Table of Contents

- Dedication

- 1. Splashdown

- 2. A re-evaluation

- 3. Graduation

- 4. High fever

- 5. A gift for evensong

- 6. Pastor Kent

- 7. Welcome

- 8. On the mend

- 9. Under orders

- 10. New admissions

- 11. Induction

- 12. Silence is its own reply

- 13. The Works

- 14. The Big Game

- 15. News at last

- 16. You Betcha!

- 17. A regular lifesaver

- 18. Poldyke

- 19. Round two

- 20. Back to Merriedene

- 21. Narayana

- 22. Round three

- 23. Breakthrough

- 24. Shattered dreams

- 25. The purge

- Epilogue

The Host and the Guests

By Etienne de L'Amour

A short novel, circa 45,000 words.

Book 8 in the Shadowlands series.

Contains violent and gruesome themes.

Not for the faint-hearted or those of a nervous disposition.

Copyright © 2009 – 2012 by Etienne de L'Amour

The right of Etienne de L'Amour as the owner of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Copyright throughout the world.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or photographic, by recording or any information storage or retrieval system or method now known or to be invented or adapted, without prior permission obtained in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review written for inclusion in a journal, magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

First edition: 1 January 2010

First edition for Kindle: 14 March 2012

Sher Point Publications, UK

Front cover painting: Étude de main (Study of Hands) by Nicolas De Largillière (1656–1746).

Dedication

Dedicated to those seekers who have gone before us to light the way, and to those who follow in our footsteps.

~~~O~~~

A young man set off on the quest for Shambhala. After crossing many mountains, he came to the cave of an old hermit, who asked him: “Where are you going across these wastes of snow?”

“To find Shambhala,” the youth replied.

“Ah, well then, you need not travel far,” the hermit said. “The kingdom of Shambhala is in your own heart.”

~ An old Tibetan tale.

~~~O~~~

The left hemisphere [of the brain], though unaware of its dependence, could be thought of as an “emissary” of the right hemisphere, valuable for taking on a role that the right hemisphere - the “Master” - cannot itself afford to undertake. However it turns out that the emissary has his own will, and secretly believes himself to be superior to the Master. And he has the means to betray him. What he doesn't realize is that in doing so he will also betray himself.

~ From an introduction to The Master and His Emissary (2009) by Iain McGilchrist, at www.iainmcgilchrist.com

1. Splashdown

Nobody knows for certain how it actually started, though a number of pseudo-scientific explanations have been put forward and there has been much wild speculation. That being so, the apocryphal account given by the good doctor Josiah Pendlebury is as good as any, and it is with this account that our story begins.

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, nor a million miles from here, a rocky mass crossed paths with the Earth. Superheated by friction in the atmosphere, it flared brightly, streaking across the night sky and exploding in a violent star burst. The glowing fragments of this interstellar intruder were scattered by the force of the explosion and plummeted down toward the ground.

One of the pieces of debris plunged into a pond near a farm in Ingmar, south of the Freelands, with a splash and a loud hiss as its fire was abruptly extinguished, sending huge ripples across the pond and rousing the farmyard animals. Even the rooks in the nearby trees took to flight in a flap of fear and territorial aggression.

Roused by the noise, Farmer Giles leapt out of bed and dashed to the window, raising the sash and peering out into the night.

His wife Margaret was roused, too, and she lay there in bed, clutching at the bedclothes, a fearful look etched across her face.

“Don't fret, Peggy,” Farmer Giles reassured her. “I'm just going out to see what's up with the stock.”

Putting on his thick, woollen dressing gown, he dashed downstairs, pulled on his boots and reached for the shotgun which he kept in a locked cabinet by the door. He cracked open the breech, fished out two cartridges from a drawer in the hallway cabinet, unlocked the front door and strode out into the farmyard, his eyes darting this way and that for any sign of intruders, be they beast or man. If it was that damn lone wolf again, he'd have its ruddy guts for garters.

Farmer Giles went through the farmyard, checking the hen enclosure, the barn and the stables, then walked round the field to check on the pigs. They'd all quietened down now and he could see no obvious signs of intrusion, so at length he turned around and went back to the farmhouse.

They banked up the living room fire with waste before going to bed, to slowly burn the refuse and to ensure they had hot water come morning, and he sat by the fireside for a time to warm himself and had a few puffs on his old briar pipe, before unloading the gun and retiring once more.

In the morning, Farmer Giles and his wife were up as usual before the sun had risen, thinking no more about the incident. The Missus was busy seeing to the hens and the horses and he was off to sort out the pigs. Having given them their feed, he took his buckets to the pond to fill the troughs. The pigs were getting well fat and come Wednesday he'd take a couple of them to sell to the local butchers and another three or four at market. His father and grandfather before him used to do their own slaughtering, and though he had no qualms about wringing the neck of the odd hen, this was something he'd never been able to stomach, so he had an arrangement with Jones the butcher on the high street to take back some of the pork to meet their own needs.

Farmer Giles was heading back from the field when Peggy came slopping through the mud to meet him.

“Just what I was looking for,” she nodded, relieving him of the empty buckets. “I thought I'd start a batch of elderberry wine this morning. The Harvest Holiday is looming and we don't want to run short.”

“Right you are, petal. Tell you what, I'll get the water,” Farmer Giles nodded, taking back the buckets. “You go in and put the kettle on and butter a couple of scones. I'm gagging for a cuppa.”

By the time he returned to the farmhouse, dutifully removing his muddy boots at the doorstep, the kettle was singing. He put the buckets down by the kitchen sink and rummaged in his pocket. “Present for you, petal,” he announced.

“What's that?” Peggy asked, across the other side of the kitchen, as she poured the boiling water in the teapot, gave it a quick stir and put the woolly tea cosy on.

“Wood pigeon,” Farmer Giles beamed. “It was having a drink at the pond and wandering round tame as can be.”

“The thing looked like it was sozzled – maybe been eating fermenting fruit – but only a fool would turn down such an offering.”

His wife brought the tea pot over to the table and poured some milk in their cups. “Oh good. I was wondering what we might have for dinner today. Pigeon pie suit you?”

“Bit fresh, old love. It would be better left hanging for a couple of days,” he proposed, wiping his hand across his runny nose.

“You know best, husband. Well, it's too late to soak any salted pork, so I'll have to go down to the village and see what the butcher has. But don't leave the bird hanging too long this time. You know I can't abide meat that's turned gamey.”

“Some folk say you should hang birds until the maggots emerge,” Farmer Giles reliably informed her.

Peggy shuddered. “Well, they're welcome to it,” she replied, screwing up her face in disgust. “Yuck, it makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.”

“Little bugger gave me a sharp peck for my troubles,” Farmer Giles added, licking a dribble of bright red blood from the tip of his little finger. “Though happen it serves me right.”

His wife had a look for herself. “Best get a plaster on that finger before it gets infected, Farmer Giles. Don't know where that bird's been,” his wife advised, heading for the medicine chest.

2. A re-evaluation

Tomorrow was Graduation Day at Foxholes, the Network's study centre on the outskirts of Sher Point, capital city of the Freelands, and the director, Tenzing Jangbu Rinchen, had decided to take a break from his preparations and have a wander through the grounds, under the full moon and myriad stars, to clear his head.

He was bothered about one of the students, Katharine Marsh. She'd come on in leaps and bounds since she first arrived from the Outlands, and yet when it came to the final exams, try as they might, her tutors had been unable to scrape together sufficient marks to pass her in mathematics, science or computing.

Being a borderline case, the matter had been referred to him to pass final judgement. At the moment, based on the recommendations of her tutors, his thinking was that he should fail her and that she should repeat her final year. However, that decision did not rest lightly on his shoulders. He knew that it would leave Katharine “gutted”, to use the students' vernacular, and he could not be sure that she would rise to the challenge or be too crushed by it and perhaps even fall.

“Oh, Alicia,” he sighed, looking up into the night sky. “Please give me a sign, that I might know what to do.”

He turned down the path that led toward the lily pond, in amongst the trees near the edge of the grounds, and who should he see there, sitting on a bench overlooking the pond but Katharine Marsh herself. There could be no mistaking that full head of red hair.

As Tenzing approached the pond, Katharine turned toward him and began to rise to her feet.

“Hello, there,” he smiled in greeting. “No, no. Please don't get up on my account.”

The girl greeted him politely in return, though he could not help but notice a lack of enthusiasm in her voice. She usually had a lilt, yet her words seemed to falter and fall flat toward the end.

As he reached the bench he asked: “Do you mind if I join you for a while?”

“Not at all, Tenzing,” Katharine replied, forcing a smile and moving over on the wooden bench to make room for him. “What brings you here?”

Tenzing peered into her face and she cast her eyes down.

“If you'll forgive me, my dear: perhaps the same reason that brings you here, Katharine,” he felt prompted to return.

“Does it show?” she asked, her cheeks blushing with embarrassment.

“I've seen you in better spirits, Katharine.”

“It's the exams,” she told him. “I know that I made an absolute mess ...”

“Why do you think that was, Katharine? Your tutors reported that you did well enough in class and had predicted far better grades.”

She shrugged and said nothing. Then she spoke up. “I was going out with one of the other students – Russell Brightman.”

“Ah, yes, I remember the lad.”

“I guess that I spent too much time in his company and too little time focussed on my studies. And then ….”

“Then?”

“He left Foxholes and started seeing someone else. When that happened, it felt as if the bottom had fallen out of my world.”

“Ah, I see,” he nodded. “Things are beginning to make more sense now.”

“Do you mind if we walk back to the main building now, Tenzing?” asked Katharine, rising to her feet and dabbing her eyes on a handkerchief when she thought he wasn't looking.

“Certainly, my dear,” he nodded, pushing himself to his feet. “Apart from anything, it's beginning to come in chilly now.”

“So what's to become of me?” Katharine asked him as they strolled back toward college.

Tenzing felt he should tell her the truth. “Your results in maths, science and computing weren't as good as they could have been, Katharine ….”

“You mean I failed. That I won't be graduating tomorrow?”

“The tutors are divided. I've been asked to give my casting vote. And I must say that I, too, am divided on the matter.”

Then: “Things don't happen by chance, as I'm sure you know by now, Katharine. I can only think that our meeting here this evening is not without good reason.”

“When will I know?” she asked with some urgency.

“I promise that I'll let you know tomorrow morning, my dear. Please come to my study first thing after breakfast.”

“Okay,” she nodded sadly.

“I'm sorry, Katharine. I would imagine that whether you're excited by the prospect of tomorrow or fearful, either way you won't get much sleep tonight. And you won't be alone in that. I've been doing this for years and I still don't rest easy on the eve of graduation. I know how much it means to every....”

He stopped mid-sentence as he caught sight of something in his peripheral vision, streaking across sky from the north. He and Katharine gazed heavenward as the object abruptly burst in a bright flash, scattering in a thousand directions like a huge firework. The object must have been extremely high, because it took several seconds for the sound to reach their ears and when it did, it sounded very distant.

As he was still peering up into the sky, watching the glowing trails, he was forcibly knocked to the ground and in that instant he heard something whistling through the air, to land with a loud thud inches from where he'd been standing.

“S-sorry,” Katharine stammered, jumping to her feet and standing over Tenzing to help him up.

Rising to his feet and feeling more than a little shaken, as if the world had nearly fallen out of his bottom rather than the converse, Tenzing looked around. There in the grass where he'd been standing, there was a hole – a deep, smoking hole.

“My word,” he gasped, going over to examine the hole. “That was quite an impact.”

He was left no doubt that had Katharine not dived at him and bowled him over, that object – whatever it was – would have drilled a similar sized hole in him.

“Are you alright?” the girl asked anxiously, concerned that the fall might have hurt him.

Tenzing brushed himself down and turned to her. “I'm well enough, thanks to your lightning-like reflexes, my dear. And you? To say that your action was inspired would be an understatement.”

“Yes, I'm fine,” she nodded.

“To use the vernacular, had it not been for you, I would have been 'pushing up the daisies.' I've seen some miraculous things in my time, but I must say, I am quite astounded.” The card that destiny had just dealt to Katharine and she had so deftly played surely trumped them all.

He could see that she was still trembling.

“Well, I don't know about you, my dear, but I could do with a stiff drink. I think we should hurry inside to my study for a well-deserved nightcap.”

They sat in the study for a few minutes, sipping chungari, an amber elixir that he kept for special occasions such as this, and engaging in light conversation. The excitement of the incident seemed to have had as much of an effect on Katharine as it had on him, and he was delighted to hear that the lilt in her voice had returned.

Finally, he bade Katharine good night and only then did reality again appear to dawn on the girl. There was a deep sorrow in her eyes as, presumably, she remembered that tomorrow she'd be told that she'd failed and would have to repeat a year.

Tenzing smiled at Katharine as she stood hovering in the doorway. He went forward and patted her on the shoulder.

“Let me put you out of your misery, my dear. What you did earlier speaks volumes. I am left in no doubt that what happened was for a purpose. And that you 'have what it takes.' There's far more to this lark than mere academic prowess.”

Katharine stood there, mouth agape, not quite sure what to say. “You mean … you mean?”

Tenzing smiled broadly. “I mean you may sleep easy tonight, Katharine ...”

There were tears in the girl's eyes now.

“... Knowing that you have passed and that you will be graduating with the others.”

Katharine came forward, clutching him tightly, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

Eventually the girl pulled herself together and wiped her eyes. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much, Tenzing.”

He shook his head and grinned. “Au contraire, my dear. Thank you. You're a regular life saver. And now, if you'll forgive me, we'd best get our beauty sleep ahead of the big day.”

As for Alicia: how could he ever doubt her impeccable wisdom and sense of timing, though he'd willingly have settled for a sign which was a little less dramatic.

3. Graduation

Graduation Day dawned and Foxholes was a hive of activity. The event had been meticulously planned and rehearsed as best they could, but Matron was acutely aware that there might be contingencies that defied the best planning and that in such an event they would simply have to draw a deep breath and muddle through. People didn't like to be thought of as bumbling along and muddling through their lives, they preferred to think of themselves as rational, organized and sovereign beings, in spite of clear evidence to the contrary. And yet in her long and varied experience she'd found the former state to be widespread and prevalent at all levels. Perhaps none more so than amongst the intelligentsia in the upper echelons of society: the humble workers at the coal face were, by and large, possessed of more common sense and altogether more dependable.

Everybody had been up early that morning to prepare for the big day, and now the first guests were beginning to arrive, with staff and students on-hand to guide them through to the library, offer hospitality and generally keep them entertained.

The hall would be opened later that morning for the graduation ceremony, and Tenzing was at work in his office with one of his deputies, Rosalie Muller, double and triple checking that his speech, the list of those graduating, their certificates and the prizes were all in order. And in the kitchens, Missus Morgan and her staff were busy about the task of preparing the buffet for the afternoon's celebrations. In the evening, too, there was a ball, and though unlike Open Day this was only open to students and staff, and hence there would be fewer numbers, it still posed something of a headache for the hard working kitchen staff. As soon as the graduation ceremony was over and the guests left after a glass of sherry and slice of cake, it would be all hands on deck to help Louis Barker the caretaker, his young assistant Brian and the groundsman, Seth Longbottom, clear away the chairs and prepare for the ball. “Miracles have details,” as Tenzing was wont to say on occasions such as this.

Not only was he up to his eyes with the graduation and all the paperwork associated with that and the recent exams, Tenzing was also running behind schedule with work for the Elder Abbots. Rifatzada and Banu Zadar, the “Elevated Noble” and the “Lady Noble” respectively, were keen on the Network establishing an office and developing operations in Ingmar, south of the Freelands. The Elder Abbots had been pressing him to make a start and he, for his part, had been waiting for the “right time, right place, right people and right circumstances” to emerge. He thought that one of the ex-students, Roland Dawkins, might have the requisite qualities to carry out the initial work, but Roland couldn't be expected to work alone and Tenzing was hard pushed to find him a suitable companion.

This stray thought was on his mind as Katharine Marsh came up the steps and crossed the stage to receive her certificate. She was brim full of energy and looked so radiant. And in that instant, as he held out his hand in greeting, Tenzing realized that Katharine was the piece of the jigsaw puzzle that had until that moment been missing. And, as fortune would have it, Roland was amongst the guests that day.

“Very well done, Katharine,” he smiled, shaking the girl's hand warmly.

“Thank you, Tenzing. I'm grateful for the help I've been given here.”

“You're most welcome, Katharine. Listen, after sherry with the guests, would you mind having a word in my study? I have someone you might like to meet and a proposition to put to you, my dear.”

Katharine looked a little puzzled by what he said.

“Don't look so worried,” he smiled. “I promise I won't bite.”

The girl nodded her agreement and left the stage to go back to her seat whilst the rest of the graduates were called to receive their awards.

4. High fever

“Put the kettle on, Peggy,” sighed Farmer Giles, tramping into the kitchen in his boots and sinking down onto one of the hardbacked chairs at the table.

His wife stood there for a moment, casting her eyes over the muddy prints on the shiny stone tiles, as if on the verge of telling him off for his indiscretion. But she turned away and put the kettle on the stove, then turned back to him.

Farmer Giles sat there, feeling quite exhausted and rubbing his eyes. “It's like a bakehouse in here,” he complained, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his glistening brow.

Peggy looked askance. “Well, I had the oven going earlier, doing a bit of baking, husband, but if anything I'm finding it a little on the chilly side.”

“You sickening for something, Morgan?” his wife asked, stopping for a moment to feel his forehead as she prepared the tea. She strode across the kitchen, rummaged in the medicine chest and produced a thermometer.

“Here, stick this under your tongue for a while,” she instructed him, popping the thermometer in his mouth before going back to brew the tea. When the tea was poured out, she took the thermometer from him and held it up to the light to study it. “Hundred and two degrees,” she noted.

“Is that normal?”

His wife went back to the medicine chest and produced an old leather bound book, flicking through the yellowing pages until she found what she was looking for.

“Says here that ninety seven to ninety nine point five is normal – well, if you insert the thermometer in the mouth, that is.”

“Where else would you insert it?” he asked in all seriousness.

“Well, I shall leave that to your imagination, husband.”

He thought for a moment. “Oh, I see. So I'm running a temperature, then, petal?”

His wife nodded. “I don't think there's any need to panic, though. As long as it's below a hundred and four.”

“A hundred and four?”

“High fever. According to the book, that's life-threatening.”

He shivered and had to steady his hand to sip his tea. Despite the fact that he was sweating like a pig, he had just come over unusually cold.

“Too much information, Peggy. I say, too much information.

“Happen you'd best bank the fire up,” he suggested.

“Make your mind up, Morgan. One minute 'it's like a bakehouse in here' and the next you're complaining about it being too cold.”

He shrugged. “So what's the book advise?”

“It doesn't. It just says to seek medical attention if the condition worsens or lasts for longer than ....”

“Well, fat lot of good that is,” he interjected.

“I'll make you up some friar's linctus: my dear old mother swore by it. Are you all right here on your own for a while while I pop out? Missus Bagshaw is certain to have the plants I need growing in her garden. I'll take her and her hubby a bottle of the elderberry wine for her trouble. That always goes down well.”

He wiped his brow again and nodded, not that he was really taking in what his wife was saying. She could have just asked him if she could lash out on a fancy shop-bought frock for all he knew.

“You know, Morgan, I have said on more than one occasion that we could do with a herb garden ….”

“I know, I know. No need to rub it in,” he snapped at his wife.

“And in the meantime, Morgan, I strongly suggest you get yourself up to bed and lay down for a while.”

He shook his head. “I've got things to sort out,” he told his wife and, draining his cup, he rose to his feet. Only then did he realize how unsteady he felt, and he had to hang onto the back of the chair to maintain his balance.

“Bed, Morgan Bartholomew Giles. This minute,” his wife repeated in a purposely insistent tone. Without waiting for a response, she took him under the arm and slowly but firmly guided him toward the stairs.

By the time Margaret arrived at Missus Bagshaw's cottage, she was beginning to feel a little groggy herself and, seeing that she looked a little pale, Nettie insisted that she sit herself down.

“Have a cup of tea, a couple of biscuits and rest a while, Margaret,” the lady insisted. “I already have some friar's linctus made up and you can have that. I really don't think you're up to preparing it yourself. And when you're feeling up to it, I'll walk you home.”

By the time they made it back up the road and down the long farm track, Margaret was feeling utterly exhausted.

“If I were you, I'd get myself to bed, Margaret,” Nettie advised her in turn.

“One of us has to stay strong, Nettie. With so much to do at the farm, 'there's no rest for the wicked,' as they say.”

“Martin and the boys can make sure the stock's looked after.”

“But that would be imposing ...”

“Nonsense, Margaret: that's what friends are for. You just concentrate on getting better. Anyhow, I'll be along tomorrow morning to see how you are, so leave the door unlocked or the key under a plant pot near the doorstep.

“And thanks to you and Mister Giles for the elderberry wine: I'm sure that will go down a treat,” the lady added.

“That's very kind of you, Nettie,” she replied, forcing a smile, “but you have children and the last thing you need is to come down with a sickness.”

Nettie Bagshaw was having none of that and, after making up a flask of hot broth to take up to bed with her, Margaret obediently did as she was told.

By mid afternoon, Morgan's fever peaked. Even with the bedroom window wide open and all the bedclothes pushed off the bed, with the exception of a single linen sheet, and him complaining that he was cold, he was drenched in sweat. She did what she could, trying to keep him cool with cold wet flannels, and she got a little more friar's linctus down him, but other than that she could do nothing really except wait for the fever to burn itself out. As worrying as it might look, Nettie had said it was just the body's way of defending itself against infection.

The afternoon came and went and if anything, Morgan's condition worsened. He was only semi-conscious and was becoming quite delirious. She was feeling a lot hotter herself by now and in spite of her worries about Morgan, in the end she had to lay down herself. She desperately tried to stay alert, but she was fighting a losing battle, and within minutes she, too, slipped into delirium.

When Margaret eventually awoke, she was outside her bedroom door and her heart lurched to suddenly find herself standing there. Her first thought was for her husband and she spun round and went back to the bedroom to check that he was still alright. She expected to still feel groggy and unsteady on her feet, but she was quite clear headed and, if anything, she felt quite floaty. Thinking back to her childhood, she remembered this being one of the pleasant, at the time “magical”, effects of the friar's linctus.

“I'm sorry, Morgan, I must have fallen asleep”, she bleated, striding back into the room.

“Morgan?”

Her eyes flit around the room and she was puzzled to see that the bed was empty, though clearly dishevelled from recent and restless use, and her husband was nowhere to be seen. Surely he couldn't have recovered already? She could see through the closed curtains that it was light outside, but she had no way of knowing whether it was later in the afternoon that same day or the morning of the next.

Margaret turned around in the doorway and headed for the door, then clattered down the stairs.

“Morgan?” she called out, looking around the living room to find that it, too, was empty and the fire was out. She headed into the kitchen. Still no sign. And then, peering out through the kitchen window, Margaret noticed a perplexing thing. Only minutes before it had been light outside, and yet now it was dark.

Margaret went back to hallway, took down her coat from a peg, unbolted the front door and peered around the farm yard. The sky was cloudless and she could see the full moon shining down on the farm, though strangely she could not see a single star in the night sky.

“Morgan?” she called out and she waited for a time and called again, but there was no reply.

Feeling a chill wind in the air, Margaret went back inside and re-bolted the door, but no sooner had she done this than she heard a dull thumping on the front door. She called out down the hallway: “Who's there?”

There was no reply, though Margaret thought that she heard someone – or something – moaning.

Drawing in a deep breath, she again drew the bolts on the door and opened it a crack. “Who is it?” she called loudly. “Who's there? Come out and show yourself.”

Again she waited and again there was no reply, so at length and losing patience, with a parting “Suit yourself!”, Margaret slammed the door-to, bolted it and strode back through to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

Just as she was reaching for the kettle to fill it, Margaret thought she heard another sound, coming from the back door this time and she froze on the spot and strained to listen. Was it just the wind, or was it a moaning that she heard?

“Let me in,” a distant voice seemed to be calling. “Let me in.”

No, surely it must be her mind playing tricks on her. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove.

But there it was again. “Let me in. Peggy, let me in.”

Hearing that name startled her and she stiffened. Though she herself detested the name, it was a name that Morgan called her by. Everybody else called her Margaret.

“For pity's sake,” called the distant voice again. “Peggy, let me in.”

There could be no mistaking that voice, and yet still she was deeply afraid. Going through to the living room, she snatched up a fireside poker, then went back to the kitchen. Edging toward the door, she slowly drew the bolts, flung the door wide open and stepped back, ready for anything.

A chill wind blew in through the kitchen door, and she edged closer to the threshold and peered out into the night. But again there was nobody there, so she pulled herself together, hastily shut the door again and firmly bolted it.

She stepped back and turned toward the stove to see if the kettle had begun to boil. Suddenly catching sight of the shadowy figure standing in the doorway leading through to the living room, she screamed and nearly jumped out of her skin. The poker slipped from her grasp and clattered with a dull ring on the stone floor.

“Oh dear God, oh dear God,” she gasped, clutching her heaving chest. It was Morgan. “Morgan Bartholomew Giles, you gave me such a fright!”

When Morgan just stood there, not saying a word to her, with a pleading look in his eyes, she became anxious. “Morgan? Whatever is the matter with you?”

She went forward to shake her husband out of it, but he stepped back.

“Stay away from me!” he suddenly yelled at her, fear etched across his weather-worn features and his normally ruddy face looked pale and drained.

“Begone foul demon!” he yelled at her.

“Husband!” she yelled back, then with a more kindly tone. “You have to snap out of it. It's me, Margaret, your wife.”

As she took a step closer to him, Morgan edged still further away, feeling his way along the wall toward the door into the living room, without taking his eyes off her.

“It's just the fever, Morgan. Morgan?”

“What have you done with my wife?” Morgan demanded to know, lifting his foot as he came to the step up into the living room, and backing away.

She smiled and edged closer to him. “Morgan. It is me. Your wife. Peggy.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Margaret caught sight of a reflection in the mirror. She was suddenly swamped in a wave of adrenalin and her knees nearly buckled under her at the sight.

