Will of Shadows: Inkwell Trilogy 2 (The Inkwell Trilogy)

by Aaron Buchanan

  Manannán rushed towards me, waving me in under penalty of, perhaps, being trampled. He held the door open for me as I ran inside, barefooted from having also removed my sand-inundated socks. “BOY!”

  Sean appeared from the direction of the kitchen, Cool Luke also popping his head out. “POPS!”

  “Dinner ready, boy?” Manannán stepped over to an armoire in the drawing room to the right of the front door. He opened a drawer and took out a pipe and tobacco.

  “Aye, Pops! Dinner is waitin’ for ya to eat it!” Sean yelled back.

  Manannán packed the bowl of his pipe, lit a match, and puffed to light the tobacco. Whatever its type or brand, it was even more fragrant than I expected. “Where’s Victory, boy?”

  Sean and Cool Luke returned to the kitchen, content to carry on the conversation “She goes by Victoria, Pops!” his voice resounded from the other room. “And she said she’d be back soon. Went to town.”

  “Fuck it all!” He turned to face Joy and me, pointing to the sofa in the drawing room. “Sit, lasses.”

  “In the year of somebody’s lord, 1066, I warned Harold and his Anglo-Saxon brethren that William was a-comin’. They were too fuckin’ drunk an’ too Christian to listen. History forever altered! Now, everybody wants to drink fuckin’ tea and shite curry paste!” Manannán spoke loudly and irreverently. His accent was thick and a peculiar mixture of Scottish and Irish brogues. His h’s were non-existent and he didn’t take to ending words with t’s or g’s. I loved him instantly.

  From the kitchen, we heard, “I love Indian food, Pops!”

  “Of course he does. Even if the slightest hint of spice gives him the shits. Too damned English,” Manannán spoke, still loud enough to be heard. Sean bellowed nothing in return. “That boy. I love him dearly, but I think his parents mayhap been nitwits. Hope he wasn’t too much trouble for ye.” This last part was said quietly and in confidence.

  Joy shook her head no. I answered: “No, not at all. Very helpful, actually.”

  Manannán drew in three long puffs. “Victory,” he repeated his version of her name, as if asserting its correctness; or his correctness. “Needs to hurry up, they’ll be here soon and I’d rather not be sittin’ here with my cock in my hand.”

  Joy looked at me, stifling a giggle. I think she also discovered an affection for our host. “If time’s an issue, maybe you should just go ahead and tell us what’s going on,” her voice was amused, but managed to convey urgency.

  “Aye. Someone is coming ‘ere, aye. A group o’ them. I have me own agents on the sea. Was alerted to their approach. I went out to capsize their boat. But they’ll send more, from the sounds o’ them. Pro’ly by plane. We got time. Just none to waste.” Manannán had taken care of the immediate problem.

  “So, is it rEvolve?” Joy inquired.

  “I never heard that, miss. I find when one belongs to a clandestine organization, broadcasting said organization is usually bad fer business.” Manannán sucked on the pipe and blew smoke out from the sides of his mouth.

  “Something else is going on here we haven’t accounted for. We know rEvolve disbanded.” I looked at Joy and then to Victoria, posing the next question to them. “Has it just reformed into something else?”

  Victoria’s eyes shifted to Manannán, in turn causing me to look at him.

  He blew his smoke in ringlets, as if to indicate he had no ideas himself. In fact, it almost sounded like he might be growling beneath his wild, uncultivated beard. “Do you know why you’re here, Grey?”

  It was only at that point that I realized we had not properly introduced ourselves. Apparently, it was needless. He knew who each of was. “We’re here to enter Bereft—the so-called lost city of the magoi.” I could not be sure how much Victoria had told him about the box, but went to the man-cave to fetch my bag. I returned moments later, and handed him the box. “And to solve this little puzzle box.”

  “’Here. I know what it is. Ye can have it back. The reason you’re here is the same reason they want to be here. Considerin’ what current events have been, it couldn’t be a coincidence.” Manannán eased back in his armchair. “There’s a reason they built tat village ‘ere. It’s the Isle o’ Man—me. And the Isle o’ Man. Yer the Keeper o’ the Well o’ Gods. The Well o’ Souls is ‘ere.”

