Always Forever (61 page)

He was sure it meant something, but he had no idea what, and the image
continued to haunt him as he began his journey in the quiet, green world.

The atmosphere amongst the trees was so ethereal it was difficult to shake the
notion that he was dreaming. Odd sensations began to make their way through
his body-a tingling in his legs, a feeling that his hands were no longer handsand a moment later the weightlessness that had crept up on him became palpable. It was not a hallucination, for he really was drifting a little way above the
ground. He called out in surprise, only to be shocked that his voice sounded like
the cry of a bird. His eyes were astonishingly sharp and his arms were wings,
covered with thick, brown feathers. He was a hawk, flying up into the branches,
and up and up.

There was no time to question his transformation, for he was immediately
confronted by another hawk with blazing yellow eyes. "You are one with the
birds of the trees," it said in an unsettlingly human voice.

It swooped down at him, talons raised in attack. Church panicked, losing
all control of his form. The hawk raked claws across his back and a shower of
brown feathers flew all around. He attempted to steer himself, crashed against a
branch and went into a downward spiral.

The hawk didn't give up its attack, shrieking loudly as it bore down on
him. Once more the talons tore through his back, and this time the pain almost
made him lose consciousness. But he recovered slightly, and his mind was
focused. He didn't fight against the messages that were coming from instinct,
and after a slow start, where he only narrowly evaded another scarring, he found
he could move swiftly amongst the trees.

He wasn't about to stand and fight-he didn't see the point of it-so he
flew as swiftly as he could, before a weight pressed down hard on his shoulders
and forced him to the ground. His wings gone, he hit the turf hard, tumbling
athletically.

Barely able to catch his breath, he rolled to his feet, which were now grey
paws. "You are one with the beasts of the field," a rough voice said. He looked
round to see a large grey wolf away amongst the trees. It was watching him with
the same hateful yellow eyes of the hawk.

It moved, but Church was quicker, loping through the trunks, leaping the
clusters of vegetation, avoiding the pits and hollows with ease. As he ran, he
moved further off the ground and his paws became hooves, while a sharp pain
in his forehead signalled the sprouting of antlers like those Cernunnos sported.

The hoofbeats of his pursuer continued to thunder across the soft ground.
And then Church was back on his own legs, and in his peripheral vision he could see his own hands; his lungs burned from the exertion. Church didn't know if
he had truly transformed or if it had been a hallucination. He tried to look over
his shoulder and awkwardly caught his foot in a root, stumbled, and slid down
a slight incline.

What he saw made his blood run cold. There was no man behind him, as
there had been a deer, a wolf and a hawk. At first it was a stark white glow,
before he realised that what he was seeing was a pack of dogs, savage and alien,
filled with their own brilliance.

He picked himself up and ran as fast as he could. The beasts' crazed howling
made him sick with primal fear. They were not like the dogs of the Wild Hunt,
which were fearsome enough, but were filled with an unbridled ferocity and, he
was convinced, controlled by one mind. He risked another backwards glance and
saw them bounding amongst the trees like spectres, there, then gone, moving
on two flanks to capture him in a pincer movement.

He jumped a stream, almost skidding down the opposite bank, then hurdled a fallen log. The pack was relentless, and drawing closer; he would not be
able to outrun them. Their howling became even more blood crazed as they
sensed this.

He came out of the forest so fast he barely realised he had left the last of the
trees behind him. The land fell away sharply, becoming hard rock again, and the
roof had closed once more twenty feet above his head. In the distance he could
make out a brilliant blue glow. Slipping on the rock, he tumbled, cracking his
head hard, but he was up and running in one fluid movement, wiping the blood
away that had started to puddle in his left eye.

He had hoped the pack would remain behind in the forest, but now their
shrieks were echoing off the walls, growing more intense, more terrifying. If he
looked back, he knew he would see them snapping only inches from his heels.

As he ran, he pulled out the Sword once more. Legend said it could kill anything with a single blow. Swinging it behind him without slowing his step, he felt
it connect with two hard forms. A terrible howling rang up from the whole pack.

He carried on that way for a few minutes more, but his arm muscles were soon
burning and his joints ached. There was no time for an alternate strategy: the path
ahead of him ended abruptly at a cliff edge, and beyond was a lake of the Blue Fire,
the energy rising up in coruscating bursts like the bubbling of lava.

A few feet from the edge he spun round, lashing out wildly with the sword,
but the pack had already halted a few yards away. All the dogs were watching
him with their sickly yellow eyes, their mouths open to reveal enormous, sharp
fangs; drool ran out in rivulets to splatter on the rock where it gave a hot fat
sizzle.

Breathless, he waved the Sword at them while attempting to look over his
shoulder to see if there was some exit he had missed.

"There is no escape from here," the dogs said as one. "You have reached the
Chapel Perilous. Your life is now over." They advanced a step in perfect,
unnerving rhythm, like some drilled Roman legion.

"No," Church gasped. "It wouldn't end like this. There has to be a way out
or there's no point to the trial." He looked all around quickly, but could see no
exit. "I'm missing something."

"No escape," the dogs repeated. "This is your death. Behind you is the
source of everything. One step and you will be swallowed up, eradicated. Here
we stand, ready to tear you to pieces. To turn your meat to fibres and your bones
to dust."

"I can fight," Church said.

"You can," the dogs said, "for you have already killed some of us. But do we
seem any less to you?"

The pack appeared to go on forever. "Where there's life, there's hope,"
Church said.

