He rolled as he struck the earth, softening the impact, but still jarring his shoulder. When he looked behind to find out what had tripped him he saw a vine stretched across the path like a cunningly laidtripwire. Quickly, he pushed

himself to his feet and set off again at a trot, gradually building up to a run.

Now even the thinner but more mature trees were bending or being rocked by the storm and occasionally, the whole woodland was lit up by distant lightning, the slow rumbling that followed growing louder each time. In the glare, the woods became a ghostly monotone, all greys and deep sharp shadows, the branches of many like arms held erect as if to frighten. Thom had never known a storm like this, had never known the woods to be so alien, so lowering. He had always regarded this place as his special homeland, but tonight he felt a stranger here, confused and fearful of what he might come upon. It was fortunate he knew the path so well.

He pressed on, panting hard, gulping in lungfuls of charged air when he could, beginning to tire, but determined to make it to Castle Bracken as soon as possible. To him, the jet-black clouds over the mansion presaged death and he could not understand why. He already knew that Sir Russell was dying, so perhaps it was a natural reaction; yet he had the strangest feeling of being called, almost as if a voice inside his head was screaming a warning, yet compelling him to come. As he ran he glanced up at the sky between the shifting treetops.

The clouds looked angry. They were a darker grey, not yet as black as those over the Big House, but barging into each other, pregnant with unshed rain. Something caught Thom's ankle again and this time he fell heavily, crashing to the ground, only his hands preventing serious injury. Oddly, as he tried to rise, he still felt a grip on his ankle.

He gave a small cry of terror when he caught sight of a grimy hand protruding from the earth, its short skeletal fingers curled around his leg. Another hand appeared near his face, bursting from the cracked soil as if on a spring, dirt flying off its thin flesh as the fingers wriggled in the air. Thom wrenched his foot away from the one clinging to his ankle, kicking back at the empty fingers as he did so. The

hand did not retreat; instead the whole arm, an undernourished child's arm, rose from the soil, followed by the top of a small, bald, grimy dome. Bleached hate-filled eyes that had rarely seen the sun blinked away dirt as they came into view, then the mouth, set in a vicious leer, spitting earth as the complete face presented itself. Thom recognized it as one of the brown creatures from the underworld near the lake, a slow-moving thing with sharp claws and nasty intent. It, too, received a smart kick from Thom's boot, but its expression never changed and it continued to rise, emaciated shoulders following a long thin neck.

Another lightning flash revealed a scene that might have come from an old black and white horror movie, with hands and shoulders appearing all around him, colourless except for greys and blacks in the coruscation, a scene where the dead rise gleefully from their graves. And just as corny, thought Thom as he lashed out with his boot again.

The face leering next to him was just asking to be smashed, and he duly obliged, only he used his fist for added effect The thing's head rocked back, but annoyingly, the leering grin remained. Maybe it wasbecause he had encountered these earth-dwelling creatures before and had easily eluded them that he was not as afraid as he should have been, or maybe he was too intent on reaching the house to take on more dread right then. As he rolled over to get to his feet, two arms shot out of the ground on either side of his head and pulled him down.

His face hit the earth with a definite thud, a whiteness briefly spreading across his vision. He felt the hands tight around his head and neck, yanking him down, the pressure too strong to break. He tasted soil as his face began to sink into the earth and he cursed himself for underestimating these dirt-dwelling monsters.

He was losing breath, and no matter how hard he struggled, the grip was not relinquished. Other hands grabbed him in other places, all pulling, trying to force him

into the ground. As his face broke through the upper crust, he felt pressure rising beneath it, something below coming up to meet him. The shock caused him to yank his head back, the arms on either side rising with him. His face was only inches away from the dent he had made in the soil and, as he resisted the hands tugging him back again, the earth there began to erupt. The face that appeared, with its baleful pale eyes and gnashing clod-filled teeth, was grinning in a satisfied way, as if the creature knew it had him, that there could be no escape. The other hands around his arms, legs, his back and shoulders, renewed their efforts, dragging him down, welcoming him to their dark habitat, eager to bring him home, impatient to bury him.

And somehow, that enraged Thom. He had other things to do, more pressing matters in mind, than waste time here. With a fury that would have been intimidating had not these monstrosities been so dumb, he shot his head forward, striking his host below on its sorry excuse for a nose - mainly exposed cartilage around two narrow oval holes - a move he hoped hurt the thing as much as it hurt him.

