Chapter Three:
It would take a demon with great strength and determination to pass through those gates uninvited without taking harm; not a foolproof protection, but certainly enough to keep away the casually malevolent. They’d renamed the place ‘Sanctuary’ the day they’d bought it, and that was exactly what it provided. Not just to the Head of the Council, even if he were the only permanent resident. It served as guest house, retreat, recovery centre, and part time holiday home; it nurtured the sick, tended the wounded, nourished the hungry and sheltered the lost; it was a Slayers gathering place, their mentor’s safe haven and the Scoobies’ home away from home.
It was also the refuge of several rescued horses, two donkeys and innumerable cats, a couple of which were currently sunning themselves on the top of the stone wall beside the gates. One of them had sat up as the car approached, and the soft creak of the opening gates sent it leaping down into the long grass in the Fore-field. Giles smiled to himself as he spotted the flick of its white-tipped tail racing off towards the house. The other one – a lazy looking piebald cat with a ginger eye patch – merely stretched, yawned and settled down again.
“I see Tomas has guard duty again,” Shelly joked as they drove in through the gates and onto the long sweep of the private road beyond them.
“He’s very attentive to his duties,” Giles noted with a hint of pride, not joking at all; Angela laughed anyway, since she didn’t know what he was talking about. Shelly, who didn’t know either, reacted with a slightly indulgent smirk. Danessa, who did, simply smiled with quiet amusement.
“Will you need the car again this evening, Mr G?” she asked, guiding the BMW down the road, past the first line of outbuildings and into the entrance to the farmyard. Three more cats leapt out of the way as the vehicle rolled to a dignified halt on the cobbles in front of the house.
“No. No, I-I don’t think so.” Giles was sitting upright in the back seat, eager to be out of the confines of the car, and itching to doff the trappings of his weekday life. Tailored suits and sleek status symbols didn’t belong in this rustic, relaxed environment; they belonged to the image, not the man who wore it, and it was an image he was glad to escape whenever the chance arose.
Even if the escape was mostly illusory, and the place he could savour it was guarded just as fiercely as the halls and offices he’d left behind.
“All clear,” Angela reported, having hopped from the car the minute it passed through the inner gate and checked the house and courtyard for signs of anything out of the ordinary. Since there were two cats on the steps, two more perched nonchalantly on the wall beside the converted barn and a fourth sprawled on the bonnet of the Landrover parked by the garages, the chances of her finding anything threatening had been unlikely to say the least. “Hearth and home looking all safe and sound,” she grinned, finally getting round to opening the car door and letting him unfold into the late afternoon air. “Welcome home, Mr G.”
“Thank you, Angela.” He paused to take a good deep breath, tasting the warmth of horses and fresh hay, newly baked bread, and the hint of something rich and savoury simmering on a distant stove. “Mmm. Something smells good.”
Angela wrinkled her nose at him in a you’ve got to be kidding way. “All I can smell is horse sh-“ She paused, suddenly wary, unsure of how he might react to her using suspect language, and he grinned.
“Nothing wrong with a little horseshit, girl. Bloody good for the roses and even better for the vegetable garden. You know why a horse team is better than a tractor?”
She shook her head, a little wide eyed at hearing his cultured tones relish the earthy language.
“A tractor,” he confided, “never fertilises the fields it ploughs.”
“Damn right,” a new voice agreed, its owner emerging from the nearby stable block. “They don’t produce stubborn baby tractors, either. Hi, Mr G. Good day?”
“No worse than usual,” Giles smiled, admiring Monica’s easy stride as she sauntered across to join them. There was a lot about Monica to admire; she was a sturdy, English country girl, all curves and smiles and rosy-cheeked charm. Her hair tumbled around her face with tangled disregard, sporting wisps of straw in its deep brown depths, and her body boasted womanhood along with its taut muscularity. All of his Slayers were beautiful. Some, like Faith or Angela, flaunted themselves with confident challenge. Some, like Danessa, remained aloof and elegantly glamorous. Some, like Shelly – or indeed, like Buffy back in her Sunnydale days – retained an endearing self-consciousness that added charm to their hesitant loveliness. And some, like Monica, were simply … voluptuousness incarnate.
