"Come back!" she screamed. "You were supposed to help me!" The familiar was lost in the glare of the sun.
A freezing shadow had fallen across her, reaching through her physical body to the depths of her soul. It was creeping up her spine, deadening the chakras as it passed, crawling towards her brain. Incomprehensible whispers began to lick at her mind. In that contact she sensed the sickening presence of Balor, and she knew it was the reason why fear had been implanted in the human consciousness. The Celts had given it a name to try to contain it, but it could not be contained; it was bigger than everything.
Her vision started to close in, until there was only a tunnel of light towards the sun. A strain was being placed on the invisible cord that connected her with her body. One snap and she would be lost to the endless void forever. And then, slowly but relentlessly, the thing started to drag her back.
Just as she thought the darkness was about to engulf her completely, she caught sight of faint movement in that tunnel of light. Nothing. It was nothing. She slipped back further.
She was startled from her panic by the owl erupting from nowhere close to her face. Its bristling feathers obscured the whole of that tunnel of light, and for a second she was sure she had gone blind. But then it moved back slightly, changing shape back and forth as it had done at the height of its desperation. She could still feel its fear, but now behind it was determination and obligation.
The air pressure increased, iron filled her mouth and a weight built behind her eyes until she was convinced they were going to be driven from her head. Slowly, she started to move forward.
She felt like she was trying to push a truck up a hill; every agonising inch she moved was a triumph. Yet although the grip of the darkness didn't relinquish in the slightest, gradually her strength increased and she began to make slight progress. It was nowhere near fast enough, though; the tension zinged through her arteries.
With determination, she drove herself on until she reached a point where her speed began to build. Finally it felt like she had crossed some invisible barrier, and with a burst of relief she was soaring out over the golden-tinged clouds. The coldness left her head, skidding down her back to her thighs. Later she wondered if she had imagined it, but she thought she heard a howl of fury that was at once the movement of tectonic plates, the boom of cold water shifting in the depths of the Marianas Trench.
And faster still; hope soared in her heart at the same time as tears of fear stung her eyes. She would never be so stupid again. If she got back. A pain in her solar plexus told her time was running out. She had been away from her body for too long, and the flimsy spiritual bond was close to being broken.
The shadowy cold was still on her legs. Stupidly, she glanced back and thought her heart would stop. The entire sky was black, boiling like storm clouds, but not natural-sentient-and pursuing her with venom.
Fire filled her belly. Focusing all her attention on the flight, she propelled herself forward with a speed that made Dorset flash by in the blink of an eye.
Still the darkness didn't give up. She knew it would never give up now it had recognised her. She put the thought out of her head. Faster, faster, thinking of Church, giving meaning to her struggle; if not for her, for him.
Soon they were over the choppy sea and the owl was ahead of her, already turning itself inside out. The sky and sea swapped place, turned blood red. And then they were soaring over Wave Sweeper and the darkness was nowhere to be seen.
She plummeted towards the ship as the connecting strand grew thinner by the second. It was just the width of a hair when she finally slid into her body, exhausted. Amongst the receding terror, one thing stayed with her: at the last, she had looked into her familiar's eyes. What she saw was a definite impression that she was now in its debt.
She recovered in her cabin for an hour or more, listening to the soothing wash of the waves beyond the open window. She couldn't believe how stupid she had been to venture so close, but until then she had not truly grasped the enormity of what they faced.
Once she had calmed herself, she made her way back to the deck, though she kept her shaking hands hidden from view. Taranis was at the rail, scanning the horizon. She handed him his telescope with a sly smile.
"How curious." He turned it over in his hands. "It is so very warm."
"Hmm," Ruth replied. "I wonder why that is?"
Church had spent the time on deck, watching the crew go about their puzzling tasks. Few of the passengers ventured up from the depths in their attempt to keep a distance from the grim Tuatha lle Danann, so that the ship had the dismal, empty appearance of a seaside resort in off season. The atmosphere was so intense he had felt it politic to stay away from the gods himself, nestling in a heap of oily tarpaulins and thick ropes where he could watch without drawing attention to himself.
