“Where do we go?” Ruth asked. The mountainside disappeared down into darkness and it was impossible to make out anything of the landscape beyond.
Tom searched the night, then pointed just above the edge of a massive boulder which was keeping the worst of the wind off them. In the distance they could make out a flickering light.
“I hoped there would be someone here who escaped the Wish-Hex,” Tom said. “If it were to happen anywhere, it would have been in this place. Come.” He set off down the mountainside, keeping a surefooted control as he slipped and slid on the pebbles and exposed rock.
Before they could follow, Laura suddenly keeled over; Church lunged for her before she hit the hard ground, swinging her round into his arms. Her breathing was shallow and he could see the whites of her rolled eyes beneath her halfclosed lids.
Shavi took Laura’s pulse at her neck. “We need to get her to a doctor very quickly,” he said grimly.
Church looked round frantically, wishing someone else could take responsibility, hating his own ineptitude at leadership. “We’ve got to get her back-find a doctor in Melrose!”
“It’s a long way down that hill,” Veitch said doubtfully.
Tom stepped forward with an expression of surprising concern. “Our only hope is to go on. Otherwise she’ll die.”
“No!” Church tried to get a grip on her to carry her back to the doorway.
Tom placed a gentle hand on his forearm. “Believe me, I know she’ll die if you try to take her back.” There was an unnervingly confident insistence in his voice.
Church felt a sudden hopelessness sweep through him. “If you’re lying and she dies, I’ll kill you myself,” he said quietly.
Veitch helped Church carry her, all of them hoping the light wasn’t as far away as it looked, praying that Church had made the right decision; wondering whether Tom really was leading them into a trap. And all the while the strange electrical storm seemed to grow in intensity over their heads.
The light was coming from a torch in the front porch of an imposing building which resembled a mediaeval stone monastery, although one constructed into, and part of, the mountainside. Above the porch was a squat, three-storey tower topped by a weathervane in the shape of a dragon and a lightning rod. Behind it, the slate roof and the walls with the tall, arched, leaded windows went straight into the bedrock, almost as if the mountain had formed around it. Three steps led up to the porch, where they were confronted by a large oaken door, studded with black nails.
“Where is this place?” Church asked suspiciously.
Tom traced his fingers down one of the porch’s stone columns. “Using the name you would understand, it is the Library of Ogma, wisest of all the Old Ones.”
Church searched his memory for the dimly recollected reference. “In the myths he was supposed to have invented Ogham.”
“That’s the writing you thought was on the spear,” Ruth said.
“A runic writing system. There’s not much of it about, but it’s the earliest form discovered in Ireland.” Church looked at Tom, who was lost in thought. “One of the Danann?”
“His store of knowledge is vast. Chamber upon chamber, filling the entire mountain. If he were at the heart of it when the Wish-Hex struck, it should have afforded him some protection.” Tom climbed the steps cautiously and hammered on the door.
“So he’s good with words. How’s he going to help us?” Veitch asked.
“Have respect,” Tom cautioned; his tone suggested it was an imperative. “He bonded with Etain, daughter of the great healer Dian Cecht. In his constant search for great wisdom, he has archived all the knowledge they possess.”
“That’s not all.” Church suddenly began to make connections. “He was also supposed to ferry the souls of the dead to Otherworld for a period of rest before they were reborn in our world.” There was almost a prayer woven into his words. “Are there souls here?”
“So they say.”
“Don’t you know?” Church wanted to shake Tom, to stop his obfuscation; there was only one lost soul that mattered to him.
“I’m just human like you, Jack,” Tom replied with some exasperation. “I’m not privy to the great scheme. I observe, I consider, but I’m not always correct in my assumptions. And the gods don’t give up their wisdom freely, and certainly not any wisdom that matters.”
“Typical bosses,” Veitch muttered. “Keep the menials in the dark.”
“Actually,” Tom said tartly, “they presume, rightly, that we wouldn’t be able to handle the truth.”