There were men in his situation who might have found themselves dumbstruck and drowning, struggling to cope with being constantly surrounded by such nubile and highly attractive young women. There were certainly those, mostly among the younger contingent of Watchers and Watcher wannabes, who were more than a little envious of what they perceived as the privileges of his position. They had no idea what that position was, of course, and it was absolutely nothing like any of them imagined. In circumstances that might have proved unbearably tempting to some and impossibly compromising to others, Rupert Giles had determinedly accepted his fate, positioned himself above reproach and consequently behaved – as he’d been raised to behave – as the perfect English gentleman.
Even a gentleman can look however – especially when given the title of ‘Watcher’- and over the last few years he’d managed to cultivate a way of looking that combined respect, appreciation, and just the right amount of pride. If he happened to look at certain horses – and any number of cats – in practically the same way, well … that was a gentleman’s prerogative too.
“I should hope not.” Monica’s subtle nod in Shelly’s direction was not lost on the man they had both sworn to protect. Even here they guarded him with fervent attention; the exchange confirmed that all was well in Sanctuary, and that it would be safe for him to enter. It’s often been said that an Englishman’s home was his castle. In his case, it was one that came complete with a ceremonial changing of the guard.
“I should … go in and get changed,” he announced, directing his own nod of thanks at Angela, letting her know that – as far as he was concerned – she was now off duty. She grinned, stepping back to let him pass. “And – um,” he paused to add, “remember what I said about that young man of yours.”
The grin grew wider. “You bet, Mr G. Tell ya all about it on Sunday.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” he smiled, then turned towards his front door. “All about it?” he wondered, half under his breath and left them chuckling. They knew he knew they’d hear him, but then he’d intended them to; he’d learnt long ago just how low he had to pitch a muttered comment before Slayer – or vampire – hearing no longer registered it.
The farmhouse welcomed him in with comforting informality, a stark contrast to the crisp efficiency of the offices he had left behind. The flagstones in the spacious hall were scattered with handmade rugs, the furniture gleamed with the soft dark warmth of antique wood, and the sweep of the staircase rose up with a slightly rustic twist, one Xander had never figured out how to correct. Giles tackled it two treads at a time, bounding up to the upper floor with an eager step, and shrugging out of his jacket as he went. The late afternoon sun speared in through the crystals hanging in the windows on the landing, scattering coloured light across the walls. It was caught and reflected by a whole dance of mirrors, painting the upper space with a shimmering, sunlit rainbow and filling every corner with light. There were no dark spaces in Sanctuary, no shadows for doubt or danger to hide in. It was a place lit with crystal and reflected in silvered glass, a world made of warm stone, polished wood, and subtle light. Paintings picked for the pleasure they gave the viewer hung along the walls, while carvings and statuettes and other collector’s pieces dotted the windowsills and decorated floor and furniture alike. In between all of that were the mirrors; some ornate, some plain. Some old and aged, some bright and new. There were mirrors everywhere in the farmhouse, on the stairs, above some of the fireplaces, in the alcoves, even behind some of the shelves and bookcases. They’d been placed to catch the maximum light, and to give a sense of light and space to even the smallest room.
There was even a whole wall of them in the master bedroom; they covered the length of his wardrobes and reflected the antique bed frame that took up nearly a quarter of the room. A four-poster, one that came complete with ornately draped hangings. Once those curtains were drawn the bed was big enough to form a small room of its own, a circumstance he’d originally thought far too self-indulgent – thought that is, until he’d learnt the consequences of living with cats as well as Slayers in his life. These days he considered the space a necessity, since it gave him room to stretch while his nightly companions shared his warmth and kept him company.
There was only one cat on the bed at the moment. A large, sleek, black-and-white one, curled up right in the middle of the duvet. It opened one lazy green eye as he shut the door behind him, and then it sat up and yawned, a long elegant stretch of jaws and tongue that ended with a confident clash of teeth.
“Be right with you, Ari,” Giles said, finding himself echoing the yawn as he reached to slide back the wardrobe door. “I just need to get changed.”
