The Spirit Well be-3 Page 11

It was late in the day by the time she reached the ley-a nameless trackway high on the crest of a broad headland where two valleys met above a grey river. She found a stone beside the trail and sat down to watch the low-riding sun sink farther below the line of barren hills to the west, shivering in the chilly, damp air as night came on. She comforted herself with the thought that she would soon be home again, dry and warm.

  Then, as the evening shadows darkened the valleys, and wraith-like vapours snaked along the river below, she stood and, carefully pacing off the distance from the beginning of the ley, once again composed herself for the jump. This one, like the first, was accomplished without undue discomfort-which Haven took as a sign that she was perfecting her abilities. The thought pleased her and filled her with confidence as the battering rain shower announced her arrival in England on a lonely hilltop somewhere on the southern downs.

  When her vision cleared she made out the line of the London Road-flanked by barley fields in neat rows, the thatched houses of farmers, the mail coach rumbling up the long chalk hills. Haven took in the sight, and her heart leapt. She had done it! She had successfully navigated the journey home all by herself.

  It was early in the day yet; the sun was high in a cloud-flecked sky, the air soft and balmy. Haven paused to catch her breath and let the incipient nausea pass. She drew the sweet, fresh country air into her lungs and gazed down the smooth green slope of the hill; she could see wagons and some foot traffic on the road below. As soon as she felt stable once more, she hiked up her skirts and hurried down the hillside, secure in the knowledge that she would soon beg a ride with a passing merchant or farmer or, better still, a carriage heading for the city.

  In any event she had to make do with a hay wain, an ox cart, and a brewer’s wagon pulled by a team of heavy horses-each slower than the last. As a result it was already nightfall by the time she reached London and made her way to Clarimond House, Sir Henry Fayth’s London home. Through streets intermittently lit by torchlight she flitted like a ghost, keeping to the shadows. A young woman alone on the streets of the city after dark was asking for trouble-Haven Fayth had not come this far only to end up at the end of a footpad’s knife.

  Darting along the houses fronting the wide, cobbled boulevardsometimes so close she brushed the doors with her elbow-she heaved a sigh as she came in sight of the stately redbrick mansion. A few last running steps carried her through the iron gates, and she was safe within the grounds. Hurrying up the drive, she bounded up the front steps and rapped sharply on the door. At her second knock the door opened slowly. A servant dressed in black barely deigned to glance at her, a frown of disapproval on his face.

  “His lordship is not receiving visitors,” he informed her in tones that left her in no doubt that she was not welcome. He made to close the door.

  “Do you not know me, Villiers?” she said, putting her hand to the door.

  “My lady?” The door opened again, more widely, and the servant produced a candle. “Lady Fayth,” he gasped, holding the candle high to see her. “You should have sent word of your arrival.”

  “Am I to spend the night on the doorstep?”

  “I am dreadfully sorry, my lady.” He stepped aside, bowed, and ushered her quickly into the vestibule, closing the door firmly behind her. “Pray forgive me. We were not expecting anyone. If I had known you were coming, I would have sent a carriage for you.”

  “There was no time,” she told him. “I am starving. Is there dinner?”

  “Cook is preparing it now,” Villiers replied. “I will have a place set in the dining room.” He gazed at her intently. “I can see your travel has fatigued you. I will have hot water and towels sent up to your room. If you care to freshen yourself, I will inform the household that you are in residence.”

  “Thank you, Villiers. I leave it in your hands. But first I have to see Giles. Is he here?”

  “Indeed, my lady. Mr. Standfast is convalescing. He has suffered a gunshot.”

  “Yes, I know. Terrible accident. It should never have happened.” She turned to the staircase. “I must see him straightaway.”

  “I believe the doctor has ordered bedrest and quiet.”

  “I shan’t disturb him overmuch,” she replied, ascending quickly. “Which room is he in?”

  “The Plum Room, my lady. Allow me to announce you.”

  “No need. I would prefer that you see to dinner. I will announce myself.” Abandoning propriety, she took the candle and ascended the stairs quickly, reached the gallery, and hurried to the landing off the staircase used by Sir Henry’s staff and retainers. She paused at the third door along, composed herself, then knocked.

