by Oisin McGann
“We could rush ’em,” Pip suggested, brandishing the revolver.
It was clear from the way the boy held the weapon that he had never fired a pistol in his life. Cathal did not fancy the lad’s chances in a shoot-out. He shook his head. He didn’t want to risk anyone else getting shot unless it was absolutely necessary.
“Can you use deh bird again?” the boy asked.
Cathal shrugged.
“Could give it a try … It won’t help open Moby up, though. We need to let those peelers in here somehow. I don’t have the whistle any more. And that trick with Siren back there was something I learned from its mistress, but I only know how to get it to make one ‘bang’ at a time. It was a one-off thing she taught the engimal as a defense against someone attackin’ her. I can’t play music to it … give it instructions, you know … do the Pied Piper bit like Gerald can …”
He went quiet for a minute, listening to the gunfire and the occasional shouts from Red’s men. They were scared but confident, knowing the attackers would have to get past Moby to get into the tunnel. The coves were sure that they only had to hold out until Gerald returned. They had faith in his power—either to turn back the attacking forces with his political influence, or with his music.
“Just don’t go turnin’ into a monster again, Mister Dempsey,” Pip muttered. “I nearly soiled meself den—an’ I only own one pair o’ trousers.”
Cathal grimaced at the memory. And then he thought of the link he had sensed with Siren in Gerald’s study. There had been something about his experience in the tunnel with Moby that had left a mark on him—as if a door in his mind had been opened and had not been properly shut. He wondered, could he force it open again? Did he want to?
He took the little engimal from his shoulder and cupped it in his hands, holding it near his face.
“I need you to understand me, Siren,” he said to it. “Can you understand me? I need you to go up there and sing out whatever note opens that great big bloody mouth. Can you do that for me? Go on, now. Go open that mouth, Siren!”
With a push of his hands, he sent the bird fluttering towards the gunfight, fervently hoping it would be too small to be caught by any stray shots. He glanced down at Pip. The boy was looking a bit dubious, but obviously didn’t want to say anything. Cathal was feeling more confident, however, now that he had taken the step, showing faith in this link he had with the bird.
“Give it a chance,” he said to the boy.
“Aye, right. We’ll watch and see what deh little birdie does,” the boy replied, carefully looking in any direction except Cathal’s , “… But den I’m goin’ to rush ’em.”
Siren flew silently towards the men crouched inside the leviathan’s jaws. The tunnel was high up on the mountainside, with only the sheer wall of a cliff visible on the far side of the valley, so there was no way for the attackers to shoot at them from a distance. Red and his men were taking careful aim at anyone who came close enough to show their head at the bright square opening of the tunnel in front of them. The leviathan’s flexible metal lips were parted about six inches, allowing the defenders to shoot out, but giving their attackers very little to aim at. And bullets made little impression on hide that had, for thousands of years, withstood the most fearsome predators and the crushing depths at the bottom of the sea. Even hand grenades were of little use, the tentacles seizing any that were thrown in and hurling them back out again.
The bird flickered in and out of sight as it neared the tunnel, only visible, like the men at the mouth, when it passed in front of the three-pointed star of light shining through the narrow gap. Cathal held his breath, his grip tightening on the handle of his gun. He thought he heard a whining sound, just at the highest range of his hearing, and then Moby’s three-jawed mouth snapped open. Red and his men cried out in alarm, stumbling backwards. A figure leaped into sight at the opening to the tunnel, charging forwards, firing a revolver with each hand. He roared as he ran, shooting down one and then another of the defenders. Cathal let out a triumphant shout. Siren flew straight out of the tunnel and into the valley beyond … And then Moby’s mouth slammed shut, throwing the tunnel into complete darkness.
“Ah, shite!” Cathal swore through his teeth.