‘Take your time,’ the cat replied, settling down again and giving his paw a quick wash while he waited. The Watcher chuckled to himself as he unravelled the thought. He’d been aware of it for five years now, and yet he knew he was still learning how to translate the complex tangle of images and thoughts that the Walkers used to communicate. Surface intent was easy. He’d got that on the first day, although the fact that he’d first heard it in the silences of Looking Glass house had lent it a clarity it often lacked in the outer world. But each word came wrapped in concept, image and feline poetry, and he knew he still missed far more than he caught. He was getting better at it, capturing – not only the surface comment, but some of the metaphor that underpinned it, and a hint of the imagery and philosophy underpinning that. It was like trying to listen to music, following melody and harmony and counterpoint and rhythm, while turning the combination of each one into a rich and unique symphony of thought.
He no longer wondered why they spoke to so few among his kind; he’d long since shifted to feeling honoured that they considered him worth talking to at all.
He kicked out of his suit trousers and reached for a battered pair of grey denims – one of the reasons for the chuckle, since Ari’s comment had conveyed a perfect impression of his weekly transformation from what Xander called ‘formal business suit guy’ back into the man who welcomed the Walkers into his home. Just Giles, Ari had labelled him once. Swift with the sword, certain of heart. These days his nomenclature had grown to include ‘Watcher to the world, Walker among the shadows, Defender of the Way.’ At least, as far as he could tell, that’s what it had become. He had suspicions that his acceptance as ‘Walker’ required several qualifications concerning two feet instead of four, and something about his lack of a tail – but he couldn’t really do much about that. What he could do was shuck the restrictions of Saville Row, don the accoutrements of a modern landowner and emerge from his wardrobe in jeans, a body-hugging t-shirt and a looser cotton over-shirt. A blue one tonight; midnight blue with a hint of silver starlight woven through it. Ari stood up, padded to the end of the bed, waited until Giles had closed the mirrored door behind him, then leapt with ease – and no little confidence – straight into the Watcher’s arms.
“So how was your day,” Giles grinned, supporting the cat with practised care, letting him roll over and squirm until he was lying comfortably upside down, all four paws in the air and the white flash of his stomach fur exposed to a friendly ruffling of fingers.
' It passed well.’ Ari was purring, happy to see his friend and equally happy to be getting some indulgent attention. His words conveyed the usual impressions of good food, comfortable surfaces, a pouncing mouse hunt out in the stables and the pleasures of dozing in the sun. ‘The Slayer sweet as apples and warm as horse breath took the kit away. But she brought them back. I told Shasta she would.’
“Monica took them to the vet. For their injections, Ari,” he added as the cat briefly tensed in his arms. “Nothing more.”
Ari relaxed again, although his tail went on twitching for a moment. Giles didn’t really blame him. The Walkers were proud of their heritage and their history. Most could recite, with great exactitude, their descent from Shalla Bu Shabis, the Mother of all the Walkers, citing the events that held great significance for them, rather than the human population who had, in turn, revered, suspected, used, abused and in some centuries, actively persecuted them. One of their determined duties was to pass on the gift, to ensure that the gateways were never left unguarded – and the worst fate for a Walker was to be born, and then neutered before they were able to do so.
If a line died, if there were none to follow, then there was a chance that some of the rich skeins of history they cherished would vanish from their litanies forever.
It happened all too often in the modern age. Sensible pet owners generally took steps to keep their homes from becoming too rank, and the world from becoming overrun with unwanted strays. The Walkers understood the reasons for that – but they were warriors, not house pets, and the threat of the vet was one that they took very seriously indeed.
Giles, of course, would no more consider neutering Ari or any other Walker than he would any of his friends – and he could just imagine Xander’s expression if he ever suggested such a thing. They were intelligent beings, not dumb animals, and he treated them with appropriate consideration. The Walkers, in turn, respected his human sensibilities and kept some of their more feline behaviours in check when they visited him. The farmhouse still smelt faintly of cat, of course, since it was impossible to have so many passing through and not leave some sign of their presence - but the toms refrained from aggressive territorial marking, and queens tried not to visit if they were in heat. Both of which were courtesies that the Watcher greatly appreciated.
He also appreciated the way they tried to avoid shedding on his suits, and generally confined their offerings of dead mice to relevant festival days. Friends, warriors and mystical walkers they might be, but they were still cats, and he knew better than to expect anthropomorphised behaviours just because they were capable of holding a civilised conversation with him.
' They grow so fast,’ Ari considered philosophically. ‘Soon they will be learning to walk the Way.’
