Galloglass

by Scarlett Thomas

  Lexy had still not come down.

  ‘I’ll go and hurry her up,’ said Hazel.

  ‘No. Let me go,’ said Marcel.

  This time, after knocking, Marcel Bottle entered his daughter’s bedroom. As usual it was a mess of old herbals, medicine charts, dried flowers, bits of twig, crystals, gemstones and paper bags full of herbs she’d got from the market. She worked so hard, thought Marcel. She was bound to progress in no time and become a great Master Healer when she was old enough. All she had to do was find an established healer to mentor her. The Guild would be sure to let her at least go up one grade from Neophyte to Apprentice.

  Marcel had wracked his brains for any healers that they knew. There were none. He was himself a hedgewitch guide, and his wife was a druid engineer. His sister Octavia had taken Lexy under her wing a bit and let her make most of the potions in the bun shop, but she was herself an alchemist elysian who cooked her buns to make people happy, not to make them better.

  ‘Lexy?’ he said. ‘Come on, we’re all waiting for you.’

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ she said.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I’m too busy. I’ve got exams to revise for, and—’

  ‘But there’s no school next week.’

  ‘For my magic grades. Dr Green tests us every week now.’

  ‘And you really can’t spare us an hour or so? We were going to go to the Winter Fair Market for a while after dropping off JP at the university. I’ll get you a spiced doughnut? Or even two? And don’t they have a dried herb stall this year? It’s pocket money day as well . . .’

  Lexy sighed. She really did want to go out with her parents. It happened so rarely that they all got to spend time together. Her father was always doing ‘community activities’ like leading free yoga retreats or knitting for the needy, and her mother was either working in the bun shop or inventing things in her yurt at the bottom of the garden.

  The problem, of course, was JP. But Lexy couldn’t say anything.

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  ‘Attagirl,’ said Marcel. ‘Wrap up warm, though. It’s freezing out there.’

  Back in the Realworld, Effie managed to dry her tears and get through the front door and into her bedroom before anyone asked anything about her day. Not that they ever did.

  The next morning Effie woke early, feeling troubled. She always gave baby Luna her morning bottle and prepared her breakfast of porridge and fruit, if there was fruit, or golden syrup if not. If there was no porridge or fruit, then the sisters shared a golden syrup sandwich. Baby Luna loved golden syrup, and so did Effie. Effie had managed to hide a large tin of it at the very top of the cupboard in her bedroom, where Cait, her step-mother, could never find it, knowing if she did she would either eat it all (on binge days) or throw it out (on diet days).

  This term, Cait was teaching evening classes on medieval manuscripts and so usually didn’t get up until later in the morning. On weekdays Effie and Luna usually had their breakfast alone. But this was a Saturday, which meant that Orwell Bookend joined them. On Saturdays, while Effie spooned porridge and golden syrup into baby Luna’s bowl, and then tried to stop it going all over the floor, Orwell Bookend would read out ‘amusing’ things from the local paper.

  Normally Effie only half-listened to these. Occasionally, there was something funny. More often it was disturbing or violent, and Orwell simply thought it was funny. But this morning, Effie didn’t hear a word he said. She was still trying to work out what had gone so wrong in the Otherworld. She kept replaying the scene where Rollo was saying, in that definite way of his, We can’t have a galloglass in our midst. We can’t have a galloglass with access to the Great Library. Maybe he was right. Maybe Effie didn’t fit into their world.

  ‘Listen to this,’ said Orwell, chuckling. He read out some story about the local cats’ home that Effie didn’t even hear. She knew she was supposed to be laughing, but all she could do was sigh.

  ‘So,’ said Orwell. ‘Ready for a bit of slave labour?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Effie.

  ‘What’s wrong with you this morning? I thought you were looking forward to coming to the university.’

  ‘I was,’ said Effie. ‘I mean, I am.’

  ‘Your fat friend’s going to be there, too.’

