The Tor - 7. Chapter 7

Saturday arrived bright and cold beneath a sky washed pale blue by the night's rain.

Christopher left the flat shortly after ten with a canvas shopping bag folded beneath one arm and a short list of errands in his coat pocket. Mrs Patel had asked him to collect a replacement order of coffee beans from one of the suppliers on the far side of town. The task carried him through the centre of Penmere and into the weekly market that occupied the square every weekend throughout the autumn.

The town seemed determined to enjoy the fine weather while it lasted.

Market stalls filled the square in neat rows beneath striped awnings. Traders called greetings to passing customers while church bells drifted faintly across the rooftops from somewhere beyond the harbour. The smell of fresh bread mingled with roasting coffee and the sharp sweetness of apples stacked in wooden crates. Families wandered between the stalls carrying paper bags and takeaway cups. A busker sat beside the fountain playing an old folk tune on a battered violin.

Christopher slowed his pace as he entered the square.

For the first time in days he felt almost comfortable.

The previous weeks had left him exhausted. Between the excavation, the visions, and the increasingly complicated presence of Marco Rossi in his life, his thoughts had become tangled to the point of constant distraction. Yet here, surrounded by ordinary Saturday routines, those concerns seemed strangely distant.

He recognised several faces from around town.

Mrs Henderson from the post office was arguing cheerfully with a greengrocer over the price of pears. A pair of fishermen from the harbour stood outside a coffee stall discussing football with great seriousness. One of Christopher's former lecturers passed carrying an armful of books and offered a distracted wave before disappearing into the crowd.

Christopher returned the greeting and found himself smiling.

Perhaps things were settling.

The thought felt dangerously optimistic, but he entertained it all the same.

He collected the coffee order and tucked the receipt into his pocket before beginning the walk back across the square.

That was when he noticed Vale.

The archaeologist stood near a flower stall beneath a green awning. He was examining a bucket of late autumn chrysanthemums with an intensity usually reserved for excavation reports. Several wrapped bouquets rested beneath one arm.

Christopher almost failed to recognise him.

Vale rarely appeared anywhere without looking mildly dishevelled. Today he wore a dark wool coat buttoned properly to the throat and a charcoal scarf looped neatly around his neck. The flowers looked oddly domestic in his hands.

Christopher was about to continue past when something gave him pause.

Vale looked distracted. More than distracted. His gaze kept lifting from the flowers towards the crowd. Every few moments he glanced over one shoulder, then the other, as though searching for someone. Or ensuring he was not being followed.

Christopher frowned.

The behaviour seemed unusual enough to attract his attention.

He took another step.

At that exact moment Vale looked up.

Their eyes met across the square.

For a fraction of a second the older man's expression sharpened with what looked remarkably like relief.

"Christopher."

His voice carried easily above the noise of the market. Several nearby shoppers glanced around. Christopher suppressed the impulse to pretend he had not heard. Instead he changed direction and approached the stall.

"Hello."

Vale offered a smile that appeared genuine, though it seemed strained around the edges.

"Good morning. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Only my exciting morning of food shopping."

"Ah. A sacred ritual."

Christopher laughed politely.

Vale purchased the flowers and thanked the stallholder before turning back towards him.

They exchanged the sort of harmless conversation that passed between acquaintances in small towns. The weather was discussed. The success of the lantern festival received brief mention. Vale complained mildly about university paperwork.

The tension Christopher had noticed earlier seemed to ease.

At least at first.

Eventually the conversation drifted towards the excavation. Vale asked after the reports Christopher had been helping organise. Christopher answered. They spoke for several minutes about the Roman finds and the continuing interest from local historical societies. The topic felt familiar and uncomplicated.

Then Vale asked, quite casually, "And how have you been sleeping?"

Christopher blinked. The question arrived with enough abruptness to catch him off guard. "Sleeping?"

"Yes." Vale's tone remained light.

Christopher hesitated. "Reasonably well, I suppose." The answer was not entirely true. Vale studied him. The scrutiny lasted only a second before the older man glanced away again towards the crowd. Christopher's breath stuttered. He could not have explained why. The question itself was harmless, yet it felt strangely deliberate, as though Vale had been waiting for an opportunity to ask it.

Christopher shifted his weight. "Why?"

Vale blinked at him. The noise of the market seemed to recede beneath the sounds of distant traffic and the cry of terns and gulls circling above the rooftops. Then he smiled. "No particular reason."

