but they're not, and given half a chance I'll bring that home to
them."
"They'll hurt me!"
"Not while I'm there. You deserve some justice for what you've done,
Callow, but not at their hands. You're one of us and if anyone's going to make
you pay-
Callow struggled frantically. He calmed instantly when Ruth rested a hand
on his shoulder.
Church moved away from them and faced the horizon. The wind rustled his
long hair with soothing fingers; a tingle ran down his spine. He thought of
Frank Sinatra singing "Fly Me to the Moon," remembering the great times he'd
had with that music playing in his head: kissing Marianne in the lounge of their
flat in the early hours of New Year's Day, staggering through Covent Garden,
drunk with all his friends, watching the dawn come up on a boat on the Thames.
They were at the start of something big, a great journey, and there was still
hope; he could feel it in every fibre of his being. The moment felt right.
"Come to us." The wind whipped the words from his mouth. He coughed;
then spoke with greater firmness and clarity: "Come to us. Take us to the
Western Isles." Once again his voice was caught by the wind, but this time it
rolled out across the waves. The tingling in his spine increased a notch.
Cautiously he scanned the horizon. The weather was so clear he would see
any ship miles away. He glanced back at Ruth, unsure.
"Be patient," she said firmly.
Once more he spoke loudly. "I beseech the Golden Ones to carry us, their
humble servants, away to the wonders of the Western Isles." Behind him,
Callow sniggered.
For several long minutes he waited, sure he was making a fool of himself,
but gradually he began to sense slight changes in the atmosphere. The air grew
more charged, until he could taste iron in his mouth, as if he were standing next
to a generator. He looked back at Callow and Ruth and saw they could sense it
too; Ruth was smiling, but Callow had an expression of growing anxiety.
Church couldn't stop himself smiling either-almost laughing, in fact: a ball of
gold had formed in his gut and was slowly unfolding along his arteries and
veins. Everything around became more intense. The sea shimmered as if the waves were rimmed with diamonds, emeralds and sapphires and the sun's
golden light suffused every molecule of the air. The scent of the ocean was powerfully evocative, summoning a thousand childhood memories. The wind
caressed his skin until every nerve tingled.
This is the way to see the world, he thought.
Despite the glorious morning, a misty luminescence had gathered along the
horizon like a heat haze over a summer road, igniting in him a feeling of
delighted anticipation that he could barely contain.
"It's coming," he whispered.
It felt like the air itself was singing. Church realised he was kneading his
hands in expectation and had to hold them tightly behind his back to control
himself.
The white, misty light curled back on itself, suggesting a life of its own.
There was a billow, another, and then something could be glimpsed forcing its
way through the intangible barrier. His heart leapt.
A second later the ship was visible, ploughing through the waves towards
him. It gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight, a water-borne star of gold, silver and
ivory. At first it looked like a Phoenician galley he had seen during his university studies. Then it looked Greek, and then Roman, then like nothing he had
ever come across before, its shape changing with each crash of white surf on its
prow, although he knew it was his own perception that was altering. A white
sail marked with a black rune on a red circle soared above it, but the ship didn't
appear to be driven by the wind, nor were there any oars visible. Every aspect of
it was finely, almost oppressively, detailed. Fantastic golden carvings rolled in
undulating patterns along each side, culminating in an enormous splash of silver
and white like streamlined swans' wings at the aft.
them."
"They'll hurt me!"
"Not while I'm there. You deserve some justice for what you've done,
Callow, but not at their hands. You're one of us and if anyone's going to make
you pay-
Callow struggled frantically. He calmed instantly when Ruth rested a hand
on his shoulder.
Church moved away from them and faced the horizon. The wind rustled his
long hair with soothing fingers; a tingle ran down his spine. He thought of
Frank Sinatra singing "Fly Me to the Moon," remembering the great times he'd
had with that music playing in his head: kissing Marianne in the lounge of their
flat in the early hours of New Year's Day, staggering through Covent Garden,
drunk with all his friends, watching the dawn come up on a boat on the Thames.
They were at the start of something big, a great journey, and there was still
hope; he could feel it in every fibre of his being. The moment felt right.
"Come to us." The wind whipped the words from his mouth. He coughed;
then spoke with greater firmness and clarity: "Come to us. Take us to the
Western Isles." Once again his voice was caught by the wind, but this time it
rolled out across the waves. The tingling in his spine increased a notch.
Cautiously he scanned the horizon. The weather was so clear he would see
any ship miles away. He glanced back at Ruth, unsure.
"Be patient," she said firmly.
Once more he spoke loudly. "I beseech the Golden Ones to carry us, their
humble servants, away to the wonders of the Western Isles." Behind him,
Callow sniggered.
For several long minutes he waited, sure he was making a fool of himself,
but gradually he began to sense slight changes in the atmosphere. The air grew
more charged, until he could taste iron in his mouth, as if he were standing next
to a generator. He looked back at Callow and Ruth and saw they could sense it
too; Ruth was smiling, but Callow had an expression of growing anxiety.
Church couldn't stop himself smiling either-almost laughing, in fact: a ball of
gold had formed in his gut and was slowly unfolding along his arteries and
veins. Everything around became more intense. The sea shimmered as if the waves were rimmed with diamonds, emeralds and sapphires and the sun's
golden light suffused every molecule of the air. The scent of the ocean was powerfully evocative, summoning a thousand childhood memories. The wind
caressed his skin until every nerve tingled.
This is the way to see the world, he thought.
Despite the glorious morning, a misty luminescence had gathered along the
horizon like a heat haze over a summer road, igniting in him a feeling of
delighted anticipation that he could barely contain.
"It's coming," he whispered.
It felt like the air itself was singing. Church realised he was kneading his
hands in expectation and had to hold them tightly behind his back to control
himself.
The white, misty light curled back on itself, suggesting a life of its own.
There was a billow, another, and then something could be glimpsed forcing its
way through the intangible barrier. His heart leapt.
A second later the ship was visible, ploughing through the waves towards
him. It gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight, a water-borne star of gold, silver and
ivory. At first it looked like a Phoenician galley he had seen during his university studies. Then it looked Greek, and then Roman, then like nothing he had
ever come across before, its shape changing with each crash of white surf on its
prow, although he knew it was his own perception that was altering. A white
sail marked with a black rune on a red circle soared above it, but the ship didn't
appear to be driven by the wind, nor were there any oars visible. Every aspect of
it was finely, almost oppressively, detailed. Fantastic golden carvings rolled in
undulating patterns along each side, culminating in an enormous splash of silver
and white like streamlined swans' wings at the aft.
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