Across the road loomed the Georgian facade of the City Chambers. It spoke of elegance and cultured discourse, the best humanity had to offer; like all of the modern world it hid a multitude of sins. Beneath the chambers was what remained of an entire city street, Mary King’s Close, locked away in darkness. The guide book described it as the most haunted place in all Scotland, which was hardly surprising. The City Chambers had been built there to seal off forever a part of Edinburgh history the people hoped to forget, couldn’t bring themselves to face, with all its shame, guilt and suffering. But like all bad memories it refused to stay buried.
In 1645, when Edinburgh was in the grip of the Black Death, the filthy, overflowing tenements of the Old Town were filled with the diseased and the dying, and Mary King’s Close was worse than most. A sickening plague pit, the city fathers had said. The rich, cultured, upstanding Great Men of the City had a view of the poverty-stricken that was less than human, and in an act of brutality that reverberated down the years they ordered the entire close blocked up. They called it quarantine. The truth was not so clean: every resident was left to die without food or water in the hope that the disease could be contained. And if that was not enough of a monstrosity, when the moans of the inhabitants had finally drifted away, two butchers were sent in to dismember the corpses.
Shavi shivered at the extent of the cold-hearted cruelty. No wonder the spirits of those who had suffered couldn’t depart the prison of their misery. For hundreds of years, visitors to the hidden street had reported the most awful, shrieking spectres, accusing revenants, a little girl, her china doll face filled with such overwhelming sadness it caused physical pain in those who saw it, watchers from the shadows whispering threats and prophecies of suffering and pain; an oppressive atmosphere of despair hung over all, and even the sceptical left the place changed on some fundamental level.
Shavi surveyed the City Chambers carefully, then let his gaze slowly drop to ground level. If even normal, rational people experienced such dread, what would he find, with his super-charged perceptions? With apprehension tightening a band around his chest, he set off across the street.
The entrance to the buried close was a nondescript, rickety wooden door off Cockburn Street. He flicked on his torch the moment it opened, listening to the echoes disappear into the depths. Spraying the light around inside, he was confronted by a path that rose steeply to another entrance. To his left, about halfway up, was an ancient front door almost lost in the gloom. Dust was everywhere, in thick layers on the floor and hanging in choking clouds in the air, so that he continually had to stifle coughs; the resultant noise, twisted by the echoes, was like the bark of a beast prowling nearby.
Slowly he moved through a maze of bare rooms, claustrophobic in the dark, where an oppressive atmosphere gathered among the creaking timbers that propped up the ceilings. He tried to shake off the knowledge that he was alone there, far beneath the road where no one would ever hear him if he yelled, but the thought kept creeping back.
The mushrooms turned the echoes of his footsteps into percussive bursts rattling off the confining walls in a syncopated rhythm that rose and fell, grew and receded; there was something about the quality of the reverberations that didn’t seem quite right and in the brief snatches of silence that lay inbetween them he was sure he could hear other disturbing, muffled sounds. He didn’t pause to listen too closely. The air grew dank as he moved deeper into the heart of the Close’s system of ancient bedrooms, living rooms and kitchens, where families of ten or more were forced to live together in abject poverty.
After a while he stopped to try to get his bearings; the last thing he wanted to do was get lost down there. In the darkness that lay beyond the beam of his torch he thought he could see sparks of light swirling like fireflies; he dismissed it as a trick of his eyes, although it continued to nag at him. The atmosphere was even worse than he had anticipated, alive with dismal emotion and sour memory, brooding for centuries, ready to lash out with bitterness.
Shavi attempted to maintain his equilibrium. His gradual understanding of the Invisible World told him that whatever power lurked there away from the light would see anything less as a sign of weakness; and that could, very possibly, be a fatal mistake.
He sprayed the beam around. He was in a small room next to an old fireplace. The plaster on the walls was cracked and flaking. There was nothing out of the ordinary until something caught his eye in a flash of the torch beam: one corner was filled with an incongruous collection of dolls, teddy bears, photos, dollar bills, Tamagotchis: a pile of offerings left by those who had been there before him. It was just rubbish, but there was a strange, eerie atmosphere that surrounded it.
