The House of Mountfathom

by Nigel McDowell

  And suddenly – another emerald light, unfurling like a path from their feet.

  Good, says Lord Mountfathom. Keep fixed now on where you want to go. That’s all you need to do. And let us follow.

  Soon, an outline of a small doorway appears –

  At their approach it brightens and Lord Mountfathom slips the emerald key into the lock and the door eases open.

  After you, says Lord Mountfathom.

  But Killian is still concerned about the dark they’ve passed through – so featureless but feels teeming with so much. He cannot describe this to himself, only feel it – as though his whole life is hovering around him, as if he could pluck some memory from his mind and he’d be able to run out into the dark and meet it –

  We must go, says Lord Mountfathom. You could waste a lifetime wandering in the Gloaming – could grow old on your own years.

  Slowly, Killian steps through.

  And where do they stand? In a small space holding hardly more light than the Gloaming. Some surroundings seep into view: tiny room with a battered table and a single toppled chair; empty dresser and a grey rectangle of window, the pitiful scratch of rats behind skirting and crackle of rain against the tin roof.

  ‘Why this place?’ asks Mountfathom.

  So many lies race fast through Killian’s head, but for some reason he decides on the truth. ‘This is where I used to live. This is where my mother died.’

  He takes a few steps in his tough new boots and warm coat and fancy flat cap, and thinks how far he’s travelled, only to return to this same place. He stands on something and stops – crunch of glass, wooden frame splintered. Sees a soiled sepia photograph.

  ‘Not easy to return to the place you came from,’ says Lord Mountfathom.

  ‘I hated it here.’ Killian takes a breath. ‘I think I have an idea about this creature you’re looking for – the one you mentioned when we were walking through the Gloaming.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘The Cailleach?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Killian. ‘When I lived here, there was an old woman who lived in the house at the end of the next street. We were all scared of her. People said she snatched children if they hung about too late on the street. Some people said as well that she could do Magic.’

  ‘That sounds like a good place to start,’ says Mountfathom.

  ‘Through that door.’

  And when Lord Mountfathom isn’t looking, Killian ducks down and plucks the photograph from the floor and folds it into his coat pocket.

  LUKE

  Wandering the dark of Dublin – a cloud of coarse cinder and clinging ash. Suddenly Luke sees a face and stops.

  ‘Keep going now,’ his mother tells him. ‘We cannot afford to pause.’

  ‘What is this Spell?’ Luke asks, moving on slow.

  ‘The Shade,’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘Soldiers. I have seen this Spell only once before – during the Lock Out it was used to drive the Boreen Men out of the city, and to keep everyone else indoors and afraid to step out. It is the work of the Politomancer. We need not be too wary of them. They are here to cause fear, nothing more.’

  Luke discerns not just faces now but long limbs – bodies of roiling dark. Hundreds, he thinks. Or some countless amount! Whole legions Summoned to bring a halt to the City, to keep things darkly placid and peaceful. Luke knows this as a powerful type of Magic …

  ‘You are doing well,’ says Lady Mountfathom. The flame on her palm is a shrunken thing, clinging to the smallest pool of wax but still burning. ‘Not much further now.’

  And Luke is Working tirelessly – weaving the Spell of Enclosing, keeping the clog of ash and cinder a foot and a half at bay in all directions.

  Their progress is slow, near silent.

  Lady Mountfathom keeps checking her watch.

  As they pass, Luke discerns subtle shades in the darkness; sees one of the Shade turn to face them, watch them as they go by.

  Now a looming bridge – a skinny thing, extending over the Liffey like a pale arm reaching through the dark. They cross quickly, and on the other side Lady Mountfathom turns left, then right. They pass into a tangle of streets until they meet a high wall just visible on their left. And here the Working of the Politomancer is most potent – soldiers of the Shade standing in neat rows and so close together.

  ‘You think Mr Dorrick was right?’ Luke ventures to ask. ‘The Politomancer is in Dublin?’

  ‘Perhaps. And I have heard such rumours about him: that the Politomancer has experimented more deeply with Magic than any other. Has become less than human – more Spell than flesh now, and very powerful indeed.’

