The Place of Dead Kings

by Geoffrey Wilson

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Jack’s gaze drifted to the native yantra. It unlocked innate abilities in Europeans, but you could never tell what power it would produce. When Jack had learnt it years ago, he’d been gifted the power to track quarries using the traces they left in sattva. Mark, on the other hand, had gained the ability to find lost animals. Who knew what powers Jack’s other disciples might develop?

  If only they could progress.

  Jack felt sweat beading on his forehead. ‘And you, Mark? Anything?’

  ‘No.’ Mark picked at a piece of dirt on his sleeve. ‘Still trying to memorise it.’

  Jack patted Mark lightly on the shoulder. ‘It’s all right. It’s a difficult one. Took me a year.’

  Mark drew a sheet of paper out of a pouch and unfolded it to reveal a huge yantra sketched in blue ink. The paper was precious – a rare item in Shropshire – and the Rajthanan pen used to draw the design was the only one in the village. But these were both as nothing to the priceless yantra depicted on the sheet. Jack called it the ‘mystery yantra’ because he’d never been able to learn its purpose. A strange Sikh called Kanvar had given it to him in London three years earlier, and since then he’d been trying to use it. Despite memorising the design and learning to hold it steady in his mind, it had never given him a power.

  He could only hope that Mark would do better.

  ‘This part.’ Mark pointed at a particularly intricate piece of the image. ‘Can’t seem to get it.’

  ‘Yes. Tricky. You’ll get there.’ Pain punched him in the chest and he couldn’t help but grimace.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Mark asked.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll be back later.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Carry on with the training.’

  He left suddenly, doing his best not to trip over as he walked. He knew Mark would be watching him and he didn’t want to show any weakness. If he could just get back to his hut and meditate he could at least hold the sattva-fire at bay for a little longer.

  But his chest was so tight he could barely draw in air, and his surroundings seemed overly bright. He stumbled through the trees, crossed the brook and lurched past the green. It was strange to walk through the peaceful village, seeing everyone busy at their tasks, and yet be on the brink of death. It was as though he were suffocating behind a sheet of glass, unable to attract anyone’s attention.

  But what could anyone do to help him anyway? He had a sattvic injury, and only yoga could treat that.

  If only he’d learnt more yantras, then he might have been able to cure himself. But he knew just the three – the native, the mystery and the yantra that healed his chest. Not much to treat himself with.

  And not much with which to build an army of siddhas.

  His right knee buckled and he almost toppled over. He grasped a tree stump and only just managed to stay on his feet. A pool of blackness passed before his eyes but he blinked and fought it off.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ a young girl called Marian asked as she came up the street.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he muttered.

  ‘You sure, sir?’

  He grunted and staggered on.

  One step at a time. Keep going. Back to the hut.

  He felt as though he were floating, as though he were in a dream. There were houses and trees and fields and hills about him, but they were as real as hallucinations.

  He reached his hut, fell though the door and collapsed on the ground. Fighting for air, he rolled on to his back. He heard the sound of children playing in the distance. A sheep bleated and a dog barked incessantly. Tom the blacksmith’s hammer tinged and tinged against the anvil.

  He tried to sit up, slipped back, tried again and finally got himself into the correct posture for meditation. He closed his eyes and brought up the image of the healing yantra. It circled and danced in his mind’s eye, white on black, with intricate, lacy detail. He tried to keep it still but it constantly blinked out of view as other thoughts flooded his head.

  Your mind is like a rippling pool.

  Darkness enclosed him entirely and he passed out for a moment, only waking just before he slumped to the ground. He stuck out his hand to steady himself and eased back into a sitting position.

  The fire in his chest seared him.

  He didn’t have much longer – he was sure of that. If he were going to live, he must use the power now. He thrust every other thought aside and focused solely on the yantra. Finally, he held it still and complete in the centre of his mind’s eye, and the image blasted him with white light.

  He slipped immediately out of the trance, expecting the sattva-fire to have been forced back – at least, to some degree.

