The Greenstone Grail (27 page)

But they went with him, of course, while Annie rang the police on her mobile, hearing the shiver of panic as she spoke. ‘Please c-come. Come quickly.’

At the Bagots’ house the front door was open the way Hazel had left it. Michael went in, and they heard his voice raised, sharp and cold and unfamiliar – a scuffling sound – a thump – a fall. ‘Wait,’ Annie told Hazel, and rushed in. They were in the kitchen. There was a chair upset, and broken crockery on the floor – Lily had been washing up – and she was crouching by the wall with her hands trying to cover her face. Michael was struggling to his feet with blood running from his nose, but Dave Bagot hit him again before he could stand up, and again, calling him interfering, a busybody, and the usual foul names. Annie screamed to him to stop, but he paid no attention – she made a grab for him but he knocked her aside. Then she saw the saucepan on the draining board, the kind of heavy-duty saucepan which could also go in the oven, and she picked it up with both hands, and swung it, bringing it crashing down on his head. And then he crumpled to the floor – as much as his substantial figure could crumple – and Michael’s face was all blood, anger and amazement. Lily uncurled herself, forgetting her damaged face, and Annie stared down at what she had done, totally horrified.

‘Maybe I’ve killed him …’

‘No such luck,’ Michael said grimly, and suddenly he hugged her. ‘You star. You
star
.’

‘You’re bleeding on me,’ Annie said. ‘Let me clean you up.’

‘I’ll get something,’ Lily offered. Her face was bruised but not bloodied and she seemed to be pulling herself together.

‘I wasn’t much use,’ Michael said ruefully, ‘was I?’

‘You were wonderful,’ Annie whispered. ‘Should we try to revive him?’

‘No.’

Then Hazel came in with a neighbour, and about ten minutes later uniformed police arrived, and there were cups of tea, and offers of help, and Lily was adjured to call her lawyer about an injunction, and Dave Bagot came to himself with a severe headache to find he was being bundled into a police car and taken away. ‘Is he being arrested?’ Hazel asked one of the officers.

‘Not at the moment, unless your mother decides to press charges. But CID want to question him about the death of the old woman, and a night in the cells won’t hurt.’

‘It was brilliant,’ Hazel told Nathan the next evening. ‘I don’t care if he
is
my dad. It was totally brilliant. I think your mum is the bravest person in the world.’

Nathan grinned, bursting with suppressed pride. ‘I like her too.’

He added presently: ‘I wish I hadn’t missed it. I don’t suppose I could have done anything, but –’

‘You didn’t need to. Your mum did it.’

‘School’s fine, but boarding is a pain. With all this stuff happening, I ought to be here. Thank God the holidays start soon.’ As he was at a private school, his term finished well before Hazel’s.

‘The best part is the police think he might have pushed Great-grandma in the river.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It’s obvious,’ Hazel said. ‘That’s what they meant by “holding him for questioning”, or whatever they call it.’

‘But he didn’t do it – did he?’

‘Of course not. It was something she … called up, conjured … something not – not human. I wanted the police to come, I hoped they would find out things, but then I realized it was no good. I never thought of them arresting Dad. It’s really neat.’

‘But what if he goes to prison?’

‘I hope he does,’ Hazel said. There was a note of defiance in her voice, and Nathan didn’t push it any further.

Later, he asked his mother about it.

‘Do the police really think Hazel’s dad shoved Effie Carlow in the river?’

‘I don’t know,’ Annie said. ‘They haven’t told me.’

‘Do
you
think so?’

She sighed. At heart, she wished she did. ‘No. That would take planning – sneaking after her, catching her unawares, picking the right spot to do it. His violence is always impulsive, not planned. I hate the way he behaves, that goes without saying, but there’s a big difference between hitting someone in anger and killing someone in cold blood. I’m sure Effie’s death was just an accident.’

There was a pause, loaded with thoughts unspoken.

‘Well anyway,’ Nathan said, ‘you hit him with a saucepan. That was just – wow.’

