The House of Mountfathom

by Nigel McDowell

  Contents

  Title Page

  ALSO BY NIGEL MCDOWELL

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One: The Child

  Part Two: The Boy

  Part Three: The Withering

  Part Four: The Rising

  Part Five: The Monster

  Part Six: The Ghost

  Nigel McDowell

  Copyright

  ALSO BY NIGEL MCDOWELL

  TALL TALES FROM PITCH END

  THE BLACK NORTH

  This story is for Chris: with love and thanks, for everything. For always…

  I came on a great house in the middle of the night,

  Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight,

  And all my friends were there and made me welcome too;

  But I woke in an old ruin that the winds howled through …

  ‘The Curse of Cromwell’, W.B. Yeats

  ‘You must face the Monster,’ says father to son. ‘You must know the Unknown.’

  ‘How?’ says the son. ‘I will be alone.’

  ‘No,’ says his father. ‘You are so very far from being alone.’ Takes a breath, goes on. ‘I want you to think of this: time can be likened to a well-thumbed book, can it not? It could feel akin to a familiar and much-read story?’

  Son is unwilling to think, doesn’t wish to theorise. But he nods.

  His father says, ‘So, does it not then stand to reason that with careful diligence and understanding of the story, you may learn to flick ahead or browse backwards? Does that not strike you as simply logical?’

  ‘I suppose,’ says the son. ‘If I knew the story well enough?’

  ‘Indeed!’ says the father with sudden passion. ‘This is the possibility! But as you say so rightly, if you do not know well the story, you risk losing your place. But more than this, you may risk losing your own self …’

  Father settles back into bed.

  Son sits silent beside, and wonders, What now or next? Where to journey in the dark? But it is late. Flames shrinking blue in the hearth, firewood snapping like stiff knuckles. And the rain – started hours earlier and hasn’t eased, impatient fingertip-patter against panes.

  The son says, ‘Everything is failing now. So how can I know where to begin? If I have no destination, how can I be sure where the door will lead?’

  ‘You cannot,’ says his father, in a keen whisper. And manages to smile. ‘You cannot know for certain what awaits in the dark. And is that not a great excitement? As with an unknown story on the shelf – where will you be taken? My advice is this: simply open the book, and trust. Turn the page, and so begin …’

  PART ONE

  THE CHILD

  Lord & Lady Mountfathom request the pleasure of your company at their home –

  The House of Mountfathom

  On Christmas Eve

  To raise a toast to the joy of the Christmas season!

  And also to celebrate the joyous Naming of their son …

  Festivities will commence at Seven o’clock in The World

  * Please note – you are warmly encouraged to Conduct *

  Directions?

  There is a road. A narrow way that circles countryside in twist and hairpin and meander and whirlabout, but difficult to find – not a road that maps are keen to show. Stop and ask a local? ‘Not just anyone can find that road,’ they’d say. ‘And even if you do, you’d never know where it might lead!’

  If you are somehow fortunate enough to discover this road, follow it.

  There is a wall: high and hemming in swarming forest. Visitors wonder, Is it behind there?

  On one side, a lake, grey and cool and flat, split by a causeway of stone that stretches from stone shore to a small crannog and a stone tor. The surface of the lake slowly swells and subsides – some say it breathes.

  Visitors ask, ‘How do people ever find this House?’

  Answer: to be led or allowed is the only way in – to have been invited.

  And the road ends. And still only that swarm of forest before you … so where now? A blink and heartbeat and suddenly swarming forest is separated by a new road – shingle and broken shell. And so the visitor can proceed into a delicious dark.

  Gentle progress, as though burrowing, as though being slowly swallowed. Forest stays close on either side.

  A procession of limestone pillars next, each topped with a silvery limestone lion bearing a limestone shield engraved with a coat of arms; not for nothing is this called the King’s Entrance. Holding their breath, guests pass beneath the watch of the lions and some tingle in the spine makes them feel as though they should look back – did that limestone lion open its mouth? Lift a left forepaw to rest on its limestone shield?

