The Faces at Pine Dunes

RAMSEY CAMPBELL

When his parents began arguing Michael went outside. He could still hear them through the thin wall of the trailer. ‘We needn’t stop yet,’ his mother was pleading.

‘We’re stopping,’ his father said. ‘It’s time to stop wandering.’

But why should she want to leave here? Michael gazed about the trailer park - the Pine Dunes Caravanserai. The metal village of trailers surrounded him, cold and bright in the November afternoon. Beyond the dunes ahead he heard the dozing of the sea. On the three remaining sides a forest stood: remnants of autumn, ghosts of colour, were scattered over the trees; distant branches displayed a last golden mist of leaves. He inhaled the calm. Already he felt at home.

His father was persisting. ‘You’re still young,’ she told his father.

She’s kidding! Michael thought. Perhaps she was trying flattery. ‘There are places we haven’t seen,’ she said wistfully.

‘We don’t need to. We need to be here.’

The slowness of the argument, the voices muffled by the metal wall, frustrated Michael; he wanted to be sure that he was staying here. He hurried into the trailer. ‘I want to stay here. Why do we have to keep moving all the time?’

‘Don’t come in here talking to your mother like that,’ his father shouted.

He should have stayed out. The argument seemed to cramp the already crowded space within the trailer; it made his father’s presence yet more overwhelming. The man’s enormous wheezing body sat plumped on the couch, which sagged beneath his weight; his small frail wife was perched on what little of the couch was unoccupied, as though she’d been squeezed tiny to fit. Gazing at them, Michael felt suffocated. ‘I’m going out,’ he said.

‘Don’t go out,’ his mother said anxiously; he couldn’t see why. ‘We won’t argue any more. You stay in and do something. Study.’

‘Let him be. The sooner he meets people here, the better.’

Michael resented the implication that by going out he was obeying his father. ‘I’m just going out for a walk,’ he said. The reassurance might help her; he knew how it felt to be overborne by the man.

At the door he glanced back. His mother had opened her mouth, but his father said, ‘We’re staying. I’ve made my decision.’ And he’d lie in it, Michael thought, still resentful. All the man could do was lie there, he thought spitefully; that was all he was fit for. He went out, sniggering. The way his father had gained weight during the past year, his coming to rest in this trailer park reminded Michael of an elephant’s arrival at its graveyard.

It was colder now. Michael turned up the hood of his anorak. Curtains were closing and glowing. Trees stood, intricately precise, against a sky like translucent papery jade. He began to climb the dunes towards the sea. But over there the sky was blackened; a sea dark as mud tossed nervously and flopped across the bleak beach. He turned towards the forest. Behind him sand hissed through grass.

The forest shifted in the wind. Shoals of leaves swam in the air, at the tips of webs of twigs. He followed a path which led from the Caravanserai’s approach road. Shortly the diversity of trees gave way to thousands of pines. Pine cones lay like wattled eggs on beds of fallen needles. The spread of needles glowed deep orange in the early evening, an orange tapestry displaying rank upon rank of slender pines, dwindling into twilight.

The path led him on. The pines were shouldered out by stouter trees, which reached overhead, tangling. Beyond the tangle the blue of the sky grey deeper; a crescent moon slid from branch to branch. Bushes massed among the trunks; they grew higher and closer as he pushed through. The curve of the path would take him back towards the road.

The ground was turning softer underfoot. It sucked his feet in the dark. The shrubs had closed over him now; he could hardly see. He struggled between them, pursuing the curve. Leaves rubbed together rustling at his ear, like desiccated lips; their dry dead tongues rattled. All at once the roof of the wooden tunnel dropped sharply. To go farther he would have to crawl.

He turned with difficulty. On both sides thorns caught his sleeves; his dark was hemmed in by two ranks of dim captors. It was as though midnight had already fallen here, beneath the tangled arches; but the dark was solid and clawed. Overhead, netted fragments of night sky illuminated the tunnel hardly at all.

He managed to extricate himself, and hurried back. But he had taken only a few steps when his way was blocked by hulking spiky darkness. He dodged to the left of the shrub, then to the right, trying irritably to

calm his heart. But there was no path. He had lost his way in the dark. Around him dimness rustled, chattering.

He began to curse himself. What had possessed him to come in here? Why on earth had he chosen to explore so late in the day? How could the woods be so interminable? He groped for openings between masses of thorns. Sometimes he found them, though often they would not admit his body. The darkness was a maze of false paths.

Eventually he had to return to the mouth of the tunnel and crawl. Unseen moisture welled up from the ground, between his fingers. Shrubs leaned closer as he advanced, poking him with thorns. His skin felt fragile, and nervously unstable; he burned, but his heat often seemed to break, flooding him with the chill of the night.

There was something even less pleasant. As he crawled, the leaning darkness - or part of it - seemed to move beside him. It was as though someone were pacing him, perhaps on all fours, outside the tunnel. When he halted, so did the pacing. It would reach the end of the tunnel just as he did.

Nothing but imagination, helped by the closely looming tree trunks beyond the shrubs. Apart from the creaking of wood and the rattling sway of leaves, there was no sound beyond the tunnel - certainly none of pacing. He crawled. The cumbersome moist sounds that accompanied the pacing were those of his own progress. But he crawled more slowly, and the darkness imitated him. Wasn’t the thorny tunnel dwindling ahead? It would trap him. Suddenly panicking, he began to scramble backward.

The thorns hardly hindered his retreat. He must have broken them down. He emerged gasping, glad of

the tiny gain in light. Around him shrubs pressed close as ever. He stamped his way back along what he’d thought was his original path. When he reached the hindrance he smashed his way between the shrubs, struggling and snarling, savage with panic, determined not to yield. His hands were torn; he heard cloth rip. Well, the thorns could have that.

When at last he reached an open space his panic sighed loudly out of him. He began to walk as rapidly as seemed safe, towards where he remembered the road to be. Overhead black nets of branches turned, momentarily catching stars. Once, amid the enormous threshing of the woods, he thought he heard a heavy body shoving through the nearby bushes. Good luck to whoever it was. Ahead, in the barred dark, hung little lighted windows. He had found the trailer park, but only by losing his way.

He was home. He hurried into the light, smiling. In the metal alleys pegged shirts hung neck down, dripping; they flapped desperately on the wind. The trailer was dark. In the main room, lying on the couch like someone’s abandoned reading, was a note: or?, BACK LATER. His mother had added vo~’? o 7o BEY OO

LATE.

He’d been looking forward to companionship. Now the trailer seemed too brightly lit, and false: a furnished tin can. He made himself coffee, leafed desultorily through his floppy paperbacks, opened and closed a pocket chess set. He poked through his box of souvenirs: shells, smooth stones; a minute Bible; a globe of synthetic snow within which a huge vague figure, presumably meant to be a snowman, loomed outside a house; a dead flashlight fitted with a set of clip-on Halloween faces; a dull grey ring whose metal swelled into a bulge over which colours crawled slowly,

changing. The cardboard box was full of memories: the Severn valley, the Welsh hills, the garishly glittering mile of Blackpool; he couldn’t remember where the ring had come from. But the memories were dim tonight, uninvolving.

