Always Forever taom-3

by Mark Chadbourn

  Baccharus opened the door a crack to peer out into the shadowy corridor. "We should move back to the lighter areas before the Malignos return. They will be even hungrier after their exertions."

  "Won't we meet them on the way back?" Ruth asked.

  "Wave Sweeper's configuration will have altered many times by now. They should be a distance away."

  "Or a room," Marik Bocat noted. "Speed is of the essence."

  "Do you want me to carry you?" Ruth asked.

  Marik Bocat looked insulted once again. "Perhaps my legs are invisible to you?" He motioned to what appeared to be a mousehole in the wainscot. "We have our own routes about the ship."

  "I'm sorry." Ruth's head was spinning from everyone she had encountered, each with their own peculiar rules and regulations. "I seem to be saying that a lot."

  "Never mind. You will have time to make up for your appalling manners." He smiled sweetly again, then bowed with a flourish before disappearing into the hole.

  "A strange race," Ruth noted as she slipped out of the door behind Baccharus.

  His voice floated back to her, strangely detached. "We are all strange. That is the wonder of existence."

  She found Church watching the waves with Niamh at his side. There was an easiness to them, in their body language and the way they stood a little too close, that made her feel an outsider. She considered leaving them alone, but the tenacious part of her nature drove her forward.

  Niamh smiled politely when she saw Ruth, but she didn't appear too happy with the intrusion. "I will leave the two of you alone," she said a little stiffly. "I am sure you have much planning to do if you are to achieve your aims."

  Once she was out of earshot, Ruth said, "You seem like you're getting on."

  Church's eyes narrowed; he knew her too well. "What does that mean?"

  "Nothing. Just what I said."

  "There's nothing going on." He turned his eyes back to the cream-topped surf. The sun was slipping towards the horizon, painting the waves golden and orange. "When it comes to romance I've been an idiot in the past. I was just trying to fill the gap left when Marianne died, and it was a big, big gap. But I couldn't see what I was doing. I can now. I'm not going to make any stupid mistakes again."

  "Still, it's obvious she wants to get in your trousers."

  "I don't think it's a physical thing. I don't know, maybe I'm wrong, but the Tuatha De Danann value emotions more than anything. Don't worry, I'm going to be careful, not lead her on. Especially after the last time." He flinched. "It's hard, though. The way they unconsciously manipulate emotions. It's overpowering."

  "I can't understand why she's so full-on."

  "What, you don't think I'm worth it?" He laughed as he leant on the rail to peer down the side of the boat.

  "On second thoughts, go for it. You should take what you can get."

  "Steady on, acid tongue."

  She slipped an arm around his shoulders; it was something a friend would do, but, as earlier, the warmth was unmistakably stronger and they both drew comfort from it.

  "I know lots of terrible things have happened, but when I think about everything that's been lost so far it's all the normal things I feel acutely about," he continued. "Never being able to go to a movie. No more Big Sleep or Some Like It Hot. No more electric guitars at some seedy gig. Sometimes I'm so shallow."

  "What do you miss the most? The one thing above all else?"

  He thought about this for a second, then gave an embarrassed laugh. "Never being able to hear a Sinatra song again. Stupid, isn't it?"

  "No."

  "It's not even about the music, it's what it means to me." He tried to pick apart the tangled emotions. "It means a love of life, abandon, not worryingjust enjoying."

  "Does it remind you of Marianne?"

  "No, it reminds me of what life used to be like before responsibility."

  In the distance sea creatures resembling dolphins frolicked in the pluming water, their shiny skin reflecting the late afternoon light. There was a certain poetry to the image that wasn't lost on either of them.

  "The quicker we get there, the quicker we can get back and do something positive," Ruth said.

  "Maybe we shouldn't be in such a hurry to arrive."

  "Why?"

  "In all the old stories, the Western Isles are a metaphor. They're where the dead live."

  "Heaven?"

  "Or Purgatory, in some cases. So we're leaving life behind us and moving into death."

