Fimbul: The Awakening of the Wolf

By Michael T Ashgillian

Fimbul is the third of a series of ten fantasy adventure books by Oxfordshire writer Michael T. Ashgillian.
Known as ‘The Northland Tales', the first book, Under the Tree, was published in 2103. and the second, The Fairey Flag, in 2014.

No-one could have known why three children were drawn through a gateway that led them into another world entirely. They had been called to its aid twice before. Now, for a third time, they would find themselves returning to that beautiful, magical, yet mysterious and often wild place.
The strength of the magic that they would encounter this time would be far beyond anything which they had ever experienced before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Cap Publishing
• Release date: Jul 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992643225

Michael T Ashgillian

David P Elliot was born in Reading in the UK and, apart from 8 years in the Police Service in the 1970s, he spent almost 30 years in the IT industry before leaving to concentrate on his first love, writing. His debut novel ‘CLAN’, to which ‘The Gathering’ is a sequel, is a historical, supernatural thriller, first published in December 2008 and so far has sold in 16 countries, as well as being translated into German and can be downloaded as an audio book in MP3 or iPod formats narrated by the author. He has 3 grown up children and 3 grandchildren one of which inspired the novel. He now lives in Faringdon UK, with his partner Monika, a native of Munich. ‘Pieces of Fate’ his second book is an anthology of short stories in the ‘Tales of the Unexpected’ mode and is available in paperback or as an e-book, with the individual stories available only in e-book form. He is also working on developing ‘Clan’ as a feature film. You can find out more at www.davidpelliot.com

Book preview

PREFACE

Unforeseen events often happen. Usually they can be explained, most by logic or science; but not all can.

No-one could have known, for example, why three children were drawn through a gateway that led them into another world entirely. Was this something that happened purely by chance, or was there also design, some hidden power at work as well?

In that Otherworld, known as the Northlands, those three ordinary children were to become the greatest of the Kings and Queens ever to rule that land.

They had been called to its aid twice before. Now, for a third time, Fiona, Alex and Rebecca would find themselves returning to that beautiful, magical, yet mysterious and often wild place.

The strength of the magic that they would encounter this time would be far beyond anything which they had ever experienced before.

We are now almost ready to begin this story; but a few words of warning first.

If you do decide to continue to read this tale, and if you reach the end of it after sunset, it may be that you will not sleep quite so easily that evening as you perhaps did the night before; for this, the Fimbul tale, is no straightforward, fairy story or fantasy tale, and does not have the ending that you might expect from one.

MTA

INDEX

CHAPTER 1: Return

CHAPTER 2: The Old Wanderer

CHAPTER 3: Fifty Years Later

CHAPTER 4: Better Late Than Never!

CHAPTER 5: Is this Winter?

CHAPTER 6: Within the Ever Spring Wood

CHAPTER 7: Talvi

CHAPTER 8: The Great Wolf

CHAPTER 9: A Fine Welcome

CHAPTER 10: The Calling of the Wolf

CHAPTER 11: Tarkankut

CHAPTER 12: Trollhammer

CHAPTER 13: A Warning

CHAPTER 14: Incense

CHAPTER 15: The Threat from the Forest

CHAPTER 16: The Journey to the Lakes

CHAPTER 17: Halder

CHAPTER 18: Please Don’t Let It In!

CHAPTER 19: The Norn’s Prophecy

CHAPTER 20: The Fishermen

CHAPTER 21: The Reading of the Runes

CHAPTER 22: Spells for Good and Evil

CHAPTER 23: The Decision

CHAPTER 24: About Magic

CHAPTER 25: Daman

CHAPTER 26: Luoanatar and the Tuatha

CHAPTER 27: The Power and Magic of Belief

CHAPTER 28: The Journey of Luoanatar

CHAPTER 29: Sanctuary

CHAPTER 30: The Refuge of the Halls

CHAPTER 31: To Dragonwhyte

CHAPTER 32: Waiting for the Sunrise

CHAPTER 33: Daylight Arrives

CHAPTER 34: The Golden Gates

CHAPTER 35: Into the Unknown

CHAPTER 36: What Next?

