by Rowan Casey
Things went black. Very, very, black.
I dreamed in the darkness. Some of it might even have been memories, but you know how it is in the dark—sometimes it's hard to tell one from the other.
I fight something that looks like my cousin, but which barks and howls at me as we beat the changes through a car park of rusted metal that looks more like discarded armor and weaponry than automobiles. I yell for Face to help me but get no reply. Drake touches me on the forehead and tells me, "It's there if you need it." Fog swirls—damp, cold, fog that tastes of ash and death. Face tells me a story of a white knight and three damsels, of an Orcadian prince and a round table.
I stand on top of a tall tower looking over a range of sharp peaked mountains under a yellow moon that hangs so low in the sky it looks like it might fall and bury me at any moment. I slay a dragon, beating it again and again with a staff until it stills and I blink and I'm looking at a petrol pump in the forecourt of a Highland rest stop and the berserker mushroom decides it has now shown me enough. A huge, green-eyed hound chases me across a moor of burnt heather. I fleece a man in a sharp suit with a sharper nose for a thousand bucks by playing hide the lady literally. I practice more staff moves in a drafty gymnasium under a lowering Scottish sky wearing gloves that are too big, shoes that are too big and with an enthusiasm that is too small. “Again,” my father shouts, with no love in his voice or his heart—only duty. I play guitar in a room full of drunk youths of my own age and they jeer and heckle until I sing and my song stills the bar and the music makes magic makes music, and so it goes.
Then there's more of the shitty fog, parting slowly as a wind blows out of the west, and I awaken.
"If she's anything like mine, I wouldn't trust a word she says," my cousin says, almost in my ear, and then, finally, I open my eyes and I'm back here.
Although 'here' wasn't anywhere I recognized, and I started to wonder if I was still in a dream. It's not every day that you wake up to find yourself chained to a wall in a dungeon.
To be fair, it was a very clean dungeon; bare stone walls without a hint of moss or slime or dampness, no dirty straw on the floor, and no hungry rodents. It had a general air of having been built to the specifications of someone who wanted a dungeon but none of that nasty mess. There was a small grille window, high up opposite me, with only darkness outside, and the cell was lit, not with wall sconces, but with a neon strip some nine feet above the floor that flickered in a manner that was going to get annoying very quickly. The iron rings to which I was chained were real enough though. Strong enough, too, as there was no give in my initial tugging.
Somebody spoke to my left and I turned. George hung there beside me. He had a black eye, and was bleeding slightly at nose and mouth, but he managed to drop me a wink.
"I'll have that drink now, lad—if you're still offering?"
"Can I have a rain check? I'm a bit tied up at the moment."
"That's all right, I'm just hanging around here anyway."
He laughed, and then had to spit out blood. It lay, too red, on an otherwise spotlessly clean gray flagstone.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"I don't know. I just woke up myself. Looks like a higher class of dungeon than I'm used to though."
I really didn't need to have asked the question. There was only one place it could be. I was back in the mock-Scots mansion in the canyon, and this was Black's idea of a traditional incarceration; Highland hospitality, as he'd called it. The fact that it looked more like a Hollywood film set than the interior of a Scottish castle did not surprise me in the slightest.
There was something traditional about it though. We had been hung expertly so that we were just on tiptoe, our shoulder and neck muscles taking most of our weight. The ache I currently felt across my arms and back was going to turn to agony in the not too distant future.
George grimaced, tried to shift his weight, and grimaced some more.
"Remind me, lad, when we get out of here, what I said earlier about keeping my head down and keeping my nose clean."
"I'm sorry I got you into this. But I'm glad of the help though," I replied. "I won't forget it."
"Nae bother, son," he replied. "And it's not as if it's the first time I've been hung up in a dungeon, although Big Bertha the Bellahouston Bike would be a sight for sore eyes around now."
