was wearing a dirty, shapeless hat and old coat, protection against the evening chill as he finished up the last of the jobs around the farm. 'Everything all right, lads?'
'It was a very enjoyable meal, Mr. Davenport,' Shavi said. 'Our compliments to your wife. And we offer you our thanks for feeding us, when we have nothing to offer in return. We know there are shortages-'
Embarrassed, Davenport waved him quiet. 'We've got enough to go round. I'd be worrying if I was one of the big boys. They won't know what to do now they can't get hold of their pesticides and chemical fertilisers. But I've been organic for a few years now, so, cross fingers, we should be all right for a while.'
His wife, Rowena, pushed in next to him. She was in her late thirties, attractive, though weary looking. 'Go on, Philip,' she said, nudging her husband in the ribs, 'ask them.'
'I'm not going to ask them.' Davenport shifted uncomfortably.
'If you don't, I will.'
He sighed with irritation. 'The wife wants to know if you're the heroes-'
She slapped him on the arm. 'Don't say it like that!'
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. 'If you're-'
'Oh, get out of the way!' She pushed past him. 'People are talking about a group of men and women going round the country trying to put right this awful thing that's happened. The farmers have been talking about it for weeks. They keep saying how some of these people helped out a farmer down in the West Country who'd got one of those spooks or goblins or whatever in his house. That's the story, anyway. But then we heard it from somebody else… a woman in the village. She's part of this parish pump news grapevine that's being set up to let everyone know what's going on. And one of the stories passed down the wire was about this group up in the north somewhere who fought against all those horrible things and saved an entire village. And they were doing all sorts of other… ' Her voice faded away as she realised she was starting to ramble. She looked at her husband and added, 'And yes, they did call them heroes. Said they could do things no other people could do. Said they were special.'
Veitch tried to appear nonchalant, but he was fighting against pride. The woman noticed his fidgeting. 'It is you, isn't it?'
'We are not special,' Shavi said. 'Not really. We are simply trying to do the best we can in a very difficult situation-'
'I told you they were the heroes,' the woman said to her husband. She turned back to them excitedly. 'What are you-'
Her husband pushed her out with undue roughness. 'They don't want to be bothered by us!' He shuffled around uncomfortably. 'We'll leave you alone now, lads. I know you'll have important stuff to talk about. But if you've got a moment before you take your leave-'
'We'll fill you in, mate.' Once he'd gone, Veitch said conspiratorially, 'Can you believe that? They're talking about us!'
'One should never believe one's own publicity, Ryan,' Shavi said wryly. He eased back in his chair and sipped on his boiled water.
'Yes, control your ego before your head explodes.' Tom collected the plates together and put them in the sink. 'It's not important-'
'It's important to me. Nobody's ever called me a hero before.'
'And this lot wouldn't either, if they knew you,' Tom snapped. 'To get back to the matter at hand-'
'Your strategy's all wrong.'
Tom picked up his chair and banged it down in irritation. 'So you said. Then what do you suggest?'
'You're the big bleedin' psychic. Shav here can talk to the birds. Can't you find out where the others are- exactly-so we can link up with them? We haven't got the time to keep wandering around. I want to be there the moment they roll up, ready to ride on London.'
'And do what? Shake your stump at them?' Tom recognised it was a cheap shot the instant the words had left his lips but he refused to be contrite, although he wouldn't meet Veitch's eyes.
Veitch wasn't upset. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table so he wouldn't look so combative. 'You know I'm talking sense here. We need a plan. There's only a matter of days until Hallowe'en… Samhain… that's all. There's not even a guarantee Church and the others are coming back.'
'Then we're lost,' Tom said sharply. 'Separately, we are nothing.'
'Sometimes you're so bleedin' pathetic.'
'They will be back,' Shavi said. 'I have faith.'
'Then we can get down to the fighting.' Veitch adjusted the cloth around what remained of his wrist.
'You all appear to be forgetting something vitally important.' Tom spun the chair around so he could lean on the back. He looked at Veitch accusingly. 'Church will not have forgotten.'
'What?' Veitch looked from Tom to Shavi.
'The land,' Shavi said.
'Exactly.' Tom took out his tin and made a roll-up with his dwindling supply of tobacco. 'Wake the land. The primary mission, encoded for generations in myth and legend. There will be no defeating the Fomorii, no future for Britain-or the world for that matter-unless the land is woken from its long sleep.'
'Like Church did in Edinburgh,' Veitch said, 'when the Fire helped blow those Bastards in their lair to kingdom come. But, yeah, it helped. Why's it so important?'
'The Tuatha De Danann would not have beaten the Fomorii before if the power in the land had not been vibrant.'
'I do not remember you telling us that before,' Shavi said suspiciously.
Tom sucked on the roll-up a few times to get it alight. 'The power in the land, at its height, weakens the Fomorii. The Blue Fire-and what it represents-is the antithesis of the Night Walkers, and what they represent.'
'So it's everywhere-' Veitch began.
Tom had no patience left. 'It is powered by belief and faith and hope, by humanity and nature in conjunction. By all that is good in us. And for generations it has been slowly growing dormant. Several hundred years ago humanity took a wrong path. We gave up all that was most important for the promise of shiny things, home comforts, products. There was a time we could have had both, to a degree. But the ones who shape our thoughts, in politics and business, and the fools who invested their faith in science alone, convinced us to trade one off for the other. And without the belief of the people, the energy slowly withered, like a stream in a drought. Not gone for ever, just sleeping.'
'But you know how it can be woken,' Shavi said. 'You have always known.'
Veitch watched Shavi's face and then turned his narrowing eyes to Tom. 'Another thing you've kept from us. You can't be trusted at all, can you, you old bastard? We could have done it weeks ago and saved us all a load of trouble.'
'The time was not right then. Church was not right. The Fomorii corruption in him would have brought failure. And to fail once would have meant failing for all time.'
Shavi watched Tom carefully. 'What else do you know?'
'More things than you could ever dream.' Tom was unbowed. 'Some have to be learned through hardship and ritual-they can't be imparted over a quiet cup of tea. Others, well, the telling of them could alter the outcome of what is being told. I ask you to trust me, as I always have.'
'We do trust you,' Veitch said irritably. 'That doesn't mean you don't get on our tits half the time.'
'At least we have some common ground,' Tom said acidly. The strain of events was eating away at all of them.
'Then what needs to be done?' Shavi asked. 'And can it be done in the time that remains?'
Tom sucked on the roll-up thoughtfully; they couldn't quite divine his mood: dismal or hopeful? 'The energy in the earth crisscrosses the globe, interlinking like the lines of latitude and longitude, only not so uniform. The Fire is not a straight line thing. It splits and winds in two strands around a central point, so that from above it resembles the double helix, the map of life, or perhaps the caduceus, the ageold symbol of two serpents coiled around a staff. Imagine, if you will, powerpoints where the energy rushes in, or is refocused and driven out into the network. The Well of Fire at Edinburgh was one, and Stonehenge and Avebury and Glastonbury Tor. The last three are important for they all fall on the divining line for Britain.'
'The St. Michael Line,' Shavi noted. 'A ley running from Carn Les Boel at Land's End to St. Margaret's Church