  But there was no change at all.

  Damn it.

  The pain was as fierce as before and his chest was just as constricted. He rasped down what air he could. His small hut was hot and oppressive and the sound of Tom’s hammer echoed as if down a long tunnel. The children’s laughter seemed to taunt him.

  He brought up the image of the healing yantra once again, but now the darkness was clutching at him and drawing him close. He tried to fight it off, tried to keep his focus on the yantra. But everything was slipping away.

  He was choking.

  Was he going to die?

  He was certain he would. These past few years had been a temporary reprieve, but the healing power was no longer enough to save him.

  At least he’d had a few good years with Elizabeth in Shropshire, and at least he’d been able to save his daughter’s life. He thanked God for that.

  His only regret was that he would never get the chance to see his grandchild.

  2

  Bells pealed. Several bells. Two were small and high-pitched, while a third was large and dolorous. The sound was familiar to Jack but he couldn’t place it. It seemed to come from the past, from far away, from another world.

  Then he recognised it – the call to Vespers.

  He opened his eyes and found he was lying on his back and staring up at a shadowy, vaulted ceiling. The ringing bells were close, the sound vibrating in the air about him.

  Was he dead? Was this heaven?

  Then he felt a stab of pain in the centre of his chest and he knew he was still alive and in the material world.

  He sat up. He was lying on a hard cot in what he thought at first was a small church, until he noticed the row of ten other cots stretching away beside him. Most of the beds were occupied by old men who lay huddled beneath blankets.

  He was in a monastery hospital.

  A blast of pain hit him in the chest and he slid back down. He tried to sit up again, found he was too weak, tried again, and then darkness swirled around him.

  He fought to stay conscious, but couldn’t prevent himself slipping away.

  He woke to the sound of the bells chiming Nones – three o’clock. Chalky light floated into the hall from the window behind his cot and he smelt a trace of frankincense.

  His chest still hurt and each breath was a struggle.

  ‘Father.’

  He shifted his head and saw Elizabeth standing next to the cot. She whimpered and put her fist to her mouth when she saw his face.

  An elderly monk in a black habit stood behind her. The man had a sombre expression and skull-like features. He looked as though he’d just risen from the dead.

  Elizabeth knelt beside the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Terrible.’

  Elizabeth smiled and gave a short laugh. She took his hand and he felt her icy fingers coil into his. Her eyes were watery and he could see she was fighting to hold back the tears.

  ‘Where am I?’ he asked.

  ‘Clun Abbey. We found you out cold. No one knew what to do. We brought you here.’

  Jack had seen the abbey up on its hill many times but had never visited. It stood about two hours on foot from Folly Brook and the path to Newcastle passed beneath it.

  The old monk stepped closer and folded
his hands within his habit’s sleeves. ‘It’s good to see you awake. I’m Brother Michael. I’ve been trying my best to treat you, but I’m afraid no one here understands your ailment. It is beyond our knowledge, I fear.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jack eased his head back. ‘It’s a strange matter.’

  ‘What is it?’ Elizabeth’s face was creased with worry.

  Jack turned his head to Michael. ‘Can we speak in private?’

  ‘Of course.’ Michael bowed his head and withdrew, making no sound save for the rustle of his clothing.

  Jack held Elizabeth’s hand tighter. ‘Listen, you mustn’t worry.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I was injured. A long time ago, on a battlefield. You know about sattva-fire?’

  ‘Yes. You told me once. It’s like magical flames.’

  ‘That’s it. The Rajthanans use it in war. I got hit by some once – an accident. It’s in here now.’ He placed his shaking hand across his chest. ‘It’ll never go away and once it gets bad enough it’ll stop my heart.’

  A tear rolled down Elizabeth’s cheek. ‘But can’t you get rid of it?’

  ‘I could. Before. I had a power that held it back. It’s not working any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then you need another power.’

