Then the music came again.
Roland jumped up, but there was no fiddler in sight, and he could not make out which direction the sound was coming from.
“Nick!”
The music faded.
“Nick! – Nick!”
The wasteland was bigger in the late afternoon light; the air quiet; and the houses seemed to be painted in the dusk. They were as alien as a coastline from the sea. A long way off, a woman pushed a pram.
“Nick!”
Roland picked his way over the rubble to the other side of the church, and here he found a door which sagged open on broken hinges: two floorboards were nailed across the doorway. Roland climbed through into a passage with several small rooms leading off it. Water trickled from a fractured pipe. There were the smells of soot and cat.
The rooms were empty except for the things that are always left behind. There were some mouldering Sunday school registers; a brass-bound Bible; a faded sepia photograph of the Whitsun procession of 1909; a copy of Kirton’s Standard Temperance Reciter, Presented to John Beddowes by the Pendlebury Band of Hope, February 1888. There was a broken saucer. There was a jam jar furred green with long-dried water.
“Nick!”
Roland went through into the body of the church.
The floorboards and joists had been taken away, leaving the bare earth: everything movable had been ripped out down to the brick. The church was a cavern. Above Roland’s head the three lancets of the west window glowed like orange candles against the fading light. The middle lancet, the tallest, was shattered, and the glass lay on the earth. But there was no ball.
“Nick! Helen! David! Where are you?”
The dusk hung like mist in the church.
Roland went back to the passage. At the end was a staircase. The banisters had been pulled out, but the steps remained.
“David! Nick! Come down: please don’t hide! I don’t like it!”
No one answered. Roland’s footsteps thumped on the stairs. Two rooms opened off a landing at the top, and both were empty.
“Nick!”
The echo filled the church.
“Nick!”
Round, and round, his voice went, and through it came a noise. It was low and vibrant, like wind in a chimney. It grew louder, more taut, and the wall blurred, and the floor shook. The noise was in the fabric of the church: it pulsed with sound. Then he heard a heavy door open; and close; and the noise faded away. It was now too still in the church, and footsteps were moving over the rubble in the passage downstairs.
“Who’s that?” said Roland.
The footsteps reached the stairs, and began to climb.
“Who’s there?”
“Do not be afraid,” said a voice.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
The footsteps were at the top of the stairs. A shadow fell across the landing.
“No!” cried Roland. “Don’t come any nearer!”
The fiddler stood in the doorway.
“I shall not harm you. Take the end of my bow, and lead me. The stairs are dangerous.”
He was bent, and thin; he limped; his voice was old; there looked to be no strength in him; and he was between Roland and the stairs. He stretched out his fiddle bow.
“Help me.”
“All – all right.”
Roland put his hand forward to take the bow, but as he was about to touch it a shock struck his finger tips, driving light through his forehead between the eyes. It was as though a shutter had been lifted in his mind, and in the moment before it dropped again he saw something; but it went so quickly that all he could hold was the shape of its emptiness.
“What did you see?”
“See? I didn’t – see. I – through my fingers – See? Towers – like flame. A candle in darkness. A black wind.”
“Lead me.”
“Yes.”
Roland went down the stairs, a step at a time, dazed but no longer frightened. The church was somehow remote from him now, and flat, like a piece of stage scenery. The only real things were the fiddler and his bow.
“I heard your music,” said Roland. “Why were you playing so far away from people?”
“I was near you. Are you not people?” They had reached the bottom of the stairs, and were standing on the earth floor of the church. “Give me my bow.”
“I can’t stay,” said Roland. But the old man put the fiddle to his shoulder. “I’m looking for my sister, and my two brothers—” The old man began to play. “—and I must find them before dark—” It was the wild dance. “—and we’ve a train to catch. What’s that noise? – Please! – Stop! – It’s hurting!—Please!—”
The air took up the fiddle’s note. It was the sound Roland had heard upstairs, but now it was louder, building waves that jarred the church, and went through Roland’s body until he felt that he was threaded on the sound.
“—Please!—”
“Now! Open the door!”
“I can’t! It’s locked!”
“Open it! There is little time!”
“But—!”
“Now!”
Roland stumbled to the door, grasped the iron handle and pulled with all his weight. The door opened, and he ran out on to the cobbles of the street, head down, driven by the noise.
But he never reached the far pavement, for the cobbles were moving under him. He turned. The outline of the church rippled in the air, and vanished. He was standing among boulders on a sea shore, and the music died into the crash of breakers, and the long fall of surf.
A cliff rose above him, and at the top were the ruins of a castle. He was confused by the noise that had shaken the church, but the cold thrill and burn of the spray woke him.
Roland walked along the shore. The cliff was an islet separated from the mainland by a channel of foam. High over his head a drawbridge spanned the gap, and there was no other way to cross. He would have to climb, and climb soon, for even as he tried to find the best place to start, a wave dragged at the rocks. The tide was coming in.
The rocks sloped on one side, and were never more than a hard scramble: but the height was bad. The sound of the water dropped away and there was no wind. The cliff thrust him outwards, and each movement felt too violent for him to be able to keep his balance, and the tendons in his wrists were strained by the pressure of his grip on every hold. He knew better than to look down, but once he looked up, and the whole mass of the castle toppled slowly towards him. After that, he forced himself to see only what was within reach of his hand.
The foundations of the castle were smooth masonry curving to the vertical wall, but between the foundations and the bedrock there was a ledge which Roland worked himself along until he reached the drawbridge.
The chains that raised the bridge had been cut, and