WritersShowcase

The covered truck toiled up a steep bus route lined with low-hanging pines. A mansion sat on the border of the trees at the bottom of the hill and passed out of sight. The truck drove over the summit of the hill and emerged onto a fork where a grand old oak tree rose between the two roads with a gaping hollow in its massive trunk, made by some past member of nature. The truck steered right, away from White Wood, and made its way downhill. Autumn trees passed through the early morning mist. This hill was nicknamed Knights' Hill, as it had been the scene of an elope by a local knight and a lady many centuries ago. The truck entered the hills to the south, evenly-spaced like waves of the sea as they rose and fell on the horizon. They were punctuated by woodland sitting in random clumps along their backs. The rest was green with short grass all year round. People never stayed long in the hills, as it was unnaturally silent and even the sparkling brooks which ran in the depths of the trees were muffled and invisible. The lurid twilight held the landscape in a strange, eternal veil, turning green into gold. Not a single bird made its home in the trees, not a soul wandered in and out of the hills. Here and there were small, wired enclosures which threatened high voltage, or a stray kite fluttering peacefully from a branch. The occasional road appeared, connecting lone bus routes without stopping. It seemed for all the world like an enormous, deserted park.

All this, Henry Drake bad decided, was what made the Rolling Hills an ideal situation for Hill Prison. Not only had a convenient hillfort been converted, but the tranquil and somewhat sinister atmosphere of the hills proved successful for the rehabilitation and peace of mind of its inmates. As such, it was in his mind more of a reform centre for social deviants and temporary housing for those awaiting trial somewhere else. Henry stood on the wall looking out over the trees. He felt lonely and gazed over the collection of timber buildings which housed the community of guards and their families, anxious for the sound of tyres that he expected. It was a different case this time; not victims of the modern order but rather a pair of martyrs who did not sound very dangerous to him. Henry peered at the chickens and animals roaming the pens for food. Women sat outside carving wood, washing clothes near the well and gossiping happily. Guards perched on the stone walls nearby, chattering and tending their kit. Between the entrance and the big gate, concrete had begun to emerge on walls and the main building.

"Sir, the prisoners have arrived," a guard informed him gently.

Henry nodded, one big uniformed arm reaching to sweep silver hair from his shoulders. Their footsteps cracked in the morning air as he and the guard descended to the courtyard to wait. Henry's men thought it admirable that their handsome and mysterious captain took such a personal interest in the running of his own prison; and Henry knew every one of them by name.

Two bound prisoners, their heads covered, were escorted from the vehicle. Henry turned to two white-coated men behind him.

"I want to meet those people immediately - take them to the interrogation chamber," Henry ordered them. They were seized and the guards took the prisoners into a small concrete office next to the main gate, followed by Henry and the guards.

A light switched on and Henry uncovered their faces. He was staring into the scowling faces of a pretty young girl and a tall young man with shining black hair. The woman was slim and fit, about twenty, and she had the face of an angel; two huge, round eyes which shone deep as pools in a leafy forest, skin slightly rosy. Her lips and eyebrows hinted at something else, something strong and sharp. The tall man was gentle-looking, but his eyes were as cold as ice, or colder, and he seemed to be a little older, perhaps twenty-eight. His narrow eyes closed under a sweep of shoulder-length black hair. His face was as white and smooth as ivory, stretched over two high cheekbones and a moustache and beard. His ears and lips were thin and pink like the underbelly of a seashell; heaven seemed in some generous moment to have showered him with perfection, for not a single hair on him grew astray, not a wisp of untrained beard sat hidden in the corners of his face. His hands and nails were perfectly formed and well-kept. The two of them were untied and stood unmoving, staring at the wall ahead. The guards stood likewise in the corners.

"My name is Henry Drake and I am the governor of Hill Prison. It is only a temporary stop. We have no business with you." Henry spoke in an absolutely flawless accent of Albany, a voice that carried like thunder. "...but we have nothing to lose, either. How tragic; it seems a shame that they can start condemning women and children - and such beautiful ones, if I may say so."

The girl gazed back at him. Henry was a thick block of grey and white topped with flowing silvery hair. His skin was fine and nut-brown, with a healthy shine.

Henry waved one arm. "You guards be off and amuse yourselves," he announced gently, "I wish for some moments alone. Then we will show them out."

There was a pause as Henry seated the prisoners and sank behind his desk. When there was hush, Henry sat opposite in the gentle orange light. His grey eyes flickered to the trees and back, as if he was trying to control some addiction to them.

"Welcome, both of you. I sincerely mean it," Henry said with an apologetic nod, and pure silver hair tilted down and spilled onto his shoulders. "I am sorry if you had a rough ride, but you will no longer have anything to fear as long as you are in my establishment. You may think it is strange here, but it is not frightening. This place will have mercy on your heart.

"Humans try to impose their own world on everybody else..." Henry intoned, "but when we are here, we must let the real world talk to us. In the distance you can hear the spitting of small bonfires, belching over their crackling carrion of coloured leaves. It is like the heavy gaze of a young convict, the fires of passion dying in the embers of his eyes, shirt awry, hair dishevelled, he leans against the bedside. The sky is heavy and sunset spills rusty damask through the windows...I am so attached to it all."

Henry called for the guards and they took hold of the pair.

"We will meet again soon," Henry told them gently, "See you later."

The prisoners were scheduled to stay in Hill Prison for a day before moving on. Evening gave way to a fine warm night, when the moon shone like a red foil bottle top stuck onto a smooth cobalt sky. The prisoners occupied a richly-furnished room which had obviously been hastily converted into a luxurious cell. A dark mahogany bureau occupied the left wall and a fine double bed sat opposite. Between them, a barred window looked over at a carved great fireplace and a small lavatory by the door. Emma sat in front of the fireplace on a thick rug. She quietly imagined Henry's magnificent face as she stared into the bright yellow flames.