He felt Pip lunge forward and run up the tunnel, but was too late to grab him. Pip fired off two shots into the pitch darkness, wasting ammunition. Cathal cursed again and started after him. Stumbling and tripping over the sleepers and rails as he ran, he tried to catch up to the boy, who fired another useless shot, the flash illuminating him for an instant and marking him as a target for anyone who might be aiming in that direction. Up ahead, other gunshots were going off, men were shouting, someone screamed. The muzzle-flashes gave the impression of chaos, each burst of light showing men standing in different positions, acts of violence frozen in after-images on Cathal’s eyes as he blinked in the darkness. He was running blind, with no idea how far it was to the leviathan’s mouth, or who might be ahead, waiting for him. More shots, the sounds of a struggle. He heard Pip fall and cry out just ahead, and Cathal was nearly hit by a bullet zipping past his face as the boy hit the ground and accidentally jerked on the trigger.
“Stop shooting and point it at the bloody floor!” Cathal bellowed as he ran past.
Then, suddenly, he was in the middle of a fight. A fist brushed his shoulder in the darkness. Red’s men, in their confusion, must be fighting whoever had charged into the tunnel, or else they were fighting with each other. Hearing Red swear, Cathal aimed and fired in that direction. Even as the flash of his shot faded, someone piled into him from the other side and he fell back, landing on the wooden sleepers, banging his left elbow off the rail and nearly dropping his gun. The jolt hurt his stump, causing him to yelp in pain. A hand felt for his chest, then his chin, then his face, and then bunched into a fist and struck him in the cheek. Cathal aimed over the arm and swung the butt of his gun into the man’s face, but his attacker just grunted and pushed the gun aside, clawing his way onto Cathal’s torso.
Cathal heard that almost inaudible sound again, and the mouth opened a few inches, enough to let in some light. Red was standing just inside, seizing a fallen shotgun from the ground. The man who was on top of Cathal pivoted and pulled a pistol from his waistband. Cathal jammed his own revolver under the man’s bearded chin even as his attacker put a bullet through Red’s chest before the blackguard could raise the shotgun. A second shot took Red in the head and he toppled back into the space that would once have been occupied by the leviathan’s tongue.
Cathal struggled to catch his breath, his heart pumping like a steam train as the stranger stared down at him and gently pulled the barrel of Cathal’s gun away from his throat.
“Now, that’s no way to greet your oul’ man, is it, lad?”
Cathal looked past the shabby, well-traveled clothes, the uncut hair and beard, and into the eyes of his father, crinkled with emotion.
“Pa?” Cathal gasped, his breath catching in his throat. “Pa? Jesus, is that really you?”
“In the flesh,” William Dempsey laughed, cupping his hand to his son’s face and kissing the lad’s brow. “Christ, boy, it’s so good to see you! You’ve no idea how good it is! Thanks be to God you’re alive!”
Dempsey’s gaze fell on his son’s right arm and the bloodstained bandages that covered the stump. A horrified whimper slipped from his mouth and he gently clasped Cathal’s forearm, before pulling the boy to him in a tight embrace. Tears streamed down the man’s cheeks as he held his son, and Cathal began crying, hugging him in return.
“What in God’s name did the curs do to you?” Dempsey hissed, his clawed hands bunching into fists as he clutched the fabric of Cathal’s jacket, trying to contain his anguish. “What have they done to my boy?”
The shouts of officers commanding their men forward could be heard outside, and the tramp of feet running up the steep slope of the road to the
mine. The other defenders of the tunnel were lying either dead or injured all around the father and son. Pip and the children were making their way up towards the light, holding their hands up to shield their eyes against the glare of the evening light. Cathal pulled himself away from his pa and scrambled across to Red’s body. The white whistle lay there near his feet. Cathal blew the whistle, and Moby’s mouth stretched open. From this low angle, he could see the sky. He was surprised to see that the daylight which had seemed so bright was actually only a dim grey glow through heavy cloud. Rain was falling, and he felt an urge to rush out and feel it on his face, to let it drench him.
“I don’t … I don’t understand what this thing is,” Dempsey said to his son, gesturing in bewilderment at the leviathan’s mouth as soldiers and police constables cautiously entered the tunnel. “How did it come to be here?”
