Luke watches through the smallest sliver of space – sees indeed his mother and father’s feet passing by. They are moving slowly. And he moves just as slowly on hands and knees back towards the lagoon.
‘Stay here a minute,’ he tells Rose.
‘No, stay with me!’ she says, and snatches up his hand. ‘Let’s stay here a bit longer, pretend it is still like it used to be.’
Luke says very calmly, ‘I just need to know where my parents are going. I’ll not be long. Please now?’
Slowly, she lets him go. Says as though it still a game, ‘Good luck! Come back safe!
Luke sets off.
When he returns to the bank of the lagoon, the air around him is darker – swollen grey clouds move slowly across the sky, stealing sight of the sun. And he sees standing on the other side of the lagoon – a man with dark eyes and a pale face and faded hair. It looks to Luke like the same man who three years before stood on the Isle of Solitude and tried to kill him and Rose. And Luke’s first instinct would be fear – to raise the alarm and cry for help – if he did not also see his mother and father standing beside the man with faded hair. They are talking to him.
Luke watches.
They stand near the statue of King Glotsickel, the last King of the Faeries.
And Luke still watches and waits and wishes he could hear what was being said. He wonders, has the man with faded hair broken into Mountfathom? Fought through their Spells of Seclusion and Security? Is he to be reasoned with? Are Lady and Lord Mountfathom trying, as always, to be diplomatic and peacemaking – perhaps helping their home to escape the fate of the other Big Houses?
One thing Luke notices about the man though: he looks almost defeated. Is smaller perhaps, or does he imagine that from such a distance? Older? Sadder. Has all the melancholy aspect of one of the Traces. Or worse – of a ghost. And suddenly Luke wonders, Is it in fact the same man from that afternoon on Loughreagh? Decides in an instant: No. He looks more like a boy.
And the dragonflies continue to dance, robbed of bright colour by dark sky.
A breeze rattles the boughs of the golden willow and suddenly –
A rustle of thunder –
A scream –
Rose runs from the rhubarb shouting, ‘You said you wouldn’t be long!’
The scream makes Lord and Lady Mountfathom and the boy with faded hair look across the lagoon. Luke feels a shiver in his bones, as deep and uncanny as when the voice of the Monster spoke to him in the Gloaming.
And it begins to rain.
‘Is the game over now?’ asks Rose.
Luke turns to her. Says, ‘No, the game is not over.’
And turns back – his mother and father and the boy have gone.
‘No, Rose – I think the game is just about to begin.’
PART THREE
THE WITHERING
Disputed Land: undoubtedly the most disagreeable when responding to Spells.
On a whim will take whatever damnable allegiance it likes!
Or stubbornly decide to take no allegiance at all …
Guide to Agrarian Spells
(Lesson XVII: When Spells Refuse to Take)
Lawrence Devine
LUKE
Watch closely now.
A single starling settles on a windowsill. Restless thing, hops along and along, looking anxious and peering through the smudged pane. But the inside of Goreland Hall is the same as out – only dark. Starling’s head is a twitch of curiosity, a ceaseless left-right-left-right-left … sudden stop.
A clock somewhere inside groans twelve.
And the starling becomes a boy.
All happened so suddenly one morning at Mountfathom. Luke awoke before dawn and felt instant excitement, leapt from bed and ran to the window and this time did not bundle himself onto the sill to sit, but instead twisted the latch. Waited some moments, Morrigan regarding him from the bed – sceptical cat, eyes half-shut, head barely raised. And then Luke was gone – off through the window and away …
In the weeks since, he has taken well to Mogrifying – each time easier, taking pleasure in becoming something other than what he is.
Now: window is luckily off the latch, so out on the windowsill Luke elbows it open and stretches one leg through. His foot finds the floor firm enough so he brings the second long leg alongside. He stands and listens; some sound from downstairs? From the front drawing room – sound of laughter and scuffing of boot against bare boards?
