mechanism, and its possible uses. There was much mention of the Skin Map, and a lengthy discourse on its curious markings, with one or two examples, along with a few suggestions about the meaning of the symbols. There were also meticulous diagrams of ley lines and detailed directions to their locations, including maps.
From his study of Sir Henry’s little green book, Kit learned that, temporally speaking, it made a very great difference where one crossed over on the ley. He shared this observation aloud to Lady Fayth, who confessed to being utterly confused.
“I think it means you have a choice not only where to leap, but when,” he explained. “He seems to suggest that it’s like a road-like the one we’re travelling on now, with signs and mile markers along the way, see?” He pointed out the coach window to a pale white milestone they were passing just then. “Well, if this was a ley line, then each of the mile markers would correspond to a different time in the otherworld location connected to that particular ley.”
“If you insist,” replied Lady Fayth hazily.
“Now, suppose that milestone we just passed corresponded to the 1500s in the otherworld, then the next one might be the 1600s and so on,” Kit told her, waving the book in one hand. “Depending on where you make the leap, you end up in different times in the development of the world you’re leaping into. Incredible!”
Lady Fayth was blase. “It sounds needlessly complicated to me.”
“Perhaps,” granted Kit. “In any case, it means that we must be far more precise in our calculations to have any hope of ending up where we want to go.” He thumbed a few more pages in the book. “Precision-that’s the key. And that is why we need the Skin Map.” Lady Fayth’s perfect lips formed a perfectly puzzled frown.
“Look at this,” said Kit, leaning near her in his zeal. He indicated one of the strange signs Sir Henry had copied there-a curious semicircular whorl with two almost parallel lines crossing it, one of which sprouted a barb like that of a fishhook at the end; a row of tiny dots lined the outer edge of the whorl.
“This is one of the symbols from the map.” He leaned closer still, holding the book to her. “Sir Henry indicates that this little symbol tells not only where to find a particular ley, but also where that ley leads and the location of the milestones along the line to help navigate the time.” He beamed with this revelation and felt the visceral thrill of the nearness of her warm flesh. “You’ve got to hand it to old Flinders-Petrie: he thought of everything.”
Lady Fayth accepted this appraisal coolly. “Those obtuse jots and tittles communicate all of that?”
“Apparently,” allowed Kit. “Of course, one has to know how to read the symbols. That’s the chief difficulty- they’re written in a sort of shorthand-”
“I do beg your pardon? With a short hand, did you say? However does the length of a person’s hand enter into it?”
“Ah, yes.” Kit regrouped and started again. “I mean-a code. They’re written in code, or a secret symbol language. One must possess the key in order to unlock the secret of the symbols.”
Lady Fayth gave a nod toward the book. “And is this key of which you speak to be found amongst Sir Henry’s pages?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t read the whole thing yet.” He glanced at the book in his hand. “Maybe. I hope so. It would make things a whole lot easier if it did.”
Thus, together they turned to the section describing those otherworldly portals he called ley hubs-of which Black Mixen Tump was a prime example. What Kit eventually decided, after the lord scientist’s circuitous language had been deduced and distilled, was that at certain times-corresponding, Sir Henry believed, to the phases of the moon or the alignment of the sun or, perhaps, both-the portal would stand open, allowing the ley traveller to cross the threshold into another world. Unlike a ley line, which required movement as well as timing and other manipulations, all that was necessary to use a ley hub, such was Sir Henry’s understanding, was to position oneself in precisely the right place at precisely the right time and the crossing would be effected. In the case of Black Mixen, the right place was indicated by a stone that someone had thoughtfully placed atop the tump; the right time was thought to be either dawn or dusk on days when the moon could be seen above the horizon before the sun had either risen or set.
Simple.
“There must be more to it than that,” Kit muttered, mostly to himself. “Is that all he has to say about it?”