It was her reflection. At least it should have been her. And yet it was not. Where she should have been, looking back at herself, she saw a grotesque figure. The clothes were the same, but not the face and neck. In her place was a black, leathery skinned abomination.

Shaken to her core, Margaret turned back to Morgan, holding out her hands to signal that she was as nonplussed as he was, and only then did she see that her hands, too, were black and leathery.

Again she started and leapt back, banging up against the kitchen door. The force of the blow against her shoulder should have hurt, though such was the shock at what she saw that for a time she felt nothing other than fear.

Morgan, too, had been grotesquely changed, and was as yet oblivious of this fact.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” Morgan demanded. He lunged forward, his arms outstretched, catching hold of her by the throat. She tried to pull away but the grip of his spade-like hands was far too strong.

“Morgan? Morgan! Stop: you're strangling me!” she tried to yell out. All that came out was a hideous gurgling sound.

“Morgan!” she screamed out again. Bracing herself against him with her foot, she pushed herself away and went tumbling, then scrambled to her feet, ready to make a run for it.

“Peggy?” Morgan called to her. “What in heaven's name are you doing, woman?”

Only then did Margaret realize that she was standing in the bedroom and see that Morgan was sitting up in bed, with a look on his face that clearly showed that he had no idea what was going on. And he was as ruddy-cheeked as ever.

“Oh, oh,” she stammered. “I'm sorry, Morgan, I don't know what came over me.”

Morgan clambered out of bed and went around to stand by her. She drew in a series of slow, deep breaths and eventually calmed herself a little. For heaven's sake, Margaret Giles, pull yourself together, woman.

“You're better, then?” she enquired at length. She was a little calmer now, but her hands were still trembling. “Oh, thanks be. I'm so glad.”

Her husband smiled at her and nodded. “Well, I feel a bit of stiffness in my muscles, but yes, I'm clearly over the worst of it. How are you feeling?”

“A bit stiff, but my temperature's back to normal.”

“Were you badly, too? I'm sorry, Peggy, I was spark out. I should have been there for you.”

Margaret went forward and put her arms around her husband and gave him a big hug. “We're still in the land of the living, and that's all that matters, Morgan. Anyhow, I don't know about you but I'm famished.”

“Indeed, I have no idea what time of day it is, but how do you fancy a fry up?” he asked, making for the door.

“I'll make it.”

“No, no,” he insisted. “Seems like you've been through enough these last few hours. I'll make breakfast, then go and feed the stock.”

As they reached the hallway, Margaret noticed the time on the clock. “Good heavens, it's gone eleven o'clock.”

“Happen I'd better feed the stock before we eat,” he decided. “They'll be going frantic.”

Farmer Giles strode through the living room to retrieve his boots from the kitchen. He bent down stiffly to pull on the boots, cursing the dull ache in his muscles. Still, a few hours graft and he'd work off the remnants of the fever.

Margaret was puzzled. “Nettie said that she'd call in to see us this morning. And she said that Martin and the boys would come to feed the stock. I'd have thought they'd have been here a lot earlier.”

Farmer Giles shrugged. “Maybe they're sick, too, though I can't imagine the thing spreading so fast. Anyhow, you could always pop in to check on her when you next go down the shops.”

Giving his wife a quick peck on the cheek, Farmer Giles was off across the farmyard to see to the pigs, while Margaret pulled on her own gum boots to muck out and feed the hens and the horses. So it looked like they would not only go without breakfast, they'd be having a late lunch.

5. A gift for evensong

On Wednesday, just as she was about to go out shopping, there was a knock on the front door. Margaret went to answer the call to find Nettie Bagshaw standing there.

“Nettie, how good to see you. Do come in,” she smiled, stepping to one side and beckoning the woman into the hall. “Go through to the living room.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Margaret, I'm afraid I let you down badly,” Nettie confessed.

“Nonsense, Nettie. Here, sit yourself down and I'll brew a pot of tea.”

“Not for me, thank you. I have to get down to the shops.”

“Well in that case, hang on and I'll just get my coat and we can walk down to the village together. I need to get some shopping in, too”

“Right oh.”

Margaret went to retrieve her coat and basket and they headed outside.

“Well, I'm more than glad to see that you're up and about again. I'm afraid Martin and the boys were taken badly themselves, and I had my hands full.”

“Oh I'm sorry, Nettie.”

“It didn't last long. They went down with the bug around teatime on Monday and were pretty much over it by the morning. But I tell you, it was fierce and fiery while it lasted.”

“Same here,” Margaret nodded, closing the garden gate behind her and striding out to keep up with Nettie as they headed off down the farm track toward the lane.

“Touch wood, I seem to have escaped unscathed, Margaret. It must be my constitution, because I haven't had so much as a cold in years.

“And I really must thank you again for the elderberry wine. Martin is something of an epicure and he was most impressed,” Nettie said, slackening her pace, seeing that Margaret was having a job keeping up.

“Sorry, I keep forgetting I have longer legs than you,” the woman laughed. “If I walk too fast for you, you should tell me. I won't take offence.”

As they approached the tiny chapel on their way to the village high street, Margaret paused. “If you'll excuse me for just a moment, Nettie, I have a gift to leave with the pastor.”

She nodded to the bottle of elderberry wine in her basket, then opened the rusty iron gate, walked up to the chapel and went inside. As ever the door was open. Nobody would think of locking their doors, even when they went out, and there had not been one burglary in Merriedene in all the years she'd lived at the village. As her hubby would say, if you'll pardon the language: “Birds don't shit in their own nest.” Hmm, on second thoughts, perhaps that wasn't quite the analogy she was looking for? Merriedene was a tight-knit community and folk were altogether too good natured.

“That for Thursday's evensong?” asked Nettie as she returned.

“Well, that's the plan, Nettie, if Pastor Kent can avoid temptation.” The pastor was a man who was fond of his tipple.

“It'll make a welcome change from the bilge water they usually offer, Margaret. I'm sure they must water it down.”

Rumour had it that the pastor helped himself before the service, to give him courage, then topped up the bottle at the tap.

“Was the pastor there?” Nettie asked as Margaret returned.

“No, most likely he's out on his rounds, Nettie. So I left the gift anonymously. They say that there's more merit in that.”

6. Pastor Kent

Come Thursday morning, when Missus Dougal called at the pastor's little thatched cottage behind the chapel to set about the cleaning, she found a note pinned to the door. It was addressed to her.

“Dear Bridey, feeling under the weather today. Best stay away until Monday, as I fear it's catching. Please ask Maud Heppinstall if she'd take evensong. If it's not convenient for her, cancel the service instead and leave a message on the chapel noticeboard by the gate, to that effect. Your friend in God, Pastor Norris Kent.”

Had it been up to her, Bridey would have gone in to see to Pastor Kent. However, the pastor had suggested otherwise and she felt it prudent to heed his advice. Though Pastor Kent was not the demanding type, it went without saying, given his lofty station, that his wishes should be honoured. So instead she headed back to the village to have a word with Maud Heppinstall. Maud had a good head on her shoulders and would know what to do.

As it happened, Bridey didn't have to walk far. As she strode down Merriedene high street, she saw Maud Heppinstall emerging from the baker's. It was her job to sort out sandwiches for the supper at the end of evensong.

“Alright, alright, Bridey,” insisted Maud Heppinstall, putting down her basket and holding up her hands almost as soon as she'd opened her mouth. “Now take deep breaths, calm yourself down, then tell me again.”

“You say Pastor Kent is 'feeling under the weather'?” queried Maud.

“That's what the note said,” she nodded.

Maud Heppinstall raised her eyebrows.

“And have you seen for yourself?”

“Well, no, Maud. The note said to stay away, in case it was catching.”

Maud said nothing, but the intent look on her face said it all. She stooped down and picked up her basket. Then, taking hold of Bridey's arm, the woman set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the chapel with her in tow.

Bridey obediently closed the rusty iron gate behind them and followed Maud around the side of the chapel in the direction of the pastor's cottage.

“Thank you, Bridey, I'll see to Pastor Kent. If you could make a start on readying the chapel for evensong, I'll join you later.”

Bridey knew better than to openly question Maud Heppinstall, a woman who was seldom backward in coming forward, as the saying goes, and she turned on her heel and headed back to the chapel, muttering to herself under her breath.

~~~O~~~

Maud strode up to the front door of the cottage, walked straight in and had a quick look round downstairs. She was not in the least surprised to find three empty bottles and a half empty glass by the fireside. And a newly opened bottle of wine. Well, that would do nicely for evensong. Three bottles was rather tame by Pastor Kent's usual standards. Picking these up, she took them through to the kitchen, to find the stone sink piled up with dirty pot and pans. Well, Bridey would have to sort out that mess when she'd finished at the chapel.

“Norris, are you up there?” she bellowed, standing at the foot of the stairs with her hands on her hips.

There was no reply.

“Norris!” she shouted. She waited for a moment, then losing patience with the man, she took to the stairs to see for herself.

Standing in the doorway of the pastor's bedroom, she could see instantly by the lump in the bedclothes that he was still in bed.

“What on earth is going on, Norris?” she wanted to know. “And what are you doing with all those blankets on the bed?”

She tried to pull back the blankets, but the pastor had tight hold of them. “Don't do that,” he groaned.

“Well, at least pull them off your face, unless you want to suffocate yourself,” she insisted.

“I'm cold,” the man protested.

Going over to stand by the bedside, she peered down at him, then leant forward to feel his brow.

“Cold, indeed. Why, you're sweating like a pig in there, Norris.”

“I'm cold, I tell you, Maud,” the pastor insisted, pulling the blankets back up to his chin.

“I could climb in beside you and keep you warm, Norris,” she smiled, lifting the hem of her skirt and flashing her stocking top.

The man merely groaned and turned away.

“That's most unlike you, Norris. You are in a bad way,” she sighed and thought for a moment. “Listen, I'm just going to pop round to Nettie Bagshaw's to see what she recommends.”

She was going to give Norris a quick peck on the cheek, but thought better of it.

“Anyhow, Norris Kent, you stay there and I'll see you soon.”

“Look like I'm going anywhere?” returned Norris grumpily. He must have caught the sharp note on his tongue and hastily added. “Sorry.”

Turning on her heel, and biding her own tongue, Maud swept out of the room and hurried downstairs. Dropping in for a moment to brief Bridey and deliver her orders, she headed down the road toward Missus Bagshaw's as fast as her legs would take her.

Elsie Cooper crossed the road when she saw Maud coming, but she didn't slacken her pace. “You're in a hurry, Missus Heppinstall.”

“Not now, Elsie.”

“I was just going to ask ...”

“Not now, I say. Errand of mercy,” she returned, brushing the woman aside and continuing on her way.

~~~O~~~

“Another one?” Nettie enquired, answering the door to a rather rosy-cheeked Maud Heppinstall. “Come in, Maud. Sit yourself down and catch your breath. I've just brewed a pot of tea, if you'll join me?”

“Just what the doctor ordered,” the woman nodded, flopping down in an easy chair by the fireside.

“So, who is it this time?” she asked, pouring out the tea and handing it to Maud. “Help yourself to sugar.”

“Pastor Kent is in bed, running a temperature, Nettie, so I've come to pick your brains.”

“Do have a biscuit, Maud,” she said, offering the tin. “Yes, there seems to be a bug going about. Brings on a fever, but it's pretty short lived.

“Touch wood,” she added hastily, tapping her fingers on the mantelshelf over the fireplace.

Maud frowned. She was not the superstitious type, well unless you counted religion itself as superstition. “Touching wood is nonsense and you know it, Nettie Bagshaw.”

That reminded Nettie of an old joke her father had once told her:

A local newspaper reporter was interviewing Uncle Harry. It was his hundredth birthday and the local paper wanted to write a piece about the centenarian. The man noticed that Uncle Harry had a rabbit's foot on a silver chain around his neck.

“Surely, a man of your experience cannot believe in such primitive superstition?”

“Certainly not,” replied Uncle Harry. “But my wife tells me it is supposed to bring you luck whether you believe in it or not.”

“So what do you suggest?” asked Maud, breaking her reverie.

“Sorry? I was miles away.”

“I asked what do you suggest.”

“Ah. Nothing much you can do, Maud, except sit it out and keep his head cool with wet flannels,” she told Maud. “Though I've made up a good batch of friar's linctus. That will reduce the fever a little.”

She went through to the kitchen, took up a large bottle and poured in some of the red liquid with the aid of a small funnel, then put a stopper in the bottle and went back to the living room.

“Here you are, Maud,” she smiled, handing over the bottle. “One teaspoon every hour during the day and two spoons half way through the night, until the fever's burnt itself out.”

“That's rather a large bottle, isn't it?” Maud queried. “We're treating a man, not a blessèd horse.”

“If you're taking care of the pastor, you may find yourself in need,” she pointed out. “Try to keep your distance.”

“Can I repay you, Nettie?” the woman asked her, fishing in her shopping basket for her purse.

“No, no. Put your money away, Maud. Consider it a donation to the chapel.”

Maud didn't need a second telling. The woman put down her cup and got to her feet. Nettie rose, too. “Well, thank you indeed, Nettie. And now, if you'll forgive me, I must press on.”

“You're welcome, Maud,” she smiled, leading the way to the door and opening it.

“Keep the faith,” Nettie nodded, though quite why she should utter such a phrase, she didn't know.

Maud merely raised her eyebrows, bade her goodbye and walked away down the garden path.

Keep the faith, indeed, Nettie mused. She'd lived in Merriedene for over thirty years and hadn't once set foot inside the chapel. Not that she was an atheist – far from it; she worked for what folk might term “a lesser god” and had no time for the latter day usurper. Fortunately for her and her kind, the days of the witch burnings were long past and largely forgotten – at least by those whose families had not suffered so terribly at the hands of the Inquisitors.

7. Welcome

As Katharine and Roland Dawkins finally reached the village, they dismounted and walked the sweating horses down the high street. She and Roland had been hoping to reach Bay Nor before nightfall, but it was already coming in dark and there was no way they could go on. They'd been riding for most of the day and though they were stiff themselves, their horses were really tired and in more need than she and Roland were.

Merriedene was a pretty enough village set in wonderful, lush, wooded countryside. However, their minds were set on finding a place where they could rest for the night and fill their grumbling, empty stomachs.

As they walked on, a woman was walking up the road in their direction and Katharine took the opportunity to ask for directions.

“Hello there,” she smiled.

“Greetings,” the woman returned, though a little frostily and anticipated Katharine's question. “You'll be looking for the inn, I suppose.”

It was a statement, not a question.

Katharine nodded.

“Cat and Fiddle, just down the road on the right,” the woman informed them, stopping momentarily before going about her business.

“Thank you,” Katharine called after her, though if the woman heard her, she didn't acknowledge it.

They found the inn easily enough. Set back slightly from the road, it was a stout building made of large granite blocks, looking a bit like a castle with its twin towers and mock crenelations.

They tied up the horses on the hitching post outside the inn and, ever the gallant gentleman, Roland held the studded oak door open for her.

“Thank you, Roland. I can manage on my own, thank you very much.”

“Suit yourself,” Roland returned with a shrug of his shoulders. He let go of the door and, apparently on some kind of spring mechanism, it began to close in her face.

With an effort, she managed to push the heavy door open and squeeze through inside before it firmly closed behind her.

“Well, don't say I didn't offer, Katharine,” Roland said.

“Okay, okay, Roland. You were right, I was wrong. That what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes, squire, what can I get you?” asked the landlord as they walked up to the bar, addressing Roland.

As they walked in, the hubbub of conversation amongst the locals died down and it seemed as if all eyes were on the new arrivals.

“We'd like two rooms for the night, please,” Katharine requested. “And do you have stables for our horses?”

“Certainly,” the man nodded.

“Amos?” he called through into a back room.

Moments later, a youth appeared. “Yes, pa?”

“See to the horses, would you?”

The lad complied, but did not appear too thrilled at the imposition.

They ordered food and went to sit themselves at a little table not far from the fireside. By now their presence had been noted and the locals had gone back to their dominoes and resumed their conversations.

Shortly afterwards, the landlady appeared, bringing the tea that they had ordered and two small glasses. “An appetiser,” the lady told them. “Compliments of the house.”

Katharine thanked the landlady. Though thinking it a little presumptuous of the woman, it was a thoughtful enough gesture and she accepted with grace.

Roland took a sniff, then a sip and rolled the drink round his mouth. “Hmm, you know, that's not half bad.”

“What is it?” Katharine asked, taking a sip of her own drink.

“Well, it's wine of some sort,” he told her. “Not grape wine, though. More like berries, I would say. Certainly leaves a warm afterglow, whatever it is.”

“Pardon the intrusion,” spoke up an elderly gent who was sitting at the next table. “That's Margaret Giles' elderberry wine.”

“Aye, that'll put hairs on your chest,” chipped-in another. “Legendary around these parts, it is.”

Not that Katharine really wanted hair growing on her chest, of course. Still, they thanked the man and his companion.

After their meal, she and Roland had a nightcap, asking the landlord if they might have another glass of the fabled elderberry wine, and they chatted by the fireside for a time. She kept nodding off as Roland was speaking, no doubt due to a combination of the long journey, the warm log fire, the filling meal and the elderberry wine. So, feeling bed beckoning, she took Roland's advice and turned in early.

“Sheesh, is it just me, or is it warm in here?” she asked, wiping her brow as she reached her room.

“It's been a tiring day,” Roland replied, partly in agreement and partly in explanation. He gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek, which was a first for him, wished her goodnight and staggered off to his own room at the end of the corridor.

That second glass of wine had just about finished her off, as well. Too tired to even care about getting undressed, and her head swimming by now, Katharine flopped down on the bed and was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

When she and Roland failed to turn up for breakfast the next morning, the landlady went up to seek them out. Seeing that they'd been taken badly, she sent her son hoofing it round to Nettie Bagshaw's, but by that time Katharine was running a fever and she was too out of it to take in what was happening to her.

8. On the mend

Katharine eventually began to come round, content to lay there, wherever “there” was, thinking herself still tucked up in bed in that warm, welcome realm between dreaming and waking, and without a concern in the world.

Feeling something bite into her, she flinched and reflexively went to brush her arm with her hand. But something clasped hold of her hand and prevented her. In that instant, her heart lurched, her eyes flashed wide open and her mind went into panic mode, desperately trying to find her bearings and make sense of what was happening to her.

“It's alright, my love,” smiled a woman standing over her. She was dressed in white, in a uniform of some sort, and she had one of those tiny and useless, starched linen hats that nurses wore.

“What are you doing to me?” Katharine demanded to know, as the nurse removed the needle from her arm and pressed a wad of cotton wool against her skin so that her skin wouldn't bruise.

“You've had a bit of shock, my love,” the woman told her. “Don't worry, I was just giving you something to make you more comfortable.”

Katharine looked around her. She was in bed in a small grey and green painted room. Other than the bed and a small bedside cabinet, her and the nurse, the room was quite bare.

The nurse reached out to a small silver bowl on the bedside cabinet, found a thermometer, shook it and reached toward Katharine. “Just pop that under your tongue for a few moments,” she requested.

“Where am I?” Katharine wanted to know, though it was difficult to articulate the words with the thermometer under her tongue.

“You were running a high fever, but you're in safe hands now, my love,” the nurse explained. “The doctor will see you later and all will be explained in due course.”

Katharine recalled being at the inn, now, and dimly remembered feeling woozy, but she had no idea she'd been taken badly.

“Where's Roland?” she wanted to know. “I was with a friend, Roland Dawkins.”

“I don't know, I've only just come on shift, but I'll ask Sister for you,” the nurse replied with a shake of her head as she retrieved the thermometer and held it up to the light.

“I'm feeling very thirsty,” Katharine told her.

“Well, you're still running a bit of a temperature, but you seem to be over the worst now. I'll bring you some water in a few moments, my love. Now settle back down in bed.”

A few moments later, another lady entered the room. “Hello there,” the lady smiled. “I'm Joyce, one of the clerks here. I just need to take a few details for our records, if you feel up to answering a few short questions. No, don't get up. You just lay there.”

Oh, for heaven's sake, woman, go away and leave me alone.

The woman clicked her pen and began to write on her clipboard. She wanted to know things like Katharine's name, age, address and any significant medical history. Occupation stumped Katharine for a moment, until the term “cultural ambassador” popped into her head. Only afterwards did she wonder whether that had come across as a little too grandiose.

“Thank you, Miss Marsh. Or would you prefer us to call you Katharine?”

“Katharine's fine by me,” she nodded wearily.

Again, the clerk made a note on her clipboard.

“Well, you just stay there and relax, Katharine. I'm sure one of the doctors will be along to see you later this morning. And once the doctor has given the okay, you'll most likely be allowed some breakfast.”

The clerk was about to leave, but Katharine still had questions. “Do you know where my friend is? His name is Roland Dawkins.”