He wandered into his parents’ room. It looked to him like a secondhand store for clothes and toiletries. He found his father’s large metal box, but it was locked as usual. Well, Michael didn’t want to read his old books anyway. He searched for contraceptives, but as he’d expected, there were none. If he wasn’t mistaken, his parents had no need for them. Poor buggers. He’d never been able to imagine how, out of proportion as they seemed to be, they had begot him.

Eventually he went out. The incessant rocking of the trailer, its hollow booming in the wind, had begun to infuriate him. He hurried along the road between the pines; wind sifted through needles. On the main road buses ran to Liverpool. But he’d already been there several times. He caught a bus to the opposite terminus.

The bus was almost empty. A few passengers rattled in their lighted pod over the bumpy country roads. Darkness streamed by, sometimes becoming dim hedges. The scoop of the headlamps set light to moths, and once to a squirrel. Ahead the sky glowed, as if with a localized dawn. Lights began to emerge from behind silhouetted houses; streets opened, brightening.

The bus halted in a square, beside a village cross. The passengers hurried away, snuggling into their collars. Almost at once the street was deserted, the bus extinguished. Folded awnings clattered, tugged by the wind. Perhaps after all he should have gone into the

city. He was stranded here for - he read the timetable: God, two hours until the last bus.

He wandered among the grey stone houses. Streetlamps glared silver; the light coated shop windows, behind whose flowering of frost he could see faint ghosts of merchandise. Curtains shone warmly, chimneys smoked. His heels clanked mechanically on the cobbles. Streets, streets, empty streets. Then the streets became crowded, with gleaming parked cars. Ahead, on the wall of a building, was a plaque of coloured light: FOVR IN THE MORNING. A club.

He hesitated, then he descended the steps. Maybe he wouldn’t fit in with the brand-new sports car set, but anything was better than wandering the icy streets. At the bottom of the stone flight, a desk stood beside a door to coloured dimness. A broken-nosed man wearing evening dress sat behind the desk. ‘Are you a member, sir?’ he said in an accent that was almost as convincing as his suit.

Inside was worse than Michael had feared. On a dance floor couples turned lethargically, glittering and changing colour like toy dancers. Clumps of people stood shouting at each other in county accents, swaying and laughing; some stared at him as they laughed. He heard their talk: motorboats, bloody bolshies, someone’s third abortion. He didn’t mind meeting new people - he’d had to learn not to mind - but he could tell these people preferred, now they’d stared, to ignore him.

His three pounds’ membership fee included a free drink. I should think so too, he thought. He ordered a beer, to the barman’s faint contempt. As he carried the tankard to one of the low bare tables he was conscious of his boots, tramping the floorboards. There was nothing wrong with them, he’d wiped them. He sipped,

making the drink last, and gazed into the beer’s dim glow.

When someone else sat at the table he didn’t look at her. He had to glance up at last, because she was staring. What was the matter with her, was he on show? Often in groups he felt alien, but he’d never felt more of a freak than here. His large-boned arms huddled protectively around him, his gawky legs drew up.

But she was smiling. Her stare was wide-eyed, innocent, if somehow odd. ‘I haven’t seen you before,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Michael.’ It sounded like phlegm; he cleared his throat. ‘Michael. What’s yours?’

‘June.’ She made a face as though it tasted like medicine.

‘Nothing wrong with that.’ Her hint of dissatisfaction with herself had emboldened him.

‘You haven’t moved here, have you? Are you visiting?’

There was something strange about her: about her eyes, about the way she seemed to search for questions. ‘My parents have a caravan,’ he said. ‘We’re in the Pine Dunes Caravanserai. We docked just last week.’

‘Yeah.’ She drew the word out like a sigh. ‘Like a ship. That must be fantastic. I wish I had that. Just to be able to see new things all the time, new places. The only way you can see new things here is taking acid. I’m tripping now.’

His eyebrows lifted slightly; his faint smile shrugged.

‘That’s what I mean,’ she said, smiling. ‘These people here would be really shocked. They’re so provincial. You aren’t.’

In fact he hadn’t been sure how to react. The pupils

of her eyes were expanding and contracting rapidly, independently of each other. But her small face was attractive, her small body had large firm breasts.

‘I saw the moon dancing before,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to come down now. I thought I’d like to look at people. You wouldn’t know I was tripping, would you? I can control it when I want to.’

She wasn’t really talking to him, he thought; she just wanted an audience to trip to. He’d heard things about LSD. ‘Aren’t you afraid of starting to trip when you don’t mean to?’

‘Flashbacks, you mean. I never have them. I shouldn’t like that.’ She gazed at his scepticism. ‘There’s no need to be afraid of drugs,’ she said. ‘All sorts of people used to trip. Witches used to. Look, it tells you about it in here.’

She fumbled a book out of her handbag; she seemed to have difficulty in wielding her fingers. Witchcraft in England. ‘You can have that,’ she said. ‘Have you got a job?’

It took him a moment to realize that she’d changed the subject. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t left school long. I had to have extra school because of all the moving. I’m twenty. I expect I’ll get a job soon. I think we’re staying here.’

‘That could a good job,’ she said, pointing at a notice behind the bar: TRAINEE BARMAN REQUIRED. ‘I think they want to get rid of that guy there. People don’t like him. I know a lot of people would come here if they got someone friendly like you.’

Was it just her trip talking? Two girls said good-bye to a group, and came over. ‘We’re going now, June. See you shortly.’

‘Right. Hey, this is Michael.’

‘Nice to meet you, Michael.’

‘Hope we’ll see you again.’

Perhaps they might. These people didn’t seem so bad after all. He drank his beer and bought another, wincing at the price and gazing at the job notice. June refused a drink: ‘It’s a downer.’ They talked about his travels, her dissatisfactions, and her lack of cash to pay for moving. When he had to leave she said, ‘I’m glad I met you. I like you.’ And she called after him, ‘If you got that job I’d come here.’

Darkness blinded him. It was heavy on him, and moved. It was more than darkness: it was flesh. Beneath him and around him and above him, somnolent bodies crawled blindly. They were huge; so was he. As they shifted incessantly he heard sounds of mud or flesh.

He was shifting too. It was more than restlessness. His whole body felt unstable; he couldn’t make out his own form - whenever he seemed to perceive it, it changed. His mind was unstable too; it felt too full, of alien chunks that ground harshly together. Memories or fantasies floated vaguely through him. Stone circles. Honeycombed mountains; glimmering faces like a cluster of bubbles in a cave mouth. Enormous dreaming eyes beneath stone and sea. A labyrinth of thorns. His own face. But why was his own face only a memory?

He woke. Dawn suffocated him like grey gas; he lay panting. It was all right. It hadn’t been his own face that he’d seemed to remember in the dream. His body hadn’t grown huge. His large bones were still lanky. But there was a huge figure, nonetheless. It loomed above him at the window, its spread of face staring down at him.