That led him into a story. It involved a Glasgwegian prostitute, a drunk city councilor, a bent cop, and George, with his trousers off for most of it. I have no idea if it was true, but I knew what he was doing well enough, and it worked—for a couple of minutes we ignored our situation. We didn't forget it—we couldn't go that far. But he made us both laugh, and for that I was thankful, at least until the pain kicked in hard.
George grimaced again.
"Can you do one of your wee magic tricks, lad? Spring us out of here sharpish?"
"No can do, George," I said. "The only magic I have is in that metal mirror. And she's not talking to me."
It was more than that—but it wasn't something I wanted to admit—either to George or myself. I was wondering whether I hadn't been a mark all along, and Face was the real grifter in our partnership. I didn't want to consider the strong possibility that she had just been stringing me along, playing a long con many years in the planning. I also didn't know why she'd want the leash, but looking back at the events of the past few days, there was an obvious, linear progression to that very outcome. Sometimes, you're just too close to it to see the wood from the trees.
Fortunately, I wasn't given too much time to brood on Face's manipulations; somebody had noticed we were awake. A key turned in the lock of a big iron door to my left and it swung open. It didn't creak; we were saved that theatrical cliché at least. Black came in, only fractionally making it through the narrow doorway without having to turn side on.
"Oh good—now we can start getting somewhere," he said, and I still didn't like his shark smile. I didn't like it one bit.
10
"Are you ready to give me the leash yet, Mr. Seton?" he said. He stood just out of range of any attempt I might make at a kick. Not that it would do me much good. I was still chained, and one of the gorillas was in the doorway, with a machine pistol casually held across his chest. I knew it could be pointed at me just as casually. I decided to keep telling the truth. I hadn't got enough of a reading of Black yet to know if he'd spot an outright lie, and he was holding the upper hand in our game at the moment.
"I told you. I gave it through to her on the other side and she's gone quiet."
I got another smile, another one that never got above his upper lip.
"Come now, Mr. Seton," he said. "You would have me believe you have no control over the portal? We both know that's not true. The magic is not in the mirror. It's in you—in your blood."
"Not as far as I know," I said, and that wasn't a lie either; I meant it. When Face went quiet, the mirror went quiet. I'd never had any say in the matter in all the years I'd had her. But I could see Black still didn't believe me.
"Your kinsman told me otherwise," the big man said. "His story was that it was something in the genes. A family thing he said. That was his excuse for not selling me the mirror—he said it wouldn't work for me—without the Seton blood it's just a worthless bit of metal."
"My cousin was a con man and a blowhard," I replied. "He was just trying to fleece you for more money. You’re an easy mark, at least that's what I heard."
"That might have been true once, but having a dog has been the making of me. And I need my hound back, so you'll be getting the leash for me."
"Or else what? I'm not afraid of you. You must know that by now."
"Not for your own well-being—you Setons are all full of that macho warrior crap—but what about your friend here? I could have my men pound him into minced beef if that would persuade you?"
"I'd like to see those pussies try it," George said, and spat out another glob of blood, close enough to Black's shiny shoes to make him stand bac
k sharply in alarm.
But Black had found my weak spot and we both knew it. I could see it in that thin smile he wore like a prize.
"Okay, I'll give it a go," I said. "As long as you let us down."
Black nodded, and motioned for the gorilla in the doorway to come forward.
"You'll be coming with me. Your pal stays in here though," Black said. "You can never have enough insurance."
The man at the door came in and unlocked my chains. I might have tried to make a move for his slung weapon, but my arms felt like jelly. They were still tingling as the blood rushed back, and I could only watch as he got George down and threw him unceremoniously into the corner. I was finally just about ready for a fight when the gorilla turned, unslung the machine pistol, turned it on me and I looked down the barrel that was aimed right at my face.
"Don't try anything stupid, Mr. Seton," Black said. "I'll have a man outside the door here, and at the first sign there's anything hinky, he'll put an end to your pal. Or maybe I'll just shut the door and lose the key. The soundproofing is good in here, and I'm very forgetful."