"Here - wake up! You missed the guards as if you were in some kind of trance. I have some soup for you."

The cold voice poured from behind and a bowl descended into her lap. A pair of ivory-white hands released their hold and slipped back into the darkness.

The voice came from the lips of a Jesuit novice sitting on the bed behind her, the tall man with black hair. A book sat on his knees and several more were piled neatly upon the bureau where they had been stored. The novice had been her travelling companion in the truck for many hours, only occasionally looking up with a stony gaze. They had both come from the village, accused of committing a serious crime; both of them had been present at the murder of a young lady, and had been named as the prime suspects. Both were entirely innocent, but an envious acquaintance of the girl's had caused uproar in the pious village, and they had been sent to the West Coast for immediate trial. Now outcasts, each unfamiliar with the other, they had said little on the journey south, which continued through the hills.

The tasty vegetable soup glistened in the firelight, the girl's fine gold hair falling as she turned slowly to look at him in surprise at this sudden show of concern. Just being able to speak to him was a breakthrough.

"Thank you."

Her big eyes, hazel brown and shining, were full of innocence and kindness; his were pitch-black and narrow. She nodded to the Jesuit gratefully and turned to eat. He resumed reading, pausing only to look out of the window at the guards on the walls, who talked and laughed with each other happily. When the girl had finished, she approached the bed and sat down, removing her worn shoes slowly. The Jesuit stood up and quickly moved to the window, and she saw only a flash of his eyes in the dark.

"It seems peaceful here," he mused in a lilting tone, "Must be a good sign."

"It will have mercy on your heart..." the girl fell sideways onto the bed in exhaustion. "...Who are you? You look like a priest."

"I am ashamed of this lie," the Jesuit growled, "So ashamed. It is not so difficult for you, madam."

"My name is Emma," the girl told him. "May I ask your name? You seem so very cold. I didn't mean..."

"Emma. I see. As you know, I am Mr. Lionhart," he said, "A Jesuit of the Golden Lance." He did not look like he wanted to speak, as if some sadness was weighing on his mind.

"Is that why you never spoke?" Emma asked. "Are Jesuits so strict?"

"Our Order has...great pride," Benedict spoke with hesitation. "That is very important to some of them. Forgive me, I..."

Emma smiled and lay back; he sounded as if he was bragging slightly.

"Mr. Lionhart. That name reminds me of someone. Good night," she said happily.

Emma was soon asleep. The Jesuit walked over to the fire and sat down half-heartedly, looking at the warm soft bed with some regret. He tried to arrange himself on the floor, but failed. Finally he fetched a pillow and lay on his back, holding the book above his face. The fire died and crackled and the room grew darker. Mr. Lionhart dropped his book and folded his arms, chest heaving gently in slumber. He slept immobile as a fair statue in the dying firelight as it lapped over his dark form in greys and flickers of gold.

Emma's eyes flickered open in the small hours. She sat up in bed, long hair trailing like a ghost. She saw her companion slumbering on the floor nearby and breathed relief. Emma got up and peered out of the window as the first drops of a storm began to fall. The trees were rustling in a shimmering black sea, as if the camp were adrift in the middle of a vast ocean of leaves. From behind the glass, distant shapes of black heaved and shuddered noisily. It frightened her.

Emma backed from the window slowly. There was a moment of silence, heavy and almost hissing. She looked around the room wearily and climbed back onto the bed. Just as she did so, a lightning bolt smashed itself into the darkness.

Emma's mind halted in the dark, muffled with her own cry of shock. Rain was lashing and tearing at the window with an immediate ferocity which blocked out all sight and sound. The trees were restless as small children; she could feel them moving faster, beating at the rain, as if they were gathering behind the walls.

In a chaos of movement, dark robes were around Emma's face and she took hold of them and collapsed to her knees, hugging the curtain-like material to her, eyes screwed tight shut. Dark clouds sped overhead. A hand sank onto Emma's head with a feeling that Emma could not describe. The sensation of touch filled her with terror, and she let go of the robes to take it away. Suddenly robbed of their material, Emma's hands flailed in the air trying to find it again.

Emma was kneeling on the rug in front of Mr. Lionhart, his books piled under his knees as if they had crept under in fear. She had hold of his arm and cold fingers caught hold once again of the curtain-like material, and Emma found that she was clinging to his robes. He was as stiff and unyielding as rock, but had responded in concern; the unhappy Jesuit had some hope in him after all.

She was glad of his concern. Emma was blinded by the dark but feelings of relief came. They were prisoners, she thought. No-one else would care. Emma began to cry.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Emma threw her arms around him in emotion; she had broken his barrier of ice and silence. She wanted to feel warmth and company in the darkness and terror.

Mr. Lionhart began to melt, and he lifted up his hands.

"It's all right," he whispered in a broken voice. "It's all right, don't be afraid. It's only a storm."

They made a miserable picture. Raindrops attacked the pane in rivers, filling the room with endless reflections.

***

Henry woke from slumber and yawned. Outside, the sunlight glared down and bathed the dripping prison in broad daylight. He saw that there had been a storm, and frowned; it was an unusual occurrence. Henry remembered his new prisoners with some pleasure. Henry did not think they looked like criminals and passed a private judgment on the matter. He immediately sent for two guards to escort them both to the office so that he could evaluate them, if only to satisfy his idle curiosity. Keys rattled in the fine mahogany door. The cell door opened to reveal the Jesuit lying among his books in front of the fire. Emma lay on the untidy bed in a peaceful slumber. The pair were roughly roused and bundled out of the cell. They tumbled into the echoing grey corridor and followed the guards silently in a line across the sunny courtyard.