He woke, and had to grab the dark before he could find the light switch. He twisted himself to sit on the edge of the couch, legs tangled in the blankets, so as not to fall asleep again. Around him the trailer was fiat and bright, and empty. Beyond the ajar door of his parents’ room he could see that their bed was smooth and deserted.

He was sure he’d had that dream before - the figur~ at the window. Somehow he associated it with a windmill, a childhood memory he couldn’t locate. Had he been staying with his grandparents? The dream was fading in the light. He glanced at his clock: two in the morning. He didn’t want to sleep again until the dream had gone.

He stood outside the trailer. A wind was rising; a loud whisper passed through the forest, unlit trailers rocked and creaked a little at their moorings; behind everything, vast and constant, the sea rushed vaguely. Scraps of cloud slid over the filling moon; light caught at them, but they slipped away. His parents hadn’t taken the car. Where had they gone? Irrationally, he felt he knew, if only he could remember. Why did they go out at night so much?

A sound interrupted his musing. The wind carried it to him only to snatch it away. It seemed distant, and therefore must be loud. Did it contain words? Was something being violently ill, and trying to shout? The moon’s light flapped between a procession of dark clouds. A drunk, no doubt, shouting incoherently. Michael gazed at the edge of the forest and wondered about his parents. Light and wind shifted the foliage. Then he shrugged. He ought to be used to his parents’ nocturnal behaviour by now.

He slammed the door. His dream was still clinging

to him. There had been something odd about the head at the window, besides its size. Something about it had reminded him unpleasantly of a bubble. Hadn’t that happened the first time he’d had the dream? But he was grinning at himself: never mind dreams, or his parents. Think of June.

She had been in the club almost every evening since he’d taken the job, a month ago. He had dithered for a week, then he’d returned and asked about the notice. Frowning, the barman had called the manager - to throw Michael out? But June had told them her parents knew Michael well. ‘All right. We’ll give you six weeks and see how you do.’ The barman had trained him, always faintly snooty and quick to criticize. But the customers had begun to prefer Michael to serve them. They accepted him, and he found he could be friendly. He’d never felt less like an outsider.

So long as the manager didn’t question June’s parents. June had invited Michael to the cottage a couple of times. Her parents had been polite, cold, fascinated, contemptuous. He’d tried to fit his lanky legs beneath his chair, so that the flares of his trousers would cover up his boots - and all the while he’d felt superior to these people in some way, if only he could think of it. hey aren’t my kind of people either,’ June had told him, walking to the club. ‘When can we go to your caravan?’

He didn’t know. He hadn’t yet told his parents about her; the reaction to the news of his job hadn’t been what he’d hoped. His mother had gazed at him sadly, and he’d felt she was holding more of her feelings hidden, as they all had to in the cramped trailer. ‘Why don’t you go to the city? They’ll have better jobs there.’ ‘But I feel at home here.’

‘That’s right,’ his father had said. ‘That’s right.’ He’d stared at Michael strangely, with a kind of uneasy joy. Michael had felt oppressed, engulfed by the stare. Of course there was nothing wrong, his father had become uneasy on hearing of his son’s first job, his first step in the world, that was all.

‘Can I borrow the car to get to the club?’

His father had become dogmatic at once; his shell had snapped tight. ‘Not yet. You’ll get the key soon enough.’

It hadn’t seemed worth arguing. Though his parents rarely used the car at night, Michael was never given the key. Where did they go at night? ‘When you’re older’ had never seemed much of an explanation. But surely their nocturnal excursions were more frequent now they’d docked at Pine Dunes? And why was his mother so anxious to persuade him to leave?

It didn’t matter. Sometimes he was glad that they went out; it gave him a chance to be alone, the trailer seemed less cramped, he could breathe freely. He could relax, safe from the threat of his father’s overwhelming presence. And if they hadn’t gone out that night he would never have met June.

Because of the wanderings of the trailer he had never had time for close friendships. He had felt more attached to this latest berth than to any person - until he’d met June. She was the first girl to arouse him. Her small slim body, her bright quick eyes, her handfuls of breast - he felt his body stirring as he thought of her.

For years he’d feared he was impotent. Once, in a village school, a boy had shown him an erotic novel. He’d read about the gasps of pleasure, the creaking of the bed. Gradually he’d realized why that troubled him. The walls of the trailer were thin; he could always

hear his father snoring or wheezing, like a huge fish stranded on the shore of a dream. But he had never heard his parents copulating.

Their sexual impulse must have faded quickly, soon after he was born - as soon, he thought, as it had served its purpose. Would his own be as feeble? Would it work at all? Yes, he’d gasped over June, the first night her parents were out. ‘I think it’d be good to make love on acid,’ she’d said as they lay embraced. ‘That way you really become one, united together.’ But he thought he would be terrified to take LSD, even though what she’d said appealed deeply to him.

He wished she were here now. The trailer rocked; his parents’ door swung creaking, imitated by the bathroom door, which oi%n sprang open. He slammed them irritably. The dream of the bubbling head at the window - if that had been what was wrong with it was drifting away. Soon he’d sleep. He picked up Witchcraft in England. It looked dull enough to help him sleep. And it was June’s.

Naked witches danced about on the cover, and on many of the pages. They danced obscenely. They danced lewdly. They chanted obscenely. And so on. They used poisonous drugs, such as belladonna. No doubt that had interested June. He leafed idly onward; his gaze flickered impatiently.

Suddenly he halted, at a name: Severnford. Now that was interesting. We can imagine, the book insisted, the witches rowing out to the island in the middle of the dark river, and committing unspeakable acts before the pallid stone in the moonlight; but Michael couldn’t imagine anything of the kind, nor did he intend to try. Witches are still reputed to visit the island, the book told him before he interrupted it and riffled on. But a few pages later his gaze was caught again.

He stared at this new name. Then reluctantly he turned to the index. At once words stood out from the columns, eager to be seen. They slipped into his mind as if their slots had been ready for years. Exham. Whitminster. The Old Horns. Holihavan. Dilham. Severnford. His father had ha]ted the trailer at all of them, and his parents had gone out at night.

He was still staring numbly at the list when the door snapped open. His father glanced sharply at him, then went into the bedroom. ‘Come on,’ he told Michael’s mother, and sat heavily on the bed, which squealed. To Michael’s bewildered mind his father’s body seemed to spread as he sat down, like a dropped jelly. His mother sat obediently; her gaze dodged timidly, she looked pale and shrunken - by fear, Michael knew at once. ‘Go to bed,’ his father told him, raising one foot effortfully to kick the door shut. Almost until dawn Michael lay in the creaking unstable dark, thinking.

‘You must have seen all sorts of places,’ June said.

‘We’ve seen a few,’ said Michael’s mother. Her eyes moved uneasily. She seemed nervously resentful, perhaps at being reminded of something she wanted desperately to forget. At last, as if she’d struggled and found courage, she managed to say, ‘We may see a few more.’

‘Oh, no we won’t,’ her husband said. He sat slumped on the couch, as though his body were a burden he’d had to drop there. Now that there were four people in the trailer he seemed to take up even more room; his presence overwhelmed all the spaces between them.

