My thoughts were still all of Alice’s fate, and the grief was in my throat and chest, almost choking me. It was a relief to grow weaker, the poisoned gruel and slow loss of blood plunging me into a merciful unconsciousness.
CHAPTER XI
THE KILLORGLIN GOAT
I remember very little. We must have used horses—as if from a great distance, I heard the sound of hooves, and my body was repeatedly jolted and shaken. Whether I was in a cart or tied over the back of a pony, I’m not sure—maybe, over the duration of the journey, both.
My next clear recollection was of sitting on a heap of dirty straw in a dusty attic. It was full of rubbish and curtained with enormous cobwebs strewn with desiccated fly carcasses; spiders were coiled in dark corners, ready to spring upon their next victim. There was daylight coming through the only window, a skylight set in the sloping ceiling directly above me. I could hear the squawking and pattering of seagulls walking on the roof. I was alone in the room, my hands tied behind my back—though my legs were free.
I felt shaky, but at the second attempt managed to struggle to my feet. I could hear other noises: the occasional clip-clop of hooves, and people shouting in the singsong manner of market traders. I suspected that I was now back in Killorglin. I leaned against the door handle, but it was locked, so I moved around the attic, looking for something I could use to help me escape. Perhaps there was something sharp to cut through my bonds…
I’d no sooner started my search than the room went dark. Was there a heavy cloud overhead, blotting out the sun? Was a storm approaching? I wondered. The street sounds had also gradually faded away until I could hear nothing beyond the walls of my prison. I was trapped in a cocoon of silence.
Next the temperature began to drop; it warned me that something from the dark was approaching. I sat down in a corner with my back against the wall so that nothing could come at me from behind. I’d no weapons I could use to defend myself. If only my hands were free, I thought. Having them bound made me feel vulnerable.
Something started to whisper in my ear. At first I thought it might be a jibber, and my whole body started to shake with fear, but then I realized it was some other type of spirit. Its words were half formed and unintelligible, but they had a malevolent force. Moments later it was joined by others—how many, I couldn’t be sure, but the entities were close, and I saw flashes of baleful purple light as they circled the gloomy attic, approaching nearer and nearer. Thin fingers began to tug at my ears, and then powerful hands clamped themselves about my throat and began to squeeze. It was a strangler ghost, a powerful one, and I was helpless against it.
A seventh son of a seventh son has some immunity against such dangerous spirits, but I’d never encountered such a strong one; I began to choke as my windpipe was constricted by invisible fingers. I struggled to breathe, trying to think of something from my training that might help me. I gasped, feeling my consciousness ebbing away.
But then, all of a sudden, the pressure on my throat eased and the whispering voices fell mercifully silent. However, my respite lasted just seconds because one deep terrifying voice replaced them—that of the Fiend.
“I have your little friend Alice here with me now,” he taunted me. “Would you like to hear her?”
Before I could answer, I heard someone sobbing. The sounds seemed to reach me from a great distance, but I was listening to a girl crying. But was it indeed Alice, or was it some trick of the Fiend? It was not for nothing that one of his titles was the Father of Lies.
“She is scared and she is suffering, Tom. Do you doubt it? Soon you will join her. I can almost reach you now. You are close—so very, very close.”
That was true enough. I couldn’t actually see him, but I could feel his hot, fetid breath in my face and sense the proximity of something huge and terrifying. The Fiend was crouching over me, straining to grab hold of me.
“Would you like to talk to your friend, Tom? Perhaps hearing your voice will ease her suffering a little….” he rasped.
Against my better judgment, I called out to her. I just couldn’t bear to hear her crying in the dark like that.
“Alice! Alice! It’s me, Tom,” I shouted. “Hold on, be strong. Somehow I’ll get you out of there! I’ll bring you home!”
“Liar!” Alice shouted. “Don’t lie to me. You’re not Tom. I’ve been deceived enough!”
“It is me, Alice, I swear it.”
“Devil! Demon! Just leave me alone.”
How could I convince her that it really was me? What could I say that would prove it beyond doubt? Before I could think of anything, Alice began to scream as if she was in terrible pain.
“Please, stop hurting me. Stop it! Stop it! I can’t stand any more. Oh, please, don’t do that!”
She stopped begging then, but started crying and moaning as if in great pain.
