Chapter Text
“What’s this?” Martin asks as he climbs into the passenger seat, picking up the slightly crumpled ordnance survey map.
“A map,” Jon says dryly, and then relents as Martin’s expression darkens. “It led me to this road, but I’m not sure it’s much use to us anymore.”
Martin huffs in annoyance. “You know it wouldn’t actually kill you to explain what’s going on instead of making vaguely ominous statements.”
“I do not—” Jon begins, then cuts himself off. “Fine. I came here to investigate a report of a potentially paranormal interaction with a place called the Old Bacchus Road. I believe this is that road. I also suspect—though this is only a hypothesis—that the road exists outside of normal space and time. And if my theory is correct, it’s likely that any attempt at traversing this road will be experiential rather than geographical in nature.”
“And what does that mean?” Martin demands.
“It means that getting back to London will take as long as it takes!” Jon snaps, frustrated. He’s stressed and a bit scared, and it doesn’t help having someone peppering questions at him as if he were the source of all truth. A small voice in his head suggests that Martin is probably a lot more scared than he is—at least Jon remembers how he got here—but he can’t quite muster the empathy to deal with that right now.
“Fine,” says Martin, clicking his seatbelt into place rather more aggressively than necessary.
“Fine,” agrees Jon, and starts the car.
They drive in silence for some time. Jon keeps his eyes on the road, while beside him Martin examines the map, or fiddles with his phone, or looks out the window at the countryside visible past the hedgerows. The silence isn’t precisely uncomfortable, but Jon has the nagging feeling he should say something. Try to reassure Martin, maybe, though he’s not sure if that would just come across as condescending. He’s not great at striking up conversation with strangers at the best of times, and this is...not that. Jon is still agonizing over how to break the silence, when Martin says, in a tone of begrudging helpfulness:
“You should turn on your headlights.”
“Oh, yes. Thanks.” Jon switches on the lights, remembering that he meant to do so earlier, right before he met Martin. It doesn’t seem to have grown any darker since then; another tally in the “outside of normal space and time” column. He wonders if Martin’s noticed the same thing.
“Have you, ahh—” he begins at the same time Martin says:
“Is it just me, or—”
They both stop, and then they both laugh a bit awkwardly. Jon gestures for Martin to go ahead.
“The sun doesn’t seem to be going down any further, does it?”
Jon shakes his head in agreement. “No, it doesn’t.”
“What do you think that means?”
“I honestly have no idea,” Jon admits. “But I don’t think it’s dangerous. The person who gave me the map claimed that her, ah, experience with the Old Bacchus Road was an overwhelmingly positive one.”
“Well, this road and I aren’t off to a great start,” says Martin. “What with it abducting me. Two stars, if I’m honest.”
Jon huffs a laugh at that. “That seems fair. I’m interested as to how you ended up here, though—are you sure you’ve never heard of this place? Weren’t handed a map by a stranger or anything?”
“I’m sure—I’m fairly certain I’d remember something like that. I was just trying to get home after a miserable bloody day at work, and I…think I might have dozed off? And then…” He trails off, and when Jon glances over at him, he’s wearing a bewildered expression. “And then, I was standing in front of your car.”
“I see,” says Jon. Not much help there, then.
“You’re a paranormal researcher, right?” Martin ventures. “So you must see stuff like this all the time—you know, spooky stuff?”
“Not exactly like this,” says Jon, ignoring ‘spooky’ with some effort. “But yes, my job is to investigate reported paranormal encounters.” He doesn’t add that, in his five years at the Magnus Institute, he’s only encountered a handful of verifiable phenomena; Martin doesn’t need to know that.
“So, umm…” Martin hesitates, and then asks hopefully: “Any theories about what’s going on here? With...all of this.” He gestures at the vista of rolling hills stretching out in all directions around them, the setting sun hanging motionless on the horizon, and the road, winding on and on with seemingly no end.
“I do have a few hypotheses,” Jon says. “Nothing concrete, of course, but there are some similarities with folklore relating to the fey, as well as to theories about dimensional rifts and interplanar travel. Of course some people believe that those two things may not be unrelated, and that the so-called “fair folk” are in fact—” He catches himself. “But I don’t want to bore you with the minutiae of my work.”
