The House of Mountfathom

by Nigel McDowell

Sensible my feckin eye! thinks Killian.

  And he decides there’s only one way out – takes a big breath, hopes for some of that good luck he always manages to find, and throws himself into the river.

  LUKE

  Distant cry from the Cailleach: ‘Cut them off! Don’t let them escape!’

  ‘I see at least one Spell has decided to be compliant!’ says Lady Mountfathom.

  Luke sees too: Smoke-Spun bridge not far ahead, still spanning the river that runs through the grounds of Goreland Hall. But it is faltering too – unravelling in pale and paler wisps to rise moonward. He leads cousin Rose and Aunt Nancy and his huffing and puffing Uncle Walter over, the smoke of the bridge hardly retaining their footprints but holding strong enough for the Driochta to cross. When all are on the other side, Lord Mountfathom whips the bridge out of existence with a casual hand.

  ‘Quickly now,’ says Luke’s father. ‘Make for that groundskeeper’s cottage near the gates.’

  Luke takes the chance to tell his father again: ‘I’m sorry. I –’

  ‘We shall talk of it later,’ says Lord Mountfathom.

  In the dark they discover the stone cottage and its small door with a rust-eaten lock. Luke’s mother slots her crimson key in and waits for the tell-tale sound –

  ‘You’re not getting away that easy!’

  The shout makes Luke turn first – Land Grabber in his no-longer neat suit raises his pistol and fires and it is Luke who is quickest to wave a hand to try to Dismiss the bullet but instead sends it astray –

  Uncle Walter shouts out and crumples.

  Aunt Nancy and Rose each take an arm to haul him up and Luke wonders how badly is he hurt? Will he be – ?

  More gunfire from more of the remaining Grabbers.

  Lord Mountfathom whips his Needle into the air and the river rises like a ribbon … he lets it remain and the eyes of the Land Grabbers widen to watch it … and then lets it fall – graceful and devastating, a smash of silver that snatches most of the men away like matchsticks.

  Now the longed-for sound – the high, singing note as the crimson key finds home.

  ‘Quickly!’ cries Lady Mountfathom, opening the door.

  More gunfire as Luke takes Rose’s hand and drags her through the dark doorway as she asks him, ‘Where are we going? What is this place?’

  And Luke answers –

  It is the Gloaming: the great unknown.

  And we are going home.

  Pen poised so elegantly above; only a single dark drop needed.

  You see, so much wisdom springs from so little.

  Like words riotous across a page – read quickly!

  And (whether it be great or grievous) watch some future unfold …

  Reflections on the Art of Mirror-Predicting

  Lady Helena Vane-Tempest

  LUKE

  ‘I do not care what your wonderful plan was, Mountfathom – you failed! And failure is failure no matter how you try to dress it up! You should be ashamed!’

  The reply of Lord Mountfathom is slow, and so delicate. ‘Major Fortflay, these things cannot be Worked quickly. Spells are complicated, and my colleagues and I did our utmost to save Goreland Hall. In the end, there were elements simply beyond our control.’

  But the Major bellows, ‘I thought you had ways of seeing the future!’

  ‘Only the immediate future,’ replies Luke’s father. ‘And it is not a precise art – these things would not have been interpretable on any mirror.’

  Fortflay gives a snort.

  Uneasy silence in The World; sighs and a restless shifting of limbs, a long night still not ended. Around an oval table, the Driochta face a tall mirror holding the face of Major Fortflay. He tells them, ‘I am running out of options of how best to deal with these rebels and Land Grabbers. I confess I simply do not know how to deal with you people!’

  Luke hears Lady Vane-Tempest whisper, ‘No change there.’

  Hears Flann Dorrick say, ‘Will he be finished soon? I’m exhausted …’

  But Luke isn’t a bit tired. Instead feels each moment as a passing opportunity; that he should speak up, explain the circumstances – the surprise of the Cailleach and the Indigo Fire, the determination of the Land Grabbers. He doesn’t want the Major to pass this casual blame. And Luke marvels at his father’s patience.