CHAPTER 37: A Goodbye Wave

CHAPTER 38: The Long Procession

CHAPTER 39: The Tree

CHAPTER 40: The Fury of Tseth

CHAPTER 41: The New Order Overturned

CHAPTER 42: The Golden Tree

CHAPTER 43: Counting the Cost

CHAPTER 44: Just in Time

CHAPTER 45: The Herald at Christmas

EPILOGUE

APPENDIX: The Northland Time Line

A Rune Poem upon the Stones of Dragonwhyte Hill

When the Great Wolf stalks the land, with unrelenting icy breath,

Weep for your world as it trembles, in dreadful throes of death,

When the Black Serpent stirs and wakens within the gloomy ocean deep,

Pity those who dream dark dreams and awaken, yet remain in fearful sleep.

In barren lands of darkness, the Queen of Hel will your fate decide,

Where all that was good is departed, only wicked souls reside,

Weep for all that has ended; fond memories will be all that then remain,

To comfort you in this new world of lost hope, of sorrow and of pain.

But for the moment, sleep now, and dream that you may one day hear the noble call,

To fight and die a hero, and so, as just reward, be received within the Golden Hall.

The shadows of the darkness may pass, and the sun may yet return,

And with it, the light within all good hearts may once more brightly burn,

The harsh Fimbul Winter of the Wolf may then, at last, surrender to the Spring,

And if the sunrise comes, new life and renewal will its warmth then bring.

The light of the three thrones will shine again,

And lasting peace shall there once more be,

When a King, two Queens, stand together,

Under Yggdrasil, our most precious, sacred Tree.

To Johan

CHAPTER 1: Return

‘Talvi, awaken the Whyte Dragon,’ entreated the golden eagle as he settled once more upon the very crown of the Great Tree. ‘Only this one, small thing does my master ask of you.’

Every day he made this same request and every day he received the same response.

The small red squirrel looked up at the eagle from the branches below. The creature did not reply. Instead, his tail twitched instinctively as he sniffed the air.

The eagle turned his head to one side, one black, unblinking eye looking down at the squirrel as he squatted on the slender branch, using his large tail to balance his body.

With just one sudden lunge, the eagle could have easily leapt from its branch and snatched up the tiny creature in his sharp talons, but he did not do so.

The squirrel knew he was safe; he knew the eagle would never attack him.

‘Can your master not even bend such a lowly creature as me to his great will?’ the squirrel, called Talvi, asked the eagle cheekily.

‘He asks when others would instead command,’ answered the eagle. ‘You know of whom I speak.’

Just as it had been so many times before, this was to be the end of their brief, daily conversation. Talvi turned around and with his little claws clutching at the bark of the tree, scuttled down the trunk once more.

‘Maybe I shall, maybe I shan’t,’ he sang happily.

‘What if I can, what if I can’t?

What if I do? What if I don’t?

Maybe I will, maybe I won’t!’

The eagle watched in despair as the squirrel disappeared from view once more. It was a very long way down that tree called Yggdrasil, and it was even further still into the depths where its seven great roots reached out into seven other kingdoms far below.

There, amongst those roots, Talvi would again spend only the briefest time, and after some exploring of his own, he would once more climb the Tree, to await the eagle’s return the following day.

With a sigh of despair, the eagle extended his great wings and lifted himself silently from the branch into the cold, clear blue sky. He circled the Great Tree just once before returning towards the heavens.

Once there, he would report the same, ungracious words of the defiant squirrel to his master, the Allfather, who sat alone in His chair beside His hearth within His Golden Halls.

The Allfather had seen the future. He knew that the slumbering dragon which lay intertwined amongst the roots of Yggdrasil had to be awoken; and of all the creatures in their world, only the squirrel called Talvi could do that. Yet, unlike all others in the world of the living, that creature alone seemed defiant, deaf to his words.

Perhaps, He wondered, there were others to whom the squirrel might instead listen.

CHAPTER 2: The Old Wanderer

‘If what your mother says is true, and you truly do possess foresight, then you have a gift indeed!’ exclaimed the old man from the darkness of the night. He sat cross- legged on the ground, his long white beard almost touching the earth as he leant forward and placed another stick upon the campfire. He stared blankly into the flames, watching them with his one good eye as they danced and leapt from side to side. ‘It is a gift which may be of use in future times of need.’

He turned his head slowly to one side and then looked up at the young girl with his one good eye to meet her stare.

The child looked down at the old man, but was able to hold his gaze for only a moment. She trembled with fear, drawn to the empty socket beside his single useful eye. Quickly she turned her own eyes away from his lined face.

