Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) (61 page)

The lights stayed that way for a long moment, and then the cross slowly broke up and they drifted away to lose themselves among the billowing clouds. Will chewed on the back of his hand; he appeared to be shaking all over.

Tom winced, then sighed, unsure quite how to say what he felt. “It might-“

“I know what you’re going to say. It might not be what I think. I might be putting my own interpretation on it. But can’t you see-that doesn’t matter! It’s a sign of something bigger. That’s all we really need.”

He sat for a while with his head resting on the steering wheel. When he did finally look up, he was transformed, beaming and optimistic. Seeing him, Tom couldn’t help but think that perhaps he was right.

Will left them on the outskirts of Newcastle, where Tom caught up on his sleep in a back garden shed. The next morning they picked up a succession of lifts that took them north. They crossed Hadrian’s Wall without incident and made better going across the Scottish Lowlands, with several other lifts taking them north of Stirling. They were dogged by repeated technology failures on the outskirts of Perth and, in frustration, decided to proceed on foot. Although it was rough going as they moved into the foothills of the Cairngorms, they knew it was also the best option for safety. With only the A9 as the main route northwards, their chance of discovery would increase tenfold in a vehicle.

The pines in the Forest of Atholl were cool and fragrant and filled with game birds. Veitch even brought down a deer with his crossbow and that night they enjoyed a royal feast, with enough meat left over to last them days. Beyond the trees they headed across the deserted countryside towards Ben Macdui, which dominated the skyline, rugged and brown against the blue sky. Crystalclear springs plummeting down from the peaks provided them with a plentiful supply of refreshing water and away from the pollution the clear air was invigorating; they both felt much better for it.

Their relationship passed through raucous humour, anger and mild bick ering, often in the course of a single hour. Veitch couldn’t work Tom out at all; he got lost in the hidden depths of his companion, found himself unable to navigate the subtleties of his intellect and moods. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that the stone-faced, grey-haired man was a fraud, trading on his reputation as some hero of myth. Tom seemed to have a great deal of knowledge about every subject, but he rarely volunteered it when it was needed, which was anathema to Veitch, who believed at all times in acting quickly and decisively.

With only twelve days remaining, they had been through a period of uncomfortable silence brought on by an argument over which was the quickest route to take across the hills. The uneasy atmosphere dissipated sharply when Veitch caught sight of a swathe of constant motion, passing across the lower reaches of the mountain range far below them. At first glance it appeared as if the land itself were fluid, rippling and changing in a dark green wave moving slowly across the landscape.

“What is that?” He tried to pick out detail from the glorious sweep of the countryside.

“Look.” Tom pointed to what appeared to be a tiny figure moving ahead of the wave.

Veitch continued to stare until he realised what was happening: the wave was actually vegetation; trees were sprouting from the ground and shooting up to full maturity in a matter of minutes, and the uncanny effect seemed to be following the tiny figure.

“The Welsh knew her as Ceridwen,” Tom said.

Witch glanced at him disbelievingly. “How can you tell that from here?”

“My vision is better than yours.” Tom made no effort to convince Veitch. “Better than any human’s.”

“Okay, what’s she doing then?”

“She’s one of the Golden Ones-she comes from the family of Cernunnos. What is she doing? It looks to me like she’s returning the primaeval forest to the Highlands, the way it used to be before all the trees were cleared for agriculture and industry.”

“What for?”

“To her branch of the Golden Ones, nature is very special, and the trees and their living spirits are the best representation of that. She’s bringing magic back to the land in a way that people will truly be able to appreciate. For wherever trees grow, magic thrives.”

Veitch dropped to his haunches, balancing himself with the tips of his fingers. He caught a glimpse of black hair, flowing like oil, and what appeared to be a cape swirling behind Ceridwen, sometimes the colour of sapphires, then emeralds. “I don’t get it. If they’re supposed to be the enemy, how come they’re looking after the land? I thought that was our job.”

Tom shrugged. “On most levels they’re higher beings. They understand the things we take for granted.”

