Triskellion (5 page)

Tom Hatcham threw a glance at Commodore Wing. The commodore nodded back. Hatcham stepped from behind the bar and strode to the door, squaring up to the boy, who did not move a muscle.

“Go. Away.” Hatcham put his face close to the boy’s, blinking away the splashes of rain that flew into his eyes through the open door. The boy did not flinch, nor give any sign he had heard Hatcham’s words. Seeing that he was having no effect, the landlord took the handle of the heavy door and shut it in the visitor’s face.

“Nicely done, Tom,” one of the domino players said, breaking the silence.

Another nodded. “Enough undesirables for one day.”

At the fruit machine Gary Bacon sniggered into his lager.

Hatcham watched for a moment as the boy’s distorted dark shape – still visible through the frosted glass in the pub door – drifted slowly away, and then, in the blink of an eye, seemed to disappear.

As if obeying the commanding tone of Celia Root, the sky was growing darker by the second and, from their bedroom, the twins listened to the thunder getting louder, closer, shaking the walls of the cottage round them.

Rachel got up and walked across to the window. Sheet lightning fluttered in the distance against the sky and, below
her in the garden, the foxgloves danced as they caught the heavy drops of rain on their petals. Once again, Rachel heard the low hum of bees buzzing. She watched as the flowers appeared to come to life and smiled as, one by one, an army of insects emerged from the trumpets of the foxgloves, their back legs heavy with pollen, and flew, snaking off against the dark sky to their hive.

“It’s not even eight o’clock, and it’s black as night out there,” Rachel said. “Adam…”

She got no more than a groan from her brother, who was flat out on one of the twin beds, half asleep already.

Thunder erupted above her head and she winced at the sound of it, smelling the electricity all around and feeling the hairs stand up along her arms. A few seconds later, lightning broke across the moorland beyond the garden, and in its bright snapshot she saw a familiar circular shape, and something moving around in it.

She moved close to the window, pressed her face to the glass, and waited.

It was as though the next flash lasted five or ten seconds, as this time she saw the shape clearly. It was the same shape she and Adam had seen everywhere that day: a symbol of three intersecting crescents forming a continuous, pointed clover leaf, bounded by a large circle. But this time it was huge and cut out from the chalk on the land itself; white against the scrubby grey of the moor.

The air was filled with the hiss of static, and the rain
drumming on the thatch, and the low drone of bees rumbling on beneath them.

Another flash, and another, like bulbs exploding.

Rachel called to her brother again but did not look away from the window.

It was as though she was looking down on the chalk carving through a tunnel of light. The circle must have been a half a mile away, perhaps more, but she could clearly make out the figure that marched around inside. She narrowed her eyes, desperate to see more, and stared, unblinking, until she was sure about exactly what she was seeing.

There was a boy inside the chalk circle.

From the size of the moving figure, Rachel was able to estimate that the circle was maybe sixty feet across. She watched the boy trudge round and round, head down through the rain, tracing out the intersecting lines, pacing faster and faster, almost automatically.

As though he were moving in spite of himself.

“Adam, you need to come and see this.”

There was no reply from the bed and Rachel continued to watch, almost as if she knew what was coming next, as the boy turned, walked deliberately to the centre of the circle and looked up.

She knew that he was looking at her. That somehow he could see her in her tiny window. She could hear the thump of her own heart taking its place in the complex rhythm of the rain and the bees, and she watched through the blackness as
the boy raised an arm and pointed up at her.

Suddenly, the window cracked, loud as a gunshot, and a jagged line crept down the glass from top to bottom.

Rachel stepped back. Wanting to scream, wanting to run. Unable to tear her eyes away from the boy.

Staring out at him through the thickening curtain of rain.

Breathless…

T
hrough the mist, the outlines of two figures appear like ghosts. One shape is male, one female. They walk towards each other, their paths crossing, then diverging, walking away as if pacing out a slow, elaborate folk dance. Then, as one, they turn again and stand face to face. They move automatically and, as the mist disperses and the figures become solid beings, it becomes clear that they are tracing out a pattern, cut out of the soil at their feet
.

The woman is wearing a flowing, embroidered gown. Her hair is long and braided, concealing her face as she swings her head from side to side, as if in a trance. The man wears something highly polished, armour perhaps, that catches the pale yellow sunlight and glows through the mist. His face is hidden by the nose section of the pointed helmet he wears, and, embossed on the breastplate of his armour is the same, three-bladed symbol that they pace out below their feet
.

The man moves towards the woman, slowly, deliberately
.

Their hands reach out for each other and they touch…

*  *  *

Rachel blinked away the vision and found herself sitting on the edge of the bed, a yellow shaft of sunlight streaming between the curtains and on to the misaligned, pink roses of the wallpaper opposite.

Her brother was still fast asleep, a twist of dark hair only just visible on the pillow, sticking out from under thick blankets. Rachel stood up and went to the window, where a stray bee from the garden below walked lazily up and down the length of the window frame, looking for an exit that didn’t exist. Rachel lifted up the latch and pushed open the window. The bee let out an angry-sounding buzz, before finding the cool air and tumbling out into the wet garden below.

Rachel knelt down, stuck her head out of the window and breathed in the clear, morning air. Beyond, she could see the chalk circle, exactly as the night before, but now brighter and more defined, the grass surrounding it greener in the rising sun. Rachel considered her dream. Where it had come from was clear enough. But what did it mean?

Who were the two strange figures? A knight and a maiden…?

Rachel’s thoughts were interrupted by her grandmother’s shrill voice from the bottom of the stairs.

“Rachel! Adam…”

Rachel pulled herself back into the room, catching the back of her head on the window frame. She yelped in pain, waking her brother.

