House of Many Doors

by Ian Richards

  ‘Rest now, Black Magician,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a busy day ahead of you. Rest.’

  *

  When he woke it was several hours later. The pain in his head had gone and he was once again able to move freely. From what he could determine his first impressions of the room had been mostly correct. He was underground, sealed in what had to be some sort of cell. He pressed his hands against the walls—dirt, as he had suspected. The only way out was a solid wooden door that had been locked tightly. A testing knock convinced him of its thickness. There was no way through. It might as well have been the entrance to a bank vault.

  Martell returned to his bunk. So it had come to pass. Despite all his preparations here he was, a prisoner of goodness knows where. He touched his fingertips to his skull. The lump had disappeared and his thoughts were clear once more. That was something at least. He would need to have his wits about him if he was to have any hope of surviving this. Not that he believed the odds were particularly favorable to begin with.

  His captor returned a short while later, accompanied by a tall, maudlin man with spectacles and red hair. Martell pegged him straight away as some kind of assistant. He would have been sixty or seventy years old at least.

  ‘Good afternoon, Black Magician.’ The assistant spoke in precise, formal tones. ‘I am Thomas Silvertongue, Lord Firefox’s chief servant. On behalf of my master I would like to welcome you to Marshwood. Lord Firefox also wishes to apologize for the extreme methods used to bring you here. He hopes that in restoring you to health he has begun to make amends.’

  By now Martell’s eyes had grown accustomed to the murkiness of the light. The first thing he noted about Firefox—for the stranger could not be anyone else—was the intensity of his gaze. His eyes were astonishing—two blazing emeralds set deep in an angular, jagged face. Just the sight of them turned Martell’s insides cold. This was the stare of a madman. There was no compassion to be found anywhere, merely a cruel curiosity. Physically the creature was just as striking. He was tall and lean with a distinctive flash of red hair atop his head. There were no smooth edges, no round cheeks or curved dimples anywhere. Everything about him was sharp and jagged. He looked like a lightning bolt in human form. His entire being seemed to scream with a wild, ragged energy.

  And yet all of this was concealed behind an appearance of gentile kindliness—a fawning, deferential manner that spoke only of respect and gratitude. This was no villain. This was the generous soul who had taken away the pain and restored him to health. He shouldn’t be afraid, he should be grateful. He should be happy to be in the company of such benevolence.

  Martell could have almost believed it.

  ‘You can stop pretending,’ he said bluntly. ‘I know exactly what you are and you’re not fooling me. You’re a fairy.’

  Me? The stranger pointed at himself in mock horror, but the grin that spread across his face answered in the affirmative. The illusion had begun to slip already. There was a nastiness to his smile now, a cruelty that couldn’t be concealed any longer.

  ‘Lord Firefox is indeed a member of the fairy race,’ Silvertongue nodded. ‘As am I and the other servants here at Marshwood.’

  ‘So we’re in Faerie,’ Martell muttered. ‘You’ve taken me into the Shadlowlands.’

  Firefox’s grin widened. His raised eyebrows offered a challenge: Are you right? Or are you wrong?

  ‘Actually,’ Silvertongue said, ‘Marshwood isn’t part of Faerie at all. Nor does it belong to the human world. Marshwood is a place unto itself.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Precisely that. It is neither here nor there. I cannot be much clearer.’

  Martell held his tongue. He didn’t expect fairies to give straight answers, but this was ridiculous. His attention shifted back to Firefox. No, this creature was a fairy, all right. The red hair and green eyes were a dead giveaway. So was the smirk. It spoke of someone who enjoyed toying with his enemies. The kind of person who could orchestrate a ridiculous fishing trip with Anastasia’s doll as bait simply because it amused him to do so. Martell suppressed a shiver. This was bad. Firefox could have come straight from the pages of the books his grandmother used to read him as a boy—strange, crooked books in which thin men with red hair and green eyes wrought mischief upon gullible humans for no purpose beyond their own entertainment. He remembered tales of farmers being swindled from their land, fairy lords who tricked young girls into becoming their wives.

