by Robin Jarvis
Thomas fidgeted with his neckerchief, feeling a trifle awkward but the round eyes of the loris were trained upon Woodget and the fieldmouse was not at all comfortable under their intense inspection. It was as if the creature was weighing him up and delving into his mind—probing deep inside his thoughts and challenging him. Then, with a shiver, the unnerving sensation was over and the Holy One was smiling at him kindly.
“So fieldmouse,” he breathed. “Unto you the Irish nomad entrusted the terrible burden. A curious choice, yet Mulligan and his line were no less curious.”
“That’s why we be here,” Woodget said shyly. “Mister Mulligan told us to bring it to you.” Gingerly, he dragged the leather bag onto his knee and began untying the fastenings, but the Holy One stopped him with a click of the tongue and a stern expression furrowed the hoary face.
“No,” he said. “Do not bring out the fragment yet. Come, Chattan, I have need of your arm.”
The loris’s joints creaked and the gristle snapped in his hip, but eventually, with the mongoose’s help he rose to his feet.
“The time has come,” he declared, “for you to see that which few have ever gazed upon, the topmost chamber—where the Green Council first assembled long ago and where the burden of our city is bestowed.”
Across the room he went to where the second tapestry was hung, and with his gnarled paws he dragged it aside.
Beyond lay a dark stairway, worn down by the accumulated footfalls of every sadhu since the city was founded and, still clinging onto Chattan, the Holy One began to climb, closely followed by Thomas and Woodget.
At the top of the stone steps was a wooden door with sturdy iron hinges and from the keyhole of a large and secure lock there streamed a fine pencil of green light.
Woodget stared at it thoughtfully, then, from the cord which bound his wrist, the loris lifted the rusted key.
With a snap, the mechanism turned and when the Holy One pushed it, the door juddered open with as much creaking protest as his own arthritic joints.
At once a sudden radiance flooded out into the dark stairway, bathing everything in a ghastly, putrid light that chilled the blood in their veins and Woodget clutched his bag in astonishment, for it seemed to him that it gave a violent jerk and tried to work itself free of his paws.
Into this new chamber Chattan strode, followed by Thomas who noticed by the expression which had crept over the captain’s face that this was the first time he had ever ventured there. Then, behind them, clutching tightly to the bag’s leather straps, Woodget hurried after.
Like the inside of the idol’s mouth below the sadhu’s chamber, only far larger in size, this room had been carved into a perfect dome. Yet here the concave surface had been covered with enormous sheets of burnished bronze and, opposite the doorway where they all stood, the curved, gleaming wall was dominated by a great oval translucent stone. Then the mice understood that they were now standing behind the green jewel they had seen at the centre of the immense sculpture’s forehead.
Yet all eyes were drawn into the middle of the cavern, for there was a pool of gurgling water and, rearing like a glittering stalagmite from its centre, was a plinth of solid crystal—carved with mysterious symbols and spells of abatement and restraint. Surmounting this was a silver dish and Woodget let out a little gasp when he beheld the object which stood upon it.
Encased within a complex tracery of gold, was an irregular shaped piece of jade.
“Yes,” the Holy One declared. “Here is the eighth fragment of the shell Gorscarrigern made in the deeps of time. To Hara it was brought when the Dark Despoiler’s fleshly body was finally destroyed and here, wrapped about with such enchantments as were in the power of our ancestors, it has remained.”
“It’s just like Mulligan’s piece,” Thomas breathed.
“You are mistaken,” the loris corrected. “The ninth fragment which the Irish nomad bore is the largest of them all. That is why it could not remain in any one region permanently, for its corrupting influence would lay the land waste with more speed than all the others.
“Great was the hope in those early times after the Coiled One’s downfall; all thought the world was free at last—but one by one the sanctuaries decayed and the strongholds vanished into dust. All the groves and shining cities—crumbled and plundered by the heathen hordes. The hallowed places are lost and only we are left—one bright glint of light and reason. Here in this beleaguered corner of the world Hara stands alone and around us the darkness has returned.”
Woodget stared at the fragment and shuddered, for it was the source of the livid green light which filled the chamber and when he dragged his eyes away he found that the loris was studying him again.
“Now it is time, Master Pipple,” the Holy One said coaxingly. “Bring out the legacy of our departed friend Mulligan.”
Nervously, the fieldmouse unfastened the top of the bag and reached inside, closing his wary fingers about the cold treasure which the seafarer had given to him.
Into the repulsive glare the ninth fragment was lifted and at once the unwholesome radiance was doubled as from the gilded jade in Woodget’s paws a second brilliance welled up.
“Step a little closer to the pool,” the Holy One instructed. “I would have you witness the foul arts of our great enemy.”
Tentatively, Woodget moved towards the babbling water and with every movement, as the fragment in his grasp drew nearer to the one upon the plinth, he became aware that a horrific change was taking place.
Fearfully, he stared down and let out a frightened squeal.
“Woodj!” Thomas cried. “What is it?”
The fieldmouse turned a stricken face to him then held the fragment a little higher so that he could see and Thomas shrank away—sickened.