Annie couldn’t help smiling at the glow in his eyes. After recent misunderstandings, and despite burgeoning problems, suddenly life felt good. ‘Michael was amazing,’ she said. ‘It was brave of him to tackle Dave Bagot. Dave’s much bigger than he is.’

‘Yes, but you did for him,’ Nathan said. She gave him a squeeze, and noticed how tall he was getting, taller than her now. ‘Have you seen Eric?’

‘Not lately, but we’re going to Thornyhill on Sunday. Uncle Barty says we’ve something important to discuss.’

That night before he went to bed, he climbed up to the skylight to look at the star. He hadn’t done it for a while, things had been so busy, and there had been such a lot to think about. Sometimes it seemed to him that his head was becoming so crowded soon his thoughts, maybe even his dreams, would start spilling out of his ears and eyes, taking shape around him. But then, perhaps they already had. There was Eric – and there was the star. It looked very ordinary and star-like, except that it didn’t twinkle: it was just a steady white pinpoint of radiance. What else had it seen? he wondered. The prisoner from the Darkwood, who had evidently escaped the gnomons, and was hanging around for some secret purpose … the death of Effie Carlow … Hazel knew something, he was certain, something she wasn’t telling him, but maybe, as with his inhibition in speaking of the grail, it was something she
couldn’t
tell him even if she wanted to. And then he let go of his thoughts, because they were too many for him, and gazed at the stars of his own world, arranged in their grand familiar design, spelling out stories and mysteries for soothsayers, luring astroscientists into the wilderness of space. There were nights when the vastness of the universe oppressed him, but this time it seemed to him that the constellations were like signposts, and the routes were well-known, somewhere in his spirit, and all of it – every nebula, every galaxy – was home. His stars, his place, his world. He gave the intruder one last hard look, and scrambled down from the Den and went to bed.

‘Magic,’ Bartlemy was saying after lunch, ‘is part of what we think of as the spiritual plane. You will see if you take a quick look at history that mankind, as a species, tends towards overenthusiasm. We latch on to one big idea and try to use it to cover everything. Whatever it is, it has to be the only truth, the explanation for every single detail, every niggle, every hiccup in reality. First it was religion, then science. Right now, we are trying to cut our world to fit the scientific laws. But there is a dimension of the spirit which exists apart from those laws – there are elementals everywhere, mostly in an incorporeal state, and they express themselves through what we call magic. Humans originally had no such powers, but power was given to them, or to some – never mind how, the theory is too long for now – and that power is known as the Gift. It has spread genetically, so these days there is probably a little of it in all of us. In its most extreme form, it can include intensive telepathic and telekinetic abilities, spellbinding, separation of spirit from body, influence over or control of other minds. If developed, it can lead to longevity, though beyond the normal lifespan this is usually accompanied by sterility. If over-used, it will corrupt the user, and turn to madness. But owing to our present penchant for science, extreme magic is not widely used here. Perhaps that is fortunate.’

‘But it is in Eric’s world,’ Nathan said.

‘Evidently. Such power may be native to humans there. What is clear is that so much – er – force has been generated that it is, so to speak, floating around loose, like electric storms: hence the contamination. Uncontrolled magic is very dangerous, in any world. I’m not sure how it could be poisoned in the way Eric describes, possibly by the misuse of an exceptionally potent spell. The people there are plainly so imbued with power that they habitually live for thousands
of years and no longer have children. Someone like Eric uses his power
only
to extend his life: he has nothing left for anything else. In this world, with no extraneous magic to draw on, that ability may wane. I have explained to him that he can expect to age here.’

‘Is no matter,’ Eric said. ‘I have thought much on this, read much poetry. Life is maybe more beautiful, if it does not reach end of page.’

Annie met his eyes as he spoke, and found them very bright, not knowing that brightness was mirrored in her own.

‘How do you know all this?’ Nathan asked. ‘Do you – have you –’

‘I have the Gift in a small way. I rarely use it. I have seen what it can do to people. I only ever wanted to heal – heal the body to heal the spirit – and cook beautiful food. The right food, too, is good for the soul, or so I believe.’

