The Jack Hansard Series: Season Two

Episode 5.1

The earth holds echoes of itself.

The way land rises and falls; the flow of water as it cuts channels across landscapes. Every grain of sand holds a memory of being a mountain; raindrops remember the depths of ancient oceans. Primeval memory bounces across the lengths of existence like a really dull broken record from an old prog-rock album entitled 'Geology'.

People leave echoes, too.

We have a habit of stamping our presence into the very fabric of reality, what with our inconveniently active imaginations, dreams, and belief systems. And while an individual might not leave much of a mark on the surface of reality's metaphorical armchair, an entire culture can certainly leave behind a rather large arse impression on the leather upholstery.

Sometimes, you can find the place where the upholstery dips. With a little push, you can find yourself in the literal arse-end of nowhere – an echo of a time and place that once was, but isn't any more.

The Maidens live in once such depression. Theirs is probably a special case, what with having an extra dose of magic to help things along. Wenna and the others – all the eternal dancers – exist within their own echoes of themselves. The perfect answer to immortality, or so Wenna wanted me to believe, when I first met her. But that's a story for another time . . .

'An' what time are we actually in, twpsyn?'

Ang impatiently tapped the rock wall around us. 'Don't care much fer the reasoning of it. Jus' want to know the reason we're here.'

'Where's your sense of curiosity?' I grumbled. 'Here I am, trying to illuminate the marvels of the universe–'

'Illuminate this, would ye?' She held the lantern up, throwing our silhouettes into blue relief on the walls of the cramped chamber.

The construction itself was quite bare. The 'walls' and even ceiling were mere slabs of natural stone, apparently balanced atop each other, held together by nothing more than gravity and maybe the pressure of the earthen mound bearing down on it from all sides.

But from between those slabs hung long braids of fabric: strips of reddish wool that had been plaited together and wrapped across the rock like man-made vines. Peering closer, I could see that some braids were rotting away. They had been here a long time. This place was probably ancient even when it was still in use.

My foot kicked into a ceramic pot on the floor. It held a selection of berries and three sprigs of mistletoe.

I calmed my itchy fingers. How tempting to grab a different kind of souvenir. Neolithic fashion accessory for you, madam? How pretty these ribbons would look in your hair - probably enchanted, would bet my life on it. Or how about a piece of mistletoe that has crossed millennia? The perfect ingredient for a rare witch's brew – something to do with fate or star-crossed lovers, if I had some time to brainstorm a name for it.

Ang poked at one of the braids, which crumbled under her touch. 'What's all this old rope lyin' around for, anyway? And what about that waste of food on the floor? Careless, 'tis.'

'I imagine it's an offering, of some sort.'

'What for?'

'Some god, I expect. Or ancestral spirits. Or the earth itself. Who knows, with humans.'

'Dwp, it is.'

'Dwp?'

'Daft, gwas. Like you.'

I gave her a sidelong look. 'Didn't miners used to leave scraps of food out for coblyns?'

'Aye. To show their gratitude, like.'