Down in his interrogation office, Henry rubbed his hands together in anticipation. The pair were brought in, crowding the small white room. Under the harsh light Henry could see two tired, pale faces. He waited until they had settled down a little, remaining in his revolving chair in front of the blind.

"Greetings once again," Henry said in a booming voice. "I am glad to see you again. I've been through some of the other prisoners this morning, and seeing both of you is a wonderful relief."

To their surprise, the proud Jesuit bowed his head in response.

"A priest, aren't you?" Henry said to him pointedly, "- and a Jesuit, at that! My word! Mr. Lionhart, isn't it?"

"Good morning," said the Jesuit evenly. He had woken easily when the guards came in, although he privately objected to their manners. He sat stiffly, wrapped in a strong robe. Tender black hair divided his forehead. Henry's narrow, slate-coloured eyes ran over him with interest. Emma sat on the other side, already captivated by Henry's silvery hair and handsome face.

"I know your names from the record, both of you. Where did you come from?" Henry asked them.

"I am from White Wood, a small village to the northwest," Emma replied. She began to feel at ease.

"There will be no freedom now," Henry told them. "You will be kept under watch. Now tell me - I have been meaning to ask - did you really commit such a crime, the crime you stand accused of?"

They stared at him, fresh wounds opening in the sunlight. He had touched the heart of the matter, and they did not expect worse. Eventually, the Jesuit shook his head.

"It's all right. I believe you," Henry told them, "I believed you from the moment I saw you."

"That's strange," spoke out Mr. Lionhart bravely, "...to come to that at such short notice, I mean."

Henry's face was set. "I cannot trust you, of course. But I meant what I told you - I do not think you are criminals and I hope your trial ends for the best. Father, are you training somewhere?"

"At the moment," Mr. Lionhart replied. "I am with the Order of the Golden Lance, one of the old kind."

"Ah, yes, I know them well," Henry said. "You were founded by Ignatius, what was his name..."

"It appears you do not know us so well! We were founded by Alfred Connaught five centuries ago - Connaught the Dragonslayer."

"I see," Henry mused. "...Very interesting."

"Indeed. Our strength is compared to the weapon of archangel Michael, the great lance which was used to slay the devil, which is kept in a most sacred vault beneath us. We are trained to fight," Mr. Lionhart said. "It will be a part most abhorrent to me, to see my fellow Jesuits slaughtered."

"You are trained to face violent abominations which escape the abyss," Henry interrupted him. "Have you met with any, may I ask?"

"I have never fought stray demons in a true battle, I am only what you would call a squire or novice," Mr. Lionhart said, "My colleagues have brought back many stories, however. I hunger for the day that I may slay a devil of my own. Mr. Drake, I will be glad to pay for this crime if it will expose the true murderer, wherever he may be."

Emma and Henry's eyes were wide with surprise.

"We have families here," Henry told them, pointing outside, " - guards, women, children. I am a simple man, concerned for the lives of normal people."

Armed nonetheless, Emma thought, catching sight of a well-used pistol holster at Henry's waist.

"...I do not like short, humble lives to be threatened. I know everything that goes on here," Henry told them with a smirk. "I know names of prisoners. A lot of them are dangerous men, very dangerous. They will resort to the slaughter of our fellow men. We have seen all sorts come and go, and we never meet again."

Henry sighed. "We have never received anyone remotely innocent. But I think you two really are an exception. Ask what you will. I will answer anything you require, and perhaps help. But I can by no means release anybody, you understand."

"I request a single chamber," Mr. Lionhart said, "It is most unsettling without one. After last night, when the storm was raging..."

"Well! Of course you may have anything," Henry replied, his voice steady as rocks, "However, are you not due to be moved on in the morning? Were it not for the fact that we are renovating your east wing, you would have enjoyed such a development. I am sorry. Perhaps a curtain would suffice?"

The Jesuit slammed his fist into his lap angrily and said nothing.

"Now, is there anything else?" Henry asked. "I am very busy this morning."

"I would like to be roused in a courteous manner," demanded Emma bluntly, "No more dragging around. The guards were too rough."

"I am sorry," Henry smiled. "The guards do not distinguish between guests and murderers. They are naturally careful to preserve a fierce reputation. But I will see that you are handled carefully."

Mr. Lionhart turned down his eyes as if at the end of a meal. Emma closed her fingers together and stared out of the window wearily. Henry nodded to the guards.

"Well, please eat the food in your cell," he said, "Go now and enjoy the day as best you can. Please do not try to escape, for I have no power to oppose the law. It has been a pleasure to meet you again."

***

Emma resumed her place by the fire, leaving the empty bowls and plates on the dresser. The Jesuit had not eaten and knelt by the bed reading. He earnestly avoided Emma's gaze and his skin gleamed with a cold sweat from hunger. At length Emma decided to approach him.

"I wanted to ask..." she said, "About last night. Was I...a little odd?"

The Jesuit stiffened.

"You were not odd," he managed, face nodding over the words.

Emma knelt beside his knees and looked into his face. Her fingers searched timidly up his robes.

"Father, please forgive me," Emma said, her lip trembling.

"You are forgiven." His voice was thin and weak.

Emma wandered over to the mirror and played with her pale golden hair, running it along her palms and holding it in ways behind her head. She felt a sense of security in the presence of another person. The Jesuit was a youthful and friendly-looking man, although some years older than her, and she decided that she liked him.

"Please eat something," she said, "This must be hard, but I..."

