Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
I love flying with him. It’s possibly the best thing I’ve ever done.
But the drive to St Ives is still lovely.
He takes the coast road, and we hug winding roads that curve around small coves, the sand pale in the winter light.
The sea is a stormy grey. Wind batters the car, and rain splatters the windscreen, but inside, it’s snug and warm, the radio playing “Stop the Cavalry” by Jona Lewie.
Sigurd leaves the coast, and we plunge into a moorland, the heather a dun brown and gloomy in the rain. “It’s very desolate,” I say, watching as he navigates the steep curves, his big hands secure on the steering wheel.
He shoots me a quick look. “All moors can seem that way. You have to know where to look to see the life inside them.”
“Does that mean magic or human life?”
“A bit of both, elskling.”
I look out of the window with renewed interest. To the left of the narrow road is a group of fantastical rock formations that gleam wet grey in the rain.
Boulders and stones are strewn around them as if thrown by a careless giant.
We stop to let a tractor pass, and one particular formation catches my eye.
There’s an enormous central rock with smaller boulders surrounding it, and it looks so much like a crouching man that I fancy I can see his head tilted downward as if examining the ground.
Then I cry out and grab Sigurd’s arm. “Oh my god, it moved,” I gasp.
He turns his attention away from the tractor and looks at where I’m pointing. “What did?”
“The stone.” I rub my eyes. “It moved.”
“Well, of course,” he says simply. “I’d imagine he’s getting cramped.”
“Who is?” I whisper.
“Breock,” he says and waves.
My gaze follows his gesture. My mouth opens and shuts, but no words come out.
A huge man is standing by the side of the road.
He’s easily nine or ten feet tall. Even as I watch, he steps down onto the road and ambles to Sigurd’s window.
The ground shakes, and my coffee cup falls into the well between the seats.
“Sigurd,” I breathe. “Drive away.”
He pats my hand, his face kind and solemn. “I will never allow harm to come to you. Breock means no ill will. Alright?”
After a moment, I nod, and he gives my hand an appreciative squeeze. He lowers his window, and the giant slowly bends to talk to him. When his face comes into view, my fear lifts. It’s as craggy as the rocks he was formed from, but there’s kindness and humour in his expression.
“Dragon,” he says, giving Sigurd a smile that shows a few jagged teeth. “I thought it was you.” His voice is very deep with a strong Cornish accent.
“How are you, Breock?” Sigurd says.
“Oh, fine, fine. The missus is getting fretful with talk of housing expansion into the moor. Have you heard aught?”
“It will not happen,” Sigurd says solemnly.
The giant man seems to relax. “Ah, I shall tell her you said so. Do not forget that you are expected for supper next week.”
Sigurd nods. “I will not forget.”
The big man smiles at me. “Ah, and I am forgetting my manners. And is this your—?”
“My friend, Cary,” Sigurd interjects quickly.
I wonder what Breock was going to say, as the two look steadily at each other, something passing silently between them.
Then the giant nods and puts his fingers to his head in a salute. “’Tis an honour to meet you, Cary.”
“And you.” I shake my head. “Amazing.”
Breock’s laughter is as loud as a rumble of thunder. “Ah, it must be your first day in the magic world. ’Tis a curious thing.”
“You have no idea,” I say fervently.
Sigurd and the giant laugh, and then Breock straightens.
“Well, I will let you get on, dragon. You have much to do, yes?” Sigurd nods, and the giant pats the car.
It’s only a gentle tap, but the whole car moves and spins, and I grab hold of the seat.
“Apologies,” he booms. “Don’t know my own strength sometimes.
” He carefully sets the car facing the right way. “Peace be with you both.”
“And you,” Sigurd replies.
The ground shakes as Breock walks away.
“He’s huge,” I say softly.
“He is one of the smaller of his kind.”
“Unbelievable. I saw a giant. An actual giant.”
His mouth twitches. “He’s definitely not human. He would never fit through one of your little doors.”
“Did I see him because you took away my scales?” When he nods, I ask, “And if I still had them, what would I have seen?”
“A mere rock formation.”
“That’s amazing. He still looked a bit like a rock, though, didn’t he?”
“But of course. They come from rock and stone.”
“Are there more?”
“Not now. Breock and his wife and children are the only ones around here. I have heard of a family living on the moors near Dulverton. Giants are few and far between these days.”
“That’s sad.”
He starts the car again. “Not exactly surprising, though. Breock is the exception to his kind. I never met a more argumentative and sillier people.”
