A Dusk of Demons

by John Christopher

  We cleaned ourselves up and finally got away, with the sun already high above Sheriff’s hill. Wind filled the smack’s sail, and there was a good following tide. I had a sense of putting things behind me, and of excitement as to what would come next. I was brought out of daydreaming by Joe saying, “Looks like they worked late loading last night.”

  “What do you mean?” Paddy asked.

  He braced an arm against the tiller and pointed. “The Hesperus yonder. She wasn’t due to sail till the evening tide.”

  The Hesperus was backing out of the little harbor, a haze of smoke blowing back across her bows. We watched as the distance between us shrank. By the time she had come out and swung around, the dots on deck had become people—crew working, others standing against the rail. I was aware of a tenseness in Paddy.

  “Mother!”

  I recognized them myself: both Mother Ryan and Antonia. They looked in our direction. Antonia called something, but her words were taken by the wind.

  Paddy urged, “Get in closer, Joe.”

  He tried, but it was no use. The Hesperus’s whistle sent sea gulls shrieking into the sky, and water churned about her stern as the engines were set full speed ahead. The gap widened again. We called, but I knew they could not hear us as the Hesperus made for the open sea.

  • • •

  This was the first time I had been inside the Sheriff’s house. From the window of the room where we waited, I could see Old Isle and the smudge that had been the Master’s house. In this building the ceilings were higher but there was no upstairs. Even the Sheriff’s house must not rise more than six times the height of a man.

  The walls here had paintings too, not of ships but of old men in red robes. Beneath each, gold letters spelled a name and figures told the years in which he had been Sheriff of the Western Isles. The picture of Sheriff Wilson displayed his customary smile, but he was not smiling as he entered the room.

  “Ben,” he said, “son of him who was Master of Old Isle.” He paused. “There are matters that require consideration. Serious consideration.”

  He paused, and Paddy broke in. She had learned nothing from the men who had brought us here, and her impatience got the better of her.

  “We saw my mother and sister on the Hesperus. Where have they gone? And why?”

  The Sheriff frowned. “In good time, girl.”

  The forbidding figure of the Master apart, we had been accustomed to speaking pretty well as we pleased on Old Isle, but school had taught us that things were different on Sheriff’s, where children did not speak before being spoken to and never interrupted an adult, much less someone as important as the Sheriff. I nudged Paddy hard, and she held her tongue. After a disapproving stare, the Sheriff turned back to me.

  “It is your position, Ben, which is at issue. This supposed inheritance of yours needs looking into, but there’s a more weighty matter. Demons burned down the Master’s house within forty-eight hours of his death. The Summoner may have something to say on that account.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but I thought we were more likely to get information by buttering him up. I said, with as much deference as I could muster, “Yes, sir. I know everything is being done properly and in order.” He pursed his lips, but looked more affable. “But meanwhile . . .”

  “Meanwhile what, boy?”

  “Paddy’s mother and sister . . .” I attempted an ingratiating smile. “Could you tell us what’s happening to them?”

  He folded his arms, pushing out his belly. “Have you studied the statutes of the Western Isles?”

  I wanted to say, “No more than anyone has, apart from you and a few other moth-eaten fossils”—but refrained. The statutes were contained in huge volumes, bound in green leather, which took up the whole of a shelf in the courtroom above the Sheriff’s chair. One would have been risking a sprained arm getting one of them down.

  “The Western Isles,” he went on, “hold fast to their rights and customs. No outlander may dwell in them, except with the consent of Sheriff and Council. When Old Isle was bought by the one they called the Master, that consent was neither sought nor granted. It was before my time of office.”

  A flicker of satisfaction accompanied that.

  I said, “Yes, sir. I see, sir. But does it matter, now the Master’s dead?”

  “He brought other outlanders with him: Mrs. Ryan, her two daughters, and you. With you, as I’ve said, there are special considerations. Mrs. Ryan and her daughters are a different case. She and the elder daughter have been sent to the mainland, and from there I imagine they will be sent on further to Ireland, the place they originally came from. Patricia will follow in due course.”

