'And the tree spirits told you about me?' Mary grew more suspicious the more she considered his words.
'Not just them. There were rituals, other communications, once I knew something was amiss. And, yes, I was pointed here because of one very special reason, something that shines out like a beacon to those kinds of beings who have a feeling for all this.'
'And that is?'
'I am quite prepared to sit down and tell you all about it. But first, is there any chance of a brew before we decide exactly what we're supposed to do?'
Without gratifying his request with a friendly reply, she turned to go to the kitchen. But as she did so, she noticed something very strange about him in the flicker of the firelight when he bent forward to warm his hands again: there appeared to be holes just beyond the line of his hair and beard, as if something had drilled into his skull. When Mary returned with two mugs of the herbal infusion, Crowther had his boots and socks off and was wiggling his toes in front of the fire.
'You really are a disgusting pig,' she said, handing him his drink.
'Thank you. I see an ability to offend as a mark of unique status.' He slurped on the brew before nodding appreciatively.
'So,' Mary asked after a few moments, 'did you have any more information or are we supposed to glean something from that load of old cobblers you just told me.'
'Yes, the key to it all is some girl…'
Mary stiffened.
Crowther saw her response. 'You know who I'm talking about?'
'Put that tea down,' Mary snapped. 'We have to go out.' When Mary's call echoed throughout Caitlin's house, she feared the worst. They'd already checked the village hall, but even if Caitlin had gone out on a call, Grant and Liam should still be around at that time of night.
Crowther stalked off to check the bedrooms, returning with a curt shake of his head. A jarring banging led them into the kitchen, where the back door swung back and forth in the wind. Outside, Mary saw movement at the end of the garden. Running down anxiously, she found a figure so slathered with clay and mud it was at first impossible to tell it was Caitlin. She was knee-deep in a hole, frantically shovelling earth out on to the lawn.
Caitlin looked up at Mary with big, staring eyes, made whiter by the filth caked around them, and shouted, 'I've got to get them out!' She didn't seem to recognise Mary at all.
Caitlin dug wildly, spraying mud all around, then threw the spade to one side and dropped to her knees so she could claw at the sodden earth. Mary glanced at the growing hole, and at the mound of earth nearby and knew what had happened.
'Oh, lovey.' Her voice trembled with pity.
'I've got to get them out!' Caitlin dug like a woodland animal, thrashing madly as Mary tried to ease her out of the grave.
In the end, Crowther and Mary between them managed to calm Caitlin enough to get her away from the hole, and once it was out of her sight it was almost as if it was forgotten. Her face grew blank, her eyes empty. She trudged in a dream state towards the kitchen, holding Mary's hand.
They sat her at the kitchen table, but Caitlin made no attempt to respond to any of Mary's questions, didn't even acknowledge anyone else was with her. Her chin lolled on to her chest as she stared hollowly at the table. She looked like some relict human hiding out in the depths of the jungle.
Crowther surveyed Caitlin dismissively. 'If this is who we came for, I wouldn't put money on us coming out on top.'
'Shut up,' Mary snapped. She moved in close to Caitlin and said gently, 'You don't need to worry about Grant and Liam any more, dear. They're in the Summerlands now, happy, content, waiting till they can see you again.'
The words hung in the stillness of the kitchen, and then a faint light came on in Caitlin's eyes before they flickered towards Mary. Curiously, Mary didn't recognise what she saw there.
'I know you.' Caitlin's voice was of a higher pitch than usual, almost childlike, with a faint singsong swing.
'Of course you do, lovey. It's Mary.' She put her hand comfortingly on the back of Caitlin's.
Caitlin's eyes continued to search Mary's face. 'I'm Amy.'
Mary flinched. 'No, you're Caitlin.'
'Caitlin's here, but I'm Amy.'
Crowther leaned forward and said a little gruffly, 'How old are you, Amy?'
'Six.'
'And how many of you are there?'
Caitlin sat back in her chair and mouthed the numbers as she counted off on her fingers. 'Five,' she concluded. 'Me, Amy. Caitlin. Brigid. Briony. And… and the one we don't talk about.' A shadow crossed her face.
In a somewhat unseemly manner, Crowther was enthused by what he'd heard. 'Multiple personality,' he mused, 'or dissociative identity disorder, to give it its proper name. Some debate in psychological circles about whether it actually exists.'
'The poor girl,' Mary said. 'Is there anything we can do?'
'A few decades of therapy and a strict drug regime.'
'I don't like it here. It's scary. There's something frightening in the garden,' Caitlin/Amy said, glancing in a scared, childlike manner towards the back door. 'I want to leave. I don't want to come here again.'
'Don't you worry.' Mary put on a brave face. She helped Caitlin to her feet and slipped an arm around her shoulders. 'We'll get you somewhere nice and warm and safe.'
Crowther grumbled as he followed. 'Well, that's torn it.' The journey down the rain-washed, wind-torn lane was like a funeral procession, with Caitlin trailing spectrally behind Mary and Crowther taking up the rear in his oversized coat and hat. Halfway along the lane, though, the wind blew the clouds away and the bright, white moon emerged like a spotlight, casting the scene in silhouette and shadow.
Mary felt instantly on edge. She knew that she had half- seen something from the corner of her eye, registered only by her subconscious. Turning slowly, she saw black shapes moving along the ridge a mile or so to her right, picked out by the moonlight as if nature was informing her of something important.
She came to a sharp stop, cold and disturbed. 'What's that?' she said. Caitlin didn't look, but Crowther came in close, pushing up the soggy brim of his hat so he could get a better look.
Two figures moved relentlessly along the back of the ridge. At first glance it looked as if they were riders on horseback, except in silhouette the horses were oddly misshapen, too large, too long and bulky, as if they had been crossed with some kind of giant lizard. The eerie sight brought a shimmer of fear to Mary, and she could tell from his rigid stance that Crowther was disturbed by it, too.
'Do you recognise them?' she asked. Crowther shook his head.
'The Whisperers,' Caitlin/Amy muttered, still without looking. Mary and Crowther stared at her for a long moment, then hurried her along the lane. In the cottage, Mary locked and barred the door before throwing another log on the fire. Crowther had become more stoic, which manifested itself in a degree of politeness he hadn't exhibited before. He carefully hung his coat and hat on the back of the door while Mary stripped off Caitlin's clothes in the kitchen, washing her face and hands and wrapping her in an old dressing gown. Once she was in the chair in front of the fire, Caitlin sagged back and instantly fell asleep, as if a switch had been thrown.
'I don't see that we can do anything with her,' Crowther said. Weariness emerged from behind his arrogance and brought lines to his face that added years to his age.
'Give her time,' Mary said. 'She's had a big blow, but she's a tough kid.' She went to the window and looked out; everywhere was still now that the storm had passed. 'Things are going from bad to worse, aren't they?' she said, almost talking to herself.
'This plague is a bit of trouble, certainly,' Crowther agreed. 'But if not for that, I don't really know how I feel about it. We seem to have lost a lot of things that were holding us back. We've reset the clock, I think. Time to get it right this time. Which is, I know, very Darwinian, but there you go.'
'So what do we do now?'
'I don't know. I was only guided to find you. Somehow the three of us have to find a cure for this plague.
