Free Darkhenge by Catherine Fisher Page A

his face. And then there was empty space, and the gate. As he unlatched it, it creaked.
    The car door opened; Rosa whispered, “Jump in. He’s meeting us there.”
    As they drove he was silent. She gave him one look, then concentrated on the dark lanes, the sharp bends. He wanted to talk to her, but some stubbornness kept him morose. Instead he watched the black humps and hollows of the prehistoric landscape, the immensity of the stones as the car purred past them through the sleeping village.
    They parked away from the site, then walked quietly. Two fields on, a fox ran across in front of them. Rosa smiled. “That might be Vetch.”
    Rob said, “You don’t really believe he can shape-shift.”
    She shrugged. “I have no idea what he can do. To be born from the Cauldron means to have knowledge of the stars and trees and beasts, and to be a bard means entering into the lives of those beings.”
    â€œNew Age twaddle,” he said, wishing Dan was there.
    She laughed. “Listen, Rob. The first night he came, he told us a story. His story. About a boy who was once asked to stir a magic Cauldron, full of power, full of inspiration. He stirred it for a year and a day and at the end of that time three hot splashes came out of the Cauldron and burned his hand. He put his hand to his mouth and he tasted them. In that instant he became a poet, the greatest of poets. Taliesin himself. But the woman who owned the Cauldron is the Muse, the Goddess. She hated him for stealing her magic. She hunted him through field and sky and river, each of them changing shape. She still hunts him. She’ll kill him if she catches him.”
    They all spoke this mystical mixed-up language. But the woman had been real. He had no idea what to make of any of it.
    â€œI suppose she’s called Clare,” he said acidly.
    Rosa looked at him in surprise. “In the story she’s called Ceridwen.”
    Rob shook his head. He didn’t answer.
    Vetch was waiting in the field corner, where the hedges rose up, dark and rustling.
    â€œThey’ll hear us,” Rob said simply.
    â€œThey’ll neither hear nor see us,” Vetch said, “because I’ll close their eyes and ears. We’ll just be shadows.”
    â€œSure. And the dog?”
    â€œAnimals like me. Don’t worry, Rob.” He held out his hand. After a second, Rob took the key out and dropped it in the man’s palm. Vetch smiled.
    They climbed the field gate cautiously, its wooden bars slippery with dew, ridged and powdery under Rob’s tight grip. On the left, in the darkness of the overgrown hedge, the trailer was a pale glimmer, its windows black squares.
    Vetch looked at it. “Two men. Asleep.”
    â€œSo you’ve already checked them out.”
    â€œIf you say so.”
    Rosa said, “What about the dog?”
    â€œOut here somewhere. Close.”
    In the darkness, quite unexpectedly, rain began to fall, a soft rain that pattered in the leaves. Vetch ignored it. He walked across the field, sidestepping hollows and mounds of spoil, upturned wheelbarrows, areas cordoned off with fluttering tape and tiny flags. Before him the metal fence loomed up in the dark. The others followed, Rosa close, Rob trailing behind, irritable with guilt.
    Vetch reached the fence and took out the key. He slipped it into the lock, but before he could turn it Rosa hissed, “Master!”
    A low growl.
    The Alsatian had risen up from the grass, lips drawn back, teeth bared, and slavering. The growl was a terrifying threat in its throat, a threat that in seconds would leap and bark and tear and bite.
    Rob moved, but Vetch put a hand out to stop him. Then the dark-haired man crouched. He and the dog faced each other.
    â€œCome to me,” Vetch commanded.
    His voice was quiet, grave. To Rob’s surprise the dog’s growl ended instantly. It stood, trotted forward, licked Vetch’s hand and lay down.
    Vetch