The House of Mountfathom

by Nigel McDowell

Agitation and clash of elbows as pocket watches are consulted. Same answer given everywhere.

  ‘Not yet. Not just yet.’

  Four Minutes to Seven

  A veil of rippling smoke obscures the double doors. The guests wonder –

  ‘What Spell? Some Weather-Working?’

  ‘I’d say more like Smoke-Spinning.’

  ‘Well, perhaps … perhaps …’

  Three Minutes to Seven

  Time for some description? Just about.

  Such extravagant dress! Such articles! Which to pick out amongst the many? For a start: skirts that shimmer like wind-ruffled water; suits comprised of crimson leaves; patterned kimonos where the patterns move – carp encircling one torso and a pair of cranes picking their way across another and murmuration of starlings on one more and –

  ‘Two minutes!’

  Two Minutes to Seven

  Everything lit with a low light.

  A pair of trees on either side of the doors – candelabra, of a kind; foliage of flickering flame. Flame overhead too – chandeliers arranged with pencil-thin tapers.

  Somebody cries, ‘One minute!’

  One Minute More

  Passes like a blink and breath and a forever. Then –

  ‘Welcome!’

  All attention to a face they hadn’t noticed, top and centre of the doorway, carved into stone lintel. It says, ‘Welcome, friends! On behalf of the esteemed Lord and Lady, welcome to the House of Mountfathom! And we welcome you most warmly to the myriad wonders of The World!’

  Curtain Up

  Smoky pall peels away; doors ease open and in they go in delighted tide …

  The Room with The World Inside

  What else but round? Above: glow of a gilt ceiling. Below: circular stone floor. And around them the wall curving smooth and begging to be touched! Lay a hand and follow and you’d find no flaw, fingers running over a frieze of green-gold-azure, a sprawling map of ocean and continent which gives way at the farthest end to glass – wall split by tall double doors that lead to … no, not just yet. Too much inside to see!

  Every Poison

  Curving table tight to curving wall, and on it are the fruits of Mrs Little’s labour and all anyone’s appetite could dream up –

  A battalion of boars’ heads with mandarins clamped between jaws; palm-sized pies stuffed with game; tarts of pear and raspberry and gooseberry with sugary crusts … And to wash it all down – whiskey and ice wine and port and madeira and champagne. Liveried footmen in lilac wigs go about pouring; maids in ivory caps and aprons and silver boots are busy proffering and smiling and topping-up. Mr Findlater and Clodagh keep watch, keep generous and gentle order.

  And all the while overhead, some spectacular Smoke-Spinning: masses of writhing grey-white, taking shape for a second – a lion there? Sphinx? Sea snake? Certainly shoals of quick fish – darting down to skim scalps and elicit whoops and gasps. The guests remember the invitation: Please note – you are warmly encouraged to Conduct.

  So some of the guests add their own delights – the group of ladies in kimonos raise Reeds and with a quick together-twitch they Summon soft notes, Summon an Ash-Dragon that snaps smoky jaws at the other Smoke-Spun shapes and makes them shreds. The men clothed in crimson leaves are not to be outdone – whirl Staffs with small bells that make small sounds, and sound itself brings the sight – a trio of albatross that race the dragon around and around the domed ceiling …

  The room is soon full of tatters of smoke sifting the air like snowfall. And the eating and drinking and laughter and joy – pure joy – rises to such a pitch that it can only be somehow stilled by the sudden opening once again of The World’s double doors.

  The Family

  Enter Lord and Lady and young Master Mountfathom. Lady Mountfathom wrapped in crushed crimson velvet, strings of cultured pearls and earrings shaped like seashells and her one simple wedding band. At her belt she wears a key clustered with crimson stones. Lord Mountfathom is more adorned – scarlet suit and tails, gold on shoe-buckle and cuff, gold thread embroidering his waistcoat in coil and curlicue and golden rings on each finger. And at his waist too a key, though his is composed of polished emeralds.