The answer should have satisfied him. Instead it left Christopher with the uncomfortable sense that the conversation had just stepped onto uncertain ground.

Christopher shifted the weight of the shopping bag in his hand. The answer lingered between them. Vale's smile lingered before fading. He glanced once more across the market square. A group of shoppers passed between the stalls carrying armfuls of flowers. Somewhere nearby a trader was loudly advertising fresh honey. The ordinary sounds of the morning continued all around them, yet Christopher found himself watching the archaeologist more closely.

Vale seemed distracted again, almost preoccupied.

His gaze moved briefly across the crowd before returning to Christopher. "Have you spent much time with Mr. Rossi recently?"

The question arrived so abruptly that Christopher almost laughed.

There it is, he thought. He considered giving a deliberately vague answer. Instead he said, "A fair amount, I suppose."

Vale nodded slowly. "I see."

Christopher folded his arms.

The memory of their disagreement at the excavation surfaced immediately. He remembered the tension between them, the curt exchanges, the unmistakable impression that neither man entirely trusted the other.

Until now he had assumed it was a professional dispute.

Archaeologists disagreed all the time. Academic departments appeared to thrive upon grudges that lasted decades. Still, Vale's expression suggested a deeper concern.

"Why do I feel as though this is leading somewhere?" Christopher asked.

Vale was silent . The hesitation felt deliberate. When he finally spoke, his voice had lowered slightly.

"You should be careful around him."

Christopher stared at him. Then he gave a short, uneasy laugh. "Are we discussing archaeology or school playground politics?"

Vale did not respond.

Christopher's amusement faded.

"What happened this time?" he asked. "Another argument about excavation methods? Grant funding? Ancient pottery?"

"I am serious."

The words landed with unexpected weight. Vale's face had become entirely solemn.

For the first time that morning Christopher realised he had not seen him smile genuinely once.

The realisation unsettled him. "Vale..."

"You should keep your distance."

Christopher felt irritation stir almost at once. The warning struck him as absurd.

Over the past few weeks he had become accustomed to people speaking in riddles whenever Marco's name appeared. The excavation seemed to attract secrets the way old stone attracted moss.

He was rapidly losing patience with all of them.

"Why?" he asked.

Vale held his gaze. The crowd flowed around them. Voices drifted through the square. A child laughed somewhere near the fountain. The ordinary sounds only made the silence more pronounced.

Finally Vale said, "Because he has ruined your life before."

Christopher blinked. For a second he genuinely thought he had misheard. "What?"

Vale did not answer. His expression remained grave, without a trace of humour.

No sign that the remark had been intended metaphorically.

"Before?" Christopher repeated.

Vale said nothing. The word echoed unpleasantly in his thoughts.

Before.

Christopher searched for a reasonable interpretation. Perhaps Vale meant a previous disagreement. Perhaps he meant somebody else's life.

Perhaps he had simply chosen his words badly.

Yet none of those explanations seemed to fit.

Vale was watching him with an intensity that made Christopher increasingly uncomfortable.

"I don't understand."

The admission came more sharply than he intended.

Vale's attention turned briefly towards the crowd.

When he spoke again his voice was almost weary. "I imagine you don't."

Christopher felt his irritation deepen. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Vale did not answer immediately. His attention remained fixed upon the distance. Christopher followed his gaze but saw only shoppers moving between the stalls.

When Vale finally looked back, his expression was troubled, a look remarkably like regret.

"You should be cautious," he said quietly. "That is all I wished to say."

Christopher stared at him in disbelief. "You've just told me somebody has ruined my life before and now you're refusing to explain yourself." Vale's jaw tightened.

He looked as though he might say more. Instead he lowered his eyes.

"Some things are better approached carefully."

Christopher almost laughed. The answer sounded ridiculous. Yet the sincerity in Vale's face prevented him from dismissing it entirely. He seemed genuinely troubled. That, more than anything else, unsettled him.

A gust of wind swept through the square, stirring loose leaves across the cobbles. Neither man spoke. Christopher became aware of a growing tension beneath his irritation.

The feeling was difficult to define. Curiosity played a part. So did unease. Because despite the absurdity of the warning, Vale did not appear jealous. He did not appear manipulative.

He appeared frightened.

And Christopher could not imagine what would frighten Vale enough to speak that way.

