The Tor - 9. Chapter 9

Christopher spent the next several days attempting to restore some semblance of normality to his life.

The effort failed.

Whenever his thoughts strayed towards the cemetery, he forced them elsewhere. Whenever he remembered Marco standing beneath the yew tree with rain running from his hair and grief hidden behind his eyes, he reminded himself that archaeologists were often eccentric. Whenever he recalled the strange certainty in Marco's voice, he dismissed it as another carefully crafted ambiguity. The explanations satisfied him less each day.

He saw little of Marco, partly by chance, partly by design.

The excavation continued, but Christopher found reasons to remain occupied elsewhere whenever possible. Reports needed reviewing. Lectures required preparation. Students had essays to mark. Any excuse seemed preferable to another conversation that would leave him with more questions than answers.

Even so, Marco remained difficult to avoid entirely, since Penmere was not a large town. Twice Christopher glimpsed him, once outside a bookshop, once speaking with Vale beside the museum steps. On both occasions he altered his route before Marco could notice him.

The avoidance felt childish, but he continued doing it anyway. By Thursday afternoon the weather had begun to turn. Clouds gathered over the sea before noon and remained there throughout the day. Wind rattled the classroom windows during Christopher's final lesson. By the time the students departed, rain was already sweeping in from the harbour.

The storm intensified as evening approached. Dark clouds pressed low across the coastline. The sea disappeared beneath drifting curtains of rain. Gusts of wind bent the trees along the waterfront and sent loose leaves skittering through the streets.

Christopher stood for some time at the window of his flat watching the weather advance across the bay. The sensible course would have been to remain indoors. Instead he found himself thinking about the tor. The thought arrived without invitation, and once it had appeared, it refused to leave.

The hill had occupied an increasingly persistent place in his thoughts since the excavation began. He could not explain why. The landscape itself was unremarkable. A rocky prominence overlooking the coast. A place favoured by walkers and tourists during better weather. Yet it continued to feel irritatingly familiar.

Nothing about it made sense. The dream had only made matters worse. The shoreline. The storm. The grief. The feeling of standing within something half remembered.

Christopher pulled on his coat. Half an hour later he was climbing the path towards the tor through driving rain. The ascent was far more difficult than he had anticipated. Water streamed down the hillside in narrow channels. Mud clung to his boots. The wind struck him in sudden violent gusts that threatened to throw him off balance. Visibility shrank with every step.

The harbour below had become little more than a blur of grey shapes glimpsed through rain and mist. Sea and sky merged into a single sheet of shifting darkness.

Christopher pressed onward. The decision had long since ceased to feel sensible. Some stubborn part of him refused to turn back. His thoughts churned as restlessly as the weather around him.

Vale's warnings. Marco's evasions. The grave beneath the yew tree. The dreams that felt increasingly like memories. Questions circled endlessly through his mind. Each answer seemed to lead only towards another mystery.

The path narrowed as it approached the summit. Dark stone emerged from the grass in broken ridges. Wind howled across the exposed hillside. Christopher reached a broad shelf of rock and paused to catch his breath. The tor rose ahead of him, half concealed by mist. He simply stood there listening to the storm. The sea roared somewhere below. Rain hissed across the stone.

The landscape felt strangely deserted. Then movement appeared through the grey curtain of weather. A figure stood near the summit. Christopher stiffened. Even at this distance he recognised the outline immediately as Marco Rossi, alone in the storm, waiting.

He considered turning around, but the impulse vanished almost immediately.

Marco had not yet seen him. He stood near the highest point of the tor, facing the sea beyond the cliffs. Wind pulled at his coat. Rain streamed across the dark stone around him.

Christopher resumed climbing. His boots slipped occasionally on the wet ground. Twice he was forced to steady himself against exposed rock. By the time he reached the summit, rain had soaked through the shoulders of his coat.

Marco turned before he spoke, the movement so perfectly timed that Christopher felt an immediate flicker of irritation. "You have an unfortunate habit of doing that."

Marco's expression was faintly puzzled. "Doing what?"

"Knowing I am there."

A small smile touched Marco's mouth. "The path is narrow."

Christopher glanced behind him. The storm had swallowed most of it. "I wasn't making that much noise."

"No," Marco agreed. "You were not."

The answer somehow managed to be even more irritating. Wind swept across the summit. For several seconds neither man spoke. The sea below churned beneath the storm. Waves struck the cliffs in bursts of white spray. The sound carried upwards through the rain.

