Magic Lantern

by Des Sheridan

  Chapter 54

  La Roche aux Fées, France, 31 October 2014, 23:35

  Robert slid silently back through the hole at the foot of the hedge to re-join his troop, skidding on his back to a halt beside Nico. His friend was glad to see him and whispered urgently in his ear.

  ‘The three groups are now all in place, Roberto, so we are ready to intervene. But we can’t delay too long – we may be spotted. Did you see much?

  Robert nodded. ‘Plenty, I could see through one of the gaps in the wall stones. The Triskell works – like a bloody TV signal transmitting, loud and clear and terrifyingly, from the future.’

  ‘And? What did it say? What did you see?’ Nico inquired, his dark eyes wide with curiosity, as he had clocked the ashen pallor on Robert’s face.

  ‘Later. But believe me we need to get the Triskell away from this lot. It puts the whole world in danger for that mad fucker to have it. But let’s get our priorities straight. First, we get Tara and Aoife out. Then, we take the device. Agreed?’

  Nico nodded.

  ‘Good, then tell the other groups that is the order of play. We achieve those objectives, and I don’t care about the rest or the cost,’ Robert added grimly.

  Nico nodded, knowing well what his friend meant by that remark. He spoke quietly into the mike on his lapel, relaying the rules of engagement.

  Robert continued.

  ‘But we can’t move in until they come out of the tomb. We don’t know where Aoife is. And if we go in at the wrong moment God knows what will happen - major collateral damage is my bet. So we wait. But once they are out of the tomb time starts ticking, counting down against us. We will have a very limited window within which to save the child. Minutes at most, so timing is critical. These fuckers are very dangerous. Shoot first is the motto - line up the eye man.’ He was referring to the sniper. ‘We go for Pascal first. Tell the shooter to be ready to go for the apricot.’

  Nico nodded, and motioned to the sniper to move forward. As the man hunkered down beside them, Nico ordered, ‘Line up the main man. Go for the apricot when Robert signals it.’

  The sniper nodded, knowing that Nico was telling him to aim for the medulla oblongata located inside Pascal’s head, a part of the brain that controls involuntary movement and lies at the base of the skull. A lot would ride on that shot, Nico knew, but the eye man was well trained and would professionally set it up. Pascal wouldn’t be going anywhere once the eye man got his shot in.

  Chapter 55

  La Roche aux Fées, France, 31 October 2014, 23:40

  Pascal was ecstatic. The Triskell was an extraordinary instrument, a Magic Lantern working like clockwork despite its great age and the fact that it had not been operated in over three hundred years. Who would have credited it? Pascal felt like Aladdin with the Magic Lamp and he knew exactly what he could do with it. By 2034 he would have long since seized power and he would make sure that Europe would be ready for the climate catastrophe and the forces it would unleash.

  Reluctantly, he drew himself back from the Triskell’s glittering, hypnotic images and tried to think clearly. His father intended to use the Wallonian Circle to impose an oligarchy on Europe, through a putsch in the European Union. That would be fine. Pascal would help Evrard put in place detailed plans for the eventuality. Pascal’s advantage over the Circle would be that he would know what was coming and when in terms of external events, and they wouldn’t. So he could outsmart them and stage a coup d’etat before they could pull theirs off. What’s more, by using the Triskell frequently he would build up a jigsaw of the sequence of climate change and political events unfolding up to 2034 and how to respond to it. Whatever was needed – water desalination plants, vast flood defences to mitigate sea level rise, improved internal security in the face of social disorder – the Circle would be there to provide it. Not only could he inveigle his way to absolute power, he knew that with Evrard’s careful hand on the tiller in the interim, the Circle would make billions of euros by cashing in on every global climate change opportunity and by rearming Europe against future enemies.

  The zenith of his life and powers was about to arrive. The years of patient scheming, the risk-taking, the meticulous research and investment in Celtic studies were paying off. It was meant to be. It was his destiny. He breathed in deeply, knowing that all he had ever planned for was coming to fruition. When the revelation petered out, the contraption’s lights dimmed and the smoke cleared, Pascal was master of himself once more, soon to be master of all. With a majestic gesture he ushered the crowd of dumbstruck onlookers out of the cave, waving at those who should take charge of Tara. Then he seized Freya by the upper arm, dragging her to his side as he whispered his request. He couldn’t credit her response. She hesitated. She chose to query his instruction! How dare she, he thought, as he spat at her,

  ‘I can feel it – it has to be tonight! I am telling you, give it to me now. That way I will be ready for the Avatar!’

