Jack of Ravens (63 page)

He bowed obsequiously. There are always many wonders at the Market of Wishful Spirit. These items may not be available for a while, but buyers will find something for their heart’s desire. Drop by, drop by.’ He edged backwards into the trees and was soon lost to the shadows.

30

The flickering black and white image showed heaps of bodies in a Vietnamese village piled high like firewood. A US soldier was about to shoot a two year old desperately pulling herself out of the mound.

‘March sixteen. My Lai. That’s Lieutenant William L. Calley Junior with the rifle. He led First Platoon. Somewhere between two hundred and five hundred villagers massacred. We’re not sure of the exact figures. Scores of women and children gang-raped by US forces.’ The low, drawling voice was impassive.

The room was dark and filled with tobacco smoke. Men in dark suits or military uniform sat or stood, watching the images of atrocities projected onto the screen.

‘In his report, Calley said the Vietcong had captured one of his men shortly before,’ another voice said. ‘Calley and his men could hear the guy screaming all night, from seven clicks away. Calley thought the VC had amplified the screams. They hadn’t. They’d skinned the guy, apart from his face, soaked him in salt water, torn his penis off.’

‘Yes, atrocities on both sides,’ the first voice agreed. ‘A moral vacuum.’

The image changed to a smart-suited black man lying dying, a bloodstain spreading across his shirt. Several other black men in suits surrounded him, their faces torn by grief and shock.

‘April 4. Martin Luther King Junior shot and killed in Memphis. The nominal assassin is James Earl Ray. With Malcolm X also dead, both voices of the black civil rights movement have been silenced.’ The narrator
coughed, then took another drag on his cigarette. ‘The following week there were black uprisings in a hundred and twenty-five cities across the nation.’

Another image. Robert F. Kennedy, brother of the assassinated US president, lying in a hotel kitchen, more blood spreading across a shirt, more expressions of grief and shock.

‘June 5. Bobby Kennedy shot moments after winning the California primary. His presidential run was ended almost before it began. The nominal assassin was Sirhan Sirhan.’

‘Another lone assassin,’ someone else mused. ‘JFK. Malcolm X. Martin Luther King. Bobby Kennedy. That joke’s wearing a bit thin.’

The projector moved to a picture of a chaotic crowd scene showing police and demonstrators clashing brutally.

‘August twenty-five to twenty-nine. The Democratic Convention in Chicago. Ten thousand anti-war demonstrators fight running battles with eleven thousand Chicago police, six thousand National Guard, seven thousand five hundred army troops and one thousand agents of the FBI, CIA and other services. Public support for the war plummets, as does trust in those opposing the war and those prosecuting the war. The hippies are demoralised. The legalize-marijuana campaign and the pro-LSD supporters are broken. There’s been a seismic shift amongst the youth from soft drugs to heroin and amphetamines.’

‘And that brings us to the election tomorrow. When Nixon and Agnew win, will we see any changes?’

‘In tone. There’ll be a move away from the political arena for a while. The music industry looks vulnerable. Rock stars and the like, opinion formers. John Lennon has been trying to invigorate the marijuana campaign. Morrison is always trouble. The Rolling Stones. That black guitarist.’

‘And don’t forget we’re going to have Charlie out in the desert with his Family.’ The lights came on and the Libertarian strode past the man who had been giving the commentary. ‘He really does have a remarkable capacity for brutality, yet so charismatic! You have to admire him.’

He marched around the room, looking like a rock star in his black coat and sunglasses. ‘Things did not go as planned during our excursion in Vietnam, that’s true, but in retrospect I think we can mark it up in the victory column. The forces of Existence have been turned back on every front. There will be no global insurrection. Our influence moves across the world, quite rapidly in some quarters. There is still a minor problem in the United Kingdom – some of the nodes of Existence’s network are still quite potent, but it’s only a matter of time.’

‘Good one. Nice and confident.’ Veitch put his feet on the mahogany table. ‘’Course you’ve still got Jack Churchill and his people out there, and
while Stonehenge and Avebury and all the other places are still pumping out the Blue Fire, he’s a threat. Or did you forget that bit?’

A flicker of annoyance crossed the Libertarian’s face, but he hid it behind a contemptuous smile. ‘It’s very brave of you to bring up your singular failure to contain the threat of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, Mr Veitch. After all, that is your sole purpose in life. There are some who might say it was rather foolish to allow you to maintain any position of responsibility after your unfortunate display in Vietnam.’

Veitch knew the Libertarian would never be able to act against him because Veitch answered to a higher power that the Libertarian would never risk offending.

‘However, I don’t quite see it that way,’ the Libertarian continued. ‘Frankly, where else could you go? You’ve systematically been burning bridges your whole, sad life. I think it may be a symptom of a self-destructive nature, sadly. The result is that you cut rather a pathetic figure. Friendless, without any direction or purpose apart from the one we give you, unfortunately not particularly blessed in the intelligence department … I really do pity you.’ He turned to the assembly. ‘I consider Mr Veitch our mascot. Where would we be without him?’

The men laughed.

Veitch’s cheeks reddened. He wished he was with Etain, lying next to her, stroking her hair. He wished the Libertarian wasn’t right.

31

Woodstock Music and Art Fair, Bethel, New York, August 1969

Church made his way past the naked men and women dancing in the August sunshine and scanned the half-million-strong crowd. He didn’t really need to see the familiar faces – he could feel their pull in his head, just as Robin Goodfellow had told him.

On stage Country Joe was performing his ‘Fixin’ to Die Rag’, and the Woodstock Aquarian Music and Art Fair eased its way slowly into history as the last gasp of the Love Generation.

Church found the Seelie Court high up on the slope of the natural amphitheatre, watching the proceedings on what was, at the time, the largest performing stage in the world. Men and women in various stages of blissed-out euphoria wandered around the fringes of the court, oblivious to the collection of odd figures.

