by Pat Walsh
The fay nodded. He squatted down by the hearth. The firelight was reflected in his eyes and threw shadows across the sharp planes of his face. His long silver-white hair hung down over his shoulders and gleamed like moonlight in the gloom of the hut. “He takes great care to hide it. His books are kept in a locked room in his house, and only he has a key.”
The monk frowned. “But he let you go in there?”
Shadlok nodded again. “Once. He thought I might be . . . of use to him in his work.”
“His work? And what would that be, exactly?” Brother Snail asked softly. The look of distaste on his face surprised William. He had never known the monk to judge someone harshly for their beliefs before.
Shadlok gazed at the monk as if trying to decide whether to answer the question. “He is searching for the al’iksir of life,” he said at last.
William was thoroughly baffled now. “The what?”
Before Shadlok could explain, Brother Snail cut in angrily, “What use did he think you could be to him in such a quest?”
“Fay folk live longer than humans. He thought I might know the secret of immortality.”
“I see. And do you?” There was a dangerous glint in the monk’s eyes.
“No,” Shadlok said evenly, “I am mortal, as you are. And it is for the Creator alone to decide the life span of all living things. It is not within my power to bestow that gift on another creature.”
“The Dark King made Jacobus Bone immortal,” Brother Snail said, “so it is clearly a secret known to some of your kind.”
“But not to me.” Shadlok’s gaze was steady and unblinking, as if challenging the monk to argue with him. William interrupted before Brother Snail had a chance to reply.
“What is the al’iksir of life? And why is it so terrible that Sir Robert is an alchemist?”
“Alchemists practice dark magic of the worst kind,” Brother Snail said. “They conjure demons to do their bidding and they seek to change the nature of matter, whether it is changing lead into gold, or a human life into an eternal one. The al’iksir of life is believed to bestow immortality on the one who discovers it, but that is for God alone to do, not man.” He fixed Shadlok with a hard stare. “And not fays. Alchemy is against nature, and against God.”
Shadlok stared down into the fire. His face was set and his mouth drawn into a thin line. He picked up a stick and prodded the logs, sending up a shower of sparks. Flames danced over the shimmering wood as the fire murmured and crackled.
“If Sirrobbit is an alchemist and can conjure demons,” the hob said, “then perhaps he can make them go away, too, like the other man did.”
“Only if he has the skill and the knowledge to use what is written in Ars Goetia,” Shadlok said.
Brother Snail did not look at all happy about this. He shook his head slowly. “We should not be using this kind of magic. It is utterly wrong.”
“Magic is simply a tool,” Shadlok said with a lift of one shoulder. “It is neither wrong nor right.”
Angry patches of color rose to the monk’s cheeks. “We are meddling with a demon!”
“I would say the demon is meddling with us,” Shadlok said sharply, “and the only weapon we can use against it is magic.”
“Shadlok is right,” William said. He nodded toward the parchment. “You read what happened back then. The monks had no choice but to use magic to fight the demon. If Sir Robert can help us, then I think we should let him.” He thought of the oak twig smeared with his blood, and he shivered. The sooner they found a way to get rid of the demon, the better. And preferably before Dame Alys used him as a sacrifice.
“Abbot Bartolomeo believed himself to be eternally damned for using spells to bind the demon, Will,” Brother Snail said. “We will very likely be damned, too.”
“No,” Shadlok said, “the abbot thought he was damned only after he found the angel’s body in the snow. He probably thought its death was a judgment upon him for failing to rid the abbey of the demon. He never knew what really happened in the forest that night.”
“He didn’t know about the Dark King,” William said.
“Exactly,” Shadlok said. “The abbot used magic to defeat Raum, but his intentions were pure. The Creator, I am certain, would never have turned away from him for that. The pity is that he went to his grave believing he was damned.”