The place was starting to affect him; his breathing had grown shallow. A compulsive desire to flee came in waves, forcing him to grip the torch tightly as he fought it back. Briefly he stared at the torch, trying to clear his mind; despite years of meditation, in that spot, it was almost impossible. His heart was pounding so wildly, the throb of his blood made his head ache. But somewhere he managed to find the reserves of strength for which he was searching. He switched off the torch.
The darkness was all-encompassing.
His breathing stopped suddenly, until his head spun and he thought his lungs would burst. And when the ragged inhalation did come, it sounded so loud he wanted to tear the air from his throat for fear it would mark him out. Cautiously, he lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged, and through an effort of pure will he managed to calm himself a little; at least enough to remain in that awful place.
The dark gave him the destabilising sensation that he was floating in space. There was no up or down, no here or there, just a sea of nothing, with him at the centre of it. Gradually his other senses became more charged to make up for his lack of sight: distant, barely perceptible echoes bounced off the walls which seemed, unnervingly, to have no particular point of origin, but which he attributed to changes in the temperature of the building fabric; the floor was dusty and icily cold beneath his fingertips; his nostrils pierced the cloying mist of damp to pick up subtler smells which intrigued him-tobacco smoke, perfume, leatherwhich he confidently told himself were the fading memories of visiting tourists.
But he knew what he was really sensing: the smells and sounds and textures of the resting body of that place, which was, in a very real sense, alive, more than an amalgamation of bricks and mortar, a creature bound together with the bones of pain and the blood of suffering, guts of despair and the seething, sentient mind of hatred. He knew. And he knew he was there at its mercy.
For nearly half an hour, he sat in the deep dark, listening to the sound of his own breathing. He had just started to wonder if the place would keep him there in torment without presenting itself to him when his nerves began to tingle; his heightened senses had picked up a subtle change in the atmosphere. The temperature had dropped by a degree or two and a strange taste like milky coffee had materialised beneath his tongue.
There was no sound or movement, but he suddenly felt an overwhelming presence looming behind him. His mind demanded that he turn round, defend himself; somehow he managed to hold still. He could feel it, he was sure; it wasn’t his imagination. Whatever was there seemed to rise up over him, poised to strike, still silent but radiating a terrible force. It hung there, his hair prickling at faint movements in the air currents. The effort to turn round almost drove him insane, but he continued to resist. And in that instant he knew, although he didn’t know how, that if he had turned, he would have been struck dead immediately.
Although it was dark, he closed his eyes and concentrated. He could feel it above him, frozen, waiting for him to make any move that would allow it to attack. Shavi sensed oppressive, primal emotions, but not what it truly was.
And then, when he thought he could bear it no longer, it receded like a shadow melting in the dawn sun, slipping back and back until Shavi felt alone once more. He released a tight breath of relief, although he knew it was not t
he end.
He didn’t have long to wait. At first he couldn’t tell if the odd movement his eyes registered were the purple flashes of random nerves sparking on his retina or if it was some external phenomenon. White dots sparkled in one spot, like dust motes in a sunbeam, but moving with a life of their own, coming together almost imperceptibly, coalescing into a shape. His heart began to beat faster.
The shape glowed with an inner light, took on a pale substance, until he realised he was looking at the form of a small girl. Her blonde hair was fastened in pigtails, her face as big and white as the moon, from which stared the darkest, most limpid eyes he had ever seen. She wore a plain shift dress and had her hands clasped behind her back. More than her presence, it was what she brought with her that truly disturbed Shavi: an atmosphere of suffocating despair. It didn’t simply make him sad; he felt as if it was being curled into a fist and used to assail him.
“Hello,” he said in as calm a voice as he could muster.
