Uneasy, Cal said, “Do they get many visitors?”
“Not so many as they used to.” The flashlight flickered over Cal’s face. “Tell them we sent you.”
Rain spattered. “Thanks,” Cal yelled. But as he turned away the other man, the dark one, said, “Wait!” He looked up; Cal saw even at this distance that he was pale, almost gaunt, his eyes dark hollows. “Are you sure you’re ready?” he whispered, his voice anxious, deeply troubled.
“What?”
“You need to be ready. Or it will be a long journey for all of us.”
Cal frowned. “I thought your mate said about a mile?”
The fisherman shook his head, almost sadly, and the flashlight went out. “So he did. So he did.”
Uneasy, Cal climbed back up onto the track and trudged on. He felt worn out and it was hard to think. A hotel. Lucky. He might be miles from Chepstow. His uncle wouldn’t come. And his mother would be down at Murphy’s by this time anyway, and be past caring either way.
He was so wet now he didn’t care about the jacket or the drenched boots; rain trickled into every crease of him, even his pockets, and his clothes felt heavy and sopping. He was almost running down the dark leafy tunnel of the lane.
And finally, around the bend, the hedge became a wall, a high red-brick wall smothered with glossy wet ivy, the trees behind it black and ominous. He squelched alongside it, seeing how the track was a mire of mud here, and at the muddiest place of all he found a wooden door, and above that a sign that swung and creaked and dripped on his face.
CASTLE HOTEL
CORBENIC
The letters were worn, and rain-streaked. Below them, cracked and badly painted, was the pub sign, but instead of a castle all it showed was a crooked yellow chalice. And hanging from that on rusty hooks, swinging so wildly he could barely make it out, a tiny addition read:
VACANCIES
Chapter Two
A sorry figure in a court so distinguished as that.
Peredur
There was nothing to knock, but his groping fingers found a latch under the dripping screen of ivy; he lifted it, and the door opened. Beyond the arch was a shadowy garden, blackened by frost. Bare branches dripped onto a gravel path. The trees were dead or leafless.
Cal stepped through, holding the door open. It didn’t look promising, and it was too quiet. Maybe the place was closed up. Out of season. Maybe they were all in bed.
He let the door swing behind him with a soft clink. He’d find out. There was no way he was walking back up that lane.
The gravel crunched under his feet. On each side of the dim path small statues peered from among the withered plants: peculiarly crouched animals, bears and cats and tiny foxes whose eyes gleamed fleetingly in wet faces. He passed them quietly, choked with an odd feeling of excitement. The rich stink of the clotting leaves seeming sharper here, the watching animals tense, as if ready to pounce on his back. It made him remember a picture in a book he’d seen when he was small, of a garden of sleeping princes all tangled in thorns, and beyond them, high and gray and sinister, the walls of the castle, with one light in a high window. He had forgotten it till now. For a second, he remembered how the story had made him feel, the flavor of it.
There was a light here too. It flickered through the branches; he had to bend down and peer ahead to see it, because the trees were so tangled and low, and for a moment he thought it was a bundle of burning wooden sticks in a bracket on the wall. But pushing through the stiff branches he found that the trees grew right up to the stonework and at the path’s end was a black wrought-iron lantern with a dim electric bulb inside.
Above him the house was a shadow. He couldn’t even make out what it looked like, except that it was big, and old, and ivy covered the walls. Over the door a sort of mock portcullis jabbed its pointed spikes down at him. There was a porch, littered in the corner with heaps of windblown leaves and, at last, a bellpull with a heavy, faceted knob, swinging in the wind. Cal caught it in his numbed fingers; water dripped from it, cold as ice, the night silent around him. For a moment he stood there, undecided, afraid of the place, of who might be there.
Then he pulled the bell. It jangled deep inside the building. Lights came on; they flooded his face and he saw the panels of the door were stained glass, a rainbow patchwork of knights and horses, their heraldry bright with golds and blues and scarlet. Upstairs windows lit; he heard voices, the sound of some sort of horn or trumpet, the rattle and clatter of dishes. For a moment he almost felt he had wakened the place from a centuries-long sleep; then he noticed the stone at the end of the bellpull in his hand was as red and glittering as a ruby, and stared at it in amazement.
The door opened. Warmth came out and embraced him; for a second the relief of that was so great he couldn’t speak. A woman stood there, tall and gray-haired, wearing a long dress of some rich velvet. “Welcome to the Castle,” she said gently.
He had his speech all ready. “I’m sorry to bother you so late, but . . .”
The woman smiled and stepped back. “Please! You’re soaked, and cold. Come inside. It’s too evil a night to be on the road.”
“I haven’t . . . I mean I just need to use the phone. Do you have a phone?”
“Yes. We have everything you need. Come in.”
He followed her over the threshold, into a hall panelled with dark wood. It was dazzlingly lit with expensive-looking marble lamps. A huge round table stood in the hall’s center, with some sort of sword on a stand; on all the walls red brocade wallpaper glowed, and in a vast hearth between two suits of armor a log fire roared and crackled.
Classy, Cal thought. He eased the dripping rucksack off and dumped it on the floor. He felt cheap and wet and thoroughly out of place.
“While you call,” the woman said kindly, “I’ll have your room made ready.”
A room! Cal stared, alarmed. “Oh no! I mean, I won’t be staying. I’m just going to get someone to pick me up.”
She shook her head. “From here? I doubt it.”
“My uncle will. Well . . . how far are we from Chepstow?”
“As far from there as from anywhere, I’m afraid.” The woman knelt and put another log on the fire carefully, the wide sleeves of her dress slipping back to show strong arms. She looked up at him. “This is the Waste Land. But the room won’t be expensive, if that’s what worries you. You’re our guest, and there’s no charge.”
That really scared him. Nothing, absolutely nothing, ever came free. Whatever sort of weird setup he had wandered into here had to be dodgy. Phone, then get out, he thought.
As if she guessed the woman stood, wiping her fingers on a lace-edged handkerchief. “There’s the phone.” She nodded behind him. It was an old-fashioned sort of booth in the corner of the corridor.
Cal said, “Thanks,” and headed for it quickly.
A door opened and closed somewhere in the building; he heard music and a rumor of voices, shut off, instantly.
The booth had no door and smelled of lavender. When he’d picked up the receiver and turned the woman had gone, so he dialed his uncle’s number quickly. It was an ancient bakelite machine, black and heavy with a silver dial that spun with a satisfying purr, the words CORBENIC 301000 printed in the center.
There was a crackle, the ringing tone. Then, oddly small and distant, his uncle’s voice. “Hello?”
“Uncle Trevor? It’s Cal.”
“Cal? Where are you?” He didn’t sound anxious. More surprised. “Is your train in early?”
“No. Look . . .” Cal took a deep breath, hating himself. “I made a mistake. I got off at the wrong stop.”
He heard his uncle’s hiss of annoyance. “How on earth did you manage that! Where are you?”
Cal ignored the first question. “Somewhere called Corbenic.”