Always Forever (60 page)

Tom was sighing loudly and shifting from foot to foot when Church returned to
him. He made to speak, but Church silenced him with a jabbed finger. "Don't
say a word."

Michael stepped in and motioned towards the chapel. "It's this way."

Church could feel the lines of force buzzing through the soles of his boots;
he could have found his way to the destination blindfold.

Outside the chapel door, Michael paused. He looked both unsure and
ecstatic. "This is it, then?"

Tom took Michael's hand and shook it firmly. "Well done. You've discharged your duty well. The long watch is over."

"Well, I don't quite know what I'll do with my time."

"Be patient. And pray to your God for success."

Tom slapped him on the shoulder to send him on his way back to Ruth
before stepping into the chapel with Church at his heel. Inside it was cool and
dark, filled with the ages-old smell of damp stone.

"What am I going to find?" Church asked.

"You'll know when you get there."

"You're a great bloody help, aren't you?"

The very air was charged with the earth energy; from the corner of his eye,
Church could see blue sparks, like stardust.

"There are realities upon realities," Tom said. "You can't rely on anything
you see, hear, smell, touch, taste. But that's always been the way. The only thing
that matters is what's in here." He levelled his fist at Church's heart.

"Nothing is fixed in the Fixed Lands," Church said, repeating the words
that had haunted his thoughts.

"Exactly. There are realities that may not be to your taste." He was looking
at Church in such a strange way it was troubling; Church tried to make sense of
the unease he saw behind Tom's eyes, but it wouldn't come; something else the
Rhymer wasn't telling him. "Sour realities. Pinched and mean. Places where there are none of the values that make life worth living-friendship, love,
honour and dignity. Where there is only power and greed and money. You don't
have to accept them, Jack. Wish the world better. Everything is illusion. You
just have to wish hard enough to shape it."

He looked as if he was about to hug Church, but he caught himself at the
last. In the end he stepped aside and pointed to a small stone stairway not far
from the altar.

"What's down there?"

"A tomb about nine foot square cut out of the rock. In 1275 the monks here
came across the bones of a man eight feet tall. A giant."

"Who was he?"

"Not important."

"The place is important?"

He nodded.

"Are you coming with me?"

"No. This is something you have to do alone."

Church sighed, tried to force a smile but it wouldn't come. Without another
word, he put his foot on the first step.

lood thundered in Church's head as he made his way down the steps to the
chill interior of the tomb. Trepidation filled every part of him, but it was
tinged with relief that finally there would be some kind of revelation after so
many mysteries.

Inside the bare tomb was a powerful sense of presence. Narrowing his eyes,
Church allowed his deep perception to take over until the walls, floor and ceiling
came alive with a vascular system of Blue Fire, interlocking at pulse points,
drawing together at one section where the depth of blue glowed in the shape of
a hand. He steeled himself, then placed his own palm down hard on the spot.
There was an instant of hanging before the wall juddered apart to reveal a dark
tunnel beyond. Church slipped through quickly and the rock closed behind him
with a resounding clash.

The tunnel reminded him of so many others he had experienced in the dark, secret
places beneath the earth, although he knew that description was not wholly correct.
The Celts and the people who came before them understood perfectly the symbolism of the routes they had established; indeed, it was probably the main reason
for their location. He was entering the womb, going back to the primal state.

After a few minutes, the tunnel opened on to a wide corridor filled with different coloured light filtering through a gently drifting mist; near the roof it was
golden, near the ground the rich, sapphire tones of the Blue Fire, and in between
were flickers of red and green and purple. The mist gave the place an ethereal
quality that was deeply soothing. The air smelled like dry ice.

For a while he hovered anxiously, concerned that it was impossible to see
what lay ahead. Knowing he had no choice, he strode out, feeling the unnatural
sensation of feathers on his skin as he entered the mist. If it resembled the other
secret places he had visited, somewhere ahead would lie a puzzle with a particularly lethal sting; if Tom's description of the place was correct, this one would
be worst of all.

Within the mist, he lost all his bearing. After a while, a dark smudge
appeared in the drifting white, quickly forming into a figure. The Sword was in
Church's hand in an instant, electric against his skin. It was a man, dressed in
the armour and white silk of a Knight Templar, the red cross on his chest
glowing eerily. His face was drawn, his eyes hooded above a drooping white
moustache. He rested on the long sword the Templars favoured.

Church waited for him to adopt a fighting posture, but the Knight simply
motioned for Church to continue along the corridor. There was an air of deference about him, but his face was dark and threatening. Inexplicably, Church
shuddered as he passed.

Further on, other figures emerged from the mist. These were Celts ready for
battle, naked and tattooed, their hair matted, spiked and bleached with a lime
mixture. They stood against the walls on either side, watching him with baleful
eyes. Some broke away, loping past him in the direction from which he had
come. Again he felt the same old mixture of wariness and reverence, but his fear
of a sudden attack had started to wane.

As he progressed, representatives of the races that preceded the Celts floated
in and out of the mist, but most of them were swallowed up again before he got
good sight of them. At some point, a troubling noise had started up, so faint at
first he hadn't noticed it, but it built until it was pulsing through the walls with
steady, rhythmic bass notes that resonated in the pit of his stomach. It sounded
like war drums, or the beating of an enormous heart.

