The Devil's Piper

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘You might as well drop the formality,’ said Isarel. ‘I can’t get properly drunk and listen to fairy stories, and especially not truths, with somebody who keeps calling me “Mr West”.’

  Ciaran grinned and leaned back in the sagging comfortable chair. ‘The truth does sound a bit like a fairy story,’ he said.

  ‘Then say on. The floor’s yours. It’s a bit dusty and the joists in that corner have gone but for the moment it’s yours,’ said Isarel. ‘Start with “once upon a time” and go on from there.’

  ‘Once upon a time,’ said Ciaran, sitting back and eyeing with approval the leaping fire in the hearth and the way it reflected on the half-full bottle, ‘there was a piece of music which was supposed to possess strange and ancient powers. My brother monks and I know it as the Black Chant. Have you heard of it at all?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Anyone who ever studied music would have done.’

  ‘Tell me what you know.’

  Isarel, his interest unexpectedly caught, said, ‘It’s a piece of music that makes use of a chord known as the el diablo. The Black Chant is supposed to have been written around the el diablo, and it was once thought to have power over minds. The medievals called the chord the diabolus in musica and they knew it as a tritone – that’s an interval of three tones with an augmented fourth. They believed it could summon the devil. But the legend of the Chant itself is immensely old, and half the folk tales of Europe seem to be based on it in one way or another: Faust trading with Mephistopheles for eternal youth and Marguerite in his bed – Orpheus with his lyre, charming the denizens of hell into giving him back his lady . . . The eighteenth-century composer, Giuseppe Tartini is supposed to have heard it in a dream in which he believed he had sold his soul to the devil in return for it. Tartini called the music the Devil’s Trill.’

  ‘You’re very knowledgeable,’ said Ciaran, and Isarel shrugged.

  ‘I grew up with music. And it used to be my profession, although God knows whether I can claim to have a profession any longer.’ He sipped his wine, thoughtfully. ‘It’s rather an interesting legend, and it’s remarkable how it keeps cropping up. Browning had fun with it of course – most people know about the Piper of Hamlin – but there’s other versions: the Black Man of Saxony who lured children from their homes: the Man of the Mountains who charmed an entire village into following him into his master’s lair – I forget why, but he had some sinister intent. They’re all more or less similar variations of the same theme: a piece of music, occasionally a musical instrument that calls to men’s souls and holds them in thrall. It’s grand stirring stuff, marvellous for horror fiction and plays and films. I don’t remember who wrote the original Phantom of the Opera but he was probably influenced by the legend – Lloyd-Webber cashed in on it later of course and good for him. None of it’s meant to be taken seriously.’

  Ciaran said softly, ‘But there have been people down the ages who have encountered it in its raw form, and who have taken it very seriously indeed.’ He sipped his wine, and then said, ‘There’s one strand of that legend you haven’t mentioned.’

  ‘What?’

  Ciaran said very deliberately, ‘Jude Weissman.’

  There was an abrupt silence. Isarel was conscious all over again of Mallow’s desolate situation. Who is this Ciaran O’Connor? How do I know I can trust him? On the mantelpiece, the clock he had wound up a lifetime ago ticked steadily on. At last, he said, ‘Jude believed in the Black Chant?’

  ‘I think he not only believed in it,’ said Ciaran levelly, ‘I think he found it while he was living here at Mallow.’

  There was another of the silences, and then Isarel said, ‘What makes you think he found it?’

  ‘What makes you think he didn’t?’

  Isarel stared at him, a dozen different emotions churning in his mind. After a moment, he got up and went to stand in the deep bow window that jutted out over Mallow’s darkling gardens. His head was turned away from the light and he was clearly struggling with some powerful emotion. Ciaran waited and after a moment Isarel turned back into the room. He lit two more candles from the stubs of the ones on the mantel, and set them on one of the packing cases under the window.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, and, flinging up the lid of the piano, began to play.

  The music poured into the silence like cascading silk, like molten gold, and even played like this on an out-of-tune piano, it was the most compelling music that Ciaran had ever heard in his life, and it was also the most frightening. This was music you would die for and music you would kill for. Music you would sell your soul for if only it would go on . . . A Beckoning. This is it, thought Ciaran, transfixed. I’m hearing the Black Chant. The music that drew Ahasuerus out of the tomb.