"Don't mind me, lad," George said as I was led away. "I'm fine and dandy in here—a fish supper and a pint wouldn't go amiss, but you go and do what you have to do. Just remember where to find me later."
"I'll send Big Bertha down if I see her."
George rubbed at his arms, wincing as the blood flowed back into them, but he managed a grin as the gorilla prodded at me to get me moving.
"Tell her she won't need the handcuffs this time. I've got my own."
"I'll be back soon, boss. I still owe you that drink."
I was taken out and led, at gunpoint, up a flight of stone steps—clean as a whistle and no sign of green—back up into the wide marble-floored hallway and then into the oak-lined library.
Face, and her companion, still embedded in the now badly decaying hand of my cousin, lay on a small table near the fireplace.
I wasn't offered any Scotch this time ‘round.
Black stood over the small table, as if expecting me to make a move for the mirrors, but the guard was still at my back with a machine pistol aimed right at me. We Setons might indeed be into all that warrior machismo crap but we're not stupid. I stood still and kept quiet. I didn't want to give the man with the gun any smallest excuse to pull the trigger. Black was in charge, for the moment.
"I should just let him shoot you," Black said. "But you stole something from me. Nobody steals from me and gets away with it. It's bad for business to be known to be vulnerable. So you'll be giving it back to me. Then I'll consider again whether you get shot or not."
"All things considered, not getting shot sounds good to me."
"Do you even know what it is you are after, Mr. Seton?" he said. "The story of the leash is old—older than your family—older than table knights and courtly doings. It is a tale from an age even before Christ."
He stepped over and took a book down from the shelf. He'd had this bit prepared beforehand, must have had to be able to reach and get the book without much of a glance. And he suddenly stiffened, striking a pose—he was delivering a sermon, or acting out a fantasy—whatever it was, he was suddenly so pompous, so serious, that I had to force myself not to laugh; if I embarrassed him now, I might well end up getting shot.
"Here is a story even you might not have heard," he continued, declaiming like a teacher addressing a class as he read.
"One morning Camulos went into the forest with his best deer hound, Finn, intent on a hunt. The dog led him to a small copse but as soon as he set the hound to flush out what may lie there it withdrew swiftly, trembling and fearful, and came back towards Camulos with its tail between its legs.
"Camulos knew his hound well enough to know that only a boar or a bear would bring about such behavior. He drew towards the copse, taking out his weapon. Suddenly a shining white boar arose out of the ground and made a lunge for the warrior that would have spilled his guts, but the hound's love for its master overrode all fear, and it rushed between the tusks and the man, all fear forgotten.
"The boar itself stood its ground against the dog without retreating until, when Camulos stepped forward and raised his sword, it withdrew once again, and ran. But a white boar was a great prize, and Camulos was not about to let it slip away from him. For three days they followed the boar, through forest and over moor and fen, none of them taking any rest, until at last the white beast led them to a high keep.
"The boar was making for it swiftly. The dog ran ahead, outpacing Camulos in its lust for the hunt, and followed the boar into the stony fort. But there was something about this keep that gave Camulos pause, for the hunt had taken him to unfamiliar lands, and he had never heard tell of anyone living here, this distant from the farms and villages of his country. He quailed at the thought of entering. Then a howl rose up from within, and that set him firm in his purpose.
"'I will not give up my dog,' he said, and followed his hound inside.
"When he stepped inside the keep, he could see neither the boar, nor the dog, nor any dwelling inside. There was only an empty courtyard, and in the middle of the courtyard a cauldron with shining marble stonework below in a series of tall steps such that the cauldron itself was raised some ten feet off the ground. Four heavy chains anchored the cauldron to the marble slab and more thick chains also reached up into the sky. Camulos followed their lines up, past the open roof of the keep, up to where they were lost, high, impossibly high, in the clouds and he could not see the end of them.
