Luke continues on and Killian thinks to himself, Mental – whole place is mental!
‘I need to find Mother and Father,’ says Luke, opening his eyes. Though he doesn’t move a single step.
From somewhere above, the Traces groan –
‘Has its own ways and means, this House!’
‘Has its own deep roots of Magic and Spell-Work!’
‘No force can tame it! No hand can still the coming storm!’
‘We must be cautious now! We must keep an eye on the shadows!’
‘You think someone is doing this to the House?’ asks Killian, not knowing what to say but not wanting to say nothing – especially not wanting to listen to those Traces.
‘No,’ says Luke. ‘This House makes its own decisions – this much I have learned.’ A pause. ‘I think Mountfathom may be trying to protect itself.’
LUKE & KILLIAN
Not only The Amazon and The Menagerie of the Dead – Luke checks Valhalla and Berlin and the Seasonal Room and there too the ivy has found entry through window and skirting and floorboard and flue. And not only the ivy – that same stench, same signs of neglect …
Killian says, ‘House looks like no one has lived in it for years! How long did we sleep for? Like some bad Faerie tale.’
Luke agrees with him, though he stays silent.
‘Quickly,’ is all he says. ‘I must find my mother and father.’
Each step of the marble staircase harbours a murky puddle –
‘You need to get the roof looked at,’ says Killian.
Walls are displaying continents of yellowish mould –
‘Don’t let damp get a hold in a place or you’ll never get rid!’ suggests Killian.
Luke quickens his step and Killian follows.
As they reach the ground floor and the entrance hall with its chequered tiles (all suddenly unsteady underfoot) the front doors open – Lord and Lady Mountfathom and Mr Hooker step inside, all three deep in conversation.
‘Father!’ Luke calls and runs to them. Stumbles and almost falls. ‘Mother! What’s happening?’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ says Mr Hooker. ‘Exact same thing happened with your grandfather about forty years ago! Place got broken into so he went and set Spells around the boundary, and the next day we all woke up and thought we’d fallen asleep out in the grounds! Ivy everywhere, great big rhododendron sprouting beside my bed! Was an awful panic at first, but we sorted it out. No need to worry, lads.’
Luke and Killian have the same thought: the gardener sounds too keen to quieten their worries, too determined to soothe. So Luke watches his father’s face – knows that the man can never hide his feelings. And there is a definite darkness in his expression. A shadow that Killian notices too, and describes to himself as shifty … that Luke sees, and describes as sadness. Luke opens his mouth to say more, but his mother nods at him, gently.
‘Luke,’ says Lady Mountfathom, ‘there is no cause for concern. And now, you need to get yourself smartened up and made presentable!’
‘Why?’ says Luke – in the same moment, remembering.
‘The funeral,’ says Luke’s mother. ‘We will be burying Nanny Bogram at midday. At the Temple of Ivory on the Rise.’
LUKE
‘You need to get dressed, sir,’ Findlater tells Luke.
‘A moment – this is important.’
‘Why now, sir? Why not afterwards?’
Good question, but Luke needs to know – if there is something else on the horizon, and he can interpret it, he needs to try. He applies another drop of ink to the mirror, weaves his hand low over the surface and waits. But he can bring only the same pattern as the previous evening – two small dark figures, standing hand in hand.
‘What is it showing?’ asks Findlater. ‘Who are those two boys?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Luke. ‘Who would you say they are?’
‘I am sure I do not know,’ says Findlater, and he crosses to the wardrobe. Sounds despairing. ‘Now, what on earth are you going to wear?’ Luke can hear him muttering to himself about the difficulty of a funeral so soon, but this is the Mountfathom way –
Luke focuses again on the surface of the mirror – sees himself amidst so much spilt ink. Seems a mistake, a childish mess – no trace of Magic or chance to foresee anything. Morrigan leaps onto his lap and gives him an appreciative look.
‘If I may be blunt,’ says Mr Findlater, ‘I believe Mrs Bogram would want you to look your best today. If she were here, she would be scrubbing and sewing and fussing to get you well-presented.’
Findlater is right. So Luke stands and says, ‘I’m sorry. I should get ready.’
