The Tor - 10. Chapter 10

Christopher spent the following days trying to return to a life that could pass as normal.

Classes continued. Essays required marking. Meetings occupied their allotted places in the timetable. The ordinary machinery of life moved forward with complete indifference to whatever had happened upon the tor.

Christopher followed along as best he could. The visions had not returned with the same violence. That should have brought relief. Instead it left him with too much time to think.

The memory of the battlefield remained vivid enough to unsettle him whenever his thoughts wandered. Mud. Blood. Church bells. The certainty of grief so profound it seemed capable of surviving centuries.

The autumn term continued regardless.

A group of second-year students arrived late to his morning seminar. One apologised profusely while attempting to balance three textbooks and a cup of coffee.

Christopher was in the middle of explaining an assessment deadline when another student raised her hand.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Are you doing anything for your birthday?"

The question caught him completely off guard. Several heads turned immediately.

"Oh yes," said another student. "It's this week, isn't it?"

Christopher blinked. He genuinely had no idea what they were talking about.

Then he remembered. His birthday. The realisation felt oddly distant.

"Thursday," one of them supplied helpfully.

"Twenty-eight," said another.

"Ancient."

A ripple of laughter followed. Christopher managed a smile.

"I shall endeavour to survive the experience."

The conversation drifted elsewhere. Even so, a faint discomfort remained.

He found himself glancing towards the classroom window.

Twenty-eight.

The number lingered in his thoughts long after the students had forgotten it. That afternoon he stopped at the bakery on his way home.

Mrs Patel emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of pastries and immediately pointed a flour-covered finger at him.

"Do not make plans for Thursday evening."

Christopher regarded her warily. "I am suddenly concerned."

"You should be." Mrs Patel smiled. "We are having cake."

"I am entirely too old for cake."

"You are twenty-eight."

"That sounds worse."

"Nonsense."

She disappeared through the kitchen door before he could continue the argument. Christopher found himself smiling despite everything.

The expression faded almost immediately afterwards. The idea of celebrating felt strangely absurd. The past few months had become dominated by dreams, impossible memories and conversations that never reached their conclusions.

A birthday seemed trivial by comparison.

That evening he remained late at the museum archive. Rain tapped softly against the windows while he worked through excavation records connected to the harbour site.

Most of the material consisted of routine documentation of soil analyses, survey notes and other tedious hstorical references.

He closed the file. A shadow fell across the desk.

Christopher looked up.

Vale stood beside the archive shelves. The older man appeared tired.

That in itself was nothing unusual.

The expression on his face was.

Christopher held up the report.

"Apparently an extremely low tide is due this week."

Vale's eyes settled upon the document. The change was immediate.

Christopher saw it happen. A faint tightening around the mouth. A sudden stillness.

The archaeologist looked as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

Christopher lowered the report.

"Vale?"

Vale's gaze remained fixed on the page. "When is the next occurrence?" he asked.

The question sounded carefully controlled.

"Thursday."

Silence followed. Rain whispered against the windows. Somewhere deeper within the museum a door closed.

Vale looked away. The movement seemed almost deliberate, as though he needed a moment before responding.

Christopher felt a slow chill begin to spread through him. "You already knew about it."

Vale did not answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "I know the local records."

Christopher watched him. The explanation felt incomplete.

"What is wrong?"

Vale looked back at him. For the first time Christopher saw something in the older man's expression that he had never seen before.

Genuine fear.

It vanished almost at once.

The archaeologist straightened. "Nothing is wrong."

The answer arrived too quickly.

Christopher thought suddenly of the cemetery. Of the market. Of every conversation that ended a moment before the truth.

"Vale."

Vale's eyes closed briefly, only for a second. When they opened again, the fear was hidden. The effort required to conceal it was not.

"You should go home, Christopher."

The words landed with unexpected weight.

"Why?"

Outside, rain continued to fall across the harbour.

At last the Vale said, "Because Thursday is approaching faster than I would like." He paused. "I was hoping we had more time."

The words escaped before he seemed aware he had spoken them.

Silence followed.

The confession hung between them.

Before he reached the door, Vale called, "Christopher." He seemed to struggle for words.

At last he said, "If Marco tells you something, listen."

The request felt strangely desperate.

"Why?"

Vale held his gaze.

The answer came almost as a whisper.

"Because he has been afraid of this day for much longer than I have."

Then he turned away, leaving Christopher alone with the records, the sound of the rain, and the growing certainty that whatever frightened Professor Vale had very little to do with tides.

Christopher did not go home.

Vale's reaction had destroyed any chance of that.

For nearly an hour he remained at the archive table, the tidal records spread before him while rain whispered against the windows. The museum had grown quiet around him. Most of the staff had already left.

Eventually he rose and crossed to the local history shelves.

If the tidal event was as regular as the records suggested, there had to be evidence of earlier occurrences. Penmere was an old coastal town. Someone, somewhere, would have recorded an unusually low tide.

He began with the nineteenth-century records.

The first volume contained little of interest, mostly fishing reports and shipping notices. The second was more promising. Several entries described unusually low tides, though none corresponded to the date in the current survey.

