"Do you work here?" Veitch asked.
"Nobody works anywhere any more, do they? Not in the old sense," Robertson replied. He settled into a comfortable armchair within easy reach of the shotgun resting against the wall. "I used to have a business down in Cambridge. Got out of there when the riots started."
"What riots?" Veitch looked puzzled.
"What riots?" Robertson replied incredulously. "I don't know where you come from, but round these parts it seems that's all there's been. When they brought in the fuel rationing. When the supermarkets stopped filling their shelves. Then when everything stopped working…" Suppressed emotions briefly turned his face into that of a child and he covered it with his hand until he had composed himself. "I left the city when my Susie died. She was a diabetic, couldn't get her insulin."
"I'm sorry." Tom was honestly sympathetic.
"This place was abandoned so I moved in," Robertson continued. "I soon found out why they'd left. Still, at least there's no riots, and it's not too bad as long as you don't go out at night." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Strange things happen round here," he said, obviously not wanting to go into detail. "Never used to believe in those things, but now…" He nodded to the charms on the door. "I don't know what's happened to the world. Do you find it's like a dream, where none of the rules apply? Where you can run as fast as you can but never get anywhere, and rooms are bigger inside than out? Sometimes I wonder if it's ever going to be right again."
He sounded on the edge of a breakdown. Stress had brought twitches to his hands and a tic to a muscle beneath his eye.
"The body?" Tom prompted.
He nodded a few times too often. "In the lawns out there, there's a large hollow. You can see it easily if you stand by the stable block. It's a dew pond, manmade, dates back to the Stone Age or something, according to the signs. If you go down there at certain times-sunset, sunrise-you can see it. Only not, which sounds a queer way of putting it, but that's how it is. The first time I saw it, it scared the living daylights out of me, but when I realised it came back regular as clockwork, just lying there, there was no point getting worked up about it. There are worse things." He looked down at his hands, which he quickly clasped together.
"What do you mean, there only not there?" Tom leaned forward so he could read Robertson's face.
"How can I describe it? It's like it's half there and half not. If you stand at the right point, so the light's coming in just so, it almost looks solid. Take one step to the left or right and it disappears."
"Can you see who it is?" Veitch asked.
"Looks like some Indian or something. Hard to tell. He's lying on his back, hands across his chest."
Witch looked at Tom excitedly, but the Rhymer kept his face emotionless. "Can you show us?" Tom said.
"I can. But you won't see anything at this time. Sunset's probably the best time, but you won't be getting me out there then."
"So what is out there?" Veitch asked.
Robertson rose quickly, suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, I don't rightly know. And even if I did, I wouldn't want to be talking about it. They can hear everything that's said, you know. Take their name in vain, they'll make you pay." He crossed himself, then once more for luck. "You want to be careful what you say."
"We don't bow our heads to anything undeserving," Tom said curtly.
Robertson looked on them pityingly before leading them out, stopping briefly to touch all the charms around the door.
The September sun was warm on the backs of their necks as they wandered across the lawns to the dew pond. Robertson was right; there was nothing to be seen. The ground was hard baked from the summer sun, the grass clipped close by the sheep.
Robertson looked up cautiously to check the sky. "Two days ago there was a rain of frogs. A carpet of them all around here, hopping like mad. Do you think it was a sign?"
"Yeah, it was a sign we're all going to croak." Veitch knelt down, brushing his fingers across the grass as he surveyed the area; it was too open. If they returned at sunset they would be easy targets. "So what do we do now?"
"Now," Tom said, "we go to talk to the giant."
Chapter Eight
The night was hot and humid, filled with the distant cries of alien birds. Beyond the barricade, the Nuckelavee roamed relentlessly, testing its strength with repeated attacks that sent furniture rolling off the top. Time and again the Tuatha De Danann guards clambered up to replace them, but it was a futile act. Sooner or later the Plague-Bringer was going to break through.
Church had led Ruth and Baccharus on a tour of the building to try to find something they could use to escape, but had given up after an hour. The rooms went on forever, filled with insane bric-a-brac and useless objets d'art. When they tried to retrace their steps the layout of the house had changed, just like Wave Sweeper, but after a while they passed through the chamber where the dying god had been imprisoned. All it held now was a noxious black stain on the floor to mark his passing.
When they finally made it back to the main area, the baby cry was rising and falling until Ruth wanted to tear at her ears. She dragged Church to one side. "What are we going to do?" Before he could protest, she added, "You're the leader."
"Don't worry, I know my responsibility." He scrubbed his hand roughly through his long hair; he had only one option. "We need a diversion. Someone to pull that thing over to one side so the rest of us can get out, get back, or-"
"Attack it."
"You've got an idea?"
"I can do some stuff." She tapped her head. "It's all locked up here."
"You've been trying it out?"
"Little things. Here and there. Just to get a feel for it." For some reason she looked guilty, wouldn't meet his eyes.
"How much can you do?"
There was a long pause before she said, "I honestly don't know. But it's like I've been made the receptacle for all the knowledge that exists about the Craft. It's like being supercharged." Still not meeting his eyes, she added, "Sometimes I feel like I can do anything."
Church rested a hand on her shoulder, played with her hair. He was worried about how distant and troubled she appeared. Most of the time she had a blase attitude to her new-found abilities, but it was obvious that behind it lay a deepseated concern. "What are you planning on pulling out of the bag this time?"
She peered at the thin gap of dark sky above the blockade. "I have a couple of ideas."
Church gave the back of her neck a squeeze before heading over to Niamh and Baccharus, who had been waiting patiently. "I hate to ask this," he said, "but I need a volunteer to draw that thing's attention. There's not much chance of getting off alive. One of the guards-"
"I shall do it," Baccharus said confidently.
"No!" Niamh's face crumpled with worry. "There is no need-"
"There is every need. How could I ask another being to take such a risk if I would not do it myself?"
"Your abilities are needed. You have responsibilities." Niamh's voice rose a notch.
Baccharus took her hand with surprising tenderness, the mark of deep friends. "I have to shed my burden."
Niamh nodded reluctantly. Baccharus turned back to Church. "What do you request?"
"We need to move most of the blockade from the far end. When the PlagueBringer moves up the other end, we kick over the last of it, and you make a break for the tree line." He paused. "How close does it have to be to infect you?"
Baccharus gave a faint smile, said nothing.