Chapter Eighteen
The Court Of The Queen Of Elfland
Inverness appeared out of the dark Highlands landscape like a small island of light in a vast sea of shadows. Witch and Tom walked down from the hills with leaden legs, burdened with the crushing weight of exhaustion. They had spent the last few days endlessly dodging the Fomorii, who were swarming across the purple moorland in increasing numbers. Tom had utilised some of his tricksa ritual, some foul-tasting brew made from herbs and roots-which made the two of them oblivious to the Night Walkers unless they were in direct line of sight. But that still entailed endless hours of creeping along rocky gullies, taking the hard route over peaks or skulking in woods until the danger had passed.
It was a far cry from the first leg of their Scottish journey, when they had dined out on wholesome provisions from the villages they dropped in on. Now Veitch was heartily sick of wild game, roots and herbs, however well Tom cooked it. He had an almost unbearable craving for pizza or a curry, washed down with a beer.
"You reckon we'll get time to stop off for a ruby?" he said wearily as they trudged into the outskirts of town.
Tom looked at him blankly.
"Ruby Murray. Curry. It rhymes."
Tom shook his head contemptuously. "Eight days left. Why don't we go on a pub crawl while we're at it? We could have a few drinks for Ruth. That should make her well."
"All right. No need to act so bleedin' crabby." He took a few steps, then muttered, "Twat," under his breath. That made him feel better.
The truth was, their nerves were growing frayed. Time was running away from them. Lughnasadh was close, and the presence of Balor was almost tangible. They had both dreamed of a single eye watching them malignantly from the dark, and had woken sweaty and sick, with the feeling that the monstrous god of the Fomorii was aware of them. Even when they walked, they could feel his attention sweeping over them, the air thick with dread; with it came an overpowering sense of black despair that conjured thoughts of suicide, which they had to fight constantly to repel.
The weariness shucked off their shoulders the more they progressed into town. It felt good to see sodium lights after the oppression of a country night, to smell motor oil and the aroma of home cooking. But the closer they got into the centre, the more they began to realise something was wrong. No cars had passed them at all. Nobody walked the streets, even though it was only just past ten. The pubs were all locked, the curtains drawn, although Veitch could hear people drinking within; when he hammered on the doors a deep silence fell, but no one ever came to answer.
Eventually an old man swung open an upstairs window and hung out, his face filled with such fear Veitch gaped for a second.
"For God's sake, man, get yourself to your hearth!" The old man glanced up and down the street; he hadn't noticed Veitch wasn't alone. "Can you not see it's after dark!" He slammed the window shut and drew the curtains before Veitch could question him; Veitch shouted to him several times, but there was no further response.
"What's up?" Veitch asked Tom with disquiet.
Tom continued to walk briskly, seemingly oblivious to the sense of threat. "What' up? Old friends have come to visit Inverness and they won't leave until they've expressed their infinite kindness." Sarcasm dripped from his words.
"You're talking about the ones we're going to see?"
"The Queen of Elfland-"
A curiously amused expression jumped on Veitch's face. "You're kidding me."
"The Queen of Elfland. That's what they used to call her in the old stories. As if to pretend she was some kind of nice, acceptable fairy-" the word was filled with bitterness "-would somehow deflect her attentions."
"So what would you call her?"
"Nothing she could hear." He looked away so Veitch could not see his face. "The moment we cross over, we must be on our guard."
"You make her sound like some witch ready to tear our bleedin' heads off."
"She will be filled with charisma, magnetic and alluring. That is her danger."
"Okay. No problem."
"No, you do not understand. The slightest wrong move could be the end of you. Every court of the Tuatha De Danann is different. The Court of the Yearning Heart embraces chaos and madness, which is why it is given over to pleasure. It is very easy to be seduced by it." The deep tone of personal experience was unmiss able. "Listen carefully. You know the rules of Otherworld, and they go doubly here. You must accept no food nor drink from anyone or you will instantly fall under the power of the Queen. And she will find it greatly entertaining to trick you into doing so. You have to be sharp, Ryan. You have to be sharp."
