‘I don’t know,’ says Luke. ‘I was thinking – perhaps we should speak to each of the staff? See if they know anything?’ He sees his father pause so adds, ‘It may not have been intentional on their part. They may have let slip some information that allowed the Spells to be compromised. That is my theory.’
Under moonlight, they stop and face one another.
Lord Mountfathom allows some moments, and Luke knows his father is showing (attempting?) due respect to his son’s words; is doubtful of them, but giving them polite consideration. Now Lord Mountfathom says, ‘Luke, I understand your concerns. I would say your assumptions are both logical and sound; however, if we start interrogating the staff, that may only worsen matters.’
‘How?’ asks Luke. ‘How else can we get at the truth?’
‘Things are in a sensitive state,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘Feelings are running high. Not just here but everywhere in this country. We do not wish to alienate the people we have come to see as family. We cannot risk making enemies of those within our protection.’
‘I realise that,’ says Luke, and some note of impatience rises in his voice, ‘but Nanny Bogram was my family too and no one protected her. And now –’ his voice breaks a little, ‘– she is dead.’ He looks at the wall – they have reached the tunnel that leads to Loughreagh, the opening visible only to those within the protection of Mountfathom. But –
‘This is how they got in,’ says Luke suddenly.
‘Yes,’ says his father. ‘I believe that is so.’
‘It was the same man who was on the causeway that day,’ says Luke now.
‘You cannot be sure of that,’ says his father. Lord Mountfathom raises his Needle in his right hand – a low, whining note, a slow Conducting and from the ground burst a row of saplings that sprout branches that knot and twist and bind together tight to cover the opening in the wall. Somehow, the sight saddens Luke – this recoiling from the world and further retreat, this necessary withdrawal. His father tells him, ‘All we can be sure of is that we need to be vigilant. Now, tell me what else you think we need here?’
Luke senses, knows, there is something his father is not telling him. But – ‘Messengers,’ he says.
His father nods.
Luke raises his hands and speaks a Spell to Summon a pair of tall, indistinct female figures – almost invisible under moonlight, and Luke thinks them the most substantial he has yet managed.
Father thinks so too. ‘Well done.’
Luke moves towards the Messengers and whispers the command to the women, a bidding they are Magically bound to act on. ‘If these Spells of Security fade – should this tunnel be opened for any reason – find me and inform me.’
Both figures nod, and further fade. Luke doubts that even a member of the Driochta would be able to detect their presence.
‘Now to other matters,’ says Luke’s father. He has his hands in his pockets and his gaze is fixed on the far-off. ‘I have spoken to the boy called Killian, and he has told me what I believe is the truth: that he was picked up in Belfast and brought here because he is an expert in breaking-and-entering. Luke, I should tell you that it is my intention to keep him here.’
‘Why? He helped those men. He was the one who –’
‘There is no sense at all in sending him from us. He has seen too much; knows too much. We must be sensible. I believe it better that he stay here.’
‘So we are to have an expert thief in the House?’
Lord Mountfathom looks at his son.
‘He is also a child, Luke. Scarcely older than you. And just as you have known only the light and colour of Mountfathom, he has known only the darker places of the world.’
‘Are you saying it is not his fault?’
Lord Mountfathom doesn’t offer a reply.
And Luke understands his father’s intention now –
‘You want me to befriend this boy? Treat him like he belongs here?’
‘Yes,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘As we would do with any other – we must show him understanding, and give him somewhere where he can feel safe. That is your task.’
‘Why?’ asks Luke. ‘Is this instead of accompanying the Driochta on missions? To babysit?’
‘It is my express wish.’
‘But, Father – why take such a risk in keeping him? He might betray us.’
It feels to Luke a long time before his father replies, before the Lord of Mountfathom offers an answer that Luke feels is full of such wistful wishing: ‘I have hope, son. I believe people can change. And I believe we need all the allies we can find.’ Luke’s father moves on with a renewed vigour, casting Spells left and right that hover like a low haze in the air. He tells his son, ‘Our priority now is one of survival, for us and for those we care about most! As you said yourself – if we within Mountfathom are divided, then like a poison it will wither our every Spell. And trust me now: if that day comes, there will be no Magic on this island that will be able to protect us.’
