Gideon is sceptical but fascinated by the claims. He guesses it’s possible. A psychosomatic reaction to the stones brought on by powerful beliefs. Lourdes springs to mind. From what he can recall, more than two hundred million people have made pilgrimages there. His atheist’s mind equates the two. The healing powers of the stones versus those of the waters of a grotto in the foothills of the Pyrenees. Both as equally incredible as each other.
He looks at his watch. It’s almost one a.m. He’s hungry and exhausted. Too tired and anxious to go downstairs or make anything to eat. He vows to look over just one more page and then turn in for the night.
He wishes he hadn’t. The passage he’s focused on makes his blood run cold:
Gideon knows only that his mother had a fatal illness. The single good thing about the word ‘cancer’ is that it scares off further interrogation, especially in a child. I hope he goes through his entire life not knowing that it was CLL, never realising that it was hereditary. I put my trust in the Sacreds, in the bond I make with them, in the clear blood of mine that I pledge to purify that of my child.
He reads it again. His brain pounds as he tries to take it in. Only the key words — cancer, hereditary, CLL — stay sharp in his mind.
CLL.
What is it? Does he have it?
Will it kill him?
43
The Henge Master walks in the comforting dark circle of the Sacreds, his eyes turned to the pin-prick stars. The night sky is an avalanche of black soot, a limitless mystery, a dark hurricane hurtling towards the sleeping heads of the ignorant. It is his duty to look for them. To understand for them. To save them from their own folly.
In the unseen currents and dark streams above, he senses the shift, the wheeling constellations, the lethargy of the Lyrids, the impatience of the coming and deadly Delta Aquarids. He feels the pull of the tides, the shift of winds across oceans, the growing cracks in the core of the earth.
As always the innocent will come running to the summer solstice, their heads beaded, their hands clasped. Their vaunted hopes of wild lovemaking and drug-induced euphoria. They will choke on their own naivety. Every last one of them. Even those who think they are wise have no idea, no understanding that the important thing is not the solstice and the sun. It is the full moon that follows.
Balance. Always balance. So many only ever see the obvious. Just as the greatest magicians fool us by distraction, so do the gods. Only the chosen can see beyond the cosmic illusions. Let the blind prostrate themselves and pose in the dazzling show of light at the equinox. Redemption lies in the twilight. The moon is rising to its most powerful apex.
The Master knows the importance of the unseen. Farmers since time began have learned this primary lesson. The crop we see depends on what we cannot see. The darkness in the earth must be respected, it must be loved as much as the brightness in the sky. The ancients knew — and their children know — the earth’s unseen powers of growth need to be nourished. They need blood meal, the richness of bone, the coolness of the grave. Scientists say blood on soil provides vital nitrogen, but it obliges with much more than just chemicals. Blood contains something else. Soul. And the more the soil has, the more it wants.
In forty-eight hours the summer solstice will bring tens of thousands to Stonehenge. The ignorant will jibber-jabber like baboons. They will clamber like cavemen on the stones. They will claim to be touched spiritually by an energy they have yearned to feel.
If only they knew the truth. The brutal truth. Because by then the circle will be empty. The Sacreds will be in the Sanctuary.
The Master smiles as he walks away. Tomorrow he will return and begin his pilgrimage. He will supplicate himself before each and every god and absorb their divine spirits. He will be their vessel, their portal through the black earth to the ancient temple below.
44
Eric Denver has been head of security for the Lock family for almost twenty years. Husband, wife and now daughter. Guardian angel to them all. Thom Lock is a self-made multimillionaire. When he was made Vice President of the United States, he had no choice but to accept Secret Service protection for himself. But he put his foot down when it came to Caitlyn. He was determined that his only child would have something more personal and private. Hence Eric. Given her wild behaviour, it’s a good job he signed him up. Tongues would certainly wag in Washington if the smileless ones in the corridors of power knew half the things she gets up to under cover of completing her studies in the UK.
Eric gives the VP daily reports, but he leaves stuff out. The kid’s got to have room to breathe. Even he can see that all the attention and private scrutiny suffocate her sometimes. So occasionally, like now, he turns a blind eye when things get a bit loose.
Just before midnight, six of Caitlyn’s girlfriends roll in and all but fall down the corridor outside her apartment. They’re clutching handbags and bottles of champagne. On their slim faked-tan arms are six muscled youths straight out of an army poster. Big, brawny heads, biceps like rugby balls, eyes glazed from booze and dope.
Eric and Leon, his number-two, step forward and block the march of the dirty drunken dozen. ‘Homework club’s cancelled, kids,’ he says, recognising a couple of the girls’ faces. ‘You need to be getting off now.’
The tallest of the youths — blond-haired with the kind of physique few would want to test — swaggers forward. ‘Hey, we don’t want no trouble, brother. We just come to party with Caitlyn.’
Eric raises an eyebrow. ‘Brother’ is not a term he takes easily from a white kid. ‘No partying tonight, my friend. Miss Lock already has an important date — with a cup of cocoa and a TV show.’
Blondie’s about to push his luck when Caitlyn opens the front door. Four of the girls scream with drunken excitement and rush her. The guys start to follow but the two bodyguards block the door. Music explodes from a Bose system rigged into the walls. Black Eyed Peas’ ‘Rock that Body’.
The guys are having a stare-out when two of the women briefly reappear from the apartment. One of them jumps into Eric’s arms and tries hard to kiss him. He pulls her away and puts her down. She smoothes out her sparkling blue cocktail dress. ‘Please let us all in Eric, pleeeze. You can’t keep Caitlyn cooped up like this. She needs some fun.’
The girl smells of booze and perfume, mouth-fresheners and spray-on deodorant. ‘C’mon Janie, you and these friends of yours need to go home, you know the score. Caitlyn had her fun the other night.’
The situation changes in a second. One of the youths spins and shouts, ‘Fuck him, Janie, we’re outta here.’ He and his friends tow a couple of the girls back to the lifts. ‘C’mon, let’s go to China’s.’ The call brings the others from the apartment. One of them giggles then stumbles and breaks a heel. Leon helps her up and she hobbles off holding the shoe in a hand.
As the apartment door bangs shut, Caitlyn’s voice screams through the wood: ‘Thanks a-friggin lot.’
Eric smiles and listens to the lift ding, then goes back to the apartment door and knocks lightly. ‘Caitlyn, we’re just looking out for you.’
‘Screw you. I’m going to bed.’ Another door slams deep inside the apartment. He looks at Leon. ‘Could be worse.’