The Tor - 22. Chapter 22

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Christopher had not intended to stay.

The memory upon the Tor had left him exhausted in a way that sleep seemed incapable of repairing. Even after returning home, washing the dust from his hands and changing his clothes, he carried the strange conviction that somewhere beneath his own thoughts another mind continued speaking.

He heard Celyn's voice before his own. Sometimes only for an instant. Sometimes for several minutes together. The distinction between them no longer felt clean.

Marco found him sitting on the floor beside the sitting-room window after darkness had settled over the harbour. Christopher had not lit the lamps. He was watching the tide.

Marco let himself quietly into the flat. "You hadn't answered any messages today. I hoped to find you here."

Christopher looked round. For a heartbeat the years folded together. The candlelight became afternoon sun. The walls became white limestone. The face before him belonged to another age.

Relief flooded through him before he had time to think. "Marcus."

The name escaped naturally. Without hesitation or surprise.

Silence followed. Marco did not correct him.

Christopher realised what he had said. Colour drained from his face. "I'm sorry."

Marco crossed the room and sat beside him. "You have nothing to apologise for."

"I called you..."

"I know."

Christopher pressed his hands against his eyes. "I wasn't trying to."

"I know."

"It simply..."

He searched for words that would not come. "It felt true."

Marco nodded slowly. "It was once." He glanced away. "It still is in some places."

Christopher lowered his hands. "I don't know which frightens me more." Marco waited. "Remembering." Christopher drew a slow breath. "Or forgetting which life I'm living."

Marco's expression grew very still. He reached out and took Christopher's hand.

"You are here."

"I know."

"You are Christopher."

"So it seems."

Yet even as he spoke, Christopher found himself uncertain. He remembered sitting beside this same man upon a grassy hillside while Roman soldiers marched far below, sharing coarse bread beneath the shelter of an overturned fishing boat.

He remembered waking beside him in a monastery where bells marked the passing hours. The memories no longer arrived one after another, but existed together.

Marco watched him carefully. "What are you seeing?"

Christopher answered honestly. "Too much."

*

The first night passed without sleep. Christopher drifted in and out of uneasy dreams until dawn, voices echoing through them.

Some belonged to teachers whose names he had long forgotten. Others belonged to monks. Sailors. Priests. Children.

He recognised each one. He could no longer remember how.

Shortly before morning Marco woke to hear him speaking, words soft, almost whispered.

He could not understand them immediately. Then recognition passed across his face.

Ancient Brythonic.

Christopher's voice rose and fell in the old cadence, carrying sounds that had not been spoken naturally for many centuries. Marco listened without moving. Christopher spoke with urgency, as though pleading with someone beyond sight.

A single name returned again and again.

Maelor.

Then another. Marcus.

His breathing quickened. His hands closed tightly upon the blankets.

Christopher murmured: "Na adaw fi."

Marco listened, and reached across the bed to rest a hand lightly against his shoulder.

"Christopher."

The whisper continued. Marco spoke again. "Christopher."

The ancient words faltered. Christopher's eyes opened suddenly. For several moments he stared at the ceiling without recognition.

Marco saw confusion pass across his face before awareness finally returned.

"I'm sorry."

"You've nothing to apologise for."

Christopher frowned. "I was dreaming."

"You were remembering."

Christopher looked away. "I thought I'd forgotten the language."

Marco's smile carried more sadness than amusement. "I don't think you ever truly did. You kept saying, 'Don't leave me.'"

Christopher went very still. "I said that?"

"Several times."

*

Two days later Christopher left school early after finishing parents' evening preparations. The afternoon had been ordinary. Year Eleven had complained about homework. The photocopier had jammed twice. Someone had stolen another member of staff's yoghurt from the refrigerator.

Life continued with stubborn normality. Christopher welcomed it. The familiar rhythm steadied him.

He chose the coast path instead of the road home. The tide was beginning to rise. Waves broke gently against the rocks below the cliffs. The sea lay calm beneath a pale autumn sky.

Christopher scarcely noticed where his feet carried him. A memory unfolded with such quiet certainty that he failed to recognise its beginning.

He was gathering shellfish, baskets already half full.

Marcus had gone farther along the shore where darker rocks broke the water.

Christopher smiled. He would laugh when he saw how many they had found.

The path beneath his feet became wet sand. The cry of kittiwakes changed. The harbour disappeared.

He stepped forward. Another step. Cold water closed around his boots.

He continued walking. Someone shouted. The sound seemed impossibly distant. Hands seized his shoulders.

Christopher stumbled backwards. The world lurched violently. The sea became sea again. The rocks became concrete blocks protecting the modern harbour wall.

Marco stood before him, breathing hard. Christopher looked down. Water swirled around his ankles. The tide had reached halfway up the sea wall. Another few steps would have carried him into deep water.

Neither of them spoke for several seconds.

Christopher stared at the waves. "I thought..."

His voice failed.

Marco waited patiently.

"I thought we were collecting mussels."

Marco closed his eyes briefly. "When?"

Christopher looked at him helplessly. "I don't know."

The honesty of the answer frightened him. "I knew this place." He gestured towards the water. "I knew exactly where the rocks were." He shook his head. "They aren't there."

Marco slipped off his own coat and wrapped it around Christopher's shoulders.

His clothes were already soaked below the knees.

"You were remembering another shoreline."

Christopher laughed quietly. The sound carried no amusement. "I almost drowned in the wrong century."

He suddenly laughed again.

Then stopped. "What happens when I don't come back?"

Marco's hand rested gently upon the back of his neck. "Come home."

Christopher did not move. "Vale was right." Marco remained silent. "I can feel them." He looked out across the water. "They don't stay where they belong any longer."

Marco's expression filled with sorrow. "I know."

Christopher turned towards him. "What if I disappear?"

Marco hesitated. Just one heartbeat.

Christopher notices.

Then Marco lied. "You won't."

"How can you know?"

"Because you are still here."

Christopher searched his face.

"And if one day I wake believing I'm Celyn?"

Marco's gaze never left him. "Then I shall remind you that you are Christopher."

The words should have comforted him. Instead they deepened the fear. Christopher remembered another lifetime, another promise, another farewell.

He realised with quiet horror that Marco had already done this countless times before. He had stood beside him through confusion, grief and death until each life reached its end.

Christopher could not tell whether that thought brought reassurance or despair.

Together they turned away from the sea and began the slow walk back towards the harbour, while behind them the tide continued its patient advance across the rocks, erasing every footprint it reached.