The House of Mountfathom

by Nigel McDowell

  ‘Faster!’ shouts Rose. ‘Faster!’

  And another twitch of the Needle and Lady Mountfathom sends their boat hurtling on –

  Luke and Rose lower themselves and hold tight –

  They draw level with Lord Mountfathom and Roger, and Luke’s mother and father are crying at one another, ‘Cheat! Foul play here! Not fair at all!’

  And suddenly both boats run aground on the Isle of Solitude, and Luke and Roger leap forward and sprint fast towards the tor. But Luke knows he has lost before he has lost: Roger is older, taller, bit faster and fierce as hell –

  Luke falls. Face meets damp earth and he thinks, Was I tripped?

  And Roger is the first to reach the tor and plant a palm on its grey stone.

  Luke has a distressing realisation: Roger tripped me.

  ‘Bad luck there, cousin!’ says Roger, and he takes Luke’s hand and heaves him to his feet. ‘Bit of a novice mistake not to keep an eye on the ground and see where you’re going, is it not?’

  And Luke thinks of lots of things he could say. And decides it best to say nothing at all.

  ‘I say we shoot the lot of them!’

  ‘Walter!’

  ‘Do not try to tell me you disagree, Nancy! Not if you were completely honest. Our tenants have us run ragged at Goreland Hall now – want to see me every other bloody day to discuss lowering rents and whatnot. Think they have rights to just come up and knock on the door and make demands!’

  Lunch is on the shore of the lake, courtesy of Mrs Little and Lady Mountfathom – a small fire conjured by Luke’s mother, fried sausages and fresh bread and pitchers of iced tea with slices of peach and fat raspberries floating on the surface brought to them by the cook. The waves of Loughreagh venture close, now retreat; rise and fall.

  Luke thinks, It is true – it does breathe.

  ‘Well,’ says Lady Mountfathom, waving a cigarette, smoke making an elegant tangle, ‘you are their landlord, brother dearest. And as it happens, they do very much have rights.’

  ‘And does that mean I wish to discuss the weather or pass the time of day with them?’ says Uncle Walter. ‘Is that a so-called right? Isn’t something I voted for! You agree with me, William? Tell me you do and restore some sanity to the general conversation!’

  Luke’s father takes his time to say, ‘I have personally collected the rents from each and every one of my tenants for the past ten years. They come on the first Tuesday of every month and if they wish to discuss any arrears or personal worries, I listen to them. I think it the very least we can do.’

  Uncle Walter spears another sausage from the pan.

  Luke thinks, So much like last year. So little changes!

  Uncle Walter tells them all loudly, ‘Well, I shall say one thing: that woman of yours in the kitchens is a miracle-worker! Not at all like our dozy old cook at Goreland Hall! Are you sure you haven’t delegated some Spell-Work to her, Edith? Must be something uncanny about this servant to conjure such a magnificent feast with such speed!’

  And Lady Mountfathom breathes smoke as she says, ‘Firstly, she is not called a “servant”. We see all who work at Mountfathom as family. And the fact is that our dear Mrs Little is simply well accustomed to hard work. Being a banker, Walter, that concept is likely something you are not familiar with.’

  Aunt Nancy’s mouth slips open.

  Uncle Walter laughs loud, once – a bark that bounces across the lake.

  Luke watches: Aunt Nancy shifts herself a little away from Luke’s mother, tucks her skirt beneath her legs; Roger sighs and manages the feat of looking more bored than he did a moment before, and Ruth and Rory and Rose say nothing and keep their eyes on their food.

  And Luke watches all, trying to learn to see.

  ‘Who is that?’ asks cousin Rose.

  She and Luke are on the causeway together – they race along dark rock, forward and back and feeling a little self-conscious in their game of Catch. (Roger spares a moment to shout at them, ‘Grow up, you two! Catch is for children!’ Roger who has decided this year to follow his father into the world of banking.)

  But they stop only at this sudden sight – a man standing alone on the Isle of Solitude. From their distance, halfway along the causeway, Luke can take note of only three things: the dark eyes of the man, the palest face, and a head of faded hair.

  Luke tells his cousin, ‘I do not know who that is.’

  ‘I thought the isle was deserted,’ says Rose.

