The Fall (The Last Druid Trilogy Book 1) Page 3

  There was something about Cherwell College, he thought. Unusual events were happening to Angus too, even in Edinburgh. His letters had described how the crows in the New Town were becoming a real nuisance and he’d been attacked by several in the garden of his family house. He’d been rescued by Professor Lawrence, who’d said he’d been passing on his way to the Edinburgh Festival.

  ‘The problem with this,’ wrote Angus, ‘is that you’d have to make a significant detour to pass my house – we’re miles from the Festival. And I’ve no idea how Professor Lawrence circumnavigated the locked garden gate. What is it with these people – don’t they know it’s the holidays?’

  Sam knew what Angus meant. Even though college had broken for summer, almost every day he’d bumped into Professor Stuckley or Professor Whitehart. No matter where he went in Oxford, he was almost guaranteed to find them there. It was almost as if they didn’t want to let him out of their sight. And even now Professor Stuckley had managed to avoid giving him his results.

  He threw his head back in frustration and looked up into the dense foliage of the oak. But as he gazed at the autumn rust beginning to creep across the leaves, he felt the weight of the professor’s conversation begin to fall away. That was typical Stuckley, leaping from place to place in a whirl of ideas, making you think on your feet, never sure whether he was trying to fire your imagination or just following his own train of thought, or whether there was any real science behind it all! The professor was quirky, but Sam knew he was also generous with his time, in love with his subject matter and kind to those who cared to listen.

  Taking one last look at the inner landscape of his favourite tree, Sam stood and stretched, arching his back before emerging from under the shadowy canopy and setting off back to the Fellows’ House.

  Addison’s Walk welcomed him as it had done many times before, its trees and flowers merging into a profusion of soft colours. Evening was descending, but Sam didn’t quicken his pace; instead he slowed and watched the last of the visitors drifting away. Soon he was alone with only his thoughts for company.

  The lights were coming on over Magdalen and he had now reached the point on the walk where it bent sharply right. Ahead, just over a small bridge, were the grand gates to the deer park. He looked back over his shoulder at the long empty walk behind him. How beautiful it seemed in the fading light.

  As he turned into the home stretch, the sunlight was sending its last rays across Angel Meadow, flushing it crimson. With sunset, robins and song thrushes joined together in lamenting the fading light, and Sam reached a place on the walk where the roots of the trees seemed to emerge like tentacles from beneath the rusty earth. It was here, so the story went, that J.R.R. Tolkien had sat with C.S. Lewis and had the conversation that led to Lewis’s conversion to Christianity. Sam found himself stopping, breathing in the scents of the river and meadow, and, for just a moment, imagining the two authors sitting together with pipes in hands and rich conversation flowing between them.

  As he reached the end of Holywell Ford, with the Fellows’ Garden clearly visible ahead of him, the professor’s words came back to him. One minute the physics of light, the next the Inklings – and what about the Shadow in Warkworth?

  Approaching the small bridge that connected Addison’s Walk to the Fellows’ Garden, he noticed several crows sitting motionless in the gathering twilight. Or were they crows? They seemed bigger than crows and rather edgy. Perhaps they were ravens?

  Suddenly recalling the crow attack on Angus, Sam came to a complete stop and waved his arms to scare the birds off. They took to the air suddenly, making him jump, and as they flew higher, they let out a series of angry caws before heading off into the gathering gloom.

  ‘Keeping strange company this evening, Sam?’

  Sam jumped. ‘Professor Whitehart! I didn’t see you there. Where have you come from?’

  This was a good question, but one the professor didn’t bother answering.

  ‘I’m just on my way to Evensong,’ he said casually. ‘Come with me, if you like. We can grab early supper.’

  Professor Whitehart was a small man, slightly built, with thick dark curly hair and the most piercing blue eyes Sam had ever seen. Apart from his academic work on the mind–matter conundrum, he was well known for finishing his lectures with card tricks. And just on cue, a pack of white faceless cards appeared in his hands, moving seamlessly through his fingers, glimmering with a ghostly light.