In the horrible light, to his disbelief and revulsion, he could see that the intricate golden latticework was actually moving. The twisting fronds and curling arabesques which covered the jade shell were rearing up and wriggling like glittering worms. It was as if they could sense that the eighth piece was near and were straining to reach it.
Thomas grimaced and his skin crawled, but then he saw that upon the silver dish, the other fragment was behaving exactly the same. Each segment of golden scrollwork was writhing abhorrently and the entwining patterns blindly groped the air—striving to join together and be one.
“It’s hideous!” Thomas blurted.
Hastily, the fieldmouse stuffed the object back into the bag and the harsh green light was immediately diminished. As he moved away from the pool, upon the plinth the eighth fragment ceased its frantic squirming and the golden designs returned to their former state and were motionless once more.
Captain Chattan folded his arms and nodded grimly. “So it is proven that the evil might of Gorscarrigern has not decreased over the ages—its potency is still strong.”
“The power of the living gold is certainly unaltered,” the Holy One muttered with a peculiar, almost delighted gleam in his large eyes.
“Was it ever in doubt?” the mongoose cried. “Never shall the world be free of his threatened return whilst the pieces remain in existence.”
Woodget finished tying up the bag and bit his bottom lip thoughtfully.
“What is to become of Mulligan’s fragment now?” he asked. “Tom and me have brought it to the city like I promised, but what next?”
The wizened loris took a deep, rattling breath and in a resolute voice announced. “The fragment shall abide here.”
“Here?” Chattan repeated in disbelief. “What are you saying, Sadhu? I know the lore of Gorscarrigern as well as any.”
The Holy One held up his paw and Chattan fell silent.
“If you would permit me to finish, Captain!” he said tersely. “You are not privy to all the schemes of the Green Council so you cannot comprehend our intent. I have said that the fragment shall remain here and so be it. There is yet a chance of which you are ignorant, but in which we have poured all our hopes.”
The aged creature glared back at him and the atmosphere in the chamber became charged with tension until at last the Holy One looked away.
Always Chattan pushed and strained to know more than his rank warranted and the sadhu knew that the mongoose would have to be dealt with cautiously. It would be a grave error of judgement to disclose too much to this obstinate captain, yet to deny him utterly might prove even more calamitous.
“A little only am I permitted to impart,” the loris finally murmured in response. “Did you not wonder why the Irish nomad was travelling to the Shrine of Virbius when it was not the appointed time? His journey was at my instigation. There at the temple he was to have met with one who might have put an end to our anxieties.
“You, yourself, have already touched upon it, Captain—when you spoke of a world free of this fear which plagues our existence. If but one of the fragments were to be destroyed then the Coiled One would forever be denied entry to this plane. Reflect on that. Is it not a most wondrous thought?”
Chattan frowned. “I do not understand,” he said stubbornly. “The pieces are impervious to any violence. Are you suggesting that it is now possible to damage that which was made in the dark years? Who is this one of whom you speak? How can you believe this unlikely claim?”
The shrivelled creature at his side shambled unaided towards the great oval stone set into the curved wall and gazed through its rippling translucence, down at the blurred, indistinct shapes and lights of the city that were vaguely visible far below.
“His name is already known to you,” he muttered, “and, I think, familiar to our young guests. Although I was pronounced head of the Council, he is not lesser than I—in fact in some ways his strength is the greater.”
Thomas glanced at Woodget and shrugged, but the eyes of the fieldmouse were sparkling.
The Holy One fingered the mala about his neck. “I speak of the wanderer of the ancient pathways,” he chanted, “obeah pilgrim, far seer, chanter of spellcraft, mage and prophet.”
“Simoon!” Woodget declared delightedly.
The Holy One nodded.
“That jerboa!” Thomas exclaimed incredulously. “But that’s ridiculous—why, he’s no more than a bogus fortune teller and common trickster!”
“There is nothing common about the treader of the forgotten track,” the Holy One reprimanded him. “You have seen only that which he has permitted you to see.”
Woodget clapped his paws excitedly. “I knowed it!” he cheered. “I knowed old Simoon was an honest-to-goodness magician! He bain’t no phoney after all, oh that do make me happy—on account of the fortune he told me.”
“Well even if he isn’t a sham,” Thomas said slowly, “there’s nothing he can do for anybody now. I saw Simoon get washed into the darkness when the Calliope went down.”
“Did you indeed?” the Holy One murmured, growing a little tired of Thomas’s doubts and objections.
Chattan narrowed his eyes. “Sadhu,” he said, “are you saying that Simoon is not drowned?”
“The briny deeps will never claim that one,” came the answer. “Our two visitors and the friend they have left at the bottom of the thousand steps—yes, I know all about him, they were not the only survivors of the tempest. Others escaped and Simoon was one of them.”
“Then we should have remained on Crete a while longer until we found him!” Chattan said. “If the jerboa has truly found a way to destroy the fragments he must be brought here without delay. I shall rouse my crew and set sail with the dawn to fetch him.”
The mongoose hurried past Thomas and Woodget but, with a commanding snarl, that was impossible to disobey, the Holy One called him back.