She was no more than six years old, at the most. Like her mother, she was very pretty. Her eyes were as grey as the waves that leap and fall upon the angry ocean in a winter’s storm; her hair as black as jet, brushed back severely and tied in a tight bow behind her head. Her complexion, also like that of her mother, had a natural, healthy tan, no doubt the result of an outdoor, carefree life. Large gold rings hung from the ears of both mother and daughter. Both were clothed in long, brightly embroidered dresses, their shoulders adorned by long, black lace shawls. In so many ways they were very alike, but unlike her mother, the child did not wear the black headscarf of a widow.

‘Yet it is as much a curse as a gift to her,’ whispered the woman nervously, her arms all the while placed protectively around her daughter’s shoulders. There was a pleading tone to her words. ‘Amongst our kind, you are known to many,’ she continued. ‘All say that you are well conversed in the olden ways. They also say you possess the power to release my daughter from the hold of such magic. If this is indeed so, then please, I beg of you, please cure her of this affliction and lift the curse which you call foresight.’

The old man did not move so much an inch, nor did his face betray any expression. He sat as still as a night owl within a darkened tree.

‘Foresight is not magic,’ corrected the old man, ‘but like magic, it is how foresight is used that makes it either a gift or a curse. Just as your ancestors knew this, you should know it too.’

He shrugged and let out a sigh. ‘But no matter, for your purpose in coming here is not to trade words with me on a cold winter’s night, is it?’

In that moment, just as he had finished speaking, a cloud drifted across the sky, unmasking the full moon in all its beauty. It cast its silver light upon the three silhouettes around the campfire, a silent witness to the words whispered in the dead of the night.

A sudden breeze lifted some glowing embers from the fire and tossed them into the air.

Set in his lined, weather-beaten face, the old man’s eye continued to stare up at the child.

‘Tell me, child of foresight, how much longer shall I live?’ he asked.

For some moments the terrified child remained silent. Eventually, she began to speak, but it was as if she were now in a trance, for her voice was low and betrayed no emotion:

‘On the day your world breathes its final breath,

Only then, will you be dealt endless death.’

‘Then you know who I am?’ enquired the old man.

The child nodded.

‘The one who came from the world beyond,

Who placed your Knowing Eye on me,

You are the one in your realm, until that day,

Who alone, shall decide all that’s meant to be.’

On hearing her daughter’s words, the mother’s eyes widened and the blood began to drain from her face. She sank to her knees and knelt before the old man, her eyes fixed to the ground in front of her. She was breathing heavily, as if trying to suppress a rising panic.

‘Forgive me!’ she whispered. ‘For I did not know who you were, until now.’

‘Your child possesses the gift which I myself have bestowed upon her. She has my blessing to use it for her own purpose and benefit from it until the day that I call upon her to deliver my message to the one who is yet to come. Then, the gift of foresight will leave her and will not again return.’

‘When will that day be, my lord?’ asked the woman in a shaking, quiet voice.

‘The child will know the time.’

With that the one eyed man turned and looked into the fire once more. ‘Now leave me.’

The trembling woman rose from her knees. She took the child by the hand and led her from the camp and into the shadows, leaving the old man to his thoughts once more.

That brief meeting took place on a midsummer night some fifty years earlier. It happened in our world, upon the highest point in Oxfordshire, a place known as The Hill of the White Horse.

Neither mother nor child ever spoke of that meeting to anyone, nor were they to see that old man ever again.

CHAPTER 3: Fifty Years Later

It was the last Saturday before Christmas. Three children entered the narrow, covered walkway that ran between two rows of small curio shops. The eldest was fourteen and a half; the second, her brother, was almost twelve; and the youngest, their sister, had just turned nine.

The entrance to the arcade led from the road where they had been dropped off by their father, directly into the Market Place.

It seemed a long way around to get to the only cinema in Wantage. It would have been far easier simply to have turned right before the arcade and headed directly for it; but they had gone this way to buy some sweets beforehand and maybe get a drink, too, from the shop in the square.

It was yet another cold, damp, foggy day. There had been plenty of those recently.

The short walk through the arcade took them far longer on that Saturday afternoon than they had expected. What should have been no more than a slow, thirty second amble lasted one, then two, then five minutes. As time went on, the smell of fresh-baked bread from the baker’s shop at the other end of the passage began to fade.

