Behind the Sorcerer's Cloak

by Andrea Spalding

  Mist rose from the ground, and two shining doorways appeared, one filled with luminous white mist and soft runesong, one with a billowing dark.

  “No.” Doona’s did not waver. She spun her ring, forcing the Shades to spin themselves into a vortex once again.

  Adam screamed.

  “Then I have no choice.” Holly’s voice broke on a sob.

  She laid the necklace across the parapet, pulled out her flashlight and, holding it like a hammer, smashed the jet black bead.

  Doona’s cry was piteous.

  The stone in her ring shattered into fragments. She slumped to the ground, visibly fading away.

  Adam fainted. Myrddin caught him. All watched as his arm fell loose. The shattered ring slipped off his finger and rolled into the grave.

  Cullyn lifted her twin to her feet.

  Doona was as insubstantial as her sister.

  Singing softly, an arm lovingly around her, Cullyn guided Doona toward the doorways.

  At the last moment, Cullyn looked up at Holly.

  “You are wiser than I,” she called. “I could not find the heart-courage to smash my twin’s bead and sever her from magic. I had not the strength to send her into the Mists before her time.

  “Instead I directed concealment of the Tools and hid myself, hoping to end her jealousy.

  “It was a poor decision that caused untold misery in the universe. I choose to restore the balance. To relinquish my magic and enter the Mists.” She turned to Doona. “Light and Dark, Dark and Light. There is always a choice, Doona.”

  “Then there must always be Dark,” whispered Doona. “The Dark is as beautiful as the Light. I go willingly to the Dark. Grieve not, Sister. Chosen dark is peaceful oblivion.”

  They embraced and each stepped through different doors.

  Sunlight returned.

  Applause rippled over the walls from the people watching the eclipse outside the castle.

  Inside the walls there was stillness and sadness.

  “Uh-oh,” muttered Owen, eyeing the mass of Shades beginning to drift aimlessly through the air. “How do we get rid of them? I’ve run out of salt.”

  Chantel whistled.

  With the sound of waves crashing on the shore, a herd of Cabbyl Ushtey leapt over the walls and galloped through the castle grounds. Snorting and tossing their manes and tails, they circled the same way the Shades had circled. Round and round they galloped, faster and faster until they became a pure white blur.

  They herded the Shades into the center.

  Myrddin raised his staff and his voice. “Shades,” he called, “Doona and Cullyn have entered the Mists. Your time of bondage is over. You are free once again to make a choice.”

  The galloping slowed and stopped. The Shades, eyes glittering, nervously looked at Myrddin and the other Wise Ones, all pointing toward the magical doorways.

  “You became Doona’s Shades because you lacked the courage to enter the Mists when your life was stripped from you,” continued Myrddin. “Dark and Light, Light and Dark. The choice is offered again. There is also a third choice. The Cabbyl Ushtey, the magical water horses of Gaia offer chance of a new life. Those of you who still cannot bear to enter the Mists may climb on their backs and find sanctuary in the realm beneath the sea. Your belief in them will strengthen the Cabbyl Ushtey and halt their fading from Gaia.”

  Runesong stirred a puff of luminous mist through the doorway of light.

  The nearest Shade glided toward it, paused a moment and passed through.

  A silent whirl of movement followed.

  “Some are choosing the Dark,” whispered Owen in disbelief.

  Chantel’s eyes pooled with tears. She huddled against Adam. He hugged her tightly as they watched the Shades make their choices, and the Cabbyl Ushtey, many with dark riders, gallop back to the waves.

  The sunset was magnificent.

  The townspeople, their disagreements forgotten, lingered on Peel beach, celebrating its beauty and discussing the unexpected eclipse.

  No one noticed the more somber party gathered at the top of the round tower.

  Adam sat on the stone flags, one arm around Chantel who clutched his hand as though she was never going to let him go.

  Owen leaned against Equus and gently stroked Ava who perched on his arm in her guise of a small hawk.

  Manannan had fetched Mr. Smythe and Mr. Cubbon, and he and Myrddin talked quietly with them.