KILLIAN
A tap on the shoulder wakes him. Killian, snoozing, forgets where he is: shoots out of his seat like he’s about to be stabbed, full of shouting. ‘Get back! Leave me be or else!’
When he sees only the boy called Luke standing in front of him he calms a bit. Now feels suddenly vulnerable so attacks again. ‘Could’ve given me a bit of warning before you woke me!’
Luke says, ‘I am to look after you. I’ll show you to one of our rooms.’
‘Kind of you!’ says Killian. ‘Sleeping in a chair could destroy a good man’s back!’ He feels fully awake (too awake, if there’s such a thing) – highly-strung and quick-tempered and on edge. He keeps talking, wants to keep attention away from himself, ‘You must be wrecked, keeping yourself up so late.’
‘Not at all,’ says Luke. ‘I don’t sleep much even on normal nights. Especially not tonight.’ Luke’s mouth makes a shape like he might want to say more, but won’t allow himself. Simmers with resentment, but refuses to show it.
So, thinks Killian, not only obedient but polite to a fault too!
He says to the boy, ‘Well, then, lead on, good sir! Give me the guided tour.’
LUKE
And Killian exclaims at everything! Is full of questioning –
‘What kinda corridor is this?’
‘What’s that a picture of? Is that in Ireland?’
‘Which direction are we facing now?’
‘That can’t be a real creature!’
‘How many rooms are there in this place?’
‘Look at the size of that thing! What is it?’
And despite all, Luke likes to give answers. Slowly, he tells –
‘It’s called The Gallery of Learning.’
‘That is a painting of an Irish elk.’
‘We are heading now into the western wing of the House.’
‘That Griffin was created by my mother – she enjoys strange taxidermy.’
‘About one hundred and thirty rooms, but we haven’t counted in a while.’
‘That’s a shell from a giant tortoise. Father found it on the beach when he was in the army and they went to the Galapagos.’
Into the Entrance Hall and –
‘Jaysus! The size of them bloody stairs!’
Killian races to the staircase and starts climbing and shouting and enjoying the echo that bounces his words back and forth. ‘It goes up and on forever (ever-ever)! Is that a big glass dome (dome-dome)?’
‘It was designed by my great-great-grandfather Frederick,’ says Luke. Finds himself following quickly after. ‘Galway marble! Two hundred and fifty-two steps from top to bottom!’
Killian swears, loudly.
Luke stops mid-step.
They listen as the echo of Killian’s word goes on and embarrassingly on.
Killian says, ‘Sorry there. Is there more stuffed animals or things like that?’
Luke wonders how much he has given away of himself – is the boy playing him? He asks cautious, ‘Are
you at all interested in animals?’
‘Course!’ says Killian. ‘Who wouldn’t be – better than humans! I’d rather have a dog than my old da any day.’
Luke decides. ‘In that case, I know the room you need to stay in.’
KILLIAN
He has discovered that people like to feel they know you. If they think they have you all worked out they relax a bit – they let you in. And this young fella, thinks Killian, needs to be won over. So he decides to tell his usual tale.
‘To tell you the truth, Luke, I wasn’t born in Belfast. Nope, wasn’t always a townie. Was actually born in the countryside near Dublin. Reared in a field! Brought up in the backend of beyond! Not like this though – it was rough as hell. Mam died when I was one year old. No siblings. Me father was a clerk for a big tea-merchant in Belfast so we moved there. But he wasn’t a wise man, my da. He was framed for stealing money even though he never would’ve stolen a sweet. But when the Peelers turned up it was his name all over the dockets! He got the boot from the company and he couldn’t deal with the shame so he jumped in the Lagan and that was that.’
They stop on the first floor.
Luke watches him.
