almost hypnotised by him. His voice was so calm, it made her feel tranquil, and his eyes were both mischievous and intensely sexual. His body had a graceful power, like a ballet dancer, compact, with muscles she had not expected to see in someone so cerebral. She had watched him performing his t'ai chi after they had awoken from their nap and she had almost cried to see him so at peace with himself. She was glad he was with them.
Despite herself, Laura felt the same way. Shavi's confidence in his abilities and direction in life was reassuring to someone who felt as if her own existence had been spinning off its axis for most of her adult life. In the disparate crew so far assembled, Shavi felt like the cement that would hold them all together. It gave her secret hope that it might, after all, turn out okay.
'We need to get you some clothes,' Church noted as they rested in the wan sunlight on the lea of an outcropping of grey Dartmoor granite. He felt much better. Tom had found some foul-tasting roots and leaves which had taken the edge off much of the pain and tiredness he had felt following his ordeal in Calatin's torture chamber. Ahead of them, a large fox picked its way cautiously across the scrubland, its russet fur a splash of colour against the grubby green. Church had a sudden flashback to the one he had seen in the street near Albert Bridge on the night his life changed forever. Oddly, he did not have the same sense of wonder.
'No hurry. It's not like it's winter.' Veitch did seem oblivious to the elements, despite his naked torso. In daylight, Church couldn't stop looking at the startling, colourful pictures tattooed on his flesh. Some were scenes of remarkable beauty, but others were almost too disturbing to consider: deformed faces that looked out at the viewer with a palpable sense of threat; odd, surreal shapes that seemed alien and unrecognisable, but touched disturbing notes in his subconscious; creatures that seemed half-animal, half-human.
Tom scanned the sky thoughtfully where a little blue was breaking through the heavy cloud. 'The weather should be fine,' he noted almost to himself before adding to the others, 'It will make travel a little easier. We may have a long way to go before we can rest.'
'We need to find Ruth and Laura.' Church fought back any thoughts suggesting they might not have survived the raid on the pub.
'Have you not learned anything yet?' Tom glared at Church through his spectacles, which, against all the odds, he had somehow managed to hang on to throughout the time in the mine. 'Time is of the essence! Your world is winding down and you want to dally searching for your friends? You are Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. You will find each other when the time is right.'
Veitch bristled at the man's tone. 'Oi. Nobody made you the gaffer. Keep a civil tongue in your head.'
Tom held his gaze for a minute, then looked to the horizon. Finally he hauled himself unsteadily to his feet and said, 'There are many miles ahead of us.'
They set off slowly across the moorland, enveloped by the moan of the wind and the plaintive cries of birds. The going was hard; the ground was uneven and marshy after the rains, while hidden hollows and boulders forced them to be cautious. The lamp was still flickering westwards, and Church wondered how far they could be expected to travel without a car. At the rate they were moving, Beltane would come and go before they left Dartmoor.
'Any idea what the date is?' he asked. 'I can't work out how long we were in that place. The lack of daylight plays havoc with your body clock.' No one had any idea.
Church noticed Tom was eyeing him strangely and asked what was wrong. 'You seem different from the last time I saw you,' he said. 'More in control of who you are. You might actually be able to live up to what's expected of you.'
'Thanks,' Church said sarcastically. He even felt different; the vision in the Watchtower, the death of the young Marianne, his terrible experiences at the hands of Calatin, all had altered him on some fundamental level. He himself was still coming to terms with who he now was.
'So, you still haven't told us what it was like in that Otherworld place,' Veitch said to Tom.
'No, and I'm not about to.'
'Why not?' Veitch said with irritation; Church was a little concerned at how close to the surface his temper lay.
'Because it would be like describing an impressionist painting to a blind man.'
'Are you saying I'm stupid?' Veitch's fists bunched subconsciously.
'No, I'm saying you're blind. But perhaps you'll see it for yourself one day, and then you'll understand.'
That thought seemed to cheer Veitch immensely. 'That would be bleedin' great! I bet it's better than this shitty little world.'
'Different,' Tom replied sourly.
Amidst regular ribald humour from Veitch, their step picked up and as the sky turned blue and the sun grew stronger, the miles fell behind them. After the disgusting food in the mine, they were all consumed with hunger and by midmorning they broke off their travelling to hunt for food. Tom did one of his tricks and returned with a couple of rabbits, and while they were cooking over a spit on the fire he pointed out various herbs for Church to collect and had Witch grubbing for tubers and mushrooms. It was a bizarre meal, half of which Church couldn't begin to recognise, but it tasted remarkable and they finished every scrap. After a brief nap in the shade of an ancient hawthorn tree, they continued on their way and soon the grim, bleak expanse of the moor gave way to budding trees and hedgerows and, eventually, a tiny, winding lane. With sore feet and aching muscles, they moved slowly, searching for any signs of civilisation.
An hour or so later they found a small farm surrounded by a thick wall of trees. At first glance it seemed deserted; a tractor and equipment sat idle in the yard at the back of the house and there was no sound apart from the mewling of a litter of kittens underneath a broken old cart. After hammering futilely on the door, Church and Veitch searched the outbuildings until Tom's cry called them back to the farmhouse. A ruddy-faced man with wiry, grey hair was pointing a shotgun at Tom's head.
'We're just looking for a place to stay for the night,' Church protested.
The farmer eyed them suspiciously, but didn't lower his weapon.
'Bloody hell, it's Deliverance,' Veitch hissed under his breath.
'Okay, we'll go!' Church said. 'So much for West Country hospitality.'
'Christ, a night sleeping under a hedge,' Veitch moaned as they turned away.
The farmer brought the shotgun to his side. 'You can't be staying out there at night,' he said, hesitantly. Church saw fear in his eyes. 'Don't you know what's happening?'
'What do you mean?' Church asked.
'It's changed. It's all bloody well changed.' He looked away uncomfortably.
'What's troubling you?' Tom attempted a note of concern which came across as insincere, but it didn't seem to trouble the farmer.
'Don't tell me you don't bloody see it. Everybody in the countryside knows it's different now, only nobody talks about it!' His voice rose, then cracked, on the edge of hysteria. He looked from one to the other frantically. 'You can't bloody go out at night! You take your life in your hands if you go into the wilder places! There're all sorts of things out there-'
'You've seen them?' Church asked.
The farmer's mouth clamped shut as his eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'Oh, ah, I'm not bloody mad, you know.'
'We've seen them too.' The farmer looked at Church with such sudden hope it was almost childlike. 'Things have changed.'
'What's gone wrong?' the farmer pleaded. 'What are they?' There were tears of relief moistening his eyes; Church thought he was going to hug them.
'You better come inside.'
The kitchen was dark despite the sunlight outside; it didn't look like it had been modernised in years. There was a large, heavily scored wooden table in the centre of the room, and a stove on the far wall over which hung a line of fading clothes drying in the dull heat. The floor was tiled and muddy and the kitchen was filled with old cooking smells and the underlying aroma of wet dogs. The farmer introduced himself as Daniel Marsh. He'd worked the land since he was a boy, as had generations of his family before him, but Church couldn't see any signs of other family members. He put a battered kettle on the stove and boiled up the water for an enormous pot of tea, which he served in chipped mugs. It soon become apparent to Church and the others that some heavy burden was lying on his shoulders beyond his obvious fear of the change in the countryside. After half an hour of small talk, he couldn't stop himself anymore.
