49 BLESSED ARE THOSE…

There’s no place darker than a Highland road in the middle of a moonless night. I could see the flash of passing headlights now and then, silhouetting Roger’s head and shoulders in a sudden flare of light. They were hunched forward, as though in defense against oncoming danger. Bree sat hunched as well, curled into the corner of the seat beside me. We were all three self-contained, insulated from each other, sealed in small, individual pockets of silence, inside the larger silence of the car and its rushing flight.

My fists curled in the pockets of my coat, idly scooping up coins and small bits of debris; shredded tissue, a pencil stub, a tiny rubber ball left on the floor of my office by a small patient. My thumb circled and identified the milled edge of an American quarter, the broad embossed face of an English penny, and the serrated edge of a key – the key to Gillian Edgars’s carrel, which I had neglected to return to the Institute.

I had tried again to call Greg Edgars, just before we left the old manse. The phone had rung again and again without answer.

I stared at the dark glass of the window beside me, seeing neither my own faint reflection nor the massy shapes of stone walls and scattered trees that rushed by in the night. Instead, I saw the row of books, arranged on the carrel’s single shelf in a line as neat as a row of apothecary’s jars. And below, the notebook filled with fine cursive script, laying out in strict order conclusion and delusion, mingling myth and science, drawing from learned men and legends, all of it based on the power of dreams. To any casual observer, it could be either a muddle of half-thought-out nonsense or, at best, the outline for a clever-silly novel. Only to me did it have the look of a careful, deliberate plan.

In a parody of the scientific method, the first section of the book was titled “Observations.” It contained disjointed references, tidy drawings, and carefully numbered tables. “The position of sun and moon on the Feast of Beltane” was one, with a list of more than two hundred paired figures laid out beneath. Similar tables existed for Hogmanay and Midsummer’s Day, and another for Samhainn, the Feast of All Hallows. The ancient feasts of fire and sun, and Beltane’s sun would rise tomorrow.

The central section of the notebook was titled “Speculations.” That was accurate, at least, I reflected wryly. One page had borne this entry, in neat, slanting script: “The Druids burnt sacrificial victims in wicker cages shaped like men, but individuals were killed by strangling, and the throat slit to drain the body of blood. Was it fire or blood that was the necessary element?” The coldblooded curiosity of the question brought Geillis Duncan’s face before me clearly – not the wide-eyed, straight-haired student whose portrait adorned the Institute, but the secretive, half-smiling fiscal’s wife, ten years older, versed in the uses of drugs and the body, who lured men to her purposes, and killed without passion to achieve her ends.

And the last few pages of the book, neatly labeled “Conclusions,” which had led us to this dark journey, on the eve of the Feast of Beltane. I curled my fingers around the key, wishing with all my heart that Greg Edgars had answered his phone.

Roger slowed, turning onto the bumpy dirt lane that led past the base of the hill called Craigh na Dun.

“I don’t see anything,” he said. He hadn’t spoken in so long that the statement came out gruffly, sounding belligerent.

“Well, of course not,” Brianna said impatiently. “You can’t see the stone circle from here.”

Roger grunted in reply, and slowed the car still more. Obviously, Brianna’s nerves were stretched, but so were his own. Only Claire seemed calm, unaffected by the growing air of tension in the car.

“She’s here,” Claire said suddenly. Roger slammed on the brakes so abruptly that both Claire and her daughter pitched forward, thumping into the back of the seat in front of them.

“Be careful, you idiot!” Brianna snapped furiously at Roger. She shoved a hand through her hair, pushing it off her face with a quick, nervous gesture. A swallow ran visibly down her throat as she bent to peer through the dark window.

“Where?” she said.

Claire nodded ahead to the right, keeping her hands shoved deep into her pockets.

“There’s a car parked, just behind that thicket.”

Roger licked his lips and reached for the door handle.

“It’s Edgars’s car. I’ll go and look; you stay here.”

Brianna flung her door open with a squeal of metal from the unoiled hinges. Her silent look of scorn made Roger flush red in the dim glow of the dome light overhead.

She was back almost before Roger had gotten out of the car himself.

“No one there,” she reported. She glanced up at the top of the hill. “Do you think…?”

Claire finished buttoning up her coat, and stepped into the darkness without answering her daughter’s question.

“The path is this way,” she said.

She led the way, perforce, and Roger, watching the pale form drift ghostlike up the hill ahead of him, was forcibly reminded of that earlier trip up a steep hill, to St. Kilda’s kirkyard. So was Brianna; she hesitated and he heard her mutter something angrily under her breath, but then her hand reached for his elbow, and gave it a hard squeeze – whether as encouragement or as a plea for support, he couldn’t tell. It encouraged him, in any case, and he patted the hand and tugged it through the curve of his arm. In spite of his general doubts, and the undeniable eeriness of the whole expedition, he felt a sense of excitement as they approached the crest of the hill.

It was a clear night, moonless and very dark, with no more than the tiny gleams of mica flecks in the starlight serving to distinguish the looming stones of the ancient circle from the night around them. The trio paused on the gently rounded top of the hill, huddling together like a misplaced flock of sheep. Roger’s own breath sounded unnaturally loud to himself.

“This,” said Brianna through her teeth, “is silly!”

“No, it isn’t,” said Roger. He felt suddenly breathless, as though a constricting band had squeezed the air from his chest. “There’s a light over there.”

It was barely there – no more than a flicker that promptly disappeared – but she saw it. He heard the sharp intake of her breath.

Now what? Roger wondered. Ought they to shout? Or would the noise of visitors frighten their quarry into precipitate action? And if so, what action might that be?

He saw Claire shake her head suddenly, as though trying to dismiss a buzzing insect. She took a step back, away from the nearest stone, and blundered into him.

He grabbed her by the arm, murmuring, “Steady, steady there,” as one might to a horse. Her face was a dim blur in the starlight, but he could feel the quiver that ran through her, like electricity through a wire. He stood frozen, holding her arm, stiff with indecision.

It was the sudden stink of petrol that jerked him into motion. He was vaguely conscious of Brianna, head flung up as the smell met her nostrils, turning toward the north end of the circle, and then he had dropped Claire’s arm, and was through the surrounding bushes and the stones themselves, striding toward the center of the ring, where a hunched black figure made an inkblot on the lighter darkness of the grass.

Claire’s voice came from behind him, strong and urgent, shattering the silence.

“Gillian!” she called.

There was a soft, sudden whoosh, and the night lit up in brilliance. Dazzled, Roger fell back a pace, stumbling and dropping to his knees.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sharp pain of light on his retinas, and the blaze of brightness that hid everything behind it. He heard a cry beside him, and felt Brianna’s hand on his shoulder. He blinked hard, eyes streaming, and sight began to return.