  Somewhere far above, angry caws broke out.

  ‘Thanks, professor, but I have to pack this evening. I’m supposed to be going home in a couple of days. Well, if I ever get my results, that is.’

  ‘Then let me bid you good evening,’ Professor Whitehart said, ignoring the results hint. ‘But let’s have breakfast tomorrow.’

  He made as if to go, then stopped and turned back to Sam, his pack of cards turning in his hands like a Catherine wheel.

  ‘Should the crows come back this evening, you have my number in your top pocket.’

  With that, he turned and left.

  Reaching into his pocket, Sam withdrew a plain card with a phone number scribbled across it. He turned back to watch the professor disappear down the path with just a little awe. How could he have got the card into his top pocket without touching him? Could it have taken place when he’d been watching the cards flying high into the air?

  He was still reflecting on the sleight of hand when he reached the round oak door to the Fellows’ Garden. It had the emblem of Cherwell College, the circle with an unknown tree in the middle, carved with beautiful symmetry into its now dark and stained wood.

  Sam reached for the large brass key in his pocket and entered the secret garden in the heart of Oxford. It was now empty and the evening sun was throwing long shadows across Sam’s path. Around him were trees dating back to when Magdalen itself had been built in the fifteenth century. In the gathering darkness they looked like aged giants, twisted and misshapen. One group formed the circle around the Fellows’ Pond, where koi, sarasa and golden orfes sent their colours rippling through the water, whilst elsewhere flowerbeds of erysimum, foxgloves and verbenas created pools of blue as deep as the pond itself.

  Instead of going to the Fellows’ House, Sam decided to pay a visit to the pond. He took one final look down the length of the garden, past the Fellows’ House, half concealed by a copse of trees, to the Cherwell winding its way casually towards the meadows beyond the garden wall, and then sat down on one of the benches around the pond. There were twenty-two of these, all set back from the water’s edge. It was here that academics would seek solitude, a moment’s respite from the hustle and bustle of college life. Sam himself had spent many hours dipping his toes into the cold waters and watching the fish swarm curiously around them.

  Now, in the dying light, he was suddenly aware of the silence. The birdsong had faded away and even the cawing of the crows had ceased. The pond before him was still, like a mirror. He felt his eyes growing heavy and his head beginning to nod until one final yawn sent him to sleep.

  * * * * * *

  He woke with the garden in near darkness. The hair on the back of his neck sprang into life and he knew he was being observed. Slowly he raised his head.

  Sitting on the bench to his left was a man he had never seen before. Shadowy lines criss-crossed his face, he had a straggly grey beard and wild grey hair, and his jacket and trousers looked tattered and worn. Though obviously tired, he looked strongly built. Could he be a tramp?

  Even in the half-light Sam could tell he was looking straight at him, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked shakily.

  ‘My name is Oscar.’

  ‘What are you doing here? I mean, only Fellows are allowed here, or people from the Fellows’ House.’

  ‘I think chance brought me here,’ Oscar said slowly. ‘Of course, if chance you call
it. Now tell me – where are we?’

  ‘In the Fellows’ Garden, but—’

  Sam froze. Just behind Oscar stood a tall figure dressed in shadow.

  ‘Culluhin, wait for me at the tree.’

  Sam wasn’t sure if the figure had moved or not, but when he blinked, it had gone.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Oscar said softly. ‘Tell me your name and come and sit next to me.’

  ‘It’s Sam.’

  Without quite knowing why, Sam stood, crossed the short distance between them and sat down next to Oscar.

  He now realised the man had been in some kind of accident. His hair was untidy, his face seemed painted with soot and one of his eyes was slightly closed. His arms seemed to have been burned – even in the poor light Sam could see blackened skin.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ he asked, horrified.

