The Line

'Time to go, Keron.' For an instant he wavers, despite the months of discipline he's endured while preparing for this rite of passage. But it's too late to challenge the authority of his mother, who is wearing her green robe of office to signify the solemnity of the moment.

He stands beside her on the crumbling terrace overlooking the meadow, the swerve of the River Nyme and a patchwork of hedges and fields beyond, where dark woodlands are waiting for him. It is indeed time to follow the Line. The sun is blazing in a clear sky, while the moon is a fading ghost. He must concentrate on his mother's words.

'Tracking the Line alone for the first time is an honour, as well as a great service to our people. And I'm confident you will follow the true greenway. But maintain that purity of focus and channel the Current wisely, after all we have taught you. Now—onwards!' He's expecting some token farewell embrace, but Pryssa only raises her staff, a signal for him to walk down the broken steps. He descends, determined not to look back; but as he crosses the meadow, he still turns his head. She's already gone inside. He walks on quickly through a scattered flock of meandering sheep.

Keron arrives at the wicket fence that defines Pryssa's domain and unlocks the gate, to cross the rutted road that leads to Brandyn. But he's heading for the river bridge and the footpath to the first Linestone. Down at the jetty he can see Rahar hefting casks and wooden cases from a small barge that's come up-river to Norhelm from Port Hendron. These must be his ongoing cargo, valuable brews and crafted goods to be entrusted to his care on the long track to Darthway. There's already a faint twinge of the Current coursing through his nerves as the enormity of his task dawns on him. He needs to centre himself for the journey ahead.

'Fine morning for you, lad. Hope you slept well.' A shout across the river from Rahar, a thick-set, big-bellied serfman with straggly hair, who's always concealed his resentment of Keron's status behind a coarse joviality. Keron forces a grin and mutters his thanks. Rahar seizes a chance for some banter.

'Had no sleep myself—rogering young Elleth all night, I was. You Linefolk don't know what you're missing!' Rahar's braying laugh follows Keron as he mounts the narrow footbridge. The serfman couldn't resist a jibe about the enforced celibacy of Linesmen, probably trying to unnerve him at this crucial juncture. He can hear Rahar and his helper Gawn grumbling behind him as they roll barrels across the creaky planks. They follow him through an archway and cross the grassy clearing around the Norhelm Linestone, to continue loading the earthship. The very idea of these rough creatures setting foot in the vessel disturbs him, but he can't get everything done single-handed.

The sight of the Linestone restores his confidence. His studies have taught him that the core of his being is linked to the power of the ancients who planted these great stone markers. This one, marking the start of the Darthway Line at Norhelm, is almost twice his height. Its conical apex is weathered and its base is caked with moss, but the massive pillar of granite is still erect—after centuries, according to the Fragments interpreted by the scribes.

Even now he is still over-awed to stand in the presence of this earthship, resting on the long greenway of the Line. The vessel—his vessel today—is at least seven yards in length and shoulder-high at the prow. But what thrills him even more is the cunning with which it was crafted. Was it hollowed out from a huge slab of lodestone or moulded from some mysterious ceramic substance, a product of ancient sorceries? The scribes still argue, although Pryssa tries to suppress the wilder speculations.

Keron approaches it reverently and runs his fingers around the outline of the winged disc carved on the highest part of the hull, still visible despite the erosion of the time-stream. There are other jagged sigils snaking along the sides of the vessel, faint in places and the subject of much debate. But the scribes had to give the earthship a name—so the vessel is called Tharn, after the Moon of Dawn.

Using the shallow footholds carved into the hull, he hoists himself up on the worn flagstones of the deck, and stands erect. He walks warily to the Linesman's column at the head of the vessel. For the first time he's approaching it without Pryssa or the Line-Scribe Sorgar to guide him. He is now the guiding principle, in a literal sense, for the journey ahead.

He extends his right hand, eyes closed, and touches the slightly domed surface of the column, about chest height. He feels for the linear incisions in the stone and slowly traces the outline of a human figure, a sun-wheel at its navel. It radiates outward to form an intricate network of nodes—star-points, some say—that covers the whole surface. The whole Earth, some believe …

'You're ready to go, Master Keron. Trade-goods all loaded for Darthway, with a sealed chest for the scribes. Good luck and safe tracking, Linesman.' Gawn's raspy voice in his ear, an intrusion at this delicate moment; but the clumsy boy means well, unlike loutish Rahar. Keron turns and nods. Gawn's standing there, possibly expecting a hand laid on his shoulder or even a coin in his hand, but now Keron can't afford any physical contact, any leakage of energy. And Gawn perhaps knows some Line lore, because he suddenly heaves himself over the side and slithers down the hull into the grass.

Keron faces the column again and stares down the Line, towards the vanishing point of its green pathway, where it enters dense woodland. He steadies himself, plants his feet in the correct position on the stony deck, takes deep breaths and intones the secret words. He begins the visualisations, as prescribed, and tries to impose their geometry on the earthscape. He must arouse the Current, that excruciating but blissful flux of energy that will trigger the power embedded in the Line.

Slowly, in alternating waves of pain and almost sexual ecstasy, the Current starts pulsing from his feet, his legs, his loins, up through the solar plexus, into his agonised spine and raw throat, into his aching fingers. He trembles violently now as he grips the column. His bones are stone, burning stones now as the Current rises. His skull is becoming a cavernous space, echoing with vibrations that grind and rumble straight through him.

