‘If you’re gonna be alone,’ Grayle said, ‘you make sure he doesn’t find you first.’
‘I know.’
‘Or Cindy. He’s alone too.’
‘If you don’t include the spirits of the air.’
‘I could get quite fond of that old weirdo,’ Grayle said. ‘But spirits of the air I can live without. You take care.’
I have to know, Cindy said deep inside himself. Is it blood you want? Is it the lifeblood of mammals? Is it our terror? Do you thrive on the fear of the fox before the hounds tear it apart? And do you suck the life-force released in the blood of a woman or a man at one of your shrines, at the crossing of energy lines and ghost roads? I have to know, or this is useless.
From the top of the King Stone, Kelvyn cackled contemptuously.
You old fool, you don’t even know who you’re talking to.
It was true. He’d never known. The Welsh were a contradiction, they both worshipped nature and feared the God of the Old Testament, in whose honour they built, in place of standing stones, all those grim, grey, monolithic chapels.
Shrines to cruel nature, a cruel God.
And yes, there were times when that Old Testament God would have struck down the guests at a wedding with hardly a thought. In the Old Testament, people died for being in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong company.
‘Cindy?’
He opened his eyes. On the other side of the railings stood Bobby Maiden.
‘This is a bit hard,’ Bobby said, ‘if you want the truth.’
He’d taken off his jacket, stood there, his T-shirt brilliant against the sky, torn at the left shoulder.
‘Tell me, lovely.’
‘Grayle’s trying to stop the ceremony, I’m wandering around like a spare prick. And … what I thought … anybody can find him, it’s got to be me, right?’
‘It’s an argument.’
‘Only I don’t know how to go about it.’
‘And?’
‘Possibly, you can help.’
‘I see.’ Cindy rocked a little on his shaman’s mat, working this out. ‘You want to go back into the darkness. Into the cold.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Remembering that the whole point of last night was to get you out of there. And to get it out of you.’
‘The way I see it, for a few seconds, me and him … I may be losing it a bit here, but I feel some part of him collided with some part of me.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Maybe they need to collide again.’
Cindy deliberated, taking several long, pensive breaths. Kelvyn cackling nastily in his head.
‘Don’t think about it too long.’ Bobby folded his arms. ‘I think I can hear the cold calling.’
‘Hmm.’ Cindy stood up. Couldn’t spring up, these days, like he used to; old age catching up, what a bind it was. ‘I helped to bring you out, see, but I can’t ask you to go back. You have to ask me, isn’t it? This is how it’s done.’
‘Shamanic etiquette.’
‘Bit more than that, lovely. Do you really want to ask me?’
‘I think I just did.’
Cindy made him sit on the mat — forget the shamanic posture, no time for that, sit however was most comfortable — and then blindfolded him with a black woollen scarf, pulling it tight, heedless of the bruised eye.
‘Don’t fight it, don’t try and see through it. Submit to it. Steady your breathing. Empty your mind.’
From the suitcase he brought the envelope. That, envelope. He emptied the pieces of dry soil into his palm and crumbled them into dust. Whether this had come out of Bobby didn’t matter; it was what they had found on the capstone when he stopped vomiting. And it connected directly with the worst of all deaths, the choking, in the earth, of Ersula Underhill.
‘Don’t worry about time. There will be time.’ Cindy sprinkled the soil in a thin circle around both Bobby Maiden and the King Stone. ‘Step out of time. And think dark. Think cold.’
Lifting his drum from the case, fingers finding the rhythm.
‘After me … dark.’
‘Dark.’
‘Cold.’
‘Cold.’
‘Dark is cold.’
‘Dark is cold.’
‘Cold is dark.’
‘Cold is dark.’
‘Cold is Earth …’
It was a pity. Even the older, family guests were getting into it, resistance breaking down. Charlie had charm, he had style. It was a friendly, participatory wedding. He was making more of it than most of these guys did, in Grayle’s experience, most likely spinning it out because he was having fun too. And because of the dope, maybe.
They were all holding hands, even the relatives, and now the band was leading them in a hymn. Charlie was facing where the sky was darkest, so that Janny and Matthew, the other side of the picnic table altar, could look into the last light, not that there was much of that.
See, Charlie could have had it all over by now, the ceremony part at least. Not that this would get everyone out of the circle, someone having erected another picnic table out by the pines, this one more secular, bottles of champagne on it, towers of paper cups. Getting their money’s worth out of the Rollrights this black Saturday.
While they sang the hymn, All Things Bright And Beautiful, Grayle wandered quietly among the guests, looking into their faces, fearful that one would be the rugged, corn-topped visage of Adrian Fraser-Hale.
He was not here. Neither were there any stakes or rods protruding from the earth inside the circle. What would she have done if she’d found one? Pulled it out? Would that have made everything fine, made the dark clouds disperse?
Sure, and brought Ersula back to life.
Earth is dark.
Earth is dark.
Earth is cold.
Earth is cold.
When Bobby started shivering, Cindy stopped drumming, reduced his chant to a whisper, brought out the cloak of feathers and hung it round Bobby’s shoulders.
It was 6.30 p.m. and almost night. But not cold; this night was as close as October could get to humid. Only cold, apparently, where Bobby was, which was how it should be, but Cindy wasn’t happy about this. It was unknown country, a level of being he’d had no experience of, a harsher, more elemental place, kept in motion by the energy of slaughter. And it made no difference at all that this was, in all probability, an entirely imaginary country which had never existed outside a single, disturbed psyche.
The chant had taken its own direction, Bobby no longer responding to Cindy’s words. Which, again, was how it should be, but also rather frightening. It meant that Cindy no longer had a measure of control. He prayed for assistance, without knowing quite to whom the prayer was addressed.
Earth is dark.
Earth is cold.
Earth is grave.
Earth is grave.
Earth is dark is cold is grave.
Bobby stopped chanting. He was utterly still, did not even appear to be breathing. Face as pale as his T-shirt.
Cindy heard a humming. Not heard exactly, he was aware of a humming. It was coming not from Bobby but from the King Stone. The stone blurred before his eyes and seemed to swell, then came into sharp focus; despite the paucity of light, he could see every smear of mould and liver-spot of lichen.
Bobby Maiden’s lips parted, as if to resume the chant, but all that came out was a hiss, a sibilance, a rustling, in more than one tone. As though one hiss was communicating with another, a whispered conversation.
A whispered conversation between huddled figures. Identifying the location.
Cindy shook him, yelling in his face. ‘Stop. Get up. Get up!’