Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
The short autumn day eased on. As the shadows began to lengthen on the land, Kit spied an odd-looking hill in the near distance—remarkable even in a landscape of hills for its absolutely symmetrical sides and flat-as-a-table top. A trio of tall trees graced that level summit like three plumes in a sultan’s turban. Oddly, too, despite the abundant daylight, the hill seemed to abide in shadow, exuding a dark and melancholy air—an impression that strengthened the closer they came.
“Ah, there it is,” announced Cosimo, stirring from a nap. He yawned and stretched his limbs. “That is the Black Mixen.” He gave an involuntary shiver. “Unpleasant place. Wouldn’t want to be caught up there at night.”
“You must be joking,” Kit said. “It’s just a hill, surely.”
“Yes, and I suppose the bubonic plague is just a disease.”
The place did appear somewhat dismal, Kit allowed. “What’s so bad about it, then?”
“There are stories,” Cosimo said. “Lots of them, accumulating over time like an old soldier’s memories—growing darker and gloomier with the passing years.”
Kit regarded the ominous hill for a moment. There was, he had to admit, a distinctly sinister air about the place—the way it sat squat and brooding on the landscape, its unreasonably steep sides wreathed in doleful shadow.
“There is one well-documented case back in the Home World,” continued Cosimo blithely, “where a young chap, just back from the first World War, went to court his sweetheart up among the Trolls—that’s what the three big oaks on top are called, by the way. Poor bloke was stood up, it seems, and fell asleep waiting for his girl to arrive. Spent the night up there alone, brave soul. . . .” Cosimo’s voice trailed off.
“And?” prodded Kit.
“Never seen again. Amidst evidence of a colossal struggle, they found only his coat and hat, and part of one shoe.”
“Really?”
“Nothing of the sort, you daft thing,” said Cosimo with a laugh. “The young chap came down the next morning, ate a hearty breakfast, and threw over the faithless wench for the pretty little barmaid in yonder village. Why?” Cosimo laughed at Kit’s alarmed expression. “What did you think happened?”
“You sneaky old geezer!” complained Kit. “I believed you.”
“Try to keep your wits about you, dear boy,” laughed his great-grandfather, massively enjoying his joke. “No, no—forgive me, but there was nothing like that. In all truth, the effects of the Black Mixen are much more subtle, if no less disturbing for the locals.”
“Such as?” ventured Kit warily.
“Compass readings are skewed within a half-mile radius of the place, cattle and sheep will not set foot on the slopes, and birds refuse to nest in the trees. There are even recorded instances of time slippage.”
“Time slippage,” echoed Kit. “Right.”
“Oh, this one is perfectly true, I assure you. An Oxford don carried out some tests in the early thirties with clocks, and reflected light beams, and magnetometers, and who knows what all else. Clocks left to run on the tump invariably slowed down, or ran faster, or simply stopped altogether; spectrum analysis of reflected light beams showed a dramatic shift towards the red; sound waves travel more slowly, and all manner of curious anomalies.”
“So, what’s the explanation?”
“No one knows. The professor went away completely flummoxed; and his research, while still on record, has yet to produce any sensible theories,” said Cosimo. “Among the cognoscenti, however, the Black Mixen is considered a portal or hub—a place containing numerous otherworldly intersections, a junction so to speak. There are several known in Britain—Stonehenge being the largest and most active, and you’d be well advised to stay far away from that portal. The Ring of Brodgar is another and altogether more useful hub,” Cosimo continued. “Different from a ley, of course, but operating in much the same way for our purposes.”
“I see,” said Kit, with an understanding nod—although he didn’t comprehend much beyond the fact that they had travelled to this place in order to find a way to track down and rescue Wilhelmina, which was becoming an ever-more-complicated endeavour with each passing day. “It is a strange-looking hill, I’ll give you that.”
“Strange, yes, perhaps because it is actually man-made,” explained Cosimo. “New Stone Age, I believe, or very early Bronze Age. Hard to tell. The place is so very ancient, and it has been used by successive tribes and races over eons.”
Kit nodded with appreciation, much impressed by the brute labour that must have gone into building such an enormous structure—just lugging all that dirt around without heavy machinery must have taken millions of man-hours: a stupendous effort any way you looked at it. Impressive—but ultimately misguided nonetheless.
“Why misguided?” asked Cosimo, when Kit voiced this opinion.