Killian has to suppress a shout of, ‘It’s the truth! Honest!’ He’s told this story so many times and thinks he has it perfect – just enough detail of place and age, and he reckons the bit about his da being a tea-merchant a fine bit of invention. Good dollop of tragedy too to make it all sound like he’s been a helpless ‘victim of circumstance’ (one of his father’s favourite phrases). But this boy, he doesn’t seem to be buying it.
Luke says, ‘That is quite the story.’
‘Tis and all,’ says Killian. ‘No harm to you but I’m wrecked! Now where’s this room of mine?’
LUKE
An ivory disc on a door – The Menagerie of the Dead.
‘Sounds a bit grim,’ says Killian.
Luke pauses, fingers on the brass door handle shaped like a magpie with wings outstretched. Wonders, Why do I even want to show this boy this room?
But he has no time at all for pause.
‘Well, come on then!’ Killian pushes his way past. Some moments, and Luke hears him announce from inside, ‘Christ, this is some bedroom!’
Luke follows.
Moonlight is enough to lay a pale gleam on glass and wood and bone – to show specimens displayed on pedestal and within cabinet and beneath bell jar. All neatly labelled with date and time and place of discovery, names inked in English and Latin and arranged by phylum, order, genus, species …
‘How many here?’ asks Killian. ‘Where did you get them all? Who helped you? Is this even allowed?’
‘Over five hundred specimens,’ says Luke, ‘mostly from the grounds but some were given to me – I keep separate the ones I get as gifts. I collected most of these myself.’
‘Hold on,’ says Killian, somewhere in the centre of the room. ‘Let me get this right – this is a whole room just for you and for animal stuff you’ve collected!’
Luke nods.
Killian says, ‘And your oul fella lets you do this?’
‘Of course,’ says Luke. Hasn’t thought of this before – supposes there are some fathers who mightn’t let their boy collect bones? ‘I used to keep them in my room but the collection became too big, so Father gave me this room to display them in.’
Killian swears again. ‘I could spend days in here having a look at all this! Did you use Magic to collect them?’
‘No,’ says Luke.
‘But you can do Magic? The fella that brought me here – he said people in this House know Spells and things.’
‘Yes,’ says Luke. ‘My mother and father are in the Driochta – it is an ancient Order that tries to help –’ Luke pauses. How best to phrase things now for someone who doesn’t know what is what? ‘An Order that works with the Government in Dublin.’
‘You do Magic?’ asks Killian, still wandering, still asking his questions.
‘I can, yes,’ says Luke, still standing, and now not wanting so much to answer.
‘Like the fella who brought me here from Belfast – he could do Spells too.’
Luke thinks on this – once more pictures the man with the faded hair standing in the stone corridor, pistol in hand. He decides to ask a question of his own. ‘How did he allow himself into the grounds?’
‘Had a letter,’ says Killian. Half-shrugs and adds, ‘Or some bit of paper that he burned after reading it – said something about it being an invitation.’
Luke nods. Thinks, I was right. Says nothing but is already making plans for the next day – investigations he can begin, Spells of Uncovering he may be able to Cast.
He tells the boy, ‘Well, your bed is over there by the window.’
Killian looks at him.
‘Seriously?’ he says. ‘You trust me to stay in here with all your stuff?’
Luke hasn’t thought of this. But again the questions.
‘These bird skeletons,’ says Killian, palms pressed tight against one of the cabinets, ‘how many of them do you have?’
Luke tells him.
‘I like birds best,’ says Killian, blast of his breath misting the glass. ‘My mother was a professor of birds at Trinity in Dublin. She taught me all about them till she died.’
‘Didn’t she die when you were one year old?’ says Luke.
Killian glances at him, and with hardly a pause says, ‘Yeah – I can remember being nought years old, can’t you?’ Sound of springing bedsprings as Killian finds the bed and shouts, ‘Night then!’
Luke says goodnight and walks to the door, mind whirling. He thinks, Can I trust a thing he says? The boy is surely lying, but why?
