To the Forgotten Shore

(i) Ship of Sorrows

All night Richard sat by the lake, hunched inside his clothes, staring out at the moonlit water and the haze of Wide Water Hollowing, thinking of the dead boy, and of Alex, indeed, of everything that was lost, like a life, like a story. He kept remembering Lacan’s words of so many weeks ago: harden your heart. These creatures are dying, but remember—they are alive, elsewhere in the wood.

So somewhere else Taaj was still alive, perhaps the companion to an old man who this time might not reject the boy’s plea for help on the fishing trip, and the serpent would be subdued and brought home in triumph. But that other Taaj did not belong to him. It would not have the same face, Alex’s face. It would not watch him with sadness, would not need him in the same way, in Alex’s way. He had watched a mythago drown, and he had been watching an aspect of his own son, consumed by a creature from the icy hell of a legendary deep, bitten in half, two gulps, a brief life savagely ended. He was not unaware of the irony of the situation. During the long night he thought hard about Alex, perhaps still alive in the wood and waiting. Had Alex sent Taaj as a test for his father? Or had Taaj formed from the Old Man’s guilt, a conscience in need of a kick-start, creating an echo of that time of agony when Alex had been taken from him and he had done so little to resist?

He had not felt this alone for years. When Alice left him there had been a few months when he thought he was going mad with loneliness, missing his son, missing her, despite their relationship having been quite distant. The anxiety had passed, of course; he had adapted to his solitary life and moved to London. Now, however, he felt that same claustrophobia—he was in a vast world, but without voices. He might as well have been in a dungeon, hidden from sight and sound. Night birds chorused, water lapped restlessly, and somewhere, just out of earshot, Arnauld Lacan still roared, bear-like, Helen Silver-lock sang her charms to Trickster, and Alexander Lytton murmured his exhortations to the only hidden entity of the wood that mattered: George Huxley.

The memories of his lost friends were strong in Richard.

Something moved on the lake and his attention was snatched from dreams to the reality of Old Stone Hollow Station. He narrowed his eyes, concentrated on the hollowing, and saw again the grey shape moving in the haze. For a minute or more it was quite still and he thought of a sail, then it faded, although the lake became turbulent, the waves reaching the outcrop of stone where Richard huddled.

There was a presence beyond the hollowing, he felt sure, and it was approaching the lake.

At dawn, a drumbeat pulsed from the hollowing, a steady strike, two beats a second, a determined rhythm that might have come from a war-galley. As if carried on a shifting wind, the drumbeat faded for a while, then came back, and at times there was a deeper, slower rhythm superimposed, a second ship perhaps. The shape in the hollowing darkened to become an indented square, quite definitely a sail, and the lake reacted to whatever was on the other side, the waves coming like billows, drenching the shore.

He went back to the longhouse for a while, but returned at the height of the day to find the lake literally echoing to the double thunder of wardrums. Shapes passed across the hollowing in a tantalising display of shadow movement, suggesting a sea battle. Indeed, at some time in the afternoon the smell of fire came from the lake, partly the fragrance of burning cedar, partly the acrid and choking stink of pitch. As if through a sound-shutter, opening and closing, the drumbeats surged and faded, and with them came frequent sounds of screeching, like tortured gulls.

For a while, then, there was silence, but at dusk and into the early evening the dark sail appeared again. Richard stood at the lake edge, chewing dried fish, waiting for the drums to start.

There was a sudden screech, like metal rending … and the screams of men dying—

A thunder of drums, and a white wave surged from the hollowing, spreading widely across the evening lake, bringing with it the sharp scent of the ocean—

Astonished, Richard stepped quickly back as the water broke over his feet. The black sail deepened in the frame, became sharper as the frantic rhythm of the drum grew louder. It was coming toward him, rising, filling the hollowing, but motionless for the moment, oddly frozen.

When the galley broke through the gate it so surprised Richard that he fell backwards. The ship came onto the lake at terrific speed, oars flashing in the dusk light as they rose and fell into the water, drum loud, sail straining in the last of an ocean wind, then dropping fast. High-prowed, deep-hulled, of classic early Greek design, the galley shot across the water, directly toward the frozen figure of the man on the shore. Richard heard voices scream, the sail was slackened, the oars dipped to skim the lake and slow the headlong approach, but too late, the great vessel struck the shore and with a smashing of wood and beams rode up over the rocks, into the trees, lifted from the ground, oars snapping, the mast breaking in a billow of canvas and rigging. The whole vessel came to a sudden halt, then subsided to the right. Half-armoured, grim-faced men jumped from the deck, yelling; out on the lake, one mariner was swimming awkwardly to the shore; below the deck, animals screeched. The wooden hull began to sing and whine, cracking and snapping as it settled and slipped until it was suddenly and eerily silent.

A shape scampered along the soaking shore and came up to the gully. Richard found himself staring at a creature from his wildest dreams: a man’s scarred body on a black beast’s rump, a striking animal form that urinated copiously with fear before looking round in panic, then leaping over the rocks and into the trees. Richard scrambled into cover just as a brawny man, dressed in gleaming breastplate, greaves, and leather tunic, face half-hidden behind a white, slant-eyed mask, thundered past him, carrying a slim and deadly spear. The man screamed out in anger, patrolled the rocks where the beast had vanished, then turned back to the beach in fury, flinging the javelin, which struck and stuck in the ship’s hull, quivering for long seconds.

Other men were spilling from the wreck, light gleaming on the scraps of Greek armour and coloured and grotesque face-masks they wore. They shed this metal to appear either naked or wearing filthy loincloths; all were old, Richard saw now. They were muscular, but heavily lined and paunchy, the flesh hanging on them; thick, dark hair spread over their chests and shoulders. A horse whinnied and was suddenly quiet. Then a woman cried out, a high sobbing sound that responded to a gruff order. A man sang sweetly for a moment, a brief lament, and somewhere below the deck there was a flurry of disturbance and distress that was soon quelled with barked orders and the sound of a lash.

A hand grabbed Richard’s shoulder and he cried out, startled, rising from his crouch and turning, fists flying. The man-beast stood there, terrified. It was a centaur, of course, but like no such creature that Richard had ever seen depicted. The elements of man and horse flowed through the whole body. Richard felt he understood the being’s fear—these new arrivals looked dangerous, and Richard was wary and frightened of them himself. He led the way from the lake into the narrow gully that led to the Station. The centaur followed, crying in a weird fashion. Spittle ran from its black lips and through the wiry hair of its beard. It shivered on the river bank by the Station gates, looking anxiously at the darkening trees, the defences, and particularly at the tall, grotesque effigy that guarded the entrance through the palisade.

“You’ll be safe,” Richard said, although he was aware that mythagos did not survive the electronic defences. “At least, you’ll be safe from me—”

The centaur suddenly cantered through the palisade and into the tall grass, following the path to the longhouse, stooping to peer inside. It dropped dung at the entrance and as if embarrassed stepped back and reached down to gather up the three hard pellets, tossing them into the wood and brushing its hands together. It prowled about the house, then curled up in its entrance. It feigned sleep, though as Richard stared down its eyes opened slightly, like a child’s when sleep is necessary but curiosity remains.

Who were these new arrivals? He could hear shouting and banging, a drumbeat, and a moment later the area was pierced by the shrill tones of a horn, high-pitched, rising in note, repeated ten times while the drum was sounded. The centaur shivered, curled up on its side, its almost-human arms wrapped around its bearded head.

Richard crept back to the lake, night gathering around him. Torches burned everywhere and there was much activity. He could hear furtive movement around him and kept low in the gully, alert for any sudden attack. All he could make out in the gloom was that a skin tent had been erected, tied to the gunnels of the stranded vessel at one end and to the exposed roots of a willow at the other. A cauldron of water was heating and women’s voices came from that area of activity. Two men were swimming out across the black lake, calling to each other, others were hauling lengths of rigging into the tree branches. The great sail had been dismantled and folded. Three figures, heavily built, long-haired, were lifting down a huge wooden image from the stranded ship. Richard could see a woman’s face and breasts, an expression of fury carved and luridly painted. This image was erected at the water’s edge, facing towards the woodland, and two tall braziers, flaming brightly, placed on each side of it.

Further along the shore, flames that glowed brighter than a cooking fire suggested a primitive forge had been established. A large man fussed over this flame-pit in the high rocks and it was he who saw Richard, as if by far sight, and moved stealthily towards him. As the giant loomed up, Richard saw that he had only one eye. The beard that fringed his broad face was grey-streaked auburn. His arms were huge, each tattooed with a winding snake. Through the white hairs of his chest a brand had marked him, a wheel around a cross, with wings on each side. He stank of sweat and honey, and breathed hard as he stepped closer and closer to the crouching man, dragging one lame leg behind him.

