Runelight

by Joanne Harris

  She opened the entrance to World Below concealed beneath the pulpit.

  ‘What’s that?’ said the woman sleepily.

  ‘That’s where I’m going,’ she told her. ‘Come with me, and you might survive.’

  It suddenly seemed very important to her to save at least someone from the disaster. She stood up and addressed the refugees. ‘There’s a hiding place under the city,’ she said. ‘I’ve been there before. You’ll be safe with me. Anyone want to come along?’

  Silence.

  ‘Someone? Anyone?’

  Still there was silence from the group. The Outlander woman was asleep. Others shielded their faces or made the sign against evil. Everyone had seen her cast her glam at the Outlander woman.

  And now Maggie understood for the first time that the runemark that shone from the nape of her neck did more than give her powers; it marked her for ever as one of a tribe that had devastated World’s End more times than the Folk could remember – a tribe that had wiped out the Order and had now brought this Chaos onto their heads.

  ‘It’s all right!’ she tried to explain. She took a step towards them.

  A man who looked like a country parson moved to intercept her. ‘Get back to Netherworld, demon!’ he cried, and pushed at her with both hands.

  He took her by surprise; Maggie fell, and at that moment she felt the runes forming at her fingertips – Hagall, Isa, Naudr, Úr – and, with them, a searing, blinding rage, a rage that exploded out of her with uncontrolled ferocity.

  ‘How dare you touch me!’ Maggie said. ‘How dare you put your hands on me! I ought to kill the lot of you …’

  And for a moment she almost did; the mindbolt levelled and ready to strike at anyone who dared to move …

  The parson saw it and held out his hands. ‘Lady, mercy …’ He dropped to his knees.

  The others just stared in horror at her, looking like frightened children.

  Maggie gave a stricken cry and dispersed the runes against the floor, hard enough to crack the marble.

  I am a demon, she told herself. I could have killed them – I wanted to …

  For a moment, she saw herself as they did. A monster, shorn, bare-headed; black with the dust of destruction; that ruinmark gleaming from her skin and her dead eyes like those of a murderer.

  And am I not a murderer? If I had listened to the Old Man, wouldn’t Adam still be alive?

  The thought came from somewhere inside her; some deep and secret place of hurt. It dragged at her heart – her cold, dead heart – and suddenly her eyes were wet.

  The eyes of the Folk were merciless. Staring now at the monster, the freak; staring in horror, in hatred, in fear; but mostly in growing hostility. They had no idea of Maggie’s strength; her glam aside, she looked just like any other seventeen-year-old girl; but filthy, ragged, and now weak.

  A little boy threw a stone.

  It missed, but Maggie was startled. She looked up to see the refugees gathering their forces: sticks; knives; chunks of rock.

  ‘Please. I don’t want to hurt you …’ she said.

  Another stone flew. This time it hit. Maggie felt a pain in her wrist. The pain was sharper than the glam that had sliced into her palm; it came as a surprise; once more she felt a wetness on her face.

  She summoned her glam again. A shield made up of Yr, the Protector. Several stones bounced off the shield as the little crowd grew bolder.

  ‘Stop this,’ Maggie said. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing!’

  Now a knife glanced off the shield; a man’s face, distorted with rage, pressing against empty air.

  The parson had found his courage again. ‘Pray, pray!’ he urged the crowd. ‘The demons are powerless against prayer!’

  Once more Maggie tried to protest. But their voices rose against her – a babble of cries in which she repeatedly heard the words: demon, Fiery, Order, Cleansed.

  Suddenly the crowd fell still. Their gaze moved upward, a hundred eyes suddenly reflecting the sky.

  The Cradle of St Sepulchre’s Fire blazed down onto World’s End; and now, through the broken ceiling of the derelict University, they saw an eight-legged nightmare descending on them, with a mane of runelight, a tail of fire and spidery legs that spanned the sky.

  Maggie recognized Sleipnir at once; but Sleipnir in his primary Aspect was a fearsome sight indeed, and once more the group of refugees shrank away and covered their eyes. Some made the sign against evil; some prayed aloud; some wailed; some called for their mothers; some wept.

  ‘Ach, typical Folk,’ said a voice. ‘Never know what’s good for them.’ And now, astride the Red Horse, Maggie saw Hughie and Mandy, both of them in human Aspect as Sleipnir alit on the cracked marble floor. ‘Still, nae harm done, eh?’