‘We must’ve taken a wrong turn,’ muttered Alex.

‘You can’t,’ said Rebecca. ‘We’ve been here enough times. There isn’t a wrong turn to take, unless you go into one of the shops, that is.’

The air felt cold and clammy. Water now dripped down the walls of the passage, but they continued onward into the fading light, their footsteps echoing upon the uneven, wet floor. There was no-one else around now.

It felt like they had entered a cave, but they knew there weren’t any caves in Wantage; unless they had somehow, unknowingly, stumbled upon a secret subterranean world. That, however, seemed quite unlikely.

Seeing they were going nowhere, they stopped.

‘This is crazy,’ whispered Rebecca.

But Fiona, the youngest, wasn’t so sure. ‘Alex, Becca, what’s the date today?’

They both turned to her in the dim, grey light.

‘Saturday,’ replied Alex.

‘I know what day it is Alex, but what’s the date?’ she persisted.

‘Four days to Christmas,’ added Rebecca.

‘That makes it the twenty-first, then,’ concluded Fiona. ‘You know what day that is, don’t you?’

Puzzled, her brother and sister looked down at her.

Rebecca sighed. Fiona often took her time to explain things carefully and clearly, but on this occasion, being in a hurry, her elder siblings suddenly found her habit mildly irritating.

‘Well, perhaps you could share its significance with us then?’ suggested Rebecca impatiently. ‘But if you wouldn’t mind hurrying please, or we’re going to miss the film!’

‘It’s Mid-winter’s Day!’ Fiona whispered conspiratorially, as if sharing a great secret.

Alex blinked and nodded. It meant he was thinking. ‘You mean getting lost here could have something to do with the Northlands, Fi. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?’

‘It’s got to be, hasn’t it?’ replied his younger sister. ‘Nothing else ever happens to us.’

‘I don’t see how it can be anything to do with the Northlanders,’ countered Rebecca. ‘We’re not even close to White Horse Hill, let alone Waylands Smithy. They’re miles away. The gateway to the Northlands lies between the four Standing Stones, we all know that. It’s not in an arcade in the middle of Wantage, that’s for sure!’

‘I know, Becca,’ countered Fiona, ‘but just suppose that somehow, maybe, the magic has reached out to us from there. We all know how strange and mysterious Northland magic can be when it wants to. Maybe it wants us back there.’

Fiona knew that if she was right, there would be no point in trying to retrace their steps. If some unseen power was drawing them back into that Otherworld, for whatever reason, they might as well keep going. They would have to go along with it and accept it.

Christmas would just have to wait.

‘Well, maybe you’re right, Fi,’ said Rebecca. ‘And if you are, then we might as well just carry on walking,’ she added, as if reading her sister’s mind.

Her words had sounded calm, but inside, Rebecca suddenly became apprehensive as past memories of that place returned. It hadn’t been a great beginning when they had gone there the last time. Fiona and Alex had been to the Northlands once before, but the last time had been her first visit.

Rebecca remembered how Anna had disappeared almost as soon as she had met them. She remembered how they were hunted to within an inch of their lives by horsemen in a dark forest. A shiver ran down her spine. They had been lucky to have escaped with their lives at all, and that had only been with a lot of luck, and also with the quick thinking of one honest, decent soldier.

So they continued onward. For another minute or so, they slipped and stumbled along the dark passage, feeling their way slowly and carefully along the wet walls with cold hands and numb fingers. The alley was now almost completely dark.

They hadn’t brought their gloves - it had never crossed their minds that they might need them. Now they wished they had.

It was a very unsettling feeling, not knowing where they were. What if they were now on the edge of a steep cliff, just one slippery step from falling into an abyss?

What they could sense, however, was that with each careful step they were now descending a gentle slope. As they shuffled cautiously forward, with Rebecca leading the way, they sensed that the cave was beginning to brighten once more.

‘We must be getting closer to the end of it,’ she turned and whispered back to the others in encouragement. She was right, too, for less than a minute later they had emerged from the cavern. Yet strangely, against all their expectations, they weren’t in the Northlands at all, but back in the Market Place. They had reached the other end of the passage after all.

Confused, they emerged into the grey, misty square and began to make their way carefully across the slippery cobblestones. The salt and grit that had recently been scattered unevenly on them had made some stones wet, whilst others were still covered with invisible black ice.