He senses that the Tharn is beginning to resonate with his body, the energy-nodes of his being. The stonework beneath his feet is shuddering, he feels the column trembling. The vessel is almost in phase with the energy in the Line. The tension in his spine is almost unbearable, but he can't lose focus now. The launch of an earthship is always the most critical point. If a Linesman fails at this point, he will never advance; and his mother would never forgive him.

Through half-closed eyes he glimpses Rahar and Gawn crouching by the Linestone. Maybe Rahar is no longer willing him to fail, for he has gripped Gawn's arm and is pointing, open-mouthed …

The Tharn is lifting slowly from the earth—only a finger's breadth at first—but the ship is rising. Insects stream out from under the stone hull as the huge mass starts to move forward down the greenway.

But Keron cannot relax. He's in a spectral symbiosis with the Tharn now, holding fast to the column as tightly as if he'd been strapped to it. 'You and the Line are One,' they told him. He now grasps what that means. As the ship speeds up—already skimming the grass as fast as a running man—he has to hold steady. Any shift of his stance—tempting because of the pain in his calves and thighs—and there's a risk that the huge bulk of the craft will veer away from the pulse of the Line.

The earthship can now out-pace a galloping horse, and soon it will fly faster than an eagle. Startled crows fly out of the hedges, and two fields away the sheep are scattering. The shepherd, some old man loyal to the Line, raises his staff, a salutation to a Linesman in flight. For the Tharn is elevating, now a foot off the ground. Keron feels the cold air buffeting his face. He looks ahead to the far point where the farmland ends and the trees form an arch overhead, down a green channel that will take him along ridgeways, through cuttings and earthworks, but always straight, aligned to the power and mystery of the Current.

*

The spring foliage streams past him, as he tracks past an abandoned farm house, through thickets, copses, a cluster of silver birches, and pines, more and more pines … Sunlight flickers through the trees, a hypnotic pulse of light/dark that could drive him into dream-time if he isn't vigilant. Another hazard. Suddenly a low hanging branch of a sapling whips across his face, scraping his forehead. He feels a trickle of blood and a surge of anger. Serfmen are tasked to keep the verges of the Line clear at all times. But he must be stoic. His body is a mere appendage of his ship.

The Line now sinks into a cutting, steep grassy slopes on both sides, studded with stony outcrops. Keron always wonders how the ancients cut these tracks, so straight and level across the Earth, regardless of hills or valleys. They must have used some lost skills or employed vast numbers of serfs to create these mighty earthworks. For soon he'll leave the cutting and the Line will take him high on an embankment, along a causeway across the marshlands, leading onto a limestone viaduct across the River Orcam. He looks briefly at his timepiece, a precious relic bequeathed by his grandmother. Already he has gone further in half an hour than a horseman could ride in a whole morning.

Despite the tension in his muscles and the burning ache in his skull, his body has reached a kind of equilibrium with the Tharn. It's moving steadily now, a sign that he is channeling the power of the Line consistently. His confidence is increasing. He can allow himself to speculate about the purpose of the journey to Darthway. Most of his cargo is routine trader stuff—beer for the inns, fabrics and ornaments for the stores favoured by rich matrons, spices and rare meats for the food markets. But what's in this sealed chest? Perhaps a special delivery for Bradur, a famous scribe of Darthway.

Now the ship glides across the viaduct; and he can risk a sideways glance down into the valley. It's thickly wooded with canopies of oaks and elms, where the tree spirits live, according to the serfs' folklore. But the granite mass of Chamber Mound rises above the treetops. He can see the grey dome of the Chamber Tower, a vast enlargement of the column he's clutching, surrounded by its pillars of stone. He understands it's another sacred inheritance from the ancients. His mother has told him that one day, perhaps soon, he might be summoned there to take part in a secret ceremony, once he has proved his skill as a Linesman.

But he can't think about secrets now. The craft shudders as it reaches full speed. And the skies have become veiled by a drifting film of cloud, the sunlight's fading, and he's heading into a spring shower. Rain stings his face, despite the hood of his Linesman's garment, which will soon become sodden, another petty distraction. He must remember his mother's exhortations about purity of focus.

The contour of the land undulates and rises to meet the viaduct, taking the Line on a ridge across a broad plateau; and the woodlands are thinning, yielding to arable fields, apple orchards, a pasture dotted with cattle, a shepherd's hut, a gang of serfmen struggling with an overturned wagon in a crooked lane. He's entering the outskirts of the city now, passing humble slate-roofed cottages, the villas of the merchant classes, shrines to the Earth Mother, the Long Meeting Hall … The Linestone of Darthway will soon be visible down the narrow perspective of the green track.

*

Waking is pure pain. His limbs seem stiff, hardened, almost mineral, as if his flesh has been transformed into volcanic rock. His skull feels brittle, about to shatter.

He tries shifting and turning on the hard bed. He must not forget Sorgar's warning. 'Tracking the Line is brutal. Conducting the energy flow affects every nerve and organ. But it's fatal to remain still and passive. You must move and use your body as soon as you can.'

Wincing at abrupt jolts of agony in his lower torso, he manages to stand upright. He squints at his timepiece. He has been asleep for at least eight hours. It's dusk outside. Lady Darthway will be expecting his presence in the Long Hall. He must relay greetings from his mother, Lady Pryssa of Norhelm, and deliver that mysterious chest in person.