He was just close enough when Richard said, sharply, “Come any further and I’ll kick your other leg away. Do you understand?”

The giant hesitated at the sound of the voice. From the beach he was called and shouted back. The words were guttural, strangely unfamiliar since they were no doubt a form of early Greek. Again he dragged his bad leg towards Richard, who fumbled in his clothes for Lytton’s lighter, which he raised and struck, with the flame set to shoot high. To the other man it would have seemed as if the flame had come from Richard’s clenched hand, and he was satisfyingly startled. Richard flicked the fire on and off twice more, then said menacingly, “Get back to your forge!” indicating the flame in the rocks.

The smith glanced over his shoulder, then frowned and began to back away.

On the lake shore, an old man in a long, dark cloak, holding a long spear, watched what was happening and called again. The glint of firelight on this tall character’s eyes reminded Richard of the light on the serpent’s gaze as it had consumed Taaj, illuminating a soulless curiosity and aggressive determination. Richard shivered as he looked at the man by the water.

The smith spoke to this figure again, and this time Richard thought he heard a name: Yar sun.

The name was familiar. He played its sound in his mind. It was distinctly familiar, and when the smith repeated it the sound became clear, and Richard felt a thrill of excitement as he realised who was confronting him on the shore.

Jason!

*   *   *

The argonauts had worked all night and by dawn the Argo was secure and upright, still impaled on the rocks but ready, now, for the first planks to be repaired. At the water’s edge the effigy of Hera was a grim depiction of the manipulative nature of the Goddess. Her face was pinched, her eyes wide and angry, and although there was beauty there, the effect was disempowering. One would not enter lightly into a relationship with a woman whose need for gratification was so determinedly portrayed. Ten feet high, wreathed in the coils of black smoke from the braziers, the statue gazed across the bowed, crouching shape of a man in a black, wool-trimmed cloak: Jason himself, but a man now long-years-since finished with the quest for which he had become renowned.

He was talking occasionally and nodding, as if in communion with the idol. When he stood it was a sudden movement and he turned quickly to look directly at Richard, hidden among the rocks. Richard started with shock as the dark face broke into a cruel grin and a brawny hand lifted, finger extended, pointing. The idol had drawn attention to him.

This was an old man. Below the dark fur hood, Jason’s hair and beard were grey, and the naked torso that was now revealed was sagging, the belly full over a wide sword belt, like a girdle, the thighs still strong, but loose-skinned. He was in his seventies, by the look of him, and his companions not far off, their women friends too; they formed a gap-toothed, grey-haired, crouch-boned crew of adventurers, but strong in arm, and still strong in menace.

The smith was attacking rigging rings and bolts, sending sparks flying. The dull sound of hammered bronze pulsed along the lake shore.

Richard returned to Old Stone Hollow in time to see the centaur moving furtively away up the river. It glanced back as it heard movement and raised an arm in thanks before trotting jerkily into the shadows.

An hour later the first of the argonauts edged cautiously through the gully and approached the giant effigy which Richard had constructed at the gateway to the compound. The man had no beard, just a wide moustache. His grey hair was lank, but held back by a simple purple headband. He carried a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a wide-bladed cutting sword that reflected greenly as he held it at the ready. Apart from sandals and a belt fringed with leather strips, he was naked below the heavy cloak of stitched skins that he wore, opened at the front. They had come from hot Aegean weather into this brisk, chilly autumnal world.

The man stood across the river and peered into Old Stone Hollow, observing the cliff, the longhouse, the height of the palisade, the wooden Guardian. He was nervous, curious, and perhaps only an advance guard. From hiding in the long grass Richard scanned the cliff top and the other paths, but he saw nothing. As the argonaut stepped into the river, to cross it and enter the compound, Richard darted quickly to the tent that protected the generator and increased its power to the wires, ground tracks, and laser channels around the Station.

The effect was astonishing. The man stopped suddenly, very puzzled, then began to scream, stumbling back in the water, falling, dragging himself up onto the bank again. Around him, the land heaved, the trees shuddered. He jerked his hand away from the sudden tug of green tendrils that had emerged to wrap around him. Again he screamed, this time in terror, his voice taking on a strange quality, deepening, until it was not recognisably human. He was still standing, but he had become grey. Gradually his spine arched and he tumbled back. There was a scurrying of activity around him and ground-ivy flowed to cover him. Below this unlikely shroud he continued to struggle and breathe for some time, occasionally emitting a cry of intense pain, occasionally calling helplessly for Jason.

As he had fallen, so there had been a quick movement back towards the gully. Richard darted round the palisade and peered out, in time to see Jason and two others returning in haste, and certainly in confusion, to their lakeside camp by the Argo.

*   *   *

Later in the day, one of the women and another argonaut edged through the gully. They called out repeatedly, advertising their presence, and took a wide arc up the slope, above the river, before cautiously coming to the water’s edge, grinning and nodding, there to place a gleaming jug and a roll of fleece on the ground. They were unarmed and crept away. Richard watched them go, then fetched the offerings into the compound, delighting in the fact that he was clearly regarded as some terrible creature that would need placating. He remembered the Gorgon, however, and was not unaware that to these ageing adventurers, placation might only be a first ruse in the eventual tricking and destroying of the mysterious, magical life-form that they had encountered.

How did Jason and his crew regard him, he wondered? They had adventured against cyclops and titans, gorgons and sirens, the guardians of magic groves and serpents. Here, now, they had beached by magic on a cold lake shore, after passing, perhaps, through an odd storm, or clashing rocks, on the sunny Aegean. They were in a mysterious land, and threatened by a wild man, a wizard, who summoned the very earth to consume one of their men by touching a bizarre, metallic monster that hummed a single note, and whined to call for more prey.

The jug was of beaten gold. It contained a sharp wine, flavoured with lavender, and he was immediately suspicious, risking no more than a taste on the end of his finger. The vessel was exquisite, decorated with figures of heroes, and the full and leafy features of the god of all things indulgent. The roll of fleece did not reveal gold, to his disappointment, but was beautifully soft, white with fine streaks of grey, and cut carefully to make a shoulder wrap, the ties at the front being the small, scaly horns of the creature that had perhaps once worn the hide more naturally. The horns were not pronouncedly like a goat’s, nor sheep-like—more in the fashion of Pan, he thought.

The sounds of repair were loud. Richard heard trees being felled, the wood then chopped and shaped. The forge rang continuously and sometimes the breeze brought the smell of cooking and Richard sighed as he remembered good, tasty stews and succulent Sunday roasts of lamb and pork.

Perhaps his hunger carried on that same breeze. In the late afternoon, Jason and another burly fellow, both unarmed, both in sheepskins, brought a small copper cauldron to the river’s edge and left it there. A tantalising aroma of fish and Mediterranean herbs came from the pot. Jason’s companion withdrew nervously, but the leader of the argonauts remained. He produced a wooden spoon and consumed three mouthfuls of the soup and fish, then drew back so that Richard could cross the water and take the container. Jason made encouraging sounds, grinning, his mouth full of black teeth.

“Thank you,” Richard said, and added, “Daksi.”

Jason shook his head thoughtfully, crouched on his haunches, eyes alert for every movement, every twitch of the forest. Richard carried the cauldron back into the compound then came to the river’s edge again, dropping into the same tense crouch as his visitor. He was conscious of being explored carefully, examined in every detail, from his tennis shoes to his denim shorts, from the ragged affair of blankets that he wore around his shoulders for warmth to his braided hair and the bone slivers and egret feathers with which the boy had decorated him in recent, happier times.

Jason indicated the crumbling mound that was his dead companion and said a few words. Richard spread his hands and shook his head, before hunching forward again. “I didn’t know it would happen. There’s a defensive field around Old Stone Hollow—” He waved his hand behind him and repeated slowly: “Old Stone. Hollow.” Jason nodded and said, “Hollow.”

Richard went on, “The field kills in different ways. It didn’t kill the centaur at all, and you seem safe enough. You’re mythagos. All of you. And you’re all vulnerable in different ways. This is a dying-place, for mythagos. It’s dangerous for you to be here.”

“Hollow,” Jason said. “Mythaaga…”

“Mythagos, that’s right.”

Jason shook his head, looking beyond Richard, then scanning the high rise of shadowy cliff. He stood and stretched, rubbing circulation back into his tanned and muscular legs. His bones creaked and cracked as he straightened, like the Argo on the beach, and he grinned broadly, an acknowledgement of age. He pointed to the stew and said something encouraging, then raised a hand in temporary farewell.

As he left he glanced back twice, his face an open book of thoughtful planning.

*   *   *

What was Richard’s significance to them? Were they afraid of him? Did he represent some goal in their adventure? Did they believe that he might be in possession of a magic that would aid their greater quest?

