Phil Rickman - The Cold Calling

Actually, producing clouds, adding density to the atmosphere, is more interesting and far more powerful .

Close the eyes, imagine (create!) cold in the body. This is done, initially, through the feet, the cold drawn up from the dark places of the earth (best achieved when standing on stone) and sent to the base of the spine to form an icy ball around the spinal chakra. Slowly, the cold is drawn — through breathing — into each of the body’s seven power-centres, and then projected into the aura. Finally, often in a fit of shivering, the command is given .

It is easier at dawn, when the sun is vulnerable and unsure of itself. From the pines, he watches it fade. The Earth senses the commitment and he feels radiant in Her trust .

The stand of pines, on its small hill, is surely as old as the great stones three miles to the south. This can be felt. These trees and generations of their ancestors, sturdy and aloof, taller than many a church steeple .

But the power of this site is probably unknown. Except to the Green Man .

They have been priming the place, he and the Earth, through the hours of the night, he lying supine under the harvest stars or sitting cross-legged and straight-backed in meditation among the needles and the brittle cones. The weight of anticipation kept him awake, the certainty that someone would be sent. And, of course, the special energy of the site itself. Once, there was sex: his penis summoned aloft by the thrusting pines, Earthen lips exquisitely cold around it .

And then came the dream. The dream of the Barber-Surgeon. The dream sent to him from the great stones of Avebury in their agony .

The one who has been sent comes in a straight line (of course) through the mist, following the green road between the fields .

It is almost nine o’clock, later than the Green Man expected .

Still, the longer the wait, the greater the accumulation of energy. He feels Her moving close to him and his whole body hardens as he stands, legs apart, among the ancient pines .

Actually, this person is not quite what he expected. He was envisaging a New Age traveller. Or two. Two would be a challenge, although not much of one when one takes into consideration that element of surprise .

The man wears a waterproof jacket, flat cap and new-looking walking boots. He has a small backpack, carries a pair of rubber-covered binoculars and an Ordnance Survey map in a plastic sleeve .

He looks very respectable, fairly intelligent. Not the sort of person you would expect to deface an ancient monument .

Not your decision … Not your place to question …

No. Of course not .

‘Good morning,’ the man says cheerfully. Panting slightly as he reaches the top of the little hill and turns to make a theatrical point of admiring the half-misted view. ‘Wonderful!’

They share a smile. The Green Man wonders if he should tell the newcomer what is to happen. This would be even more powerful. Especially if he was able to understand the complexity of it. And be proud .

‘You are with our lot, aren’t you?’ The man chuckles. ‘Thought everybody was having a bit of a lie-in. After last night. By Jove, it doesn’t take prisoners, that real ale, does it? Mind you, I find this is the best way to clear your head. Make yourself get out of bed. Let the country air get at it. Beats aspirin, does country air.’

‘Our lot?’

‘The t-Oh.’ He peers at the Green Man. ‘Bloody hell, you’re not, are you? Sorry, sorry. Many apologies. There’s a collection of us, you see, from clubs in the north Midlands. Twitchers — birdwatchers. Every year, we go to a different county for a long weekend. Only, the first night it always gets a bit convivial. Demob-happy, you see.’

A birdwatcher!

And one with the garrulous self-importance of a minor local autocrat — council official, bank manager or some such. A birdwatcher. No guts for the kill. He’s not meant to know, he would never understand. He’s crass, an idiot, unworthy of the honour of knowledge .

‘Super day, though.’ The birdwatcher sets down his pack and sits on it. ‘Been camping?’

Also, a poor specimen. Not very big, not very young, not very fit and depressingly unaware .

‘Used to go in for camping when I was younger. My wife and I, that is. Couldn’t get her into a tent nowadays. Don’t mean she wouldn’t fit, although there’d not be much room for anyone else, I have to say. It’s just …’

He takes off his cap, smooths down his hair, replaces the cap .

‘… just that women seem to get older younger than we do, if you see what I mean. Lose their instinct for adventure. No spirit. On holiday, are you? Know the area well?’

‘Yes.’

He sniffs. ‘Call ourselves birdwatchers. Just an excuse really. To get away from the wives, get some fresh air, have a few pints in peace. Ah, well . ‘

He breathes deeply and closes his eyes. Sitting on his pack with his knees together, his hands clasped around them. And at that moment, the sun finds a hole in the mist and lays a white beam up to his feet .

Yes .

Feel it. Feel it rise through the soles of the feet, up the backs of the braced legs into the spine, out to the shoulders, rippling down the arms, the wrists, the gloved hands behind the back, gripping the stone .

‘So what do you do,’ the Green Man asks mildly, ‘when you’re not birdwatching?’

The eyes tip open. ‘You’ll laugh. I run a small chain of ladies’ hairdressers in Wolverhampton . ‘

And the Green Man does laugh, with the sheer joy of the revelation, the fitting of the last segment of a perfect circle .

He sees a first flicker of uncertainty in the birdwatcher’s colourless eyes as the little man attempts to rise, before the stone crunches his nose, like a red pepper. His eyes flicker rapidly through an amazing range of emotions: outrage, disbelief, terror … and, finally, pleading. He opens his mouth and the Green Man stops his scream with the stone, and the birdwatcher gags on blood and smashed teeth. Soon there is a quite terrific amount of blood, mixed with vomit, and it forms a warm delta between the exposed roots of the tallest pine .

He woke up in a dark panic. Or didn’t. Didn’t wake up …

… woke down .

Dreams bunched and knotted behind his shuttered eyes, and he couldn’t open them. Couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. I’m paralysed .

A whizzing, a flittering, snipping tearing.

As he awoke again, into the cold.

Lying on his back, the sky above him alive with dark wings. Tried to hurl himself away, muscles wouldn’t respond. Locked. Everything inside him got behind a scream, but his throat wouldn’t process it. No lubrication. All congealed inside, all the liquids in him had clotted and dried when the blood stopped flowing.

Like a corpse. Like a corpse . Muscles rotted through. Torn. Shredded bits of him pecked away, ripped away, chewed away, blown away … and no eyes to see any of it. Couldn’t open his eyes because there weren’t any eyes. You couldn’t open bone.

Whimpering. He heard whimpering, and it was his own. Whimpering and the clatter of a morning trolley. A morning was happening somewhere out there, but he wasn’t part of it. He was out of it. He was two days dead.

He turned his head on the sweat-damp pillow and opened his eyes. Third awakening. Always three; never trust the first two.

God help me .