  ‘The point is this,’ says Lord Mountfathom, leaning forward, palms together, ‘the Reclamation Spells are not taking. The land of this island is now too much contested – the wish for independence in this country is too strong. With the political situation so much in turmoil we have to consider –’

  ‘No!’ says the Major. ‘The point is this: because of your ineptitude we’ve lost yet another House!’

  Luke chooses now to speak. ‘Might I add that what was lost was a much-loved family home. Goreland Hall belonged to my cousins and aunt and uncle.’

  ‘I do not see how that is of any particular importance,’ says Fortflay.

  ‘A Big House is a home as well anything else,’ says Luke. ‘All the Big Houses are linked, whether they know it or not. If they continue to be burned then the Driochta will continue to be concerned.’

  ‘Why?’ The Major pauses, almost scoffs. ‘Worried it might happen to yourselves?’

  Luke opens his mouth to speak but his father says, ‘Enough now, Luke.’

  Father and son share a glance. Luke sinks back in his chair, into reluctant silence.

  ‘Listen,’ says the Major. ‘There are tempers flaring up everywhere across this island – Belfast wasn’t far off a warzone last night. So while you sit comfy in your cosy House reading your books and getting cream teas brought to you, I am in the thick of it here. I need to know I can rely on people! I need my soldiers not mild-mannered but merciless if needs be.’

  ‘Two of our number are keeping watch on the Dragon Coast,’ says Lord Mountfathom, and in his father’s tone Luke hears a slight quiver of exhaustion. ‘The Halters are endeavouring to ensure that the Ash-Dragons are not woken and recruited by the Land Grabbers. Our numbers, therefore, are somewhat reduced.’

  ‘Yet another excuse!’ says Fortflay.

  Lord Mountfathom opens his mouth for more words, but it is Luke’s mother who says, ‘Major Fortflay, the Order of the Driochta have endeavoured always to keep the peace. We were there to offer help during the Great Hunger; we acted as ambassadors and brokers to establish the Land Bill; we attempted to heal the deep scars caused when your soldiers destroyed the Faerie Raths and purged this island of the Gyants. We offered our services during the aftermath of the Lock Out as we tried to negotiate with Boreen Men – we were ignored in favour of some wicked Magic from across the water. Always we have mediated and discussed and advised and resolved. And – if we deem it necessary and utterly unavoidable – we will fight. But what we will not do is thoughtlessly slaughter. To put it in simple terms, good sir: we are not soldiers.’

  Pale face of Major Fortflay goes tight.

  Luke feels the satisfaction of the Driochta, their pride in Lady Mountfathom!

  And for some moments – silence.

  Fortflay’s mouth finds some slack and he spits, ‘I don’t need a history lesson.’

  ‘It was not a lesson,’ says Lady Mountfathom, staying so calm, so sympathetic. ‘I was merely seeking to make our position clear. And, on these clear terms, I hope we can continue to work together in the best interests of the people of this country?’

  ‘Look now,’ says the Major once more, face already beginning to fade from the mirror, ‘my concern is keeping the peace and defending the honour of our monarch. And it is your job to use your hocus-pocus to help. There is little enough Magic left in this island and, as far as I can tell, most of it is in your hands to use. But if you can’t fulfil that duty, then I may need to look elsewhere.’

  Luke leans forward to ask, ‘Meaning what, Major?’ Yet knows already: the dark Magic Fortflay has been employing from across the water. Thinks: what more of this will there be?
>
  ‘Meaning this, lad: there are more persuasive types of Magic we may have to consider employing.’ Fortflay allows some moments of silence, of a slow sinking-in. And as dawn at last seeps into Mountfathom, the Major departs with these words: ‘I must do what is necessary to stamp out these rebellions, whatever the cost and by whatever means. I shall not stand by and see this island overrun. And I would be wary, if I were you – nowhere is safe from these Land Grabbers. No one can sit on the fence in this war. Soon you’ll have to decide where you stand.’

  KILLIAN

  ‘Waken up now.’

  A slosh of frigid water in the face and a tap-slap on each cheek and he opens his eyes. And without thought or wondering, only on innate instinct – Killian starts fighting. From sitting to standing in seconds with fists flying, ready to take on all comers! But too quick off the mark, it turns out – a bubble of nausea swells in his skull and makes him blunder into a wall and bang his forehead on something low-hanging. He feels the floor tip beneath him but before he topples is caught, and strong arms steer Killian back to a low stool.

