For the briefest moment she hesitated, filled with a sudden, unexpected sympathy for the creatures, then, quivering slightly, not knowing what to expect, she pressed the switch.
The air beyond the Clay-men shimmered. And then, as if forming from the air itself, four massive figures stood there, palely outlined against the dark. Four ancient, ghostly warriors, their armored breastplates glinting in the moonlight, long, wicked-looking blades in their mailed fists. And their faces . . .
Meg shuddered, recognizing them. Ox and lion, they were, man and eagle, their features harsh and unforgiving. AngeZs, she thought, glimpsing the great wings—six in all—that rose from their broad, muscular backs. Ben has conjured up the angels . . .
Briefly they stood there, powerful and malevolent, and then, as one, they stepped forward, raising their swords.
"Dyesk'ynnal" said the Ox-faced angel, beckoning the Clay-men, his voice booming like thunder in the silence. "Dyesk'ynna!"
Until that moment the Clay-men had crouched there, paralyzed by the sight, but now, their nerve broken, they turned and ran, shrieking, toward the safety of the cottage.
And Meg, watching, ran with them in her head, her spine tingling with a fear she had never, ever thought to feel.
"I know your works," she said softly, fearfully. "You have the name of being alive, and you are dead."
MEG sat at the bottom of the cellar steps, watching through the tight-fitting mask as her brother bound the last of the unconscious Clay-men. Beyond him stood the morph, inactive now, the nozzle of the empty gas cylinder dangling loosely from its polished hand.
Ben turned, smiling up at her through his mask. "There," he said, the words muffled. "All we have to do now is get them upstairs, into the small barn, then we can get down to the town."
"Upstairs?" She shivered. Even the thought of touching one of the grotesque, childlike creatures horrified her, let alone lifting and carrying one. "Can't we leave them here?"
He shook his head. "I can't risk it, Megs. Think of the damage they'd do down here if one of them got loose. Up there it doesn't matter. The small barn is secure, and there's nothing they can damage."
"Isn't there something you can give them to keep them out a bit longer? You know ... a drug or something?"
"And if it killed them? No, Megs, I can't risk that. I want these . . . these men, I need them for my work. That's why I bothered with all this, so as not to harm them."
She looked away, finding no words to explain her aversion.
He smiled. "Look, I'll put them in sacks, if you like. If that makes it any easier. But it has to be done. And the sooner the better. Now, are you going to help me, or do I have to do it all on my own?"
"I'll help," she said, finally, meeting his eyes again. "But not this, Ben. I can't. I simply can't."
He studied her a moment, then, with the tiniest little nod, turned away. Bending over one of the limp Clay-men, he lifted it, balancing it over his left shoulder. Then, stooping to lift another, he draped its wiry frame over the other shoulder before turning to face her again.
"The keys are hanging by the door. Go ahead and open up, then get your brown waist-length coat and a bicycle from the shed. Wait for me by the postbox above the ferry road. I'll be there as quickly as I can."
She nodded, knowing he was disappointed in her, but for once there was nothing she could do. Nothing in heaven or earth would make her touch one of them. Nothing. Not even Ben's disapproval.
"Okay," she said. "But don't be long, Ben. Please. I couldn't bear it if they attacked me. I just couldn't."
"No," he said, his face softening. "Nor I."
MEG stood there on the veranda of the old naval college, looking out across the river. At the foot of the hill, the water stretched away to either side, a broad, uneven sheet of moonlit darkness, its reflective brightness framed by the solidity of the hills. To her left, beyond the scar of the Old Mill Creek, the dark flank of the land hid any sign of the village and the cottage beyond. It was there, on the far bank, that the darkness was most intense, the primal blackness of the woods pressed against the water's edge threateningly. To the south—to her right as she turned, looking out across its sprawl—the lamps of the old town glowed in the dark, each point of light distinct. Beyond it the castle was dour and solid on its rock foundations, guarding the river's mouth. Fishing boats were clustered in the old harbor, their masts like winter saplings. Close by, lying alongside the cobbled quay, the big merchantman rested at anchor, its sails furled, the oil lamps that ringed its hull forming a necklace of light in the surrounding water.
All seemed well. All seemed . . . familiar. And yet, just beneath where she stood, on the far side of the river, the Clay-men were waiting, their log canoes tucked in against the bank, beneath the overhanging trees.
She turned back, looking to see how Ben was getting on. He was standing before the middle of the three big control panels, the portable harness he was wearing making him seem strangely inhuman— more machine than man. To his right, concealed from the river by the wall of the veranda, a bank of screens—four wide, three deep—gave a dozen different views of the valley.
In many ways it was all as before. The cameras were in place, the tapes rolling. Lights winked and flickered on the boards. Nearby, on the flat top of the tape-storage unit, one of the big notebooks lay open, Ben's neat hand covering the pages. Outwardly there seemed little difference between this and other times. Yet what she felt was different. Was as distinct as it could possibly be.
And why was that? Why was the thought of this—of using this situation—so disturbing? Was it simply personal fear, or was it something much deeper than that? Something she couldn't face without questioning all that Ben did, all he was1.
She studied her brother, as if to discern some difference in him, something she had never noticed before that moment, but there was nothing. He had always been like this: a lens, taking it all in. Assimilating and transforming it. Recasting the world in his own dark image.
As now.
"That's it," he said, straightening up. "All we need now is to position the cameras properly and we're ready."
She nodded, yet for once she felt herself distanced from him, out of sympathy with what he did. Before it had all been a game: endlessly fascinating, yet a game for all that. Now it was real. Real men would be hurt down there. Real blood spilled. And yet Ben acted as if the game went on. As if there really was no difference.
"Take number three," he said, not even glancing at her, his eyes fixed on what was happening on the screens. "I want a tight focus on the quay in front of the inn."
She went across, adjusting the position of the camera until she heard him grunt his satisfaction.
"Good. Now two."
"Ben?"
He looked across at her, distracted. "What?"
"What are we doing, Ben? Why do you need this?"
His eyes met hers, then quickly moved away. It was the briefest of contacts, but it was long enough for her to understand. He didn't know. And the not-knowing was why. Was a reason in itself.
She shivered, then looked past him, noticing for the first time the rocket launcher that lay on the grass beside their bicycles, its brutal heaviness emphasized by the thick leather strap.
"Two," he said again. "Please, Meg. We don't have much time."
She did as she was told, focusing in on the tiny crowd that stood in front of the old Castle Hotel, drinking.