The Exiled by William Meikle

anything as Ferguson shooed them over so that their backs were to the door.
    “Stay quiet and let me work for ten minutes,” he said. “I need to get ready.”
    The brothers stood and watched as the old man went to the cabinet, produced some chalk and string, and started to mark out a detailed diagram on the floor. It covered most of the available space—circles, five-pointed stars and a strange pictorial script that looked a bit like Egyptian hieroglyphs but in a more flowing style.
    “I’ve seen this on the telly,” John whispered. “It never ends well.”
    Ferguson went back and forth, comparing his diagram to one that was on one of the pages he’d kept of the photocopies, rubbing out and redoing some areas, adding others. Finally he announced himself satisfied.
    “Right. Are you sure you want to do this?” he said.
    “Now?” Alan said.
    “What do you want to wait for? Christmas?”
    Ferguson motioned them forward.
    “Don’t step on the lines—come over here into the middle.”
    The brothers looked at each other. John shrugged.
    “I suppose it’s what we came for. I’m game if you are?”
    They stepped forward together.
    * * *
    “Before we start,” Ferguson said. “A word of warning. Do not try to fight it. You will lose.”
    He began a chant, a singsong rendition following a tune that Alan almost recognized. The light tube above them flickered and seemed to fade, the light leeching out of the lockup. Alan smelled salt spray, felt a wind on his face. He turned to John. His brother clutched at his bad shoulder, all color drained from his face, teeth clenched in pain.
    “Stop,” Alan said.
    “No!” John said. “Keep going. This will pass.”
    It didn’t seem as if Ferguson had heard in any case. His chant grew louder, echoing and building around them until it seemed like a whole chorus of voices was raised in unison. The walls wavered as if in a summer haze.
    Gulls screeched even above the sound of the chant, and the smell of grass came with the breeze. Watery sunshine flooded the room, coming from everywhere yet nowhere. The chant rose to a crescendo as the four walls faded out and somewhere else faded in.
    The three of them stood on top of a high cliff. Far below surf pounded on the rocks, sending spray high into the air. To their right the landscape rose up to a tall outcrop topped with jutting stone turrets, several of which were little more than shattered spires, having tumbled into ruin in some distant past. Ahead of them a cliff-top path led away into the distance to blue, snow-tipped mountains.
    Gulls screeched angrily. Scores—hundreds—took to the air from cliff nests, swirling and swooping in terror, the source of which became apparent all too soon. It was black, it was huge and it swooped up the cliff face like a jet fighter, headed straight for them.
    “Time to go,” Ferguson said.
    “No,” John shouted. “I’m not leaving without Galloway.”
    “And you’re not leaving with me,” a voice said from behind them.
    * * *
    Alan turned, faster than John, who seemed to be hampered by his bad shoulder. A heavyset man—Galloway—stood by the door of a tumbled edifice of high arches and tall windows—John’s cathedral. He held a long-handled axe with a stone head, cradled in his arms like a child.
    “You’re coming with me,” John shouted. At the same instant a black shadow rose up and over them and giant wings flapped, the downdraft threatening to send them all tumbling.
    Ferguson started to chant again, louder, more frantic this time.
    Galloway laughed.
    “Come and get me, copper,” he said.
    John made to move forward, just as the scene wavered and melted. Darkness fell around them as great wings hooded, blotting out the sky. The wings threatened to enfold them, the only light coming from a channel ahead with Galloway in the center and the cathedral ruins beyond, as if they were being herded in that direction.
    Ferguson’s voice rose to a shout. Alan saw a neon tube