Ruth's room, where they had bound and gagged Callow, was reassuringly silent as they passed. No one else was up at that time so they ventured hesitantly to the kitchen for breakfast. Aware of the shortage of food, they toasted a couple of slices of homemade bread each to take the edge off their hunger. While they ate around a heavily scarred wooden table, Church surveyed the jars of tea and coffee on the shelves.
"I wonder what's happening in the rest of the world," he mused.
"I thought about this." Ruth eyed the butter, but resisted the urge. "We get the analogues of Celtic gods because it's part of our heritage, our own mythology. Do you think they got Zeus in Greece, Jupiter in Italy, some Native American gods in America, Vishnu and Shiva or whatever in India? The same beings perceived through different cultural eyes?"
Church shrugged. "Possibly. What I can't figure out is why Britain is the battleground."
"With communication down, anything could be happening. The rest of the world might be devastated for all we know."
Church couldn't take his eyes off the coffee and tea, things taken for granted for centuries. "The global economy will have crashed. There'll be death on a massive scale famine, disease. No international trade at all. Even here in the UK we've forgotten how to feed ourselves locally. What about in less-privileged areas?"
"Let's look on the bright side: at least all the bankers and moneylenders will be out of a job."
His laugh was polite and humourless.
"Best not to think about it." Ruth watched him from the corner of her eye while she chewed on her dry toast, trying to see any signs of the melancholy that had debilitated him too many times in the past. "Creeping death is the last thing we need to worry about. Everything could be over in the blink of an eye."
"You're right." He stood up and stretched.
"I always am. You should know that by now. It's my hobby." She finished her toast and tried to ignore the rumblings that still came from her belly. "We need to decide what we're going to do with Callow."
Church cursed under his breath. "I'd forgotten about that bastard."
"We could execute him." She appeared to be only half joking.
Church forced a smile that faded quickly. "We can't leave him here. These people have enough problems without a psycho like that around. And if Ryan and Tom are still alive he'll just go after them-"
"We can't take him with us!"
"We don't know we're going anywhere yet. If we do find the ship, we might be able to do some good for him. I'm going to try to get the Fomorii shit cleaned out of my system. Maybe we can do the same for him-"
"Do some good!" she said incredulously. "The bastard murdered Shavi! Almost killed Laura." She showed him the gap between her fingers.
"I know, I know." He waved her protestations away. "But still. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, they say."
Ruth grunted in grudging agreement, but as she rose from the table she muttered, "I still think we should execute him."
"You sound more like Laura every day."
The morning was brittle, but filled with the warmth of a good summer. The air had the salty tang of seaweed and fish. In the daylight, Mousehole was quaint and comforting, hunkered up against the rugged Cornish coastline. Church and Ruth herded Callow along the deserted seafront, the half-man keeping his peeled-egg eyes away from the brilliant light of the sun. Church was disturbed how the creature had begun to grow into his new form; his manner of walking had become almost insectile in the way he skittered in and out of the gutter, a little too fast, a tad too angular.
"You make a bolt for it, I'll boil those freaky eyes out of your head," Ruth said calmly. "You know I can do it."
Church eyed her, not sure if it was within her new powers, which were as mysterious to him as the sea, a feeling she did nothing to dispel. Callow flashed her a brief glance that suggested he would kill her, given half a chance.
"What do we do when we get there?" Ruth asked.
"We call out for the ship to come to us." It sounded so stupid, he winced. He wished Tom were there. Despite the Rhymer's brusque and generally unpleasant manner, Church missed his wisdom and his knowledge about all the new, strange things that had found a place in the world.
The information they had found in the pub pointed them in the direction of Merlin's Rock. As Callow scuttled ahead of them, Church couldn't shake the ludicrous image of the world's most bizarre couple out walking their dog.
Ruth glanced at the white-rimmed waves before flashing a teasing smile at Church. "Better get calling, then."
"Your trouble, Ruth, is you're too straitlaced to let yourself go," he said wryly. "You should unbutton a little."
"I'll take that on board, Mr. Black Pot."
Callow started to edge away, sure the others couldn't see his subtle movements. Church grabbed the collar of his jacket and hauled him forward so he teetered on the edge over the choppy waves. "Enjoy the view. You might never see it again."
"You can't make me go!" Callow protested.
"I can't make you swim, either, but I can put you in a position where you have no choice."
"You don't understand! Those wretched golden-skinned creatures will detest everything about me. They'll make me pay for what the Night Walkers did to me, and it's not my fault!"
"They don't care too much for me either," Church replied. "Thankfully I don't give a toss what those inbred aristocrats think. They might believe they're better than us, but they're not, and given half a chance I'll bring that home to them."
"They'll hurt me!"
"Not while I'm there. You deserve some justice for what you've done, Callow, but not at their hands. You're one of us and if anyone's going to make you pay-
Callow struggled frantically. He calmed instantly when Ruth rested a hand on his shoulder.
Church moved away from them and faced the horizon. The wind rustled his long hair with soothing fingers; a tingle ran down his spine. He thought of Frank Sinatra singing "Fly Me to the Moon," remembering the great times he'd had with that music playing in his head: kissing Marianne in the lounge of their flat in the early hours of New Year's Day, staggering through Covent Garden, drunk with all his friends, watching the dawn come up on a boat on the Thames. They were at the start of something big, a great journey, and there was still hope; he could feel it in every fibre of his being. The moment felt right.
"Come to us." The wind whipped the words from his mouth. He coughed; then spoke with greater firmness and clarity: "Come to us. Take us to the Western Isles." Once again his voice was caught by the wind, but this time it rolled out across the waves. The tingling in his spine increased a notch.
Cautiously he scanned the horizon. The weather was so clear he would see any ship miles away. He glanced back at Ruth, unsure.
"Be patient," she said firmly.
Once more he spoke loudly. "I beseech the Golden Ones to carry us, their humble servants, away to the wonders of the Western Isles." Behind him, Callow sniggered.
For several long minutes he waited, sure he was making a fool of himself, but gradually he began to sense slight changes in the atmosphere. The air grew more charged, until he could taste iron in his mouth, as if he were standing next to a generator. He looked back at Callow and Ruth and saw they could sense it too; Ruth was smiling, but Callow had an expression of growing anxiety. Church couldn't stop himself smiling either-almost laughing, in fact: a ball of gold had formed in his gut and was slowly unfolding along his arteries and veins. Everything around became more intense. The sea shimmered as if the waves were rimmed with diamonds, emeralds and sapphires and the sun's golden light suffused every molecule of the air. The scent of the ocean was powerfully evocative, summoning a thousand childhood memories. The wind caressed his skin until every nerve tingled.