May 1, 1963. Tomnahurich, Scotland. Body of female, identified as Mary Walker Willis. Coroner’s inquest, substantial scorching of body and clothing, death due to heart failure—rupture of aorta. Inquest notes Miss Walker dressed in “odd” clothing, details unspecified.
Failure—this one knew what she was doing, but didn’t make it. Failure likely due to omission of proper sacrifice.
The list went on chilling Roger more with each name. She had found twenty-two, altogether, reported over a period from the mid-1600s to the mid-1900s, from sites scattered over Scotland, northern England, and Brittany, all sites showing some evidence of prehistoric building. Some had been obvious accidents, he thought—people who’d walked into a circle all unsuspecting and had no notion what had hit them.
A few—only two or three—seemed to have known; they’d made some preparation of clothing. Perhaps they had passed through before, and tried again—but this time it hadn’t worked. His stomach curled into a small, cold snail. Claire had been right; it wasn’t like stepping through a revolving door.
* * *
Then there were the disappearances…these were in a separate section, neatly docketed by date, sex, and age, with as much noted of the circumstances as was recorded. Ah—that was the meaning of the crosses; how many people had disappeared near each feast. There were more of the disappeared than of the dead, but there was of necessity less data. Most bore question marks—Roger supposed because there was no telling whether disappearance in the vicinity of a circle was necessarily connected with it.
He turned over a page, and stopped, feeling as though he’d been punched in the stomach.
May 1, 1945. Craigh na Dun, Inverness-shire, Scotland. Claire Randall, age 27, housewife. Seen last in early morning, having declared intention to visit the circle in search of unusual plant specimens, did not return by dark. Car found parked at foot of hill. No traces in circle, no signs of foul play.
He turned the page gingerly, as though expecting it to blow up in his hand. So Claire had inadvertently given Gillian Edgars part of the evidence that had led to her own experiment. Had Geilie found the reports of Claire’s return, three years later?
No, evidently not, he concluded, after flipping back and forth through those pages—or if she had, she hadn’t recorded it here.
Fiona had brought him more tea and a plate of fresh ginger nut biscuits, which had sat untouched since he had begun reading. A sense of obligation rather than hunger made him pick up a biscuit and take a bite, but the sharp-flavored crumbs caught in his throat and made him cough.
The last section of the book bore the heading “Techniques and Preparations.” It began,
Something lies here, older than man, and the stones keep its power. The old spells speak of “the lines of the earth,” and the power that flows through them. The purpose of the stones is to do with those lines, I am sure. But do the stones warp the lines of power, or are they only markers?
The bite of biscuit seemed permanently stuck in his throat, no matter how much tea he drank. He found himself reading faster, skimming, skipping pages, and finally sat back and shut the book. He would read the rest later—and more than once. But for now, he had to get out, into the fresh air. No wonder the book had upset Fiona.
He walked fast down the street, heading for the river, oblivious of the light rain falling. It was late; there was a churchbell ringing for evensong, and the evening foot traffic to the pubs was picking up across the bridges. But above bell and voice and footstep, he heard the last words he had read, chiming in his ear as though she had been speaking directly to him.
Shall I kiss you, child, shall I kiss you, man? Feel the teeth behind my lips when I do. I could kill you, as easily as I embrace you. The taste of power is the taste of blood—iron in my mouth, iron in my hand.
Sacrifice is required.
33
MIDSUMMER’S EVE
June 20, 1971
On Midsummer’s Eve in Scotland, the sun hangs in the sky with the moon. Summer solstice, the feast of Litha, Alban Eilir. Nearly midnight, and the light was dim and milky white, but light nonetheless.
He could feel the stones long before he saw them. Claire and Geillis had both been right, he thought; the date mattered. They had been eerie on his earlier visits, but silent. Now he could hear them; not with his ears but with his skin—a low buzzing hum like the drone of bagpipes.
They came over the crest of the hill and paused, thirty feet from the circle. Below was dark glen, a mystery under the rising moon. He heard a small intake of breath at his elbow, and it occurred to him that Fiona was seriously afraid.
“Look, you don’t need to be here,” he told her. “If you’re afraid, you should go on down; I’ll be all right.”
“It’s not me I’m scairt for, fool,” she muttered, thrusting her balled fists deeper into her pockets. She turned away, lowering her head like a little bull as she faced up the path. “Come on, then.”
The alder bushes rustled near his shoulder and he shivered suddenly, feeling a cold qualm go over him, warmly as he was dressed. His dress seemed suddenly ridiculous; the long-skirted coat and the weskit in thick wool, the matching breeches and knitted stockings. A play at the college, he had told the tailor who made the costume.
“Fool is right,” he muttered to himself.
Fiona went first into the circle; she would not let him come with her or watch. Obediently, he turned his back, letting her do whatever she intended. She had a plastic shopping bag, presumably containing items for her ceremonial. He had asked what was in it, and she had tersely told him to mind his own business. She was nearly as nervous as he was, he thought.
The humming noise disturbed him. It wasn’t in his ears but in his body—under his skin, in his bones. It made the long bones of his arms and legs thrum like plucked strings, and itched in his blood, making him want constantly to scratch. Fiona couldn’t hear it; he’d asked, to be sure she was safe before letting her help him.
He hoped to God he was right; that only those who heard the stones could pass through them. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to Fiona—though as she’d pointed out, she’d been in this circle any number of times on the fire feasts, with no ill effect. He sneaked a look over one shoulder, saw a tiny flame burning at the base of the big cleft stone, and jerked his head back around.
She was singing, in a soft, high voice. He couldn’t make out the words. All the other travelers he knew of were women; would it truly work for him?
It might, he thought. If the ability to pass through the stones was genetic—something like the ability to roll one’s tongue into a cylinder or color-blindness—then why not? Claire had traveled, so had Brianna. Brianna was Claire’s daughter. And he was a descendant of the only other time-traveler he knew of—Geillis the witch.
He stamped both feet and shook himself like a horse with flies, trying to rid himself of the humming. God, it was like being eaten by ants! Was Fiona’s chanting making it worse, or was it only his imagination?
He rubbed violently at his chest, trying to ease the irritation, and felt the small round weight of his mother’s locket, taken for luck and for its garnets. He had his doubts about Geillis’s speculations—he wasn’t about to try blood, though Fiona seemed to be supplying fire—but after all, the gems could do no harm, and if they helped…Christ, would Fiona not hurry? He twisted and strained inside his clothes, trying to get out of not only his clothing but his skin.