  “Enter,” came a familiar voice from the other side.

  She turned the brass handle and pushed open the door.

  Giles lay in bed, the entire upper left side of his torso bound in white bandages. A lighted lamp glowed on the bedside table and, beside it, a jar and cup. On the floor was a chamber pot. At the first glimpse of his visitor standing in the corridor, the wounded man started upright.

  “Miss Wilhelmina? Have you fo-” he began.

  Haven stepped across the threshold and into the room, coming into the light. “Hello, Giles,” she said.

  He slumped back against the pillows. “Lady Fayth. I never thought-” Then, realising the implications of her presence, he bolted upright once more, threw aside the blanket, and made to climb out of bed. “Is Burleigh here?” he asked. The effort made him wince with pain as he struggled to rise. “Is he-”

  “Calm yourself, Giles,” Haven said gently. “All is well. I am alone. Like you, I have escaped him.”

  With the slow, measured movement of an aching man, he lay back once more. “Then why are you here?” he said, his tone sullen and unwelcoming. “You must know that I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Perhaps not,” she allowed. She picked up the edge of the blanket and pulled it back into place over him. “But you might care to listen, for I have something to say to you.”

  He glared at her, his expression full of hurt and distrust at what he considered her former betrayal. “Go on, then,” he said at last, curiosity overcoming his suspicion.

  “First,” she said, “I have to know-are you well enough to travel?”

  CHAPTER 12

  In Which Kit Learns the Uses of a Marmot Skull

  The interior of the cave seemed warm to Kit, and drier than he would have imagined. He followed the hunters, carefully working his way over the jumble of rocks that littered the cavern floor. The air was still and smelled of dry leaves laced with the sour scent of cat. The deeper they probed into the side of the gorge, the warmer it became. Sweating from the fight with the cave lion, Kit felt like shedding his shirt-and maybe would have if he had not effectively sewn himself into it. Of greater concern at the moment, however, was not to lose sight of the tiny light bobbing along a few steps ahead of him.

  Following the battle with the beast outside, the hunters had climbed up into the hole in the wall of the gorge, where Dardok scrabbled around in a dark recess of the cave and extracted from a cleft in the rock three small marmot skulls. The skulls had been broken down, leaving just the brainpan that formed a shallow bowl. These were quickly revealed to be primitive lamps-left there, apparently, the last time the clansmen had visited the cave. Using live coals from the wooden vessel, retrieved from the snow bank where Kit had dropped it, Dardok set about lighting the lamps. With braided hair for wicks and animal fat for fuel, the skull lamps stank and gave off a grudging oily light, but in the absolute darkness of the deep underground passages they were surprisingly effective.

  The lamps were handed out and the clansmen set off, pushing deeper into the cave; owing to narrow walls and cramped spaces they were forced to go single file and were soon strung out. Kit lost sight of the first two lamps, and was desperate to keep the last in sight as the troop followed the passage ever deeper into the earth. Occasionally there would be level stretches where the channel became wider;
other times it was all Kit could do to wriggle through the gap. The rocks were damp, and some were wet where water seeped from a seam or leaked from somewhere above. Where there was a continuous trickle and plink of dripping water, stalactites hung from the cavern ceiling, and these had to be avoided-likewise the stalagmites erupting from the floor like giant teeth in a stony jaw.

  Kit followed the group, trying to stay out of the standing water pooled on the floor. At one point he slid over a boulder and suddenly found himself at the entrance to a large gallery; both roof and walls opened out beyond reach of the crude lamplight. Up ahead he saw the reflection of Dardok’s lamp in a pool of water on the cavern floor. The light had stopped moving, and Kit guessed Big Hunter was waiting for the group to gather once more before pushing on. Indeed, when all were assembled, Dardok moved off; they came to the end of the gallery and entered a tunnel. They followed this a few hundred paces until it branched. Taking the right-hand branch, the band moved along a corridor that, though he could not see the ceiling, was nevertheless narrow enough for Kit to touch either side with arms outstretched. Here they stopped.