“I'll see what I can find out, Katharine. Now do try to relax,” the clerk promised, and she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Try to relax? Katharine pondered, raising a smile. Surely, you either allowed oneself to relax or not. Any effort would only prove counter-productive.

~~~O~~~

Katharine must have dozed off again after the clerk left, and the next thing she knew, the doctor was there, doing her rounds.

“Good morning to you, Katharine,” the woman lilted, striding across the room to stand by the bed. She took up a clipboard hanging at the foot of the bed and studied it for a few moments, then came round to stand beside Katharine.

Katharine held out her hand, but the doctor did not return the gesture. “Excuse the slight, but best not,” she explained. “We don't want to pass on any bugs.”

The doctor poked and peered at her and asked a few questions, and finally concluded: “Well, I'm glad to say that you're well on the mend, Katharine. The stiffness you report should disappear of its own accord once you're up and about.”

“That's it?”

“Indeed, that's it.”

“So when may I leave?”

The doctor stroked her chin. “As far as I'm concerned, you can leave as soon as you like.”

“Oh good, thank you,” she enthused. “Will you prescribe any medicine?”

“No, I don't think there's any need, Katharine. Seems like you've shaken off the bug by your own devices. Just to be on the safe side, I'd recommend you don't get too close to others for the next couple of days until the wretched bug is completely out of your system.”

“Will do.”

“Anyhow, I gather you've had nothing to eat since you came in, so if you could go some breakfast, I'll have a nurse see what cook can rustle up.”

Katharine nodded. “Yes, I'd like that, thank you.”

“Meanwhile, if you could get dressed that would help enormously, as we're desperately short of beds this week. You can have your breakfast at the table in the main ward. Through the door and to your left.”

“Right-oh.”

“Good, good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must dash. We've had quite an influx these last few days and I'm running behind.” And, so saying, the doctor spun on her heel and was gone.

Only then did Katharine realize that she'd neglected to ask after Roland, and she chided herself for the lapse.

9. Under orders

Farmer Giles bent down to fill his buckets at the pond when he happened to notice a bright object in the water out of the corner of his eye. Waiting for the ripples to settle, he peered down into the water. Yes, there it was: a rock-like object about the size of a child's ball, though slightly elongated rather than perfectly spherical.

Taking off his gum boots and socks and rolling up his trouser legs, Farmer Giles waded into the water and stooped down to fish the object from the water. It was indeed a rock and a lot heavier than he'd expected. As he brought the object out, he could see that it was not merely white as he had initially thought, but actually seemed to be glowing a bright, blue tinted white, and it felt slightly warm to the touch. And another thing he noticed, though he didn't have the words to describe it: the rock was not one whole uniform shape, it appeared to be made up of smaller pieces with flat faces, all stuck together somehow.

What use the rock might serve, if any, Farmer Giles did not know, though it would certainly make a talking point down at the Cat and Fiddle. Pastor Kent was an educated man, and Nettie Bagshaw was a wise old bird, so perhaps they would know what manner of thing this was?

When Pastor Kent first heard Farmer Giles' tale, which had become more and more embellished and macabre as word spread through the village, his initial reaction was to clutch hold of his holy book, with a fearful expression on his face, as if to say “Get thee behind me, Satan!”

“Aye! Spewed from the very bowels of hell, Pastor,” Ulric Farley told him anxiously. “And lord help those who touch the abomination. Forever cursed they be. They say even a look is enough for the Devil himself to steal a man's mind.”

“Fear not, Ulric,” Pastor Kent reassured the man. He pulled on his coat and, armed with the good book and a phial of consecrated water, he set out for the farm.

He stood there in Farmer Giles' kitchen, quaking in his boots as the farmer slowly drew back the tea towel to reveal the object. As had been said, it did glow brightly of its own accord, and it had a rocky, faceted, crystalline structure.

And yet despite the many tales he'd heard of this abomination, when he set eyes on the object, he did not feel any evil emanating from it but rather a welcoming aura. And, plucking up courage and touching his hands to it, he could feel its warmth.

“This is not something spewed from the fiery pits of hell,” he declared at last. “No, no. This is a sign from God. Heavens be praised, the good Lord has sent us a precious gift to prove his love for us. This will assuredly protect us from the sickness running rampant in the village.”

Taking the object in his hands, he held it up and marvelled, pressing his lips to the warm rock. And in that instant, the good Lord made his pleasure known to Pastor Kent and he knew what he must do.

He took charge of the rock and walked back down to the village to seek out Gilbert Trotter, who was a jeweller by trade and sold his wares in the nearby towns.

“Gilbert,” he instructed the man. “As you can see, this heaven-sent rock has a crystalline structure like that of a precious gem. And what I want you to do is use it to craft necklaces, each with a gemstone. Give me half that I might distribute to my flock at evensong, and you may have the other half to sell as you may, as payment for your efforts.”

Gilbert took the clustered gemstone from Pastor Kent and stood there marvelling at its beauty for a time. Then he turned back to the pastor.

“It will be a pleasure, Pastor Kent,” he enthused.

“Thank you, Gilbert. I'll leave the gift in your safe hands and bid you good day.”

He touched the brim of his hat respectfully and turned to leave. “Keep the faith.”

“And you, Pastor,” the man returned, before fetching out a magnifying glass to study the precious object more closely. The jeweller was clearly as enthralled by the divine gift as he was.

10. New admissions

As Katharine was polishing off her breakfast, one of the ancillary staff brought her a welcome cup of tea.

“There you are, Katharine. By the way, Sister would like a word in her office.”

“Thanks.” Katharine took a gulp of tea. Finally, she might find out where the hell Roland had got to.

“No rush, ducks. Whenever you're ready.”

To be honest, the sooner Katharine was out of there, the better. She couldn't abide hospitals at the best of times, and some of the folk in the ward were in a pitiful state. Having spent many weeks in hospital and convalescing with suspected consumption when she was a young girl, and later seen the decline in her own mother's health over the years, the thought of old age and illness greatly worried her. “There, but for the grace of God, go I,” as the saying went.

Sister dutifully consulted her records when Katharine asked about Roland's whereabouts. The woman turned back to her and removed her reading glasses.

“I'm sorry, Katharine, but we have not had a Roland Dawkins through our doors. Nor anyone matching his description. Perhaps he was not taken ill?”

“But I can't understand it. If he was ill he'd be here. And if he was well, then surely he would have accompanied me here, or at least visited me?”

“I appreciate your concerns, Katharine, and I'm sorry to have to say this, but there really is nothing I can do. Anyhow, I'm sure that your friend will turn up in due course – I mean, there must be a perfectly plausible explanation – and you'll be able to put this behind you.”

Sister shrugged her shoulders apologetically, replaced her reading glasses and went back to the paperwork. Finally she took out a brown manilla folder, slotted several papers inside, having taken carbon duplicates, presumably for her own records, and passed the folder to Katharine.

“What's this for?” she asked.

“For the clerk,” the woman answered Katharine, peering over the top of her spectacles.

“And how do I get back to Merriedene? Is it far?”

“The clerk will see to your needs, Katharine. Good day to you. And keep the faith.” Sister gestured toward the door and went back to her papers. “Turn left and along the corridor to the end. Just keep following the yellow markings until you come to 'New Admissions.'”

“Mister Crookshank, Mister Crookshank? Ah, there you are. Don't dither on the threshold, I won't bite. You may come in now.”

Katharine did as she was told, turning left outside Sister's office, then along the corridor to the end. She hesitated at the end, since that was where the clerk sat at reception, wondering if this was where she was meant to leave her records. However, seeing Katharine standing there and looking uncertain, the cheery-faced clerk redirected her.

“You want 'New Admissions', madam. Take the corridor to the left and just keep following the yellow lines on the floors and walls. You can't miss it.”

Oh well, admissions, departures – it was no skin off her nose, so who was she to argue?

Katharine followed the yellow lines all the way down the grey and green corridor until the lines abruptly stopped, in the main entrance to the wards. A sign on the wall at the end of the yellow line pointed ahead through the doors and she went out, down a short flight of limestone steps and looked around the square. Presumably she was being directed toward the buildings opposite, so she crossed the square.

Ahead of her, Katharine could see a large number of people, standing in a long queue outside an entrance and as she went closer she could see an appropriately coloured yellow sign above the doors which read “New Admissions.” She walked on to the head of the queue, to check for herself whether the people there were waiting for something else, only to discover that they were, indeed, waiting there to be processed. So, she obediently rejoined the rear of the queue. Five minutes would pass by and those assembled would shuffled forward a few paces, since they appeared to be let in groups, and then they'd wait. Again they would shuffle forward, like convicts in a chain gang, and again they would wait.

An hour later, and rapidly losing patience, it was Katharine's turn to go inside, and she confidently strode forward, eager to hand in her records and be off.

An orderly inside in a neat white tunic and grey trousers held out his hand for the brown manilla folder and noted the details on the front cover. “Half way down the corridor, madam. You'll find seats outside room 17, if you'd like to wait there until you're called.”

She did indeed find the room and the seats outside, only to be even more vexed, finding another dozen folk ahead of her, each waiting to be seen in room 17.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she grumbled. “I desperately need to spend a penny.”

An elderly gentleman beside her looked up and smiled. “Go ahead, honey, I'll save your place for you.”

She thanked the gent and headed back up the corridor where she seemed to recall seeing a loo.

True to his word, the seat was still there when she returned. Okay, so sometimes men's gallantry did have a place. Had it been her, she'd have been too shy to defend a vacant seat and if confronted, she'd have let it go. And the man's good-natured conversation helped to distract her and take the edge off the long wait. Finally, after shuffling down the line from chair to chair, and after wishing the old man well, it was her turn to enter room 17.

An orderly took her notes and held the door open for her as she entered, and the door closed firmly behind her. Only then did she register the disquieting fact that though people were entering room 17, nobody was coming back out.

“Take a seat,” requested the rather portly woman behind a desk at the back of the room.

“Now, who do we have here?” she enquired and Katharine began to reply, but the woman's focus was on the name written on the manilla folder. She didn't even have the courtesy to introduce herself.

“Ah yes, Miss Katharine Marsh,” she noted, having a quick flick through the notes before turning her attention to the flat screen computer monitor just to Katharine's left. The woman tapped away at the keyboard for some time, but what she was typing Katharine could not tell, as the monitor was turned away from her.

Still looking at the screen, the woman asked her one question after another, clicking her mouse every now and again and tapping away at the keys, until Katharine had had enough.

“Hey listen, what the hell have these questions got to do with my medical records? My sexual preferences are none of your goddamn business, lady. Now, either you're straight with me and tell me what this is all about, or I'm walking out of here.”

The woman ignored her and moved onto the next question in her unseen list. “And the red hair, is that natural or dyed?”

Exasperated, Katharine rose to her feet, pushed her seat aside and headed for the door. She turned the handle and pulled, but the door refused to open.

“Will you let me out of here?” she demanded, turning to face the woman.

“There is only one way out of here, Miss Marsh, and only when you have answered the questions to my satisfaction.”

As the woman spoke, the orderly came closer. He had a white object in his hand that looked like a small nail gun and Katharine yelped as he pressed the object against her arm.

“Youch, that stung!” she complained. “What the fuck was that?”

“Just a little something to calm you down,” the woman explained as the orderly firmly guided Katharine back to her seat. “The sooner you answer the questions, the sooner you'll be out of here and the happier we will all be, Miss Marsh. And rest assured that you will answer the questions, one way or another. The only optional element is whether you wish to do this the easy way or the hard way and whether you unnecessarily suffer or not as a consequence. Now, shall I enter 'uncooperative and belligerent' on your records or will you help me here?”

“I need to make a phone call,” Katharine suddenly decided, motioning to the telephone on the woman's desk. Tenzing had given her a number to call in the event of an emergency.

“Miss Marsh, I must inform you that you are currently borderline, and it is in your best interests to cooperate with the authorities, unless ….”

“What do you mean borderline? As I said, Missus Whoever-You-Think-You-Are, I need to call my boss. He'll have this mess sorted out in a jiffy.”

“That's out of the question.”

“Out of the question? Even criminals get one phone call.”

“That may be the way they handle things where you come from, Miss Marsh, but not here. I repeat, it is in your best interests to cooperate, unless ...”

“What do you mean borderline? And unless what? You're not making any sense, lady.”

“Miss Marsh, you are borderline. What that means is that you could be going up, or you may be going back down, but right now you're stuck in the elevator, as it were, and I'm the one to make the decision.”

“Let me speak to a supervisor,” Katharine insisted.

“I am a supervisor.”

“Then let me speak to whoever is in charge of you.”

The woman turned away, tapped a few words into the keyboard and clicked the mouse to get a hard copy. “It's been decided,” she said at length. “Until such time as you are deemed fit, your status will remain 'borderline' and you will be held here in the transit camp.”

Slipping the printout into the manilla folder and passing the records to the orderly, the woman thanked Katharine and gestured to a second door to the side of her desk. The orderly took firm hold of Katharine's arm as the door opened, and guided her out of the office.

“Peter? Take Miss um … Marsh to transit would you?” he requested of a colleague in the room beyond. Handing over the notes, the orderly returned to the consultation room.

“This way, please,” said the second orderly. He had a quick flick through the notes. “And my advice to you, if you ever want to get out of here is to be more cooperative.”

Ever? That nuance did not pass Katharine by unnoticed.

“For heaven's sake, all I did was ask to call my boss to try to sort things out. And all I want to know is what the hell is going on!”

“Are you hearing me, Miss Marsh? I'm unaccustomed to having to repeat myself. If you give us any shit, then rest assured that we can make your life here most uncomfortable.”

The orderly stopped outside a door, tapped a few digits into a pad to open the door and thrust Katharine inside the tiny white room. Other than a stained mattress on the floor, a toilet with neither seat nor chain, a lot of manic black scribbling on the white walls, and bright, concealed lighting in the ceiling, the room was bare.

“Hey, what's this?” Katharine wanted to know.

“This is solitary.”

“What for?”

“To give you time to cool down; ensure that you come to appreciate who's boss around here, and take heed of the need for cooperation,” the orderly told her as the door slammed shut behind her.

~~~O~~~

When Katharine had calmed herself down, came the questions. And when she'd worn out her questions for lack of plausible answers, the tedium set in, broken only for a few brief minutes when somebody brought her a bowl of soup and bread and butter for lunch. At least she thought it might be lunch, as she'd already begun to lose track of time. And finally, when she could abide the boredom no more, she flopped down on the bare mattress in the cell and shut her eyes, hoping that sleep would soon envelop her in its warm, soothing and homely bosom.

Katharine awoke with a start, as if she'd suddenly been snapped back into her body on the end of a length of stretched elastic.

“Yah!” she yelped involuntarily.

“You alright, Katharine?” asked a familiar voice close by. It was Roland. She rubbed her eyes to bring them back into focus and looked around her, to find herself sitting in the Cat and Fiddle at the same table where they'd eaten their meal the previous night. She felt distinctly uncomfortable, as all eyes seemed to be on her, but after a few moments the locals went back to their darts and dominoes.

“You alright, Katharine?” Roland repeated.

What could she say?

“Yes, I mean 'yes, I think so'. I'm sorry, must have dozed off.”

“We've had a long journey,” Roland replied in a sombre tone. “Perhaps you'd like to turn in early?”

Not until she had some answers.

“No, I'm okay, Roland.”

Roland gestured toward her empty glass.

“How's about another glass? That elderberry wine seems to have gone down a treat.”

Something deep inside of her was screaming out “No, no, no!”

“Actually, I'd prefer something a little stronger.”

“How's about a malt?”

Katharine grimaced. “Can't abide the stuff.”

She thought for a moment. “I'll have a brandy and dry ginger, thanks.”

“Large or small?”

“Best make it a double.”

Roland pushed himself up from his seat, collected their empties and headed wearily toward the bar.

“Oh, and just bring the ginger ale in a bottle. I'll top it up myself.”

“Right you are,” he replied, though with an uncharacteristically lack of enthusiasm. She put it down to tiredness. It had indeed been a long day.

“And no ice, thanks.”

“Yes ma'am,” Roland retorted, turning toward her with his eyebrows raised.

“And will there be anything else while I'm about it, ma'am?” he wanted to know as he returned to the table.

“Hey, hey, there's no need for that, Roland. It wasn't a lot to ask. Did you get out of bed on the wrong side or something?”

Although Katharine was a little vexed, she couldn't help but smile, remembering how her dear mother would ask her that question. Of course Mother may have simply been aware of the surface meaning, the wrong side of bed, but perhaps “the wrong side” alluded to some deeper, forgotten mode of being on some “other side”?

Roland began to say more, but she nipped it in the bud.

“I'm sorry, Roland, that was uncalled for. Friends?”

“Friends,” he replied, though again it seemed to be an effort for him to raise a smile, adding: “Though if you'll forgive my saying so, Katharine, you're not exactly a barrel of laughs yourself.”

Looking around her at the locals, you could say the same for any one of those gathered there at the inn that evening. It was as if there was something impalpable, perhaps a little oppressive in the air, or in the water.

Seeing the regulars glancing at the clock above the bar and rising from their seats, Katharine asked Roland if there was something special going on. It was only ten to eight and the inn would surely be open until ten thirty or eleven. Going to top up their glasses at the bar, Roland had a word with the landlord.

“They're off to evensong,” Roland reliably informed her on his return.

“Well …”

“Well what?” he enquired.

“Well, it would pass the time,” she suggested. “And the walk to chapel would blow away the cobwebs.”

Roland downed his drink in one gulp and stood hovering over the table.

Katharine poured in the rest of the dry ginger and downed half of her own, before making her excuses and going to powder her nose.

When she returned, Roland was still hovering. He consulted his pocket watch. “Shift your derrière,” he advised. “We don't want to arrive there late.” So, forced to leave the rest of her drink, and a little annoyed by the haste, Katharine hurried after Roland and out of the front door.

As they followed the locals up the road toward the chapel, they saw a woman heading in their direction and she made a point of stopping to greet them as they approached.

“Hello there, I'm Nettie Bagshaw,” the woman smiled, and they exchanged polite handshakes.

“I haven't seen you around these parts,” she observed.

Roland touched the peak of his cap. “Katharine Marsh and Roland Dawkins. We're just passing through Merriedene on the way to Poldyke,” he explained. Poldyke was the capital, and that's where they aimed to set up base camp.

“Well, the best of luck to you,” the woman replied. “I'm afraid that I personally can't abide cities, though they say that for city folk you won't find any more welcoming.”

“I'd ask you to walk with us to evensong,” Roland said, “but I see you're heading the other way ...”

The woman shook her head vigorously. “To put it politely, chapel is not my cup of tea at all,” she told them. “But each to her own. Anyhow, time's passing, so don't let me hold up you two lovebirds. Good to meet you; perhaps we'll meet again?”

Lovebirds, indeed! That would be a first.

“Alas, I wouldn't think so, Missus Bagshort,” replied Roland.

“Bagshaw,” the woman corrected him. “Nettie to my friends.”

“As I was saying: we'll be off first thing. But it was good to meet you, too.”

The woman turned to walk on. “That's what I said when I first came here. And that was over thirty years ago.”

Katharine had a sudden thought and called after her. “Nettie? If you have a few minutes free, why don't you join us at the Cat and Fiddle after the service?”

“Why, thank you, yes I'd like that Katharine. Though I should warn you that I don't drink. As it happens my husband and sons are away for the week, so I could do with the company.”

“Good, I look forward to seeing you there,” she called back, then turned to chase after Roland who was already some way up the road. “Roland Dawkins. You know, you can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.”

By the time Roland had found the song in their shared hymn book, the others had risen to their feet and were well into the first verse, and in the end Katharine dispensed with the words altogether and simply smiled and hummed and made appropriate looking mouth movements, while for his part, Roland merely stood there and squirmed with embarrassment, occasionally flashing his eyes at her as if to say, “Don't you ever, ever put me in an awkward position like this again.”

At least being evensong, they didn't have to endure any lengthy sermons about man's iniquity and the fiery pits of hell that awaited the hapless sinner, though the clergyman taking the service did find room for a few words between each song. It had to be admitted that he'd given some thought to developing a coherent and suitably uplifting theme to the evening's proceedings, rather than picking out songs at random.

Poor old Roland looked fit to burst at times, especially when it came to the more strident songs calling men to arms to fight the good fight, which seemed so anachronistic in these more enlightened times. She moved closer, took Roland's arm and whispered in his ear. “The secret is not to analyze and judge and think you know better, Roland, but to simply let yourself go, and enjoy the experience,” she confided.

At length Roland's ordeal was over and he began to usher Katharine from the pews toward the door, eager to be away, but the clergyman had spotted them and was heading their way.

“Well, hello there. It's so good to see new faces,” the man greeted them. “We're having a few sandwiches now and you are most welcome to join us and mingle. You'll find the folk around here welcoming.”

Before Roland had a chance to decline, Katharine replied. “Why thank you, indeed we will. Come on Roland.”

Roland fumbled in his pockets and fished out a leather tobacco pouch. “I'll join you in a minute, after I've stoked the boiler,” he replied.

“I didn't know you smoked, Roland,” she observed.

“I don't, except under exceptional circumstances,” he told her, heading for the front door where a number of other reprobates were already congregating.

The clergyman took Katharine's arm and guided her toward the buffet. “Help yourself to whatever takes your fancy, my dear. I'm Pastor Norris Kent, by the way.”

“Katharine Marsh. Pleased to meet you, Pastor.”

“May I offer you a glass of wine to wash it down?”

“To be honest, I'd rather have a hot drink, if there's any going?”

“Certainly, Katharine. Missus Ashdown is brewing a pot as we speak. Mollie, meet Katharine. Now, if you'll excuse me for just a few moments, I need to have a word with Mister Sedgewick before he disappears, but I'll rejoin you shortly, and you can tell me what brings you here.”

Katharine had a tentative sip of the tea as she stood talking to the lady. “Mmm, that's rather nice, thank you, Missus Ashdown. It has a hint of something quite delightful and flowery, but I can't quite make out what.”

“That would be the elderflower,” the lady told her. “It's jolly good for quite a number of ailments such as fever and inflammation and it helps promote good circulation. We have Nettie Bagshaw to thank for that.”

“Ah, yes, we met Nettie on the way to chapel,” Katharine nodded. “Is she a herbalist?”

“A herbalist cum healer, yes.”

“She told us that chapel wasn't quite her cup of tea.”

Missus Ashdown nodded toward Roland who had just re-entered the chapel, with a plume of grey-blue smoke in his wake. “Would your friend like a cup?” she asked, leaving Katharine unsure as to whether the lady had failed to hear her question or had chosen to ignore it.

“I'd best ask,” Katharine advised, putting down her cup and making a start on a salmon and cress sandwich.

“Yes, ask her, I should. Heathen or not, I expect she has her reasons, and it's best to hear these things from the horse's mouth, rather than listening to scurrilous rumour,” Missus Ashdown replied, pouring out the tea all the same. Only then did it occur to Katharine that perhaps the lady was a little hard of hearing.

Pastor Kent returned shortly afterwards, apologizing again for his neglect and they spent a good twenty minutes chatting to him. Katharine found the man genuine enough and he didn't appear to be using the opportunity to deliver a sales pitch, nor did he lose interest when Roland informed him that they were merely passing through.

At length, the pastor glanced at his watch and sighed. “Alas, it's time to wind up for the night, or Missus Hardcastle, the caretaker, will be chiding me for my tardiness. It's been lovely talking with you, Roland and Katharine.”

They shook hands and the pastor turned away, about to address the congregation, then had second thoughts and turned back.

“Oh, one last thing. Just give me a moment,” he said, and made a beeline for the office through a door to one side of the altar. He returned shortly after, with something clasped in his hand.

“I have a gift, if you will allow me,” the pastor told Katharine, opening his palm to reveal a silver chain.

“Sure,” she nodded, though not entirely sure what the pastor was offering.

The man unfastened a clasp on the chain and went round behind her to refasten it around her neck. Now she could see that the silver chain was a necklace with some kind of white crystal attached.

Thanking the pastor and the friends for their hospitality, and after lingering for a socially-appropriate length of time, they left the chapel and turned down the road heading for the inn, a little too soon for her liking but clearly none too soon for Roland. He already had a second cigarette rolled and had turned out of the breeze blowing up the hill in a battle to light it.

It wasn't until they were outside that Katharine noticed a strange thing: that the white crystal clearly glowed in the dark like the dial of an alarm clock, and that it was surprisingly warm to the touch.

“Oh damn, blast and buggeration!” Roland cursed, burning his finger on the third failed attempt.

“Wait until we get to the Cat and Fiddle,” she suggested helpfully.

“No, no. I'm not going to let this beat me. It's a case of mind over matter.”

“What's that?”

“I don't mind, and you don't matter,” he quipped, raising a smile amidst adversity.

“Funny ha-ha,” she laughed back. “Anyway, we're here and I do believe it's my round. What are you having?”

“Oh, my God!” Katharine yelped, suddenly gripped by the most horrendous feeling. She staggered forward and only just kept her balance by hanging onto the door frame. It felt as if someone had reached inside her stomach and was dragging her out. Or the other way about … as if some malevolent host had violated her and was thrusting her out of her own body, to take her rightful place. She was overcome by a vile feeling of nausea and began to vomit, until she was retching uncontrollably.

“Marsh. Come on, stir your stumps and let's be having you!” a voice bellowed in her ear. Even before she'd fully opened her eyes, she had jumped to her feet and stood there, panting with fear. She was back in the white cell and one of the orderlies was in her face. She backed away into a corner and stood there quivering.

“Follow me, Marsh,” demanded the orderly, coming forward and grabbing hold of her by the arm. “Now listen up and take heed. There's an easy way to do this and there's a hard way. Which is it to be?”

So it hadn't been a dream, after all. This was about about as real as it could get.

“Okay, okay. Just let me get my bearings.”

Katharine was half walked and half dragged from the tiny cell, down a short corridor and to a bare room. The orderly knocked briefly and entered without awaiting a reply. She just managed to catch sight of the word “Interrogation” written on a sign beside the door before she was dragged inside.

Inside there was a desk and two upright wooden chairs. Looking up, a white coated man at the far side of the desk motioned to the nearest chair. “Take a seat, Marsh,” he indicated frostily. She did as he requested, sitting there leaning forward anxiously, with her knuckles on her thighs.

“What am I doing her?” she wanted to know.

The man merely shook his head solemnly, sighed and proceeded to ask his own questions from what looked like a pre-prepared list.

“What was your country of origin?”

“I'll meet you half way,” she replied at length: “I was born in the Outlands, to the north of the Freelands.”

“You were picked up in Ingmar. That's a considerable way from the Outlands ...”

“I left the Outlands five years ago and have been living in the Freelands since that time.”

“As I understand it, Outlanders experience great difficulty in obtaining the necessary permits to live and work in the Freelands, so am I right in saying that you were living there illegally?”

Katharine was unsure of how to answer that without giving away too much.

“If you won't answer, then I shall take your silence to indicate that I was correct.”

“If you say so.”

“So presumably you were helped by an underground organization, which would either be 'the Underground' with a capital 'U' or 'the Network.'”

She maintained her silence.

“No matter, we can always make our own enquiries. So, what was the nature of your business in Ingmar?”

Again she remained silent.

“For heaven's sake, Marsh. We have a common purpose here. We both simply want answers to our questions. If you want my cooperation, then you really will have to be a little more cooperative with me. And when all is said and done, it's not as if I'm asking you to betray state secrets here. I'm just enquiring into the truth.

“Perhaps another week, or another month of time in solitary will help you see the error of your ways?”

“Okay, okay. So I was in the Freelands illegally.”

“Good, now we're getting somewhere. I'm not here to judge or endanger you, Marsh, merely to record the facts. So, the Network helped you?”

“Yes.”

“And what was the nature of your business in Ingmar? I'm not aware of the Network having a presence in that country.”

Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound: “That's why I was there.”

“How do you mean?”

“We – I mean I – was there to establish a presence in Ingmar. At least that was the plan, but I only got as far as the village of Merriedene before I was 'waylaid.'”

“You say 'we'?”

“It was a slip of the tongue.”

The man shook his head. “It's here in black and white, Marsh. My colleague reports that you repeatedly asked about the whereabouts of one Roland Dawkins. I take it that he was a companion of yours?”

“No comment.”

“Then I shall take that as an affirmation.”

“Think whatever you want to think,” she retorted.

“And you also demanded to make a telephone call to someone by the name of Tenzing, saying – quote – that he would sort out the mess – unquote – which indicates a position of influence or authority, does it not.

“Oh well, leave it with me. I'll make further enquiries ...”

“That's it?”

“That's it for now. It doesn't have to be a painful process, you know. As I said, I will make further enquiries, and if I need to ask more questions, I will call you.”

“Right, so I've answered your questions truthfully. Now it's your turn to reciprocate. What am I doing here?” she asked again. “I shouldn't be here. I should be at Merriedene.”

“There is no longer a place for you at Merriedene,” the man finally told her.

“No place for me? Do you think you might be a little less cryptic and answer a perfectly straightforward question with a straight answer?” she demanded, growing impatient with the man.

“When I say that there is no longer a place for you at Merriedene, Marsh, I mean that your place has been taken. And now that you are here, you are to be reassigned.”

“I'm still not with you,” she protested. “And I still haven't had an answer about Roland Dawkins.”

“All else is past and gone. Now all that you need concern yourself with is your life in the here and now. Anyhow, for now, that will be all.”

“But ...”

“Thank you. As I said, that will be all.”

The man gestured to the orderly who stood by the door behind Katharine and held out a manilla folder, which presumably contained her notes. “Take the woman to induction, Carter.”

“Skilled or manual, doctor?”

The man thought for a moment. “Manual for now, but left open for review.”

“Yes, sir. Right Marsh, up on your feet.”

11. Induction

Induction wasn't quite what Katharine had imagined it might be, and it lasted five minutes at most before she was assigned her work detail.

“Overalls,” said the woman, reaching up to a shelf behind her, turning and dropping a set of blue denim dungarees down on the counter.

“Hair net. Socks. Undergarments. Footwear.” She thumped a pair of heavy steel toe-capped boots down. “And gloves.”

Katharine arranged the things in a pile, grabbed hold of the boots by the laces and dutifully followed the orderly through a warren of corridors until they came to a dormitory. She followed him round as he checked the beds and metal cabinets until he came to one that looked vacant.

“Right, Marsh. Get yourself changed.” The man hovered there impatiently as she changed into the work clothes, though at least he had the decency to turn his back. When she was done, he scooped up her neatly folded personal clothes in a heap and marched down the dormitory, with her following, to dispose of the items in a refuse bin by the door.

“Come on then, don't dawdle,” he requested, holding the door open for her. As she approached, he let go of the heavy door and it swung back at her, narrowly missing her face.

Finally, passing through a laundry and past other workrooms, they climbed a steep flight of stairs and entered an office. It had wide glass windows along the wall facing the work rooms, presumably so that the people here could literally “oversee” the workers.

“Yes, what is it?” called a gangly looking woman as they entered. She wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with lenses the thickness of jam jar bottoms.

“Another one for you, Miss May,” replied the orderly, handing over the folder of notes and thrusting Katharine forward. “Name of Marsh.”

“Right, thank you, Mister Richards. You may leave the girl with me.”

“Ma'am,” the man nodded, and he turned and left the room.

The woman scanned the notes for a few moments, then tossed the folder down on a bench and turned back to Katharine.

“Right, Marsh, follow me,” Miss May requested. “And put on your gloves and hair net.”

She felt she'd best comply. “Okay.”

