I shivered suddenly, though the night was warm. The chill that shot through me was so acute it was like an electric shock. I’d brushed against something, not grass, not stone –
I almost laughed. It was just a little scarecrow, no higher than my waist, a battered old hat and weather-bleached tailcoat hung on crossed poles, bulked out by the weeds that had grown up beneath it. Almost laughed; but the chill had caught my breath too strongly, and my heart was thudding wildly. I looked wildly around, but there was nothing else, nothing except a warm wind stirring the trees; nothing different about this particular little knot of tombs. Broken down, broken into, sprayed with graffitti like the rest; unusual, though, these whorls and spirals and scratchy circles. As if they’d been put on with luminous paint, or attacked by some kind of decay. I’d seen something like them somewhere before, but not so clear. Here, in the deepest darkness, a faint green phosphoresence seemed to hang around them – not so faint, either. Once your eyes got used to it you could practically see by it …
A faint scraping scrabble startled me. I whirled around with visions of some vengeful and trigger – happy cop creeping up on me; but this was too small for that. Beneath one defaced stone the rich grass was twitching; some little animal I’d disturbed, then. What did they have here? Possums, garter snakes … I bent down to look.
Then I sprang back with a shriek that must have split the air across the cemetery. The scrawled mandala – shape on the stone blazed out fire – bright, and against it waved the hand that had thrust out of the earth, right at my face. The earth heaved under me, almost tipping me onto it, but I kept my balance, staggering, and turned to run. The gravel swelled and hummocked in front of me as if some huge worm – thing tunnelled beneath, throwing me back. I fell; the sword in one hand, I flung out the other to catch myself and dug my fingers into the gravel to steady me – then snatched them away, barely in time. Beneath the pebbles something shut with a click, like a fish snapping after a fly. The ground convulsed again. Bushes wavered wildly and fell, first one headstone then another tipped over with a flat crump, others shuddered and crumbled. The simpering head of a marble angel toppled, bounced and rolled almost to my feet. All around me the soil was lifting, fingers clawing, an arm thrusting upward like a plant growing in a stop – motion film …
And behind me there was a nasty little tittering sound.
I spun around. The little scarecrow had grown as well, until it towered over me, a huge thin figure barring my passage – and lifting one of those empty sleeves. Weeds rustled within it, weeds with long downreaching roots, weeds grown fat on rich food. A single finger, skinny and gnarled – twig or bone? – crooked at my face. The ancient hat tilted slightly, and a sound rustled at my ears, hissing and tickling like a close-up whisper – only in both ears at once. A voice. Like dead leaves one minute, the next liquid, gargling, horrible.
It was almost worse to realize it made sense. It was some kind of bastard French or pidgin dialect, like none I’d ever heard, thickly accented; but I could understand. Telling me to bow down and worship –
Whose kingdom? Homage to who? I couldn’t move. Sheer panic, like a gust from an open window, whipped up my thoughts and scattered them every which way. With a sudden squeaky rustle the finger jabbed out, right into the centre of my forehead. It struck the sweatband. Something like a high-voltage spark or a soundless explosion went off, a glare of light behind my eyes instead of in front.
‘Like hell!’ I bayed. Too scared to think. I slashed out. It was with luck and instinct and not much else that I used my swordhand. It was like cutting a hedge. The derby flew up, an end of stick went whipping away and the ragged tailcoat collapsed in a boneless flurry of arms. Thick stalks whipped free, oozing stinking sap; pollen sprayed into my face like ancient gravedust and set me sneezing. Something – briarstems, maybe – clawed at my ankles. I yelled again, leaped free of them and bolted for my life – or maybe something more. Right now that cop with his gun would have been the sweetest sight I could imagine – or, failing that, some real light. There almost seemed to be some, there ahead of me; a warm hazy glow, high above the shadows of the grave, infinitely warm and secure-looking. I hared off that way, fast as I could. Whatever it was, right then I wanted it, badly. I was sacred it would just slip away and leave me to the darkness rustling at my heels.
