When she came to the steps, she sat down and took a breather. Then she wriggled up on her tummy through the litter of leaves and twigs until she could see into the court, staying close to a pillar. The ruin was empty and apparently deserted, haunted in the bright moonlight.
Well, if anyone else was around, he would be keeping quiet as she was. He would be flat on his belly as she was. He would be breathing very quietly as she was.
The mossy stone was cold. She should have brought one of Porith Molecatcher's fur blankets. But then she might have gone to sleep. She might have snored!
The Sacrarium seemed completely deserted. Not even the owls were making noises tonight. From the looks of the place, no one had come here in a hundred years. She had a deep conviction, though, that she was not the only one watching that circle of paving. The Thargian would be around somewhere, and perhaps the reinforcements he hoped for. Zath would have a reaper or two. T'lin Dragontrader? Sister Ahn?
Tion? Garward? Eltiana?
Even the gods would be watching.
But no one coughed. No one cracked a twig.
Why was the jungle so quiet?
Trumb climbed slowly up the sky.
The shadows played strange tricks. Eventually Eleal became convinced that there was a reaper standing on the far side of the Sacrarium, alongside one of the unbroken pillars. She told herself firmly that she was imagining things. No man would stand when he might have to wait for hours—he would sprawl on the ground as she did. Nevertheless, her eyes insisted on telling her that there was a dark figure standing beside that pillar, a man in a black gown with a hood. She thought she could even make out the paler glimmer of his face. Of course it had to be a delusion, a trick of the light.
She was too cold and uncomfortable to sleep, too frightened now to go away. No reaper would find her unless he stepped on her. Aware that she might have to wait until dawn, she stayed where she was, and the forest made no sounds at all.
44
AN HOUR OR SO AFTER MIDNIGHT, THE DOGCART CLATtered through Amesbury and began the gentle climb westward to Stonehenge. The moon was barely past the full, playing hide-and-seek in the clouds. A chill wind was blowing—the weather had turned nasty.
Creighton was on the rear-facing seat, idly tapping on one of the little drums the Gypsies had made for him. Edward was talking with the driver, Billy Boswell. Billy was about Edward's age, short and swarthy and naturally reticent. Under the gorgio's blandishments he had gradually been persuaded to talk about his life and himself. Now he was telling his worries that he might have to go and fight a war. That was exactly what Edward did want, but he was having trouble transferring his viewpoint to the Gypsy. He did not know how the Rom fared in Germany, and the greater benefits of English civilization were somewhat irrelevant to a man who spent most of his year on the road selling clothespins.
"Now, I was born in Africa—"
"Never ‘eard of it."
Mm! Edward tapped his feet in counterpoint to the drum.
"By the way,” Creighton said suddenly at their backs, “where did you get the fancy shoes, Exeter?"
"Billy gave them to me after we passed through Andover this afternoon. Very kind of him, I thought.” They were a size too small, but a man must not look a gift shoe in the tongue....
"Didn't cost nuffin',” Billy said in his Cheapside accent.
Mm! again.
Creighton stiffened, and pointed. “See lights over there?"
"Yes,” said the front bench unanimously.
"Where's that?” Edward added.
"It must be the Royal Artillery Barracks at Larkhill. Means we're getting close."
Salisbury Plain, apparently, was not a plain. The road dipped into another hollow.
Edward felt scruples. This sneaking around in the small hours of the morning with a Gypsy and a highly suspect character like Creighton was probably going to involve him in trespassing at the very least, and Lord knew what else. “Does anyone live at Stonehenge, sir? Who owns it?"
"It's owned by Sir Edmund Antrobus. There's a policeman lives in a cottage about quarter of a mile to the west. Let us trust that the worthy constable does not suffer from insomnia.” After a moment Creighton added, “The aerodrome's even closer, but I don't suppose there will be anyone there in the middle of the night."
Edward looked up as a patch of cloud began to glow fiercely silver. He shivered.
"Ah!” Creighton said. “You feel it too? How about you, Boswell?"
The Gypsy muttered something in Romany.
"Incredibly strong, if we can feel it here. There it is!"
The moon sailed out from behind its veils. Glimmering on the skyline a short way ahead stood the ghostly circle of trilithons—ruined, sinister, inexplicable. At first it seemed very small, surrounded by so much emptiness. As the cart grew closer, the height of the stones began to register. Who would have erected such a thing in so desolate a spot, and above all why? It was archaic insanity in stone, alone in the wind and time. The pony continued to trot along the dusty track, unaffected by such morbid wonderings.
Edward's scalp prickled. “Are you sure we couldn't try somewhere a little less spooky first, sir? Not so much ‘virtuality'?"
"We could, but I have my reasons for wanting to start here. The Chamber knows the prophecy too, remember. There are only five or six nodes in Sussland, so it would not be an impossible task to interdict them against you."
"I don't think I quite follow that. In fact I'm sure I don't."
"Think of a magic spelclass="underline" ‘No one named Edward Exeter may come this way.’”
"Magic is that specific?"
"Call it mana, not magic. If it's strong enough, it can be. I'm hoping that a portal this powerful will overcome that sort of blockage, if it's been tried.” Hrrnph! “It's a great mistake to assume that your enemy is infallible, you know. They may have forgotten that you have a middle name."
Edward wished Creighton's words would justify the confidence in his tone. “What about guards at the other end? I mean, if the Blighters are hunting me here, why won't the Chamber be waiting for me there?"
"I'm sure they will be,” Creighton said breezily. “I hope some of our chaps will be on hand to make a fight of it. I'll be on my own turf, too, in a manner of speaking."
Affalino kaspik ... The nonsense words were going around and around in Edward's head. He could feel the complex stirrings of the rhythm, too. Was that some sort of response to the occult power of the node? Sheer funk, more like.
"There's a fence!” He hoped that the fence would be the end of the matter and they could go home now, but he didn't really expect that. It was a confident-looking barbed wire fence strung on steel posts.
"Yes, and the attendant is not on hand to accept our sixpences or whatever they charge."
"We can climb that."
"We could, but Mr. Boswell can deal with the fence for us, can't you, Mr. Boswell?"
Billy said nothing while the cart dipped where the track crossed a wide hollow and a bank. Then he reined in the dogcart alongside the fence. “Didn't tell me t'bring me tools. Can just ‘eave it dahn fo’ ya."