  Only Holly stood apart, the magnificent necklace still around her neck. Lips parted in a tiny smile, she stared as the sunset cast its golden light across the sea, stared as though she had never seen a more beautiful sight.

  She hadn’t. Each stone in the necklace tugged at her inner vision. Her eyes saw past Gaia’s familiar sun, to undreamed of stars and planets, all sharing their light, calling, beckoning and singing a welcome to her.

  Owen cleared his throat. “Put us out of our misery, Sis. What are you going to do with the necklace?”

  Everyone held their breath.

  Holly came back to earth. She laughed and lifted the beads over her head. She held the fabulous links up for everyone to witness and sighed. “It’s so very beautiful,” she said. “I wish it were mine.”

  Then she snapped the hair and let the beads run off into her pocket. “We’ll put them back in the archaeologists’ tray before we leave.” She dropped the hair over the parapet.

  “But…but no one will know what order they should be in,” stuttered Owen.

  “That’s right,” said Holly, watching the hair drift away. “It isn’t our magic. This way, it never will be our war.”

  EPILOGUE

  The Land Rover turned into the yard of White Horse Farm and tooted its horn.

  Ron Maxwell appeared at the doorway. “The kids are back,” he called.

  Lynne joined him.

  The four children hung out of the car windows, waving madly.

  “Who’s the visitor?” said Holly as another figure appeared behind them.

  “DAD!” yelled Adam and Chantel. They tumbled out of the car into his arms.

  Explanations from the children were surprisingly easy.

  Descriptions of Glastonbury Tor and the labyrinth, and runes and ruins seen during a twenty-four-hour trip to the Isle of Man, more than satisfied the adults that the cousins had experienced an exceptional trip.

  Mr. Smythe was invited to stay for tea.

  The children unloaded their backpacks and carried them up to the bedrooms.

  Chantel sat at the top of the stairs and waited for Adam. “I’ve something to tell you before we talk to Dad. Mom phoned while you were off in the mist.”

  Adam grunted. “Who did she trash this time?”

  Chantel shook her head. “No one, but…,” her eyes filled with tears, “…she said you would go to live with Dad, and I would live with her.”

  “WHAT?” Adam dropped down beside her. “You’ve gotta be kidding. No way are they going to split us up.” He gave Chantel a massive hug that made her bones crack.

  Chantel gasped, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “You mean it, Adam? You really mean it? You don’t think it’s a good idea?” She gazed up at her older brother.

  “Course not,” said Adam gruffly. “Mom and Dad are divorcing, not us. We’ll tell them.”

  “Mom won’t listen,” said Chantel sadly.

  “We’ll make her listen.”

  “How?” said Chantel. “We’d have to do something big, like running away.”

  “Can’t do that,” said Adam seriously. “I missed home like crazy when I was captured.” He punched the air. “We’ll go on strike?”

  Chantel’s eyes widened. “We will?”

  Adam grinned. “We’ll walk up and down in front of the house holding signs: Cruelty to Kids; Don’t split us up. And we’ll phone the TV news first, so they’ll cover it.”

  “That would be sooo embarrassing,” said Chantel doubtfully.

  “Exactly!” said Adam. “Mom hates being emb
arrassed.”

  “We could refuse to go to school,” Chantel said slowly.

  “Refuse to do chores,” added Adam.

  “Go on a hunger strike,” said Chantel.

  There was a long pause. “Naw. No sense not eating,” said Adam. “Got to have the energy to be obnoxious.”

  Chantel laughed.

  Adam hugged her again. “We’ll make them listen, Chantel. We’ll keep telling them what Holly told Doona and the Lady. It’s their divorce. It’s not our war!”

  “You’re right, son. It’s not your war.”

  Their father climbed the stairs and sat between them.

  Chantel shot him a sideways look. “What did you hear?”

  “Enough.” He sighed. “We’ll try to give you kids some choices, so you don’t feel caught in the middle.”

  “Like what,” Adam said suspiciously.

  His dad shrugged. “Like how it’s best to share you. We both want you. Can you live part-time with me and part-time with your mom? Lots of kids do that.”