“Well, look at it,” he said. “It’s a hill—in a landscape full of nothing
but
hills. What’s the point of that, for heaven’s sake?”
“That is the point precisely,” replied Cosimo. “It is for the sake of Heaven that it was built.”
Sir Henry, snoring peacefully on the seat beside him, stirred just then and woke with a little jump. “Oh!” he said, sitting up quickly. “Bless me, I must have been dozing.”
“Quite all right,” Cosimo assured him. “I slept a little too. You came awake with a start just then. Anything the matter?”
“I had the strangest dream,” said Sir Henry. “Very disturbing. It’s gone now—vanished utterly—and I can’t think what it must have been, but it filled me with a powerful sense of foreboding. . . .” He turned and looked in the direction of the Black Mixen, and his eyes narrowed. “So! I might have guessed.”
“Yes, nearly there,” confirmed Cosimo. He fished his gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and flicked open the case. “We appear to be somewhat early.”
“Marvellous invention,” remarked Sir Henry, regarding Cosimo’s timepiece with an envious glance. “I would so love to own one.”
“Now, now, Sir Henry,” cautioned Cosimo with a raised eyebrow. “You know the rules.” He snapped the case closed and returned the watch to his pocket. “It seems we’ll have to wait a little while.”
“Why?” wondered Kit. “We’re here. Let’s get on with whatever it is we’ve come to do.”
“As with most things in life, timing is everything,” replied Cosimo. “Leys, of course, are time sensitive, as you should know by now—portals like the Black Mixen even more so. It simply won’t do to go charging up there and messing about before time.”
“And the proper time is when?” Kit asked, feeling as much as ever out of his depth.
“Sunrise or sunset—either one. It is when day and night are in stasis, so to speak, that the portals become most active and travel between dimensions is more easily accomplished. There are other ways and means, of course, but without the requisite training or special equipment”—he shrugged—“it is best to simply wait.”
Kit settled back in his seat, but the other two men were eager to stretch their legs. They decided a walk around the tump would be just the thing to energize the inner man. “Coming, Kit?”
Kit regarded the driver, nodding on his seat, and decided in favour of a nap instead. “I’ll stay here and keep the hired help company. You two run along and have fun.”
“We’ll return for you in a little while,” said Cosimo. “Don’t wander off. When it’s time to go, we’ll all need to be ready.”
Pulling the lap robe up around his chin, Kit closed his eyes and was soon asleep . . . waking a little later to the clatter and chatter of rooks flocking to the high branches of the surrounding trees. He sat up and looked around. The coach driver was gone—along with the horses; no doubt he had taken them to graze. The sun was a dim and fading spot far in the western sky; the shadows were deep and long, and the air was chill with the promise of a frosty night.
Kit let his eyes travel up the steep slope of the nearby tump and glimpsed two figures climbing to the summit; upon gaining the top, they paused, then disappeared over the rim and out of sight.
“Typical,” huffed Kit. “Forgot and left me here.” He bounded from the carriage and started up the smooth incline of the manmade hill. The grass was long and slightly slippery underfoot, which made the going tedious and tiring. Roughly halfway up, he heard a sound that might be produced by a low and very resonant trumpet. Kit stopped and waited, but when nothing more happened, he continued his slog up the hill. He was puffing by the time he reached the top, and he paused with hands on knees to catch his breath. It was then he heard voices—raised and angry. Glancing up, he saw four men—Sir Henry and Cosimo, and two hulking strangers in long black coats and tall riding boots—in an attitude of flat-footed confrontation.
“Burley Men,” muttered Kit. “Fan-bloody-tastic.”
He edged closer for a better look. Cosimo held a small silver bell-like object in his hands, but he saw no weapons. More to the point, there was no sign of the Burley Men’s man-eating mascot, the dreaded cave cat. That, it seemed to him, tilted the balance somewhat. It would be three against two; with those odds they should be able to subdue the thugs, or drive them off.
Between himself and the others stood the Trolls, the great old oaks. Keeping the gnarled boles of the venerable trees between himself and the others, Kit crept slowly around the perimeter of the flattened hilltop, trying to stay out of sight as much as possible. As he came closer, he caught snatches of the ongoing argument.
“ . . . we know you have it . . . ,” said one, the voice of one of the strangers.
“ . . . haven’t the least intention . . . ,” answered his great-grandfather.
This was followed by, “. . . give it up, or suffer the consequences,” from the other stranger.