But Michael refused to be overwhelmed. He stared at his father. ‘What made you choose the places we’ve lived?’ he demanded.

‘I had my reasons.’

‘What reasons?’

‘I’ll tell you sometime. Not now, son. You don’t want us arguing in front of your girl friend, do you?’

Into the embarrassed silence June said, ‘I really envy you, being able to go everywhere.’

‘You’d like to, would you?’ Michael’s mother said. ‘Oh, yes. I’d love to see the world.’

His mother turned from the stove. ‘You ought to. You’re the right age for it. It wouldn’t do Michael any harm, either.’

For a moment her eyes were less dull. Michael was glad: he’d thought she would approve of June’s wanderlust - that was one reason why he’d given in to June’s pleas. Then his father was speaking, and his mother dulled again.

‘Best to stay where you’re born,’ his father told June. ‘You won’t find a better place than here. I know what I’m talking about.’

‘You should try living where I do. It’d kill your head in no time.’

‘Mike feels at home here. That’s right, isn’t it, son? You tell her.’

‘I like it here,’ Michael said. Words blocked his throat. ‘I mean, I met you,’ he hawked at June.

His mother chopped vegetables: chop, chop, chop the sound was harsh, trapped within the metal walls. ‘Can I do anything?’ June said.

‘No, thank you. It’s all right,’ she said indifferently. She hadn’t accepted June yet, after all.

‘If you’re so keen on seeing the world,’ his father demanded, ‘what’s stopping you?’

‘I can’t afford it, not yet. I work in a boutique, I’m saving the money I’d have spent on clothes. And then I can’t drive. I’d need to go with someone who can.’

‘Good luck to you. But I don’t see Mikey going with yOU.’

Well, ask rne! Michael shouted at her, gagged (by his unsureness: she mightn’t have had him in mind at all). But she only said, ‘When I travel I’m going to have things from everywhere.’

‘I’ve got some,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept some things.’ He carried the cardboard box to her, and displayed his souvenirs. ‘You can have them if you like,’ he said impulsively; if she accepted he would be more sure of her. ‘The flashlight only needs batteries.’

But she pushed the plastic faces aside, and picked up the ring. ‘I like that,’ she said, turning it so that its colours spilled slowly over one another, merging and

separating. She whispered, ‘It’s like tripping.”There you are. I’m giving it you.’

His father stared at the ring, then a smile spread his mouth. ‘Yes, you give her that. It’s as good as an engagement, that ring.’

Michael slid the ring on to her finger before she could change her mind; she had begun to look embarrassed. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Have we time for Mike to take me for a walk before dinner?’

‘You can stay out for an hour if you like,’ his mother said, then anxiously: ‘Go down to the beach. You might get lost in the woods, in the fog.’

The fog was ambiguous: perhaps thinning, perhaps gathering again. Inside a caravan a radio sang Christmas carols. A sharp-edged bronze sun hung close to the sea. Sea and fog had merged, and might be advancing over the beach. June took Michael’s hand as they climbed the slithering dunes. ‘I just wanted to come out to talk,’ she explained.

So had he. He wanted to tell her what he’d discovered. That was his main reason for. inviting her: he

needed her support in confronting his parents, he would be too disturbed to confront them alone - he’d needed it earlier when he’d tried to interrogate his father.. But what could he tell her? I’ve found out my parents are witches? You know that book you lent

me-

‘No, I didn’t really want to talk,’ she said. ‘There

were just too many bad vibes in there. I’ll be all right, we’ll go back soon. But they’re strange, your parents, aren’t they? I didn’t realize your father was so heavy.’

‘He used to be like me. He’s been getting fatter for the last few months.’ After a pause he voiced his worst secret fear: ‘I hope I never get like him.’

‘You’ll have to get lots of exercise. Let’s walk as far as the point.’

Ahead along the beach, the grey that lay stretched on the sea was land, not fog. They trudged towards it. Sand splashed from his boots; June slid, and gripped his hand. He strained to tell her what he’d found out, but each phrase he prepared sounded more absurd: his voice echoed hollowly, closed into his mind. He’d tell her - but not today. He relaxed, and felt enormously relieved; he enjoyed her hand small in his. ‘I like fog,’ she said. ‘There are always surprises in it.’

The bronze sun paced them, sinking. The sea shifted restlessly, muffled. To their left, above the dunes, trees were a fiat mass of prickly fog. They were nearly at the point now. It pulled free of the grey, darkening and sharpening. It looked safe enough for them to climb the path.

But when they reached the top it seemed hardly worth the effort. A drab patch of beach and dunes, an indistinct fragment of sea scattered with glitterings of dull brass, surrounded them in a soft unstable frame of fog. Otherwise the view was featureless, except for

a tree growing beside the far dunes. Was it a tree? Its branches seemed too straight, its trunk too thick. Suddenly troubled, Michael picked his way over the point as far as he dared. The fog withdrew a little. It wasn’t a tree. It was a windmill.

A windmill by the sea! ‘My grandparents lived here,’ he blurted.

‘Oh, did they?’

‘You don’t understand. They lived near that windmill. It’s the same one, I know it is.’

He still wasn’t sure whether she felt his confusion. Memories rushed him, as if all at once afloat: he’d been lying on the couch in his grandparents’ decrepit trailer, the huge head had loomed at the window, vague with dawn. It must have been a dream then too.

He followed June down the path. Chill fog trailed them, lapping the point. His thoughts drifted, swirling. What did his discovery mean? He couldn’t remember his grandparents at all, not even what they’d looked like. They had been his father’s parents - why had the man never mentioned them? Why hadn’t he remarked that they’d lived here? The sun slid along the rim of the sea, swollen as though with glowing blood. Had his grandparents also been witches?

‘Did Mike’s grandparents live here, then?’ June said. His mother stared at her. The spoon and saucepan she was holding chattered like nervous teeth. He was sure she was going to scream and throw everything away - the utensils, her self-control, the mask behind which she’d hidden to protect him: for how long? For the whole of his childhood? But she stammered, ‘How did you know that?’

‘Mike told me. The windmill just reminded him.’

‘Is dinner ready?’ Michael interrupted. He wanted to think everything out before questioning his father.

But June was opening her mouth to continue. The trailer was crowded, suffocating. Shut up! he screamed at her. Get out! ‘Were they born here, then?’ June said.

‘No, I don’t think so.’ His mother had turned away and was dishlug vegetables. June went to hold the dishes. ‘So why did they come here?’ she said.

His mother frowned, turning her back; within her frown she was searching. ‘To retire,’ she said abruptly.

His father nodded and smiled to himself, squeezing forward his ruff of chins. ‘You could retire from the human race here,’ June said sourly, and he wheezed like a punctured balloon.

As the four ate dinner, their constraint grew. Michael and June made most of the conversation; his parents replied shortly when at all, and watched. His mother observed June uneasily; he read dislike in her eyes, or pity. He felt irritably resentful, her uneasiness made his skin nervous. Night edged closer to the windows, blank-faced.

