The House of Mountfathom

by Nigel McDowell

  Luke and his mother move amongst the battalion – some scowl, some stagger-recoil. But most shiver, despite the benefit of greatcoats. And most, Luke thinks, look pleased and relieved. He even catches one young Gard whispering to his mate, ‘It’ll be sorted now they’re here. This needs Spells and not shooting.’

  Major Fortflay greets Lady Mountfathom with salute and a handshake. He is a tall man, wiry – big moustache growing grey at the tips as though touched with the same frost that clings to the ground. He tells them with a bite in his voice, ‘Doubt there is much you can do now.’

  ‘I would hate to think that was true,’ says Luke’s mother.

  ‘Two of your number have already attempted mediation,’ says Fortflay. ‘And failed.’

  ‘Edith!’

  Someone is pushing through the crowd and a voice shouts again, ‘Edith! Out of my way, if you please! Go on – move it! Stood on your foot? So sorry – though I daresay you’ll live!’

  And Luke sees Lady Vane-Tempest. Always so well dressed – long cloak of turquoise with silver trim, black boots with a sharp heel. She has her Needle in hand and tells them without wait, ‘The Boreen Men have taken Flann.’

  ‘What?’ asks Luke.

  ‘Yes,’ says Lady Vane-Tempest, with a sour curl of the lips. ‘His own fault though, I say. Told the Major he knew how to speak the “lingo of the common man”. And then went marching off to negotiate with the Boreen Men! Usual story with Flann Dorrick: determined to make a hero of himself, ends up making a show of himself!’

  ‘So,’ says Fortflay, mouth making a grim smile, ‘one of the Driochta already taken hostage – hardly a promising beginning to negotiations.’

  ‘I think “hostage” is a little melodramatic,’ says Lady Mountfathom.

  ‘I quite agree,’ says Lady Vane-Tempest. ‘I can assure you – no being in their right mind would choose to have Flann Dorrick as a hostage!’

  ‘We need to speak with these Boreen Men, Major,’ says Lady Mountfathom.

  ‘They are beyond discussion or reasoning. My intelligence tells me that they have moved deep into the forest and are hiding in an abandoned Faerie Rath. They have barricaded themselves inside and no amount of pleasant chat is going to bring them out.’ And Major Fortflay turns away, shouts to his men, ‘Be ready! Stay alert! We can take no chances!’

  But Luke’s mother will not be ignored.

  ‘Major Fortflay, need I remind you of the second Cooperation Bill?’

  Fortflay stops.

  ‘I do not need a history lesson,’ he says, half-turning back to face Lady Mountfathom. ‘And I do not need laws quoted at me either. What I need is –’

  ‘Let me refresh your memory for the sake of clarity,’ says Luke’s mother, in that tone that her son so marvels at: somehow both soft and stern. ‘The bill states that the Driochta are to be allowed, in potentially violent or aggravated political circumstances, to serve as mediator between the present Government and any other party. I believe, therefore, that we have a duty and a right to attempt talks with the Boreen Men.’

  Luke watches the Major for reaction – hands tight at his side twitch towards fists, knuckles pale purple. His breath makes swift scraps of white in the air and he says with such coldness, ‘As you wish, my Lady. Go and speak with the troublemakers and malcontents. I shall give you one hour, and then my men shall storm the forest.’

  Luke asks, ‘Mother, should I Work any Spells to Seclude or Enclose us?’

  ‘So keen!’ says Lady Vane-Tempest.

  ‘I know,’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘Does it not take you back, Helena, to being thirteen years old and the heady empowering days when we first learned Magic? So ready to Work or weave Spells!’

  ‘I just want to help,’ says Luke.

  ‘Now don’t sulk,’ says his mother, and rubs a hand over his hair.

  ‘Just teasing,’ says Lady Vane-Tempest. ‘It is a very sensible thing to be so prepared.’

  Luke feels as though he has been somehow snubbed; promises himself that if the need arises, he will prove himself.

  Three of them move on through the trees: silver birch, branches snapped and some scorched, grim signs of the battle that forced the Boreen Men to retreat into the forest. All seems so simple to Luke, so clear: the behaviour of the Major and the Castle is wrong, the decision to hunt the Boreen Men down so abhorrent that he suggests, ‘Can we not simply Work some Spell to send the Gards away? Leave the Boreen Men alone?’