  “Whoa,” Joy but a hand up in a gesture, hoping for a second to take in the information.

  I too, was at a loss. “What?” both of us chorused.

  “Then, is there a Well-keeper?” Caught unaware, the excitement brought me to the edge of my seat.

  “Aye. He’s in the kitchen.” Manannán, having smoked the contents of his pipe set it on the lamp stand next to him.

  My first question was whether or not Sean knew and if he were training for…something. But another question came to the fore, more pressing, “So you think the reason this group is trying to get onto the island is because they’ve learned the location of the Well of Souls?”

  Manannán nodded solemnly and began running his fingers over his beard.

  “Then they don’t know you’re here?” Joy observed.

  Manannán’s beard parted in a wide and knowing smile.

  “Well, there’s that then. Do they know of Bereft?” My thoughts were that as soon as Victoria returned, we should head to Casthal yn Ard as to get there long before sunrise. Cool Luke, finally hearing what might be rushed and excited conversation decided to join us in the drawing room.

  “Dinner is served,” but he sat next to Joy on the sofa. Joy went through a brief explanation of what Manannán had told us, before posing a new query: “Is it possible they think closing the Well of Souls will hasten their purposes?”

  I wish we could say what those purposes were. “It matches their M.O. Though, I have a hard time imagining they have figured out how to even open it. They had Zala to torture for the info on the Well of Gods. Where would they dig up something about the Well of Souls?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me. Yer takin’ ma boy to America with ye.” Manannán stood up and replaced his pipe in the drawer of his armoire. “And I ain’t a-thinkin’ that they want to close the well. I think they want to control what comes out. But they’ll not be able to do anything without him.” His back was turned to us. He shut the drawer as the front door opened, revealing Victoria.

  “Why so glum, everyone? What have I missed?” Victoria put down a brown paper bag that sounded as if it were full of liquor bottles. I explained to her all we had discussed since our hike back up from the beach.

  Sean was now listening from behind Manannán’s armchair. “So, I’m to visit America? Cool, I guess.”

  “Aye, boy. Table’s set for ten?” Manannán asked.

  “It is. And it’s probably cold by now.” Sean said probably more like prolly. Altogether, his accent and cadence were a near imitation of Manannán’s brogue. He went to the dining room, sat and began eating. We followed him and took seats around the table.

  “OY! BOY! Ya rude little bugger!” Manannán cursed him. “Should’ve let the fairies had their way with ye!” No sooner had he uttered his curse, he, too was shoveling his dinner beyond into the maw beyond his beard.

  “I’ve booked us a charter flight that leaves tomorrow evening. It’s leaving from a private airfield, so we will not cross paths with them. It’ll take us to Dublin and we can plot the next course of action there.” Victoria mixed coffee with milk and brandy and took nips from her glass. “Are you prepared to take on what Manannán has asked of you?”

  I certainly was not what I would consider parent material. Even the word matronly was not one that would apply to me. In a way, Joy and I functioned as elder to younger sibling, but that was the extent of it. Maybe I could function like that with Sean? “Yes, I’ll do the best I can to keep him from those who would do him harm. But do you think Manannán will mind if we tow him along wherever we end up next? It might be a bit before we get Stateside.”

  “Keep moving until you can find an adequate safe hous
e. It is not advisable for you to return to Springfield, likely not Massachusetts at all. Do you have another place to go?” she asked.

  I thought about the cabin my dad used to take me to some summers in Michigan. To my knowledge, it still belonged to him, which meant it belonged to me now. I had no idea what shape it was in, as I have had no desire to return. When I was 15, I went swimming in the lake next to the cabin. There were things in that lake. It was why I had never kept up with the property. It, like our house in Springfield, was hidden from the tax rolls, so we never paid property tax on our house. So the cabin was still there. Probably rotting, though Dad probably warded it from wear-and-tear. But it was in the middle of nowhere in an area I knew fairly well. “Yes. I know where we can go.”

  Victoria took another nip. “Tell me the address for the property. Once you leave Dublin, I’ll check in with your location and make any necessary arrangements.”