Veitch was shocked by the familiarity of Tom's use of his Christian name. For the first time, he felt the Rhymer was truly concerned about his safety. "What'll happen, you know, if I do-?"
"Don't."
"But if I do?"
Tom sighed. "You will not be allowed to leave the Court of the Yearning Heart, at least not until the Queen has taken you apart down to your very molecules and has rebuilt you in whatever way her whims take her at the time. Until you have suffered every pain and pleasure imaginable, until it has become such a way of life that you want such suffering. And when she has finished, you will no longer be the man you are. You will no longer be a man."
If Tom had tried to scare him, he'd succeeded.
"There isn't a man alive who couldn't love her," Tom continued. "But she dishes out joy and cruelty in equal measure; sometimes she isn't even aware that's what she's doing. The gates at Tom-na-hurich remained intermittently open long after the Sundering. There is a story of two itinerant fiddlers who crossed over. The Queen paid them to entertain the Court and allowed them to eat one of the sumptuous meals that are always laid out there. The fiddlers played their hearts out for the rest of the night. But when they were taken back to the Hill of Yews come the morning, they crumbled into dust. Two hundred years had passed without them knowing, and the Queen had taken great pleasure in hiding this from them."
Veitch was silent for a moment. "So how come you didn't turn to dust?"
Tom laughed hollowly. "Why, only humans suffer such fates! The Queen has seen that I can never fit that bill." He stopped in the middle of the road and looked out across the city to beyond the River Ness; Veitch guessed their destination lay in that direction. "The legends say I lie under Tom-na-hurich with my men and white horse, ready to save Scotland in her hour of need."
"Well, that's what you're doing, ain't it?"
Tom snorted. "Heroes only exist in stories. There's no nobility in what people do. We're all driven by a complex stew of emotions and it's down to fate whether people see us as good or bad."
"You're a cynical git," Veitch said dismissively. "And you're wrong."
They continued in silence for the next fifteen minutes until Veitch noticed a golden glow washing over the shops of the High Street. It was moving gradually towards them, casting strange shadows up the grim brick walls of Eastgate Centre. "What's that?" His hand went to his sword under his coat.
"The welcoming committee."
As the glow drew nearer, Veitch saw it was coming off a small group of people wandering along the road, although there was no sign of any light source. The moment he looked at the figures he experienced the now-familiar disorientating effect.
Tom drew himself up; the faintest tremor ran through his body, but his face was a mask of calmness. Veitch moved in next to him, tight with apprehension.
Five figures were approaching, all of them wearing outlandish clothes which mixed golden armour and red silk, topped by unusual helmets like enormous sea shells.
"The Queen's guard," Tom noted. "Out hunting for entertainment."
Veitch took his lead from Tom, although his instinct was to hide. He watched as the guard progressed down the street, glancing into alleyways and side streets, shining their terrible regard into windows.
When they first clapped eyes on Tom and Veitch, sly smiles spread across their faces and they p
icked up their step as if they expected their quarry to flee for their lives. As they neared, their expressions became even more triumphal with recognition.
"True Thomas!" the leader of the guard exclaimed; there was a dark glee in his words, a contemptuous sneer shaping his mouth.
"Melliflor," Tom said in greeting, giving nothing away.
"Why, we thought you had gone from our doors for all time, True Thomas!" Melliflor smiled with barely disguised mockery. "The many wonders of the Court of the Yearning Heart are hard to resist, are they not? It calls to you always, even when you do not want to hear. Or," he mused, "is it your mistress who has brought you back? Our Lady of Light would be overjoyed to see you, True Thomas."
Two of the guards had moved behind Veitch and Tom, to prevent any retreat. Veitch watched them suspiciously from the corner of his eye.
"Then take me to her, Melliflor," Tom said. "It will be good to see my Queen again after so long."
