‘Natalie? Is it Natalie?’
Angela encouraged him back to the couch, calming him. ‘Natalie’s fine. The ghost of Greyface has been back, more funny stories, but she seems fine.’
‘Seems fine?’
‘She’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about!’
‘Then why was I called back? I’d almost reached the woman. We even spoke for a few minutes. If you hadn’t interrupted, I might have made a better contact.’
Steve was watching him solemnly, arms crossed. ‘You have a slight problem. Something we hadn’t expected.’
Angela helped Jack to stand and led him to a mirror. At once he realized he was in real pain, not remembered pain, the sting of thorn, an itching on his right leg where a small arrow had grazed his flesh. In the mirror he could see the marks of briar-rose on his cheeks, forehead and chin, all of them iodined and treated. Every wound he had inflicted on himself in his escape from the cage was open and had been bleeding in his real-world body.
‘Like stigmata …’ he breathed.
‘Exactly like stigmata,’ Steve said from across the room. ‘As I said, we hadn’t expected this. We could almost follow your disasters by the bruises and wounds that erupted or appeared on your body.’
It was a shocking thought and Jack stared across the room, trying to understand the full implications of the phenomenon. ‘Then I’m in actual physical danger in the dream?’
‘So it would seem. And it’s not a dream, Jack.’
‘I know. I know. But … if I get killed, I don’t come back … Is that a fair assumption?’ He rubbed the more painful of the cuts, which was still seeping.
‘That’s hard to say. A difficult experiment to set up, as I’m sure you appreciate.’
‘But if I did die in the Deep – it now looks like I’ll die on the couch! Shit!’
‘We don’t know that, Jack. Everything on your body is superficial – deeper trauma may be prevented by your mind’s own will to live, its own defences. Not everything that’s happened to you is detectable. No food in your gut, or changed blood sugar, for example, just a certain ‘fishy’ taste in your mouth …’
‘Fish gum! God, it didn’t go away.’
‘So relax. But next time, treat rose bushes with more respect. Please?’
Jack agreed, too tired to argue further, too weary to confront Steve’s apparent complacence. But he was thinking of stigmata, those marks that could spontaneously appear on the bodies of devout, deeply religious, entranced or hypnotized subjects.
What journey into the unconscious, what events beyond their own Hinterlands, might be the reason for the appearance of such wounds? He had a sudden, appalling vision of journeys towards crucifixion, the pursuit of self-sacrifice in the deeper mind, where a dream-time torture could result in a spiritual suffering in the ordinary world.
But what if they died there, hanging on the tree? Or drowned in the crystal waters of a lake? Or crushed by the feet of creatures from prehistory?
The ‘reports’ he had made whilst in the Midax Deep were fragmentary. His account of the Hinterland was very clear, his experience transmitting to the sleeping body, with its wired-up pen and paper, and producing an eighty percent coherent description of the events there. But almost from the moment he had passed the waterfall the periods of automatic writing had become sporadic.
Watching the pattern of the writing, the frequency of the fragments, Steve had begun to form the intriguing idea that within the pre-conscious realm there were ‘echo channels’ (for want of an as yet better description), echo channels to the conscious mind, like small, breezy passages through which echoing and enhanced glimpses of the pre-conscious could be achieved. He likened them to the seepage of water down a mountain-side which drained the hill despite the full, raging tumble of a river. The river carried the potent symbolic and representational sensory experience from the pre-conscious; the drainage pores simply relieved the pressure.
Jack’s real-time experience beyond the Hinterland had occasionally ‘echoed’ through these pores in the mind/undermind barrier, and because of the Midax conditioning, the sleeping body of the journeyman had scrawled an account of what was happening for those few minutes, before relapsing into a motionless, coma state.
To get the full story, Jack would have to re-live the whole several days, and he did this now, in as much detail as he could remember.
