The Fall (The Last Druid Trilogy Book 1) Page 7

  He stopped again. His throat was parched and his eyes stinging from the constant buzzing.

  ‘Keep going, Sam,’ the professor urged. ‘Tell them everything you know.’

  Sam could see the professor’s swollen eyes willing him on.

  ‘I heard the choir, though Professor Stuckley tells me they have broken for summer.’ Again Sam had to stop. His voice was quivering. He took a breath. ‘A woman came to me. She called herself the Fall. She probably saved my life. I don’t know what to make of it. Perhaps I’m just going mad.’

  As he had been speaking, the figures beyond his sight had been standing. Now Ronald spoke again, and this time his voice was slow and deliberate.

  ‘Sam, we know how difficult this must be. Please do not question your sanity, for we know the Shadow to be real. It is a servant of the unspeakable horror the Druids named the Ruin. And we know of the Fall.’

  ‘We know the Shadow to be real…’ The words scattered across Sam’s mind and seemed to bring their own despair. Blackness engulfed him for a second, then he felt the professor’s arms around him, shielding him from a fear that seemed to fill the room like suffocating fog.

  ‘I knew it must be real,’ he whispered. ‘It spoke to me beneath the Fellows’ House. It said a single word.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  He could not tell who was asking the question, for the static hum was growing louder. Across the room he thought the fire was beginning to dim.

  ‘Druidae.’

  Sam heard an intake of breath from both his left and right. He felt Professor Whitehart move closer. By the fire, the three men became fragile forms in the flickering fabric of the room. Then they gathered together, almost as if on the other side of an unseen wall.

  ‘I do not think it is prudent to stay much longer,’ one of them said. ‘Professor, where is the Shadow now?’

  ‘We believe it is trapped behind the walls of Magdalen, but we cannot be sure. I have people watching every known path night and day.’

  ‘You must avoid using the secret ways, for they are no longer safe. You cannot be sure that even this is without danger. Sam, we must leave now, but will consider what you have told us. Wait for our message.’

  Sam watched as their colours began draining to black and white. Soon they were no more than shadows themselves, fading like smoke rings in the cold and dark reading room of the Eagle and Child.

  The three of them stared and could not take their eyes of the wavering shadows until they too faded like smoke rings. They stood there for long moments, their eyes growing accustomed to the emptiness of the room.

  Then Professor Stuckley took a deep breath. ‘‘We will stay here this evening. Tomorrow we will travel to Newcastle together and wait for the message.’

  * * * * * *

  The three of them walked back through the now deserted Eagle and Child, each with their own thoughts. In the quiet corridor outside Sam’s room they wished each other good night.

  Sam knew it must be late, as the shipping forecast was being read. Sitting on the edge of his bed, with the small lamp just doing enough to keep the darkness at bay, he rubbed his face and thought about the remarkable meeting.

  How strange that conversation had been. Had the professor’s friends actually been in the room or could they have been images of some kind? There had been a jitteriness about the scene, almost as if it was a newly painted picture, its colours still liquid, still moving…Then there had been Jack and Ronald’s voices – he had seen and felt them rather than heard them. It was as if they hadn’t existed as sound waves but as light waves, as if their thoughts had been carried on the electromagnetic flow. Was that how they had made the connection? And Jack and Ronald – could they really be who he thought they were?

  He found himself shaking his head. If he was right then the world had just gone crazy. Or perhaps it was him.

  He reached out to switch the lamp off and realised the letter that Oscar had given him was lying beside it. It was tattered, had been ripped in several places and was held together with Sellotape that was now discoloured and broken.Sam shivered in the warm room and immediately locked the door.

  Sam shivered in the warm room and immediately locked the door.

  As he slowly opened the envelope, a piece of stained paper fell into his outstretched hand, giving off a strong smell of age and stale smoke. He turned it over carefully, revealing graceful handwriting long faded.

