Always Forever (12 page)

"Well, indeed. I have met many of our travelling companions and investigated some of the wonders hidden in Wave Sweeper."

"You always were a sociable and inquisitive fellow," Cormorel noted dismissively. Church and Ruth sensed some kind of tension between the two. Cormorel
clapped his hands once. Instantly some of the bland-featured Tuatha lle Danann
emerged from side rooms carrying platters of food and goblets of wine. Their
perfect features, so devoid of even the hint of emotion, made Church and Ruth
uncomfortable.

"Why are these young ones always servants?" Ruth asked.

"They are new. They must exist in servitude until they have learnt what it
truly means to be a Golden One." Cormorel virtually ignored them.

"New?" Ruth persisted.

"Barely Golden Ones at all, but still not of the race of Adam. They have not settled into their greatness or understanding of the fluidity of it all. Fixed, if you
will, like you and your world."

"So, the lowest of the low," Church noted acidly. "You can't escape hierarchy
whichever way you turn."

"There is a structure to everything, Brother of Dragons. You should know
that by now." Cormorel eyed him sardonically.

"Yes, that's always the argument. It must be nice to have such a full understanding of the rules and regulations of the Maker."

They were interrupted by the servants, who laid out the food and drink before
them: roasted, spiced meat, a few vegetables, bread, and other things so strange
they made their stomach turn. One platter contained something like a living squid,
though it had fifteen legs, all of them writhing madly in the air. The food they
could enjoy, however, tasted more sensational than anything they had experienced
before; every complex flavour burst like a firework on their tongue. The wine was
finer than the most celebrated earthly vintage and made them instantly heady.

Despite the wonders of the meal, it was hard to keep their attention on the
food when so many strange sights were on view all around. The array of creatures and their confusing, chaotic mannerisms as they devoured the food was
like staring into a grotesque parody of a child's fairybook. There were things
Church half knew from the vague descriptions of folk tales, others that ignited
recognition from some deeply submerged race memory; a few were completely
unrecognisable. He was sure the echoing of archetypes dredged up from the corners of his mind would give him nightmares for the rest of his life.

Ruth recognised his thoughts from his expression. "The whole of our psychology was based on this," she said. "Our fears, our dreams. We're stripping
back layers that shouldn't really be uncovered."

A half-man, half-sea creature moved down one of the aisles. It had fins and
scales and bestial features, but it moved like a human being. Church leaned over
to Cormorel. "What's that?"

Cormorel mused for a moment, then said, "I believe your race would know
it as an Afanc. They once roamed the lakes and shores of your western lands,
invoking terror with the fury of their attacks. Your people could not kill them
by any means at the employ of Fragile Creatures."

The Afanc reared up, then rushed out of sight, but there were plenty more
things to pique Church and Ruth's curiosity. Cormorel followed their gaze,
smiling at the questions he saw in their faces. "If we had all night I would not
be able to introduce you to the many, many races passing time on Wave Sweeper.
But let me indicate some of the highlights." He appeared to enjoy the idea of
playing host. With a theatrical gesture, he motioned towards a large, lumbering figure like an exaggerated circus strongman. He had his back to them, but when
he half turned they saw a horn like a rhinoceros's protruding from his forehead.
"The Baiste-na-scoghaigh. He stalks the mountains looking for prey in the
island where you lost your life to the Night Walker Calatin." He smiled at
Church; point scoring. On the far side of the room, large, misty shapes faded in
and out of the light, occasionally appearing like mountain mist, at other times
as solid as the other creatures in the room. When they became material their features were grotesque. "In the western land of moors, they were known as Spriggans, believed to be the ghosts of giants, a description that arose from their
shape-shifting abilities, like many of our guests. The people of the Far Lands are
always removed from the perception of those from the Fixed Lands. They could
be found around the standing stones where the soul fire comforted their violent
nature. They are the Guardians of Secrets."

"What kind of secrets?" Ruth asked curiously.

"The kind that can never be told." Cormorel was enjoying his games.

Church saw something that resembled mediaeval woodcarvings of a griffin,
another that resembled accounts of a manticore.