The Argo had been pulled down from the rocks, and was now suspended by ropes. Its stern was in the water, but its prow, and the damaged area of the hull, were more accessible to the carpenters and metalworkers, and Richard, watching from above the gully, could see how the planks had been cut back to expose the great tree that formed the keel.

An aspect of the Jason legend came back to him: the Argo was built around a sacred oak. He had always assumed that the keel had been shaped from the tree, however, not that the tree itself had been incorporated into the vessel. Yet there it was, its branches like veins, reaching up and through the narrow space below the deck, winding around like roots, a cage of branches containing strength and magic, a cage of branches within the man-formed sleek shape of the ship itself.

Two of the argonauts were at work repairing several broken branches, applying an unguent. Smoking censers had been placed inside the tree, and the vapour wafted out across the lake. Looking carefully, Richard could see movement inside the oak cage, acts of propitiation, perhaps, or repair to the main trunk.

It was as he watched the bustle of activity that he heard the sound of a girl crying out in anguish. A harsh male voice barked an order. Much of the work on the ship stopped for a moment and there was a clattering, somewhere below decks, the sound of hooves, or stamping, and then a rattle of metal followed again by the girl’s shrill cry.

One of the argonauts laughed. A length of rigging slipped, uncurling as it plunged, and was caught by a man below. The new mast was up, the sail being hauled to its cross-bar. The accident broke the moment’s mood, and activity began again.

Five minutes later, one of the planks at the rear of the ship began to move. Curious, Richard moved closer through the rock and trees. The panel had been loosened by the force of the beaching. It opened along three feet of its length, and a dark, frightened face peered out at the shore. Daylight glinted on wide eyes, then a second face, this one more animal than human, glanced out anxiously before withdrawing.

The plank snapped back into place with a crack, but the sound went unremarked by the busy men around.

*   *   *

In the evening Richard built a fire just inside the gates of the Station and racked up the generator. On the far bank, where the argonaut had died, an odd tree had grown. It shivered despite the lack of wind, and carried four small, yellow fruits, round and shiny. Richard declined to go across the river and investigate them.

Movement in the gully alerted him and he quickly strung his long bow, then nocked an arrow. Over the weeks since he had found this weapon he had become adept at its use, though the flights and heads were getting battered now and he had so far failed to make a successful arrow himself.

From the long grass he could see the gleam of light in the defensive field, and in places the glitter of the thin wires that carried the current. Water splashed, a man’s voice barked, a girl’s voice protested. Richard drew back into the grass, crouching, and soon Jason and three others appeared across the river. Jason had a small, dark-skinned girl with him, chained around her neck, her face open and frightened. She wore a thin wrap that scarcely covered her skeletal limbs.

Jason called to him and Richard came out of cover. “What do you want?”

The girl immediately closed her eyes, concentrating hard. Jason just grinned and watched the other man. His companions shifted uneasily, tugging skins around their chests. One of them kept a weather-eye on the huge bow, which Richard had drawn, the arrow turned only slightly to the side. Richard felt his arm twitch with the effort of holding the weapon, but he sensed menace in the air and was taking no chances.

Again Jason spoke. He slapped his chest, his mouth, and indicated Richard. He wanted to come over the water and talk. He wanted to bring the girl. Was that permitted?

“Just you, then. Not your friends. They must go back to the Argo.”

“Argo?” Jason repeated. Richard stabbed a finger at the other three men and then towards the shore. Jason grasped the message. His friends withdrew. Jason tugged the protesting girl and they waded through the deep water, shivering as they came ashore, crouching gladly by the fire in the gateway below the menacing glare of Richard’s totem.

Closer to, when Richard met the gaze of Jason’s prisoner and saw the etched lines of experience and humour, of pain and defiance all around the sparkling eyes, the corners of her mouth, he realised that it was only her slightness that had made him think of her as a girl, rather than the subdued but still defiant young woman that she was.

Jason produced a piece of cloth and unwrapped a rare-cooked and juicy shin of mutton. It gave off an aroma of rosemary and garlic and as Jason saw the hungry look in Richard’s eyes, so Richard saw the look in the woman’s. She was starving. Jason hacked off a portion of the meat and ate it, then carved a slice for Richard, who took it and consumed it with gusto. The woman accepted a small slice, behaving as if she were surprised to be offered such a treat. There was wine too, a clay amphora containing about two pints. Jason took a long draught, then Richard, and this time he appreciated the drink, with its honeyish aftertaste and warming effect on his stomach.

“Thank you,” he said, and the woman repeated, “Thank you.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Richard went on, then frowned as the woman said, in perfect imitation, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Jason watched her, nudged her, but she shook her head and scowled, rattling the thin length of chain with which he held her. She looked hungrily at the lamb and the big man sliced more for her, then for Richard. She chewed gratefully, dark eyes sparkling. Her skin tone suggested the Middle East. Her hair was jet black, but cropped short. Her ear-lobes gaped grotesquely with holes where heavy rings had once hung, and indeed, there was a distension in the flesh of her nostrils too. A thin covering of dark hair spread from her ankles to her knees, and bushed from below her arms. She was boyish in shape, her face seeming older than her breastless body. The wrap that covered her was purple, and the designs were of broad-headed lions, winged dragons, and sharp-beaked eagles.

“Why are you repeating what I say?” Richard asked.

“Why are you repeating what I say?”

“Are you trying to understand me?”

“Are you trying to understand me?”

“My name is Richard. What’s yours?”

“My name is Richard…” She trailed off, looked down.

Jason leaned forward expectantly, watching her. He said something and she nodded.

She murmured, “I know him now.” She looked up, brows dark, head cocked. “It’s a strange tongue. I know you though, I know how you speak. Many tongues muddled. What do you call it? Your language…”

“English. You seem to have learned it very fast.”

“I already knew it—I just had to find it. It’s a long-to-come language. They float in me like dreams. There are so many. The languages of the long-gone are easier. But I have him—you—I have you now. I have your tongue. You are Richard.”

“Yes. And you?”

“Sarinpushtam. My sad companions, below the deck of the Argo, call me Sarin. This is Jason.”

“Yes. I know.”

“Don’t trust him.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“I’m hungry. Please indicate that I should have more meat, or this man will deny me. He’s very cruel.”

Aware that contact had been established, Jason tightened the chain around Sarin’s neck, tugged her and growled at her. She spoke to him in his language and he glanced at Richard, nodding, then smiling grimly. He released the girl, who touched her neck tenderly and started to ask questions. He expected Sarin to translate, but the girl just watched Richard, eyes haunted. Richard pointed to the lamb and to the girl and Jason’s features darkened, but he got the message, sliced a thick piece of meat, and passed it to Sarin. He watched her impatiently as she ate it, seeming to chew longer than necessary, licking her lips exaggeratedly, closing her eyes in ecstasy when she wasn’t watching Jason carefully and tauntingly. When she had finished she wiped her fingers on the ground, looked hard at Jason and wiggled her tongue between her lips in an odd gesture. She smiled “sweetly” as Jason passed her the wine amphora, and drank so deeply from it that Richard was surprised to hear the slosh of remaining liquid when she passed it back.

“That’s better,” she said. “It will ease the pain later, when he punishes me.”

“Why will he punish you?”

“Mostly because I don’t like him and he knows it, and I make life difficult for him. Partly because I’m a woman, or what’s left of one, and ever since Medea killed his precious lover and his boys, he doesn’t much like the female sex, although he doesn’t prefer his lusty companions. He has very little choice. Boys, boy-shaped girls, and…” She sucked her fingers pointedly. “Well, I hope you don’t mind eating meat from a carcass that Jason has raped.”

She was grinning mischievously. Jason suddenly lashed out with his hand, a stinging blow to her cheek, drawing blood from the corner of her mouth. He spoke angrily, she translated quickly.

The business session had begun.

“What magic did you use to kill Peleus? And make Tisamenus disappear…”

Which one was Tisamenus, Richard wondered, but he said, “A magic that surfaces out of dreams. The dream lives in the skulls of certain men, and also in the earth. The light of the sun, and the terror of lightning, can be controlled by this magic, and made to dance at my orders.”

It was sufficiently garbled for confusion, but Richard was proud of his invention. When Sarin conveyed this information, Jason began to look hungry in a different way. Predictably he asked, “What will you trade for knowledge of this magic?”

“Nothing,” Richard said. “The magic is known only to me. The very earth in this place is at my command—” Jason had seen something that would not give the lie to this lie—“No one else can have the knowledge.”

It was some moments before Jason answered, his gaze burning into Richard. When he finally spoke it was in a whisper, and Sarin had to listen hard as she gave voice to the old man’s thoughts. “Will you come with me, then? Will you sail with me on the Argo, as my honoured companion, and work your magic for me? If you believe this, you’re a fool.”