  He had no idea how long the music lasted, although he thought afterwards that it was not very long. Ten minutes? Perhaps a little more.

  Even when Isarel stopped the spell lingered and Ciaran felt an abrupt sense of loss. He sat very still, and then Isarel got up to replenish the guttering candles and reality returned. Ciaran said, ‘When it stops, the spell fades. The rough magic taken back, the book drowned fathoms deep . . . That was it, wasn’t it? The Black Chant.’

  Isarel had returned to the piano as if he needed to draw warmth from it. His face was in shadow and when he spoke again, his voice was devoid of expression.

  ‘What I’ve just played is part of the Devil’s Piper suite.’

  ‘Jude’s Devil’s Piper?’

  ‘Yes. I found his score earlier tonight.’ He looked at Ciaran, his eyes still in shadow. ‘Jude was a charismatic conductor and a brilliant composer and an extraordinary musician,’ said Isarel. ‘He was only twenty-four when he wrote the Devil’s Piper, but he could already hold a concert hall in the palm of his hand. Women in the audience used to faint. He had a mesmeric quality, or so it’s said.’

  He stopped, and Ciaran said suddenly, ‘You’re afraid of him, aren’t you? Or at least, you’re afraid of his memory.’

  ‘Yes. He haunts me. He always has done.’ Isarel frowned and, reaching across to re-fill the wine glasses, said in a dismissive voice, ‘But I don’t understand what any of this has to do with you or your Abbey. Or what it is you want from me.’

  ‘Our present Order dates from about a thousand years after the death of Christ,’ said Ciaran. ‘And the Abbey itself was built in the twelfth century. When our Founder came to Curran Glen, he brought with him a tomb, a stone sarcophagus with an inner coffin of wood. When the Abbey was built, the tomb was locked into the crypt. It was to be sealed away from the world for ever and perpetually guarded.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the creature inside it was believed to have been cursed with immortaility.’

  ‘“Cursed” with it? Isn’t immortality the greatest prize of all?’

  ‘It’s the greatest burden anyone could ever have to bear,’ said Ciaran, very seriously, and Isarel stared at him.

  ‘Yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking. Flippancy has become a way of life. I don’t think I believe in immortal things in coffins, but we’ll let that pass. By the way could we call it “suspended animation” or would that offend your storyteller’s soul?’

  ‘It’s probably a more accurate description anyway,’ said Ciaran.

  ‘I don’t know about accuracy, but it’d be easier to swallow. Where did the tomb come from?’

  ‘A place in Northern Italy called Cremona. Our Founder left an account of how he came into possession of it, but it’s very incomplete and it’s difficult to piece the story together. What we do know is that around eleven hundred and something a certain Cosimo Amati of Cremona played the Chant and that it called up a creature he believed to be the devil—’

  ‘Just a minute, are we talking about the Amati dynasty that had Guarneri and Stradivari as pupils?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Jesus God, if Stradivari was involved in the Chant that gives the thing an even wider dimension.’

  Isarel stared at Ci
aran, who said, absent-mindedly, ‘Don’t blaspheme. We don’t know how Cosirno Amati got his hands on the music or why he used it. But according to Brother Simon’s account he played it in his house one night – deliberately and calculatedly – and something came to his house in answer to it.’

  ‘Simon was your Founder?’

  ‘Yes. And according to his account, Cosimo was unable to control the creature he’d summoned, and he sought Simon’s help.’

  Isarel said promptly, ‘Baron Frankenstein and the monster getting away. People never learn.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Or something from the Arabian Nights. Genies or jinns who become troublesome and have to be corked into bottles for a thousand and one nights. Go on. How did Simon cork up this particular jinn?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Ciaran. ‘We know that Simon and Cosimo both believed the creature had been compelled to answer the music. We know they returned it to the tomb and that Simon brought the tomb to Ireland and Curran Glen. What we don’t know is how they got him back in the tomb.’

  ‘So the music’s a one-way ticket,’ said Isarel thoughtfully. ‘It calls the creature up, but it doesn’t necessarily send it back. Go on.’