  ‘I’d need a new yantra for that, and I haven’t got one. The Rajthanans have all the yantras and they keep them secret.’ He struggled to breathe and sweat burst on his forehead. ‘I don’t even know if there is another yantra that can help.’

  Elizabeth gripped his fingers tighter. ‘There has to be something you can do.’

  ‘You mustn’t worry. It’s in God’s hands now.’

  ‘No.’ Fresh tears trickled down Elizabeth’s face.

  ‘Listen.’ He reached under his tunic and drew out Katelin’s necklace. He held up the cross, with its sinewy designs. ‘You remember this?’

  Elizabeth nodded and sniffled. ‘It was Mother’s.’

  ‘She gave it to me before she died. Now, if I go, you take it, you understand?’

  Elizabeth shook her head, as if to drive away a nightmare. ‘No, Father.’

  ‘You take it, Elizabeth.’ He held her hand urgently. ‘Promise me that. You take it. And then one day, you pass it on to your child.’

  Elizabeth’s face creased and she sobbed.

  ‘Promise me this, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice came out strangled.

  He lay back, sighed as if he were dying, but then managed another breath. He placed the cross down on top of his tunic and let go of Elizabeth’s hand. ‘I need to rest.’

  Elizabeth nodded, swallowing down tears.

  He shut his eyes. ‘You go.’

  ‘No. I’ll stay here.’

  A bolt of pain slammed into his chest and he gasped and opened his eyes. Elizabeth trembled and put her hand over her mouth. But then the pain subsided and he closed his eyes again.

  Slowly, sleep enveloped him.

  He woke at different times, often as the bells tolled the canonical hours, dividing the day into orderly segments. He sensed rather than heard the brothers shuffling behind the walls, cleaning, cooking, chanting, working in the gardens and marching to prayer at the allotted times. The monastery was like an enormous heart beating softly.

  Occasionally, orderlies came to clean his face and hands and twice Brother Michael bled him, cutting his arm and draining the blood into a bowl. Jack doubted this treatment would help, but there was little point in objecting.

  He was aware that Elizabeth was nearby sometimes, and sometimes Brother Michael or other monks visited. He saw Godwin occasionally, standing behind Elizabeth with his hand on her shoulder.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there. Perhaps it was hours, perhaps days. Sweat plastered his clothes and hair to his skin and each breath was a small victory.

  He was surprised he was still alive at all, but knew the end must come soon. He was forty-two, which wasn’t a bad age to reach, considering how many battles he’d been in and how close he’d come to being killed during them. It was cruel to be torn from Elizabeth when she was pregnant, but if that was God’s will, he accepted it.

  No doubt he was due punishment for what he’d done three years ago in London. He’d betrayed his old comrade, William, and now he was getting what he deserved.

  He clasped his limp hands together in front of his chest and whispered, ‘Forgive me, Lord, for my sins. Forgive me for what I did.’

  He heard movement near to him and peeled open his dry eyes. His head felt swollen, twice the size it should be. The wound burnt like a hot coal in his chest.

  His eyesight was blurred and at first he had trouble making out the figure standing at the foot of the cot. Gradually the shape solidified and he saw an orange, knee-length tunic and a peaked turban.

  It was Kanvar – the Sikh who’d given him the ‘mystery’ yantra.

  Questions stirred like ancient dust in his mind. He tried to sit up.

  ‘Father.’ Elizabeth was suddenly at his side. ‘It’s all right.’ She put her hand on his shoulder and eased him back down.

  Kanvar pressed his hands together and bowed slightly. ‘Greetings.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Jack said.

  Kanvar removed his riding gloves. He was still as gaunt as the last time Jack had seen him and his eyes still had a way of boring into you as if all your secrets had been laid bare. Jack had never known the Sikh’s exact age, but he looked to be in his late twenties.

  ‘I came when I sensed your illness,’ Kanvar said.

  ‘Sensed?’ Jack said.

  ‘Through a power. It’s not important now.’