“It’s a giant sea monster’s gob,” Cathal informed him in a dazed voice, looking out at the rain. “Put here by a mad scientist to keep children trapped down a mine, where they pull apart the dead bodies of engimals so that he can gather intelligent particles from the children’s blood and use them to give himself god-like powers … so he can force the world to become a better place.”
“That’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard,” Inspector Urskin said from behind them, staring at the monster’s jaws and the horde of children standing just inside them, afraid to go near them but craving the daylight. “You’re telling us all this is down to the actions of some raving madman?”
“He’s not really the raving type,” Cathal muttered. “Though you should hear him play the fiddle.”
Patting Pip’s back, Cathal led the children out through the jaws to the opening of the tunnel, past the policemen and soldiers and into the fresh air. The rain was heavy, pelting them with big drops and quickly soaking them to the skin. The men who had laid assault to the mine now came to take the children down the hill, wrapping them in blankets and picking them up, offering them water and food. Cathal felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.
“Come on, son,” Dempsey said. “We’re done with this place. It’s over.”
“It’s not over, Pa,” Cathal replied. “It’s not over by a long way”
Gerald pulled back on the handlebars of his velocycle, Incitatus, bringing the creature to a skidding halt. Pushing his fly-specked riding goggles up onto his forehead, he stared up into the sky, his eyes fixed on a bird flying overhead. It had a unique way of moving, and Gerald recognized it immediately. There were no other engimals like Siren in Ireland—and there could only be one reason that Siren was flying free.
The little creature soared past, making its way back to Wildenstern Hall. As he tracked it across the sky, his gaze was drawn back the way he had come. The very top of Wildenstern Hall was visible above the hills, and there was smoke rising from it. His face twisted into a knowing scowl and he nodded to himself.
“Conniving little witch,” he murmured, though not without a hint of admiration.
Gerald threw one last bitter look towards Glendalough, certain that there was nothing there for him now and, with a kick to the velocycle’s side, he spun his mount around. Urging Incitatus into a sprint, Gerald raced back in the same direction as the bird.
XXXIII
A TOWERING INFERNO
DUFFY’S GANG HAD DONE A THOROUGH JOB. Even the rain had died down, as if nature itself was standing back to let Wildenstern Hall burn. The tower’s top floors were ablaze, smoke gushing out of the windows, the building letting out a low, guttural moaning sound as the raging fire sucked air up through the elevator shafts and stairwells. The inferno ate up the family’s possessions, greedily consuming the priceless antiques, the wardrobes of fashionable clothes, the furs and the silk, the rugs and the tapestries and all the other fine things. Secret stashes of paper cash blackened and curled into ash. Gold and silver melted, jewels dropped from their settings to be lost in the debris. On one side of the building, the armories on two separate floors exploded, ammunition igniting and blasting out like deadly fireworks. Whole sections of wall were blown out, the shattered stone and masonry tumbling to the ground below. Like some giant dying, prehistoric dragon, it belched flame and pieces of its flesh. Daisy had ordered the stopcocks turned on all the gas pipes, but there was still enough gas in the lines to cause smaller detonations.
Floor by floor, the massive structure was slowly but inevitably being reduced to a burnt husk. The family had water pumps and hoses to fight any house fires, but they would have been insufficient, even if someone hadn’t punched holes in the hoses so that they sprayed uselessly in every direction. Servants had formed a human chain in an attempt to fight the inferno, passing buckets of water hand to hand, but it was hopeless. The building was doomed.
People of a less possessive and more pragmatic nature might have by this time chosen to leave the building in a hasty fashion. The Wildensterns were made of sterner stuff—and were wary of going outside to face what awaited them.
Nate and Daisy had been searching desperately for Elizabeth and Leopold. Whatever they thought about the rest of the family, they could not leave without Nate’s son. Responsible nannies had already accounted for the other Wildenstern children, their parents having long ago delegated the duty of knowing the whereabouts of their offspring. But Elizabeth would not have left Leopold out of her sight at a time like this, and Daisy had been informed that the ancient woman was still in the house and had declared her intention to ‘stand her ground’ there.
