The Greenstone Grail: The Sangreal Trilogy One

The white-masked man moved one hand in a strange gesture, murmuring a word Nathan could not hear. An image appeared in front of him, life-size, three-dimensional, evidently made of light. It wore a purple cowl and a mask patterned with whorls and lines.

‘Souza is contaminated,’ said the white mask, briefly. ‘Instigate cut-off for Maali.’

‘The whole of Maali?’ said the purple cowl, evidently shocked. His voice crackled, like someone telephoning on a bad line.

‘Of course. Send the Fifth Phalanx and one of the senior practors. Raymor will go with them. He knows the terrain.’

Purple cowl hesitated, as if considering a protest, but refrained. Then he too bowed, vanishing at a gesture from his master.

The man walked towards the window again, resuming his contemplation of the city. Nathan saw him from close up, his chin sunken, the white shapely features gleaming in the daylight, the black bulge of the eye-screens revealing nothing. But behind the mask he sensed a mind at work, an inscrutable intelligence, vast and complex, and focused on a single path of thought, a plan, a goal – whatever that goal might be. Nathan had never before imagined such a mind – a mind so powerful that he could feel it thinking, he could sense the surge and flicker of suppressed emotion, the dreadful urgency beneath the calm of absolute control. Its proximity frightened him and he tried to draw away, pushing at the dream until it began to break up, and he was plunged into a long dark tunnel of fading sensation. He lost himself in sleep, but when he woke at last the dream was still with him, clear as truth, and the memory of it didn’t grow dim.

It was perhaps a fortnight before he returned there. He knew it was the same world, the same dream, though the environment had changed. He was with a rider again, possibly Raymor, though now there were many of them, flying in successive V-formations of thirteen, the infrequent wing-beats of the xaurians almost exactly in unison. Below, the dull glitter of sunlight moved over a huge expanse of sea, stretching from horizon to horizon. He could see the ripple effect of endless waves, and here and there a dimpling of white as breakers clashed in a volcano of spray. Soon, a strip of coast appeared, rushing towards them, growing swiftly. He saw grey cliffs falling sheer to the sea, and beyond an uneven plateau, treeless and bleak.

The phalanx swung left and began to follow the shoreline. On the foremost xaurian he noticed there was a second figure seated behind the rider, dressed in red. What he was doing Nathan didn’t know, but his hand moved in a series of intricate gestures, and the air on their shoreward side thickened into a haze, like a veil dividing them from the land. The cliffs were barely visible now, plunging downwards to a broad inlet spanned by many bridges and surrounded by a sprawling port. There seemed to be boats on the water, and occasional skimmers wheeling insect-like above. One veered round and came towards them, but the veil grew denser even as it approached, and when it hit the barrier sparks ran along its sides, igniting into flame, and it spiralled down into the ocean like a dying firework. The red figure went on with its ritual: Nathan was close enough now to hear the murmur of a chant. Glancing to seaward, he glimpsed another boat, far outside the barrier. Two xaurians broke away from the outer wing and headed towards it. Nathan couldn’t see clearly what happened, but there was a spurt of fire on the boat, and then it had vanished, and the waves rolled on unbroken.

He didn’t like the dream now, for all the exhilaration of the flight. He felt as if merely by watching, by being there, he had become a part of it, a mute participant in some terrible misdeed. He tried to pull himself away from the phalanx, and found his thought was falling, dropping like a stone towards the sea. And then his dive slowed to a glide, brushing the wave-crests, just above the place where the ship had gone down. There was someone in the water, presumably the last of the crew: he saw the grey hood bobbing up and down. The person had no lifebelt, no inflatable jacket; he wouldn’t last long. The xaurian riders, knowing that, had left him to his fate. Even though the drowning man had no visible face Nathan felt his terror, and the need to help grew inside him, strong as rage, until he thought he would burst with it. He drifted lower, reaching out, feeling the slap of cold water on his skin, seizing the flailing hands with a grip that caught and held. Then they were jerked out of the dream with a violence that made Nathan’s stomach turn, landing painfully on a beach of stones. A beach at night, with breakers crumbling on the shingle, and upflung sheets of foam, luminous in the darkness. Nathan released the clasping hands and sensed himself withdrawing, sliding backwards into oblivion. The dormitory bell roused him, hours or minutes later. He sat up, conscious of discomfort, and found the sleeves of his pyjamas were damp.