“Captain, Captain,” he said. “Always you steam ahead and go haring off without thinking. Simoon was not washed up onto the Greek shores. He is far from those waters now and is at present bound for Singapore.”
“Then I must go to him,” the mongoose exclaimed.
“No you will not,” the Holy One said tetchily. “When Simoon has done what he intends, and only then—he will come to us. He needs no one to convey him hither, certainly not you, Chattan Giri.”
The captain looked at the floor abashed. “I desire only to see our city delivered from the threat of the Scale,” he explained apologetically.
Listening to all that had been said, at that moment Thomas muttered sceptically, “What I don’t see, is why Simoon didn’t just go up to Mulligan when they were both on board the Calliope?”
To his dismay the Holy One’s response was alarming.
“Be silent!” he snapped, his frail frame trembling with anger. “The sadhu of Hara will not be questioned in this fashion. You should give praise that you are ignorant of the great matters which darken my waking thoughts and torment my dreams!”
Scowling, the loris drew a paw over his eyes, then mastered his temper and, when he was calm, chided himself for his harsh outburst.
“Again I crave your indulgence,” he said to Thomas, “but I am worn by this great care and an end is approaching which we have long looked for. Of the Council’s plan I can say no more. Here at the culmination of our designs it is vital no mistakes are made.”
Brightening a little, he shuffled forward and laid his paws upon Thomas’s shoulders. “Yet this much I can tell you, Master Stubbs. Your role in this hazardous undertaking is finished and you may depart for your home as soon as you are ready.”
Thomas looked at Woodget uncertainly and the Holy One knew what he was thinking.
“The fieldmouse is also liberated from all obligations,” he said. “Now, Master Pipple, the time has come for you to lay aside the burden Mulligan entrusted into your care. Place it here upon the floor, as far from the eighth fragment as is possible. It will be safe enough there. If we can but keep them from the clutches of the enemy a little while longer, until the constellation is come and gone then all will be well again, for a time at least—until the next appearance of the nine heralding stars.”
As he said this, the Holy One became lost in thought and an expression of overwhelming remorse settled within the deep lines that scored his age-ravaged face.
“Sadhu,” Chattan said, concerned. “Are you unwell?”
The loris peered at him as though through a mist then muttered thickly. “Alas, there are times when my mind remembers that it is joined to this decrepit body,” he explained.
“We have fatigued you,” the mongoose observed. “Come my friends, the audience is over. By your leave, Sadhu.”
“Go with blessings upon you,” the Holy One said. “Leave me here to meditate on the peril we all face. I shall make my own way back to my chamber.”
And so Thomas and Woodget bade the withered creature farewell and he thanked them for all that they had done.
“Will we see you again before we go back home?” the fieldmouse asked as he headed for the door.
“You may,” came the cryptic reply. “You may indeed see me before the end, Master Pipple.”
With that Woodget followed the others down the stairs and the Holy One was left alone in the glimmering room.
“What we have done is for the good of all,” he whispered to himself as he raised his shaking paws to the mala and began running the amber beads through his bony fingers. “We agreed it was the only solution. I cannot quail now. In the past my heart was resolved and so it must remain. Ignore the fears, expel the mercy from my breast. The decision is already made and sealed, it is only my part now to conclude it—once and for always.”
“Even though you know the cost?” came a sudden, but not unexpected, croaking voice from the doorway.
The Holy One turned
and framed in the entrance was a tall, gangly shadow.
“Did you hear what was said?” he asked.
The figure nodded. “I did, I was standing at the foot of the stairs listening and hid when they returned. You did well to assuage the mongoose’s suspicions; I feared for a moment that he would ask more questions than you could answer.”
“Chattan is a valiant warrior,” the loris admitted sorrowfully, “and he loves this city above all else. If he so much as guessed the truth of our plans then he would have attempted to put a stop to them.”
“And that would never do, would it?” the rasping voice muttered.
“No,” the Holy One confessed. “Better that he knows naught of the carnage that is to come.”
Into the domed chamber the figure came and the glare of the eighth fragment glinted in the rat’s beady black eyes.
“It would’ve been better if you hadn’t dragged the jerboa into it,” he muttered. “It was a stupid risk telling the captain where he’d gone.”
“Chattan Giri is not a fool,” the loris said. “A sprinkling of the truth was the only way to alleviate his doubt. But you heard me, I made no mention that Simoon’s destination is where the Black Temple has been built once more. No doubt if I had, then the impulsive captain would have mustered our strength and set sail without delay—and we cannot afford to have our warriors alerted this night. Let them carouse a while longer and be lulled off their guard. Though even now my heart screams that I should warn them all and turn aside from this heinous path.”
“It’s a bit late to start dithering now,” the rat remarked.
The Holy One looked at him, then shook his head in a resigned manner.
“Yes, you are correct,” he said hollowly. “The lot is cast, there is now no turning back. The remaining two fragments are here waiting to be taken, and already the adept of the serpent, whom Chattan and the two mice unwittingly brought with them, has paid a murderous visit to the gate warden.”