Her eyes didn’t blink. The more he looked into them, the more he felt they were not human at all: alien, demonic, too dark and deep by far.
“I hope you will help me,” he continued.
“Ye shouldnae have come here.” It was not friendly advice.
Knowing what was at stake, Shavi arranged his thoughts carefully. “I understand your pain. I recognise the wrong that has been done to you. But I come to you with open arms, seeking aid. Would you turn your back on another who walks the long, hard road?”
Shavi’s heart seemed to hang steady in the long, ringing silence that followed. He couldn’t tell if the girl was ignoring him or if her dark, luminous eyes were coldly weighing his presence.
Eventually the glass sliver of her voice echoed once again. “You’re a wee hank of gristle and bone. There’s no a handful of meat on ye.”
There was something about her words that made him shiver.
The little girl looked away from him into the sucking dark. “I can hear Mama calling. Always the same. `Will ye no come here? Marie. Marie!”’ Her voice rose to a sharp scream that almost made Shavi’s heart stop. “But I’ve no had any food for days and my poor belly hurts! And then the night closes in and still Mama calls!” Her face filled with a terrifying fury. “And now the men with the choppers are coming, with the sound of squealing pigs in their ears and dirty old rags tied across their faces!” She turned the full force of her regard on him and his head snapped back involuntarily. “Are ye sure ye wish tae lay your heart afore us?”
Her question was weighted with some kind of meaning he couldn’t discern, but he felt he had no choice. “I am.”
There was another unnerving period of silence and then she suddenly cocked her head on one side, as if she had heard something. A few seconds later Shavi heard it too: a sound like chains rattling. It was accompanied by the overpowering, sickly-sweet stink of animal blood.
The little girl looked back at him. “They’re coming. Ye better run now. Ye better run.”
And then she took a slow step back and the darkness folded around her until she was gone.
The appalling claustrophobic atmosphere of pain and threat grew even more intense. Shavi realised he was holding his breath, every muscle in his body rigid. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was abruptly aware he was no longer alone. He couldn’t see who was out there in the dark, but he felt that if he did perceive their forms, he would go instantly insane. He swallowed, unable to ignore the feeling that his life hung by a thread.
“Welcome,” he began.
“Ye come with death at your heels and darkness like a cloak.” The hollow voice cut Shavi off sharply; there wasn’t a hint of warmth or humanity in the sepulchral tones.
“We hate all life.” Another voice, even colder. “Here, in the deep dark, we are imprisoned. Abandoned tae shadows, forgotten by almost all. We have nothing tae believe in but revenge. So we wait. And we remember. And we seethe.”
Shavi steeled himself. “I know your story. You were the innocent victims of abject cruelty.” Somewhere distant came the dim sound of chopping, growing louder, becoming distorted before disappearing; bitter memories, trapped but continuously recurring. “There is nothing I can say to assuage your suffering, but my heart goes out to you.”
“And ye think that is enough?”
Shavi swallowed again; his throat was too dry. “It is all that I can do, apart from offer my prayers that you will soon be freed from this Purgatory to find the rest you deserve.”
A heartrending shrieking erupted all around. Shavi’s heart leapt and he wanted to clutch at his ears to shut out that terrible sound. After a few seconds it died away and then there was just the tinkling of nonexistent chains and faint movement in the dark. He hoped what he had said was enough.
Then: “Ye have fair eyes and ears tae sense us. Most only feel us like a shiver on the skin.”
“What d’ye want?” Another voice, gruffer, more uneducated; a hint of threat.
“Knowledge,” Shavi replied. “I can see some, but not all. From your dark place, you can see everything. You have great power. I bow to you and ask for your aid.” Shavi smelled woodsmoke and that disturbing stink of animal blood once more.
“Speak.”
“The world is plunging into darkness-“
“Why should we care?”
“Not everyone is like your persecutors. Somewhere, descendants of your friends and family still live. Do not forget the good-“
“Dinnae preach tae us!” The voice cracked like a gunshot.