  ‘Simon created an Order of Guardians of the tomb. Christian in belief and way of life, but who in addition to their vows to God, must also vow to guard the tomb and re-inter Ahasuerus if he wakes.’

  A log broke apart in the hearth, making both men jump. Isarel caught a movement on the edges of his vision, and he turned sharply because just for a moment it had seemed as if a dark hunched figure was crouching behind them. ‘Ahasuerus,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t believe any of this, of course, but—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Naming him makes him unexpectedly real,’ said Isarel.

  ‘My Church believes that in order to exorcize a demon, you must first name him,’ said Ciaran, and then seeing Isarel’s expression, he smiled. ‘Demons can have names like Fear, Jealousy, Despair, Violence—’

  ‘All right, you’ve named this particular demon and he’s called Ahasuerus. But you can’t seriously expect me to believe that a creature who’s been dead for a thousand years can wake and walk in answer to a sequence of music—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not,’ said Ciaran. ‘It’s happened. Earlier tonight one of our monks was attacked and left for dead. His eyes were clawed out by something extremely savage.’

  ‘A homicidal immortal yet. Didn’t anyone see this savage gentleman? I thought you were supposed to guard him.’

  ‘Actually most of us did see him although we didn’t realise. He was among us during Vespers, but he was hooded and robed to hide his face. At some point he was mutilated,’ said Ciaran expressionlessly. ‘We don’t know the details, but we know his face was spoiled.’

  Isarel regarded Ciaran and then said politely, ‘Yes, I should have known he’d be horribly scarred. All the best immortals are. I thought you looked alert when I mentioned Phantom of the Opera.’

  Ciaran smiled again, but said, ‘When we went down to the crypt, we found the tomb disturbed.’ He looked very directly at Isarel. ‘The stone lid was pushed back and the inner coffin was empty.’ He paused. ‘And earlier tonight, you had played the Chant.’

  There was a sudden silence. Isarel stared at Ciaran. ‘You think I called him out of the tomb?’ he said, staring. ‘My God, you really do think it, don’t you? And now you want me to play it again to get him back. That’s why you’re here. I always thought the Catholic Church was rife with superstition, but in all my sinful Jewish life I’ve never heard such a load of uncircumcised balls—’ He stopped as Ciaran made an abrupt movement. ‘What is it?’

  Ciaran said, ‘There’s something outside in the hall.’ And then Isarel heard it as well.

  The slow dragging of footsteps. And the whispering of a long robe across the bare oak floorboards.

  For a moment neither of them moved. The footsteps outside stopped, and Isarel thought that perhaps after all he had been mistaken. Then Ciaran pointed silently to the half-closed door into the hall.

  On the bare dusty floor, thrown into sharp relief by the candlelight, was the black elongated shadow of a crouching figure standing in the hall. Isarel felt icy fingers trace a path down his spine. The shadow had a monkish look as if it was wearing a long robe, and the head was covered by a cowl.

  The mutilated creature cursed with immortality . . . Ahasuerus hiding his spoiled face from the world . . . Yes, but I don’t believe it. And if I don’t believe it, it can’t be happening.

  In a whisper so soft that Isarel barely caught it, Ciaran said, ‘Stand next to me. When I signal, fling the door open. Ready?’

  ‘Of course I’m not ready! Ready for what, for God’s sake?’

  ‘We’ve got to force him back into the tomb,’ said Ciaran. ‘Can you play the music again?’

  ‘But you don’t know how to get him back in the tomb—’ Isarel broke off and shook his head incredulously. ‘I don’t believe I’m saying this.’

  ‘I don’t believe you’re saying it either. I don’t believe it’s happening.’

  ‘Will he even follow the music?’

  ‘How do I know!’ said Ciaran in a furious whisper. ‘I’m boxing as blind as you are! But he’s followed it once already and if you play it again—’

  ‘How?’ demanded Isarel. ‘Hell’s teeth, Ciaran, I can’t drag the Bluthner across the fields on the off chance that an escaped corpse will go obediently after it, and—’ Isarel stopped as memory stirred. He made a quick gesture, signalling: wait a minute, and crossed swiftly to the packing cases under the window. His thoughts were in chaos, but there was the memory of having brought to Ireland, along with everything else, one of the few things that had come down from Jude and that Isarel would never have relinquished to anyone in the world.