  She whispered back.

  ‘If you can feel it that strongly then that suffices. You don’t want to play about with these forces and circumstances. It is all finely....’

  ‘NO! Shut the fuck up, Freya! You don’t understand. I want a boost to accelerate it! It has to happen now, spontaneously! I don’t need you as intermediary. Just do it, woman!’

  His nails were biting into her skin, his words hissing in her ears, so she reluctantly took a capsule from her pocket. She poured liquid from the small vial onto a tiny silver dish no larger than the core of her palm, and held it under Pascal’s nose. He inhaled deeply, taking in the liquid heroin fumes.

  Within seconds He could feel the Avatar arrive, its animal presence burgeoning within him, squeezing in under his skin, its molecules aligning up alongside his own. And for the first time he recognised what the scent was telling him. The creature was a boar! The Boar God was his Avatar! Many animals were sacred to the Celts but the boar had a special place as the supernatural creature that epitomised the wildness of nature, and the savage energy of the hunter and the hunted. Pascal’s skin seemed to prickle and swell as if sprouting the bristles and knots of the boar’s magnificent pelt and in some dim corner of his mind he saw the picture of his new self - three times the weight of the largest sumo wrestler and exuding the ferocious odour of the male beast. His coat would be grey-black, formed of stiff, harsh bristles but with finer, softer patches. And his face - a face full of incipient anger and immediate cruelty, with implacable eyes that never hesitated long. His outstretched hands would transform into upward-curving, razor-sharp tusks, kept sharp through constant regrinding against the lower tusks. The power and the perfection of the cutting and slicing weapon fusing itself with him. What carnage! What glory! The blood spurting from the child’s slashed body.Pascal shuddered at the effort to regain control of himself. Not yet – not yet! He must retain control! He raised his arms, drawing all eyes towards him, and struggled to speak against the growl that rumbled in his throat.

  ‘Tonight is a sacred night. The device has spoken to us clearly! I have seen our future and it is golden. With this power we can conquer Europe within ten years – our tribe will rule! Who is your King?’

  His followers roared with delight. ‘Pascal! Pascal! Pascal!’

  The adulation swept over him in wave after wave. Freya was useless on the side lines, staring at him with a look that combined awe with resentment. She should have understood her role – that of sidekick – earlier, he thought spitefully. He took a deep breath and the stench of the boar engulfed him as he bellowed,

  ‘But first let us give thanks to the Daghdha in the customary way of Celtic Kings. With blood sacrifice at Samhain, the Feast of the Dead, when the veil between this world and the underworld dissolves and men, gods and demons may mingle! Bring the child forward!’

  Chapter 56

  La Roche aux Fées, France, 31 October 2014, 23:52

  Robert tensed as a man brought Aoife out from the far side of the tomb, towards the
large fallen stone which rested a few metres away and had been chosen as an altar. One of the brute’s fists clutched her hair, an effective if vicious way of ensuring her obedience. The child cried out in pain as she was dragged forcibly into place, a pale frail skinny little creature clothed in white. It took Robert less than a split second to place her assailant. It was the man he had first seen in the wood at Rosnaree, one of Shay’s killers no doubt. The man called Erik Noserau.

  To her credit Aoife struggled against him, resisting his pushes and shoving back as best she could. Watching from under the nearby hedge, Robert thought what a plucky thing she was but of course it was to no avail. As they reached the stone, four helpers moved in and helped Noserau force the child onto her back, straddling the stone, facing upwards.

  Pascal proclaimed in a loud voice, ‘As your King it is right that, at the dying moment of the old year at the great feast of Samhain, I pay the traditional homage of the Celtic tribes to the Daghdha, and offer him the life of a child, a maiden untouched by man, in return for my kingship.’