Ruth stood up, suddenly spying something so hideous in the shadows on
the edge of the room she could barely believe her eyes. "Is that a giant toad?"
she asked disbelievingly. "With wings? And a tail?"

Cormorel laughed. "Ah, the Water-Leaper. The Llamhigyn Y Dwr. Feared
by your fishermen, many of whom were dragged to their deaths after it seized
their lines. The Water-Leaper rarely ventures up from the bilge tanks. I wonder
why it is here tonight?"

Ruth shook her head in amazement. "God, I don't believe it. This place is
insane."

"Oh, this is indeed a Ship of Fools, Dragon Sister. So many searching,
looking for guidance, meaning, in their short, unhappy lives."

"But you don't need to search, Cormorel?" Church said.

"I am happy with my place in the great, unfolding scheme." Baccharus
muttered something under his breath, eliciting a stony glare from Cormorel.

Before any further comment could be made, a group emerged from a door
hidden behind curtains away to one side. There were five of them, all Tuatha De
Danann, but of a branch on a par with Cormorel and Baccharus, carrying
musical instruments: a pair of fiddles, a flute, something percussive that Church
didn't recognise and another thing that looked completely unplayable. A muttering rippled through the diners; it appeared generally appreciative, though it
was hard to be sure.

"Hey, they got a band," Ruth said in a bored, faux-Brooklyn accent.

But once the musicians began playing, both Church and Ruth were
instantly entranced. Their music soared to the rafters, taking on a life of its own
so it was impossible to tell which instrument was playing which section. Every
bar evoked deep emotions within them: joy, sadness, wonder, passing in the
blink of an eye, to be replaced by a new feeling. They could both understand the
old stories of hapless mortals entranced by the fairy music, only to discover a
hundred years had passed.

There were wild reels that set half the room dancing, a sight that was as terrifying as it was amazing; the crowd moved in perfect unison as if choreographed
for some Busby Berkeley movie, yet they were as silent as the grave; it was eerie
yet hypnotic. And then there were sad songs that made Ruth want to weep on
the spot, yearning ballads that reminded her of her father, others that forced her
to probe the feelings she had for Church. She fought the urge to hug him,
though it brought tears to her eyes.

And Church was lost in thoughts of Marianne, of times frittered in the
belief they could be picked up in the future, in thoughts of guilt at what he had
done to Laura and Niamh; and then, once they had dissipated, at Ruth beside
him. But before he had a chance to turn to her, the tempo increased and another
emotion washed everything else away.

The food and drink came in a never-ending stream. Once they had eaten
their fill, another dish materialised to tempt them, and when they certainly
could eat no more, there was still wine, and more wine.

During a lull while the band members refreshed themselves with a drink,
Ruth rose from her chair and hurried over to them. They drew in close around
her as she spoke in low tones, their faces at first curious, then intrigued. When
she retook her seat, Church asked, "What was that all about?" but she dismissed
him with a wave.

He got his answer once the band started up again. Although the tone was
oddly distorted, the song was unmistakable: "Fly Me to the Moon." Each note
was filled with meaning, of his old life, certainly, but more importantly, and surprisingly, of the time at the pub on Dartmoor when he had performed karaoke
with Ruth and Laura in a few moments of pure, unadulterated fun. He looked
over to her, felt a surge of warmth at what he saw in her smile: she had remembered what he had said about never hearing Sinatra again.

"I hummed it to them," she whispered. "They picked it up straight away."

What he felt in that instant, he tried to blame on the drink or the music,
but he knew he would not be able to deny it, even in the light of the next
morning. He put his hand on the back of hers, but it didn't begin to express
what he was feeling.

"You know," he said, mesmerised by the moment that felt like a lifetime,
"these days everything is so much more vital." He was rambling, drunk. "This
is what life should be. Meaning in everything. Importance in everything."

She smiled, said nothing; so much more assured. How could he not feel for
her? He leaned forward, closed his eyes, savoured the anticipated moment as if
he had already tasted it.