Brother Snail closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Of course you are right. God would not turn His face from Abbot Bartolomeo for fighting this terrible evil the only way he could. If we must use magic to defeat Raum, then so be it. God will understand and forgive us for it, too, I am sure.”
Shadlok’s eyes narrowed. “I never doubted it.”
“I’m sorry,” the monk said, looking up at the fay, his face flushing with embarrassment. “I did not mean to insult you.”
It was hard to tell if Shadlok had taken offense at the monk’s words. “Magic is a part of fay nature. It is how the Creator made us. I have never felt I needed to ask forgiveness for that.”
There was a tense silence in the hut. It was only broken when the hob asked anxiously, “What if Sirrobbit won’t help us?”
“Why would he refuse?” William asked.
“Perhaps he doesn’t want people to find out he can do magic,” the hob replied.
“Brother Walter is right,” the monk said, his gaze softening as he looked at the hob. “We can’t force Sir Robert to show us his books or to help us.”
William remembered the argument between Shadlok and Sir Robert in the yard the other day.
“You have something that he wants,” William said, turning to Shadlok. “Perhaps you can give it to him in exchange for his help?” He saw the flash of anger in the fay’s eyes and knew he had said the wrong thing.
“Oh?” Brother Snail said, looking up at the fay hopefully. “What is it?”
“Something I have no intention of giving him.”
“But . . . ,” William began.
The fay turned on him furiously. “I said no!”
Brother Snail struggled to his feet. “Don’t talk to the boy like that! His suggestion was well meant.”
“Do not interfere in things that do not concern you,” Shadlok said, glaring at William and ignoring the monk.
“It does concern me,” William said, staring back at Shadlok. “It’s not you who’s in danger of being sacrificed.”
Anger burned brightly in the fay’s eyes. “You do not know what you are asking of me, or the trouble it will bring if I give in,” Shadlok said.
“No,” William agreed, “but I know the trouble we’re facing if Sir Robert refuses.”
Brother Snail shuffled forward to stand between them. “Hopefully Sir Robert will agree to help us without expecting anything in return.” He folded the parchment and tucked it into the pocket inside his cloak. He looked weary, and the burden of what lay ahead seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders. “I will go and speak to Prior Ardo now and tell him what we’ve discovered. Let us hope that he is willing to listen.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
William was unrolling his mattress, ready to settle down for the night, when Brother Snail came to see him after vespers. The monk’s breath rasped in his throat as he lowered himself onto a stool to rest for a few moments.
“The prior has refused to ask Sir Robert for help,” Brother Snail wheezed. “He wants nothing to do with alchemy or magic of any kind. I suspect he would have nothing more to do with Sir Robert, either, if he didn’t need his help rebuilding the church.”
William stared at him in dismay. “Did you tell him there’s no other way to defeat the demon?”
“Of course I did, Will, but the prior was adamant. He believes that what we must do is pray for the angel to come again and help us. We begin this evening after compline. The brethren will keep vigil in the church, just as Abbot Bartolomeo and his monks did.”
“That’s all he’s going to do?” William asked in disbelief.
“It worked once be
fore,” the monk reminded gently. “The angel came to Crowfield when Abbot Bartolomeo prayed for help.”
“And look what happened that time,” William muttered. “I wouldn’t be in a hurry to come back here if I were him.”
The monk said nothing. His eyes were clouded with unhappiness, and William felt sorry for him. He sometimes forgot that this was Brother Snail’s home and that the monks were his family. Watching what was happening to them must have been hard for him.
“The demon isn’t just going to sit around and do nothing while you keep your vigil,” William said. “It’ll try to stop you.”
The monk’s jaw tightened. “We’ll just have to take that chance.”
“All you’re going to do is make it angry,” William persisted, “really angry.”
“I know, but the prior has made up his mind,” Brother Snail said softly, his expression bleak. He got to his feet and stood for a moment, one hand on the table for support. “I have to go. It is almost time for compline.”