He thinks, Now, quick! Need to get to work …
His coat starts to squirm and he fumbles open two brass buttons and out pours a cat the colour of smoke. It lands soundlessly as he puts a finger to his lips for Shh! The cat gives him a bland look, starts to wash herself.
‘You do lookout,’ says Luke. ‘Give me a signal if you spy anything, Morrigan. That agreed?’
The cat gives only a lazy wave of the tail. But eventually consents; ups and pads off to stand sentry by the door.
Goreland Hall is not like Luke remembers it – his trips here to visit his cousins and aunt and uncle are part of a drifting, fading and almost obsolete past. But this is his mission: he must tether it, try to save and restore it. And with the other Driochta working in the grounds, busy in the dark, he knows what is expected of him.
So from his coat Luke takes a leather notebook and sharp charcoal pencil. Inside the notebook: pages already torn loose in preparation. He kneels and lays the sheets out like cards – one, two, three, four, five … five chances for the Reclamation to take, five chances to save Goreland Hall from the Land Grabbers. To save Uncle Walter, Aunt Nancy, Rose.
‘Now,’ he says to himself. ‘Let’s keep everything crossed that this works. Right, Morrigan?’
The cat gives him no kind of look.
‘There’s the spirit,’ he says. ‘Stay alert. Let us hope we don’t get discovered too soon.’
Luke settles the dark point of the pencil on the first sheet of paper and slowly starts to draw his Spell.
KILLIAN
Something desperate in somewhere dark; a handful of damp newspaper smashes a window, and in snakes a hand to flick the latch free.
Has to be done, he thinks. Needs must!
The boy is inside and across the shop floor in a couple of seconds. Silent on bare feet, he goes straight for the rack of cigarettes. He knows the old man owner lives above with the wife and two plain, polite daughters – knows that if he’s caught this time he’ll be for the children’s home.
A voice outside says, ‘Stop hanging about, son! Hurry up!’
His father (poor fella) has a gammy leg so is waiting outside. Will soon have to retire from the business of thieving altogether, so he’s trying to get his son trained up well. ‘I don’t intend to spend my last days on some street begging for smokes,’ the father said to the son before they set out. ‘You’re the one who’s gonna have to look after me!’
The boy in the dark shop also takes a copy of a Dodgy Dom comic and two big bars of Bryce’s chocolate and –
Father says, ‘Would you come on?’
The boy stops – sees a shadow on the staircase. Surely the shadow of the old man owner and shadow of a shivering rifle in his hands and the owner shouts, ‘I’ve had enough of this! Fifth time this year and I’ve had enough. Do you hear me, lad? I’m going to put an end to it and I don’t care what happens!’
The boy says plainly, ‘Look, times are hard in Belfast. And sure I’m only ten years old!’ (A lie: he is fifteen.) ‘And I’m only stealing these bits for me mam because she’s fierce unwell, Mister!’ (Another lie: his mother has been in Heaven since he was two and three-quarters.)
‘I don’t care a damn! You’ve no bloody right!’
And the shadow of the owner steps towards the boy called Killian, rifle raised and sure as anything ready to fire and put a stop to it all once and forever!
LUKE
A pistol pressed tight to his temple and a voice tells him, ‘Don’t you move a feckin muscle!’ Luke i
s still crouched with his charcoal pencil and one sheet of paper remaining. ‘Gimme that!’ Pencil snatched and snapped, paper taken and torn and Luke feels the Reclamation Spell slowly dissipate – an hour of work wasted! And thanks to Morrigan for no warning! He thinks, Where is that lazy cat, anyway?
Pistol presses again at his skull and the same voice asks, ‘What the hell are you doing here? Get up!’
No choice but to rise.
‘Look me in the eye!’ shouts the voice.
Luke turns; too dark to see the fullness of a face, he sees only eyes wide above an open mouth and bared teeth. Pistol is prodded into Luke’s belly and the eyes look him up and down and the mouth says, ‘You’re very well turned out here, aren’t you now? Big warm coat and heavy boots and all. Look to me like another Lord of the bloody Manor!’
A shout from downstairs. ‘What’s going on up there? Who is it?’
