by Kate Forsyth
She saw high shelves of books, flickering in the dancing shadows of flames, and the high back of an old leather chair, and the gleam of a wooden desk. The air breathing out of the room was warm and smelt pleasantly of smoke. Everything was quiet.
After a while she gently pushed the door open. Still there was no sign or sound of life. She looked about her warily. Long wooden cabinets lined the walls. She pulled open a drawer. Inside were hundreds of old bones, all laid out neatly and tagged. Another drawer held a collection of desiccated claws and paws. She recognised the black massive hand of an ogre and the yellow claw of a goblin, a snow-lion’s heavy white paw, and a scaly webbed hand that she guessed must belong to one of the sea-folk. In the drawer beneath it were rows and rows of human hands, all severed at the wrist. Some were badly preserved, some bare bones, but most looked as if they had just been cut away from a living body. Her stomach quivered uncomfortably. Rhiannon touched one. It was cold and hard and left an oily residue on her fingers. She swallowed and wiped her fingers on her nightgown. She felt, suddenly, very cold and frightened.
The warmth of the fire drew her irresistibly. It had only just been built up with fresh wood and roared away merrily on the hearth. She tiptoed towards it. A dead baby floated in a jar on a shelf. An ogre’s head glared from another jar. Nailed to a board was a glittering scaly skin in the shape of a man. In another jar was a pile of strange white round things. Rhiannon could not bring herself to examine them closely. She stood before the fire and warmed herself, wondering what kind of man would surround himself with such things.
The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece were moving towards twelve o’clock, the only time Rhiannon could tell. She held her icy hands to the fire, watching the smaller hand tick round, wondering why the room was all lit up and the fire burning, when no-one was there. When the front of her body was so hot she had to hold the cotton of her nightgown away from her, she turned and basked her backside.
A huge woolly bear stood in the corner of the room, muzzle snarling, claws raised. Rhiannon bit back a shriek. Wildly she looked round for a weapon. Her daggers were back in her room. She cursed herself for leaving them there, even as she seized a heavy silver ornament from the mantelpiece. As she swung back round to face the bear, her impromptu weapon raised, she wondered in amazement what a woolly bear could be doing here, in the lord’s own library. Lewen’s parents had kept one as a pet, though, so she supposed it was not as uncommon as she would have imagined.
Breathing fast, she stared at the bear, who stared back at her with glassy eyes. For a long moment they eyed each other, then Rhiannon slowly lowered the ornament and took a tentative step forward. The bear did not move. She took another step forward. Still the bear did not move. She crossed the room warily, and reached up a hand to its stiff, cold snout. The stuffed bear stood frozen, yellow teeth exposed, huge claws curved. Rhiannon shook her head in wonderment.
Then she saw something that made her eyes widen and her breath catch. One section of the bookshelves had swung sideways, revealing a narrow doorway. She would never have seen it if she had not gone to examine the stuffed bear. Rhiannon tiptoed to the secret door and looked inside. All was black and chill. It smelt like a grave.
Rhiannon stared at the secret passage for a long time, her breath coming short. Every instinct in her body bade her flee back to the warmth and safety of her own bed. Her brain, however, told her that the gaping hole in the wall must hold some clue to all that was wrong and malevolent in this castle.
Rhiannon was not deceived by the affability of their host, or the sweet face of their hostess. From the moment she had ridden in under the portcullis, Rhiannon’s skin had been prickling with an awful sense of dread and horror that had only grown with every moment spent inside the massive walls. Terrible things had happened here, she knew that as surely as if blood oozed from every stone. Everyone who lived within these walls felt the weight of disquietude and fear. She had seen it in the nervous mannerisms of the maid Wilma, in the belligerent stance of the castle guards, the surly sideways glances of the grooms, the nervous obsequiousness of the gatekeeper, the awkward deference of the dinner guests to their short-tempered lord. The sight of that dreadful playroom, haunted by the ghosts of dozens of murdered little boys, had only confirmed what she had already feared.
