A Different Kingdom(103)

CAT REMAINED STANDING and watching long after he had gone, the cold spreading numbness into her limbs. When at last she turned back to the dead ashes of the fire she saw without surprise that the Horseman was there behind her, his steed breathing quiet clouds of breath into the frigid air. He reached out a hand towards her, and she had no longer the will to flee.





TWENTY

MICHAEL CAME THROUGH on the other side with a high wind tearing at his hair and the black branches of the overhanging trees roaring. Fancy powered through the freezing water and scrabbled to the bank, shaking herself. Michael hauled himself slowly in her wake. His clothes were hanging on him, hampering his limbs. He was weak and chilled. He lay on the bank in a grey pool of river water with his feet clutched by the swift current. His tears were a rawness in his throat. She had not come with him. He had lost her.



Dawn was coming. Though the river hollow was full of the noise of the rushing water the sky was vast and empty beyond the trees, light glowing in the east and making its sure way upwards. He struggled to think, to remember how things had been when he had left all that time ago, but his mind was as numb as his soaked body. He threw off his stinking furs—much too big for him—and found the sword scabbard empty. The Ulfberht had been lost in the river. Remembering his family history, he knew it would not stay lost for long.

His shudders of cold and the sobs that racked him merged into one and for a moment he stayed kneeling on the sodden riverbank, his face buried in his hands. He could feel the lithe freshness of his body, the lessening of his muscles' bulk. He was a stripling again, a thirteen-year-old with middle-aged eyes. His chin felt weirdly smooth as his palms touched it—as smooth as Cat's had been. And he had no scars.

I'm a blank slate, he thought.

No, not quite. He had those memories. He knew he would never lose them, even if he wanted to.

Those first days in the Other Place, riding across a vast empty landscape with the air as clear as spring water.

Firelight in a whispering wood, Cat's face an inch from his own, her body pressing against him.

Hunting in the Wildwood with Ringbone watching the mist rise through the trees and the antlers of a stock-still stag become black branches against it.

And the other side, the dark side.

The eyes of the werewolf burning into him like malevolent coals.

The Horseman waiting in the dark trees while gore crows flapped around his head.

Brother Nennian's face before he died.

Dream or nightmare, he would never forget. It was burnt into his brain.

'Cat,' he whispered. And the cold had him shuddering again.

Fancy nuzzled him, and he lurched to his feet. Things to do.

He led her out of the hollow, and the rush of the water faded. There was dew-wet grass under his naked toes. He stopped to stare at the quiet meadows, the dark woods. Cattle moved in the field, staring at him and chewing cud. The birds were in the middle of their dawn chorus.

The wind had a tang to it, a faint aftertaste of smoke and metal. He had forgotten how different it was here.

He clinked open the gate and led the docile mare into the yard, unsaddling her once he had reached the straw-deep stables. She seemed none the worse for wear, as well-fed and sleekly groomed as the morning he had galloped off in Cat's wake. But her saddle was scraped and scored, hung with rawhide bags that gave off a sour, wet stink. The shotgun was still there also, rust along the barrel. He cleaned the tack as best he could, dumped the saddlebags behind sacks of grain in the tack room and patted Felix's huge flank as the heavy horse sniffed at him. Then he padded out across the yard, the wind cold on his skin. But the gale was dying. It would be a fine day once the sun cleared the eastern hills.

He eased into the house, clicking the latch of the back door. The kitchen was silent, the range glowing red and a clock ticking endlessly to itself. The house seemed tiny, enclosing, and for a second claustrophobia rose like a cloud in Michael's throat. There was movement upstairs. His family, waking.

He made not a sound as he ascended the stairs, wary as an animal. He closed the door of his room behind him, hearing the clump of feet on the landing. His grandparents, his Uncle Sean, his Aunt Rachel. All here.

How long had he been away? One, two years? Or the fragment of a morning?

He crept into his bed and found Cat's smell there on the sheets. He buried his face in them and wept bitterly.

'MICHAEL, MICHAEL, TIME to get up! You'll be late for school.'



And faintly, from down in the kitchen:

'Where are my clothes? Who's taken my trousers?' Uncle Sean, discovering Cat's long-ago theft.

'Someone's been in the larder. Mother of God, we've been burgled!'

Who's been eating my porridge? he thought, and smiled faintly. Cat would have laughed.

They forgot him, in the hubbub. When he came downstairs there was an early sun flooding the kitchen and the entire family, Mullan included, were toing and froing as more missing articles were noticed.