His father leaned back as if his weight had toppled the chair, which creaked loudly. He patted his quaking stomach. ‘Just storing it up for the winter,’ he said, winking at June.

His arms flopped around her shoulders and Michael’s. ‘You two go well together. Don’t they, eh?’

But his wife said only, ‘I’m going to bed now. I’m very tired. Perhaps we’ll see you again,’ which sounded like dutiful politeness.

‘I hope so,’ June said.

‘I know we will,’ Michael’s father said expansively. Michael walked June to the bus stop. ‘I’ll see you at the club,’ she said through a kiss. Smoldering cones of yellow light led the bus away, and were ungulfed. As he walked back, twisted shapes of fog bulked between the trees. Nearby in the dark, something shifted moistly.

He halted. What had it been? Blurred trees creaked with a deadened sound, thin trails of fog reached out for him from branches. He’d heard a shifting, deep in the dark. A vague memory plucked at him. He shivered as if to shake it free, into the chill clinging night. A restless moist shifting. He felt as though the depths of the forest were reaching for his mind with ambiguous tatters of grey. He strode rapidly towards the invisible light. Again he heard the slow moist shifting. Only the sea, he told himself. Only the sea.

As he emerged into the open, the clouds parted and the moon rolled free. The enormous shape in the open space glistened with moonlight. The unstable head turned its crawling face towards him.

The dream trailed him to Liverpool, to the central library, although the space and the head had faded before he could make them out - if indeed he had wanted to. But a rush of rain, and the bright lights of the library, washed the dream away. He hurried up the wide green stairs to the Religion and Philosophy Section.

He pulled books from the shelves. Lancashire Witches. North-West Hauntings. Ghostly Lancashire. The banality of their covers was reassuring; it seemed absurd that his parents could be mixed up in such things. Yet he couldn’t quite laugh. Even if they were, what could he do? He slammed the books angrily on a table, startling echoes.

As he read he began to feel safer. Pine Dunes wasn’t indexed in North-West Hauntings. His attention strayed fascinated into irrelevances. The hanged man’s ghost in Everton Library. The poltergeist of the Palace

Hotel, Birkdale. Jokey ghost stories in Lancashire dialect, ee lad. Rain and wind shook the windows, fluorescent light lay flat on the tables. Beyond a glass partition people sat studying, library staff clattered up and down open staircases, carrying scraps of paper. Reassured, he turned to Lancashire Witches. Pine Dunes. It was there, on three pages.

When he made himself search the pages they didn’t say much. Over the centuries, witches had been rumoured to gather in the Pine Dunes forest. Was that surprising? Wouldn’t they naturally have done so, for concealment? Besides, these were only rumours; few people would have bothered struggling through the undergrowth. He opened Ghostly Lancashire, expecting irrelevances. But the index showed that Pine Dunes covered several pages.

The author had interviewed. a group the other books ignored: the travellers. Their stories were unreliable, he warned, but fascinating. Few travellers would walk the Pine Dunes road after dark; they kept their children out of the woods even by day. A superstitious people, the author pointed out. The book had been written thirty years ago, Michael reminded himself. And the travellers gave no reason for their nervousness except vague tales of something unpleasantly large glimpsed moving beyond the most distant trees. But surely distance must have formed the trees into a solid wall; how could anyone have seen beyond?

One traveller, senile and often incoherent, told a story. A long time ago he, or someone else - the author couldn’t tell - had wandered back to the travellers’ camp, very drunk. The author didn’t believe the story, but included it because it was vivid and unusual. Straying from the road, the man had become lost in the forest. Blinded by angry panic, he’d fought his way

towards an open space. But it wasn’t the camp, as he’d thought. He had lost his footing on the slippery earth and had gone skidding into a pit.

Had it been a pit, or the mouth of a tunnel? As he’d scrabbled, bruised but otherwise unhurt, for a foothold on the mud at the bottom, he’d seen an opening that led deeper into darkness. But the darkness had been moving slowly and enormously towards him, with a sound like that of a huge shifting beneath mud. The darkness had parted loudly, resolving itself into several sluggish forms that glistened dimly as they advanced to surround him. Terror had hurled him in a leap halfway up the pit; his hands had clamped on rock, and he’d wrenched himself up the rest of the way. He’d run blindly. In the morning he’d found himself full of thorns on a sprung bed of undergrowth.

So what did all that prove? Michael argued with himself on the bus to Pine Dunes. The man had been drunk. All right, so there were other tales about Pine Dunes, but nothing very evil. Why shouldn’t his parents go out at night? Maybe they were ghost-hunters, witch-hunters. Maybe they were going to write a book about their observations. How else could such books be written? His mind was becoming desperate as he kept remembering his mother’s masked fear.

His parents were asleep. His father lay beached on the bed, snoring fiabbily; beyond his stomach his wife could hardly be seen. Michael was glad, for he hadn’t known what to say to them. He wheeled out the bicycle he’d bought from his first month’s wages.

He cycled to the Four in the Morning. His knees protruded on either side of him, jerking up and down. Hedges sailed by slowly; their colours faded and dimmed into twilight. The whirr of his dynamo caught among the leaves. He struggled uphill, standing on the

pedals. Dim countryside opened below him, the sea glinted dully. As he poised on the edge of the downhill rush he knew how he could unburden himself, or begin to. Tonight he would tell June everything.

But she didn’t come to the club. People crowded in; the lights painted them carelessly monochrome. Discotheque records snarled and thumped, swirls of tobacco smoke glared red, pink, purple. Michael hurried about, serving. Dim wet discoloured faces jostled to reach him, shouting, ‘Mike! Mike!’ Faces rose obsessively to the surface of the jostling: June’s, who wasn’t there; his mother’s, her eyes trying to dodge fear. He was suffocating. His frustration gathered within him; he felt swollen, encumbered. He stared at luridly pink smoke while voices called. ‘I’ve got to go home,’ he told the barman.

‘Had enough, have you?’

‘My parents aren’t well. I’m worried.’

‘Strange you didn’t say so when you came in. Well, I’ve managed by myself before.’ He turned away, dismissing Michael. ‘You’ll have to make do with me tonight,’ he told the shouting.

The last of the lit streets faded behind Michael. The moon was full, but blurred by unkempt fields of cloud; it showed him only a faint windy swaying that surrounded him for miles. When he confronted his father, what would his mother do? Would she break down? If she admitted to witchcraft and said it was time Michael knew, the scene would be easier - if she did. The moon struggled among plump clouds, and was engulfed.

He cycled fast up the Pine Dunes road. Get there, don’t delay to reconsider. Gravel ground together squeaking beneath his wheels; his yellow light wobbled, plucking at trees. The depths of the forest

creaked; distant tree trunks were pushed apart to let a huge unstable face peer through. He was overtired - of course there was nothing among the far trees but dark. He sped into the Caravanserai; random patches of unlit trailers bobbed up and faded by. His trailer was unlit too.

Perhaps his parents weren’t there. He realized furiously that he felt relieved. They were in there all right, they’d be asleep. He would wake his father, the man might betray himself while still half-asleep. He’d dazzle his father awake, like an interrogator. But his parents’ bed was empty.