The dogs advanced another step.

He wiped the blood away from his eye, his heart pounding. The Sword
handle was slick with sweat.

The dogs moved four paces in rapid procession. He waved the Sword wildly.
Only a couple of yards away now, the white of their coats was almost blinding.
Their jaws moved in unison-click-their eyes rolled as one.

Perhaps this was the trial: to fight and fight and fight, until he was down to
his last reserves. But against an enemy that could not be killed, or even weakened? What was the point in that? Sooner or later they would overwhelm him.

He gripped the Sword with both hands and adopted a fighting stance.

What was the meaning in that?

And then it came to him. It took only a second or two to weigh it up, and
then he sheathed the Sword and spun round. The blue looked so inviting: relief
after his long, arduous struggle. He closed his eyes and stepped off the cliff.

He expected burning, but there was no sensation at all for a long time, just a
world of blue overwhelming everything. He also expected his consciousnesshis sense of self-to be broken up within seconds of contact, then dissipated
amongst the blue waves, to be returned to the source, but that didn't happen
either. He remained who he had always been, since the beginning of time.

When sensation began to return, it was fitful, and quite alien. He felt the
beating of mighty wings coming from his own arms; he saw with crystal refracted vision through serpent eyes; he felt the blast of flames pass his lips, the
stink of smoke in his nostrils.

"You are one," a voice from nowhere said.

He was looking at blue, but the shade was much softer. It took him a few seconds to accept the change in hue, and then a fluffy cloud drifted into his vision
and he realised he was staring at the sky. He closed his eyes, smiling, enjoying
the heat of the sun on his face.

Sitting up, he found himself lying on the causeway that joined St. Michael's
Mount to the mainland. From the position of the sun, it must have been around
noon; he had been gone barely any time at all.

Ruth's cry stirred him from memories of flying; reluctantly, he realised they
were fading rapidly, but the sense of freedom didn't go. She came running along
the causeway towards him, her hair lashing in the breeze. She grinned with relief
and joy. He jumped up and took her in his arms, overjoyed that she was with him.

"I saw you from the top," she said. "How did you get here?"

"Look at that," he said, pointing over their heads.

A Fabulous Beast swooped on the air currents, the sun glinting brightly off its
scales, reds and golds and greens. Church was overcome with a sense of wonder. The
Beast was otherworldly and lithe and graceful as it gently circled the top of the
Mount, but it was what it represented that truly affected him: a world where anything could happen, a world where the mundane had forever been stripped from life.

"It's the old one, from Avebury. The oldest of them all." Tom was at their side,
craning his neck to peer beneath a shielding hand. "You've done it. It wouldn't have
left its home if the Fiery Network hadn't been brought back to life."

"Then I really did it?" Church asked, barely believing. "I woke the sleeping
land?"

"There are more of them," Ruth marvelled. "Loads of them."

Church counted ten, then gave up; they were coming from all directions to
converge on the Mount. Some were smaller, some obviously younger, their
colours slightly different, but they were all flying with abandon, rolling and
gliding and looping the loop, so that there was an unmistakable feeling of
joyous celebration.

"We did it," he said in awe.

That night they made camp on a hillside overlooking St. Michael's Mount. Tom
had already located tents and sleeping bags before coming to meet them at
Mousehole, and they lit a fire to keep out the autumnal chill that came down
with the night. He had also found a bottle of whisky to drink to their success.

The cleric, Michael, had met them briefly after Church's return, but he was
eager to get back to his parishioners to spread a message of hope. The deference
he had shown Church had been almost embarrassing.

"How do you feel?" Ruth asked Church hesitantly, once Tom had gone off
to build up their wood supply.

It was a question he had avoided, for he was almost afraid to examine himself. "Good," he said.

"Don't think you're going to get away with that. Do I have to kiss your hand
every time I meet you? Are you going to walk on water for your party trick?"

He tapped his head. "Up here I feel pretty much the same as always. I mean,
I think the same way. I'm definitely the me I always was, which is good because
I had this feeling I'd turn out like a reformed smoker or Born-Again Christian,
turned off by half the things I used to be in my old life."

Her smile showed relief; it was obvious she had felt the same way.

"But in here," he said, tapping his chest, "I feel amazing. I feel ... I don't
know, the best way to describe it is right. I feel at ease with everything. Positive.
Confident." He thought hard. "I feel at peace."

She was looking at him with an expression that suggested she wished she
felt that way too. She took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

"I expected it to be earth-shattering," he continued. "But it's so subtle. I
don't feel like the man who's going to lead humanity to the next level. In fact,
I cringe at the thought of it."

"Maybe that's the point. Maybe you were like a jigsaw with one piece missing.
Now you've found it you can be the person you always might have been."

He shook his head, laughing quietly. "Now I know how I feel, I'm taking
it all with a pinch of salt. Tom gets so wrapped up with these predictions and
prophecies. They're all so vague they can mean virtually anything under any circumstance. Who knows? Maybe Veitch is the big saviour."

"But what does it mean? For us?" Her eyes shimmered brightly in the firelight.

"I'm carrying on with my life as it was. I'm not thinking about tomorrow.
I'm not thinking about the big picture. I'm making the most of each minute
and I'll deal with whatever's thrown at me, as and when it happens. And I'm
doing it with you." He pulled her forward and kissed her tenderly.

They were interrupted by Tom's irritated muttering. "You've got time for
all that spooning in the privacy of your tent," he said.

"You're only jealous because you're not getting any," Ruth replied.