Catherine Fisher - Corbenic

Behold the marvels , they whispered. Behold the mysteries of the Grail .

But all he saw was Sutton Street. It was his old bedroom, with the stained carpet and the frowsty bed and the thud of next door’s stereo through the walls. He lay there in his old T-shirt and pajama trousers, and Shadow was sitting on the floor next to the radiator that leaked.

She glared up at him. “You! You’ve got a nerve!”

He sat up, stared around, confused. “It shouldn’t be you . . .”

“Why the hell not!” She was blazing with anger. “Who asked you to interfere, Cal! It was none of your business, none of it!”

“I thought . . .”

“I was happy with the Company! Now look what you’ve done to me! Look where I am!” She scrambled up, and she was strange to him, as if her shape had shifted, her face washed and unveiled and unfamiliar. She grabbed hold of his wrist, sharp nails digging in. “The police came! My mother—oh, you should have heard her. She should have won ten Oscars for that performance.”

He was hurting. She was hurting him. “I thought . . . It’s just you had everything I ever wanted. And you ran away from it.”

“Money’s not happiness.” She dropped his wrist and stepped back. “Private schools and a big house and three cars, that’s not happiness. Didn’t you ever think I could be unhappy too?”

He shook his head, numbed. He couldn’t believe that. He still couldn’t.

The stereo thumped. He got off the bed and sat on its edge, leaning over and running his hands through his hair as he’d used to, when it had woken him, when he’d been waiting for his mother to get home.

Shadow watched him, rigid a moment. Then she came and sat next to him.

The light from the lamppost outside flickered and went out. In the darkness she said, “I hate it here, Cal. I’m all on my own. Find me.”

The voice wasn’t hers. It came from the woman sitting by the cauldron who looked up as he sat, pushing aside the tangle of nightshade and hemlock.

This was a dark place. A cave, maybe, an underworld. On the red walls he saw the old graffiti from Sutton Street, and smudgy paintings of animals, and handmarks.

She shuffled up to make room for him. “I’ve been waiting, Cal.”

The cauldron was huge. Bronze, dented, with a curling red enamel pattern around the rim. It hung from three great chains that rose up into the darkness and vanished, as if they reached to the sky. In it, liquid bubbled and plopped. Steam rose, half hiding his mother.

It was she who wore the tattoos now, not a web like Shadow, but blue lines on her cheeks. She took his hand, and stroked it. “Did you think it was an accident?” she said quietly.

“I don’t know. Was it?”

She didn’t answer. Then she said, “All our lives, minute by minute, lead to what we are.” She looked around and laughed, that rare silvery laugh he had not heard for years. “I used to be scared of the dark. But this isn’t so bad. Not with a few decent curtains.”

He tried to smile. Steam blurred between them. “Do you forgive me?” he whispered.

The cauldron bubbled. When he knew she was not there, was not going to answer, he stood and looked into it, and saw that fish swam in there, shoals of them, though the liquid was red. One of the fish leaped; he jerked back as it flashed out and back, barely missing his face with its tail. And three drops of the blood fell out onto the snow. He stared at them, because they were the heart of it, the secret, melting into each other, pitting the white frosted crystals.

“Cal.”

Owein. One of the Company. He caught Cal’s arm but Cal flung him off. “Leave me alone.”

There were feathers now, black, from a bird’s wing. Black. White. Red.

The Company were here, all around him. “Leave him to me,” Kai was saying; he came over. “Arthur wants you. We’ve been looking for you.”

“Leave me ALONE!” He had the sword, he struck out with it, and Kai’s parry was hurried and wrong, and Cal stepped in close and hurled the man back, so that he landed sprawling, the dark expensive coat in the slush, his fair hair in his eyes. Astonished, he stared up. Cal laughed, then turned, threatening. “That goes for all of you!”

Darkness. Light. Blood. These were what the Grail held. There was a great truth, a breathtaking secret and he almost had hold of it, a door he had almost tugged open, the handle smooth under his fingers, the castle walls rising in front of him, and this was Corbenic and he was home, and a voice said, “Even me, Cal?” and it all vanished and he turned, white with fury.

But Hawk was unarmed. “Wake up, laddie,” he whispered.

He was warmer. Green light was filtering through leaves onto his face, and the dog was snoring beside him, a comfortable lump curled around his legs. Stiff, Cal sat up.

The fire smoldered smokily. Birds were singing, and the sun glinted through the overgrown windows of the chapel. Of Merlin there was no sign.

Pushing the sleepy dog off he climbed up and brushed leaf dust and soil and grime from his ruined jeans and jacket, rubbed his stubbly face and yawned. He needed a wash and a drink.

Outside, ducking under the archway, he found a small spring that bubbled out of the rocks, a tiny, crystal-clear water source that he drank from again and again, splashing the icy drops on his face and hands, down his neck, as if he could never have enough of it.

As he dried himself awkwardly with his sleeve, he listened to the trickle and splash of the water. It was loud. It hadn’t been there last night. He looked around.

The chapel was tilted, as if some great blow had struck it. Its walls were nearly smothered, but he could see carved stones worn almost to smoothness by centuries of rain; coming up to one he pushed the ivy aside and felt with his fingers the gnarled grotesque faces, the cavalcade of knights that curved around the pillar. Small grains dislodged and fell from under his fingertips.

“Breakfast,” Merlin said cheerfully.

Cal spun.

The Hermit leaned against a tree. He waved a hand over a spread of leaves and nuts, daintily arranged.

Cal came and sat down. He looked at the unappetizing mess. “Thanks.”

Merlin selected an ancient hazelnut with great care. To Cal’s amazement, when he spoke he sounded completely normal. “There are lots of old stories about the Grail. Some say it was a Celtic cauldron. Others the cup of the Last Supper. There are different versions of the myth, but the most well known has Joseph of Arimathea bringing the cup to Britain, and possibly to the Island of Avalon.”

Cal said, “Where’s that?”

“Beyond. ‘Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly. Where I will heal me of my grievous wound . ’ Some say Glastonbury.”

Cal had heard of it. “There’s a rock festival there.”

“Indeed.” Merlin scratched his tangle of hair with long fingers.

“You think I should look there? For Corbenic?”

The Hermit smiled. “That is within you. You might find that anywhere. Percival fails to ask about the Grail and must return to the castle. That was always your mistake, not going back. But first . . .”

“First I have something else to do. Someone else to see.”

Merlin’s eyes slid to the woods. “Your shadow.”

Wary, Cal stood. “Maybe. But first, how do I get out of this place?”

“You just wish to be out.” Merlin picked up a nut and tossed it away; it hit the dog. He turned and glared at her. “You! Bitch!” He scrambled up hastily, swung to Cal. “How long has she been here? Has she heard everything? Has she found the secrets yet, the secrets of my power?”

His heart sinking, Cal took a step back. He went into the chapel and found his bag, and filled his water bottle hastily at the tiny spring.