Then, halfway through a volume of handwritten harbour records, he found a reference from 1834.

The tide had receded farther than anyone could remember, exposing rocks and submerged stonework normally hidden beneath the harbour. The writer noted that several fishermen had refused to go near the exposed shoreline after dark.

Christopher read on.

Three residents had reported hearing church bells from the direction of the water shortly after midnight.

The parish bells had not been rung.

He paused.

The detail was strange enough to make him copy the date and page number into his notebook.

He searched the surrounding records.

Nothing.

Then he tried the same date in a collection of local folklore.

This time he found another reference.

The account, recorded in the 1890s, described an unusually low tide followed by reports of lights moving along the cliffs near the tor. One fisherman claimed to have seen figures walking beside the sea after nightfall. The collector had dismissed the story as a variation of older coastal folklore, but had added a note that caught Christopher's attention.

The tradition, he wrote, appeared to be considerably older than the surviving accounts.

Christopher went back to the shelves.

He stopped looking for stories and began looking for dates.

That changed everything.

The references were scattered through different collections and centuries, often buried in accounts that had nothing else in common. Yet the same combination kept appearing: an unusually low tide, strange lights or figures near the headland, and reports of bells or voices heard from the shore.

He began laying the dates across the table.

There were gaps. Some records were incomplete. Several accounts were obviously embellished by later writers.

But the pattern remained.

The dates clustered around the same period.

Christopher checked the tidal tables again.

Then the parish records.

Then the folklore collections.

The correspondence was too close to dismiss.

He sat back.

Perhaps the stories had been copied from one another. That would explain some of the similarities. Folklore travelled easily, particularly in isolated coastal communities.

But it did not explain the older records.

He reached for a collection of translated medieval documents.

The volume was considerably older than the others, its pages thin and yellowed. He turned them carefully, searching the index for references to the headland.

The first entries concerned storms and wrecks.

Then he found one from a year that matched the pattern in his notebook.

Christopher stopped breathing for a moment.

The account described a violent storm following an unusually low tide. Witnesses had reported lights along the shore and armed men moving among the rocks.

Then came a passage that made his hand tighten around the edge of the page.

One of the witnesses claimed to have seen a wounded warrior kneeling beside a fallen companion.

The description was brief, almost incidental. The warrior had apparently been soaked through by the rain, his cloak dark with seawater. He had one arm around the injured man's shoulders and appeared to be holding him upright. The witness could not hear what was being said, only that the warrior seemed to be weeping.

Christopher read the passage twice.

Then again.

The image had already formed in his mind.

A storm-black shoreline.

Rain striking armour and stone.

A wounded man being held upright by another.

The dream returned with such clarity that for an instant he could almost feel the cold water around his boots.

He closed the book.

His pulse was beating too quickly.

There was still an obvious explanation. The medieval account might have inspired later folklore. His own dream might have been shaped by something he had encountered without remembering it. The human mind was capable of making connections where none existed.

But there was another possibility.

The account predated the dream.

It predated Marco.

And it matched what Christopher had seen with a precision that no longer felt accidental.

He looked down at the dates spread across the table.

The dates were not merely similar. They corresponded to the same tidal cycle.

Not the same story. The same event.

For the first time Christopher understood why Vale had looked frightened when he mentioned Thursday.

He gathered his notes and closed the archive volume.

Vale had not been guarding an academic secret.

He had been waiting for something to happen.

And whatever was coming, he believed Thursday would bring it.

As Christopher left the museum, the corridor felt colder than before. Rain blurred the windows and turned the harbour lights into pale smears across the glass.

He had gone into the archive looking for evidence that the tidal event was real.

He had found something much worse.

Evidence that it had happened before.

Christopher found Marco in the conservation laboratory shortly before closing.

The discovery surprised him.

After leaving Vale he had expected a search. He had rehearsed half a dozen possible conversations while crossing the museum. Most involved resistance.

Marco would refuse to answer.

Marco would evade.

Marco would disappear entirely.

Instead he was exactly where he ought to have been.

He stood beside a worktable beneath the laboratory lights, reviewing photographs from the excavation. Several trays of artefacts occupied the surrounding benches. Rain tapped softly against the high windows.

Christopher remained in the doorway.

Marco looked up.

Their eyes met.

Something tightened unexpectedly in Christopher's chest.

Because Marco's expression was warm.

Then it wasn't.

The change happened so quickly that he might have imagined it.

A smile appeared, polite and measured, but gone almost immediately.

"Christopher."

His voice was calm and friendly.

The distance within it felt unfamiliar.

Christopher stepped into the room. "I was looking for you."

Marco nodded. "I gathered that."

The answer would once have carried the trace of amusement that seemed to accompany most of their conversations.

It was absent now.

Christopher found himself oddly disappointed. The feeling irritated him. He crossed the room.

Marco set down the photographs. The movement appeared casual.

Christopher noticed that it also placed the width of the worktable between them.

The realisation arrived quietly. Marco was creating space.

The discovery unsettled him.

Neither man spoke. The laboratory seemed unusually silent.

