The Tor - 24. Chapter 24

Christopher packed a single overnight bag.

He told the school he needed a day away before the half-term rush. Hannah accepted the explanation without question, though she studied him longer than usual before wishing him a pleasant break.

He left before sunrise. The train climbed steadily away from the coast, following valleys that gradually widened into farmland. The last glimpse of the sea vanished behind wooded hills. Villages appeared where the stone carried a different colour and the church towers stood broader and lower than those at home.

Christopher watched the landscape change through the window. He had expected relief. For weeks he had begun to believe that Vale might be right. The Tor stood above every memory. The shrine lay buried beneath its roots and limestone. Perhaps distance would loosen whatever bond remained between the ancient ritual and the present.

He did not travel far, only two hundred miles, far enough that the air no longer carried salt, far enough that no familiar landmark remained.

He booked a room in a small hotel overlooking a river whose name meant nothing to him.

The receptionist handed him a key. "First visit?"

Christopher smiled politely. "Yes."

The answer came in English, but for one impossible instant he had almost given it in Latin.

In the town, narrow streets climbed away from the market square. Timber-framed buildings leaned gently towards one another above worn pavements polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. The cathedral bells marked the passing hours with a slower, deeper voice than those of St Michael's at Penmere.

Christopher walked until his legs ached. He visited the cathedral, wandered through a bookshop and spent an hour in the small museum devoted to the local history. Everything should have felt unfamiliar. Instead every place seemed crowded with strangers who almost became someone else. A mason carrying stone became a legionary. A woman laughing outside a café became a merchant's daughter from another century. The smell of roasting chestnuts dissolved into wood smoke from an Iron Age settlement.

He stopped in the middle of the street. People flowed around him with mild irritation. Christopher pressed both hands against his temples.

No. This was not helping. It was becoming worse.

That evening he sat alone beside the river watching rain spread across the water. The river was wrong. It moved with patient certainty between high brick embankments. His mind insisted upon searching for tides. He caught himself looking towards the horizon, expecting open water that did not exist. His chest tightened. The air itself felt unfamiliar. There was too little salt. Too little wind.

He had never realised how completely his breathing belonged to the sea. He realised he had been listening for gulls all morning.

A child threw crumbs to ducks nearby. Christopher watched them for several moments before a memory overtook him.

Only this time he could not tell where it began. A different river, spanned by a Roman bridge. Marcus speaking beside him before another voice interrupted. Marco asking whether he wanted another cup of coffee. The two conversations merged. Latin dissolved into Italian. Italian became English.

Christopher closed his eyes. When he opened them again he could not remember which language he had been hearing.

He slept badly. The room was warm. The bed was comfortable. Neither mattered. He woke repeatedly with the conviction that someone had called his name. Each time the room seemed slightly unfamiliar.

At half past three he sat upright in bed. For several seconds he could not remember his own surname.

Christopher... Yes... Christopher... Edwards.

The second name arrived almost reluctantly.

Another followed before it.

Ap...

No.

Celyn.

The thought slipped away before he could grasp it. His breathing became shallow. He rose and crossed to the window. Rain covered the glass.

Beyond it the unfamiliar town slept peacefully beneath scattered street lamps. Christopher rested his forehead against the cold pane. He ought to have felt safer here.

Instead he experienced the peculiar sensation that some vital part of himself had remained behind. The feeling was almost physical. Like trying to walk with a bone misplaced beneath the skin.

He whispered aloud. "I want to go home."

The words startled him. He had been away for barely sixteen hours. Morning brought no improvement. He ordered breakfast in the dining room.

The waiter asked whether he preferred tea or coffee.

Christopher answered in Brythonic.

The young man blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Christopher stared at him. Heat flooded his face. "Tea," he said quickly. "I'm terribly sorry."

The waiter smiled politely and walked away. Christopher looked down at his hands. His pulse would not settle. He no longer understood why leaving had made everything less stable.

Vale had believed distance might weaken the memories.

Instead it seemed to have stripped away the ordinary anchors of his life.

His classroom. The harbour. The cliffs. The familiar rhythm of gulls circling above the bay.

Those things had never merely surrounded him. They had reminded him who Christopher Edwards was. Without them, the older lives found fewer obstacles.

He wandered through the streets for another hour before admitting defeat. His feet carried him repeatedly towards the railway station. He resisted twice. The third time he walked straight inside.

The departure board listed trains running south. One would leave in eleven minutes. He bought a ticket without considering the cost.

Only after sitting by the platform did he realise he had not spoken to Marco since leaving. His phone remained in his coat pocket. There were two unread messages.

The first had arrived the previous evening. I hope you're sleeping. The second had come that morning. Take all the time you need.

Nothing more. No questions or request for his location. No attempt to persuade him to return.

Christopher stared at the screen for a long time. Marco knew where he had gone. He could probably have found him before nightfall if he had wished.

Instead he had remained in Penmere . He had allowed Christopher the freedom Vale insisted he possessed.

The thought brought no comfort. It only deepened the ache.

Christopher typed a reply. I'm coming home.

He hesitated. Then he deleted the words. He wrote instead, I'll see you soon.

Marco's answer arrived almost immediately. Travel safely.

Nothing else.

Christopher felt tears gathering before he understood why.

There was extraordinary tenderness in that restraint. Marco had waited through centuries.

He would not chase Christopher across one frightened day. The train pulled into the station with a long sigh of brakes. Christopher climbed aboard.

As the countryside rolled past the window once more, he became aware of something changing inside him. The further south they travelled, the easier it became to breathe. When the first faint smell of the sea drifted through the carriage at an open station, he closed his eyes. His heartbeat steadied. The tension that had gripped his body since leaving finally began to loosen. He had expected distance to make the memories fade. Instead it had made Christopher Edwards feel strangely insubstantial.

Whether that proved Vale mistaken or merely revealed another aspect of the curse, he could not tell. Distance had not separated him from the memories. It had separated him from himself. For better or worse, Christopher Edwards belonged to Penmere . With every mile the sea drew nearer.

The ache eased, and his thoughts settled. Christopher should have felt grateful. Instead he found himself wondering whether Vale had simply underestimated the strength of the prison.

Whether that belonging arose from childhood, from the ancient shrine beneath the Tor, or from the man waiting somewhere beyond the harbour, he could no longer say.

Travelling away had felt less like leaving than being torn from the roots.