“Really?”
“They would spend most of their days arguing with other giants, throwing rocks and boulders at each other. Very tedious. And when they stopped doing that, they were forever making a nuisance of themselves, chasing humans and trying to eat them even though it would give them indigestion.” I blink.
“Not to mention the old Polglase family. They were continually wading into the sea and snatching ships and eating the sailors.”
“Good grief. I’m glad I met a sensible one.”
Sigurd huffs. “Be glad you met him as an older giant. He had his fair share of mayhem in his youth.”
“And you’re going to dinner with him?”
He nods. “His wife, Wenna, is an excellent cook. Her fish pie is delicious. You’ll see.”
“I will?” I say, startled. “I’m going home soon.”
He seems to check himself. “Of course. Mayhap you will see one day.”
I don’t recall ever having a more fervent wish than to have that be true—to stay with Sigurd and spend our lives together in his lovely home. But while he’s introducing me to creatures that come from fairy tales, I need to remember my own life isn’t one. I’ll have to leave soon.
A thought occurs to me. “When I leave, will you bespell me, so I forget you?” I ask quietly.
His hands abruptly tighten on the steering wheel, and he gives me a startled glance. “Nay,” he says, and the steady honesty in his eyes reassures me. “I cannot do it, but I could possibly find someone else who can perform that spell.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I want to remember. I never, ever want to forget this.”
Something sad and wistful drifts across his face, but when we come to a crossroads his attention is dragged back to the road.
Soon, we come out above a sprawling town.
“St Ives,” Sigurd says.
My heart beats more quickly as he drives down into the town. The maze of roads is so narrow I hold my breath, thinking we’re going to get stuck. Little whitewashed cottages line the streets with fairy lights glowing red and gold in their windows.
“It’s lovely,” I say, and he smiles at me.
“It is a charming town. I think you may be seeing it at its best, despite the weather. It is powerfully busy in the summer with day trippers and tourists.”
He parks in a small car park in a tiny space that doesn’t seem like it would hold the Land Rover, but he’s as sure and steady in his movements as he appears to be with everything in life.
“I will have to get a ticket at the kiosk,” he announces.
Something about the mundaneness of the complaint strikes me as funny, and I snort.
His eyes twinkle. “Ah, magic only gets you so far, elskling. The council are no respecters of it.”
“Do you pay taxes?”
“Sadly, yes.” He sighs. “I have met cutthroat robber barons in my time that were less ruthless than His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.”
His strides are long and fluid as he walks towards the ticket machine, and I watch as a woman eyes him appreciatively. I can’t blame her. He’s such a stunning man. And she doesn’t even know the half of him.
I climb out of the car and walk over to the stone wall that lines the car park.
It overlooks a long stretch of pale, sandy beach.
A few yards away is a café that’s closed for the winter, its windows dark and wet with rain.
The sea is a cold turquoise, frothing madly as it pounds onto the beach, and I shake my head in wonder as I see the white horses again.
They’re clearer this close, tossing their manes imperiously and prancing on the waves.
When they reach the shore, they whinny in delight and then reform farther out to sea.
Warm hands slide around my waist, and I lean into Sigurd. “It is a wild day,” he murmurs.
“They’re the best.”
“Really?”
I nod, taking the hand he offers me. We start to walk and his warm fingers squeeze my hand, and he grins at me.
“I like the summer,” I say chattily. “But give me the rough weather and I’m happy. I love the wind.”
His eyes flame bright gold. “It is the best day to fly, Cary. Oh, to be in the sky riding the air.”
“Will we fly today?”
“If you wish.”
“I do. Where are we going now?”
“Ah, a friend of mine makes the candles I like to have in my hall. She also makes the bathing products in my bathroom.”
“Oh, they’re lovely. I caught the scent of them the very first day I was exploring your beach. When I thought there was an entrance between the caves.”
He winks at me.
“There actually is an entrance, isn’t there?” I say indignantly, stopping and turning to face him.
He laughs. “Yes. ’Tis the back door, so to speak.” His brow furrows. “And you say the door was open?”
“Yes. I could smell the most delicious scent. It smelt like…” I trail off as I remember my first thought after catching the scent.
“Like what?” he asks curiously.
“Home,” I whisper.
He pulls me close. His eyes are bright gold. “Oh, Cary,” he breathes.
I flush, and he takes pity on me and starts to walk again, taking a path by the beach. We pass the huge modern structure of the Tate, and it glows warm in the stormy light, its curves echoing the sea.