'He was put down when the farm was sold. He'd been at pasture for years. He was a smashing horse.'

'I bet he was. Did you ride him?'

'Not really. He was too big; seventeen hands. And he didn't have a saddle. But I liked to climb up and sit on his back and walk him round the fields.'

'Could you have fitted a bridle on him?'

'Yes. There were reins. And a bridle.'

'OK,' said Meg. 'Thanks.'

'Why are you asking?' said Colin. 'What have you got there?'

'A copy of a report.'

'May I see it?'

'Not yet.'

'Why not?'

'It may be too much for you, and it wouldn't help me. It's tough reading. Please be patient, love, and let me do it my way.'

Colin slumped in the chair, his head back, watching Meg.

'At twenty past midnight,' said Meg, 'and I'm condensing this, on the twenty-second of November, when you were twelve years old, the Mossocks alerted the police that your sister and the horse were missing.

'The Mossocks said they had been woken by the dog barking and the noise of hooves in the yard. When they went to look they found the stable empty and the road gate open. Your sister's hat was in the lane, and the bridle wasn't on its peg, though the rest of the harness was there. She wasn't in her room, and her clothes and coat had gone. Her pyjamas were by the bed.'

'Where was I?'

'Asleep in the next room. Do you remember any of this? Anything? An echo? An atmosphere? Police? Anything?'

'No. I need a map,' said Colin. 'Now.'

'Help yourself,' said Meg, and pa.s.sed him a computer.

'It was zero zero twenty of the twenty-second of November,' said Colin. 'You're sure?'

'That's what it says here.'

'What happened?'

'The police called out patrols, but didn't find a thing until daylight,' said Meg.

'And then?'

'The next bit's not easy.'

'I'm all right. I'm all right.'

'Sure?'

'Yes. Tell me.'

'There were traces of hoof prints crossing the fields, and they were all a match of those that had left the yard.'

'Then?'

'Nothing. Until a farmer phoned in from Redesmere.'

'Yes.' Colin was tapping the computer keys. 'Yes.'

'Do you want a break?' said Meg.

'No. Don't stop. It's making sense.'

'He reported that there was a horse, a grey Shire, on an island in the mere. He'd gone down to the mere and had seen hoof prints which ended in the water.'

'Yes. There is an island.'

'The horse must have swum.'

'Yes.'

'The police went out with a vet and brought the horse back unharmed. The Mossocks identified it; and the bridle. But there was no girl. Are you all right, Colin?'

'Yes. Go on.'

'Frogmen made a fingertip search, and the mere was dragged; and the surrounding fields and rhododendrons were searched. No one had left the mere, and nothing was found. This is the coroner's report. I'm sorry, love.'

'No. No,' said Colin. 'Wait.' He took a calculator from his pocket. 'Wait. Yes! Oh, Meg!'

'What?'

'The Pleiades culminate at midnight of the twenty-first of November!'

'I don't get you. What's "culminate"?'

'The highest point reached on the meridian in the year,' said Colin. 'That's why she rode! She followed! By the time she got to Redesmere they were reflected in the water. Meg! She had to! She made it!'

'But why?' said Meg.

'She had to.'

'And why the Pleiades?'

'Ex Africa,' said Colin. 'The Pleiades are so often the refuge of women and maidens.'

'Refuge from what?'

'Threat of one kind or another. Usually pursuit.'

'Women and maidens,' said Meg. 'But not girls, children?'

'Not that I know of,' said Colin. 'I'm not an expert.'

'The threat makes sense. It's obvious.'

'How?' said Colin.

'Menarche. Now she's adult. But she's immature. So are you. Is that why she's back? She needs help. So do you. Riddle me that.'

He wrapped the Stone and the blades in a skin of birch bark, and bound them with twined strands of his hair and went from Ludcruck down by the easy ways. He saw the Hill of Death and Life. The smoke still rose. Above him the cranes called on their path back to the Flatlands, but he could not join them. He walked on the blood of his feet with the holly branch, a journey that once he could do in a day; but now he had to rest. After the night he went down to the Eelstream, a long walk, and here the ice was breaking and he had to cross the floes. They cracked under him and if they turned over he would die. He tapped his way, listening to the ice. Many times only the holly kept him, but he crossed, and ahead was the clear way to the Hill. The frost had gone from the land. The ground pulled at him and he waded sludge.