Its grip relaxed and Thom felt a modic.u.m of pleasure when he saw pain blossom in those eerily pallid eyes. He pulled free, then punched the other claws on his body so that bony fingers, with their jagged nails - good for digging?

- uncurled. He had to prize off the more tenacious one with his own hands, but every time a leg was loose, so the other leg was grabbed. In desperation, he hauled himself to his feet, content to let his clothes rip so that all that the small hands clutched were bits of fabric or the air itself. He deliberately used a dome just breaking through the earth as a starting block for his continued run, stepping on it and pushing hard, the head sinking again, but slowly enough to give Thom impetus.

Ignoring the ground-dwellers that rose up on either side of the path like bizarre slow-motion Jack-in-the-boxes and hopping over those that appeared in front of him, Thom

raced onwards, soon leaving them behind. He thought he heard their wails of disappointment, but it was impossible to tell over the noise of the wind. He was high on adrenaline now, energized by the short skirmish from which he had emerged victor, drawn on by thoughts of the impending danger to Sir Russell, which he knew, just knew, was not imagined.

There had been hefty individual spots of rain, but abruptly the rumbling clouds shed their full load. The sudden downpour drenched him immediately and, while to some extent it was refreshing, it bore down on his head and shoulders like a heavy load, making him hunched, his stride more awkward. It also made the path greasy within minutes, so that more than once he slipped, only keeping to his feet by good fortune rather than ability.

With the darkness of night, the howling wind, and the driving rain, the wood that had been home to him, his childhood playground, and was now his retreat, had become a hostile environment, the trees waving their arms as if to s.n.a.t.c.h him, thin leafy branches lashing at his face and body as if to punish him, and the ground at his feet with its hidden ruts and fallen debris, and now its mud, seeking to bring him down. A huge oak loomed spookily ahead as if to block the trail (in his feverish fright he couldn't be sure if the tree had always been there, or had craftily moved position), its great low boughs both formidable and foreboding. Lightning drenched the landscape in its uncompromising glare and, with a gasp, Thom came to a skidding halt. In the stuttering light, he had observed squirming bodies and hideous visages ingrained in the oak's bark, rough, moving, wooden shapes and countenances that resembled neither man nor beast, but which bore striking similarities to the monsters and demons that visited the worst kind of dreams.

An almost human head with an ugly disjointed face and the body of a slug turned to watch his approach; a thing with twisted horns and the black eyes of a viper slipped out a

forked tongue from a lipless mouth to point in his direction; a female form with too many b.r.e.a.s.t.s and gorgon-like tresses for hair smiled wickedly at him as she thrust her naked hips provocatively forward; a pin-headed half-man (there was no lower body - perhaps his lower half was embedded in the tree trunk itself) with deepset holes for eyes and mouth squirmed around to 'see' who drew near. There were too many others to take in, sick rough-bark bodies that surely would only be recognizable under extreme circ.u.mstances, crooked shapes entwined and slithering among each other as if taking part in some kind of lazy orgy, some forms more horrendous than others, though all were unwholesome, and all appeared curious as to his presence on the path.

Thom, panting there in the darkness as the light died, body crouched, an arm outstretched before him, began slowly to edge sideways. No way was he going to go near that obscene oak tree, host to gruesome and loathsome parasites entombed in bark, even if it meant leaving the track. Without a second thought, he plunged into the undergrowth to his left, intending to go around the distraction ahead, suspecting one of those great boughs might easily stretch itself to pull him into the writhing mob of peculiarities. Reality for Thom had become lost somewhere over the past few days.

Once among the bushes, he quickly became disorientated, the pounding rain limiting his vision, the woods themselves suddenly unfamiliar territory. He blundered around, cursing, biting into his lower lip, finally wheeling this way and that in exasperation, turning circles, utterly confused. There had to be a landmark nearby, something he knew, something that would give him his bearings. But there was just blackness out there, blackness and shifting trees and troubled skies.

Only when lightning next illuminated the landscape did he catch sight of the lone sentinel in the distance and realize

where he was. It was the familiar long jagged trunk of the tree that had been struck by a lightning bolt long ago; it stood fiercely upright with its pointed, splintered top aimed defiantly at the clouds, easily visible among the other trees as long as the brightness remained. Thom took a quick bearing and made off in that direction.