  ‘Used to be used by monks,’ says Luke. ‘And the Driochta too, for studying.’

  They wait as though the man might greet them – trusting children; they expect no threat and certainly none here, not so close to Mountfathom.

  And the man on the isle raises something in the air – a Needle?

  Something stirs in Luke – a sense of some gathering Magic – and he has only a moment to tell Rose, ‘Run!’

  But too late and not quick enough –

  From either side of the causeway waves leap high –

  Shadow cast – water obscures the sun … and then the waves falling, crashing so hard on both Luke and Rose that they are pinned to the rock –

  Luke hears his cousin plead, ‘Help! Help!’

  But Luke cannot respond as more and more waves break upon the causeway, and Luke knows some powerful Spell is commanding Loughreagh. His mind strains towards some Spell as his hands and fingers strain to weave it in the air. He manages a Spell of Enclosing and for some short time it holds, keeping them free of the rush and clamour of the waves. Enough time for Luke to hear the thin scream that escapes Rose –

  ‘Help! Help us!’

  Enough time for him to look towards shore and try to see what help might come for them, but he can make out nothing –

  A squeal from the Needle on the Isle of Solitude –

  Luke’s Spell is shattered.

  Once more the lough is hurling itself on them and his cousin Rose has stopped screaming, ceased protest. He sees: she is no longer moving.

  And Luke does the only thing he can – holds tight to her hand.

  Now newer sounds – the squeal of more Needles, and are the waves being battled back? Luke sees enough now to see two figures approaching from the shore: his mother and father side-by-side on the causeway, both with Needles held high and twitching and jabbing and Conducting with such speed and precision.

  Luke turns towards the isle – the man there is battling just as furiously.

  And the scream of Needles is a torment to Luke’s hearing.

  Hands and fingers of water grab at Luke and Rose, try to drag them from the causeway as Lord and Lady Mountfathom conjure from the waters of the lough an Irish elk and panther that leap over Luke and Rose and charge at the man on the isle.

  And in all the tumult and battle, Luke loses his grip on waking – slips and falls, and is suddenly lost.

  ‘Rose! My Rosie!’

  Luke wakes to this screaming: to the dazzle of sun and the sight of Aunt Nancy running barefoot down the causeway, Uncle Walter trying to keep pace. And she is shrieking, ‘My Rosie! My Rosie!’

  Luke sees his father kneeling beside Rose. Sees that she isn’t moving.

  He tries to sit up more and speak but his mother is beside him to settle a hand on his shoulder and say, ‘Do not move. Say nothing.’

  ‘Get away from her!’ shouts Aunt Nancy, arriving at her daughter and pushing Lord Mountfathom aside. Luke can see Rose’s face now – the cheeks pale blue, the lips slightly parted and dark. Watches as his aunt gives her daughter the kiss of life.

  Luke’s father says, ‘Please let me help, Nancy.’

  And he holds his Needle up but Aunt Nancy shouts, ‘No! There’s been enough trouble because of your silly Magic already!’ And keeps pressing her lips to her daughter’s lips.

  Uncle Walter arrives, so out of breath he can’t say a thing.

  In the distance, on the shore, Luke can see his cousins – waiting where they’ve been told to wait.

&
nbsp; Rose does not move, does not stir, will not wake.

  It is too much: Luke closes his eyes, is held tighter by his mother.

  Sound of sudden coughing and gasping!

  Luke opens his eyes –

  Aunt Nancy turns her daughter on her side as Rose retches and a throatful of grey water leaves her mouth. Aunt Nancy starts only now to weep, sobbing more softly, ‘My Rosie. My dear Rosie.’

  Lady Mountfathom breathes, ‘Thank goodness.’

  ‘Who did this?’ says Uncle Walter, relief now giving him speech – making him want to incriminate and blame. ‘Who is responsible for this?’

  And Luke turns his gaze towards the Isle of Solitude – but there is no man there with dark eyes and pale face and faded hair. There is, for now, no one to blame.

  The lack of a clear culprit is no obstacle to Uncle Walter.

  ‘This is your fault! This is what you get for being so lenient with your servants and tenants! They think they can get the better of you!’