Miss May turned back and looked askance. “No, Marsh, it is not at all 'okay'. It is 'Yes, Miss May.'”

“Yes, Miss May.”

Katharine clattered down the steep wooden steps after Miss May and almost had to run to keep up as the woman strode across the floor. Finally they came to the laundry and with a snap of her fingers, Miss May summoned one of the workers.

“Nicholson, this is a new girl, Marsh. Show her the ropes and set her to work. Marsh, this is Nicholson, your charge hand. You do as she says as and when she requires. And Nicholson, if you have any trouble, you may deal with the girl as you see fit.”

“Yes, Miss May. Right away, Miss,” Nicholson replied, and unbelievably, she actually curtsied when she spoke to her overseer.

Nicholson wandered through the machinery until she came to a large wheeled container full to overflowing with soiled clothes. “Well, you might as well make a start on these, Marsh. That way, the only way forward is up. Don't worry, it's quite simple really and you'll soon get the hang of things around here. You take the soiled items from the brown skip one by one and sluice them until all the um... extraneous fluid and solids has been washed off. If it won't wash off, you may have to use some elbow grease. Then you wring them out and deposit them in the yellow skip.”

“When the yellow skip is full, you take it to Elsworth at the machine over there, and when the brown skip is empty, you take it back to the entrance behind you and collect another. And on it goes. Any questions?”

Katharine shook her head, not having anything to say that would not have added to the nauseating stench around her.

“Hurry up now. I have to go, but I'll be back in a few minutes to see how you're getting on. 'There's no rest for the wicked', or so they tell me. Don't overwork the items, but woe betide you if you have any work sent back to sluice all over again, so make a good job of it.”

12. Silence is its own reply

Conrad Harper and Dzoldzaya Khalili were just leaving the main building at the babs chu retreat, heading in the direction of the craft workshops. Hearing a voice calling from further down the corridor, they turned to see someone trotting after them. It was Tenzing, and he waved his arm in the air to get their attention. Clearly he wanted to have a word with them, so they turned back and met him half way, not far from the offices.

“Glad I saw you,” Tenzing beamed, when he'd caught his breath. Conrad realized that Tenzing had only been back at the mountain retreat for four weeks and had not yet fully acclimatized to the thin air at this altitude.

“I think perhaps we should go to your office and you can have a sit down, Uncle,” Dzoldzaya suggested helpfully, beating Conrad to it.

“You must be a mind reader,” Tenzing smiled.

They waited until Missus Rowling, the cook, had brought them a welcome cup of tea and Tenzing was more settled, making light conversation, before enquiring what was on his mind.

“Before I came away from Foxholes I sent a couple of students, Katharine Marsh and Roland Dawkins, south to Ingmar,” Tenzing told them at length. “Since then I haven't heard from them and I'm a little perplexed and worried.”

The names didn't ring any bells for Conrad, but then being persona non grata in the Freelands and forced to live in exile at babs chu, it had been a while since he and Dzoldzaya last visited Foxholes. “Have you made enquiries with local field agents?” asked Conrad.

“That's just it, old chap. We have no presence in Ingmar and that's the reason I sent Margaret and Roland there: to establish an office at Poldyke, the capital city.”

“When did you last hear from them?”

“I was here of course, but Rosalie reliably informs me that they left a message saying that all was well and that they were about to cross over into Ingmar. That was three weeks ago. Even allowing for sightseeing and for hold-ups, they should have arrived at Poldyke over a week ago, but as I say there has been no word. Silence is its own reply.”

Conrad had to smile, for that very phrase was on the tip of his own tongue and Tenzing narrowly beat him to it.

“And do you want our advice, Uncle, or are you just thinking aloud?”

“I thought that I'd bounce the idea off you and see what came back,” Tenzing admitted.

“Well,” Dzoldzaya offered. “If it were me, I'd give them another week and if they hadn't been in contact then, and I had no other means of receiving word, I'd go down to Ingmar after them.”

Tenzing nodded.

Dzoldzaya thought for a moment. “Ah, I see. And I take it you had us in mind?”

The Director grinned broadly. “Only if it's convenient to you both and that you are in agreement.”

“That's fine by me, Tenzing. What about you, Dzoldzaya?”

“Oh, no pressure, then,” his better half replied.

“Ah, well. Forgive me. Please feel under no obligation, Dzoldzaya. I won't think any the less of you should you decline. Of course, ...”

Dzoldzaya poked Tenzing playfully in the ribs and smiled broadly. “Of course we'll go, silly. I just wanted to see you squirm.”

Only one such as Dzoldzaya could get away with a thing like that, mused Conrad.

“Excellent,” Tenzing smiled. “Then if you'll excuse me, I'll go and make some tentative arrangements. And I'll see you later. If it's alright with you, I thought we might dine in my study.”

They both nodded.

“See you around five o'clock, then. Or later, if you'd prefer?”

“Five is fine by us, Uncle.”

“Good, good. Until then, I shall bid you a fond adieu.”

13. The Works

It was a gruelling routine at “the Works” and Katharine could find little respite. They were rudely awoken at six each morning and after a lukewarm shower and breakfast in the canteen, they worked straight through until lunch at twelve. Lunch lasted only thirty minutes, so there was little time for socializing, and in any case they soon ran out of things to say to one-another, other than banal gossip and “shop talk”.

Come half twelve, when the hooter again blew, it was back to the grind, working through until eight, by which time they were all famished, though at least there was no restriction on the water fountain. At eight fifteen they ate and when they'd finished and cleared up after themselves, until lights out at ten, thankfully their time was their own.

As her charge hand Nicholson was wont to say “And on it goes.” How very true. At length admitting that she possessed a first name, Rosemary actually wasn't a bad old stick, and she helped Katharine keep to the straight and narrow and avoid the wrath of Miss May.

One thing that bothered Katharine almost as much as the work itself, strangely enough, was the fact that she had no idea where all the soiled clothes originated, nor where they went when they were, presumably, eventually dispatched. And another thing that bothered her, apart from the fact that nobody seemed to know the answer to this nagging question, was that the others didn't even appear to care. What it boiled down to, she supposed, was the dehumanizing element of being nothing more than a tiny, anonymous cog in a vast and possibly pointless machine.

For all she knew, there might be some other works somewhere else in the hellish complex whose sole task was taking in their freshly starched and ironed clothes and defecating all over them. And maybe still further afield there was a farm whose sole purpose was to feed these workers? Was this as good as it gets? The hopelessness of her situation didn't bear thinking about, really, and perhaps this was what was behind the reticence of those who worked with her? Perhaps this was simply their own way of coping with all the shit that life doled out to them?

~~~O~~~

Katharine was about to start work at the sluice one day when Rosemary Nicholson came up to have a word. “No, leave those. I have some good news for you, Katharine,” the woman smiled. She pointed to one of the giant washing machines to her right. “No more sluicing for you. We have a new girl starting today. Today you get to use the machine.”

“Where's Ellie?” she asked. Yesterday her place had been taken by one of the others and she noticed now that her machine was vacant.

“Oh, didn't you know? Elsworth has moved on.”

Katharine stood there with her mouth open. “You mean that there's actually a chance of getting out of here?” she wanted to know.

“Shh!”

Rosemary Nicholson grabbed hold of Katharine's arm and guided her toward the machine. “Miss May's on the prowl,” the woman warned her.

“Thanks,” she whispered back.

“Right then, Marsh, let me show you how to work this machine,” Rosemary said loudly, presumably for the overseer's benefit.

Well, it turned out that it was a machine, but not as you'd know it. Basically it consisted of a large tub of hot water and soap where you dumped the clothes to wash, and an elevated platform where you stood, looking down on the tub. Attached to a stout metal rail on the platform was what looked like the pedals you'd find on a bicycle, and attached to the pedals was some kind of gearing and crank mechanism. You turned the pedals slowly with your hands, and down below in the tub this turned a set of wooden paddles back and forth to agitate the clothes. And this Rosemary Nicholson proudly announced was a wonderful “labour saving device”. Perhaps it was, though in comparison to what, heaven only knew. Still, it had to be better than working at the sluice.

~~~O~~~

Katharine had initially tried to keep track of the days that passed, but had given that up as a pointless exercise after the first four weeks. There was no bright new tomorrow, only a remorseless resumption of the same fucking day.

And then one day, just as she had sunk again into the slough of despond, Miss May came up to her in the canteen. “I have something for you, Marsh,” the woman told her, holding out her hand. She pressed a plastic card into Katharine's hand and turned on her heel, and only then did Katharine notice that all eyes were upon her.

“What's this?” she wanted to know.

The object was like a credit card, and it had her name embossed on the front, but there was no indication of its possible use.

Rosemary Nicholson was sitting opposite her at the table as they ate their lunch and she was agog. “Well, I don't know how you've managed it after such a short stay, Katharine, but what it means is that you have been chosen.”

“Chosen?” she asked quizzically.

“It's a clocking in card,” the charge hand told her.

“Oh, wow, big deal,” she sighed, thrusting the card in the pocket of her dungarees and going back to her meal.

“Oh, but it is a big deal,” Rosemary insisted. “You see, each time card holders clock in and out, their name is entered into a prize draw. And every now and then one of those people is picked out at random.”

“A prize draw?”

The woman nodded. “You remember I said that Elsworth had moved on? You took her place and young Cyndi took over from you at the sluice?”

“Sure.”

“Well, that's how it works. You see, Elsworth's name came up. She won the prize draw.”

“And what's the prize?” Katharine wanted to know, becoming intrigued.

Rosemary shrugged. “Well, we don't know really. All we know is that when people win the draw, they move on. I mean, it stands to reason that wherever they end up, it can't be as bad as working in the laundry.”

“So how do I use the card?” Katharine asked.

“There's a machine just by the main doors. You just swipe the card in the slot each time you start work on a morning and last thing at night when you leave. And if you're lucky, your name comes up. It could happen any time – the first time you use it; in a week; in a month, or maybe never. That's simply the luck of the draw.”

Well, at least that would give her something to look forward to. As Tenzing had once remarked: “Hope is born of lack of hope.” Oh, what she wouldn't give to see the old man's happy, smiling face again.

When the hooter went that evening, Katharine approached the doors with a trepidation that she couldn't quite account for. She could feel her heart thumping heavily in her chest as she reached inside her dungarees and produced the plastic card.

“Oh well, here goes nothing,” she said to herself and swiped the card through the machine before she had time to change her mind. She stood there for a moment, and when the machine failed to light up with a rousing chorus of Ha-llelujah! Ha-llelujah! Ha-lle-lu-jah!, which did not at all surprise her, she moved on, heading for the canteen before they ran out of food. Now that wouldn't surprise her, either. Shortages seemed to be built into the system to keep them on their toes.

It was probably all a fix, anyway. If a thing sounds too good to be true, as the saying goes, it probably is. Winning a prize and moving on to pastures new? Somehow, she couldn't see that fitting into the stark equation here. More likely it was a convenient way of pensioning you off when you were past your use by date, without having to take any flak for it. Just like blaming a thing on “an act of God”.

Having been held back by the final load of washing, by the time Katharine reached the canteen she found to her consternation that all cook had left was mash and curried mincemeat. A lot of curried mince. Her father, who had served in the army during the Second Great War, had steadfastly refused to eat curry after he'd been demobbed. He'd been a cook and had told them that in the army they used curry powder to mask a multitude of sins, and it looked like the others here at the Works were wise to these tricks of the trade, too.

14. The Big Game

Weeks passed and two or three of the chosen few moved on, to be replaced by bewildered and fumbling newcomers. Only now could Katharine see how she must have looked and remember how she felt on her first day at the Works. And it worried her to see how institutionalized she was undoubtedly becoming.

She wasn't at all surprised to find that the lottery seemed to favour the more elderly workers and though this was immensely disquieting, if that were the case – and heaven help them if it was – then there was at least some cold comfort in the fact that she was herself only just entering the prime of her life. But of course this was just idle rumour from the more paranoid and pessimistic amongst them, whilst the optimists and the believers were open to the contrary view: that what was on offer was true freedom. Still, the fact remained that nobody really knew what happened when their fellows received their calling, and that none returned to tell the tale.

And then it happened, catching her totally off guard (though it was not as if being “on guard” would have affected the outcome in any way). As she swiped her card through the machine at the start of the working day, she carried on walking, but had gone no more than two steps when instead of the familiar dull “pong”, she distinctly heard the machine “ping” sharply.

Her heart lurched and she stopped, frozen in her steps. And then, finally plucking up the courage, she turned to face the machine and slowly crept closer. On the dull grey display, in place of the time beside her name which lingered for a few seconds after entry, she could see the glowing cyan words: “Report to room 8.”

Katharine had no idea where room 8 was, so once she'd calmed herself down a little, she searched around the shop floor until she found Rosemary Nicholson.

Rosemary was on the point of chiding her from being away from her work station, but seeing the look of excitement and awe on Katharine's face, she nodded solemnly.

“You've been chosen, haven't you?” the woman queried.

Katharine just stood there shivering.

“I thought so. I can always tell,” she beamed and came forward to pump Katharine's hand.

“Oh my word,” the woman uttered.

Finally Rosemary Nicholson pulled away. “Well, best not keep them waiting. I expect you'll be wanting to know the way to room 8?”

“Yes, please,” she croaked, fighting back the tears.

Rosemary guided her out of the laundry and down the corridor until they came to a room which bore the number eight and a prominent red and white sign that read “Strictly no admittance. Authorized personnel only.”

“Well, here we are, Katharine.”

“Here we are,” she nodded back.

“You know, I shall miss you.”

“Likewise, Rosemary. I shall miss you.”

They embraced one-another briefly and then Rosemary Nicholson patted her on the shoulder and walked off, leaving Katharine to pluck up the courage and open the door. As her hand went for the handle, the door opened of its own accord and she went inside. It was dark in the room but a moment later the lights flickered and came on, bathing the room in a yellow glow. And as she turned to close the door, it closed firmly behind her.

Katharine turned back to survey the room and could see a hardbacked chair in the centre of the room.

“Welcome, Katharine,” came a man's voice through some unseen public address system. “Please take a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

She did as the voice requested.

“Who are you?” she wanted to know. Perhaps she might finally get an answer to her questions. “And what am I doing here?”

“Who I am or what I am need not concern you, Katharine. As to why you are here, suffice it to say that you have been chosen.”

“That I know already. But for what purpose?”

“Because you an interesting case, Katharine. I'm hoping that you will prove entertaining and stimulating.

“To cut to the chase, you will be faced by a series of challenges. If you ultimately succeed in these challenges, then you are free to leave this realm, never to return.”

“How do I know that I can trust you?”

“You have my solemn word, Katharine.”

“And if I don't succeed? I have seen a number of the others chosen, but I have yet to see any return.”

“Well, no. If they were to return, then they'd rather give the game away, wouldn't they?”

“So what happens to them? I mean, what happens to me if I fail the challenges?”

“All will become clear in due time, Katharine. Again, suffice it to say for now that you are playing for high stakes. But let's get the ball rolling, shall we?”

“If you insist.”

“Oh, yes indeed, I do insist. So here's an easy one – your starter for ten as they say on the game show.”

Katharine drew a deep breath. “Okay.”

“This 'Tenzing' of whom you speak. I want to know how you communicate with him.”

Katharine sighed and shook her head. “I was hoping you might be a little more original than that, What's-Your-Name.”

“I'm afraid that I won't be able to give you any marks for that, Katharine. And if it would assist, you may call me Hal.”

“Well, let me put it another way, 'Hal': go screw yourself.”

“I presume that you arranged to contact him via telephone.”

“Actually, we use telepathy.”

“I'm sorry, Katharine, I can't accept that answer.”

“So what, Hal? Like it or lump it. There's nothing more that you can do to me than you haven't already done thus far.”

“Is that a fact?” It was a rhetorical question. “As I've told you already, if you succeed, I will set you free of this place ...”

“So, what happens if I flunk your tests, Hal?”

“... And should you fail, then I will reluctantly, but nevertheless, have one of my assistants feed you into the meat grinder.”

“What?! You're joking, right?”

There was a lengthy pause.

“Do I sound like I'm pulling your leg, Katharine? As I said, you are playing for high stakes here. The level of risk you face must be in due proportion to the prize on offer.”

She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. “You mean ...”

“I mean, if you should succeed, you have your freedom. And if you should fail, then you will suffer greatly and you will die. Heads or hearts. Win or lose. Do or die. There is no third option. No alternative outcome. So please choose carefully and answer wisely.”

“Hmm,” she responded finally. “You seem to have me over a barrel here, Hal.”

“You know, you're not far wrong there, Katharine. Over a meat grinder to be precise.”

Katharine felt something sliding beneath her feet and looked down sharply. Where there had been a floor under her feet, now there was a dark, yawning hole. The chair itself was suspended over the chasm by two stout metal poles. And down below she could feel the rumble of machinery.

“One wrong answer and it's sayonara,”[1] the voice warned her.

“Okay, so I arranged to phone Tenzing,” she blurted out.

“I'll give you two out of ten for that, Katharine. I'll settle for eight on this starter, so we're still looking for a further six points.”

“He's based at Sher Point.”

“So we have an area dialling code. I'll give you another two points for that, but you're going to have to be a lot more precise, Katharine.”

“Oh, fuck you! The number is Sher Point 347458,” she spat.

“Bear with me for a few moments, would you?” the voice requested, and he fell silent, to be replaced by piped music.

She waited; and she waited; and she waited still longer, then finally Hal spoke up again.

“Full marks, Katharine. I'm reliably informed that the number you gave me was correct. You see, it wasn't as painful as pulling a tooth, was it?”

“Why did you want the number?” she asked.

Hal chose not to answer.

“So what now?”

“Now we move onto the first round, Katharine. They say a cat has nine lives, but I feel that's a tad too generous, so I'll give you five.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that for each incorrect answer you give me, I'll deduct one of your lives. And when you reach zero, it's 'goodnight Sher Point.'”

“Shit, you're a mean son of a bitch, Hal.”

“You bet your life I am, you bet your life,” the man laughed. As he spoke, the floor slid back under the chair to seal up the pit.

“Anyhow, Katharine, it's time for your first challenge. If you would care to make your way through the white door to your left, we will begin.”

Katharine cautiously rose from her chair and approached the door. It slid open as she approached it and closed with a pneumatic hiss behind her as she entered. The room was bare, and painted white throughout. There was another door at the far end of the room, but it was closed and she could see no handle or other mechanism with which to open it.

“You might care to stand in the centre of the room, away from the walls,” the voice advised her and, not knowing quite what to expect, she complied without question.

“I thought we might have a little quiz,” the voice continued. “I'll ask you a question and you tell me the right answer. Three wrong and you lose a life. Ready?”

“Ready as I'll ever be,” she sighed. “Get on with it.”

“Very well ...”

As Katharine stood there, the white doorway opposite was lit up as an image was projected on it. She saw writing and her mind raced as she strove to make sense of it.

Who succeeded the first president of the Collectivist Republic of Nur Galan?

“Oh, come on. How the hell would I know that?” she complained bitterly.

There was silence.

“Do you hear me? Surely I get a clue?”

“Not at this stage.”

“But ...”

“I'm sorry, Katharine, I'll have to hurry you.”

She threw her arms up in the air. “I give in. Who did succeed the first president of What's-Its-Name?”

The answer flashed up on the screen and when she saw it, Katharine groaned: the second president, of course. Who else?

“You didn't tell me that there would be trick questions,” she protested. Well, she wouldn't be fooled a second time. “Can't we start over again?”

“Two more incorrect answers and you lose the first of your five lives,” Hal informed her. He did not sound overly impressed. And as he said this, there was a grinding sound and she saw the two sides of the room slide closer together.

“Hey, what's going on?” she wanted to know.

“Just a little something to increase your necessity, Katharine,” came the reply. “As they say, necessity is the mother of invention.”

Another question flashed up on the screen ahead of her.

What is always found at the end of everything?

Katharine thought for a moment.

Over the public address system she could hear Hal impatiently drumming his fingers.

“Will you please stop that? I'm trying to concentrate.”

The drumming abruptly stopped.

“Thank you.”

“Well, if it's the end of everything, then it must be 'nothing', I would imagine.”

Then it hit her. “No, no. I mean 'g' – the letter 'g', of course.”

“I'm sorry, Katharine, but I'll have to take your first answer, though your effort was commendable.”

“Oh phooey, that's out of order. It really is unfair.”

“House rules, Katharine, house rules.”

“House rules my ass. You just made up that rule.”

“Moving swiftly on, one more incorrect answer and you lose the first of your five lives,” Hal informed her. And again the walls of the claustrophobic room shifted closer together.

What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?

“That old chestnut? Easy peasy,” she laughed triumphantly.

“And no, that's my reaction, not my answer,” she hastened to point out.

“Your answer being?”

“That would be a man. He crawls on all fours as a toddler, then walks on two feet, and when he gets old, he additionally uses a walking stick.”

“Hmm, easy when you know the answer,” Hal huffed, then added: “I just wanted to lull you into a false sense of security.

“Very well, answer this:”

What's black and white and red all over?

“Oh Hal, Hal,” smiled Katharine, shaking her head back and forth. “You really are slipping. If you've written this yourself, my advice to you would be to hire a professional scriptwriter. And if you haven't, then fire the idiot.”

“I'm going to have to press you for an answer, Katharine,” Hal persisted.

“A newspaper is black and white and read all over,” she answered with self-assurance.

“I'm afraid that's not the answer I was looking for, Katharine.”

“What?” She was incredulous.

“The answer is an embarrassed zebra.”

Even as he spoke, the walls of the room crept closer still, until they were no more than an arm's span apart.

“Oh, come off it!”

“And that also means that you have lost the first of your five lives.”

As Hal spoke, a sharp pain cut through her and in her shock she fell to her knees in agony. Just as suddenly as it came, the pain was gone and, drawing a deep breath, she staggered to her feet. Only now was she made acutely aware that she really was playing for her life.

“Okay, okay” she yelled. “I get the message.”

“One last question then, if you feel up to the challenge, Katharine?”

“Is there a catch?”

“How about double or quits?”

“You'll have to explain yourself, Hal.”

“What I mean is that if you answer my next question correctly, you win the first life back. That's the upside.”

“And the downside?”

“If you get it wrong, you lose a second life.”

“Oh, come on: I wasn't born under a gooseberry bush, you know.”

It was Hal's turn to ask her what she meant.

“I mean, it smacks of sadism. You'll just pick some riddle that you know I have no hope of answering.”

“Trust me, Katharine, I pride myself on being a man of my word. I'll pick a question at random. And the other factor to consider is that you may need that extra life before the day is out.”

“There's more? Well, of course there must be.”

“Yes, there is a lot more,” he agreed. “And the day is still young.”

“Very well.”

“You agree to my terms?”

“Yes, Hal, I agree. Bring it on.”

“Oh, goodie. I was hoping that you were game.”

What is always before you that you can never see?

Katharine's mind was a blank. And then she suddenly had an idea. Or thought she had, confound it.

“What are you thinking?” Hal enquired, presumably in response to the silence.

“Well, I was going to say something, but then had second thoughts,” she admitted. “But you're not going to trick me into giving that as a wrong answer.”

“I won't do that,” Hal assured her.

“Well, I did think perhaps it was one's nose. And then, moving my eyes from side to side I discovered that I actually could make out the blurred outline of my own nose.”

“Any other ideas?”

Katharine shrugged her shoulders, though she wasn't even sure if Hal could actually see her or merely hear her.

“If you don't provide an answer, then you lose,” Hal told her.

“Destiny?” she enquired at length. “That's all I can think it might be.”

“Oh Katharine, to come so close and fail ...”

She sighed. “Yes, I figured you'd say something along those lines. Go on then, put me out of my misery.”

“The answer I was looking for was 'the future',” he revealed. “And if I might say, this isn't looking good for you, Katharine.”

Again she was paralysed by the most horrendous, razor sharp pain; more intense than the first. It was as if she'd been suddenly struck by a bolt of lightning, and she collapsed in convulsions on the floor, screaming for mercy.

When she'd finally recovered, though still on her knees, she asked the question that was beginning to eat away at her: “You said things weren't looking good for me, Hal. What are the odds, in your estimation?”

“The lamentable statistics?” the voice enquired. “Less than one percent of those losing a life in the first round go through to complete the game.”

“How much less than one percent exactly, Hal?”

“Well,” he replied after a pause. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Katharine, let's say that it would be a first.”

“And I've lost two.”

“Indeed.”

15. News at last

When the red telephone in Rosalie Muller's office rang, her heart skipped a beat and she paused before answering it.

“Sher Point 347458,” she replied, without identifying herself. There was always the possibility that it was a wrongly dialled number.

“Hello,” came the voice on the other end. It was a female voice and it sounded familiar.

“Hello, who's speaking, please?”

“It's me: Katharine Marsh,” came the reply.

“Of course,” she smiled. She was thrilled to hear from Katharine at long last. “Hello Katharine, how's it going? Tenzing and I have been so worried with not hearing from you and Roland.”

“Yes, I thought you might be. We tried to call you, but there's been some trouble with the phone lines. It wasn't until we got to Poldyke that we could report the fault and it took them some days before they managed to rectify it.”

“Oh, I see. Well, it's jolly good to hear you're safe,” Rosalie said with relief. “Being worried, Tenzing has sent Dzoldzaya and Conrad Harper to see if you were alright. I should be hearing from them just before they cross over into Ingmar, though until I speak to Tenzing to give him the good news, I won't know whether he'll call Dzoldzaya and Conrad back or have them carry on to meet up with you. In the latter case, I would imagine they'll be with you in the next few days.

“I'll need an address, just in case, Katharine. Where are you now?

“Hang on while I get a pen … okay, fire away. The Trigune Hotel, Market Square. And that's in Poldyke itself, is it? Just opposite the bus station, right you are. I'm sure they'll be able to find you.

“It may take me a while to get in touch with Tenzing, by the way, as he's away at babs chu and with them not having a telephone there, I have to relay a message via a radio operator.

“Babs chu? Oh, I expect you haven't been there before: it's a community we run in the mountains, up north in Narayana.

“So, is the weather to your liking?” she asked. “It's been pelting down here and Tenzing says there's been a lot of snow at the retreat.