  "Trust you to put a damper on things."

  He forced a smile. "Let's hope we can make the return journey."

  Chapter Three

  On the wings of golden moths

  After Ruth had related to Church her encounter with the Malignos, the Portune and Baccharus, they retired to their rooms for a brief rest. When the red sun was bisected by the horizon, Cormorel disturbed them with a sharp rap on the door.

  "The Master requests your presence at his table for dinner," he said with his usual ironic smile.

  They weren't about to argue; their stomachs were rumbling and the cooking aromas floating through the ship were mouthwatering. Spices, herbs and roast meat were prominent, but there were other, subtler scents they couldn't quite place. Cormorel led them across the deck to the raised section at the aft where Manannan's quarters obviously lay. A winding, wood-panelled staircase took them down to another corridor. Here torches roared furiously, as if fired by gas burners. At the end, Cormorel swung open two double doors to reveal a scene that took their breath away. Spread out before them was a banqueting hall so large it could have filled eight or nine ships the size of the Wave Sweeper they had seen from the seafront. They could barely think with the noise that echoed amongst the lofty rafters. Oak tables ranged in lines, around which sat a mesmerising array of strange creatures of all shapes and sizes, interspersed with the more sedate figures of the Tuatha lle Danann. There was babbled, incomprehensible conversation, shouts and screeches; in a few places brawls rolled amongst the aisles.

  "Do not worry," Cormorel said wearily, "you will get used to it."

  The walls were an odd mix of stone and wood, hung with luxuriant drapes of the deepest scarlet. Log fires roared in enormous stone hearths at strategic points around the perimeter, yet the temperature remained pleasant; the flames cast dancing shadows over the army of diners, making them even more bizarre and terrifying. Some of them looked towards Ruth and Church with unpleasant stares that made the blood run cold.

  "Is everyone here?" Ruth asked. "The Malignos?"

  Cormorel raised an eyebrow. "Ah, you have met some of your fellow travellers, I see. No, not all dine here. Some have very, shall we say, individual tastes."

  "Where do you find the food?" Church said.

  Cormorel smiled. "Our kitchens are particularly well stocked."

  He led them amongst the diners where the smell of sweat and animal musk was almost overpowering. The tables were laid out with what appeared to be pewter plates, knives and goblets, each section with an intricate centrepiece of feathers, flowers and crystal. Nothing had yet been served. Something reached out and tugged at Ruth's arm, but she shook it off without daring to turn around.

  At the far end of the room was the long table of the Master, piled high with the most magnificent gold and silver plates and dishes. Manannan sat in the centre on a large chair carved with intertwining dolphins, fish and rolling waves, his face still a mask, his eyes unfathomable. On either side sat members of the Tuatha lle Danann, obviously the more highborn members of the race; there were two whose forms were so alien they hurt Church's eyes and forced him to look away, but Niamh was there, at Manannan's right hand. Three spaces remained at the far end, next to where Baccharus sat patiently.

  Manannan let his eyes wander over them when Cormorel presented them to him; they were unable to decipher his emotions. "Welcome to my table," he said in a voice like the cold depths. "It is good to dine once again with a Brother of Dragons."

  Church gave a
curt bow. "We are honoured."

  "This sustenance is given freely and without obligation," Manannan continued. "Enjoy this repast, Fragile Creatures."

  Cormorel led them to the empty chairs. "Good evening, Baccharus," he said a little tartly as he took the seat next to his friend. "I hope you have been passing your time well while I was engaged in the business of the Master."

  "Well, indeed. I have met many of our travelling companions and investigated some of the wonders hidden in Wave Sweeper."

  "You always were a sociable and inquisitive fellow," Cormorel noted dismissively. Church and Ruth sensed some kind of tension between the two. Cormorel clapped his hands once. Instantly some of the bland-featured Tuatha lle Danann emerged from side rooms carrying platters of food and goblets of wine. Their perfect features, so devoid of even the hint of emotion, made Church and Ruth uncomfortable.

