Time stole all—even from one such as Madden who hoarded these secret resources as a miser might his gold. So now he filled the holes in his memory, renewed his bond with the past and the unaging mysteries that history carried into the present. This was the real magic to which he was heir: the understanding that neither logic nor emotion on its own was enough to keep a man’s soul pure, and thereby at the peak of its power. The mind narrowed and blocked the world into understandable packages with which it could deal, but the soul required a broader view, one that encompassed both the microcosm of the mind’s perceptions as well as the macrocosm of the world as a whole with which it must interact. Less than a perfect harmony of the two left one crippled.
So Madden drank in the sweet secret that was the underlying heartbeat of the land. He let the rhythm of his own pulse join with its ancient rhythm until the two hearts beat as one.
The one dissonance was the trail of his protégé as he walked heedlessly across the land’s mystery, disturbing and unraveling its harmony with his unconsidered intrigues and scheming.
Heavy footsteps; a thoughtless tread.
From the vantage point of perception that he now inhabited, Madden could read every irresponsible move Michael had made, every tenet of the Order that he had set aside.
For, Madden realized now, Michael had forgotten the first rule of dealing with the sheep. The trick to ruling them was to not let them know that they were being ruled. Treat them well, and they were as happy as their wool-bearing cousins in the fields, contented with their lot. One needed to cull the odd dissident, or firmly yet subtly deal with the odd disguised wolf that might creep in among the innocents.
It was plain common sense. Happy sheep were sheep that did what they were told and caused no disharmony or inconvenience. They let the gears that run the world turn freely, without need for repair. Sometimes patience was necessary, for subtle control required equally subtle solutions to problems that did arise, but the rewards were proportionate to the effort one expended.
Michael’s present methods gained immediate results, but they also required far too great an expenditure in time and resources after the fact to tie up the loose ends. The point Michael missed was that, certainly, he could remove an interference such as the Mabley woman had proven to be, but then he had to deal with the ramifications of that act as well as continue with his principal course of action. Too many such deviations from the central project and one lost one’s control of the situation.
As witness the present state of affairs.
Madden sighed.
A great deal of work lay ahead in bringing some semblance of order back to what Michael had mismanaged. For at the heart of it all lay the secret that Dunthorn had hidden away: the key.
Madden was still undecided as to whether or not it was an artifact of some sort, a physical talisman that would unlock a mystery of which he still lacked a full understanding, but he knew he must have it. He had also come to realize that the key must be acquired with the least amount of coercion. It could be stolen, but the cost must not be in blood.
He had fallen victim to that same erroneous mismanagement when first confronting Dunthorn; and he had paid for that mistake. Paid with decades of lost time—years in which, if he had had the key, he would have been that much further along in his ambitions.
The lost time nagged at him, like a heartache that came and went, and had no cure. But it had taught him patience, and he wouldn’t make the same error twice.
He doubted that the key would ever be willingly handed over to him—which would be the optimum method of acquisition. But he could see to it that when it finally came into his possession, it did so with the least amount of harm to its present guardian.
To do that, he must first deal with Michael.
There was no indication on his features as to what went through his mind. To all intents and purposes, it appeared as though he was merely watching the view from the window. But that was another part of Madden’s magic: control. He was aware of every thread of movement about him, yet gave no sign that he was even paying attention in the first place. So it was that he could sense the almost imperceptible movement of Lena shifting her position slightly and knew that she was about to speak before she ever said a word.
“I’ve been thinking about the Littles, Daddy,” she said.
Madden glanced over at her.
“What about them?” he asked before her father could reply.
“Well, shouldn’t we warn them—about Bett, I mean?”
“And what do we tell them about how we know?” Madden shook his head. “No. Much as I will regret it if any harm comes to them, we must play this out without warning them.”
But he looked more carefully at Lena, and wondered. It was odd how her question had cut so close to the turn his own thoughts had taken, but then he realized that her concern grew not from the same source as his own. He worried about despoiling the key by acquiring it through violence. She worried for the Littles themselves; and their friends. Most of her worry was probably for this Felix Gavin.
And that was odd as well, he thought. In all the years he’d known her—watching her grow from the child she had been to the woman she was today—he had never sensed in her an interest for anything other than a fulfillment of her own desires and amusements. Her trip here had softened her, made her care for others—and it wasn’t simply her libido driving that concern; her compassion was selfless.
Had the land touched her?
But if that was so, then why had it not left its mark on Michael as well? The reincarnated soul that his body carried had its roots in this countryside from a previous life. Surely the ancient mysteries the land carried, the heartbeat that Madden’s own pulse still twinned, would have spoken to Michael as well.
Perhaps they had.
And Michael had heard only the darker tones in its music.
“We could say Bett and we represent rival publishers,” Lena was saying. “You know. We’ve heard a rumour of a rare manuscript and each company would consider it a coup to be the first to acquire . . .” Her voice trailed off as she took in Madden’s sudden intent interest in her proposal.