“Are you going to be praying in the church all night?” William asked, looking at the monk’s frail body and listening to him struggle for breath.
Brother Snail nodded. “We all are.”
“Is that a good idea?” William asked after a brief hesitation. “I mean . . .”
The monk seemed to understand his concern and smiled. “A little discomfort is a small price to pay for divine help, Will. I will be all right.”
William wasn’t convinced by this. He didn’t like the thought of Brother Snail spending a night kneeling on the floor of the bitterly cold church, under the malevolent gaze of the demon. It was sheer madness. It would do more harm than good to the monk’s already fragile health. William knew he would be wasting his breath, though. Brother Snail would do what the prior asked of him with quiet dignity, and he would neither ask for nor expect special treatment.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” William asked.
“Stay away from the abbey tonight, and keep Brother Walter close by you.”
William watched the monk walk to the door, a small figure in a habit that seemed to have grown too big for him these last few weeks. He felt a surge of anger at Prior Ardo’s stubbornness. What if the only thing the monks succeeded in doing tonight was goading the demon into a rage?
And even if by some miracle their prayers were answered and the angel came back to Crowfield, what if it was not powerful enough to defeat the demon?
With the fire built up to a crackling blaze, the hut was warm and comfortable. The hob sat by the hearth, roasting some small, wizened apples on a stick.
“Will you play your flute?” the hob asked hopefully.
William started to say no, that he wasn’t in the mood, but then decided it was a good way to take his mind off what was happening in the church. He fetched the flute from its hiding place and pulled a stool over to the fireside.
The hob grinned in delight. “Play the summer song, and I will sing the words.”
William smiled. He knew which one the hob meant. It was the first tune Shadlok had taught him and was the hob’s favorite.
“Summer is a-coming in,” the hob sang as William played. “Loudly sing cuckoo!”
William tried not to laugh as the hob added several more cuckoos, though they weren’t in the song. It was the bit the hob liked the best.
“Cuc-KOO! Cuckoo, cuckoocuckoocuckooo-ooo!”
“That’s not how it goes,” William said, lowering the flute for a moment and grinning.
“Groweth seed and bloweth mead, and spring the wood anew,” the hob trilled, and with a triumphant look on his face he took a deep breath and finished, “sing CUCKOO!”
William resisted the hob’s pleas to continue playing. He cleaned the flute and put it back in its bag. It seemed all wrong to be making music when the monks were risking their lives in the church. The hob was disappointed, but he seemed to pick up on William’s somber mood and sat quietly by the fire to turn the apples on their sticks.
William felt oddly restless. He stood up and paced around the hut. Outside, an owl hooted, its call quivering on the damp night air. In the distance, a fox screamed, an unearthly sound that made him shiver.
William lay down on his mattress and stared up at the thatch between the rafters. In his mind, he could imagine the monks kneeling in the chancel of the church, huddled inside their habits against the damp and drafts. He could almost smell the incense and hear the murmur of prayers rising on the candle-hazed air, and see the dark shape of the demon high up on the church roof, wrapped in its crimson wings, watching and waiting. He pushed aside his blanket and sat up, too unsettled to lie still.
“Will the good nangel come back?” the hob asked, pulling a hot apple from the fire and holding it out to William.
William frowned. “I don’t know.” The apple burned his fingers, and he rolled it from hand to hand to try and cool it. It didn’t seem to bother the hob, though. William watched him take another apple from the stick and bite into the peel with his sharp teeth, holding it cupped in his paws. “The prior seems to think it will.”
For a while, they ate in silence. When the latch rattled suddenly, William almost jumped out of his skin.
“Open the door!”
Recognizing Shadlok’s voice, William scrambled to his feet and hurried over to draw back the bolt.
Shadlok pushed past him, fury in every line of his body. “Did you know what the monks intended to do?” he demanded, his eyes burning like blue flames.
“Brother Snail told me this evening,” William said, closing the door behind him.