  The same voice as earlier tells him, ‘Calm down a bit, lad. You came very close to death last night, so I’d take it easier if I were you.’

  Killian closes his eyes: shivers, hears his own frantic heartbeat like private thunder. He wets his lips and asks, ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Safe,’ says a voice. ‘That’s all you need to know for now.’

  ‘I’ve got rights,’ says Killian (knows all the lines, been well rehearsed by his father). ‘You can’t just lock me up without evidence! I’m only a child so you can’t just –’

  ‘Save it,’ says the man. ‘I’m no Peeler. Far from it.’

  Killian senses this someone standing close. He smells tobacco smoke and something else – can’t place it, reminds him of the fireside at home when it was lit in winter. So he asks again, ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Dogged little thing,’ says the voice, sounding amused. ‘You’re on a turf-barge heading inland.’

  ‘Why did you – ?’

  All Killian manages – again the floor shifts and his hands snap out to hold tight to the stool. He decides, I need to see. So he half-opens his eyes and sees some of the cramped space he sits in. Everything has a grey-blue tinge, and he guesses it’s only early morning. Killian strains his senses further: hears water breaking against the barge and then hush-rushing away, a sluggish progress but still enough to make his stomach sick. Some trace of blessed breeze though – a window has been drawn back to let in fresh cold.

  ‘Where you taking me?’ asks Killian.

  ‘On a little trip,’ says the man. ‘To a rather fine old residence. Going to pay a visit to an old friend. To some people who think they are our superiors.’ It sounds again to Killian like the man is smiling to himself.

  ‘Why did you bring me?’ asks Killian.

  ‘We plucked you out of the Lagan,’ says the man. ‘And I took a guess you wouldn’t want to be facing those Peelers that were after you.’

  Killian knows his next line. ‘Them Peelers got the wrong man. They thought I was thieving but I –’

  ‘No lies,’ snaps the man. ‘That’s the first and only rule I’m going to make. Otherwise you make fools of both of us. I know your da. I know that you and him have a habit for thieving, so no use trying to tell me any untruths.’

  Fine, thinks Killian. Fine and well; if you want to play like that –

  ‘I don’t take orders from nobody. And my da is gonna be looking for me so you better –’

  ‘Your da won’t be looking for a single soul,’ says the man. ‘My guess is he’s currently sitting pretty in a cell somewhere. I was told very reliably that he was picked up by the Peelers, full drunk.’

  Killian sees a bit clearer now – the man sits across from him on another low stool, a crooked smoke smouldering between his lips. ‘You know an awful lot for some turf-cutter,’ says Killian.

  ‘Something told me you were sharper than all this,’ says the man. His words make the cigarette wag in his mouth. ‘I said we were on a turf-barge, but that don’t mean I spend my time cutting the stuff, does it?’

  And the next thing that happens is a thing that Killian is sure he must be imagining – the man weaves a hand in the air and the blue-grey smoke unfurling from his cigarette twists and shapes itself into a set of jaws and a snout and long ribbon of a body. It does a quick whirl around the man’s head, and then dissipates.

  Christ, thinks Killian, must’ve hit my head some knock when I fell in the Lagan!

  The man laughs a little, and his smile is wide as he says, ‘I think we’re going to get along well. You know why? For some reason you remind me of my son.’

  And Killian sees more clearly now: the man across from him has dark eyes deep in a white face, and a head of faded hair.

  LUKE

  ‘Why can I not come along?’

  ‘You would do well to rest now, Luke. You are tired, I am sure – you have not slept. And we need someone at Mountfathom to keep watch on things.’

  ‘I want to come – I wish to help.’

  ‘And you will be helping greatly by remaining here, son.’

  Luke has come to the Seasonal Room to confront his father – Lord Mountfathom stands with his back to his son, filling a leather satchel with books and materials for Spell-Work. Morning sunlight is given a different quality at the four Spell-Worked windows of the room: cold, golden, bright, breezy. And father and son stand in separate and adjoining seasons – Luke choosing winter, Lord Mountfathom busy in autumn.

