hats were standing on it, holding odd measuring devices. There was a smaller barrow in the background, and something dark flying in the sky. Michael had half a mind to get up and survey the picture at close hand, but indolence and the pleasant numbness of the beer prevented him.
On the mantlepiece below the engraving – Where on earth was Mr Cleever? – was a small object which caught the corner of his eye, like a sudden movement. Between a porcelain milkmaid and a drummer boy, both of which Michael considered quite naff, was a ceramic lizard.
It was maybe six inches long, coiled in upon itself, with a long green body and an endless tail, which wrapped the base of the model twice round. The head was raised slightly; the small red eyes, set back low upon the thin elongated snout, were half open, and gazed up as if considering the room with a cold appraising eye. The mouth was closed, but somehow managed to suggest a lot of teeth under its surface. It was distinctly ridged.
Michael looked at it for a moment, and then, for the first time in an hour or more, he became aware of an aching in his eyes.
There was no doubt that the model was very well made. It might even be valuable. The two eyes, which gleamed so, could well be made of garnet or some other semi-precious stone. Maybe – Michael thought – even ruby! Some of the larger scales on the back of the body were also gems.
All in all there was a definite beauty to it, and Michael began to wonder how it might look to him through his other sight. In its loveliness, it reminded him of the souls he had seen, only harder, more solid. He felt he might risk a look, just quickly.
From down the hall, and the distant room filled with unknown company, came a sudden laugh; a woman's, high and gleeful. Michael jumped and his whereabouts returned to him in a flurry. All at once he realised how quiet it had been before, and how close the room had got. There was a little sweat on his forehead.
He looked at the mantlepiece again. The model lizard seemed to have lost its sparkle. The eyes were dull once more.
Where was Cleever? He'd practically finished the beer. All of a sudden Michael was annoyed. Had he got the pamphlets or hadn't he? Had he forgotten him, or was he playing some kind of game?
Well, you couldn't do that to Michael any more, parish councillor, youth leader, archaeology chairman or not. If you kept him waiting, you paid the penalty, and the penalty was—
—Michael would take a peep at Mr Cleever's soul. See that private side, he would, and he would never know that he had had it done. Yes. A pompous old fool, Cleever, and a little slimy. What would it be? A wart-hog, or a dung-beetle? Michael grinned to himself, and all of a sudden, he heard returning footsteps on the stairs.
Now then.
Mr Cleever came back into the room. There were no pamphlets in his hand. Michael waited. Not yet.
"I have to apologise, Michael," Mr Cleever said (but he was still smiling). "The pamphlets your sister wanted aren't here yet. The ones upstairs are for a different area of the parish. Sometimes I don't know if I'm coming or going, what with all my different interests."
Pull the other one. What do you take me for? What are you after? You don't play with me.
"Oh," said Michael. "I see. Well, it was nice beer."
"You must send your sister my apologies. It must have been tedious for you. Did you notice that engraving, by the way? An original, you know. 17th century. Do you know where it's of?"
Who cares? Don't try anything with me. You turn out the light, I see in the dark.
"No? It's up on the Wirrim. The Pit, Michael. Do you know where that is? Up on High Raise. I hear you go up that way sometimes."
So I do, stranger. And I do more than that. Things happen to me; things happen which make me different.
"Nowadays, the surface of the mound has entirely collapsed. There's some structural instability in the ground below, which has led to quite a sizeable hollow being formed. Very
On the mantlepiece below the engraving – Where on earth was Mr Cleever? – was a small object which caught the corner of his eye, like a sudden movement. Between a porcelain milkmaid and a drummer boy, both of which Michael considered quite naff, was a ceramic lizard.
It was maybe six inches long, coiled in upon itself, with a long green body and an endless tail, which wrapped the base of the model twice round. The head was raised slightly; the small red eyes, set back low upon the thin elongated snout, were half open, and gazed up as if considering the room with a cold appraising eye. The mouth was closed, but somehow managed to suggest a lot of teeth under its surface. It was distinctly ridged.
Michael looked at it for a moment, and then, for the first time in an hour or more, he became aware of an aching in his eyes.
There was no doubt that the model was very well made. It might even be valuable. The two eyes, which gleamed so, could well be made of garnet or some other semi-precious stone. Maybe – Michael thought – even ruby! Some of the larger scales on the back of the body were also gems.
All in all there was a definite beauty to it, and Michael began to wonder how it might look to him through his other sight. In its loveliness, it reminded him of the souls he had seen, only harder, more solid. He felt he might risk a look, just quickly.
From down the hall, and the distant room filled with unknown company, came a sudden laugh; a woman's, high and gleeful. Michael jumped and his whereabouts returned to him in a flurry. All at once he realised how quiet it had been before, and how close the room had got. There was a little sweat on his forehead.
He looked at the mantlepiece again. The model lizard seemed to have lost its sparkle. The eyes were dull once more.
Where was Cleever? He'd practically finished the beer. All of a sudden Michael was annoyed. Had he got the pamphlets or hadn't he? Had he forgotten him, or was he playing some kind of game?
Well, you couldn't do that to Michael any more, parish councillor, youth leader, archaeology chairman or not. If you kept him waiting, you paid the penalty, and the penalty was—
—Michael would take a peep at Mr Cleever's soul. See that private side, he would, and he would never know that he had had it done. Yes. A pompous old fool, Cleever, and a little slimy. What would it be? A wart-hog, or a dung-beetle? Michael grinned to himself, and all of a sudden, he heard returning footsteps on the stairs.
Now then.
Mr Cleever came back into the room. There were no pamphlets in his hand. Michael waited. Not yet.
"I have to apologise, Michael," Mr Cleever said (but he was still smiling). "The pamphlets your sister wanted aren't here yet. The ones upstairs are for a different area of the parish. Sometimes I don't know if I'm coming or going, what with all my different interests."
Pull the other one. What do you take me for? What are you after? You don't play with me.
"Oh," said Michael. "I see. Well, it was nice beer."
"You must send your sister my apologies. It must have been tedious for you. Did you notice that engraving, by the way? An original, you know. 17th century. Do you know where it's of?"
Who cares? Don't try anything with me. You turn out the light, I see in the dark.
"No? It's up on the Wirrim. The Pit, Michael. Do you know where that is? Up on High Raise. I hear you go up that way sometimes."
So I do, stranger. And I do more than that. Things happen to me; things happen which make me different.
"Nowadays, the surface of the mound has entirely collapsed. There's some structural instability in the ground below, which has led to quite a sizeable hollow being formed. Very