And whatever secret was hidden behind the lord of Fettercairn’s smiling face threatened Rhiannon and her companions, she was sure of it. The satyricorn girl had lived all her life in the Broken Ring of Dubhslain. She knew this foul weather was unnatural. She knew gales of such ferocity did not last day after day after day, at a time when the skies were normally fair and the winds warm. She had watched the eyes of the lord and lady follow young Roden about, and she had seen the anxiety on the nursemaid’s face as she begged them to take the boy and get away. She had come to recognise the white dents that appeared beside the lord’s mouth when something was said to displease him, and knew that all about him dreaded that tightening of his jaw.
On the desk were a decanter of whisky and a glass. Rhiannon put down the silver ornament and swigged half a dram for courage. She knew she could not go back to her bed without finding out what secret Lord Malvern hid behind his smooth manner. If danger was threatening them, Rhiannon wanted to know from which direction it would come, and when. Though she coughed and spluttered, the whisky did give her both warmth in the pit of her belly and the nerve to go into the hidden passage. Remembering Lilanthe’s words, she turned her cloak inside out, so that the grey camouflage was on the outside. Then she took one of the branches of candles and the tinderbox off the mantelpiece, for she was more frightened now of the dark than anything, and went through the narrow portal.
Freezing cold, musty air flowed over her. She walked quickly, trying to warm herself. The passage was only narrow, but high enough for her not to have to worry about hitting her head. The walls and floor and ceiling were all made of the same massive grey stone blocks as the castle. She thought she must be passing through the middle of the thick walls, and wondered where the passage was taking her. The floor began to angle downwards, and she noticed the walls were now rock, damp and slimy to the touch.
Then the passage opened out into a sizeable cavern. Passages and antechambers ran off on different sides, and Rhiannon could hear the roar of running water. She thought she must be coming close to the waterfall. She hesitated, not knowing which way to go, and unable to see very well because of the violent flickering of the candle-flames. A cold draught breathed on her neck, lifting her long tendrils of hair.
Suddenly the candles were snuffed out. She scrabbled to light one again. As the flame ignited, illuminating the cavern more fully than before, she saw, crudely etched on the far wall, the shape of a raven. Breathing quickly, she hurried that way and found another passage built by human hands, leading up at a slight angle. Rhiannon followed the passage and soon found herself climbing broad, even steps that rose steeply ahead of her. On and on she climbed, panting a little, the backs of her legs aching.
Fresh air blew coldly against her cheek. She came to another swivel door, standing sideways on its pivot. Shielding her candle with one hand, she crept out into the ruins of the Tower of Ravens. It could be nothing else, this edifice of crumbling stone with grass and brambles growing through cobblestones, and crooked walls rising like broken teeth high into the sky. It was very dark and her candle made only a small circle of light, but she held it high and examined the ancient marks of fire on the walls, the tree growing out of a crevice twenty feet above her head, the untidy ravens’ nests high in the tower.
Rhiannon could hear the sound of chanting and she crept towards it, blowing out her candle and putting it down on the ground so the light would not reveal her. In the numb arc of frozen sky above her, the stars blazed whitely.
She came to a broken archway and looked through, her heart pounding.
Standing in a circle in the central courtyard of the ruined tower were nine people, all dressed in long red hoode
d robes. Holding hands, they were chanting in a low, monotonous tone. Rhiannon was not close enough to hear the words. A sullen fire burnt in a clay dish in the centre, reeking of strange incense. Nine enormous black candles in iron cages cast a flickering, uncertain light. As Rhiannon leant forward, trying to hear, the nine people stopped their chanting and stood in silence for a moment, all looking up at the sky, and then they broke apart. One man turned and knelt to the north, laying his forehead on the ground, his arms outstretched. Another figure came up behind him and bent to unfasten his robe, stripping it down so his back was laid bare. The red-robed figure then drew a whip with nine knotted lashes out of its sleeve. After a moment spent in ritual prayer, the figure began to whip the half-naked man, slowly, rhythmically. Nine times the nine-lashed whip rose and fell, and when at last it was laid down, the victim’s back was running with blood.
