Having made do with that which was offered, he followed Cosimo and Sir Henry out into a grey morning, the night’s frost thick on the ground. The horses, fresh from their warm stable, steamed in the cold air; it made Kit shiver just to look at them. He found a lap robe and wrapped himself in it and, with the crack of the coach driver’s whip like a gunshot in the frosty air, the carriage rattled from the inn yard and out into the street. They proceeded at pace and were soon at the city’s dilapidated North Gate; once through, they passed a huddle of humble dwellings clustered close about the crumbling ruins of the old town walls, and then out into the open countryside.
Kit watched the land slowly come to life under blazing blue September skies. The day grew warmer as they went, and Kit soon shed the lap robe and basked in the bright sun while he listened to the other two men talk. In a little while, they passed a tiny hamlet, crossed a ford of the Cherwell, and continued on, reaching the village of Banbury, where they paused to refresh themselves on some meat pies from the local baker before resuming their journey, now bending westward and down into the Windrush Valley on small roads and farmers’ tracks. Kit watched the Cotswolds roll by, becoming almost mesmerized by the endless expanse of round, close-crowded hills with their gentle slopes rising above stream-lined valleys that sheltered tiny farming communities.
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.”