  He had only met one of these creatures before. This had been at the first midnight auction he had ever attended, an extravagant gathering that remained fixed in his memory even now. Chinese lanterns hanging from trees like colored fruit; burning red, yellow, green, blue. Rain drummering against the windows. A real life fairy in a resplendent leaf-green suit who spun wild stories, charmed the room, and sold hand-carved flutes that he claimed had the power to send any creature into the deepest of slumbers. He had watched this strange figure from afar, fascinated and fearful in equal measure. Travelers from Faerie were rare, even then. The paths between the two worlds were all but extinct and for a human to glimpse a real-life fairy was a rare occurrence indeed.

  This one, Firefox, had the same self-confidence as the auction fairy. His beady eyes twinkled with mischief, and though he feigned kindness, Martell knew he couldn’t be trusted. Absolutely nothing about this creature was harmless. He might appear reasonable, what with his healing touch and beaming grin, but deep down he was as rotten as the cell they stood in.

  Don’t believe anything he says, Martell told himself. Fairies are liars. They thrive on secrets and deception. Stay calm. Don’t give anything away.

  ‘You’re probably wondering why you’re here, Black Magician.’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

  ‘Haroo!’ A burst of laughter broke forth from Firefox’s mouth, its sudden ferocity enough to make Martell jump back in fright. ‘Oh, Black Magician,’ he giggled, ‘you are amusing.’

  ‘I’m not the Black Magician anymore. I haven’t gone by that name for years.’

  ‘Names,’ Firefox said contemptuously, dismissing the notion with a flick of his fingers. ‘Names don’t matter. It’s what is inside that counts, isn’t it, Silvertongue?’

  ‘Yes, Lord Firefox,’ the assistant agreed. ‘It is.’

  ‘And inside you, my dear man, my clever little Black Magician, is a mind that knows more about antiques than any other. That is why I brought you here. I was told you were the very best.’

  Krook and Kepler, Martell thought. Thanks for that, you pair of tossers.

  ‘Why should I help you?’ he shot back. ‘Your monsters almost killed me. Why should I give you so much as the time of day?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Firefox said. ‘Maybe because if you don’t I really will kill you?’

  Again the twinkling eyes. The knowing grin. Martell had the unfortunate impression that he might be dealing with a sociopath, and once the thought came to him he found it impossible to shake.

  ‘Marshwood is a strange place,’ Firefox continued, gesturing now to the walls of the cell. In the greasy warmth of the lamplight he appeared to be wearing the shadows like clothing. ‘It was designed to be paradise, but ended up a prison. I want you to restore it to its former glories.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘This will explain everything.’

  A wooden cup appeared in his hand. Where it had come from, Martell didn’t know. It was as if Firefox had plucked it out of thin air—or drawn it from one of the walls. The cup held a dark liquid from which curls of steam were beginning to rise.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘This?’ Firefox said, ‘is knowledge.’

  The fairy advanced towards him, eyes flashing wickedly.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You have no choice.’

  Before Martell could react, Firefox grabbed him by the jaw and forced his mouth open. A
screeching laugh rang out. ‘Haroo! Drink, Black Magician. Drink and then we can begin our work in earnest.’

  The cup banged against Martell’s teeth as the first slosh of liquid hit the insides of his mouth. It tasted foul: gloopy and thick, with a flavor that made him think of nettles and pond-water. Almost immediately the room started spinning. Firefox kept up the pressure, pouring more and more of his concoction down Martell’s throat until the old man’s legs gave out. Martell tumbled back onto the bed, the world swimming in and out of focus at a frightening speed. He felt sick. There was a high-pitching ringing in his ears. A growing need to vomit.

  Darkness swallowed him. Darkness and the taste of nettles.

  From somewhere far away came a peal of high-pitched laughter.

  Haroo … haroo …

  Then the house began to speak.

  *

  It came upon him in waves, a rhythmic sickness, a language spoken visually rather than orally. He saw the end of the world. Oil-slicked waters. Boiling, nuclear skies. A flotsam of dead seabirds souping the ocean. Corpses tied to driftwood crosses.

  He had been poisoned, he remembered now. He could taste the toxins on his lips. What was this then, a vision? A hallucination?