He had never seen the Tuatha lle Danann so strained. Irritation gripped them because they had not managed to track down the Walpurgis, a failure that only added to their pain at Cormorel's death. Their aloof nature had always made them appear dangerous in a haphazard, detached way; now they were a constant threat, ready to take out their fury on anyone who crossed their path.
If the gods could not find the Walpurgis with all the heightened abilities at their disposal, there was little chance Church would be able to locate the creature he had increasingly convinced himself was not the murderer. Yet he felt a growing imperative to do so, for he was sure the Walpurgis had information of vital importance.
His thoughts were disrupted by a cry from one of the crew perched in the crow's nest. Everyone on deck stopped moving. Church couldn't tell if it was because of hope, or apprehension-or fear.
Across the pea-green sea he could just make out a purple and brown smudge on the horizon. Here it is, he thought, suddenly concerned himself. The Islands of the Dead.
Chapter Six
Islands Of The Dead
The waters were unnaturally calm as Wave Sweeper sailed in, leaving barely a ripple in its passing. Insects skimmed the surface of the ocean in the heavy heat, buzzing noisily. An unpleasant smell of stagnancy hung over everything, but it was the stillness that unnerved everyone the most. There was a feeling of death in the air.
As Wave Sweeper closed on the land, Church was surprised to see it was not one single mass, but an archipelago, the strangest one he had ever seen. Numerous small islands protruded from the sea like fingers pointing at the sky, rising precipitously to dizzying summits, many looking like they could barely support their own weight. They were gnarled with rocky outcroppings and fledged with twisted trees and tenacious bushes. Stone buildings perched on the top of the island towers, occasionally obscured by drifting plumes of cloud. However, on the loftiest, most twisted, most precarious island stood a grand castle of bronze and glass, the walls afire in the dazzling sunlight. Its enormous bulk atop the slim column was in direct opposition to any natural laws on Earth. But this was Otherworld.
Manannan's order to drop anchor drew the crew out of their trance. Church noticed Ruth had appeared beside Taranis, who was observing the peaks of the island through his telescope, his face as hard as the stone of the cliffs.
"What's wrong?" Church slipped in quietly beside them.
Taranis looked at him as if an insect had chirped in his ear. "There has been no greeting," he said distractedly, returning his attention to his telescope.
Church eyed Ruth, her face uncommonly tired and drawn, but she shrugged noncommittally. "Who were you expecting to greet you?" Church pressed.
Taranis sighed. "In the Fixed Lands she was known as Hellawes. She foolishly grew too close to Fragile Creatures during her travels and became afflicted with the weariness of existence. She retired here, to her island home, though whether she truly recovered, none know. Still, she provided a welcome for travellers. It was the Master's wish to dine at her table."
Church followed the angle of the telescope to the castle that appeared to be floating on the clouds that drifted beneath it. "
Maybe she doesn't know we're here."
Taranis snorted; it was obvious he was not going to give them any more of his time. Ruth caught Church's arm and led him away, eager to tell him what she knew of home.
"The Fomorii are already moving out across the country?"
"It won't be long before they're everywhere." Ruth shivered at the memory of what she had seen.
Church's shoulders were knotted with tension. He watched the crew preparing the landing boat. It had an oddly shaped prow that curled up and over the rowers. "Being here makes you feel detached from it all, even when it's buzzing away at the back of your head. I needed a slap like that to focus my mind."
"I wish we could just get to where we're going." She hugged herself, despite the heat.
He saw Baccharus and Niamh lining up to join the small band ready to go ashore. "Maybe we can gee them along."
He led her over to the boat as it was hoisted up above the level of the rail ready for the crew to climb aboard. Church pulled Baccharus to one side. "We'd like to join you. All of this is new to us. We want to experience-"
"Of course."