“The entry is quite complete, but he has left a space to write further observations.” She turned the book so that he could see. “The next entry is about something called ‘manipulation of matter via harmonic vibration’ or something called sound waves. There is nothing more about this Mixen Tump.”
No doubt there was more to it than Sir Henry knew, but all things considered, the information provided did roughly correspond to what Kit had witnessed not long ago in that very place. Besides, it was not as if he had any better choice than to trust his lordship’s veracity and judgement. Blinkered as it might be, the green book was the only guide he possessed.
They reached the village of Chepping Wycombe and took rooms for the night at the wayside hostelry, resuming their journey early the next morning after a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast. They travelled easily through the day, pausing only to water and rest the horses, reaching the Tetsworth Swan well before sundown. They were on the road all the earlier next morning, following the road down into the wide Thames valley.
Upon rolling into Oxford, they paused as before at the Golden Cross coaching inn and-while the horses were fed, watered, and rested-they enjoyed a hearty meal of good greasy pork chops, turnip mash, and boiled greens. Giles took his meal with the other coachmen in the yard, gathering information on road conditions and where to spend the night in Banbury. Then, as the sun was high and bright, they decided to stretch their legs and so walked around taking in the sights of the university town, watching the students flapping from place to place in their long black robes and mortarboard hats. Kit exulted in being seen with the lovely lady by his side-a new experience for him, and rare enough in the streets of staid Oxford. It was all he could do to keep the swagger out of his stride.
Leaving Oxford, they struck out on the road to Banbury, where they planned to spend the night-to be within reach of their destination at the crack of dawn when, according to the green book, the portal atop Black Mixen would stand open. It was well after dark when they arrived in the little market town, and the solitary inn above the Fox and Geese Inn had only a single room to let. Lady Fayth took that, leaving Giles and Kit the choice of spending the night in the tavern hall in chairs by the fire, or in the stable. They chose to sleep in the coach with the horses in the stable, which was warm enough and comfortable, if redolent of straw and leather, horseflesh and manure. Giles woke them while it was still dark, and they donned their travelling clothes: both Kit and Giles put on heavy lace-up shirts and breeches, stout shoes, and wide-brimmed felt hats; Lady Fayth wore a pair of breeches, a man’s shirt over her own smock and stays, sturdy stockings, and somewhat questionable high-topped shoes. They all wore loose jerkins of fine, thin leather.
She had protested that the clothes made her look like a man-a view that Kit vigorously rejected on the grounds that no trifling pair of breeches could ever make her appear in the least way mannish. The fact that he found her comely form all the more fetching in simple clothes, he kept to himself. Fortunately, since she did allow that her costly silks and satins were wholly unfit for the work at hand, his opinion was not required.
Thus outfitted, they continued on their way, jogging easily through a dark and deserted countryside, reaching their destination as the eastern sky blushed with the rumour of dawn.
“There it is,” said Kit, indicating the unnaturally symmetrical flat-topped hill. It loomed into view through the early-morning mist like the black prow of a gigantic ship cleaving white waves, all ghostly and silent in the fast- fading night. The sight of its menacing bulk sent an involuntary shiver through Kit as he remembered what had happened the last time he had been there.
He was well down the road to rueing the decision to pursue this ominous undertaking when Lady Fayth exclaimed, “That is the dread Black Mixen?” Her tone left little doubt that she thought the sight highly overrated. “From your description, I imagined it a grim and desolate mountain, plagued by rampant evil and grotesquery of every kind.”
“Don’t let its looks fool you,” Kit muttered. “That is one ornery tump.”
“That, sir, is the merest hill,” she scoffed. The coach rolled to a halt, and Giles called out that they had come as far as they could go, as the coach wheels were sinking into the soft earth. Lady Fayth opened the carriage door and bounded toward the dark flank of the hill, her long hair flouncing in the brightening breeze-the very picture of an exotic bird at last released from its gilded cage and exulting in its long-awaited freedom.
