by Sarah Rayne
That One … the Shining One … the Son of Aurora … Lucifer the Light-Bringer …
“He is destruction and decay and despair,” said Fael-Inis. “He is corrupt and evil beyond belief. He has many servants in the world, and the Dark Lord Medoc is one of them.” He looked at them. “But you knew that,” he said.
“I saw the Fall,” said Fael-Inis, his eyes distant. “But I did not declare for the Light-Bringer, and I have never done so since. You may trust me, Mortals.”
I am what I am …
“And if you are being bewitched,” said Fael-Inis, “and if you are being manipulated, then it is only so that we may save the world.”
For the Four Horsemen are waiting, and already the First has gone into the Future … There is no time to lose …
Fribble, whose eyes were bright and whose whole bearing was alert, wanted to know what they had to do. “It’s all very interesting,” he confessed. “I’ve never seen the Lad of the Skins … well, I never wanted to. I don’t suppose anyone really wants to see him, do they? Will he come? I expect I ought to take notes, because the other Druids will like to know all this. The fat fool will never get over it. I’m very glad I came,” said Fribble, and accepted a glass of the wine that Taliesin poured. “And I’ll say this for you,” he said, “I didn’t want to bring you. I knew how it would be. A Tyrian, I said. Dear me, that’s not such a good idea. But it’s turning out remarkably well.” He beamed and drank his wine.
Taliesin said almost automatically, “Wine is as the breath of life, Fribble,” and raised his own glass in salutation. And then, looking at Fael-Inis, “Will the Lad come?” he said, and Fael-Inis said, “Oh yes. Oh yes, he will come. He fears me a little, but neither can he resist me, and he will certainly come when I call. We have had many battles, he and I, and many confrontations. We are old enemies. But I have always defeated him. That is why he will come.”
“To try for victory?” said Fergus, and Fael-Inis said, “Yes, of course. He believes that one day he will prove to be the stronger, and for that reason, if for no other, he will never resist when I call to him. He will come,” said Fael-Inis, looking round the table. “But when he does, you must be ready for what will happen.”
“What will happen?” asked Taliesin.
“That is up to you,” said Fael-Inis, and without warning his eyes grew remote and fiery; they became inward-looking, and slanted more strongly than before. Light streamed from him, and his hair became a golden aureole about his narrow skull.
They saw that between his fingers he held a slender, intricately carved set of silver pipes and, as they waited, he lifted the silver pipes to his lips and began to play.
*
In all of the stories of enchantment and in all of the legends of bewitchment, there is one that stands above the rest. A persistent, recurrent theme; a single strand of ancient lore in the weave.
The beckoning of enchanted music. The allure of pipes, of a lute, of a lyre, a flute. Pan, seated on his grassy bank, leading the naiads and the dryads where he will. Orpheus, using a lyre to charm the denizens of hell into giving him back his lady.
And others. Sinister stories. The Black Man of Saxony, playing grisly tunes so that the children would follow him to his terrible mountain lair, there to be given up to the Man of the Mountains. Ireland’s own counterpart: the Old Woman of the Mountains, who lures children into her warm fire-lit cave to weave their skin and flesh and hair and nails into her dreadful cloth.
The Macaber, the hooded, skeletal apparition, coming down from the Black Tower to dance amongst the plague-ridden townships of the Middle Ages, leading them in the dread danse macabre, forcing them to dance with him until they dropped … Shoes that must obey the call of the music and dance on and on until their wearer fell from exhaustion.
And perhaps the best-known of them all: the apparently harmless street musician who came to a little township called Hamelin, and agreed to rid the town of rats by means of his music …
The travellers knew some of the stories, for Tara had met many Time Travellers, and the tales had echoed back. What they did not know, they could imagine. The music of allure. Enchanted music. Cold and inexorable and wholly irresistible. As Fael-Inis began to play, each of them drew a deep breath and surrendered, and each of them experienced the deepest contentment at hearing the silver pipes of enchantment.
Fael-Inis was seated against the window, his whole outline bathed in light, his hair liquid gold, his eyes burning slits of topaz. His fingers closed about the pipes and they were translucent, as if the substance that ran in his veins might be light instead of blood.