Muttering under his breath, Mr. Lionhart closed his book and rose. Emma simply did not permit him to concentrate. He stood as if he was waiting, robed and shadowy. It was a rare sight. Emma automatically sat down on the rug. She held out some food, smiling. Finally, he took the bowl from her hands and ate some of the soup hungrily. When he had finished, the food seemed to have eased his mind and he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, eyes downcast.

"I owe you some soup," Emma said with a smile. "Perhaps you had a dream last night?"

"Miss Emma, I don’t want to discuss any more about it," The Jesuit whispered desperately. "I ought to keep reading, it...keeps my mind occupied."

He sat down again and silence returned. Emma sat looking into the fire with a sad and distant expression.

"I used to live in Edinburgh," Emma said. "The capital of Pictland, at the foot of the Black Peaks. It is far to the north and I have not been there for a long time. Last night, I dreamed that I went shopping in the city. There were bright coloured lights and it was Christmas. The windows were filled with warm scents and glowing colours. Oh, it was wonderful! I could see all the way to the citadel."

Mr. Lionhart looked up and a breath of surprise passed by his lips.

"Edinburgh?" he asked.

"That's right," Emma continued, "I sat down on the wall beside the street and waited for something. The windows were stacked high with chocolates and sweets and all manner of pleasant things shining in the light of candles and lamps. It felt like home."

The Jesuit's eyes began to widen.

"I was born there, and I used to spend every day wandering the streets and parks. It was very peaceful, and I was very happy," Emma whispered, voice breaking with emotion. She began to choke.

"I never imagined that...you were from Edinburgh," the Jesuit began, and broke off. He stared at the fire.

"I come from Edinburgh," Emma whispered to herself.

"I hated it," he answered. "I was poor." He gave out a hiss of longing, warmth tearing through his frame.

Edinburgh was coming to life. The pair of them could see streets and lights gleaming from the cosy flames as the fire hummed and popped, with orange-coloured lanes and sparkling rooftops.

"So you are from the same place," Emma said.

"The same place," he echoed. "Do you know something?"

"What's that?" Emma asked.

"You remind me of someone," Mr. Lionhart said wearily. "I used to have friends in Edinburgh, but there was one, a richly-dressed girl, who used to walk the streets alone. I think she was a free spirit, bit of a rebel. She never spoke to me, but she seemed nice. All my friends avoided her. In the end, I never listened to them. You resemble her."

Emma turned and stared up at him.

"How strange that you mention it!" she gasped. "This girl you saw! I remember seeing a boy who used to climb over my wall and steal apples. He used to look at me over the wall, and..."

"It was a story," the Jesuit said, smiling, "...nothing more."

"Wait!" Emma protested, advancing on him. "...wait. I remember seeing a young boy who was always in rags, always used to look at me..."

"It was a story! I wish I had said nothing!" he hissed suddenly, with an aggression which was frightening. "You must not speak of the past - don't assume that you are someone else. You must not speak of the past. Believe me, you are not..."

"I knew you!" Emma insisted, "I can prove it! Tell me - you are Mr. Lionhart! Are you called Benedict Lionhart?"

His face jerked up, eyes flashing in the shadows. His lip trembled and set into a thin line.

"Are you called Benedict Lionhart?" Emma repeated.

"Please stop, Miss Diamond, or I shall be forced to..."

"No! Listen!" Emma cried. "Listen, my name is Miss Emma Diamond! Do you know it?"

The Jesuit rose.

"You are mistaken," he murmured. His face grew darker each moment with intrusion into a long-forgotten past. Emma stared back at him.

"I felt familiar," she whispered. "It felt strange when I touched you. I felt like I had known you before...Oh, please tell me. I've been searching for this person, because..."

"I'll tell you this! As I do, don't you dare utter any more about it! You are in prison - you cannot be her!" the proud Jesuit shouted. "I would...I would never have let Emma Diamond come to such a place. I would have protected her! I agree, alas, that you bear some resemblance..."

"As you do!" Emma cried, trembling. "You have the same name!"

"...but there is no way I will ever believe you!" he shouted back. "It was you who caused us to come here in the first place, getting on the wrong side of your male acquaintances..."

"What?" Emma gasped. "I am baffled by your replies! I was there to investigate the scene as a member of the police! You should have been on your way instead of staring at the man like a sphinx!"

The strange Mr. Lionhart thrust a finger at her face with such force that it froze her tongue.

"All this precious time, wasted!" he hissed, "It's unforgivable. Your fault. Don't you ever forget it, you noisy little brat!"

"I had almost begun to like you!" Emma cried angrily.

There was a hammering at the door and calls for silence.

"You are mistaken," growled Mr. Lionhart, "You are mistaken - if you ever speak of it again..." He clenched a fist into her face, face red and shining in anger. Emma choked in fear and ran, hiding her tears with her hands. When she finally dared to look up, the strange Jesuit was at the window. He had been standing there with his back to her, gazing past the muddy stains left on the glass by the rain, for almost two hours.

***

The guards came to escort Emma out in the afternoon. She shivered as they pulled her from the comfortable blankets. Mr. Lionhart was taking a rest on the bed and he awoke at the noise, watching silently as they took her away. She crossed the chilly yard; it was a wet blanket of grey. Clouds glided by overhead and an uncanny stillness pervaded Emma's bones, making her afraid. Suddenly the concrete room enveloped her again. It was warm and comforting. A fire roared in a square fireplace on the right. Henry Drake looked up silently from his desk. He smiled and waved her to a chair. The guards left the room.

Emma shifted as she sat; she could never be sure if she really was alone, or if there was another henchman hiding in the dark corners.

"Welcome, Emma," smiled Henry, pushing a bowl of hazelnuts towards Emma, who declined. "Are you well provided?"