  ‘Try not to overreact, brother dear – you shall give yourself another heart attack.’

  ‘Do not patronise me, Edith! My daughter almost died because some lunatic thought he’d have a go at the people in the Big House!’

  Sun is sinking and Luke sits on his windowsill, Morrigan coiled on his lap – the cat so unconcerned, bored by it all. Luke listens to his mother and uncle flinging words back and forth one floor below in Valhalla.

  ‘You should have better defences around the place! To go boating on that lake was the worst idea, the very worst!’

  ‘Walter, no one could have predicted what was going to happen today.’

  ‘I thought you had ways of predicting things!

  Some silence from Lady Mountfathom.

  Luke thinks, Uncle Walter has a point. Maybe his mother or father should have done some Mirror-Predicting – consulted the patterns in the ink and seen what was to transpire. Sensed this impending trouble?

  And Uncle Walter starts up again like an airplane engine. ‘With what happened to Roger last year and Rose today, I can tell you we will be thinking long and hard about coming back to Mountfathom!’

  And Luke’s mother says, ‘You think you shall be safe if you lock yourself away in Goreland Hall? You think danger will only reach you here in this House? You are mistaken, Walter.’

  A slam of a door. Some final silence.

  Some minutes and the door of The Amazon opens.

  ‘Best stay away from your mother when she is at war.’ It is Luke’s father. He slinks in and quietly closes the door behind him. ‘How are you, son?’

  Luke does not wait – starts straight into his questioning.

  ‘That man I saw on the isle. He wanted to kill us.’

  Lord Mountfathom stops halfway across the room. Nods.

  ‘Why would people want to kill us?’ asks Luke. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘These are the very questions you should be asking,’ says his father. Folds his hands behind his back and half-lowers his head – stands like an Errander boy summoned for discussion. ‘And if only I knew how to answer them for you.’

  Luke opens his mouth to mention the Needle, then decides not to, wonders whether he imagined it.

  ‘I want to know what is going on outside Mountfathom.’ Luke stands, lifting Morrigan aside; she complains, gives a groan and tries to snag small claws on his trousers. ‘Uncle Walter keeps talking about things being dangerous and changing – he is right, isn’t he?’

  Lord Mountfathom nods once more. His gaze wanders to the small crib still kept in the corner of the room – muslin hood scattered with sewn stars.

  ‘I knew this day would come,’ he says. ‘Yet, in my foolishness and naivety, I thought it would come much later – the moment when Mountfathom would no longer be enough for you.’

  ‘It is not that,’ says Luke. ‘It is just living by the First Principle – to have curiosity, to want to learn.’

  His father smiles, says, ‘I believe you are picking up the Principles very well. Today, I think you saw a rather dramatic show of the Second.’

  ‘The man had a Needle,’ says Luke. ‘I am certain I saw that.’

  ‘And with such anger and bitterness in his mind he was able to use the Needle to Summon such power. You witnessed that too – you saw how thought becomes act, and the havoc it can wreak.’

  Luke turns back to the window, burnished with the slow sunset, sees his own reflection on the bright surface. Pauses, then says, ‘Will you let me go with the Driochta on a mission? Can I go back into the Gloaming?’

  A long of time of waiting, and finally father concedes to son.

  ‘Yes,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘We shall show you, Luke, how to move between Mountfathom and the rest of the wide world. We shall teach you how to leave the safety of home behind, and show you how to return – how to explore the Gloaming. And, when time tells us it is right, you shall embark on your first mission of Magic.’

  Third Principle of Magic – Of Action & Inaction

  ‘No, we must not act! We must force ourselves to do nothing!’

  Lady Mountfathom asks her son, Are you getting a sense of the dark now?

  Yes, he says. I believe I am.

  (Luke thinks: After a year – at long last!)

  He holds not so much of fear – same queasiness, little less worry. With each excursion over the last twelve months, Luke has become better and better able to negotiate the Gloaming. But today is different. He is not just wandering with his mother or father, but has a purpose – is beginning his inaugural mission for the Driochta.

  Good, says his mother. Though do stay close. We are almost there.

  Crimson light from Lady Mountfathom’s key stretches towards a sudden doorway in the Gloaming, its outline rising like an opening wound.