That Saturday there was a rugby match against another school. Nathan scored two tries, helping the Ffylde Abbey team to victory, and went home late and on a high. He had been planning to tell Bartlemy about the dreams but somehow, when it came to it, he distrusted his own imagination, and was not yet ready to expose himself to anyone’s disbelief. But on Sunday he could see Hazel, and confiding in her was second nature to him. (Not George, he decided, without asking himself why. Just Hazel.) In the morning, he and Annie sat over a late breakfast, listening to the local news on the radio. A projected housing development, a missing person, the risk of flooding in the area. ‘A man discovered three days ago on the beach at Pevensey Bay is believed to be an illegal immigrant. He was dressed in waterproof clothing which covered him from head to foot, suggesting he may have swum in from a boat. He speaks no English and so far his nationality has not been established. Police think it unlikely he was alone and are asking local residents to be on the lookout.’

Annie noticed Nathan had stopped eating his cornflakes. ‘Are you all right?’ she inquired.

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He resumed his breakfast, but with less enthusiasm. After a minute, he asked: ‘What will they do with him? Will they – will they put him in prison?’

‘The illegal immigrant? I suppose so. Until they work out who he is, and whether to grant him asylum.’

‘But … that’s wrong. He’s alone. He’s desperate. We should help him.’

Annie was touched by his concern. ‘Yes, we should,’ she said. ‘The trouble is, people are afraid. They’re afraid of strangers, of anybody different. They think immigrants will take their jobs or their homes, even though there aren’t that many of them, and newcomers create jobs as well as doing them. But fear makes people stupid, and sometimes cruel.’

‘Could I go and see him?’ Nathan demanded abruptly. ‘The man on the beach?’

Annie looked astonished. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘They wouldn’t let you. Maybe you could write.’

‘Yes, but … he doesn’t speak English,’ Nathan reminded her. He gave up on breakfast altogether, and asked to leave the table. He wanted space to think.

‘It’s impossible,’ Hazel said that afternoon, in the Den, but she didn’t sound sure.

‘There are meant to be lots of other universes,’ Nathan said. ‘That isn’t just in books; Father Clement told us about it, in physics. There are millions of them, some like ours, some different. It’s called the multiverse. Supposing, in my dream, I was actually in one of them, and somehow I pulled that man out, back into ours?’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Hazel said, curiously daunted. When they were much younger, the two of them had spent a lot of time exploring wardrobes in the hope of making their way into other worlds; but she had outgrown such fancies now. Or so she told herself, part wistful, part scornful, strangely afraid. She knew Nathan would never lie to her.

‘You’re talking about magic,’ she said at last. She had no opinion of physics.

‘Maybe.’ Nathan was pensive. ‘What is magic, anyway? According to someone or other, it’s just science we don’t understand.’

‘How do we find out more?’

‘I don’t know. I could ask Uncle Barty: he knows about lots of things. History, and archaeology, and all the sciences. Besides, Mum says his cooking is definitely magical.’

Hazel made a snorting noise. ‘Cooking isn’t magic,’ she said. ‘Even if that chocolate cake for your last birthday was amazing … Are there books on it? Magic, not cookery.’

Nathan nodded. ‘They’re called grimoires. Mum had some in once. I thought they would be interesting, but they were awfully dull, just about drawing runes and symbols, and picking herbs at the full moon, and boring rituals for calling up demons. There weren’t even any sacrifices, let alone stuff about other worlds. They wouldn’t be any good to us.’ There was a long silence, filled with frustrated thought. ‘What we need,’ said Nathan, ‘is a witch. Witches were burnt here, hundreds of years ago, in that open space outside the church. Uncle Barty told me about it. I asked him if they were real witches, and he said mostly not – but “mostly” isn’t all. I read the names: some of them were Carlows, like your great-grandmother. Was she born a Carlow, or did she marry one?’

‘Both, I think,’ Hazel said, frowning. ‘Dad’s always telling Mum her family are inbred. He said Great-grandma was barmy, and she married her own cousin, which is supposed to make your children mad or sub or something … He says she’s a witch, too, but I expect that’s just an insult.’

‘We could go and ask her,’ Nathan suggested tentatively. ‘She wouldn’t mind us asking – would she? It isn’t as if witches get burnt nowadays.’

