The Place of Dead Kings

by Geoffrey Wilson

  ‘What problem?’ Cormac asked.

  ‘The Great Shee wants to rest,’ Jack said.

  Cormac glanced at the gasping Rao and frowned.

  ‘The Great Shee needs to think about a few things,’ Jack said quickly. Maybe it wasn’t good for a shee to look weak.

  Cormac nodded, seemingly satisfied with this explanation. The Mar squatted on their haunches, resting their spears beside them. Jack noted that although the weapons were basic, they had steel tips that looked as though they could do plenty of damage.

  Cormac fiddled with the amulets hanging about his neck. Jack had already noticed that the Mar wore many of these charms, including wooden crosses woven with coloured threads, metal and bone figurines, clumps of dried herbs and white quartz pebbles. When they were resting, the Mar constantly fingered these necklaces and muttered what seemed to be prayers under their breaths.

  Jack slung the knapsack to the ground and sat on a rock. He still had the scimitar jammed into his belt, but he’d put the knife and both pistols in the bag. The firearms were useless at the moment as neither he nor Rao had any bullets left.

  He drank from the canteen and handed it to Rao, who now had no hesitation in gulping down some water.

  When Rao looked sufficiently rested Jack said, ‘How far is it to the village, Cormac?’

  ‘Not far,’ Cormac replied.

  Jack rubbed the back of his neck. It was tricky to get the right answers out of the savages at times. ‘How far exactly? How long will it take us to get there?’

  ‘By the time sun over there.’ Cormac pointed to a spot a little above the mountains to the west.

  ‘Late afternoon. We should get going again, then. The Great Shee is ready.’

  Cormac frowned, glanced at his comrades, opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. He fidgeted with the wooden cross about his neck. ‘Great Shee wants leave now?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  Cormac toyed more feverishly with the cross, the other amulets clinking as they knocked against each other. He nodded over Jack’s shoulder. ‘But crow is there.’

  Jack turned and saw a crow sitting in the branch of a twisted tree about thirty yards away.

  ‘Crow bad sign,’ Cormac said. ‘We wait for sun in middle of sky now.’

  ‘Midday?’ Jack squinted up at the sky. Noon was about half an hour away. ‘We have to wait until then before we move? Because we saw a crow?’

  ‘Aye. Must wait. Otherwise bad luck. Much bad luck.’

  Jack exhaled sharply and glanced at Rao, who shrugged and said, ‘I could do with a longer break, to be honest.’

  Jack grumbled and took another gulp from the canteen. Another delay. And all the while the Cattans were drawing closer to Mahajan’s hideout – if that was even where they were headed.

  A shaft of pain jabbed his chest and he winced, hunched his shoulders and did his best not to show the others he was suffering.

  At noon, they finally set off again. As before, Cormac led the way, his comrades running and leaping beside him. Jack and Rao did their best to keep up, but continually fell behind. The hot sun blazed in Jack’s eyes and his undershirt stuck to his sweating back. But at least the snow was melting, which made the going easier.

  Cormac, noticing that Jack and Rao were unable to keep up the pace, called frequent rest stops. At around three o’clock he announced that the village was nearby and sent two of his comrades on ahead.

  They pressed on, the snow melting further and leaving patches of ground completely clear. They ran down to a narrow river, where Cormac paused, mumbled a prayer and crossed each of them three times.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Jack asked.

  Cormac gestured at the river. ‘Water monster lives there. Lord will protect.’

  Jack shot a look at Rao, who raised his eyebrows. Jack was used to a certain amount of superstition. His own countrymen believed in signs, omens, witches and black magic. But talk of water monsters was something from the distant past. Not even the most gullible in Shropshire believed in those any more.

  And he knew all of this would be even stranger to Rao. The Captain was fresh from a life of luxury in Rajthana, where he’d been surrounded by the miraculous avatars of the siddhas. Now he’d been dropped right into the middle of a tribe of primitive people living in the wilderness.

  They waded across the river and struck off across a plain. The shadows lengthened, dusk spread across the sky and finally they crested a hill and saw twinkling lights beneath them.

  ‘Village.’ Cormac tugged at Rao’s sleeve. ‘Come.’