  Taking his skull lamp, Dardok held it close to the wall, and Kit saw in the dull glow cast by the greasy light the unmistakeable bulk of a large, long-horned aurochs painted on the stone wall. The beast was rendered in ochre, red, and brown with black ears and eyes; its mouth was open and its forelegs bent as if it was running. As Kit watched, Big Hunter moved the little lamp back and forth below the image, and to Kit’s amazement the carefully drawn creature seemed to take on breath and life right before his eyes. The flickering light rippled along the uneven surface of the stone, lending the illusion of movement.

  The trick of light was delightful, and Kit chuckled aloud, which brought curious looks from his companions. Dardok gave a gruff snort and shifted the skull lamp to another position, revealing an elk with huge splayed antlers. The hunter with the second lamp stepped across to the other wall and held up his lamp. Kit saw a phalanx of earth-coloured horses-six chubby, short-maned, thick-necked beasts-all in profile, each head in a slightly different attitude, all running together, their forelegs churning in unison.

  There were more-scores of them, an entire panoply stretching down the gently arching wall of the cave: a brown bison with its young one, a pair of leaping antelope, a cave lion roaring with its mouth open to show its fangs, a bear on its hind legs, an ox, a bear, a fat-bellied cow with a skinny calf nuzzling up to suck, and even the head and shoulders of a woolly mammoth with its high-domed head and red shaggy pelt. All the paintings were drawn with exquisite skill, but in something of a naive style-as if executed by highly skilled schoolchildren. The way the artists had captured the demeanour of individual creatures with just a few lines-a stroke here for a mouth, a bit of shading there for a bulge of muscle-was remarkable and revealed a long familiarity with the animal life depicted. At the same time, there was a distinctly fanciful element in the portrayal-as if the artist were at play with his subjects or engaged in a light-hearted dance.

  Drawn deeper into the gallery, Kit saw that, apart from the creatures on display, there were sections consisting of symbols-spirals and wavy lines, dots and circles of various sizes, shapes that looked like eggs, and many handprints. The handprints were made the way a kindergartner makes a hand by outlining his own digits with a crayon; on the cave wall, however, instead of drawing around the hand and fingers, the pigment had been sprayed somehow over the hand, leaving a shadow print on the surrounding rock, a void where the artist’s hand used to be. Were these the painter’s signatures? Or were they simply a way of announcing a presence-like the “Bill woz’ ere” graffiti one saw scrawled in London subways?

  And then Kit saw something that made his heart beat a little quicker. There on the wall opposite him was a spray of smaller figures. Kit moved in for a closer look at the pattern of swirls and spirals, squiggles and dots-the strange characters of a deranged alphabet. Despite the crude tools used to make them, each was precisely rendered, and each unique. Bending near, he peered at them in the dimly flickering light and knew he had seen these queer pictograms before: on the Skin Map.

  Mind reeling with amazement, Kit gaped at the devious signs. How could this be? How was it possible? He drew a deep breath and forced himself to rein in his racing thoughts. Okay, think! What does it mean? The first thing that came to mind was that either Arthur Flinders-Petrie had been here, or someone who had access to his map-because, on closer inspection, Kit noticed that the technique of the artist was very different from that displayed in the surrounding paintings. Each pictogram was precise and cleanly drawn, with no false starts or smudged lines. Obviously, the person who painted the symbols on the wall knew exactly what he was doing.

  Standing there in the quivering darkness of the cave, Kit heard again the words of Sir Henry Fayth: No coincidence under heaven.

  “No such thing as coincidence,” whispered Kit, brushing the stone with a trembling fingertip. It was true.

  The light shifted abruptly, and Kit glanced around to see that the clansmen were moving on. “Wait!” he called instinctively, his voice ringing hollow along the gallery walls. The last clansman looked back but did not stop, and Kit was soon enveloped in darkness. With a groan of frustration, Kit abandoned the Skin Map symbols and hurried after the light, determined to return as soon as possible to study the symbols some more and try to commit them to memory.