He lay still for a moment, shoulders heaving, then struggled to his feet, drawing his robe up to cover his abused flesh. Then he turned to face the others. Eager to see who it was, Rhiannon leant right forward, but all she could see under the hood were glittering eyes, a mouth clamped shut with pain, and a clean-shaven chin. The man gestured imperiously and one of the other anonymous figures came forward, carrying a sack. The man who had been whipped took the sack, plunged his hand inside, and withdrew a rooster by its spurred feet. Its raucous protests were loud enough for Rhiannon to hear, and she watched as it struggled to break free, pecking at the hand that held it hanging. The other hand came up, there was a flash of silver, and then blood sprayed from the rooster’s neck. Immediately everyone began to chant again, in high, hysterical voices. Desperate to hear more, Rhiannon lay down on her stomach and wriggled slowly across the cold, muddy ground until she reached a broken colonnade of arches closer to the circle of chanters.
‘… By the power o’ the dark moon, by the power o’ spilled blood, by the power o’ darkness and the unknown, by the mysteries o’ the deep, I summon and evoke thee, spirit o’ Falkner MacFerris, long dead brother and laird o’ Fettercairn. Arise, arise from the grave, I charge and command thee …’
Three times they repeated the charm. To Rhiannon’s horror, by the end of the third repetition she saw a frail shape lift out of the ground in the centre of the circle, its head bowed, its arms folded about its chest. It lifted a haunted, cavernous face and said: ‘Why will ye no’ let me rest?’
‘Falkner!’ cried the leader, the man who had been whipped. ‘Falkner, we come close to finding the secret. I beg o’ ye, do no’ despair yet. I ken it has been a long and weary time, but I swear to ye, we come close.’
‘A long and weary time, aye, that it has. Why do ye hold me to this world? I want only to rest now. Let me be.’
‘Do ye no’ want vengeance?’ the leader cried. Rhiannon was almost certain it was Lord Malvern, but she could not be sure, for this man’s voice was high and shrill and desperate.
‘Vengeance?’ the ghost asked in mild curiosity. ‘It is all dust and ashes to me now. What do I care?’
‘But do ye no’ wish to live again? Do ye no’ wish to embrace your loving wife, do ye no’ wish to hold your son in your arms? What would ye no’ give to feel the sun hot on your skin and fill your lungs with sweet air, to drink cool water and eat your fill o’ the fruits o’ the earth? Falkner, once ye raved for these things, ye begged me …’
‘They are all good things,’ the ghost said slowly. ‘Indeed, I had almost forgotten.’
‘Falkner, Falkner, how could ye forget!’ one of the others cried, stretching out trembling, age-spotted hands. The ghost turned his face towards her.
‘Evaline,’ he whispered.
‘Falkner, my love!’
‘It has been so long. I had begun to let go, to drift away, to forget.’
‘It has only been five months, Falkner,’ Malvern said impatiently. ‘We last raised ye on All Hallows’ Eve, as we have done every year since ye died. Tonight is the spring equinox, the night when the hours of darkness equal the hours o’ light, and tonight the moon is dark. It seemed too good a chance to waste. We canna raise ye too often, ye ken that. It is too dangerous …’
As if his words were a key to unlock a door, the candle-flames suddenly wavered and were snuffed out as a bitter-cold wind swept round the courtyard. The fire whirled away in a blast of sparks and ashes, plunging the courtyard into darkness. There were a few terrified screams.
‘Hold fast!’ Lord Malvern shouted. ‘Hold the circle o’ protection!’
All Rhiannon could hear were the shrieks of panic and fear, and then every hair on her body stood erect and quivering. She could sense something new in the courtyard, something huge and cold and malevolent. She shrank down, hiding herself, as afraid as she had been when lost in the castle.
Suddenly nine tall pillars of pale greenish fire shot up from the candles. Mist was roiling everywhere, dank and foul-smelling. The ghost of a woman stood in the centre of the circle, regarding the cowering figures with amusement. In the one glance Rhiannon took before she pressed her face back down again, she saw only that the woman seemed richly dressed, and that her skin was white and her hair dark.
‘Ye seek to raise the dead, ye fools?’ the ghost said. ‘With a slaughtered cock-a-doodle-doo and a handful o’ powdered nightshade? Amateurs!’
Lord Malvern struggled to his feet. ‘Begone, foul spirit!’ he cried. ‘Ye were no’ invited here. By the power o’ the sacred circle, I command ye to return to the world o’ the dead.’