‘Brother of Dragons.’ The queen greeted Church with a warm smile.

Church gave a bow. ‘Your majesty. It’s good to see you again.’

‘And you. I feel your presence in my head. This is an unusual development.’

‘Something Robin Goodfellow arranged from the time we met at the music hall.’

‘Ah, the Puck. He is a merry fellow. But you would do well not to keep him at your back, Brother of Dragons.’

The king finished watching Country Joe’s set and turned his attention to Church. ‘The Fragile Creatures have excelled themselves this time. This is a spectacle beyond all others.’

Church had to agree. The performers included some of the most celebrated bands of all time – The Who, The Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix, Crosby, Stills & Nash and Sly and the Family Stone. The organisers had only expected 50,000 people a day. Ten times that number had blocked all roads leading to the isolated farm where the festival was being held, a population equivalent to the third biggest city in the state.

‘Would you like to spend some time with the Seelie Court?’ the queen asked.

‘Thank you – that’d be great. And I would like to ask for your help in a very important matter.’

‘A boon?’

‘You have always been friends of my people. The years to come are going to be very hard for them. They’re going to need all the help they can get, as will I.’

The queen patted the grass beside her. Sit, then, Brother of Dragons, and tell us your heart’s desire.’

32

On the stage, Santana were playing, their samba rhythms a jaunty contrast to the lowering clouds. It was the following day, and Church was apprehensive despite a good night’s sleep. It felt as if they were on the brink of a disaster. In the Far Lands, the courts of the Tuatha De Danann were refusing to unite despite the fact that the forces of the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders were increasing by the day. And here in what he still humorously called the real world’, the Enemy appeared to have reshaped much of the globe into the Void’s image of Anti-Life, where power and money and war and brutality ruled, and there was no room for hope, love or wonder. He saw only one opportunity to turn back the tide and that depended upon the vagaries of the Seelie Court.

Gabe came up to him as he watched the band. ‘You ready?’

‘Are you?’

He grinned. Never been surer. Marcy and me, we’re poles apart in the way we see the world, but without her I haven’t got a point.’ Gabe glanced up the slope to where the preparations were being made for the wedding.

‘You’re never going to forget the bands you had for the reception,’ Church said.

‘It just felt right. The vibe here … it’s what we believe in. Things are falling apart all over, but we’ll remember this day, and what it meant, and if things do get dark we’ll have something to keep us going.’

Church considered this for a moment. ‘I’m worried about you, Gabe. You’re starting to talk some sense.’

‘Blame Marcy for that.’ He laughed quietly. ‘Thanks for being best man.’

‘It was me or Tom, and frankly if he’s the best you can do, there’s not much hope.’

‘Wavy Gravy and the Hog Farm are doing the food. I’d better check everything’s on schedule.’

He headed off just as Niamh wound her way through the crowds. She looked perfectly at home, barefoot in a hippie dress, her ethereal beauty drawing stares from everyone she passed. She pulled his arm through hers.

‘Tom’s helping some kids who took some bad acid,’ she said.

‘He still doesn’t want to go back to your court?’

‘He says his heart is here in the Fixed Lands at this time. He says he will do what he can here to mount a resistance to the Enemy’s plans.’

‘That sounds as if he’s admitting defeat.’

‘No. He says he has faith in you.’

‘Good old Tom. Never one to pile on the pressure.’ Church felt sad that they would be parting ways. For all his curmudgeonly ways, Tom had been a good friend.

Niamh looked towards the stage and her grip on him grew tighter. ‘It will not be long now before you are reunited with your love.’

‘Just over thirty-five years here. A blink of the eye in the Far Lands.’ Church noticed the subtle cast of Niamh’s face and silently cursed himself for his insensitivity. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added.

‘Why?’

‘Because I can’t return what you feel for me.’

‘If anyone is to blame it is me. You have no choice. I choose to love you regardless.’ She forced a smile. ‘Besides, it will all be meaningless in a short while.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

Gabe was hailing him from further up the slope. The wedding was about to begin. Niamh urged Church gently towards the ceremony, and soon he forgot he had even asked the question.

33

It was Sunday evening and hundreds of campfires blazed across the festival site. For a moment, Church thought he was back in the Iron Age at some vast gathering of the tribes. There was the same feeling of hope in the air, that no matter how dark the night, a new dawn was never far away.

The wedding had gone well and Gabe and Marcy had taken their tent to another part of the site for some honeymoon privacy. Tom and Niamh had gone off, deep in conversation. Their mood was restrained, but they refused to tell Church what was on their minds. More secrets; he was sick of it all, the undercurrents and the manipulations. He longed for simpler times, for some fabled golden age when there was no responsibility.

Someone announced over the speaker that it was midnight and Blood, Sweat and Tears were about to come on stage.

‘How very fitting.’

Church looked around to see the Libertarian sitting next to him. He held out a paper bag. ‘Would you like some brown acid? I’ve been giving it away in the crowd.’

Church tried to jump to his feet, but he was thrust roughly back to the ground. It was Veitch. Etain, Tannis, Owein and Branwen stood nearby.

‘No need for any anxiety. Chill out. That’s what they say here, isn’t it?’ The campfires were reflected in the Libertarian’s sunglasses so that it looked as if his eyes were burning. ‘I just want to talk. No fighting. No blood, sweat or tears. Just a quiet chat in the hope that we can reach a mutual agreement.’

Church bristled. ‘You think we’re going to find some common ground?’

‘I do. Really, it’s the only sensible course. We both have needs … obligations … If we can both achieve our ends without any further death, surely that is the way forward?’

‘Why the change of tune? Afraid you’re going to lose?’