jewelled dragonflies dipped and dived. Beyond, it took a sudden turn, cresting a slight rise to present them with a view of a magnificent mansion house, its grand eighteenthcentury architecture oddly out of place on the flat-topped summit. The house looked out on to gardens given up to lawns where a flock of sheep nibbled aimlessly. A large, old-brick wall marked the boundary, beyond which thick trees rose up imposingly. There was stillness to the place, odd, though not unpleasant.
Witch sauntered over to another tourist sign. 'Gog Magog House. Used to be a big place for horse racing, breeding and all that. Funny old spot to do horse racing, on a bleedin' hill.'
'People are instinctively drawn to these places of power.' Tom cleaned his glasses to get a better look at the ornate clock on the cupola mounting the stable block. A gold weathervane stirred slightly in the breeze.
From the corner of his eye, Veitch caught the faintest movement, but it was enough to lock his muscles and still the breath in his lungs. Tom continued ambling around, surveying the scenery. Just to be sure, Veitch waited and watched, and when he picked it up again, he launched into action. Tom whirled in shock, but Veitch had already hurdled a low fence and was sprinting towards the stable block. A figure lurked at the base of the wall, too slow to take evasive action before Veitch was upon him.
It was a man, short and plump, with a ruddy, wind-blasted face. He wore a checked flat cap pulled low on his brow and a gaberdine mackintosh fastened tightly over his broad belly. 'Don't hit me! You can have everything!'
'Chill out, mate.' Taken aback by the response, Veitch adopted an easygoing posture. 'You can't be too careful these days.'
The man composed himself, but still looked wary. 'You're lucky you caught me without my shotgun.'
'You live here?' Veitch scanned the courtyard and windows for any other sign of life.
'What's it to you?' The man backed off a few paces as Tom wandered up. He appeared to be considering whether he could make a break for it.
'We're not looking for trouble.' The edge of Witch's voice suggested that trouble could, however, be on hand if necessary. 'We've got some business in these parts. We're not going to rob you or nothin' like that.'
'We're here to collect the body of a friend.' Tom held out a hand as he introduced himself.
The man took it, intrigued; his name was Robertson. 'A body, you say.' His eyes flickered towards the lawned area.
'Is that where it is?' Tom followed his gaze, but could see nothing.
Robertson rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then beckoned for them to follow him. He crossed the courtyard and entered the mansion. From the lonely air of emptiness, it appeared Robertson was the sole occupant. The wind blew through a broken window that hadn't been fixed and there was tracked mud across the tiled floor. Despite the grandness of the building, Robertson only lived in a couple of adjoining rooms that had a makeshift appearance, with furniture obviously dragged from other parts of the house. The first thing that caught their eye as he led them into his quarters was the strange array of items hanging around the door. Over the top was a large, ornate cross. Beside it were horseshoes, another cross made out of twigs of rowan, the old symbol for protection from witchcraft and fairies, the withered remnants of a mistletoe sprig for protection from thunder, lightning and evil, a bunch of St. John's wort to ward off spirits, a roughly carved wooden swallow for insurance against fire, and many more.
Robertson caught Tom's inspection. 'Like your friend said, you can't be too careful.'
Once safely inside his room, he crossed himself and touched wood before offering them chairs next to the unlit fire. 'I'd make you some tea, but with the way things are I've got to conserve. Even water,' Robertson said. 'I hope they get the bloody thing sorted out soon. We can't go on like this much longer. Bloody government.'
'Do you work here?' Veitch asked.
'Nobody works anywhere any more, do they? Not in the old sense,' Robertson replied. He settled into a comfortable armchair within easy reach of the shotgun resting against the wall. 'I used to have a business down in Cambridge. Got out of there when the riots started.'
'What riots?' Veitch looked puzzled.
'What riots?' Robertson replied incredulously. 'I don't know where you come from, but round these parts it seems that's all there's been. When they brought in the fuel rationing. When the supermarkets stopped filling their shelves. Then when everything stopped working…' Suppressed emotions briefly turned his face into that of a child and he covered it with his hand until he had composed himself. 'I left the city when my Susie died. She was a diabetic, couldn't get her insulin.'
'I'm sorry.' Tom was honestly sympathetic.
'This place was abandoned so I moved in,' Robertson continued. 'I soon found out why they'd left. Still, at least there's no riots, and it's not too bad as long as you don't go out at night.' His eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'Strange things happen round here,' he said, obviously not wanting to go into detail. 'Never used to believe in those things, but now…' He nodded to the charms on the door. 'I don't know what's happened to the world. Do you find it's like a dream, where none of the rules apply? Where you can run as fast as you can but never get anywhere, and rooms are bigger inside than out? Sometimes I wonder if it's ever going to be right again.'
He sounded on the edge of a breakdown. Stress had brought twitches to his hands and a tic to a muscle beneath his eye.
'The body?' Tom prompted.
He nodded a few times too often. 'In the lawns out there, there's a large hollow. You can see it easily if you stand by the stable block. It's a dew pond, manmade, dates back to the Stone Age or something, according to the signs. If you go down there at certain times-sunset, sunrise-you can see it. Only not, which sounds a queer way of putting it, but that's how it is. The first time I saw it, it scared the living daylights out of me, but when I realised it came back regular as clockwork, just lying there, there was no point getting worked up about it. There are worse things.' He looked down at his hands, which he quickly clasped together.
'What do you mean, there only not there?' Tom leaned forward so he could read Robertson's face.
'How can I describe it? It's like it's half there and half not. If you stand at the right point, so the light's coming in just so, it almost looks solid. Take one step to the left or right and it disappears.'
'Can you see who it is?' Veitch asked.
'Looks like some Indian or something. Hard to tell. He's lying on his back, hands across his chest.'
Witch looked at Tom excitedly, but the Rhymer kept his face emotionless. 'Can you show us?' Tom said.
'I can. But you won't see anything at this time. Sunset's probably the best time, but you won't be getting me out there then.'
'So what is out there?' Veitch asked.
Robertson rose quickly, suddenly uncomfortable. 'Well, I don't rightly know. And even if I did, I wouldn't want to be talking about it. They can hear everything that's said, you know. Take their name in vain, they'll make you pay.' He crossed himself, then once more for luck. 'You want to be careful what you say.'
'We don't bow our heads to anything undeserving,' Tom said curtly.
Robertson looked on them pityingly before leading them out, stopping briefly to touch all the charms around the door.
The September sun was warm on the backs of their necks as they wandered across the lawns to the dew pond. Robertson was right; there was nothing to be seen. The ground was hard baked from the summer sun, the grass clipped close by the sheep.
Robertson looked up cautiously to check the sky. 'Two days ago there was a rain of frogs. A carpet of them all around here, hopping like mad. Do you think it was a sign?'
'Yeah, it was a sign we're all going to croak.' Veitch knelt down, brushing his fingers across the grass as he surveyed the area; it was too open. If they returned at sunset they would be easy targets. 'So what do we do now?'
'Now,' Tom said, 'we go to talk to the giant.'
Chapter Eight
