The Language of Bees (59 page)

“He’s as gallant as they come, and in any event, he doesn’t know my plans. Speaking of which, Holmes, what are our plans? I had intended to wait until Brothers came out and pull a gun on him. Would you prefer to storm the house?”

He shook his head. “The chances of breaking in without noise are slim, and I fear the child would have a knife at her throat before we reached the stairs.”

“So we wait until they come out?”

“We wait until the child is clear of danger.”

I took a breath. “Holmes, have you—”

“Yes,” he said. “I know. The question of Damian. Russell, I may be a fool, but I’m not blind. Despite the improbability of my son’s ignorance, I do not believe he is fully
au fait
with what Brothers intends. However, I was wrong about his mother from the moment I laid eyes on her, and I could be wrong about him.”

“I agree, that he does not know,” I said, to his surprise. “In fact, he may still not know of Yolanda’s death.” I explained my reasoning: the largely amiable relationship between the two men; Brothers’ odd disinclination to keep to one place.

“So why the devil does Damian remain with Brothers, if he is neither prisoner nor true believer?” Holmes fretted.

“Wouldn’t he stay with Brothers if he thought it was what his wife wanted? If Brothers has convinced him that they’re to meet Yolanda in this strange place, because she’s utterly determined to carry out a ritual?”

“My son is not blind, either.”

“No, but his wife was notoriously unpredictable. Remember that letter she wrote, telling Damian that she was in the country with friends? What if there was a second letter, that Brothers gave him when he got to the walled house, explaining that she was going off on one of her dotty adventures, and pleading with him to join her?”

Holmes shook his head unhappily. “I see no alternative to letting the play work itself out until the final act, and determine the villains then. All I ask is that you refrain from using your gun on my son unless you are absolutely certain.” He drained his tea and dropped the blanket, turning off the small stove. The light died with it.

I turned on the small torch and followed Holmes out of the storage room, bringing with me two of the dark grey woollen blankets. Outside of the shed, it was nearly as dark as it had been inside, but at least the stiff breeze had subsided a bit. It was the first time in what seemed like weeks that I had not felt battered by wind; it was a pleasure to stand in the lee of the building while our eyes adjusted to the darkness, listening to the whisper of loch-waves licking the shore.

Slowly, stars appeared overhead; the faintest trace of light still marked the western sky. Holmes, who possessed the night-vision of a cat, moved in the direction of the Stones, while I followed more slowly, going by memory of the terrain rather than sight. An instant before I stumbled against the rise of the ditch-works, Holmes murmured, “Watch your step.”

I grumbled and picked my way, and when we had negotiated the ditch itself, I said softly, “I suggest we wait on the far side of the ditch-work. That will be beyond the reach of any lights they may bring.”

“And also beyond reach of providing assistance. No, let us make use of this altar-stone. Even if they have a torch, it should be simple enough to keep away from its beam.”

“You want to sit under that massive slab of rock?” I said, my voice climbing.

“It’s been there forever, Russell, it’s not about to flatten us.”

“Holmes, a bunch of amateur archaeologists hoiked it up barely twenty years ago,” I protested.

“You don’t say? Well, it hasn’t fallen yet,” he noted serenely, and ducked underneath.

It would be an irony if I had survived numerous opportunities to plummet from the sky only to be squashed by a boulder. All in all, I thought as I inserted myself beneath the precarious dolmen, I’d
rather be harvesting honey in Sussex, where the greatest risk was being stung to death.

I draped us in the blankets, which would not only keep our muscles from freezing stiff but might help us blend into the shadows underneath the rocks. Hunched together, shoulder to shoulder, we waited for Ragnarok, the end of the world.

The Sacrifice of Setting Loose (2):
This is when the
Practitioner knows that the Work is ready: when his Focus
is absolute. When the Will of his community is behind him.
When the Tool is in his hand and his hand is in the Tool.
When the Place is understood, and arranged, and reached.
When the stars are aligned, and he can feel the quiver as
Time’s mechanism prepares to strike
.
Testimony, IV: 8

D
O YOU SUPPOSE THEY’LL WAIT UNTIL MIDNIGHT?”

I asked, after what seemed a long time.

“Testimony
refers to it as the ‘witching hour.’
”

“Can he actually believe that human sacrifice looses powers’?” I wondered.

“Russell, you are the expert in religion, I merely pursue crime.”

“This is neither. It’s madness.”

“Yes. But madness has method.”

We were gambling a life—possibly a child’s life—on the demands of that method. That the man—the men?—in the abandoned hotel would place ritual above the practical. That a man—or men—who
would dismiss as unimportant the fact that an eclipse did not actually touch the chosen site, would nonetheless preserve the details of the act as if it did. That an ordinary midnight would take precedence over the actual hour of fullest eclipse.

“One of us should go back to the hotel,” I told Holmes.

“They will be on guard there; here, they will be preoccupied.” The decisive words were belied by the tightness in his voice, but I did not argue, because he was right.

We huddled together, a terrible weight over our heads, and our doubts grew along with the cold.

“I have my pick-locks,” I said forty minutes later. “If we let ourselves in the front door—”

His body rather than words cut me off, as he went from tense to taut. I stared in the direction of the hotel, seeing nothing.

“Did you—” I began.

