Recite.
Byron. She didn’t know it, but he had learned Byron for her sake. ‘Where’er we tread ’tis haunted, holy ground…’ Grope for the memory. Fill the mind. ‘All tragedies are finish’d by a death.’ Was that Byron too…? It didn’t matter.
Jon stumbled away from the sea, his hands clawing at his temples. Where was she? Where was Claudia? His love. He shook his head. Kate. Where was Kate -? There was no one there. They had gone. Nion was gaining strength. Marcus? Where was Marcus? Nion had to be rid of Marcus for ever.
Recite. It’s the only way. Blank the druid out. Don’t let him in. He’s not going to win.
Sobbing, he fell on his knees in the wet sand.
‘She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
She walks in beauty, like the night…’
He repeated the words again and again until he had no strength left and his voice faded in his throat.
Marcus could see them clearly now, through the eyes of the man, Greg. They were there, near him, reaching out to one another.
Nion and Claudia.
Jon and Kate.
Greg groaned as the icy water slapped around his thighs. His eyes weren’t working properly. Everything was blurred.
Jon and Kate.
Nion and Claudia.
Slowly he was beginning to understand. Marcus fed on hate and jealousy. Their strength, their love, those were the weapons he needed. Clenching his fists he took a step towards the sand. Then another.
Fight.
Fight the alien inside his head.
Fight him with love. Love that transcends time and space.
Nion and Claudia.
Jon and Kate.
Jon and Kate.
The rage was receding. Greg could feel the anger and hate inside him dwindling. He took another step towards the beach. Marcus was losing. Love would always win over hate.
In the end.
Painfully he shook his head. It was as though he were waking from some hideous nightmare. Far out at sea a stray beam of sunlight had broken through the clouds to touch the sea to silver. He stared at it mesmerised, then slowly and weakly, he began to wade back towards the shore. He had won. Marcus was going. He could feel him shrinking and weakening. He rubbed his eyes. The dream had left him now; it had gone, into the shadows of eternity with its pain.
Kate looked up at Greg as she cradled Jon’s head on her knee, her eyes full of tears. The sweet scent of jasmine was all around her.
The hands on his head were gentle. He could feel them clearly, soothing away the pain.
Her voice. It was her voice. She was there. She was with him.
Weeping, Nion the Druid rested his head in the soft blue folds of her gown, and felt himself at peace.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The name Nion is taken from the Celtic Tree Calendar
Beth – Luis – Nion (Birch, Rowan, Ash) depicted by
Robert Graves.
This book has many roots: the awe and fear in a little boy’s voice many years ago, as we stared together through the window into a midnight garden after a bad dream; a lonely visit to Sutton Hoo on a cold afternoon in winter when the wind screamed through the firs and down across the River Deben; a long, thoughtful visit to the twisted body of Lindow Man in the British Museum and the view from my study window out across fields where Trinovantes and Romans once walked on the edge of the saltings with, in the distance, the icy North Sea, are some of the strongest.
About the Author
A historian by training, Barbara Erskine is the author of ten bestselling novels that demonstrate her interest in both history and the supernatural, plus three collections of short stories.
For more information about Barbara Erskine, visit her website, www.Barbara-Erskine.com.