He had to fight through bramble and rough undergrowth to reach it, sustaining more tears to his clothes as well as scratches and cuts to his hands and arms. But reach it he did, although by then he was beginning to limp and feeling was leaving his left arm. It wasn't too bad as yet, but Thom knew the weakness would grow worse the more exhausted he became. Nevertheless, he took no time out to worry about it: as soon as he spotted the trail again, he was off, lumbering towards it, relieved to know his direction once more.

Soon - although after more falls, more lashings from thin branches, and more shadowy sightings, none of which, mercifully, bothered to reveal themselves properly - he reached the edge of the woods and the great field opened up to him. He thankfully sank to his knees, his shoulders hunched, drawing in great gulps of wet air. The rain beat down on him even harder out in the open, but he didn't care, for it cooled him, refreshed him.

With a deep sigh, he was on his feet again and jogging across the gra.s.sland, a respite from the woods, no branches or bushes or unsightly things to stall him, nothing there to impede his progress. Except the muddy surface. And the gra.s.s snakes.

It seemed that every snake in the field and surrounding pastures had gathered to meet him, and instead of sliding between blades of gra.s.s, they stood half-erect, impossibly emulating the others of their species that had such power. Probably he would not even have noticed them in the gra.s.s had not he sprawled among them, tripped by an unseen slippery dip in the ground.

He fell only to his hands and knees, but immediately snakes coiled around his wrists like layered bracelets; he felt others nipping at his lower legs. They were not dangerous, merely unpleasant, and he ripped them away as he stood, then caught the others clinging to his legs by their tails and yanked themfree, tossing them as far away as he could.

Even as he did so, he remembered the nasty little trick he'd played on Hugo all those years ago when they were boys, revenge for turning off the cellar lights and shutting him in. They were playing in this field and Thom had surrept.i.tiously slipped a gra.s.s snake (which he knew was harmless, but Hugo didn't) down Hugo's shirt collar. Hugo had screamed and screamed and Thom had quickly pulled up his shirt and got rid of the snake. Too late, though. Hugo had gone into some kind of trance state, standing there like a zombie, but quivering, his eyes large and staring. When Thom had led him home, Sir Russell had hit the roof and Thom had been forbidden ever to play with Hugo again. Shortly after, his own circ.u.mstances had changed. So much for sweet revenge ...

He kicked out at other snakes that endeavoured to block his path, their slim bodies visible only because the three-quarter moon had made a rare appearance among the stormy clouds, lightening the countryside in its fey glow, making the rain visible as silver streaks bombarding the earth.

He staggered a little as he went on, and wondered what else would try to hinder him reaching his goal.

Thom opened the gate on the far side of the field, leaning against it to stop himself collapsing. He didn't bother to close it behind him when he went on.

He was in the trees again, but the path was much wider, a lane almost. A rough lane leading to the bridge over the river.

Knowing he was so close to the Big House rejuvenated him to a degree, although he still limped and plodded rather than ran, his left arm hanging stiffly by his side, spoiling his

balance. The wind seemed even harsher blowing through the tunnel created by trees meeting overhead, but at least he was shielded from the worst of the rain. The raindrops still came through the leafy canopy, but their power was reduced; they splattered against his head and shoulders with far less force and unity.

The bridge was a short distance away and he blinked water from his eyes, not quite sure of what now lay before him.

Water was gushing over the bridge's low stone walls on either side, great waves that splashed on to its surface road, joining the rain to cause one huge rippling puddle along its length. What dismayed Thom, though, was that those towering waves that reached high over the walls were like watery arms and hands, throwing themselves at the bridge as if to catch anyone foolish enough to venture on to it. Another gauntlet to run.

Thom wondered what powers could create such a phenomenon. What was he up against? What forces had Nell Quick invoked to help her devious cause? It was all unbelievably insane - everything that had happened to him this past week was unbelievably insane - yet it was real, it was truly happening!

Rainwater splayed from his hair as he shook his head vigorously, either to clear his mind, or refute the craziness, he didn't know. He felt fury rising in him again and he allowed it reign, aware that it was good, it made him less of a victim, it was the magic that would see him through this ordeal, a rage that was even more real than anything he'd been confronted by yet. With a hoa.r.s.e cry he ran for the bridge.

He was already soaked through, so the renewed drenching did not bother him. However, those arm-like waves had unexpected force and they flew at his body, knocking him one way to the next, great bl.u.s.tering towers that rose high over his head to plummet down in a torrent, engulfing him, almost forcinghim to his knees. He raised his voice against them, receiving a mouthful of gagging water with each yell,

spitting it out, sucking in air again so that he could yell some more. His defiance, his wrath, was not purposeless, he was aware of that. Somehow it created a balance, man against the ... elements? No, this was rational man against unknown and irrational forces, powers that had no place, and no right to be in this world where the natural ruled and the supernatural was unacceptable - at least by those of pragmatic mind.