“How very patrician of them,” Ruth replied, just as acidly.
They were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the door. When it finally swung open silently, they all caught their breath at the figure revealed: for a second, different faces seemed to flicker across him, some almost too terrible to behold, before one settled that was kind and thoughtful. It reminded Church of Oscar Wilde; Ruth of Einstein; Veitch of the only teacher who ever tried to help him. He was wearing long flowing robes that were grey and almost metallic in the way they caught the light.
His gaze took them all in in a second, but a broad smile formed when it fell upon Tom. “Thomas!” he said warmly, in a voice that didn’t seem to come from his mouth.
Tom bowed his head deferentially. “Wise One. We come to ask your help in these difficult times.”
“Difficult times indeed. You have heard my brothers and sisters are scattered to the wind?” Tom nodded gravely. “The Night Walkers, you know.” A rumble of what seemed like hate formed deep in his throat. “Only a few of us evaded the Wish-Hex. I have since heard murmurings of an attempt to locate my brethren and return them to me.”
Tom motioned to the others. “And here are the searchers, Wise One. They need to be restored if they are to complete their task.”
“And you, Thomas. I see you too need my ministrations.”
Tom nodded, looked away uncomfortably.
Ogma turned to Laura, who was cold and still in Church’s arms, her breathing barely noticeable. Gently, he ran his fingers over her face. His expression grew a little darker. “Her light is weak. I do not know if there is aught I can do for her.”
“Please try,” Church pleaded.
“It was always said Dian Cecht could bring even the dead to life,” Tom interceded.
“But I am not Dian Cecht. And healing is not simply knowledge.” There was a brief pause while Ogma seemed to consider the matter. Then: “Come, bring her. I will see what I can do.”
The place smelled of candle wax and limes. They trailed behind Ogma as he led them through an endless maze of chambers filled from floor to ceiling with leatherbound books, some half as big as Church and as thick as his thigh, manuscripts and papyri tied with red ribbon as if they were legal briefs. But when Shavi held back to sneak a peek at one of the books, they appeared to contain only a brilliant white light.
Finally, after what seemed to them like an hour, they reached a series of chambers that were filled with rough wooden furniture, which Church guessed were Ogma’s personal rooms. He laid Laura on a low bed and stroked the hair from her forehead.
As his fingers touched her flesh, her eyes flickered open and focused on him briefly. “I don’t want to die,” she said weakly. There was a sheen of panic in her eyes.
“Do something,” Church implored Ogma.
If the god heeded, it didn’t register on his face. He opened a large cabinet in one corner which was filled with jars and phials of powders, liquids and dried herbs. He selected a few, then began to mix them with a mortar and pestle on a heavy oak table. After a few moments of introspection, he seemed satisfied with a thick, reddish-brown salve, which he smeared on Laura’s lips. It remained there for only a second before it was rapidly absorbed.
“Will that work?” Church asked anxiously.
Ogma fixed his curious eyes on Church, like an adult looking at a child. “We wait. If she has it within her, her light will shine again.”
Church had to turn away from her then, barely able to cope with the painful emotions flooding him after so many months of numbness.
Ogma seemed to comprehend what was going through his head, and after cursorily examining Veitch and Shavi from a distance, he said, “Your own light wavers. You must all rest. Use my chambers as your own. There is food and drink-” Tom started, but said nothing. Ogma noted his concern and added, “It is given freely, without obligation.”
This seemed to satisfy Tom. After Ogma left them to explore his rooms, Veitch asked, “What was that all about?”
“Never take food or drink in Otherworld, from anyone, unless you have their promise that it is given freely and without obligation. Otherwise, when the first drop or crumb touches your lips, you fall under the control of whomever has given it.”
Veitch looked to the other three, puzzled. “Is that right? Or is he bullshitting again?”
“In the old tales,” Shavi began, “anyone who crossed over to Faeryland had to avoid eating the faery food or they’d fall under the spell of the Faerie Queen.”
