The rainbow grew lighter, turned to white, and he broke through to the surface of a small, calm pool, reached out with his hands and clutched at hard rock once more, a flat surface onto which he pulled himself, and stood upright. He felt no need to cough or clear his lungs. His clothes were not wet. It wasn’t only that he wasn’t in pain. He had moved beyond such considerations to something new; nerve-endings and neurological signals had become controllable. He was impervious. The white path of light called him onwards, and he walked forward, without hesitation, through shades of darkness, until the cave walls opened out into a holy cathedral of space, as tall and steepled as the mountain, reaching up in an orderly worship of stalactites. It was the ordained place: a home, a birth, a tomb. The space where a hero could slay a monster.
All his life, he had been waiting for the moment when he became the man he was born to be. He had lived in the promise of it, standing upright, being a defender, a protector. This was his perfect moment. All other memories would pale in comparison to it: his wedding day, the death of Mark, the saving of Sam, had all been trial runs for this.
He felt it grow near.
His body assumed a fighting stance, hands in bunched fists, feet apart.
It homed in on him, and it was a woman, so familiar, as soft as Sam, as sharp as Marianne. It was the perfect woman, a goddess. He had met her before, in the back room of The Cornerhouse, where she had enveloped him, penetrated him, slain him. This time he had to be the conqueror.
She cleaved to him, moulding to him in a rush of sex scent and promises that turned the cave crimson as blood, and she offered him her submission, the sinking of their bodies together, into each other. He felt the danger of it, the secret victory that lay within her offer.
But he wanted it, this death at the behest of his flowing damsel – to be swarmed, surrounded, kept within forever. She was close enough to touch, floating in front of him, soft pink gauze wrapped around her, legs and smile spread wide, her eyes shut, her hands reaching for the zip of his trousers. He should have known all along, they all should have known that there could be no fighting this, no way to win, to control it, he would kill for it, make the world deserving of it, be the man it could marry, change himself, change the earth, the stones, the water. Her hands found him, guided him inside her, and he watched her face, wanting her eyes to open, to be submerged, suspended in their stare—
‘David!’
His name, sudden, rebounding inside the cavern, brought him back to himself. Geoff had emerged from the tunnel, his eyes wide, fixed on the monster. David had no idea what he was seeing, but it transfixed the man, in a place beyond fear or desire. And Marianne was crawling through, slithering out of the tunnel. What could she see? There was no truth in this place, no way to trust his senses. David felt a compulsion, so strong, to reach up and tear out his eyes, then rip off his ears, his tongue, but he refused to obey, found the strength to keep his arms down by his sides.
Geoff shrieked, and the cave reverberated with his pain. He ran towards Moira, his arms outstretched. David didn’t know whether he meant to love her or kill her, but either way, it made no difference. She reached into his chest and took his heart in her hands, a simple gesture, like plucking a flower, and squeezed it between her palms as he shuddered, his body convulsing, his head flopping. Then he dropped to the ground.
She tilted her head as she surveyed her conquest, then looked up.
She wanted him to join her.
David felt it, the strength of it, like the playful command of a lover when the game evolves from foreplay into capitulation. She wanted his eyes on her, she wanted to eat him up with her gaze.
He met it, and understood.
She loved to weave stories, stories of men and their great deeds. And, like every child who delights in fairy tales, she wanted to some day be part of the story: a princess, a damsel, a prize. But her loneliness could not be pierced. It was inviolate. Every man who drew close to her went mad under her gaze, misunderstood what he was meant to be, his part in the pattern. It left her desolate, empty. After thousands of years of hearing stories, she wanted to have a voice of her own, but it was an impossibility, and she was awash with her impotent rage. So many men would make more stories, new stories. She would make the world anew as a dark and dangerous place. Every man would have a part to play in it.
Unless he satisfied her. Unless he gave her a story, and saved the world.
He moved towards her, and she held out her arms to him. The power of the liquid coursed through him; he could match her, he could be her equal – a new god. This cave would be the birthplace of a new Zeus. He stripped off his clothes and, naked, penetrated her; she wrapped her legs and arms around him and undulated, her cold flesh against his, attempting to smother him in her love, but he kissed her, hard, forced his tongue into her empty mouth and demanded her obeisance.
‘No,’ said a voice, such a small voice, and then there was a blinding pain behind his left ear that overcame everything and left him falling, falling, into a deep, soft bed of darkness that carried him away into oblivion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I drop the torch and kneel beside David’s body. I manage to turn him over, and put my ear to his chest. He still breathes, in and out, still living, still mine.
Moira is so close, so angry. I feel her reach out to me, to tear me apart for taking away her sport, but I know now what I must say to stop her. The words begin to leave my mouth, and she freezes, can’t help herself, has to listen as I close my eyes and tell her:
Once there was a goddess called Moira. She was so beautiful, so perfect, that every man wanted her, but she was Fate itself, and she had no role to play in the patterns of men. She could not change that fact, even though there was nothing more she desired than to be in her own story. After so many years of making myths and legends out of ordinary men, she realised that she would always be separate. Her loneliness drove her deep into a cave, and she hid there, trying to no longer care about the heroes, villains, sages and sidekicks she was creating. She could feel them out there, acting out the patterns that sprang out of her even though she wanted it otherwise. She was so very sad that no man could overcome the skein she wove unwillingly.
Then, one day, a band of men found her hiding place, and brought with them a woman who intrigued her. Women had never been of interest before. They had been only the props and prizes in her stories: Penelope who had waited for Odysseus, Helen who had launched a thousand ships. But this woman forced herself into the skein. She shouted at Moira, and made her listen. She told a fresh story – of how it feels to be a woman in a world run by men. She spoke of love and hope and happiness, not giving it to men, but taking it from them. And Moira realised that maybe the world had changed after all. She wanted to see it again, to learn about women who take. She hoped that one day she could learn to take too.
And so she worked a little ancient magic and transformed herself to stone, and the woman took her out into the world. Moira was all excitement throughout the long sea voyage to her new home, but once she arrived she found herself locked in a small, dark place, not unlike the cave that had once been her home. She felt sadness descend upon her again, and it only got worse as the woman started to read to her. She read stories that made no sense, stories told by women of men who did no heroic deeds, acted in boredom rather than villainy, lived in the present with no interest in the future. Where had all the good stories gone? Moira did not know, and she was so tired, and so sad, that she could not find the energy to break free.