Christopher became aware of the ticking of a wall clock somewhere behind him. "I spoke to Vale."

Marco's gaze lowered briefly. "I thought you might."

"He told me almost nothing."

A faint smile touched Marco's face. There was genuine affection in it. The sight brought an immediate rush of relief.

Then it vanished. "That sounds like him."

Christopher stared.

Even now Marco was still willing to protect Vale.

The thought should have irritated him.

Instead he found himself watching Marco's expression.

Searching for the ease that usually existed between them, the quiet familiarity, any sign that things had returned to normal.

Nothing did.

Marco glanced towards the artefacts spread across the table. It was an ordinary movement, but Christopher had begun to recognise the pattern. Whenever their conversation approached anything personal, Marco found something else to look at.

The knowledge landed harder than expected.

"You've been avoiding me."

The words escaped before he could reconsider them.

Marco looked up. For a second regret flickered across his face before the expression disappeared. "No." Christopher almost laughed. "That is not true."

Christopher became aware of a growing discomfort he could not quite name.

It felt strangely similar to disappointment.

The sensation made little sense.

He was angry with Marco.

He had every reason to be angry.

Yet standing here, confronted by this careful distance, anger seemed suddenly less important than something else.

Something far more unpleasant.

Marco folded the excavation photographs.

His movements remained calm and controlled.

"You should be careful over the next few days."

Christopher stared at him. "That is what Vale said."

Marco's expression tightened slightly.

The reaction confirmed enough. "Then perhaps you should listen to him."

Christopher felt irritation rise. "There you go again."

"I know."

"No, you don't."

The reply came more sharply than intended.

Marco absorbed it without protest.

That somehow made matters worse.

Christopher realised he wanted resistance or an argument, anything except this gentle caution.

Anything except watching Marco retreat from him one careful step at a time.

The thought arrived unexpectedly that this felt exactly like retreat.

Marco glanced towards the laboratory door.

The movement lasted only a moment.

Christopher noticed it anyway.

He noticed everything.

The shortened conversations.

The distance between them.

The refusal to meet his eyes for more than a second or two at a time.

Even the positioning of the furniture.

Marco was ensuring that neither of them stood too close.

A cold feeling settled in Christopher's stomach. "You are doing it deliberately."

Marco looked back at him. "Doing what?"

"You know exactly what."

The words hung between them. For the first time uncertainty appeared in Marco's expression.

Not uncertainty about the answer. Uncertainty about how honest he should be.

Christopher waited.

At last Marco sighed quietly.

The sound carried an exhaustion that seemed far older than the conversation itself. "I think it would be better if we gave each other some space."

The statement landed with surprising force.

Christopher had expected denial.

This felt worse.

Much worse.

For several seconds he simply stared. "Why?"

Marco looked away.

That single movement hurt more than the answer might have.

"Because things have become complicated."

The explanation sounded painfully inadequate.

Christopher laughed once. The sound contained no humour. "They were complicated weeks ago."

"I know."

"Then why now?"

Marco's gaze settled upon the rain beyond the windows.

The silence stretched.

Christopher realised with sudden clarity that Marco was choosing every word with extraordinary care.

As though one mistake might cause damage neither of them could repair.

The thought frightened him.

Because it implied consequences.

Because it implied certainty.

Most of all because it implied loss.

When Marco finally spoke, his voice was very quiet.

"Because I do not think this is becoming easier for you."

Christopher felt something twist painfully inside his chest.

The concern sounded genuine.

The distance remained.

The combination was unbearable.

He could tolerate confusion.

Confusion at least left hope.

This felt different.

This felt like watching a door close slowly and deliberately without understanding why.

For several moments neither man spoke.

The laboratory lights reflected faintly in the glass.

Outside, evening rain drifted across the harbour.

Christopher found himself studying Marco's face, the familiar lines and dark eyes.

The expression that had become so strangely important to him over the past months.

An uncomfortable realisation began to take shape.

He had spent weeks telling himself that his frustration came from unanswered questions, from mysteries, from lies.

Standing here, he recognised that explanation as incomplete.

If that were all this was, Marco's withdrawal would have brought relief.

Instead it felt like loss.

Marco seemed unaware of the storm unfolding inside him.

Or perhaps he was aware and had chosen kindness over acknowledgement.

The possibility only made the ache worse.

At last Marco gathered the photographs from the table.

"I should finish these before tomorrow."

The dismissal was gentle and careful.

Christopher nodded.

He could think of nothing else to do.

When he turned towards the door, Marco spoke once more.

"Christopher."

He paused.

The warmth returned briefly, enough to remind him what had vanished.

"Take care of yourself."

Christopher managed a nod.

Then he left.

The corridor beyond the laboratory felt strangely empty.

He walked through the museum without any clear awareness of where he was going.

Rain streaked the windows.

Distant voices echoed through the building.

None of it seemed entirely real.

One thought remained.

Marco was pulling away.

And the discovery hurt far more than Christopher had ever expected.

By the time he reached the street outside, Christopher knew there was no longer any point pretending that Marco mattered only because of the mystery.

The realisation followed him all the way home.