  “But they’ve lived here for years!” I said. “It’s not fair.”

  “We are not speaking of fairness but of law, which is more important.” He was so pleased with himself that he failed to rebuke my outburst. “These islands have pride in their traditions and will not tolerate their being flouted.”

  I was tempted to say, “The Master flouted them and you knew it—but you were afraid of him.” I managed not to.

  “Until the Hesperus’s next trip,” the Sheriff said, “Patricia will be lodged with the Widow Winnick. You, Ben, will remain in my custody.”

  • • •

  The time we had together was short and not cheerful. Paddy was miserable about the delay in getting to Sheriff’s. If we’d made the trip yesterday, she would have been reunited with the others before they were sent away. In which case, I reflected, I would have been left here on my own.

  Despite that depressing thought, I did what I could to improve her mood by speaking of the feeling she’d had which had made us put it off. I probably phrased it badly. She snapped back that I ought to try not to be such a know-it-all. And if it hadn’t been for going to John’s with me she would have been on Old Isle when it all happened. I refrained from pointing out it was she who’d pressed me into the expedition, but that failed to mend matters. When the Sheriff’s man came to take her away, she didn’t say good-bye.

  That evening the Sheriff took me to a special Summoning. The island hall was packed, with people crowding in at the door. Summoner Hawkins’s thin face was grim, and his voice echoed harshly from the black-painted walls. He warned us of the penalties for impiety. Living remote from other lands as we did, we might reckon ourselves safe, protected by the sea; but in thinking thus we deceived ourselves. No place on earth, however small, however distant, escaped the eye of the Dark One, or the long, strong arm of his chastisement.

  There had been some who said Demons would never come to the Western Isles—some so deeply sunk in folly as to whisper that there were no Demons. They knew better now! The Demons had sent fire out of the sky to annihilate this corrupted dwelling of an enemy of the Dark One. Let it stand as a warning to all. The Dark One was not mocked. His enemies would perish, as this one and all his goods had perished.

  I listened, shocked. It was one thing to find that the Master’s house had been destroyed by Demons, quite another to have it described as just retribution. Although he stood close by me, I noticed that the Sheriff avoided contact. The Summoner’s anger was plain, and the congregation listened in an ominous silence. Paddy’s face, even if set in the unfriendly lines I had last seen, would have been a welcome sight, but this was a Summoning to which only adults were admitted. But in that case, why had I been brought?

  • • •

  Days of loneliness ensued. I sat at meals with the Sheriff, who ate in grim silence; much as I had mistrusted his smile, I would have been glad to see it back. At school I was moved to a desk set apart, and teachers only spoke to me to give curt instructions. None of the other pupils came near. When I caught sight of Paddy, she turned her head away.

  Only now did I appreciate how carefree my old life had been. The Master may have been forbidding, but only as a figure in the background. My daily existence had been filled with warmth and affection. Losing that would have been bad
enough, without the imposition of this friendless silence.

  • • •

  I slept at the back of the house, next to the bedroom of Joanna, the cook. I guessed I had been put there for her to keep an eye on me at night, though she slept so soundly, snoring like a dozen hedgehogs, that her surveillance was meaningless. But where could I escape to, on an island where I was known and shunned by all?

  It was her snoring that caused me to fail at first to grasp the significance of the noise from the window.

  The second time, I recognized the clatter of gravel on glass and slipped out of bed. The night was windy, with a half moon dipping in and out of cloud, and I had no difficulty distinguishing the figure standing out there.

  “Paddy!”

  “We haven’t time to talk.” Her whisper was fierce. “Get dressed.”

  “I’m forbidden to go out without a guard.” Joy at seeing her was dashed by recollection of my plight. “There’s nowhere to go, anyway. It’ll only mean more trouble—for you, too.”