  ‘I have no time to tell you why I look the way I do, or what my story may be, or why I am here,’ Oscar replied enigmatically. ‘But I am seeking Professor Stuckley and Professor Whitehart. Do you know them? Ah yes, I see you do.’

  Sam’s face had betrayed him.

  ‘Then let me leave a message with you, for I cannot delay my departure.’

  ‘I don’t understand…’ Sam began.

  ‘That doesn’t matter! In seven days’ time it will all make sense. I simply ask that you deliver my message before the night is over. Tell the professors the girl is safe, but much darkness comes this way.’

  Oscar stopped talking and sighed as if a great burden had come to rest upon him. He took hold of his left hand as if it pained him, and his head sank against his chest.

  ‘Should I get help?’ Sam asked, reaching out to touch him.

  Oscar turned sharply, his blue eyes blazing into Sam’s. ‘I’ve felt that touch before! Yes, as if it was only a moment ago! Most unexpected. Yes, most unexpected.’

  ‘You said it,’ Sam thought. He began to wonder whether he was dreaming. But somehow he couldn’t dismiss it. Whoever this man was and whatever message he had to deliver, there was a sadness about him as if he had suffered a great loss.

  ‘Tell me your name again,’ Oscar said eagerly.

  ‘Samuel Wood.’

  ‘Of course it is! That’s the name you gave me a moment ago.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t give you my full name then. But what do you mean?’

  Sam was curious now. Somehow he had to get a grip on this strange situation.

  But Oscar was looking away from him at the great trees in the garden, and when he spoke, it seemed as though he was talking to himself.

  ‘So very little time, so very little.’

  ‘Are you injured?’ Sam persisted.

  The question seemed to bring calmness to the man’s tired face. He turned back to Sam with a flicker of a smile.

  ‘Only in spirit, Samuel. I wish I had a day to tell you my tale. I would like to understand who you are, perhaps tell you who I am, but to stay too long would bring danger to this place, if danger isn’t already here.’

  ‘Already here?’

  ‘Tell the professors, Samuel, that the Circle is broken and a Shadow moves through the Otherland. Tell them that the Dead Water is lost and the Fall is dying. Tell them that they must seek the help of the Three. You must be wondering whether these words are those of the wise or the mad. On the road ahead you will find out…’

  ‘Oscar.’

  The chilling voice came from behind Sam. He knew without looking that the tall figure had returned.

  ‘Is it time already, Culluhin? Please, give me a moment.’

  Once more Culluhin withdrew.

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ Sam said anxiously.

  ‘You will understand my words when the time is right,’ Oscar replied. ‘One day you will understand my words only too well.’

  He leaned a little closer to Sam, and when he spoke, his voice was lower, sadder, almost breaking with the weight of the words.

  ‘Tell them also that there is a traitor who has already done great mischief. Tell them that the Underland is awake and moving through the Otherland in ever-greater numbers. And now, Sam, I must go and I can offer you nothing in return for delivering my message.’

  Oscar was standing, holding out his hand. Sam found himself recoiling as he saw the full extent of his injuries.

  ‘We will meet again, sooner that you think,’ Oscar said, ‘for chance brought us together and it has its own purpose.’

  He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew two envelopes that were torn and discoloured by age.

  ‘Once you have met the Keepers, it will be time to open these.’

  And with that, Oscar turned and ran, with surprising speed and nimbleness, around the pond and out through the ancient ring of trees.

  * * * * * *

  Sam sat still for a moment, blinking back his amazement. What had just happened there? Then he found himself getting to his feet and taking the same path Oscar had taken. Emerging from the trees, he looked around him and then turned a full circle. There was no one there. It was as if Oscar and his terrifying bodyguard had never existed.

  Puzzled, Sam stood there, wondering whether his studies had at last taken their toll. There was only one way out of the garden – no one could just simply disappear. Unless Oscar had doubled back at the far end of the garden, he and – who was it? Culluhin? – had simply melted away. But he knew that was impossible.