This is the time. This is everything. The words burst in his head unbidden,
meaningless, yet filled with meaning. "It's like I'm on drugs." He could feel the
bloom of her breath on his lips.

"I am the Messenger. The Message here is very clear." The voice was a blast
of cold wind, freezing the moment. Church looked up at the tattered rag-figure
Cormorel had called the Walpurgis, a sucking core of darkness, too much for one
space. There was something so alien about it, Church's skin crawled; in the back
of his head a worm of terror began to wriggle.

Cormorel had been involved in an intense, whispered conversation with
Baccharus and the Walpurgis's arrival had taken him by surprise. He turned
sharply, his face hard. Church hadn't seen that expression on any of the Tuatha
De Danann before; he had the face of someone with something to hide.

"Away with you, Dark One." Cormorel waved his hand dismissively. "We
have no time for your shadowy discourses."

The Walpurgis began to back away, until Church said, "Wait. Who are
you?"

"I am the Messenger." The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.

"He is a dismal leech," Cormorel said. "Nothing more."

"A leech?" Ruth's brow had knitted; Church could tell she was sensing
something too.

"The Walpurgis reaches into heads and pulls out dreams." Cormorel made
a snapping motion with his fingers. "A distasteful trait, even by the low standards of his fellow travellers."

"You have a very contemptuous view of your fellow sentient beings, Cormorel," Church noted sardonically.

Cormorel eyed him, aloof. "All are beneath us." It was announced as a statement of fact, with no obvious arrogance.

Church was unable to pierce the gloom falling from the brim of the
Walpurgis's hat; there were only those hot-coal eyes, unpleasant in their intensity. "You said you have a message?"

The Walpurgis nodded his head slowly. "But first there is something within
you which should be examined."

"Within me?"

"A dream." A bony finger snaked towards Church's forehead. Instinctively
Church drew back, his skin starting to crawl.

"You want to pull out my dream?"

"Did you know," Cormorel said icily, "the Walpurgis eats the souls of the
dying?"

Church ignored him. There was something about the Walpurgis that made
him feel queasy; it was so alien he couldn't begin to judge its trustworthiness.
Perhaps this was how it preyed on its victims.

"All have dreams hidden away that could change the way they live their lives,"
the Walpurgis said in its rustling voice. "It is the nature of existence to obscure the
important. A game it plays with us. The finding is often part of the lesson."

Church weighed this for a second. There was something repugnant about
admitting so alien a being into his head, but he could see Cormorel did not want
him to continue, and that was enough.

"Will it hurt?"

The Walpurgis said nothing.

"Okay. Do it."

Cormorel moved to stop him, then his pride made him turn back to his conversation with Baccharus, as if Church, Ruth and The Walpurgis no longer existed.

"You're sure?" Ruth asked.

Church presented his forehead to the Walpurgis. The creature reached out
again with its skeletal hand. The fingertips brushed his skin like the touch of
winter, but their advance did not stop there. Church was shocked to feel the coldness continuing into his skull. It had not been a metaphor: the fingers were literally moving through his head as if it were mist, reaching inside him. He
gagged, shuddered involuntarily; a spasm made his fingers snap open and closed.

What's it doing to nae? The thought fizzed like static on a TV; he was losing
control of himself.

Panic rose within him, but just as he began to believe he had made a dreadfully wrong decision, the sickening sensations faded and he was suddenly jolted
alert by a stream of intensely evocative images. The Walpurgis had tapped into
the cable wire from his subconscious.

His mother and father, seen from the perspective of his cot. Niamh appearing
at the end of his bed, strangely happy, yet tinged with sadness. Coming faster
now: school, university, knee-deep in mud at an archaeological dig in North
Yorkshire. And then Marianne. The shock of her face was like a punch; so clear,
like she was really there, like he could reach out to touch her. His emotions
welled up and threatened to overflow his body; everything felt so acute.

And then it was like the images were playing on a screen just in front of his eyes and he could see through them to the Walpurgis. His red eyes were
growing brighter. "Near. So near." The words echoed so deep in his head he
didn't know if the Walpurgis had spoken them aloud.