Read Avilion (Mythago Wood 7) for Free Online Page B

that I have a “haunter” side, and that he sees the wildwood differently.’
    ‘I understand. And your father’s name for it,’ the man asked carefully, ‘myth imago? Would that be right?’
    ‘Mythago,’ Jack whispered.
    The black-coated man thought about that, then nodded his head and took off his hat to reveal a long length of grey hair, tied back in a plait. ‘I’m something of the wild myself,’ he said quietly, ‘though not as wild as you. A wild life ended in humility, tucked up inside grey stone. Vows taken, counsel accepted, especially among the middle-aged. Services unattended, and an odd witness from one temple of new practices, to older practices on the green, an even older temple. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
    ‘Not a word,’ Jack said.
    ‘I’m what is called “the vicar” here. I came to it late. It’s a long story. A very long story. But that’s my church now, built of good local stone by long-dead craftsmen from all over the land. And a bit of local labour. Nearly a thousand years ago. I’d like you to come into my church, dry off, and have something to drink and something to eat. What do you say?’
    ‘I’ll try.’
    ‘You’ll try to eat?’
    ‘I’ll try to get to your church.’
    Greybeard frowned for a moment, then seemed to understand. ‘Haunted. Haunting. The ghost is never far away from the grave. Ryhope is your home and your grave. I think I understand. There are chains on you. Chains made of vines and briar.’
    Jack stared at this strange man and all cold in his body had gone. This was his second encounter during which he had suddenly felt a sense of being known, understood and welcomed. Perhaps the bridge between worlds was not in the steps taken, but in the encounters made. Julie had touched his heart. This man had inspired courage.
    ‘I think I can make it.’
    ‘Good. It’s Jack, isn’t it? Jack of Ryhope? Jack of Leather? Jack the Haunter?’
    ‘Huxley. Jack Huxley. And you?’
    ‘Caylen Reeve. Some call me “The Reverend” Caylen Reeve but, as I said, there’s a story behind that. For another time. If you can make it into my grey-stone mausoleum, please regard the tomb as your home. All wooden pews available for sleeping. Sacrifice what you like upon the altar. I deal only in church wine and Indian takeaways. Only one rule: don’t ring the bells. It’s a job I love and guard jealously. And if the stone walls start to sweat and swell, leave fast and go back to Ryhope. I mean that very seriously. But for the moment - if you make it - a mere three hundred paces! - shall we have some Indian cuisine?’
    ‘I have no idea what that is.’
    ‘No. I don’t suppose you do.’
    Jack remembered his father talking to him about the Indian Nations. ‘Buffalo?’
    Caylen laughed. ‘Buffalo? Ah, I see what you mean. Well, I can ask. But it will come in a spicy sauce.’
     
    Courage!
    Caylen walked ahead of him, a confident stride, the wide-brimmed hat now settled upon his head again, catching the light rain. Jack followed, focusing on the door to the grey building, aware that he could hear a whisper of urgency, the moaning song of return.
    I’ve come this far. I’ll go that small step further!
    He fought the sudden urge to turn and run. He reached the steps, five of them, that led to the open doors of the church. Hard-eyed now, and solemn, Caylen watched him as he hauled his feet up those five simple slabs of stone. His stomach was hurting, his head contained a sound like the raging of a river, the rushing of water over rocks, the crash of waves against the steep cliffs where the river turned. He was shaking.
    ‘You’re doing well. You’re doing very well indeed. It’s important to stretch the chain.’
    Calm words from the expressionless man, his grey eyes seeming unblinking as Jack reached the door. ‘Stretch the chain and you can find the dream. You will never break the chain. But stretch it, stretch it: that is in your own power. Ten more paces,