by Sarah Rayne
“Of course we have,” he said, and Fergus nodded, because of course they would have tried. “We believe that there are doorways back to the world of Men,” said Conn. “Although we have never been able to find one. But we believe that a door is being opened. Opened for us now.”
“Because the cult of Crom Croich is being revived?”
“Yes,” said Conn. “Because the children must be saved.” He looked about him. “But we would not have waited for that,” he said. “We would have gone through any of the doorways back to the world.”
“Sometimes,” said the boy whom Fergus thought must be Conn’s cousin, “sometimes we have felt very close to those doorways. We have heard voices calling to us. There were attempts to bring us out. But you would know that.”
“The Crusades of Cormac’s reign,” said Fergus. “Yes, of course.”
“And sometimes,” said the boy whose name was Niall, “we have thought we could hear the sidh trying to lure us out with their music.”
“I liked the music,” said the smallest boy of all, wistfully. “I’d have liked to follow that.”
“We would have done anything,” said Conn. “We would have gone through any of the doorways back to the world. We would have gone across the Plain of Two Mists or the Lake of Darkness.”
“We would have crossed the River of Souls,” said another of the children, and a shiver of fear went through them all, and there was a sudden silence.
Fergus said, “The River of Souls?”
“Dark,” said one of them.
“Endless,” said another.
“It is the River of the Dead,” said Conn. “It flows nine times round the Prison of Hostages.”
“There’s a Ferryman,” put in the youngest, Michael, rather unhappily.
“A fisher of souls and hearts,” said Niall.
“Once he has you, you are lost for all time,” said another boy.
Fergus said, “But surely …” and paused. “But surely, we are already soulless?” he said.
“Our souls are in pawn,” said Conn very quietly, as if he feared to be overheard.
“We are hostages,” said Niall.
“That is why it is still possible for us to break the bonds,” said Conn.
Fergus said slowly, “And the Ferryman lies in wait for souls?”
“He will take you across the River of the Dead,” said Conn, “but he may also decide to drag you down into the endless darkness. We do not know who it is he serves, but we know that he serves the Dark Ireland.”
“The darkness of that river,” said Niall, “would be a far worse thing than the ceaseless light in here.”
“But we would risk it,” said Conn.
“We would risk anything to break the bonds,” said another boy.
“There is nothing we would not risk.”
They were moving on now, and Fergus had the impression that they were reaching the heart of the Prison.
The names tumbled about them, beautiful and incomprehensible and mysterious. The Hall of the Golden Pillars, the Star of the Poets, the Vale of Dawnlight … And others. Beautiful, meaningless names for beautiful, awesome places.
“We know only a very, very little,” said Conn, giving Fergus his straight stare. “In this house are many mansions, you see,” he said, and Fergus nodded, because there was something familiar about the words, and there was something reassuring about them as well. “In this house are many mansions …” He grasped the words, because there was a comfort about them. Many mansions … I think it will be all right, he said, testing his responses silently. I think I can do it. Can I? Yes, for anything else is unthinkable.
And I cannot fail the boys.
He tried to ask Conn and Niall about the rooms and the empty galleries, but their answers were vague.
“Truly we know so little,” said Conn. “And we do not really understand any of it.”
The Stone Hall of Judgement, where the Four Judges will pronounce sentence in exact accordance with the sin …
“It is for you to enter the Stone Hall,” said Conn. “And wait for the Four Judges to speak to you. They will pronounce a punishment,” said Conn, “and you must endure that punishment before you can be free.”
The punishment for the sin of the flesh …
“Then we will be free, we believe,” said Niall. “We can leave the Prison, and enter the domain of the Ferryman and cross the River of Souls. Only that way can we hope to escape.”
*
He knew the place at once, of course. He thought he had been there in dreams and nightmares, and he thought that this must be one of the most secret places of Men’s souls.
The Stone Hall of Judgment.
The children were huddled together, their faces white, their eyes luminous with sympathy.
“We cannot come in with you,” said Conn, “for each must face it alone. But we shall keep you in our thoughts.”
“We shall not let you go,” said Niall seriously.
“I shall think extra hard,” said Michael earnestly and, despite himself, Fergus smiled.
The threshold to the Stone Hall of Judgment was high and wide and stretched far away. There was a warmth and a soft drowsy scent, and Fergus could feel hidden hands pulling him in.
Come inside, Mortal, for this is the place to which all Men must finally come … there is no escape …
And then the huge wide doorway vanished, and Fergus was alone in the Stone Hall.
The room was a little like a temple, although it was not like any temple Fergus had ever seen. It was narrow and there were rows of benchlike seats, intricately carved and laid with soft cushions. Fergus, rather intrigued, not yet afraid, slid quietly into the nearest one and sat waiting. He thought that this was some kind of anteroom, and he thought that presently he would be shown what he had to do next.
The walls were embellished with delicately carved screens made of some kind of fragrant wood. Between the screens, the walls were painted with scenes showing screaming human souls being dragged beneath dark waters … The Ferryman! thought Fergus. Shall I see him? And felt his mind flinch from the idea.