  The final moments before death?

  The nightmare cut to black. All was silent save for his own panicked breath.

  ‘What is this?’ Martell cried. ‘What’s happening to me?’

  ‘This is Marshwood.’ The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. It was old and male, dignified in a way that Firefox was not. ‘This is my story.’

  ‘Who’s there? Who are you?’

  ‘I am the House of Many Doors. I am the structure in whose belly you currently reside.’

  From the darkness a new vision emerged, that of a grand, gothic house situated in the most ornate of settings. Rolling lawns. Topiary animals. A great glass lake turned blood-red by the sunset. In the distance a thick forest could be seen surrounding the grounds. Though his thoughts were muddled from the potion he had consumed—and oh, how queasy he felt—he understood that he was in the past, viewing the house in its infancy.

  He approached the entrance, drawn towards it by an unknown force. A large oaken door decorated with sinister carvings creaked open, and though he struggled, though the idea chilled him to his core, he went inside.

  He was at the beginning of a hallway. Corridors ran away on either side of him. A series of staircases coiled up towards the upper floors. Drawn on by an impulse he couldn’t control, he went straight ahead, down the hallway, past rows of closed doors. At end of the hallway he reached what appeared to be some sort of alchemist’s workshop. There were pieces of parchment tacked up to the walls and primitive laboratory equipment scattered across the tabletops. An early telescope pointed towards a darkening window. Beside it stood an elderly man in a dark, sleeveless robe. Martell noticed he had magical symbols tattooed on his arms. Pentagrams, faerie rings, sigils. A snowy beard cascaded down to his chest, its wiry thickness standing in stark contrast to the gleam of his balding head.

  ‘The story of Marshwood begins here,’ the voice said. It seemed to be speaking directly into Martell’s head. His synapses pulsed with every word. ‘We are deep in the long ago, a time of wild magic and great thinkers.’

  ‘Who is this?’ Martell said. ‘He looks like some sort of wizard.’

  ‘He has many names. Observe.’

  The man opened his hand and at once the fabric of reality unfurled itself. A succession of images flooded Martell’s mind. He saw the magician wielding a staff that crackled with lightning—hallways rearranging themselves—doors that opened onto raging seas, slammed shut, then opened again onto vast deserts.

  ‘Marshwood is the centre of all that is, all that was, and all that will be. Centuries ago a great magician designed a house that would stand as the pinnacle of his achievements. It would act as a gateway between worlds. It would be the sun around which the rest of his universe could revolve.’

  More doors opened and closed now, a roar of wooden applause that spanned the length of the corridor. Each doorway led to a different location: Faerie villages, darkened deserts, palaces, dungeons, a futuristic sprawl of neon skyscrapers and pulsing billboards, sun-drenched woodlands, rain-wracked oceans. Martell understood now: Marshwood offered its inhabitants instant access to any number of different worlds. Doors could be opened onto Earth or Faerie, past or future. The possibilities were limitless.

  ‘The House Of Many Doors granted its creator access to power on a scale never before imagined. He used his gift wisely and spent years exploring its secrets. He enjoyed great adventures and learned many things. But even a man as powerful as he could not outrun the Reaper.’

  The vision returned him to the magician’s chamber. This time there was a body seated in the corner. The magician. He had been dead for several months and the funk of decay poisoned the room. Despite his protests, Martell found himself moving closer, approaching the corpse and crouching down to stare directly into its milky eyes. He reached out a hand to touch the magician’s face.

  ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t make me.’

  But there was nothing he could do. His fingers crept closer, inching ever nearer to the creature’s forehead. He saw the wrinkles on the magician’s face, the lines of age, the liver spots, the patches where his skin had already begun to rot. His fingertips made contact, and he winced, turning cold inside at the awful squishiness of its texture. It was like rotten fruit. As if a slight increase in pressure would see his fingers push straight through.

  ‘The magician fell,’ the voice said. ‘But the house did not.’

  Suddenly the scene shifted again, and as in a dream, Martell found himself in a different part of the house altogether. He was getting used to these dramatic cuts, but the memory of the dead magician lingered. As he descended one of the staircases he prayed there were no more unwelcome surprises awaiting him.

