The Return of the Arinn
Page 41
It had been the last command to issue from the black triangles in Mark’s and Nan’s brows, the triangles dissolving as their powers faded. They embraced one another as the aftershocks took place.
But they could not complain. Mark had demanded it of Mórígán and she had kept her word. All were freed – alive again to experience the ups and downs of normality. They were free to live their lives, but also condemned in time to grow old and to die.
The first Fir Bolg to approach them was a drum master riding his massive war beast, the huge claw-footed animal horned and its body covered in a blanket of raw hide. The drum master continued to beat out the rhythm of a steady march on his semicircle of six great kettle drums, each producing a different note, the melody thundering out as he climbed through the breach in the inner fosse, and finally the steep ramp that opened onto the cobbled streets of the magnificent ruined city.
Mark and Nan clapped the drum master’s arrival. He turned his beast around to look back down over the slopes, the drum beat now thunderous in such close proximity. His call joined with the many other drum masters throughout the entire valley, to resurrect the life in every waking heart and mind, to liberate all, every family and every friend. Soon a gathering crowd of Fir Bolg were flocking around Mark and Nan, bowing and saluting them, some pressing their lips to their saviours’ fingers.
If they recognised the figure before them as that of the former Dark Queen, they saw how her grim visage had been replaced with a more gentle face. But now Mark encountered another effect of the loss of his oraculum. He could not understand the speech of the Fir Bolg. Fortunately Nan spoke the language fluently.
Nan must have reassured them a thousand times already. ‘I am no longer a goddess. Mark and I are just normal people. Be welcome to find a home here, in the city, or in the valley, for you and your families.’
It was mid-afternoon, and Mark and Nan were still watching the growing multitude that spilled over the slopes when they heard the great roar they had been waiting for. The burly figure breaking through the crowds of Fir Bolg was plain to see, his raised arm holding an upraised runestone. But then Mark saw that Qwenqwo was not alone. A stocky female with a determined jaw and a brush of wayward red hair walked beside him, together with a brood of red-haired youngsters.
‘Qwenqwo – it’s so good to see you!’
Mark tried to hug the dwarf mage, only to be lifted off his feet and spun in a circle like a child.
‘Nan – tell him how glad we are to see him.’
‘I think he knows. He wants you to meet his wife, Tegor, and his children Zurr and Orru.’
‘I am honoured to meet you, Tegor,’ Mark said, kissing her hand and causing her to blush and erupt into gales of laughter.
Mark and Nan were taken up by the entire robust family, tottering with the hugs and kisses. They found themselves bowled over by the enthusiastic crowds, then hoisted aloft and carried on shoulders to meet the king, Magcyn Ré, and the high shaman, Urox Zel, who were being carried on war beasts through the breach. It took a command from the king to stop the enthusiastic crowds parading him and Nan around the ruins of Ossierel.
The king asked Qwenqwo, ‘Is the enemy truly vanquished, then?’
Qwenqwo harrumphed. ‘I left the battlefield early. I think I had better leave it to Mark and his beautiful consort to explain.’
Magcyn Ré looked at Mark and Nan.
It was Nan who confirmed it: ‘The two thousand year war is over. The Tyrant has yielded his kingdom in the Wastelands.’
The king was astonished. ‘That is wonderful news. You must tell us how it became so.’
‘Sire,’ spoke Qwenqwo. ‘There will be plenty of time for rejoicing, and the telling of tales, but I humbly suggest this is not the time.’
‘Indeed – if the son of Urox Zel so advises!’
Qwenqwo bowed. ‘Your Majesty, this is the young Ironheart who, with support of his consort, Nantosueta, saved our people from eternal servitude.’
The king alighted from his war beast and embraced Mark and Nan in turn. ‘We are most grateful to you, Mark Grimstone, and to you, Queen Nantosueta. Though there be painful history between us.’
Nan stood proud as a queen. ‘Sire – alas the city is in ruins.’
The Fir Bolg king put his hand into a deep pocket and he plucked out a pipe, with an enormous bowl. He clicked his fingers and those about him supplied the baccy, and they struck a flint that supplied a flame. He puffed on it, scratching his head, then licked his lips. Hands passed a largish flagon from one to another, until it reached him. He took a hearty swig. It appeared that Qwenqwo’s fondness for the baccy and flagon were shared with others of the Fir Bolg.
He announced: ‘Madam, we are not merely a warrior race. We are builders. And though I may be accused of swanking, I think it is fair to say that, ahem, you will not discover any finer builders in this benighted world.’
He was in the process of passing the flagon to Urox Zel, who eschewed it, passing it with a knowing wink to his son, Qwenqwo.
‘The economy of the island is sorely tried, Sire.’