“We can’t hold back time,” Giles sighed, equally philosophically. “Which is probably just as well, thinking about it. But I wouldn’t worry. It’ll be a while before they’re big enough to start hunting Jabberwoks.”
' They have grown bold again , the cat said, flicking his tail. Gathering in the dark places and stalking the halls at night. The whispers of the vissatük drift among them, stirring hunger and hate. And the bandersnatch lurk along the edges of the light, waiting for it to fail'
“It won’t,” the Watcher declared firmly, shivering a little at the images Ari was sending him. “The shadows may press a little closer some days, but they will never overwhelm the world. Not as long as there are Slayers patrolling in the night and Walkers to guard the Way.”
' And Watchers to remind them both of their duty , Ari chuckled, lovingly butting his head against his friend’s shoulder. The kit don’t believe me when I tell them how you and I hunt together ...'
Giles echoed the chuckle. The kittens didn’t believe any of his tales, either. Vampires and Jabberwoks were nothing but fairy tales to them. But they’d learn soon enough. Too soon for his liking. Cats were like Slayers. They went into battle young.
“Come on,” he said, shifting his friend’s weight into the curve of his right arm and giving him a moment to settle himself there, two black-tipped paws tucked neatly over his shoulder. “Let’s go see how they’re getting on.”
The kittens were in fine form, despite the drama of their day. They were chasing each other around the kitchen, little bundles of bouncing fur and mad dashes across the quarry tiles. Beth was doing her best not to step on them as she bustled between table, hob and sink, fixing the evening meal with one hand and trying to deal with a tumble of dirtied feeding bowls with the other. Giles paused in the kitchen doorway to assess the situation, smiling as his current housekeeper twirled into a pirouette that might have made Barishnikov jealous. Monica was busy peeling potatoes at one end of the table and Angela was sprawled in a chair at the other end, dangling a length of string to help the kittens with their pouncing practice. Shasta was lying along one windowsill, watching her children with the lazy eye of a mother content for others to wear themselves out entertaining her offspring. Tomas was sitting on the edge of the dresser, his tail twitching a little as he observed the chaos of kittens at play, and Fenni was lying curled in the corner chair, pretending to be asleep, the way cats often do.
The Watcher’s lips curled into a quiet smile at the sight of all this domesticity. He dropped Ari to the table, and moved to greet the rest; a soft stroke down Tomas’ spine, a scratch under Shasta’s chin and a cautious offering of extended fingers for Fenni to sniff. The older queen was still recovering from the injury that had brought her to Sanctuary and had a tendency to be nervous if approached too boisterously. She opened one eye, then the other, sniffed, and finally eased herself to her feet so that she could rub her cheek along the proffered hand.
“She’s doing well, Mr G.” Beth clattered a pan down next to Monica, scooped up a playful kitten before she tripped over it, and dumped it down next to Ari. The tom proceeded to capture the fluffy bundle with his paw and give the youngster a vigorous wash.
“So I see.” Fenni was purring softly, holding herself still as he carefully ran his hand over the base of her tail and down her rear right leg. The muscles there were tense, but she no longer flinched or hissed as he examined the healing damage. “You’ll be back hunting in no time,” he assessed, pleased with her progress.
' My hunting days are over ,' she murmured, turning to lavish a quick wash on her injured flank. The soft whisper of her voice was pitched purely for him alone; it held a wistfulness that he had nothing but sympathy for. She was right. The damage had earned her a quiet retirement; she’d never regain sufficiently speed or agility to dodge a Bandersnatch or outrun a Jabberwock. But she would soon be fit enough to hunt mice out in the barn and the stables.
“Maybe you could teach these youngsters a thing or two,” he suggested, dipping down to intercept a furry missile before it could jump onto the chair and disturb her. The kitten squeaked in surprise, then squirmed round, scrabbled up his arm and assayed a bold leap back onto the flagstones. It was the smaller of the two toms – the one with the black plume of a tail and the barest splash of white in the middle of an otherwise all black coat – and he landed right next to his oldest sister, who proceeded to cuff him with relish. Giles heard Angela chuckle at his suggestion and, under it, Fenni’s thoughtful: Maybe I will. She licked his hand before settling back into the cushions; he took that as the dismissal she’d intended and stood up, just as Danessa came in from the garages with a cream-in-coffee coloured cat perched regally on her shoulder.