  ‘When the magician died, Marshwood fell into disrepair. It became the sad shambles you see today.’

  The house became older now: worn and damaged with age. Centuries seemed to pass in seconds. Through a murky window Martell watched the gardens become wild and overgrown. He continued along a dark hallway, reluctantly inspecting the sights held within. In one doorway, a dusty ballroom marked with the footprints of long-forgotten dances. In another, an observatory with a domed ceiling made of glass and metal. Discarded star charts littered the floor. Cobwebs clung to a forgotten telescope, itself a sad, neglected thing that looked to the floor instead of the skies.

  ‘The magician could not bring himself to destroy his masterpiece, yet he knew the dangers of leaving Marshwood unguarded. He sealed all the doors save for the one that connected him with his home in England. On his deathbed he vowed that the house would only open again to those worthy of its wonders.’

  Martell understood that the doors he was passing didn’t lead to other worlds, but rather to the darkened innards of Marshwood itself. He went by rotten bedrooms, an ancient library. He descended a flagstone staircase that wound itself deeper and deeper into the earth.

  ‘And now Firefox wants the house for himself,’ he said, beginning to piece things together. It was a frightening thought. The power of Marshwood in that hands of that lunatic. It didn’t bear thinking about. ‘But where do I fit into things? What has any of this got to do with me?’

  ‘The magician sealed the doors with a riddle. Only when this is solved will Marshwood flourish again. Until that time all those who come to answer the challenge must remain prisoners of the house. This is their punishment for seeking power beyond their means: to be trapped here for all eternity.’

  Trapped? No, no, this was too much. Being condemned to this crumbling ruin for the rest of his days? He couldn’t face it. He had to find a way out. He had to get back to London, to Tony and Vanessa, to his cat, his shop, his life.

  His stomach lurched. The nightmare was building to a climax now. The vision shifted for a f
inal time.

  Darkness seized him again, an all-encompassing black, as cold as a frost-choked grave. He felt sick. Infected. Marshwood was inside him now. It was a taste, a presence, a shiver in the blood.

  ‘But I didn’t come to answer any bloody challenge,’ he cried out. ‘I was kidnapped. I was brought here against my will.’

  ‘The spell is fixed, Black Magician. Anyone who spends more than a day in Marshwood must remain here for all eternity.’

  ‘And how long have I been here?’ he shouted. He already knew the answer, but demanded confirmation. ‘How long, damn you?’

  The answer was a death sentence delivered without mercy.

  ‘Long enough,’ said the voice. ‘Unless the riddle is solved you will remain in Marshwood forever.’

  Martell screamed then, and the darkness invaded his mouth, rushing like a torrent of ice-choked seawater down his throat.

  He knew no more.

  *

  When he came to he was lying on the floor of his cell. His clothes were damp with sweat. Flecks of foam spotted the corners of his mouth. He felt dehydrated—flushed through with the foulest of toxins. Turning on his side he coughed and brought up what little of the potion he hadn’t yet digested.

  There was no sign of Firefox or his assistant.

  The cell door remained shut tight.

  20 - Krook & Kepler Antiques

  Tony Lott’s bedroom was not spectacular by any means. His bed was a cabin bunk, the walls were cracked and dirty, and his window offered a less than impressive view of sloping roof-tile and the yard at the back of the shop. There was a modest desk in the corner of the room where he carried out any repair work that needed to be done on damaged antiques. His equipment was set out neatly in ordered rows: a tube of superglue, a paintbrush, several miniature pots of paint, a scalpel, a blotting cloth, a pen-knife, a chisel, a jar of varnish, various waxes and polishes, and a skeletal desk-lamp which loomed over this workspace like a mantis. The darkness made it difficult to see, but Mr. Krook had experience of operating in these sorts of conditions. He remembered fondly a family of five he had once snuffed out during a power cut—each of them meeting the sharp end of his knife without him being able to see a thing. At times like this he relied entirely on his other senses, and that was how he knew straight away that the boy wasn’t there. The room was too silent. His nostrils didn’t detect the familiar scent of human activity.