“Warm and dry, you say? Oh good.

“Anything else to report?

“Nothing much?”

As Tenzing would say, that silence spoke volumes.

“Well, as I said, I'll get in touch with Tenzing, and look forward to hearing from you again, Katharine. In the meantime, you and Roland take care.”

Having said goodbye to Katharine, Rosalie was straight on the phone to Shakra which lay at the north east corner of the central plains in Narayana. And from there they'd relay her message to Tenzing.

The correct response to the question “Is the weather to your liking?” was not “Warm and dry” but rather “Not bad for the time of year” or not good. Katharine had not indicated – or had been unable to indicate – the nature of her difficulty, but something was clearly amiss.

And Rosalie could kick herself for not having asked that key question earlier in the conversation, realizing too late that anybody could have been listening in and that she'd given away far too much information.

16. You Betcha!

The door at the end of the claustrophobic white cell opened and the voice instructed Katharine to leave the room. As she emerged, she was immediately met by a young woman who insisted on wiping away the glistening sweat from her face and forehead and liberally dusting her.

Meanwhile, a dumpy little man with a shiny bald head and wearing some kind of headset hovered there, anxiously looking at the stopwatch that he held in his hand.

“Hurry up, lovey, we're running behind time and the warm up act is running out of material. Mustn't keep our host waiting.”

“Our host?” Katharine queried as the man took her by the arm and guided her swiftly down the cable-strewn corridor. As she neared the end of the corridor, Katharine could see now that she was in some kind of studio or theatre, and was entering the wings of the stage, hidden away behind the props, where a small army of hands were at work or standing by.

“La-dies and gen-tle-men!” called a melodramatic voice over the PA system, drawing out each of the syllables of his words for full effect. “Please give a warm and hearty welcome to your host and gamesmaster for the evening, the splendiferous, the incomparable Mister Ewen McDougal!”

As some unseen band struck up a rousing signature tune, there was rapturous applause, and finally as the applause began to die down, the host began to speak, introducing what appeared to be some kind of game show. And then she heard the host mention her name. Hearing her own name called at a public event always filled Katharine with trepidation and she could already feel her knees going weak. But she didn't have to wait long. Again the band struck up a tune and her escort guided her swiftly toward a doorway in the scenery. “On you go, lovey, and make sure you smile and wave,” he requested, thrusting her through the doorway and out onto the stage.

She faltered on the threshold for a moment and then, seeing her host applauding her and beckoning her on, she forced a smile and crossed the stage toward him, waving her hand in the air as she went. As she went, she saw for the first time in her peripheral vision that she was in some kind of theatre and she was indeed before a live audience.

“Hello Katharine, and welcome to You Betcha!” the man greeted her warmly, pumping her hand, gently guiding her toward a red cross marked on the floor of the stage and turning her to face the audience. Oh Alicia, and face the cameras. That the event was being televised, and watched by hundreds of thousands, did not bear thinking about.

A brief message flashed up on one of the autocues and she hastily replied: “(Smile) Hello, Ewen, it's good to be here.”

Good it was most definitely was not. There must have so many there before her, but fortunately the stage lighting was bright and she could see no further than two or three rows back. Taking slow deep breaths and remembering the advice that she'd once heard about picturing an audience sitting there in their underwear or even in the altogether, she fought to rein-in the emotions that reared up inside her.

The host consulted one of the cards he had in his hand. “So, Katharine, I gather that you hail from the Outlands ...”

“Yes,” she replied. “From Norton.”

“And where's that?”

“A little village to the north of the Outlands, near the town of Bagle.”

The host addressed the audience. “Are there any here tonight from Bagle?” he enquired.

The lights in the audience were brought up and for the first time she saw the true scale of the theatre. They sat there in row upon row in the stalls and there were yet more sitting high in the circle, looking out over the stage. There was a mass shaking of heads, a distinct hissing from some, and not one of them raised their hand. Then the lights were once again dimmed.

“But for the past five years you've been living in the Freelands, I gather.”

“That's right,” she nodded.

“Perhaps you'd like to tell us how you ended up in the Freelands, Katharine?”

“There's nothing much to tell, really.”

The host turned to the audience, raised his arms in the air, and on some hidden cue they called out in unison: “You betcha life there is!”

She was quite taken aback.

“That's right, folk. You see, border controls being what they are, Katharine was rightly refused entry to the Freelands. So she was smuggled into the country by a clandestine organization and for the last five years Katharine here has been living under false pretences as an illegal immigrant.”

The audience erupted with a mixture of “hoos!” and “boos!” which Katharine found deeply disturbing.

“And what do you do for a living, Katharine?” the host enquired.

Katharine wasn't sure what to say.

“It's true, is it not, that you describe yourself as a 'cultural ambassador'?”

“Well ...”

“So, pray tell, what does that entail? Wining and dining with the rich, the famous, the influential and the titled, by the sound of it.”

She was hesitant and distinctly uncomfortable. Her face felt hot with embarrassment, and this must be showing. “Not exactly.”

Again, on some hidden cue, the audience erupted: “You betcha life it isn't!”

“The truth of the matter, Katharine, is altogether more seedy. You are employed by the clandestine organization which facilitated your illegal entry into the Freelands, are you not?”

She remained silent.

“And more recently you were sent to Ingmar in order to set up an office in the capital, Poldyke. Sent by this same organization, which has been described by those in the know as a 'cult' no less, the purpose being to expand their illicit operations and to recruit members to this nefarious cause.”

Again, the audience erupted in a chorus of “hoos!” and “boos!”

“That's a travesty!” she blurted out.

The host raised his arms and immediately the audience yelled back: “You betcha life it is!”

“What is this, a show trial?” she demanded angrily.

There was laughing in the audience now and all the host had to do was to simply raise his eyebrows.

“You betcha life it is!”

And what do I have to do to prove my innocence?”

The host shook his head, a smile permanently etched on his face. “Katharine, it doesn't work like that. Your guilt has already been established.”

“Then why am I here?”

“To decide your fate. You Betcha! is a game show, Katharine, and the way it works is quite simple. Win through to the end of the show and you walk free.”

“And if I don't?”

“What's it to be folks?” the host asked the audience, raising his arms in encouragement.

“Into the meat grinder!” they yelled back in unison.

“And then?” he asked, cupping his hand to his ear.

“Into the sausage machine!”

Katharine was staggered. They were like a pack of crazed dogs, baying for blood.

“That's right!” the host called back.

“Why's that?” he asked.

“Waste not, want not!” came the reply.

Then the host held his hand up. “But not yet, folk. Not yet. I know it's hard, but hold your horses. Remember that the thrill is in the chase.

“Katharine, when you're ready, it's time to play the first round of You Betcha!”

Her few choice but meagre words were drowned out by the audience's thunderous applause.

“In these first two rounds, Katharine, you play against others randomly selected from the audience. And, should you succeed, in the third round you face the reigning champion, Duncan Treefellow.”

The host paused, waiting for the cries of appreciation to die down. Whoever Treefellow was, he appeared to be popular with the crowd.

“Beat the reigning champion and you go on to the final, Katharine. And, and – yes, thank you folk, thank you. And it goes without saying, should you fail, then you die.”

You betcha life! they jeered.

“Hal,” the host called into the wings. “Bring it on!”

As she watched, a group of assistants appeared and trundled a large contraption on, to position it centre stage. Along the top was some kind of sturdy wooden pole and beneath it a clear plastic container with an attachment like a hopper on top and some kind of spiral inside it. At each end of the contraption they attached a short ladder and in the centre, on the ground and facing the audience, they placed a huge glass bowl.

The host turned to face a large video screen to one side of the stage. “Hal, could we have a random member of the audience, please?”

The screen sprang to life and hundreds of faces flashed upon it, one after the other until finally the flashing stopped and one remained.

“Hayley Thomas!” the host announced, turning back to face the audience. “Come on down!”

He cast his eyes out into the audience and, spotting a woman holding her hand up and eagerly rising to her feet, one of the camera operators filmed her as she hurried toward the stage.

“Welcome, welcome, Hayley!” the host greeted her, guiding her onto the stage to stand at one end of the machine whilst a glamorous assistant appeared to guide Katharine to the other end.

“Well, you probably know how this works by now, Hayley, but in case anyone doesn't and for the benefit of Katharine, we call this game the 'Greasy Pole'. You'll each be armed with a heavy padded bolster like a long stuffed cushion and you'll be sitting on the slippery pole. The aim of the game is to either knock your opponent off the pole or stay seated on the pole until the bell goes. Katharine, if you succeed, you move onto the next game. Hayley, if you succeed, then you get to come back to take part as a contestant in tomorrow night's show, with a chance to win your freedom.

“Any questions?”

“What if neither of us hits the other?” Katharine wanted to know.

“Then make no mistake, it's sudden death for both of you, Katharine. Hal is watching the proceedings in the role of arbiter and he has the power to rotate the greasy pole. Need I say more?”

“No, that's clear enough.”

“Do you have any other questions?”

“I thought you said I had five lives, Hal,” she said, addressing the blank video screen.

“So I lied,” came the reply.

“Why doesn't that surprise me?”

“Do you have any other questions?” the host repeated, as the assistant turned her back round to face the audience.

Katharine and her opponent exchanged furtive glances and shook their heads.

“Good, then contestants, please take your places.”

The two of them climbed the steps and shuffled onto the long pole and when they were in position, assistants handed them their padded bolsters.

“Are you ready?”

They both nodded.

“Very well. George, would you please start the machine.”

One of the assistants stepped forward and pressed a large red button on the front of the equipment and Katharine could see now that what she'd taken to be a spiral was in fact a rotating blade like a corkscrew. The kind of blade you would find in a mincing machine.

The menacing blades were only inches from Katharine's feet and she knew full well that all it would take was one slip and she would, quite literally, be mincemeat. She looked at her adversary and was thankful that she was an older woman and clearly not as fit as her, but she was worried that the woman's extra weight would be hard to shift.

“Ready contestants. On the count of three, go for it,” the host called loudly above the rumble of the machine.

“One.

“Two.

“Three! Get thumping, ladies!”

Katharine had what she thought was a tight grip on the slippery pole, squeezing it between her thighs, but as soon as she raised her arm to take a swipe with her bolster, she could feel herself slowly slipping to one side. She leant slightly in the opposite direction to counteract this. While she was thus preoccupied, her opponent brought her bolster crashing down on Katharine's head. Fortunately the blow was not lateral, so it stood no chance of dislodging her, but the woman had put a lot of force behind it and, the bolster being a lot harder than it looked, it did leave her quite shaken. And it was clear to Katharine that she would receive no quarter from her opponent.

“Come on, come on!” came Hal's voice over the PA system. “Pussyfoot around and I'll have no option but to invoke 'sudden death'!”

A second blow hit Katharine, right on the side of the face and she ducked down, desperately clutching the pole and trying to regain her balance.

The woman was taking aim for a third time and Katharine took that brief opportunity to deliver her own blow. She hit the woman again and again, and her opponent just sat there unruffled, with what looked like a scornful look on her face. Still, while the woman was defending herself, she was not on the attack.

A third blow caught Katharine's arm and she almost lost her grip on the bolster. Fortunately, she had her hand through a loop of material near the base and was able to keep hold of it.

Putting all her weight behind it, Katharine lunged forward, using the bolster like a battering ram. In that instant, not expecting a blow from that angle, the woman began to teeter and fall backwards. She pulled herself forward to counteract this, but misjudged it and she began to slide over to one side. Casting her bolster aside, the woman tried desperately to stop herself, but there was no going back.

Screaming hysterically, the woman plunged headfirst into the machine, until abruptly the vile scrunch, scrunch, scrunch of the machine silenced her. It was over.

The audience were on their feet now, loving every minute, but it was pretty clear to Katharine that they weren't applauding her success but rather the woman's demise as she spluttered out from the machine to fill the huge glass bowl.

Splattered with blood and exploded guts, Katharine gingerly dismounted from the machine with the aid of one of the assistants. And as two of the stage hands took hold of the bowl of minced meat and bone, all that was left of Hayley Thomas, and wheeled away her remains, Katharine felt utterly nauseated and threw up. Even before she'd finished, the stage hands were around her, sprinkling sawdust over the mess and sweeping it away.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the host called, coming over to Katharine and clapping her on the shoulder. “A round of applause please for Katharine Marsh, and for a gallant loser, the late great Hayley Thomas. Didn't they do well!”

You betcha! You betcha! You betcha! came the resounding response.

Waste not, want not! they cried at the host's encouragement, and Off to the sausage machine!

This must be the Dark Side that Tenzing had warned them about, it suddenly occurred to Katharine. A state of mind and a realm in its own right where our inhumanity roamed freely and we plumbed the murky depths of our depravity, which knew no bounds. And those in the Shadowlands who revelled in public executions, believing themselves merely righteous were only one step removed, beneath that gossamer-thin veil they called civilization. “We will overcome! We will overcome!” she sang to herself to rouse her spirits, but to little or no avail.

“Hal, are you still there?” growled Katharine, turning away from the audience to face the video screen.

“Yes.”

“I want you to know that I think you are one sick fuck.”

“That is your prerogative,” came the reply.

She turned back to face the audience. “I want all of you to know. If I win this game, then I'll be gunning for Hal, the game's creator. I challenge him to a duel.”

There were mutterings in the audience.

“What do you say to that?” she demanded to know, cupping a hand to her ear.

There was silence.

“What do you say I take on Hal himself?” she bellowed. “Are you up to the challenge, Hal?”

A lone voice called back. “You betcha!”

“Hell yeah!” called another, but they were alone. It was a vain request and her appeal largely fell on deaf ears.

“Come on, you lily-livered pussies!”

“Get on with it!” called out a third.

“Yeah, shut the fuck up, lady, and get on with the show.”

The host came forward now. “You want to move on to round 2?” he asked, holding out his arms and beckoning with his fingers.

You betcha! they yelled back. Bring it on!

“Okay, first we're going to have a quick word from our sponsors. But stay tuned, folk – we'll be right back.”

17. A regular lifesaver

After many days travelling, Dzoldzaya and Conrad reached Webbley, a hamlet in the protectorate of Lilith, south of the barren moorlands on the fringes of Narayana and just this side of the border with Ingmar. The first thing they did before settling themselves in was phone Wilbur who operated the radio up north at Shakra, to check if there were any fresh instructions for them, but there seemed to be a fault on the line and despite repeated attempts, they could not get through. Nor could they get through to Rosalie at Sher Point.

That being the case, and mildly cursing themselves for not having the forethought to phone sooner, they decided to stay the night in Webbley and try again the next day, though Conrad wasn't holding out much hope. There'd been strong winds and driving rain recently and chances were the weather had brought a line down. It was a lengthy and laborious process manually testing for faults on rural lines and it could be days if not weeks before the fault was rectified, so chances were they'd have to press on regardless.

Still, Conrad was not complaining: both he and Dzoldzaya enjoyed spending time together travelling and exploring different cultures. Being forced into exile, they did miss roaming in the Freelands, though they occasionally sneaked into the country and spent a little time with Tenzing and Rosalie at Foxholes on special occasions.

As he had thought, the phone lines were still dead the following morning, so putting on their bulky stormproof capes, hats and leggings, they braved the inclement weather and rode south across the border into Ingmar. Fortunately, by the time they reached the village of Merriedene in the late afternoon, having ridden on through the day since there was no chance of stopping to light a fire in the rain, the storms had passed on, the sun had come out from behind the clouds, and they had begun to dry out.

They walked their horses on through the village until they spotted an inn, the Cat and Fiddle. Under normal circumstances they'd have hunted around and checked menus and prices to find the most suitable place to stay the night, but on this occasion they were too tired by the journey and would simply have to take whatever was on offer here and be grateful for the respite.

After booking in, Conrad and Dzoldzaya sat at a table by the fireside toasting their toes and shared a pot of hot and refreshing tea. Then, suitably refreshed, they had a look at the chalkboard to see what was on the menu that night. Most of the items had been struck through, but the game stew and dumplings was still on offer as choice of the day, so they settled on that. That decided, while Conrad headed to the loo, the tea having run straight through him, Dzoldzaya went up to the bar to place their order.

“Well, I put in the order,” she whispered in Conrad's ear on his return, “but I must say the landlord's a bit of a grumpy old git. Next time we're through this way, I think we'll give this place a miss.”

“Yes, his son wasn't too happy when I asked if he'd see to the horses,” Conrad replied in lowered tones. “And his wife is a study in still life.” She'd been sitting there on a stool at the bar chain smoking since they'd walked in.

Having downed the complimentary glass of wine, which came unexpectedly, and filled their stomachs on the stew, they settled down together on a bench beside the fire while their dinner settled. Content to snuggle up together and bask in the warmth, Dzoldzaya was soon away with the fairies. But she didn't doze for long and, enlivened by a second pot of tea and with the sun still shining, they decided that they might as well make the most of it and have a gentle stroll around the village.

As they walked up the road, they came to a charming thatched cottage where a lady was working in what looked like a herb garden, picking out the weeds from between the plants.

“Hello there,” the lady smiled, getting to her feet and grimacing slightly as she straightened out. “Not getting any younger, I'm afraid to say.”

“Hello,” they called back, stopping for a moment, pleased to see another sentient human being in the village.

“I was just admiring your garden,” said Dzoldzaya.

The lady came down the path and opened the rickety wooden gate to let them in. “Feel free to wander. I'm just rescuing my fennel from the invasive clutches of the Simian knot weed.”

“So I see.”

“The blessed stuff gets everywhere, though I tolerate a little as taken internally it eliminates worms and applied externally it quickly dispatches fleas and lice.”

“Really? I'm a herbalist myself, though clearly I still have a lot to learn,” Dzoldzaya told the lady. After a lengthy apprenticeship came the work of a lifetime.

“Oh, really? Have you come far?”

“We're from Narayana,” Dzoldzaya nodded.

“I see. Now I'm told that in Narayana they certainly know their herbs and spices. Alas, even in Ingmar it's something of a dying art. All these newfangled, expensive medicines they keep bringing out. And take off the market when they discover complications, mark you, unlike the herbs which have been thoroughly tried and tested over generations.”

Dzoldzaya nodded knowingly. “Yes, indeed.”

“So what brings you all this way to Ingmar, if I might enquire, my dears?”

“We're actually looking for two friends of ours,” Conrad spoke up. “Chances are they came this way. Katharine Marsh ...”

“And Roland Dawkins?” the lady replied immediately, completing his sentence.

Dzoldzaya smiled. “Yes, that's right. My, you are a treasure ...”

“Nettie Bagshaw,” the lady replied, coming forward and shaking their hands.

“I'm Dzoldzaya Khalili and this is my better half, Conrad Harper. Dzoldzaya's a bit of a mouthful, so just call me Dee.”

“Well, I'm very glad to meet you. I'm more or less done here, so why don't you come inside and share a pot of tea with me? Have you eaten?”

Dzoldzaya didn't have the heart to say that that they'd had two cups of tea already. “Yes, we've booked into the Cat and Fiddle. As for the tea, I'm sure that would go down a treat, Nettie,” she replied.

“So what of Katharine and Roland?” asked Conrad as they sipped their drink.

“My, that's lovely tea, Nettie,” piped up Dzoldzaya. “It has a hint of elderflower.”

Nettie nodded. “Yes, I blend it myself. Your friends were through here maybe four or five weeks ago.”

“And do you know where they are now?”

“Alas, no. I do know that they had intended to stay here for just the one night but ended up staying for three or four days. They had a short bout of fever which has been doing the rounds here and Katharine also struck up a friendship with Norris Kent, our local pastor. Chapel isn't my cup of tea, but Katharine was quite taken by it after attending evensong.”

“And now?”

“Well, they did say that they were heading for Poldyke.”

“Poldyke?” Dzoldzaya queried.

“The capital. It's a good fifty miles south of here. I'm sure that's where you'll find them now. More tea?”

Dzoldzaya mopped her brow. “Actually, Nettie, could I trouble you for a glass of plain tap water? I seem to have come over in a hot flush.”

Nettie got up from her seat and went across to the sofa to feel Dzoldzaya's forehead and to check her pulse. “I do believe it's the fever, Dzoldzaya. As I said, it's doing the rounds. If so, you might be better staying her for the night so that I can tend to you, rather than going back to the inn.”

Conrad looked askance. “But we've only just arrived at the village. We've been in the country itself for no more than ten hours.”

Nettie shrugged her shoulders. “I'm as baffled as you are, Conrad. It could be that you caught the bug further afield and that the fever is only now emerging?”

“If it is the fever, is that bad?” Conrad wanted to know.

“So far, the fever has tended to burn itself out after no more than twelve hours,” Nettie told him. “It's rather fiery while it lasts, as you can imagine, and there's delirium, but – touch wood – it hasn't been life threatening.

“Whether you choose to stay here or go back to the inn, I have some friar's linctus made up which will bring some relief,” Nettie added, and she went through to the kitchen, returning with a large brown stoppered bottle.

“Here, let's get some medicine down you, Dzoldzaya. And you, too, Conrad, if only to err on the side of caution.”

“What about you, Nettie?” asked Dzoldzaya, struggling to sit up straight on the sofa. “The last thing you need is a fever.”

“Don't worry about that, Dzoldzaya. The fever's been going around for a good few weeks now and – touch wood – I've been unscathed. I'm content to take my chances. Now open wide.”

“What worries me more,” confided Nettie at length, “is the way this community has been going downhill recently. Unless it's just that I've inadvertently caused offence, for some reason the folk around here have become so surly. They used to be so welcoming and neighbourly, but now all I see is vacuous pretence in place of genuine spirit. Sometimes I despair. It's as if the heart and soul of the village has been slowly poisoned. And yet I seem to be the only one who has such concerns, so perhaps it's just me who's becoming old and jaded?”

“Or perhaps it's the pressures of modern life which are making folk so taciturn and unneighbourly?” Conrad suggested.

Dzoldzaya opened her eyes and nodded. “Yes, I must say that though the landlord of the Cat and Fiddle was probably grateful for our custom, he and his wife did seem a little standoffish and the locals were not exactly a bundle of laughs.

“Sheesh,” Dzoldzaya said, visibly trembling. “That's the strangest thing: the sweat is dripping from my brow now and yet I feel so cold.”

“Stay there and I'll go and get you some blankets,” Nettie advised, exchanging glances with Conrad. “Perhaps you'd place a fresh log on the fire, young man? Then you can help me downstairs with a folding bed I have, while you still have the strength.”

“That sounds ominous,” he smiled, making light of it.

“You'll be sorely needing it before the night is out, if I'm not much mistaken,” she called back. “My husband and two boys are away on business in the city over the weekend and I'd offer you a bed upstairs, but I think you'd actually be better sleeping down here.”

“Sure, you know best,” he nodded.

Mistaken, Nettie was not. By mid-evening, the lady had two feverish patients on her hands, though by that time Conrad was too “out of it” himself to really know what time it was, where he was, even who he was for that matter, and too far gone to care. The one thing that he could do when asked (so he was told) was rouse himself momentarily to open his mouth and swallow when so requested. Doing so must have been something deeply engrained, perhaps going all the back to childhood, or simply instinctive.

A noise awoke Conrad from his slumber. It was a sharp tap-tap-tapping on the window pane. Rousing himself, he went to the window to seek out the source of the tapping, to see a young woman standing there. Conrad had never seen Katharine before, all he had with him was a small, black and white passport photograph, but he recognized her instantly.

Dressed in a long, flowing white robe, the young woman was beckoning to him and he hurried from the living room, unlocked and opened the front door and peered around.

There she was again, beckoning to him from the bottom of the garden, just inside the gate. But as he reached the gate, she left the garden and wandered off down the street. He broke into a trot, yet no matter how fast he ran, for some reason he couldn't catch up with her and she remained as distant and still beckoned him on.

And then, having entered through a rusty iron gate, the young woman disappeared up a path which ran round the side of the local chapel. Conrad chased after the woman and for a time lost sight of her until he came round the back of the chapel. There she was, having stopped eluding him at length. She was seated on the edge of one of the flat gravestones and she was beckoning him to approach her.

As he walked up to the woman, she made no move to leave, sitting there instead on the black marble slab. Her fingers went to her robe and she slowly undid each button, starting at her neck and working her way down. She hitched up her robe to undo the buttons at the bottom, cast the robe aside and lay down on the grave.

Growing increasingly aroused, Conrad carefully climbed up on the marble tombstone and the woman pulled him down on top of her, nestling her head in her ample, velvet-soft bosom. All she was wearing beneath her white robe was a curious, glowing white crystal on a thin silver necklace. And as he lay there, he could feel himself strangely drawn to the crystal. There the woman was, as naked as the day she was born, and so well endowed by nature, and yet all he wanted was to be enveloped in the ethereal, pearly glow of that crystal.

Just then a voice cried out: “Conrad!”

He pushed himself up to look around, and when he saw the creature looking back at him he recoiled in fright, pushing himself off the tombstone and staggering back in terror.

“Oh there you are! You gave me such a fright. I've searched high and low for you. Whatever are you doing?” a familiar voice asked.

He turned to see Nettie Bagshaw standing there, clutching a blanket in her hands. “Here, get this over your shoulders and let's get back inside before you catch your death of cold.”

As Nettie led him away, Conrad took a furtive look back, but the woman had disappeared into the night and was nowhere to be seen.

“What happened?” he wanted to know.

“I'm sorry, Conrad, I must have dozed off. As far as I can make out, you have been sleep walking. Anyhow, I've found you, so no harm done. Let's get you back in the warmth.”

Finally they were back in the cottage and Nettie gave him another double dose of medicine before tucking him into bed again. He must have dozed off, even though he tried to stay awake, and that's the last he knew until he awoke the next morning.

“How are you feeling now?” Nettie enquired when she saw his eyes open.

“I have a thumping headache,” he replied, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “And my muscles ache.”

Nettie went to feel his forehead. “Well, you're over the worst now, Conrad. I'll see what I can find to ease your aches.”

Not seeing Dzoldzaya on the settee, Conrad shot his eyes around. “Where's Dzoldzaya?” he asked.

“Oh, she's fine now,” Nettie reassured him. “I ran her a bath earlier and she's just getting dressed.”