And then, suddenly, the mist cleared and he was looking at something so
incongruous it was at first hard to take: a large window, and beyond it people in
modern dress stared back at him with hard, uncompromising expressions.
Before he could see any more, the mist closed in once again. There had been
something dismal and threatening about the scene, although he couldn't quite
put his finger on what it was. He hurried on and didn't look back.

Finally he was out of the mist. The corridor was even wider at this pointenough for ten men to lie across-but the most curious thing was that the floor
was a mass of intricate patterns carved into the hard bedrock. There were the
familiar spirals and cup holes he had seen at prehistoric sites during his days as
a working archaeologist, but also the detailed interweaving designs of the Celts.
The patterns of hundreds, if not thousands, of years were portrayed there.

The swirls and fine detail were almost hallucinogenic, but there was no time
to waste examining the inconography. He put one foot on the edge of the pattern.

A spike burst from the ground, through the sole of his boot and into the
leather uppers. A bolt of red agony filled his leg and he howled, wrenching his foot off the iron nail with a sickening sucking sound. The spike disappeared
back into the design the moment he was free of it. Feeling sick from the shock
and the pain, he crumpled down hard on the cold stone, tearing off his boot. The
spike had torn the flesh off the insides of his big toe and his second toe, but
luckily, had done no further damage.

As he laced the boot back up, he surveyed the floor pattern: a trap. The
spikes were obviously buried along the length of the design: step on the correct
place, you were fine; make the wrong move and you were impaled. The pattern
stretched out in delirious confusion. How was he supposed to divine the path
through it?

He retreated a few paces to see if the change in perspective offered any clues,
then moved in close; it was a miasma. From a distance, it was a mess, meaningless; near to, the design hinted at great meaning, but none of it made any sense
in any context he understood. Sighing, he sat back, trying to ignore the pain
stabbing in his foot. He took comfort from the knowledge that all the previous
puzzles they had encountered had been soluble if seen from the cultural or philosophical perspective of the Celts and the earlier people who had originated
them. His university studies helped him a little in understanding their worldview, but he had never studied in depth the group that seventeenth-century
romantics had designated a unique people. He knew the Celts were a fragmented collection of tribes, originally rising from a broad area centred on India,
but common threads tied them together, of which their view of life and spirituality were probably the strongest.

He thought back over the previous puzzles and their odd mix of threat and
spiritual instruction: the one at Tintagel, where sacrifice was the key, or the clues
at Glastonbury that demanded Shavi, Ruth and Laura search for the "signal
hidden in the noise," the truth buried in the confusion, a metaphor for life.
There it was. Quickly, he crawled forward to the edge of the pattern. The Celtic
design showed serpents-or, he thought excitedly, dragons-flowing in a spiral
pattern that progressed from side to side along the floor. And the Spiral Path had
been the Celtic metaphor for both the journey through life and a ritual procession that allowed access to the Otherworld, like the spiral path carved into the
slopes of Glastonbury Tor.

Was that it? He had no way of knowing for sure until his foot was on the design, so in the end it came down to an act of faith; in himself and his own abilities.

He cracked his knuckles, then took a deep breath. It was time to embark on
the Spiral Dance and move from this life to the next.

With the air leaden in his lungs, he stepped on to the stylised Celtic serpents.
Every muscle hardened. When he realised nothing had happened, he relaxed a little, but the path was barely wider than a curb, a tightrope winding its way
through a sea of danger. What happened if he slipped? A spike ripping through
his sole, sprawling across the design, spikes punching into his body wherever he
landed. With the blood thundering in his ears, he took his second step.

The path took him from wall to wall, forwards then backwards, in slow progress
along the length of the corridor. Sweat soaked through his shirt, ran in rivulets
into the nape of his back. His head hurt from staring at the tiny pattern in the
half-light. Follow the serpent in the earth to enlightenment. As the ancient
Celtic inventors had undoubtedly intended, his stark concentration brought a
deep meditation on what he was undertaking; the metaphor of walking a thin
path through constant danger did not escape him.

At one point, he paused briefly to rest his eyes. It was a mistake, for he
instantly started wavering and almost pitched forward until he threw out both
arms to steady himself. It only just did the trick, but it was enough of a scare to
focus him even more sharply. He did one final spiral, more complex than any of
the others, and then, abruptly, the design had gone and he was back on safe stone
flags. He collapsed on to his back, sucking in soothing breaths.

He rested for only a moment before following the corridor once more. The
Spiral Path had been some kind of transition, for within a few yards the corridor
had been replaced by a wall of trees, their tops lost high up in the shadows.
Church had long since forgone trying to apply logic to his experiences in such
areas, but the sight was still oddly disturbing. The underground wood appeared
healthy enough, with full-leafed oaks and ash and hawthorn, with bracken and
brambles growing beneath them. An odd green luminescence filtered amongst
the trunks, but Church could not identify its source; it was enough to illuminate the way ahead, and gave the impression of first light or twilight.

The density of the forest added to the deep foreboding that had crept up on
him. Anything could be hiding amongst the foliage. As if to echo his suspicions,
rustling broke out in the undergrowth. A second later, two rows of sheep
emerged from the forest and passed him on either side. The ones on the left were
white, the others black, both lines walking in perfect step. The bizarre sight
became even more unnerving when one of the white sheep bleated, for then one
of the black sheep wandered over to the white queue and immediately became
white. The reverse happened when a black sheep bleated. Church looked round
to see where they were going, but there were none behind him. When he peered
back, the last few sheep emerged from the forest and were gone.