  Her voice was impatient. “Do you realize how much trouble you’re in, as it is?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “No, you don’t. No one talks to you, so you don’t know what’s being said.”

  “I was at the Summoning. I heard him say the Demons burned the house because the Master was an enemy of the Dark One. But that was the Master, and he’s dead.”

  “It’s not all they’re saying. They say it was because of the Master the Demons came, and they also say they’ll come back unless something’s done, and this time lay waste the islands.”

  In the next room, Joanna’s snoring paused but resumed in a higher key. I felt a chill.

  “Unless what’s done?”

  “Unless they rid themselves completely of the Demons’ bane. That means you.”

  I could guess how: The Demons relished a burning. I said, with a quiver, “There’s nowhere to go.”

  “Joe has the boat ready.”

  “They’ll search the islands.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re going to the mainland. Now, hurry.”

  4

  THE FISHING BOATS WOULD GO out on the dawn tide. We cast off with the town asleep under the moon. The breeze was stiff and from its usual westerly quarter. It took some tacking to clear the bay, but after that we had a clear run. By the time moonlight began to fade into the glow of day, Sheriff’s was no more than a distant shadow, the other islands invisible behind it.

  Joe produced bread and cheese and a flask of tea, which I tackled ravenously: Freedom put an edge on appetite. Paddy, her face gray in the pallid light, would not even drink. We were out in the deep of ocean, with a swell under us that had built up over uncountable sea miles. The moon and the last dimming stars soared and dropped as we rolled from crest to trough and back. She would do better to be sick, I thought, and get it over.

  Joe looked at her too, and perhaps by way of distraction started talking about people on the mainland. He had not been there often and had always been glad to get away. I asked why.

  “It ain’t easy to put words to it. They’re mostly civil but . . . I don’t know . . . closed in. I’d never be sure where I was with ’em. I’m not sure you’re doing the right thing, traveling there.”

  “We have to.” Paddy’s voice was choked. “They were going to send me anyway, as soon as the Hesperus gets back.”

  “That’s as may be, like most things folk worrit on. Tomorrow comes is certain, but often as not it don’t come the way you reckon.”

  “They’ve already sent Mother and Antonia.”

  “Which isn’t to say they couldn’t be brought home. I’ve heard talk in the pubs—that people who’ve lived as long in the islands as they ought to be let stay. There’s been mention of a petition to the Council.”

  “And Ben? What kind of talk have you heard about him?”

  It was a moment or two before he answered. “Not such as one needs pay heed to. They was frit by what happened. They’d come to think they were safe from Demons out here. When a ten-year storm breaks, folks get scairt of the sea, but by next winter they’ve forgotten. They’ll see things different as time goes by and nought happens.”

  “Do you think nothing will happen, Joe?” I asked him. “The Demons won’t come back?”

  I was hoping for reassurance. What Paddy had told me had gone deep. Being blackened by association with the Master was bad enough, but to be singled out as a target was really frightening. I would have liked to hear Joe dismiss that too.

  And perhaps he would have, but at that moment Paddy abandoned her battle and lurched for the side of the boat. Joe thrust the tiller at me and went to her. I listened to him comforting her as the sea’s weight pressed against my straining arm. Over the sound of wind and waves I heard a distant honking and looked up to see a long vee traversing the pale gray sky. Geese flying north, but they could as easily have been Demons.

  • • •

  From Sheriff’s to the mainland’s tip was twenty-five miles, to our landfall twelve more. With the help of tide and wind we made good time and came into the bay late in the morning.

  My notion of a port was the harbor at Sheriff’s, where the Hesperus towered above the local dinghies and fishing smacks. I could see the Hesperus as we nosed in, but here she herself was dwarfed by a couple of ships three times her tonnage, and I saw more than half a dozen that matched her. Sheriff’s town could have fitted inside this harbor, and above it an immensely bigger town stretched out. Immensely busier, too: with a slow-moving traffic of carts, carriages, horses, and pack donkeys.