His arrival by the great Linestone in the town square has been rather an anticlimax. Seeing that it was his initiation as a Linesman, he was expecting that someone from the local Assembly might be there to formally congratulate him. But he only encountered three surly serfmen who just grunted and pushed past him as they hurried to unload the goods. By the time they had finished, the pressures of his journey were catching up with him and it took an enormous effort and all his skills to realign his craft for the return journey. Once again he was expecting the townsfolk to be impressed by the spectacle of the huge stone vessel rotating slowly over the cobbles, but the operation was only watched by a handful of bored children. The 'Linesman's House', where he'll be spending the night, offers a wooden bunk, a lumpy mattress, a basin and a privy. It's scarcely more than a shed, musty and bare. Is this yet another sacrifice he must endure for his vocation?

He gropes for his clothes and dresses hurriedly. He almost trips over the carved chest which the serfs have left at the foot of the bed. It's heavy, painful to lift in his present state. But he's duty bound to deliver it to Lady Darthway.

*

The Long Hall is crowded tonight with prominent members of the Assembly. Merchants and their wives, in their finest embroidered crimson hoods and cloaks, murmur approvingly as they glance up at the oak rafters, which are hung with lanterns and adorned with baskets of spring flowers. They wander across to the feast-table and take a platter of sliced meat and a cup of wine before mingling and gossiping with their peers.

Keron looks for Lady Darthway in the throng. Although he's ravenous after his ordeal, he must pay his respects first. But Bradur is already at his elbow. Balding and bearded in his green robe, the scribe towers over Keron, but the smile on his round face is reassuring.

'Greetings, Linesman Keron! I trust your Lady of Norhelm is in good spirits and that all is well in her domain. I'm sure she will be very proud of you.'

'Thank you, sir …'

'I'm afraid our own First Lady is indisposed tonight. A spring chill, it seems. Otherwise she would have greeted you. Now, let me relieve you of your precious burden.' He slides the chest on to a side table. ' I look forward to reviewing Sorgar's latest research. But later … Tell me—how was your first tracking? How did you take the Current?'

'The Line is hard, sir. But I kept purity of focus.'

'And here you are … Sorgar has taught you well. We have much to discuss …' Bradur scans the Hall, noisy with chatter now as the liquor flows. 'I have a private scriptorium above, where we can find peace. I'll have a serfmaid bring up food and wine. And you can meet my niece, Tamath.'

Keron feels honoured by this unexpected hospitality. To be invited into the study of a famous scholar is a great privilege. As for this Tamath girl—he's confident he can manage the correct social pleasantries. But while Bradur strides down the passage to lay down the chest and unlock a door, Keron pauses at the top of the stairs, in front of a long mirror. He's given little thought to his appearance since taking up his apprenticeship on the Line. He studies his narrow face, his deep-set eyes and tight jaw. Are there lines around his mouth that weren't there before? He's just tired. He doesn't care what what the Tamath person makes of him. She probably faces a comfortable life, wived off to a successful farmer or shopkeeper.

Bradur's inner sanctum resembles Sorgar's library in the Domain House at Norhelm, where his mother spent hours catechising him in the Lore of the Line. But it's much larger. Keron's gaze takes in ceiling-high shelves of hide-bound tomes, cabinets of scrolls, glass cases displaying ancient tablets and other salvage from the Fragments. Faded charts and maps cover every remaining square inch of the wall.

A thin serfmaid hurries in and lays a tray of food and drink on a low table, while Bradur ushers Keron into a deep leather armchair. 'Help yourself! You must be exhausted to your very core. The Tharn is a mighty beast to master.' Flattered, Keron takes a deep draught of red wine and tears off a fragrant chunk of fresh bread. For a while the talk follows a predictable path. Bradur asks him if he's encountered any issues with the maintenance of the Line; and enquires after his mother's flocks and crops, expressing a hope that she hasn't experienced any difficulties managing her serf people, an increasing problem these days … Keron responds politely, sinking into a mellow daze as Bradur refills his goblet. Then he's aware of a bright female voice.

'Is this the Linesman, Uncle? He's quite sharp! I was expecting a beardy old monster …' Keron turns to see a dark-haired girl, full-figured but slender-waisted, with the green eyes, full lips and high cheekbones common in Darthway people. He feels a faint spasm of desire, despite his purity training, but fights the impulse. She laughs.

'No need to look so serious, Linesman. Aren't you going to say hello? Or tell me your name?'

'Keron—Keron from Norhelm.' He blurts it out. She's wearing a mauve silk dress with an earth-serpent pattern, long and high-necked—but it only accentuates the shape of her body.

'Keron has been on an epic journey, Tamath. He needs rest and refreshment.' Bradur smiles and proffers more wine and a slice of some rich aromatic cake. Keron's resistance is low. And he doesn't wish to appear ungracious. The voices of the scribe and his niece ebb and flow around him as they chat about Assembly matters and the prospects for this year's harvest. All he has to do is make polite interjections and agreeable noises. Then Bradur nudges his arm.

'Your achievement today is a wonderful example of our enduring values, is it not? You've been true to your ordained pathway in life as a Linesman, nurtured from boyhood by your mother. Just as Tamath will follow her own route as a tradewife when she is hand-fasted this summer to Fulgar. His vineyards have prospered last season—so you will be even more richly attired, Tamath!'