Conrad breathed a sigh of relief and sank back onto the bed. “Thank you, Nettie.”

“Good, well when your other half is finished, I'll run you a nice, soothing herbal bath, too. There should still be enough hot water left. Meanwhile, I'd imagine you could go a cup of tea?”

“Rather,” he nodded. “I'm parched.”

By the time Nettie had come back with the tea pot, Dzoldzaya had emerged from the bathroom.

“Hello there, lover,” Dzoldzaya smiled and greeting, bending down to give him a friendly peck on the cheek and immediately regretting it.

“Youch,” she complained. “I'm all aches and pains.”

“Join the club,” he nodded.

Nettie handed out the tea. “Nettie, you are a regular life saver,” Dzoldzaya said appreciatively. “I hope I didn't embarrass myself when I was out of it. Please tell me I didn't start blabbering.”

Nettie laughed. “No, you were a model patient, my dear. Hardly heard a peep out of you.”

Conrad had a question. “Tell me, half way through the night, did I get up and start wandering around outside, or was it just a dream?”

Nettie looked first to him and then to Dzoldzaya.

“Oh, don't worry: we don't keep any secrets from each other,” he assured the lady.

“Yes,” Nettie nodded. “I must have fallen asleep and you went for a sleepwalk. You unlocked the door, let yourself out of the house and went wandering off through the village.”

“Really? So what then?”

“When I saw you were gone, I grabbed a blanket and went searching for you. I didn't know what possessed me to search there, but I eventually found you stretched out on one of the graves behind the chapel.”

“Oh, oh … It's coming back to me now,” he nodded.

“I called your name and I expect that I frightened you, because you jumped clean off the gravestone screaming like the hounds of hell were after you.

“Anyhow, we got you home, and that's all that really matters.”

“So what made you wander off?” Dzoldzaya asked him.

“I heard a tapping on the window pane,” he confessed as the details began to return.

“And?”

“And so I went outside to see what it was.” He paused for a moment, wondering whether he should provide only edited highlights.

“Katharine was there. I recognized her from the photo. And I went to talk to her, but every time I got close, she'd move off and beckon me. So, to cut a long story short, she eventually led me into the graveyard.”

He thought he'd perhaps best skip some of the details. Dzoldzaya was an understanding type, but perhaps there was a limit.

“One thing I remember is that Katharine had this weird glowing white crystal around her neck, and I remember being drawn to it. I wanted so much to be bathed in its light.

“And then Katharine suddenly changed her appearance. That's what freaked me out, Nettie. One minute I was looking at Katharine and in the next moment she was transformed into such seriously ugly black creature.”

Nettie raised her eyebrows and put her tea cup down.

“It's strange that you should mention the crystal, Conrad. You see some time ago, a local farmer came across a strange, glowing object on his land and he took it along to show Pastor Kent. It turned out it was a cluster of crystals. Having decided that the object must be heaven-sent and might protect folk from the fever, the Pastor had the cluster broken up into separate crystals and made into necklaces. And he's been giving out these 'miracle crystals' to the believers at evensong. He did indeed give one to Katharine. Somehow I don't think that Roland was the kind of gentleman who'd go for one himself, though.”

“It's a funny old world, isn't it,” Conrad marvelled.

“Of course it could be that you'd simply seen one of the villagers wearing a crystal,” Nettie pointed out. “Just about anyone who's anybody in the village has been given one.”

“Yeah, I guess that would figure.”

“So how come you haven't got one, Nettie?” Dzoldzaya enquired.

“I don't go to evensong,” Nettie told them. “Without going into detail, you might say that I serve a lesser god. Some around here would be a little less charitable, because as ever, the old gods and their adherents are demonized, or adopted in some lesser, transmogrified or grotesque capacity, when new ones come along. Fortunately, they stopped burning witches some time ago.”

“Ah, I see. Well your secret is safe with us, Nettie, so rest assured of that,” Dzoldzaya told the lady.

“Of that I can be certain,” the lady smiled back. “You're good and amiable folk, that's plain to see and a joy to behold.”

They stayed at the cottage all morning and by the afternoon their aching limbs had pretty much returned to normal, so they all went out. Nettie took them for a long, circuitous walk in the woods across the river, stopping every now and again to pick some leaves or uproot a plant, and when they returned to the village, they headed for the Cat and Fiddle, taking Nettie in to have a meal on them to show their appreciation.

Needless to say, the landlord wasn't well pleased to see Conrad and Dzoldzaya when they finally turned up, but when they'd explained that they'd gone down with fever, he seemed to take it well enough. In any case, they were still paying for the breakfast they hadn't had and staying the extra night, so he could hardly grumble.

“What can I get you to drink?” Dzoldzaya asked, guiding Nettie to a warm seat by the fire and taking out her purse.

“Well, I don't drink alcohol,” the lady told them. “But a glass of lemonade would go down a treat.

“Proper lemonade, I mean, not that imported fizzy sugar water.”

“Right you are. Pint of their best, Conrad?”

He nodded absent mindedly. “Yes, please. And I'll be over in a minute to help carry.

“Hang on. I mean no, Dee. I much prefer lager, thanks.”

Dee shook her head. “You can't get lager in Ingmar, Connie,” she replied. “I told you that only yesterday.”

He shrugged. “Sorry, Dee, I must be losing my memory in my dotage. Beer it is, then.”

“So, what's your husband do for a living?” Dzoldzaya asked when they were settled and the landlady had brought their meal.

“Martin and the boys – Carl and Rees – sell household gadgets for a number of companies in the city. They mostly sell to other businesses, but sometimes when things get quiet they have to go door to door. Truth be told, though, their heart isn't really in the work, but needs must.

“You see, there's no sufficiently-well paid work around here, and with increasing mechanization there's not even as much menial work as there used to be. So they have to ply their trade in the city. It's hard with Martin and the boys being away so much: hard for me and perhaps even harder for them. And it's going to get even worse when the boys come to find places of their own. The price of houses and the cost of rental have both rocketed in these last few years as city folk buy up places to stay on holiday or at the weekend, or to let to holidaymakers. Some commute regularly to the city from here. So the local yokels as we might be called are being priced out of the market. And as a consequence, communities – real communities, that is – are dying.”

“Have you thought of relocating?” Dzoldzaya asked, shaking her head sadly on hearing Nettie's tale.

“Oh, we've talked of moving on many occasions, to be closer to the work, but though the boys are more cosmopolitan in their outlook than we are, Martin and I are not at all keen on living in the city. So nothing has ever come of our talk.”

There was silence for the next minute or two as they ate their meal. It wasn't just the food that they had to digest. And then Dzoldzaya broke the silence. “Have you thought of moving to the Freelands?” she asked at length.

Nettie raised her eyebrows. “Ah, would that we could, but we can't. Martin did make tentative enquiries, but we were reliably informed that though we could obtain a visa to visit, it was doubtful that we would be granted work permits. And without a work permit, we would not be eligible for a long stay visa, let alone citizenship. And that they call the Freelands. Beats me.”

Glancing at Conrad, and feeling that she could trust Nettie, Dzoldzaya went on to tell Nettie about the Network she and Conrad represented. She told Nettie that part of their work involved smuggling people into the Freelands, giving them new identities, offering them educational courses and later finding them work – all of which was at no cost to the recipient. And she also talked about Tenzing himself and touched on the spiritual aspects of the work.

If Nettie, Martin, Carl or Rees wanted a place in the Freelands, it could be arranged and Dzoldzaya reassured Nettie that they would all be made most welcome. Then she paused to gauge Nettie's reaction.

Nettie thought for a few seconds and emptied her mouth before replying. “That's a very kind offer, Dzoldzaya; thank you. I can see that you are quite sincere and good-natured. However, I'm not sure if I could handle 'living a lie' – if I might call it that? – and us having to constantly watch our backs for fear of giving ourselves away. And I have a feeling that Martin would have a similar difficulty.”

Dzoldzaya nodded. “Yes, I can appreciate what you're saying, Nettie.” She exchanged glances with Conrad, knowing full well that Conrad himself had fallen foul of the authorities and ended up being imprisoned and exiled. To have revealed this to Nettie, even though what happened to Conrad was the exception rather than the norm, would have driven a whole bundle of nails in the coffin of that particular idea; and yet there was no getting away from the fact that not mentioning it was a more than a little duplicitous.

And again there was silence for a time.

Of course there was always the possibility that Nettie and the others could play a part in the new operation when it had been set up in Ingmar, but that was still very much in the air as yet, and it would take them several years before they were in a position to offer such work. Whilst the world seemed to work from moment to moment (and, yes, they did, too), the Network worked to a time scale measured in decades, even whole centuries, indeed ultimately to the slow heart beat of millennia.

The only other option where they could help out was the retreat. Tenzing called it babs chu; others called it Abshar or Shershar, all of which simply referred to a place where a waterfall or cascades were to be found.

In mentioning babs chu there was a certain risk, of course. But Dzoldzaya was a good judge of character and something was telling her that not only would the retreat be right up Nettie's street, so too would she and her family bring something desirable and of worth to babs chu.

Again she looked to Conrad and he nodded, though whether he knew what she was thinking and might be giving her the go ahead, or was merely acknowledging the exchange of glances, she could not tell.

“Go with it,” something was telling her, and that's precisely what Uncle Tenzing might have told her had he been there at that moment. In a sense, having spent so long in Tenzing's presence, wherever the Director was, he was still there with her, and not just “in spirit” as a layperson might loosely use the term, but in a very intimate and technical fashion. They had a common connection, well rather they had a distinctly uncommon connection, and this was not limited by time and space. Indeed, time and space were, according to Tenzing, mere localized phenomena. It was possible to transcend time and space and operate outside of them.

Conrad raised his hand and snapped his fingers in her face, breaking her reverie.

“Sorry, I was miles away,” she smiled. “Time for another drink, lover, and this time you're paying.”

“No, no. Please allow me to repay you for that delightful meal,” Nettie insisted, fishing in her handbag to find her purse.

Conrad was having none of that and Nettie reluctantly put away her purse.

Dzoldzaya drew a deep breath. “There's another option,” she said broaching the subject. “Have you ever thought of moving to Narayana?”

Nettie smiled. “I know so little of Narayana, my dear. It's such a distant realm and we're not very worldly wise in these parts.”

“It's my homeland,” she told Nettie, and she went on to describe the country in terms of its geography, economy, and rich and ancient culture.

“As well as running the Network, my uncle Tenzing is a diplomat. There would be no problem whatsoever in getting you work there or even citizenship.”

As Conrad returned with the drinks and they thanked him, Dzoldzaya mentioned to him that she'd been telling Nettie about Narayana.

“There's more, isn't there?” Nettie piped up quite out of the blue. What made her utter this remark, Dzoldzaya did not know, but she was right on the button.

“Oh yes, there's a lot more, Nettie,” she smiled and went on to tell the lady about babs chu. The only things that she didn't reveal, of course, were the whereabouts of the valley, the means of entry through the tunnel behind the waterfall, and the fabulous wealth that was hidden there. That was something only a very few carefully chosen trustees knew about, and their lips were firmly sealed.

You could see Nettie's eyes light up when she heard about the community and again when Dzoldzaya mentioned the herb gardens, the craft workshops and the classes.

Nettie shivered visibly and piped up: “You know, my mother used to say from time to time: 'Every old sock meets an old shoe.' And I think I know what she meant by that lovely saying.”

Hearing these words, it was Dzoldzaya's turn to feel a welcome quiver run up her own spine and tickle her scalp, and she clutched Conrad's warm hand under the table.

“Have a think about it, Nettie. Tomorrow, we must be on our way to find our friends, but I promise we'll be back in the next few days or weeks. And even then, you don't have to decide until you're good and ready.”

She rummaged in her bag and produced a bundle of cards, riffling through them until she found Rosalie's number. “This is Rosalie Muller's phone number. She's Tenzing's deputy. If and when you decide that you would like to move, just phone that number. And for my part, I'll make sure that Tenzing and Rosalie are informed that you may phone and for what purpose. As I say, though, it's entirely up to you – as a family – and according to your needs and your timetable.”

“Thank you,” Nettie smiled. “I'll speak to Martin when he returns, and see what he has to say. And depending on the outcome, we'll then speak to the boys. Of course, they'll want to meet you for themselves before anything might be decided.”

“Indeed. That's perfectly understandable,” Dzoldzaya nodded, only then aware of the fact that she hadn't met Nettie's husband or their boys herself. Martin could be a raving psychopath or a fruitcake, for all she knew. And yet she was so sure that it was right to extend the invitation.

Perhaps sensing Dzoldzaya's momentary hesitancy, Nettie added optimistically: “As my mother would say, 'It'll all come out in the wash.' Martin and the boys are good people and easy to get along with. You'll like them and I'm certain that they will like you.”

The lady drank the last remnants of her lemonade and rose to her feet. “Well, it's been wonderful meeting you both. Thank you so much: it was a delightful meal and I've enjoyed your company doubly so. And now, if you'll excuse me, I must get to my bed. I have to be up early tomorrow to see to the washing. Anyhow, have a safe journey. I look forward to seeing you again.”

She and Conrad said their farewells and when Nettie had left they decided that they, too, might as well turn in for the night and make an early start the next day.

18. Poldyke

Only when Dzoldzaya and Conrad reached Poldyke did they finally manage to get through to Rosalie Muller. The line to Narayana was still out, so they reported the fault and were told that engineers were still working on that but had managed to temporarily reroute calls to the Freelands.

As fortune would have it and to Dzoldzaya's relief, Roland and Katharine had been in touch with Rosalie, having themselves experienced difficulties in getting through. They'd made it to Poldyke and were staying at the Trigune Hotel, which was in Market Square opposite the bus station. That was the good news and it would save her and Conrad a good deal of searching around, though if the pair followed protocol, then they'd leave a message at some key location such as the first garage or stables en-route or at a post office.

But there was also potentially bad news. In failing to answer a key question correctly, Katharine had indicated that something was amiss, but according to Rosalie, Katharine had provided no detail, which might indicate that she and Roland were in some way compromised. So Dzoldzaya and Conrad would have to tread warily. In such cases, the standard advice was to not indicate that you know or recognize the other party and not to speak to them unless spoken to. However, in this particular case, since neither Roland nor Katharine knew them, they would simply have to make the initial approach.

Reaching the hotel and locating reception, Conrad pinged the little brass bell on the counter and waited until a young lady came to answer the call while Dzoldzaya had a casual flick through the open register. “Hello there,” Conrad smiled. “My name is Arnold Baker. I wonder if a message has been left for me?”

“I'll just check,” the receptionist said, turning round and searching through a pile of envelopes in a cubbyhole behind her. At length she returned empty handed. “No, I'm sorry sir. There's no message for you.”

“Ah, not to worry,” he replied. He'd just asked on the off chance.

“And will there be anything more, sir?” the receptionist enquired.

“Yes, I'd like to book a double room for an indefinite period, please. And could you stable our horses?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Mister Baker, but there isn't much call for stabling these days and we've discontinued that service. So do you still want to book a room, or do you want to try elsewhere?”

“Yes, we're happy to stay here.”

“Which way did you come into Poldyke?”

“From the north,” he told her.

The lady fished around beneath the counter and produced a printed business card. “Here you are. I'd try Garnet's. You'll have passed it on the way in, not far from the lake. I'm sorry, it's a fifteen minute walk away, but those are the nearest stables that I know of.”

“No problems,” he replied, taking the card.

Dzoldzaya nodded. “Yes, I made a note of the place. Anyhow, thank you for your help. We'll leave our bags, if that's alright with you, then go and sort out the horses, and we'll be back later.”

“Yes, that's fine and you're welcome. You can leave your bags here at reception, if you like, and take them up to your room later. That'll save you a trip.”

Once the horses were sorted out, they headed back to the hotel, freshened up in their room, then went downstairs for lunch before deciding what to do next. As chance would have it, just as they'd finishing their meal and were heading back toward the lobby, Dzoldzaya tapped him on his arm and nodded. She'd seen Roland and Katharine coming downstairs and heading for the entrance, recognizing Katharine's unmistakable long red hair, so he and Dzoldzaya grabbed their coats and followed them out.

Roland was standing in the doorway lighting a cigarette and Conrad took the opportunity to make contact. Fishing in his pocket he produced a cigarette and walked up to Roland.

“Excuse me, old chap,” he spoke up. “Could I trouble you for a light?”

“Certainly,” Roland nodded, handing him a box of matches.

“Arnold Baker,” Conrad introduced himself in a hushed tone. “Can we talk?”

“I'm sorry, Arnold who?”

Roland should have known who Arnold Baker was, or rather what it meant when someone introduced themselves as Arnold Baker. Clearly they'd failed to brief him correctly.

You could almost hear the cogs whirring. Finally the penny dropped and Roland's eyes lit up. “Ah, has Tenzing sent you?”

“Yes,” Conrad nodded.

“Roland Dawkins,” the man said, pumping his hand. “And this is my assistant, Katharine Marsh.”

Katharine was hovering a short way off and as soon as Conrad saw her, he knew that she was unwell. She had a weathered look etched across her grey features and her eyes, which were underscored by dark rings, were set deep in their sockets.

“I'm Conrad Harper and this is my better half, Dzoldzaya Khalili,” Conrad said, returning the greeting. “Perhaps we might go somewhere out of the way where we can talk freely?”

“There's a park not far from here, Conrad,” Roland suggested, then he turned to Katharine. “But only if you feel up to a walk, Katharine. If you'd rather, we could perhaps find a warm café to sit in?”

“I'm sure I can manage a short walk, Roland.”

“Good, well if you get tired, you just let us know.”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise,” she nodded, and it was clear that she had to force a smile.

Roland gave Katharine a friendly pat on the back and took her arm as they headed off toward the park.

“I'm worried about Katharine,” Dzoldzaya confided in a hushed tone. “She does not look at all well to me.”

Conrad merely nodded, thinking very much the same thing himself.

They took a leisurely stroll through the park, circling a wide lake which stood at its heart, then found some seats and sat there for a few minutes, drinking in the view and watching the swans swimming gracefully across the water and foraging for weeds with their long necks.

“So, how are you getting on with setting up operations here, Roland?” asked Conrad at length.

“Well, Katharine and I have been looking around for a place to live and we have two or three two bedroomed flats on our short list. Just between you and me, Katharine hasn't been feeling too well, so that's held us back somewhat. As for office premises, we've had a quick look around estate agents, but as yet we haven't been particularly taken by what we've seen. Still, it's early days.”

Whilst Conrad was talking to Roland, Dzoldzaya had been attempting to strike up a conversation with Katharine, though Katharine was proving rather subdued and uncommunicative. She was also quite unsteady on her feet and as they wandered back toward the hotel, Dzoldzaya walked with her arm hooked under Katharine's to help support her.

Finally, they were back at the hotel and they went through to the lounge and ordered coffee and a bite to eat. Katharine went off to powder her nose and Dzoldzaya took the opportunity to broach the question of Katharine's health with Conrad and Roland whilst she was away.

“I'm not at all happy,” she told them. “Katharine is not well.”

Roland nodded. “Yes, I was wondering if I should take her to see a doctor?”

“I think that when Katharine comes back, we should have a word with her,” she suggested.

With a little prompting, they finally got Katharine to admit that she should seek help rather than soldier on, but she was quite adamant that she didn't want to see a doctor locally.

“I need to see Tenzing,” she entreated. “He'll know what to do.”

Dzoldzaya shook her head. “Tenzing is at babs chu,” she told Katharine.

“Babs chu?”

“It's a community retreat,” Dzoldzaya explained. “But it's high in the mountains of Narayana and there's no way that you'd be able to make such a journey in your condition.”

“I'm weak on my legs, but that wouldn't stop me riding,” Katharine maintained. “I must see Tenzing.”

Again Dzoldzaya shook her head.

“Having said that, I do agree that there are healers there such as Mair Freida who would almost certainly be able to help you.

“The bottom line is that something must be done,” she added. Then she had a thought. “I could take you back to see Nettie Bagshaw and leave Conrad and Roland to sort out affairs here. And we'll get in touch with Tenzing from Merriedene to see what he has to say.”

“The phone lines may still be down,” Conrad pointed out.

“We'll see. Perhaps Rosalie can still relay messages?”

Though Katharine's deep set eyes did not exactly light up at this proposition, she did nod vigorously in agreement. “Yes, take me to Nettie.”

“What do you think, Roland?” Dzoldzaya enquired.

He shrugged. “I'll leave that decision in your capable hands, Dzoldzaya. Whatever you decide, I'll fit in.”

“Okay, so the first thing to do is get you to Merriedene. Katharine, you stay here with Conrad for a few moments. Meanwhile, if you wouldn't mind, Roland, perhaps you could come upstairs and help me sort out Katharine's things ready for the journey?”

“Sure thing.” Roland rose to his feet.

Conrad looked at his watch. “It's gone lunchtime and you'll need to pick up the horses. Isn't it a bit late to be setting off?”

Dzoldzaya performed a mental calculation. “No, that's alright. We can easily reach Frogmoor by this evening and Merriedene by late afternoon tomorrow. If we leave it until tomorrow morning to set out, we won't get there until the day after tomorrow.” Dzoldzaya had a head for such arrangements.

“Okay, you're the boss,” he nodded, then had a thought: “I could go and saddle up whilst your upstairs, if you like.”

“It's a kind thought, lover, but no. You stay here and keep Katharine company. It won't take Roland and me long to pack and we can call a cab to take us back to the stables. There's a taxi rank by the bus station, just opposite.”

“Have you thought of taking the bus back to Merriedene?”

Dzoldzaya thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, because we won't know until later where we go from Merriedene, and it would be a fag to have to come all the way back here just to pick up the horses.”

19. Round two

With his arm around her shoulder, the host guiding Katharine back to the red cross marked on the floor. Behind them, the stage hands were manhandling fresh props onto the stage.

“Right then, Katharine: if you're still game, we're ready to play round two of You Betcha!” the host beamed.

He swivelled Katharine round to face the video screen. “Hal, would you please select another contestant from the audience,” he requested, and again the screen lit up and began to flip through hundreds of photographs of would-be contestants. And then the stream of images came to an abrupt halt.

“Josiah Woodridge, come on down!”

The lights went up over the audience and several rows back, a rather rakish looking man looked around incredulously. He rose falteringly and with apparent reluctance to his feet and sidled along the row as his neighbours rose to let him pass and the audience politely applauded him.

When he got to the end of the row, he again faltered, then suddenly turned and ran up the aisle away from the stage. As they took in what was happening, the audience's applause turned to rage. But the man had not got more than five or six paces before Katharine saw a bright flash and he crumpled up and fell to the floor.

“Oh well, you win some, you lose some,” the host shrugged, “and a reminder, ladies and gentlemen – if you really need one – that participation in You Betcha! is not optional.”

You betcha life it's not!

Again he turned Katharine back to face the video screen. “Hal, would you select another contestant, please?”

“Keith Freud!” the host announced at length as the image froze on the screen. “Come on down!”

Again Katharine watched as the man rose to his feet, shuffled his way to the aisle and trotted toward the stage, with a camera operator filming him as he went.

The man clambered up the steps to the raised stage and, oozing confidence, swaggered across the floor to pump the host's hand and take his position on the green cross.

“Welcome Keith. Well, I'm sure you know the score but just in case you don't, I'll offer a reprise. Win this round, Keith, and you get to come back as a contestant on tomorrow night's show. Katharine, if you win this round you go on to face the reigning champion, Duncan Treefellow, in round three.”

At the mere mention of this man's name, the audience erupted. Whoever Treefellow was, he seemed to have risen to an iconic status.

“Eleven straight wins, all by way of a knockout. That's something, isn't it, ladies and gentlemen?”

Again the audience erupted and the host waited for a few seconds before raising his hands. “Alright, alright folk. That's what's hopefully coming up a little later in the show, but now Katharine and Keith, it's time to face your fear!”

Face your fear! the audience called back in unison.

“So, let's see what gives you the chills, Katharine,” the host announced, drawing her to one side as a scantily-clad assistant entered the stage. She crossed the floor, fastened a strap around Katharine's head and extended some form of telescopic antenna attached to the band, then stood to one side as the host turned Katharine round to face the video screen.

All manner of strange images flashed up on the screen and then the image froze. “Ah yes, rats,” the host nodded as Katharine shuddered involuntarily. “Some love them, some loath them. That's quite a common phobia. But we can do better than that, can't we?”

Again the images began to flash on the screen, and again the image froze. When she saw the cockroaches, Katharine felt sick.

“Mmm, I can see that the thought of cockroaches crawling all over you makes you squirm, Katharine. But we can do better than that. What else puts the willies up you, I wonder?”

“No, no. Hal tells me that we have all the data we need. So let's remove the mind probe for now and you can gather your wits together.”

The assistant skipped back onto the stage and removed the leather band and stood Katharine to one side as the host guided her opponent Keith into position. When his probe was attached, he too was turned to face the video screen.

“Very well, Keith. Let's see what freaks you out, shall we?”

Flashing for a time, the image froze.

“Good lord, Keith, you do have a vivid imagination, don't you? Moving swiftly on, if you please, Hal. This is a family show.

“My word, now I'm not a psychoanalyst, but you do seem to have a fixation with your bodily orifices. Ah, yes, now that's more like it. Gives me the creeps just watching the video.”

“Okay, Hal tells me he has sufficient data. So while my lovely assistant is removing your probe and you get settled, Keith, we'll have a short commercial break. But don't go away folk, we'll be right back to see Katharine and Keith face their fear! What's that?”

Face your fear!

“That's right! Be back in a jiffy.”

Whilst they were running the commercials, stagehands were busily preparing the set for round two. They wheeled in two tall cylindrical objects. At the top was a clear section with a door mounted on it, and presumably that was where they were to stand. At the top of that was a long plastic pipe connected to some kind of machine, the purpose of which Katharine couldn't quite fathom. And at the bottom she could clearly see by the tell-tale metal screw that this was the obligatory meat grinder and receptacle. The hands also erected a tall screen between the two cylindrical structures.

Again there was a ladder fastened against the side of the cylinder to allow them access to the upper chamber.

Who needed any additional fear when faced by that macabre device?

