Read Online Darkhenge by Catherine Fisher - Free Book Online Page B

again.”
    â€œWord?”
    â€œFreak.” He gave a sharp, painful laugh. “She’s preserved. Like the timbers in the henge. Not living, not dying.”
    Father Mac said nothing for a moment. Then he leaned forward and blew smoke into the roses. “Feeling the strain, son?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œThere are two options, you know that. She wakes—and that gets less likely as the days go on. Or she deteriorates. Brain activity stops.”
    â€œAnd they remove the feeding tube? Mum would never—”
    â€œShe may have to.”
    â€œ You say that?”
    The priest gave a heavy shrug. “Rob, if the brain is dead then the time has come. The Church believes death should not be artificially withheld—you know that. As for Katie”—he frowned—“when—if—the time comes, she’ll do what’s right.”
    Rob didn’t want to answer. It was as if they weren’t talking about a person, about cheeky, stroppy Chloe, sentimental over cats, bossy with her friends, who wouldn’t eat ice cream because it rotted your teeth, but spent a fortune on sweets. He fingered the key in his pocket, turning it over, until he realized what it was. Father Mac smoked silently. Around them the summer garden darkened, smelling of lavender, and of the candle on the table that the moths dipped into and singed themselves against until Father Mac reached out and snuffed it with his thick, strong fingers. “Get home to bed,” he growled. “Your mother needs you.”
    Rob said, “I found Chloe’s diary.”
    Mac was silent.
    â€œShe’d written this thing … about me. About me pinching one of her drawings and making fun of it. I’d forgotten all about it. She sounded really gutted.”
    Mac looked out at the roses. Then he said, “Don’t get it out of proportion. Little girls of that age—”
    â€œBut I’d forgotten. What else have I forgotten?”
    â€œYou had arguments. It’s normal.”
    He nodded. Unconvinced.
    The downs were silent. As Rob cycled along the road into Avebury, there was no traffic, though the pub windows were lit. Under the moonlight the great stones stood in their extraordinary cumbersome stillness, vast gray shapes. Their outlines were strange against the early stars, revealing faces and sharp noses, frowning brows. He turned past the church, the tires of the bike skewing loud against dry loose stones, down the silent street lit by one faint lamp, along the high wall, around the corner and over the tiny gurgle of the Winterbourne, almost dry. Beneath the bridge a disturbed duck rustled in the weeds.
    The lane to his house was very dark. On each side untrimmed hedges reared, walls of shadow. He rode more slowly. Then he stopped, balanced with one foot on each side of the tipped bike, his breath loud.
    Someone was standing near the gate.
    He could see only a dark figure leaning against an oak tree there. But he knew who it was.
    â€œHow did you find out where I live?” he breathed.
    Vetch straightened. His face was a mask of shadow and green glimmer. “As I told you, one of the poet’s gifts. One of the three hot splashes of the Cauldron.” He held up his right hand and turned it over; Rob saw that the back was burned: three fearsome scars lacerated the white skin. “Knowledge costs,” Vetch said quietly. “As you’re finding out.”
    He tipped his head, looking at Rob. “You’ve got the key.” It wasn’t a question.
    â€œYes. Look—”
    â€œDid she threaten you?” Rob nodded. “That’s because she feels threatened. She senses me out here, waiting.” For a moment he seemed almost sad; his smile barely there. “Knowledge has to be stolen, Rob. Snatched from under the eyes of the wise, from the Muse’s Cauldron, as Prometheus stole fire from the gods. They punished him. For eons his guts were torn