"I want a bath," Emma responded, not sure if he was trying to trick her.

"Aah," Henry purred. As always, his look was vague, as if he were constantly straining to turn around and let his gaze sink back into the cool shade of the trees. "I see. I hope your stay has been acceptable?"

"There was a storm," Emma said, "The Jesuit threatened me last night rather harshly. What do you want?"

Henry's eyes closed as if he was sleeping, hands clasped under his chin. His hair shone orange and silver in the light."I shall have him removed. He is a nuisance," Henry said gently, "These holy types are scurrying hypocrites. Driven half-mad by ritual and nonsense. Not a whit of critical thought. I feel sorry for them, I really do."

"No," insisted Emma.

"He's dangerous," Henry snapped, "Didn't he try to kill you? Or - are you lying, eh?"

"There's business with him...he might be someone I know from way back," Emma replied, "An old friend. Tell me, Henry...what is Mr. Lionhart's real name?"

"Benedict Lionhart, I think," Henry sighed, paying little attention to the matter. He found himself thinking, once again, of the trees. "A storm is so unusual, you know. It must be an omen. As you can see, things have returned to normal. Like the calm after a long fight."

"So it is him!" Emma whispered. "Your prison has done something to Benedict!"

"I hope not," Henry purred. Stood against the window, he sounded warm and soothing. "See how the trees seem to shrink into themselves during autumn - as if they were expressing all they could remember, bringing back memories of how this land was long ago, echoes of homes and people fallen into dust. The leaves never fall from the trees here, even though they change colour. Jt doesn't feel right. Think of the kind of place we are sitting in. The leaves never fall - never lost to the earth but stay up in the branches. It is an enigma to which I have never found an answer. I experimented so many times, but I'm not a scientist."

"Impossible," Emma whispered, "Leaves can't stay in the trees; they fall." She recalled watching leaves fall every autumn at White Wood, and how she had believed that catching one would grant a wish. In her mind she saw leaves falling, but Emma did not try to catch them. She watched her wishes fall to the ground.

"Long ago," Henry continued patiently. "...when men wielded spears and rode on horses across these fields, there was a small hillfort on the spot where this prison was built. I read that the inhabitants, afraid of the growing threat of invasion, were worshippers of trees. They prayed to the gods to help them. Something happened which made the hills grow silent for miles around. This landscape just stopped. The fort was abandoned. I feel as if a price may be enacted upon us. But I do not know when or what it could be."

It sounded like a bizarre fairytale, but Emma was fascinated by Henry. She had met the silence for herself, and the treetops led a life of their own.

"That is an interesting theory about the hills," she agreed, "This place feels as though it hasn't changed for centuries. It is all very strange."

"Yes," Henry answered, "These hills, as they are known, are not really hills at all - they are giant burial mounds. There are hundreds of people buried beneath them. The land must have been turned into a cemetery."

"When," Emma asked suddenly, "Did you build on this place?"

"It has always felt like home," Henry responded smoothly. "Miss Diamond, it is a pleasure to be speaking with you."

Emma folded her hands. Henry was hiding something.

"I would like to know what you do outside of prison," Henry told her, "Do you work? Where do you live?"

"I am a policewoman at a large city," said Emma, "I was visiting my family on Knight's Hill. They live in a mansion."

"Wonderful," Henry mused, "...to be of a wealthy family."

"It is not unpleasant."

"...and so young!" Henry exclaimed, eyebrows lifting happily.

"You aren't so old yourself," Emma pointed out, "Where are you from?"

"I am from Longshale," he asserted firmly.

Emma was impressed and Henry knew it. Everyone knew Longshale, a place deep in the north of Albany, hailed as ancient as it was noble. Streets wound tangling paths around narrow timbered houses, and the ruins of a large castle served to baptize the few pure-blooded inhabitants, who became known ever after as a "Knight of Longshale" or a "Maid of Longshale". At a certain age, the true-blooded men of Longshale joined a secret order known only to the church which had its origins in the East. It was an honourary knighthood, and they were encouraged to train in military pursuits, at the very least a little re-enactment on public holidays. The women were famous for being pure and virtuous wives, and were always married to pure-blooded men. As far back as anyone cared to remember, the town had ignored every effort to modernize, retaining an enchanting traditional culture which attracted tourists by the thousands. Somehow there was always enough space for everyone. Henry Drake, a name typical for a Knight of Longshale, was a breed perfectly suited to the isolation of Hill Prison.

"That is remarkable," Emma admitted.

Henry enjoyed his moment of attention. With a bearing strong and regal, he took Emma's hand. Henry's eyes sparkled with intent. He would withstand any effort to disobey him, for Longshale blood ran through his veins. Emma sat, hypnotized.

"White Wood is familiar," mused Henry, "One from Longshale ran away with Margaret Estelle Diamond, daughter of the local landowner, in the nineteenth century. Daniel Lionhart. A well-known inhabitant of my town. Or perhaps I ought to say, infamous."

"Oh, Henry," Emma whispered. "I didn't commit any crimes. I wish I could go home. Benedict seems so confident..."

Henry squeezed her hand.

"Let me tell you something, Emma," he said. "I do not like to treat women like prisoners, not ever. I cannot stand the thought of criminals all around me, and I feel the same as you...I want to go home. My home back in Longshale."

Emma nodded unhappily.

"Someone like you is very special," he continued. "...Emma, I will do anything to help you. Anything. I feel...I feel as if it will be the last time that I ever see you. It is unbearable!"

"Thank you," Emma replied, placing one hand over his. "I thank you for your support. It is so difficult..."

Henry drew up his face very close.