  But too late to puzzle or ponder more – on and in and on … and suddenly out! From shadow into such a sight.

  Christmas Eve

  ‘They’re here!’

  They arrive. From everywhere and from dawn onwards! On motorcycle and horseback and in motorcar and pulled trap!

  Up the front steps –

  fur-coat,

  top hat,

  tails going flap-flap!

  Boots black,

  bags stacked,

  heels clack!

  Another hysterical cry from one of the Erranders: ‘They’re here! They’re HERE!’

  Slap across the back of the head from Clodagh (head housekeeper of Mountfathom) and, ‘Compose yourself, you silly clot!’

  In come Earl and Duchess, Viscount and Viceroy, Monsieur and Madame, Major and –

  ‘Welcome to Mountfathom!’

  Mr Findlater, the manservant, is by the door in his best – shined shoes, maroon velvet suit, hair slicked – there to receive whichever personage with whatever present, and to make careful note of each.

  One scrimshawed narwhal horn (nine feet long)

  One small malachite statue in the shape of a Griffin

  One pewter dish large as a cartwheel

  A pair of Chinese vases, painted, telling the Tale of the Lonely Tailor

  A trio of crystal vials labelled Happiness, Contentment and Knowledge

  A pair of orbs (jet and jade)

  A pair of sewn silver fish-scale gloves

  A rattle made from bone (possibly human?) that makes no sound when shaken

  A (badly water-damaged) copy of Peter Pan

  A (badly fire-damaged) copy of Alice In Wonderland

  A crate of mangoes

  A scarlet umbrella (useless – full of holes!)

  A (possibly half-eaten!) bag of boiled strawberry sherbet sweets

  One rifle

  One wicker basket containing a very small kitten the colour of smoke and with turquoise eyes (purring)

  Clodagh: ‘A very good evening! Happy to have you at Mountfathom!’

  And author and auteur and artisan … and some with no title at all – Sullivan from the cattle farm down the Shore Road, and Billy McMaster who delivers the coal on a Monday, and Miss Bellow who runs a boy’s boarding-school near Belfast –

  Findlater: ‘How are you? How’s things? Go on ahead in! What did you say your name was? How did you spell that? Say again?’

  Good thing Clodagh is there to smooth things.

  ‘Yes, of course – I spoke to you only yesterday. No problem at all. You are on the second floor, fifth door along eastwards – your room is Berlin. The boys here will take your bags. And just be cautious when opening the wardrobes in your room – that’s all I’ll say or else I’ll spoil Lord Mountfathom’s surprise!’

  Such excitement from the staff as they go toing-and-froing –

  ‘Did you see the man with the gold and diamond mask?’

&nbs
p; ‘See that woman with the purple parrot on her shoulder?’

  ‘Men with needles through their noses!’

  ‘Women leading black and white spotted cats!’

  ‘Yes,’ says Clodagh (for a change, excitable herself). ‘I have seen some sights in this House, but I tell you – this is something else!’

  Speech

  Meanwhile: upstairs in The Amazon –

  ‘Adventure!’

  Out comes the child’s first word.

  ‘Heavens above!’ This is the nanny, name of Bogram. ‘Hardly six months old and listen to you – already starting with the chat!’

  Child sees her reaction so cries aloud again. ‘Adventure!’

  Not a normal first word? No normal child …

  ‘Yes, I know,’ says Bogram, her mood (as is usual) somewhere between amusement and dismay. ‘No more talk – we need to be getting you ready for this party.’

  She heaves a copper kettle from the range and fills a porcelain basin – bit of soap, bit of a stir to make a skin of suds. And she settles the child in the water. But always he wants to explore and grabble and grab – his face is a crush of concentration as his hand goes out and fingers snatch for the nearest enticing thing: a delicious and innocent-looking flicker …

  ‘Not the bloody candle!’ Nanny Bogram lifts the candlestick clear and scolds, ‘That’s burny, so it is! You do yourself an injury and I’ll be in some trouble, won’t I?’ Would describe herself as ‘no-nonsense’, this woman (if she was the sort of woman to describe herself). She watches the child, and the child watches back. ‘You’re a strange one,’ she says, not for first nor final time. The mouth of the child opens wide with excitable laughter. ‘God, aye,’ Mrs Bogram says, ‘you’re a strange enough little creature. And I tell you this: you’ve no idea the stranger world you’ve been brought into.’