“Your work sounds pretty cool, actually,” says Martin. “A lot more interesting than my job.”
“What is it you do?” Jon asks. He’s not particularly hopeful that learning what Martin does for a living will shed any light on how he ended up on the Old Bacchus Road, but it’s looking as if they may be traveling together for some time. They may as well talk about something.
Martin works for a temp agency. In practice, as he explains, that means that he works a series of tedious, low level office jobs, never for long enough to really get to know the place or make any friends before he’s off to the next job.
“It’s not terrible,” he says. “I mean it pays all right. But it’s just...a bit lonely, I suppose.”
“Maybe it’s time for a change?” Jon suggests. Martin huffs a self-deprecating laugh.
“Maybe. I’ve thought about it, but I’m not sure what else I’d do. When I was a kid, I wanted to work in a library—I liked the idea of working somewhere quiet. But you probably need qualifications for that.”
Jon frowns. “They have library assistants most places as well, no qualifications needed and you can work your way up. You should look into it.”
Martin laughs properly this time, shaking his head in amazement. “Honestly, how do you know all this stuff? Interdimensional portals and now library employment opportunities?”
“My, uh—my ex has a friend who’s a librarian. I ended up discussing it with them once.” Jon feels his face going warm; he’s spent his whole life learning not to ramble on too much about some esoteric topic. “Wonderful as your brain is,” Georgie used to tell him, “You don’t need to dump the whole thing into someone’s lap the first time you meet them.” And now here he is doing it again. “Sorry,” he says, “I, ah, I suppose I’m going on a bit.”
“No, it’s brilliant!” Martin insists. “I might look into the library thing when we—umm, when we get back.” He doesn’t say “if we get back,” though Jon can hear the twinge of it in his voice. When he glances across, though, Martin is smiling at him. “Anyway, enough about my crappy job. What’s it like being a paranormal researcher?”
They continue talking as they drive along the winding road beneath the endless sunset. Martin is surprisingly easy to talk to. As a rule Jon doesn’t find people easy to talk to; he talks either too much or too little, or about the wrong things, and it often feels like there’s some unwritten rules of social engagement that he isn’t privy to. But Martin is open and unpretentious, and he doesn’t seem to mind when Jon goes off on a tangent about Sumerian demonology for twenty minutes—seems to actually be interested, in fact, interrupting every so often to ask clarifying questions or steer him back when he gets too far off track.
“I don’t actually get to do a lot of field work,” he admits when Martin asks. “Most of my time is spent in the library or on a computer digging through academic catalogs.”
“This must be a nice break, then,” Martin beams. Jon nods.
“Yes, a—a nice change of pace,” he says. If he was honest, he might admit that it’s more of a welcome distraction from the void that breaking up with Georgie left behind in his life, and that he hasn’t managed to fill with anything other than work in over a year. But Jon thinks that might be a bit more honesty than is warranted right now.
Instead he prods Martin to talk about himself, and finds that Martin is as easy to listen to as he is to talk to. It’s very pleasant, listening to him chatter about topics that excite him; he’s particularly fond of poetry and old school sci-fi, neither of which Jon has ever taken an interest in, but Martin’s enthusiasm is infectious and he finds himself thinking that maybe he should give Keats another chance sometime.
By now Jon has no idea how long they’ve been driving for. Hours, at least, yet the road stretches on with no end in sight. He should be worried, he knows—everything about this should be worrying—but when he grasps for that emotion he instead finds a sense of pleasant anticipation, a sort of giddy lightness in his chest, the excitement of not knowing what’s coming next. It reminds him of times back in uni, when he and Georgie used to do all sorts of silly things on a whim—mostly at her suggestion, of course.
It occurs to him that this feeling is probably an effect of the road itself; that should worry him too, but it doesn’t.