Tamath, hands clasped in her lap, bites her lip and looks up at Keron. He must avoid her glance. Bradur is pointing to the wooden chest, now resting on a sideboard. 'The old wisdom of the Matriarchy has done us men proud, Linesman. We have interpreted it rightly. The Matriarchs, scribes, merchants, farmers, crafters, enforcers, serfs—everyone knows the place allotted to them from time immemorial. We have order and stability. Menfolk serve and the great Mothers rule!'

'Serving the Line and preserving the Current is my life, sir. I will always do my utmost.' He doesn't know what else to say, he's so tired—but that appears to satisfy the scribe.

Tamath smiles. 'I'm sure you have saved the Current for great deeds, Keron. I'm deeply honoured to have met you. But I'm afraid I must retire now. I have a meeting early tomorrow with Nemeth, Fulgar's mother, to discuss the wedding. She will have us married at the Chamber—according to custom, of course. So—good night, brave Keron …' She rises; and Keron's eye follows the sweep of her dress and the swing of her hips as she glides towards the door.

Bradur lays a hand on his shoulder. 'You must still be very weary, Linesman Keron. After your initiation you deserve better than retiring to a bunk in a chilly hut. If you take the stairs to the next floor you will find a guest room at the far end under the eaves. It's small but well appointed.'

*

Fuzzy with liquor and exhaustion, he extinguishes the bedside lantern and slides under the heavy patchwork quilt. Through a narrow window he can see the stars and the silver crescent of the moon. She gifted her name to his vessel, the Tharn, which waits in the dark square for his return journey at dawn. Sleep should come quickly. But he can't control an anxiety about his true alignment with the Current, which has been stung into life so unexpectedly by this brief encounter with a young woman. He recalls the counsel of Sorgar, more austere than the avuncular Bradur. 'Your body belongs to your craft and the Current—and is sworn to the service of the Line.'

He tries to hold on to that precept as he enters the wilderness of the dream-world, which is soon overgrowing around his mother's house in a profusion of thorn bushes, gnarled oaks and twisted yews, giant shrubs and ferns, a grasping entanglement of branches and creepers that crawls between the cracks in the rough masonry of Norhelm, into the dark void of the feast room itself, which is now bare, its tapestries lying torn on the flagstones, revealing blotches of fungal damp spreading on the walls, and window panes fractured by the ingress of foliage.

His dream-mother is hunched in her high-backed chair at the far end of the room. Her shattered staff lies at her feet. Her robe is transformed to a web of filthy rags, her flesh seems fossilised, the contours of her grey face are scarred and fissured, forming a stony mask. Her eyes are sunken holes—but he knows she can see him. He's terrified that she's going to split open that petrified mask and somehow speak—

'Keron, listen!' He must not listen, keep his eyes shut. Something is trailing across his brow, like a long-legged spider, or some torn webbing from 'Pryssa's' huddled body. This is a bad dream within a dream. The sibilant whisper persists. 'Listen, Keron, please listen …' Fingertips trace the outline of his forehead, his cheek, his mouth.

And suddenly he's awake. Tamath is leaning over him, laying a slender finger on his lips. 'No words now. Just hear me, Keron, please. Things are not what they seem …' All he can see in the low light is the curve of her cheek and the outline of her bare shoulders. He's struggling to maintain 'purity of focus'. Being true to the Line defines his whole identity, his entire future …

Meanwhile she's murmuring in his ear.

'Don't believe anything they say! Don't trust their toxic matriarchy. I'm not going to be wived away to that old drunk Fulgar and become his fat milch-cow, to breed more wine-merchants.'

'But arrangements have been made … Fulgar's mother …' He must restore normality, defuse this dangerous encounter.

'It won't happen. I won't be there tomorrow.' She slips in beside him. He can feel the pressure of her belly through her flimsy shift. 'It's not just about the hand-fasting and the compulsory mothering. The whole earthscape's changing.'

'I don't understand. It can't—'

'For the last year, Bradur and Sorgar have been gathering information, from all the Lines across the land—the Southwold Line, the Line to the Western Territories, everywhere. I've rummaged where I shouldn't and kept my ears open. They've collated reports from scribes and Linesmen everywhere, especially from the veterans who've been on the greenway for decades. That's what's being collected in those sealed chests.'

'What's so secret? Why sealed?'

'Because all the information points in one direction. The Current is getting weaker. It's waning.'

Keron feels a deep seismic shock, a tectonic shift in the very ground of his being. 'That's impossible! The ancients laid the greenways and the markers to last forever. The Tellurian force is infinite!' Surely this girl from a high-born scribe family understands the significance of the Fragments.

'Not so. Perhaps we've exploited it too long—even your greatest scribes have never really understood how it interacts with our spirit energy—to make those huge stone coffins levitate.'

'Coffins? What nonsense is this? When I tracked the Line today, the power flowed through me, the Tharn flew. I've never felt more alive.'

'How old are you, Keron? Nineteen maybe, like me?'

'Yes—but I don't see—'

'Admit it, the stresses of tracking the Line just this once have taken a terrible toll on your body.'

'Look, I've been trained … You don't understand …' He turns over awkwardly in the narrow bed, anything to avoid her blazing eye contact or hearing these absurd blasphemies. But she won't relent.

'Forty years ago, the average lifespan of a Linesman was sixty. Now—maybe thirty. If you're lucky. Activating an earthship demands more and more of your life-force, your vital energy field, whatever you want to call it. All the self-denial in the world won't change that.'