  Dearest Sam,

  It was such a pleasure speaking to you. It took us back to the first time we met your father all those years ago. We miss him very much. He would have been very proud of you.

  Following our chat, I spoke with Jack for long hours over several days and we remain worried about your plight. We called a meeting with the rest of the Keepers only yesterday and we are certain that you are no longer safe in Oxford.

  We took it upon ourselves to make a journey north to a place little known in these times, near the mouth of the river Aln in a place called Birling Wood. Our friend there is known to you as Oscar, but he is also known by many other names in many other places. We took it upon ourselves to mention your meeting with him and he was greatly troubled by your words.

  He is convinced that chance brought you to him and that your own words were always meant to be brought back to you, for if they had not been then you may not have survived the night. We are deeply concerned about the paradox that has now been created.

  As of the writing of this letter, we believe the Circle to be the famed Circle of Druidae. We know of the Dead Water and we have sent a separate letter to Professor Stuckley to tell him our thoughts about what lies there and what needs to be done. Our suggestion would be to leave in the morning at first light. Do not delay your journey or deviate from your path, for the Shadow will come again.

  If there is a traitor in your midst, then beware of false prophets and wise men who are counselled by their fears. Seek your own counsel and do not listen to wisdom built on sand. In the days ahead the enemy will become your friend and your friend the enemy. The way ahead will sometimes appear to be the way back, but it will be the only way.

  Remember, Sam, ‘in the end it’s only a passing thing, this shadow; even darkness must pass’.

  We know that help will meet you on the way, perhaps through chance, if chance you call it.

  With warm wishes,

  Ronald

  Sam read the letter several times, wondering how a letter that must have been written before he was born could offer him counsel.

  Finally, he lay on his bed, his thoughts turning like a merry-go-round until sleep finally came for him, soundless and unannounced.

  * * * * * *

  In the next room Professor Stuckley was lying awake. His injuries were more serious than he had admitted to Sam and were painful. He was restless, too – the last few days had disturbed him in a way he had not thought possible.

  He remembered the creatures that had tried to come through the window of the Fellows’ House – their glittering eyes and beaked faces. Then they had been flung aside. He remembered lying half-conscious, blood stinging his eyes. The heavy oak shelves and furniture had been cast aside like the toys of children. What had entered had filled the room with such enmity that even now he could still feel its suffocating presence. He was alive only because it had not come for him – he and Professor Whitehart were irritants, nothing more. How Sam had survived the tunnel he could only imagine. Why had the Shadow not struck him then – when he was alone and without help? Or when it had found him before Magdalen gates? How had he been saved by the Fall?

  He turned back to his own letter. He hadn’t yet opened it. He’d been too busy ensuring Sam was safe and that the Shadow hadn’t left Magdalen. He was also all too aware that he wasn’t going to like some of the answers it would reveal.

  He toyed with the envelope for several m
oments, knowing the long years it had waited to be opened. Then, with great trepidation, he pulled out the letter and read:

  Our dear friend,

  We cannot believe after losing James this year that we are once again facing a dying of the Fall.

  We write this letter with the understanding that when it reaches you we will be gone from this world and the Fellowship of Druidae will be lost to you. We do not know what this Shadow is, other than it is a servant of the Ruin. It is significant that it is hunting Samuel.

  If the Underland is moving, you should seek to keep ahead of the enemy, for there is a chance that it has already infiltrated your numbers. You can no longer travel through the Otherland, for the Shadow will be waiting for you. You must disappear for a while. Show your hand only when you understand the odds of winning.

  Oscar speaks of a power that still dwells in the Dead Water. Our suggestion is to send your swiftest there to seek counsel.

  Great care should be taken, of course. You must move quickly and become like the Shadow, silent and unseen.

  ‘Not all who wander are lost.’

