Darkhenge by Catherine Fisher Page B

Vetch’s voice was strained. “Seven caers, each stronger, deeper inside. She may be too far in for me to reach her. He would take her from castle to castle.”
    The circle was half formed. The music lost static, became a single voice. Miles and eternities away, it sang.
    A bulb in the corridor flickered. Somewhere in the building a window banged. Rob moved instantly, across to the door, but there was no lock. He stood with his back pressed against it. “Hurry,” he gasped. “Hurry.”
    â€œI can’t.” Vetch’s hands were shaking; sweat gleamed on his forehead. “Can’t hurry this.”
    Three parts of the circle were formed. As the poet’s long fingers slid the twigs in, he seemed to be pushing against great pressure, as if the tiny henge resisted formation; then the poem swelled and receded, a burst of nonsensical, delirious words. “Shining bright star… I fight, I struggle … grass and trees are hastening, hurrying; see them, far traveler, wonder at them, warrior, call upon your god, on the saints of your god…”
    A chant like a spell, beating and rhythmic. Other sounds were wound in it; he realized they were the bleeps and beats of the monitors, Chloe’s pulse and heartbeat, forming the syllables.
    â€œSave us from rage … from the anger of the trees, the onrush of branches, a thousand princes, the hosts of the enemy…”
    Vetch pushed the last but one twig in. The circle was black. It sang in electric pulses and a girl’s voice, high and clear.
    â€œThe enchanted trees, the magic forest, its battle-line comes, we fight it with the music of harps…”
    The last sliver. He held it tight, moved it down. It touched.
    All the monitors spat.
    Rob gasped.
    Chloe’s eyes flickered.
    Instantly all around the room, alarms screamed. A gust of rain billowed the curtains. Rob flung himself forward. “She moved! I saw her move!”
    â€œHelp me!” Was it Vetch who said that? There were leaf shadows all over him, on the ceiling, the walls. The wires of the machines were curling like roots.
    Rob grabbed the poet’s shaking hands. Together they held the sliver steady, brought it back, guided it into place, forced it down. The circle was closed.
    Chloe jerked. She gave a great gasp. Outside people were running, shouting; the door burst open.
    â€œKeep them back!” Vetch yelled in fury; grabbing her arms, he dragged her up, off the pillow. “Chloe! Climb out! Climb out to us!”
    â€œWillows,” she breathed. “Blackthorn…”
    The henge slid to the floor, rolled. “I summon you,” Vetch commanded. “I call you back! Chloe!”
    â€œOak … the King…” Over his shoulder, she looked at Rob.
    The light snapped on. “No!” Rob howled, but he was shoved aside by frantic nurses, a doctor, Sister Mary.
    â€œNo! She’s waking! He’s waking her!”
    A great hand held his shoulder like a clamp. “What in God’s name is going on here?” Mac whispered furiously behind him.
    Vetch was held tight by a security guard. He looked haggard and worn out.
    Half off the bed, Chloe lay crumpled, eyes closed, her shining hair a mess.
    The doctor turned. “Get out of here,” he raged. “Before I have you thrown out! Father, do you know this man?”
    Mac glanced at Vetch. Then he growled, “Yes. Calm down. He hasn’t hurt her—”
    â€œHe could have killed her!”
    â€œShe was waking!” Rob was shivering with anger and despair. “She was almost awake … she looked at me—”
    â€œImpossible.” Hurriedly, the doctor checked Chloe’s eyes, her breathing.
    â€œYou heard the alarms....”
    â€œThe monitors must have been disconnected. I think we should call the police.”
    â€œThere’s no need for that,” Mac snapped.
    Vetch smiled wearily. “Do what you want,” he