  Could he trust Kanvar? The Sikh had given him a yantra, and was an enemy of the Rajthanans. But all the same, Kanvar was an Indian – and Jack didn’t trust Indians any more. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To help, of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  Kanvar shot a look at Elizabeth.

  She rested her hand on Jack’s shoulder and gazed at him with her brow creased. ‘He says he can treat you.’

  ‘You haven’t used the yantra I gave you?’ Kanvar asked.

  ‘No.’ Jack took a rasping breath. Should he even tell Kanvar anything? ‘I tried. Many times. It didn’t work.’

  Kanvar pursed his lips. ‘I see. I thought . . . you would be able . . .’ He frowned and stared into the distance, muttering in an Indian language Jack didn’t understand.

  ‘Kanvar,’ Elizabeth said.

  The Sikh looked at her, as if startled from a dream.

  ‘You said something about a treatment?’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Kanvar sat on the end of the cot and leant forward to stare at Jack more closely. Dim light angled from the windows and silvered one side of his face. He placed a hand on Jack’s chest, shut his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. ‘The fire is very severe now.’

  ‘My power doesn’t hold it back any more,’ Jack said.

  Kanvar nodded slowly. ‘The wound is too great. Your power is no longer strong enough.’ He sat back. ‘But I have another power that could help.’

  ‘Will he be cured?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Maybe.’ Kanvar replied without turning. ‘But it is dangerous. There is a complex ritual that takes many hours. He could die . . . I could die.’

  Elizabeth tightened her jaw. ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Kanvar stood. ‘I must.’

  ‘Stop.’ Jack’s voice was cracked. ‘I forbid this.’

  Elizabeth frowned. ‘Father, why?’

  ‘I don’t trust him.’ He squinted at Kanvar. ‘Why have you come now? After three years. Why would you want to help me?’

  ‘You need to trust me.’ Kanvar slipped on his gloves. ‘I must leave now. We will perform the ritual tonight.’

  ‘I said, I forbid it,’ Jack said.

  Kanvar stared at him. ‘You must l
ive, Jack. It’s important.’

  Then the Sikh turned on his heel and slipped out of the hall.

  Jack looked at Elizabeth. ‘The answer is no.’

  ‘It’s your last chance.’

  ‘I forbid it. You understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Elizabeth put her hand on his chest. ‘Lie down, Father.’

  Darkness crept across his vision. He shut his eyes and black water seemed to pour into his head, swill around and drown out all thought and feeling.

  ‘I forbid it,’ he managed to rasp before he passed out.

  Moonlight through clouds. The glow like breath on glass.

  Jack blinked a few times. He was lying on his back, staring up at the night sky and moving along with a jiggling motion. The cold air chilled the sweat on his face and threaded painfully through his lungs. The wound in his chest burnt and throbbed constantly.

  He managed to look around and saw he was on a stretcher being carried along a rough road by four men. Dark hills loomed about them and stands of trees were visible beside the track.

  He tried to speak but then felt soft fingers touch his hand.

  ‘Father.’ Elizabeth was walking beside the stretcher, a cloak over her shoulders and her eyes shining in the pale light.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Jack asked, voice thick.

  ‘We’re going to the village.’

  ‘Why?’

  Elizabeth looked away, and then Jack noticed Kanvar loping nearby with his hands behind his back, staring up at the moon, lost in thought.

  ‘No.’ Jack tried to sit up but could barely move. ‘Take me back.’

  ‘We have to try.’ Elizabeth glanced at her feet as she walked along. ‘The monks wouldn’t allow it in the monastery. Said it was black magic.’

  Jack tried to speak, but his voice was too weak and all he could do was feebly raise his hand for a moment. The men bore him on across the moonlit landscape as if he were bouncing gently on air.

  The black hillsides steepened and drew closer together. Soon Jack recognised his surroundings. He saw glimpses of the white-walled cottages of Folly Brook and the stone cross near the edge of the village. And then they were passing through the entrance to his hut and the stretcher was being placed on the earth floor.