  As they jogged down the slope, Jack could make out a collection of around thirty huts huddled in an oval-shaped bowl. The buildings looked similar to the shelter they’d spent the night in, but these were larger and better constructed. The stone blocks had been chiselled into more regular sizes and the roofs were topped with well-tended turf. Smoke seeped through holes and tangled into the night. Light spilt out through simple doors made of branches and twigs.

  The snow had largely melted or been cleared from the village, apart from where it clung to a few rooftops.

  Jack heard the villagers before he saw them. They were chanting in unison, their voices sailing up into the dark.

  Cormac led the way through a stand of trees and over the lip of the bowl. And then Jack saw around a hundred and fifty Mar spread out in a semicircle on the edge of the village. They were swaying and clapping in time as they sang, all of them grinning, their teeth brilliant white in the dark. The women’s tunics reached to their ankles, while the men’s stretched to their knees. Over these, they wore the usual shaggy cloaks – except for the children, who were wrapped in blankets.

  As Rao trod out of the darkness, the Mar suddenly stopped singing and gasps rippled through the crowd. They all stared wide-eyed at the Great Shee. Rao coughed, shuffled his feet and fidgeted with his sleeve.

  A man carrying a spear in one hand stepped forward from the gathering. He appeared to be at least sixty years old, and had white hair, a large beard and a slight limp. But despite his age, his arms and chest rippled with muscles. He wore a woollen cloak – with blue and purple stripes – which was secured at his neck by an ornate silver brooch.

  He stopped around ten feet from Rao and Jack, bowed slightly and then spoke in Gaalic.

  ‘This Chief Domnall mac Giric vic Cormaic vic Arcill,’ Cormac said. ‘He welcomes you to village, oh Great Shee with the brown skin and the eye that can see far.’

  Rao cleared his throat, glanced at Jack, then looked between Cormac and Chief Domnall. ‘I thank you for your kind welcome.’ He pressed his hands together and bowed slightly. ‘Namaste.’

  Cormac translated for Domnall, who gave a broad grin. One of the Chief’s eyes went moist and gleamed in the dim light. He stamped his spear excitedly in the ground a couple of times.

  Next Jack heard a wail. The crowd parted and a hunched figure shuffled forward. It was an ancient woman with thick lines on her face and a swaying wattle beneath her chin. Her hair was wiry and hovered about her head like brambles, while her eyes glinted deep within folds of skin. About her neck rattled numerous amulets and charms, one of which was a large brass cross that was scratched and ingrained with dirt.

  Using a gnarled branch as a staff, she hobbled slowly towards Jack and Rao, muttering, wailing and intoning in turn. Finally, she paused in front of Rao and looked up. She shut her eyes, breathed in deeply, nodded, opened her eyes again, and then began chanting in a monotone. She shuffled in a circle about Jack and Rao, crossing herself regularly.

  ‘This seer,’ Cormac said. ‘She blessing and asking Lord for your happiness.’

  Rao rubbed his moustache and scuffed the toe of his boot in the ground. ‘Very kind, I’m sure.’

  The seer completed three circuits, then raised her hands and gave a loud ululation. The crowd cheered, clapped and broke into song again. Now, all formality seemed to disappear, and the Mar rushed forward and pressed themselves around
Jack and Rao. They reached out to touch the Captain, jostling him a little.

  ‘Hold on.’ Rao glanced at Jack, alarm in his eyes.

  But the Mar took no notice of him. Chanting and laughing, they grasped him and lifted him up on their shoulders.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Rao looked about wildly. ‘Careful there.’

  Jack felt hands slip under his arms and he too was wrenched up into the air and supported by numerous shoulders. Both he and Rao were carried forward as if they were sitting in litters, the Mar singing, dancing and clapping all around them.

  ‘Hah.’ Rao’s face split into a grin. He began laughing. ‘Extraordinary.’

  Jack found himself smiling too. The Mar’s joy was infectious.

  He bobbed along on the sea of people, catching glimpses of huts and byres containing black cattle and sheep. Hounds barked and leapt alongside the crowd.