The music was like a gentle bewitchment; it spun tiny filaments of delight, brittle and cold and cobweb fine. You could not be afraid of it, you could not possibly fear something so delicate and so insubstantial.
They could not have told when the music tightened its hold and began its pull, but to Taliesin, afterwards, it was as if there was a moment when he knew that he was able to resist, and then another moment when he had surrendered completely.
Taliesin thought there were voices inside the music now … Follow me, for I can give you beauty and I can give you joy, and all the delights and all the pleasures of the world … Follow me, for I am the core and the centre, and there is nothing now but the music …
There was a moment when Taliesin was able to stand back and think, We are being bewitched. And then he felt the music’s pull again, and thought that hadn’t they summoned Fael-Inis to help them, and wasn’t it sensible to obey him? And a man might die and count himself honoured for music so sweet … Any man, any creature, might be pardoned for answering the music’s lure …
Any creature …
Through the dark forest, along the narrow woodland path, came the sound of slow, dragging footsteps, and on the chill night air came the sound of crying.
The Lad of the Skins, walking abroad, scouring the night for victims …
“Let me in, for I am cold and desolate and hungry.”
Into the drugged minds of the travellers crept a warning note. Something out there asking to come in? Danger! But it is so cold, they thought. And the creature is surely little more than a child.
“Let me in, for I am lost and alone and frightened. I have no one and nothing in the world.”
Careful! thought the travellers, struggling to remember. Careful now. There is something here we have to be very wary of.
“Take me in by your fire, for I am shivering with cold and I am lost in the forest … oh, be merciful and let me share your fire and give me a cup of milk to sup and a mouthful of bread…”
There was doubt and anguish in the faces of the three travellers now. Even so, thought Taliesin, struggling against the Enchantment, even so, there is something — if only I could remember — we have to be very wary of the crying in the night outside …
Fael-Inis continued to play without ceasing, and the music spun and shivered and soothed, and across the slanting features there was a look of the utmost concentration now, for it is only at the invitation of a Mortal that the Lad of the Skins can enter a house and do his terrible work. For Calatin’s soul to be rescued, one of the three travellers must lose his soul in return, and for the Lad to take the soul, it must be one of the Mortals who invited him in.
“I have not eaten and I am in rags and all I ask is a share of your fire before I am turned out into the cold night again …”
There was a long sigh and then a sobbing, and so desolate and so hopeless was the sound that the three listening minds were splintered with anguish.
“Let me in, of your charity … I shall be no trouble, all I ask is a quiet corner of your warm room …”
There was the sound of footsteps outside, hesitant, light, submissive … Sure there was nothing here that could threaten.
“All I ask is a corner to warm my cold hands and a sip of milk … oh, let me in …”
There was a tapping at the window now, light fingers, child’s fingers, poor weak
fingers numb with cold and tired and trembling with hunger.
Fael-Inis spun the music fractionally quicker, and in that fraction of a moment Fergus stood up and moved to open the door.
At first he thought it was a bundle of old clothes left on the step. “I gathered it up,” he was to say, “I actually scooped up the evil hungering thing in my arms and carried it into the house and laid it down by the fire.”
It felt light in his arms; a child starved of love and food and warmth: “And although a part of me, deep buried, hidden away, knew” he said, “still I wanted to weep for the pity of it.”
But yet the pity of it, O the pity of it …
He laid the thin little thing down close to the blazing fire, and he moved to the table and poured milk and wine into a cup, and sliced bread and meat.
The creature that Fergus had carried in was sipping the milk, crouched, shivering, near to the fire. Lapping it up like a weak kitten, thought Fergus.
And all the while, while he was handing him the plate of meat and bread, and while he was holding the cup to the trembling lips, a little silvery voice was beating inside Fergus’s head: This is all wrong. I know it is wrong. I cannot remember why it is wrong, but it is something to do with the music, and it is something to do with Calatin …
And then the music stopped and Fael-Inis laid down the pipes and turned his golden gaze on Fergus, and the spell faded, and a cold awareness flooded Fergus’s mind.