Man with the pistol shouts, ‘It’s a lad! Dunno how the hell he got in!’
‘Well, is he for the Free State or against?’
Another, calmer, voice from below. ‘Just bring him down.’
Jab of the pistol to Luke’s stomach. ‘You heard the man – let’s go!’
KILLIAN
Simple as this: the boy is quicker than the old man owner.
He drops the chocolate and cigarettes and comic and grabs the barrel of the rifle but it goes off and blows a hole somewhere behind his shoulder. There is screaming from upstairs – owner’s wife and two lovely daughters in a terror. Screaming too from Killian’s father who is screaming nothing helpful. ‘For Godsake get the better of him, son! Come on or the Peelers’ll be here!’
Killian thinks, Thanks for the advice, Da!
He wrestle-wrenches the rifle from the owner and at the same time sends the old man sprawling onto the shop floor, and as he falls, there’s a sound of a thwack-crack – skull against stone floor. And the owner goes still, doesn’t move. Killian watches him.
‘What the hell are you doing gawping!’ shouts the boy’s father. ‘Come on! The Peelers are busy elsewhere but with our luck they’ll probably turn up especially to collar us! And don’t forget them fags.’
But Killian crouches and puts his hand on the shop owner’s chest, same way he did when he found his mother cold on that cold morning. But this time is different – he feels the jerk of a stubborn enough old heart and breathes a bagful of relief.
A sudden blast right by his ear just misses him!
A new shadow on the staircase – the wife with another shotgun and she’s shouting, ‘You bloody murdered my husband! You thieving little –’
All else lost in rifle shots as Killian snatches up the cigarettes and runs for the window and feels broken glass graze palm and sole and thigh as he squirms out into the air, his father grabbing him by the arms and dragging him free saying, ‘You’re a halfwit if ever there was one, lad!’ Father takes the fags and jams them into his pocket. Killian hears the sound of a whistle. Alarm raised for the police? Or just the continuing sing from the gunshot that almost took his ear off?
‘See now?’ says his father. ‘The Peelers! Come on, quick! Run for it!’
LUKE
So many voices shouting –
‘That joke for a Government in Dublin think they can outsmart us?’
‘This is our land and we’re taking it back fair and bloody square!’
‘Who sent you, anyway?’
‘Who are you here with?’
‘I said WHO bloody sent you?’
Luke surrounded. Moonlight shows Luke how many? Maybe twenty, maybe more …
‘What are we gonna do with you then?’ says the man with the pistol.
Luke says nothing. He stands now in the old drawing room – remembers it well enough from his few visits to Goreland Hall when he was young. Familiar faces in photographs. He sees signs that this Land Grabber occupation has been days long at least: blankets for bedding across sofas and chairs, family portrait over the fireplace used for a dartboard, stack of empty bottles, furniture broken for use as a barricade against the tall windows.
Someone suggests, ‘Tie him up with the family?’
Luke feels he should speak so he says, ‘I came here to help.’
The men swear-heckle-mock –
‘Help!’
‘Help?’
‘Bloody help yourself!’
Luke starts, ‘I only wish to –’
But gets a boot in the small of his back and falls on his face on the marble fireplace. A pair of placid-looking caryatids propping up the mantelpiece peers down at him.
Man with the pistol says, ‘Bit rough for you? Well, how ’bout let’s reunite you with some of your own kind? The endangered species!’
Sound of scuffling and more men arrive from the hall – at gunpoint they have Uncle Walter and Aunt Nancy and cousin Rose. Their faces are darkened by bruise and blood. Luke’s instinct is to call out to Rose, but he keeps silent. Only watches as Uncle Walter gets the same blow to the back of the legs as Luke and he topples. Aunt Nancy and Rose crouch down beside but don’t cower.
‘Now look!’ says the man with the pistol. ‘You’re all together!’
And only now does Aunt Nancy notice her fifteen-year-old nephew – boy she hasn’t seen in three years. Recognises, but is shrewd enough not to say. Instead she gets some sudden steel and shouts, ‘This is our House! And even if it wasn’t, you could have the decency to let us go and not keep us here for your amusement! What good is it doing?’
