by J. R. Wagner
“Two drowned, one was eaten alive, and the fourth stands beside you,” said Luno.
“You’ve seen it?” James asked excitedly, looking at Kilani.
“I have. It is a place of evil. The mere thought of it sends fear through my very soul.”
James, feeling deflated, took a seat in one of the cushioned chairs.
“I’ll tell you this, my boy,” Luno said, his eyes darting about again. “I don’t know if the black castle is real or just another trick of the island, but I’ve seen enough in this place to know that either way, I believe it is a clue to finding a way home.
“Then getting into the castle is the answer. We must get inside,” James said, rising to his feet.
“You will die trying,” Kilani said, looking out over the water.
“I’ve been waiting for someone with the initials JLS to show up for seventy years. If there ever was a time to try again, this is it. You are the one to get us inside. You can free us from this terrible place.”
“Do you see? Do you see what it does?” Kilani said, pointing to Luno. “It will slowly eat away at your mind.”
Luno waved a dismissive hand at her and turned back to James. “How is your strength?” he asked.
“Incredible. Stronger than I’ve ever felt. What do we do now?” James asked.
“I suggest you get settled. Then we will see if she is amenable to your presence,” said Luno.
“She?”
“This land—The Never,” said Luno.
— 15 —
A Mother’s Determination
May 1886, India
Margaret stood in an area of the forest where the underbrush had lost its fight for sunlight with the canopy above. The wounds on her arms and legs had stopped bleeding, but the throbbing persisted. Her husband had left her over an hour ago, and the tears still trickled down her cheeks. More than anything, she wanted to be home in her safe, comfortable garden. Fate, it turns out, had other plans. She continued in the direction her husband instructed,
letting the bewitched twig hovering above her palm guide her. She stepped through the forest, over the body of her slain enemy, while making sure to avoid looking at its grotesque face. The ground pitched downward toward a small stream. Once she reached the stream the tip of the twig turned, pointing uphill. Every hour or so she would stop, drink from the stream, and rest. As time passed her injuries became less painful. As the last vestiges of daylight fell below the trees, the twig settled into her palm, a sign that it was time to stop for the day. She removed the bundle from her back and began to make camp.
In the morning Margaret awoke with a start and sat bolt upright. Not two horse-lengths away lay two massive tigresses. Neither of them flinched. The larger of the two yawned lazily, slowly got to her feet, and sauntered out of sight. The second followed a moment later. Margaret’s hands trembled as she packed up her bedroll. The small twig, which lay motionless on a nearby stone overnight, was now hovering again, pointing toward a new heading away from the stream.
Margaret followed this, heading through the forest until about midday. She crossed several streams along the way. Her feet throbbed from the numerous blisters she’d acquired since the horses were left behind. The twig directed her into the center of a clearing. When she reached the middle, it began to spin quite vigorously. Stuart had told her that when the twig spun that meant a food source was nearby. She was grateful for she hadn’t eaten since they separated.
The clearing was covered in tall, amber grass. A perfect place for a hungry tiger to be waiting for its prey, she thought. She hoped the twig wasn’t telling her she was the food source. She scanned the edges of the clearing for any sign of something edible. When nothing obvious presented itself, she decided to continue in the direction the twig had been pointing when she entered the clearing. As she moved, it continued to spin. In fact, she was so captivated by the spinning twig that she didn’t notice the small man who was now standing directly in front of her. A moment before she would have collided with him she lifted her head and let out a yelp of surprise.
He was a head shorter than she and dark skinned—a native. Dressed in only a dirty cream-colored tunic and carrying a rocktipped spear he beckoned her to follow and then stepped into the forest. After a moment’s hesitation she opened her palm to reveal the twig she had clenched in fright. It pointed in the same direction the man had walked. She followed.
Despite his size, the man traveled quickly. Margaret had to run in brief spurts to keep pace. They quickly reached a massive “boulder that looked so out of place that Margaret thought it could have fallen from the sky. They circumnavigated the boulder, climbing up the steep steps built into the hillside and down a narrow path until they came to a small village of thatchedroofed huts. Other similarly small natives were moving busily around the village. The huts surrounded a fire pit over which lay a skewered animal of some sort. The smell immediately stimulated Margaret’s salivary glands, prompting her to wipe her chin.
Without warning the man let out a cry and raised his spear into the air. All the villagers turned and echoed the cry. Several women hurried over and escorted Margaret to the log benches that circled the fire and relieved her of her bedroll. They quickly pulled the boots from her feet and draped them with damp cloths soaked in a putrid-smelling liquid.
A feast ensued. After Margaret ate more than she thought possible, the men of the village performed a hunting-party dance. One of the men wore a tiger pelt while the others chased him around the fire in a ceremonial tribute. Margaret felt her eyelids growing heavy as the celebration continued past sunset. A woman wearing an elaborate costume stood up and made an announcement. Villagers slowly began to retreat to their respective shelters. Margaret was led into a hut where a nest of leaves draped in cloth had been prepared for her. The young woman who escorted her inside carried a small stick that smoked from one end. She instructed Margaret to lay on the cloth with a simple hand gesture while she set the smoking stick on a smooth stone and wafted its odiferous emanation in her direction. As the smoke reached her nostrils, Margaret fell off to sleep.