He came to the Hill, and went about its flanks to where the spirit colours lay in bands among the rocks. He took the red earth, the blue earth, the green earth and painted his face to sing strong. Then he climbed to the Point of Storms and looked across the curve between the two spurs of the Hill. The smoke rose by the Great Rock, but he could not see or hear what made it.

So he went around the curve, keeping to the scrub of birch. On one side the Hill smoothed away into the Flatlands to where the sun reached its highest, and on the other the land dropped sheer to a mire that, after winter, glimmered death.

He went quietly, pausing, listening, so as not to frighten her. He stopped. There was noise. The sound of a hammer on flint. Then silence. Then more blows, but now with bone. She had brought flint with her from wherever she had come. There was no flint on the Hill, nor any in the world, except flakes in Ludcruck from when the spirits had first struck blades. If the woman was a spirit there could be no child. He worked the red earth across his brow for better strength, and went on.

He listened. The flint sang, but now he could tell that it was not one but three. Three hands were working together; living or spirit hands. He could not tell.

Are you people or ghosts?

There was no answer.

He came to the Great Rock. The smoke rose from the other side. He lay and crawled. Something laughed. Again. It was a woman, not a spirit. Another laugh. Then mouths made sounds. They were not words but chopped noise. And then a cry that was a voice. It was a cry for milk, as he had heard in Ludcruck before the ice fell.

Fear sat upon his neck. He moved forward and sideways to look past the Great Rock. And the fear went onto his tongue for what he saw, and made him rise.

They were women. One was putting a child to a breast. They were women, but they were not people. They were three but they were only one. He could not make them more. The nose of each was in the middle of the face. They had two eyes, level and the same on either side of the nose. Each mouth was straight, under the nose; the chin the same beneath. There was no difference. The feeding woman had bared her hands. Each had four fingers and one thumb.

What are you?

They could not hear. He spoke with open voice.

'What are you?'

They looked, and screamed and made more noise. They were by a fire before a shelter in a sloping cliff, with hides hanging at the front and weighted with stones. One of the women lifted a spear. Its point was none he knew, and it had small blades along its shaft, but it would kill. Another took a brand from the fire and held it towards him. They screamed again.

'I am no harm,' he said. 'I sang for a woman to make a child to learn to sing and dance and cut to free the life in Ludcruck. You have come. But what are you?'

He moved forward on the holly.

They huddled and screamed again. He stopped.

'I am no harm.'

There was a crashing in the scrub beyond, and five men came running. They were men because of their beards, but all their faces, as the women, were one. Each had a wolf, and only by them could he tell each from another apart.

The wolves snarled towards him, but when he looked into their eyes he saw that their spirits were broken. And they saw his eye and its power, and turned and went to the men.

The men too made noise, and one drew back a spear to throw.

'I am no harm.'

But they could not hear. He held out the blade that had cut the veil in Ludcruck.

'I brought you with this.'

The man lowered his spear and moved forward slowly. He took the blade, then showed it to the others. They made noise, and the women were still.

The man came, and he put a hand on the hand that held the holly. The weight was too much. His strength had kept the journey. Now it was gone, and he fell. The world was ended. The dream was done. With his last force he lifted the Stone and showed it for the man.

The man took the Stone and looked close at the blackness and at the working. Behind him there was a spirit face, new in the Rock.

'Hi, Colin,' said Owen. 'How's your mother's rag arm?'

'Is R.T. in?'

'If he's not out.'

'Anyone with him?'

'Don't think so.'

Colin picked up the telephone.

'R.T.? Colin here. Would it be possible to have a word with you? Now. Thanks. Thank you very much.'

'What's to do?' said Owen.

'Nothing.'

'Buck up, youth. It might never happen.'

'It already has,' said Colin.

He left the control room and went to the Director's door and knocked.

'Yes, Whisterfield.'

Colin opened the door. The Director was at his desk.

'Come in, my boy. What may I do for you?'

Colin shut the door and stayed by it.