ground …’
Angela was sitting up, now, watching curiously.
Jack leaned down and listened through the grass. At once, the struggling of the bull-runners came into sharp, auditory focus, and he smelled forest. Greyface was carrying a bleeding carcase, an animal of some kind, Jack couldn’t be sure – they were too distant. He just knew that they’d been hunting.
Apart from the bull-runners all he could hear was the faint sound of voices from the river and the thump of his heart, magnified, it seemed, through the earth itself.
When he told this to Garth, the man glanced down and smiled. ‘Listen
through
all that. Can’t you hear the movement?’
Jack concentrated. He tried to hear beyond the rustle, struggle and murmuring of the two people who were running, close by.
And at once he heard the slow creaking of great stones!
‘It’s like movement … deep in the earth …’
He felt the ground vibrate. Angela watched him closely, eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare.
‘Can you hear something?’
The sound that was rising from below him was like a deep thunder, coming in waves, the sound of an earthquake, he imagined, or mine workings, but far away, far away …
‘There’s something down there, something moving around.’
But Garth said, ‘There’s nothing there. Just echoes. Pre-echoes. There’s nothing there yet, but it won’t be long. I had a good feeling that it would stay around …’
‘I can’t hear anything at all,’ Angela said. ‘Echoes of what?’
‘The white whale,’ Garth said with a smile, pulling his biker’s vest over his broad shoulders. ‘This is where I leave you, Jack. I need time to think, time to prepare. Veronica will drive the bus home.’
And before Jack could say a word, he walked out across the hill, tugging his broad hat over his damp hair, descending the rolls and folds of ground until he could only be seen occasionally, a diminishing figure walking to the west.
For a while, Jack thought the man had taken off for theafternoon, requiring solitude, and he went back with Angela to the river and the picnic.
In fact, that was the last he saw of Garth for more than a year, the man having clearly decided to abandon the exploration of the hidden city.
He left without a word, without a note, and when the rains of October began to wash against the earth of the scattered shrines, the pits that dotted Exburgh, they were covered over and preserved for later excavation.
8
Jack eventually saw Garth again on two occasions. The first was shortly before Christmas, three days before the end of the long winter term. With two other boys, Jack had left the school grounds for the latter part of the afternoon, quickly changed from school uniform into jeans and leather jacket and walked down to the city centre in search of last minute suggestions for Christmas gifts.
As they strolled through the neon-lit darkness of the main street, aware that a fine, icy drizzle was starting to fall, Jack glimpsed the tall man emerging from the shoe shop above the Minerva shrine.
‘That’s Garth …
Garth
!’ he shouted.
‘Who’s Garth?’
‘An old friend. The guy digging up the old city. Christ, don’t you know
anything?’
Jack ran through the crowds until he came to the ring road. Garth was already across on the grass verge, walking towards the high wall of the church on the opposite side. Again Jack called to the man, and this time Garth looked round, squinting through the traffic. In the early evening darkness it was hard to read the man’s expression, but Jack was in no doubt that he had been waved away.
Garth had turned, then, and disappeared around the building.
Jack went back to the shop and asked for the manager.
‘I came here a year ago with the archaeologist, John Garth? He took me downstairs to see the temple.’
‘Yes, I remember. You got claustrophobic. Very frightening. I suffer myself, which is why you won’t get
me
–’
‘He was just here, wasn’t he? I
Angela was sitting up, now, watching curiously.
Jack leaned down and listened through the grass. At once, the struggling of the bull-runners came into sharp, auditory focus, and he smelled forest. Greyface was carrying a bleeding carcase, an animal of some kind, Jack couldn’t be sure – they were too distant. He just knew that they’d been hunting.
Apart from the bull-runners all he could hear was the faint sound of voices from the river and the thump of his heart, magnified, it seemed, through the earth itself.
When he told this to Garth, the man glanced down and smiled. ‘Listen
through
all that. Can’t you hear the movement?’
Jack concentrated. He tried to hear beyond the rustle, struggle and murmuring of the two people who were running, close by.
And at once he heard the slow creaking of great stones!
‘It’s like movement … deep in the earth …’
He felt the ground vibrate. Angela watched him closely, eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare.
‘Can you hear something?’
The sound that was rising from below him was like a deep thunder, coming in waves, the sound of an earthquake, he imagined, or mine workings, but far away, far away …
‘There’s something down there, something moving around.’
But Garth said, ‘There’s nothing there. Just echoes. Pre-echoes. There’s nothing there yet, but it won’t be long. I had a good feeling that it would stay around …’
‘I can’t hear anything at all,’ Angela said. ‘Echoes of what?’
‘The white whale,’ Garth said with a smile, pulling his biker’s vest over his broad shoulders. ‘This is where I leave you, Jack. I need time to think, time to prepare. Veronica will drive the bus home.’
And before Jack could say a word, he walked out across the hill, tugging his broad hat over his damp hair, descending the rolls and folds of ground until he could only be seen occasionally, a diminishing figure walking to the west.
For a while, Jack thought the man had taken off for theafternoon, requiring solitude, and he went back with Angela to the river and the picnic.
In fact, that was the last he saw of Garth for more than a year, the man having clearly decided to abandon the exploration of the hidden city.
He left without a word, without a note, and when the rains of October began to wash against the earth of the scattered shrines, the pits that dotted Exburgh, they were covered over and preserved for later excavation.
8
Jack eventually saw Garth again on two occasions. The first was shortly before Christmas, three days before the end of the long winter term. With two other boys, Jack had left the school grounds for the latter part of the afternoon, quickly changed from school uniform into jeans and leather jacket and walked down to the city centre in search of last minute suggestions for Christmas gifts.
As they strolled through the neon-lit darkness of the main street, aware that a fine, icy drizzle was starting to fall, Jack glimpsed the tall man emerging from the shoe shop above the Minerva shrine.
‘That’s Garth …
Garth
!’ he shouted.
‘Who’s Garth?’
‘An old friend. The guy digging up the old city. Christ, don’t you know
anything?’
Jack ran through the crowds until he came to the ring road. Garth was already across on the grass verge, walking towards the high wall of the church on the opposite side. Again Jack called to the man, and this time Garth looked round, squinting through the traffic. In the early evening darkness it was hard to read the man’s expression, but Jack was in no doubt that he had been waved away.
Garth had turned, then, and disappeared around the building.
Jack went back to the shop and asked for the manager.
‘I came here a year ago with the archaeologist, John Garth? He took me downstairs to see the temple.’
‘Yes, I remember. You got claustrophobic. Very frightening. I suffer myself, which is why you won’t get
me
–’
‘He was just here, wasn’t he? I
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