  Joy yawned coming into the drawing room. She poured brandy and coffee into a glass with a little milk and sat down. “Night cap. Didn’t get a nap like you got. Wanna catch some zees before we leave.”

  Cool Luke, presumably, was helping Sean pack. Manannán was allowing him to take three suitcases only. Refining the past several years down into those three bags was something Cool Luke that he could help with. Manannán had gone into Castletown to investigate and put word out to some of his contacts around the island about a queer group of men coming in from the mainland.

  Joy leaned over to the arm rest on her side of the sofa and put her had on a pillow. She was snoring lightly in minutes.

  I whispered the location of the Michigan cabin to her and went to outside to practice with my new spell-delivery system—the pen gun.

  Manannán’s sheds were locked tight, save for the one in which he changed out of his wetsuit. Illuminating my palm, I looked around for something to use for target practice. I found a cardboard box full of beach gear, a wake board, some towels slung over the rafters, and four empty bottles of gin.

  Using only blank pellets, I loaded the instrument after watching a YouTube video how to insert the gas. With that part finished, I was ready for target practice. I set the gin bottles on the cardboard box I had temporarily emptied.

  I shot the first pellet from a distance of four feet. At first, I thought I had missed, as the glass was still completely intact. When I leaned in closer, and unclenched my palm to shine the light, I discovered the pellet had gone through the bottle with such velocity that there was only a hole in the precise shape of the end of the pellet. With more experimenting, I found that it could be deadly. If I shot someone from close proximity, not only would a pellet break the skin, it would also embed itself in tissue. Depending on where I aimed, it could kill. It frightened me to be holding such a weapon. My magic could be a deadly weapon, magic was a matter of such profound discipline. Guns, by nature, were not. Nevertheless, the dangers that we faced necessitated such violence. Admitting that sent a chill down my spine.

  These were very different times than those my father lived through.

  Two hours later, after I had a chance to inscribe an additional 12 pellets, Manannán was driving us to Cashtal yn Ard. Meanwhile, we agreed that Victoria would take Sean to the private airfield outside Peel and await our arrival. They got to drive Manannán’s vintage Jaguar. Manannán and Sean’s house was an hour’s drive to the suggested site of Bereft.

  Cool Luke, Joy, and I performed our own magic to be able to search around in the dark. Manannán was the only one not lit up, and therefore, unless we were already being watched and even then by someone with infrared, Manannán thought it best to keep his distance in case anything untoward were to happen.

  “I ain’t ever been to Bereft. I have known ‘bout its existence for four centuries. I even blessed it.” Manannán followed us up by only a few steps by this point before falling further behind us. The area was gated off, but Manannán knew another way around to the site. “But there ain’t been anyone I heard looking for it. There ain’t been anyone I ‘heard of lookin’ for it, either.”

  In spite of my assurances that I could see nothing in the magical spectrum, Joy asked, “Are you not able to go into Bereft, Manannán?”

  “I can, but my lot have to be invited. In four hundred years, ain’t no one that’s bothered on account o’ the mage prohibition on worshippin’ the gods.” Manannán sounded a few steps further back, so figured he would soon be out of ear-shot.

  “That seems absurd,” Cool Luke added. “If we go in, can we invite you then?”

  It was an excellent question, save for the fact the entrance only opened for a few minutes every day. If we could, he’d have to enter at sunset some 13 hours from then. His only reply was a distant “Dunno.”

  “Let’s split up. Cool Luke, take the ruins themselves. If it’s anything like the Shadow Mill, it’ll be hidden, covered by some object or foliage. Don’t worry about open space, even if it seems like there is a lot of it out here.” The area around Cashtal yn Ard was not filled with much in the way of plant life. There was a patch of trees called Ballaglass Glen, down a hill and to the north a half mile. There was also a wall of trees to the east that looked thin, but densely packed. “Joy, take Ballaglass Glen to the north. I’ll take the long area of trees to the right.”

  Joy opened her satchel and removed the pen-gun. I warned her of its potency upon presenting it to her on the ride to the ruins, so she knew full well to take care. I was not ready to remove mine form the liner pocket of my jacket, however. “We have two hours before sunrise. If you find anything promising in the meantime, text your position.”