  Luke says with his head down, ‘I know it is because I failed at the Reclamation Spell.’

  His father sighs.

  ‘Should I escort the young master to his room?’ asks Mr Findlater. The manservant is hovering between spring and summer.

  ‘I can escort myself,’ says Luke. ‘I know where my own bedroom is, sir.’

  ‘Findlater,’ says Lord Mountfathom, before anyone else can speak. ‘Could you please be so kind as to go to the library and fetch my copy of The Worship Ways of Spell-Work?’

  Findlater remains for a moment. Bob-bows a little, and leaves the room (thinks Luke) with such slow reluctance. Soon as the door of the Seasonal Room has shut –

  ‘Always wants to know what is going on,’ says Luke. ‘Always hanging around and listening.’

  ‘It does us no good to start complaining of the habits of the staff,’ says Lord Mountfathom.‘I know you are keen to play your part,’ says his father, turning back to his books, his packing. ‘And you are an invaluable help on our errands, but now things are becoming more complicated – you know this.’

  ‘Is Mother going?’

  ‘Your mother has already departed into the Gloaming – she and Lady Vane-Tempest are going to meet with the families of the five largest Big Houses in the South. They are going to help strengthen their Spells of Seclusion and Security.’

  ‘And where are you going to?’ asks Luke.

  ‘I will travel to the monks.’ Lord Mountfathom faces his son, and for a moment Luke feels sorry for his mood – he sees on his father’s face such fatigue. ‘I shall speak to them and try to convince them that we need their help now.’

  Father and son come together.

  ‘Luke, this is not the end of anything,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘I know it can seem that way – I remember that feeling well from my own boyhood. But it is only a time. All things change, and we must do our best to decide how we can adapt to that change.’

  ‘What should I do in the meantime?’ asks Luke.

  ‘Take some time to think and to learn a little more. And to appreciate Mountfathom. Remember: whilst your mother and I are absent, you are the Lord here.’

  A knock on the door as Mr Findlater returns with the requested volume.

  Lord Mountfathom says, ‘This House is in your care, and all within it. There are things we cannot know, shadows we must keep careful watch on. Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Lu
ke.

  ‘Here is the book you asked for,’ says Mr Findlater, and the manservant steps between father and son.

  And Luke thinks to himself, Yes – I understand very well indeed.

  KILLIAN

  In the afternoon, they idle by a waterside pub. He is allowed fried whiting and stout and knows he is being buttered up like a burned crumpet, but doesn’t care. Only knows that he needs to keep himself sharp. The man from the barge has introduced himself only as a ‘Mr Gassin’ (some fake name, Killian knows. Wouldn’t expect anything else). And they sit together outside the pub, on two barrels, watching other barges shunt by. And Killian asks his questions.

  ‘What’s this place called we’re going to?’

  ‘No names are needed,’ says Mr Gassin.

  ‘Then tell me why we’re going.’

  ‘To teach some people a lesson; you don’t need to know any more.’

  Killian doesn’t like not knowing but stays silent.

  There are two other lads nearby who Mr Gassin is calling ‘the muscle’. Not much muscle on them, Killian reckons – red haired, pair of them only a little older than himself – but they know how to work a barge and have been seeing to the business of getting them to wherever they’re going.

  Killian makes a guess. ‘You have a score you want to settle?’

  Mr Gassin takes a sup of his stout. Says, ‘Aye, but not just for me – for a whole lot of people.’

  ‘You can do Magic,’ says Killian. ‘What you did earlier with the smoke from that fag – that a Spell or what?’

  Mr Gassin lets out a big sigh and says, ‘Have you ever felt you should be better off, boy? I’m sure you have. You’re a smart lad. I’m sure that if you were given the chance, you could do better by yourself. Talent should never go to waste. We should all have a chance to maybe make a better way in the world, don’t you think?’

  Killian nods. Thinks of his father and his constant scheme for betterment. ‘Aye,’ he says. ‘I know that feeling.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you,’ says Mr Gassin, ‘there used to be a time not that long ago when Magic wasn’t just for the posh sorts of this island but for everybody. Anybody at all could learn a Spell! Fishwife or farmer, no odds what you were! Anyone at all! Including myself.’