Thom roared again, the effect somewhat spoiled by the great rush of water that had him spluttering and retching, fighting for breath. Nevertheless he staggered onwards, buffeted by constant waves from side to side, his eyes stinging, his body bent like an old man's, his steps wide rather than long, as if he were on the deck of an ocean liner in inclement seas. Once, twice, he went down on one knee, and each time the river below seemed to renew its efforts, sending up even more lashing waves as if to wash him from the bridge entirely. And it almost did so.

The sudden great heave of water caught him off balance and sent him reeling against the wall on one side, his upper body crouched over the stone bal.u.s.trade so that he was looking straight down at the raging river below. For a moment, he thought he saw figures and faces patterned in the surging foam, ghastly things that appeared to delight in his stress; even as he looked, a huge spout of twisting water shot up to meet him. He thought he would be dragged over the side and he clung tight to the parapet, knowing that if he fell into that churning maelstrom he would have no chance, he would drown.

The geyser sucked at him and waves from behind pushed - even the rain plotted against him by pelting his back, bending his shoulders - but still he clung to the stonework, pulling himself down, sinking to his knees, body bowed so that the wall offered at least some protection from the determined river. On all fours, he inched his way along, battered by more and more waves, their power dwindling

as he drew nearer to the end of the bridge, as if the water had a mind of its own and knew it was losing the battle. One last surge, the river rising up on both sides together to wash him away, the waves boiling with rage and frustration (it seemed to Thom's own besieged mind), so that he had to flatten himself, press hard against the bridge's narrow roadway, choking on water as he did so, the bridge totally flooded, a surging river in itself.

For almost a minute he was beneath the water's surface, but still he clung there, fingers attempting to dig into the hard stone itself, willing a heaviness to his body; and then the water became shallow, was running away through drain holes cut along the bridge's length, leaving Thom heaving and spluttering, gulping in great lungfuls of rain-filled air. At that moment he knew he had won and the river appeared to realize it too; the water slunk away, withdrawing from the bridge, no further waves leaping over its ramparts.

Still choking, hawking water, Thom struggled to his feet and plodded through puddles, not stopping until he was once more on the muddy track leading to Castle Bracken. He did not linger long, giving himself just enough time to catch his breath and regain at least some of his strength. It felt hopeless though. He felt sapped, most of his energy gone, the left side of his body a dead weight, a burden to be dragged along. What use would he be to Sir Russell even if he managed to reach the eyrie? He was exhausted, hurting, almost as weak as when he had come around after the stroke. What could he do to defeat Nell Quick with all these strange powers she possessed? He would not even be a match for Hugo in this state.

Thom wanted to sink to the rain-soaked ground and rest, even sleep, despite the storm. His body sagged. He almost went down. But something held him erect. Something he thought must be outside his own body, something that willed him on with silent encouragement. But on closer examination, on listening to his inner self, he realized that it was his

own determination that was instructing him not to give in, anger at the wrong that was taking place bullying him to go on and do his best, whatever that might be, for his grandfather. He stumbled along the track, mumbling to himself that he had to get to the mansion soon, before it was too late. He was going to spoil their game. Or - he paused for no more than a second - die in the attempt. From then on, he wasted no more strength talking to himself. He concentrated on taking one step after the other.

And, almost taken by surprise, he soon found himself looking up the gentle incline towards Castle Bracken.

It stood tall and dark and brooding against the violent night sky, an imposing but ugly building in these conditions, a place, it suddenly seemed to Thom, where bad things were meant to happen.

Even as he watched, a jagged bolt of lightning split the air and appeared to strike the mansion.

Immediately, the few inside lights that were on blinked out.

The immense roar of thunder that was instantaneous with the lightning, though lasting much longer, made Thom cringe, made him cower away from it - made him cry out in anguish.

RETURN TO THE CELLAR.

BY THE time Thom had dragged himself up the worn stone steps to Castle Bracken's huge single front door, the rain had ceased its torrent and the wind, while it still whipped his hair and snagged his clothes, had lost the worst of its wildness. The three-quarter moon, which was a long way off from the great black clouds that threatened the mansion and the immediate land around it, was now revealing itself occasionally, lighting the landscape with its queer metallic flush, then abruptly leaving it in darkness once more for long minutes at a time. Other clouds churned and rushed away - rushed away, Thom imagined, from the low deep cloud bank that loomed over Castle Bracken, the alliance between the black ma.s.sand the other storm clouds finally over.