Alex glanced up. The grey stone statue of King Alfred was not paying them any attention. Instead it stood, as always, gazing watchfully out to the West; or at least into an estate agent’s window, thought Alex, which was at the other end of the square.

It was then, as they reached the road and the pedestrian crossing, from the corner of her eye Rebecca caught sight of something. The ‘something’ sat crumpled upon the ground, its back propped up against the wall of a coffee shop.

It didn’t have a face to speak of. Wrapped in a raggedy old blanket was a long, tangled, hairy mass of grey beard and white, straggly hair which fell from its head. Two grey eyes peered out from amongst it, though it wasn’t possible to say exactly where the face started or stopped. Gnarled, bony fingers gripped the blanket that it had wrapped around its hunched body in an effort to keep warm.

It was an old man: an old, old man. There was nothing too unusual about that, but Rebecca was surprised that this unhappy soul had chosen such an utterly miserable day to sit there, at the entrance to the square in the freezing cold, and just four days before Christmas too.

‘Surely he could have found somewhere else, somewhere more comfortable to be?’ Rebecca thought to herself. Perhaps he had thought it worth the effort to come outdoors, hoping it was indeed the season of goodwill. Perhaps he was hoping to receive a little charity too, a few pence, maybe, for a hot drink and a bite to eat.

A wave of pity descended over Rebecca as she turned and looked directly at the frail, little old man. She studied him awhile (but attempting not to stare at the same time) before slowly walking over to where he sat. There was no sign of an empty beer can or whisky bottle beside him or hidden inside a plastic bag. This man was needy, she could tell.

She felt her hand reaching into her pocket, searching for that pound coin that she had kept separately for her cinema sweets. Her fingers found and closed around it and she drew it from her coat, all the while looking down at the scruffy old man. She stepped up to him, and holding out an open and extended right hand, she leant forward and offered the coin that lay in the centre of her palm.

At first the man did not respond, for he did not appear even to notice her. His head hung downward toward the floor, his eyes were closed and he did not look up. But then, very slowly, his head began to rise and from within the white bearded face two watery blue eyes turned and looked toward the proffered gift. His eyes stopped on seeing the golden coin. They did not continue upward to see who had offered this generous and unexpected gift.

‘I don’t mean to be rude or impertinent sir,’ whispered Rebecca quietly, ‘but it’s really cold out here and if you don’t mind my saying, you look as though you might like a cup of tea or coffee?’

At this, the two bloodshot eyes continued wearily upward and looked into hers. From under a drooping moustache that tumbled over and covered his mouth, Rebecca imagined she saw a slight smile play upon his hidden lips.

He nodded and slowly let go of his blanket with one of his wrinkled old hands and extended out a thin, frail, shaking arm. The fingertips of his downturned, claw-like fingers touched the palm of Rebecca’s hand, but he did not take the coin. Instead, for what seemed only a fleeting moment, those fingertips remained in contact with her skin around the coin, before he slowly withdrew them once more.

It seemed as though he had had second thoughts and that he was now declining her gift.

The old man then looked toward the square and in an almost inaudible whisper said, ‘Use your coin more wisely than on one such as I. Though thoughtful and compassionate as you are, it would be my wish that you use your coin instead to find out more about your own future, rather than to worry about mine. Mine I know already. Look under the statue in the square. Do you see the tent in front of it?’

The slender arm was now extended and a shaking, twisted finger pointed towards the statue to his right.

‘There, in that tent, you will find a true fortune teller. Listen to what she has to say to you, and do as she suggests.’

His eyes turned once more to Rebecca and remained fixed upon her. ‘That is my gift to you, in return for your kindness to me.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Rebecca in surprise.

The old man nodded and slowly lowered his head, closing his eyes once more. ‘I’m sure,’ he nodded, whispering in a croaky, shallow voice.

There was a Christmas market in the Market Place. Stalls were set out everywhere and busy with people milling all around them whilst stallholders shouted out to attract the attention of the passers-by.

‘Tehn Christmas pat-eighters for a pand!’ called one. (That meant he was offering ten Christmas potatoes for just one pound.)