  He nodded to Erik who, with his bare hands, tore off Aoife’s fragile gown, exposing her nakedness. Pinned down by four sets of hands, she was laid bare for all to see. There could be no doubt that Aoife must have heard Pascal’s words and realised what he intended to do. Robert’s heart went out to her. Beads of sweat surfaced on his neck and his veins protruded as, watching from a distance, he struggled, stifling the urge to intervene at once.

  A savage holler went up from the crowd as blood lust took over. ‘Flesh for the Daghdha!, blood for the Daghdha!’ rang the cry. If the hidden onlookers needed proof of the bestiality of this group of demented Celticists, this clamour provided it.

  ‘Bring me my club, Cernunnos!’ Pascal bellowed.

  Aoife screamed out loud now in terror, but no one minded. The roar became louder.

  On cue Cernunnos stepped forward again, this time carrying a great cudgel, about the size of a mace in his right hand. Huge spikes, two to three inches long, like those on his wrist bands, festooned the club. Robert saw Tara tense, pulling forward instinctively, as she cried out ‘No! No!’, but a savage prod of the knife from one of her guards obliged her to stop. To his surprise Robert saw the Chinese woman move towards Tara. It made no sense to him but the gesture seemed protective not intimidating. Was it possible she might be an ally, he wondered? They could do with some allies right now.

  Robert and his friends, some fifty yards distant, moved off their knees into a crouch, tensing and preparing to spring into action.

  ‘Easy now, get ready,’ said Robert speaking slowly and deliberately to the eye man, although his neck was cold with perspiration.

  ‘When I say ‘now’ take him out. But not before! The child must be under immediate threat, namely a weapon raised against her. Our objective is to rescue Tara and Aoife, not just pop the mad bastard.’

  Robert knew that the limit to how long they could leave the scenario unfold without Aoife paying the ultimate price was seconds away. He was waiting for the troop led by Paul Bonnet to signal they were in place around the back of the tomb. Robert had told him about the gap in the inner chamber and the plan was for Paul to get in that way and create a diversion by seizing the Triskell. Robert calculated that Pascal would prioritise the Triskell above anything else and switch his focus to protecting it. This would enable the other two groups to attack in a pincer movement and bring about the rescue. Robert glanced at his wristwatch in exasperation. Still no message from Bonnet! Another thirty seconds and they would have to kill Pascal regardless. All would then have to take their chances.

  Chapter 57

  La Roche aux Fées, France, 31 October 2014, 23:55

  Kirsten stepped quietly onto the roof of the tomb, her two helpers at her side. From this vantage point she watched Cernunnos stop five feet away from Pascal, who waited expectantly for him to step forward. She was waiting for her moment.

  ‘Now!’ she whispered. Each assistant swiftly and silently set alight his wicker torch, laced with sparklers, and held it aloft. They rose to full height, the blazing torches showering the scene in light from above. Kirsten savoured the time it took for Pascal to realise that something was happening and that the eyes of the crowd were no longer fixed on him as they should be. She saw him turn on his heels and stare in astonishment up at her as she stood, bathed in light, and looking – she knew - magnificent in a billowing robe of purple chiffon. She smiled, knowing what he would be thinking. Purple was the imperial colour and he had not authorised her to wear it. He still would not have grasped her real intent and was about to learn the biggest lesson of his life – that he trifled with the Mórríoghain, the great female Goddess of the Celts – at his peril. Raising her arm she roared like a contralto in a Wagnerian opera.

  ‘Tonight, Daghdha, we offer you no unstained victim! Receive instead, from the hand of the Goddess of War, the true oblation of the ancients – the Royal Blood itself!’

  Then she murmured, ‘Release them now!’ Deftly they threw the catches on three large boxes. Suddenly a flock of many ravens, black as night, and cawing vociferously in alarm at their strange surroundings, flew upwards, winged witnesses to Pascal’s nemesis.

  As the import of her words dawned upon Pascal, and he saw the birds of death rise in the sky, Kirsten saw him swing round in growing alarm to face the crowd, but it was too late. Four men had surrounded Cernunnos protectively, their hand guns drawn and pointing at the crowd, ensuring that no one else intervened. Cernunnos closed the gap on Pascal swiftly. Pascal threw up an arm, but it was too late. Kirsten, exulting, watched the terrible cudgel rise and then descend. In a split second Morten drove home the first blow and Pascal gave a blood-curdling scream. Kirsten knew that no man on earth could survive well-aimed and repeated thrusts from such a weapon, and Morten had practised well. Pascal crumpled to his knees, emitting a further horrific roar of despair, his arm a crimson mess and blood pouring from an ear, but it took further relentless blows into the leader’s cranium for the Norwegian to finish him off.