  “Yeah, Colin Deskey does. One week with his mom and one week with his dad. He’s always leaving stuff at the wrong house.” Adam hunched his shoulders.

  “Weekends with one parent, schooldays with the other?”

  Adam shrugged.

  “Or the school year with one parent and holidays with the other. That would allow one of us to try out a job in another place.”

  “Like where?”

  “Like England. Uncle Ron needs a farm manager.”

  “England! More summers here?”

  “Or school in England and summer in Canada. We’ll look at all the options, and you’ll have a say. I promise.”

  “You and Mom aren’t going to get together again, are you?” said Chantel sadly.

  “No,” said her dad honestly. “But it’s not your war.”

  When it was time to exercise the ponies, no one discussed the direction for the evening ride. They all knew.

  “Everything started here,” said Chantel as they reached the crest of White Horse Hill. “Where Equus first spoke to me.”

  “And you walked seven times around the eye of the chalk carving and found half his talisman,” said Holly. She slipped off Harlequin and tied him to the fence.

  “None of you believed me.” Chantel giggled.

  The four cousins walked to the ancient white chalk lines carved through the grass that gave the hill its name. They sat above the eye, looking out over the valley.

  “What a summer. Totally unbelievable,” said Adam. He chewed a clover head. “Do you think we’ll hear from the Wise Ones again?”

  “I think so,” said Owen, “if we want to.” He lay back on the grass and watched a hawk circling in the sky. “But more on our terms. As equals.”

  “So…did anyone actually win?” asked Adam.

  We all won, replied Equus.

  GLOSSARY

  Bollan Bane—a herb still worn by the Manx on Tynwald Day to ward off evil.

  Cabbyl Ushtey—(cavel ushta) the wild white horses of the sea that take riders below the waves. The riders can breathe if they are good; they drown if they are bad.

  Cullyn—(coo-lin) archaic Manx for holly (modern Manx Gaelic uses hollin). I use it as a proper name to facilitate the story’s plot, but it isn’t used that way in the Isle of Man.

  Isle of Man—a small island in the middle of the Irish Sea, between England and Ireland. Ancient name Mann, used here as an Old Magic name. Also affectionately known as Mona, or Ellan Vannin.

  Lhiat myr hoiloo—(l’yat mer hohl-yu) an old Manx saying, meaning, “To thee as thou deservest.”

  Manannan—Manx Celtic Sea-God. His full name is Manannan Beg Mac y Leir, which translates as Lord of Mannin, son of the sea. His name has appeared through the ages as Manannin, Manannan, Mananan, Manan, Mannin. Currently on the Isle of Man it is spelled Manannan.

  Manx—the term used for people born on the Isle of Man and their cultural traditions, folklore and language.

  Manx cats—a breed of tailless cats indigenous to the Isle of Man.

  Moddy Dhoo—(mawtha doo) Black Dog.

  Paitchey—(pay-chee) child.

  Paitchyn—(pay-chin) children.

  Pheric—(feric) a boy’s name. An early form of Patrick.

  Runes—ancient Norse symbols comprised of straight lines that could be easily scratched into wood or stone. One of the earliest forms of accounting and writing. Some of the best surviving examples in the world are found on the Isle of Man.

  Skeet—gossip, news.

  Spooyt Vane—(spoot vairn) White Spout, the name of a waterfall in Glen Mooar said to have magical properties.

  The Three Legs of Man—the island’s national heraldic symbol, seen in the center of the Manx flag and found on many buildings. The three legs, clothed in armor and joined at the thigh, are one of the forms Manannan takes when under threat.

  Tramman Tree—the Elder tree.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Behind the Sorcerer’s Cloak is the culmination not only of the Summer of Magic Quartet, but of a life-long love affair with the Isle of Man.

  From my first visit at a few months old, until I was twenty-one, I spent annual summer holidays on Ellan Vannin. I played in the ruins of her castles, sailed the surrounding waters and hiked the mountains, glens and beaches, sometimes with family, sometimes with Manx friends and sometimes on my own, for those were the days when children could safely wander without comment as long as they returned in time for meals.