  Crawk, said Mandy. No harm. Crawk!

  Hughie gave his brilliant smile. ‘We’ve come tae pick you up, hen.’

  ‘Pick me up?’ said Maggie.

  Hughie looked apologetic. ‘Well, what with the End of the Worlds, the Auld Man thought ye’d be safer up there …’ He nodded up at the Cradle that burned and rocked in the hectic sky. ‘Besides, your sister needs your help.’

  Maggie made a dry sound that might have been laughter, or a sob. ‘My husband’s dead,’ she told him, feeling the runes once more beginning to itch against her palm. ‘You think I care what happens to her? Or any of the Firefolk?’

  ‘Ach, I’m sorry for your loss.’ Hughie tugged at the silver ring that dangled from his earlobe. ‘But ye can see how popular ye are now with the Folk of World’s End. We are your true family. We love you for ever, no matter what—’

  ‘You?’ said Maggie.

  Hughie shrugged. ‘We speak for the Auld Man. We’re his Mind and Spirit, ken? He says no hard feelings for the wound ye gave him when ye glammied him in the face. Perhaps he deserved it a little, he says. And scars, of course, add character.’

  ‘That was him?’ Maggie said, curious in spite of herself.

  ‘Aye, or one of his Aspects. He sends his regards to his grandchild. He says he doubts ye’ll meet again.’

  And with that Hughie remounted Sleipnir, while Mandy reverted to raven form.

  ‘Seems a shame for the wean,’ he said, almost as an afterthought.

  Maggie’s hand crept to her belly. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I can see you not wantin’ to live, but I thought you might do it for the wean. I meant the baby,’ he said helpfully, dazzling Maggie with his smile.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Maggie said.

  He indicated the shadowcloud. ‘What did you think it was, eh? Rain, to make the flowers grow? That’s Chaos coming for all of us, lass, with Surt himself as vanguard. When that cloud covers Asgard, then all the Worlds will come to an end, and no one – not you, not me, not even Death herself – will survive. Surely ye’ve heard the prophecy:

  ‘When the ’bow breaks, the Cradle will fall,

  And down will come baby, Cradle an’ all—’

  ‘But that’s just a rock-a-bye,’ Maggie said.

  Craw, said Mandy. Crawk. Craw.

  Hughie shrugged. ‘She says we should go. She’s not the most patient, I’m afraid …’ He glanced once more at the open roof, through which the sky blazed purple-black. ‘Perhaps we could fill ye in on the way. I’m afraid we dinnae have much time. But if ye’d oblige him, the Auld Man gives his solemn word that he’ll give ye a hall in Asgard, and he’ll not raise a hand against ye or your child – neither he, nor any of his folk – no, not until the End of the Worlds.’

  Maggie narrowed her eyes at him. ‘How do I know he’ll keep his word?’

  ‘Because he has to,’ Hughie said. ‘Now, are ye comin’, or are ye not?’

  IT FEELS LIKE drowning, Loki had said. Drowning in a sea of lost dreams. Now Maddy really knew what he’d meant: without Jorgi to keep her afloat, she was tumbled and turned this way and that like a bundle of rags brought in on the tide. Above her, the black bird shadow, poised like the sails of a deathly ship; be
neath her, the multiplicity of Dream, in all its confusion and splendour.

  Why am I still alive? she thought. What can Chaos want of me?

  The answer came almost immediately – though not in words, of course. Words are the language of Order; but in Chaos the language is that of sensation alone; wordless; in corruptible. To Maddy it felt like plunging into a sink of ice-cold water; every nerve, every sense, every part of her was immersed in that knowledge, so that the spoken word seemed clumsy by comparison, while the clever fingers of Chaos now turned her over and over, unravelling her secret thoughts like a spindle laden with wool.

  The presence that did this was nothing like any creature of Maddy’s experience. She sensed its curiosity, its alienness, its caution. Its rage was overwhelming; and yet it was an impersonal rage, like thunderstorms and earthquakes, untainted by contact with Faërie or Folk; cool; remote; relentless.