  Dardok led them by winding turns deeper and ever deeper into the cavern until at last they came to a stretch of wall where there were few paintings. Placing his skull lamp on a flat rock, Big Hunter busied himself with something in the shadows; Kit edged closer and saw that Dardok was kindling several more lamps, lighting them from the single flame of his own. As soon as they were lit, he handed them out, giving one to Kit as well.

  Besides the lanterns, there was a supply of shells from river clams, twigs, and clumps of earth. Taking up smooth river rocks obtained from a little heap beside the place where Dardok was lighting lamps, the clansmen began pounding the dirt clods. At first this activity appeared meaningless to Kit; but as he watched, the men took up some of the clamshells, also obtained from the river, heaped some of the pounded earth into the shells, and then added water from a dripping stalactite to make a thin mud.

  It’s a workshop, Kit realised. They’re making paint.

  This mud was mixed on the half shell with a grubby forefinger, each artist making his own. When the paint was ready, Dardok produced hazel twigs. These were handed around and promptly popped into their mouths. The clansmen chomped away for a while, gnawing on the sticks, fraying the ends to form rudimentary paintbrushes. Every now and then they removed them for examination before chewing again. When all was ready, there followed a lengthy consultation that Kit could follow only in part. He sensed the buzz of thoughts flitting among the group-he could always tell when they were discussing something-but the impressions did not settle and crystallise as when En-Ul addressed him directly. Moments later the huddle broke and the clansmen took up places along the wall, singly or in pairs, and began to work.

  Kit found a comfortable perch on a low rock and settled back to watch as the hunters-turned-artists sketched their designs. Each artist, following contours of the rock only he could see, roughed out a basic body shape-an ox, a deer, or a bear-and began filling in the body, dabbing the paint with their crude brushes. They worked quickly, adding shade and colour to the shapes they created. Kit gradually became aware of an odd sound-a low droning hum almost below the threshold of hearing. Rising and falling like waves washing on a distant shore, the sound waxed and waned: the clansmen were humming while they worked-not vocalising exactly, something more like purring. The sound seemed to come not from their throats, but from their chests; and once it started, it went on and on and on.

  Kit watched the progress of the painting, and it occurred to him that if he made some paint he might imitate Arthur Flinders-Petrie and copy the glyphs onto himself; he could become his own Skin Map
, and thereby carry them out of the cave for further study. Taking one of the clamshells, he filled it with some of the pounded earth, mixed in some water, and then started back to the main channel of the cave. Passing Dardok, he paused and whispered, “I need a drink.” He held the image of a man cupping water to his mouth. Dardok glanced around at him and gave a grunt of assent before resuming his work.

  Message delivered and received, Kit took his lamp and walked back along the tunnel leading to the main passage and the gallery of animals where he had seen the Skin Map pictograms. He followed the twisting, turning corridor of stone and came to a divide and paused. He had not remembered that junction, but then coming from the other side he would not have seen it; he took the larger path and continued on. After a few steps, his decision was rewarded by the sound of water dripping into a pool-a solid, almost metallic clink echoing along the stone corridor from somewhere just ahead.

  Kit resumed his slow progress along the passage. The plinking sound, however, seemed to move with him, remaining just a little ahead of him. Sometimes it seemed to be closer, and other times farther away, but curiously, the sound seemed to remain just a little way ahead. Against all reason, he picked up his pace-as if he might overtake the sound somehow. He felt a breath of air on his face-the merest touch of flowing air, nothing more than a sigh against his cheek. But it halted him once more. The tiny breeze ceased. Must have imagined it, thought Kit, moving on. He had taken four or five steps when he felt it again-a feathery light touch of warm on his skin.

  He pushed on. The single-flame lamp gave off little light, but drawing closer to the metallic clinking sound Kit imagined he saw a movement in the darkness just out of reach of his puny lamp-a low, sinuous motion close to the floor. It was there-just a flicker of shadow in the deeper gloom-then it was gone again. Yet the metallic clinking sound continued, a little louder than it was before.