  “I have this,” Cool Luke removed two vials of red-orange fluid from his own coat pocket. “When you think you’ve found the place, text your position. Then the other two must unseal the potion and whip it in the direction of the entrance. The line’ll be bright red for us to get there.”

  I took the vial from his hand, “Good thinking. And whoever are the ones that have to chase the line, better sprint.”

  Beyond the line of trees, one could see across to the open field depending on vantage point. Mostly, even though it was only about 10 or 15 trees across, it was an untamed place. It seemed more a thicket than a patch of forest. Maneuvering through the growth and between the trees looked difficult, but I found a point in the hedge that seemed less dense and entered, earning a few scratches on my face as I went.

  My reasoning was, and I told Joy to apply the same tack on her end, that even if no magoi had come or gone to Bereft in centuries, its founders would not have made a place as a refuge for practitioners of the magics without leaving some clues to find the entrance. Before parting, Sean gave me a pair of his sunglasses to etch, while Joy had my original pair. I kept them them on the bridge of my nose like reading glasses allowed me to see both spectra at once.

  I took out a legal pad of paper and as well as Shakespeare’s Quill from my bag. I had gone years without even touching the quill, but when events unfolded with the theft of the Sucikhata, I found myself increasingly reliant upon it. In a way, it had its own will as a reflection of its wielder. The writer could channel that will into a spell, and the quill would straighten edges, flourish curves, and make the words of a spell work in concert to meet the spell’s end.

  In a way, I did not want to become accustomed to that level of aid. My craft must be my own as often as I can make it. Sometimes, though, Bill’s Quill, as I had come to call it, was needed.

  One of my newly rediscovered scrolls from my vault spoke at length about art of making ink. There were certain inks that were nuanced for certain kinds of spellcraft. There were inks that one could make that would protect its user from any spell cast with it as a sort of safeguard against betrayal…and incompetence. Like the rediscovered tome detailing spells that were previously unknown to me, this scroll was written in Enochian as well. It was not penned by the same hand, but by the time I had translated it in its entirety with Joy one night, we were both wondering if there was
an additional skill in logomancy that taught the mixing and usage of ink, then one day, we would have to look for logomancy’s equivalent of invisible ink. We even postulated that throughout the world there could be sources innumerable written about magic and the magoi and all we would have to do is figure out how to see the ink. It was a fanciful thought, but it represented a weird kind of hope to teach ourselves that which was lost by the ages.

  I mixed four inkwells full of ink, each designed for different spellwork. I had four bottles with color-coded tops, two in each hand. I wanted to choose the ink that might best help me manifest old spells. My idea was to use my Post-Its like a magical kind of luminol. It was a newly acquired skill, but one that had proven worthwhile once tested on magic I performed.

  The magic I needed to perform would need exceptionally powerful magical luminol—enough to forensically illuminate magic performed up to 400 years ago.

  In a way, it was a long shot, in another, if I chose the right ink, used Bill’s Quill and was on my “A” game, I thought I would be able to get something.

  My first attempt, I crumpled up and stuffed into my bag. The ink did not seem right for this job. It was a concoction of carbonized—that is, burned—ash wood with some other goodies tossed in for good measure—according to the scroll. Instead, I opted for the toxic mixture of mercury, rosewood, and beetle guts. The scroll seemed to indicate this mixture was used for knowledge-based spells. While what I was attempting wasn’t purely within that domain, it made better sense.

  Using Bill’s Quill, I fashioned a complex octagon-patterned spell. The spell also required light to pass through the parchment, or paper in my case. Moonlight imbued its own magical properties, but the canopy of leaves was not going to allow that. Plus, it was only a crescent moon at that. I flicked the cap off my Bic and wrote a more powerful light-bearer spell on a Post-It and stuck it to the paper I had spellcrafted.

  Holding it up, shining it on trees and bushes and ground, the air was bespeckled with molecules of reflective purples. There wasn’t much to follow here, but there was magic quite literally in the air here. And wherever there were a portal to the shadows, I hoped to find a concentration of the magical elements.