It took Richard a moment to dissect Sarin’s commentary from the translation. As he glanced at her she raised her eyebrows, quickly and pointedly. He said, “No. Thank you, but the Goddess Hera directs your fortunes. You must ask her for all the magic you need.”

Jason turned his head and spat angrily. His face literally darkened as he met Richard’s gaze again. “Hera? She rations me. In some ways I’m no more than her shadow, and she dances at her own whim to make me move.” He scratched the grey stubble on his chin, smiling thinly. “But I like the tone of your magic. I like its effect. There are places I wish to go, there are treasures to acquire, achievements that would be easier with a magician like you. I will offer you a palace. I carry a treasure in the hold of the Argo with which I could buy two such places. I will give it to you.” He grinned hugely. “And gladly! Just come with me for one year. No more than that. One year. Come on—what do you say?”

Without taking his eyes from Jason, aware of the face that Sarin was pulling, Richard said, “No. This is my home. My gods watch me from the woods. The forest and myself are as one. I seek something that only I can find. My own adventure will take me deep into the wood, not onto the high sea.”

Jason was very tense, the fingers of his right hand gouging at the earth. He said, “Then I will help you find what you seek. Myself, my friends. We’ll be at your service for … two years. If you will spend just one year with me.”

“No. I must find what I seek alone. There is a god called conscience, and he needs to be placated.”

The word was hard for Jason (for Sarin, too, Richard noted). The argonaut came from a time when the notion of conscience was still raw-formed, still a confusion of the will of gods and predestined actions. Richard went on, “More importantly, there is a life called Alex, a life that is in limbo. Like Orpheus—”

“Orpheus? I’ll introduce you—”

“Like Orpheus, I have to enter hell to bring him out. I can only do it alone.”

Jason was angry, but he tried to hide the fury. He stood, kicked the lamb to Richard, then tugged Sarin to her feet, dragging her to the river. “You should give me the chance to help you!”

“Leave the woman here for a while!” Richard called, and he heard Sarin translate, but Jason snapped a negative and pushed the frail creature into the water ahead of him, splashing through the shallows towards the gully. As he disappeared from view, he shouted out, and Sarin’s voice echoed the words: “Perhaps your magic is not as powerful as you think!”

(ii) Dancing with Shadows

Somehow she slipped her chain, and came back to the compound after dark, huddling by the glowing embers and calling softly for Richard. He ran around the grass path, peering over the weeds until he saw who it was, then went to her, picking up one of the still-burning branches and leading her by the hand to the longhouse. She was shuddering, wincing with pain, and he wondered if it might be the defences, so he turned down the generator and indeed her agony diminished.

He had been huddled in the longhouse without a fire, but he set light to the pile of wood, now, and they sat and listened to the crackle of dry bark, watching the smoke stream up to the roof hole. There was food left, and unsurprisingly Sarin went at it like a hound. She sat cross-legged, her robe riding up her thin legs, and as the light grew with the fire Richard saw the bruising on her thighs. Distressed and disturbed for her, he reached over and tugged the cloth to conceal her wounds. Her neck was black and blue where the chain had been.

“He’s sleeping. He put me back in the hold, without the chain, but there’s a loose plank and I’m small enough to get through it. I mustn’t let him know I’m gone. It would be too terrible for the others.”

She was not the only prisoner, then. But Richard hesitated to ask her who else was locked below the deck of the Argo. He wanted to know more about Sarin herself. How had she grasped his language so quickly? What was her myth?

By firelight, relaxed and warm, with a friend at last, she told him about her life. To her, of course, it was a natural life that had ended abruptly when she had been taken by Jason.

She had lived in a town called Eshmun, close to a city and sacred site where the priests had ordered the construction of a great tower to reach to the gates of heaven itself. A place called Babel. As a child, she had seen her grandfather broken by the work, sent home to die once his bones had cracked and his muscles become like rags. Her father had been taken. When he too was broken by a fall, his dying words had been that from the top of the tower he had seen a place where the sun shone from every horizon.

Sarin, her mother, and sisters were now alone, and unsupported. Sarin had been six. One day they had been taken by other women, and moved up to the base of the tower itself, which was so wide, so huge, so high that it blocked the light from the west. They lived among the tents. Sarin for a while had helped prepare food for the builders, carpenters, and stonemasons. But soon she was old enough to follow her sisters into the tower itself, and climb one of the twenty flights of spiral stairs. This led to the ornamental rooms where jade lions watched over shallow pools of water, and those men with the Vision of the Tower came to bathe and relax, and take their various pleasures. And Sarin, for a year or more, was one of these.

Because of the nature of her work, because she would need to talk to men from all across the world where customs and the secret languages were different, she was trained in the language of the Tall Grass. The Tall Grass language had been the first language, spoken in the long-gone by the first adventurers. Over many generations the Tall Grass tongue had become rich and complex and all men the known world over spoke it; a small part of it, however, had become divided and secret; each and every man and woman had a secret language, which they spoke alone, to the moon, or to hidden forces, or to God.

Once Sarin had learned the ancient Tall Grass tongue, she could see deeper into the wisdom of the men of Vision, further into their hearts, further into their humour, further into their fears. She became one of the Comforting Mouths, women whose conversation and understanding was like magic. Her head was full of language, and those languages were like windows onto long-gone worlds. Sometimes, too, there were long-to-come worlds, showing themselves in dreams. This was the nature of the Tall Grass tongue: so simple that it was the key to everything human beings thought in their secret worlds. The women kept this secret closely guarded in their hearts.

One day, Sarin made the mistake—the only mistake she would ever make, until she failed to kill a man called Jason who came to abduct her—the mistake of mentioning her visions of the long-to-come.

One of the Tower Builders, aspiring to the priesthood, was jealous of her dreams. He asked her to reveal the names of God in the worlds of the long-to-come. Sarin refused. He beat her, then dragged her to the stone drop, a hole in the wall through which the blasphemous were sent to their death on the rocks and tents, an hour’s fall below. The Builder held Sarin by the hair and dangled her from the stone drop. From here she could see the sun at every horizon, and she remembered her father’s dying words, and that made her think of her grandfather, and her mother and sisters, now lost in this great structure in the service of the Builders.

She felt at peace despite the pain and hung there, talking to the memory of her father, while the Builder’s arm tired. He demanded to know the names of God in the long-to-come. She asked him why he wished to know. He told her that in names there was great power, and when the tower reached to Heaven itself, those men in possession of the not-yet-known names of God would be as Kings in that great place.

That was when the tower cracked.

Sarin declined to let her secret knowledge be known.

The tower cracked again, and this time she felt the whole world shake, and reached to the Builder just as he released her hair. She clung to his arm, then found a grip upon the lintel of the stone hole. The tower trembled and the Builder was thrown out into the air, to fall for a long time, robes flapping, his scream outliving his body. As the tower began to collapse, Sarin scrambled into its ruined bulk, and scampered down the spiral stairs, dodging the rocks and stones, the cedarwood beams, the jade and golden idols. Eventually she was struck by masonry and lost consciousness, save for a dream in which, with thousands of others, she was falling through the ruins to her death below.

She woke among those ruins. Her mother was bathing her face. Everything was in chaos. The world was full of sound, and the sounds jarred and flowed and screamed, but as Sarin came to full alertness she found that she could understand those sounds. The secret languages of every man, woman, and child were now the only languages—the greater part of the Tall Grass tongue had been torn away!—but each was different. She could understand her mother, but her mother could understand none of her daughters, save Sarin.

Sarin was the Tall Grass Lady, and she was depicted on many painted and carved surfaces, vases, and sacred stones. She knew all tongues. When she had denied the Builder his obscene request, she alone had been spared by the fateful and vengeful force that had destroyed the language of the world, the tower, and its blasphemous intent. Sarin dwelt in a temple, and was visited often, to interpret between new peoples, new clans, new tribes. Her visions continued. Her fame spread …

And then—to this Sarin at least—a strange thing happened …

Out of the long-to-come came a ship like no ship she had ever seen, men like no men she had ever seen, carrying swords and spears with terrifying blades, speaking a language that she recognised, but talking of her own life as if she was long-gone, long in the past. They were collectors, and they had come to collect her. They would sell her for a high price to a king whose desire for power could make use of this Witch of Tongues.

They took her, abused her, beat her, and chained her in the cargo hold of the Argo.

Sarinpushtam. Tall Grass Speaker. A woman with the gift of language. One of Jason’s tradable treasures.

*   *   *

“There are two holds,” she said after finishing the last of the sour, lavender wine. It hadn’t done Sarinpushtam any harm, so Richard too had indulged from the golden jug, and now felt light-headed and aggressive towards Jason. “To get to the hold where the living are chained you have to go through the dead treasure hold. It’s stuffed. You can hardly move for fleeces, skulls, statues, and bits of armour.”

“Fleeces? Is there a golden fleece among them?”