He punched the wall, which rang flatly. His father had outwitted him again. He stared around the room, enraged. His father’s huge suits dangled emptily, like sloughed skin; his mother’s clothes hid in drawers. His father’s metal box of books sat on top of the wardrobe. Michael glanced resentfully at it, then stared. It was unlocked.

He lifted it down and made to sit on his parents’ bed. But that made him feel uneasy; he carried the box into the main room. Let his father come in and find him reading. Michael hoped he would. He tugged at the lid, which resisted then sprang open with a loud clang.

He remembered that sound. He’d heard it when he was quite young, and his mother’s voice, pleading: ‘Let him at least have a normal childhood.’ After a moment he’d heard the box closed again. ‘All right. He’ll find out when it’s time,’ he’d heard his father say.

The box contained no printed books, but several notebooks. They had been written in by numerous people; the inks in the oldest notebook, whose spine had given way, were brown as old bloodstains. Some of the writing in the latest book was his mother’s. Odd pages showed rough maps: The Old Horns, Exham,

Whitminster, though none of Pine Dunes. These he recognized; but he couldn’t understand a word of the text.

Most of it was in English, but might as well not have been. It consisted largely of quotations copied from books; sometimes the source was indicated - Necro, Revelations Glaaki, Garimiaz, Verrnis, Theobald, whatever they were. The whole thing reminded him of pamphlets issued by cranky cults - like the people who gave all their worldly goods to a man in America, or the others who’d once lured Michael into a seedy hotel for a personality profile, which they’d lied would be fun. He read, baffled.

After a while he gave up. Even the entries his mother had written made no sense. Some of the words he couldn’t even pronounce. Kuthullhoo? Kuthoolhew? And what was supposed to be so Great about it, whatever it was?

He shrugged, sniggering a little. He didn’t feel so worried now. If this was all his parents were involved in, it seemed silly but harmless. The fact that they’d concealed it from him so successfully for so long seemed to prove as much. They were so convincingly normal, it couldn’t be anything very bad. After all, many businessmen belonged to secret societies with jargon nobody else could understand. Maybe his father had been initiated into this society as part of one of the jobs he’d taken in his wanderings!

One thing still troubled Michael: his mother’s fear. He couldn’t see what there was to fear in the blurred language of the notebooks. He made a last effort, and let the books fall open where they would - at the pages that had been read most frequently.

What a waste of time! He strained his mind, but the pages became more bewildering still; he began to

laugh. What on earth was ‘the millennial gestation? Something to do with ‘the fosterling of the Great Old Ones’? ‘,The hereditary rebirth’? ‘Each of Its rebirths comes closer to incarnation’? ‘when the mind opens to all the dimensions will come the incarnation. Upon the incarnation all minds will become one.’ Ah, that explains it! Michael sniggered wildly. But there was more: ‘the ingestion,’ ‘the mating beyond marriage,’ ‘the melting and merging’ -

He threw the book angrily into the box. The skin of his eyes crawled hotly; he could hardly keep them open, yet he was wasting his time reading this. The trailer rocked as something huge tugged at it: the wind. The oldest, spineless, notebook began to disintegrate. As he knocked it square, an envelope slipped out.

It was addressed in his father’s large handwriting; the last word had had to be cramped. TO MICHAEL: NOT

TO BE OPENED UNTIL AFTER I AM GONE. He turned it

over and began to tear, but his hand faltered. He’d been unreasonable enough to his father for one day. After a moment he put the envelope unopened in his pocket, feeling sly and ashamed. He replaced the box, then he prepared to sleep. In the dark he tried to arrange his limbs on the sagging couch. Rocking, the trailer sounded like a rusty cradle.

He slept. He wasn’t sure whether he was asleep when he heard his mother’s low voice. He must be awake, for he could feel her breath on his face. ‘Don’t stay here.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Your girl friend’s got the right idea. Go away with her if that’s what you want. Just get away from here.’

His father’s voice reached for her out of the dark. ‘That’s enough. He’s asleep. You come to bed.’ Silence and darkness settled down for the night. But

in the night, or in Michael’s dream, there were noises: the stealthy departure of a car from the park; heavy footsteps trying not to disturb the trailer; the gingerly closing of his parents’ door. Sleep seemed more important.

His father’s voice woke him, shouting into the bedroom. ‘Wake up. The car’s gone. It’s been stolen.’

Daylight blazed through Michael’s eyelids. He was sure at once what had happened. His father had hidden the car, so that nobody could get away. Michael lay paralysed, waiting for his mother’s cry of panic. Her silence held time immobile. He squeezed his eyelids tighter, filling his eyes with red.

‘Oh,’ his mother said at last, dully. ‘Oh, dear.’

There was more in her voice than resignation: she sounded lethargic, indifferent. Suddenly Michael remembered what he’d read in June’s book. Witches used drugs. His eyes sprang wide. He was sure that his father was drugging his mother.

It didn’t take the police long to find the car, abandoned and burnt out, near the windmill. ‘Kids, probably,’ one of the policemen said. ‘We may be in touch with you again.’ Michael’s father shook his head sadly, and they le~.

‘I must have dropped the car keys while we were out.’ Michael thought his father hardly bothered to sound convincing. Why couldn’t he tell the man so, confront him? Because he wasn’t sure; he might have dreamed the sounds last night - He raged at his own cowardice, staring at his mother. If only he could be certain of her support! She wandered desultorily, determinedly cleaning the trailer, as though she were ill but expecting company.

When his gagged rage found words at last it weakened immediately. ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded of her, but then could only stammer, ‘Do you think you’d better see a doctor?’

Neither of his parents responded. His unsureness grew, and fed his frustration. He felt lethargic, unable to act, engulfed by his father’s presence. Surely June would be at the club tonight. He had to talk to someone, to hear another interpretation; perhaps she would prove that he’d imagined everything.

He washed and shaved. He was glad to retreat, even into the cramped bathroom; he and his parents had been edging uneasily around one another all day - the trailer made him think unpleasantly of a tin can full of squirming. As he shaved, the bathroom door sprang open, as if often did. His father appeared behind him in the mirror, staring at him.

Steam coated the mirror again. Beneath the steam, his father’s face seemed to writhe like a plastic mask on fire. Michael reached to clear the mirror, but already his father and the man’s emotions were upon him. Before Michael could turn his father was hugging him violently, his flesh quivering as though it would burst. Michael held himself stiff, refusing to be engulfed. What are you doing? Get away! In a moment his father turned clumsily and plodded out. The trailer rumbled, shaking.

Michael sighed loudly. God, he was glad that was over. He finished shaving and hurried out. Neither of his parents looked at him; his father pretended to read a book, and whistled tunelessly; his mother turned vaguely as he passed. He cycled to the club.

‘Parents all right?’ the barman said indifferently. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Good of you to come.’ Perhaps that was sarcasm. ‘There’s some things for you to wash.’