The thought lingered long after the conversation should have ended.

The sounds of the market continued around them. Traders called to customers. A dog barked somewhere near the fountain. A delivery van reversed slowly along the edge of the square.

Vale's gaze drifted towards the crowd once more. "Perhaps we should walk."

Christopher frowned. "Why?"

"Because this is not a conversation I would rather have in the middle of a market square."

The answer only sharpened his unease.

Nevertheless, he followed as Vale turned into a narrow lane running between the rear walls of several old shops. The noise of the market softened behind them. The lane was quiet except for the distant cry of gulls and the rustle of leaves caught against the stonework.

Vale stopped beside a low brick wall. Neither of them spoke. Christopher folded his arms.

"What does that mean?"

Vale remained silent. Christopher felt his patience beginning to fray. "You cannot say that and expect me to ignore it."

Vale's expression tightened. "I know."

"Then explain it."

Vale lowered his eyes briefly. Christopher studied him. The older man looked tired. More than tired. There was a strain about him that Christopher had never noticed before. A tension that seemed to sit permanently beneath the surface.

"Who is he?" Christopher asked.

Vale's gaze lifted. "You know who he is."

The response should have struck him as evasive. Instead it felt almost reluctant, as though Vale wanted to answer but could not bring himself to do so.

For the first time, Christopher became aware of the fear beneath the Vale's caution.

The realisation arrived with surprising force. Vale was not behaving like a man protecting a secret for amusement or advantage. He looked like a man approaching a cliff edge in the dark.

The thought sent an unwelcome chill through Christopher.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked quietly.

Vale's expression flickered. For a second it seemed he might answer. Instead he looked away. "There are patterns that repeat," he said.

Christopher frowned. "What does that mean?"

Vale continued as though he had not spoken. "There are mistakes people make again and again. Choices they believe are their own." Vale's gaze settled on him. "You have no reason to believe me, and perhaps that is for the best."

"You keep talking in riddles."

"I am trying to spare you."

Christopher laughed harshly. The sound echoed faintly off the walls of the lane. "Spare me what?"

Vale did not answer. Christopher shook his head. "No. Enough." The anger had arrived suddenly, fuelled by weeks of confusion and unanswered questions. "You do not get to do this." Vale watched him quietly. "You do not get to make cryptic warnings and then refuse to explain them."

Vale said nothing. Christopher pressed on. "Every time something happens, somebody decides I deserve half an answer. You. Marco. Everyone involved with that excavation." "Either tell me what you're talking about or stop saying things like that." His voice rose despite his efforts to control it. "You are trying to turn me against him."

Vale's expression remained unreadable. "Christopher."

"No," he cut the older man off. "You clearly dislike him." Vale's eyes narrowed slightly. Christopher continued before he could respond. "Perhaps this is professional jealousy. Perhaps there is some academic feud I do not know about. Whatever the reason, I am tired of being dragged into it."

Vale absorbed the accusation without visible offence. That, more than anything else, made Christopher falter. Most people would have defended themselves. Vale simply listened.

When Christopher finally fell silent, Vale regarded him with an expression that looked remarkably sad. "You believe that is what this is."

"Isn't it?"

Vale was quiet for several seconds. When he eventually spoke, his voice was almost gentle. "No."

The certainty in the single word unsettled Christopher more than another argument would have. Silence settled between them. A gust of wind carried the smell of the sea into the lane. Somewhere nearby a church clock struck the quarter hour.

Vale looked at him for a long moment. Then he said quietly, "If he has not told you what he remembers, ask yourself why."

Christopher froze. The words seemed to strike somewhere deep inside him. "What?"

Vale's gaze held his. "What he remembers."

Christopher felt his stomach tighten. "What are you talking about?" Christopher asked.

Vale's voice sounded thinner than before. "You should ask him."

"What does he remember?" The question came immediately. Vale did not answer. Christopher stepped forward. "What does he remember?"

The older man shook his head. A trace of regret crossed his face. "I have already said too much."

Christopher stared at him in disbelief. "You cannot leave it there."

"Perhaps I must."

"Why?"

Vale's expression closed, the movement subtle but unmistakable.

Whatever fragile willingness to speak had existed a moment earlier was gone.

"I am sorry."

Christopher opened his mouth. Vale was already stepping away.

"Sir."

The older man paused. Christopher thought he might finally explain. Instead Vale offered a weary smile. "Take care of yourself, Christopher."