"If you want..." Henry whispered kindly, "...I will take you home when I go. I'll take you back home. My post here is only temporary. Do you want to go with me, Emma?"

"Leave Benedict here?" Emma replied. Henry's breath swept over her, scorching like fire. "With all my heart I thank you Mr. Drake, but have respect for justice. No man or woman is above the law. Benedict understands too."

"I am an aristocrat," Henry whispered. "The law cannot touch me."

"No." Emma replied. She yawned involuntarily.

"It is time for bed," Henry remarked gently, and shouted to the guards outside. They stumbled in, hauled Emma to her feet, and she was gone. Henry pressed his head against the door with a heavy sigh.

"This is wrong," he whispered. "Their fate is unjust."

***

Upon the cell window, large heavy drops of rain began to hit home and a cold wind swept down from the sky. Emma felt glad to come back again. Mr. Lionhart was reading; he looked tired, as if he could barely support the weight of his own book, and he was swaying slightly. The restless wind seemed to spread into the room and Mr. Lionhart pulled a pair of rich velvet curtains over the pattering window. His face caught the orange glow, and Emma saw great fatigue in his eyes.

"Emma!" he hissed, "What happened?"

"I spoke to Henry Drake," she answered, "There was a cosy light and food on the table, but I didn't fall for it. He is deadly, make no mistake. I don't trust him because of who he is. I don't trust him at all."

"You spoke to him?" the Jesuit asked, "Is that all?"

"He is, despite all that bravado, a gentleman," Emma said, "Mr. Drake is a Knight of Longshale."

"Really?" the proud young Jesuit answered, struck in awe. "Then we have nothing to fear!" The Jesuits of the Golden Lance praised highly the virtues preserved by the Knights and never failed to demonstrate their approval of them.

"Henry seems to be interested in me," Emma sat in front of the fire.

"I noticed," he agreed, rather enviously. Mr. Lionhart had never been to Longshale, for he had recently been studying near White Wood, far to the south. But he was intrigued by the thought of visiting it.

"Who is Henry?" whispered Emma, "There's something strange about him."

"Strange?" he asked.

"How long has Henry...been here?" she whispered, "He's so old somehow. I don't know who anybody is. I don't even know who you are."

"He's just a snobbish boor," Mr. Lionhart snapped, his patience broken. They sat in silence; the only noise was Mr. Lionhart as he turned the pages of his book. The quiet of Hill Prison seeped into their bodies as if the trees ruled their every move.

"It's strange. I really wonder how long this place has been here, and how it got here," mused Emma, "Years, or perhaps...centuries?"

Time was running out; only one night remained until they would be moved on to face their trial. The two prisoners felt close to each other in their long ordeal.

"One more day," Emma whispered.

The Jesuit stirred at last, clapping his book shut.

"It was very wrong to have treated you like that, but there's something I needed to believe!" he announced suddenly, "I think you were right. There is only one Emma Diamond. It was the stress of it all - well, I just lost my reason. All this time, these journeys and accusations...can you ever forgive me - Emma?"

There was a pause.

"Yes," Emma sighed, "Of course. You remembered, Benny."

"Benny!" The Jesuit laughed. "It's been a long time. I've been so angry. Isn't that funny."

Emma didn't understand.

"There's something I have to tell you," he said apologetically. She saw Benny struggling to control himself, almost on the edge of tears, "I've been wanting to...no, I felt like you ought to..."

He came and sat beside her by the fire, black eyes softly gleaming in the firelight. He stared at her for a long time, as if he could not believe what he was doing. Emma began to feel how long it had been since she had left Edinburgh with her family for White Wood, and his breath stirred up dry leaves of memories.

"Listen to me," Benny whispered, "If you really are Emma Diamond. It doesn't matter if you don't trust me, I will only say it once. I threatened you because you have no idea what it means to lie. I'm sorry."

"I am sorry too," Emma replied sadly.

"It was in Edinburgh," he began, "I used to climb the walls and hang around in the streets. I was very poor. You know that part. Here is the next; one day I learnt that you had gone. You didn't tell me, of course; I had only just begun to talk with you! But one day you disappeared. I couldn't stay. So I decided to pack my bags. I caught the next train out of Edinburgh for the one place I knew about that could offer me safety - a nearby island where there lived a distant relative. Father Gregory was a kind old man; he took care of me for a long time, near Iona. He believed in me greatly, thought I would make a fine scholar. I believe he was right. But it wasn't enough. I wanted to become more occupied with study, to push it to the limits. So I have not been long a Jesuit. It was wonderful..." he paused.

"...it was a perfect life," he continued, "I'm sorry. I did not intend it to be a cover. You see, I still felt terrible. I could not be with you, and my friends that I knew in Edinburgh disappeared too. Most of them were sent to the orphanage. I was so worried about everyone..."

His head dropped. Emma saw that all the hairpin bends and mad directions in his life had been because he was alone. Emma suddenly believed that the sad Jesuit really was Benedict Lionhart.

"Benny, I did not forget you..." Emma began, her voice faltering.

"Emma," he whispered, smiling, "There is so much that I meant to do. I will soon lose more of my friends in battle. I thought about seeing all the blood that would spill and it was oppressing my soul. Oh, Emma! I don't want to die, to rot in prison - I want to come with you! When I said that I longed to slay a devil of my own, what I really meant was...adventure! Adventure is calling and I want to be free."

Emma smiled at him, at his strange robes and black hair.

"I think I do like you, after all," she said.

"Emma," Benny asked, "Do you understand?"

"I was searching for you," Emma whispered. "I was so young and I didn't really know how...my parents didn't like you. They thought you were dangerous. I left you a note under the apple tree...but you obviously didn't find it!"