Self-denial. Or self-delusion? Or deliberate deception by the scribes? He can't believe Sorgar has withheld this awful discovery from his students.

'Why wasn't I told of this?'

'Bradur only told the Darthway Mother a few days ago. She ordered him to keep it secret. But she's terrified. That's probably why she wasn't there tonight. Don't you see, Keron? Our entire transport and trading system could collapse in a few years. The whole mythology that's grown around the Lines and the Current could die—and our culture with it. Why do you think the serf-people have become so restless? They sense something's in the wind, even if they can't quite place it.'

Immediately he's re-visiting that dream-place, a feast room infested with rampant plant life, his mother's disintegrating face. But he cannot reveal this night vision to Tamath. Only the serfs believe in dreams and omens …

'Our scribes are not infallible, Tamath. You can't assume—'

'Remember the Forway disaster two years ago?'

'Who doesn't? It was terrible … Twenty crafters as passengers on the great Southwold Line—and their Linesman—all drowned in a cutting when the River Ayne burst its banks after a freak storm.'

'They weren't drowned, Keron. They died before the flooding; they were crushed when their earthship lost the Current and rolled over. Their Linesman lived for a few hours and told the Forway scribes. But Bradur ordered them to say nothing.'

All Keron's certainties are overturned now. And he's swamped by deeply illicit sensations—scent of a girl's hair, those fingertips drifting across his chest, pressure of her warm thighs. He doesn't know what to believe or what to do. He's rigid with anxiety—and desire …

'I don't know, Tamath, I just don't know … Perhaps you should go back to Fulgar?' Which sounds crass even as he says it.

' I can go if you like. Leave you to track on and burn out, while everything runs down. Or I can stay, and we can make something new.'

Is this his destined pathway now, to leave the tyranny of the Line? He only knows that the Current is blazing through his nerves, finding its true direction. He's stroking her hair, she's guiding his palm to her breast—

*

It's not quite dawn. Moonlight filters through drifting cloudscapes as they run towards the Darthway Linestone, which casts its long shadow across the town square. Goods for the return to Norhelm are stacked beside the earthship, ready to be loaded, but Keron and Tamath cross the greenway and scramble up the pitted sides of the hull for an immediate departure.

Keron still doesn't believe what he's done, but his whole being glows. With Tamath's arm around his waist, he'll be invulnerable. She kisses him and laughs. 'You can carry me off to Norhelm—and we can spread the word together.'

'I must confront Sorgar. And I must have words with my mother.' He almost succeeds in wiping out the imagery of that dream. 'I might be able to persuade her …'

Tamath meanwhile stands on the prow, arms outstretched, as if already addressing the whole world. 'We must tell all the people the truth and help them prepare for change!' She leaps down and kisses him again.

Keron realises that he only has the haziest idea of how his world will adapt to this change. He can only go onwards now. Yet automatically he pulls away from her as he approaches the column. He must centre himself, perform the prescribed procedures and channel the Current to the Line. There's still a lurking fear that his transgressions could wreck everything. Tamath's hanging back too, sensing his unease—or uneasy herself about seeing a Linesman perform the dangerous operation? Perhaps she's never tracked the greenway before …

He starts the procedure but it is a colossal effort, inducing a burning pain behind his eyes as if his optic nerve was about to explode. He must not turn to look back at Tamath—he knows one glance will disrupt his precarious stance at the column. His body is a pillar of agony.

The ship suddenly lurches—and moves forward in a series of jerks. Its huge bulk sways from side to side, almost toppling, splintering the casks and barrels stacked for loading. Tamath squeals with delight as red wine gushes across the flagstones and trickles into the grass. The prow of the Tharn dips, gouging the soil of the greenway, then rolls and yaws on the fluctuations of the Current. Yet it's rising, inch by inch. They are on track, after a fashion, and rapidly gathering speed. Soon they're flying past the outlying cottages and smallholdings.

The ship rears and plunges like a dolphin on a sea of green. Now Tamath wraps her arms around Keron as he grips the column. His head is throbbing, so he can't hear whatever she's shouting, perhaps yells of defiance—but he also senses her fear. Their flight is headlong, vertiginous, into danger zones …

*

Tracking the Line is a blur now. They are driving into thickening mist, with only intermittent sightings: a bleak tree on a hill, empty fields. The increasingly erratic vibration of the earthship aggravates the ordeal of riding the Current. Tamath huddles at the foot of the control column. Then she staggers upright and grabs his arm.

'Perhaps we should stop and think again. Ground the Tharn, hole up somewhere in the woods, find a shepherd's hut or something, and work out a strategy.'

'Once a craft is set in motion on the Line, it's almost impossible to break the Current. And even if I did there's the risk that I might never levitate the ship again.'

'But this is killing you. Maybe it's time to abandon the Line altogether. We could go to the forests and the farms, mobilise the serfs.'

Keron tries to imagine mobilising Rahar and his drunken cronies. 'They'll never believe anything from the likes of us, Tamath, they'll just see us as spoiled rich children. No, we go straight on to Norhelm and go face-to-face with the people who've got the power.'

Tamath frowns. 'Are you sure you can deal with your mother? Lady Pryssa of Norhelm is famous for her rigour. She will never concede anything. Even Bradur's wary of her.'

'Of course I can deal with her. She has to face the truth and admit what is happening.' Tamath's question annoys him. But his mother's deathly dream-mask now overlays his memories of her. He's dreading whatever's going to occur. Yet it has to be done.