  Warmest regards,

  Jack

  Professor Stuckley laid the letter down and felt the weight of its words heavy upon his soul. If the Fall was dying and the Fellowship lost to them, what hope did they have of protecting the boy? He felt the sting of the Shadow’s touch closing his left eye and knew that Professor Whitehart, in the next room, had been deeply affected. He had yet to speak about what had happened.

  Professor Stuckley’s mind burned with unanswered questions until he drifted into broken dreams where the Shadow was always just one step behind him.

  * * * * * *

  The Eagle and Child welcomed the sunshine coursing through its dark interior the following morning, though it couldn’t lift the dark moods of the three people sipping their tea in silence. Professor Stuckley’s bruised eye was now closed. Professor Whitehart was distractedly flicking his cards from hand to hand. Sam was staring out of the window, watching the flow of traffic along St Giles.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ It was Professor Whitehart who broke the silence.

  ‘We have breakfast and depart for the north and keep our heads down.’

  ‘I was thinking once we’ve arrived in the north – what’s the plan?’

  Sam sensed tension between the two professors, but was too deep in his own worries to take much notice.

  ‘I spoke with Professor Lawrence first thing this morning and our path to the train station is open. We accompany Sam to Gosforth and I’m afraid that’s as far as my plans run for now.’

  They ate breakfast in the company of their own thoughts until it was time to go. Professor Stuckley paid for their accommodation and they left the Eagle and Child to the babble of Oxford folk and literary tourists seeking breakfast at the meeting-place of the Inklings.

  The walk to the station lifted their spirits and for a while their worries faded like green autumn leaves. Sam noticed they were being trailed, though – at one point he thought he saw Professor Lawrence duck beneath an archway, but when he looked again he was gone.

  It wasn’t long before they were boarding the 10.05 train with a five-hour journey ahead of them. Professor Stuckley had chosen first class and the carriage was quiet. Sam was travelling with only the clothes he had escaped in and was already wondering how he was going to explain this to his mother. As the sun’s radiance burst through the carriage window, he reached over, closed the small curtains and closed his eyes. For a moment, he just wanted to shut out the world. As the train juddered and pulled out of the station, he wondered whether he would ever see Oxford again.

  * * * * * *

  The journey became a blur of swiftly changing landscapes that reflected the travellers’ swirling thoughts. Professor Stuckley was pondering on who had really brought the Shadow to them and why. Had Sam brought it down on himself with his message to the Keepers, who had then relayed it back to Oscar? Or was he himself to blame? It was, after all, he who had called the meeting. But, he reminded himself, only to seek answers to the questions posed by the Shadow’s appearance. He could see a paradox in time looming, and there was no logic to unlock the web of questions and answers in this vicious circularity.

  Still his thoughts went round. Was the Shadow conscious? Was it using intelligence to track the boy down or was it like a spider weaving its web and trapping whatever came into it? Did that mean they were blindly walking into a trap? Oxford wasn’t safe, but Gosforth could be even less safe, and it would bring Sam within striking distance of the Dead Water.

  Jack’s suggestion was to seek counsel at the Dead Water, but who would travel there? He’d been there with the Forest Reivers, but that was a decade ago, and if he went, who would be Sam’s protector? If there was a traitor amongst them, who could be trusted? And who would come to their aid? The Dagda and his three daughters had been their allies in the past, but one was dying and it was said that the others now served only themselves.

  * * * * * *

  It was long hours before Durham cathedral appeared, sending its shadows across the city’s cobbled causeways and crumbling chimneys. The hustle and bustle of travellers drained from the platform, the whistle brought the train alive and it jerked and began to move again. Newcastle was now only a few minutes away and Sam was looking forward to getting home.

  Ahead the shimmering Newcastle bridgescape came into view, spanning the wide-flowing Tyne as it neared the end of its journey to Tynemouth, ten miles east. This industrial intricacy criss-crossing the Tyne was of Sam’s favourite spectacles.

  The train slowed to a crawl as it entered the arched span of the city’s central station. Sam’s relief was now audible – he let out a long sigh as the train jerked awkwardly, then came to a complete stop.