  ‘Maximilian?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I asked him the other day. And Nightdress Girl.’

  ‘Raven?’

  ‘Yep. I can’t believe that any of my other colleagues will have managed to recruit THREE willing children to help them. I know Callie Quinn has two, although one of them is reluctant, I hear. We’ll have the Linguistics Faculty stall done in no time. And then I’ll release the three of you into the library to run wild. That was what you wanted, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘And you will try not to die in there?’

  ‘I really don’t think it’ll be that bad.’

  ‘You do know that the bit you probably want is down about five flights of dark and rickety stairs?’

  ‘We’ll find it.’

  ‘And it’s almost certainly haunted?’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you? Usually you laugh at about 10 percent of my jokes. But this morning we’re still at zero.’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just tired.’

  It was all true about the University Library. Maximilian had found out about the hidden underground archive after he’d arrived there by accident on his way back from the Underworld. To get to the ‘Special Collections’ (which didn’t come up in a normal library catalogue search) without going via the Underworld you had to go down flights and flights of stairs, and then you had to twist a creaky old windy thing to open and close the stacks, which were basically massive shelves on wheels of a sort that had featured in every horror film about libraries since the beginning of time. Some of the stacks – most of them, if you listened to people like Octavia Bottle or Madame Valentin – had not been opened for hundreds of years and had dead bodies squashed in them. The dead bodies were so old that when you opened the stacks you could hear their bones crumbling to the floor.

  Obviously, this all meant it was the perfect weekend treat for children. Well, perhaps not most children. But Effie had been looking forward to it for ages. There were plenty of things she needed to look up. But now, of course, the most pressing thing was to try to find out what she’d been missing about the Otherworld. What was it they wanted her to understand, but for some reason couldn’t tell her?

  Baby Luna started throwing porridge at the wall, which meant breakfast was over.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ said Orwell Bookend. ‘Wear old clothes.’

  All Effie’s clothes were old, of course, except for the ones she kept in the Otherworld. She sighed wistfully as she thought of her comfortable, light room there, and her cousins. And she felt tears well up again when she thought of Rollo and his suspicions about her. She’d show them she definitely wasn’t a galloglass. She just wasn’t yet sure how.

  The ancient old car struggled up the hill past the Esoteric Emporium and then the vast gates to Blessed Bartolo’s.

  ‘Another school?’ said Jupiter Peacock, sounding like someone who was trying – and failing – to sound interested. ‘So many children. It must be quite exhausting living here.’

  ‘Blessed Bartolo’s is quite famous,’ said Hazel.

  ‘What for?’ asked Jupiter.

  But it seemed that nobody could remember.

  ‘Was it a murder?’ said Marcel, after a while.

  ‘I thought it was a kidnapping,’ said Hazel. ‘And then a murder.’

  Lexy wasn’t listening. She was trying to move as far away as she could from JP. He had just pinched her arm yet again. He’d been doing it ever since they left the house. Every time he did it he smiled at her, as if it was their own private little joke, although his eyes, if you looked at them closely enough, were cruel and mock
ing.

  Lexy had originally tried to suggest that their honoured guest should go in the front of the car, but Jupiter Peacock had claimed that he always got car-sick unless he was in the back. And so Lexy was trapped. On and on went the guided tour. And just when it seemed that they had actually seen all the sights, JP would ask about some other thing – municipal graveyards, allotments, pet shops – and the car would sputter off in some new direction.

  ‘We should park somewhere and show JP the Winter Fair,’ said Lexy. ‘There are loads of good stalls this year.’

  And for that she got another hard pinch. The worst one yet.

  ‘Ow,’ she said, as softly as she could. ‘Stop it,’ she whispered. She couldn’t risk her parents hearing her. If they asked what was going on and she told them, they’d probably be cross with her for upsetting JP. It had all been going so well – at least, as far as Hazel was concerned. JP had complimented her just this morning on her toast-making skills and asked her where she had bought the lovely guest soap he’d been given.