  ‘More powerful than the Driochta?’ asks Luke.

  His mother says nothing more.

  KILLIAN

  ‘Jaysus – forgot the stink!’

  Lord Mountfathom stays silent as they step out – matches the mood of the place – into a narrow, rain-washed street, signs of life scarce. Solitary cat on the pavement, its bones sticking out sharp; sheets flapping sodden on a line strung overhead; narrow chimneys squeezing out threads of blue turf-smoke. A small window is elbowed open for only a moment, some dark water hurled out and the window slammed shut again.

  A sign says –

  FAITHFULL STREET

  ‘Shall I show you where she lived?’ asks Killian.

  And Mountfathom still says nothing – a look on his face like he’s suppressing shock that makes Killian want to say, Well, what did you expect? Something more romantic maybe? Children playing jump-rope or marbles or kicking a ball about instead of being inside in their beds, slowly starving?

  ‘Yes,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘Yes, Killian, do lead on.’

  So they start on their slow way.

  Killian no longer knows how he existed here, how he didn’t notice things so obvious to him now – houses all too tight-knit, as though daylight is a thing denied; gutters clogged and letting rainwater (and whatever other waters) pool and stew and steam. And cannot get reaccustomed to the reek … He sees some shifting behind dark curtains, dark faces watching, suspicious.

  Keep walking, he tells himself. Walk quicker.

  A sound stops them – high and clear and thin.

  On a broken doorstep sits a small child, a young girl with eyes raw. One of her tiny hands clings to the hem of her stained dress. And that sound she makes, that low wail, draws Lord Mountfathom to her.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asks. Stoops to say, ‘Where is your mother or father?’

  Girl doesn’t react – doesn’t appear to notice them.

  ‘Do you have food, my dear?’ asks Mountfathom. ‘Something to eat?’

  Killian sees more movement behind windows and he says, ‘You can’t help her. We can’t hang about. We need to do what you came here for and then get out.’

  Lord Mountfathom looks at him.

  ‘She isn’t the only one,’ says Killian. ‘There’s too many more like her. You can’t help them all.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Mountfathom. He straightens up. ‘Yes, you are quite right. We must continue. We don’t have much time.’

  ‘No,’ says Killian, eyes still on windows, on doors. ‘No, we bloody well don’t.’

  LUKE

  ‘You made it! Thank goodness!’

  Flann Dorrick is heard before he is seen – hails them from beside a shut sweetshop, dressed in a long, dark coat with a fur collar, his own Spell of Enclosing keeping him clear of the Shade. Lady Mountfathom doesn’t slow, so Dorrick has to fall into step beside, telling her, ‘It is nearly six and I thought you would not be here in time!’

  ‘How many delegates are present for the vote?’ asks Luke’s mother.

  ‘Hardly any,’ says Dorrick. ‘All left for the day!’

  ‘The monks?’ asks Lady Mountfathom.

  ‘Not yet arrived.’

  ‘So our friend Major Fortflay will try to force a majority to devolve more Magic.’

  ‘What is your plan, Mother?’ asks Luke.

&nb
sp; ‘To stop him,’ she says. And says no more.

  Now a pair of wrought-iron gates replaces the wall; they’ve been left open.

  A sign on the wall says simply –

  ENTER IF YOU CAN ENTER

  ‘Come along now,’ says Lady Mountfathom.

  ‘We can just walk in?’ asks Luke.

  ‘Oh yes – the Driochta set the Spells of Security here, so I think I should be well capable of undoing them.’

  Without pause Luke’s mother passes through, Working her hand fast. And in her wake Luke feels the Spells protesting, straining to fight them back and deny entry … but his mother delicately dismantles the defences so she and her son and Flann Dorrick can pass through and out into a wide courtyard of clean flagstone and cleaner air.

  Above them: a ceiling of Security Spells holds back the Spell that has been settled on the rest of the City. So dark though – lamps have been lit and settled on flagstones every few feet. Luke and his mother and Dorrick keep walking towards a tall brute of a building with a dull grey dome. Windows narrow and dark, few flags hanging limp. And the sight of the place unsettles Luke: such quiet, their footsteps as sharp against stone as eggs being cracked on the rim of a bowl.

