Free Greenwitch by Susan Cooper

some small kind hung all over one wall, with an old fiddle and an oddly-striped woollen rug. But the furniture was shiny-cheap and modern, and the chimney was not a real chimney, but onlya vent for carrying away hot air from above the neat electric stove.
    Then they saw suddenly that the ceiling was painted. From end to end, above the bright conventional curlicues of the scrollwork, a huge churning abstract painting was spread above their heads. There was no recognisable form to its shapes and colours, yet it was a disturbing, alarming sight, full of strange whorls and shadows and shot through with lurid colours that jarred on the senses. Barney felt again the power and the nastiness that had leapt at him from the canvas he had seen the man painting in the harbour; up on this ceiling too he saw the particular unnerving shade of green he had found so unpleasant out there. He said suddenly to Simon, “Let’s go home.”
    â€œNot yet,” said the dark man. He spoke softly, without moving, and Barney felt a chill awareness of the Dark reaching out to control him—until without warning a faint hissing sound that had been vaguely puzzling him erupted into the boiling of a kettle, and a shrill whistle filled the room and made a sense of evil suddenly ridiculous.
    But Simon had felt it too. He looked at the dark man and thought:
you keep steering us away from being frightened, delaying it. Why do you want us to stay?
    The dark-haired man busied himself with the prosaic matter of spooning instant coffee into a mug and pouring on water from the kettle. “Either of you drink coffee?” he said over his shoulder.
    Simon said quickly, “No thank you.”
    Barney said, “I wouldn’t mind a drink of water.” Seeing Simon’s scowl, he added plaintively, “Well, I did get awfully thirsty walking. Not just a drink of water from the tap?”
    â€œIn that cupboard by your right foot,” the painter said, “you will find some cans of orange soda.” He moved to the small table at the end of the caravan, stirring his coffee. “Sealed,” headded with a deliberate ironic stare at Simon. “Fizzy. Harmless. Straight from the factory.”
    â€œThanks,” Barney said promptly, bending to the cupboard door.
    The man said, “You might bring out a cardboard box you’ll find in there, too.”
    â€œAll right.” After some bumping and rattling, Barney came up with an unremarkable brown box; set it on the table and produced two drinks from the crook of his elbow. Without comment Simon took one, and popped open the top, to a reassuring hiss; but a stubborn caution still made him reluctant to drink, and he made only a pretence of swigging at the can. Barney drank thirstily, with appreciative gurgling noises.
    â€œThat’s better. Thanks. Now may I have my picture back?”
    â€œOpen the box,” the man said, the long hair falling about his face as he drank from his mug.
    â€œIs it in there?”
    â€œOpen the box,” the man said again, with a faint edge of strain in his voice. Simon thought:
he’s as tense as a strung wire. Why?
    Setting down his drink on the table, Barney opened the top of the brown cardboard box. He took out a sheet of paper, and held
it
up critically. “Yes, that’s my drawing.”
    He glanced back into the box, and then all at once a brightness was in his eyes, a fierce brilliance flashing into his brain, and he was staring in disbelief, crying out in a voice that broke into huskiness.
    â€œSimon! It’s the grail!”
    In the same instant the world about them changed; with a crash the doors of the little caravan swung shut, and blinds fell over the windows, cutting out all light of day. There was an instant of black darkness, but almost at once Barney found himself blinking in a dim light. Wildly he looked round for itssource, and then he realised with a sick shock that the glow, still dim,