Michael could still feel his father’s clinging embrace; he kept trying to wriggle it away. He welcomed the press of bodies at the bar, shouting, ‘Mike!’ - even though June wasn’t among them. He welcomed the companionship of ordinary people. He strode expertly about, serving, as the crowd grew, as smoke gathered. He could still feel swollen flesh pressed hotly against his back. He won’t do that to me again, he thought furiously. He’ll never - A tankard dropped from his hand, beneath a beer tap. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said.

‘What’s up with you now?’ the barman demanded. When his father had embraced him, Michael had thought of nothing but escape. Now at last he realized how final his father’s gesture had been. ‘My parents,’ he said. ‘They’re, they’re worse.’

‘Just sent you a message, did they? Off home again now, I suppose? You’d better see the manager, or I will

- Will you watch that bloody beer you’re spilling!’ Michael slammed shut the tap and struggled

through the crowd. People grimaced sympathetically at him, or stared. It didn’t matter, his job didn’t matter. He must hurry back to head off whatever was going to happen. Someone bumped into him in the doorway, and hindered him when he tried to push them aside. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he shouted. ‘Get out of the way!’ It was June.

‘I’m really sorry I didn’t come last night,’ she said.

‘My parents dragged me out to dinner.”All right. Okay. Don’t worry.’

‘You’re angry. I really am sorry, I wanted to see you - You’re not going, are you?’

‘Yes, I’ve got to. Look, my parents aren’t well.’

‘I’ll come back with you. We can talk on the way. I’ll help you look after them.’ She caught at his shoulder

as he tried to run upstairs. ‘Please, Mike. I’ll feel bad if you just leave me. We can catch the last bus in five minutes if we run. It’ll be quicker than your bike.’

God! She was worse than his father! ‘Listen,’ he snarled, having clambered to street level. ‘It isn’t ill, they aren’t ill,’ he said, letting words tumble wildly as he tried to flee. ‘I’ve found out what they do at night. They’re witches.’

‘Oh, no!’ She sounded shocked but delighted.

‘My mother’s terrified. My father’s been drugging her.’ Now that he was able to say so, his urgency diminished a little; he wanted to release all he knew. ‘Something’s going to happen tonight,’ he said.

‘Are you going to try and stop it? Let me come too. I know about it. I showed you my book.’ When he looked doubtful she said, ‘They’ll have to stop when they see

me.’

Perhaps she could look after his mother while he confronted his father. They ran to the bus, which sat unlit in the square for minutes, then dawdled along the country roads, hoping for passengers who never appeared. Michael’s frustration coiled tighter again. He explained to June what he’d discovered: ‘Yeah,’ she kept saying, excited and fascinated. Once she began giggling uncontrollably. ‘Wouldn’t it be weird if we saw your father dancing naked?’ He stared at her until she said, ‘Sorry.’ Her pupils were expanding and contracting slightly, randomly.

As they ran along the Pine Dunes road the trees leaned closer, creaking and nodding. Suppose his parents hadn’t left the trailer yet? What could he say? He’d be tongue-tied again by his unsureness, and June would probably make things worse. He gasped with relief when he saw that the windows were dark, but

went inside to make sure. ‘I know where they’ve gone,’ he told June.

Moonlight and unbroken cloud spread the sky with dim milk; dark smoky breaths drifted across the glow. He heard the incessant restlessness of the sea. Bare black silhouettes crowded beside the road, thinly intricate against the sky. He hurried June towards the path.

Why should his parents have gone that way? Something told him they had - perhaps the maze he remembered, the tunnel of undergrowth: that was a secret place. The path wound deeper into the woods, glinting faintly; trees rapidly shuttered the glow of the moon. ‘Isn’t this fantastic,’ June said, hurrying behind him.

The pines gave out, but other trees meshed thickly overhead. The glimpses of fiat whitish sky, smoldering with darker cloud, dwindled. In the forest everything was black or blanched, and looked chill, although the night was unseasonably mild. Webs of shadow lay on the path, tangling Michael’s feet; tough grass seized him. Bushes massed around him, towering, choking the gaps between trees. The glimpses of sky were fewer and smaller. ‘What’s that?’ June said uneasily.

For a moment he thought it was the sound of someone’s foot, unplugging itself from the soft ground: it sounded like a loud slow gulp of mud. But no, it wasn’t that. Someone coughing? It didn’t sound much like a human cough. Moreover, it sounded as though it were straining to produce a sound, a single sound; and he felt inexplicably that he ought to know what that

was.

The bushes stirred, rattling. The muddy sound faded, somewhere ahead. There was no point in telling June his vague thoughts. ‘It’ll be an animal,’ he said. ‘Probably something’s caught it.’

Soon they reached the tunnel. He knelt at once and began to crawl. Twigs scraped beside his ears, a clawed dry chorus. He found the experience less disturbing now, less oppressive; the tunnel seemed wider, as though someone stout had recently pushed his way through. But behind him June was breathing heavily, and her voice fluttered in the dark. ‘There’s something following us outside the tunnel,’ she said tight]y, nervously.

He crawled quickly to the end and stood up. ~rhere’s nothing here now. It must have been an animal.’

He felt odd: calm, safe, yet slyly and elusively excited. His eyes had grown equal to the dark. The trees were stouter, and even closer; they squeezed out masses of shrub between them. Overhead, a few pale scraps of sky were caught in branches. The ground squelched underfoot, and he heard another sound ahead: similar, but not the same.

June emerged panting. ‘I thought I’d finished tripping. Where are we going?’ she said unevenly. ‘I can’t see.’

‘This way.’ He headed at once for a low opening in the tangled growth. As he’d somehow expected, the passage twisted several times, closing almost impenetrably, then widened. Perhaps he’d noticed that someone before him had thrust the bushes apart.

‘Don’t go so fast,’ June said in the dark, almost weeping. ‘Wait for me.’

Her slowness annoyed him. His indefinable excitement seemed to affect his skin, which crawled with nervousness like interference on the surface of a bubble. Yet he felt strangely powerful, ready for anything. Wait until he saw his father! He stood impatiently, stamping the mushy ground, while June caught up with him. She gripped his arm. ‘There it is again,’ she gasped.

‘What?’ The sound? It was only his feet, squelching. But there was another sound, ahead in the tangled creaking dark. It was the gurgling of mud, perhaps of a muddy stream gargling ceaselessly into the earth. No: it was growing louder, more violent, as though the mud were straining to spew out an obstruction. The sound was repeated, again and again, becoming gradually clearer: a single syllable. All at once he knew what it was. Somewhere ahead in the close dark maze, a thick muddy voice was struggling to shout his name.

June had recognized the sound too, and was tugging at his arm. ‘Let’s go back,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t like it. Please.’

‘God,’ he scoffed. ‘I thought you were going to help me.’ The muddy sounds blurred into a mumble, and were gone. Twigs shook in the oppressive dark, squeaking hollowly together. Suddenly, ahead of him, he heard his father’s voice; then, after a long silence, his mother’s. Both were oddly strained and muffled. As though this were a game of hide-and-seek, each had called his name.

There,’ he said to June. ‘I haven’t got time to take you back now.’ His excitement was mounting, his nervous skin felt light as a dream. ‘Don’t you want to look after my mother?’ he blurted.