Rebecca looked out across the square to where the old man’s finger had been pointing, searching out the fortune teller’s tent. There, below the statue of King Alfred she saw it. It was a narrow, tall tent, the canvas patterned with wide red and white horizontal stripes. It reminded her of one of those ‘Punch and Judy’ tents that you still occasionally see at the seaside in summer. Its two flaps were closed, probably to keep out the cold air. The cords sewn into their sides were untied, however, suggesting it was still open for business, although it didn’t look like it was doing any. There certainly weren’t any queues of eager people waiting to enter it to discover their fortunes.

Rebecca looked at Alex and Fiona on either side of her and shrugged. ‘Best do as the old gentleman asks,’ she said.

Together, they made their way across the road and into the Christmas market.

‘Tehn Christmas pat-eighters for a pand!’ repeated the man once more from his stall.

Fiona glanced at him, deep in thought. ‘What makes a potato a Christmas potato?’ she wanted to ask him, but decided not to. It might have sounded rather cheeky.

‘Hello?’ Rebecca called out softly as she gingerly lifted the door flap of the tent and peered inside. In her heart of hearts she was secretly hoping that the tent would be empty. She didn’t really want her fortune read and never had done.

‘Come in, dear!’ said a woman in a welcoming voice, but she did not look up at them as they entered. She sat alone behind a small, round table covered by a red silk table cloth. She was wearing a lace shawl across her shoulders which hung down over her arms. An empty wooden chair was placed on the opposite side of the table with its back to the entrance.

‘You’re just in time,’ she said with a smile, still looking down, at a pack of worn cards she was shuffling in her hands. ‘Luckily, I’m not too busy, just at the moment,’ she added, almost as an afterthought

Rebecca’s heart sank. ‘You’d better come in too,’ she whispered to her younger brother and sister.

As she entered the tent, Rebecca briefly studied the woman. She guessed that she was in her mid-fifties, give or take a couple of years. The seated woman still did not look up as the three children quietly entered and approached the small table. A crystal ball lay upon its centre, set on a circular wooden base.

‘What’s it to be? Tarot cards, crystal ball or palm reading?’ she enquired. Her voice was low and hoarse.

‘What do I want?’ she paused. ‘I really don’t know!’ pondered Rebecca absently. ‘I’ve never done this before. What can you offer me for a pound?’

‘I’ll read your palm for that,’ nodded the fortune teller, who had still not looked up at her young customer. ‘Sit yourself down then.’ The woman gestured with her empty hand: ‘An’ make yourself comfortable.’ As she placed her arm back down on the table, a series of gold bangles on her wrist clinked and jangled together.

‘Then hold out your right hand fer me to ‘ave a look at, miss.’

Rebecca did as she was asked and placed the pound coin on the silk cloth. Fiona and Alex stood on either side of her. Both looked down at the woman with intense curiosity.

Instead, Rebecca was wary, if not just a little afraid. As she had said, she had never visited a fortune teller before and wouldn’t have come even now, had it not been for the old man’s telling her to.

‘Ever ’ad yer fortune read before, young lady?’ enquired the gypsy woman.

‘No, never,’ answered Rebecca truthfully.

‘Then I’d best ’ave a look then,’ she said as she placed her pack of cards face down on the table and her left hand under Rebecca’s right, gently pulling it across the table to examine it.

‘Nothin’ fer yer to worry about,’ she joked. ‘I’m not goin’ to bite yer!’

She touched Rebecca’s outstretched palm with the fingertips of her right hand and studied it.

In an instant, the expression on the fortune-teller’s face changed from one of disinterest to one of curiosity. Her eyes narrowed and it was only then, for the very first time, she looked up at Rebecca.

‘Are ye’ sure you’ve never ’ad yer fortune read before?’ she asked, appearing now to be both curious and suspicious at the same time.

‘No, never!’ repeated Rebecca defensively.

The fortune-teller took a deep breath and looked down at Rebecca’s palm once more. Involuntarily, the woman gently bit her lower lip. She appeared unconvinced by Rebecca’s answer and also slightly worried. She also became distracted and confused, as if unwilling to carry on with the palm reading and for some moments seemed undecided as to what to do next. Yet, despite this, she took a deep breath, composed herself, and looked down at Rebecca’s palm once more. She blinked, trying to focus her eyes.

Having accepted Rebecca’s pound coin, her code demanded that she give the customer a reading in return.

‘You are very soon to go on two journeys, my dear,’ she announced in a shaky whisper. ‘The first will be a short one, the second much, much longer.’

Her forefinger lingered at the centre of Rebecca’s palm. It was where the pound coin had earlier lain,