‘There aren’t many biscuits left.’
Fran grinned at that, and gently closed the door. Lyn heard her moving round, then settle down. The flat grew quiet again: a cosy, womb-like hush beyond the lamplight.
She usually worked best in an environment like this; but tonight her mind felt fidgety – distracted. Instead of ploughing a proper furrow through some untranslated texts, she knew that she was grazing: wasting time on fallow land. There was nothing that she needed from the Chronicle right now. But Fran had picked it up today, and now Lyn found she couldn’t put it down.
The text was full of haunting gaps: so much had been forgotten. AD 904. The moon darkened. That was all. Whatever else had happened had been literally eclipsed. They must have thought their world was going to end.
Her eyes flicked to the Riddle, as if seeking reassurance.
It was pinned there on the wall, so she could see it while she worked. It had lived above her desk in Christ Church, too. A teasing gift from Martin, copied out with loving care. He’d never done Old English, but he’d formed each word just right.
Moe word fræt …
She rather thought that Daddy had conspired with him on that. An Anglo-Saxon riddle from the Exeter Book: the subject was a moth, devouring words. And though it chewed and swallowed them, it never took them in.
The answer was a Bookworm, of course. Oh, very droll, she’d told him; and kept it very carefully ever since.
Beside it was a colour print of Beowulf’s first line, the H illuminated like a manuscript. Hwæt! the long-dead poet called to her. In the context it meant, Listen! As she’d once explained to Fran, it summed things up for her. History demanded her attention just like that.
Returning to the Chronicle, she browsed on through the entries, and came to the Brunanburh poem. A famous English victory of 937, and the chronicler had really pulled the stops out, painting an epic scene of strife and carnage. Yet no one knew the site of it today.
The march of time. So much fell by the wayside. She felt that old, nostalgic twinge again.
It was doubtless Fran’s enquiry about the Raven banner that focused her attention on the grisly reference here. A real raven this time, though – and written in the common English form. More familiar; harsher-sounding. Hræfn.
Behind them, to divide the carrion meat,
They left the raven, dark and shadow-clad …
She thought of Simon suddenly, and couldn’t keep a wry smile from her lips. He failed to see how she could find this stuff so interesting. Give him football any day. Or tinkering with cars.
They had some common interests though – like good Italian food and conversation. He’d booked them a table for Saturday night. The prospect was a pleasing inner glow.
… and æt græg deor,
Wulf on wealde.
Time for bed. She yawned into her hand, and closed the book. No wiser for the words she had consumed.
1
Tilshead Tea-Rooms hadn’t changed a bit.
Sitting by the window, gazing out into the sunny village street, Fran felt her instincts fusing with the past. She might have come here last weekend, not four long years ago. She couldn’t help but straighten, every time she heard an engine – a hollow feeling growing in her stomach. A farmer’s truck would clatter by; the void would fill again. But she’d keep her hearing focused on the noise, until it faded: dispersed across the still air of the Plain.
The room was dark with polished wood: a refuge from the sunlight. Silence filled it, seeping from the panelling and beams. An antique clock ticked drily in the background. It seemed she had the whole place to herself.
She glanced down at her untouched plate. Her mouth felt dry, too dry for scones; her stomach much too sour for jam and cream. She poured herself a splash more tea, and turned her gaze towards the road again.
The proprietress had welcomed her with friendly, searching eyes. Fran sensed that she’d been recognized, but guessed the woman couldn’t place her face. That suited her just fine, of course: she didn’t want to talk. Just sitting at this window brought back memories enough.
Didn’t you use to come down with Indra and the others? The unasked question hovered as the cream tea was brought through. But Fran’s smile had been fleeting, and the other woman hadn’t pushed her luck.
The old clock kept on ticking in the corner.
An army Land-Rover bowled past; Fran’s pulse-rate leaped again. She thought about the last time she’d had tea here, along with Paul and several other Watchers. They’d just been starting on the scones when a packet of Hummvees rattled past outside. A moment’s startled silence; then Crash, thud, Bloody hell! and they’d all been piling out onto the pavement. She remembered that last glimpse she’d got: the mottled iron cockroach-shells, and lights like dim red eyes. But the vehicles were clear, and heading north towards Gore Cross: their dismal, diesel clatter fading slowly in the fields.
The Tea-Rooms had grown used to scenes like that.
She felt a quirky glimmer of nostalgia. Memory was a comforter, especially when it drew old friends around her. But as she sat, and watched the road, their grinning faces dimmed, the banter dwindled – leaving her among the empty chairs.
The shadow of the Hummvees seemed to linger, like a stain. Part of the bleak atmosphere that overhung the land. As if those evil armoured bugs had gone to ground somewhere.
She tipped her face into the light; it warmed her skin, but couldn’t reach her heart. Because now, of course, she knew what really lurked out there. Waiting for the dusk, perhaps. The rising of the moon.
She lowered her gaze, and sipped her tea … and wondered, very calmly, when he’d deign to show his face.
2
With afternoon now wearing on, she thought about some old haunts of her own. Points around the range where she had watched from. Places that still called to her, their voices zephyr-faint.
Other ghosts were waiting there. The shadows of her past. To stir them up would pass a little time.
Finishing her tea, she pulled Lyn’s jacket off the chairback. She hoped the lady wouldn’t mind about the untouched scones. Pausing at the door, she looked around the empty room. The ghosts were here as well, amid the dimness and the dust-motes. She tarried, as if waiting to be noticed. Then turned away, and left them to their unheard conversations.
Outside, the day was bright but fresh; she shrugged into the jacket’s fleecy warmth. The Black Horse down the street was where she’d booked in for the night. Perhaps she’d still be waiting here tomorrow. She had no way of knowing when he’d put in an appearance.
