Phil Rickman - The Cold Calling

Fighting for the cough tautened his muscles and made his body curl and jerk, as if he was struggling inside a straitjacket, but the cough wouldn’t come out, just built up and locked, and he went into a blind panic and rolled out of bed, over and over on the floor, numbed fingers tearing at his throat.

Cindy made some tea on the dressing table and, while it was brewing, read the last pages from Ersula Underhill, in which the girl described her dream of lying on the stone, shoulder to shoulder with a decaying body. Scary fun, Grayle? Oh dear.

Grayle sat at the foot of the bed, hands clasped between her knees, clearly unsure of quite how seriously to take all this. Reading the letter had told Cindy a lot about the two sisters, how they differed in their beliefs and perceptions. Grayle was the insecure one, the scatty one; it must have taken a great deal of determination for her to come here. And a deal of anxiety, too.

She looked up at him. ‘I met some people … at the Rollright Stones?’

‘Oh yes?’

‘This guy, he said sometimes you would encounter — in your dreams — what he called guardians. Is that what I think it is?’

‘The genius loci . Sometimes. But many guardians have been created by people using these places for worship. Elemental spirits. Ritual stones are like computers. Spiritual entities are stored there. For centuries sometimes, even millennia, to deter robbers and vandals.’

‘Right.’

‘And so anyone sleeping at an ancient site should not be surprised to encounter one. The deliberate act of dreaming is an invasion, and the guardian would be programmed, as it were, to react. The guardian, by nature, is a fearsome apparition which can be dangerous. Strong nerves are called for.’

‘Well, sure, Ersula has strong nerves, but …’

‘However,’ Cindy said, ‘this doesn’t sound like a guardian to me. More of a trace-image. An ancient site usually holds more than one strand of history, see. For instance, in the Dark Ages, we have old shrines taken over by somewhat degenerate Druidic cults, not averse to human sacrifice. This could very well be a flash-image from some sort of blood sacrifice.’

Grayle said, ‘You know what really scares me about this country? It’s all so close, so near the surface.’

‘It’s near the surface in many parts of the Earth.’ Cindy poured tea. ‘It’s just that here, so little has altered visually over the centuries that our imaginations do not have to work so hard.’

‘My imagination is kind of like an untrained Dobermann. Most of the time you have to forcibly restrain it.’

Cindy smiled. ‘Look, lovely, you trusted me, I shall trust you. This particular site is referred to by two names — High Knoll and Black Knoll, and they seem to reflect two sides of it.’

‘Good and evil?’

‘Possibly as simple as that, probably not. The concepts of good and evil seldom apply in this sphere. I was thinking more of male and female. The female side represented by the vision of the Virgin Mary, itself reestablishing a link with the earliest sun-worship at the site. And then we have the male element. Linked, perhaps, to the bloodier aspect.’

‘Right.’ Grayle accepted a cup of tea and held it on her knees. ‘But where is this headed? Are we saying that Ersula — who we know was charmed by the idea of the Virgin appearing at this Stone Age site — are we saying she inadvertently let herself in for something … old and bad?’

‘This letter was the last you heard? You don’t know when she left here?’

‘I know that some time after she wrote this, she was wandering around in a kind of dislocated state. She met these people at the Rollright Stones. They’re nice. The people, not the stones.’

‘No. Those stones have their problems. Why did she go there?’

‘I guess she had something on her mind. Maybe she was looking for friends. Someone to confide in. But maybe, if something bad happened to you in connection with prehistoric remains, these people, Matthew and Janny, maybe they’re not the kind of people to help you. They’re real friendly, obliging, all of that, but a little, uh, enthusiastic. Kind of naive, I guess. Anything bad, they’d tell you you had it wrong.’

‘Have you been yet … to see Mr Falconer?’

‘I figured I’d go tomorrow. I wanted to gather as much background as I could before I confronted the guy. He sounds kind of formidable.’

‘So I believe.’

‘Actually, I was given a videotape of his TV programme which I hoped to view before I went over there, on account I don’t even know what he looks like, but this place doesn’t appear to be equipped with the necessary hardware.’

‘I should quite like to view that, too,’ Cindy said thoughtfully. ‘I travel around too much to see much television. I wonder if Marcus Bacton has a video machine.’

‘Marcus Bacton . Yeah. I need to talk with him too. Maybe I need to spend another day here. Look … OK …’ Grayle focused on Cindy over the rim of her white teacup. ‘You know why I’m here. Why are you here?’

‘Ah.’ Cindy needed time to think. ‘It would take too long. We’ll talk tomorrow. After I see Mr Bacton.’

‘Oh. OK.’ Grayle put her cup on the floor. ‘Uh, this … guardian … trace-image, whatever. I mean, they can’t harm you, these things, can they?’

‘Not … not physically. No. Probably not physically.’

‘But they can fuck up your head?’

‘I suppose … Yes, as you so charmingly put it, I suppose they can fuck up your head.’

But that’s not what really worries you, is it?

Cindy lay in bed again, with the light out. It would be dawn soon. No matter; he didn’t need much sleep these days.

The Green Man.

The oldest guardian. Stern defender of the Earth. Just talking it out with Grayle Underhill had made it so much clearer in his mind. He could almost feel the Green Man writhing there.

And Grayle’s sister was missing.

Am I quite mad? Cindy wondered before sleep consented to take him. Please God, let me be mad.

This is how it goes, Grayle thought, struggling with the zipper on her jeans. This is how it happens.

Outside the window, morning rinsed the pink stone of the village.

So you do something rash and you wind up in a strange place. You’re lonely and anxious and it all seems so futile. This is when you’re at your most vulnerable. This is how rich, empty widows wind up backing half-assed business deals and homeless kids get sucked into fruitcake religious sects.

Somebody is kind to you, is how it starts. Deep into the night, somebody wants to listen.

Just that, by daylight, the whole idea of a cross-dressing actor-ventriloquist who believed he was into a mystical tradition with a direct line to the megalith-builders seemed a whole lot less convincing than it had last night.

Plus, why should Cindy suddenly pick up on her in a bar? What was he doing here anyway and why had he not wanted to tell her last night? If he was looking up his old friend Marcus Bacton, why was he staying at the inn, and why was he alone?

Grayle felt calmer and stronger this morning. She would investigate the University of the Earth. She would do it objectively and efficiently. She would find out what it was that had so seduced Ersula, but she would resist its allure. And Cindy’s.

Get wise. Grayle moved down the dark, twisty stairs to chase up a small breakfast before seeking out Cefn-y-bedd. Put some distance.

‘What’s up with you, Maiden?’ Marcus dangerously dug a fork into the toaster to retrieve a fractured slice. ‘I mean, what the bloody hell is up ? You look like you haven’t slept.’

‘That’s because I haven’t slept.’