Church was taken aback by the speed of Baccharus's agreement, but he wasn't about to question it. He quickly climbed aboard, with Ruth behind him. Niamh was already seated at the aft. She gave him a warm, secret smile, hidden from the crew who silently filled the seats. Church was curious to see that they all wore the gold and ivory armour of the warrior caste.
Ruth echoed his thoughts. "They're expecting trouble," she whispered.
Even though her words were barely audible, Baccharus picked up on them. "The greeting is always issued," he said ominously, his darkly golden eyes flickering towards the lofty castle.
The oarsmen propelled them across the flat sea with powerful, seasoned strokes. Church had the oddest impression they were skimming the surface of a mirror, so disturbingly smooth was the water. Even around the base of the rocky islands there was only the slightest swell and no breakers. It was as if the ocean itself was holding its breath.
Ruth was driven to cover her mouth to block out the choking stagnant odours. Church passed the time swatting away the alien insects, some of which were like meat flies that had grown as big as his fist, others like minute, jewelled dragonflies, sparkling as they whizzed by.
At the base of the island was a tiny jetty. Once the boat had been made secure with a thick rope, they clambered out. There was barely room for them all to stand, so they progressed one at a time along an uneven path that wound upwards around the island. It was just wide enough for one person and dangerously precarious the higher they climbed. On the outer edge it was badly eroded by the elements; one wrong foot would have sent them plummeting into the waves or on to the protruding rocks. Church and Ruth held their breath as they fixed their gaze on the next step, but Baccharus and the other Tuatha lle Danann climbed nonchalantly, oblivious to the drop.
The higher they rose above the flat, green sea, the harder it became to avoid feelings of vertigo. For distraction, Church found himself focusing on the wiry grass and diminutive yellow and white flowers that thrived in pockets on the rock face. His fingers gripped the stone until the joints hurt; behind him he could hear Ruth's laboured breath.
They climbed for almost an hour, until their thigh and calf muscles were fiery. Near the top, the buffeting wind threatened to snatch them off their uneasy perch so that even the Tuatha lle Danann had to face the rock and edge around the path.
Finally they passed through cloud to reach the flat summit and an area the size of a tennis court leading to the castle's imposing gates. That close it was even harder to understand how the place had come to be built in that almost inaccessible position; how it continued to survive there. The bronze and opaque glass walls rose up high above their heads, too bright to look at in the seething sunlight. Windows looked out on every vista, but they were all too dark to see within. It was unpleasantly quiet.
"Maybe she's not in," Ruth muttered.
"The mistress of this place never leaves its walls." Baccharus looked up to the battlements, as impassive as ever, but troubled.
At the castle gate they considered their actions. "A knock," Church suggested.
Baccharus agreed. "Cover your ears," he said to Church and Ruth. They looked at each other curiously. "Sound has power. Mere words, or the sound they make, can alter existence. You know that?" He read their faces, then nodded in approval before continuing; Church and Ruth both felt like children being guided by a knowledgeable parent. "The reverberations from the striking of this door will send all Fragile Creatures into a deep sleep, for-" he struggled with the mortal concept "-a long time."
"How many Fragile Creatures do you get up here?" Ruth asked.
Baccharus returned his attention to the door. "It is the way it is."
Church and Ruth covered their ears, but even through their hands they could feel the strange vibrations of the struck door driving like needles into their heads, making them queasy at first, then drowsy. Baccharus shook them both roughly to keep them awake.
They waited for long minutes after they had announced their arrival, but all they could hear was the wind blowing around the castle walls, sounding at times like plaintive human voices.
Niamh, who had the position of superiority in the group, stepped forwards. "We enter."