  ‘Any talking to do,’ his mother whispers, ‘let me do it.’

  A pair of dark doors and a short flight of steps – Luke, his mother and Dorrick manage to mount only two before one of the doors opens and disgorges a disgruntled Gard. He is dressed in grey. Now Luke knows why his mother insisted on such adventurous colours for them both (shame about Dorrick, dressed in dark clothes and looking sheepish). The Gard has a large polished rifle in his hands.

  ‘I am afraid you can’t enter,’ says the Gard in grey.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘I know exactly who you are,’ says the Gard. Not an Irish accent, thinks Luke – sounds English. He says dully, ‘You’re from that Big House near Belfast and that is your son and that other fella used to work here and as I said you are not allowed in here.’

  ‘What do you mean “used to”?’ says Dorrick.

  ‘We don’t like sneaks or turncoats here,’ says the Gard. ‘You’ve been given the boot – there’s some nice news for you.’

  ‘Well,’ says Luke’s mother, ‘you are just a font of information, aren’t you?’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ says Dorrick. ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Can I ask who gave these orders?’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘Who sacked a well-respected member of this Castle’s administration? And who has decided to deny entry to an Order that is centuries old, and as such has a democratic right to enter this building?’

  ‘You can ask but you won’t get an answer,’ says the Gard.

  ‘Well, really – now you are just being rude,’ says Luke’s mother. ‘Naughty young man.’ The Gard tries to stand taller, opens his mouth to say more but Luke’s mother says, ‘You also are no doubt aware that I could Work any number of Spells that would allow me to enter quite easily? If I so wish, I could get past you. With only a quick whirl of my hand!’

  ‘You could try,’ says the Gard, and he lifts his rifle a little. ‘But I think a bullet might travel faster than your hand. Look – I’m going to assume you don’t want to cause any trouble or hassle here.’

  ‘You are quite wrong in both assumptions,’ says Lady Mountfathom.

  ‘Fair enough, then I’ll make things clear: piss off.’

  And the Gard turns and opens the door to step back inside and Luke knows they have only a moment, a blink before the door is shut –

  A quick look between mother and son –

  One moment they stand as themselves, and a shiver and shimmer of a moment later: panther and starling, one lifting lightly into the sky and slipping through the gap in the open door and the other leaping –

  The Gard turns but only in time to be cuffed across the cheek by a graceful and powerful paw. He falls to the floor unconscious. Panther and starling land alongside one another, restored to the forms of Luke and Lady Mountfathom.

  ‘Hate the need for violence,’ says Luke’s mother. She calls to Dorrick, still standing on the second-from-bottom step: ‘Come along now, Flann – don’t dawdle! We have got the fate of our country to decide.’

  KILLIAN

  ‘This is us,’ he says.

  Smallest house on the street – only a single storey, as though someone has swiped the top half. Lord Mountfathom takes the measure of the place before he says, ‘We shall have to be both polite and cunning, crafty and courteous.’

  ‘I can be whatever I need to be,’ says Killian.

  ‘Yes,’ says Mountfathom. ‘I believe you can.’

  They start up the short path.

  The door of the smallest house is blistered and weather-beaten and has a palm-sized panel of dark glass but no keyhole nor handle nor knocker. So Lord Mountfathom raises his left hand and gives the door three hard slaps. Some stirring inside? Something surely beyond the door starting to rouse – now certainly footsteps of someone starting towards them, a sound of locks being snapped and chains being raked across and the door opens. Killian has to look down.

  ‘Here’s visitors! Oh, indeed! How charming!’

  Some small figure stands on the threshold. So small that Killian wonders if it (she?) is a child – dressed in an old grey shirt and skirt, a stained lace shawl low around her shoulders and gloves with the fingers snipped off raw. And bald and so wrinkled! The way she takes them both in is clear-eyed and keen … but does she look a little caught-out, a little nervous?

  Lord Mountfathom says with good cheer, ‘We meet again!’