  The child is in a simple blue suit. Proud mother and father each hold a hand, but truth is this child needs no leading. Only six months old, but as though he has been walking for years! Has a look on his face of such concentration: gently knitted brow and pout of mouth saying he would like to be moving faster, but is at the same time happy. Mrs Bogram walks a little behind, unnoticed by most. She sheds a single tear. Tells herself she is being a silly old thing.

  And the crowd parts for the Mountfathoms –

  ‘Aw, look at him! The big smile!’

  ‘Such a happy child! Such a dear!’

  ‘He’ll be a force in the world and make no mistake!’

  ‘And the eyes!’

  ‘The eyes!’

  ‘The eyes!’

  What of the eyes? Colour or shape? Maybe size? Whom they take after most – greater resemblance to mother or father Mountfathom? Difficult to say. Simpler just to say this: to be looked at by those eyes is to feel investigated and examined.

  The Mountfathom family reach the centre of The World.

  And then fresh interruption –

  All heads turn as the glass doors in the glass wall waft open.

  Visitors

  The Mountfathoms move towards the door and out into the night. Guests follow as though Enchanted.

  In the garden: fullest face of moon, sky sharp with stars and the slow splash of water, fountains streaming into a pair of ponds. And soon collecting on shoulders and settling in hair and sending pleasant shivers: snow. But how with such a clear sky and no cloud? Surely some Spell?

  The guests descend steps and land on a wide lawn and stand amongst eight towering stone pillars – eight statues of animals sit atop.

  The Mountfathom family stand centre.

  No one speaks.

  Now some gentle movement in the dark.

  One guest guesses well in a whisper: ‘The Driochta.’

  First a cheetah appears – pads the length of the surrounding wall, yawns wide and then drops soundlessly onto lawn. It sits there, so shrewd of eye and sharp of claw. Sits patient beside a pillar with a cheetah poised on top.

  Mere moments and then the next.

  Silent swoop of a long-eared eagle owl that alights on the statue of itself. It watches the crowd, looks to the Mountfathoms.

  Now something not so subdued.

  Boughs groan and branches clash as some wild darkness swings fast towards the House as though promising violence and then is suddenly so present it makes some of the guests gasp and some others step back. A chimpanzee – glaring at them and rapping tough knuckles on the ground like he’s enjoying the scares caused.

  Now something softer.

  Three forms in quiet flight – one black, one white, one resplendent. A pair of swans skims one of the ponds and slows to a stop as a peacock settles lightly on the lawn.

  All assembled animals regard each other.

  Eight statues, six animals: the guests look around seeking the final two, but no time to wonder more as –

  ‘Our friends!’ says Lord Mountfathom, addressing the animals. He peels away his tailcoat to show a Needle of gleaming but careworn metal bound to his belt – a thing scarcely longer than a pen, but sharp. ‘Our dear friends, thank you for coming.’

  ‘And now!’ says Lady Mountfathom (notice, too, she has the same kind of short metallic rod at her waist). ‘Now, we request that you show us your truest selves.’

  Mogrify

  Only some are watching keen or attentively enough to see. Only a few see the moment the Spell is shaken off. One of these, of course, is the child.

  ‘Changing!’ he cries.

  What is reflected in the child’s widening eyes: a quick shiver and wriggle as the animals become a squirm of colour, notional and undecided … and now suddenly become som
eone. Many someones.

  Peacock: a tall woman with hair piled high, dressed iridescent and with opals clustered at her throat.

  Pair of swans: woman dressed in black with a cascade of white hair, a man dressed in ivory with tresses of dark falling to his shoulders.

  Eagle owl: small bald man with wire spectacles and an unassuming look.

  Cheetah: fine man in a fine suit (first thing he does to keep himself fine is dust off his shoulders with sharp flicks of the hand).

  Chimpanzee: a broad boulder of a man in his Sunday best.

  One similarity in all these arrivals – same as the Mountfathoms, at their waists they have fastened short batons of a bright yet battered metal.

  They step forward, footsteps a soft crunch on snow, and form a close circle.

  Some gap is left, enough for two more to stand – an opening that Lord and Lady Mountfathom let their son wander through. In the centre of the circle the child stands, turning and turning so he can examine the people standing around. He smiles.