“They’re all golden,” Sarin said with a little laugh. “He collects them compulsively. I don’t know why—nobody seems to want them.”

“What about guards?”

“They’re all drunkards. They’ll be vigilant during daylight, but they eat and sleep like lions, and drink like Old Vineface … I don’t know how you remember him in your long-to-come. They’ll soon drift off, but Richard, they’re not fools. If they sleep readily, because of their age, they sleep lightly, they wake fast, they’re stronger than they look, and they’ve lost none of their skills. They’re mean-tempered, ferocious old men.”

“I’ll be careful. At least Hercules didn’t come back.”

“Four of his illegitimate sons are among them, though, and one of the women is his daughter. The sons of the Dioscuri are among them too. And the shade of Aeneus, of whom you should be very wary.”

“The unsung heroes of Jason’s later legend,” Richard mused aloud, and was about to speak again, to ask who the rest of the argonauts were, when he noticed that sweat was pouring from Sarin’s face. She seemed to be in pain, and almost immediately she arched back and began to howl. Richard leapt to his feet and picked her up, astonished at the fact that he could hardly feel her weight. Her breath was bad, but her eyes, now wide, were terrified. “Something’s happening to me…”

The defences! Christ!

“Hang on to me. I have to get you out of the Station.”

She began to weep, biting back the sounds, gnawing at her lip to frustrate the anguish of pain that she was suddenly experiencing. Richard cut straight through the grass, wading through the tall grass, crossing his winding paths. He hardly glanced around him as he passed the gates, and entered the water. If Jason was here, now, then he was in trouble. Sarin’s grip on his neck tightened, then relaxed and he was shocked, dropping her to the ground, slapping her cheeks, pulling her face round to see if life still existed. She was breathing shallowly. Her mouth was slack and wet. He picked her up again and stumbled up the bank, running fast towards the Sanctuary, to get her away from the humming defences, the totems, the talismans, the forces of the earth that could so unpredictably take the life of a mythago.

He fell to the ground, his legs too tired to work any more. He covered Sarin with his body, hugged her, his mouth against her neck not for pleasure, but so that he could feel with his lips for the pulse of life. She groaned, was sick, and he drew away, holding her hand, massaging her thin fingers, waiting for her to come back to full strength.

“What happened?” she whispered after a while. “I felt like my life was being sucked into a great hole. There were running creatures, running men, all being sucked down into a great hollow in the ground…”

The reference was clear. She had experienced Old Stone Hollow itself. So did that mean that it was the camp’s defences that had attacked her suddenly or had something reached to her from the cave? In any case, it would be dangerous for her to return to the Station.

“How do you feel?”

She wiped a hand across her mouth. “Too much wine,” she said. “I feel shaky. I don’t want to be beaten again. I’m going back. From what I’ve heard Jason say to the others, the Argo will not be seaworthy for four days, perhaps five. So don’t act hastily. If you really want to help, then we must wait for a good moment.”

She was staring at him. It was an odd look and he couldn’t interpret it. Suddenly she flung her arms around his neck and cried on his shoulder. Helplessly he patted her back, alarmed by the prominent ribs. “I will help,” he said. “As best I can. But you mustn’t come back to the compound. It’s too dangerous for you.”

“He’ll drag me back. He needs to control you. He wants your head. Jason believes that the source of all magic is in the jelly that fills our skulls.”

Clever man …

“Richard…?”

“What is it?”

She drew back, peered at him through furrowed brow, licking her lips and grimacing at the taste. “If you can’t help us. If it seems Jason will win…” Her eyes gleamed with passion and desperation. “Richard. I would rather not be alive than with Jason. Do you understand what I’m asking?”

“Yes. I do.”

“The knowledge has only just become important to me. I can’t stand it any longer. I don’t belong with him. I don’t belong here. I dream of long-gone and long-to-come, but the dreams are wrong. It’s as if I am not in the right world. Can you explain that?”

Richard could have spent an hour explaining it, of course, but he shook his head. Suddenly Sarin was on her feet. She slipped off her colourful wrap and merged with night shadows, a pathetically slim shape, slipping down the bank to the gully, moving like the softest breeze back to her prison in the Argo.

*   *   *

“Riiich—aaaard! Good morrr-ning. Brek-faaast, Riiich—ard. Braaaaak—fust!”

The sound of Jason’s call, his shouted invitation to come to the river, woke Richard from a deep and dizzying sleep. He was in the longhouse, wet and cold with sweat. Jason’s voice, the accent pronounced, the laughter a clear indicator that he was amused by the strange words (no doubt taught to him by Sarin), was nightmarish.

“Riiich—aaaard!”

He dressed and ran in his crouch through the wind-stirred grass, finally peering through the gate at the crouched, cloaked shape on the far bank. Sarin was there too, but not in chains. On a skewer, Jason held two crisply black fish, plump of body. Fish for breakfast. Why not? The pain in Richard’s head was a sufficient warning not to accept any alcohol, however.

He thought of turning up the generator, but the memory of the previous night, and the possibility that Sarin would not survive the destructive field, decided him against such a move. Jason as ever was unarmed, but Richard nocked an arrow and skulked forward, finally standing in the open gates.

“Why the bow?” Jason asked through the woman.

“Because I relish the idea of living to be as old as you.”

Jason laughed and nodded. “But that’s too much caution, Richard. Men like you are too fearful of their backs. I’m old because I don’t care. I just trust to Hera. She bargained with me years ago. A long life, said I. Then pleasure me, said she. How do I do that, I asked. I like to see you find things, she said. The world is full of hidden treasures. And like a man finding the secret places of a woman for the first time, so to the gods there is a satisfaction in seeing men discover the secret places of the earth. Hera is my love, my life, and some might say my tormentor. But what torment? I have the fullest of lives, and I am unquenchable. I have the vigour of a youth, and the experience of age. I can drink like Old Vineface, and plan a strategy for the ache in the head the next day; and at the whisper of my voice I can summon a hero to sail with me, or a king to charge me with a task. I like being old. Memory—experience—these are the truest sources of power. Make your own pact, Richard, and that way you need never look behind your back again. But for the moment, it’s breakfast and conversation that I want, and a bargain, not a fight, so do put down that bow.”

They ate fish, and Richard noticed that Sarin was given an equal share. Jason was treating her with much greater respect today. His old man’s temper had got the better of him yesterday, but in the harsh light of retrospect he had clearly decided that a way to get Richard’s confidence was to show consideration for the woman. Sarin’s smile, as she ate and watched her friend, was cynical, a signal that she knew the situation.

“What’s the order of business for today?” Richard asked eventually, and as if understanding him Jason laughed, slapped the woman on the back, and indicated that she should talk.

“Firstly, I’m yours to do with as you want for the duration of the repair to the Argo.”

“I accept. I could do with some intelligent conversation.”

Sarin shook her head grimly. “That’s not what Jason means…”

“So what?” said Richard with a smile. “What does it matter what Jason means? It’s not what I mean. I’d like to have your company. I accept the deal. I’ll find a way to get you deeper into the wood, away from him. I need company, chat, and a sense of humour, and you fit the bill. Yes please, I will have your company for the duration. If you agree, that is…”

“I agree! But don’t think about smuggling me away. If I betray him, he’ll kill his best friend, who happens to be mine too. I’m sorry, but this man knows his business, and there are other friends below the deck…”

Richard glanced at the smirking man. Did Jason follow the drift of the conversation in English? It was hard to tell.

Sarin said, “The main business today is that you are invited to inspect the Argo, to see its goods and treasures, the creatures that he carries, the magic that he has stolen from the earth. He wants to convince you that to join him on the Argo would be in your favour. Of course, the whole point is to take you and subdue you. He has already gathered that your strength only shows in this magic place, this hollow. He’s afraid of your magic, certainly, but he has guessed correctly that your skills are limited. He still wants to use them. So if you go to the Argo, don’t expect to come back. That’s my advice, anyway.”

“Thanks. I think I’ll take it.” Richard looked at Jason and shook his head vigorously. “Tell him that if he releases all that is living on the Argo, and waits a full day, then I’ll talk to him again and consider his offer. Tell him I do not travel with prisoners.”

Jason raised his hands, on hearing this, then patted his groin as he crouched, a clear signal that Richard could take his request, perceived as the lie it was, and post it back to Shadoxhurst.

A look in Jason’s eye alarmed and alerted Richard. There had been the faintest of glances upwards, the merest shake of the man’s head. Richard twisted quickly, at the crouch, and was in time to see the faint shadow of a man pull back from the top of the cliff above Old Stone Hollow.

Damn! They had found a way up. Perhaps an arrow had been nocked and pointed at Richard’s exposed back all the time that he had been talking. The compound was totally vulnerable to attack from above.

