He decided to take a risk and strike out across the fields. The land to his left rose steeply. Perhaps at the top he'd get a better grasp of the lay of the land. He glanced back in the direction of the car, but he could no longer see it. No matter; he was committed now. He made towards the white face of the hill and began to climb.
The break in the clouds had grown larger, and there was an expanse of glittering sky above him, pin-pointed with stars. He'd learned the names of the major constellations when he bought his telescope, and he could name them easily; he, the Memory Man. They meant nothing of course, those names, except in the human perspective; they were just tags bestowed by some star-gazer who'd seemed to see a pattern in the scattering overhead: a bow and arrow, a bear, a plough. They meant nothing in the cosmic context. But it was a necessary comfort, to see the stars and call them by name, as if you knew them as friends. Without that courtesy the sight might break a man's heart.
The ache in his legs and hands was contagious; his arms and torso had caught it, so had his prick and balls, his ears and sinuses. Indeed there seemed to be no part of him that didn't give him pain. But there was no going back. Another thirty yards would bring him to the top of the hill, he estimated, and began to count them off. At eighteen he had to stop to gain some breath for the remaining twelve. Walking against both the snow and the incline was claiming more energy than he had to give. As he stood, gasping for air like an asthmatic, he glanced down at the tracks he'd left in the snow. He'd taken his path to be straight, but it wandered back and forth wildly.
Not wanting to think about what that signified, he turned back to his ascent. Every step now was a major challenge. He was obliged to lift his knees to groin height in order to step over the snow rather than try and drag through it. His freezing muscles protested every stride, but he finally got there, presented at the summit with a pure white panorama. It was a as though the house of England had been deserted, and a dust-sheet thrown over its furniture ‘til the owners returned. If they returned. It was possible, standing on the rise looking down on the blankness below, the silence utter, to believe they would never come back to this forsaken place, and that he was alone.
But there was a hill, and it could only be the one he sought, because there was no other. Between it and the place he stood, however, lay an expanse of snow-covered fields. At the sight of the distance he had yet to cover his innards seemed to sink. But he knew that standing still would only make his muscles seize up, and so began to career down the slope, barely in control of his body.
Towards the bottom the snow became deeper and deeper still, until he was waist-high in it, and he was not so much walking as swimming. But as he started across the field towards the hill the crippling ache of cold began to fade, and a welcome deadness replaced it. Half way across his fingers let slip the package Gluck had given him, a fact his increasingly narrowed consciousness was barely aware of. His shrinking thoughts had turned to how comfortable the snow he was ploughing through looked. Maybe he should give up his trek for a while, and lay down on this pristine pillow. His head was heavier by the moment, and the snow would be oh so comfortable. Where was the harm in lying down in it ‘til he felt stronger? But lazy as his thoughts were becoming he wasn't so far gone not to know sleep would kill him. If he stopped now he stopped forever.
He reached the bottom of Rayment's Hill on the verge of collapse, then drove himself, step by step, up the slope. It was longer than the first one, but not so steep. He couldn't think far enough ahead to wonder what he'd find on the other side; it took all his mental effort to instruct his limbs to move. But as he came within a few yards of the brow he raised his head in the dim hope of seeing the stars. The clouds had sealed them from sight, however; a fresh assault was mustering in the sky.
Two more steps and he reached the summit, turning his gaze on the landscape laid out below the hill. There was nothing to see. No sign of anything even resembling a hiding place, however vestigial, for as far as his appalled sight stretched. Only snow-covered fields, and more of the same, rolling away into the distance, deserted and silent. He was alone.
If he'd had the strength to weep he would have wept. Instead he let his exhaustion triumph, and he fell down in the snow. There was no way he could make the return journey to the car, even if he'd been able to find his way. That fatal sleep he'd kept denying himself would just have to claim him.
But as his lids began to dose he caught a movement in the wastes at the base of the hill - something was running about in the snow. He tried to focus; failed; pressed his fingers to his face to stir himself; looked up and tried again. His eyes didn't deceive him. There was something moving on the blank page in front of him; an animal of some kind.
Could it be ... a monkey?
He plunged his arms into the snow and hauled himself up, but as he did so he lost his balance and pitched forward. For several seconds earth and sky became a blur as he tumbled down the slope, coming to a halt encased in ice. It took him a moment to re-orient himself, but when he did he saw the animal - and yes, it was a monkey! - fleeing from him.
He stood up, more snow than man, and stumbled after it. Where in God's name was it running to? There were only open fields ahead of it.
Suddenly, the animal vanished. One moment it was plainly in front of him, and he was gaining on it. The very next it had disappeared from the field, as though it had fled through an open door and slammed it closed. He halted, not believing the evidence of his befuddled sight. Was the animal a mirage of some kind? Or had the cold simply undone his sanity?
He stared at the snow. There were distinctly tracks there -paw tracks, where the monkey had been playing. He followed them, and the testimony of his eyes was confirmed. The tracks stopped dead a few feet from where he stood. Beyond the spot there was simply clean, crisp snow; acres of it.
‘All right,' he said to the empty field. ‘Where are you?'
As he spoke he took another step towards the place where the monkey had pulled its disappearing trick, and asked his question again.
‘Please ...' he said, his voice failing, ‘where are you?'
There was no answer, of course. Mirages were silent.
He stared at the tracks, and felt the last vestiges of hope go out of him.
Then a voice said:
‘Don't stand in the cold.'
He looked up. There was nobody visible to right or left of him. But the instructions came again.
‘Two paces forward. And be quick about it.'
He took one tentative step. As he was about to take the second an arm appeared from the air directly in front of him, and - seizing hold of his anorak - claimed him from the snow.
II
SHELTER FROM THE STORM
1
There was a wood on the other side of the curtain through which Cal had been yanked, its thatch of branches so dense all but a sprinkling of snow had been kept from the ground, so that it was mossy and leaf-strewn underfoot. The place was dark, but he could see a fire burning some way off from him, its light welcome, its promise of warmth even more so. Of the man who'd dragged him out of the snow there was no sign; at least he failed to see anyone until a voice said:
Terrible weather we're having,' and he turned to find the monkey Novello, and its human companion, standing no more than two yards from him, camouflaged by stillness.
‘It was Smith who did it,' said the monkey, leaning towards Cal. ‘Him who pulled you through. Don't let them blame me.' The man threw the animal a sideways glance. ‘He's not speaking to me,' Novello announced, ‘because I strayed outside. Well, it's done now, isn't it? Why don't you come along to the fire? You'd better lie down before you fall down.'