The Tor - 8. Chapter 8

Christopher spent most of the morning pretending he was not distracted.

The pretence convinced nobody.

His first class began badly and deteriorated from there. Twice he lost his place in his notes. On one occasion he answered a question that nobody had actually asked. Several students exchanged glances. One of them eventually raised a hand and asked, "Sir, are you alright?"

Christopher assured them he was. The reassurance sounded unconvincing even to him.

The dream lingered stubbornly at the edge of his thoughts, as did Vale's warning. Every attempt to dismiss either one only seemed to strengthen them.

Because he has ruined your life before.

The words returned during a discussion of medieval trade routes. They resurfaced while he marked essays at his desk. By lunchtime he had become so thoroughly irritated with himself that he abandoned any attempt at concentration and spent twenty minutes staring through his window at the harbour below.

Rain was moving in from the sea. Grey clouds gathered over the water in slow layers. The sunlight vanished. Fishing boats returned early to their moorings. By mid-afternoon a fine drizzle was sweeping across the bay, softening the outlines of the town and turning the sea the colour of slate.

Christopher's final class ended shortly after three. He watched the students depart and remained seated for several minutes after the room had emptied. The silence offered no relief.

At last he gathered his coat and left the school building. The rain had strengthened by the time he reached the harbour. Water gleamed across the pavements. Shop windows reflected the dull silver sky. The promenade, usually crowded even in poor weather, stood almost deserted apart from a handful of determined dog walkers.

Christopher walked without any clear destination. He followed narrow streets that climbed away from the waterfront into the older parts of town. The rain suited his mood, everything muted. The colours of the buildings appeared washed pale beneath the overcast sky. Chimneys and rooftops faded into drifting mist. Even the sounds of the town felt distant.

He found himself thinking once again about the dream, the shoreline, the storm, the warrior kneeling over the dying man.

A shiver passed through him despite the warmth of his coat. He turned a corner and emerged onto a road that curved around the headland above the harbour.

The old church stood there, overlooking the sea, its stone tower dark against the clouds. The graveyard surrounding it occupied a sloping patch of ground enclosed by iron railings blackened by age and salt.

Christopher slowed. At first he thought the cemetery was empty. Then he noticed a solitary figure standing among the gravestones.

He stopped. Even through the rain he recognised him immediately.

Marco.

The archaeologist stood near the far side of the churchyard beneath a large yew tree.

He was not carrying an umbrella. Rain darkened his coat and dampened his hair. One hand rested lightly upon the top of an old headstone. He appeared completely unaware that anyone was nearby.

Christopher found himself staring. That alone felt unusual. He hesitated only briefly before pushing open the iron gate. It protested softly on its hinges.

The cemetery occupied the slope behind the church, rising towards a stand of ancient yew trees whose dark branches stirred restlessly in the sea wind. Rain drifted through the graveyard in a fine grey veil. Water gleamed upon every surface. Headstones leaned at uncertain angles among the wet grass, their inscriptions softened by centuries of weather and salt. The place felt older than the church itself. Some of the stones had sunk almost entirely into the earth. Others stood crooked beneath blankets of moss. A few were so worn that their names had vanished altogether.

Christopher followed the narrow path between them. Marco stood facing a grave near the far edge of the cemetery beneath one of the yews.

At first Christopher assumed he was reading the inscription. Then he realised he was not.

Marco's gaze rested upon the stone without seeming to focus on it. He looked as though he were seeing something beyond it, or perhaps remembering something that existed nowhere except in his own mind.

The expression on his face brought Christopher to a halt. He had seen Marco amused. Thoughtful, frustrated or guarded.

This was something different.

There was sadness in his features. There was affection as well. Most unsettling of all was the familiarity.

Marco looked like a man standing in a place he knew intimately. The conclusion made little sense, yet Christopher could not shake it.

Rain collected upon the shoulders of Marco's coat. He appeared entirely unaware of it. For several moments Christopher simply watched him, then a twig snapped beneath his shoe.

Marco turned. His expression altered slightly. The sadness remained, though much of the distance vanished from his eyes.

"Christopher." There was no surprise in his voice, the greeting almost expectant.

Christopher found himself wondering whether Marco had heard him approaching long before he arrived. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

Marco glanced briefly towards the grave. "You haven't."

Christopher stepped closer. The stone between them was old enough that much of the inscription had become difficult to read. Rainwater filled the carved letters.

Neither man spoke immediately. The silence felt oddly delicate.

Christopher became aware of the wind moving through the yew branches overhead.

At last he nodded towards the grave. "Did you know the person buried here?"

Marco looked down at the stone once more. Christopher thought he might avoid the question. Instead he smiled faintly, a trace of sadness in the expression.

"I visit them sometimes."

The reply settled quietly between them. Christopher followed Marco's gaze towards the weathered headstone.

The response seemed straightforward enough. A relative, perhaps, or an old friend. Possibly some forgotten figure connected to one of Marco's research projects. Archaeologists developed unusual attachments to the past. Christopher had met enough of them to know that.

Rain drifted through the yew branches overhead. Water trickled down the face of the stone.

The answer was characteristically unhelpful. Christopher almost smiled. "That sounds suspiciously like something designed to avoid answering the question."

A faint expression of amusement touched Marco's face. "Perhaps."