He hissed me to silence, and a moment later, I saw it too: a brief play of light defining the corner of the building, there and gone again.

Several minutes passed before it came back, but when it did, the light was steady and general, not the darting beam of a torch. Good: A lamp made it less likely they would spot us.

With a single movement, Holmes and I drew our revolvers from our pockets and held them to our chests beneath the concealing wool. The approaching group was at first a confusion of legs, dancing in and out of the light; then it resolved itself into two men.

They paused at the encircling ditch-works, and we heard voices, but not the words. When they moved again, it was around the Stones, following the raised earthen mound in a clockwise direction. We watched, shifting to keep well back from their side of the altar stone: One man, wearing dark trousers, held the lamp, and moved slightly to the fore; the other was dressed in corduroy trousers. They marched in a circle, and when they were back where they had started, walked down the earthen bridge towards us.

Snatches of conversation reached our ears:

“—really don’t think she’s at all (something).” Damian’s voice.

“—won’t be long.”

“(something something) morning to see a doctor.”

“Yolanda asked (something).”

Then they either cleared an obstruction or turned towards us, because Damian’s voice came loud and clear, and high like Holmes’ when he is angry or on edge. “You know, Hayden, I’ve never played the pompous husband rôle and told Yolanda that she couldn’t participate in your church, but this really has taken the cake. It’s two weeks now—I’ve a one-man show I should be working on, Estelle has a cold, and here we are out in the middle of a piss-freezing night because Yolanda has a bee in her bonnet. I think she must have gone mad, truly I—”

As his voice came clearer, I realised that he sounded more than a little drunk. By contrast, when Brothers—Hayden—interrupted, his voice, which I had last heard at the walled house, was calm, soothing, and reasonable.

“I know, Damian, I know. Your wife is a passionate woman, and when she gets her mind set on a thing, nothing will turn her.”

“But wha’ does she imagine, having me follow around in her wake for two weeks and then … follow around after her and then get up on a rock in the middle of the night… up on a rock to pray … oops.”

His last sound was accompanied by a jerk of the approaching lamp-light; around the stones I saw that Brothers was now supporting him, and I breathed in Holmes’ ear, “That’s drugs, not drink.”

I felt him nod.

The two men came to a halt at the edge of the stone, their shoes at arm’s reach from where we crouched. Light danced and receded as Brothers put the lamp on top of the stone, then took a step back.

“Get up on top, Damian,” he said.

“It’s bloody cold. Juss say your prayers and less go.”

If Brothers had maintained his reasonable attitude, he might well have cajoled Damian into obedience, but the effort of control was too much, and his voice went tight and hard. “Get up, Damian,” he ordered the younger man and took another step back. “Now.”

“What the bloody hell—?” Damian staggered a couple of steps before he caught himself, leaving Brothers on a direct line between us and him. It was too dangerous to risk our guns; the night was too silent to permit our movement.

“Sorry old man,” Brothers said. “I don’t wish to use this on you, but it’s important, really it is. I just need you to get up on the rock, now.”

Damian faced him for several seconds, swaying, then answered. “Oh, very well,” he grumbled, sounding eerily like his father.

He wove his way to the stone: It took him three tries to get his body onto it. His boots swung free for a moment, then his legs followed him up. For the first time we now had a clear view of Brothers, while we remained hidden in shadow. However, neither Holmes nor I doubted that the gun in his hand rested steady on Damian.

Holmes’ hand was on my arm, gripping hard, warning me against premature movement. We had both stopped breathing as we waited for Brothers to put away the gun and take out his Tool, the sacrificial knife that had “moved” his hand too many times.

“That’s good, Damian. Yolanda would be happy.”

His response was a wordless mutter, trailing off to nothing.

“Can you stretch out on your back?” Brothers asked, drawing again on the voice of reason. “Damian? Stretch out, please. Damian!”

We heard the sound of clothing against stone, but no words.

Still, Brothers was cautious. When he approached, he kept the gun on Damian until he was standing at the edge of the stone. Holmes’ hand stayed steady on me, although he too had to be doubting himself, asking if Brothers wouldn’t choose the sure way over the ritual purity of the knife. We hunched like wound springs, eyes fastened on the coat-tails that would move when Brothers put away his gun and reached for his knife-One forgot that Damian Adler was a soldier. I know I did, and certainly Brothers had. But beneath the sedative, hidden under the persona of a long-haired Bohemian painter, waited a soldier’s instinct for survival. That Damian Adler now acted, using the only weapon available to him: the lamp.

Our first warning was a simultaneous shout and gunshot, followed in an instant by a crisp sound of breaking glass. A stream of fire poured itself down the supporting stones and across the ground.

Holmes launched himself through the edge of the flames at Brothers’ legs, but the blanket he threw back tangled across my feet. It cost me two seconds to fight clear of the encumbering wool, by which time the flame had spread into a crackling sheet the length of the altar stone. I shoved away from the igniting paraffin, cracking my head painfully on stone as I scrambled to my feet on the opposite side of the altar.

My eyes were met by a nightmare scene worthy of Hieronymus Bosch. A confusion of leaping flames and shadows was punctuated by yells and curses, then another shot, but when my eyes cleared from the blow, they were drawn to the fire that licked down the top of the stone towards the man who lay there.