found Jennifer reading. She looked up at him solemnly, then forced a smile.
"All finished?"
"I think so."
She was thoughtful for a moment, then said gently, "Don't make promises you don't intend to keep."
"What promises?"
"A story for Steven."
"I made him
no
promise…"
Jennifer sighed angrily. "If you say so, George."
"I do say so."
But he softened his tone. Perhaps he had forgotten a promise to tell Steven a Roman story. Perhaps, in any event, he should have been gentler with the boy. Reaching into his pocket he drew out the wrist drum that Ash had left.
"Look at this. I found it at the Horse Shrine. I'll give it to Steve in the morning."
Jennifer took the drum, smiled, shook it and made it beat its staccato rhythm. She shivered. "It feels odd. It feels old."
Huxley agreed. "It
is
old." And added with a laugh, "A better trophy than that last one, eh?"
"Trophy?"
"Yes. You remember… that raw and bloody bone in my study. You kicked it and called it a trophy…"
"Raw and bloody bone?"
She looked quite blank, not understanding him.
Huxley stood facing her for a long while, his head reeling. Eventually she shrugged and returned to her book. He turned, left the room, walked stiffly back to his study and opened the journal at the page where Gray-green man had left his second message.
The message was there all right.
But with a moan of despair and confusion, Huxley placed his hand upon the page, upon the scrawled words, touched a finger-tip to the part of the paper where, just a few days ago, there had been a smear of blood, confusing and concealing part of Gray-green man's script.
And where now there was no blood. No blood at all.
He sat for a long time, staring out through the open windows, to the garden and the wood beyond. At length he picked up the pen, turned to the end of the journal and started to write.
It would seem that I am not quite home
Confused about this.
Maybe Wynne-Jones will have an answer
Must return to Shrine again
Everything feels right, but not right
Not quite home
----
Thorn
for John Murry
At sundown, when the masons and guild carpenters finished their work for the day and trudged wearily back to their village lodgings, Thomas Wyatt remained behind in the half-completed church and listened to the voice of the stone man, calling to him.
The whispered sound was urgent, insistent: "Hurry! Hurry! I
must
be finished before the others.
Hurry
!"
Thomas, hiding in the darkness below the gallery, felt sure that the ghostly cry could be heard for miles around. But the Watchman, John Tagworthy, was almost completely deaf, now, and the priest was too involved with his own holy rituals to be aware of the way his church was being stolen.
Thomas could hear the priest. He was circling the new church twice, as he always did at sundown, a small, smoking censer in one hand, a book in the other. He walked from right to left. Demons, and the sprites of the old earth, flew before him, birds and bats in the darkening sky. The priest, like all the men who worked on the church—except for Thomas himself—was a stranger to the area. He had long hair and a dark, trimmed beard, an unusual look for a monk.
He talked always about the supreme holiness of the place where his church was being built. He kept a close eye on the work of the craftsmen. He prayed to the north and the south, and constantly was to be seen kneeling at the very apex of the mound, as if exorcising the ancient spirits buried below.
This was Dancing Hill. Before the stone church there had been a wooden church, and some said that Saint Peter himself had raised the first timbers. And hadn't Joseph, bearing the Grail of Christ, rested on this very spot, and driven out the demons of the earth mound?
But it was Dancing Hill. And sometimes it was referred to by its older name,
Ynys Calidryv
, isle of the old fires. There were other names, too, forgotten now.
"Hurry!" called the stone man from his hidden niche. Thomas felt the
"All finished?"
"I think so."
She was thoughtful for a moment, then said gently, "Don't make promises you don't intend to keep."
"What promises?"
"A story for Steven."
"I made him
no
promise…"
Jennifer sighed angrily. "If you say so, George."
"I do say so."
But he softened his tone. Perhaps he had forgotten a promise to tell Steven a Roman story. Perhaps, in any event, he should have been gentler with the boy. Reaching into his pocket he drew out the wrist drum that Ash had left.
"Look at this. I found it at the Horse Shrine. I'll give it to Steve in the morning."
Jennifer took the drum, smiled, shook it and made it beat its staccato rhythm. She shivered. "It feels odd. It feels old."
Huxley agreed. "It
is
old." And added with a laugh, "A better trophy than that last one, eh?"
"Trophy?"
"Yes. You remember… that raw and bloody bone in my study. You kicked it and called it a trophy…"
"Raw and bloody bone?"
She looked quite blank, not understanding him.
Huxley stood facing her for a long while, his head reeling. Eventually she shrugged and returned to her book. He turned, left the room, walked stiffly back to his study and opened the journal at the page where Gray-green man had left his second message.
The message was there all right.
But with a moan of despair and confusion, Huxley placed his hand upon the page, upon the scrawled words, touched a finger-tip to the part of the paper where, just a few days ago, there had been a smear of blood, confusing and concealing part of Gray-green man's script.
And where now there was no blood. No blood at all.
He sat for a long time, staring out through the open windows, to the garden and the wood beyond. At length he picked up the pen, turned to the end of the journal and started to write.
It would seem that I am not quite home
Confused about this.
Maybe Wynne-Jones will have an answer
Must return to Shrine again
Everything feels right, but not right
Not quite home
----
Thorn
for John Murry
At sundown, when the masons and guild carpenters finished their work for the day and trudged wearily back to their village lodgings, Thomas Wyatt remained behind in the half-completed church and listened to the voice of the stone man, calling to him.
The whispered sound was urgent, insistent: "Hurry! Hurry! I
must
be finished before the others.
Hurry
!"
Thomas, hiding in the darkness below the gallery, felt sure that the ghostly cry could be heard for miles around. But the Watchman, John Tagworthy, was almost completely deaf, now, and the priest was too involved with his own holy rituals to be aware of the way his church was being stolen.
Thomas could hear the priest. He was circling the new church twice, as he always did at sundown, a small, smoking censer in one hand, a book in the other. He walked from right to left. Demons, and the sprites of the old earth, flew before him, birds and bats in the darkening sky. The priest, like all the men who worked on the church—except for Thomas himself—was a stranger to the area. He had long hair and a dark, trimmed beard, an unusual look for a monk.
He talked always about the supreme holiness of the place where his church was being built. He kept a close eye on the work of the craftsmen. He prayed to the north and the south, and constantly was to be seen kneeling at the very apex of the mound, as if exorcising the ancient spirits buried below.
This was Dancing Hill. Before the stone church there had been a wooden church, and some said that Saint Peter himself had raised the first timbers. And hadn't Joseph, bearing the Grail of Christ, rested on this very spot, and driven out the demons of the earth mound?
But it was Dancing Hill. And sometimes it was referred to by its older name,
Ynys Calidryv
, isle of the old fires. There were other names, too, forgotten now.
"Hurry!" called the stone man from his hidden niche. Thomas felt the
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