Pushing the sleepy dog off he climbed up and brushed leaf dust and soil and grime from his ruined jeans and jacket, rubbed his stubbly face and yawned. He needed a wash and a drink.
Outside, ducking under the archway, he found a small spring that bubbled out of the rocks, a tiny, crystal-clear water source that he drank from again and again, splashing the icy drops on his face and hands, down his neck, as if he could never have enough of it.
As he dried himself awkwardly with his sleeve, he listened to the trickle and splash of the water. It was loud. It hadn’t been there last night. He looked around.
The chapel was tilted, as if some great blow had struck it. Its walls were nearly smothered, but he could see carved stones worn almost to smoothness by centuries of rain; coming up to one he pushed the ivy aside and felt with his fingers the gnarled grotesque faces, the cavalcade of knights that curved around the pillar. Small grains dislodged and fell from under his fingertips.
“Breakfast,” Merlin said cheerfully.
Cal spun.
The Hermit leaned against a tree. He waved a hand over a spread of leaves and nuts, daintily arranged.
Cal came and sat down. He looked at the unappetizing mess. “Thanks.”
Merlin selected an ancient hazelnut with great care. To Cal’s amazement, when he spoke he sounded completely normal. “There are lots of old stories about the Grail. Some say it was a Celtic cauldron. Others the cup of the Last Supper. There are different versions of the myth, but the most well known has Joseph of Arimathea bringing the cup to Britain, and possibly to the Island of Avalon.”
Cal said, “Where’s that?”
“Beyond. ‘Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly. Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.’ Some say Glastonbury.”
Cal had heard of it. “There’s a rock festival there.”
“Indeed.” Merlin scratched his tangle of hair with long fingers.
“You think I should look there? For Corbenic?”
The Hermit smiled. “That is within you. You might find that anywhere. Percival fails to ask about the Grail and must return to the castle. That was always your mistake, not going back. But first . . .”
“First I have something else to do. Someone else to see.”
Merlin’s eyes slid to the woods. “Your shadow.”
Wary, Cal stood. “Maybe. But first, how do I get out of this place?”
“You just wish to be out.” Merlin picked up a nut and tossed it away; it hit the dog. He turned and glared at her. “You! Bitch!” He scrambled up hastily, swung to Cal. “How long has she been here? Has she heard everything? Has she found the secrets yet, the secrets of my power?”
His heart sinking, Cal took a step back. He went into the chapel and found his bag, and filled his water bottle hastily at the tiny spring.
Merlin was still cursing the dog. His face was narrow; he had spread his hands and was muttering things about pigs and apple trees and a prison under a stone. He was crazy. He should be in some hospital. Cal watched him in silence.
Suddenly Merlin’s eyes went to Cal, sly. “The knight has spent his vigil in the chapel. The knight continues the quest.”
Cal nodded. Then he turned and walked away. Deep in the wood he turned and looked back. Merlin and the dog were eyeing each other warily. Then the dog yawned and lay down.
Cal walked for twenty minutes before he found the lane. Climbing over a stile he scrambled down into it, a deep lane between two hedges, sparse now with winter twigs. Turning to his right, he followed it. It led downhill, around a bend, widened out, became a two-lane road, rose into a bridge.
He leaned on the bridge rail in a bewilderment of noise. Below him, in a thundering explosion of trucks and fast cars and searing speed, a motorway stretched in both directions. As far as his eyes could see.
Chapter Twenty-two
He emerged from the forest and came upon a most wondrous land.
2nd Continuation
Bath was beautiful. He wandered around its shops in weary appreciation, looking in at the fabulous furniture, the sumptuous giftware. Swaths of expensive fabric and chandeliers hung in shop windows; there were open-topped buses with Japanese tourists and taped commentaries about the Romans, Jane Austen, John Wood. And the streets amazed him—they were so grand, so sweeping, elegant facades of golden stone. Classy. That Shadow lived here impressed him.
He had to ask a few times for Great Pulteney Street; it was over a quaint bridge with tiny shops on each side. When he’d crossed it he stared down the wide expanse of perfectly matching elegant houses. Each one was Georgian, with a big painted front door, the steps in front leading down into an area behind black railings, where the servants would once have lived.
At Shadow’s number he stopped. There were window boxes with tiny daffodils and primulas, yellow and blue. The door was a glossy red, the huge brass handle gleaming, the curtains looped back. It all screamed money.
He swallowed. He’d caught sight of his reflection briefly in a window in town and had been shocked. He looked ten years older. His hair was matted and his clothes filthy with mud and dirt; he must stink. Merlin had loaned him an old army coat that came down past his knees, tattered khaki but warmer than just his jacket. He looked down at it with a sour smile. A few weeks ago he wouldn’t have touched it with a barge pole. But that was a lifetime away. He climbed the steps and rang the bell, turning and watching the street warily.
“Yes?” The tone was distasteful. He turned back and saw a woman of about fifty, stocky, in a flower-print dress. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hands floury. It wasn’t what he’d expected.
“Hi. I’m a friend of Sh . . . Sophie. Is it possible to speak to her?”
The woman looked him up and down. “She’s at school. Who shall I say called?”
“Cal,” he began, “but . . .” The door shut in his face. “Bloody snob,” he snarled. But he wasn’t surprised.
It was two o’clock, and fairly warm. He walked back to the bridge and down some steps at the side and along the riverbank, then sat and watched the water thunder over the weir. There were two swans on the river, performing an elegant bobbing and intertwining love dance; joggers and tourists stopped to watch them.
Cal lay down on the bench and dozed in the weak sun. If she wouldn’t help him, he didn’t know what he’d do. The money was gone. He wouldn’t sit in an underpass and beg. Glastonbury, Merlin had said. On the maps he’d looked at in the bookshops it wasn’t so far. Perhaps he could walk there. But he needed food.
He must have slept. Faces and voices disturbed him, as they always did. His mother said, “Get yourself something from the chippie for your tea,” and he laughed sourly and said, “What’s new,” and then sat up, cold and strained, because she was dead.
She was dead.
He still couldn’t take that in. He knew it, understood it, couldn’t bear it, was glad of it. And yet she was here, still a weight on him. He got up quickly and went back up to the street.
After twenty minutes leaning in a doorway, he saw Shadow coming along. She looked so different. Her hair was lighter, and she wore the school uniform he’d seen in the photo on the poster, a blue blazer, a tartan skirt. And the tattoo was gone. There was another girl with her, dressed the same. They had a magazine open and were looking at it, laughing.
His heart thudded. She didn’t look unhappy. For a moment he froze. He couldn’t speak to her. He should go away and leave her. And then, with an almost desperate lunge, he made himself step out right in front of them. “Shadow,” he said.
The friend gave a small scream. Startled, Shadow looked up. Her face was a blank shock. Then she said, “Cal?”
He tried to smile. Passersby turned. In a flash he saw what they saw: a homeless good-for-nothing harassing two well-heeled girls. Until Shadow grabbed his arm. “What are you doing here? What’s happened to you?”