Some sniggering amongst the men and the one with the pistol says, ‘We’re going to keep you here in order to send a message, your Ladyship!’
The other men all about agree with –
‘Lady Muck and her thief of a husband!’
‘Too right! Bloody thieves!’
‘You’ve had it too long your own way! Setting whatever rent you like!’
‘Living here in the lap of luxury and us all going without!’
Man circling with his pistol says, ‘It’ll show the others in their Big Houses that we won’t be beat! We’re not going to let this matter go, you see. We’re not going to just roll over like obedient dogs and –’
‘Oh, give over!’ shouts cousin Rose. She looks as fierce as her mother. ‘The other Houses are all being burned out! Why not just get on with it? You’re only hiding here so you don’t have to be out fighting! Cowards!’
Aunt Nancy says, ‘Rose!’
Luke notices Uncle Walter hasn’t moved.
And no laughter now.
The man with the pistol makes way for another – larger, with the build of a double bass, dressed in a neat suit and tie and clean shirt. All business, he kneels by Rose and Aunt Nancy and says, very clearly and as mild as May, ‘It is simple as this – we are the ones in charge of this House now. We shall stay as long as we like because it is our House by right and always has been – it belongs to a fully independent Ireland. And when we’ve finished, when we’ve done with these rooms, we shall leave it to stand or we shall burn it to the ground. And I promise you this – if I feel like it, I shall leave you inside to burn with it.’
KILLIAN
‘Hurry up, in the name of God, or you’ll be caught!’
‘I am hurrying!’
‘Bloody fool of a boy.’
‘You try running with a foot and leg cut to bits!’
‘Not my fault, is it?’
Two shadows: son trying to keep pace beside father.
And behind, some other shadow in determined pursuit with a shrill whistle going off and a voice between times calling, ‘Stop! Stop where you stand! Thieves!’
Father: ‘Bloody Peelers. Have they not better things to be doing with all the fighting tonight? This way, son!’
Sharp turn by St George’s Market, Killian lagging with a stitch in his side and bleeding free from too many places. He spies smoke and climbing fire only a few streets away and wonders what more trouble they’re running towards.
Shriek of a whi
stle still and, ‘Thieves! Stop, thieves!’
‘He’s not for giving up, Da!’
Father calls back, ‘In here, quick!’
Gap in the locked gate of the market takes the skinny shape of Killian’s father but the boy himself is too far behind and the Peeler too close – if he stops to slip inside he’ll be caught and is no fit state for fighting.
‘Wait!’ the son shouts to his father. ‘Wait on me!’
No use – he knows his father will have mingled with the shadows so expertly … always can when the need is there.
And that Peeler behind – ‘Stop! Don’t move! Thief!’
‘Thieves’ now ‘thief’ and Killian thinks, On me bloody own now, like always!
‘Come here, you Lagan Rat!’
A hand lands on the scruff of his shirt but the boy twists away – is injured but still willing to spit-thump-kick-bite if he has to. But he sees this Peeler up close and sees how fat he is around the middle and Killian only has to smack him once on the face and is released – easy escape and he’s off!
‘Stop! Stop, thief!’
Ah, give over, you fat fool, thinks Killian.
He abandons one street for another, down an alleyway and turns a corner –
Into such heat and noise!
Onto a packed street with so many Peelers on one side and on the other side so many men hollering and smashing shop windows and flinging fire inside, finding stones and mortar and shattered bricks to hurl at the police.
And Killian stands between – stranded in the middle of the riot not knowing which way now to run.
LUKE
‘See anything?’
‘Nah – nothing more. No movement.’
‘Good. Keep your eyes sharp though.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Land Grabbers at the windows with rifles are watchful and wary of the dark.
Luke watches all with a mind clogged with questions. Where are his parents and the other Driochta? Have they had enough time to lay their own Spells? Will the Reclamation even take without him working to secure it?
The House of Mountfathom Page 10