Directly ahead of him, facing the rows of seats, was some kind of altar, long and low and covered with heavy linen. A low light burned in an elaborate lamp, and there was the scent of something heavy and exotic and unfamiliar. Fergus, who had talked with the Druids and the Travellers, sought for and found the word “incense.”
Incense burning in an anteroom … Warm scents drifting across the Hall of Judgment, where all men must come to hear their sins read out.
Fergus thought, I am in the Stone Hall, and presently, quite soon, I shall be judged.
Behind the altar, huge and impassive, were four immense, carved figures. They were ancient and rock-like and awesome, and Fergus recognised them: the Four Stone Judges. They would judge you on your life; on all the things you had done and all the things you had left undone; and your kindnesses and your unkindnesses; and on your honesty and integrity, and selfishness and generosity, and tolerance and impatience, and on every action you had ever performed during your life. Nothing would be missed, nothing would be skimmed over. Everything would be inspected and weighed and given its due. The carved faces were enigmatic; there was a flat, stern, eastern look to the features. They sat, half set into the walls of the Hall, their hands placed palms downwards on their knees.
They would wake very soon, thought Fergus, unable to look away. Their blank eyes would open and they would see him, and then the final judging would begin. There would be no concealing and no pretending.
The Stone Hall was not especially hot, but Fergus felt a great stifling heat pressing down on him, so that it was difficult to breathe. Dark red mists swam before his eyes, and he had the impression that something ancient and strong was materialising in the Hall.
In another minute, in just another few seconds, it will be here in all its awful glory, and it will see into my heart, and it will know everything, and I shall be judged.
The ancient force was forming; the walls were pressing in, and there was a thickening in the air, so that Fergus could feel his heartbeat getting slower and heavier, and his mind becoming sluggish, and the blood congealing in his veins.
The Final Judging … The nearest of the great carved figures opened its stone eyes and looked directly at him, and as he did so, the other three awoke and looked to where Fergus sat.
The ancient force began to take substance and, as it did so, Fergus saw the first of the Judges open its mouth to speak, and heard, quite distinctly, a great cavernous echoing voice pronounce the terrible punishment:
Castration.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Fergus lay on the cool marble floor of the Stone Hall of Judgment, the boys all about him.
Conn’s voice, quite close, said, “It is over, Fergus. The Judges sleep again,” and Fergus blinked and looked about him and sat up. And after all, the Stone Hall was only a long, narrow, rather bare room. There was no carved screen, no terrible paintings of dying struggling souls being pulled below the waters by the Ferryman, no altar or incense. And the massive stone figures had gone.
Fergus said carefully, “You heard the Stone Judges?” and the boys nodded.
“You knew that the punishment would fit the sin.”
“Yes.”
Fergus said, “One of you must do it to me.” And looked straight at Conn.
Conn had turned very pale, but his eyes held Fergus’s. “I cannot.”
“Yes.”
“Fergus, don’t make me!” It was a cry of anguish this time. “You will feel it — your body will feel everything —” He stopped, and Fergus said softly, “I know.” And remembered how Fribble had explained that the bodies of those whose souls were stolen by the Lad of the Skins could still feel pain. The Eternal Sleep, he had called it. The Living Death. “You must do it,” said Fergus, and now it was the old Fergus, the head of the High Queen’s Fiana, the famous Captain. Conn heard the new note of authority, and looked at him.
“You must do it,” said Fergus, very gently, “so that I can break the bonds of this Prison and lead you back into the world. So that the children in the Ireland of now can be safe from Crom Croich.” He held the boy’s stare unwaveringly, and at last Conn said, “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Fergus drew a deep breath, and thought: And although you do not know it, you must do it to save Ireland. For thus mutilated and thus deprived of manhood, desire will die and I shall be able at last to stop loving and wanting and aching for my own sister. The tie that binds us, this dreadful forbidden love I have for her, will dissolve, and then perhaps the old, old curse will weaken and the Ancient Bloodline can once again rule from Tara.
Because you may as well face it, Fergus said to himself, you may as well face it squarely and for all time. There has never been a day or an hour, nor yet a minute, when you have not wanted her, and when she has not been in your thoughts and in your heart. There has never been a time when you would not have welcomed her back into your arms and when you would not have taken again what she gave on those dew-spattered mornings, on those drowsy afternoons in the woods surrounding Tara. She was stronger than you, and when told the truth she turned desire aside, but you did not. There has never been a day when you have not hoped. Now the hoping will die as well.
And what of her? What of Grainne? Would she, also, be set free? Was she even now perhaps free? Perhaps with someone else? I should want her to be happy, thought Fergus, his mind in turmoil. Of course I should. I cannot be so cruel, so selfish, as to want her to live with only the memories. And then a brief smile curved his lips, because the memories would always be there; they would always share what had been between them, and she would not forget. There would always be that for them.
But like this, surely desire would die for her as well? Wouldn’t it? I no longer know! cried Fergus in silent agony. I can no longer understand any of it! Only I believe that this is the only way to kill the desire and the love and the sin!
When Fergus sat up and looked at Conn and the others, there was a different light in his eyes, and there was a determination in his expression.
“Do it now,” he said.