“And you did not think to tell me?”
“I didn’t know where to find you.”
“Then the monk should have told me.”
“Why?”
“Because I would have tried to stop them. It is too late now, the fools are already in the church, and the demon is there with them. They have no idea what they have done. This will not end well.”
William heard the hob whimper quietly behind him. “Can’t you go and warn them?”
“I would be dead before I crossed the threshold.”
“What will the demon do to them?” William asked unsteadily.
Shadlok didn’t answer. His silence said more than any words.
William started toward the door. “Then I’ll go. I’ll make the prior listen to me.”
Shadlok grabbed his arm as he passed by.
“There is nothing you can do to help them now.”
William tried to pull his arm free, but the fay’s grip was too tight. He turned on Shadlok angrily. “I can’t just stay here and do nothing!”
Shadlok started to say something, but his words were lost when a gust of wind suddenly slammed into the hut, shaking bits of thatch and dust from the roof and flinging open the door, crashing it back against the hut wall. The fire guttered and the lantern went out. William gasped in shock, and Shadlok let go of his arm. The wind howled through the hut, raging like a wild boar, sweeping jars and bowls from the shelves. William crouched down, his arms shielding his head, as things flew through the air, sharp-edged and deadly. Hot embers from the fire pit were scattered across the floor. Something hit him painfully hard on the arm. A moment later, a stool caught him on his back, sending him sprawling. Bits of broken pottery cut into his hands and face. Panic-ridden, he rolled into a tight crouch and lay there, battered and bleeding, as the world tore apart around him.
A hand grabbed the scruff of his tunic and he felt himself being hauled to his feet. He was dragged across the hut and out into the raging dusk. Rain lashed his face and stung his eyes. The wind howled and broken branches slashed through the air. William stumbled away from the hut and fell to his knees in the wet earth of one of the herb beds. Moments later, the hob was there, wrapping his thin arms tightly around William’s neck and clinging to him for dear life.
William looked back at the hut just in time to see the thatch lift from the rafters and scatter into the wind. He h
ugged the hob to his chest and crouched forward as a rafter wrenched free and cartwheeled across the garden, missing them by a whisker.
“Run!” Shadlok shouted, grabbing William’s arm. “Follow me!”
William ran after the fay, skidding in the mud and slipping on the wet grass. The hob hung on grimly, his head knocking painfully against William’s jaw as he was bounced around.
It wasn’t until he saw the dark arch of the passage beside the chapter house up ahead that William realized they had run toward the abbey.
Shadlok bundled him into the shelter of the passageway. William’s ears rang as the noise of the storm was dampened by the thick stone walls.
“Go to the warming room, you should be safe there,” the fay said. “I will try and get the monks out of the church.”
William ran along the passage behind Shadlok and took a deep breath before following him out into the east alley. The wind hit him like a hammer blow, almost knocking him off his feet. Keeping close to the wall, William fought his way to the door of the warming room and scrabbled for the heavy latch. He managed to lift it, and threw himself headlong into the small chamber.
For a long time, he stood with his back to the door, his breath ragged and harsh in his throat, and hugged the hob tightly. He was trembling from head to foot. The hob lowered himself to the ground unsteadily. William felt for the lantern and tinderbox on a shelf by the door and lit the tallow candle with shaking fingers. He lit a second lantern hanging from a bracket near the fireplace. Light wavered over the walls and flickered across the vaulted ceiling, and shadows turned the empty fireplace to a dark cave. When the shock and fear finally cleared a little, William realized Shadlok had chosen their refuge well. The walls of the warming room were solid and thick, and there were no windows. William had no doubt that the storm had been raised by the demon. It still howled outside the door, but it couldn’t reach them in here.
“Are we safe?” the hob asked in a whisper, looking up at William with frightened eyes.
“I think so,” William said. “For now, at least.”
The hob glanced at the door. “What about the brother men? And Sceath-hlakk?”