Sodden and so weary his body was trembling, Thom smacked the flat of his hand against the bra.s.s doorbell set in the granite wall. He listened for its ring from within, but none came. The lightning. Of course. All fuses had been

blown. Frustrated, he tried the door-handle, rattling against it in desperation when nothing happened. He banged on the wood with the heel of his fists, but there was no disturbance from within, in fact, no signs of life at all.

Taking a step back, he looked up at windows that were ominous and black. He cupped his right hand and called out Hartgrove's name, but the wind was still strong enough to carry away the sound. Why call for the manservant? Thom asked himself. Bones had to be part of it, in league with Nell Quick and Hugo.

How else could they succeed? The manservant was always around, always close to Sir Russell. If, as Thom suspected, Nell was poisoning Sir Russell over a period of time to avoid suspicion that might be caused by his grandfather's sudden death - G.o.d, she knew how to do that with her brews and potions! - then Hartgrove was bound to know. Probably he was up there with her, in the eyrie, helping her finish the job.

Thom hobbled down the steps, at the bottom looking to left and right, searching for a way in. Break a window? That was the obvious choice. But wait, there was another entrance to the Big House. As a boy he had always known about it, but neither he nor Hugo ever chose to use it. Even now, the thought made Thom shiver over the trembling.

Reluctantly, yet resolutely, he made his way round to the rear of Castle Bracken.

It was a coal hatch primarily, although it was large enough to use for moving in boiler machinery, or anything else that had to do with the mansion's underground maintenance. The five-foot double doors were angled as though leaning against the building, and set in a concrete mount. As kids, Thom and Hugo would open one side and peer down into the gloom, Hugo usually daring Thom to climb inside, a dare he never took up, at least, not from that entrance. Thom remem-

bered the last time he had visited these cellars and how he'd hidden in the darkness on hearing approaching footsteps. He had dreamed he was in the same predicament many times over since, nightmares that never seemed to fade with time.

In those days, the doors were never locked and he saw no reason why they should be now. Drawing in a deep breath, he slipped his fingers between the middle crack and pulled at one side. The door was heavy, but it opened with a loud creak.

The moon, still playing its tiresome hide-and-seek game, chose to reveal itself once more, bathing the land in a wintry light. It did Thom no favours, for the pit he was about to descend into looked blacker than ever in the contrast with the blanched landscape above. He wished he had thought to bring along aflashlight, but then he hadn't known his journey would end in darkness. He stood there for a while, a hand keeping the flap open, building up the nerve to step inside. Another lightning bolt from directly above the house whitened everything again, and its glare was strong enough to penetrate the cellar below. In its strobe-lighting effect, Thom was able to see the hill of coal that swept down from the opening, and with no further hesitation, he let go the door flap, so that it crashed to one side, stepped over the hatch's concrete base, and slid and tumbled down the treacherous slope.

He had tried to control his descent, but footholds only slithered away, and he crashed against the part.i.tion that held the great heap at bay. He sprawled there in total darkness, for not only had the lightning flickered away, but the moon had resumed the game and was now hiding behind the distant clouds. He tried to catch his breath and sucked in coal dust that caused him to cough. Dear G.o.d, it was so dark. Pitch black. Nothing to be seen. Its blackness almost tangible. If you stuck a finger into it, you

would feel the darkness yield, flow around your hand like inky syrup. He lay there, one shoulder against the wooden part.i.tion, his legs splayed over the lower regions of lumpy invisible coal, swirling dust clogging his nose, and he was a ten-year-old again, supposedly hiding from a friend, but in truth hiding from heavy footsteps that came along the corridor outside this bas.e.m.e.nt chamber, growing louder as they approached...

... As they did now, only these were scuffling footsteps, shoes dragging along the floor and, as it was all those years ago, a light came with the sound, a light that was warm but insubstantial, its arc widening with every step.

Thom felt the same panicky fear he had felt as a child, his heart seeming to freeze, then begin beating again, so loudly he thought it might be heard by whoever drew near. He pressed his temple close to the part.i.tion and moaned inwardly as the wood cracked, the sound like a gun going off in the stark, cold boiler-room. As he hid there, a ten-year-old boy once again, his mother's words came to him just as they had before in this sombre labyrinth of underground chambers.