Two of the guards put their shoulders to the gates, but they swung open easily, as if they could have been moved with the touch of only a finger. Beyond was a breathtaking hall soaring up to a glass roof that made the interior as bright and hot as a greenhouse. Within, they were assailed by numerous sensations. The breeze moved the most melodic chimes hanging in enormous trees that grew mysteriously out of the tiled floor, their tops almost brushing the roof. A white waterfall gushed down from an opening halfway up one wall, splashing in a cool pool that emptied out through a culvert in the floor. The smells were as complex and heady as any they had experienced in T'ir n'a n'Og. Church picked up lime, honeysuckle, rose and cinnamon before he gave up.
"It's beautiful." Ruth was overcome by the sheer wonder after the air of threat without.
"It is the mistress's palace. Her sanctuary," Niamh noted. "She loved the Fixed Lands and wished to bring her memories of that place to life here." She paused thoughtfully before adding, "She loved a Fragile Creature-"
"Well, there's no future in that, is there?" Ruth ignored Niamh's pointed stare.
"And she retired here to nurse her broken heart?" Church asked. Niamh replied with a sad smile.
They pressed on through the hall into a maze of rooms decorated in different earthly styles: mediaeval, Celtic, Mexican, Japanese, Native American. Yet each felt as if an unpleasant presence had been in it only moments before, although there was no visible sign of recent occupation. Even the usually stoic Tuatha De Danann appeared uneasy.
Occasionally Church and Ruth glimpsed flitting grey shapes on the edge of their field of vision, accompanied by barely audible but insistent whispering, and a growing anxiety. Sometimes they caught sight of faces, most of them unknown, but one or two that were almost recognisable.
"Can you see them?" Ruth hissed after they had passed through a room where the shapes swarmed at their backs, disappearing the moment they turned round.
"They are the spirits of the dead," Baccharus interjected. "You will encounter them throughout the Western Isles."
"Ghosts?" Church moved his head sharply to try to bring one of the figures to the centre of his vision, without much luck. "Real ghosts?"
"Some of the dead are drawn here, Fragile Creatures with a yearning nature, unsettled, troubled. It has always been that way. The Western Isles are a destination for those of a questing nature." The figures kept well away from Baccharus as he spoke.
"Are they dangerous?" Ruth asked.
Baccharus chose his words carefully. "They can be. The dead bring their dark emotions with them. Many are fuelled by bitterness, resentful of those still living. Beware of them and their whispered wor
ds. They will wish to lure you to your doom."
A chill turned Church's skin to gooseflesh. Another face he half thought he knew. Ruth gripped his hand in hers, fixing her attention on the path ahead.
The layout of the castle was incomprehensible; they trailed from room to room without encountering anyone, constantly sensing a passing presence, always one step ahead.
"Maybe we should head back to the ship," Ruth said. "She's obviously not here."
"But she should be here," Baccharus said. "She may be in need of assistance."
"I thought you Golden Ones rarely helped each other," Church said.
"We are not all the same." It was a passing comment, but Church caught the briefest glimpse of something in Baccharus's face that gave him pause.
Before he had time to consider it further, one of the guards said curtly, "In the next chamber," although it was impossible to tell how he could know when the door was closed.
As one, the guards drew long golden swords from hidden pockets in their armour. They approached the door cautiously. Church's blood was pulsing loudly in his head; now he could also sense something, and although he couldn't pinpoint it, it set his nerves on edge. In the room. He saw Ruth could feel it too. Her warning hand fell on his forearm, urging him back.
Niamh made a sign to the captain and the door was thrust open. The guards surged through, with Church so close behind, he ran into them when they came to a premature halt. They were so still Church first thought they were the victims of some enchantment until he realised they were staring at the corner of the room. He eased his way through until he had a better view.
The remains of a woman were slumped over a divan, her body breaking up just as Cormorel's had done on the point of death. Her body had been torn apart from neck to crotch. There was nothing anyone could do for her: the flight of golden moths had dwindled to a handful fluttering up intermittently to the ceiling, where they passed through it like wisps of light. Church guessed it was Hellawes.
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