“So is that where we are? Faeryland?” Veitch said incredulously.
“Get a grip, Ryan,” Church replied wearily. “Let’s find somewhere to crash.”
In a nearby chamber, they found a room filled with sumptuous cushions, the harsh stone walls disguised by intricate tapestries. On a low table in the centre was an array of bowls filled with apples and oranges, some berries, tomatoes, and a selection of dried, spiced meats. A jug of wine and four goblets stood nearby.
Relishing the chance to rest their exhausted bodies, they fell on to the cushions, which were so soft and warm it was like they were floating on air. It was a difficult choice between sleeping or assuaging their pangs of hunger, but in the end the subtle aromas of the food won out. Yet as they ate and drank, they discovered their tiredness sloughing off them, and by the time they had finished their meal they felt as fully rested as if they had slept for hours. It provoked an animated conversation for a while, but Church had other things on his mind.
“We got you here,” he said to Tom. “Now you owe us some answers.”
“What do you want to know?”
“For a start, how you know everything you do. Why you called this place home. Why Ogma seems to know you so well.”
“And no lies,” Veitch said.
Tom turned to him, eyes ablaze. “I have never lied. I may not have given all the facts, but no untruths have ever passed my lips. I cannot lie.”
“What do you mean?” Church asked.
“What I say, as always. It is physically impossible for me to lie. One of the gifts bestowed upon me for my time in Otherworld.” There was a note of bitterness in his voice.
Church’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“I told you my name. Thomas Learmont. But you may also know me as Thomas the Rhymer.”
Veitch looked from the confusion on Church’s face to the others. “You bastards better keep me in the loop.”
“Thomas the Rhymer,” Church began cautiously, “was a real person who managed to cross over into mythology. He was a Scottish Nationalist during the war with England. In a way, he’s like Scotland’s answer to King Arthur-a mythical hero who was supposed to sleep under a hill-“
“Under this hill,” Tom interrupted.
11 -until there was a time of great need, when he would return. That’s what the old prophecies said. But he lived in the thirteenth century.”
Witch looked at Tom. “Blimey, you’ve aged well.”
“I lived at Earlston, a short ride from Melrose,” Tom said. “We were an old family, quite wealthy, with land hereabouts, although my estate was eventually gifted to the Church by my son.” The faint sadness in his face at the memory was amplified by the shadows cast by the flickering torches. “Unlike my father, who worked hard, I was always too much of a dreamer. I was an elegant singer and I spent many an hour lazing in the countryside composing new works, usually just ditties about the people I knew and the women I loved. There was one girl in particular. To seek true inspiration for a song about her I rode up into the Hills of Eildon, where I settled myself beneath a hawthorn tree with a view of what seemed like, at that time, the entire world. I chose to ignore the old wives’ tales linked to the hawthorn, that it signified death, that its blossom represented rebirth.” He sighed. “That it was the chosen tree of the Faerie Queen. But I had no idea that an entire world existed under the hill, like all the fools used to say about the faery mounds. But I was the true fool, wasn’t I? They were simply misremembering old wisdom. I was ignoring it.”
He took off his cracked glasses to clean them. Church searched his face for any sign that this was more dissembling, but he could only see honesty there.
“So the Faerie Queen got you?” Veitch asked; he was still having trouble grasping the truth of everything they had experienced. In numerous conversations he had exasperated Shavi with his apparent inability to see beneath the surface of the myths and legends.
“The Faerie Queen. The Great Goddess. Just names we give to attempt to understand something unknowable. She was terrible to behold. Terrible. When I looked at her I swore I was looking into the face of God. I loved her and hated her, couldn’t begin to understand her. I let her take me apart and put me back together, let her put me through the most unimaginable torments, to sample the wonder that came off her. It was a time of the most incredible experiences, of pain and pleasure, of being given a vista deep into the mystery of existence.” He blinked away tears and, for a second, Church thought he saw in his eyes something that looked disturbingly like madness. “I was like a dog looking up at his mistress,” he added wistfully. “And I was a hostage who came to depend upon his captor.”