For a moment Jason picked at his lower teeth with thumb and index finger, examining the fragments of fish that he hooked from his blackening ivories before sucking them away. At length he said something to Sarin, who announced, “He’s sorry you won’t see sense, but in fact your magic is probably of less use than he’d thought. He’ll not bother you again. He has a centaur to hunt, an escapee. He’s sorry, but he has decided not to give me to you. The Argo will be repaired in a day—I can’t believe that’s true—and then they’ll be gone. If you can help me, please help me soon. Death or release, I don’t care which. That bow looks like a giant’s, but if you can shoot it, shoot it.”

“Be in no doubt of that,” Richard said, and as he spoke he realised, was almost shocked to realise, that he would kill her. “I’m in no doubt that it’s what you want.”

“Try to board the Argo tonight, to talk with our oracle. It might help you plan a strategy. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Brutally, Jason tugged the Tall Grass Speaker to her feet. Again, as the night before, he tossed the remnants of the food to the dishevelled man in Old Stone Hollow, grinning, waving a hand goodbye.

Throughout the day the noise of repair continued, and the day passed. As night drew in, and torches were lit, Richard armed himself with sword and knife and spent nearly an hour approaching the shore with the utmost caution, his eyes so acutely tuned to the darkness that not even a fly could have moved without his seeing it.

Hera watched him from between her braziers; the lake water lapped calmly; a slight breeze shifted the Argo, which creaked in its “dry dock,” the rigging moving and slapping against the wood.

All things were quite peaceful, the argonauts sleeping below their skin tents, one man on watch, but his gaze fixed on the shimmering light of Wide Water Hollowing. Richard crept aboard the ship, past the heavily slumbering form of the smith, and swung through the deck hatch, where Sarin’s tiny hands held his legs as he descended.

“Do you have the small fire?” she asked in a whisper, and Richard produced Lytton’s lighter, striking flame to a compact torch, which illuminated the cramped hold and displayed the clutter of purloined goods.

The rolls of fleeces were stacked against one wall. Richard picked his way carefully through a crate of armour, mostly helmets patterned with designs that seemed to move with a life of their own. Clay discs, and papyrus scrolls were in another box, the lost languages of lost kings. There were bone horns, glass vases, gold amphorae, necklets and circlets of glittering gemstones, woven carpets with intricate and puzzling designs, such simple things as bunches of reed and rush, two sets of pipes as played by Pan, drums with patterned skins, horribly reminiscent of the shaman drum that the Sons of Kyrdu had once destroyed, and in the far corner, tossed aside as if of no interest, a set of bone pipes with a leather air sac that Richard recognised at once, and with a terrible shock.

They were Lacan’s! He saw the black rings on the bass pipe, recognised the peculiarity of the design, felt sick with fear and apprehension. Lacan’s favourite possession, here possessed by the butcher of the Aegean.

“What do you know about these?” he whispered urgently to a startled Sarin.

She peered at the bagpipes, then shrugged. “They came on board with Tisamenus, just two days ago. They were taken from a dead man. Jason thinks they can summon the gods, but he doesn’t know which gods, nor how to make the right sounds with them. He’s keeping them in case someone recognises their function.”

Richard’s heart had sunk at Sarin’s words. His eyes filled with tears, his mouth went dry, as he thought of the big man, with his broad sense of humour, dead now. He said quietly, “A dead man? Are you sure?”

“From a corpse. Yes. Peleus had watched the fight from a distance. I was in the hold when I heard him talking to Jason. Whoever it was, he put up a huge fight and broke Tisamenus’ voice box, a rib or two, and two fingers. Tisamenus cut him almost completely in two. I’m sorry … I think he must have been a friend.”

“A dear one. The very best…”

As he placed Lacan’s pipes down, a touch of breath passed through the bag and the deep pipe whined briefly, a last lament, shocking Sarin and reducing Richard to a posture of frozen terror. They listened for movement above, but after a few minutes all remained quiet. “Be careful,” she said, and led the way to the rear compartment.

In the half-light, the sad figures shifted; a centaur tried to rise, but failed, watching Richard through eyes similar to the creature’s that had escaped two days before. This one was female, though. A woman with small horns curled up in a corner; two men, wearing the sort of leathers and greens that suggested they were forest outlaws, were breathing softly as they sat against the hull, all life gone from their eyes. They were chained, but the most protection was afforded to a brawny, silver-haired, silver-armed man, who was held by arms and legs to the floor; the glint of metal on his right arm, the gleam of silver in his mouth, the anger in his eyes, the silence of him, all confirmed that this was Silver Arm, of Irish myth, and Jason was lucky indeed to have subdued him.

There were others, slender, broken shapes, some dressed, some naked, none of them recognisable as to their mythological or legendary natures, all story drained from them, stripped from them, leaving them not fairy-like, as Lytton might have imagined, but dead, corrupt in that most human of ways in which all hope is taken, and all life is made meaningless.

A voice sang sweetly and softly, and by the faint torchlight Richard looked at the far wall and saw five heads dangling by the hair, two of them clearly rotten, two others, red-bearded, alive but silent, watching him through furious eyes, the fifth a thin, youthful face framed with curls of golden hair, beardless, smiling, eyes sparkling as it sang.

But as Richard drew closer so what had seemed signs of youth fell away, and he realised that he was looking at a skull so drawn that it seemed smooth, and yet there was vigour in the eyes, the same vigour as in the tumble of thick, sweet-smelling hair. The mouth worked, the thin lips puckering, licked by a yellowed tongue. No breath could have supplied the voice, since the neck was ragged and blackened with blood. Still, though, the head sang, a soft voice, the words meaningless, until suddenly it sang, slowly and carefully, “Two bloody nicks … to the back of his … neck … all for the sake … of his lady’s green … girdle…”

Alex’s song, from the school play!

The head’s eyes filled with sadness and followed Richard as he dropped to a crouch, staring at the monstrosity, asking “Who are you?”

The sad gaze swivelled toward Sarin, who said, “It’s Orpheus. He’s my closest friend. Once he was Jason’s friend too, but no longer. Jason says he still loves him, but he searched for a year to find the rocks where this head was wedged, after being torn off by wild women at the gates of Hades, and he stole it, and will sell it. Orpheus can see the fates, so if you help him he will help you. He can see into men’s hearts.”

“I know. It just happened…”

Behind him one of the green hunters stirred, reacting to the sound of voices. He spoke weakly, the words fluid but incomprehensible for a moment, “Kenna thow helpa? Kenna thow helpa?” until the dialect resolved into the desperate plea for help that it was.

Sarin shushed him, then turned back to Orpheus, stroking the skull through the tight flesh. “Sing for our friend. He can help us.”

Orpheus spoke in his own language, and Sarin looked grim as she replied to the wounded hero. Turning to Richard, she explained, “I told him we’d take him too. We’ll find a wizard to build a mechanical body for him. Does your magic extend that far?”

“I’m afraid not. Sorry. And my belief systems are stretched to credibility just seeing what I’m seeing.”

Orpheus sang again, a haunting tune, his eyes closed for a moment, then opening widely and staring at Richard. The voice changed, the words were English, and spoken, now: “He is with the stone faces, in a place of stone. He is with the tree that runs and speaks. He watches and waits for his father by the oak shroud where the bird spits. He is imprisoned by his own ghosts.”

“Alex? Can you see my son?” Richard crouched eagerly before the head, all thoughts of the impossibility of this situation gone as he detected a reference to Alex again. “Tell me more. Please! How do I get to him?”

But Orpheus was singing softly again, and in his own language, tears running from the hollow eyes.

*   *   *

A living head. No breath being pumped from lungs to activate the vocal cords, but a head, nevertheless, that sang and spoke, and gave oracles, and had seen Alex. Was this a dream? Had Jason spiked the wine with so subtle a drug that Richard was now existing in two states of consciousness, the real and the falsely lucid?

He scrambled back through the gully and into Old Stone Hollow.

A talking head! Orpheus himself, rent by the nails of the Thracian women after he had offended them in some way. Was it because he had looked back into Hades after abandoning Eurydice? Richard couldn’t remember the legend. The head had been thrown into the river Hebrus, had become wedged between rocks and continued to sing for years. Jason, in his new profession as collector of oddities, had sought the oracle that was his old friend, and would trade it to the highest bidder. Richard, in his own way, needed to purloin the head, to have it, to hold it, to use it to find Alex.

But how could he alone invade the Argo, destroy the argonauts, and liberate the oppressed creatures in its dungeon? The only way, surely, was to entice the crew of the Argo into the defensive field around the Station. But they would be wary, now, having seen the earth itself consume Peleus.