‘Is fine idea,’ Eric said, full of lunch. There was general agreement.

‘How – how old are you?’ Nathan inquired tentatively, studying his friend with new perception.

‘Dear me, don’t you know that is not a polite question? Old enough. I have seen many things, both real and unreal. But this is the first time I have had anything to do with matters beyond this entire universe. I am working on theory here; I have no personal experience. This time, Nathan, you are the expert.’

‘I don’t want to be,’ Nathan said, with a shiver.

‘From what Eric tells me, the Grimthorn Grail is an artefact from his world, which seems to have been placed here for a purpose, possibly safekeeping. I would like Eric to examine the cup before we are certain, but he seems to be very positive about it.’ Eric assented vigorously. ‘I think – this may tie in with Nathan’s dream-journeys, but I have no idea why.’

‘Do you have these dreams all the time?’ Annie asked her son, a little shyly.

‘No. I don’t know. I might forget. I’ve been worrying …’ He related the incident that week, and his fears about his hold on this reality. It did nothing to ease his mind when Bartlemy listened in silence, his normally comfortable face very serious.

‘What about sleeping pills?’ Annie suggested. ‘Might they prevent the dreams?’

‘I wondered about that,’ Nathan said.

‘Not a good idea. We don’t know how long this problem will last, and Nathan needs to be in control. I can only say that I believe in due course he will
learn
what to do. We must have faith in whatever fates there may be to take care of him. However, there are certain precautions that
can
be taken.’ He turned to Nathan. ‘There is a preparation of herbs which must be kept in the bedroom – don’t worry, the aroma is quite strong but not unpleasant – and an oil of the same which I will give you to anoint your hands and face before sleeping. The herbs have a powerful attraction for the spirit-world, and may help your spirit to find its way home, if it strays. We will also draw the Mark of Agares, the Rune of Finding, on your wall, and you must inscribe it in indelible ink on your arm or chest, renewing it whenever it begins to fade. But how effective such things will be across the barriers of space and time I do not know.’

‘You’re not very encouraging,’ Nathan said, hoping he sounded brave, and realizing he didn’t. He had been privately sure Bartlemy would have a solution.

‘Then take courage. Have faith. This ability has been given to you for a reason. I don’t think you will be allowed to get lost.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Nathan said doubtfully, but he felt a
very little reassured. Absently, he ruffled Hoover’s head. The dog was sitting at his feet, chin on his lap, large brown eyes raised to his face. ‘I wish I could take you with me. It would be good to have company.’

‘Perhaps you could dream him with you,’ Annie said idly.

‘That could be dangerous,’ Bartlemy said. ‘Don’t try. We don’t know the full scope of your power. You could take someone with you and be unable to bring them back. I’m fond of Hoover; we’ve been together a long time.’

Nathan thought of asking how long, but refrained.

‘What about the death of Effie Carlow?’ Annie inquired a little later. ‘Was it really an accident? People don’t often drown in the Glyde.’

‘You said you thought it
was
,’ Nathan reminded her.

She made no answer, remembering all too vividly the thing from the river which had turned into Rianna Sardou. She was still reluctant to tell Nathan about that, feeling in some obscure way that knowing would only increase his danger, and she had no intention of discussing with him the secret of his conception, though she knew Bartlemy wanted her to. But that was too deep a matter, too personal, a wound that could not be touched.

‘This woman who die,’ Eric asked, ‘she was bad person?’

‘Oh no,’ said Bartlemy. ‘Just a small-time witch with a little power, not enough to achieve anything, but enough perhaps to poke and pry, and get herself into trouble.’

‘Hazel said Effie told her she was two hundred years old,’ Nathan volunteered. ‘I thought she was a bit batty, but … did she have the Gift?’

‘In a way. She had certainly been around for some time. The villagers didn’t notice – she was clever enough for that – but I did. She didn’t trouble me. She was something of an anachronism, a country witch of a former century, living more
on her reputation than her deeds. She was clearly curious about Nathan, and maybe about the cup, but whether curiosity killed the cat or not we may never know.’