  Proud parents take their place and close the circle.

  All hands go to those sharp points of metal at their belts – these things the Driochta call Needles.

  ‘And now,’ says Lord Mountfathom, ‘the Gifts.’

  ‘And now,’ says Lady Mountfathom, ‘the Words.’

  Tradition

  Needles directed night-skyward – to the same point high over the child’s head. And around the circle and in turn, Words are gifted –

  ‘Intleacht!’

  ‘Paisean!’

  ‘Cinneadh!’

  ‘Trua!’

  ‘Cairdeas!’

  ‘Alainn!’

  ‘Eachtra!’

  ‘Gra!’

  And as one the Driochta Conduct – conjure bright trails of smoke that take the shape of the same animals that arrived moments before and that go whirling around the child, who is transfixed and adoring of this Magic. Who smiles to himself as the guests smile to themselves also – the sight of these Spells and this child sitting below feels like a glimpse of some precious peace …

  Attack

  Lord Mountfathom says, ‘In sight of the Driochta, and with their blessing, we Name this child –’

  Suddenly, a single gasp that multiplies into many –

  Crowd parts as two figures sprint out of the dark –

  Same swift shiver and distortion: in a blink two of the Driochta Mogrify and retake their animal forms, boulder of a man back to chimpanzee and fine gentleman reforming as a cheetah.

  The two sprinting figures, two boys, stop. One has dark hair and the other a head of faded hair.

  Mrs Bogram is in fear for the child. Wants to run forward to protect him, but the manservant Findlater holds her back.

  The Driochta raise their Needles in readiness.

  Lord Mountfathom tells the two boys, ‘Do not ruin such a night as this – it will solve nothing.’

  ‘Leave,’ says Lady Mountfathom, her tone stronger than her husband. ‘Be sensible. Depart while you still have some chance!’

  The two figures say nothing.

  Lady Mountfathom screams with sudden anger, ‘I said go!’ And she takes her animal form – a sleek panther, sharp clawed, standing guard by her son.

  Lord Mountfathom says, ‘I think my wife means business.’ And he transforms too – into an Irish elk that towers taller than any being in the garden, regal-eyed, antlers branching broad.

  Chimpanzee and cheetah inch nearer to the two boys, closing in.

  The boy with faded hair takes another step and says, ‘Listen to me now – none of this will last. There is no safe place, not even at Mountfathom. Remember these things!’

  ‘Let’s go,’ says the boy with black hair, and he takes the other boy’s hand.

  Only moments more, and the two boys bolt – to the sound of more gasps, both figures run back off into the night.

  Aftermath

  Shock leaves them stranded. Guests recover their voices, and start to shout –

  ‘Shouldn’t someone go after them?’

  ‘We can’t let them escape, can we? They could’ve harmed the child!’

  But one voice is loudest.

  ‘Is the child okay? Please tell me he isn’t hurt! Let me through!’

  Nanny Bogram shoves and elbows everyone aside and when she reaches Lord and Lady Mountfathom and the other Driochta they have relinquished any Spells and retaken their human forms.

  Child stands. Difficult to say what his expression is – worried, apprehensive? Or perhaps still curious, unsure of all this fuss? Or perhaps nothing at all – only a small child at the centre of a very strange world.

  ‘Mrs Bogram,’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘Take our son to his bedroom. I ask that you stay with him. I know you shall keep him safe.’

  Mrs Bogram nods. Holds the child in her arms and turns and the crowd flows back and shifts away to allow her through. But as she goes – sound of a sniffle, small hiccup. And that rare sound, one scarcely made in any month of his life so far at Mountfathom: the child begins to cry.

  PART TWO

  THE BOY

  First Principle of Magic – Of Curiosity & Caution

  ‘For a willingness to acquire more knowledge, to better understand the world, is crucial to any understanding of Magic.’

  ‘Quiet! See it? Watch very carefully!’

  Luke has cousins close and at his command – on their bellies in the long grass near the fern forest, sun warm on their necks and sounds of spring in their ears. Small things creep across their bare skin; limbs tickle and itch and fingers go scratch and –

  ‘Be a bit stiller,’ says Luke. ‘Else we might miss it. Keep watching! It’s almost time.’