At dawn, the nesting herons in the woods behind the Station woke him with the clattering of their bills. A hard wind was blowing through the high grass, and from the cave below the cliff, from the hollow itself, came the sound of voices, distorted and haunting. He had spent a night dreaming of Alex and Helen, and in those dreams he had felt effective in their rescue. Now, in this breezy, mournful dawn, he felt the wood tug at him, sensed smells and detected the minutiae of movement in the forest that suggested he was becoming more attuned. His edge vision was restless again, and the breath was tight in his lungs. He felt happiest with his hands spread on the cold earth, as if this allowed strength into him. The taste in his mouth seemed to be satisfied by lapping quickly at the dew on the tall grass and he scampered on hands and feet, over a rough hummock that he didn’t recognise, letting the moisture drench him, freshen him and invigorate him …

He stood suddenly, slapping at his cheeks.

What the hell am I doing? I can’t afford to go bosky!

The bill-clattering faded. The breeze still disturbed him as he walked through the grass to the closed gates and eased them open. There was a cloth-wrapped object on the far bank, another gift perhaps from the nervous argonauts. Had they come during the night, or at dawn? He had slept so heavily …

His mind’s eye began to clear, and the hummock in the Station resolved into the unnatural and new feature that it was. He had crawled right over it, moments ago, when he had been lapping up the sun-dew. He went back, now, back through the maze path, looking for the crushed grass that told of his bosky-transit, and there, suddenly, was the body of the man. It was overgrown. The suckers of ivy and grapevine had penetrated the crumbling flesh. The man was sprawled on his side, one arm behind his back, still holding a bronze sword. His neck was bent back, his mouth agape and sprouting dog mercury. The grey hair was still visible on the decaying skull, a purple headband identifying the dead man as one of the argonauts.

So: you brought me a gift, then crossed the river to kill me …

He picked up the sword, removed the headband from the skull, which puffed into dust as he struck it with the back of his hand. With the band around the hilt of the bronze sword he crossed the stream and investigated the offering; an elaborately decorated long bone, the etchings ingrained with gold, the bulbous head, where it had once articulated in a hip joint, shaped into a grinning face. Richard covered the grotesque bone, unsure whether this was intended to frighten him, or had been offered as a gift in exchange for some of his own magic.

Distantly, a hunting horn sounded, not the shrill, metallic sound of the twentieth century, but a duller, more resonant call that ranged in tone and was clearly produced by the bellowing of a man through the grooved horn of an animal. The sound came from beyond the Sanctuary. Richard’s hearing was acute, perhaps because of the isolation he had experienced for the last few months. He sensed that there were five men running. A creature on four legs fled from them. They crashed through undergrowth and cantered over clearer ground, and for a few minutes Richard stood by the slope, turning to follow the distant action.

Jason was determined to have his centaur back.

On the beach, the Argo was now half in the lake water. The mast was up, the cross-beam tied, the sail rigged and furled. The effigy of Hera had been replaced on board, and glared inland across a deck that was piled high with supplies, ready for stowing. The tent was still pegged to the shore, and several argonauts moved about domestic business, while a circle of four guards crouched, weapons in hand, very alert as they watched the wood. One of them was certainly aware of Richard, who observed the proceedings from his special place, but the man made no movement towards him. The smith was in the small skiff with another man, peering down through the lake waters, a hundred yards from the shore.

The hunting horn sounded again, a fluctuating note on the shifting, rising breeze. There was quite a wind, now. The lake water was choppy. The fires on the lake shore shed smoke in gusting streams. Richard eased his way back along the gully, and approached the Station, aware of the sighing and creaking of the forest around him. The wind was almost sinister. The tall grass in the compound rippled: the huge effigy outside the gate swayed on its stand, rags flapping. The gates of the Station banged on their hinges.

As Richard approached his home, the centaur suddenly appeared. It had been lurking inside the palisade. Its eyes were huge, its mouth slick with saliva, and it was dropping dung uncontrollably, as if terrified.

“They haven’t got you yet, then? Are you looking for sanctuary?”

“Hide me…” the pathetic creature whispered, repeating the request three times.

Richard tugged its mane, trying to avoid its breath. “Of course I will. Jason can’t harm you inside Old Stone Hollow. There are defences here…”

The centaur seemed to relax, even though it couldn’t have understood the words: its request to “hide me” was almost certainly part of its education from Sarin. It shuffled nervously, its tail waving, its human chest expanded so that ribs and cords of muscle showed through the black hide. It backed away from Richard, back into the compound, eyes oddly imploring.

“The defences,” Richard said again, and the herons clattered their bills, distracting him, and a shrike called, and rooks, nesting in a high elm, cawed, while the wind brought the scents of sweat and groin, powerful smells that made Richard nervous. Yet when he looked around he could see nothing but the black man-beast, backing away from him.

The defences …

He realised with a terrible shock that the humming of the generator was no longer part of the sounds of the wood. Glancing quickly to the right, he ascertained that the glint of red light, the infra-red, was not there.

The generator was down!

He stepped quickly into the Station. The centaur made a sound, half fear, half laughter, then galloped behind him. Richard turned to watch the creature, which now pawed nervously at the ground by the gates, watching him, saliva streaming from its lower lip, eyes blinking furiously and nostrils twitching.

“A trap,” Richard said calmly. He turned back to the compound. There was an odd sound, a swish of air, followed by a second, then a third. He saw nothing in the rippling grass or among the waving trees that hid the path to Old Stone Hollow itself, but when he glanced back at the centaur he saw an arrow protruding from the creature’s mouth. The man-face was wide-eyed with shock as it collapsed onto its forelegs. A second arrow jutted from its chest, a third dangling in the shallow skin of its shoulder.

And then Lacan’s bagpipes wailed, the sound like a mocking sigh, breaking into the rhythm of a mocking laugh.

The fourth arrow, loosed now, sliced the air as Richard turned back to the cave. He saw it coming, but it was too fast. It struck the superficial flesh of his left arm and passed all the way through. The pain was strangely remote, and he lifted his forearm as if nothing had happened, then held his hand against the flow of blood as the bright woodland near the cave darkened with movement, and nine men, cloaked and hooded, all but one masked, stepped into the open and walked slowly through the wind-whipped grass towards their prey.

It was a moment of silence, oddly peaceful, nothing but the murmur of wind, the susurration of the grass, and the flap and slap of skins as the nine figures moved in a wide arc, closing on Richard. Jason was foremost, carrying a spear and the bone pipes, his glittering eyes filled with amusement as he watched from below his hood. “Your magic is finished,” he said in stilted English, waving a hand at the generator tent.

“Don’t be so sure,” Richard said, the wound in his arm beginning to hurt.

Jason shrugged. Sarin would have given him the words to speak, but he couldn’t understand the reply. He simply repeated, “Your magic is finished. Richard. Hollow. Magic finished.” And laughed, coming right up to Richard and striking him a stunning blow to the face. Richard fell and was sick. Jason squeezed the leather bag of the pipes, making a series of punctuated howls, like a tuneless jig, that caused laughter among the argonauts. As Richard half rose he saw one of them working the arrows from the cadaver of the centaur. When the weapons were recovered, he kicked the body into the river.

Poor betrayed beast. It had perhaps been promised its freedom if it helped entice Richard into the compound, where Jason was waiting. Its usefulness gone, its worth on the market limited, perhaps, Jason had decided to lighten the Argo’s cargo load. He had a new object to sell, now.

But if Richard entertained the idea that he was now one of Jason’s objects of interest to the citadels of the Aegean, he was mistaken. Though led through the gully to the Argo, he was paid scant attention. His wound was treated and bound, and from Jason’s murmured words Richard got the sense that the arrow hadn’t been intended for him at all.

He was more concerned by the fact that the ship was now afloat. The below-water repairs were complete, and carpenters were working on the upper hull from the inside, braced among the branches of the sacred oak.

The wind brought rain, a dark thundercloud that poured across the lake, and made the morning seem like night. The tent was rapidly re-erected on the beach, and two small fires lit. Richard huddled in this miserable place, ignored by Jason for a while, free to run if he wanted, strangely reluctant to do so.

When Jason eventually came into this billowing shelter again, he was leading Sarin by a leather leash, tied tightly around her neck. Through the drum of rain, the woman said grimly, “The gods must have helped him with the Argo. The ship was unseaworthy yesterday: now it’s sufficiently repaired that he’s proposing to sail back through the storm channel.”

“The storm channel?”

“The passage here, a raging storm between sea rocks, too narrow for large ships. It’s how he escaped the war galleys of the Titan Polymnus, which were about to ram us and destroy us. The gateway is out on the lake, he knows that. But he’s frightened. He thinks there must be a trick, and he believes you can help him understand the nature of what happened. If he sails into the lake, will he pass back to his own world? Will Polymnus be waiting for him? Or will he sail into another of the god’s cages, like this place? Hera hasn’t spoken to him for days. He thinks he’s being tested, but he doesn’t know for what.”

Jason watched Richard all the time, his face quite expressionless, waiting for the other man’s response.