"Really?" asked Benedict in surprise. "I never knew..."

"Then I promise you," Emma said, "...that the first thing we do will be to go and find that note, Benny!"

"Yes!" he replied excitedly, "But wait! You must go with me. Nothing else on earth could have caused me to change my mind," Benedict whispered. "It isn't over. Listen. We have to escape tonight - I have a plan. Will you come?"

Emma nodded. He led her to the window and ducked underneath the bed.

"I've been thinking," Benny told her, "It's a risky business which requires courage. I tied together a rope, bedclothes from the room. Now what we need to do is force this grille away from the window. So I am going to try it right now."

He seized hold of it and began to pull. Emma stared at him in silence; she fancied his was mad to be pulling at the heavy grille. But Hill Prison was a peculiar place; anything could happen.

"Benny!" she said, "You mean we have to go, on this awful evening?"

"No!" Benny took hold of them, "...not those. Burn them."

Emma stared at him in horror.

"You can't!" she whispered. "Why would you..?"

As if he was angry with them, Benny threw the books into the fire himself, pushing them into the big blaze. The room flared for a while and fell back into darkness and Benny's memories burned with them. He lowered himself out of the window, down towards a narrow concrete path. With hands on the sill, he paused to look at Emma.

"I'll see that it's safe," he whispered, "there is a guardroom window at the bottom, and we must pass over it. I won't let them keep you here, but what we are going to do requires some courage. I'm asking you, Emma - are you strong enough to go?"

"I want to go," Emma whispered, "You know we should go home."

Benny's unwanted robes billowed. He was like a fluttering dragon hovering at the window. Shielded in his own determination, Benny descended towards the ground as gracefully as a snake and dropped silently onto the concrete. He crouched to avoid being seen by three guards, who were sitting in the guardroom playing a rowdy game of Poker. With his back to the wall, Benny peered into the window cautiously and waited until the guards had become very talkative. Emma peeped out of the window above, glancing anxiously at the perimeter wall.

At last, shivering with cold, Benny looked up and gestured quickly for Emma to come down. She immediately descended, and paused when she reached the end of the rope, hanging a few centimetres short of the guardroom window. Benny stretched out his arms and nodded earnestly. She fell light as a dandelion seed. Benny caught her and they crept underneath the window and reached the corner, which looked out over the front courtyard. It was a long distance to the gate in the perimeter wall and not a chance of breaching it, but the day had begun to darken. A few beige-suited guards stood at the entrance to the prison, idly shifting rifles from one hand to the other.

"I cannot fight guns. Take my hand," hissed Benny, "Trust me!"

He caught hold of Emma's hand and they began to run across the yard in the wind. It blew them across the concrete and the guards let out a cry. Gunshots whistled inches from their heads.

"Sir!"

From inside his office by the perimeter wall gate, Henry Drake stood up and rushed to the window. His face hardened with terror and disbelief as he saw his prisoners escaping. His aides rushed from the room and swung guns from their shoulders.

"No!" Henry cried out, but they had gone. He swept out of the office like a stag, touching at his holster and screaming protests at his men, one of whom had taken aim. Henry was taller, and seized hold of the rifle with big brown hands and pushed it into the air, grappling with the guard. A crack went off into the sky with a flash of light.

"Don't shoot!" Henry shouted, silver hair sweeping the air in the wind. He turned desperately to see Emma's luminous form gliding far away across the concrete yard with the moody young Jesuit in the lead. He saw them head toward the camp village, followed by guards; Henry grew fearful for the women and children. They hurried towards the houses.

Benny pushed Emma into an animal pen and they huddled against the perimeter wall in stinking blackness. There was a momentary silence.

"We have distracted them," Benny said with complete calm. "If we draw them away from the gate, we can leave."

"But how?" demanded Emma. She was not sure what his plan had been from the start. "There is no way..."

"Believe. I saw something when we visited Henry," Benny said, "A hole in the wall. It's very small, small enough to crawl through. Behind the office, that should buy us a little time. So far so good."

Pulses racing, they crept out of the pen and crept back into the yard. They saw a small child wander by, but she only stared at them curiously. They did not know where the rest of the men had gone and did not care. Running full tilt towards the interrogation office, a division of guards on the prison roof saw them and fired. Benny cursed loudly. Emma's vision began to blur as shots rang out around them.

As they reached the other side of the prison yard, Benny suddenly let out a cry and buckled to the ground. Emma screamed and rushed to pull him behind the office. Gunshots and cries resounded behind them. Eyes wide with fear, Emma quickly turned Benny over. He stubbornly clambered to his feet, clutching fast at his chest. A dark stain began to appear over his wet robes and under his hand. He pulled Emma along the wall and they were crouching beside a large gap in the concrete which looked like it had been made by some sort of artillery.

"They're coming!" Emma warned him.

"It's all right!" Benny hissed, "Quickly, climb on my shoulders!"

"What?" Emma cried, trembling with cold.

"Please!" Benny grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "Do it! Or we die! And take this..." He reached down and took a small piece of concrete. "Now, get on with it!"

Emma sighed and clambered onto his shoulders. Benny howled silently as he cupped her shoe in his hands, the weight racking his body with pain. Emma looked over the wall. Two guards stood outside.

"Throw the stone into the trees," Benny whispered up. Emma threw it as far as she could. The two guards heard the noise and wandered dutifully to investigate. As they did so, Benny let her down. He poked his head out and hastily crawled through the hole, turning to pull Emma through. He staggered off with her, losing his footing down a steep wooded slope. The perimeter wall disappeared into the trees as they tumbled away. They had escaped from Hill Prison.

