Mary hesitated before the heat-blistered blue door at the back, struggling to find her position in time and place.
It was the sixties, she was in her mid-twenties, and this ... this was home.
The familiar smells hit her the moment she stepped over the threshold: fried bacon from lunch, the old skillet still cooling on the side, faint sulphury smoke from the recently stoked boiler to her left, the pristine tang of cleaning fluids - her mother had been hard at work as usual. The pang of yearning she felt was acute: if only she could go back. Why did we always want to go back? What did that say about life, about what was lost on the journey from child to adult?
Her mother, hair dyed black and permed in that sixties mother-style, looked up from polishing the sideboard. Kip, the mongrel her father had brought back one day from a chance meeting at the pub, kicked on the hearth in the throes of some dog-dream. In the front room, Mary could hear the rustle of a newspaper, her father relaxing after lunch. She so desperately wanted to see him again, one final time, and she knew she would cry if she did.
Her mother smiled warmly. 'This is a surprise.'
A thousand thoughts and emotions rushed into her head, so fast Mary thought she would fall apart in a panic; she dampened everything down, refused even to consider what was tugging at her.
Mary expected some words, quiet disappointment; the life she had chosen had not been the one expected. Too wild, too exciting, fun and hedonism, a break from the working-class tradition of diligence and labour. Parents sacrificed for children and children sacrificed for their children, but Mary had accepted the sacrifice and used it for enjoyment instead of carving out a place in the world. Yet her mother was there, welcoming her as if Mary had just been to the shops instead of away for weeks without writing or calling. Mary wanted to rush over and hug her and say how sorry she was, for everything, but more urgent matters were tugging at her mind.
'He's upstairs.' Her mother's smile grew sad. 'I'm glad you could get back to see him, you know ... before he's gone.'
Another pang. She hadn't made it back, had she? She'd even missed the funeral - too busy having fun, tripping in a field, listening to music with some boy or other; she couldn't even remember which one. How many times had she been so thoughtless and uncaring?
Mary nodded sadly, turned to the stairs; the door was ajar, the interior dark as it always had been, even on a summer's day. She climbed slowly, remembering every creak, the steps she had to avoid when she sneaked down while her parents slept. We try to be good children, but never hard enough; are they always disappointed with us?
Sunlight streamed through the front bedroom window, illuminating the floating dust like tiny flakes of silver, something so mundane yet so wonderful. Her grandfather sat in the sun by the window, looking out at the quiet street. He turned and smiled at her, just like her mother had done, with no disappointment, no subtle accusations, and Mary felt the emotions inside her cut like a razor. His white hair was aglow in the sun, his eyes keen and bright at the sight of his favourite granddaughter. The only time he'd ever cried in public was when she'd been born. His skin had blue blemishes here and there, coal dust impacted too deep in the pores to be removed, the legacy of a pit collapse that had also taken two fingers. He looked too alive to have only a week left.
'Hello, Grandad.' She couldn't think of what else to say, was afraid of saying anything for fear of crying.
'Hello, Mary.' He beckoned for her to come closer.
She sat on the end of the bed. 'You look so much like him.'
'I am your grandfather ... and I'm not.' He smiled enigmatically.
'You've never been happy since Grandma went. I always felt you were just waiting to die to be with her again.' She caught herself. 'I'm sorry, all this ... it's confusing me.'
'Don't worry. It's understandable, lass. But there's a reason for it, like there's a reason for everything.'
'I'm here for help, and guidance.'
'I know. And I'll do everything I can. These are difficult times for everybody.' He looked back out of the window. A car drove lazily up to the roundabout at the top of the road.
'The angels ... the Elysium ... they said the Goddess had to be called back.'
'She has to be called back, for the sake of everything.'
'Is that my job? Is that the price I have to pay for your help?'
'No. There is no price for my help.'
'I thought there was always a price to pay?' Mary said curiously.
'Not here. There is never a price here.' His lazy smile reminded her of even sunnier days as a child, when things had been uncomplicated and she'd even probably liked herself. Next to him she felt even more wanting, whether it was her grandfather who'd struggled hard all his life for the sake of others or the true form that lay behind his face.
'You make me feel at ease,' she said.
'That's the idea. Your kind are so trapped in your own bodies, Mary. No idea of what things are really like beyond your five senses. No idea of what powers lie within you. You construct everything you see with the power of your will, and the strongest can change it all by wishing, lass. Just by wishing. You don't know any of the true rules. The rules you do have are just there to keep you safe, like the bars on that cot I made for you when your mother was in hospital. But you're all so important, and one day, maybe sooner than you think, you're going to break out and see what the universe is really like. And then you'll be in for a fine old time.'
'Sounds like ... magic.'
'Aye. Magic. That's just what it is. And it can't come soon enough in my book. Things were going right for a while, and then the wrong sort took over. The ones who only thought about money and power, who'd do anything for it without thinking about the bigger picture and where they fitted into it. The ones who made a mess of the planet ... drilling and burning and poisoning, all for money. All for bloody money. They're the ones who drove the Goddess away.'
Mary heard her mother turn on the radio downstairs, then begin to hum away to some golden oldie by Johnny Ray. 'But will she come back again? Can she?'
He examined the stump of one of his missing fingers thoughtfully before pulling a white paper bag of barley sugars from his pocket. He offered her one, and when she unwrapped the cellophane and slipped it into her mouth, she experienced a rush of overwhelming sensation that made stars flash behind her eyes.
'What is this?' she gasped.