  "Why are these young ones always servants?" Ruth asked.

  "They are new. They must exist in servitude until they have learnt what it truly means to be a Golden One." Cormorel virtually ignored them.

  "New?" Ruth persisted.

  "Barely Golden Ones at all, but still not of the race of Adam. They have not settled into their greatness or understanding of the fluidity of it all. Fixed, if you will, like you and your world."

  "So, the lowest of the low," Church noted acidly. "You can't escape hierarchy whichever way you turn."

  "There is a structure to everything, Brother of Dragons. You should know that by now." Cormorel eyed him sardonically.

  "Yes, that's always the argument. It must be nice to have such a full understanding of the rules and regulations of the Maker."

  They were interrupted by the servants, who laid out the food and drink before them: roasted, spiced meat, a few vegetables, bread, and other things so strange they made their stomach turn. One platter contained something like a living squid, though it had fifteen legs, all of them writhing madly in the air. The food they could enjoy, however, tasted more sensational than anything they had experienced before; every complex flavour burst like a firework on their tongue. The wine was finer than the most celebrated earthly vintage and made them instantly heady.

  Despite the wonders of the meal, it was hard to keep their attention on the food when so many strange sights were on view all around. The array of creatures and their confusing, chaotic mannerisms as they devoured the food was like staring into a grotesque parody of a child's fairybook. There were things Church half knew from the vague descriptions of folk tales, others that ignited recognition from some deeply submerged race memory; a few were completely unrecognisable. He was sure the echoing of archetypes dredged up from the corners of his mind would give him nightmares for the rest of his life.

  Ruth recognised his thoughts from his expression. "The whole of our psychology was based on this," she said. "Our fears, our dreams. We're stripping back layers that shouldn't really be uncovered."

  A half-man, half-sea creature moved down one of the aisles. It had fins and scales and bestial features, but it moved like a human being. Church leaned over to Cormorel. "What's that?"

  Cormorel mused for a moment, then said, "I believe your race would know it as an Afanc. They once roamed the lakes and shores of your western lands, invoking terror with the fury of their attacks. Your people could not kill them by any means at the employ of Fragile Creatures."

  The Afanc reared up, then rushed out of sight, but there were plenty more things to pique Church and Ruth's curiosity. Cormorel followed their gaze, smiling at the questions he saw in their faces. "If we had all night I would not be able to introduce you to the many, many races passing time on Wave Sweeper. But let me indicate some of the highlights." He appeared to enjoy the idea of playing host. With a theatrical gesture, he motioned towards a large, lumbering figure like an exaggerated circus strongman. He had his back to them, but when he half turned they saw a horn like a rhinoceros's protruding from his forehead. "The Baiste-na-scoghaigh. He stalks the mountains looking for prey in the island where you lost your life to the Night Walker Calatin." He smiled at Church; point scoring. On the far side of the room, large, misty shapes faded in and out of the light, occasionally appearing like mountain mist, at other times as solid as the other creatures in the room. When they became material their features were grotesque. "In the western land of moors, they were known as Spriggans, believed to be the ghosts of giants, a description that arose from their shape-shifting abilities, like many of our guests. The people of the Far Lands are always removed from the perception of those from the Fixed Lands. They could be found around the standing stones where the soul fire comforted their violent nature. They are the Guardians of Secrets."

  "What kind of secrets?" Ruth asked curiously.

  "The kind that can never be told." Cormorel was enjoying his games.

  Church saw something that resembled mediaeval woodcarvings of a griffin, another that resembled accounts of a manticore.

  Ruth stood up, suddenly spying something so hideous in the shadows on the edge of the room she could barely believe her eyes. "Is that a giant toad?" she asked disbelievingly. "With wings? And a tail?"

  Cormorel laughed. "Ah, the Water-Leaper. The Llamhigyn Y Dwr. Feared by your fishermen, many of whom were dragged to their deaths after it seized their lines. The Water-Leaper rarely ventures up from the bilge tanks. I wonder why it is here tonight?"