“Ah, Khaffi,” the Watcher smiled, earning himself an amused blink from turquoise eyes, and an equally amused smile from the dark skinned Slayer. “All’s well in the world, I take it?”
The cat merely yawned at the question, which was answer enough in itself; the Tonkinese often acted as a messenger for the Walker's council, but there was clearly nothing he needed to be aware of today. Danessa laughed. “Everything’s locked up safe for the night,” she reported, letting Khaffi jump down to the table beside Ari. He greeted the regal cat with a respectful head rub, and she returned the favour with a quick couple of licks to his ear.
“Jolly good,” Giles noted, moving over to sniff appreciatively at the pans bubbling on the hob. “You with us for lunch on Sunday?”
He didn’t miss the way Danessa glanced towards Monica before she answered; the quick nod in response suggested that Shelly had already decided on the duty rota for the weekend. “Love to,” was the warm response to his question and he smothered a satisfied smirk; that wasn’t just duty talking, but genuine enthusiasm. And it was his turn to cook.
“Good,” he said, mentally assessing numbers. “I’m sure I can … um … do something with a chicken or two.”
That earned him some appreciative smiles; one of the advantages of owning a working, organic farm – albeit a very small one - was the quality of the foodstuffs it produced. Fat, corn-fed chicken, equally fat carrots, rich, earthy potatoes – even the crisp apples and pears currently ripening in the orchard – all contributed to the promise of a good, traditional Sunday Lunch, and made the prospect of cooking it as much of a pleasure as eating it would be. He never stinted on the trimmings, either; many a Slayer had discovered the glories of hand made stuffings, proper bread sauce, and giblet gravy dining at his table. His Yorkshire puddings and his beef-in-ale casseroles were equally popular, although his personal favourite was the Christmas goose, which had become an immediate and necessary tradition the day Buffy had finally been persuaded to try a taste.
But the prospects of preparing culinary pleasures would keep until Sunday. It was only Friday, and Giles had other hungry mouths to feed first. He scooped a pile of clean bowls off the draining board and strode out into the utility room – where he was immediately greeted by a swarm of furry bodies and a forest of tails. His feline guests slithered around his feet like circling sharks, always on the move and eager for the feast. He smiled and chatted to them as he scooped out portions of the fresh cooked meats and added a scattering of dry biscuit across the top of each bowl. There were fifteen visitors tonight, some of them regular guests, one or two new arrivals and three senior veterans who were considering the offer of making Sanctuary their retirement home. Fenni had already accepted that offer and now counted herself among the members of the household. There were already four grizzled retirees who’d claimed the territories of the barn and the stables as their place of residence, but there was plenty of room, and the Watcher spent a moment confirming the fact as he placed the bowls on the terracotta tiles. He was thanked in a variety of voices and a swirl of thoughts and images that were mostly concerned with hunger and the pleasures of eating; they made him feel hungry and, as usual, they were amused to hear him say so.
There were no obvious injuries to treat tonight, which he was pleased to see; the Walkers often sought out Sanctuary just as a place to rest and revive their spirits, much as they had done the mirrored halls of the Savoy while the White Knight was in residence. Giles wasn’t in as much need of their company as the old man had been, but he appreciated it all the same. They didn’t fuss over him the way his Slayer’s did; they treated him as a warrior among warriors, watching his back only when he needed it and sharing their joys in the hunt and the kill. He promised to spend some time over the weekend exchanging stories and listening to tales, and left them eating their fill while he returned to the warmth of the kitchen in search of his own repast.
It was obviously Shelley’s turn to take the obligatory stroll around the farm buildings before night fell; by the time she appeared in the kitchen, Beth was busy ladling out the evening meal and the kittens were all curled up in a tired heap with their mother. Giles had shooed Ari and Khaffi off the table and busied himself with sorting place settings and opening a suitable bottle of wine. There was something decidedly satisfying about the informality of joining his girls round the large wooden table and sharing dollops of rich Irish stew and lashings of mashed potatoes. It helped that half of the produce that went into the meal was homegrown and organically cultivated – and that the conversation centered as much on the welfare of the horses and the progress of the crops in their tiny market garden, as it did on life among the Council’s staff. For once, the gossip was strictly local and non-work related; Giles could almost pretend he was a gentleman farmer, enjoying an evening meal with his family. Almost. The fact that Beth had ladled out several helpings of stew into cat dishes was acceptably eccentric – but the ritual blessing of the salt, the casual way that conversation occasionally turned to matters supernatural and the pattern of runes cut into the wooden surface they were dining on were probably taking eccentricity a little too far.