They round another bend in the road, and catch sight of a tree set off to the side of the road. Not just any tree—this tree is enormous, easily two hundred feet tall, towering far above the occasional elms and ashes they’ve passed along the road. Its bark is a creamy white color, and its branches hang heavy with large, red-gold fruits that Jon doesn’t recognize. At the base of the tree is a building, with a hanging sign that just reads “CAFÉ,” and a few small tables outside, one of which is occupied. The sight is so oddly incongruous on this road that Jon shakes his head in disbelief.
“All of this really is remarkably strange, isn’t it?” he says. That giddy feeling fizzes up inside him and comes out as a little giggle of delight at the weirdness of it all. Martin laughs too, and Jon likes the sound of it.
“Should we stop?” asks Martin. “I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs.”
Now that Jon thinks about it, his own legs are feeling a bit stiff and in need of stretching. And he’s also starting to feel hungry. He has no idea how long they’ve been on the road for, but lunch was a rather sad tuna sandwich from a service station on the M6 and it was certainly a long time ago by now; at the thought, his stomach growls audibly.
“That’s a good idea,” he says. “At the very least, someone here might be able to tell us what’s going on.” He hasn’t entirely lost his researcher’s sensibilities.
They pull into the gravelled plot alongside the cafe, and walk to the front of the building. The single occupant of the outside tables sits with a cup of coffee in front of him, deeply engrossed in a book; he has pale skin and long, dark hair and is dressed in varying shades of black. He looks up as they approach, and a small frown settles between his eyebrows.
“Huh,” he says. “You don’t see that every day.”
“Sorry, what?” says Martin, at the same time Jon says:
“I imagine you don’t see many people out here.” The man shakes his head.
“No, we have plenty of travelers passing by—that’s what the road’s for. Just never two at the same time.”
“Oh,” says Martin, and Jon is about to ask more when a woman walks out of the cafe, a coffee carafe in her hand. Her skin is even paler than the man’s, and her hair is a vibrant auburn red, falling in waves around her shoulders. She takes in the sight of them both, and her mouth tilts into something that might be a smile.
“You must be hungry,” she says. “Sit down, I’ll bring you something.” Jon watches as she walks over to the dark-haired man; she peers into his coffee mug, and then curls her hand around the ceramic for a second. Curls of steam begin to rise from the liquid inside.
“Thanks,” the man says, smiling up at her.
“You should try drinking it,” she says, and goes back inside. A few minutes later she returns with a pot of tea and slices of warm fruit tart, dollops of cream melting on top. The pastry is flaky and the fruit is delicious, the flavor not quite like anything Jon can identify. They both eat enthusiastically, washing mouthfuls down with hot, strong tea. As they do, Jon notices the man at the other table glancing over at them, his expression curious. He decides to see if he can get any useful information.
“Excuse me,” he calls across. “This is the Old Bacchus Road, isn’t it?”
“The one and only,” the man replies.
“Right,” Jon says. “And, ah...what exactly is this place?”
“Other than a road, you mean?”
“Well yes, obviously. I mean, it’s not a normal road—we’ve been driving for hours without meeting another road, which I’m fairly sure shouldn’t be possible. And, uh, people seem to be drawn here in some way?” He looks at Martin, who nods emphatically and adds:
“Without consent—kidnapped right off the bus!”
The man offers him a vaguely sympathetic shrug. “The people who need this place find their way here, one way or another.”
“And who exactly needs this place?” Jon insists. The man gives a knowing smile.
“People at their lowest ebb. People who are trapped deep in their own despair or despondency, who need a push to get themselves out of the everyday misery their lives have become.” The smile widens to a grin, and he leans forward, raising a curious eyebrow. “So, what’s your misery?”
Jon hears a sharp intake of breath; when he looks at Martin, his face is pale and drawn. He scowls over at the man.
“I’m a researcher from the Magnus Institute,” he says. “I’m only here to follow up on a case—my interest in this road is purely professional.”
“Sure,” the man drawls sardonically. He looks as if he might be about to say more, when the red-headed woman emerges from the café again. She’s holding a cardboard bakery box and a large Thermos flask.