Later, he watched Natalie as she and six other children, two of them boys, danced a circular dance to music from The Jungle Book played on a tape recorder. It was an hilarious experience. Natalie always took one extra pace to the left when the rest of the group had swung to the right. And one extra step to the right when the rest of the group …
The confusion, the expressions of concentration and anxiety on the children’s faces, reminded Jack of his own attempts at dancing as a teenager, at school and at Exburgh’s two discotheques. A flamingo in failed flight, Angela had described it. ‘But you’re so cute – it doesn’t matter’.
He’d never understood ‘cute’ – it was an imported expression that for a while found popularity with the girls in his school. He just knew it was a good thing to be.
He was called away from the crèche and back to the brainstorming session in the conference room, where a book of prehistoric animals now lay open among the scattered sheets of the transcript of his journey.
Earlier, there had been a great deal of amusement at the transformation of his clothing into bathing trunks. There was a ‘wild card’ factor in the process by which the central self rose independently in the Hinterland, but it seemed that whatever reality had been bent going in, it remained immutable for the duration.
More intriguing was the apparent circularity of the deeper world. Jack had certainly imagined that he had been travelling away from the cathedral and the Bull-temple, only to turn up on its far side. This phenomenon may have been linked to the Eye.
The world within had been shaped by his own imagination, his experience, and the experience of his life and his race. There were more puzzles than there were likely to be answers: why did the Fisherfolk and the Ice Age adventurer not speak his language, yet communicate with surprising facility in sign and gesture, whereas Greenface and Greyface spoke an accented English. Their origins must have been different to the other human forms populating the Midax Deep.
One by one he identified the extinct mammals he had witnessed. Some of them had held a special fascination for him as a child, when he had visited natural history museums in Washington and Arizona, travelling with his family.
‘The small horses you saw,’ Angela turned the book towards him, ‘two small toes beside the hoof, were probably hipparion, early grazers, extinct about two million years ago.’
‘I’d remembered. William wants to tame them.’
‘The huge creature might have been an elephant of some sort, but more likely indricotherium: a hornless rhinoceros, foliage browser, found in Asia, biggest land mammal that ever lived, which is why it’s probably being generated in the Deep.’
The picture of this giant was indeed a reasonable reflection of the crushing monsters that had come down to the lake to drink at dawn.
The question, now, was the extent to which these reconstructions were behaving according to evolution, or to imagination. If the latter, then he might, for future journeys, ‘evolve’ a tame horse, and easily-hunted sources of fresh meat. He might de-construct the smilodonts, the sabre-tooths, and the beady-eyed hyenas.
The love affair between William and the elder sister was curious, because it was a story, romantic, vengeful, noble, passionate, but still a story. What did it reflect? Aspects of Jack’s own sexuality, and experience? His fears, frustrations, buried concerns, secret hopes? Or was it an element of early myth, part of the core of legends that had arisen with awareness in the early human populations?
The one thing that seemed quite clear was that the woman, Ahk’Nemet, was a free agent in this landscape; she and her companion had travelled here
, but by all the signs were as alien to the world within as was Real-Time Jack himself.
It had been a long, long day, and Jack was exhausted. He went to the crèche and Natalie came running from the room, face glowing with effort and enjoyment. She was startled by her father’s cuts and grazes but let herself be picked up, prodding painfully at the wounds.
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Fishing,’ he said, carrying her towards the exit. ‘And hunting tiny horses with black stripes and three toes. And running away from giant elephants with short trunks and no tusks and legs like huge trees. And shouting at hungry hyenas and sabre-toothed tigers. And watching forests swallowed into a whirlpool in a valley. And dodging darts blown at me by a woman with a blow-pipe and green tattoos all over her body–’
She closed his lips with two, tight fingers, curious: ‘What were the tiny horses called?’
I might have known. Horse-obsession!
‘What were they called? Hipparion, family equidae.’
Natalie thought that was a silly name for a horse. ‘Can I ride one?’