As they searched the fourth floor, Nate peered into the library. The smell of smoke had filled that floor already, and he knew they were running out of time. Having only recently discovered the joys of reading, he found himself dismayed that all these volumes would be lost. But he had little time to wallow in regret, for he saw a group of people at the windows who caught his attention. Neither Elizabeth nor Leopold were among them, but Gideon and his wife Eunice were. Nate’s curiosity got the better of him, and he strode across the room, past the rows of shelves, to have a look out one of the windows.
A large crowd of people was winding up the driveway towards the house. At their head was a dark horse ridden by a figure dressed all in black and wearing a tri-cornered hat. Nate’s eyebrows went up of their own accord.
“That’s the bloody Highwayboy!” one of the Wildensterns whined. “What’s he doing here?”
“Doing a spot of rabble-rousing, I’ll be bound!” Gideon replied. “Look at the little guttersnipe, come off the hills to lead the goddamned charge, just when we’re most inconvenienced! It just goes to show the lower classes have no sense of fair play.”
There had to be two or three hundred of that lower-class type out there. Most of them were peasants, some masked, others baring their faces to the masters of the estate, their expressions declaring their anger and hatred. The daylight was fading to dusk; the flaming torches the mob carried were visible from some way off, and the guttering orange flames picked out the sharp prongs of pick-axes, mattocks and pitchforks.
“What are they carrying those for?” Eunice asked in a loud voice. “Who are all these people? What are they doing here? And what are they carrying pitchforks for?”
Realization dawned. Her jowly jaw dropped, pulling her slack, thin-lipped mouth open.
“Oh. Oh! Oh my God! Gideon, we must get out of here! Dear Lord, we must leave at once!”
“Some of the others are staying to fight, my dear. I think I should stand with them,” Gideon told her, though the tone of his voice suggested that he could be persuaded against it.
“Stand with them?” Eunice exclaimed, aghast. “And … and what is to become of me when those brutes storm the house and swarm over us like … like … like vermin? You must stand with me, Gideon. Your duty to your immediate family must come before any … any honorable last stand.”
“You are right, of course, my dear,” Gideon replied after some hes
itation. He held himself straighter, put his hands to his lapels, and eyed those around him as if they must recognize this fact. “My duty must come first. Let us make haste to the train. Come along, Eunice. I will see you safely there. To the train!”
The small group of Wildensterns expressed general approval of this strategy, and made a barely dignified rush for the door.
“Nate!” Gideon called over to him as he turned to lead his wife out. “We must leave! Good God, man, the peasants are—”
“Yes, so I see,” Nate cut him off. “You must make haste for the train, Gideon.”
“God, yes!” Gideon barked. “So long, old chap!”
With that, they were gone. Nate cast a last, long look at his sister, the Highwayboy, and crossed to the door, where he met Daisy as she came along the corridor.
“Still no sign,” she said. “We’d better go across and check the nursery. The nannies said it was empty, but …”
“Just so you know,” Nate told her. “Tatty’s all done up as the Highwayboy, and she’s leading the tenants up the driveway in a mob armed with flaming torches and pitchforks.”
“Right … Well, I’m glad she’s making herself useful.”
“I’m concerned they might storm the place just as we’re trying to get out.”
“Then we’d best get a move on, hadn’t we?”
Making for the back of the house as fast as Daisy’s dress would allow, Nate felt the pressure of Gerald’s absence. If there is a wasp in one’s room, one wants to know where it is. Not being stung is an insufficient comfort. Knowing Gerald could be close by, Nate felt his skin itch at the thought that he could not see him. And given Gerald’s knack for unpredictable strategies, Nate would much rather have kept him in sight.
“How do you think he did it?” Daisy asked breathlessly. “Edgar, I mean. You seem convinced it’s really him, though I find it hard to believe. How could Gerald have managed it?”