Melliflor made an exaggerated sweeping gesture with his right hand to allow Tom to lead the way. After a few steps he arrived by Tom's side; Veitch might as well not have been there.
"May I enquire why you have returned to our doorstep?" Melliflor asked artfully.
"To renew acquaintances, Melliflor."
"I hear you played a significant part in our return to the solid lands. I am sure our Queen will wish to offer her gratitude in her usual way."
"Lead on, Melliflor. I have come far these last few days and I am too weary for conversation."
Melliflor's sneering smile suggested he knew the meaning behind Tom's words; Veitch could quite easily have loosed the crossbow at him there and then.
They moved silently at a fast pace through the deserted streets, crossing Ness Bridge with the water rolling silently beneath, then along Glenurquhart Road, past suburban houses all deserted; some were merely burnt-out shells. Tomna- hurich Cemetery loomed up suddenly, the white ghosts of stones gleaming. Melliflor led them past the neatly tended plots to a road running up a hill which looked strangely unnatural on the flat valley bottom. It soared steeply, cloaked in a thick swathe of trees: yews, oaks, holly, pine, sycamore, all interspersed with thick clumps of spiny gorse; the air was heady with the summery aromas of the wood. Hundreds of graves were hidden among the trees right up the hillside, as if they too had grown there. The road curved in a spiral dance around the hill to the summit, modern in construction but hinting at an ancient processional route. "Welcome to the Hill of Yews," Melliflor said respectfully, "known by the local people as Tom-na-hurich."
They followed the road round until they were swallowed by the trees and the lights of Inverness were lost. It was a strange, mysterious place, eerily still, yet their footfalls echoed in an unusual and unnerving manner; no one felt like talking until they had reached the summit. Here a large area had been cleared at the centre and filled with the jarringly regimented rows of a Victorian cemetery. The fringes were thickly treed with the oldest yews and oaks. At the highest point a cross had been raised to mark Remembrance Day.
They stopped at a nondescript spot among the crumbling, brown gravestones. Melliflor took a step forward and bowed his head before muttering something under his breath. A second later the ground vibrated with a deep bass rumble, as if enormous machinery had come to life, then the grass and soil prised itself apart. From within the long, dark tunnel which had materialised Veitch could hear faint music that immediately made him want to dance; the tang of rich spices wafted out into the balmy night and he was suddenly ravenously hungry. But then he glanced up at Tom and all his desires were wiped clean; the Rhymer's face was as white as a sheet and taut with the effort of keeping in his fear; a faint tick was pulsing near his mouth which, in the emotionless dish of his face, made him look like he was screaming.
At the other end of the tunnel were a pair of long, scarlet curtains. Melliflor held them aside for Veitch and Tom to pass into a great hall which appeared to be the venue for a riotous party. The music was almost deafening; Veitch heard fiddles, drums, a flute, other instruments he couldn't quite place, although he could see no sign of a band. A roaring fire in one corner made the air very warm, but not as uncomfortable as he would have expected at the height of summer. It was filled with an amazing range of scents, with each fresh waft bringing a new one: lime, pepper, roast beef, strawberries, cardamom, hops-so many it made his head spin.
So much was happening in the hall, he couldn't concentrate on one sense for too long. Long tables ranged around the outside of the room on which were heaped every food imaginable, though many he couldn't recognise and some made him turn away, although he couldn't explain why. In the centre of the room the Tuatha De Danann were dancing. Scores of them whirled round and round with wild abandon to the odd music, which occasionally flew off the register of Witch's hearing. It was like a turbulent sea of gold waves crashing against the tables and the walls; it made him queasy to watch.
The assault on Witch's senses was so great he felt his knees go weak and for a moment he was afraid he was going to faint. But then the rush hit him powerfully and he was swept up in it all. His body was reacting as if he had taken a cocktail of drugs, some mild hallucinogen and an amphetamine; he wanted to fling himself into the seething mass.
He was vaguely aware of someone on his right proffering a goblet of deep, red wine. Unconsciously he reached out to take it, his gaze still fixed on the dance floor.