‘Got to tame one first. They run very fast. And they kick very hard,’ he added ruefully. ‘Also, you’ll need a time machine to about two million years ago.’
The girl suddenly wrinkled her nose. ‘You’ve been eating fish.’
‘Unfortunately.’
It was astonishing how his ‘dream’ had changed his breath.
‘You need to brush your teeth.’
‘I intend to do a damn sight more than that to them.’
Sand-blasting the inside of his mouth came to mind. But he felt it would be inappropriate to mention this to his daughter.
Natalie’s arms were around his neck and she was getting heavy, but seemed to need this comfort. He had been ‘away’ from his family for four days. As he carried her from the research building to the car park, Angela walking behind with Steve and still in intense discussion, the child placed her hands on her father’s face and stared at him with a look that was neither childlike nor adult – a simple stare that froze his blood, accompanied by the words, ‘You shouldn’t have given up.’
‘Natalie?’
But he knew that this wasn’t his daughter.
‘This is going to cost the girl,’ she said coldly. ‘How much time do you think I have? You fool! I’ll kill everything you love unless you open the gate!’
And before he could speak, she slapped him, a hard blow that brought Angela running.
‘What’s happening? Oh Christ … Jack?’
Suddenly the girl giggled and squirmed in her father’s arms. Jack’s face was stinging and Angela could see the reddening mark. ‘He’s here?’ she whispered, but Jack shook his head. I don’t know.
Natalie said, ‘There aren’t any elephants with short trunks and no tusks. That’s just one of your stories.’
‘And quite a story it is too.’
‘I want to ride a hippa. A tiny horse.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Feeling sick with exhaustion and uncertainty, he let Angela drive him home.
23
The day after his return from the Midax Deep was difficult for several reasons. Primarily, his sleep had been disturbed by lucid, crazy dreams, echoes of his experience during the controlled journey, but maddeningly accurate on many of the points that he had either missed, or chosen to ignore. And in particular: that William had been a fair-haired, fair-bearded reflection of Steven Brightmore, and the affronted fisherman, the sturgeon-catcher who had harpooned him to the lake shore, then shunned him from the village, was … himself.
He had woken in a state of damp, cold anxiety, and was made more irritable to find Angela in her small study, poring over the day’s transcripts, scribbling marginal notes and talking to herself.
‘Come back to bed.’
‘I can’t sleep, Jack. This is too wild. My head’s buzzing.’
‘I need to hold you. I’m wild too, my dreams, they’re crazy. I feel very stressed.’
‘I know. You’re sweating like a man with a guilty conscience! Make some tea. Oh, and check on Nattie, would you?’
Too confused to demonstrate the sudden anger he felt at his wife’s apparent complacency, he stalked the house in the deep dark, and finally made tea when he saw the first, faint glimmer of light along the ridge of hills behind the house.
And as if awakened by that same first light, the girl came into the kitchen clutching her favourite stuffed toy, a grinning fox, and declaimed that she wanted to find a tiny horse to ride. She was wide awake, raring to go, urgent to find a black-striped, three-toed hipparion, and her activity was so noisy, so determined that the rest of the world awoke, and the birds stirred, and the light increased nervously outside, brought into being by this small focus of energy.
Having been unable to sleep, now Jack felt tired. It was four-thirty in the morning.
He spent the first part of the day ringing round to riding schools and stables. ‘A small horse, preferably black or grey, three toed if possible …’
Natalie was racing around the house, already convinced that she was going to ride a ‘hippa’. She became frustrated towards midday when no arrangement had been made and Jack began to think that he was being manipulated, just slightly, just ever so slightly …
At last he found a stable that might supply the required beast, but the riding hours were at weekends only. ‘It’s really important. I’ll pay your price. My daughter is five, she’s ridden twice before, she’s quite competent. It’s a very special treat.’
