Free Ancient Echoes by Robert Holdstock

the shrines.
    ‘He’s keeping an eye on me.’
    ‘How do you know?’ Angela turned in bed, her fingers walking across Jack’s chest, marking out each rib until he squirmed. She was pungent with a perfume called
Opium,
and with sweat, her long hair tousled, damp and matted across her forehead.
    ‘I just feel it. He’s here … he’s close.’
    ‘Why hide?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘If I hadn’t met him, I’d think he was another of your
archaeo-stories.’
    She had meant the reference to be a moment of humour, but Jack repeated the word in exasperation and Angela turned irritably away, propping her head on her hand, picking up the book by Jack’s bedside and snorting with derision as she saw that it was a ‘Help to Pass Advanced History’ book, a time-saver for slow students.
    Jack was hopeless at history. He should never have agreed to take the subject in his final year.
    Angela’s paper had been rejected by
Nature,
and then by two psychology journals, and then by
New Scientist, Science,
and finally by the local paper. Most disappointing of all, when she had sent a copy of her essay to the Canadian scientist whose work had so inspired her, Jandrok had sent back a kind but short note through his secretary to the effect he was fascinated by her theories but regretted he had no time to deal with individual correspondence on the nature of his ideas.
    She had taped all the letters of rejection to the inside of her school locker and could occasionally be found staring at them, and willing harm and despondency upon the authors.
    The paper had impressed her teacher, however, and under his tutelage she was preparing for a University course in Psychology, attending an evening class and reading more widely in the subject. The school curriculum was insufficient to address the level of her understanding, and she was clearly being marked out for a top college of further education, probably at Cambridge.
    The unexpected sound of a car pulling into the drive interrupted both tension and passion in the mad scramble for clothes. By the time Jack’s mother had opened the front door, both pupils were staring at open books on the dining table, their overt dishevelment put down to natural, youthful scruffiness.

9
    He was laughing, chin up, and shaking his head …
    Greenface was exploding in his face,
sunlight
making her glorious as she leapt from the stained glass of the church window
…
    Garth
followed, reaching down to him, shaking him
…
    ‘Quiet! Jack, be quiet! Sssh!’
    Jack came out of the dream and sat up. The bedroom window was open, the air in the room crisp and fresh. Garth settled back on his haunches, a crouched shape by the bed, his body rank with sweat, his breath heavy with the smell of tobacco.
    ‘Who’s Jocelyn?’ he asked quietly.
    ‘Jocelyn?’
    ‘You were moaning the name Jocelyn when I came in through the window. So who is she? Your new girlfriend?’
    Jocelyn?
    Jack’s head cleared suddenly. ‘Jocelin! He’s a priest. In the book I’m studying.
The Spire.’
    ‘Never heard of it. Who wrote it?’
    ‘William Golding.’
    ‘Him I’ve heard of.’
    Jack was still disorientated. What was Garth doing in his room at – he checked his bedside clock – four twenty five in the morning.
    ‘What are you doing here?’
    ‘I’ve come to fetch you. I’m expecting to leave today. It’s taken longer than I thought. I need some help.’
    ‘You’re leaving?’
    ‘I’m leaving. What’s it about? The
Spire.’
    ‘A priest.’
    ‘Jocelin. We already got that far. But what about him? Why does he make you dream?’
    ‘He wants to build a spire on his Cathedral. But it’s going to be too high, too heavy. The foundations won’t hold it. But it’s his dream and he won’t listen to common sense.’
    Garth seemed taken with the idea, looking away, thinking hard before he said quietly. ‘Like the Tower of Babel, then. Building for personal glory rather than the glory of God.’
    ‘I don’t know.