The Lad of the Skins! The hunter of souls! And I have asked him in and I have fed him and given him milk and wine and a share of the fire!
The Lad of the Skins. The hungry soulless being who served Crom Croich and walked abroad crying to be let in, and who carried on his back a dripping sack … He was sitting up now, regarding Fergus with a sly glittering smile, and there was a terrible knowledge in his eyes, and there was a knowing look.
For you know what is in store for you …
He was slender and pale and dark-haired, and his hair fell raggedly about his ears and his eyes were huge and dark-rimmed.
And there are some eyes that can eat you, Mortal …
Fergus stood, unable to speak or move, and the Lad smiled, and Fergus shuddered, for although the Lad was young and firm-fleshed, the smile revealed the evil beneath. His lips were red and full and soft, like an overripe fruit with the juices bursting through the skin — a fruit turned, and just beyond its best, so that while the outer layers remained fresh and moist, just beneath would be the beginning of soft oversweetness. Decay and corruption. Putrefaction. And greed. Above all, the most overwhelming greed …
There are some eyes that will eat your soul …
The Lad moved then, grinning, his hands reaching out. Terrible hands, claws with the nails curved and nearly but not quite rotten and ready to fall out, the fingertips swollen and ripe and splitting and spilling pus in little dribbles. And there was a stench now; rotting flesh, warm cooking meat, corpses oozing decay and filth and dissolving into putrescence.
Fergus was back against the table, one hand held up to ward the Lad off, and Taliesin and Fribble had sprung to their feet, both free now of the insidious music of Fael-Inis’s pipes.
But the Lad had his eyes fixed on Fergus. And Fergus will never escape him, thought Taliesin, and caught an answering thought from Fael-Inis. But Fergus does not want to escape him.
This is what Fael-Inis wanted, thought Taliesin, and knew, even as the thought formed, that Fael-Inis had not wanted it, but that it had been necessary.
For Tara, and for Ireland, and for the world of the Future, and perhaps also for the legendary Lost Prince who will one day rise up and defeat Medoc …
A soul for a soul. Fergus in exchange for Calatin, for only Calatin could weave the Enchantment which would allow them to ride in the Time Chariot.
It has to be done, thought Taliesin, torn between agony for Fergus and the knowledge of what they must do.
A soul for a soul … Because already the First Horseman is in the world of the Future. Plague. Plague already stalking the world, scattered by the Conablaiche. Famine beginning. “And then shall the Beast Apocalypse ride into the world …”
Weighed against all that, what did one soul matter?
But it is Fergus! cried Taliesin silently.
The Lad was coming onwards, his eyes glittering, his hands outstretched, the nails curved and predatory. Saliva dripped from his parted lips and ran down over his chin, and Taliesin and Fribble both shuddered, for the Lad would savour Fergus; he was licking his lips and salivating over him.
I shall tear out your souk and carry it away to the Prison of Hostages, and then perhaps the Conablaiche will come to tear out your heart, for there is nothing my Master likes so well as a warm heart, a Mortal heart, still beating, fresh and running with blood and juices …
Fergus had fallen back across the table and Taliesin and Fribble both moved to stand between him and the Lad. “We would have done anything to prevent the Lad getting to Fergus,’’ said Taliesin later. “There was nothing we would not have done.”
And then Fael-Inis stood up, and the Lad stopped and looked round, and his eyes fell on Fael-Inis, and Taliesin thought he had never seen such fear and such undiluted hatred in any living creature’s eyes.
Fael-Inis regarded the Lad quite coolly, and at length he said in an amused voice, “So, jackal, we face one another again, and fight for a soul,” and the Lad drew back with a snarl, his eyes showing red. He stood looking at Fael-Inis from the corners of his eyes, like a trapped hare.
“You cannot escape me,” said Fael-Inis. “Your mind is subservient to mine. You have owned me to be your superior before, and you will do so now.” He began to move round the Lad, and Taliesin, who was watching closely, thought that Fael-Inis was creating an invisible circle. For a moment he thought that a sprinkling of light fell wherever Fael-Inis walked, but as it touched the floor it vanished, and he could not be sure that he had seen it at all. But he thought that it was as if Fael-Inis had somehow taken a shard of pure light and splintered it, and then scattered it about them.