And at two in the afternoon he was standing by a paddock gate, watching his helmeted daughter bouncing on the back of a scraggy-looking Shetland pony, an animal in its declining years, its back so sagging in the middle that it might have spent a lifetime carrying gold bullion, a look in its eye that could kill: but black and grey, temporarily dignified by being identified as the last representative of an extinct species of the equidae, and not at all inconvenienced by the humane amputation of its second and third toes which, Jack had explained to the girl (guilty at the continuing fabrication) had been essential if the horse was to be ridden by a human being.
She’d believed him, of course. Storytelling was his trade!
He had expected to return home at five o’clock, but Natalie had tired of the ride, refused the chance of an ice cream, and the traffic had been easy through Exburgh. He pulled into the drive an hour earlier than arranged and was incensed to see Brightmore’s blood-red Lotus sprawled, rather than parked, across the gravel, its front wheels embedded in the flower borders.
‘Steve’s here! Steve’s here!’ the girl said, surprising him with the unexpected intimacy of her relationship with Brightmore. And as she ran to the front door, Jack banged his palms against the steering wheel, bitter, angry, confused, willing himself not to look at the bedroom window to see if the curtains were closed, but he did, they were, and for a moment he sank into himself, feeling cold and very clear in the head.
Then he laughed quietly. ‘Harpoons at dusk, you bastard. You walk ahead of me.’
The front door was open and his daughter was waving him into the house. ‘Daddy! Come on, Daddy.’
He slammed the car door, used his key to quickly scratch the paintwork of the Lotus, just above the brake-light (felt good!) and then smiled.
Angela was in the kitchen, making coffee with one hand and pouring lemonade with the other. She looked kempt and relaxed.
‘Was it a good ride?’ she asked as Jack entered the room, flinging his jacket onto the table.
‘I don’t know. Was it?’
Angela frowned. ‘Did she have a good ride? On the prehistoric horse?’ She emphasized the last words, playing the game with him for the child.
‘Half an hour’s mad gallop.’
‘It was fun,’ Natalie said, draining her glass of lemonade noisily and with great finality. Angela watched Jack carefully.
‘You all right?’
‘Where’s Steve?’
‘Outside. Smoking. He’ll be in in a moment. You seem strange. Has something happened?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me. What the hell’s he doing here?’
Angela got his drift and turned away from him, unplugging the percolator then folding her arms. ‘We’ve been working out a strategy for your next journey …’
‘And it was necessary to do that in the bedroom, of course.’
‘No. Of course not. Jesus! Jack …’
‘The fucking curtains are pulled.’
‘That’s because someone is resting there. Laura! Steve’s assistant. Remember? She’s got a migraine. She’s been sick. I didn’t think you’d mind her using our room.’
The glare held, and Jack felt sick himself, turning away from his wife.
‘I’m sorry. Christ, I’m sorry.’
‘So am I,’ she said. But there was an odd tension in her voice. He fought to ignore it.
‘No. You have nothing to be sorry about. It’s me. I’m still a bit crazy about Steve, I suppose. He was in my dreams last night. He was part of the Midax journey. It’s something deep-rooted. I know you had a bad time with him a few years ago, and I know that everything’s professional now … but I can’t … I can’t shake it off.’
She didn’t speak for a moment, wouldn’t look at him, and his mouth went dry again.
I don’t want to know. ‘I’m sorry,’ Angela repeated, her face tense, her eyes half-closed. She looked as if she was about to cry. Everything in the kitchen was in high focus, sharp edged, very clear, and he started to understand.
I don’t want to know. Not now. Not yet …
‘You don’t have to be sorry, love. It’s me. It’s my mad imagination. I need to stop being so bloody paranoid.’
‘Jack … We need to talk …’
No!
And Brightmore was suddenly in the doorway, brushing his fingers together, first looking quizzically at Angela, then at Jack himself. ‘Everything OK? Not intruding, am I?’
‘Your front wheel has gouged into my flower border. What sort of parking is that?’