“And if we refuse?” countered Sir Henry.
They’re after the map,
thought Kit.
They think we have it.
Uncertain what to do next, Kit imagined the best thing might be to create some kind of distraction that would enable Cosimo and Sir Henry to seize the upper hand. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he drew himself to full height and burst from cover of the trees with what he hoped was a terrifying shout.
The surprise had the desired effect. The two dark strangers gave a start and turned as one. Cosimo leaped to one side, pulling Sir Henry with him.
“Kit!” cried Cosimo. “He’s got a gun!”
It was then that Kit saw what he should have seen before: one of the Burley Men held a flintlock pistol. Without the slightest hesitation, he raised it and levelled it directly at Kit, who threw himself to the ground. There was a dull clap as the flint chip hit the pan, followed by the sharp fizz of the powder igniting and the report of the explosion. Kit felt the whiz of a lead ball passing bare inches above his head. Without waiting to see what might happen next, he jumped up and threw himself headlong at the nearer of the two Burley Men. The thug lunged at him, but Kit launched a near-perfect rugby tackle; he caught the man in the stomach and drove him to the ground and onto his back.
Having tackled the man, Kit’s plan reached its natural conclusion.
Before he could think what to do next, he felt a sharp elbow smash into his ribs. Kit rolled away, clutching his side as his attacker struggled to his feet.
Sir Henry darted forward. Wielding his walking stick like a cricket bat, he swung it up and into the Burley Man’s face, driving him back. Cosimo took a wild haymaker swing at the second attacker; the punch failed to connect, but it threw the man off balance nonetheless. He staggered backward, and Cosimo tromped on his foot—which sent the rogue sprawling.
“Kit!” shouted Cosimo. “Here! Hurry!”
Kit, squirming on the ground, looked up through tear-smeared eyes to see his great-grandfather standing on a square stone marker; his arms were raised high, and he was surrounded by what appeared to be an inverted cone of radiant shimmering turquoise fog. Sir Henry stepped quickly into the unearthly haze and took hold of one of Cosimo’s upraised hands.
The nearest Burley Man lashed out with his boot, catching Kit in the stomach. Kit doubled over, gasping for breath.
“Kit! Now!” shouted Cosimo. “There is no time!”
But the Burley Man was not finished with Kit yet. He stooped and snatched up a hunk of rock. He stepped closer, lifting the jagged stone high over his head, ready to smash it down on Kit’s unprotected skull.
“Oi! You!” came a shout from behind them. “Stop!”
Into his blurry field of vision, Kit glimpsed Sir Henry’s coach driver charging toward them with the carriage whip. Kit pushed himself up on hands and knees and tried to rise.
The coachman bulled forward, brandishing the whip. The Burley Man standing over him took aim with the rock and heaved himself up on his toes to deliver the crushing blow.
The whip cracked.
A coil of braided leather snaked around the thug’s arm and ripped it sideways. His grip torn, the stone toppled from his grasp, colliding with his own head on the way down. The Burley Man gave out a cry of rage and pain and, turning away, rushed toward the glimmering cone of light. His black-coated companion shouted something Kit did not catch, and both men dived headlong into the shimmering light, joining Cosimo and Sir Henry.
Kit had a fleeting glimpse of the four men enveloped by the shimmering light. For the merest breath of a moment, all became very still, and then the men appeared to both stretch and diminish simultaneously. The turquoise cone shrank to a mere spark and disappeared with a little frazzled crack of static electricity. Kit, on his feet now, ran to the stone marker, but nothing remained of the light or the four men.
He jumped on the stone square where the men had been standing, with no result. Lacking even the remotest clue what to do next, he gave another feeble jump and then sat down.
“Are you injured, sir?” asked the coachman, rushing to him.
“Sore ribs,” replied Kit, pressing a hand to his side. “Oh, I don’t feel so good.”
“I came a-running soon as I heard the uproar,” explained the driver. “Seems I was too late.” He coiled his whip and gazed around. “Well, I reckon Sir Henry and the other gentleman are off on one of their journeys—in rough company, by the look of it.” Kit regarded the coachman closely for the first time and was mildly surprised to discover him to be a young fellow, more or less his own age, with a round head of short hair and a compact, stocky build. He had a wide, honest face, thick shoulders, and a bull neck. His hands were strong and well calloused from his duties, and he wore a white kerchief knotted tightly around his throat.