Adam groaned and pulled the blankets over his head.

Rachel rubbed her head and called back weakly, “Coming, Gran…”

Adam had been particularly reluctant to get out of bed, still claiming jet lag and a sore nose from the day before. It was understandable, but, despite her own tiredness and a slight bump on the back of her head, Rachel felt strangely energized. Excited, even.

Granny Root seemed a little more at ease, too. It was a lovely morning and the old lady heartily encouraged them to eat a mountain of toast and several bowls of lumpy porridge. Maybe the whole storm thing had affected everyone’s mood the day before, Rachel thought. Atmospheric pressure, or something.

Half an hour later, Rachel and Adam stood at the end of the garden behind the house, looking across the moor at the chalk circle.

“I can’t believe it’s that old.”

Adam’s interest in the place had suddenly perked up over breakfast, when their grandmother explained to them about the chalk circle. The three-bladed shape within the outer circle gave the village its name: Triskellion. There were many theories as to its significance, but most agreed that it was a Celtic symbol, formed by three, intersecting circles, and was anything up to three thousand years old.

“Nothing’s three thousand years old.” Adam shook his
head in disbelief as he and Rachel waded across the dewy grass, looking at the carved shape in the distance. A high breeze sent the shadows of clouds racing across the moor and over the Triskellion itself, making the landscape appear to move; fluid somehow, more alive.

The circle, when they finally got there, was far less impressive than it had been from a distance. For five minutes Adam traced out the chalky grooves while Rachel looked in vain for the footprints of the boy she had seen the night before.

“I mean, it’s so, like … big,” Adam said.

Rachel looked back towards the village. “Maybe so you can see it from a long way away.”

“That’s just it though,” Adam said. “How did they know what they were cutting out without seeing it from above?”

Rachel looked down on the curve of chalk at her feet, and conceded that her brother, with his customary, pedantic logic, had a very good point.

The vast open space of the moor was a novelty for Rachel and Adam, accustomed as they were to the skyscraper-hemmed streets of their native city. In the same way that looking up at tall buildings can make some people dizzy, the wide space and expanse of sky suddenly began to make Rachel feel unsteady on her feet. Unsteady, until Adam shoved her playfully, and ran. Rachel recovered herself and laughed, chasing her brother over the spongy moss of the moor, which gave extra spring to her footsteps.

They ran and ran and then stopped, out of breath; as they panted, they saw the village far behind them. After their experiences the day before, they were happy enough to head away from the village, and continued on towards the regimented line of pine trees that bounded the eastern border of the moor.

A green sign at the edge of the forest declared that this was Waverley Woods, part of the Waverley Hall estate, though there was nothing to suggest that it was either private or out of bounds. Rachel and Adam peered into the forest, which was dense with the fingers of tall pines. To one side lay a huge stack of logs where the fast-growing trees had been cut for timber. A straight, narrow track had been beaten between the rows of trees and Rachel and Adam stepped into the wood, drawn in by the resinous scent of the pine needles that covered the forest floor, and a welcoming chorus of birdsong.

“I love that smell.” Rachel breathed deeply, scrunching a handful of the green needles in her fist. The air was instantly cooler in the shade of the forest. Sunshine swam through the branches, but under the trees it was as dark as twilight. Adam marched ahead down the track, swishing at the pine needles on the ground with a long stick.

They came to a large, circular clearing, where more trees had been recently felled and the woods seemed suddenly to stop. On the other side of the clearing the foliage was more established: older and slower-growing. Lush, green ferns
sprouted at the foot of gnarled, thick trees, with leafy branches that reached out to the clear blue sky above.

“That’s more like it,” Adam shouted back at his sister, leaping across the clearing. “Something I can climb.”

“Be careful,” Rachel called after him, realizing as she did so that her words would have no effect. Adam disappeared into the old part of the wood and Rachel followed.

Here, the wood was even darker than it had been beneath the pines, and cooler. It was almost chilly. Rachel walked between the irregular trees for a few minutes, following a rough path between the ferns, straining to look upward for signs of her brother. She guessed that he was hiding from her, as usual.

Suddenly, the birdsong stopped as though at some prearranged signal, and the wood fell very quiet.

Rachel felt alone.

“Adam…?” She cupped a hand to her mouth. Nothing. “Aad-aam?”

Rachel tentatively moved on a few steps. She could smell smoke. The caw of a bird high above her made the hairs on her neck prickle. “Adam, this is stupid.” Rachel heard the crack of a branch and a small, thick stick landed a few centimetres behind her, narrowly missing her head as it whistled past.

Rachel looked up and saw her brother high above her, perched on a branch, pressing his finger urgently to his lips. He steadied himself and gesticulated at her with his other
hand to come up and join him. Rachel looked up at the tree, then round its base for a foothold. She wasn’t much of a climber; that was Adam’s department. Rachel was about to admit defeat, when a rope, knotted at regular intervals, was lowered down in front of her eyes by her brother. Rachel grasped it firmly and began to climb.

Several metres up, Adam’s firm hand grabbed Rachel’s arm and pulled her up to the thick branch on which he was balancing. Still urging Rachel not to speak, Adam spoke in a hoarse whisper, “Check this out…” He pointed to where the rope joined the trunk at the junction of the next branch. Another knot of ropes was lashed to the trunk and snaked away between the leaves, as did two further ropes, like the rigging of a sailing ship. The lower formed a kind of tightrope and the two higher ones were handrails. Pushing aside some branches and flat, green leaves, Rachel could see that Adam had discovered an aerial rope bridge between the trees. A complex network of ropes ran from tree to tree, with their final destination concealed, as they disappeared into thick, green foliage.