*
“Just the three of us,” said Conn. “You and I and Niall.”
“Yes,” said Fergus. “Yes, all right.”
Afterwards he thought — when he could think clearly again — that he had been grateful to Conn for that. Just Conn, this strange, grave child who had so rapidly become close, and just Niall who was Conn’s cousin. Just the two of them and Fergus and the vast echoing Prison walls.
The children would be near. “And our thoughts will be with you,” said one of them, and Fergus remembered that they had said this to him before. Rather like a ritual. He found it immensely comforting, and then he was struck again by their strange, grave, unchildlike mien. But he thought they had had too long to learn patience and tolerance and gravity, they had had so many years and so many decades in here to learn to be unchildlike. Even so, he was glad that it would be only Conn and Niall who would witness the pain and the humiliation.
Conn said, “But there is no humiliation. In some lands it is considered an honour. A distinction.”
“There will be a little pain,” said Niall. “But we shall be very quick.” But Fergus thought Niall’s face was rather white.
“It will be as difficult for us,” said Conn, but his face was set.
“Will you do it — quickly?”
“Yes,” said Conn.
“And,” said Fergus, beginning to feel sick, “and you have a knife?”
“Yes.” There was the splinter-light of something catching the glare of the Prison’s brightness.
“Very sharp,” said Conn gently, and Fergus had time to see that the knife, like everything else about this place, was unusual and elaborate.
“Where did you —”
“It was on the altar,” said Conn. “Waiting.” And Fergus nodded and did not ask again, because there was too much that was incomprehensible about this place. He saw that the instrument in Conn’s hands was a kind of hinged clamp with strange symbols etched on it. There was an elliptical opening, there was a section that had serrated teeth …
I don’t think I can bear it, thought Fergus, but in the next minute he knew that it must be borne.
Conn said, “We are going to tie you down.”
“Yes.” He had expected this. He thought he would struggle and try to break free, because it would be against human nature not to. And to try to escape halfway through would be unthinkable. He began to hope very strenuously that Conn would be quick, and he began to hope as well that he would lose consciousness almost immediately. He heard Conn say something to Niall in a low voice, and he heard Niall say, “Very sharp indeed.” The splinter of brightness flashed again.
Then Conn said, “Spread the sawdust on the floor.
“And then hold his legs apart.”
Fergus had not thought he would feel so vulnerable lying like this; he had been prepared for the fear and the flinching away from pain and mutilation, but he had not been prepared for the helplessness, the knowledge that the most intimate part of him was at the mercy of a boy with a knife. He tried to think: But it is Conn, and I believe that I could trust Conn with anything and everything.
He trusted Conn, but Conn was about to do this dreadful thing to him. And then he met Conn’s eyes and he caught the thought that flickered in the air between them: Fergus, there is no other way, and he remembered the pronouncement of the Stone Judges. For you have brewed the wine and now you must drink it.
If Conn caught Fergus’s thoughts, he gave no indication. He said, “Sign to me when you are ready,” and Fergus was grateful for this, because he could at least feel in control, he could perhaps summon up every shred of courage and fortitude.
Grainne, thought Fergus, oh, my dear hopeless love, this is for you
and this is for Tara, and for Ireland, and for all those children who will be offered to Crom Croich. It is for the hurt I dealt you and for those forbidden, achingly sweet afternoons and those gentle dawns … And it is for the child I should have given you, the dark Wolfprince I should have given Tara and now never will … Only a travesty left now, my love. Only a half-man, a gelding, no longer able to pass on the thin frayed Royal blood … Although, thought Fergus bitterly, perhaps if the gods are unkind, I have passed it on; perhaps, after all, I have helped to create a monster-creature, a nightmare Wolfcreature, born out of a sorcerer’s greed and sired by means of a Tyrian money-lender’s wine … Perhaps, after all, I have left Ireland an heir, thought Fergus, and the thought was a bitter one.
Conn was waiting, his eyes patient and filled with compassion. Fergus, looking up at him, knew that very soon he must signal to Conn, that the blade must come slicing down, but that first he must somehow find a great surging wave of resolution and defiance that would carry him through the pain.
And then, because the memory of the effectiveness of the Ice Cauldron in Calatin’s house slid into his mind, he began to imagine the resolve and the bravery as a great cresting wave, a rearing wall of armour that would shield him from the worst of it; a huge, fast-moving, sweeping current of self-defence, a rampart that would cushion the worst of the pain; a bastion, a bulwark.
And if I can only build that crest to its highest possible peak, and if I can then sign to Conn, I believe I shall come through this more cleanly and more easily than I deserve … He began to see it, quite clearly now, a huge grey-green wall of water, rushing in on him, the tips white-flecked already, foaming and swirling and ready to rise up … The water was like glass, like silk, it would provide cover, lee, shield …
Up and up, clear glass-green, glittering, catching the light, beginning to curl at the top, beginning to be foamy and creamy, beginning to reach its zenith …
In another minute, thought Fergus, feeling strength pour into him, in another minute, I shall bear it, I shall nod to Conn …
The wave was sweeping in on him faster now, it was rearing back slightly, it would surround him, it would be a cushion and a bastion …