  Dreamingdreamingdreamdream … There were no words in the presence’s voice; just a buzz of conscious static, something like a swarm of bees. Sleepsleep perchancetodream … still turning her over this way and that; unwrapping her like a parcel …

  What do you want? Maddy tried to say.

  Dreamdreamdreaming. Dream. The buzz of static intensified, urging her to surrender. She began to feel her mind give way; her subconscious begin to unravel. The best way to know an enemy is to understand his dreams, she thought; and on that realization (which came in a burst of memories: herself at four, on Red Horse Hill, asleep and dreaming of goblins) came a sudden understanding: Chaos was trying to enter her mind, not in the way the Whisperer had, by force of personality, but by a process of close inspection and slow analysis that, when complete, would give away not only Asgard’s defences, but the inner workings of those who had built it …

  It doesn’t know, Maddy thought. It doesn’t know how helpless we are …

  She hid the thought as best she could inside another memory – a dream of running through the woods on all fours, like a hunting wolf. A ghost moon capered overhead; the earth was fragrant underfoot. Maddy lifted her head and howled …

  In the distance, another howl seemed to answer Maddy’s cry. It sounded familiar – not part of the dream – and her heart gave a lurch of surprise and hope.

  Fenris? Fenny? Is that you?

  The cry came again, so distantly that she could barely hear it at all. The static in her mind increased – dreamdreamdreamDREAM – until all Maddy really wanted to do was dip under the black bird’s shadow and feel nothing any more …

  Dream. Dream of Asgard. Dream … And now she could feel her mind coming apart, dropping her secrets like petals from a blown rose. Here was Asgard’s gateway, with its double row of pillars. Here was an orchard of cherry trees, the petals scattered in the wind. Here was a tower, there a lake; and Maddy could feel them dissolving away as Chaos reclaimed what she had stolen. She tried to keep what was dearest to her hidden closest to her heart, but even so, it would not be long before it had taken everything.

  They’d been close – so very close! But this was surely the end of the line. She could feel her mind letting go, like a man holding onto a high branch, losing his grip, a finger at a time. Soon there would be nothing left. Nothing but forgetfulness. Was that really so bad?

  Here a smile from an old friend. There the shadow of a rose. Runes, cantrips, memories; everything dissolved like smoke, leaving nothing but darkness. Goodbye, Sugar-and-Sack, she thought. Goodbye, Jed Smith. Goodbye, Mae, goodbye, Nan, goodbye, Malbry and Red Horse Hill. And Maggie, my sister, wherever you are – I wish I’d known you better …

  And then, from behind her, there came a sound like the beating of giant wings. It’s over, she thought with a kind of relief. No more fighting. No more loss. I’m sorry, Odin – Perth, my old friend – but this is as far as I can go …

  And now, at last, the black bird shadow descended once more. Maddy didn’t even look up. Why bother to look? There was nowhere to go. She closed her eyes and tried to hold onto those last small fragments of memory:

  The scent of bonfires in fall-time. A red-haired young man called Lucky. A journeyman with his travelling bag. Wild geese over the mountains. A shape – a blemish – on her hand that somehow meant something important …

  And then Maddy heard a rushing sound, and opened her eyes in astonishment as someone said: ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ and something hard rammed into her side, knocking her out of the black bird’s shadow just as it grazed the heel of her boot …

  And now she was hurtling out of the shadowcloud at a speed that even Jormungand might have found hard to match. Instinctively she clung to the mane of the creature that had rescued her. It was Sleipnir, she remembered; the Horse’s name was Sleipnir. And on his back were the ravens, Hughie, Mandy and …

  ‘Maggie?’

  Maggie gave her a sidelong glance in which Maddy read both anger and a grudging kind of pride. ‘What in the Worlds were you doing?’ Maggie said. ‘What did you think you could do here alone?’

  Maddy shrugged. ‘I wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with options.’

  ‘Well, you were lucky. Lucky I got here in time.’ She looked at Maddy again, and said: ‘Do you know your rune’s reversed?’

  Maddy nodded. ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘Pfff,’ said Maggie scornfully as, with a giant stretch of his spidery legs, Sleipnir bore them out of the cloud. Above them, the Cradle was rocking like a rowing boat in a high wind, with the gods – now in their human Aspects again – looking down from the battlements.

  Crazy Nan saw Maddy and cheered. ‘I knew it!’ she cackled. ‘You made it!’