Nevertheless it was an enjoyable experience, and he volunteered to help with the washing up afterwards, wanting to cling to that sense of quiet domesticity just a little longer. Shelly wasn’t having any of it.
“Go,” she chided laughingly, shooing him away like a child. “Relax. Haven’t you done enough work for the day? I know you want a quiet evening, so you just leave all of this to us and go take the weight off for a while. We’ll be around if you need us.”
“I know.” Giles surrendered to the inevitable and retreated gracefully, Ari trotting at his heels. They both paused at the entrance to the living room, glancing in at the comfortable sofas and the cinematic widescreen TV that Xander had insisted was a vital necessity … then man looked down at cat, and cat looked back – and they smiled at each other in their own particular way and walked on until they reached the carved oak door that guarded the Watcher’s personal sanctuary within Sanctuary.
His study.
It wasn’t quite big enough to be called a library, even if it looked remarkably like one; the floor was occupied on one side by a large, ornate desk and the high backed chair that sat behind it and on the other, a more informal sprawl of armchairs and reading tables. There was a Persian rug underfoot, an antique armoire in the corner by the door and a leaded glass window with a wide windowsill set into the wall opposite it. The rest of the space was dominated by books - with even the windowsill boasting a row of them.
Giles had spent many a happy hour in this room, sorting through his personal collection and arranging it to his satisfaction. Many of the volumes had accompanied him across the world and back; he could easily point out the jelly stains on the spine of several tomes that had served time decorating the tables of Sunnydale High School library. There were even a few with scorched bindings, relics of the magical conflict that had devastated the Magic Box before it and the rest of Sunnydale had been swallowed by earth and sea alike. The room smelt of beeswax, soft leather, bookbinding glues, a hint or two of magic and the richness of ages.
He held the door long enough for Ari to slink in and then let it close behind them both with a quietly satisfying thunk. The remains of the late afternoon light lingered in the depths of the window; the edge of it was caught and reflected back from the decanter on the armoire, painting a soft hint of gold across the room. Glass clinked as Giles paused to un-stopper the decanter and pour himself a generous glass of Scotch from its depths.
“On from room to room I stray,” he quoted pensively, picking up the glass and studying the amber liquid within it. “Yet mine Host can ne’er espy. And I know not to this day, Whether guest or captive I.”
Ari leapt past him and up onto the desk, pausing to rub his cheek against the ornate box that occupied one corner of it. They care about you, he said. They worry. They need to keep you safe.
“I know.” Giles sighed, taking a welcome sip from his scotch and moving across to stare into one of the three full length mirrors that dominated the far wall of his otherwise book lined refuge. This one was a beautiful thing, an antique rescued from the ruins of the old council HQ and which had, by some miracle, survived the explosion and some of the subsequent demolition more or less intact. It had been stored, along with a number of other pieces, inside a series of crates in one of the lower basements. They had research staff working on the nature and history of the other pieces, but the new Head of the Council had claimed the mirror as his own, the minute he’d set eyes on it.
Not just because it was a lovely example of this particular craftsman’s work, or because the subject of the carvings – a series of fantastical beasts cavorting in an equally fantastic woodland – had caught his eye, but because the glass itself had sung out to him, whispering of magic and need and a yearning to catch the light.
Only a very close observer would realise that the room it reflected was not the one it was currently sitting in. It showed another study, one lost for decades; the room of the sorcerer who’d originally commissioned it. Just occasionally it showed the sorcerer too, moving among his books and his trappings.
Time, Giles suspected, would eventually replace the current image with a period of darkness – and then a reflection of his study and his own earnest considerations as he stared into the glass. By then it might be somewhere else entirely, a silent witness to his own existence, long after he was dead and gone. He rather liked that idea. Liked to stand and contemplate who he might be looking back at, many years away.