The Rhymer wandered off, but Veitch stayed watching the verdant band spread back and forth across the desolate landscape. It filled him with a tremendous sense of well-being that he couldn’t quite explain, and when he took his leave five minutes later, he did so reluctantly.

They spent half an hour looking for a place sheltered enough to make camp in the bleak uplands and by that time twilight had turned to near dark. Despite the season, the wind had turned bitter again and there was a hint of icy rain in the air.

“I don’t like this,” Veitch said as he tramped breathlessly up an incline.

Tom grunted; he was in one of his moods where conversation was a burden.

“The dark, out here in the country.” Veitch knew he was talking as much for himself, but it made him feel a little more easy. “I’m a city boy. It never gets dark in the city, even when it’s night. You’ve got other things to worry about there, but at least they’re always easy to see.” He looked up. “The moon’s full. It’d give us more light if not for the bleedin’ clouds.”

“You’re not afraid of a few shadows, are you?” Tom snapped. His brogue had grown a little thicker now he was back in his homeland again.

“Ah, fuck off.”

“City boys. You think you’re so hard,” Tom taunted.

Witch’s anger flared white and hot for an instant; sometimes he was afraid of it and the way it seemed to take him over completely. He wondered, when he was in its grip, what he was really capable of. Before he could respond with a comment that would bring about another raging argument, he glimpsed a light high and away to his right that was quickly lost behind an outcropping. He pulled back until he saw it again.

“There’s a place up there.” The light seemed more than welcoming in the sea of darkness. “Maybe they’ll let us bunk down for the night.”

Tom wavered for a moment, but the prospect of a night with a roof over his head seemed too attractive. He pushed past Veitch and marched briskly towards the white glow.

It was a crofter’s cottage, built out of stone, but still looking as if it had been hammered by the elements almost to the point of submission. Smoke curled out of the chimney to hang briefly and fragrantly in the air; it smelled of peat or some wood they couldn’t quite identify. The ghostly outlines of prone sheep glowed faintly on the hillside all around. They both watched the place for a few moments while they weighed up any potential dangers, then, finding none apparent, Tom strode up to knock on the door.

There was a brief period of quiet during which they guessed the occupant was shocked that someone had come calling to such an out-of-the-way place. Then heavy footsteps approached. “Who is it?” a deep voice said in a hesitant Highlands accent.

“We were out walking. There looks to be a storm blowing up,” Tom said politely. “Do you think you could give us shelter for the night? We-“

“No. Be off with you.” There was a sharp snap in the voice that could have been anger or fear.

“Miserable bastard,” Veitch muttered. “Come on, I thought I saw somewhere to make camp just over there. He’s probably in-bred anyway.”

Before they could move away another, unidentifiable, voice rose up from somewhere at the back of the house. They heard the man move a few steps away from the door and a brief, barely audible argument ensued. A few seconds later the door was jerked open so sharply they both started.

A man in his late forties with dark, unwelcoming eyes barked, “Get in. Quickly now!”

They jumped at his order and he slammed the door behind them, throwing a couple of bolts as if to emphasise his order. He was wearing a faded Miami Tshirt with old blue braces over the top holding up a pair of dirty grey, pinstriped suit trousers. His hair was curly black and grey, but his three-day stubble made him appear harsher than he might otherwise have been. He sized them up suspiciously, then beckoned them over to the fireside with a seemingly approving grunt. “Better get y’sen warmed up. It gets cold up here at night, even in summer.”

He disappeared into another room and came back with a woman in her early twenties who had obviously been the source of the argument. Her face was bright and confident, as welcoming as the man was suspicious. Her hair was long and shiny-black, her eyes dark, and she was slim, in a clean white T-shirt and faded Levi’s. There was something about her that reminded Veitch of Ruth, although her features had more of country stock in them.

“You’ll have to forgive my dad. He doesn’t know the meaning of hospitality.” The father began to speak, but she silenced him with a flashing glare; a fiery temper clearly lay just beneath the surface. “I’m Anna. Dad here, he’s James. Jim.”

“Mr. McKendrick,” the father mumbled in the background.

Tom and Veitch introduced themselves. “You’ve been having some trouble,” Tom noted, slipping off his rucksack.