Fael-Inis was perched on the edge of a chair now, his eyes never leaving the dark-eyed figure of the Lad. After a moment he said, “Come now, a bargain. We both know what is wanted.” He looked to where Fergus stood, and the Lad snarled again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Let the old man go,” said Fael-Inis softly. “You have had your fill of him. Take this one instead. You know who he is?” He paused and the Lad nodded. “I will allow you to take his soul,” said Fael-Inis again, “but I must have your promise that you will not give his body to the Conablaiche. Well?” And then, as the Lad hesitated, “You know I always keep my word,” said Fael-Inis. “You know that I am a prince of a very high order, and you know I obey the Ancient Code of Honour.” He looked at the Lad and Taliesin thought the Lad nodded very slightly. Fael-Inis seemed to withdraw his gaze fractionally. “Very well,” said Fael-Inis, as if something had been settled. “Very well, I will let you take Fergus in exchange for Calatin. Do what you must.” In that instant, the Lad leapt on Fergus.
There was nothing any of them could do.
“It was over before we knew it,” said Taliesin later, “and even if it had not been, I do not think we could have got near to the Lad.”
“It was the Light,” said Fribble. “The Knife of Light, Fael-Inis called it. White and dazzling.”
Fergus had been knocked backward by the Lad’s spring; he was lying on his back on the littered table, and the Lad was crouching over him, his eyes enormous, his face intent. His ragged hair fell across his brow, and his hands slid under Fergus’s skin.
The Knife of Light was hard and brilliant. It seemed to slither across Fergus’s skin, and they thought that he cried out. And then the Knife flashed again, describing an arc in the dark room that stayed in the watchers’ vision for a long time. Fergus gave a truly terrible cry, and for a moment it seemed as if a sudden coldness had descended. Something has gone from
here, thought Taliesin. Something that was warm and alive and filled with hope and joy and fear and laughter, and all the living things, has suddenly gone from the room.
And then the Lad held up something that shimmered and rippled before their eyes, and that was beautiful and terrifying and — Powerful, thought Taliesin. So strong and so powerful and so vulnerable. Whatever it is, it is a force field, a magnet. It will attract every good influence in the world, and every evil one as well, and it will reject or accept, as it wishes. Wonderful and fearful and filled both with great weakness and immense strength. But he never spoke of the pitiful way in which the soul bowed its head humbly and submissively before the Lad. He thought later — “When I could think,” he said — that it was as if the soul knew that it must surrender itself into the Lad’s hands, to do with as he wished. There was a terrible resignation about it and a patience, and the pity of it slammed Taliesin at the base of his throat.
The Lad stood for a moment, his hands caressing the formless thing. As he did so, Fribble and Taliesin caught a flicker of movement from Calatin.
Then the Lad darted across the room like a fleeing hare, and vanished, and Calatin opened his eyes and looked right at them.
*
Fael-Inis said very softly, “There was no other choice,” and his hand came out to rest on Taliesin’s arm for a moment. “I am strength and power and light and speed, Taliesin,” he said, “but even I cannot protect you from the Time Fire. Only Calatin can do that.”
Fribble said, “He’s awake, you know,” and they turned to look to where Calatin was sitting in his chair, his single eye open, searching the room with a look of bewilderment.
“Bless my soul,” said Calatin in a deep rumbling voice, “bless my soul, I believe I dropped off for a while. Where’s that pesky creature that was footling about outside? Did he get in? The boys said it was the Lad of the Skins, although I don’t suppose it was any such thing. Still, you can’t be too careful. And the boys would let in anyone who asked politely, of course.” He rubbed his single eye and beamed. “And we have guests,” said Calatin. “Dear me, not the thing to fall asleep when there are guests. You’ll forgive the discourtesy, sirs? Well, I daresay you’d know I wouldn’t nod off in the normal way. Have we finished supper? Dear me, here’s a littered table. And dust! My word, I shall have to speak to the boys about this. Of course, you get a lot of dust in from the forest. But they might have run round with the mop and a bit of beeswax. I don’t know what they do all day, I don’t really.”