Side by side, they peer into the wardrobe but see very little – have had to light two lamps in his room to see by, ivy clustered so thick around the window.
Suddenly, Luke finds himself asking, ‘Where were you last night?’
‘Pardon me?’ says Findlater.
‘When they broke in, I banged on your door and you didn’t answer.’
‘I was asleep.’
Luke watches the manservant for a moment. Has more to ask but decides not to press Findlater further. Not yet. Says instead, ‘I’ll wear the blue suit. Mrs Bogram liked that colour best. She always said it was her favourite.’
KILLIAN
‘You look very decent,’ says Mr Hooker.
‘I’d say I look a right fool!’ says Killian.
‘Nonsense. Come here till I have a good look at you.’
Killian steps into the kitchen, as close to sheepish as he’s ever been in his life.
Couple of the Errander boys stand about, spit-polishing their boots and sizing him up through narrowed eyes – Killian gives looks as unforgiving as the ones he gets. Some of the maids too – heads down, wary, not wanting to meet his eye.
Killian has been well kitted out though – old tweed suit and white shirt found in an upstairs press, a navy tie loaned by Mr Hooker. Now: he doesn’t know how he feels. Uncomfortable more than anything, and not a bit like himself. Killian is used to duping people, that bit doesn’t bother him. But what does bother him – the very worst thing! – is when people see through him and he’s caught out. So he is sure someone will soon point him out and say, ‘No, no! Take that off! Who do you think you are? You’re fooling no one!’
Doesn’t know if he can carry this off. Feels an idiot in these clothes. An intruder. What are they doing, taking him in like this?
Mr Hooker sips some tea and says, ‘You’ll be grand. Don’t worry.’
Mrs Little is there too, finishing the last of the breakfast dishes, and she spares him a sideways glance. Tells him with a snap, ‘Stand up straighter.’ She is in a tidy dark dress – pale lace at the cuffs and a small black hat with a folded veil. She leaves the dishes and says, ‘If you’re going to stay here, you may as well look presentable.’ She brings a damp cloth and gives him a once over – swipes the cloth over his shoulders, loosens and redoes his tie, starts rubbing at some muck on his chin. Killian knocks her hand away and recoils – swears at her.
‘There’s no need for that kind of language,’ she says, looking not only annoyed but a touch afraid too. She goes back to her dishes. ‘You’d think you would have some manners, after what happened.’
Killian doesn’t say sorry. Says nothing. He is already thinking of escape. Thinks this funeral will be a good opportunity. Everyone elsewhere, distracted … so will be easy to slip away unseen. And maybe he can grab a few bits before he goes, for selling when he gets back to Belfast? Might make a few bob out of this after all.
Mr Hooker stands, wears a tweed suit the same colour so says, ‘Sure we could be twins!’
‘Don’t think so,’ says Killian. ‘Sure you’re ancient.’
‘He’s sulking,’ says Mrs Little.
‘Amn’t,’ says Killian. ‘Just not comfortable in this bloody outfit!’
‘No coarseness today,’ says Mr Hooker. ‘This is a solemn occasion. Ever been to
a funeral before, lad?’
‘Course,’ says Killian. ‘Loads of them! I’ve seen ten dead bodies.’
Mr Hooker and Mrs Little look at each other.
‘Well, then,’ says the gardener. ‘You’ll know how to behave.’
LUKE
Statues of the Veiled Ladies are in full mourning; low sound of weeping from their ivory lips, the mutter of prayers and supplication, spilling grief into the dark air.
Small gathering stands silent on the cold Rise. It is raining, the scene washed of all colour; Lady Mountfathom and Lord Mountfathom, the others from the House in dark coats with collars turned-up, and around their feet slips of ivory, gravestones like so many discarded letters, embedded in the ground unread.
Luke thinks, Would Nanny Bogram have wanted this – so much seriousness on so many faces?
Softness seems the only suitable mood. And sorrow and whispered solicitude. So many bowed heads and neatly clasped hands.
Luke wonders why death brings people into such silence. Like all fight has gone out of them. Where is the rage and shouting – why such easy acceptance?
