Vetch raised an eyebrow at Clare, then took Rosa’s arm and led her away toward the caravan. “We need till moonrise,” he said quietly. “Tell everyone to keep it going. Plenty of full and frank discussion, Rosa. Plenty of words. Words are the only weapon we have.”
She grinned. “Don’t worry, Master. Trust us for that.”
Father Mac turned up about seven. Seeing Dan and Rob lounging on the grass, he came over and lowered his heavy body down. “You were all on the evening news. What’s the state of play?”
“They’re still talking.”
“With your druid?”
“Not him. I think he’s asleep.” Rob nodded toward Vetch’s dark shape, curled in a blanket under the trees at the side of the field.
Mac pulled a parcel out of his pocket, waving off mosquitoes. “Brought you some meat pastries.”
“I should get back to the pub.” Then Dan smelled the pastry and sat back down. “Oh well. Maybe I’ll put that out of its misery first.”
Across the way, at the trailer, Clare came out. She was red-faced and furious. Flicking one stinging look over at them, she marched around to the lane, flung the gate open, and pushed through the small gathering of journalists.
“Looks like things are not going her way,” Mac said drily. He looked at Rob. “You should go home. You weren’t there at all yesterday. Your mother will be back.”
“Not yet.” Rob tied a shoelace that didn’t need tying. “Not till ten o’clock.”
He knew they exchanged glances over his head. He knew they were worried about him.
“What happens then?”
Dan gulped the last of his pastry. “The moon rises,” he said indistinctly.
Father Mac took out a cigarette and a lighter. “God help us,” he growled.
By ten to ten the field was dark. Moths crisped and fluttered; beyond the hedge the ripe crop made tiny crackling noises, as if seed was splitting, the whole field releasing the pent-up heat of the afternoon.
Most people had gone. In the trailer the voices argued on. A few die-hard reporters sat in their cars and listened to music.
Dan had rushed off for work. “Don’t get arrested,” he’d said, joking, and had taken Mac aside and talked to him anxiously. Then, after only a few steps, he’d turned and come back, crouching down, his voice gone serious. “Please go home, Rob.”
Rob watched Vetch sit up. “Soon now.”
Dan glanced at Mac. The priest shook his head. “I’ll stay with him. You get off.”
If Vetch had been asleep it hadn’t helped him. As he walked over, he looked thinner and paler than ever; he sat very carefully, and Mac said, “You should be in bed.”
Vetch shrugged. “I should be home. A matter of minutes, and I will be.”
He looked at the tribe around their fires, the dim outlines of hedgerows. Above the trees a faint star glittered. “Everyone’s done well,” he said. “Very soon now, the moon will come.”
Worried, Mac said, “Son, you’re sicker than you think. What difference will the moon make?”
“All the difference, Father.”
“I’m taking you to a hospital. Right now.”
“No.”
Mac was on his feet, bulky and ominous. “This has gone on long enough. You need help. You have no home.”
Vetch looked down. Then he said, “You’ve brought something for Rob.”
For a moment Mac just stood glaring. Then he took out the diary, looked at it, and sat. He held it out, but when Rob took it, he didn’t let it go. “I read a few pages,” he said quietly. His expression was grim.
Rob said, “How bad is it?”
The priest pushed it at him. “I should have seen. I should have realized how she felt.”
Cold, Rob’s fingers closed around the purple book, the silver stars. He wanted to give it back, to push it away. Instead he shoved it into the pocket of his shirt.
A faint rustle and click, from the direction of the henge.
“What was that?” Vetch turned, alert.
They listened. In the stillness distant voices drifted, a radio announcement, flames crackling. Then again, a tiny, rhythmic creak.
Vetch caught his breath. He clutched his side, as if it hurt. “Clare,” he whispered.
The night erupted. The creak burst into a shrill whine, high and fierce.
Vetch was up and racing for the henge, Rob behind him; the door of the trailer was flung wide and Rosa came hurtling down the steps, a burly policeman framed in the bright doorway.
The metal gate was locked from the inside. Vetch flung himself against it, hands splayed. “Clare!” He banged it with his fists. “For God’s sake! Clare! Stop!”
The saw whined, a high electric vibration that went through Rob’s teeth and nerves, as if it was Chloe, screaming in terror. He shoved Vetch aside and began kicking at the metal gate. “Get it open!” he yelled. Father Mac was there; his great bulk shuddered and crashed against the fence. It creaked, then all the tribe was on it, howling with rage, pulling and tearing, Rosa kicking furiously at the lock.
In the racket a cell phone shrilled and shrilled.
The gate went down. Vetch jumped over, caught hold of the timbers of the henge and dragged himself in. He turned, white-faced. “Keep them out! All of you. Stay outside!”
Behind him the archaeologists tried to shoulder through; the tribe quickly closed ranks.
Breathless, Rob scrambled after Vetch.
Clare had a small handsaw; it was blade deep in the roots of the central oak. She looked up at them over its whine.
“Turn it off,” Vetch begged.
She smiled, cold.
“Is this some sort of revenge? Then take it on me. Please, Clare. Please. On me!” He was devastated, could hardly stand.
Her hair was tied firmly back; her eyes red but dry. “Where are your poems now, then?” she snapped. “All that guff about Gwydion and Merlin you used to spin me? Turn yourself into something, Vetch; enchant me, freeze me with a look. It ought to be easy for you.” She glared over his shoulder. “Don’t waste your time with him, Rob. He’s useless and dangerous. He’ll eat up your life with false dreams. He cost me my career once, my life, my inspiration. He ran from me as if he was terrified.”
“Clare—”
“Don’t move.” Her fingers tightened; the blade sliced into the wood with a drone that ached in Rob’s bones. “This is my discovery, my dig. Nobody stops me. If I want a sample I take it, and don’t you dare tell me I don’t care for the henge.”
The cell phone. It had been Mac’s. Rob knew the call was from the nursing home. He pushed past Vetch and right up to Clare. “You’re killing my sister,” he breathed.
She stared, amazed, then switched the saw off. In the utter silence she looked at Vetch with hatred. “You’ve told him that? I can’t believe even you would stoop that low.”
Vetch moved. Beyond the trees the moon had risen, its full circle lighting his face. Ducking under the tangle of tree roots, he grabbed the saw and pulled it; it switched on and Vetch yelled and leaped back, as if it had cut him.
Tiny flecks of blood spattered the dark wood.
“Rob!” he gasped. Rob jerked Clare’s arm. She screamed and the saw fell, whining, churning the mud.
Outside, Mac was thundering, “Rob! We’ve got to go. We’ve got to go now! It’s Chloe!”
“Hold her,” Vetch said, straightening.
“My sister—”
“Hold her.” He moved to the tree, put his hands on it, spoke words that were strange and remote.
Clare stopped struggling. “He’s mad,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t care about me or you. He never did.”
In the circle of moonlight, the henge was lit. A pool of rain that had gathered in the roots gleamed silver. Tall and black, the timbers enclosed them like a wall of shadow, head high, moths and midges the only movement.
Except that the tree was growing downward.