  The shofar. The sweet-toned harmonic Hebrew trumpet, referred to numerous times in the Bible, once used to sound battle calls and still used in some modern synagogues. It was many years since Isarel had been inside a synagogue, or indeed any appointed place of worship, but he regarded the shofar as something very nearly sacred. He would certainly never have left it behind in England for Liz and her Sales Director who would probably have hung it on the wall alongside a fake hunting horn.

  He had not played it since he had lectured to a post-graduate class on Jewish music and he was not at all sure if he could remember how to play it, never mind reproduce Jude’s music on it. He was certainly not sure if he believed any of this extravagant tale of ancient curses and maimed creatures forced to walk the world.

  But something was standing in the dark hall beyond the warm circle of candlelight, and if Ciaran was to be believed, something was loose in Curran Glen that had already savaged a man.

  And if there was a shred of truth in Ciaran’s remarkable story, if anything could lure the immortal Ahasuerus, Cosimo Amati’s out-of-control demon, back to the tomb, then it would surely be the Hebrew shofar.

  Chapter Eight

  Cosimo Amati knew all the stories about over-reaching, under-estimating fools who lured demons and then failed to control them, and he was not going to add to their number.

  He had gone about his preparations very carefully indeed, and he had not told anyone what he was going to do in case of failing and being laughed at. You had to be cunning, you had to be secretive and sly about these things. But there the music was and there the legend was, and he was going to take his courage in both hands and see whether it was all true or only a burned-out myth.

  Aside from that, it would be very gratifying if he could be the one to banish the plague-rats from Cremona, especially when everyone in the town had prayed until they dropped and Heaven must be weary of their pleas for deliverance from the evil diseased things.

  It would be really be very satisfying if he was destined to go down in Cremona’s history as the man who saved an entire town. ‘Cosimo Amati,’ people would say in years to come. ‘My wor
d, what courage. My word, our forefathers had cause to be grateful to him.’ His mind roamed pleasurably between a plaque in the Cathedral (which would be nice for his descendants), and a yearly pension from the City fathers, (which would be of more immediate benefit).

  After much furrowing of his brow he decided to use his workroom which was a long, low-ceilinged room, a half-cellar in fact, with the windows at street level so that people could not look in on you unless they bent down on all fours which was not something you needed to worry about at midnight. And if Isabella awoke and found him not in their bed, she would only think he was working late again. She would smile the thin enigmatic smile that always drove him demented – he suspected it drove half of Cremona demented as well, although naturally Isabella, dear innocent girl, would not realise it – and she would turn over and go back to sleep.

  He stacked his half-finished lutes and the lyres at the far end of the workroom, leaning them carefully against the wall, because several were commissioned works and Cosimo was not going to forego any of his patrons’ payments, not if he found himself entertaining Satan and the entire hierarchy of devils.

  He arranged a small velvet cushion to sit on, because while it was all very well to be large-minded and loftily say you were going to call up the Servant of the ancient music and order him to save your city, you did not want to get a splinter in your buttocks in the process. Uncharitable people said that Cosimo was fat, but Cosimo thought of himself as nicely rounded which meant that there was plenty of flesh for recalcitrant splinters. He smoothed the velvet and turned to set out the candles. Everything had to be in accordance with the ancient ritual: Cosimo had made a list, which he consulted anxiously at intervals.

  As he made his preparations, he thought it was surely a terrible desecration to light the thick repulsive candles made from dead men’s fat and the brains of a still-born child. These had been the hardest items to acquire, because when you were a respected lute-maker and a responsible member of Cremona’s little community, you could not go rummaging about in graveyards. In the end, he had engaged the services of the two men who pulled the plague-cart through Cremona’s streets at curfew each night, swearing them to secrecy under threat of punishment of the most gruesome kind. Earlier that evening, directly after supper, he had pounded the nasty substances together, shuddering and sickened, but not flinching because a man ought not to flinch from any worthwhile task, and more to the point the stuff had cost a disgracefully large sum of money.