"Can't you do anything about re-entry?" Veitch sat up, irritatedly rubbing his bruised ribs. His annoyance was less to do with the pain of the landing than the fading memories of his overwhelmingly joyous experience in the Blue Fire; it had left him hollow and dissolute. He controlled his rumbling temper when he saw Tom was undergoing the same separation pangs.
The Rhymer struggled to his feet, obviously in some discomfort, plucking his spectacles from a bush where they had landed in the fall. They were on a gently sloping hillside in the deep shadow cast by heavy tree cover, although the sun burned brightly on a grassy path cutting through the wood nearby. There, the last Brimstone butterflies of summer fluttered amongst the burdock flowers. Bees buzzed lazily round the boles while midges danced in a sunbeam. The chattering of birds was everywhere. The air smelled dank and peaty from the leaf mould that covered the wood floor, obscured in areas by patches of bramble and nettles and the occasional pile of coppiced wood.
"I saw things. Just before we got here." Some of the images lay heavily on Witch's mind, pregnant with meaning he couldn't discern. "Church. And Ruth…"
"I noticed that the last time." Tom grumpily checked his faded haversack to ensure nothing had fallen out. "When you are about to exit the energy stream you pass through an area where you can see through time and space. Neither of those things are fixed anyway, except in your limited perceptions."
Veitch checked his watch. Barely a second had passed since they had been in the cairn at Corrimony.
"You were right." He stood up to see if he could discern their next direction. "That was some smart bleedin' place. It was-"
"Heavenly."
"Right. I didn't want to leave. But you know what? It didn't feel like that before when we went from Cornwall to Glastonbury."
"Then you were panicking in the sea, blacking out, trapped in the mundane so you couldn't perceive the ultimate." Tom readjusted his ponytail, then strode up the slope.
"You know where we're going?"
"Yes, out of the trees so I can get my bearings."
Tom had retreated into his usual state of ill-tempered reticence, but Veitch wanted to talk about the many confusing thoughts the experience had engendered. "That was amazing," he said quietly as they walked.
"And dangerous."
"You know what? I don't think it is. I reckon I've got it figured out."
"My. Aren't you the smart one?"
"It's only really dangerous if you've given up on living."
This struck Tom sharply. "What do you mean?"
"You're all right as long as you've got something to hold on to in the real world. If you haven't got anything here, you give up, float away. If you have unfinished business, something important, you drag yourself back. You don't really mind leaving 'cause you know that sooner or later you're going to end up back there. You can wait."
Tom thought about this for a long moment. "And you had something to bring you back?"
"That's right. I've got stuff still to do here. But when it's all over, you know, when my number's up, I wouldn't mind going back there. Just knowing it's there changes the way you look at life, y'know?"
"Yes. I know."
They emerged on the sunlit path and followed it up to a tarmac-covered route where an information board showed a tourist map of Wandlebury Camp.
"We made it, then. We could have ended up anywhere in that stuff, but we came to exactly the right place. We thought ourselves here, didn't we?"
Tom read the sign's notes on the historical background to the camp, then estimated their position from the noon sun. He pointed back down the slope. "That way, but later. First we need to see if Shavi's body is here."
Veitch shifted uncomfortably. "What if something's got at him? Some animal?"
"Do you really think Cernunnos would allow that to happen?"
He set out along the path that curled around the eastern side of the low hill. A thick bank of trees obscured the top. The path drew tightly past a small nature reserve settled on a pond that was thick with rushes where jewelled dragonflies dipped and dived. Beyond, it took a sudden turn, cresting a slight rise to present them with a view of a magnificent mansion house, its grand eighteenthcentury architecture oddly out of place on the flat-topped summit. The house looked out on to gardens given up to lawns where a flock of sheep nibbled aimlessly. A large, old-brick wall marked the boundary, beyond which thick trees rose up imposingly. There was stillness to the place, odd, though not unpleasant.
Witch sauntered over to another tourist sign. "Gog Magog House. Used to be a big place for horse racing, breeding and all that. Funny old spot to do horse racing, on a bleedin' hill."
"People are instinctively drawn to these places of power." Tom cleaned his glasses to get a better look at the ornate clock on the cupola mounting the stable block. A gold weathervane stirred slightly in the breeze.
From the corner of his eye, Veitch caught the faintest movement, but it was enough to lock his muscles and still the breath in his lungs. Tom continued ambling around, surveying the scenery. Just to be sure, Veitch waited and watched, and when he picked it up again, he launched into action. Tom whirled in shock, but Veitch had already hurdled a low fence and was sprinting towards the stable block. A figure lurked at the base of the wall, too slow to take evasive action before Veitch was upon him.
It was a man, short and plump, with a ruddy, wind-blasted face. He wore a checked flat cap pulled low on his brow and a gaberdine mackintosh fastened tightly over his broad belly. "Don't hit me! You can have everything!"
"Chill out, mate." Taken aback by the response, Veitch adopted an easygoing posture. "You can't be too careful these days."
The man composed himself, but still looked wary. "You're lucky you caught me without my shotgun."
"You live here?" Veitch scanned the courtyard and windows for any other sign of life.
"What's it to you?" The man backed off a few paces as Tom wandered up. He appeared to be considering whether he could make a break for it.
"We're not looking for trouble." The edge of Witch's voice suggested that trouble could, however, be on hand if necessary. "We've got some business in these parts. We're not going to rob you or nothin' like that."
"We're here to collect the body of a friend." Tom held out a hand as he introduced himself.
The man took it, intrigued; his name was Robertson. "A body, you say." His eyes flickered towards the lawned area.
"Is that where it is?" Tom followed his gaze, but could see nothing.
Robertson rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then beckoned for them to follow him. He crossed the courtyard and entered the mansion. From the lonely air of emptiness, it appeared Robertson was the sole occupant. The wind blew through a broken window that hadn't been fixed and there was tracked mud across the tiled floor. Despite the grandness of the building, Robertson only lived in a couple of adjoining rooms that had a makeshift appearance, with furniture obviously dragged from other parts of the house. The first thing that caught their eye as he led them into his quarters was the strange array of items hanging around the door. Over the top was a large, ornate cross. Beside it were horseshoes, another cross made out of twigs of rowan, the old symbol for protection from witchcraft and fairies, the withered remnants of a mistletoe sprig for protection from thunder, lightning and evil, a bunch of St. John's wort to ward off spirits, a roughly carved wooden swallow for insurance against fire, and many more.
Robertson caught Tom's inspection. "Like your friend said, you can't be too careful."
Once safely inside his room, he crossed himself and touched wood before offering them chairs next to the unlit fire. "I'd make you some tea, but with the way things are I've got to conserve. Even water," Robertson said. "I hope they get the bloody thing sorted out soon. We can't go on like this much longer. Bloody government."