Christopher folded his arms. "I did not expect to find anyone up here."

"Nor did I."

Rain drummed softly against stone.

"You are angry with me."

Christopher laughed once. The sound contained little humour. "Should I not be?"

Marco considered this. "I suppose you have reasons."

The calmness of the answer only deepened Christopher's frustration.

For days he had been turning the cemetery conversation over in his mind. Every explanation seemed inadequate. Every answer led towards another question.

Marco watched him quietly. The wind caught strands of dark hair and pushed them across his forehead.

Christopher suddenly found himself remembering the grave beneath the yew tree. The sadness in Marco's face, the familiarity. The sense that he had been mourning something far older than any ordinary loss.

"You know something," Christopher said.

Marco lowered his eyes briefly. When he looked up again, the expression in them had become guarded. "We have had this conversation before."

"No." Christopher shook his head. "We have almost had it before." Rain swept across the summit between them. "That is different."

Marco looked tired. The sight surprised Christopher. He seemed older suddenly. The strain that occasionally surfaced beneath his composure had become impossible to miss.

"What is it you want me to say?"

The question hung between them. Christopher opened his mouth, then stopped because he was no longer entirely certain.

That Marco was lying? That Vale was lying? That the dreams meant something? That they meant nothing? The confusion only fuelled his irritation.

"I want somebody to tell me the truth."

Marco's gaze held his. Something flickered there. Regret, perhaps, or sorrow. "The truth is rarely as simple as people hope."

Christopher exhaled sharply. "There you go again."

"I know."

"Do you?"

The words came out more forcefully than he intended. "I am tired of riddles, Marco."

Silence followed. The storm pressed around them. Far below, the sea hammered against the coastline. For an instant Christopher thought Marco might finally answer, might finally explain whatever secret seemed to bind him and Vale together. Instead Marco looked towards the horizon.

Rain obscured the view entirely. Only shifting grey remained. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. "I know."

The simplicity of the admission caught Christopher off guard. There was no defence in it, no evasion, only weariness.

For several seconds neither man moved. The wind strengthened. Rain lashed across the summit.

Christopher turned away in frustration and took a step towards the path.

His boot landed on wet stone. The surface shifted beneath him. Suddenly there was no grip at all.

The world lurched sideways as Christopher's foot shot out from under him. The edge of the tor seemed to tilt alarmingly towards the cliffs below.

Then a hand seized his wrist... Strong fingers closed around him... Another arm caught his shoulder.

The fall stopped. For a fraction of a second Marco held him upright between them.

And the world shattered.

Marco's hand closed around his wrist. The world vanished, and Christopher felt the stone disappear beneath his feet.

Rain. Mud. Noise. The change struck with such violence that he could not tell where one reality ended and another began.

He was falling, then he was running. Mud dragged at his boots, and the ground shook beneath the thunder of men and horses.

The air smelled of wet earth, blood, and smoke. Someone shouted nearby. Another voice screamed. Steel crashed against steel.

A banner snapped wildly overhead. Its colours were blurred by smoke from cannon fire, white, red, gold.

He could not focus on it. Blood covered his hands, fresh blood.

Warm despite the cold. He stared at it in horror. The sight lasted only an instant before the world shifted again.

Church bells rang somewhere beyond the battle. The sound was frantic, desperate, as though the whole town were sounding an alarm. The bells echoed across fields churned into mud by thousands of feet.

The sensation vanished before he could grasp it. A body struck the ground nearby. A man cried out. Another voice called a name.

The name disappeared beneath the roar of battle. The smell filled his lungs, a cloak plastered against his shoulders.

His sword arm ached. His chest burned. Fear pressed against him from every direction.

Then suddenly there was a face, so close that he felt the warmth of breath despite the rain. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Younger.

Marco.

Then came the kiss, brief, desperate, tasting of salt and blood

The sensation struck him with such force that horror followed immediately afterwards.

The world lurched.

Battle noise returned. Men shouting, horses screaming, steel breaking against steel.

Christopher was running again.

Mud splashed upward. The church bells continued ringing. Someone fell. Someone cried out.

Then everything changed once more. A body lay in the mud, light flickering upon a pale face.

Hands reached out, desperate and shaking.

Words poured through the grief. Christopher could not understand them, yet the voice itself struck him like a physical blow.

Marco. The certainty was absolute. The sound tore through him. The grief within it seemed almost impossible to survive. Christopher felt his own chest constrict.

Hands clutched desperately at a dying man, refused to let go.