‘She’ll mind,’ Hazel said with conviction. ‘She’s … well, you know.’

Nathan did know. Effie Carlow’s acid tongue and eagle stare did not encourage idle questions. However …

‘If we can’t think of anyone else,’ he said, ‘we’ll have to ask her. We must ask someone.’

Back at school, he tried to listen to the news on the Common Room radio as much as possible, but there was nothing further about the man on the beach. He sounded out Father Clement on alternative universes, but the monk said that to his knowledge nobody had ever visited one, though he assumed it would be feasible. In theory. By Friday night when his mother took him home to Eade, Nathan had made up his mind. On Saturday George came round, so it was not until Sunday that he told Hazel: ‘We have to go and see your great-grandmother. There isn’t anyone else.’

Effie Carlow lived in a cottage on the Chizzledown road about half a mile outside Eade. Built in the Victorian era, weathering had mellowed its façade and climbing plants had overgrown its more commonplace features, rendering it attractive if not picturesque. Too small to be of interest to buyers from London, it had diminutive windows admitting little light into poky rooms and a roof that sagged almost to ground level, while at the rear there was an outhouse which Effie rented to a local artist as a studio. The walled garden was a miniature wilderness in which weeds and wild flowers predominated. ‘We ought to telephone her first,’ Nathan had said before they set out.

‘She isn’t on the phone,’ said Hazel.

It was about four o’clock when they arrived, a well-chosen hour for a casual visit, or so Nathan hoped. After a nervous exchange of glances with Hazel, he tapped twice with the knocker, noticing belatedly that there was also a doorbell hiding behind a tendril of creeper. After a long wait during which they strained their ears for the sound of approaching feet and heard nothing, the door opened a few inches. ‘Well?’ said Effie Carlow.

‘Hello, Great-grandma,’ Hazel mumbled, and ‘We’re sorry if we’re interrupting,’ from Nathan, ‘but there’s something we particularly wanted to ask you.’

The old woman looked him up and down with her raptor’s eye. When he didn’t continue, she said impatiently: ‘So ask me.’

‘It’s about witches,’ he said, feeling increasingly awkward. ‘I read in a local history book there were witches burnt at the stake here, a long time ago, and some of them were called Carlow. We wanted to know about – about witchcraft, and other worlds, and things, and we wondered if you would be able to help.’

There was a change in her expression which they couldn’t define, a sort of sharpening, though her glance was always sharp, a subtle adjustment. Then she opened the door wider. ‘Come in.’

They stepped straight into a sitting room crowded with furniture and bric-a-brac. Pictures and bookshelves jostled on the walls, chairs were squashed arm to arm, small tables supported lamps, teacups, ornaments, an old-fashioned wireless. None of the lamps were on and in the gloom they could make out few details, but the overall effect was that of a jumble sale in a telephone booth. ‘Sit down,’ Effie continued. They sat in adjacent chairs, not quite holding hands, while she made them bitter dark tea with very little milk and added, as an afterthought, a plate of stale biscuits. ‘I’ve been keeping these for a special guest,’ she explained. ‘You can have some, if you like.’

‘Thank you,’ Nathan said politely, ‘but I had a big lunch.’

‘You can have some.’

Impelled by her determination, he took a biscuit. Hazel followed suit. She was still surprised they had been invited in and had lapsed into an apprehensive silence, leaving Nathan to do the talking. He attempted to phrase a question but was foiled by the biscuit, which was tough and required extensive chewing.

‘Why do you want to know about witches?’ Effie demanded. ‘Witches … and other worlds and things. But the Carlow witches were of this world, until they were burned. What goes on in other worlds no man knows.’

‘Nathan does,’ Hazel whispered. Her biscuit had proved more disposable.

‘And what does Nathan know?’

‘I have – these dreams,’ he said, between swallows. ‘There’s this place – I see different locations, a city, and a shoreline, but I know it’s the same place – and there are flying vehicles, like cars without wheels, and people riding on birds which are really reptiles, sort of pterodactyls – and I tried to rescue this man who was drowning, and a few days later I heard something on the news about an illegal immigrant, and I – I knew it was the same man.’

‘How could you tell?’ Effie’s manner was brisk.

‘They described his clothes. He was in a kind of one-piece suit which covered him all over, with a hood for his face and head. And they said he spoke no English, and they couldn’t work out his nationality.’