glossy books told him anything he didn't know. His church was Norman, built in the 11th century, quite possibly on a Saxon site. It was named after a minor saint whose exploits were obscure, and had maintained its backwater feel throughout the centuries. It had an attractive tower, a notable mahogany pulpit (which had been brought to the church from Palestine in the 14th century by a benefactor knight), a walled-up prayer room above the chancel and lots of rural peace and quiet. Even this information was out of date, thought Tom. The prayer room had been opened and made safe several years ago, and as for peace and quiet, there was little of that about at St Wyndham's this morning.

The pamphlet was mainly a dreary catalogue of Rotary Clubs, Benevolent Funds and coffee mornings, all of which Tom knew only too well. He flicked his way impatiently from page to page until, under a passage entitled 'Our Rich Heritage', a short paragraph caught his eye.

Although our village's grand tradition of Christian worship has marched forward triumphantly through the centuries, there are strong folk traditions in our area, which have persisted despite the best efforts of our enlightened ministers to discourage them. Today they are mostly quaint superstitions which harm nobody, but this was not always the case. Fordrace was once a local centre of one of the witch scares which so troubled our ancestors, and exorcism in the old days was common.

And that was all. 'Strong folk traditions . . .' Tom frowned. What exactly was he looking for? It was difficult to know. If Mrs Troughton was correct, his church was possibly of great historic significance, and he should certainly know more about its background than he did. Fine. But then there was Mrs Gabriel. A silly old woman for sure, but she evidently attached more significance to the cross than the purely archaeological, and in the light of the theft – that inexplicable theft – it suddenly seemed a very good idea to try and scratch the surface of these 'quaint superstitions', whatever they might be.

At the back of the pamphlet was a short bibliography, which included the following entry:

For some details of local lore, see 'Legends of Fordrace and the Wirrim' (1894) by Harold Limmins, a local teacher and scholar. Published a hundred years ago, this remains the only work to address this subject in any detail.

That was more like it. Tom looked at his watch. He would ring Sarah soon to check on the boy. But first . . . He got up from the wicker chair and began scanning the rows hungrily. From an adjacent row, Ms Sawcroft, laden high with books, smiled over at him.

"Having any luck, Tom?" she asked.

"I'm homing in," he replied, and went on searching.