The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [150]
He had, before this, trusted his life to my hands. Now he was contemplating putting the lives of his son and the child in those same hands. I did not know if he would. Frankly, I hoped he would not.
“We have noted that the man is willing to sacrifice chronological and geographic precision for the sake of symbolic truth,” he mused.
“Fifty miles is a lot of imprecision,” I argued.
“Yes, but two degrees is not, Russell. If his map told him that the High Bridestones were one or two miles to the west, or the Giant the same distance to the east, then your lines would meet in Orkney.”
“But we don't know his map, and we do know where the eclipse will be.” I really did not want to wrestle him for the responsibility of saving those two lives.
“If he were going to Orkney for this … event, where would you imagine?”
“Stenness,” I answered. “Two stone circles, several free-standing stones, and a causeway. The tomb where the sheep was found back in May is a part of the same complex.”
The piece of paper on which I had noted likely sites near Bergen lay on the corner of the desk. He looked from the inaccurate map to the list, and then scrubbed his face with both hands, pausing for several breaths with his fingertips resting against his eyelids. “As I remember, Sir Walter Scott fancied the centre stone at Stenness as an altar for human sacrifices,” he commented idly. Then he dropped his hands and met my eyes.
“I shall go to Bergen. You'll need warm clothing for Scotland. And, Russell? Take a revolver.”
Time: As the workings of a clock must align before the
hour strikes, so must the stars and planets align before a
Great Work is done.
Time is round and repeating as a clock face; time is
straight and never-duplicated as a calendar Only at
midnight—the witching hour—does time suspend between
one day and the next.
Opposite concepts, only brought together in a Work.
Testimony, IV:4
HOLMES TUNNELLED INTO MYCROFT'S STORAGE room, creating a storm of wool and waterproofs, while I addressed myself to the Bradshaw's and the problem of getting from London to Orkney. St Pancras to Edinburgh: nine to twelve hours; Edinburgh to Inverness: another six or eight; Inverness to Thurso, at the northern tip of Scotland—trains twice daily: six or seven hours. Unless I caught the Friday express … but no, leaving it to Friday was not a good idea, since there appeared to be only one steamer a day from Thurso to Orkney.
What if I took to the water before I ran out of Scotland? There were sure to be regular sailings from Inverness or Aberdeen, although those wouldn't be in Bradshaw's.
Mycroft came into the study and found me searching his shelves.
“I don't suppose you have a time-table for the steamers into Orkney?” I asked him, although I was more thinking aloud than putting a question to him. “I'll ask your concierge—I need to see if it would be better to work my way north by train, or to take a steamer along the way. Of course, if the weather is bad there, I'm a bit caught. Although I suppose there's always some mad Scotsman willing to put out in a typhoon if I offered him enough money.”
“Or held a gun to his head,” Mycroft said. Before I could decide if this was his peculiar sense of humour or a serious proposal, the telephone rang. He reached past me for the instrument on the desk, and I went back to my Bradshaw's.
His half of the conversation consisted mostly of disapproving grunts, as he received what was clearly a negative report from one of the men dispatched earlier that morning. He placed the earpiece in its hooks with a precision that indicated he was not much removed from throwing the instrument across the room.
“No luck?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“I'll catch the night express for Scotland,” I told him. “It'll be tight, but I should make it north in time for the Thursday steamer.” I shook my head. “Ridiculous,