“A manuscript,” Madden said. “Of course.”
That was where the secret lay—in an unpublished manuscript. What better place to hide it than somewhere in among Dunthorn’s papers and manuscripts? And to think he’d only wanted that paperwork for the clues it might afford him.
He had spent years trying to guess the key’s secret—its physical shape, did it even have one. He had thought it would be small, and something that could be easily carried—a coin, an earring, a tie pin. And it would have something of the land in it—tin was his best guess, considering how much the tin mines had once been a part of Cornwall’s economy. But it could have been bone, too, from one of the animals indigenous to the area; a simple fishbone. Or even a pebble. A chip of granite. A sliver of blue alvin stone.
The years of frustration had finally led him to consider his current pet theory: that it might not even be something tangible at all. It might be a phrase. A snatch of music.
And he knew now—absolutely knew—that he’d been partially right. The key was hidden in a manuscript. But it was only by reading it aloud that the key would be activated, the door unlocked. . . .
“Why did I never think of that before?” he murmured.
He probably had. But the concept, the idea, had simply evaded him. Was that another part of its enchantment? That the very idea of it would be hidden, so that just thinking about the talisman’s shape or its whereabouts made it all the more secret?
“Think of what?” Grant asked.
But as Madden was deciding how much he cared to tell his associate, Lena was already replying.
“It’s hidden in a manuscript,” she said. She glanced at Madden. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“It seems likely,” Madden admitted. “All things considered.”
Lena sigh
ed. “And I almost had my hands on a whole box of them. . . .”
“Maybe it’s just the directions to find the thing that are in a manuscript,” Grant said.
“Either way, we need to acquire them,” Madden said.
But he already knew that somewhere in Dunthorn’s paperwork the key itself lay hidden, or else how could the Littles—knowingly or unknowingly—have woken it? How else could he sense its call?
“So what do we do?” Grant asked. “Do we still wait for Bett to show up, or do we go after the papers ourselves?”
Madden wished it were that simple.
“Let me think about it,” he said.
3.
Although they still had a handful of chapters left to read, they all decided to take a break around five. Felix stood up to stretch while Janey sat down on the floor beside the Gaffer to look at the other photos he’d found scattered in among the manuscripts and magazines. She studied each one carefully, but there was no little man in any of them. Nor anything else remarkable either. They were just old sepia photographs, fascinating in their own right for the windows they opened onto Mousehole’s past, but of no more help than any of the manuscripts that the Gaffer had skimmed through proved to be.
Clare remained on the couch, holding The Little Country, rubbing her thumb against its leather cover.
“Did you find anything useful in the storylines you read?” she asked the others.
Felix shook his head. “Not really. Mine’s turned into a murder mystery. Hasn’t got any magic in it at all.”
“That’s probably because you don’t go for that kind of thing in the first place,” Clare said.
“I read his other books—and enjoyed them both.”
“But you don’t normally go for that kind of a book, do you?”
“Not really.”
Clare turned to Janey. “How about you?”
“I’m not sure,” Janey said. “Is the Men-an-Tol in either of yours?”
Clare and Felix both nodded.
“But I don’t think it’s in the same spot as it is in our world,” Felix said. “At least in respect to Penzance, if the town in the book is even supposed to be Penzance.”
“Is the stone closer?” Janey asked.
“Just an hour’s walk.”
“It’s the same in mine,” Clare said.
“And is there a high hill behind the town with a ruined church on it?”
Again Clare and Felix nodded.
“They were both in the story I read as well, my treasure,” the Gaffer said.
“How did he do it?” Clare asked. “How could all the stories have the same elements, the same characters and settings, and still be so different?”
“It’s like one of those books you hate,” Janey said with a grin. “What are they called again?”
“Interactive fiction,” Clare replied with a look of distaste.
“Maybe the book’s really a magical computer,” Janey said. “We all open the same program, but we each use it differently.”
“Why were you asking about the Men-an-Tol?” Felix wanted to know.
“Because it gave me an idea,” Janey said. “A daft sort of an idea, but then again the whole situation’s a bit mad, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think I’d blink at anything anymore,” the Gaffer said.
Janey nodded. “Did you ever hear of the Men-an-Tol being the entrance to a prehistoric barrow?”
“Of course,” her grandfather replied.
Clare nodded in agreement.
“Well, what if it’s not?” Janey said. “What if it’s the entrance to the Barrow World?”
“Do you mean a different world entirely?”
“Where the piskies live,” Janey agreed, smiling.
“That’s just a story . . .” the Gaffer began, then he slowly shook his head. “What am I saying?”
“Nine times through the hole,” Janey said. “Folklore says that will cure your ills. But my version of the book says that if you do it when the moon’s rising, it will open a door to the Barrow World.”
“And then what?” Felix asked.