Tamath shrugs. 'Well, as you wish. I hope you know what you're doing.' Struggling to stay upright against the rocking motion of the vessel, she steps down to the hold and wraps herself up in a tarpaulin.

Keron suddenly realises how little they know each other, how easily he's accepted her extraordinary story. Was it just a fabulation to get into bed with him? He can't flatter himself to that extent. But for the first time, he wonders if she's holding something back.

Now the grassy slopes of the cutting drop away and the mist starts to disperse as they near the causeway leading to the viaduct over the River Orcam. Soon they will be overlooking the deep valley where the Chamber Mound looms over the treetops.

But a few hundred feet ahead, Keron sees something unthinkable—an obstruction on the hallowed greenway—the Line has been blocked by a crude barricade of tree trunks and rocks. The sheer speed and weight of the Tharn will make it impossible to stop in time.

The moment freezes—he recognises a bulky figure leaping down from the barrier. He must warn Tamath—must reverse the Current—his body convulses …

Too late. The Tharn crashes into the barricade in an explosion of dirt, stones and splintered branches. For a second he's hoping that they will continue forward, but the huge mass of the earthship rears up, almost steadies—but then tumbles over into the woodland below. They're thrown overboard and falling … A thin branch lashes Keron's face. Then blackness.

*

He's trapped in a bush, enmeshed by its intertwining stems, which is why he can't move. But his right leg doesn't seem encumbered by anything. It simply won't respond; and it hurts horribly, like the rest of him. He feels as if every cell in his brain has been burnt out, every muscle twisted and deformed. She was right about the legacy of working with the Current. If only he'd had time to warn her of the collision … He tries to get up but slumps down again. His timepiece is broken. It might be late afternoon, in this shallow glade, under the overhang of huge trees. Crows circle slowly overhead. He drifts in and out of consciousness, on slow tidal waves of pain.

A while later something rustles in the bushes. He is suddenly on full alert. Rahar's serf gang might be after him now, enraged that their pirate mission to seize the cargo of an earthship has failed—because there wasn't any cargo. It is almost funny. But they might have seized her instead. He fears the worst.

Then to his immense joy, a mop of dark hair emerges from the undergrowth. There is a bruise on her cheek, her skirt is torn, she is breathing heavily. But their disaster hasn't diminished her energy.

'I've spent hours looking for you—and hiding from randy serfs. Come on, we've got to make a plan.'

'I can't plan anything right now. This leg …'

'Let's see.' She succeeds in levering him upright, which is agonising, but her arms are enfolding him. 'You must try!' Propped against her shoulder, he stumbles over tangled roots and ferns.

'Don't know if it's broken. Maybe get to the Chamber Tower, get some help …'

'That's the last place we should go. Now—let me have a look.' She peels back his ripped leggings and runs her hand along his swollen calf muscles. Her touch cools the torn tissues, as if she's activated a gentler Current in his frayed nerves. 'It's badly sprained—and made worse by your tracking. But it will heal. We just have to lie low for a bit.'

He's about to explain his desperation to reach Norhelm and confront his mother when they hear the barking of dogs. Then whistles and shouts …

Two huge heavy-jawed mastiffs burst out of the bracken, followed by their handlers. From the leather face masks and heavy clubs, Keron knows this must be a posse of enforcers. The largest beast rushes towards Tamath, ready to leap, its teeth bared. A guttural shout from the lead enforcer; and the dog freezes, snarling and drooling.

The enforcer raises his club. 'Don't think about moving, either of you! Or Grimer here will rip out missy's pretty little throat. By the powers of Lady Darthway's Domain, I hold you for piracy and theft of the Earthship Tharn.' He turns to his underlings. 'Bind them and march 'em. To the Chamber Tower!'

*

Keron knows that this is a show trial. He will be punished to set an example and create a precedent. The pews of the high vaulted Chamber are crowded with influential merchants and scribes from Darthway, Norhelm and beyond, as well as craftspeople and smallholders. House-serfs and shepherds stand at the back under the rough granite walls. Sunlight from narrow slits falls across the pillars where he and Tamath are shackled. He turns his head, as far as his chains will allow, to see her staring defiantly ahead.

Deep from the foundations of the Tower, in the crypts where the enforcers are quartered, there is the slow thud of drums, getting louder as Lady Pryssa's procession ascends the spiral staircase to the Chamber. A ripple of excitement runs through the audience and they rise.

A moment later the tall oak doors are flung open. The entourage files in, flanked by masked enforcers with spiked halberds and headed by half a dozen black-hooded kettle drummers. Their din reverberates around the stony walls. Then the scribes Bradur and Sorgar enter, marching in step, carrying scrolls and bearing crystal reliquaries, which protect fragments of rare tablets from the first earthship to be discovered centuries ago. They are followed by six aged serf-crones in long purple smocks, patterned with the vine-and-serpent motif of Darthway, who struggle to carry Lady Morveth, heavily veiled, on a litter.

But Pryssa's hood is thrown back, and he can't evade her icy glare, as it sweeps across the assembly. She settles into her chair of office. The drums are silenced.

The whole scene is frozen like a carved relief, as if everyone in the Chamber has become petrified by her glance. And in this dream-like stasis, Bradur, the arch-scribe, declaims the charges, phrased in an archaic language that makes them seem distant and unreal. Is this really him, a Linesman for life, or so it seemed? The accused has debased the Tellurian Current. He has deformed the sacred geometry of the Line. He has seduced a betrothed maid from her wifely path. He has betrayed the trust of the Earth Mother.