  He was borne into the centre of the village, where a bonfire blazed in the open space before a large, rectangular building with a thatched roof. To either side of the hut’s doorway stood stone cairns that were topped by strangely shaped, river-worn rocks. Clearly this was an important building – presumably the Chief’s home.

  The Mar squatted in a loose circle about the fire. Jack and Rao were lowered and encouraged to sit near Chief Domnall. Villagers scurried back and forth between the open space and a set of smaller fires further off behind a low stone wall.

  Cormac sat next to Jack. ‘Chief Domnall very happy. Says feast in honour of Great Shee.’

  Jack glanced at the Chief, who was smiling and nodding at the Captain. Jack hoped the Mar would never start to doubt Rao really was a shee. Things could get difficult if that happened. The villagers seemed friendly enough at the moment, but if they found out they’d been tricked they might well kill him and Rao.

  Men and women appeared from around the stone wall and carried across wooden bowls containing steaming food. They served the Chief first, then Rao and Jack, and then everyone else. Jack looked down at the bowl. It appeared to contain a pottage of meat, carrots and oats. He tasted a bit and found it bland but hearty enough.

  Then he noticed Rao staring at his food and pushing it around with his wooden spoon.

  Rao leant closer to Jack and spoke softly. ‘What’s that meat?’

  Jack paused. He was still chewing a portion of the meat and suddenly it dawned on him.

  It was beef.

  ‘Lamb, I think.’ Jack waved his hand vaguely.

  ‘It doesn’t look like lamb. It’s beef, isn’t it?’

  ‘Might be . . . yes.’

  The Chief was frowning and speaking loudly now.

  Cormac tugged Rao’s sleeve. ‘Chief asks why you not eat? You not like, oh Great Shee?’

  Rao gave a nervous laugh. ‘Of course not.’ He shovelled some food on to his spoon and raised it to show the Chief. ‘Good food. Hmmm.’

  Domnall half smiled and stared intently at Rao. Silence spread across the circle and now the rest of the Mar were gazing at the Great Shee. Their eyes gleamed and their skin flickered in the firelight.

  ‘You’re going to have to eat that,’ Jack said.

  Rao blanched. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You have to. Things might turn nasty otherwise.’

  ‘There must be some—’

  ‘Now.’

  Rao looked around at the Mar, who all continued to stare at him. He licked his lips and swallowed. Then he breathed in sharply, shut his eyes and spooned the food into his mouth. He chewed slowly and deliberately, fighting to keep the look of disgust from his face.

  The Mar cheered and began talking amongst themselves again. Domnall beamed and slapped his thighs.

  Rao almost gagged, stopped himself and swallowed the meat.

  ‘Better keep going.’ Jack nodded at Rao’s overflowing bowl. ‘Wouldn’t want to disappoint the Chief.’

  Rao shuddered and shut his eyes for a second. ‘Shiva.’

  Then he opened his eyes, glared at the stew as if it were his enemy and began spooning it into his mouth.

  He ate almost half his food, before he gagged again, put down his spoon and pushed the bowl away. ‘Enough.’

  Jack wondered whether Rao had eaten enough to satisfy the Chief, but Domnall was busy talking and laughing with his subjects and paying little attention to the Great Shee for the moment. A Mar woman soon took away the Captain’s bowl.

  Next, a thin man with a wispy beard strode out into the open ground beside the fire. The Mar quietened and the Chief said a few words to the man.

  ‘This bard,’ Cormac said. ‘Tonight will tell story of Place of Dead Kings.’

  Jack sat up straighter, his interest piqued. He wanted to find out all he could about the place where Mahajan was hiding out.

  The gathering was completely silent now. Even the numerous dogs sat still.

  The bard looked up into the sky and began singing in a clear voice. Now that Jack listened closely to the native tongue, he was reminded a little of the sound of the language some spoke in Wales.

  Cormac translated, explaining that long ago, the ancestors of the Mar, Cattans and other tribes in the region had been extremely rich and powerful. They built huge buildings unlike anything seen in the Highlands these days. They lived in vast towns that stretched for miles and they had huge numbers of cattle and sheep, so that no one went hungry.