  He surely was just messing around. And anyway, maybe Lexy had encouraged him. After all, she had failed to say no to the arm wrestling and the horrible kiss. He probably thought she liked being pinched. Even though she’d just said to stop, he might have thought that she was joking, or secretly enjoying it or something. If she told on him, perhaps everything that followed would actually be her fault. And if her parents got cross with him that would ruin everything for them.

  If they even believed her. And why would anyone believe her? After all, what sort of professor went around pinching children? If Lexy said anything to anyone they’d no doubt just say the pinches couldn’t have been that hard, or it must have been a joke. Children pinched each other all the time and it wasn’t a big deal.

  Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Lexy just couldn’t take a joke. The thing was, it didn’t particularly feel like a joke. Lexy knew deep, deep down that what was happening was really very wrong but she couldn’t work out what to do about it.

  ‘So what’s your book about?’ Marcel asked JP.

  ‘It’s not really my book,’ said Jupiter Peacock. ‘After all, who could really claim to own such a magnificent piece of beauty? In fact, “Galloglass” was written between one and two thousand years ago by a man called Hieronymus Moon. I actually carry his spirit around with me in a ceramic bottle, which I can show you later, if any of you are interested. Anyhow, I have merely translated his book, in order to bring it to a modern audience. Of course, it is a book of poetry, and poets are divided over whether translating a work creates a new version of the first work, or a completely new work altogether, or . . .’

  Hazel, who always got sleepy on car journeys, and who had been up very early that morning to work on a new design for a hemp-rope hammock, emitted a gentle snore. Marcel elbowed her. Jupiter took the opportunity to pinch Lexy again, this time on her leg, and then carried on speaking as if nothing had happened.

  ‘It’s called Galloglass, as you already know,’ he said. ‘And I have added a tiny subtitle: In Praise of the Selfish Individual.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Marcel, nodding. ‘I remember now. I read all about it in the Old Town Gazette. You’re against the concept of community.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said JP.

  ‘How can anyone be against community?’

  ‘For all the reasons it says in the poem,’ said JP. ‘If you know someone is going to feed you, it stops you from learning to feed yourself. Community holds people back. It makes them soft. Community makes people complacent. It takes away their natural desire to thrive.’

  ‘So taking our neighbour a casserole when she gets out of hospital is “holding her back”?’

  JP sighed. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that.’

  ‘Or teaching people how to meditate, or do yoga?’

  ‘As long as they pay you, it’s fine.’

  ‘What’s wrong with doing it for free, though? I enjoy the voluntary work I do in the community.’

  ‘Aha. So you’re actually doing it for yourself, for your own enjoyment, and not for the community at all! If you were truly selfless, you’d hate every minute of it and do it anyway. As I have always said, there’s no such thing as altruism. No offence, but this world is ruined by do-gooders who like to keep their own egos inflated by “helping others” when in fact they are just helping themselves and – yes – holding other people back. It might be different in other worlds, but here we are designed to be individuals, and to operate according to our selfish desires. It’s better for us, and better for others.’

  ‘Well, when I teach yoga in the community I—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I can see it now. Some dreary church hall with dripping radiators, or some dire school canteen with squashed peas still on the floor from lunchtime. People arrive all timid and grateful because they’re getting something for free. They don’t value the lessons you give them, because you give them for nothing. No one makes an effort to look nice, because why would you bother for a free yoga workshop? Everything is ugly and dull and boring and grey and . . .’

  This was an oddly accurate description of many of Marcel’s free yoga workshops.

  ‘Well, how would you do it differently?’ he asked.

  ‘Wear my very best yoga clothes. Charge people fifty pounds for a workshop. Let them see that I, and my practice, have value. Offer them something to aspire to. I would try my very best to be an inspiration to people, not a dull charity-giver.’

  Marcel Bottle let out a deep sigh.