Those assembled bow their heads, even the serfs. Only Tamath looks Pryssa in the eye, until the slap of an enforcer's baton on her thigh makes her gasp. Keron is stricken with impotent fury. He realises how much he wanted her and how foolish he was to insist on staying with the Line. His weakness has betrayed them both and he's now face-to-face with his mother, but deprived of freedom. She is rising to address the assembly and pass sentence on him.

'Since taking office here I never thought I would be facing my own child, whom I have nurtured from his birth in our ways, standing in this court as a criminal and a traitor. It is a bitter repayment of the love and care lavished on him not only by myself, but by our illustrious scribes.' Bradur nods while Sorgar looks reproachfully at Keron, as he used to when his protege failed to memorise a recitation. Several Darthway merchants stare at him, scowling. He thinks the plump one might be Fulgar, and almost enjoys the dark absurdity of it all.

After a long pause, Pryssa folds her arms and continues. 'I also never expected to be faced with a crisis that threatens to undermine our way of life.' There's a flurry of movement and faint cries behind the veils shrouding Lady Morveth, but the serf-crones are quick to soothe her.

'There are those among the Matriarchy who would prefer me to remain silent. But it cannot be denied that the current which runs in our veins can no longer arouse the ancient Current that flows across the surface of our land. The power of the Earth is fading, and with it the stability of our world.'

There are murmurs of disbelief in the crowd and shouts from excited serfs at the back.

'You might feel that all seems well—we can trade and travel today; young Linesmen will always yearn for the thrill of tracking, and follow the greenway. We have had dangers from Mother Nature before—storms, floods, drought—but the balance of the elements has always been restored. The high tides of the sea revert to normal—so must the tidal Current of the Earth. I fear not …'

The crowd falls silent—although Keron is sure that he can hear a faint rumbling sound in the depths of the Tower. Then he checks himself. It's simply an internalised symptom of the shock he's endured. He must concentrate on his mother's words.

'Perhaps we have used the gift of the ancients to excess. For generations our scribes have tried to understand how the old ones laid the greenways and infused them with the power to be controlled by our own life-force. We have tried to comprehend the hidden magic embedded in the earthships. We have copied the sigils and texts from the Fragments. But reason and scholarship are no longer enough to deal with this threat. There may be only one way to renew the life of the Current and save the Line. It is a hard way for a mother. But it must be …'

Tamath screams. 'You knew it, you old witch—you knew it from the beginning! I tried to steer you away from her, Keron, I tried to warn you,;I guessed right, I—' An enforcer silences her with a gauntlet over her mouth but this doesn't stop her twisting her body to face him, eyes wide and desperate.

Keron knows the best and the worst. So Tamath was trying to protect him—from a dreadful truth, his destined victimhood, his fate at his mother's hands. Yet the dread has gone, this raw truth has freed him from those maternal ties, that network of obligations and the tyranny of the Line. He almost welcomes the bleak clarity of it.

The murmur of the crowd is turning angry, and Pryssa raises her staff, prompting the enforcers to brandish their weapons. A chill falls over the room.

'The Current demands a tribute. The time, place and means will be appointed. Take them below …'

*

Keron must remain calm, keep his energies centred. But his heart won't stop thumping like an enforcer's drum. He can accept his fate—the worst is somehow already over—but he broods over what might happen to Tamath, the lover he has scarcely known. He wonders where she's held. He has spent the last seven days being hustled around the labyrinth of passages dug deep into Chamber Mound. Were these also the handiwork of the ancients? The enigma scarcely matters, now that he's ended up in this low-ceilinged cell, bare as a Linesman's hut. He once heard the troll-like bellowing of serfs down the corridor, mates of Rahar perhaps, arrested after their attempt to loot the Tharn. His only illumination comes from a narrow shaft cut into the rock, allowing him a tiny segment of pre-dawn wolf-light.

A key rattles in the lock and an enforcer enters. The man has removed his leather mask, revealing a stout red face. His manner is almost kindly. 'Time to go, Keron. Easy, now …' Keron doesn't resist. He follows his jailer up the spirals of eroded steps to the Chamber archway, where a horse-drawn cart awaits. No sign of Tamath. The jailer handcuffs him and helps him up to the wagon. 'On our way, lad. It's great good you're going to do for the people.'

Keron is bewildered. He had believed that his mother's grim decree—whatever form it took—would be enacted in the Chamber. His jailer takes the reins, guiding the horse with ease. Soon they are trundling along the bumpy road to Norhelm, a trip that will take hours. The man has donned his mask again and pretends not to hear Keron's questions. All that Keron can do is try to align himself with the Current flowing through the thick forest bordering the wayward curves and humps of the country road. The wagon ride is even rougher than usual, with new ridges and potholes in the highway. The sun is ghostly white in the early morning mist, the pale moon has almost gone.

This journey is an eternity. He evokes Tamath's image, her wonderful recklessness, the feel of her skin. The memory flickers through his mind again and again, like the sunlight flashing through the roadside trees …

They finally reach the end of the Brandwyn road. Soon they'll arrive at Norhelm and the bridge over the River Nyme. Any moment now, he'll catch sight of the Norhelm Linestone.