  He made his way back through the trees, heading in what he thought was the direction of the pond. But somehow he couldn’t find his way back through the trees. How odd. He turned and tried to go back the way he’d come, but everything looked different.

  Static electricity was humming around his head and cobwebs seemed to be brushing against his face, but when he brushed them away, nothing was there. He was beginning to feel a little panicky by the time he at last broke through the trees. Then he stood still.

  In front of him, the pond had been replaced by an unfamiliar tree. Not quite as broad as an English oak, nor as thrusting as a hornbeam, it had the look of a yew, but its trunk looked especially gnarled. Sam could not put a name to it or understand how it had come to be there. He felt disorientated. He whirled round to look back behind him, down the hill, and realised he could no longer see the lights of Magdalen. Where was he? He’d walked in the garden many times since coming to Oxford, had walked it from one end to the other. How could it be that he’d never seen this tree and – what were those?

  An electric shock of fear ran through his body as he saw the figures facing inwards towards the tree. They were all shapes and sizes, but what were they?

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realised they were statues – statues carved out of stone. The question should have been who were they? He was sure there were subtle features carved on their stony faces. They looked ancient, as if they’d been standing on this spot for eternity, but how could that be? How could all this have somehow lain hidden in the Fellows’ Garden?

  Intrigued, Sam moved forward through the stone statues to the tree. In the silence he could hear the sound of his own breathing and it seemed to him that each footstep was a clash of cymbals trying to wake the tree from its sleep. Its shape was even shifting as though it was about to stir, as if it wasn’t even a tree… An urge to reach out to it took hold of him. He placed his hands against the rough bark and found it oddly warm.

  His mind was racing. Who was Oscar? And the man acting like his shadow? Where had they gone? What was going to happen in seven days’ time?

  All the questions jostling for position in his mind were making him feel a little dizzy, and his hands were beginning to grow warmer – or was it the bark?

  Then he heard his name – a ripple in the quiet night, a gentle vibration that scattered through his mind. Or was it his imagination? His mind playing tricks in t
he darkness?

  There it came again – a voice calling out his name, and there was a new word not far behind. Was that ‘danger’?

  His fingers were now hot and the heat was travelling to his wrists and up his arms. Perhaps he should let go, perhaps the tree was dangerous, but the warmth was soothing, comforting him, lulling him… He relaxed and drank it in, as though he’d found a cold river in the middle of a vast desert.

  There it was again – a voice calling his name and then the word ‘danger’ caught on the evening breeze. But the voice was distant, far beyond the garden wall, or hidden within his mind. And here was the silent warmth, compelling him to drift, to lean into the tree just a little more. After all, this was his favourite place. No harm could come to him here, not in the Fellows’ Garden…

  For a second, a ripple, a hint, a babbling doubt lapped against the warmth like an unwelcome chill, suggesting this was not quite the place it had been a moment earlier. There was still a voice, now perhaps a little less distant, saying new words that eddied round in his head: ‘Shadow’ and ‘run’. Was that Oscar’s voice? What was this chill punctuating the warmth? What was this cold water all around him? Why was Oscar shouting?

  ‘The Otherland is no longer safe, Sam! The Shadow is here. Run! Run!’

  Shaken from his stupor, Sam let go of the tree. Instantly, an icy chill took his breath away. A suffocating fear reached out and enveloped him, drowning out all his senses. He would have turned and fled if his legs hadn’t buckled underneath him. As he fell, everything was slowing, he was almost senseless and time’s arrow was trickling past him.

  Someone was lifting him from cold waters as blackness took him.

  OXFORD SHADOWS

  He awoke with a start and was surprised to find himself in the library room of the Fellows’ House, sitting just in front of its large bay window, his face laced with sweat and his palms wet. He rubbed a hand across his face, guessing that it must be the middle of the night. Oscar, his shadow guard, the tree – what a strange dream that had been! But how had he fallen asleep at the Fellows’ Pond, only to wake up here?