  My wanderings were always enlivened by daydreams, for on the island of my childhood, dreams and magic were a part of life. Folktales were still told and superstitions still acted upon. I cannot remember a time when I didn’t know about Manannan, the Moddy Dhoo and the Cabbyl Ushtey, and to this day I see white horses in the crests of waves.

  Manannan’s presence on the Isle of Man is still acknowledged, and his “cloak of mist” is often drawn to hide the island from view. To the great delight of the Manx, this almost always happens when English royalty visits. The Manx are fiercely proud of the fact their island, though under the protection of the British Crown, has its own thousand-year-old parliament, Tynwald, and is not part of the United Kingdom. Manannan obviously agrees and continues to shield his island from British invaders.

  Manannan is said to live on the summit of South Barrule where the remains of ancient walls and ditches of a Bronze Age hilltop fort can be seen. I can no longer climb to the peak as I did in my youth. But last year my friend Nina sent me a photo of herself on the summit, placing a white quartz rock there for me. This Manx tradition of marking important places with white quartz has continued for centuries; I used the tradition to mark Breesha’s grave in my story.

  The burial of Breesha is based on what I know of the Pagan Lady’s grave found within the walls of Peel Castle. She was buried over a thousand years ago, with a magnificent assortment of grave goods, including a necklace of colored glass and beads from around the world. Her necklace sparked my imagination and gave me the thread for the entire fantasy quartet. The necklace is on display in the Manx Museum in Douglas, though no one knows the real order of the beads.

  The picturesque ruins of Peel Castle and the Round Tower on St. Patrick’s Isle are tourist attractions and the highlight of a visit to the fishing village of Peel. But in my story I used “Pheric,” the older Manx name for the isle.

  Peel was home to the biggest herring fishing fleet on the Isle of Man and was once a center for smuggling. Countless stories are told of secret passages under St. Patrick’s Isle and the town, though the only one I’ve seen is in the basement of a restaurant on the Nebb estuary, opposite the castle. The Castleview Inn and its secret passage to the Round Tower are figments of my imagination.

  My center of research was the House of Manannan, a wonderfully imaginative interpretive center and museum in Peel, where I learned of early burial traditions and of the intermarriage between Manx women and Viking invaders. I used what I learned as the basi
s for the chapter about Breesha.

  Several times over the last few years, my husband, David, and I revisited the island and looked at runic inscriptions, ancient settlement sites, magical glens and stone circles. One day our friends took us on the electric railway to the summit of Snaefell, the highest mountain. There I was able to survey the entire Kingdom of Mann, as Manannan does from Barrule.

  This book reflects my fascination with Manx folklore and traditions. It was great fun to weave so many elements through my story!

  Behind the Sorcerer’s Cloak is set in real sites on the Isle of Man, but there reality stops. It is a fantasy story. The characters, the situations and my liberal interpretations of the history and folklore are totally fictitious.

  Pictures of Peel Castle and The House of Manannan and historically accurate information about the Isle of Man can be found online at the Manx government’s heritage website:

  www.gov.im/mnh/heritage/museums/peelcastle.xml.

  Slane lhiu,

  Andrea Spalding

  Pender Island, British Columbia

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Grateful thanks to the many friends who helped with this book, particularly those in Ellan Vannin.

  Graham and Margaret McFee, and Nina, Dermont and Joanna Shimmin enthusiastically hosted, walked, drove and explored the island with me, sent photos and DVDs and answered my many e-mail questions. I wish I could have used every site and story we explored, but there is enough left over for another book! Fenella Bazin shared Manx music and many tidbits of Manx heritage. Her description of the excavation of the Pagan Lady sparked the central motive for the story. Jennifer Kewley Draskau shared her knowledge and passion for the Manx language and enthusiasm for all things Manx. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs, and I beg everyone’s indulgence for the things I changed to facilitate the story.

  My husband Dave, as always, provided practical support with his library and amazing research skills, and both he and our daughters supplied unlimited moral support. Thanks to the Orca Pod, especially Maggie, who hung in for the duration of the mammoth journey, and to Martin Springett for his inspiring cover art.