  Be ready, she tells her son. Major Fortflay and his Gards may not be receptive to our sudden appearance.

  So Luke holds in his mind (and in readied hands) a host of Spells, should he need to Work them.

  Key into lock.

  Door opens and mother and son step out onto a blustery hillside.

  After the Gloaming – so much of a nowhere and no place, silent and containing nothing like weather – Luke feels the shock and attack of the elements: their fur-lined capes lift and snap, eyes stream with cold. Luke wants to prove himself: quickly Works a Spell of Enclosing to shield them both and instantly they are let be, capes settling like leaves after a gust.

  ‘Well Worked,’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘Though I think things may have escalated since Mr Dorrick sent his Messenger.’

  The passage they have used belongs to a half-collapsed cottage – the door they have stepped through slowly parting company with its hinges. A famine cottage, thinks Luke, balanced on a bald rise from which they can survey things.

  Below: fields blue with dawn frost, drystone walls interrupting the ripple of hills, blue roads looping and meandering the cold countryside. And in the field below them, Luke sees so many Gards from Dublin Castle – guesses at a hundred or more, all clustered tight together. All in formation, they face a stark forest – watching it as though the bare trees themselves might rally themselves to battle.

  ‘They have driven the Boreen Men all the way into the forest?’ asks Luke.

  ‘I would say so,’ says his mother. ‘Fortflay used some Magic from the Politomancer in Whitehall to lock these workers out of Dublin, then pursued them across the counties and now the Gards have them here. Have them surrounded.’

  Lady Mountfathom sighs.

  ‘All the Boreen Men wanted was to work?’ says Luke.

  ‘Not enough money to pay them,’ says his mother. ‘All are not as fortunate as us, my son.’

  Luke wants to say: I know this. I know more than I did a year ago when some stranger stood on the Isle of Solitude and tried to kill cousin Rose and me. I know there are others in the world not so well off.

  His mother continues. ‘It was – and still is – a great struggle for many in D
ublin. The Boreen Men are fathers, sons, husbands simply wishing to provide for their families. They have no interest in Magic or the machinations of the Government. The Driochta tried to help, we tried to negotiate – but the Castle decided on its own methods, as they are wont to do.’

  Luke says, ‘What does Major Fortflay plan for them?’

  His mother says, ‘He will wait. And when the Boreen Men are forced – either by hunger or thirst or pure desperation – to leave the cover of the trees, they will have to surrender.’

  ‘And if they do not?’

  ‘They will be slaughtered.’ Lady Mountfathom looks at her son. ‘May sound a touch harsh, but Fortflay and the Castle in Dublin, and Whitehall too, are desperate to put an end to these rebellions.’

  ‘And the Driochta must try to play peacekeeper in all this,’ says Luke. Says it with a sigh.

  ‘So it has always been,’ says his mother. ‘Better get used to it, son – this is our role and we must play as best as –’

  Stopped by the sound of a voice hollering;

  ‘Hold your ground, lads! No daydreaming or slacking. We shall not move one inch unless we see surrender!’

  ‘Major Fortflay?’ asks Luke.

  Lady Mountfathom nods. ‘Fool,’ she says. ‘Well-educated, I believe. But still, in so many subtle ways, a fool.’

  ‘Mother, I thought we had to be impartial?’

  ‘Let that not stand in the way of the truth! Just don’t tell your father I said so. Now: let us go. Let us see what we can do.’

  So Luke and his mother find a frozen and well-worn farmer’s path to follow down the slope and into the field – tramping brittle grass, earth hard as marble. As they descend, Luke sees to the west a glimpse of some different blue: the languorous shrug of grey waves. A sudden thrill of excitement.

  ‘We are near the Dragon Coast!’

  ‘Do not be getting any ideas about going to look for Ash-Dragons,’ his mother tells him. ‘Poor creatures, they want nothing more than to stay asleep under the ground, and we should leave them that way.’

  But it is not long before –

  ‘Stop where you stand or I shall have you shot!’

  ‘Calm yourself, Major Fortflay!’ Lady Mountfathom shouts. Tries to sound a touch jocular as they walk into the midst of the Castle Gards. ‘I would venture that your bullets would have little chance against my infamously swift brand of Magic!’