Then he turned and walked back towards the market. Christopher remained where he was. Vale disappeared into the crowd and was gone within seconds.

The lane felt strangely empty afterwards. Christopher stood motionless beside the wall. The conversation replayed itself again and again inside his head. Patterns that repeat. Ruined your life before. What he remembers.

None of it made sense. Yet one thing disturbed him more than the rest. Vale had sounded completely sincere.

By the time he reached the bakery he had already constructed half a dozen explanations for Vale's behaviour.

The simplest was that Vale disliked Marco.

Academic rivalries could become surprisingly bitter. Christopher had seen lecturers maintain grudges for years over matters nobody else could remember. Perhaps the excavation had uncovered some old disagreement. Perhaps Vale resented Marco's success. Perhaps he simply disliked him on a personal level.

Any of those explanations made more sense than the alternatives.

Outside, harbour lights shimmered faintly beyond the rooftops. Inside, the house had grown still.

He told himself once more that Vale was wrong.

The conviction lasted almost thirty seconds before doubt returned.

---------------

Sleep came late.

Christopher lay awake for nearly an hour listening to the wind beyond the windows. Several times he found himself returning to the conversation in the market. Each attempt to dismiss it ended in failure.

Eventually exhaustion overcame thought, darkness closing around him before the dream began.

He stood upon a shoreline beneath a night sky without stars, rain sweeping in from the sea carrying the taste of salt. Waves crashed against black rocks with a violence that shook the ground beneath his feet.

Christopher thought he recognised the coast. Then the certainty vanished before he could place it.

The landscape felt ancient. Wild, untouched by anything familiar. The sea stretched away into darkness. Far out upon the water distant lights flickered through the storm.

Ships. The certainty arrived without explanation. Longships.

Their dragon-headed prows rose and fell upon the black sea beyond the bay. Lanterns burned dimly beneath rain-soaked awnings. Christopher could not see them clearly. He knew what they were all the same. A wave surged across the shore. Water swirled around his boots.

He looked down. Blood stained the retreating foam. Dark red ribbons spread across the stone before dissolving into the sea.

Christopher's stomach tightened. The shoreline was littered with debris, broken shields, splintered oars, fragments of mail and other remains of a battle.

Another wave rolled in.

The water struck a motionless hand protruding from the darkness.

Christopher froze. Someone lay upon the rocks ahead, several figures obscured by the storm.

He found himself moving forward. The wind howled around him. Rain lashed his face. The stones beneath his feet were slick with seawater and blood.

As he approached, one figure became distinct.

A warrior knelt upon the shore. His mail shirt gleamed faintly beneath the rain. A heavy wool cloak hung from his shoulders, drenched and dark with seawater. Rain and darkness reduced his features to shifting fragments beneath the lightning.

He was bent over another body lying upon the rocks. Christopher could not see either face. Every time he tried, the storm shifted, yet the emotion remained painfully clear.

The kneeling warrior was holding the other man. One arm supported his shoulders. The other gripped his hand with desperate strength. The gesture carried an intimacy that struck Christopher with unexpected force.

Something deeper than loyalty or comradeship, something that belonged to a life shared.

Christopher heard a voice. The words vanished beneath the wind, but the tone remained.

Despair, raw and terrible.

Christopher took another step. The warrior looked up. For a single instant Christopher thought he might finally see his face. Lightning flashed.

The features remained hidden, yet recognition struck him with overwhelming certainty.

Christopher could not see his features but part of him already knew them.

The understanding lurked just beyond reach.

His forehead rested against the other man's, the gesture heartbreakingly familiar.

The storm raged around them.

The grief pouring from the kneeling warrior seemed vast enough to outlive kingdoms.

Yet the dread drove the breath from him.

Then the dream shattered. Christopher woke abruptly. Darkness filled the room.

His heart was hammering. For several seconds he did not move. The wind rattled faintly against the window. Moonlight touched the ceiling. The familiar outlines of his room emerged slowly from the shadows.

He pressed a hand against his chest. The grief from the dream lingered, yet it was no longer the strongest feeling.

Dread had taken its place. A cold certainty sat heavily in his stomach.

Someone had died on that shoreline. He had known who the dead man was.

The certainty had existed before he woke. The dream was gone.

Only the dread remained.

And somewhere beneath it, another certainty was beginning to form.

Marco remembered.