He picked himself up and ran as fast as he could. The beasts' crazed howling made him sick with primal fear. They were not like the dogs of the Wild Hunt, which were fearsome enough, but were filled with an unbridled ferocity and, he was convinced, controlled by one mind. He risked another backwards glance and saw them bounding amongst the trees like spectres, there, then gone, moving on two flanks to capture him in a pincer movement.
He jumped a stream, almost skidding down the opposite bank, then hurdled a fallen log. The pack was relentless, and drawing closer; he would not be able to outrun them. Their howling became even more blood crazed as they sensed this.
He came out of the forest so fast he barely realised he had left the last of the trees behind him. The land fell away sharply, becoming hard rock again, and the roof had closed once more twenty feet above his head. In the distance he could make out a brilliant blue glow. Slipping on the rock, he tumbled, cracking his head hard, but he was up and running in one fluid movement, wiping the blood away that had started to puddle in his left eye.
He had hoped the pack would remain behind in the forest, but now their shrieks were echoing off the walls, growing more intense, more terrifying. If he looked back, he knew he would see them snapping only inches from his heels.
As he ran, he pulled out the Sword once more. Legend said it could kill anything with a single blow. Swinging it behind him without slowing his step, he felt it connect with two hard forms. A terrible howling rang up from the whole pack.
He carried on that way for a few minutes more, but his arm muscles were soon burning and his joints ached. There was no time for an alternate strategy: the path ahead of him ended abruptly at a cliff edge, and beyond was a lake of the Blue Fire, the energy rising up in coruscating bursts like the bubbling of lava.
A few feet from the edge he spun round, lashing out wildly with the sword, but the pack had already halted a few yards away. All the dogs were watching him with their sickly yellow eyes, their mouths open to reveal enormous, sharp fangs; drool ran out in rivulets to splatter on the rock where it gave a hot fat sizzle.
Breathless, he waved the Sword at them while attempting to look over his shoulder to see if there was some exit he had missed.
'There is no escape from here,' the dogs said as one. 'You have reached the Chapel Perilous. Your life is now over.' They advanced a step in perfect, unnerving rhythm, like some drilled Roman legion.
'No,' Church gasped. 'It wouldn't end like this. There has to be a way out or there's no point to the trial.' He looked all around quickly, but could see no exit. 'I'm missing something.'
'No escape,' the dogs repeated. 'This is your death. Behind you is the source of everything. One step and you will be swallowed up, eradicated. Here we stand, ready to tear you to pieces. To turn your meat to fibres and your bones to dust.'
'I can fight,' Church said.
'You can,' the dogs said, 'for you have already killed some of us. But do we seem any less to you?'
The pack appeared to go on forever. 'Where there's life, there's hope,' Church said.
The dogs advanced another step.
He wiped the blood away from his eye, his heart pounding. The Sword handle was slick with sweat.
The dogs moved four paces in rapid procession. He waved the Sword wildly. Only a couple of yards away now, the white of their coats was almost blinding. Their jaws moved in unison-click-their eyes rolled as one.
Perhaps this was the trial: to fight and fight and fight, until he was down to his last reserves. But against an enemy that could not be killed, or even weakened? What was the point in that? Sooner or later they would overwhelm him.
He gripped the Sword with both hands and adopted a fighting stance.
What was the meaning in that?
And then it came to him. It took only a second or two to weigh it up, and then he sheathed the Sword and spun round. The blue looked so inviting: relief after his long, arduous struggle. He closed his eyes and stepped off the cliff.
He expected burning, but there was no sensation at all for a long time, just a world of blue overwhelming everything. He also expected his consciousnesshis sense of self-to be broken up within seconds of contact, then dissipated amongst the blue waves, to be returned to the source, but that didn't happen either. He remained who he had always been, since the beginning of time.
When sensation began to return, it was fitful, and quite alien. He felt the beating of mighty wings coming from his own arms; he saw with crystal refracted vision through serpent eyes; he felt the blast of flames pass his lips, the stink of smoke in his nostrils.
'You are one,' a voice from nowhere said.
He was looking at blue, but the shade was much softer. It took him a few seconds to accept the change in hue, and then a fluffy cloud drifted into his vision and he realised he was staring at the sky. He closed his eyes, smiling, enjoying the heat of the sun on his face.
Sitting up, he found himself lying on the causeway that joined St. Michael's Mount to the mainland. From the position of the sun, it must have been around noon; he had been gone barely any time at all.
Ruth's cry stirred him from memories of flying; reluctantly, he realised they were fading rapidly, but the sense of freedom didn't go. She came running along the causeway towards him, her hair lashing in the breeze. She grinned with relief and joy. He jumped up and took her in his arms, overjoyed that she was with him.
'I saw you from the top,' she said. 'How did you get here?'
'Look at that,' he said, pointing over their heads.
A Fabulous Beast swooped on the air currents, the sun glinting brightly off its scales, reds and golds and greens. Church was overcome with a sense of wonder. The Beast was otherworldly and lithe and graceful as it gently circled the top of the Mount, but it was what it represented that truly affected him: a world where anything could happen, a world where the mundane had forever been stripped from life.
'It's the old one, from Avebury. The oldest of them all.' Tom was at their side, craning his neck to peer beneath a shielding hand. 'You've done it. It wouldn't have left its home if the Fiery Network hadn't been brought back to life.'
'Then I really did it?' Church asked, barely believing. 'I woke the sleeping land?'
'There are more of them,' Ruth marvelled. 'Loads of them.'
Church counted ten, then gave up; they were coming from all directions to converge on the Mount. Some were smaller, some obviously younger, their colours slightly different, but they were all flying with abandon, rolling and gliding and looping the loop, so that there was an unmistakable feeling of joyous celebration.
'We did it,' he said in awe.
That night they made camp on a hillside overlooking St. Michael's Mount. Tom had already located tents and sleeping bags before coming to meet them at Mousehole, and they lit a fire to keep out the autumnal chill that came down with the night. He had also found a bottle of whisky to drink to their success.
The cleric, Michael, had met them briefly after Church's return, but he was eager to get back to his parishioners to spread a message of hope. The deference he had shown Church had been almost embarrassing.
'How do you feel?' Ruth asked Church hesitantly, once Tom had gone off to build up their wood supply.
It was a question he had avoided, for he was almost afraid to examine himself. 'Good,' he said.
'Don't think you're going to get away with that. Do I have to kiss your hand every time I meet you? Are you going to walk on water for your party trick?'
He tapped his head. 'Up here I feel pretty much the same as always. I mean, I think the same way. I'm definitely the me I always was, which is good because I had this feeling I'd turn out like a reformed smoker or Born-Again Christian, turned off by half the things I used to be in my old life.'
Her smile showed relief; it was obvious she had felt the same way.
'But in here,' he said, tapping his chest, 'I feel amazing. I feel… I don't know, the best way to describe it is right. I feel at ease with everything. Positive. Confident.' He thought hard. 'I feel at peace.'
She was looking at him with an expression that suggested she wished she felt that way too. She took his hand and gave it a squeeze.
'I expected it to be earth-shattering,' he continued. 'But it's so subtle. I don't feel like the man who's going to lead humanity to the next level. In fact, I cringe at the thought of it.'