Just before sunrise she again awoke with a start. The early morning light was enough for her to make out the hindquarters of a massive tiger exiting her hut. She stood, slid on the sandals she found beside her bedroll, and followed the beast outside. Not far away the larger tigress lay beside the smoldering fire pit. Once again the tigress yawned lazily, stood, and walked into the forest. After a moment, the other followed.
A sense of urgency overtook Margaret, and she quickly moved to follow them, leaving her belongings behind. Neither tigress, whom were now walking side-by-side, made any move to evade her. They continued at their same lazy pace, allowing Margaret to keep up with ease. After several moments they stopped. Margaret realized she was once again on the far side of the large boulder. The larger of the two tigresses stood and stretched her paws above her head on the boulder then scraped her claws down the stone with a skin-crawling screech. The tigress turned its back to the stone and sat on its haunches. The second moved beside her and also sat. Both looked toward Margaret. A low rumble reported from within the boulder. The leaves on the ground vibrated as the noise grew. Neither of the massive cats appeared to be disturbed as they continued to stare at Margaret. As suddenly as it began, the rumbling ceased.
Margaret rubbed her eyes in disbelief. In the seamless stone face of the boulder stood an open entry between the two cats. She knew she must go inside.
— 16 —
The Mysterious Bookcase of Abigail Ammoncourt
Master, I was looking through the book collection left here by the previous occupant, and I realized, after staring at the bloody thing for the past year, that it was indeed a book collection. Here, in this place . . . books,” said James, pacing in front of Luno’s wall-size map.
“Ah, yes. Mrs. Ammoncourt’s famous and mysterious book collection. Just like her famous and mysterious arms collection, she never would reveal where she had gotten them
, and nobody seemed interested enough to press her for an honest answer. We were just happy to have them, especially the blades,” Luno said, nodding to the dagger James carried in his belt.
“Once, after quite a bit of mirkroot juice, she told old Joseph Archer she’d found them in the hull of a marooned ship on the eastern side of the peninsula. Joe decided to go looking for this ship and he was never seen again. Some people think he found the ship at low tide and somehow trapped himself inside and drowned.”
“And what do you think, Master?”
“I believe every mystery on this island, including Mrs. Ammoncourt’s famous book collection and the disappearance of Joseph Archer, are all interconnected.”
“How old was Mrs. Ammoncourt?” asked James.
“No more than thirty, I’d say. Pretty little thing. Arrived no more than ten years ago.”
James was sure there was a connection between this Mrs. Ammoncourt and the Mr. Ammoncourt who had been his teacher and mentor back home, however he decided now was not the right time to share this information with Luno.
“Have you ever gone looking for this ship?”
“Of course. I’ve scoured the eastern side of the peninsula for days and found nothing. But I’ve long since learned that just because The Never doesn’t reveal something to you doesn’t mean it isn’t there. “
“Do you know what happened to Mrs. Ammoncourt?”
“I wish I could say. It is as frustratingly mysterious as her book collection and the disappearance of Joseph Archer. One day she simply vanished. She was reclusive by nature, so it was several days before anyone in town took notice and decided to search her premises.”
“Have you ever looked at her books?”
“Of course. Over the years she has lent me every book in her collection. Some more than once.”
“And did you happen to notice anything . . . strange?”
“You’ve discovered the dates?”
“Let me guess, mystery of the island?”
“I’ve found it increasingly easy to attribute all the unexplained goings-on here to yet another quandary of this illogical reality, but I do believe I have an explanation of reasonable substantiation for this one. The printing press simply set the wrong number so instead of 1802 it reads 1902. If you look at the series, all the books were stamped by the publisher on the second page. It appears as though they were stamped on the same set because all of the Is in Mythic Press have elongated dots on them. These aren’t found anywhere else inside any of the manuscripts, which leads me to believe it was an error of the human sort. Although, I have been known to be wrong in my assumptions.”
“What about the map?” James asked.
“Map?” Luno’s eyes perked up at the word.
“What map?”
Now standing in the study of the flat where Mrs. Ammoncourt formerly resided, James opened the hatch in the floor. A set of extremely narrow stairs wound downward into the dark. James moved toward the stairs but before he could take a second step, Luno held out his hand in objection.
“Allow me,” he said, stepping in front of James, a strange and excited look in his eyes. Luno picked up the lantern sitting beside the hatch and moved down the stairs.
“A wise man once told me that man’s greatest weakness and greatest strength lie within his emotions. Losing control and gaining control can yield both great and terrible results. In the end it is he who is truly powerful who knows the consequences of each and holds onto or lets go in order to yield what he desires.”
“Does this wise man have a name?”
“Akil Karanis.”
The pair had reached the bottom of the stairs. The room in which they stood was small, and the floors, ceiling, and walls were adorned by wooden planks. One wall had a small glass porthole, which Luno was gazing out.
“To this day the magic required to create this room beneath the water eludes me.”
