Tom slid off his mount and tied it to a tree. "Leave the horses. From here, we go on foot. Like pilgrims."
He led them across the dunes to a rough stone causeway. The tide was out so they could walk easily to the Mount. Despite the time of year and the salty sea breeze, it was peculiarly warm, reminding Ruth of the same unseasonal weather she had appreciated at Glastonbury. "I feel safe here," she said.
As they walked, Tom spoke in a dreamy monotone, describing the history and symbolism of the place that now towered over them. The beat and tone of his words made it almost a ritualistic chant, lulling them into deep thoughts born in the dark subconscious.
"In the old Cornish language this place was called Carreg Luz en Kuz, translated as the Hoar Rock in the Wood. In the ancient Celtic language, hoar often refers to a standing stone. There is no standing stone now, but who knows? You now know what the stones mark…" His words were caught by the wind, disappeared. When they picked up his monologue again, he had changed tack. "Once this place was known as Dinsul, or Citadel of the Sun. This is where the wise men of the Celts called up their god of light. There is a very clear tradition of sun worship at this site. Then the cult of St. Michael grew up in the Middle Ages after a vision of the saint filled with light appeared atop the Mount. So the old ways were passed on through the Christian religion where the site became dedicated to St. Michael, a saint who became a symbol associated with light. In the language of symbols, there is no differentiation between the old religion and the new. The same source, different names."
Tom's words had begun to nag at the back of Church's mind; it wasn't just travelogue. "Why are you telling us this?"
Tom ignored him. "Christ, too, another symbol of light, in legend is believed to have landed with his uncle Joseph of Arimathea at St. Michael's Mount before making his way to Glastonbury. He began to sing softly, "`And did those feet, in ancient times…"'
Church glanced at him uneasily. "I said, why are you telling nie this?"
"St. Michael-some writers once described him as the Spirit of Revelation, and that is a fair description," Tom said. "For if he stands for anything, it is this: there are mysteries heaped on mysteries and nothing should be taken at face value. Religions, all religions, are ninety percent politics and ten percent belief. The belief continues eternally, only shaped by the politics to appear this, or that, but it always is as it was. One thing; one belief." Tom took a deep breath. "Old stories," he said with pride; he thought of the Mount's legends of giants in the earth, as there had been at Wandlebury Camp.
"In Cornwall," Tom continued, "there's a legend that St. Michael sleeps beneath the land, waiting to be woken."
Church felt a shiver down his spine as the threads of disparate ancient sto- ties drew together to reveal a pattern behind the chaos. There were similar threads drawing together different religions, all leading back to the same source, though he was sure many worshippers of those faiths would refuse to see the connections. Yet it was all there for anyone who chose to see it. What did it mean, that was the question? Possibly the most important question he would ever have to consider in his life: a pattern behind everything. That was the message that had underpinned every step of his journey around the country since that cold night beneath Albert Bridge.
They reached the end of the causeway. A steep path wound upwards in the shadow of the mount. By the time they were halfway up, they were sweating in the morning heat.
"All these secrets hidden in the earth, buried in old stories, it makes me feel queasy," Ruth said.
"That's because you are being spoken to in the true language of symbols, the ur-language, but you are not yet educated enough to understand it." Tom rested briefly to catch his breath. "Yet your subconscious hears and it grasps the importance, if not the meaning. The signals it sounds out to your forebrain causes conflict, upsetting your equilibrium. Secrets and mysteries-hints at the true universe that lies behind the one you see."
They fell silent, meditating on his words, until they reached the summit and the ancient buildings. Church suddenly felt heady and had to reach out for a wall to support himself.
"You can feel it?" Tom asked.
He could: a tremendous surge of the earth energy, running through every stone, as if the place were an enormous battery. His flesh tingled and there was a corresponding tightness across his chest that eventually eased, to be replaced by euphoria.
"What a rush." Church laughed; he could see Ruth was experiencing it too.
"This is why people take drugs," Tom said, "to attempt to reach this state that they only have a vague race memory of, from the days when their ancestors could manipulate the subtle energies at the ancient sites. But nothing earthly can ever come close to it."
They moved slowly in the long shadows of the castle until they came to an ancient stone cross rising out of the ground. At first glance it was nothing special, but once they drew closer they saw a double swirl of the Blue Fire continually flowing all around it.
"This is where the lines all draw together," Church said. It was so potent he almost felt like kneeling before it.
The mood was broken when, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a dark figure away to his left. He whirled, half drawing the sword, only to see a man dozing in the sun on a low wall, his dog collar just visible beneath a lightweight blue cagoule. He was in his late sixties, his face sun-browned and lined, his hair a shock of white. He stirred, as if Church's gaze had disturbed him, and then jumped to his feet, straightening his clothes with a mixture of embarrassment and anticipation.
Once he had calmed he looked penetratingly into their faces in turn. "Is this it?" he asked with a note of excitement. "Is this the time?"
"It is the time," Tom said, stepping forward. Church and Ruth looked at him curiously.
"That's a relief, you know. After all that waiting and waiting. Of course, when I saw the signs… the failure of technology and all that… I supposed it must be the time. But when the message has been lying around for hundreds of years… longer, of course… it's difficult to believe it's actually going to happen in your lifetime." His cheeks coloured at the realisation that he was rambling. He held out a cautious hand and greeted them in turn. "I'm Michael." He smiled at what some would have considered a coincidence. "Watchman of St. Michael's Mount." He paused. "Chief Watchman, of this time, and this land. There. That seems so odd to say, after thirty years of never being able to say it to anybody. When the obligation was first passed to me, it felt such an honour… the mysteries that were opened to me!.. and I can honestly say that has never diminished with time." He stared into Church's face so deeply Church felt uncomfortable. "Is this the one?"
"It is," Tom replied.
"Yes. I can see it. In his eyes, always in the eyes. The one good man." He cupped Church's right hand in both of his. "May God go with you, my boy." Then he did the most curious thing: he dropped to his knee and gently kissed Church's hand.
Ruth, who had been watching the scenario intently, inexplicably grew angry. "What's going on here?" she snapped.
Church looked around puzzled. "That's a very good question."
"It's time, Jack." There was a strange cast to Tom's face that Church had not seen before, and it took him a second or two to realise what it was: Tom's features were unguarded; completely open.
Church was a little disturbed by this out-of-character intensity. "What do you mean?"
"Time to tell you something I've been keeping a secret ever since I've known you. A big secret."
Church thought of the Celtic dead talking of the traitor in their midst and his hand instinctively went to the sword.