‘Luke,’ says his mother. ‘You are talking to yourself.’
Old habit, hadn’t realised he was doing it.
Such a small gathering: handful of staff only, most asked to remain behind in the House because (though no one says it aloud) the Lord and Lady Mountfathom will not leave their House emptied. Only two of the Driochta are present – Lawrence Devine, wearing the same suit he always wears when the occasion calls for a suit, and Jack Gorebooth standing shivering, a small leather notebook clutched tight in his hands. He is going to lead the service, and Luke hopes that the poet hasn’t written one of his interminable epics – an attempt to tie the death of one woman to the wider concerns of the country …
A slow shuffle, the gathering turning to see – up the slope come the two undertakers, carrying the coffin with the help of two Errander boys. Luke wanted to be a bearer, but his wish went nowhere. And as they approach, Lady Mountfathom performs a traditional rite. Works her right hand in the air and the rain that falls on the Rise is halted. Elsewhere and beyond it continues to fall, but where they stand each drop has been suspended – hangs in the air like beads of glass.
The coffin passes by.
The Temple of Ivory has no visible opening – pitched ivory roof held high by a ring of ivory statues. But as the coffin arrives Lord Mountfathom weaves a hand and two statues step aside, their heads bowed. The coffin is allowed entry. And slowly tugged along in its wake, Luke tucked between his parents, they pass into the coolness of the Temple.
But before Luke steps inside, he sees the boy – standing beside Mr Hooker, pair of them in smart matching tweed. Killian gives Luke a small smile. And somehow – suddenly, so unexpectedly – this simple thing makes Luke feel stronger.
KILLIAN
He was telling no lies about his experience of funerals – has been to so many it’s become a bore! Da would drag him along always, saying on the way, ‘We need to go and pay our respects. Scrub that dirt off your face! Just decent, so it is. And put some spit and shine on them shoes!’ Killian knows this whole routine – the coffin, the sad looks, songs, sniffling.
But what he doesn’t expect is the Magic – the rain and the way it slowed like time was being slowed down and then just stopped … He reaches out and sweeps a hand through the air, it comes back damp and dripping, and glistening. He thinks this is how funerals should be, how people should be given a send-off – the feeling that even things like rain should be made stop for a few minutes in respect. And as he stands alongside Mr Hooker in the circular Temple, Killian surprises himself when he starts to listen to the words of the wee bald man with the glasses –
‘We have such a short time on this earth. And for some, it is true that there will no longer be any tomorrow. But for us – surely the blessed and the spared – we have today. We have this moment. Let us mourn, yes, but let us be happy too! Be glad for what we have! We should never get used to being in the world – it is a gift, and we should be aware every moment of the uniqueness of our lives and the newness of the now. For it is only a fleeting thing, this world. A rose blooms only to wither. A moon waxes only to wane.’
But what’s this now? The boy of the Big House, Luke, suddenly darts out of the Temple and is away, leaving behind the sound of sob. Bit of an awkward pause, everyone looking at each other … but the bald fella goes on –
‘We are so many stars blazing, but surrounded always by the cold dark of the Heavens. We can only wonder at what may await us all in the unknown – in that great dark between here and the elsewhere.’
LUKE
As he passes, the Veiled Ladies turn to follow – heads bowed, hands clasped, full of concern. But their weeping and lamentation leaves no mark on Luke; he has had enough of mourning.
Luke finds an ivory bench on which to settle. And he sees now an almost conquered Mountfathom – ivy cloaking windows and stonework, almost overcome; from the flowerbeds weeds spilling and swarming around the foundations of the House … the twist of corkscrew hazel and tangle of bramble, all in close conspiracy, all (he imagines) trying to obscure Mountfathom. And the sight of it all makes him wish suddenly for escape – imagines Mogrifying, lifting into the air and leaving, flying beyond the boundary wall and across Loughreagh and heading for the fringe of ashen Mourne Mountains and –
‘I know what you’re thinking – people dying is shite.’
Luke turns.