The atmosphere of menace grew stronger; Shavi knew he was losing control. “Then I will not argue my case at all. I will simply say, we need you. And the world needs you.” In the absence of a reply, he continued talking, hoping that at least the sound of his voice would keep them at bay. “The old gods have returned and they are already wreaking havoc across the land. But now some of them are attempting to bring back the embodiment of all evil. Balor.” The dark susurrated with their whispers. “You must have sensed all this?”
“Aye.”
“And if he returns, it will truly mean the end of everything. He will draw the darkness of the abyss across all existence. Somehow we have to stop the Fomorii. Whatever they are planning is beginning here, in this city. But where? And how can we stop them? They are so powerful, we are so weak. But there must be a way. We will never give up while we breathe.” Shavi tried to order his thoughts. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but he had to be selective; the dead would have only limited patience, if they told him anything at all. Yet there was only one other question that truly mattered. “And I would beseech you to answer one more thing. One of our number is missing, presumed dead. Ruth Gallagher, a good, decent woman. We hope in our hearts she is still alive. Perhaps you could guide me towards the truth.”
As his words drifted out into the dark, he was sure that whatever was out there had drawn closer while he spoke. Every sense told him if he reached out a hand he would touch … what? He shook the thought from his head.
“There is a price tae pay for anything gleaned from the other side.”
“I will pay it.”
“Do ye not want tae know what it will be?” The words were laced with stifled triumph and sharp contempt, which unnerved him greatly, but it was too late to back out.
“It does not matter. I have my responsibilities. This information has to be uncovered. I will have to bear the burden of whatever you demand, however great.”
“So be it.”
Shavi felt a wash of cold. He couldn’t shake the feeling he had agreed to something he would come to regret, but what he had said was correct: he had no choice. Whatever the price, he would have to find the strength to pay it.
“The woman lives, but only just. And her future looks very dark. Hold out little hope.” Shavi had not heard the voice before. It was clearer, younger and had an intelligence that wasn’t present in the others.
Shavi didn’t know whether to feel joyous or disheartened by the
answer. “If there is anything we can do to save her we will do it,” he said. Odd, muffled noises which sounded like mocking laughter echoed away in the gloom.
“Seek out the stones from the place that gave succour tae the plague victims if ye wish to find the path beneath the seat.” A woman’s voice this time. The words were cryptic, but Shavi had expected no less; the dead were helping and hoping to torment at the same time.
“But the Well of Fire will not be enough tae help ye. The worms have burrowed deep in their nest and the Cailleach Bheur is tae powerful for even the blue flames.”
“Then, what?” Shavi asked.
More mocking whispers rustled around the edge of his perception. When the woman spoke again, her voice was tinged with a dark glee. “Why, call for the Guid Son, Long Jack. Only he can help ye now.”
Shavi hoped Tom could make some sense of their cryptic words. “I thank you for all the aid you have given me. But one thing still puzzles me-“
“The where,” the educated voice interrupted. “Know this: the girl and the worms keep their counsel together, deep beneath Castle Rock.”
Shavi felt the tension ease slightly; he had all he came for. But his muscles still knotted at the prospect that the dead had merely been toying with him and, having given up their secrets, would not let him leave alive. Tentatively, he said, “You have been most gracious in your aid.” He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “I am ready to pay the price you requested.”
“That has already been put intae effect. Your time here is done. Get thee gone before we rip the life from ye.”
Shavi bowed slightly, then made his way in the direction of the exit as hastily as he could muster without breaking into a run. The hatred of the jealous spirits was heavy at his back and for a few steps it felt like they were surging in pursuit of him, unable to contain themselves any longer. Anxiously he flicked on the torch, which appeared to make them hold back beyond the boundary of the light. But he didn’t breathe easily until he was up in the empty street, sucking in the soothing night air, his body slick with cold sweat. The intensity of the experience had left him shaken, even after everything else he had been through over the past few months; he had never believed he could suffer such mortal dread.
Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) Page 15