  He and the professors merged with the hundreds of travellers hurrying out of the station in the afternoon sun. Both professors were walking more quickly than normal, clearly on edge.

  It was late afternoon when they all alighted from a taxi in the rustic avenues that surrounded Sam’s home in Gosforth. The professors stood on the pavement, looking just a little out of place with their Oxford jackets and bruised faces.

  ‘Sam,’ Professor Stuckley said, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder, ‘I intend to seek further counsel. Try and remain safe. If the Shadow can catch you in Oxford, it can catch you here too. Let’s meet tomorrow evening at the Seven Stories – say around eight, after it has closed.’

  Then with a smile and a wave, the professors were gone.

  * * * * * *

  Sam stood for a few moments looking at the double gates of the magnificent Georgian house set back from Elmfield Road. They were shut and locked, for this was a closed world of high brick walls and long paths to ornamental doors. He found his key and smiled as the lock turned with a familiar clank. Then he slipped through the gates. The creak of hinges heavy with rust flooded the silence for a second and then he was turning the key behind him. This was a place to hide from the real world, a secret sanctum where he had spent many happy days with only his thoughts for company. He had described it to Angus as the last homely house on the edge of the Northumberland wilderness.

  He walked quickly up to the large door and turned his house key. To his surprise, the door didn’t budge.

  Puzzled, he raised the ornate knocker.

  From within, he could hear his mother’s footsteps making their way down the long hallway and a second later her round face and glowing cheeks appeared from behind the door.

  ‘Oh, Sam,’ she half shouted as she reached up and gave him a bear hug. She dragged him through the door before bolting it firmly behind them.

  ‘Why all the bolts?’

  Sam had never set eyes on the bolts now anchoring the door firmly to the oak frame.

  ‘Oh, burglars are about, Sam. Now, never mind that, let m
e make you a cup of tea and get some proper food into you.’

  Sam didn’t mind being smothered – it was all he’d known for the past nineteen years.

  ‘Come along!’

  His mum gave him no time for further questions as she turned and disappeared down the hallway towards the kitchen.

  As tea, dinner and then pudding were served, Sam allowed himself to relax. His home was a large house with five bedrooms, two sitting rooms and what had to be his favourite room – a wonderfully ornate bathroom. He had spent many hours wondering about space and time whilst soaking in the large bath. What would happen if the world didn’t have time? And if time didn’t have space – then what?

  Now, as the evening progressed, he felt himself sinking ever deeper into his favourite armchair. His old headmaster had told him that the Old English Gosaford meant ‘a ford where the geese dwell’. To Sam, Gosforth was simply home.

  Eventually his mother wished him goodnight, hugged him and retired to her bedroom. The warmth of her welcome, dinner and perfect brew had worked their magic. At long last Sam felt the dangers of the past few days recede and was ready for his bed.

  Climbing up to the third floor, he found that his mum had prepared his bed and turned his battered old bedside lamp on for him.

  His bedroom ran the full length of the house and had two dormer windows on either side. The ones at the back of the house overlooked a beautifully mature and well-tended garden, with a hundred-foot lawn ending at an imposing old red-bricked wall. A large oak tree stood in front of it, and hidden in its branches was Sam’s old tree house. Normally, he loved to gaze out at the place where he’d spent so many happy hours, but tonight he pulled the curtains and shut out the view.

  This had been another strange day, but he was safe now. He got into bed and fell asleep.

  THE SEVEN STORIES

  The Seven Stories bookshop was on seven floors of an old building nestling amongst the Victorian terraces behind the quaint Gosforth High Street. It had been in Emily’s family for several generations. It was a mesmerising place of wooden floors, leather chairs and tall shelves packed with books both old and new. The same people would come in each week and sit hidden from the world behind its high-arching shelves. There was a constant flow of colour as books came and went, and in winter the fire’s glow would be reflected in spine and jacket.