  All eyes were fixed on the slaughter. Some stared uncertainly, perplexed at the strange turn in events. Others, who had been the butt of Pascal’s cruelty felt, as Kirsten did, a glorious surge of unconstrained blood-lust at the fall of their arch tormentor. It was a ritual well accomplished - the Mórríoghain’s revenge.

  Chapter 58

  La Roche aux Fées, France, 31 October 2014, 23:57

  Tara could not afford to vomit. More than anything she wanted to protect Aoife from glimpsing the terrible massacre unfolding before them, and escape. This was her opportunity and she wouldn’t get another like it. Aoife’s captors were unmanned, torn between the guns now pointing their way, and the bloodbath. Being seen as Pascal’s lackeys was no longer a good career move. To a man they let had go of Aoife and were stealthily shuffling back, trying to distance themselves. The Chinese woman was standing still and watching her. She saw the woman smile in her direction and mouth a word with her lips. Tara read it as ‘now’. Tara turned and surveyed the scene. The best chance of escape was to run straight out into the darkness but a sudden strong sense of being watched made her turn her head.

  There, in the darkness of the entrance to the tomb, she saw a figure barely discernible in the gloom. But the upraised beckoning hand, along with the brilliant electric blue light radiating from its eyes, told her who it was and what she needed to know. Dashing to Aoife’s side, she yanked her niece so strongly by the arm that the child lost balance, and shot towards the tomb’s side entrance where darkness would envelop them - where Malachy was waiting. It felt as though she and Aoife were moving in slow-motion under a protective cocoon until they reached the welcoming darkness. This sense of a sheltering spell evaporated the instant she and Aoife crossed the threshold of the dark portal. To her disappointment there was no protecting angel there to greet them! No Malachy!

  Instantly back in the real world of sweat and fear and terror she tugged Aoife again and they
raced through the chambers to the inner sanctum only to pull up startled when she saw Jean Le Vache kneeling by the Triskell. He in turn looked at them momentarily in astonishment, then hurriedly resumed his task of disassembling the object and putting the pieces into a strong canvas hold-all. Tara and Aoife rushed past him towards the back wall of the room, where Tara had earlier observed a small gap - between two of the giant wall stones. For a brief moment she had seen moonlight shine through it and now it offered their best prospect of escape.

  ‘Aoife, through there – there is a gap!’

  The child baulked. ‘But Tara, I have no clothes on,’ she wailed, in a paroxysm of embarrassment.

  ‘Aoife, not now! It doesn’t matter, For God’s sake! Please! Just go!’ Tara’s howl of reproach worked. Aoife shot into the opening, and within seconds both were through the wall of the tomb and speeding across the grass towards a hedge. There was not a soul to be seen, when a familiar young voice rang out.

  ‘Tara! It’s Alain, ici! This way! Vitement!’

  They veered towards the voice in the darkness, and hands appeared from nowhere to assist them scramble through a gap in the hedgerow. Within moments they were racing with their rescuers up a slight incline along a field edge, away from La Roche aux Fées. Tara thought her heart would burst, pain shot through her knees and thighs and shortness of breath caused a stabbing pain across her chest. Aoife was faring better, the agility of youth serving her well. Finally a man’s voice called a halt.

  ‘OK, tout le monde, stop! Catch your breath!’

  They paused and looked back down the slope. Panting for breadth, Tara could see flickering lights and distinguish the sound of shouting and gunshots. Yet, in her traumatised state, she felt oddly detached from the scene. It was like watching a scene in a film, or indeed, she thought ironically, a tableau from the Triskell’s crystal vision box. Quietly Alain passed his jacket to Aoife, and she silently put it around her, carefully zipping it up. Then one of her hands slipped back into Tara’s. Aoife was taking no chances. Like all children she knew who to trust and where safety lay. Tara placed a protective arm on her niece’s shoulder. A voice broke the silence.