The dishonesty itself doesn’t bother Luke though. What he wonders more about is this: why is Killian going to such trouble to make things up? Why so much energy into lies and untruth? What is it of himself that he wants so desperately to hide?
It is true that to begin with there were not Five Magical Principles, but Six.
(The Sixth being: On The Inevitability of Death & Ending).
It is my humble belief that this Sixth Principle was subsumed by the Fifth.
For is not death the ultimate unknown?
The final step into a necessary ignorance.
On the Origins of the Five Principles of Magic
Lord William Mountfathom
LUKE
A dream: that his bedroom has been invaded. Perhaps a nightmare: that The Amazon has been overcome – the scene within the wallpaper has spilled forth, floor a tangle of root and vine writhing at his feet. He dreams great trunks have sprouted, split floor and walls to reach towards the ceiling and spread damp leaves that scatter noxious spores, the whole place poisoned with the stench of age and neglect. And some nastiness, some evil …
Now: a dream or not?
Luke surfaces suddenly from sleep. Sits upright to see his arms and legs and entire body submerged – struggling under the choke of ivy that has swamped his bed, he and Morrigan both trapped tight beneath it. He screams a Spell of Fleeing and Spell of Escape and the ivy is severed, split – loosened enough for him to scoop up Morrigan and leap from his bed and bolt from The Amazon.
KILLIAN
About the same time –
‘Another child now – another witness to the faltering!’
‘Another spectator to the fracture and split!’
‘What Magic can save us now?’
‘What Magic? Soon no Magic! Magic leaves as love does –’
‘As blood does drain from a dying heart!’
‘As thoughts do from a dying mind!’
‘Would you ever shut the hell up?’
This last is Killian and he is up out of his bed, swinging fists – but they touch no flesh, only slice through the Traces who retreat to rise to the ceiling, still spilling their melancholia into the morning air. Though one swipe from Killian connects – strikes one of the pedestals … sets it tottering and topplin
g; the skeleton of a starling and the bell jar that shielded it both falling to shatter loud on the floor.
Killian stops. Breathes deep.
He struggles to remember where he is – sees more bones and broad cabinets, glass and polished wood, and slowly the memory of the night before returns in a sweep … He sinks back onto the bed.
No time for himself or his own thoughts – a sudden thud of feet and a hammering at the door and voice, ‘Killian, are you awake? Can I come in?’
Before Killian can part his lips for yes or no the door is thrown wide and in bolts the boy called Luke. Red in the face and breathless, he stops in the centre of the room and says, ‘Something has happened.’
‘Yes,’ says Killian, and he leans back and stretches full-length on the bed and tucks his hands behind his head. ‘Something has happened – I’ve been very rudely woken up. And too early for my liking, mate! A man needs his sleep, you know.’
But Luke isn’t listening – at least not to Killian. He has his head half-cocked and is approaching the window. Says in whisper to himself, ‘I didn’t draw the drapes last night. Nor did you. So why is it so dark …?’
Killian lets out a sigh … but still and all, has to admit it is dark enough. If the clock in the corner is correct then should be a bit lighter by now. Curiosity makes him rise again and together they walk to the window.
‘Time for a bit of detective work,’ says Killian, cracking his fingers and unlatching the sash and heaving the window high as Luke tells him, ‘Careful!’ And in spills a swell of ivy they have to wrestle back – the reek of must and rot!
Kicking and extricating themselves (Killian doing plenty of swearing), the boys back away.
‘What the feck is this?’ asks Killian.
‘Same in my room,’ says Luke. ‘I left my window open a bit and it got in and spread across the floor and my bed. If I’d slept in any longer it may have suffocated me.’
‘Right,’ says Killian, eyes on the ivy – on its slow inch and crawl across the floor. ‘This happen often here, does it?’
‘No,’ says Luke. And he shuts his eyes for a moment. And says, ‘Can’t be the Spells Father and I set last night. They wouldn’t overcome the House itself. Magic must be confused. Must be something not right.’
The House of Mountfathom Page 15