A large crowd is crossing the bridge and gathering on the green around the tall granite marker. Some are brandishing the Norhelm flag or sharing bottles of wine. There is an almost festive atmosphere, reminding him painfully of the fairs he used to enjoy as a child.

Then, to his amazement, he sees the grey bulk of the Tharn, upright in its dock on the greenway. The prow is scarred and scraped but the navigation column is undamaged. He wonders how many serfs suffered while hauling it up the embankment and resetting it on the Line. A canopy has been erected behind the Linesman's station, over a gilded throne.

'You're on your own now, boy …' But he isn't. Even as the enforcer leads him down from the wagon and across the green in front of the jeering crowd, he sees her. She tries to rush across the grass towards him but is gripped by two muscular serfwomen.

Then Bradur approaches. He is smiling like some aging cherub. Keron has a brief hope of a last-minute reprieve as the sage grips his elbow.

'I'm so sorry it's come to this. You had such promise, Keron. And our pretty Tamath might have risen to the Matriarchy one day. But your wilful antics have forced our hand. Lady Pryssa has had to reveal the state of the Line to the people much sooner than we would have preferred. We have to resort to the oldest of the old ways …' He sighs, shakes his head and ambles off.

Enforcers encircle them, clubs and bayonets at the ready. Tamath shouts over the buzz of the mob. 'No heroics, Keron, there's no point. I should never have dragged you into this. But no tears, either.'

'I love you, Tamath. Love you …' Whatever love was, he found it. There are no other words.

A roll of drums mutes the crowd. Keron looks over his shoulder. Across the fields he can see his mother advancing, followed by Sorgar and a phalanx of guards.

He turns away to look at Tamath, wearing the mauve serpent dress she wore when they met, torn and muddy now. She gives him a wry smile and calls across. 'Well, we tried, didn't we? We almost had a plan …' One of the serfwomen gives her a sour look to hush her at this solemn moment, but she sticks her tongue out. Keron is sure that one of the enforcers is laughing behind his mask, the man's shoulders are quivering.

But when Lady Pryssa, Matriarch of Norhelm, crosses the bridge and enters the clearing, everyone bows their head or attempts a curtsy. The silence is only broken by an anxious mother soothing a crying infant. Keron tries to meet Pryssa's gaze as she halts beside the hull of the Tharn but she looks right through him, as if entranced, preparing herself to have the last word with her wayward son—and his rebel girl.

'The life of the Line demands lives. Prepare for enforcement.' Her face is rigid, mouth tightened. This is the dream-reflex, a dream reflux. There will be no more words.

While Pryssa mounts the ship to take her appointed place, Keron and Tamath are dragged towards the greenway. Wooden stakes with chains have been driven into the sacred turf, an inexplicable sacrilege … Then he sees Sorgar climb aboard the vessel. As four enforcers push them roughly onto their backs and tie them down, Sorgar goes to the navigation column and places his hand on it, as Line lore prescribes. His eyes close and his lips move, murmuring the opening invocations for raising the Current.

Keron realises the full horror of what is going to happen. They are only yards away from the ship, in its direct path. They will be crushed alive, their life-force discharged from their mutilated bodies as their blood soaks into the sacred earth of the Line. Tamath lies beside him, spread-eagled in the grass. He can just about touch her fingertips. She's whispering. 'Just look at the sky, Keron. It will be over soon. At least they'll tell stories about us.'

The Tharn is shivering into life now and inching slowly forward. Sorgar grips the column, his lean face alive with savage exultation, Pryssa beside him, staring straight ahead down the Line.

Keron has true purity of focus now, reprising everything he's learned as death nears him in the looming shape of a huge mineral mass that will be hanging inches from his face, a stone coffin descending …

The influx of anguish as he drives a counter-current up his spine is unbearable. It is his mind, whatever's left of it, against the dark matter hovering ever closer, poised any second to fall and smear him into the soil. An immense anger drives him now, against the dead weight of centuries that have suffocated life, fossilised the world into this monotony of slavery and unearned hierarchy, subsistence, not existence, blind acceptance of dogma nobody understands, a world in stasis.

The underside of the Tharn hangs above him, an enormous slab of darkness, a flying tombstone about to descend. He concentrates all his energy, every throb of the Current, on fracturing the vessel—reversing everything that Sorgar has ever taught him about triggering the Line.

Everything slows to the pulse of dream-time. The earthship is suspended, floating like an iron cloud.

Then tiny fissures break out on its rocky keel, like burning veins of lava, spreading in a web of flame, splitting open the prow and the splintering strata of the hull, even the Linesman's column where Sorgar and Pryssa are suddenly enveloped in fire. The vessel is breaking apart, in clouds of fiery ash and incandescent dust. The ground below starts trembling, the greenway shudders, loosening the stakes binding Tamath.

Keron's body is ablaze with spasms of pain as the fragments of the Tharn fall around him like meteorites, but as consciousness fails he can see Tamath rolling free of the Line. He knows she will make something new.

THE END

Bio: Paul Green's work includes 'The Gestaltbunker—Selected Poems' (Shearsman Books 2012), and the novels 'The Qliphoth' (Libros Libertad 2007) and 'Beneath the Pleasure Zones I and II' (Mandrake 2014, 2016). His plays for radio and stage are collected in 'Babalon and Other Plays' (Scarlet Imprint 2015). More at his website: paulgreenwriter.co.uk

E-mail: Paul A. Green

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