***

"Emma!" Benny clutched Emma's arms fiercely, his form shaking violently. Her entire top and jeans, from ankles to collar, was soon swept with crimson. She was mesmerized by his glistening chest as it heaved up and down, a narrow cage that might shatter.

"You did it," Emma whispered, astonished.

"Not yet," he replied, "Oh, not yet." Benny defied death as he rose up from the floor. Blood was everywhere, and Emma raised her hands against her mouth in terror. Benny's determination was as hard as iron, and he pulled Emma to her feet.

"Come on," he whispered. Benny pulled Emma along, knowing that they had not yet escaped. He dragged her down the slope, wiping vainly at a steady stream of blood which was flooding over his face. Behind, Emma could hear voices and scrambling footsteps.

"They're coming," Emma whispered shakily. Benny fell down again and he was coughing and gasping angrily.

"Won't let them!" Benny gasped, sitting up and grappling with his chest. "I won't let them! By God, I won't! Curse it all!"

Emma stretched red arms to support him. Benny did not stiffen at all, looking up into the trees with indescribable sadness. A gunshot sprang from a trunk nearby. The tree shifted in a slight breeze, as if it had been stung. Guards flocked out of Hill Prison, dogs following the trail of Benny's blood. The runaways had reached the next pocket of trees, a small interval in seemingly endless mass of hills. The treetops seemed to watch them. Then Benny fell to his knees once again.

"We're lost!" Emma gasped, "We can't escape!"

"We will escape," Benny rasped.

"But the story," Emma whispered, "Henry said that this land is under a spell of some sort...maybe we can't escape from the hills." They stared around desperately.

Suddenly Benny caught sight of the bus route to White Wood. The hill stood out from the others in the orange light, covered in autumn trees of brown and gold and red. Beyond it was freedom.

"I see it!" gasped Benny, "Emma! I see it!"

He dragged her up again. They could hear shouts and cries diminish. Benny tore off his undershirt and threw it into the trees to distract the dogs. In a last burst of energy, the pair ran for the hill in full view, two tiny black specks on the grass. They did not look back. In a small wooded dip in front, they stumbled into the yard of a wooden house. Beyond it lay a narrow stream and they crashed through it. In the distance stood the black shape of Hill Prison.

At the bottom of the hill, Benny seized hold of a tree and stopped. He slowly turned his pale face to look at Emma, streaked in bright red blood.

"I'm sorry..." he sank to the floor.

"Benny!"

Dogs, like black darts, flew from behind the trees and there were guards running towards them. Benny craned his head defiantly, ghastly pallid in the darkness. The life was flowing from him.

"They're here," she whispered. Emma's face looked on, shining and angelic. Suddenly Benny uttered a faint cry of pain.

A great wind swept across the trees. It began to blow more violently, wailing as whistling, as the guards ran towards them. Through the air and over the hills, it tore leaves out of the trees. The guards began to shout in alarm as the wind grew stronger, threatening to lift them from the ground, and the guard dogs barked and cowered.

There was a note in the chaos, as if the entire scene was about to blow away like a piece of card; the trees were awakening. Benny struggled, throwing his head this way and that. Emma screamed in confusion, arms fighting the blasts. Benny's cries grew louder, and he uttered one last wail. At this, the land echoed and was still with an immediacy that was unnerving.

Benny crashed onto the grass beside Emma and lay there gasping. She watched in amazement as he struggled to his knees. He felt himself all over quickly, his eyes and mouth wide open in relief. Emma gasped; Benny's wound had gone, although his robe was stained.

"What was that I saw?" Benny gasped, looking up at White Wood curiously.

The guards were still there, and the dogs; but all of them lay on the grass, stone dead. Every one of them was mutilated by giant sword cuts.

In the distance, the prison's shadow had disappeared; the whole building had been swallowed into the hill. Henry Drake lay in the clearing. He was unhurt and his uniform was slightly torn. Trees surrounded him, but their leaves had been blown to the floor and fell from the sky where they had been blown away. Silent no more, the first calls of birds began to sound in the trees. Henry murmured and opened his eyes; he had been unconscious. He looked from the ground in confusion.

Steps crushed the grass in front of him. He looked up blearily, face matted in silky hair. The feet and legs were wrapped in brown, faintly chequered cloth and bound in leather. They wore a pair of thick hide shoes. Henry looked up slowly and saw the gold hilt of a scabbard, wrought with ancient twisted designs. A hand, gnarled and brown, stretched to help him up. It wore a ruby ring and a twisted golden bracelet. Henry pulled himself up and mumbled thanks, bending to smooth down his uniform. When he looked up, no-one was there. Henry stared about in confusion. Had he dreamed it?

When he finally guessed the truth to what he had been seeking all this time, Henry fell to his knees and beat the grass with his hands.

Although she did not know it, Emma had been the direct descendant of lady who eloped. That annoying Jesuit, of course, had been the descendant of the knight and that meant, Henry realized, that he had also been born in Longshale. He had not even mentioned it! They had exchanged lives with his men on the boundary of the hills. The ancestors who slept near White Wood had protected both from harm, and Henry had paid the price; and his prison had simply vanished.

"They escaped, both of them!" he cried, "They reached the edge of the hills, and they're gone. Everything is lost! Oh, what am I to do?"

But Henry Drake was a strong man. Slowly he rose to his feet and turned his steps towards the road. Henry's form disappeared into the trees, heading back to Longshale where he was destined to become mayor. There, hidden in the mazes of twisting timber and ancient wall, he would recount the story of how the age-old spell on the Rolling Hills had been broken, and how he had met with one of the sleeping kings.

As to the fate of Benedict Lionhart and Emma Diamond, that is another story.

Autumn Robson  Synopsis  THE GOLDEN SERAPH