  ‘Well, everyone’s entitled to their opinion,’ he said. ‘Where next?’

  ‘I think I’d like to see this Winter Fair, please,’ said Jupiter Peacock. ‘And then perhaps you could drop me off at the university? I have a meeting there this afternoon.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Marcel, wondering whether he should in fact just tell JP to walk from now on if he wanted to go somewhere. Was that what this Hieronymus Moon would recommend? Maybe someone should get him out of his ceramic bottle and ask him. After all, if you drive people around everywhere you are surely robbing them of the chance to walk. JP could certainly do with losing a few pounds. But Marcel didn’t say anything because he was too nice.

  Soon the car passed a massive mansion built in an ancient Russian style. It was painted a light, tasteful pink and its metallic-hued domes sparkled in the weak winter sunlight: one was gold-plated, one was silver-plated. The third was solid bronze. Two security guards stood watch beside a set of golden gates.

  ‘Good heavens, what’s that place? Not another school?’ asked JP.

  ‘That,’ said Marcel, ‘is the local cats’ home.’

  ‘But how . . .?’

  ‘It’s quite a long story,’ said Marcel. ‘But basically someone donated a billion pounds to them. Inside that building are the richest cats in the whole world. Each one has its own butler. Their food is served on solid silver platters. I hear that the chef is in line for the first Michelin star to be given for pet food.’

  For the first time that morning, JP actually looked impressed. Or maybe it was just surprise. Whatever it was, he gave up pinching Lexy for the next ten minutes while they drove to the Town Hall car park.

  Wolf took a deep breath. OK, he could do this. The landscape might look bare on the screen, but in front of him it wasn’t so bad. His trained warrior’s eyes scanned for water, for animal tracks leading to water (animal tracks always led to a source of fresh water if you followed them for long enough), for landmarks he could use to navigate, for enemies, and for sources of food or material he could use to construct a shelter. Flowers often pointed south, he’d once read. But of course Wolf didn’t yet know where he was and therefore in which direction he was supposed to go. And there were no flowers.

  He looked again at the yellow object in his hand. If he pressed a button on the side, he got a set of coordinates. Wolf got out his map. Using the numbers on the screen, he found he could plot his position.

  The good news was
that he knew where he was, and he’d be able to find his location for as long as the batteries lasted in his device. The bad news? He was still in the absolute middle of nowhere. Somewhere in the distance a bird called, and then nothing.

  Wolf looked at the other spot he’d marked on the map. The place he’d been told to get to before midday. It was now 10.30 a.m. Wolf knew he’d have to hurry. I’d get here as quick as you can. We operate on a first come, first served basis. And there’s intense competition for the places on our programme. I’d waste no time, if I were you. Maybe he was already too late.

  It had been sleeting when Wolf had gone to bed the night before. This morning there’d been a lot of snow. He’d thought of lighting a fire, and then hadn’t been able to because he was waiting for the phone to ring. But now, out in this wilderness, the sun had come out, and Wolf felt warm enough to take off his hoody and stow it in his rucksack. He kept his bomber jacket on. He tightened his boots and put on the pair of sunglasses he had in his pack. He was ready. He set off.

  9

  Nurse Odile Underwood was going to be late for her shift at the small secretive hospital in the north-east corner of the Old Town. She didn’t like working weekends because there were more magical accidents then, but the nurses took it in turns, and this weekend it was her turn.

  ‘Maximilian!’ she called again.

  She’d promised to drop him off at the university on the way.

  Eventually he appeared. He’d grown up so much since he’d epiphanised on that rainy afternoon in October. He’d lost a bit of his puppy fat, though he was still a broad, imposing-looking child. He’d taken to wearing mostly black, and drinking quite a lot of strong coffee. Odile wondered when she should tell Maximilian that she knew what he was trying to hide. She’d heard him playing Beethoven. She’d seen the way he now looked at art. He’d asked for opera tickets for his twelfth birthday.