  Four cousins do as he bids – all eyes on a small, clinging cocoon on a single stalk. They can see something small and delicate and dark inside, and it is wanting out.

  Luke holds his breath.

  A cat the colour of smoke suddenly appears – threatens to leap on the stalk and ruin everything!

  ‘Morrigan,’ says Luke, grabbing the cat and hugging its mass to his chest. Cat squirms and complains. ‘Now stay with me – be good.’ Cat gives him such a look of annoyance – turquoise eyes turning sour.

  Roger says, ‘Can we just go inside and have breakfast now? Or do something else? I have an idea for a game.’ Roger, who likes to make decisions about everything.

  ‘Quiet,’ says Ruth. ‘Don’t be rude.’

  ‘What is that thing that’s going to come out?’ asks Rory.

  ‘I’m scared,’ says Rose.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ says Luke. He takes cousin Rose’s hand. ‘It won’t hurt you. It will just –’

  ‘Look!’ says Ruth.

  And the cocoon tears a little, like damp paper. And the thing within begins a slow inching out – small and tentative and shiveringly delicate … antennae unfurling, twitch of the proboscis and front legs fighting free …

  ‘A ghost moth,’ says Luke. ‘Keep watching. Keep watching.’

  But it happens too swift – one moment on the swaying stalk, taking in the world, trying to tease open its wings … and then away! Off into the blue air in dance and quiver and soft fall and slow rise, soon lost to Luke’s sight in the shimmer of early morning sun.

  Luke breathes. Morrigan yawns.

  His cousin Rose squeezes his hand and hushes into his ear, ‘That was amazing.’

  Day before –

  Luke asks his father: ‘When will I start to learn Spells?’

  Lord Mountfathom laughs a little. Tells his son, ‘So keen! Not for a little while yet. Ten years old would be very young to start Working Magic. First you must study.’

  ‘When will I learn to Mogrify?’ he asks. ‘When can I learn that?’

  ‘To Mogrify takes time,’ says his father. ‘It is an odd and utterly surprising sort of Magic.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that you shall wake one morning and very suddenly find in yourse
lf some sense of deep and profound difference. Like a door unlocked – with utter ease and conviction, you shall be able to transform, though you may not be able to choose which animal to become.’

  Luke stands by the deal-topped desk in the centre of the library. His father is off wandering; many narrow wooden paths criss-cross and bisect the floor and Lord Mountfathom looks as though he is seeking to rediscover something lost. ‘Here now!’ he says, and stoops and selects a fat volume from the floor – so many books in this library that they occupy not just walls but floor, so many volumes all resting with embossed and gold-printed spines upward … and on the ceiling too! Books packed and strapped into shelves and hoisted high.

  Luke says, ‘I shall be eleven years old in two months – can I not learn some simple Spells today?’

  His father tells him, ‘Plenty to learn and get to grips with before you start Casting.’

  Luke is disappointed. And restless – wants to learn and know everything now and not tomorrow, to hurry up and be the age he needs to be! Time is too slow, he thinks. Feels as though he has been ten for a million years! And he wonders what the point of these hour-long lessons each afternoon with Father or Mother are for if he isn’t ready yet. (Could be playing with the cousins, he thinks. They’re only here for the week of Easter. Could be having some grand adventures outside in the sun!)

  Lord Mountfathom opens the books, fingers searching through pages until – ‘Here now! Listen to this, son: All Magic begins with learning. Patience can be a chore, with so much power within one’s reach – but patience must be exercised nonetheless. There now!’

  Luke says nothing. Feels only impatient.

  Lord Mountfathom asks, ‘How many Principles of Magic are there?’

  ‘Five,’ says Luke. (Easy question.)

  ‘Good,’ says his father. ‘And so you shall learn one every year.’

  ‘One a year?’ Luke repeats. ‘But that’ll take forever!’

  ‘Let us not exaggerate,’ says Lord Mountfathom, slotting the volume back into its place in the floor. ‘It will take five years, that is all.’