The king puffed out his lips, his hand reaching out for the flagon, which arrived back to where it had begun.
‘I will pass on your concerns to the stripling you appear to know already.’
Qwenqwo made his own pantomime of lighting his pipe. ‘It will take a day or two, at most, to restore the pulleys to lift up stores from the fertile plains below.’
Mark said: ‘Qwenqwo – where would we be without you!’
‘I find myself remembering your trials, on board the Temple Ship – and then I look back at my own tribulations over two thousand years. And yet the wonder of it is that here I stand as if untouched by it all with my beloved Tegor and my two rascals, Zurr and Orru. All this do I owe to your courage and sacrifice in confronting Mórígán.’
There was a loud cheering and shouts of congratulations from the multitude that had been gathering around the meeting of friends. Then Qwenqwo’s expression changed. He held the Fir Bolg runestone above his head. ‘Ah – something interesting this way comes.’
A presence hovered over them for several moments, then alighted to the ground, and Mo, who was Mira, manifested in a ghostly form. She said, ‘I could not leave you, Mark, without saying goodbye.’
‘Oh, Mo, I’m missing you already. You’re the only family I have.’
‘I’ll miss you too – and Kate and Alan.’
‘I can’t bear the thought of never seeing you again. Please say you’ll return, as time goes by, even if just for a minute or two.’
‘I can make no promises. There is so much I have to learn. Can you remember how upsetting it was to you to feel uncertain if you lived or died? I now face a similar quandary – but in my case it’s not about death but the price of immortality.’
‘Then you truly are a goddess – an Arinn.’
Mo smiled. ‘The Arinn are not deities. In our way, we are the very antithesis of goddesses or gods. We extol logic, civilisation.’
‘Forgive me if I have difficulty coming to terms with that.’ Mark laughed, but it was a hollow laugh, anticipating her loss.
‘Goodbye then,’ Mo’s spirit kissed Mark’s cheeks. Then she kissed the brow of Qwenqwo Cuatzel and lingered a moment, gazing at Mark before she faded.
Nobody spoke for a little while. Mark’s eyes were moist as he turned to Qwenqwo. ‘Are your adventures truly over?’
‘I have a warrior’s heart. But in truth, I confess that the thought of a farm, and seeing more of my family, an attraction. Nevertheless I suppose that in time I shall miss the cut and thrust of battle.’
Mark said: ‘I won’t.’
Nan added: ‘Nor will I.’
‘Ah, so you speak now. But such memories do we share. What tales will I tell your children . . . ahem . . . should I say my grandchildren, eh
?’
Mark and Nan hesitated, but then they laughed. They both hugged Qwenqwo at once. Then Qwenqwo also extended his burly arms about them. ‘The thing to remember,’ he said with a cackle, ‘is that when a war ends all that matters is the tales you spin.’
*
Fergal had offered Alan the loan of his Landrover, but he had insisted on walking to the sawmill alone. Kate was more than upset enough already and her mood would not have been assuaged by these fire-blackened ruins.
He looked around the burned out main buildings, then at the dairy that had been their den, its roof covered with the virgin white snow.
He said: ‘Grandfather!’
The star of a True Believer appeared before him.
Alan’s head fell. ‘I didn’t know for certain. But I wondered. And now I see it confirmed I don’t want to believe it.’
‘I wanted to find you still alive. So I could apologise for my behaviour before I set out for Tír.’
‘It’s all a little confusing. We could have destroyed the Tyrant, but Kate and Mark didn’t want to destroy the Fáil. So I was overruled. But then Mo sealed his fate anyway.’
‘You think so?’
‘Thank you.’ Alan dipped his head. ‘I heard that Mark and Nan came here. They talked to Bridey and went to London.’
‘They did?’
‘What happened to him – to Grimstone?’
Alan looked at the star hovering amid the falling snow. It was hard to imagine that it was truly his grandfather. Hard to think he would never see him in the flesh again. ‘I’m really glad to hear that they rescued you. I was mad at Mark because he took the Temple Ship away from us. But now I see he was fulfilling his destiny too.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m going to miss Mark and Mo.’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t had enough time to think.’
Alan thought about his grandfather’s words and what they might imply.
Alan nodded. ‘I promise.’
The Fate of the Rose
Gully looked around the soaring gloom inside St Paul’s Cathedral in a panic. He had no memory of getting here. Even as he began patting at his pockets there was a thunderous eruption from all around the building. It had to be coming from the Black Rose. His eyes darted towards the doors. But he could see no sign of Razzers, or Paramilitaries or Skulls. There wasn’t no sign of nobody.
‘Strewth!’
It was nothing short of amazing. The whole place was intact – near enough undamaged. What was going on?
