Jack Shian and the Mapa Mundi

by Andrew Symon

  Why hasn’t Cosmo invited us anyway? pondered Jack as he made his way upstairs that night. Still, a Cos-Howe party was a better way to celebrate his thirteenth birthday than anything he might get at home. Dunter or no Dunter, he was going to Cos-Howe.

  Grandpa Sandy returned home just before lunchtime the next day. He was pale and looked older, but the glint in his eyes showed that the fire inside was still there. However, when Lizzie asked how Malevola had managed to defeat him, she was scolded ferociously by her mother and spent the rest of the meal sobbing quietly.

  “We’re all going to the Beltane party tomorrow night,” announced Petros, trying to raise the mood. “At Cos-Howe.”

  Grandpa Sandy smiled. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourselves. Some good youngsters in Cos-Howe.”

  “I was saying yesterday how Cosmo and the others helped at Dunvik,” stated Jack. “And Purdy’s arranged for us to get invites.”

  Aunt Katie arched her eyebrows at this, but Rana confirmed, “Honestly, Mum. Purdy spoke with Gandie, and he said it’s all right. And anyway, Dad’s coming.”

  “Well, you just watch out for that Dunter,” said Aunt Katie.

  “It’s all right, I’ll keep an eye on them.”

  Uncle Doonya sounded confident, but Jack caught him looking quickly at Grandpa Sandy as he spoke. Although he really wanted to go to the party, a feeling deep inside Jack was telling him that something wasn’t right.

  However, late the next evening, Jack had to concede that his worries had been unfounded. The Cos-Howe party was everything he’d hoped for. Burning torches decked the great hall, the food was magnificent and the entertainment had been superb. The previous summer’s party – Jack’s first big party – had been tame by comparison. Several Irish Phooka had flown in and had performed a series of sketches and dances, a wild mixture of history, comedy and song. An old Lunanti Shee gave an expert display of baton twirling with his blackthorn stick, while a tall green-clad Fiannat sang songs of old battles. Korrigans were playing on instruments Jack didn’t even recognise. The korrigans at Falabray the previous year had been timid and shy; these ones were playing music with expertise and real passion.

  Jack wandered happily from one food-laden table to another. An hour later, and unable to eat any more, he sat down happily to watch the songs and dances on the various stages. It seemed bigger than he remembered, and he was embarrassed to be told scornfully by Petros that the whole place had been charmed for the night.

  “It’s Beltane,” stated Petros, as he sat down beside Jack. “Didn’t you realise they’d put on a special show? Everyone’s having a good time – even the Kildashie are behaving themselves.”

  They both looked across to where a dozen Kildashie were grouped together, still not really joining in, but posing no threat either.

  “I thought Ossian was coming,” said Jack.

  “Maybe he’ll come later,” said Petros, spraying crumbs from the corner of his mouth. “The low road only takes a few minutes.”

  However, Ossian had not put in an appearance by nearly midnight, when Uncle Doonya made it known that they would leave soon after twelve.

  “But the party goes on all night,” complained Petros. “Then everyone goes up to Falabray to watch the sun come up.”

  “We’re not staying up all night.” Uncle Doonya was firm. “And don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to, Petros. I’ve had a couple of friends watching you.”

  “What d’you mean?” Petros looked guiltily at his father.

  “Let’s just say I know. But I don’t have to tell your mother anything, providing you behave and come home with the rest of us.”

  Jack turned round and saw that the far end of the hall had been cleared. Cosmo addressed the throng.

  “I have one announcement: the match against Claville will be played three weeks tonight. The usual rules, but a new pitch.” He nodded across the room to where Henri from Claville stood with some of his compatriots. “For those who are leaving before dawn, we wish you a Good Beltane. And may the light skies travel with you.”

  “Enjoy the party?” Uncle Doonya smiled.

  Jack nodded. One part of him wanted to stay up and go to Falabray for the dawn, but another part was just exhausted. He got up, tugging on Petros’ sleeve and indicating for him to follow. Rather more slowly, Petros also stood up and made to join the others.

