Dying Fall

wishes they hadn’t come. It’s far too soon for visitors. Clough, slurping tea and scoffing cake, is oblivious to everything. Darren has now taken charge of the baby and is looking with wonder at the wizened little face.
    ‘He’s very dark,’ observes Clough. ‘You must be glad he isn’t ginger like you.’
    Nelson raises his eyes heavenward. Just when Clough is almost behaving like a civilised human being, he comes out with something like that. But Darren, who is undoubtedly red-haired, just laughs. Today, nothing can offend him.
    ‘Oh, he’s got Judy’s looks. And Judy’s brains too, I hope.’
    ‘He’s a grand little chap,’ says Nelson.
    ‘Do you want a hold?’ asks Darren.
    ‘You’re all right,’ Nelson begins, but the proud father has placed his son in Nelson’s arms. On cue, Michael’seyelids flutter and he looks at Nelson out of big, dark eyes that are somehow oddly familiar.
    *
    As Ruth and Kate approach their house, they see a dilapidated car parked in front of it.
    ‘Cathbad!’ shouts Kate in delight.
    She can hardly wait until Ruth has undone her car seat before she throws herself in her godfather’s arms. Ruth’s eyes prickle, and not just from the salt wind blowing in from the sea. She is glad that Kate has Cathbad in her life, a solid male figure (albeit one in a purple cloak) who will continue to be there for her whatever happens to Ruth and Max – or Ruth and Nelson.
    ‘Hi, Ruth.’ Cathbad comes towards her carrying Kate. ‘I’ve brought that book I was telling you about.’
    Yesterday, Ruth had mentioned Dan’s letter and the reference to the Raven King. Cathbad had thought that he had a book about the mythology of birds and, sure enough, here he is, holding it out as if it is his alibi. But Cathbad doesn’t need a reason to visit. He knows that he is always welcome.
    It is such a lovely evening that they walk down to the beach, swinging Kate over the little streams and ditches. The tide is coming in but there is still a stretch of sand, wide and clear. Ruth takes off Kate’s shoes and the little girl runs delightedly towards the sea, stopping occasionally to look at starfish and clam shells.
    ‘A water baby,’ says Cathbad. ‘Typical Scorpio.’
    Nelson is also Scorpio, thinks Ruth. She’s never thought to ask if he likes water. He is certainly no fan of the Saltmarsh.
    Ruth and Cathbad also take off their shoes and walk in the shallows. The water feels heavenly against Ruth’s tired feet.
    ‘Have you seen Judy?’ asks Cathbad.
    ‘No,’ says Ruth. ‘I sent a card but I thought they … she … might like some time alone.’
    ‘You’re probably right,’ says Cathbad. He looks out to sea for a moment, his cloak blowing back in the wind. Ruth is reminded of the first time she saw him, standing on the beach trying to defend the henge, looking as if he could stop the tide itself. Then he turns and he is Cathbad again, a middle-aged man in a cloak, looking slightly sad. ‘When you see Judy,’ he says, ‘will you give her my love?’
    ‘Of course I will.’
    ‘I cast the baby’s horoscope, you know, and he’s going to have a full and happy life.’
    ‘That’s good.’
    ‘Yes. Yes it is.’
    Cathbad looks as if he is about to say more but Kate runs up to them, her little feet soundless on the sand. Cathbad lifts her high above the waves, sadness vanishing momentarily.
    ‘This is a magical place,’ he says.
    ‘I know,’ says Ruth. Then, thinking of her prospective holiday, she asks, ‘Is the sand at Blackpool like this?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ says Cathbad. ‘I’ve never been there.’
    Ruth explains about the invitation from Clayton Henry.
    ‘My friend Pendragon lives in Lancashire,’ says Cathbad. ‘In the Forest of Pendle. It’s an interesting place, by all accounts.’
    *
    In bed that night, Ruth opens Cathbad’s book and turns to the chapter on ravens. There is a rather horrible illustration of a black bird perching on a skull. She hopes it won’t give her nightmares. As a precaution, she puts on her headphones and tunes in to Bruce Springsteen. The Boss will protect her.
    Because of its black plumage, croaking call and diet of carrion, she reads, the raven has long been considered a bird of ill omen. Great, thinks Ruth, I don’t think I’ll buy one as a pet. But, she reads on, the raven is a significant and benevolent figure in many cultures. For some indigenous American tribes Raven is a deity and is known as He Whose Voice