her head down and ran, glad she was wearing boots and jeans, weaving through the trees as fast as she could go. But it was too dark. She slammed against a tree, winded herself, smashed a shin against an outcropping rock. Behind she could hear the grunts and yells of Witch's angry pursuit; he was moving swiftly, avoiding all obstacles like some night-hunting panther. He'd be on her in a minute.
The fear sluiced all the hot emotions from her in a cold wash. And what would he do when he caught her? Her heart hammered as she leapt a fallen tree, ducked beneath a low branch.
'Bitch!' The word was low and hard.
In her rising panic, her thoughts flatlined. She made a move to jump a hollow, twisted her ankle, and then she was falling off-balance. She hit the ground hard, saw stars, slid through the undergrowth that tore at her face and hair, and came to a halt against a pile of rocks. Pain flared through her side and involuntary tears sprang to her eyes.
Veitch was over her a second later, rising up dark and empowered like some monstrous creature from a forties horror movie. His fists were bunched, raised to hit her. 'I know you did Ruth somehow! Did it yourself, or fucking sold her down the river! You're the traitor they told us about! But I'm fucking on to you!'
Something seemed to explode in his face and then the fist was swinging. Laura cried out, closed her eyes, threw her head to one side.
When the blow didn't come, the chaotic jumble of her thoughts fell quickly into place and she looked up. Veitch was sitting down, his head in his hands and when he looked up a few seconds later, his eyes shone with tears. 'Fucking bitch! You've brought me to this!' His voice was a croak of repressed emotion. 'I'd never hurt a woman. Never!'
'You have a good way of showing-' For the first time she managed to bite off her comment. 'I didn't have anything to do with what happened to Ruth. And I'm not a traitor.' She tried to keep her voice measured.
'I don't believe you.' By the time he'd stood up and walked a few paces through the trees he'd composed himself. 'I don't believe you,' he repeated; the threat in his voice made her blood run cold. 'I've been watching you. I'll keep watching you. I'm not going to let the others get hurt. I'm going to make sure someone pays for Ruth. One sign, that's all I need. One sign. And you're dead.'
He disappeared into the gloom among the trees, silently, dangerously.
Once he was out of sight, Laura crumpled and all the tears she had held in for a lifetime came flooding out.
After she had managed to collect herself, the golden glow of the fire drew her back to the camp. But as the trees thinned towards the clearing her heart caught in her throat. There was Church, his arm around Ruth, her head on his shoulder. It wasn't jealousy she felt; she could see there was nothing furtive about their body language. Instead she was hit by the aching revelation that she could never attain the depth of Church and Ruth's relationship: the easy familiarity, the emotional honesty, the warmth were all apparent, even at a casual glance. And she could see there was love there, a kind she would have given anything to experience, so subtle Church and Ruth seemed oblivious to it themselves.
She couldn't blame Church. The fault was within herself. Something had been broken during those lean years of childhood and early teens; however much she tried, she couldn't give up her emotions honestly, and so she had consigned herself to a life of being shut in the prison of her body, feeling something keenly, hearing a corrupted version emerge from her lips; an emotional synaesthesia.
As she watched them, she hurt so profoundly she felt there was a physical pain deep inside; the hopelessness for herself was even more overwhelming than when she had realised she could never attain the loving family life of her school friends, so deep there was no point fighting it; acceptance was the only option.
She rubbed her face muscles, as if that would break up the desperate expression, fixed an ironic smile and stepped out from the shadows.
'Well, Siamese twins,' she said sharply. 'You should get on the waiting list for the operation.'
Within the hour they were all sitting around the heartily blazing campfire. The night was balmy, dreamlike, alive with the crackle of the burning wood, the calls of hunting owls, the flitter of moths and crane-flies. It felt like a time of peace, a time when anything could happen.
Church lounged on his side and threw twigs into the flames. Next to him was Ruth, who seemed to be getting brighter with each passing moment, except for the occasional queasy expression. Laura and Veitch sat on opposite sides of the fire, never making eye contact, yet acutely aware of an atmosphere of suspicion and threat hanging over them like a poisonous cloud. They both knew, whatever happened, they would never overcome it.