  As Uncle Doonya went to say goodbye to Cosmo, Jack’s attention was caught by two people talking urgently by the far wall. He recognised Boreus the Kildashie, but could not for the moment place the other face.

  “Who’s that talking to Boreus?” he asked Petros, indicating the pair.

  Petros looked across and shrugged. “Face is familiar, but dunno his name.”

  It was as if Boreus and the other Shian knew they were being watched. They turned, snarling as they saw Jack and the others. An icy chill ran through Jack.

  “It’s Rob! He was hexed by Cosmo for cheating at the wrestling.”

  The last time Jack had seen Rob, his face had shown abject terror as he waited for Cosmo to dish out his punishment. This time it wasn’t terror on Rob’s face: it was pure hatred.

  14

  The Claville Crew Arrive

  The next morning, Jack wondered what to tell his uncle about Rob and Boreus. What had he actually seen them doing? They’d snarled at him, and he’d got that uncomfortable cold feeling, but what did that mean? Still, he couldn’t get rid of a nagging feeling that something was brewing.

  Jack turned his attention to obtaining the Sintura belt. His hand was healed now, so he had no excuse for sloppy tailoring, but Gilmore was not going to be easy to win round. For one thing, Fenrig was still making himself popular with the tailor, so any gifts that might have been disbursed were more likely to go to him.

  Although Jack’s punishment of extra lessons had finished, he found himself drifting back to Finbogie’s house several evenings a week. Finbogie was much better teaching one-to-one than addressing a class of apprentices, and Jack liked practising the defences and charms that he knew his colleagues couldn’t do. Jack’s little store of charms and wristlets was getting too big for the small box under his bed, but the problem of persuading Gilmore to make him a Sintura belt remained.

  In desperation, he turned to Freya one day as they sat down to eat their lunch. Fenrig had disappeared back to his own home, and Doxer as ever was sitting silently by himself.

  “Have you ever heard of a Sintura belt?” he asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone.

  Freya looked at him quizzically, a gleam in her eyes.

  “I wonder why you’d want an expensive thing like that,” she said coolly.

  “So you have heard of it?” persisted Jack.

  Freya smiled and gave a slow wink. “The thread’s very rare, though,” she explained. “I’m sure Gilmore’s got some somewhere. But there’s special charms that need to be said as you make it.”

  “Could you make me one?” Jack felt that the direct approach was warranted now, and he was disappointed to see Freya’s eyes drop.

  “But I might be able to get hold of one for you,” she said after a pause. “If you make it worth my while.” She looked him in the eye again.

  “Can’t we just call it my birthday present?” asked Jack innocently, and Freya’s laugh rang out around the workshop.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” was all she would say by way of reply.

  Jack’s birthday came and went with no sign of the Sintura belt. All the talk among the apprentices was of the forthcoming football match against Claville. Purdy continued to hint that she could get several of them into the Finisterre café-bar, where they would be able to see the game on what amounted to closed-circuit screens.

  “There’s special sceptres all the way up the High Street,” Purdy explained late one afternoon as they lounged around the Shian square. “They all link together, and the pictures come up in the Finisterre.”

  “The humans do that too,” pointe
d out Petros, not for the first time. “They have football games from all over the world shown in there.”

  “Well, we’re not watching their football games,” snorted Rana derisively. “This is proper football, played the Shian way. One goal settles it.”

  “You an expert, then?” teased Jack.

  “Purdy’s been telling me all about it,” replied Rana confidently. “She’s been seeing one of the Cos-Howe players, and he’s been teaching her about tactics.”

  “Will Ossian be playing again this year?” asked Lizzie.

  “Swackit said he’d broken his leg: that’s why he wasn’t at the party. But he should be playing.”