“Leave it alone, Gerry,” she says. “People have to find their own way, you know that.” Her expression is mild, but there’s something intense in her gaze, and the man rolls his eyes, nodding acquiescence.
“Right,” he says, closing his book and standing up. “Good luck.” He tosses a salute towards their table, and heads inside the building. The woman gives them another of those odd almost-smiles.
“He means well,” she says. “But he’s too curious. I’m sure you know the type.” This last seems to be directed at Jon, with that same piercing gaze that makes him want to wilt beneath it. Instead, he squares his shoulders and pushes through; this might be the only chance he has to get information.
“What did he mean earlier?” he asks, boldly. “He said there are never two travelers here at the same time.”
The woman’s gaze doesn’t falter, but her mouth turns down at the corners. “People find this road when they need it,” she says. “And everyone travels it alone. I’m not sure how it’s even possible that the two of you found your way here together.”
“We didn’t,” Martin tells her. “We met on the road, and Jon offered me a lift. And then a tree fell so we couldn’t go back.”
She nods thoughtfully. “The road brought you together, then. That’s...interesting.” She sets the Thermos flask and the box—which smells of fresh baked pastry—down on the table. “For your journey. I hope you both find what you need.”
She goes back inside before Jon can protest again that he’s a researcher, he’s not here to find anything other than the facts about the Old Bacchus Road.
They linger over the last of the tea for a little longer before returning to the car. Martin is oddly quiet, and Jon can tell that what the man—Gerry—said has upset him. He can understand that; he imagines it would be pretty upsetting to have someone tell you that you’re verifiably at a low point in your life. Once again he’s at a loss as to what he should say to break the silence, and once again Martin is the one to do so, after they’ve been on the road for a few minutes.
“You can ask, you know.”
“S-sorry?” Jon is genuinely a bit startled by the sudden proclamation. Martin’s tone is flat and defensive.
“I said, you can ask. You’re a researcher, right? So you probably want to know why I ended up here.”
“I…” Of course Jon wants to know, but he also likes Martin. He thinks they might be becoming friends, and he doesn’t want to jeopardize that by prying, treating him like a research subject. The realization rather surprises him; he’s never had a lot of friends, and he certainly didn’t expect to make one like this.
“It’s not my job,” Martin says bitterly. “It isn’t all that bad, really, miserable as it is. That’s probably a bit pathetic in itself, isn’t it? My dead end job isn’t the most miserable thing in my life. It’s—”
He breaks off, his voice catching against some choking emotion, and Jon feels a surge of sympathy; he doesn’t want to make Martin feel this way. He shakes his head.
“Martin, no,” he says. “You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
“I—maybe I want to,” says Martin defiantly. “At least you listen to me. I think you’re the only person who does, actually.”
“Martin…” Jon says again, softly. When he glances over, Martin is scrubbing the heels of his hands across his eyes. He sniffles loudly, once.
“It’s my mum,” he says. And then he tells Jon, about his dad leaving when he was eight, about his mum’s illness; how she grew more distant and more erratic, more and more difficult to take care of; how he dropped out of school and worked menial jobs to make ends meet, until finally he was able to get enough steady temp work to move her into a care home. How she doesn’t take his calls or answer his letters.
“It was her birthday last week,” he says dully. “I sent flowers and a card, and I hoped—I don’t know, it was stupid. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.” He gives a bitter laugh. “She left just the same as my dad did. It just took longer. Story of my life, I suppose, being left behind.”
Jon feels his chest ache with the grief in Martin’s voice. Nothing he could possibly say would be sufficient, so instead he reaches blindly across the center console and grasps Martin’s hand in his, squeezing it tight. Martin makes a small, wounded noise, and squeezes back, and they stay like that for a long moment.
“So,” Martin says eventually, “If you put that story in a research paper, do I get paid?” It’s not really funny, but Jon laughs anyway, because he knows Martin wants him to. He squeezes Martin’s hand once more before releasing it, and they drive on down the road.
Overhead, the sun now appears to be climbing away from the horizon, retracing its path back towards the center of the sky. Jon isn’t sure what that means, but it makes him feel hopeful.