Lies, Damned Lies, and History(43)

Except there was no wind today. The world was close and still. We were the only things moving.

To begin with.

At least we didn’t have to go all the way to the top this time. Arthur’s Cave was on the hillside to the south east and the path was clearly marked.

We picked our way carefully, our footsteps quite silent in the fallen leaves and muffled by the fog.

Behind us, something moved.

I stood still and stared into the white depths.

‘Deer,’ said Roberts and why he was whispering was anyone’s guess.

Then, another movement. Slightly closer, this time.

We stared around us. I could hear the gentle pattering of water on leaves. And, if I listened very hard and used my overheated imagination … I could hear … breathing …

I tried hard not to think of tales of the Wild Woods. When things moved among the trees. When things stalked unwary travellers and led them astray.

Somewhere, a dog barked and another answered. The spell was broken. People walk their dogs in all weathers.

One of us laughed nervously and we picked up the pace.

I stumbled.

Markham took my arm. ‘For God’s sake, Max, be careful.’

‘I’m fine. I had no idea you were such a wuss.’

‘I just don’t want to have to explain to Chief Farrell why you gave birth halfway up a Welsh hillside.’

‘Are you scared of Leon?’

‘More scared of him than I am of you.’

‘Months to go yet. Stop panicking.’

A cool breeze dried the sweat on my face. The fog began to break into tendrils, which drifted, ghost-like across the path. I could see the wavering outline of trees, appearing and then disappearing again. I was conscious of an air of unreality. In this fog, nothing seemed real. Had I, in fact, woken up? Was I sleepwalking? Perhaps I was just tired.

Then, suddenly, we were there – the twin entrances just ahead of us. Two dark holes in the fog.

Not much had changed. Ferns and flowers still grew from the rocks, watered by the moisture running down them. The entrance seemed smaller somehow – fallen leaves and soil had built up over the centuries and we had to climb to get near. The trees seemed closer. Behind us, something moved in the undergrowth. We spun around, staying close together. I peered into the shifting fog, trying to make out shapes. A woman appearing along the path with two Labradors at her heels would have been a very reassuring sight, but there was nothing and no one.

We approached in silence, standing at the entrance to the cave, wondering what on earth to do next. Water dripped somewhere, otherwise the world was completely still. Did time actually pass here?

I don’t know what made me do it. I turned slowly and got the shock of my life.

He stood behind us.

He hadn’t changed. Not one bit. He still looked exactly as he had the last time we saw him. When Arthur handed him the sword. He was still wild-haired and dirty. Still with the tangled beard. Still wearing the same robe. Still with the same forbidding expression.

I dragged my eyes away and pulled at Peterson’s arm.

‘What?’

I looked back and he was gone.

‘He was here.’

They turned. ‘Who was?’

‘The old man. He was here. Standing on the path just there.’

The path was empty.

We looked around – as much as we could in this strange white mist.

‘Well, he’s not here now.’

We turned back to the cave and there he was again. Standing between the twin entrances. Like the doorways to heaven and hell.

Roberts drew in his breath with sharp hiss.

No one moved.

We stood looking at each other for a very long time. I was conscious of a definite reluctance to get any closer. There was danger here. None of this was for us. We shouldn’t be here.

Markham, who, thank the god of historians, had had the sense to pull the sword out of his trousers before attempting the long trek, handed the sword over to Peterson, who passed it to me.

I seriously thought about passing it to Roberts – he was the local boy after all – but I was head of the History Department. This was my responsibility and this was what I was paid for.

The old man’s eye’s followed the sword’s every move.

He didn’t move. Could he move? I don’t know what put that thought into my head.

I took one small pace forwards, and when I survived that, another. Then another.

By now, I was only an arm’s length away.

I offered up the sword.

His eyes were dark and deep. I couldn’t look away.

He took it in silence.

We looked at each other. I could not have spoken to save my life. My throat had closed and I could barely breathe. Things receded. Bloody hell, surely I wasn’t going to faint. Not now …

I felt myself sway. The fog swirled closer. Someone grasped my arm, steadying me. My head cleared. When I looked up, the old man was gone.