Killian stands with hands dug deep into his trouser pockets, scuffing his smart (borrowed) shoes on the grass. He walks slowly towards Luke saying, ‘Let me guess something else – you’re sitting there deciding it was all your fault and if you could go back you would do things different.’
‘No,’ says Luke. ‘I was thinking I’d quite like to escape from here.’
This stops Killian short. The boy smiles a bit, now continues. ‘Fair enough! But running away won’t do any good, mate. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.’
Luke can’t quite get used to being called ‘mate’.
Killian drops onto the seat beside him and says, ‘Look, I know what you’re going through. My mother died when I was only wee and I thought it was all my fault.’
‘And what do you think now?’ asks Luke.
‘That things just happen,’ says Killian. ‘That it isn’t your fault, that some things can’t be stopped. And that you’ll be alright.’
Luke opens his mouth to speak – to disagree, debate – but finds nothing to say. Rainfall is a sudden fresh sound – the Spell of Enclosing his mother set has faded. Things begin again, and Luke realises that the world is ready to continue.
‘Lord Mountfathom!’
A cry from Mr Findlater, striding-running up the Rise.
Luke and Killian both stand and see in the manservant’s grip a small fold of paper. Findlater goes straight to Luke’s father and says, ‘Urgent messages from the Gloaming – from Mr Dorrick in Dublin and the Halters on the Dragon Coast. You must contact them at once.’ A moment, and in a small, fierce whisper Findlater tells Lord Mountfathom, ‘They say the Ash-Dragons have awoken.’
KILLIAN & LUKE
Back in the bloody library again! Would be boring, except for the fact that three dark mirrors with the dimensions of doors have been wheeled in and each one holds at least one face that is floating and chatting.
‘Jane, Joseph,’ says Lady Mountfathom, ‘tell us everything.’
‘Dozens of Land Grabbers arrived today,’ says Mrs Halter.
‘Started to dig before dawn,’ says Mr Halter. ‘To smash rocks and break open the earth. ‘We did all we could to stop them, but they have the assistance of the Cailleach – they are too powerful.’
Says Mrs Halter, ‘Made pits and dropped in jars of Indigo Fire into the earth.’
Says Mr Halter, ‘Wasn’t long before we registered movement beneath us. Many of the Dragons have taken flight.’
‘When wa
s this?’ asks Luke.
‘Almost an hour ago,’ says Jane Halter.
‘Which direction?’ asks Lord Mountfathom.
‘Inland is all we can be sure of,’ says Joseph Halter. ‘To Dublin, most likely – but could be elsewhere too.’
‘Fast?’ asks Lady Mountfathom.
‘Free of the ground and into the air and out of sight within less than a minute,’ says Mrs Halter.
And the final question that needs to be asked is asked by Killian: ‘How many of these Dragons?’
The two faces in the mirror shiver, and together say, ‘Almost two hundred.’
Killian swears and no one says anything. Luke doesn’t blame them – the boy is only voicing how they all feel.
‘What of your negotiations with the Boreen Men?’ Lord Mountfathom asks the Halters. ‘We need as many allies as we can get.’ Luke turns to his father – this is the first he has heard of any ‘negotiations’.
‘Stubborn as anything,’ says Jane Halter.
‘We’ve tried to work our way in with them,’ says Joseph Halter. ‘Given them help building a small colony within the old Faerie Rath, but they still have so little trust of anyone.’
‘Especially anyone associated with Magic,’ says Mrs Halter.
‘I don’t blame them,’ says Lady Mountfathom, and looks at her son. Luke remembers their trip to the Dragon Coast – recalls too well the merciless sweep of Spell-Work that reduced the men, shrunk and twisted and transformed them …
‘I appreciate your efforts,’ Lord Mountfathom tells the Halters. ‘Please do keep trying.’
The Halters nod, and within moments their faces fade from their mirror.
Soon as they go, the face in the second mirror that has been so impatiently waiting begins.
‘He knows,’ says Flann Dorrick. ‘He knows everything. Knows that Mountfathom has been compromised and therefore its Spells weakened. He knows that there were intruders and that one of your staff was killed.’
‘Who told him?’ asks Luke.
The House of Mountfathom Page 16
