Icknield Way

Out and up into the hills, each footfall an affirmation. For the first five-odd miles the path cut a careful white line over the grassy slopes. Already the buzz of his thoughts quieted, and he started to lose himself in the swing and tramp of his feet on the chalky ground.

Around mile six the path met a crossing of ways. The left turn ran down the hill to join a stream, which stumbled down the rocks into a river, the inrush of whose waters gathered pace in the lowlands below and poured itself distantly into the sea. He'd usually take the left turn, joining up with the constellation of towns that had sprung up by the waterside. Today was a straight-on day: he needed to clear his head.

The crossing was a moment to pause. He resettled his pack where it dug into his shoulders. He'd overpacked in his rush to leave, shoving things in to quiet the inner checklist of don't forget.

The fading path wound on. His journey was companioned by a tumbledown wall, and then by a light rain from the grizzling clouds. Eventually the chalk line dived back underground, until the path became a trick of the light.

The day glowed golden with late afternoon. Another hour on foot, this time watchful for a spot to set up camp. He settled on a windswept spot at the top of a hill. An impractical choice but he couldn't resist the view: the fields stretching on all sides, fading into grey on the horizon.

He pitched his tent and ran through the evening ritual. The wind did its level best to upset the pot of water he boiled for his meal, but soon enough he was perched on a tussock, munching grainy instant rice from the bag as the endless sky melted his thoughts.

He withdrew into his tent with the fading light. Sleep came swiftly.

And just as swiftly, wakefulness. There was a charge to the air - the sense of unheard voices in conversation. Outside he could hear only the blustering wind. But the hairs on his neck prickled. In the silence, something was happening.

Impossible images crowded his mind, of the ghosts and barrow wights that haunted hills of the imagination. Of deals with the devil and bargains with the Fae.

It's so human, isn't it, that need to know? Pushing down that voice that warns of the dangers, and pushing forward. He opened the tent flap and stepped out onto the hillside. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the moonless dark.

The wind, the sky, the grass. Nothing more.

He tilted his head back. The wind had swept away the clouds, opening a vault of stars.

His eyes found Sirius, and followed its line up to Orion's belt. Betelgeuse glowed red in his shoulder. The angular figure of the Hunter was cartoonishly masculine with its broad shoulders and narrow waist. From Sirius and Betelgeuse it was a hop to Procyon, the winter triangle bright and guiding.

His father's voice came to mind, and stargazing as a kid. The quiet of two seeking gazes, interspersed with the call to look and trace a pointing finger, and tell the stories of who they were and how they came to be. He looked higher, searching for the Pleiades. But they were invisible, shrouded in some unseen cloud.

He turned to scan the southern horizon, and something caught in his peripheral. His breath stalled.

Wending up the hillside were seven women. Each wore a flowing dress that seemed to glow with its own soft blue light. They moved noiselessly, and their lips shaped soundless words.

Following the women came a chariot drawn by two goats. Two identical young men stood in the chariot. One held the reins and the other held two kids, tipped with silver in their tiny hooves and knubby horns.

Managing for a moment to pull his attention from the scene before him, he flicked his eyes upward to a starless sky.

A dog bounded through the air, weaving a path amongst the other figures. Behind them, he could glimpse a bulky man, striding up the hill with a club strapped to his broad back.

The figures looked simultaneously ancient and ageless. The contrast of their regal forms passing near the plasticky green of his tent should have felt absurd. But any such thought barely scratched the surface of his mind, before collapsing in the awe of it all.

As the man with the club passed nearer, he saw at his waist a sword belt, glittering with three bright jewels.

Progressing eastward, the figures started to gain translucence, gradually becoming outlines sketched in faint lines of light. His eyes strained to see the women kneel with bent heads, presenting their cupped hands to the air. A diamond flash, and they vanished. Each devotee repeated the ritual: obeisance, oblation, oblivion.

Focused on what was happening in front he hadn't noticed the creature bringing up the end of the procession: a huge white bull, its fiery eye a ruby in the night. Once the other figures had done their part, it was the bull's turn to bow to the meeting of the hills and the sky. The crescent of its milk white horns lingered, an afterimage, as it too faded into the air.

Then the queenly moon rose vast and full on the horizon. Her luminous face dazzled his blown pupils after the faint starlight. He blinked and rubbed his eyes.

The spell in the air ebbed fast. This night must be the perigee, he reasoned; that's why the moon seemed unusually close. Still, it was beautiful.

As he followed the moon's slow upward arc, the cold settled into his bones. He retreated to his sleeping bag. Soon his lids grew heavy and he slipped into dreamless sleep.

Birdsong called him back to a bright morning. He stood and stretched with the sun on his face. The valley spread below him, its waterways thrilling with slanted sunlight.

He started the day: a coffee, a sit with the view, a slow breakfast. Soon he had packed his tent and was back on his feet, seeking out that spine of chalk that marked his way. The night was a world away, and new wonders ahead.

But for ever after the endless procession of the constellations would move across his mind's eye, presenting each night anew their offerings to the moon.