And to make matters worse, while the commercials were running, two glamorous assistants who appeared to have had an accident with a bicycle pump and smiles surgically implanted on their faces, helped them strip to their underwear.

The host strode toward centre stage, microphone in hand and the audience began to applaud on cue as Katharine and her opponent were ushered back into place on their red and green crosses. “Thank you, thank you and welcome back to round two of You Betcha! folks, where our brave contestants Katharine Marsh and Keith Freud are about to face their fear.”

Face your fear! cried the audience. Face your fear! Face your fear! Face your fear!

“Let me describe the apparatus to you, folk,” explained their host. “Using the ladders, you climb into the uppermost section of the cylinder and the door will be sealed behind you. Up above, through the tubing, you will be fed certain entities toward which you have a phobia. Beneath you, there is a trapdoor and just in front of you at waist height is a large red button.”

“The way it works is this. You hold out for as long as you can, until you can take no more. If you hang in there until the hooter goes, you walk free, but if you can't take any more, you press that big red button.

“Now, if your opponent has already pressed their button, you're safe.

“But if you press your button first, what is it folk?” asked the host, cupping his hand to his ear.

The meat grinder!

“That's right. And then?”

The sausage machine!

“Why's that?”

Waste not, want not!

“You betcha!”

You betcha life it is!

“And thanks to the screen between the cylinders and a delayed action on the trapdoor mechanism, you will have no way of knowing whether your opponent has pressed his or her button or not.”

“So, when you're ready, our glamorous assistants will guide you up the steps and seal you inside. Music maestro, please.”

“Oh, and did I forget to tell the contestants that there was also an increasing degree of pain involved? How remiss of me,” the host apologized disingenuously.

No pain, no gain!

“You betcha!”

As Katharine clambered inside the cylinder and the door was sealed behind her, she was already feeling quite claustrophobic and had to take slow, deep breaths to control herself.

For the first few seconds nothing happened, but she was tensed up waiting for something to happen, and this was made all the worse by not knowing what to expect.

When it happened, for all her preparation, she was taken completely off guard. The pipe above her head belched and she was showered with something. At first she was determined to keep staring straight ahead and hold her nerve, but she could feel things which quite literally made her skin crawl, and caught sight of something in her peripheral vision which sent a shudder through her. If there was one thing that made her nauseous, it was cockroaches.

Unable to catch her breath, she was swamped with adrenaline. And what made matters worse was that being sealed in the cylinder, she could not do what her body was desperately telling her to do, which was to take flight.

“How you doing in there, Katharine?” she heard the host calling over the PA system. “You want out yet?”

She made no reply, gritting her teeth together, determined not to buckle under the pressure she was facing.

And then Katharine remembered an old joke and had to smile in spite of herself.

What is worse than finding a maggot in a sandwich?

Finding half a maggot.

Perhaps that was the way to stay sane? To have a laugh to herself, in spite of everything. That's the kind of thing that Tenzing would do under similar circumstances, perhaps?

At that moment, the pipe belched again and several heavy objects bounced off her head and shoulders and fell to the bottom of the cylinder. She could feel by the scurrying of paws over her bare feet that these must be the rats.

Unable to control herself, she leant forward and vomited all over the clear perspex side of the cylinder.

Come on Katharine, pull yourself together.

“When is a door not a door?” she asked herself.

“When it's a-jar.”

“When is a fool not a fool?”

“When he's a-loof.”

Sure, it wasn't even funny, but at least it distracted her attention.

“How many psychotherapists does it take to change a lightbulb?”

“Just one, but the lightbulb really has to want to change.”

She could hear the host, but could he hear her, she wondered? Was her opponent babbling incoherently like her or was he maintaining a stony silence? She had no way of knowing.

After the rats, came the spiders and they were all over her hair and crawling over her face and body until she was squirming.

And yet, she thought, if I've stood these hideous creatures this long, then there's no reason why I should cave in at all. That's what one part of her was saying, and yet another part of her was crawling up the walls, pleading, kicking and screaming to be let out. All she had to do was press the big red button and one way or another there would be an end to this nightmare.

Only then did she notice the filthy black leeches sticking to her arms, growing bloated on her blood, and she felt quite faint at the thought.

“Well, Katharine, you've had five minutes and it doesn't look like you can take much more of this,” called the host over the PA. She realized now that the sound came over a small loudspeaker just above her head, so it could be that he was speaking to her alone, and hence she had no idea of how her opponent was getting on. And the host hadn't revealed how long it would be before the hooter sounded and they won a reprieve. Surely, the audience's attention span could not be too long. Perhaps they were already baying for blood?

Oh Alicia, now something was trying to crawl inside her ear, and she spat another out of her mouth. The creepy things were even trying to crawl inside her pants. Her hands went to her face and she shook her head violently from side to side to dislodge the creatures.

“Fuck you Ewen, you hear me?” she screamed, banging her fist on the side of the cylinder, but the thick clear plastic was unyielding.

“Time to crank things up a notch, I think,” the host announced over the PA. “You know, you don't have to put yourself through this unnecessarily, Katharine. All you have to do is push the big red button and you're out of it.”

Out of what, she wondered?

Just then, the pipe above her head belched and repeatedly poured out some vile material all over her. It smelt disgusting, like pig slurry or rotting, maggot-infested flesh.

“What the fuck is this?” she screamed out.

“Something we prepared earlier,” came the reply. “One of your predecessors, to be precise.”

When she caught sight of the eyeballs floating on the surface of the goo, staring up at her, Katharine freaked. Unable to stand it for a single second longer, she slammed her palm against the red button.

“No more! No more! No more!” she screaming, tearing at her hair.

Only then realizing what she had done, she braced herself for the inevitable.

A moment later, she felt the floor beneath her feet begin to open, and then it stopped with her standing there straddling the gap, as the foul contents of the cylinder drained away.

And then she caught sight of the assistant climbing the ladder. The young woman paused for a moment, opened the door and beckoned to Katharine before descending the ladder.

Katharine hardly dare move but finally she pulled herself together and stepped out onto the ladder, keeping tight hold of the railing in case she slipped, for she was still covered from head to foot in obnoxious wet and sticky substances.

“Ladies and gentlemen! A huge round of applause, please, for a gallant and victorious contestant, Katharine Marsh!” the host called out amidst thunderous applause.

“And Hal I have to say, leaving those eyeballs in was a stroke of genius, wasn't it folk?”

Only when she reached the foot of the ladder and gingerly stepped across the stage did she see that the cylinder where her opponent had been was still sealed and that he was no more.

“Well done, Katharine. You acquitted yourself spectacularly. Another round of applause, if you please!”

Acquitted herself spectacularly? Don't make me puke. What planet was this guy on? He was out of his tree.

“Time to go to another commercial break now, folk, while Katharine gets herself cleaned up. But we'll be right back with the penultimate round in which Katharine goes face to face with the legendary reigning champion of You Betcha!, the one, the only, the unbeaten Duncan Treefellow!”

Though Katharine could see the man's lips moving, his words were a blur and she couldn't really take in what he was saying any more.

“Will the cathartic Katharine Marsh succumb or will the sturdy evergreen Duncan Treefellow finally meet his match and his maker? All that and more is coming up, so bring out your popcorn and crack open your six packs, folk, and do stay tuned!

“Iggy? Give her a shot of something would you? She's looking distinctly bog eyed and blue about the gills. Helen? A G and T,[2] please lovey.”

20. Back to Merriedene

Dzoldzaya found Katharine pretty subdued and uncommunicative on the way back up north, though this must surely be out of character or Tenzing would never have chosen her for the task. However, as they approached Merriedene, her spirits picked up noticeably. Katharine actually went so far as to say that she was looking forward to seeing Nettie Bagshaw again, and that was doubly reassuring. Reassuring that Katharine was possessed of better spirits and also that Nettie had made a good impression on her as well.

They asked around the village on their way in, but it seemed that the Cat and Fiddle was the only place offering lodgings, so Dzoldzaya had no option but to book in there. The first thing they did, once they'd settled in was eat. She ate well, but Katharine didn't have as much appetite, forcing down the first course for the sake of the calories and declining dessert.

They allowed their dinner to settle for a few minutes, then Dzoldzaya took Katharine up the road to see Nettie Bagshaw. When she rang the doorbell, a head popped up at the living room window and seeing them both there, Nettie hurried to the door.

“Why, this is a pleasant surprise,” Nettie chirped, beckoning them inside, clearly genuinely pleased to see them. “Do come in. Here, let me take your coats.

“Martin, are you there? We have visitors, brew a pot of tea, would you, dear? The kettle's on the stove, just coming to the boil.

“That's it, go through to the living room and pull the sofa closer to the fire.”

As Nettie's husband, Martin, came through from the kitchen, Dzoldzaya rose to greet him.

“Martin, this is Dzoldzaya and Katharine; girls, this is Martin, my hubby.”

“Well, hello there,” the man smiled, placing the tray by the fireside, then shaking their hands warmly. Nettie brought out a small collapsible table and placed the tray on there. Martin was not quite how she'd pictured him. He was smaller and a little chubby, with bright red cheeks and he instantly struck her as a cheerful and amiable type, as she had hoped.

“I've heard a lot about you,” Martin told them.

That old chestnut. “Only good things, I hope,” laughed Dzoldzaya.

“Of course,” he nodded. “So what brings you back here?”

“It's Katharine,” Dzoldzaya told them. “I'm afraid she's still under the weather.”

While Martin sorted out the teas, Nettie went to sit beside Katharine and first felt her forehead, then checked her pulse.

“Well, your temperature is normal, though your pulse is perhaps a little weak. How do you feel, my dear?”

Katharine mumbled something, but it seemed an effort for her to even talk.

“Katharine's pretty weak on her feet and rather subdued and uncommunicative,” Dzoldzaya explained, though not feeling entirely comfortable in describing Katharine in her presence. “However, she did perk up somewhat as we neared the village. She might not look it, but she has been looking forward to seeing you.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Nettie nodded and she went on to examine Katharine more thoroughly and ask her many questions. Finally, she went through to the kitchen and returned with another large brown bottle. “Well, I can't find anything physically wrong with you, Katharine, but I'll give you this: it's a general tonic that will also help eliminate any toxins from your body. Take two tea spoonfuls three times a day for a week. However, if your symptoms get worse or persist after a week, you must go and see a doctor. Do you understand?”

Katharine nodded solemnly. “Yes, thank you Nettie.”

“Anyhow, let's get the first dose down you,” requested Nettie, filling a dessert spoon. “That's it, open wide.”

Katharine grimaced, but she swallowed the medicine nevertheless.

“It could be that it's some complication or remnant of the fever,” Nettie told them. “Or it could be a matter not of the body but of the mind.”

They stayed for perhaps an hour, which gave Dzoldzaya and Martin a chance to get to know one-another a little better, and as fortune would have it, they got on rather well. The conversation turned to talk of the retreat at babs chu and Dzoldzaya was pleased to see that Martin had not vetoed the possibility of relocating, though clearly it was early days as yet and he and Nettie had a lot of thinking to do on the matter. One thing was certain: if they did move to babs chu then they would easily fit in the others and their skills would come in useful. It turned out that prior to his sales career, Martin had been a craftsman and could turn his hand to many practical skills. He was at his own confession “a jack of all trades”, though noting his self-effacing manner, Dzoldzaya did think that he was perhaps rather more than “a master of none”.

Finally it was time to leave and Nettie suggested that Katharine get another dose of the tonic down her when they got back to the Cat and Fiddle, then settle down early for the night. So, thanking their hosts, she and Katharine headed back down the road to the inn.

Whether it was the tonic or simply that Katharine was shrugging off her malady, Dzoldzaya couldn't tell, but the following day she appeared brighter and wolfed down a hearty breakfast.

Leaving Katharine to powder her nose, Dzoldzaya decided that perhaps now was a good time to try to get in touch with Rosalie or Tenzing, so she went through to the bar to see if they had a phone. They did indeed and, armed with a fistful of change, Dzoldzaya managed to get through to Rosalie. As the telephone rapidly ate the coins, Rosalie offered to call her back and Dzoldzaya brought her up to date with the news, not least what Tenzing advised about Katharine.

“Leave it with me,” Rosalie told her. “I'll phone and see if they can get Tenzing to the radio so that the operator can relay our conversation in real time, as it were, rather than hanging up and awaiting a reply. Anyhow, what time is it where you are?”

Dzoldzaya looked at her watch which she'd set to the local time. “Eight thirty.”

“Well, it'll be a couple of hours earlier at babs chu, so let's say I'll phone you back at eleven in the morning your time. I should have an answer by then. Speak with you soon, Dzoldzaya. Love you lots.”

“Love you, too, Rosalie.”

Katharine was feeling more steady on her feet that morning and she surprised Dzoldzaya by suggesting that they went for a walk around the village, and Dzoldzaya took her across the river to the woods, though rather than taking the somewhat longer route through the woods, they walked along the river bank and back across the river further downstream. Katharine was rather puffed and in need of a cuppa and a biscuit by the time they'd returned to the inn, but all the same, she seemed to have enjoyed the walk. Indeed, Dzoldzaya was left wondering whether they hadn't been too hasty in leaving Poldyke.

At eleven, almost at the first chime of the clock in the Cat and Fiddle and true to her word, Rosalie phoned back. She'd managed to speak to Tenzing and he suggested that if Katharine was up to the journey then she either return to Sher Point or at least as far as Shakra in Narayana.

If they returned to Sher Point, then they could leave their horses with one of the Network's representatives at Little Foss, just over the border in the southern Freelands and take a bus to Sher Point where Harold Grainger, Tenzing's number two could meet them and take them back to Foxholes.

And if they chose Narayana, then they could leave their horses at a town on the southern fringes of the central plateau and take a bus from there to Shakra and another bus from there to Renchok in the foothills. Then, if Katharine was feeling up to the journey, it would take them a couple of days on horseback and foot to reach babs chu. If she wasn't feeling up to it, then Tenzing could arrange for one of the healers to meet them at Renchok or even further south at Shakra for that matter. It would be better for Katharine to see Mair Freida, but as she was so old and frail, Mair Freida would not be able to make that journey.

Hanging up, Dzoldzaya had a word with Katharine, outlined what Rosalie had told her and left it up to Katharine to choose. She was not surprised to hear that Katharine favoured the journey to babs chu, so that decided they ordered some lunch and straight after their meal, after phoning Rosalie back to confirm the arrangements, they packed their belongings and headed up north toward Lilith.

21. Narayana

It was a long journey through Narayana and though Dzoldzaya did what she could to keep their spirits up, Katharine's continued reticence made it seem all the longer.

By the time they reached Shakra, Dzoldzaya was beginning to feel unwell herself, but she tried to remain strong for Katharine. It seemed that though the fever soon burnt itself out, it carried with it a darker and more lasting legacy that only emerged perhaps after incubation, some days later and left one feeling exhausted for no good reason. Perhaps it was something to do with toxins?

Having checked the time of the next bus, she phoned ahead to Renchok where Tenzing already had a couple of his students waiting for them, to say that she and Katharine would soon be on their way. Even that was an effort.

When the bus into the foothills arrived and Dzoldzaya had paid their fares, she bundled Katharine into a seat, slumped down beside her and shut her eyes to try to get some sleep. Only now did she really begin to appreciate what the last few days must have felt like for poor old Katharine. No wonder she had been so subdued.

It was late in the evening by the time they reached Renchok and having met up with Greg and Ollie, the students who would act as their guides, and eaten with them, both she and Katharine turned in early. She apologized profusely to the students for being so unsociable and bought them a drink to help make amends. Hearing that she and Katharine were feeling under the weather, though, the lads were perfectly understanding.

How they got to babs chu, heaven only knew. Katharine was so weak that they had to tie her to her horse so that she wouldn't fall off, though Dzoldzaya managed to stay strong in a rather frail and tenuous kind of a way. Still, most of the journey was a distant blur and it wasn't until they were out of the mountains, through the long tunnel and into the secluded valley at babs chu that she felt safe and dare let go.

Dzoldzaya must have passed out along the way and not realized it, for when she opened her eyes she found herself in bed. Sister Melanie was there, sitting on a seat, whilst Katharine was in the neighbouring bed. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she looked around blearily, and recognized that she was in the sick room at babs chu.

“Hello Sister Melanie,” she smiled. “So it wasn't all a dream, we made it here after all.”

“Good morning, sleepy head,” Sister lilted. “Yes, you made it here safely. Apparently you passed out as you were descending into the valley. So, how are you feeling now?”

“I feel a bit bog eyed, but not bad considering, thanks.”

“I made up a cocktail for you and I've been feeding it to you and Katharine for most of the night,” Sister told her.

“Gosh, you must be tired, Sister. You should have someone relieve you,” she replied, then asked: “So how's Katharine?”

“She's settled, though we won't really know until she wakes up. And once she's woken and I'm sure that she's on the mend, then I'll go and get some sleep myself. Your uncle Tenzing has been deeply worried and he was here all evening and into the early hours until I insisted he get some rest. He sends you his love and promises that he'll be along to see you later.”

Dzoldzaya pushed back the bedclothes and swung her legs over the side.

“No, no. Stay where you are, Dzoldzaya. If there's anything you need, all you have to do is holler.”

“I need the loo.”

“Then I shall get you a bed pan, Dzoldzaya.”

“No thank you, Sister. I can't abide bed pans. Anyhow, it'll give me a chance to test my legs,” Dzoldzaya insisted.

“Very well, but take my arm and I'll go with you.”

Dzoldzaya rose to her feet.

“How's that feel?”

“I'm a little unsteady, but a lot better than yesterday. I was utterly exhausted just sitting there waiting for the bus.”

She walked slowly down the sick room and down a short corridor to the loo.

“And now?”

“I feel a bit rubber legged, but otherwise I'm fine.”

“Good, in you go and I'll await your return. And then we'll see if we can get some breakfast down you.”

When they got back to the sick room, Sister went over to Katharine and managed to rouse her sufficiently to get some more medicine down her, but Katharine was still pretty unresponsive.

“That's not good,” Dzoldzaya noted.

“Yes, I'm quite concerned, actually. I think I'd better get Mair Freida to have a look. She should be up by now. Meanwhile I'll get one of the students to see to your breakfast.”

Dzoldzaya was out of bed again. “Don't worry about me,” she said, beginning to pull on her clothes. “You get Mair Freida.”

Dzoldzaya grabbed a towel and headed to the bath house, quickly freshened up, got dressed again and headed back to the sick room. Mair Freida was on her way there and she caught up with them and exchanged greetings with Mair Freida.

“You know, you should be in bed,” Mair Freida told her.

“I'll be alright,” Dzoldzaya assured her, slackening her pace. Mair Freida was quite elderly and walking was becoming increasingly difficult for her.

“What's your opinion, Dzoldzaya?” Mair Freida asked her out of the blue.

“Well, we both went down with a fever...”

“Yes, Tenzing told me that much. But – quick as you can – what's your opinion?”

“She's consumed,” Dzoldzaya replied, though she wasn't quite sure why she should say such a thing.

“Go on. Straight off the top of your head.”

“I mean, it's as if something is consuming her. And perhaps those around her?”

“I see,” Mair Freida nodded as they turned down the corridor toward the sick room. Catching sight of Sister Melanie, she called to her. “Good morning Melanie. If you can spare a minute, perhaps you can brief me before I visit the girl?”

“Morning, Mair Freida. Good of you to come so quickly. I'm desperately in need of a strong cup of coffee to wake me up, so let's go to my office and we'll talk.”

“And then you must get yourself to bed, Melanie. You look worn out. Two of the student nurses will be along shortly to help out, so you can rest easy.”

As usual, Tenzing must have risen early and he was already there by the beside watching anxiously over Katharine.

“Oh, thank Alicia you're safe,” he uttered, rising to his feet. He came across and patted Dzoldzaya on the shoulder. “Excuse me if I keep my distance, but Sister Melanie strongly advised against it, so I'll have to save the hugs and kisses until later.”

“I quite understand, Uncle. It's so good to be back. On the bus to Renchok I began to think I wouldn't make it, and poor Katharine was so weak they had to strap her to the horse.”

“Right then,” said Mair Freida entering the sick room and clapping her hands. Dzoldzaya got up from the bedside and moved aside to give the lady some room.

“Good morning, Katharine. Do you know where you are?”

Katharine stirred a little, though she didn't open her eyes.

“You're at babs chu,” Mair Freida told her.

When Katharine didn't respond, Mair Freida took a flannel from the bedside cabinet, soaked it in cold water, wrung it out and carefully wiped it over Katharine's face, and finally she opened her eyes and looked this way and that.

“Hello, Katharine. Everything's alright. You're at babs chu,” Mair Freida repeated. “You're with friends and you're in safe hands.”

“No, no, try to stay awake Katharine. I need to talk with you. Dzoldzaya, be a dear and make her a strong coffee. There's a kettle in Sister Melanie's office and it's only recently boiled. And Tenzing, if you could help me raise Katharine up on some pillows, that would help enormously. Thank you, you're a gentleman.”

By the time the coffee had gone down, Katharine was a little more awake, though still rather uncommunicative, and the student nurses had arrived.

“Okay, first things first, Katharine. I think the best thing we can do is get some food down you, and then we'll talk. Nurse, I'd be grateful if you could find a beaker with a top on it and a spout, then scoot off to the kitchens and ask Missus Rowling for some beef broth. Oh, and if there are large lumps in it, then it will have to be liquidized, or else it'll block the spout.”

“Yes, Mair Freida,” the student nodded and hurried away on her errand.

When she'd finally fed Katharine the soup, Mair Freida again tried to get the girl to communicate, but to little avail. She was awake now, but her eyes appeared vacant and were deeply sunk in their sockets, she still had a grey hue to her face.

Mair Freida turned to address the two student nurses who were hovering near the bed. “When you're presented with a patient,” she told them, “it's useful to carefully monitor your own reactions. You see, just as there is a deeper part of the patient that knows what is wrong with them, so there is a deeper part of us that can contact this layer and also knows, though it speaks in a symbolic language. And what springs to mind as I look at Katharine here is the word 'vacant'. We are not merely dealing with a body, but with a whole person: body, mind, heart and soul. So consider what associations that word 'vacant' brings to mind.”

The students listened attentively, nodding their heads.

“Another key factor is getting the patient to positively engage in their own healing process at a deep level.

“Don't just stand there and nod. The mind observes and cogitates, the heart engages, and I would encourage you to engage with the process,” Mair Freida smiled, turning to the students. “Tell me, what other associations emerge from the heart and spring to mind?”

“Drained?” suggested the first student.

“Yes, indeed. Drained and vacant, to which I would add a third: invasive, though I'm not sure why. And the next questions – which I don't expect you to be able to answer at this stage – are how and why?

“There are certain medicinal substances which can aid in this process,” Mair Freida continued. She turned to one of the students, fished out her keys and handed them to the girl. “Go to the dispensary and see if you can find a bottle of syrup of chungari, would you? If you can't, then I shall just have to bide my time and make up a fresh batch.”

They made a brew of tea and sat around making light conversation whilst Mair Freida waited for the elixir to take effect. She'd given Katharine two full dessert spoonfuls (and had a spoonful herself), so Dzoldzaya imagined that something had to happen.

Mair Freida was reaching over to loosen the buttons around Katharine's neck, since Katharine indicated that she was feeling too warm.

“What's this?” Mair Freida asked, catching sight of the necklace. She was just about to pull it out from under Katharine's nightdress when Katharine's eyes flashed open and she pushed Mair Freida's hand away.

“No!”

“Alright, alright Katharine. I just wanted to look, that's all.”

Dzoldzaya told Mair Freida that it was a gift from the pastor at the chapel in Merriedene. It was attached to a crystal that actually glowed in the dark and supposedly had miraculous properties and protect against the fever.

Mair Freida turned to Dzoldzaya and in hushed tones replied, though not in an unfriendly manner: “'Supposed' being the operative expression. Certainly not miraculous healing properties, that's for sure.”

“May I take a look, Katharine?”

Again Katharine's hand went to the necklace. “No, it's mine,” she retorted.

“Not to worry,” said Mair Freida, soothingly, gently stroking Katharine's arm. “So how do you feel now that you've begun to come round, Katharine?”

Try as she might, Mair Freida could get no sense out of Katharine and at length she drew Tenzing and Dzoldzaya aside, out of Katharine's hearing.

“I'm not sure what we can do right now except get some more of the syrup of chungari down here and bide our time.”

“What's your best guess, Mair Freida?” Tenzing wanted to know.

Mair Freida sighed, which was quite out of character for her. She was usually so positive and resourceful and, not least, she was a visionary whose oracular skills made her popular and respected in the community.

“Something is telling me that Katharine is not here.”

“How do you mean?” Dzoldzaya queried.

Mair Freida shrugged apologetically. “I'm not sure as yet. Ask me again later. Make sense of that if you can, for that is what I am being told, but perhaps I will know more later.”

Mair Freida went back to the bedside and helped herself to a second spoonful of the elixir. “I'll be away for some time, so give her another dessert spoon of the syrup each hour on the hour,” she said, addressing the students, then turned to Tenzing and Dzoldzaya. “There's nothing you can do at the moment, so if there's anything else you need to be doing, I suggest you take a break and return later. You may have another long night ahead of you.”

Mair Freida bent over the bedside and gave Katharine a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I'll see you soon, Katharine.” And with that, she turned and left the sick room.

22. Round three

All too soon, having been quickly showered, changed into fresh clothes, her hair blow dried and her face powdered, Katharine was escorted back onto the stage by one of the assistants.

Apparently they'd finished rolling the commercials and were now into a short news break, and the host was getting ready to go back on air.

“Okay, sixty seconds to live,” called a voice from the wings. “Clear the stage and take your positions, please.”

The man called out again at thirty seconds, then ten, and finally counted them in from five down to one.

“Hello again and welcome back to You Betcha!” the host spoke up. “Well, the cathartic Katharine Marsh has beaten off fierce opposition to make it through to the third round where she faces our reigning champion, Duncan Treefellow.”

The host paused until the audience's applause died down.

“So hang on to your seats and prepare to be electrified as we play 'Big shock!'”

“What are they in for?” the host wanted to know.

A big shock! came the response.