  Their main town was in the valley beyond the Mountain of the Old Trees, and in the centre of that town was a castle, underneath which they buried their kings. This is why this area is still known as the Place of Dead Kings.

  God was very happy with these people. They worshipped him and did not give in to the temptations of the Evil One. But then a king named Matain, who was arrogant and reckless, came to the throne. The Devil sent a serpent to whisper in his ear, telling him he could be greater than all the kings before him, greater even than God himself. With this in mind, Matain decreed that a tower be built – the tallest tower in the world. It would be so high it would reach the moon, and Matain himself would sit at its top and rule the world as God from there.

  So, the people began to build the tower. They laboured for years, heaping stone upon stone. And the tower grew until it was taller than any of the other buildings in the land, then taller than the tallest hill and then the tallest mountain. Finally, it reached up into the sky.

  Matain climbed to the top of the tower and looked up at the moon. It seemed so close now, he could almost reach out and touch it.

  ‘I will be higher than God once I reach the moon,’ he said. ‘I will take his place and rule the world.’

  The builders continued to work on the tower and it grew higher even than the clouds. But every time Matain climbed to the top, the moon was never quite within reach.

  He became angry and commanded his labourers to work harder and faster. He enlisted more workers and drove them to build both day and night.

  But still the moon lay beyond his grasp.

  One night, at the top of his tower, the icy wind in his hair, Matain railed against God and demanded to be allowed to reach the moon. At that moment the tower shook. A crack ran up its side. The tower had been built too tall and could no longer support its own weight. The stones crumbled and the entire structure collapsed, burying Matain beneath it.

  The King had been killed by his own arrogance.

  After that time, the kingdom fell into decline. The people realised that in following Matain they had let themselves drift away from God. They stopped putting up huge towers, stopped dreaming of ruling the world and reaching the moon. And so they returned to God and left behind the temptations of the Devil.

  When the bard finished, the crowd roared with delight and clapped loudly. Many began singing, while others stood and danced about the flames.

  ‘A strange sort of story,’ Rao said to Jack. ‘What do you make of it?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Just a legend, I suppose.’

  Rao rubbed his moustache. ‘There’s truth in legends so
metimes. These people, they once had cities and towns. I read that.’

  ‘I heard that too.’

  ‘This story about the tower. Maybe it’s their way of explaining why they stopped building castles and the like.’

  ‘Could be.’ Jack yawned. He wasn’t much interested in what the story was about. He’d been hoping to learn more about the Place of Dead Kings as it was in the present.

  He sat watching the dancing Mar for another fifteen minutes or so, yawning repeatedly. This seemed to set off Rao, who began yawning himself. Noticing this, Cormac asked Chief Domnall for permission for the Great Shee to retire and then led Jack and Rao over to a hut. It was a simple, circular structure, like most of the others in the village. A cairn topped by a river-worn rock stood beside the entrance and a twig had been tied to a stone above the door.

  ‘Rowan.’ Cormac pointed at the twig. ‘Stop witches.’

  Jack glanced at the branch. It was not so different from the charms the English used. Did the Mar burn witches too? Sadly, he suspected they did.

  He ducked through the doorway and entered a smoky chamber lit only by a fire in the centre. Two piles of bracken lay on the floor, and while these beds were basic, they looked more comfortable than anything he’d slept on for days.

  Cormac crouched beside the hearth, smoothed out the embers with a stick and smothered them with ash and several bricks of peat. The covered embers smoked and glowed through the ash, but the peat didn’t catch fire.

  ‘Leave like this.’ Cormac pointed at the hearth. ‘Will burn all night. Not let go out.’

  ‘Why not?’ Rao asked.

  Cormac’s expression went solemn. ‘Very bad luck. Great evil will come.’ He gestured repeatedly at the fire. ‘Not let go out.’

  ‘All right.’ Jack raised his hand. ‘We’ll leave it like that.’

  Cormac nodded, slipped over to the entrance and bowed. ‘Good night, oh Great Shee.’ Then he stooped, left the hut and scraped the door back into place.

  Jack took the scimitar from his belt, levered off his mud-logged boots and collapsed on the bracken. He sighed. ‘Think I could sleep for a week.’