  Joe had brought us in near the seaward end of the quay. As he started to tie up, Paddy said, “You go on back, Joe. We’ll be all right now.”

  Her color had returned, and she spoke with her old authority. I was alarmed; it was unnerving to think of being left in a strange country among strange people. The town was intimidating enough, but beyond, I knew, stretched a land where one might walk for days, or weeks, without glimpsing broad water.

  Joe simply grinned. “How would I face Mother Ryan, if I did? Help me tie up, and we’ll get started on finding them.” He scratched his beard. “Though how to set about it may take some thinking.”

  No one seemed to have noticed us, and no one paid attention as we made our way along the quay. One of the cargo ships was preparing to leave; it had steam up though the gangplank was still out. A few sailors were engaged in last-minute bargaining with traders who offered sweetmeats, hot pies and muffins, and a variety of trinkets. They cried their wares in what might have been a foreign language for all I could make of it, but there was nothing exotic in their appearance. The sailors mostly had blue jerseys with bright neckbands and colored caps, but the traders all wore dull browns and grays.

  Joe said quietly, “See along yonder?”

  Through the press of people, I saw a barrier at the end of the quay. The bar itself was raised, but two men in gray uniform with guns over their shoulders stood beside it.

  “That’s the checkpoint. They might ask questions.”

  “And if they don’t like the answers,” Paddy said, “they might not let us through?”

  “Or maybe take us in for more questioning. As I said, they’re a funny lot. It could be a notion not to catch their attention in the first place.”

  I asked, “How?”

  I didn’t like the guns. Some in the islands had shotguns, but these looked different, more threatening.

  Joe said, “We could dive in the harbor and swim past.” For a moment I thought he was serious. “Or maybe mix in with this lot coming along behind us.”

  I heard the blast of a whistle and the rattle of a gangplank being hauled in. Looking back, I saw the traders moving away from the ship’s side, pushing their handcarts.

  “The guards’ll be used to them,” Joe said. “If we mix in we should be able to slip through. Act natural, and don’t look their way.”

  As the traders came up, we went along with them. They wer
e talking among themselves and ignored us. I did my best to do the same with the guards, but it wasn’t easy, especially when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw one start to unsling his gun. But he only rubbed his shoulder and slung it on the other side.

  Joe said, in a low voice, “Nearly there. Steady as you go.”

  Then the barrier was behind us and we had reached the end of the quay. Immediately in front a man pushed a cart loaded with pots, while his wife talked about buying fish for supper. A market was spread out along the front, the nearest stall heaped with shellfish: yellow whelks, white cockles, bright red crabs and lobsters.

  “Better walk on a bit,” Joe said. “After that we’ll see about getting our bearings.”

  The man’s hand was on Joe’s shoulder before I noticed him. He was tall and black-moustached, dressed in brown tunic and trousers. The tunic had epaulettes, and he wore a peaked cap. Automatically Joe shrugged off the hand, and the two stared at one another. The man’s nose was sharp, between gray sunken eyes. In a bleak voice, he said, “You wouldn’t be thinking of giving trouble, would you?”

  I saw Joe’s right hand clench, but he said nothing. A second man came in from the other side.

  “Right, then,” the first said. “Come along, the three of you.”

  • • •

  The building to which we were taken overlooked the harbor. From the window I could see the cargo ship heading for the open sea. It looked like a good place to be. The room we were in was small, with gloomy green walls marked by damp stains, a ceiling that had darkened to grubby yellow, and a planked floor. There was a smell of dust and ink.

  The man who had put his hand on Joe’s shoulder sat behind a desk, looking through documents. Joe stood between Paddy and me, an arm behind each of us. Silence, broken only by the rustle of paper, pressed heavier as time crawled by. After interminable minutes the door opened and the second man appeared, accompanied by the soldiers from the quay. They still had their guns, and for a pulse-stilling moment I wondered if this could be an execution squad.