“We put the book in and close the door.”
Clare laughed. “You’re right, Little. That is a daft idea.”
“Maybe not,” Felix said. “The rules have all changed now. Magic works.”
Clare nodded. “Yes, but. . .” She looked from one to the other and then sighed. “It just seems too much.”
“There’ve always been odd tales about moorland,” the Gaffer said. “Hummocks and piskies and old barrow mounds. If enchantments are real, then it stands to reason that there would be a whole unseen world waiting to be discovered.”
“I’ve sometimes felt that long before we learned about the book,” Felix said.
“I know exactly what you mean,” Janey said. “There’ve been times when I’ve been out toodling tunes by the cliffs when I’ve had the uncanniest feeling that there was more listening to me than the rocks and the grass, only there’s never anyone, or anything, to be seen.”
Felix nodded. “I’ve had that feeling, too. Especially when I’m playing near water.”
“Music’s magic anyway,” Janey said. “Always has been. Why wouldn’t it call to Smalls and the like if there really are such things?”
There came a knock at the door just then, interrupting their conversation.
“Tonight,” Janey said as she went to get the door. “After we’ve finished the book, we’ll go to the Men-an-Tol tonight and see. Oh, hello, Dinny,” she added as she opened the door.
Dinny Boyd gave her an awkward smile. “Didn’t know you had company, Janey. Maybe I should come back another time?”
But Janey was already pulling him inside. One look at him had told her that something was up, and considering how odd the past few days had been, she didn’t doubt for a moment that it had something to do with all the other mad goings-on that had already disrupted her life.
“Hello, then,” Dinny said, nodding to the others as Janey closed the door. “Lovely day it’s been, hasn’t it just?”
He looked, Janey thought, as though it had been anything but. She’d never seen him in such a sad state.
Tucking her arm in his, she walked him to a vacant chair where she sat him down.
“What’s happened, Dinny?” she asked.
“I . . .” His gaze shifted from hers, returned as quickly. “Is it that obvious?”
“ ‘Fraid so.”
“It’s just—I don’t know where to begin.”
“I’ll put on some tea,” the Gaffer said.
Janey sat on the arm of the chair and took Dinny’s hand. He looked up at her and gave her a vague smile that never quite reached his eyes.
“We’ve lost the farm,” he said.
“Oh, no!” Clare cried.
Dinny nodded. “Dad got the oddest call from a man who said he’d bought out our lease and was evicting us.”
“But they can’t do that, can they?” Janey asked.
“I don’t know. Dad rang up our solicitor, but he said there was nothing he could do until Monday morning. He’s going to ring us back first thing.”
Janey could feel her heart sinking. This had an uncomfortably familiar ring about it. First her participation in the Rolling Stone article, then her tour. . . .
“But if your solicitor can’t do anything until Monday,” Clare said, “than neither can this man, I should think.”
Dinny sighed. “That’s what Mum said. But this man—he never did give us his name—seemed very knowledgeable and sure of himself. He knew all the details of our lease and . . .”
He glanced at Janey.
Here it came now, she thought.
“He said it was because of you, Janey. He said you could stop the whole thing from being finalized. What did he mean?”
This was awful, Janey thought. How could she begin to explain?
“I’ve made myself an enemy,” she said finally. “A very powerful one, i
t seems.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I—not really. I. . .” She glanced at Clare. “I think you should ring up your mum,” she said. “And, Gramps,” she added to the Gaffer who’d just come in from the kitchen where he’d put on the kettle, “when Clare’s done, perhaps you should ring up Chalkie and some of your other mates.”
As Clare nodded, Janey gave Dinny a much edited version of the past few days. She left out any reference to the paranormal, concentrating instead on Madden and the apparent wide sphere of his influence.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Dinny said. “What would this man want with an old book?”
“I think he stands to make a great deal of money from it,” Janey replied.
It wasn’t wholly a lie. Because money was power—an unpleasant reality that they were now having driven home to them. She just didn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t make Dinny think they’d all gone a bit bonkers. She certainly wasn’t going to let anyone else start reading the book—not at this late date.
“Though Lord knows why he would need more,” she said. “Any luck, Clare?” she added as her friend put down the receiver.
Clare shook her head. “Mum’s fine. But there were two messages for me. Davie Rowe was by the house earlier today and Owen from the bookstore left a message for me to call him. I’m going to ring them both up now.”
The others went back to their discussion as she picked up the receiver once more. The first call was short, the second longer.
“Well?” Janey asked.
Clare gave the Gaffer her seat by the phone so that he could make his own calls and returned to the sofa.
“Davie’s mum hasn’t seen him since he left the house late last night,” she said. “And that doesn’t bode well.”
“Didn’t know you were mates with him,” Dinny said.
“Don’t start her on him,” Janey said.
Dinny shrugged. “Seems like a nice enough bloke to me.”
“What about Owen?” Janey asked.