  ‘Surely,’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘And also start all-out war in the process.’

  ‘Would put a stop to things,’ says Luke.

  ‘For now,’ says Lady Vane-Tempest. ‘But do not forget, as our fool of a friend Flann Dorrick would say: consequences.’

  ‘One thing you should remember,’ says Luke’s mother, ‘is that violence and Magic cannot coexist. The Driochta may fight, but only when it is unavoidable. We fight only with a greater goal in mind. Remember the Third Principle, Luke – the value of knowing when to act, and when to restrain oneself.’

  Lady Vane-Tempest adds, ‘The day this land chooses battle and blood over discussion will be a sorry day for Magic, and a sorrier day for all in Ireland.’

  Luke recites his mother’s words to himself, attempts, as he does with so much, to learn and commit them to memory.

  ‘Not far now,’ says Lady Vane-Tempest.

  Luke sees no sign of the Rath yet. Wonders aloud, ‘How will we get into the Rath if they have it so well protected?’

  ‘Well now,’ says Lady Vane-Tempest, ‘I have an answer to that!’

  She says nothing more.

  They walk for another minute or more till suddenly Luke sees an ancient rowan standing tall at the centre of a small clearing. A Quicken Tree, thinks Luke. A species favoured by the extinct Faerie Folk.

  ‘Here now,’ says Vane-Tempest, and lays her hand on the trunk. Luke and his mother move close and, only just, discern a carving: two figures, both with human heads but the torsos and lower parts of foxes.

  ‘An entrance,’ says Luke. He recalls a woodcut illustration in a book he finished only two or three weeks before.

  ‘Continue,’ his mother tells him.

  ‘I read in The Lost Ways of Faerie that some colonies of the Folk could Mogrify, and so they used to create these small entrances that led into the Raths – they would transform into foxes or badgers or sometimes birds and get inside. Is that correct?’

  ‘Such a smart boy,’ says Lady Vane-Tempest.

  ‘No grown man could gain entry,’ says Lady Mountfathom, ‘but only an animal or one of the Folk who had Mogrified. Or, sometimes, a stray child.’

  And Luke knows what he must do, has no hesitation in saying, ‘I’ll go in. I’ll speak to the Boreen Men and do my best to get them to agree to some kind of discussion with Major Fortflay and the Castle.’

  ‘Such a brave boy too!’ says Lady Vane-Tempest.

  ‘Do you know how to bid the tree to open?’ asks Luke’s mother, as though this is all a test – something organised, contrived.

  And once more, no hesitation in Luke’s answer: ‘By whispering a wicked wish.’

  ‘Go right ahead,’ Lady Vane-Tempest tells him. ‘We shan’t listen!’

  So: Luke lays both hands on the trunk of the Quicken Tree, leans in close and in an intimate whisper offers, ‘If I could, I would Work a Spell to shrink Major Fortflay to the size of one of the Faerie Folk he destroyed and see how he likes it.’

  And the Faerie tree favours this confession – trunk instantly splits open as though on a sprung hinge! Opens onto nothing – cool cavity choked with a dripping darkness. Luke hesitates, wonders – realises he is slowly developing a sense for the presence of Spells, for the vestiges of Magic – and he senses something ahead, something perhaps already in the process of being Worked …

  ‘We do not have much time,’ says his mother urgently.

  ‘Good luck,’ says Lady Vane-Tempest.

  And Luke stoops and steps into the tree,
and discovers a muddy slope to start down. Soon on hands and knees he goes, and has less than a minute of light before the trunks shuts and he is lost to the dark.

  Luke could conjure a little light, but Spells of Illumination are temperamental. Any attempt Luke has made hasn’t done as bid: flared too bright, taken on a displeasing colour, fizzled and died. And so difficult to judge – he could mean to conjure only a tiny flicker and instead Work a forest fire! So best not to, not yet.

  Now suddenly the slope levels out and leaves him in a tunnel – Luke stands taller, scalp touching a damp ceiling sprouting whirls of feeble grey-white roots. He looks both ways. A stinging coldness rushes down the tunnel and makes him draw his cloak closer. And he walks in the direction the cold is coming from; is only minutes along when he hears shouts from somewhere ahead –

  ‘We’re only asking for our rights! Some basic rights for workers, that’s all we want!’