She laughed, and raised her hand. The bitter-cold, uncanny wind blew up again, strewing the salt and charcoal of the circle they had drawn across the stone.
‘If ye open a portal to the spirit world, ye must expect some uninvited guests,’ she said. ‘Look out into the darkness. Can ye no’ see the ghosts that swarm about your pitiful circle o’ protection like a hive o’ angry hornets? Ye stand here upon a Heart o’ Stars and call upon the dead, and think ye can open and close the door at will?’
The nine hooded figures looked fearfully out into the darkness, cringing in their fear. Rhiannon looked also and had to bite her knuckle to stop from crying out, for a host of dead were indeed crowding close round the circle of candles with their strange, green flames. The ghosts seemed made of starlight and shadow and bone, only barely visible in the darkness, yet as they pressed forward eagerly, Rhiannon could see their faces, some grave and terrible, others cruel and greedy, others distorted with grief or rage. The longer she looked, the more she saw, hundreds of phantasms melting into each other like pallid marsh-flames.
‘They are angry,’ the woman said. ‘I wonder why? So many spirits o’ the dead, eager to kick open this door ye have opened and swarm upon ye like maddened bees. Do no’ tell me. I can guess. Ye have been experimenting, haven’t ye? Ye’ve been trying to discover the secret o’ resurrecting the dead. Ye have dug up corpses and tried to reanimate them, ye have killed others in order to study the moment o’ death, to understand how and when the spirit is severed, to find out how long it lingers, to study the psychic memory o’ bones, to use them as objects o’ power for your rituals, to seek to know death. Were ye never taught that it is no’ for us to decide the time o’ a man’s death, but for she who cuts the thread?’
‘Who are ye?’ Malvern said in a high, desperate voice. ‘What do ye want o’ us?’
‘For ye to bring me back to life, o’ course,’ she answered. ‘That is what all these ghosts want, crowding round your door. I am the only one who kens the secret though. I am the only one who can help ye.’
‘Who are ye?’ he asked again.
‘Never mind who. All ye need to ken is that I can help ye raise your beloved ones from the dead.’
‘Ye can help us?’ Lady Evaline asked in a quavery voice.
‘Aye, I can. I have waited long for this chance, I have clung to life with tenacious hands, I have refused to go on to the final dissolution o’ self, in the hope that somewhere, somehow, I would find someone with the will, the wit, to evo
ke the spell o’ resurrection. I will tell ye where to find this spell, if ye promise that I will be the first spirit ye raise.’
The hooded figures were irresolute. Some looked out at the darkness with terrified eyes, others huddled together, muttering.
Lord Malvern was not hesitant. He stood up straight, looking the ghost in the eye. ‘I have waited twenty-five years for this chance!’ he cried, exultant. ‘Twenty-five years I have sought to find the secret o’ bringing the dead back to life, and always I have failed. We have done such terrible things – we have dug up corpses in all stages o’ putrefaction and cast all manner o’ spells upon them. We have tortured men to watch how many times they can be killed and revived afore the spirit flees forever. We have tried every way imaginable, and always we have failed. O’ course we will help ye, my lady, whoever ye are. We will be glad to help ye!’
‘Excellent,’ the ghost said in her low, rich, purring voice. ‘First let us drive away some o’ these listeners, and then I shall tell ye where ye may find the spell.’
Rhiannon was suddenly convinced that the ghost knew there was a quick soul listening as well as a host of dead ones. She felt an overwhelming need to escape before she was discovered. She began to slowly creep away, keeping as low and quiet as she could, until at last she reached the shelter of the wall. She was trembling in every limb, but at last she managed to light her candle and find her way back through the secret passage and into the library.
She dared not warm herself before the fire, but hurried back up the stairs and through the maze of corridors and galleries till she at last reached her own room. By now Rhiannon was so cold and weary she could hardly put one foot before the other. Her legs threatened to buckle beneath her, every limb trembled, and black specks danced before her eyes. She came into the bedroom at last, and stripped off her cloak and boots so she could creep under the warmth of the eiderdown, shaking and prodding the sleeping Fèlice until at last the other girl yawned and half-woke.