The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. His attention drifted across the cemetery. Rows of leaning headstones stretched away through the rain. Some stood upright. Others had sunk into the earth at odd angles over the centuries.

For a few moments Marco simply looked at them. Then he said quietly, "Some places are difficult to leave behind."

That sharpened Christopher's attention. The remark seemed oddly personal. Before he could respond, Marco continued, "I always seem to find my way back here."

He looked towards the grave again. Then at the church. Then at the surrounding cemetery. Most people would have said they returned occasionally. They might have spoken about visiting. About coming here.

Marco had said "back", as though the place belonged somewhere within the landscape of his own memory.

Christopher let the question remain unasked. Marco was not looking around the cemetery with the curiosity of a visitor. His gaze moved easily from one section of the churchyard to another, without searching, no attempt to orient himself, no effort to remember where anything stood.He seemed to know the place already.

Christopher's eyes traveled across the graves. The oldest stones occupied the higher ground beneath the yews. Newer graves clustered closer to the church.

Marco's gaze wandered briefly towards one distant corner of the cemetery, then another. The movement carried the casual familiarity of someone glancing through rooms in a house he knew well.

Christopher found himself studying him more closely. The impression should have been impossible. The thought unsettled him.

Perhaps Marco sensed his scrutiny. He turned and met Christopher's eyes.

"What is it?"

Christopher hesitated. The question sounded absurd even inside his own head.

"You seem very familiar with this place."

Something flickered across Marco's expression. Understanding, then caution, change subtle enough that Christopher might have imagined it.

"I have spent time here."

The acknowledgement arrived a fraction too slowly, Christopher pausing for a long moment. Rain whispered through the yew branches overhead. Water ran down the dark stone of the church beyond them.

The questions crowded against one another inside his head. Vale's warning. The dream. The strange certainty that seemed to surround every conversation involving Marco Rossi.

"You know something you're not sharing," Christopher said quietly. Marco did not answer. "You and Vale."

Marco lowered his gaze. For several seconds only the rain spoke.

A faint smile touched Marco's face. There was no amusement in it.

"We stop before we say too much."

Christopher frowned.

"What does that mean?"

Marco looked back at the grave.

"Some knowledge can't be shared."

The honesty of the reply caught him off guard. Marco looked back towards the grave. His expression had become thoughtful again, almost weary.

"Why?"

The question escaped before Christopher could stop it. Marco was silent for so long that Christopher thought he might refuse to answer.

When he finally spoke, his voice was very quiet. "Because knowing is not always a kindness."

The words settled heavily between them. Christopher felt an immediate chill.

For an instant he was no longer standing in the cemetery. He was back in the narrow lane behind the market. Some things are better approached carefully.

The memory surfaced with startling clarity, different words, the same meaning, the same reluctance, the same conviction.

Christopher stared at Marco. Vale was frightened. Marco was cautious. Yet both men appeared to be guarding the same secret.

The realisation unsettled him more than either conversation had done alone.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked.

Marco's smile faded. Christopher saw the hesitation again, the brief struggle between confession and restraint.

Then the moment passed.

Marco shook his head. "It means that some knowledge changes people."

The answer felt final. Christopher knew it. Whatever explanation had almost emerged was gone.

Rain drifted across the churchyard. Beyond the cemetery wall the harbour had almost disappeared behind a veil of mist.

Marco glanced towards the gates. "I should go."

Christopher felt an unexpected surge of frustration. "That's it?"

Marco regarded him quietly. "I am sorry." The apology sounded genuine. That somehow made it worse.

Christopher opened his mouth. The words never arrived. What could he say? Demand answers? Accuse him of withholding them?

Marco already knew that.

They stood facing one another among the graves.

At last Marco inclined his head. "Take care of yourself, Christopher."

The phrase carried an odd weight. Christopher thought suddenly of Vale saying almost exactly the same thing. The coincidence sent another shiver through him.

Marco turned and began walking towards the cemetery gates. Rain blurred the outline of his coat. Within moments he was little more than a dark figure moving through drifting grey.

Christopher watched him go.

The iron gate opened. Closed.

Marco disappeared beyond the church wall. The mist swallowed him almost immediately. For several seconds Christopher remained motionless.

Then he looked down at the grave. The stone stood slightly crooked beneath the yew tree. Lichen covered much of its surface. Rainwater collected in the weathered grooves of the inscription.

He stepped closer.

The name had almost vanished. Only fragments of letters remained visible beneath centuries of erosion. The date was little better. A few numbers lingered at the edge of legibility before dissolving into worn stone.

Christopher frowned. He could not read enough to identify the person buried there, yet the grave unsettled him.

A detail so small he almost missed it.

Near the top of the stone, half hidden beneath moss, someone had carved a simple knotwork design. Age had worn the pattern smooth. Even so, the shape stirred something faintly familiar.

Christopher found himself staring at it. The sensation arrived unexpectedly, a brief flicker of concern, gone almost before he could grasp it, like the memory of a dream fading with the dawn.

He reached out and brushed damp moss from the carving.

Nothing happened. The feeling vanished, yet the unease remained.

Rain tapped softly against the stone. The sea wind moved through the yew branches overhead.

Christopher stood alone in the gathering mist. Somewhere beyond the churchyard Marco Rossi was walking away through streets he knew better than he should.

The cemetery had grown quiet.

Only the rain remained.