  Ruth shook her head in amazement. "God, I don't believe it. This place is insane."

  "Oh, this is indeed a Ship of Fools, Dragon Sister. So many searching, looking for guidance, meaning, in their short, unhappy lives."

  "But you don't need to search, Cormorel?" Church said.

  "I am happy with my place in the great, unfolding scheme." Baccharus muttered something under his breath, eliciting a stony glare from Cormorel.

  Before any further comment could be made, a group emerged from a door hidden behind curtains away to one side. There were five of them, all Tuatha De Danann, but of a branch on a par with Cormorel and Baccharus, carrying musical instruments: a pair of fiddles, a flute, something percussive that Church didn't recognise and another thing that looked completely unplayable. A muttering rippled through the diners; it appeared generally appreciative, though it was hard to be sure.

  "Hey, they got a band," Ruth said in a bored, faux-Brooklyn accent.

  But once the musicians began playing, both Church and Ruth were instantly entranced. Their music soared to the rafters, taking on a life of its own so it was impossible to tell which instrument was playing which section. Every bar evoked deep emotions within them: joy, sadness, wonder, passing in the blink of an eye, to be replaced by a new feeling. They could both understand the old stories of hapless mortals entranced by the fairy music, only to discover a hundred years had passed.

  There were wild reels that set half the room dancing, a sight that was as terrifying as it was amazing; the crowd moved in perfect unison as if choreographed for some Busby Berkeley movie, yet they were as silent as the grave; it was eerie yet hypnotic. And then there were sad songs that made Ruth want to weep on the spot, yearning ballads that reminded her of her father, others that forced her to probe the feelings she had for Church. She fought the urge to hug him, though it brought tears to her eyes.

  And Church was lost in thoughts of Marianne, of times frittered in the belief they could be picked up in the future, in thoughts of guilt at what he had done to Laura and Niamh; and then, once they had dissipated, at Ruth beside him. But before he had a chance to turn to her, the tempo increased and another emotion washed everything else away.

  The food and drink came in a never-ending stream. Once they had eaten their fill, another dish materialised to tempt them, and when they certainly could eat no more, there was still wine, and more wine.

  During a lull while the band members refreshed themselves with a drink, Ruth rose from her chair and hurried over to them. They drew in close around her as she spoke in low tones, their faces at first curious, then intrig
ued. When she retook her seat, Church asked, "What was that all about?" but she dismissed him with a wave.

  He got his answer once the band started up again. Although the tone was oddly distorted, the song was unmistakable: "Fly Me to the Moon." Each note was filled with meaning, of his old life, certainly, but more importantly, and surprisingly, of the time at the pub on Dartmoor when he had performed karaoke with Ruth and Laura in a few moments of pure, unadulterated fun. He looked over to her, felt a surge of warmth at what he saw in her smile: she had remembered what he had said about never hearing Sinatra again.

  "I hummed it to them," she whispered. "They picked it up straight away."

  What he felt in that instant, he tried to blame on the drink or the music, but he knew he would not be able to deny it, even in the light of the next morning. He put his hand on the back of hers, but it didn't begin to express what he was feeling.

  "You know," he said, mesmerised by the moment that felt like a lifetime, "these days everything is so much more vital." He was rambling, drunk. "This is what life should be. Meaning in everything. Importance in everything."

  She smiled, said nothing; so much more assured. How could he not feel for her? He leaned forward, closed his eyes, savoured the anticipated moment as if he had already tasted it.

  This is the time. This is everything. The words burst in his head unbidden, meaningless, yet filled with meaning. "It's like I'm on drugs." He could feel the bloom of her breath on his lips.

  "I am the Messenger. The Message here is very clear." The voice was a blast of cold wind, freezing the moment. Church looked up at the tattered rag-figure Cormorel had called the Walpurgis, a sucking core of darkness, too much for one space. There was something so alien about it, Church's skin crawled; in the back of his head a worm of terror began to wriggle.