It occurred to Richard in an instant that there might be a way to separate Jason from his crew. He tried not to look too apprehensive. It would be difficult to contrive.

“There are many worlds beyond the lake,” he said, and Jason frowned as Sarin informed him of this. Richard described the dark lakes of Tuonela, the wild, icy seas of the Irish coast, the endless rivers through dense forest, marshes filled with brackish water that were home to heron-people, and offered no comfort at all. To pass back to his own, warm seas Jason would have to worship at a shrine. The shrine was on the hill, above Old Stone Hollow. It was a sanctuary of stones, and the far-sighted might be privileged to glimpse their destination.

Jason thought long and hard, staring at Richard with an almost corrosive gaze, grumbling in his throat, winding and unwinding the leather of Sarin’s leash around his brawny fingers. Richard felt his knees begin to tremble as he crouched, damp and cold below the sagging, dripping hides of this crude shelter. Jason was not convinced.

“Tell him,” Richard said, “that I have lived in this place for many years. I have seen heroes pass through, some wary of me, some befriending me. He has destroyed the source of my magic, but not my vision.” Sarin translated as Richard spoke. “Tell him that Hercules camped for five days in the Sanctuary and told me in detail of the quest for the fleece and that he had seen Medea dismembered and hung in pieces, still alive, from a giant cedar tree, where silver-crested crows feed upon…”

Jason half rose, his eyes widening. “Where? Where did Hercules see this?”

“He saw it through the shrine. There is a place of vision on the hill. Medea did not live long after the murder of your sons and second wife. A simulacrum took her place.”

This clearly conflicted with Jason’s own knowledge, but he was intrigued. “A simulacrum? Medea dead?” There was spittle at the edges of his mouth, and his skin, below the stubbly beard, was flushed. Tiny creases in his forehead gave the lie to his calm: he was furious, he was angry, he wanted this vision for himself.

“Medea dead!” he repeated, staring into the distance.

“Medea among the living dead, all magic gone, the object of ridicule from passing heroes.”

And Jason smiled! He stood, tugged Sarin roughly to her feet, then eased the pressure, rubbing a thick thumb over the bruising around her neck as he glared at Richard and said, “Then take me to see this place.”

He bellowed orders. The sons of the Dioscuri cloaked-up heavily and picked short spears from the weapons pile, walking through the downpour to join Jason. Aeneus came too, the rain running from the smooth, yellow-metalled helmet that covered his face to the gaping mouth, where broken teeth gleamed between thin greying lips.

These three guardians followed Jason through the gully, and Richard led them to the Sanctuary, to the ruined stones.

Where was the hollowing? It had only been a few months, but the wood had changed, grown denser …

He swept a stick through the ground elder, slapped at the carved pillars, ducked and weaved through this overgrown place of ruins. His eyes were alert for anything familiar, and he knew, too, that a hollowing led away from here, and that it was essential not to step through it.

A glimpse of red caught his eye, and he moved aside the ivy at the base of a standing stone to find a small hollowstick, a much-rotted doll, but the red fabric of its body still tightly tied. Triumphantly he picked the effigy up and held it to Jason, who backed away, raising his spear.

Now Richard could orientate. The stone was part of the original arch, but the top had fallen. Was it still the gateway that he had taken with Helen, that time in the past? He began to move about the clearing, while the Dioscuri watched him suspiciously and Aeneus stared at him through the sinister eyeholes of his helmet. Sarin smiled, chewing on her finger, half-aware that Richard was trying to trap her master.

Richard moved round the arch, then faced Jason, his arms wide, his head thrown back. “It’s, here,” he said loudly, and Sarin whispered the words.

“I can’t see anything,” Jason said.

“Come here, then, and look between the pillars,” Richard urged, backing away and beckoning to Jason. For a moment he thought Jason would bring the woman with him, but the argonaut let go of Sarin’s leash. He glanced at the Dioscuri and whispered something to them. Then, with his spear held ready and his black cloak wrapped tightly against the drizzling rain, he walked toward Richard …

For a moment Jason seemed to hesitate. Richard thought he had begun to move in slow motion. The light around him changed and the Dioscuri shouted in alarm, backing away. Sarin gasped and crouched, like an animal about to flee. Jason stared at Richard then spoke quickly and with meaning before his face slowly melted into a scowl, becoming a rage, the flesh blackening, the eyes deepening, radiating a terrible if futile menace, a menace touched by a sudden death’s head smile.

He was still walking. He had been caught by the hollowing, and a second or so later he vanished completely from view. Richard had the sensation of being struck, but it may have been a leaf blown on the wet wind. The Dioscuri had fled. Aeneus stood, staring from behind his helmet mask, then he too turned and walked quickly down the hill.

“Where did he go?” Sarin asked in the sudden silence. “I heard the statue of the goddess, screaming.”

“A long way away. Where Hera cannot control him. And for Jason there’s no coming back, now. His newest adventure is one that no one will sing about.” He hesitated, watching the rain-drenched woman. “What did he say? What were his last words?”

“He shouted, ‘I didn’t see the trap. Well done! Though it won’t hold me. So now you should start watching your back!’”

She shuddered, arms around her body, dark eyes enthralled by the silent stones that had consumed her tormentor.

“You banished him. I thought your magic was dead. Jason killed the humming rock, the source of your power. I thought you were finished.”

“He should have believed his own insight: true magic is in here, in the jelly.” Richard tapped his head. Scents and sounds swirled around him. He was dizzy with triumph and the wood. The rain had different odours, different textures. It ran down his skin, through his hair, through his clothes, and seemed to converse with him. Sarin’s small hand tugged at his arm.

“Are you leaving me?”

He stared at her, frowning. “Leaving you?”

“A spirit has you. You have the look of faraway. Are you leaving me?”

“I’m trying not to…”

She led him quickly back to the river, then through the gully. They had heard shouting on the shore, the sounds of frightened men. The Argo had been launched and was out on the lake, drifting slowly towards the hollowing, its sail furled, its oars out and steady, ready to strike. It was running away. On the shore, a motley collection of creatures huddled in the rain. Aeneus, or whoever had taken command, had decided to empty the hold of living creatures, perhaps unnerved by the thought of the magic they possessed. The two forest hunters were already moving surreptitiously around the lake, scanning the woods, looking for a pathway in. The female centaur was drinking at the lake’s edge. The horned woman, wrapped now in a fleece, was cradling the open-mouthed head of Orpheus.

Even from the gully, Richard could tell that Orpheus was dead, that his singing days were finished.

The centaur bolted suddenly, disappearing among the rocks and calling out as it entered the forest. The Argo was rocked and the waters thrashed. Sarin cried out and hid her eyes as the serpentine tail of the lake creature wrapped suddenly and sinuously around the broken hull of the vessel, knocking men and women from the deck, snapping the oars like matchwood. The creature’s head emerged and the argonauts shrieked. The Argo buckled, cracked, the sail spar shattered. As men and women dived for the unlikely safety of the lake the creature rolled, taking the Argo with it, vanishing suddenly amidst a storm and explosion of blue water.

Then one by one the swimmers heading for the shore screamed and were gone, the last being the shade of Aeneus himself who made it to the shore and was standing when the open-mawed beast flung itself suddenly through the shallows and dragged him back. Others had swum for the hollowing. Richard watched them reach the grey water and slowly vanish, emerging no doubt into the middle of a wild sea, to face a terrible drowning.

The hunters had gone, merging stealthily with the wood. The horned woman came up to the gully and gave the head of Orpheus to Sarin. Then she kissed the other woman, touched a rough-skinned hand to Richard’s beard, before wading into the water and walking steadily into obscurity.

“Will I be safe?”

Sarin’s words pulsed on the wind. Richard had a scent, though; it was coming on the rain. He crouched and brushed the water against his nose, smelling, lapping at it. The woman touched him, the ridges of her fingers sliding over his bristling skin. Her odour was strong, and the head of Orpheus was a faint sound as its final songs sang in the jelly of its skull, though no sound came from its mouth. The wind turned, the breeze stroked and curled, the rain shifted, the scents and touches of nature embraced Richard, and the stink-trail suddenly touched him in his heart.

He straightened and cried out. It was her! He sniffed hard, then breathed slowly and deeply, waving his hands through the drizzling rain, touching the play of aromas. She was signalling to him. She had touched his heart once before, now she called to him. The scent-trail rose from his groin to his throat and he cried her name. Helen!

Frightened, the dark-skinned woman scampered away from him, into the Hollow, through the rain-lashed grass and into the longhouse. Richard followed, a part of him wanting to see that she was safe. Then he closed the gates, howled his pleasure, and moved with the scent into the overhang below the cliff, huddling there until the night came, the rain eased, the wind dropped, and the stink-trail hardened, gusting from the hole in the ground, below the running creatures …