  “I can’t see how it’s the same as when they played in Claville,” announced Petros. “The High Street’s one big slope, and the gate at the bottom is huge. And it’s made of iron, so no one will go near it to defend it. Whoever plays downhill’s bound to win.”

  “That’s why they even things up. The away team gets to choose which end to defend, so the home team get to remove one of the away team before the match begins,” stated Lizzie.

  “It’s still a lot easier playing downhill,” pointed out Jack. “Even a man down.”

  “There’s something else about hexes,” admitted Rana. “But Purdy wasn’t sure what that was.”

  “The match is earlier this year than last year,” chipped in Boyce, who had wandered along and joined them. “You said it was after the midsummer festival last year. If it’s only a week away that’s about a month earlier.”

  “It doesn’t have a fixed date,” explained Petros. “It’s whenever they can arrange things.”

  “If they want to make home advantage really count,” pointed out Jack, “they’d have the game in January when it’s teeming down and blowing a gale. Can’t see the Claville lot liking that.”

  However, the Claville crew picked perfect weather for their trip. They flew in a week later, landing on the field at Falabray, and made their way down the slope just before dawn. The horses were taken on to Keldy, where they could be looked after without drawing attention.

  The Claville team (the “Premier crew”, as Henri called it) were accompanied by a dozen or so friends and mascots. Jack and Petros were entrusted with showing Philippe, Henri’s brother, around town. They accepted this duty happily, proudly showing off the city’s sights.

  “Which way will Claville play?” asked Jack as they strolled past St Giles’ Cathedral.

  “Defending the castle, ofcourse,” replied Philippe confidently. “I think it will be easy to take the ball downhill.”

  There had to be some reason the Cos-Howe crew had elected to use this as the pitch, but with the away team choosing which goal to defend it seemed an uneven contest before it had even started.

  That evening saw the Claville crew based in the square under the castle, where they practised moves and entertained the locals prior to the game. The home team repaired to Cos-Howe to plan strategies. Jack and the other youngsters were not invited this time, causing indignation all round.

  “They let us in last year,” wailed Lizzie as they sat in the square and watched the French team training. “It’s not fair.”

  Jack was disappointed at not being allowed back into Cos-Howe, but he was more vexed that they had not yet found out how they were going to watch the match.

  “You said Freya was going to get us into the Finisterre,” he said accusingly to Rana.

  “She’s gone to Cos-Howe with Purdy.” Rana sounded despondent. “I thought she’d have said by now. Purdy’s friend said the entrance had to be kept a secret.”

  “But we won’t take up much room,” said Jack. “We can always squeeze up if there’s not much space.”

  “I like squeezing up,” noted Lizzie, sounding happier. “It feels funny, but it’s nice, you know?”

  Rana had wandered off a little and was eyeing up one of the French players. Sensing he was being watched, he turned and smiled, causing Rana to blush. Philippe had observed this little encounter and approached.

  “You were speaking with him last year, no?”

  Rana’s flushed face showed no sign of lessening. “He was just telling us about Claville. We’d never been to France before.”

  “I have been in Edinburgh three times now,” announced Philippe. “It is a good city, but very noisy.”

  “What were the other matches like?”

  “Very tough. Always there would be broken heads or legs. But we bring a good physician, and all Claville Shian know how to heal wounds.”

  “Maybe Ossian should have come to Edinburgh to get his leg fixed by the Claville physician,” said Lizzie thoughtfully.

  “What time will it start?” asked Rana.

  “Ten o’clock. Then we will – how do you say? – slow things up.”

  “Slow things down,” corrected Rana. She paused. “How are you going to see the game?”

  “Henri says I will go to the top of one of the buildings. There is a café in the building used by some Shian.”

  “The Finisterre?” gasped Rana. “Can you get us in there too?”

  “I will see. I must ask my brother.”

  Grandpa Sandy ambled out of the house and joined the youngsters by the side of the square.

  “I trust our visitors do not think you are spying on their training,” he said with a chuckle, looking across to where Henri was talking with his players.