  ‘Not to be treated like animals!’

  ‘We need food to keep our families!’

  ‘Fourteen of us in my house in the tenements! Fourteen in a place with three rooms!’

  His tunnel takes a sudden turn, and now Luke is exposed to a chamber carved out of the earth, so throws himself to the wall and keeps still and thinks of Working some Seclusion but thinks again – any weaving of a hand might get him noticed. He watches.

  At the centre of the chamber: the rambling and heavy-knuckled roots of a tree, its furthermost tips hung with lanterns. One broad man stands nearest the roots and in the low light it is he who gees up two dozen (perhaps more? Hard to tell in the dimness) other men. ‘Are we gonna let them silence us now? Gonna let them lock us out of the city and force us to live rough like a pack of barbarians or Woodkernes?’

  Such roars! They bring the stutter of soil from the ceiling –

  ‘Not a bit of it!’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Not so long as I’ve got breath in me!’

  Luke sees men mucky in the face, clothes faded and boots split. But their spirits blazing. They shake hands and smack one another on the back and open dark mouths to roar as their leader shouts to them, ‘We are gonna go out there and show them we won’t be silenced! Show them what the Boreen Men are made of!’

  But Luke sees one not joining in: a figure folded on the ground with his knees dragged tight to his chest, and appearing appalled not just at the rabble around him but the state of his clothes.

  ‘Mr Dorrick,’ Luke whispers to himself.

  And as though he has been greeted aloud, Flann Dorrick looks up and sees Luke and says (too loud), ‘Oh, thank goodness.’

  Fool, thinks Luke, shrinking back into the shadows, but too late –

  The leader of the Boreen Men stops – his sight wanders and he sees Luke in the tunnel and straightaway shouts, ‘A bloody spy! Grab that boy there!’

  Luke lets himself be taken – thinks that any Spell now would only enrage the men further – so allows himself to be half-lifted and dragged towards the roots of the tree and the man in charge. Luke is dropped, stays there on his knees in the wet.

  ‘My name is Malone,’ says the leader, and waits. Has such blue and assessing eyes. Now shouts, ‘I’ve shown you some decency by introducing myself, so you should do the bloody same!’

  ‘Luke Mountfathom.’

  And of course, some shiver of recognition passes through the cavern.

  ‘One of the Driochta, is it?’ asks Malone.

  ‘Yes,’ says Luke. ‘I have come here to help start discussions between yourselves and the –’

  But barely gets beyond starting when the tumult rises once more –

  ‘The nerve of that bastard Fortflay!’

  ‘Who does he think he is sending this boy down here!’

  ‘Coward that he can’t face us himself!’

  ‘Quiet,’ says Malone, quietly. And the Boreen Men settle themselves. He turns to Luke. ‘Your father tried to help during the Lock Out – tried to get us back into the factories and back to work and earning even a measly crust. He tried to start discussions between us and the Castle and none of it did a button of good. We shall fight, and not give in!’

  ‘What is the alternative?’ says Flann Dorrick now. He stands, straightens his tie and tugs at his cuffs. ‘I mean really – it simply cannot go on like this. What you need to do is –’

  ‘We don’t need to do anything!’ shouts Malone.

  ‘No,’ says Luke, speaking before Dorrick can say another word. ‘You don’t need to, but would it not be better for all if you tried?’

  ‘We shall fight,’ says Malone. ‘Fight and not give in!’

  ‘You cannot keep fighting – Major Fortflay has a hundred Gards on the borders of the forest and if you do not enter into talks he will storm into this Rath and destroy all of you.’

  ‘Even he wouldn’t dare do that!’ says the leader of the Boreen Men, though some doubt sounds in his words.

  Luke tells him, ‘He will. He did it with the Gyants and the Good Folk and plenty of other creatures, and he will do it to you without thinking twice.’

  Luke stops. Wishes his words had more weight – that he could speak like his mother or father and have in him their special brand of authority. Yet as he watches he sees his words take some unexpected effect – as though he has uttered a Spell, the attitude of the men is shifting. Does he discern some softening in their looks?

  But Luke knows that all depends on the feelings of their leader.