  Perth was standing next to her, with Hughie and Mandy, who had flown to join him as soon as they had left the shadowcloud, perched upon his shoulders. Behind him, Loki – now back in human Aspect, and therefore clad in nothing but skin – offered a desperate, blasphemous prayer to any deity who might care: Please, don’t let me die like this – naked and married, for gods’ sakes …

  ‘Dream, Maddy, dream!’ he yelled.

  Perth’s voice rang out in support. Soon the others were joining in, their voices rising thinly above the sound of the approaching shadow.

  Maddy turned to Maggie. ‘I can’t. You have to help me!’

  Maggie nodded. ‘Take my hand.’

  Maddy did, and a bolt of glam passed between the sisters. It was like being hit by a thunderbolt, Maddy thought to herself as it struck; she stumbled, half blinded, as Ác, the Thunder Oak, lit up like summer lightning.

  At the same time Aesk, the Lightning Ash, lit up with sudden intensity. It was reversed, but still it shone; and now the tiniest spark of glam began to take shape at her fingertips. Not enough to build a bridge, or to raise a citadel, but maybe – just maybe – enough to dream …

  ‘Come on, Maddy! Dream!’ said Thor, leaning over the battlements.

  ‘You can do it, sweetheart!’ said Sif.

  Maddy closed her eyes and dreamed. At her side, Maggie did the same. Their dreams were strangely similar, if only they had known it. Both dreamed of places they’d loved – Maddy of Little Bear Wood in the spring; Maggie of her catacombs. Both of them dreamed of absent friends: Maddy remembered Sugar-and-Sack; Maggie, Adam Scattergood. And both of them dreamed of Inland – its little hedges and winding roads; farms and markets; cities and towns and, most especially, the Folk …

  Nothing dreamed is ever lost, thought Maddy, opening her eyes as, from out of the shadowcloud, came something dark and hungry and huge – not a black bird shadow, but—

  ‘Fenny!’ cried Skull and Big H, dancing on the parapet. ‘Aw, man, we thought you were dead!’

  Fenny was still in Devourer Aspect, fangs bared, eyes aflame. He leaped onto the parapet, then turned to the black bird shadow that now dipped out of the dreamcloud, and opened his jaws in a silent snarl.

  ‘Do it, Maddy! Do it now!’ he growled, and faced the Destroyer.

  And so Maddy summoned her last spark of glam, reached for her last precious fragments of D
ream, and hurled them at the Citadel with every bit of strength she had. Maggie joined her glam to Maddy’s, and for a time Oak and Ash stood together beneath the Cradle.

  Will it be enough? Maddy thought. Or will it be too little, too late?

  She looked back at her sister. Maggie’s gaze was fixed on a point somewhere above the Citadel, and her face was distorted with concentration. The silvery light of Ác, the Oak, streamed and flared from her body, shooting from her fingertips, her eyes, even the ends of her hair. But there was something else, Maddy saw: Ác was no longer alone. Another signature was there, almost hidden inside the light, a filament of rose-pink, like a worm in a baby’s eye …

  And then there came a sudden flare of northlights over Asgard. The whole of the Cradle blazed with a light so bright that it almost blinded her. A burst of music accompanied it: Bragi’s guitar was back in tune, and he was already celebrating.

  Above the Citadel, Jormungand formed an arch of victory.

  Crazy Nan danced a little jig.

  Hugin and Munin wheeled and soared, crawk-ing to each other.

  Heimdall reached for his spyglass to scrutinize the shadowcloud. He thought he could already see a change – the tiniest hint of translucency. That might have been wishful thinking, of course, except that it had ceased to advance; it simply stood there, glowering, less than twelve feet from Asgard’s gates.

  On the parapet, one by one, the gods felt their primary Aspects return. Loki found himself fully dressed, with the rune Kaen (no longer reversed) shining from his signature. Odin, both his runes restored, drew himself up to his full height. Thor shot Mjølnir into the cloud; the black bird shadow faltered and stopped.

  They felt its confusion – What’s this? – its triumph faltering into dismay.

  Once more Thor struck with Mjølnir. Its brightness turned the shadowcloud a dusty, bloated purple. The black bird shadow began to retreat, the flame of its wings changing colour to match.