“It appears that Mrs. Ammoncourt was no average resident,” James said, running his hand along the wall. “Not a drop of moisture.”
“Where she came from is as mysterious as where she has gone, I’m afraid. Now, show me this map.”
James wanted to mention that a man named Mr. Ammoncourt had mentored him, but something held him back. On the opposite wall of the porthole stood three bookcases. Each shelf was filled from end to end with books of varying size, thickness, and color. James reached up to the top of the center case, ran his hands along the ornate inscriptions carved into the face of the top shelf, and looked at Luno.
“You may want to step back.”
James pulled the top of the bookcase away from the wall, and it crashed to the floor, sending up a plume of dust. Quickly, James lifted the case, returning it to its proper location leaving a pile of books on the floor.
“What the bloody hell are you doing, boy?” Luno shouted.
“Look quickly or you’ll miss it,” James said pointing to the now exposed back of the case. Luno stepped closer and brightened his lantern with a twist of the knob. Dark lines began to appear between the center shelves. After a moment it became clear they were looking at a map.
“Do you recognize it?” James asked.
“Not off hand. I’ll need more time to study it. Can we bring the bookcase upst—”
The books lifted themselves off the ground and returned to their former locations, hiding the map. James grinned at Luno’s exasperated expression.
“Quite clever,” James said.
“Quite.”
“Damn thing is too big to get upstairs. Not that moving it is even an option. I’ve tried every possible way to budge it and only have been able to knock it forward.”
“How did you even discover the map?”
“Strange, really. I had just finished one of the volumes and set it on my night table. The next morning it was gone. At first I thought someone had stolen it until I found it back on the bookshelf in the exact spot from which I had taken it. Thinking perhaps I had sleepwalked or been in a partial daze when I returned it, I thought nothing more of it. I picked another volume from the shelf and read it over the course of several days. Again I set it on my night table after completing it, and again the next morning I found it returned to its former location. Perplexed, I decided to take two books from the shelf and read them simultaneously just to see what would happen. As I made for the stairs one of the books flew from my hands and onto the shelf. I pulled it off the shelf again and stepped toward the stairs once more and once more the book returned itself to the shelf. Perplexed, I took three books. This time two of the three leapt from my grasp and back on the shelf. While experimenting with the number and duration the books were off the shelf, I noticed writing appeared in a space where I had removed the books. By the time I was able to make out anything, the books had always returned to their former locations. Out of frustration I dumped the bookcase.”
“So it was exactly your inability to manage your emotions that led to this discovery. Ironic,” Luno said with a chuckle.
— 17 —
A Formal Invitation
October 1895, Ireland
Twelve-year-old James and his mother stood along the water beneath stone cliffs that wrapped the coastline in either direction. Just in front of them stood a cluster of hexagonal stones that stretched out into the calm sea. Margaret stepped out onto the rocks, nearly every stone was perfectly hewn. James couldn’t help but marvel at the site. Margaret stood over one of the few poorly hewn stones, extended her hands and said, “Harlandu.” The sides of the stone beneath her hands began to fall away in tiny grains. James surveyed the area as she continued her work. Off in the distance James saw a large set of hexagonal stone cut right into the cliff side. They stretched dozens of feet up the cliff.
“Who did those?” asked James.
Margaret stopped what she was doing and looked toward where James was pointing.
“While he’ll never admit to it, it is said that Akil himself made that set when he was but a child. He e
ven gave it a name, the organ.
James could see why he had called it that. The hexagonal sections of stone were grouped so tightly, they resembled massive organ pipes he’d seen in churches.
“I want you to try now, James.”
“I don’t want to try.”
“Remember your lessons. Less than a month ago you were more than proficient at this exercise.”
James exhaled in defiance yet began to move over a stone that had not been cut. Slowly, he extended his hands, lamenting the fact that carving these stones had become a rite of passage for young sorcerers.
“Harlandu,” he said. A few flecks of stone fell from the side of the stone but nothing more. Exasperated, James lowered his hands without looking up at his mother, whose face he was sure was full of disappointment.
All at once he felt threatened. He turned, but it was too late as he was struck by an invisible incantation that sent him onto the uneven stone surface. Immediately, Margaret was at his side.
“James,” she said, lifting his head from the ground and inspecting where it had caught the corner of a stone. James had a faraway look in his eyes.
“James,” Margaret said again more sternly.
She could hear him whispering. She leaned her ear closer to his mouth.
“Speak up, child,” she said.
She listened again. She knew words were coming, but she could not make them out.
Margaret held out her hand and said, “Sendatu.” A blue mist fell from her palm and gathered around James’s head wound. In less than a minute, James took a deep breath and refocused his eyes on his mother. Tears began rolling down his face.
“I can’t do it,” he said. “I can’t even defend myself.”
“It will come back. We must be patient,” said Margaret.
She sat him up, and after a moment, helped him to his feet. Together they walked to a set of steps carved into the rock. A raven flew overhead cawing in the humid salty air and causing both of them to freeze. Margaret pushed James against the cliff face and signaled him to stay put. She readied her bow and nocked an arrow. Cautiously, she ascended the stairs.