“Something’s been worrying the sheep.” Looking uncomfortable, McKendrick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Worrying? Savaging more like. Six dead in the last two nights. Eight gone last month.”

“A wild dog,” Tom suggested, not believing it for a minute.

“Sat up with my gun last night. Never saw a damn thing. Found what was left of the carcasses at first light.”

Tom nodded. “I can see that would be a problem. And you thought the culprit had come knocking at the door?”

McKendrick ignored him. Anna stepped in. “Have you eaten? I could do you some bacon sandwiches?”

They both agreed this would be a good idea. While McKendrick pulled back the curtains to peer outside, Tom disappeared to use the toilet. Once Veitch heard the spattle of hot oil and smelled the first singe of the bacon he followed Anna into the small kitchen, which was barely big enough for the two of them.

She smiled when he entered and asked him to slice the bread. “You’ll have to excuse Dad. He’s been under a lot of pressure. You don’t make any money with a croft at the best of times, and the last few years certainly haven’t been the best of times. He cannae afford to lose sheep at this rate.”

“You help him out here?”

“Don’t look so surprised!” She slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “My mum died earlier this year. It was a shock to us all, but Dad took it really hard. Went to pieces, really. I was living down in Glasgow, having the time of my life, but I jacked it all in to come back here and get him back on his feet.”

Veitch took the spatula from her hand and turned the bacon, but he couldn’t take his eyes from her face. Her own eyes matched his, move for move. “That was good of you.”

“Don’t make me out to be a saint. Anybody would have done it for family. But no good deed goes unpunished, right? Now he doesn’t want me stuck in a miserable life like crofting miles away from anything anybody could call society, and he doesn’t want to lose me and be on his own either. So we sit here every night stewing in our juices.”

“Must be pretty hard.”

She shrugged. “So what about you? You don’t look the kind to be hillwalking in these times.” She looked him in the eye. “Nobody would be up here alone at night in the Troubles. Unless they had a very good reason.”

“I have a very good reason.”

“Tell me about it, then.”

“I’m a big bleedin’ hero trying to save the world from disaster.”

Her eyes ranged over his deadpan face as she tried to pick the truth from his comment. Eventually she held his gaze, while a smile crept across her lips, and then she turned back to the cooker. But she never told him what she thought.

They ate the sandwiches in front of the fire. McKendrick thawed a little and even offered around a shot of malt which looked, from its unlabelled bottle, as if it had been distilled locally. Veitch still couldn’t take his eyes off Anna. He didn’t know if it was because she reminded him of Ruth or because of some other attraction, and that thought filled him with guilt about how fickle he really was. For her part, Anna seemed truly taken by him. While Tom and her father talked in quiet, serious tones by the fire, the two of them sat in creaking, threadbare armchairs in one corner, their lighthearted conversation punctuated with humour.

But at one point Veitch looked up and found McKendrick watching him with a cold annoyance bordering on anger. Veitch knew why, didn’t care; life was too short.

They were disturbed shortly after midnight by a wild commotion outside: the undeniable sound of sheep in torment, deep rumbling from some unrecognisable animal throat that turned into a guttural roar. Veitch was the first to the window, but the light inside made it impossible to see more than a few feet. McKendrick had his gun and hovered hesitantly at the door, but Veitch was by his side before he had his fingers on the handle.

“Let me go first, all right?” The crossbow was in his hand as he slipped out into the chill night. He regretted it instantly. Even outside it was impossible to see much beyond the small circle of illumination from the croft’s windows; he could almost feel the darkness pressing hard against him. He had advanced to the edge of the light before McKendrick came out with a powerful torch. He had never heard the noise the sheep were making before; it was frenzied and high-pitched and at times almost sounded like the shriek of a woman.

“Quick! Over there!” He pointed redundantly in the direction of the noise.

The determination in McKendrick’s face didn’t quite mask the underlying fear as he swung the torch round wildly. It flashed over undulating grass, the ghostly grey shapes of fleeing sheep, past something that was just a glimmer, but a splash of colour and a jarring shape that shouldn’t be caught Veitch’s eye. “Back! Back!” he yelled.