Jack of Ravens(72)

In her confusion she realised her fingers were tingling peculiarly; the skin around the tips was puckered as though they had been too long in water. They gradually grew smooth before her eyes.

You did this, a voice told her, and though it made no sense, some part of her believed it was true.

She jogged towards the tree line, turning to look back when she reached the fence. The vegetation was still covering the door, but from her new perspective she could see the bramble curling upwards in the shape of the number 5, too well defined to be random.

Laura was mesmerised by the figure. In the depths of her, something shifted and answered the call.



4



The lights across Avebury were slowly going out as the villagers turned to sleep. Shavi stood outside the pub, inhaling the scents of the Wiltshire countryside and feeling more alive than he ever remembered being. The ancient landscape of the Downs rolled away to the south beneath the vault of a sky sprinkled with a dazzling stream of stars.

So much had changed in such a short time that he felt as if he was awakening from a deep sleep. When the strange spirit form emerged from the picture on his office desk, he had been bewildered for only a short time. That evening he had mulled over the existence of things beyond the mundane and had come to the conclusion that it made a lot more sense than his life at the offices of Gibson and Layton, Chartered Accountants. When he handed in his resignation the next day to begin his notice period and started to grow his hair longer in preparation for a new lifestyle, he wondered why he had been denying himself for so long.

Throughout it all, he struggled with the advice of Rourke, the man who had entered his life on the same night as the revelation. Rourke was unassuming and pleasant, a sympathetic listener. Everywhere Shavi went, pub or supermarket or just for a walk in the park, Rourke cropped up with a cheery wave and a line of reassuring chat. He questioned Shavi’s decision to quit his job and became quite intense during subsequent discussions about Shavi changing the direction of his life. The more Shavi grew in tune with his inner self, the more he found Rourke’s presence oppressive, and then negative. It had become a trying task to avoid Rourke and to leave London without the man being aware.

And so Shavi stood there on the brink of – he hoped – something profound. Long black hair now framed his exquisitely handsome Asian features. His workaday suit had been consigned to a charity shop, replaced by loose-fitting cotton clothes, with sandals instead of the black leather shoes that had always made his soles ache.

He had listened to music, lit incense and candles, and most of all thought and dreamed. He had reflected intensely on his inner rhythms and the cycles of his subconscious, becoming more complete with each passing day. After that came the dreams of serpents filled with a coruscating but redeeming power. And finally these were overlaid by one single image falling into stark relief: Avebury’s ancient stone circle. It came to him as he drifted off to sleep and was still there when he woke, night after night. It was calling to him. He answered.

Leaving the main street, Shavi made his way through the cool shadows to where the majority of the remaining standing stones stood in a large grassy expanse, bounded on one side by a steep bank. It was peaceful and still. Shavi let his fingers drift over the surface of the megaliths as he passed, his skin tingling with the contact.

As he walked he had the vague impression of movement away in the night near a copse of trees. It was gone the moment he registered it. A fox? he thought. Soon after, a shape flitted through a beam of moonlight to hide behind one of the stones, though whether it was man or beast Shavi couldn’t tell. He decided the safest thing to do would be to return to the van to get his torch, but before he could turn around he was hit forcefully and dragged into the lee of one of the megaliths.

‘What are you doing here?’ Foul breath blasted into Shavi’s face as a hand closed around his throat.

He allowed himself to go limp to prevent further violence. The attacker eased his grip and Shavi saw it was a man with straggly, grey hair and the sunburned, wind-blasted complexion of someone who spent his life outdoors. He was wiry and exceptionally strong for his age, which Shavi placed post-sixty, though it was difficult to pin it down. He was unwashed and mud splattered his old cheesecloth shirt. His eyes were feral and frightened and reminded Shavi of a wild beast’s.

The man brought up a wooden staff with his free hand and placed it quickly across Shavi’s throat, pinning him down. If the man increased his weight on the staff he would crush Shavi’s neck in an instant.

‘Who are you?’ he repeated threateningly.

‘My name is Shavi.’