'Just a taste of what's out there - if you get up off your bums.' He unwrapped one of the barley sugars himself and sucked on it thoughtfully. 'Can she come back? That's where it's up to you lot to make a change ... a big change. In the end, I think it'll probably come down to her daughters. They've been getting back on their feet for a few years now, getting back to their old place, shoulder to shoulder with the blokes.' He leaned forward and gave Mary's knee a squeeze. 'See, lass, you can make a difference.'
Mary shivered. It was almost as if he had seen into her, peeled back all her fears about her weaknesses and her many, many failures. One wasted life; was it too late to put it right? The lump in her throat was hard. 'That's what I'm trying to do.'
'I know.'
'But I wonder if I should have just stayed at home. I don't know if I'm up to it.'
'No one really does. And the few that think they do are usually wrong.'
'I've got a friend, Caitlin Shepherd. She's a good girl, bit of a misery-goat, worrying about everything instead of enjoying life like all good folk should...' She smiled tightly. 'But I suppose we've all got our flaws. Anyway, I want to help her.'
Her grandfather nodded knowingly, waited for her to continue, but Mary sensed he already knew much of what she had to say.
'She's gone in search of a cure for a plague that's come down hard on our world. Only it's not just a plague - it's something magical. I don't know for sure, but I think she's being tricked ... I think, maybe, the whole point of it was to get her to cross over to the Otherworld, where she's going to be killed. And I had this vision that she's important. I mean, she's always been important to me, but I think she's important to the world, too - maybe even important in bringing the Goddess back.'
'She's a Sister of Dragons,' her grandfather interjected, and now he looked a little less like her grandfather, though she couldn't quite put her finger on what had changed.
'That's right, dragons! That's what my vision said. And dragons are symbolic of the Earth Spirit, earth energy
'Which is the same energy that flows through humans, too - the spirit that flows through everything.'
'Dragons, snakes, serpents, it's all symbolic. When you think about it like that, the Bible reads very differently - the Garden of Eden, St Michael killing the dragon, St Brendan driving the snakes out of Ireland ... and Caitlin is connected to this big, big thing...' The notions came thick and fast, surprising her with their intensity. 'I've got to bring her back. I'll do anything for her. It doesn't matter about me - I'm not important.'
The words ended on an interrogative note and she eyed her grandfather hopefully, but he shook his head slowly. 'I give no guidance here. This is one of those times when your choices are important.'
Mary rubbed a hand through her wiry, grey hair. 'I don't know! How can I know? I'm just going on my gut instinct ... and I want to bring her back.'
'Are you sure?' Blue light flickered behind his eyes.
Mary steeled herself. 'Yes. I want to bring her back. Can you do that?'
'Yes. It is done.'
Mary sat back, relieved, and then stood up to go. The radio downstairs was playing 'Alone Again Or' by Love. Her song; how coincidental, although she knew it wasn't a coincidence at all. She leaned forward and kissed her grandfather on the forehead, unbelievably sad that she was leaving him and would never see him again, that she was leaving the family home where she'd been happy for so long; perhaps the last time she had been truly happy. 'Thank you,' she whispered.
But as she pulled back, she caught a change in the cast of his face, and saw concern there, and in that moment she knew she had made the wrong decision. 'No,' she whispered. 'I take it back.'
But she was already moving back through the house, the walls elastic, the light distended, and in her ears were his words: 'We stand or fall by our choices, Mary. That's the important thing.'
The trees were even more dense in that part of the forest: oaks that even six men linking hands couldn't encircle; hawthorn, thick and lethally spiky; yew, sprawling and twisted like sour old men. Caitlin pressed between the trunks, picking her way over the mass of root material that obscured most of the forest floor. It was so dark it could well have been night.
'Jack?' It was more of a whisper than a call, but it rustled out through the still air beneath the branches. She didn't sense the growing army of the Lament-Brood anywhere near at hand, but other threats lurked in the shadowy depths of the Forest of the Night and she didn't want to draw attention to herself.
There was no longer any sign of movement, but it was possible that Jack, if it had been him, had already slipped by her in the confusion of tree and branch. She stopped, listened; the crunch of a foot on dry twigs echoed, but the mass of trees distorted the sound and made it impossible to pinpoint the location.
As she pressed by one tree, she thought she heard a barely audible voice issuing from deep within the wood; to her ears it struck a warning note, but she dismissed it as her overworked imagination responding to her anxiety.
The trees were like a maze and Caitlin began to worry that she wouldn't be able to find her way back to the path and Carlton. Perhaps it would be better to wait there. If the others had heard Triathus, they would all be trying to find the path anyway.
Carefully, she retraced her steps. When she did finally get a view of the path, it was much further away than she had anticipated. She could just make out Carlton, tiny and alone and in desperate need of her. She resisted the urge to call out to reassure him.
A movement sounded in the trees nearby. Her senses tingled. Perhaps it wasn't Jack at all. Just like the Gehennis, something could have tried to lure her off the safety of the path. Carefully, she unslung her bow. Another twig cracking. Near or far? Was it stalking her? Waiting for a chance to attack when her defences were lowered?
She dropped low, moved cautiously at first, then speeded up, dodging lithely amongst the trees, heading for the path. And then she had the strangest buzzing sensation in the tips of her fingers, before it moved up her forearms with a feeling of deep warmth. She felt oddly out of sorts, as if she'd spun round on the spot too many times. A bolt of light shot across her vision.
She fought the disorientation and tried to focus on any signs of whoever was nearby. Carlton appeared in a space between two trees. He looked frightened. She had to get to to him, to protect him.
Another bolt of light arced across her vision, and she felt as if she were unravelling, the cords that bound her together peeling back from fingertips to toes. An uncomfortable feeling of detachment descended on her. She felt as if she was watching the surroundings through a bubble of glass.