This is just the tip of the iceberg - ‘ said Gluck. ‘I've got thousands of these photographs. Tens of thousands of testimonies.'
Some of the pictures, Cal noted, were linked by threads of various colours to pins in the maps.
‘You think there's a pattern here?' said Cal.
‘I believe so. But now, after hearing what you've told me, I begin to think maybe I was looking in the wrong place for it. Some of my evidence, you see, overlaps with your account. For the last three weeks - while you were trying to contact me - Max and I were up in Scotland, looking at a site we just found in the Highlands. We picked up some very strange articles there. I'd assumed it was a landing place of some kind for our visitors. I think now I was wrong. It was probably the valley your unweaving took place in.'
‘What did you find?'
‘The usual debris. Coins, clothing, personal effects of one kind or another. We boxed them all up, and brought them back down with us to examine at leisure. We could have made them fit our pet theories, you know... but now I think much of that's in ruins.'
‘I'd like to see that stuff,' Cal said.
‘I'll unpack it for youI said Gluck. His expression, since Cal had told his story, had been that of a deeply perplexed man. Even now he surveyed the map room with something akin to despair. In the past few hours he'd seen his whole world-view thrown into disarray.
‘I'm sorry,' said Cal.
‘What for?' Gluck replied. ‘Telling me about miracles? Please don't be. I'll just as happily believe in your mystery as in mine. It'll just take a little time to adjust. All I ask is that the mystery be there.'
‘Oh it isI said Cal. ‘Believe me, it is. I just don't know where.'
His attention strayed from Gluck's face to the window, and the blank scene beyond. More and more he feared for his beloved exiles. The night, the Scourge and the snow all seemed to be conspiring to erase them.
He crossed to the window; the temperature plummeted as he approached the icy glass.
‘I have to find them,' he said. ‘I have to be with them.'
He'd successfully kept his sense of desolation at bay until now; but sobs suddenly wracked him. He heard Gluck come to his side, but he didn't have sufficient mastery of himself to control his tears: they kept falling. Gluck put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
‘It's good to see somebody so in need of the miraculousI he said. ‘We'll find your Seerkind, Mooney. Trust me. If there's a clue to their whereabouts, it's here.'
‘We have to be quick,' Cal said softly.
‘I know. But we'll find them. Not just for you, but for me. I want to meet your lost people.'
‘They're not mine.'
‘In a way they are. And you're theirs. I could see that on your face. That's why I believe you.'
2
‘Where do we begin?' that was Cal's question.
The house was packed with reports from basement to attic. Perhaps, as Gluck had said, there was somewhere amongst them a clue - a line in a report, a photograph - that would point to the Kind's location. But where! How many testimonies would they have to dig through before they uncovered some hint of the hiding place? That assumed, of course, that in this time of jeopardy they'd band together. If not - if they were spread across the Isles - then it was a completely lost cause, as opposed to one almost lost.
Cal chided himself for that thought. It was no use being defeatist. He had to believe that there was a chance of discovery; had to believe the task before them wasn't just a way to occupy the time before the cataclysm. He would take Gluck as his model. Gluck, who'd spent his life in pursuit of something he'd never really seen, not doubting for an instant the validity of that pursuit; Gluck, who even now was brewing tea and digging out files, behaving as though he believed to his core that the solution to their problem was close at hand.
They'd made a base in the study. Gluck had cleared the largest desk, and laid on it a map of Britain, so vast it hung over the top like a tablecloth.
The Spectred Isle,' he said to Cal. ‘Study it a while. See if any of the sites we've investigated down the years ring a bell.'
‘All right.'
‘I'll go sort through the reports; and break open the boxes we brought from Scotland.'
He got about his business, leaving Cal to peruse the map, which was even more heavily annotated than those in the next room, many of the symbols, crossed lines and dusters of dots, accompanied by cryptic acronyms. What the letters UFO signified needed no explanation, but what was a Suspected TMD7 or a Cirrus VS? He decided to ignore the notes, which were only distracting him, and simply examine the map systematically, quarter inch by quarter inch, beginning at Land's End and working his way back and forth across the country. He was grateful that he need only examine the land, because the seas around Britain - those regions whose names had always enchanted him on the weather reports: Fastnet, Viking, Forties, Tiree - those too had their share of miracles. It stood to reason. If there were squid falling on suburbia perhaps there were rains of tyres and chimney stacks on the North Sea. He had moved to and fro across the country half a dozen times when Gluck reappeared.
‘Any luck?' he wanted to know.
‘Not so far,' said Cal.
Gluck put a foot-high heap of reports on one of the chairs.
‘Maybe we'll find something here,' he said. ‘I've started with events in the neighbourhood of Spook City, and we'll spread out from there.'
‘Seems logical.'
‘You dig in. Anything that seems faintly familiar, set aside. As long as you keep reading, I'll keep supplying.'
Gluck pinned the map up on the wall beside the desk, and left Cal to wade through the first collection of reports.
The work required concentration, which Cal found hard to come by. It was ten-thirty, and he already wanted sleep. But as he leafed through this catalogue of neglected wonders his weary eyes and wearier brain forgot their fatigue, re-invigorated by the startling stuff before them.
Many of the incidents were variations on by now familiar themes: events in defiance of laws geographical, temporal and metrological. Misplaced menageries; excursions from distant stars; houses larger inside than out; radios that picked up the voices of the dead; ice in midsummer trees; and hives that hummed the Lord's Prayer. All these things had taken place not in the faraway, but in Preston and Healey Bridge, in Scunthorpe and Windermere; solid, stoical places, inhabited by pragmatists not prone to hysteria. This country, which Gluck had called the Spectred Isle, was alive from one end to the other with delirious visions. It too was Wonderland.
Gluck came and went, supplying fresh files and fresh tea at intervals, but otherwise doing as little as possible to disturb Cal's concentration. It was difficult, Cal found, not to be sidetracked by many of the more bizarre accounts, but by disciplining himself severely he sifted out the one in every hundred or so that contained some detail that might connect the event described with the Fugue or its inhabitants. Some he knew of already: the destruction of Shearman's house, for instance. But there were other reports - of words seen in the air, of a man whose pet monkey quoted the Psalms - which had occurred in places he'd never heard of. Perhaps the Kind were there now.
It was only when he decided to take a short break from his labours that Gluck mentioned he'd unpacked the boxes they'd brought from Scotland, and asked if Cal wanted to examine the contents. He followed Gluck back into the map room, and there - every item tagged and marked meticulously - was the litter events in the valley had left behind. There wasn't much; either the survivors had destroyed the bulk of it, or natural processes had done the job. But there were a few pitiful reminders of the disaster - personal belongings of no particular interest - and some weaponry. Into both categories, weapon and personal effects - fell the one item that made Cal's skin run with gooseflesh. There, laid across one of the boxes, was Shadwell's jacket. He stared at it nervously.