  Catching Grandpa Sandy’s gaze, Henri nodded. Without ceremony, the French contingent gathered together into a huddle, and Grandpa Sandy joined then.

  Jack watched despondently.

  “Can’t we just go up to the High Street and watch?” he said to no one in particular.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a small winged creature, which flew up to Rana and Lizzie.

  “It’s a grig!” said Lizzie excitedly. The tiny creature perched on Rana’s ear and whispered to her.

  “Freya says we’re to meet her at the Finisterre,” announced Rana happily. “She’ll get us in.”

  Jack looked across at Petros, who didn’t like making outward shows of his feelings, but he too was beaming from ear to ear.

  Within seconds they had passed through the Shian gate, emerging onto the castle esplanade at human height. The late evening sky was still bright, but it was cold. Lizzie shivered involuntarily.

  “We won’t need coats where we’re going,” proclaimed Rana happily as she set off at pace towards the High Street.

  They reached the Finisterre within a few minutes and were relieved to see Freya standing outside where tourists and locals milled around. Jack and the others edged nervously through the human crowd to where Freya was standing, a nonchalant look on her face.

  “We thought you’d forgotten about us,” said Lizzie. “The players will be ready to start soon.”

  “I said I’d get you in, didn’t I?” Freya was playing it cool.

  “How, then?” asked Jack. He remembered how Philippe had taken them into the town hall in Claville, but that had been up a dimly lit side street, with no one nearby. This was the Edinburgh High Street, with dozens of humans all around.

  “Nobody sees what they don’t expect to see,” said Freya. “They’re looking out for young people trying to get in the pub, so you can’t just walk in. But we use the Shian door. Just copy me.”

  Freya walked up to the side wall of the Finisterre, just next to one of the windows that looked onto the High Street. A small crowd of human women stood there shivering; all wore identical T-shirts, with “End of the Road” on the back and “Tina’s Last Fling” on the front. One of them had a large red L stuck to her back. Glancing both ways to ensure that the others could see what she was doing, Freya placed her right hand on a part of the stone wall that was more worn than the surrounding area, and leant forward.

  “Effatha!”

  In a fraction of a second, Freya had fallen through the wall.

  Tina, with the L on her back, blinked and looked uncertainly at th
e remaining youngsters.

  “That’s it?” exclaimed Jack incredulously. “The same charm we use to get into the square?”

  “You have to know where the key stone is,” pointed out Petros, but he was just as surprised as Jack.

  They each quickly followed Freya’s example, one by one falling through the wall. Tina blinked twice, and swayed.

  “I’ve had enough,” she hiccupped to her friends. “Put me to bed.”

  15

  Shian Football

  Jack smelt stale beer.

  “Not that way.” Petros dragged him by the arm away from a narrow corridor that led to the pub. “That’s the humans’ bit. We’re down here.”

  Shrinking back to Shian height, they passed through a small door on the right, one that was almost invisible in the gloomy light. Entering, Jack was struck by how large the room was. There must have been forty or fifty Shian gathered there on benches, all facing Jack as he entered. Looking nervously behind him, he saw a series of hazy moving pictures that flickered on a row of canvas screens.

  “Get out of the way!” shouted a voice from the back.

  Petros steered Jack away to where Rana, Lizzie and Freya were seated around a small table; Purdy stood, slightly apart, watching the screen intently. Behind the counter stood a Darrig pouring clear fluid into a row of tiny glasses.

  “How long before it starts?” asked Jack. He felt his heart quicken as the thought of the match crept over him.

  “A few minutes,” said Freya calmly. Then she leant over towards Jack and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday,” she said quietly, and slipped something silk-like into his hand.

  Jack looked down. At first he couldn’t figure out what it was. Then it dawned on him.

  “A Sintura belt!” he exclaimed happily. “You made one.”

  “Acquired one,” replied Freya with a broad grin. “But don’t go telling. It’s a secret, right? There’s a hair wristlet in there too. It’ll see you right.”