“It sounds awful.” Ruth placed a sympathetic hand on the back of his. “Is that how they see us-as playthings?”
Tom nodded. “In the main. Some are close to us and have grown closer through contact down the ages. Others could strip the meat from our bones and leave the remains in a pile without giving it a second thought. They see themselves as fluid, as a true part of the universe. We are just some kind of bacteria, with no significant abilities, no wisdom.”
“Then how did you get out?” Ruth said.
He smiled coldly. “She took a liking to her pet. At times I felt like I was in Otherworld for just a night, at other times all that I experienced made it feel like centuries. In truth, seven years had passed when I was allowed to return. I wandered down from the hill, crazed and gibbering, and was eventually returned to my home to recuperate. It was only later I discovered how much she had changed me.”
“What did she do?” Ruth’s voice was hushed; the others watched Tom intently.
“During one of my torments I was given the power of prophecy and The Tongue That Cannot Lie.” His laugh made them all uncomfortable. “In a world built on lies, that was bad enough. But being able to see into the future …” He shook his head, looked away.
“You know everything that’s going to happen?” Church asked.
“Not at all. I see glimpses, images frozen as if they were seen from the window of a speeding car. That’s how they see it. They know time isn’t fixed.”
“It must have been impossible for you to adjust,” Ruth said.
He smiled sadly at her insight. “After all I’d been through, how could I begin to associate with my old friends and neighbours, my family? I tried. I married, and my wife bore me my son, Thomas. But I no longer felt a part of humanity. No one could begin to understand the thoughts in my head. I looked around me and saw simple people living simple lives, people ignorant of the universe. Savages. I’d moved beyond them, but I could never be a part of Otherworld. I’d lost everything. And I knew, in one terrible moment, that I was always meant to be alone.”
There was power in the emotion of Tom’s words. Church had never truly liked the man, certainly had never trusted him, but now he was overcome with respect; how many people could have survived all he
had experienced?
“True Thomas, they called me!” Tom laughed; the others could barely look at him. “Still, I did my best. I became involved in politics, as an agent for the Scots against the English, but politics isn’t a place for a man who cannot lie. I wasn’t successful, to say the least, and as my failures mounted I discovered the Earl Of March was plotting to have me murdered.”
Tom rummaged in his haversack for the tin containing his hash and made a joint with such laborious attention to detail that Church could tell it was merely to distract him from the full force of his memories. The others waited patiently until he had sucked in the fragrant smoke, then he continued.
“I fled into the Highlands briefly, eventually ending up at Callanish, and it was there I met one of the guardians of the old places and the old wisdom that stretched back to the days of the Celts.”
“The people of the Bone Inspector?” Church asked.
Tom nodded. “It seemed we had much in common. He knew the true meaning of the hawthorn. After much pleading, and due in the main to my particular circumstances, he agreed to initiate me in the ancient natural knowledge that his people had practised in the sacred groves until the Romans had driven them out to become wanderers, hidden from the eyes of those who needed them.”
He sighed and took another long, deep drag. “But it still didn’t give me that sense of belonging which I so desperately needed. I was adrift in this world and eventually, as I knew in my heart I would, I wandered back to Otherworld. By then, of course, my patron had lost interest in me, but I was accorded some respect for my shaping at her hands, and for my singing voice and poetry, by many of the others in this place.”
“But you still couldn’t feel a part of it,” Ruth said.
He nodded. “For nearly four hundred years in the world’s time I attempted to find a place for myself, although it only seemed a handful of years here. But eventually I grew homesick and I realised that all my suffering had brought me one thing-my freedom. I could come and go as I pleased. Every now and then I would spend some time in our world, and when I got bored I would wander back.”
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