  Head & Heart & Haven

  When the child was born six months before, the parents wept; pair of them prouder than proud! First child of Lord and Lady Mountfathom; late gift in life, longed for yet unexpected. Precious. Treasured.

  ‘Has your intelligence, I’d say. Your brave heart!’ said the father.

  ‘Has your curiosity. Your level head!’ said the mother.

  Saw so much of themselves in the little bundle of fidgeting limb and bright looks.

  ‘And he shall sleep in The Amazon!’ announced Lord Mountfathom.

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘Perfect choice!’

  But some of the staff had doubt –

  ‘Bit scary for an infant, no?’

  ‘No end of rooms in this house so why that one?’

  ‘Bit dark?’

  ‘Bit odd?’

  Odd indeed, yet isn’t that the way of Lord and Lady Mountfathom?

  The Amazon: like constant dusk despite curtains flung back, like sultry summer even with windows wide. Wallpaper a scene of lush leaf and untamed vine and keen creeper – vast rainforest, full of restless twitch and shiver.

  ‘Now that’s some crafty foreign Magic!’ supplied Findlater. Stern fella, called ‘Mr Sunshine’ by some of the Errander boys. Swiping a hot iron across the day’s papers he told all staff gathered in the cavernous kitchen, ‘Oh, aye – wallpaper was a gift from a Folkmancer in Kerry. Was given to the fifth Lord of Mountfathom – he helped drive a pair of Copse Gyants out of the county and that was his reward. Must be a hundred year old or more!’

  And Mrs Little the cook said, ‘Ach, you’re full of these fancy stories, Reginald Findlater! Always some mad idea you have!’

  Well, however long it had hung for, or from wherever it hailed, the walls of The Amazon were more alive than they’d been for long years with the arrival of the child. And careful and watchful and looking as though they’re listening in: eyes half-hidden behind branch and bough and tall grass, onyx-bright and baleful to the staff but benevolent to Mother and Father Mountfathom.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the Lord, ‘he shall have such fun in here! And know such safety.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Lady. ‘Our little boy – he will have such adventures!’

  No delay; a crib was conjured quick, composed of bamboo and cord. A hood of muslin that Mrs Bogram embroidered with silver stars; blanket of cream Egyptian silk, pillow packed with goose-feather. Lord Mountfathom found two stuffed toys – capybara and tapir – to set on either side of his son. Lady Mountfathom set a Spell of Accompaniment on an old harp – the strings twitched and quivered and sent soft notes all by themselves.

  And the child was settled.

  Yet still the staff wondered, was a baby beyond the trusted Lord and Lady? The pair who had ventured so far, seen such extraordinary sights and crossed uncrossable countries? Courted exotic king and imperious queen? Cheered maudlin poets and manic painters? Charmed that stubborn prime minister and those inscrutable priests? Settled disputes, eased ageless grudges, brokered peace with man and beast and creature and cunning Good Folk? Was the care of a child too much?

  Meanwhile, the child’s mother read him The Jungle Book.

  Meantime, the child’s father read him Curious Creatures of the Canopy.

  Midnight: the eyes of the child are wakeful, watching the walls. And the eyes of the walls watched over the child, both brimming with a mildly mutual curiosity …

  ‘Such a one!’

  At night The Traces come, those pale vestiges of past Lords and Ladies of Mountfathom, lingering in the dark places of the House. They curl around the crib – around cornice and ceiling-rose and whisper –

  ‘Oh such a child! Such a wee marvel!’

  ‘Such an oddness though! Such a one!’

  ‘Such a good creature to carry on the name of Mountfathom!’

  ‘He will see so much. And not all of it good.’

  ‘It is a wonder indeed to watch him, is it not?’