The anguish was unbearable, and beneath it all lay another certainty. The person dying mattered more than life itself.

The certainty that everything was about to be lost.

Then came the most frightening realisation of all.

He could no longer tell whose memories these were.

The battlefield seemed to shift around him.

The certainty remained. Someone was dying. Someone was being left behind.

Then the vision shattered.

The storm upon the tor returned all at once.

Cold air filled his lungs.

Rain struck his face.

Marco's hand still gripped his wrist.

Christopher stared at him in horror. "What did you do to me?" Christopher keeps going, "Every time you're around this gets worse...The dreams...The visions... Now this...What are you doing to me?"

The accusations become increasingly irrational because Christopher is frightened.

Marco initially tries to answer., then stops because he realises Christopher genuinely believes it.

Christopher tore himself free, stumbled backwards across the wet stone.

His breath came in ragged bursts. For several seconds he could not distinguish the storm from the images still exploding through his mind.

Mud. Blood. The deafening clamour of church bells. A hand clutching desperately at his coat.

A kiss that felt impossibly familiar.

The vision had lasted only moments.

It felt like an entire lifetime.

Marco stood several feet away.

He looked as shaken as Christopher felt.

"Christopher."

The sound of his name snapped something inside him. "You touched me and then..." He broke off.

The explanation sounded absurd even to his own ears.

Marco took a step forward. Christopher immediately stepped back. The movement brought Marco to a halt. Neither man spoke.

The sea roared somewhere beyond the mist.

"What happened?" Marco asked quietly.

Christopher laughed. The sound held no humour. "You tell me." Confusion crossed Marco's face. Real confusion. Christopher barely noticed. "You have been lying to me since the day we met."

"I have not lied to you."

"No?"

Christopher's voice rose. "Then explain the dreams. "Marco's expression tightened. "The cemetery." Silence. "Vale." More silence. Christopher felt his control slipping. "And now this." He pointed towards Marco with a trembling hand. "What did you do to me?"

"I did nothing."

The answer came immediately.

Christopher shook his head. "That is impossible."

"Christopher."

"No."

He cut him off. The fear inside him had become overwhelming. His thoughts searched desperately for something rational, something ordinary, anything that made more sense than what he had just experienced.

Marco did not move. Christopher barely recognised the expression that had settled across his face. "I am not imagining this."

"You are not."

The agreement startled him. Both men simply stood there, the storm suddenly very far away.

"You are doing something to me."

Silence followed. Marco's gaze remained fixed upon him. Something changed in his expression. The change was small, a slight lowering of his eyes, a tightening around his mouth.

Yet Christopher felt it immediately. The hurt landed with more force than any anger could have done. Marco paused briefly. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost lost beneath the wind. "You think I would do that?"

Christopher opened his mouth. No answer came. The question contained no outrage, no attempt to defend himself, only pain, a deep and weary hurt that seemed to reach far beyond the present moment.

For several seconds neither man spoke.

The silence became unbearable.

Christopher wanted to take the words back, to explain that he had been frightened that none of this made sense, that he no longer trusted his own mind.

Instead he stood frozen.

Marco gave a faint nod, a gesture that looked oddly resigned. "I am sorry."

Christopher frowned. The apology made no sense. "Marco..."

The archaeologist shook his head. Whatever he had intended to say remained unspoken.

When he looked up again, the hurt had not vanished. It had merely been hidden at cost to Marco.

"You should go home."

The words were gentle. That somehow made them worse.

"Marco."

Marco was already turning away.

The storm swallowed him almost immediately, his dark coat fading into rain and mist as he descended the path from the summit.

Christopher remained where he was, the wind tugging at his clothes, watching until Marco disappeared entirely.

Only then did he allow himself to breathe. The silence felt enormous. His pulse slowly began to settle.

The images from the vision drifted through his thoughts once more. This time they came more slowly, more clearly.

Mud beneath his knees. Blood on his hands. Church bells ringing somewhere overhead. A voice breaking with grief.

The sound returned clearly. Words spoken to someone who was dying.

Because he recognised the voice.

Marco.

The certainty arrived all at once.

Another certainty emerged, terrible and inescapable.

Marco had not been mourning a stranger. He had been mourning someone he loved.

And somehow, impossibly, Christopher knew who that person had been. The knowledge settled into him with the weight of a falling stone.

Christopher stood alone on the summit while the storm raged around him.

Far below, the sea crashed against the cliffs.

Because for the first time since the dreams had begun, the possibility he had been trying to avoid no longer felt impossible.