Tom sat cross-legged, rolling a joint, alone with his thoughts. Shavi was beside him, handing out the cans of beer when needed, ensuring the bottle of whisky never stayed in one place too long. When he had first returned to the camp, his face was grey and haggard, as if he was suffering from some debilitating illness, but Laura recognised the truth instantly. She knew in the dark woods he had encountered the thing that would never leave him alone, and she knew how deeply it had affected him, yet he never complained to any of the others about his private burden. She wished she had some of the inner strength that saw him through it. When the others weren't looking she gave his hand a secret squeeze; his smile made her night.
The drink flowed freely, the conversation ranged across a variety of subjects: archaeology, drugs, music, films, sex, football, but nothing dark or threatening; it was a celebration of all the things that made their lives worth living.
Shavi became animated when the talk drifted on to some of the places they had seen in their travels: the wonders of Stonehenge and Avebury, infused with history, meaning and mystery, the rugged beauty of Cornwall, the joys of little seaside towns, the majesty of the Lake District and the Scottish Highlands.
'There is nowhere in the world that is richer in natural beauty than Britain,' he said. 'Stories of the people live on in the shape of the hedgerows, in the cut of fields, in the landscape itself. The place is a living mythology, constantly changing with the weather. The fens in a storm, Oxfordshire in winter, London on a summer night. Mountains and marches, beaches and flood plains, rivers and gorges and chalk downs. Where else can you find all those in a short drive of each other?' He sighed, tracing his fingers along the soil. 'There is magic infused in the very fabric of the place.'
'The history adds to it for me,' Church noted. 'It's not just about the beauty of the landscape. It's the places where humanity and nature have interacted.'
'Exactly,' Shavi said passionately. 'Which is why an industrial landscape can be as exciting as a natural one. It all comes down to single images, frozen in time. Step back, look at them, and you can see the magic instantly. Power stations gushing white clouds at sunset. Wildfowl skimming the glassy surface of the Norfolk Broads. People trooping home from the tube after work on a cold winter night, smelling cooking food, hearing music and TV noise coming from a hundred windows. Tractors rolling down a snow-covered lane.' They drifted with his lyrical words, conjuring up the pictures he described. 'And that,' he said firmly, 'is what the blue fire represents.'
The conversation came to an abrupt halt when Veitch saw the light. It floated among the trees like a golden globe, slowly and silently, almost hypnotic in their drunkeness. But they had seen too much to accept any phenomenon at face value; threats lurked in even the most mundane sight. Veitch leapt to his feet instantly, his sword gripped firmly. Church and Shavi joined him a second later.
'What is it?' Ruth whispered, but Veitch waved her silent.
The globe bobbed and weaved directly towards them, and as it drew closer they realised it wasn't alone. They could hear a faint, melodious singing, and although they couldn't understand the words, the music made them feel like they were filled with honey. The sword gradually fell to Veitch's side. Only Tom remained alert.
A second later they spied the outline of two figures approaching through the shadows. The globe was a lantern one of them was holding to light the way. The singing grew louder as they neared, and it seemed like it was a song of joy with the world, of great experiences savoured, of drinking in all life had to offer.
Veitch's languor disappeared the moment the two arrivals stepped into the light from the campfire. They were both of the Tuatha De Danann, their skin faintly golden, their features breathtakingly beautiful. They were obviously of the caste closest to humans, for none of them felt the squirming alien thoughts in their heads or experienced the warping perception caused by the more powerful of the gods.
One of the visitors had long, flowing fair hair and a face which seemed to permanently beam. The other looked more sensitive and thoughtful; his hair was tied in a ponytail. They both wore loose-fitting blousons open to the waist, tight breeches and boots like movie buccaneers.
'What have we here? Fragile Creatures? Alone in the woods at night?' The smiling one turned his open face