  Malone rests a hand on Luke’s shoulder and says: ‘For the sake of my friends here and to stop their blood being shed, I shall go and do my best to reason with that gobshite of a Major.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ says Dorrick.

  ‘Not that it was anything that you did,’ says Malone, sharp once more. ‘It was this boy who spoke some sensible words, not you! I still don’t have trust in all this Magic, specially seeing as Fortflay has been organising for some extra power to be brought from across the water.’

  ‘What?’ asks Luke.

  ‘You know well he has favours he can call in from that Politomancer in Whitehall,’ says Malone.

  ‘That was simply a one-off,’ says Dorrick, stepping forward. ‘Mr Malone, when Magic was used to close the boundaries of Dublin and keep you out – that was merely a one-time request.’

  ‘Is that right?’ says Malone. ‘And how can you be so sure?’

  ‘We were promised,’ says Flann Dorrick, straightening his spine as much as it can be straightened in such a small space. ‘The word of Whitehall was given to the Order of the Driochta that no more Magic would be used without consultation with the Driochta! This is an absolute –’

  ‘Quiet,’ says Luke suddenly. He feels some change, some sure instinct that Magic is being Worked: same feeling as when he stood on the threshold of the Quicken Tree. Malone, though, pays no heed – is keen to go on, perhaps to further goad Dorrick on his ignorance.

  ‘Well, you were lied to, weren’t you? Did Fortflay not bother to say? Shame. He wrote to Whitehall two days ago and asked for some extra help; that Politomancer fella who helped during the war and used Spells to keep us out of the city would be very happy to send some more wickedness to try to finish us off!’

  The voice of another Boreen Man resounds in the gloom. ‘Malone! What the hell is that?’

  And before Luke can turn to see, his sense of impending Spell-Work tells him: It is here. Whatever dark Magic the Politomancer has Worked, it has arrived.

  ‘Stay back! Don’t touch it whatever you do!’ says Malone.

  Luke sees: from a second tunnel some dark mass is edging into the chamber – dark earth moving like a dark river, creeping with the languor of serpent, its surface full of a gentle writhing and twitching.

  ‘Don’t go near it, I said!’ cries Malone.

  But his comrades won’t listen: will not back away or be intimidated and they lift whatever instrument they can find – spade or shovel or blade – and face the darkness like it is something that c
an be beaten back.

  ‘We must leave,’ says Flann Dorrick, retreating towards the same tunnel Luke entered by. ‘We must get out of here now!’

  ‘No,’ says Luke. ‘We need to help them!’

  He sees: the dark tide touches one of the Boreen Men.

  A scream of such agony from the man as though he has been touched by fire!

  Slow tide that suddenly snatches at the man’s legs.

  And the Boreen Man is stopped, stilled as though petrified, as though stone, the darkness climbing his legs like a canker and spreading across his abdomen and chest as others try to free him and are infected too.

  Luke can think of no Spell to help and the space is too small to contain all the screaming as Flann Dorrick Mogrifies into a cheetah and takes Luke’s wrist in his jaws and drags him from the chamber –

  Luke turns to take a last look: sees Malone trying to supress his own screams as he attempts to wrestle free of the darkness, but in vain. Malone falls to his knees as his whole body is seized, transformed, skin darkened and enclosed and encrusted with earth. The leader of the Boreen Men starts to cave under the weight of the dark, to shrink – limbs being cracked and crammed close and closer to his body …

  Tunnel turns –

  Luke sees no more – only hears the final screams of the Boreen Men as the ceiling caves and the chamber collapses.

  Cry of Lady Vane-Tempest: ‘What happened? We heard such screams!’

  The trunk of the Quicken Tree is quick to release them. Luke falls to the ground, the cheetah of Flann Dorrick alongside him.

  ‘What happened?’ asks Lady Mountfathom, rushing to Luke, running her hands over his face. ‘I sensed some Magic being Worked – such a darkness of a Spell.’

  Luke chooses his words carefully, decides on the most important thing he must say to his mother. ‘Major Fortflay lied to us. He was never going to give us time to talk to the Boreen Men. He’s asked the Politomancer in Whitehall to help him – some Spell invaded the Rath and when it touched the Boreen Men it transformed them.’