  ‘Teaches us things! Things we lost along the long way!’

  ‘Something so easily forgotten –’

  ‘How everything in the world was once so new.’

  Who Where When?

  A month before the party: head housekeeper Clodagh stood on the second floor of Mountfathom in the dark of the Gabbling Gallery. Only mirrors adorn the walls here, crowded from skirting board to ceiling. Dark mirrors. Clodagh is stationed with ledger and pencil. Good thing patience is a thing of pride for this housekeeper – needs plenty for this job.

  Invitations had been out for a day, so Clodagh waited, knowing it is only a matter of short time before –

  One wakes!

  In the dark of the mirror are wisps of brightening white … eyes appear and a face too and finally a voice full of imperious enquiry. ‘Major Fortflay here! Served in the Land Wars with the late Lord Mountfathom Sixth! Received the invitation – would be happy to attend!’

  Now Clodagh – so pre-prepared she can’t be perturbed – calmly consulted her ledger list and says simply, ‘Very good, Major.’

  Face of Major Fortflay dissipated.

  Darkness returned, silence restored.

  Clodagh made her careful notes.

  Scarcely a moment though; another mirror yawned white.

  ‘Lady Anne of Lissadell House here! How’s tricks? So this shindig on Christmas Eve – what time shall I land?’

  And so. And so on …

  The arrangements were made.

  Promises

  ‘Sir, this was tucked in with the morning post.’

  Two weeks before the party, Mr Findlater handed a scrap of paper to Lord Mountfathom over breakfast in the Seasonal Room. It read:

  WE KNOW YOU HAVE A WEE CHILD NOW IN THERE.

  YOU THINK YOU CAN BE SAFE BEHIND ALL YOUR FANCY SPELLS AND THAT HIGH WALL?

  WRONG!

  WE WILL COME WHEN YOU EXPECT IT LEAST AND FROM A PLACE YOU WOULDN’T THINK TO LOOK!

  KEEP AN EYE ON THE DARK. KEEP AN EYE ON YOUR WEE CHILD. THINGS ARE SHIFTING.

  WE PROMISE AND SWEAR – YOU WON’T HAVE ALL THE POWERS FOREVER.

  YOU’LL REGRET IT
ALL BEFORE THE END.

  ‘Forget we received this,’ Lord Mountfathom told his manservant. He Worked his fingers in the air and Magic set the page alight – darkened and curled and disappeared. Lord Mountfathom stood from his breakfast and wandered the Seasonal Room – from Summer to Spring to Winter to Autumn. He stopped, floor around his feet littered with bronze leaves, and said, ‘Keep me informed of anything you notice that is more unusual than the usual unusual of Mountfathom. These are odd and dark enough days we live in, Mr Findlater – we must be on our guard.’

  Preparations …

  Every chandelier was lowered and every shard washed! Every brass bit and bob – dish and spoon and snuffbox and doorknob – buffed and polished. Every floor swept and wetted, furniture beeswaxed and portraits touched up. Mr Hooker, the gardener, got to work pruning and keeping neat the trees in the Upstairs and Downstairs Orchards. Everywhere: elbow-grease and sweat and ache and groan as every maid and Errander boy in his livery got behind the effort of readying the place for the party. And Lady Mountfathom helped too. ‘Get me a ladder and wet rag and I’ll catch a few of those cobwebs!’

  Lord Mountfathom does his bit: sets some Spells to surprise –

  In Berlin, a Spell on the wardrobe that will play Bach when it is opened.

  In Atlantis, the sounds of exploding surf when someone turns in the bed.

  He wants to fill the House with sound and music and Magic! So in the hallways and passageways and galleries stone faces surmounting doorways sing an aria or recite Byron or Shelley when anyone passes by, and the patterns on the carpet of Ash-Dragons and Kelpies writhe and squirm beneath feet when anyone crosses …

  Five Minutes to Seven

  Now guests are duly gathered inside the House, but the double doors of The World are shut. They all ask one another waiting –

  ‘How long till seven?’

  ‘Is it yet?’

  ‘Is it now?’