“That's right, folk. But first, please give a rousing welcome for the unputdownable, the stalwart Duncan Treefellow!”

The audience were on their feet chanting as Treefellow made his grand entrance.

Mighty oak! Mighty oak! Mighty oak! the crowd cheered as he entering at the back of the theatre. He was lit up by a roaming spotlight as he slowly descended the aisle, and milked every moment as he headed for the stage.

Finally, as the hulk of a man took his place on stage, the host called the audience to order.

“For those of you who still don't know, Big Shock! might be likened to the game of battleships. In that game, each side lays out his battleships and other warships on a rectangular grid, and only he knows on which squares his ships are hidden. The aim of the game is to destroy your opponent's ships by correctly guessing which squares the ships are on, before they destroy yours.”

“And so it is with Big Shock! Except that in place of battleships, we will use locations on the human body. As I speak, my gorgeous assistants are wiring up the competitors, Katharine Marsh and Duncan Treefellow. Each location on the body, such as the ears, the feet and the genitalia corresponds to one of the squares on the grid which their opponent will be presented with. Guess correctly and your opponent is in for …”

A big shock!

“That's right. After which, that square is deactivated. Guess incorrectly and nothing happens.

“Now, to add spice to the game, the contestants will be seated on a conveyer belt, and not only do they receive a shock each time their opponent chooses correctly, they move a little closer to what?”

The meat grinder!

“That's right.”

“This is a big day for both Katharine Marsh and Duncan Treefellow. If Katharine wins, she goes onto the final. And if Duncan wins, he'll have twelve straight victories, which means he permanently retires from the game, and is eligible for transfer to a domain of his choosing and to join the ranks of the elect, courtesy of our sponsor, Halcion Energetics.

“So, contestants, take a deep breath. If you're all wired up, let's get you seated ready to play round three, Big Shock!”

“Duncan Treefellow,” Hal called over the PA system. “As reigning champion, you may go first. Please choose a square.”

“C6,” Treefellow called out, punching a button on the perspex board before him.

Katharine braced herself, but nothing happened.

Hal blew a raspberry.

“Katharine, please choose.”

“D4,” she replied, reaching forward and hitting the red button. As she did so, Treefellow let out a piercing scream. The camera panned in to show the tears rolling down his cheeks, then panned out to show his seat moving back toward the yawning hopper of the meat grinder.

“Is this merely beginner's luck? Or has Katharine got the knack?” roared the host amidst the applause.

“What a woman. Yes, she got Duncan right in the goolies,” Hal confirmed in a droll tone. “Katharine, you may have another go.”

“D5,” she called out, pressing the corresponding button.

Alas, Hal blew a raspberry.

“C7,” said Treefellow, without waiting to have his name called.

In that instant, Katharine grimaced as a sharp and violent pulse of electricity passed through her head and images like lightning flashed across her vision.

“Well done, Duncan,” called Hal. “Katharine's ears will certainly be burning after that.”

“Please choose again,” Hal requested, as Katharine's seat slid backwards some two or three feet.

“C4.”

Still not recovered from the first jolt, again she winced as a fearful bolt of electricity passed through her head. And she was aware of the nauseating stench of burnt flesh.

“I thought you said that the square would be deactivated?” she cursed as the seat went back another two or three feet. She couldn't see behind her, but she figured that she only had another two hits left, at best, before she went over the edge.

“That was the other ear,” Hal told her. “Duncan, please choose again.”

“G6.”

Nothing happened, but Katharine waited until Hal blew a raspberry before daring to open her eyes.

“Make your choice, Katharine.”

“A3.”

All she got was a raspberry.

“Duncan?”

“I'll take A3 as well,” he replied, punching the red button.

Katharine screamed and clutched her hands tightly together, trying to ride out the storm as her right leg was gripped by a sharp, grinding bolt of electricity. Each second seemed to be drawn out into an eternity.

“Right leg,” Hal confirmed as Katharine's seat was drawn back still further. Looking down over the side, she could see that by now she was teetering on the edge. One more hit from Treefellow and she'd be in the meat grinder, whilst he must still be three guesses away. The odds on her survival were not looking good.

“Duncan, you are within a whisker of victory once more. When you're ready, please choose again.”

“A2.”

Katharine broke off her prayers mid-sentence.

“Katharine, you are right on the edge, so choose wisely.”

“B6,” she replied.

“I'm sorry, Katharine, but that's another miss. Duncan, can you finish Katharine off?”

Her opponent cracked his knuckles together and searched around the grid. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” he called out, before finally making his selection.

“F4.”

As he hit the button, a klaxon sounded and the lights began to flash around the stage. Dear Alicia, he must have hit the killer button after all.

“You know what that sound means, folk?” yelled the host. “No, it doesn't mean that Duncan Treefellow has won a spot prize for a year's supply of body enhancing products. It means that our champion has hit the magic square!”

Kick back!

“That's right, folk.”

Katharine braced herself.

Just then there was a loud buzzing sound and Treefellow let out a hideous scream. The lighting dimmed several times until finally there was silence. Peering around the side of her board and so grateful that she was still alive, Katharine could see a plume of nauseating smoke where Duncan was sitting. And as she watched, his seat began to roll backward until it finally hit an end stop and tipped over backwards, plunging him into the meat grinder. She put her hands over her ears to keep out the horrendous sound of cracking and grinding bones.

As one of the assistants helped Katharine off the seat and to her feet, the stage erupted in a flurry of pyrotechnics and the band struck up a rousing tune. The audience went berserk, leaving the minders with their work cut out keeping people away from the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” called the host, though his words were largely drowned out. “Ladies and gentlemen! Wow! Oh, yes! What a night, what a sensational turnaround. Quite remarkable. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Katharine Marsh! And Hal, please work your technical wizardry and let's see an action replay. This is a must see moment and if it doesn't make #1 in the charts, I'll eat my hat.”

23. Breakthrough

In spite of the aches in her old joints, Mair Freida sat cross-legged on the floor of her living room in deep contemplation, with her eyes closed, having beseeched Alicia and the two Elder Abbots of the Order, Banu Zadar and her consort Rifatzada to help.

Those three words: 'vacant', 'drained' and 'invasive' kept crossing her mind, but she couldn't get much further than that. And then there was the question of Katharine being so uncommunicative and guarded. 'Guarded' was perhaps another key component here? Surely she must see that they were there to help her, and yet she wouldn't let them in. It wasn't as if they posed any threat to her, so what was she so protective about?

The door into Katharine's mind was bolted and barred, though of course in such cases there were always these clues, if one only knew how to read them. Had she known Katharine better, as she knew Tenzing and Dzoldzaya, for instance, then she would have more material to go on and more of a link into their psyche.

Well Katharine was certainly protective of the crystal necklace she wore. Perhaps she felt assailed by the illness that had befallen her and was simply clutching it thinking that the crystal was protecting her from harm in some way, whilst to a more rational mind it was pretty clear that the magic charm was not working.

Are you sure about that? asked a voice within, and she recognized it as Rifatzada.

“Welcome, Rifatzada,” she silently greeted him.

Are you sure about that? the voice asked again.

Sure about what, she wondered, having lost track of her thoughts.

Ah yes, then she remembered: “To a more rational mind it was pretty clear that the magic charm was not working.”

What if the rôle of the crystal was actually that: to keep people out of Katharine's psyche? In that case, it could be said to be succeeding, the voice suggested.

And that in turn suggests that Katharine herself had an interest in keeping them out.

That is a possibility.

What was it she had said earlier?

Katharine is not here.

Yes, that's right.

Tease out the thread.

I think I meant that the Katharine they know and love is not here. That she has been stolen away and someone or something has taken her place and is consuming her ….

There you have it, the voice confirmed.

She's possessed?

Yes, and de-possessed. Say it quickly: what are you thinking?

I don't know why, I'm thinking she's cuckoo, but that's terribly uncharitable. She laughed. Or perhaps I'm just describing my own befuddlement?

Just as a cuckoo might cast an egg out of another bird's nest and replace it with one of its own?

She nodded. Of course.

So how do we effect a cure, she wanted to know?

Mair Freida listened, but the voice had fallen silent, and at length she got painfully to her feet and went through to her kitchen to fry an egg to make a sandwich and brew a cup of tea.

After lunch, Mair Freida freshened up, then headed back to the sick room to see if the syrup of chungari had loosened Katharine up by that time.

Dzoldzaya was still there by the bedside when she arrived. “Is there any change?” Mair Freida asked.

Dzoldzaya shook her head. “No, Katharine's been dozing on and off and even when she's awake, she's only half here.”

“Help me pull her back up in bed and get her into a sitting position, would you, please?” she requested.

As they leant Katharine forward to sort out the pillows behind her, the necklace hung clear of her nightdress and Mair Freida saw the tear drop shaped crystal for the first time, glowing brightly like a blue moon in the clear night sky.

And she also felt an urge. Reaching across without warning, she snatched at the crystal and yanked on the chain with all her might, breaking the fine chain and pulling it free before Katharine had a chance to take in what she was doing.

In an instant, Katharine sat bolt upright in bed, giving Mair Freida the most withering look. Her eyes were bloodshot and full of fury.

Mair Freida cursed involuntarily and dropped the crystal on the floor. It was glowing bright red and pulsating now and it had burnt her fingers.

Before Mair Freida knew what was happening, Katharine was out of bed and storming toward her. She was so full of anger that she pushed Mair Freida aside and sent her sprawling, then searched frantically around on the floor to retrieve her precious crystal.

In her fury, she had kicked the crystal and it had gone skidding across the floor to end up by the door, just as Tenzing entered the room. Catching sight of the crystal as Tenzing was still taking in the mayhem, Katharine charged toward him and tried to fend him off as she scrabbled to retrieve the crystal.

Tenzing saw the crystal now and as Katharine came at him, he roughly pushed her aside. Then, picking up a fire extinguisher that they kept by the door, he slammed the heavy appliance down on the crystal and it exploded into a hundred tiny fragments.

And as he did so, Katharine gasped and appeared unable to catch her breath. Then she started retching uncontrollably. Dzoldzaya was beside her, unable to do anything but watch the scene play out to its conclusion. Tenzing was about to intervene, but rising shakily to her feet, Mair Freida held him back.

At length Katharine vomited up the contents of her stomach. There was something grey and hideous swimming in the vomit, like a giant grey slug, but it began to dissolve in the air or in the light and soon it fell still. Staggering away, Katharine finally collapsed in a heap on the floor and Tenzing and Dzoldzaya helped her back into bed.

“Is it over?” Katharine panted, fighting to get her breath.

Mair Freida smiled at her and stroked her arm reassuringly. “Yes, Katharine, it's over for you at least. So rest easy now and we'll soon have you on the mend.”

Dzoldzaya flopped down on the seat beside Katharine's bed, then stood back up again. “An awful thought has just occurred to me,” she panted. “I'm worried about Conrad and Roland. And anyone else who's come into contact with this thing. Me, for that matter.”

“It's okay Dzoldzaya, we'll work something out,” Tenzing said to reassure her. “First things first, do you have the number for the hotel?”

Dzoldzaya fumbled in her bag and produced her notepad. Flicking through the pages, she found the number.

“Right, then let's go to my study and we'll see if we can get in touch with them. And try not to worry: they're both resilient and resourceful chaps.”

Dzoldzaya was half way out of the door when a thought occurred to her. “Mair Freida, I've just remembered something that a herbalist, Nettie Bagshaw, told me at Merriedene where this thing seems to have been centred. She said that Simian Knot Weed had two uses: you could apply the stuff externally and it would kill fleas and lice, but more importantly, taken internally it eliminated worms. Is it possible that it would eliminate this thing?” She nodded toward the gooey mess on the floor.

Mair Freida nodded. “Yes, I've heard of using Simian Knot Weed. Indeed, it might work, or at least it's certainly worth a try. Though its use is not without attendant dangers, I hasten to add.”

“That's the lady who might be interested in coming to babs chu?” Tenzing wondered.

Dzoldzaya nodded.

“But we'd have to test it first,” Mair Freida added.

“I'm willing to try it out. Is there any around here?”

Mair Freida shook her head. “No, thankfully. It's a very invasive species, and it must on no account be brought here to babs chu.”

Dzoldzaya thought for a moment. “Then I'll have to go back to Ingmar.”

“No offence intended, but I'd rather you didn't go alone, Dzoldzaya,” Tenzing spoke up. “If you must go, then please let me come with you. And this time we'll drive into Ingmar.”

Dzoldzaya nodded, and she also raised a smile.

“What's funny?” Tenzing asked her. “Not that I'm suggesting that your humour is misplaced.”

“Oh, it's just that we could kill two birds with the one stone. It would be good for you to meet Nettie Bagshaw and her family.”

“Excellent, then it's settled,” Tenzing nodded. “First things first, let's get in touch with Conrad and Roland and we'll have them meet us at – what was the name? – Merriedene? I think for now we'd best postpone the operation at Poldyke and regroup there. I'm sure the Elder Abbots will be understanding.”

24. Shattered dreams

Katharine stood there, and perhaps she should have felt at least a moment's triumph. Certainly it was a great relief and she felt inordinately thankful that her life had been spared, but she was also in something of a daze and could not take in the rapturous applause of the audience, nor what the host was saying to her. She was overloaded and it was as if she had retreated into a long tunnel from where all was a distant blur.

The host was by her left side with one hand over her shoulder, raising her right arm in the air, waving it on her behalf and singing her praises.

And then abruptly and inexplicably, everything snapped into sharp focus and the spell was broken. Katharine reached to her throat to tear off the infernal crystal necklace, to find it already gone.

Unable to handle this sensory and emotional flood a second longer, and casting protocol aside, she broke away from the host and fled from the stage. One of the stage hands came forward and attempted to prevent her exit. He tried to guide her back onto the stage as the host began to wind up the evening's show, and since she struggled with him, he became more forceful and called out to his colleagues for assistance, but Katharine was so fired up by this time that she caught the man an almighty blow across the face with her forearm and bowled him over.

Another came toward her and she grasped hold of him by the collar, dragging him aside. When she did so, her hand caught on the silver necklace around his neck. It fell to the ground by her feet in the struggle. Though Katharine was almost certain that she hadn't hit the man, he let out a gasp, his legs buckled beneath him and he fell to his knees.

In that instant, Katharine knew what she must do. Stamping her foot on the fallen crystal, she ground it underfoot and watched as the man collapsed in a heap, then spun on her heel and dashed back across the stage to confront the host. As she approached, seeing the look of fury in her eyes, he stepped backward, then tried to elude her, but she was too fast for him. Snatching at his shirt, she caught hold of it and ripped it open, then grabbed hold of the crystal necklace, yanked it free, threw it to the ground and stamped on it. Instantly the crystal was shattered into a hundred pieces and the host, too, collapsed on the ground, clutching his head and groaning aloud.

The audience were in uproar by now and many had risen from their seats and were on the verge of storming the stage. Whether they would celebrate her victory or tear her limb from limb, she had no way of knowing, so she again fled from the stage whilst she was still able.

“Where's Hal?” she growled, as the stage hands nervously backed away. “Where is Hal?!”

One of them pointed to a flight of stairs at the end of the wing of the stage. “Upstairs.”

“Which room?”

“Room one,” the woman stammered.

Pushing through the dishevelled mass, she crossed the wing and took the stairs two at a time. At the top, she came to a corridor and ran down it, counting off the descending room numbers until finally she came to room one. Her hand went to the handle and she tried to push the door open, but it was locked, so she ran at the door and kicked it and kicked it until finally the wood around the lock shattered and the door slammed open, such was her fury.

Ahead of her, a little bald headed figure stood cowering behind a large mahogany desk. It was the man who had guided her from the white room to the stage.

“So, you must be Hal,” she snarled, striding forward to face him across the wide desk.

As she approached, the man opened a drawer in the desk and frantically scrabbled around inside. He brought out a gun and was fumbling with the safety catch.

But Katharine was too fast for him. Grasping hold of the front edge of the desk, she heaved it into the air, and putting her full weight behind it, she toppled the heavy table, and it came crashing down, bowling the little man off his feet.

And then she caught sight of something in her peripheral vision. There, underneath a mirror on a slender plinth she saw a brightly glowing crystal. It was at least six inches in diameter, and though she didn't know how she knew, she just knew that this was the master crystal.

By now, Hal had freed himself from the toppled desk and he was reaching for his fallen gun.

As he took aim and fired, Katharine dived full length across the floor, catching the plinth as a bullet whistled past her head. The plinth teetered for a moment and then fell over, shedding the precious crystal. The crystal hit the floor but remained intact. She rose to her feet and stamped her foot on the crystal, but it was too hard.

“Stay where you are!” Hal demanded. She turned and saw the man standing there, aiming the gun at her. A second bullet whistled past her quite without warning, missing her by no more than a hair's breadth. Instinctively reaching out for the fallen plinth, she picked it up and hurled it at the man. It caught him a glancing blow on the head, bowling him over.

She ran across the room and retrieved the plinth, and she was on the point of hammering the man's head into a pulp, but got a grip on herself and changed her mind. Instead, she turned and stalked back to the fallen crystal, which was glowing a fiery red and pulsing. Raising the plinth above her head, she brought it down again and again until finally the crystal shattered with a deafening bang. So fierce was the explosion that she was thrown across the room to land on her back, bleeding all over from the tiny shards which had erupted like shrapnel in the explosion. And then the lights went out and Katharine knew no more.

25. The purge

Tenzing and Dzoldzaya arrived at Merriedene just before lunchtime that day and their first port of call, having booked into the Cat and Fiddle, was to pay a call on Nettie Bagshaw. Her sons were away in the city that day, plying their trade, but Martin was at home as he was feeling under the weather. Still, Dzoldzaya persuaded the couple to join them at the inn and share some lunch. Unfortunately, Conrad and Roland wouldn't be arriving until later that afternoon, as it would have been nice to have everyone together, but there'd no doubt be time for that the following day.

Nettie confirmed that the fever and its after-effects were indeed still rampant in the area.

“Oh, heavens,” Nettie gasped as Dzoldzaya told them about what had happened to Katharine. Dzoldzaya had not scrimped on the gory details. “Oh, the poor dear. Ooh, it hardly bears thinking about.”

Dzoldzaya went on to ask Nettie if she could make up a batch of Simian Knot Weed, so that she could test to see if it would also eliminate whatever the parasite was that caused the malady.

“I have a bottle already made up,” Nettie nodded.

“And if it works, could you make more?”

“No problem whatsoever. There's a whole meadow round the back of the cottage that is inundated with the stuff, just waiting to be put to better use.”

When they arrived back at the cottage, feeling suitably stuffed and a little merry, Nettie brought her a bottle of the medicine and gave her instructions. “So, if this does shift the parasite, which way will it go: up or down?” she wanted to know. Nettie thought that if the parasite was in the stomach, it might come up within minutes; in the intestine, it would emerge at the other end within a couple of hours, as the medicine also had a powerful purgative effect.

True to their word, Conrad and Roland turned up at around two o'clock that afternoon and though they, too, looked like shit warmed up, she was overjoyed to see them.

Dzoldzaya took the medicine later that afternoon, with a borrowed bucket at hand, and by teatime that day she felt the sudden urge to powder her nose. When she returned, though not wishing to provide the others with too much information about the struggle she'd had to undergo, she confirmed that she had indeed had a parasite and that after an awful and nauseating struggle, the Simian Knot Weed had finally successfully expelled it.

That being the case, Dzoldzaya gave a dose to Conrad and Roland and headed off to find Nettie who immediately set about making up a batch of the medicine, sufficient for all the villagers. Nettie reported that it would be ready by evening, which as chance would have it was the night of evensong.

Nettie's sons were back from the city by now and still seemed perky enough, so she sent them out with instructions to borrow half a dozen wine bottles from the inn and to pass the word around that everyone, whether they'd had the fever or not, should meet at the chapel in time for evensong and that she'd be administering the medicine there. Anyone who couldn't attend evensong should call by the cottage as soon as they were able to receive their medicine; or take it to friends who lived in the neighbouring countryside.

That evening they all went to evensong to find the small chapel full to overflowing. The pews were full and people were standing in the aisles. This was the first time that Nettie Bagshaw had set foot in the chapel (though it was not to be her last), and she was clearly nervous as the pastor introduced her and she spoke to the congregation.

Getting the medicine down their throats was the easy part, as they trusted her skills as a herbalist, but when it came to asking them if they would part with their crystals, it was quite another. All the pastor had to do was admit that far from having miraculous qualities, the crystals were actually bad for your health (or even for that matter that they were the work of the devil), but he was distinctly uncooperative.

Dzoldzaya had no option, therefore, other than to take the matter into her own hands. Unperturbed by the pastor's distinctly unholy wrath as she ripped off his necklace, she cast the stone to the floor and ground it into a powder under her foot. As she did so, the pastor fell to his knees, supporting himself on his hands until he managed to catch his breath.

The congregation were outraged, but as Dzoldzaya helped the man to his feet, suddenly shocked to his senses he put his hand up to call for quiet.

“No my friends,” the man panted, short of breath. “What this woman did was right. Only now do I realize that the crystal is not heaven-sent as we thought. It surely is the work of the devil. So please, take off the necklaces and do as this, this woman ...”

“Dzoldzaya.”

“Please do as Dzoldzaya did – grind the crystals underfoot and say good riddance. Forgive me: in my ignorance, I foolishly led you all astray.”

“That's right, and if you can't bring yourself to do it yourself, then have your neighbour do it for you,” agreed Dzoldzaya, setting to the task herself. “Help us out here, Pastor. There's work to be done.”

Before the week was out, after market day when folk came in from the outlying farms, the work was more or less complete.

In that time, too, they and the Bagshaws had all had a chance to meet and interact, and sharing a meal at the cottage one evening Martin Bagshaw spoke again of babs chu.

“Would you still have us at babs chu, Tenzing, now that you've got to know us better?” Martin asked.

“Would you still like to come, knowing us better?” smiled Tenzing.

“Absolutely.”

“Then yes, Martin, we would be only too delighted to have you with us.”

“How soon could we come?” Martin wondered.

“To answer your question with another question yet again, if you'll forgive me, Martin: how soon can you pack?”

“Whatever would fit in our cars, including some of the rare herbs in the garden, we could have packed by tomorrow night.”

“And the house?”

“It's only rented, as are most of the furnishings. All this just gives the appearance of wealth,” Martin laughed. “Seriously, I had a word with the landlord and he'd be willing to accept two week's rent in lieu of notice.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?” asked Tenzing, looking first at Martin, then Nettie and finally the boys, Carl and Rees. Each of them nodded vigorously and replied in the affirmative.

“I know this may appear impetuous, Tenzing, but we've given the matter a good deal of thought. Our hearts say a resounding 'yes!' I've rarely been as sure before that this is the right thing to do. Certainly we'll miss some of the good folk here, but we'll meet new friends, and have no other ties.”

Tenzing smiled broadly. “Excellent. Then start packing whenever you like. I'll bring my estate car round later this evening, fold down the back seats and leave a spare set of keys with you. All I need are the front seats and the side mirrors: so feel free to fill the back. If there's anything left over, it can be tied to the roof rack.”

“Thank you so much,” Martin beamed. “I have a trailer, too, so that'll take the pressure off the cars.”

“We usually leave the car at Shakra at the north-eastern extent of the central plateau, but on this occasion we'll drive further north to Renchok in the foothills. It'll be a bit bumpy, but we'll muddle through. From there we'll go by horseback and phone ahead to arrange for mules to take your belongings to babs chu. It may take more than the one trip, but we'll have your things there soon enough. You'll also find that life in Narayana and particularly babs chu flows at a more sedate and relaxed pace, so the feeling of frenzy at moving will soon pass.”

“We can help you out tomorrow, too, if you need anyone to help pack or shift anything heavy,” Conrad added.

And so it was. Conrad and Roland rode north toward Lilith on Saturday morning and Tenzing, Dzoldzaya and the Bagshaws followed bright and early on Sunday.

Epilogue

As Katharine walked with Tenzing through the ruins of the ancient monastery across the river from the settlement at babs chu, a large piece of masonry suddenly gave way and plummeted toward them. In that instant, she caught hold of the old man's arm, dragged him clear and they went sprawling in the frosty, snow-flecked grass. The rock thudded into the ground where the man had been standing no more than a moment earlier.

“Dear Alicia,” said Tenzing, still a little bewildered. Taking in what had happened, he raised his eyebrows. “That was another close shave, my dear.”

“You betcha life it was, Tenzing,” Katharine nodded, her own heart thumping heavily as she helped Tenzing to his feet.

You betcha life!

~~~O~~~

The End

Other books by the same author

in the Shadowlands series,

awaiting publication on the Kindle

1. The Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor.

2. Life on the Flipside (or In Two Minds).

3. Escape from the Shadowlands.

4. In Search of Destiny.

5. The Lucian Uprising.

6. Time and Time again.

7. The Gift.

8. The Host and the Guests.

9. Whisperings of Love.

10. The Insiders: Exploring the higher realms of possibility.

The Host and the Guests

By Etienne de L'Amour

The Host and The Guests tells the story of a mysterious illness which takes hold in Ingmar and of the struggle of one of the sufferers to free herself from its clutches, with a little help from her friends in the Network, a clandestine organization run by the writer and mystic, Tenzing Jangbu Rinchen.

“Don't just stand there and nod. The mind observes and cogitates, the heart engages, and I would encourage you to engage with the process,” the healer, Mair Freida smiled, turning to the students.

The Host and the Guests is a short novel, circa 45,000 words. It is book 8 in the Shadowlands series. Contains violent and gruesome themes. Not for the faint-hearted or those of a nervous disposition.

1A farewell remark.

2A gin and tonic water.

Table of Contents

Dedication

1. Splashdown

2. A re-evaluation

3. Graduation

4. High fever

5. A gift for evensong

6. Pastor Kent

7. Welcome

8. On the mend

9. Under orders

10. New admissions

11. Induction

12. Silence is its own reply

13. The Works

14. The Big Game

15. News at last

16. You Betcha!

17. A regular lifesaver

18. Poldyke

19. Round two

20. Back to Merriedene

21. Narayana

22. Round three

23. Breakthrough

24. Shattered dreams

25. The purge

Epilogue