He climbed towards the ridge of the Tor, leaning on the branch, and however far he climbed the ridge came no nearer. But he knew it was the trick of the Tor, so that only the strong mind would gain the peak. Behind him billowed to the Motherworld.

The sun was as high as it reached at that season, and he saw the ridge grow nearer and felt the ground ease under his branch. The wind had dropped. The ridge was before him. The rocks of the Tor were its crest, and he stepped onto them.

Below him lay all that was. He looked across to the hills that kept the Flatlands from falling into the sky. And in that distance there was no one. He called to the woman, but she did not answer. The bone of the Mother was pure, but his hand had not cut true. He had waited too long. Now he was not singer, not dancer, but the meat of pain.

He cramped on the rock of the Tor and wept. Then, because his head was low, he saw nearer, through the water of his eyes, the Hill of Death and Life stretching into the Flatlands. And from the Hill smoke rose in the still air.

He pulled himself by the holly to stand and look again. It was the smoke of one fire. He called to it. It did not tell him. But he knew. The woman had come. He felt life, and danced and sang about the branch.

Wolf! Wolf! Grey Wolf! I am calling for you!

Far away the Grey Wolf heard and came.

Here am I, the Grey Wolf.

The smoke on the Hill of Death and Life!

That is Trouble. The Trouble has come.

Wolf. Wolf. Grey Wolf. It is the woman. Take me up on your shoulder and run higher than the trees, lower than the clouds. Let each leap measure a mile and from your feet flints fly, springs sprout, lake surge and mix with gravel dirt, birch bend to the ground. Make hare crouch, boar bristle, crow call, owl wake, and stag begin to bell until I reach her.

I shall not, and I will not. I come three times. No more.

Then what is there to do?

That will I tell you. Go down from here and take the Stone. Then walk on the blood of your feet to the Hill of Death and Life.

But the Stone is the birth of night and the womb of being. Nothing before it was made, and with it all things were made. It lies in Ludcruck; and the river runs beneath. If I take it, all things must end.

Long hair, short wit. I the Grey Wolf am speaking. Do it.

Is there no other way?

No other. Live long. Die well. But me you shall see no more.

The Grey Wolf struck the damp earth and was gone.

Colin crouched in the chair, his knees drawn up to his chest, one hand over his eyes, the thumb of the other sideways between his teeth.

'Go to where the pain is most and say what it tells you.'

'No. Not that. Not that again. It's too embarra.s.sing. Infantile.'

'Go to where the pain is most and say what it tells you.'

He rocked in the chair. Meg was silent.

'I-'

She did not speak.

'I-'

A bird was outside the window.

'House sparrow. Pa.s.ser domesticus. It has brown and grey plumage. Feeds on seeds and insects.'

Meg did not answer.

'It has a small, round head and a simple song of one or a series of cheeps or chirrups notes, as you can hear.'

No reply. He bit on his hand.

'I-Blood! Blood!'

'Nothing wrong with a spot of blood,' said Meg. 'You'll live. Do you want a plaster?'

'From the rock!'

'So?'

'I'm running. She's speaking. She's speaking to me. Says you've got me. She can't stop you. I'm naughty. Dirty. Horrid. Need a smack.'

'They can get peevish,' said Meg. 'Go on.'

'She's singing. Singing a song.'

'What about?'

'Me. I'm no good. Finished. Out. Dead.'

'Oh, she's being a little madam, this one,' said Meg.

'Going to bury me.'

'Where?'

'Ludchurch. I don't know what she means. What's Ludchurch? Then Bert comes.'

'And now you're here, safe and sound,' said Meg. 'I'm afraid that's not enough, darling. What's really hurting? What's really bugging you?'

'Nothing. Nothing else.'

'OK. Colin. Let's try again. What's the worst thing that happens? I don't need to know what she says. What's the worst thing she does?'

'No.'

'Speak it.'

'No.'

'Right, then. If that's how you are,' said Meg, 'I can't help. You have to do it for yourself. I can't kiss it better.'

'You promised not to ditch me.'

'I'm not ditching you, treasure. But until you quit dodging you're a waste of s.p.a.ce.'

'What do you want?' said Colin.

'I want you to go to what scares you most.'

Colin uncovered his eyes.

'I'll be all right?'

'You'll be all right.'

'Promise?'

'No.'

'Her arms. Her hands. Reaching. To get me.'

'She's not trying to get you, Colin. She's a child. She wants to be picked up. She wants you to pick her up. To hold her.'

'Me?'

'I told you. She hurts, too. She's scared.'

'What am I going to do?'

'Give her another chance.'

'How? What do you mean?'

'It's down to you. But I suggest you try; and soon. She doesn't mean to, but she's turning into a right b.i.t.c.h. And you're not helping.'

'I don't know what to do.'

'You'll find out,' said Meg. 'Just remember how scared she is; how scared you both are. Help her grow up.'

The smoke rose from the Hill of Death and Life but did not answer. He left the rocks of the Tor and went down.

His legs jarred. Without the holly he could not have walked, and he fell as his grip gave to the pain. When he reached the clough the tangled trees were a net through which he had to thrust. He could not pull on them as he had on the way up.

The sun dropped, and it was by the light of the stars that he followed his tracks to the hole in the snow; and ate; and slept.

'Hi, Colin. Sit down.'

'I need to talk.'

'Fire away.'

'No. I need to tell you. I want to tell you something. I want you to listen.'

'So what's different?'

'I've made the biggest mistake of my life.'

'I do that every day,' said Meg. 'Join the club.'

'No. I can't go on. I have to resign my post.'

'Oh, don't be such a drama queen. What's the hoo-ha?'

'It's about my sister.'

'Is it, now? I'm all ears.'

'It started three years ago.'

'What did?'

'You know I've said I get flashbacks, and they don't add up?'

'Mm.'

'I had the same flashback three times, close together.'

'Were you awake or dreaming?'

'Both,' said Colin.

'Can you tell the difference?'

'Dreams are more real.'

'You're learning,' said Meg. 'Go on.'

'It hadn't happened before. Flashbacks don't repeat. Well, not often. But these did. They became real, waking or sleeping.'

'Tell me.'

'I've not told anyone. I thought it was true. I knew it was true. But I knew if I said anything, or applied for a grant, I could lose my job. But I needed my job to prove I was right. Without the telescope I couldn't find her.'

'What were the flashbacks?'

'I saw her. I saw my twin. I saw her riding; riding a horse. M45.'