Jack allowed her her space, coming no closer than the first congregational stall and sitting inside. “Saw you from the trees. Thought I’d pop in.”
“Don’t you ever sleep in a bed? Or anyplace with a roof?”
“Not if I can avoid it.”
“Well, you can’t for much longer. In another month you’ll freeze to death out there.”
“Won’t I just,” he said, with his broad merry grin — vagabond, madman, whatever he was. “But, death … its longevity? Exaggerated a bit, you ask me.”
“Not in my experience.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. What a sight she must’ve presented, no longer feeling capable of even seducing the village hobo.
“Why are you here, Kate?” he wondered. “Not tonight, I don’t mean tonight. Not even asking you, really. Just … Blackburn’s granddaughter: Why her, why here, why now?”
If there were reasons they were beyond her, beyond Jack too, but the faith he held in their being was touching. He left the oaken stall to wander, hands trailing over wood and stone, caressing each surface as though an immortal beloved.
“I’ve seen a lot of Britain,” he said. “Seen it thrive, seen it fall. Rise, fall again. One group taking it from another, ‘til they lose it themselves. What it is now? A ghost of someone’s old dead ideas of glory. But no matter who’s mucking about on top, it’s always been the land itself that holds the magic. Can’t kill a thing like that, now, can you? Drive it deeper underground, maybe, but never kill it.”
He’d done it so smoothly, she nearly missed the way Jack had begun talking as someone who’d witnessed more history than was one person’s due.
“Don’t know much of America. I know it’s there,” he said. “I’ve wondered if any of you ever look this way and realize it’s your own future, too. Are you that far along yet?”
“Yeah,” she said. “We just pretend we don’t notice.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He began moving closer. “Let me tell you a story. Used to be an island, there did. Full of forests so deep and thick, you could drop in something big as London is now, never find it again. Not everything that lived there stuck with either four legs or two. Good days, those. But nothing stays the same forever. People come in, they bring their own ideas along, chase out the old if they don’t murder it first.
“What you had here over six centuries ago were amongst the last people to remember the forests as they’d been. Put yourself in their place. Got no use for any pale dead god all the rest are only too eager to kill you for, if you don’t convert. Not when the forests gave you all the gods you’d ever need. Gods that were old before that pale dead one was even born. So what do you do?”
Was he insane? Or merely eccentric?
“Hide in plain sight?” she said.
“Now you’re thinking like a wily pagan. If the Church steals the faces of your gods and turns them to devils, who’s to say you can’t steal them back, and right under the Pope’s nose.
“But they didn’t stop there. When time came to build, they found themselves a likeminded man who knew stone so well it was said he could talk it into making room for a soul. So that’s where the old gods went.” He lifted his hands as if to seize the church and wrap it around him. “Geoffrey Blackburn sealed them in, on every side.”
It made a fine story. Now, if only it were true.
“Why bother with that?” she asked, because it was fun to play along, and meant she didn’t have to think of Alain. “Why couldn’t the gods take care of themselves?”
“Because their time was up. For a while, at least.” Jack’s furrowed brow creased deeply. Was it only poor lighting that he looked worse than he did before? “The other day, I told you of the Celts, their reverence for the severed head? One of the women from those final days, she could work a real magic with heads. They’d talk to her. Sing for her. See where she couldn’t — even into the future. They saw what was coming. Had two hundred years of bloody Crusades by then, and they’d already come home to the west. Wasn’t a time to be clinging to gods that would get you killed, and the gods of the woods loved their followers too much to let that keep happening to them. Rather sleep than see it happen. So sleep they did. Waiting for a better time to wake again.”
It was such an Arthurian notion, she thought, the once and future king become once and future gods. Again, if only it could be true.
Kate was about to excuse herself, time to go back to the B&B, when Jack straightened to his full bearish height and smiled down at her, such a peculiar smile, protective and courtly and wistful.
“I should be saying goodbye to you now, Kate Blackburn. I’m glad I have the chance. Didn’t expect I would. You don’t mind if I call you by that name instead?”
She told him of course not, asked where he was off to. Jack turned at the waist to gaze toward the narthex and doors.
“Autumn, nearly over. Winter, nearly here. Said it yourself already, Kate. Time for me to find someplace to freeze.”
She went to him, near tears again, gripping him by shoulders stout as oak boughs. For one night, for one lifetime, she’d seen enough of delusions and death. She hit him, cursed him, trying to beat sense into him, then he pulled her close to still her arms, like a child, and stroked her hair. She breathed in the scent of him, so rich and green and woody it had to come from someplace far deeper than the shabby fibers of his clothes.
“I watched you from those same trees, when you were a wee girl,” Jack whispered. “‘She’ll be back,’ I told myself. ‘She’ll be back one day.’”
Then his mouth was upon hers, with a kiss that tasted of time and seasons, loss and renewal, and if her intellect yet resisted, her body knew, and her blood. These obeyed the cycles of the moon already, didn’t they? They knew that if she plunged into him, and he into her, there awaited for her wonders of which she could scarcely conceive. And conceive she would, if the time was right.
But not tonight. When he pulled his mouth away it broke her heart.