He was jolted alert by the weight of Tom's hand on his forearm. The Rhymer was already thanking the young girl who had offered the wine with the studied politeness which seemed necessary to prevent any retribution. The girl looked disappointed and her face darkened as she turned away.
Veitch bowed his head sheepishly as Tom glared at him; he couldn't believe how quickly he had almost gone against all of Tom's deeply stressed cautions. He would not forget again.
His attention was drawn back to the dancing, and beyond it to the shadows that clustered along the edges. There he could just spy writhing bodies; the gods looked to be in coitus. He could just make out bobbing heads, violent thrusting, sensuous movements, and occasionally the sounds of passion broke through the music; but there was something about it which did not seem quite right, as if the bodies were not penetrating and enveloping, but flowing in and out of each other like mercury; merging. He looked away.
Melliflor was at Tom's side, hands cupped, falsely oleaginous. "The Queen was overjoyed to know you had returned, True Thomas. She will see you shortly. In the meantime, you and your companion be accepted as our guests. There is food and wine aplenty, the finest music in all of the Far Lands. Make merry, True Thomas, and be a perfect son of the Court of the Yearning Heart."
"And is it all given freely and without obligation?" Tom asked dispassionately.
"Ah, True Thomas," Melliflor said cunningly, "you know we can make no promises here."
Veitch and Tom found a pile of luxurious cushions in one corner from where they could watch the dancing. Veitch felt so comfortable after the exhaustions of the previous weeks he could have fallen asleep in an instant, but he was sure that was not wise. He was afraid to do anything in case he committed himself to something unpleasant and he wished he had listened more carefully to Tom's instructions during the long walk to Inverness.
Several times revellers walked up to offer jugs of wine or plates lavishly filled with juicy fruit or spiced meat, but always Tom politely refused. It was like a game the Tuatha De Danann were playing to see if they could catch their guests out; Witch could see them talking excitedly and pointing at him before an even more tasty offering was brought up. By the end Veitch's mouth was watering and his stomach rumbling, and all he could do was think how long ago his last meal had been.
Eventually Melliflor glided up. He bowed deeply. "The Queen will see you and your companion now, True Thomas."
The two of them were led out of the great hall along stone corridors hung with intricately embroidered tapestries and rich brocaded cloth. Braziers burned with scent
ed wood so the atmosphere was constantly heady. They passed many closed doors and from behind them came strange, unnerving sounds; some sounded like yelps of pain, others like moans of pleasure; some it was impossible to distinguish.
They were eventually presented to a chamber draped throughout its length and breadth with gossamer ivory silk which filtered the flickering light of the torches on the walls so that the room was infused with a dreamy white glow. The material was almost transparent, but hung in so many places it was impossible to see what lay at the centre. Melliflor bowed and retreated, silently urging them to continue. They pushed their way through the gently swaying silk, which felt like the wings of butterflies when it brushed their skin. As each layer was passed they could see shapes more clearly. Veitch's heart began to beat hard in anticipation.
Finally they were through to the middle of the room. The Queen lay on a bed made of luxuriant cushions, so deep they looked as if they would swallow her. Her face was more beautiful than anything Veitch had seen in his life; there was a cruelty there which counterpointed the beauty in such a way it made her even more desirable. Her black hair was long and lustrous, her lips full and red; her eyes sparkled with an inner green light. And she was naked, her golden skin shimmering in the filtered light. Her breasts were large, her nipples tautly erect, her waist slim, her hips shapely, her belly flat; the epitome of what many would consider a male fantasy, truly the Queen of Desire. Veitch wondered if that was how she really looked, or if it was a form she thought could manipulate him; he tried to tell himself that with the Tuatha De Danann nothing could be trusted.
But then his eyes were drawn to her sleek, black pubic hair. She lay with her legs curled round so he could see her vagina. She made no attempt to hide herself; indeed, she seemed to be presenting herself to them. Veitch could see how Tom had been so entranced by her.
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