"The hunt had brought on him a great thirst and he stepped up to where the cauldron was, and laid hold of it one-handed, intending to bend and drink of the gleaming waters within. But as soon as he had laid hold, his left hand stuck to cold iron, and his two feet rooted to the marble slab on which he was standing. The power of speech was at the same moment taken from him so he could not utter a single word of alarm or give out a cry for help.
"He hacked at the marble slab with his sword, chopping at stone that had softened into heavy, clay-like mud that was even now starting to ooze and flow around his ankles. The sword sank into the mud, and when he tried to draw the blade back, the clay hardened around the blade so that he found it held fast, stuck such that none of his great strength could move it any part of a fraction.
"Camulos withdrew his free hand from the sword and used his fingers to whistle. Trusty hound that it was, Finn came running from the far side of the keep and bounded up the steps. Camulos grabbed hold of its halter, and commanded the hound to pull.
"And pull they did, the two of them working together as one. The ground shook and trembled and the skies rolled in dark waves such that people all across the land left their houses fearing the end of days.
"And slowly, ever so slowly, Camulos was pulled free from the cauldron, leaving behind the hilt of the great sword standing proud from rugged stone lying in a pile next to the cauldron. He let the hound lead him, still holding tight to the halter, down the marble steps and off the platform.
"And thereupon came was a peal of thunder, and a fall of mist and with that the whole keep around them disappeared, taking the cauldron, and the sword with it.
"And although Camulos and his hound returned to their lands to live full lives and have many adventures, neither the sword, or the cauldron, were seen by the eyes of man for many long years afterward."
Black closed the book with a slap and as if that was a cue, all of the theatrical stiffness went out of him and the L.A. accent dropped back in as if it had never been away.
"You see? Do you understand what you're dealing with here?"
I nodded. I hadn't heard that particular story, but I'd heard a few similar ones. In some of them Camulos had red hair—and a different name.
"It's a grail legend—one of many—mixed in with the sword—they often appear together. But there are many such stories—what makes you think you've got this particular halter from this particular version of the tale?"
"Because I paid
a great deal of money for it from someone who knows about such things. And because it works. It gets results," he said. "And now it's high time I had it back."
Black waved toward the small table.
"Go on then, do your Seton thing. Just remember that I'm not the most patient of fellows, so don't bother with any theatricality and flimflam. It doesn't impress me."
I knew that to be a lie. I was starting to get the measure of my man now, enough to know that theatricality was as much part of him as his girth or his accent. I kept any smile off my face though. I might have a card to play after all.
I walked over and looked down at the table. As before, Face looked dead and quiet—sometimes a mirror is just a mirror. The other one, my cousin's one, was a different matter. The closer I got, the more the fog shifted across its surface, swirling as if stirred with a stick from within.
"Face?" I said.
I got no answer.
"Face, come on, stop playing silly buggers. I'm in a bit of bother here. I need you."
"Gareth? Is that you, my bonny lad? After all these years is it really you?"
It wasn't Face that had spoken—I knew that much—but there was something dreadfully familiar in the voice, although it sounded old and dried out, almost a croak. And it had come from the mirror in my dead cousin's hand.
"Face?" I asked again, just in case.
"Why do you vex me so? Come, come and see me again, as you did before. Come and take your pleasure of me. A finger—a finger is all you need—let me feel your touch."
"Go on then," Black said at my back, and I heard the amusement in his voice. "Give the lady a fingering."
I put out my left hand and stroked the surface of the mirror. It felt soft and wet, like heavy mist. And my finger went inside, an inch, two inches, lost in the fog—cold fog, and pressure around my skin, pressing harder, as if I was caught in a thumbscrew that was getting steadily tightened. I was thinking about dungeons again, real ones this time, and real torture as the pain went up a notch around my finger. I was about to pull it back out again when I felt another finger on the far side hook into mine and tug it, hard.