- He shouldered onward. After a while he heard June following him timidly. A wind blundered through the forest, dragging at the bushes. Thorns struggled overhead, clawing at the air; the ground gulped his feet, sounding to his strained ears almost like words. Twice the walls of the passage tried to close, but someone had broken them apart. Ahead the passage broadened. He was approaching an open space.

He began to run. Bushes applauded like joyful bones.

The thick smoky sky rushed on, fighting the moonlight. The vociferous ground was slippery; he stumbled as he ran, and almost tripped over a dark huddle. It was his parents’ clothes. Some of them, as he glanced back impatiently, looked torn. He heard June fall slithering against bushes. ‘Don’t!’ she cried. But he had reached the space.

It was enclosed by trees. Ivy thickened the trunks and had climbed to mat the tangle overhead; bushes crowded the cramped gaps between the trees. In the interstices of the tangle, dark sky smoldered.

Slowly his eyes found the meagre light; outlines gathered in the clearing, dimmer than mist. Bared wooden limbs groped into the space, creaking. The dimness sketched them. He could see now that the clearing was about thirty feet wide, and roughly circular. Dimness crawled on it, as though it were an infested pond. At the far side, a dark bulk stood between him and the trees.

He squinted painfully, but its shape persisted in eluding him. Was it very large, or was the dark lying? Across the clearing mud coughed and gurgled thickly, or something did. Dimness massed on the glistening shape. Suddenly he saw that the shape was moving lethargically, and alive.

June had hung back; now she ran forward, only to slip at the edge of the clearing. She clutched his arm to steady herself, then she gazed beyond him, trembling. ‘What is it?’ she cried.

‘Shut up,’ he said savagely.

Apart from her interruption, he felt more calm than he had ever felt before. He knew he was gazing at the source of his dreams. The dreams returned peacefully to his mind and waited to be understood. For a moment

he wondered whether this was like June’s LSD. Something had been added to his mind, which seemed to be expanding awesomely. Memories floated free, as though they had been coded deep in him: wombs of stone and submarine depths; hovering in a medium that wasn’t space, somehow linked to a stone circle on a hill; being drawn closer to the circle, towards terrified faces that stared up through the night; a pregnant woman held writhing at the centre of the circle, screaming as he hovered closer and reached for her. He felt primed with centuries of memories. Inherited memories, or shared; but whose?

He waited. All was about to be clarified. The huge bulk shifted, glistening. Its voice, uncontrollably loud and uneven, struggled muddily to speak. The trees creaked ponderously, the squashed bushes writhed, the sky fled incessantly. Suddenly, touched by an instinct he couldn’t define, Michael realized how he and June must look from the far side of the clearing. He took her arm, though she struggled briefly, and they stood waiting: bride and bridegroom of the dark.

After a long muddy convulsion in the dimness, words coughed free. The voice seemed unable to speak more than a phrase at a time; then it would blur, gurgling. Sometimes his father’s voice, and occasionally his mother’s - high-pitched, trembling - seemed to help. Yet the effect was disturbing, for it sounded as though the muddy voice were attempting muffled imitations of his parents. He held himself calm, trusting that this too would be clarified in due course.

The Great Old Ones still lived, the halting voice gurgled loudly. Their dreams could reach out. When the human race was young … and strayed near the Old Ones … the dreams could reach into the womb

… and make the unborn in their image. Something like his mother’s voice spoke the last words, wavering fearfully. June struggled, but he gripped her arm.

Though the words were veiled and allusive, he understood instinctively what was being said. His new memories were ready to explain. When he read the notebooks again he would understand consciously. He listened and gazed, fascinated. He was in awe of the size of the speaking bulk. And what was strange about the head? Something moved there, rapid as the whirl of colours on a bubble. In the dark the face seemed to strain epileptically, perhaps to form words.

The Old Ones could wait, the voice or voices told him. The stars would come right. The people the Old Ones touched before birth … did not take on their image all at once … but gradually, down the centuries. Instead of dying, they took on the form … that the Old Ones had placed in the womb of an ancestor. Each generation came closer to the perfect image.

The bulk glistened as though fiayed; in the dimness it looked pale pink, and oddly unstable. Michael stared uneasily at the head. Swift clouds dragged darknesses over the clearing and snatched them away. The face looked so huge, and seemed to spread. Wasn’t it like his father’s face? But the eyes were swimming apart, the features slid uncontrollably across the head. All this was nothing but the antics of shadows. A tear in the clouds crept towards the dimmed moon. June was trying to pull away. ‘Keep still,’ he snarled, tightening his grip.

They would serve the Old Ones, the voice shouted thickly, faltering. That was why they had been made: to be ready when the time came. They shared the memories of the Old Ones… and at the change their

bodies were transformed … into the stuff of the Old Ones. They mated with ordinary people … in the human way, and later… in the way the Old Ones had decreed. That way was…

June screamed. The tear in the clouds had unveiled the moon. Her cry seemed harsh enough to tear her throat. He turned furiously to silence her; but she dragged herself free, eyes gaping, and fled down the path. The shadow of a cloud rushed towards the clearing. About to pursue June, he turned to see what the moon had revealed.

The shadow reached the clearing as he turned. For a moment he saw the huge head, a swollen bulb which, though blanched by moonlight, reminded him of a mass dug from within a body. The glistening lumpy forehead was almost bare, except for a few strands that groped restlessly over it - strands of hair, surely, though they looked like strings of livid flesh.

On the head, seeming even smaller amid the width of flesh, he saw his mother’s face. It was appallingly dwarfed, and terrified. The strands flickered over it, faster, faster. Her mouth strained wordlessly, gurgling.

Before he could see the rest of the figure, a vague gigantic squatting sack, the shadow flooded the clearing. As it did so, he thought he saw his mother’s face sucked into the head, as though by a whirlpool of flesh. Did her features float up again, newly arranged? Were there other, plumper, features jostling among them? He could be sure of nothing in the dark.

June cried out. She’d stumbled; he heard her fall, and the thud of her head against something: then silence. The figure was lumbering towards him, its bulk quaking. For a moment he was sure that it

intended to embrace him. But it had reached a pit, almost concealed by undergrowth. It slid into the earth, like slow jelly. The undergrowth sprang back rustling.

He stood gazing at June, who was still unconscious. He knew what he would tell her’. she had had a bad LSD experience, that had been what she’d seen. LSD reminded him of something. Slowly he began to smile.

He went to the pit and peered down. Faint sluggish muddy sounds retreated deep into the earth. He knew he wouldn’t see his parents for a long time. He touched his pocket, where the envelope waited. That would contain his father’s explanation of their disappearance, which he could show to people, to June.

Moonlight and shadows raced nervously over the pit. As he stared at the dark mouth he felt full of awe, yet calm. Now he must wait until it was time to come back here, to go into the earth and join the others. He remembered that now; he had always known, deep in himself, that this was home. One day he and June would return. He gazed at her unconscious body, smiling. Perhaps she had been right; they might take LSD together, when it was time. It might help them to become one.

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