  The Cailleach speaks in a slow croak: ‘Good evening to you both! I am glad you’ve come. Was expecting you!’ She smiles a smile full of spittle and small brown teeth. Her fingertips rub and rub against one another. She settles her eyes on Killian and he feels his thoughts stumble, as though someone has swept in and out of his mind and stolen something. And with her stolen knowledge the Cailleach says, ‘And you brought one of the locals! Always a good idea to have a guide, or you never know what might happen in dark places such as these.’

  ‘May we come in?’ asks Lord Mountfathom.

  A certain sense of pause – Killian can see the reluctance of the woman.

  Lord Mountfathom says, ‘I know you are surely being well paid by the Land Grabbers for your services, but I believe I could make it more than worth your while.’ And from his inside pocket he produces a small drawstring bag and empties into his palm a clutch of gold coins.

  Fool, thinks Killian. Bloody fool! Showing so much gold in broad daylight in a street like this and for everyone to see!

  But the greed of the Cailleach has been captured.

  ‘How could I refuse?’ she says, smiling, standing on tiptoe to take one of the coins and inserting it between her tiny teeth for a testing chew. Lord Mountfathom says nothing. ‘Come in, of course!’ she tells them, and with small feet shuffling she heads off into the dark of the house. Shouts back, ‘Quickly now! Don’t want to hang about!’

  Killian takes Lord Mountfathom’s arm and says, ‘She’s right – we can’t wait about here. But we should leave.’

  ‘We cannot,’ says Mountfathom. ‘This is where Lady Vane-Tempest was last known to have gone. And I say with no attempt at modesty, I believe my Magic is much greater than anything this crone could possibly conjure.’

  ‘Look, mate, it’s not the old woman I’m worried about. People don’t take kindly to strangers turning up here and I can tell you now, these dirty coats and flat caps aren’t fooling anybody. Specially when you’re flashing gold about.’

  The Cailleach shouts from inside, ‘Are you coming in or not? Don’t stand there letting all the warmth out!’

  ‘Please trust me,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘I need you to be my ally here, Killian.’

  Slowly, and so reluctantly, Killian removes his hand.

  Lord Mountfathom says nothing as together they st
ep inside.

  LUKE

  ‘Left now,’ Lady Mountfathom says, passing through yet another barrier of Spell-Work – a faint veil of vapour – and easily Dismissing it.

  ‘Spells are very weak,’ says Luke.

  ‘Unravelling,’ says Dorrick.

  ‘Failing as the Castle further distances itself from the Driochta,’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘Take a right now.’

  Along another bland corridor that at intervals splits and sends identical copies off in different directions, as though contrived to confuse.

  Dorrick and Lady Mountfathom say together, ‘Left.’

  Somewhere, a bell is being rung and rung –

  All three break into a sprint –

  ‘You wait outside the chamber,’ Luke’s mother tells Dorrick. ‘Keep watch – we may need a quick getaway. Listen for a signal.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ says Dorrick.

  ‘Wait!’ calls Lady Mountfathom, arriving at a pair of double doors about to be shut. ‘Two more for the discussion, thank you kindly!’

  And before the grey-uniformed Gards on duty can protest (or be anything other than surprised), Luke and his mother are in.

  A round room beneath the cold, grey dome – tiered benches of dark wood; flags the only presence of colour, hung from the walls wherever possible. Luke is instantly colder – feels as though he has arrived somewhere buried deep beneath the surface of the city. And all his knowledge of Magic tells him instantly that he has stepped into some Spell – is in the midst of the Workings of the Politomancer.

  ‘Follow,’ says Lady Mountfathom, taking his sleeve.

  She leads Luke up the steps and along a bench to sit.

  Luke sees a raised platform with a table and one tall chair and two tall windows behind, both piled with sandbags. More Gards than delegates are present – only a dozen or so representatives from the counties, and all trembling and pale-faced and strained, their breath rising ragged.

  ‘Even fewer than I thought,’ says Lady Mountfathom, with a small shake of the head, a small shiver in her voice.

  ‘Some Spell has been set in here,’ says Luke, and hears in his own voice the same quiver. ‘Something is infecting the atmosphere.’