He could only recall bits of his journey here, which had begun on a bicycle. He had been wandering somewhere inside of the Rose with Bad Day and Owly Gizmo. He missed his perfick Owly Gizmo.
‘Wot the ’eck is going on?’
Then he saw her up ahead – Penny! She was spinning around like a ballet dancer on her bare feet in the centre of a great tiled circle. Gully couldn’t believe she really was here to meet him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, watching her dancing. She sort of glowed as she spun around. She looked so . . . happy. Like the sun was shining down on her especially.
But now she saw him and she stopped. She was just looking at him, staring at him, with those grey eyes glittering like they was mirrors.
He said: ‘Hey, is it really you, Penny?’
‘Of course I’m me.’
‘Why you staring at me like that?’
‘Oh, Gully, you look so battered and bruised. And you’ve grown. I can’t believe how you’ve grown.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You must be three inches taller.’ She reached out and touched his cheeks. ‘And you’re developing a fuzz.’
Gully felt at his chin and was shocked to find that she was right. ‘I don’t have a clue wot’s been happening, Penny. I was lost in the roots of the Black Rose. I think I must’ve fallen asleep or somefink. And then I woke up ’ere. Don’t ask me how that kind of a fing can ’appen. But we can’t stay here. It ain’t safe. The Rose is blowing apart.’
‘With Jeremiah gone, it’s become unstable with wild power. I’ve been instructing the Akkharu to uproot it, Gully. We’ve been working together.’
Her words made no sense to him. Yet she seemed so calm. There was another thunderous detonation from outside that shook the walls. It provoked a shower of plaster to fall like angel dust out of the dome. Gully felt the floor beneath him judder and he grabbed at Penny, his legs going from under him. He expected her to shake him off, but she made no effort to push him away. In fact she hugged him back.
‘Gawd in ’eaven!’
‘It’s okay. We’ll be fine. I’m just waiting for them to appear.’
‘Who?’
‘The True Believers.’
‘Who the ’eck are they?’
‘They’re powerful spirit beings that inhabit Dromenon. You might think of them as . . . as you used to think of angels, Gully.’
‘I never thought about no angels in my life, gel.’
*
Gully and Penny continued to hug one another as the world dissolved into light. It felt as if they were floating on nothingness, free-falling into nowhere.
She whispered: ‘We’ve entered Dromenon.’
‘Shit!’
She whispered, mind-to-mind:
‘Bleedin’ Norah!’
She could hear him, counting to twenty, patting at his pockets. She said: ‘I know it must be really scary. But you can open your eyes now.’
‘What the . . .’
Penny just continued to hug Gully tight, as something manifested before them, taking the shape of a four-pointed star. She saw the corolla of light that surrounded and flowed out of the star like the penumbra of an eclipse, all the colours of the rainbow. A coursing river of stars followed. Then the leading star expanded into a ghostly figure, the spectral figure of an old man, so tall and willowy he looked like a plant that had been denied light. She saw that his eyes were the purest blue. He was bearing an upright column of white fire in the clasp of his hands. It bore a faint resemblance in shape to the hilt and blade of a great sword.
Gully exclaimed: ‘It’s the ghost of Padraig!’
The ghost spoke to her:
‘I’m Penny Postlethwaite.’
‘Yes. But who are you?’
The ghost was speaking to her with an Irish accent. ‘How do you know about us?’
Ah! Penny thought about what he was saying. ‘Are you human?’
‘And now you’re a ghost?’ Gully asked.
Penny asked him: ‘Why are you here?’
‘Oh!’
‘Yes!’
Penny closed her eyes. She re-entered the stream of creativity, as Jeremiah had taught her to, but this time she was more confident about it. She made open communication with the waiting Akkharu, who accepted her control. She became the lynchpin of a vast common mind, a mind she no longer regarded as an obstacle to be overcome, but one whose weave she shared and respected: the crystals of chardizz responded to her instruction.
Working step-by-step with the Akkharu, she expanded her consciousness until she encompassed the entirety of the roots of the Rose, its immense spread of attachment to the Earth, sensing and then detaching that attachment root-by-root, quenching the malice that Jeremiah had planted there.
When that task was complete she freed the Akkharu from all bounds of control.
Her consciousness returned to Dromenon, and the ghost of Padraig, who was waiting for her with the soul spirit of Gully.
She said: ‘It’s done!’
She watched him elevate the column of white fire, high above his head. She saw how its force extended to infinity, the stars wheeling and following its implacable trajectory. She knew that, back in London, that column of white fire had now pierced the moiling sphere of incandescence, ripping open a pathway of least resistance to the brightly welcoming sun far overhead.