“Have you heard enough, Tom?” the Fiend asked me. “It won’t be long before you share her torment. And what she is suffering is far worse than that of a witch being tested. Think of the jabbing of sharp pins; imagine the weight of heavy rocks constricting the chest; feel the flames of the fire flickering nearer and nearer to the stake. The flesh bubbles and the blood boils. It hurts so much, but eventually death brings release. For Alice, though, there is no such respite. She is trapped in the dark for eternal torment. Eternal! That means it will go on forever! And soon I’ll be back to collect you. The power of the jar has almost failed.”
I sensed the Fiend move away from me, and Alice’s cries gradually faded away until I was left in silence once again. I was shaking with emotion. I could do nothing to help Alice in any way; it was more than I could bear.
Gradually things returned to normal; the cries of the street traders could be heard outside, and the attic grew steadily lighter. I struggled to my feet and, driven almost mad by what I’d heard, staggered from wall to wall until I collapsed and lost consciousness again.
The next thing I knew, Thin Shaun was shaking me by the shoulder.
I was sitting up, my back against the wall by the door. On the floor beside me was a bowl of a dark, steaming liquid and a spoon. Thin Shaun dipped the spoon into it and brought it slowly toward my mouth. I tried to twist away, but he held my head with his free hand and pushed the spoon hard against my lips. Much of the hot liquid was spilled, but I realized that there was no spicy tang—it wasn’t the poisoned gruel. It tasted like oxtail soup.
“There’s nothing in this to harm you,” Thin Shaun told me. “It’s nourishment”—he smiled evilly—“to keep you alive for a little while longer.”
I wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not, but I was too weak and weary to resist, and I allowed him to feed me the bowl of soup until it was all gone.
Shaun unlocked the door and carried me out of the attic, once more slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. By now it was dusk, and the square was deserted except for a group of cloaked figures gathered around a tall wooden structure set at the highest point of the sloping triangular marketplace. I realized that they’d rebuilt the wooden tower.
Next to the structure stood a large block of stone with a strange curved depression in its top. I had seen one before in the village of Topley, close to the farm where I was born. They hadn’t used that stone for more than a hundred years, but nobody had forgotten its purpose. It was an execution block. The victim rested his head on the stone before the executioner chopped it off.
Thin Shaun dumped me on my feet, and I stood there, swaying. A hand gripped my arm to steady me, and I looked into the eyes of the witch. “Say hello to your new friend!” she mocked. “You are both in for a nasty surprise.”
In her other hand she held the collar of a huge goat. In front of its horns, a bronze crown had been lashed to its head with barbed wire, which was spattered with the creature’s blood.
“Meet King Puck!” Scarabek continued. “You two are going to share the platform, and the madness and pain that accompany that honor. Before this night is done, we w
ill summon Pan.”
The goat was led onto the wooden boards and tethered by silver chains bound tightly about its hind legs and fastened to iron rings. That way the animal was confined and could be raised aloft. I was pushed down onto the platform, forced to kneel beside the goat, and blindfolded, my hands still tied behind my back. The wooden planks began to creak and groan as, using a system of ropes and pulleys, four men began to haul us slowly upward. Once the platform had reached the top of its wooden shaft, they lashed the ropes into position so as to keep us there.
The goat began to bleat and struggle, but it couldn’t free itself. I sat up and somehow wriggled my head and shoulders to dislodge the blindfold. I took stock of my surroundings. As far as I could see, no guards had been left to keep an eye on me. I gazed down on the cobbled marketplace and the surrounding rooftops. In the distance, I could just about make out the bridge across the river. The spook in me began to assess my chances of escaping.
And darkness was falling rapidly now. Apart from the mages and their supporters, the town seemed deserted. No doubt the people were all hiding behind locked and barred doors. Below, I heard the chanting begin, and a chill suddenly ran up and down my spine.
The mages had begun the summoning.
The initial chants seemed to have no effect, but I noticed that the breeze first died down, then faded away altogether, and the air became very still. It seemed unnaturally warm, too, almost like a balmy midsummer’s night.
By now the mages had set out a ring of candles on the cobbles around the base of the hollow wooden tower—I counted thirteen. Then they formed a line and circled them slowly in a widdershins direction, their chants gradually becoming louder. The goat, which had been tugging against its chains, bleating desperately, now became quiet and still—so much so that it could have been a statue. But then, after about ten minutes, I noticed that its whole body was quivering. Louder and louder the voices surged, to climax in a shrill scream from the thirteen throats below.
At that point the goat shuddered and emptied its bowels; the slimy mess spread across the wooden boards, some of it dripping down onto the cobbles below. The stink almost made me vomit, and I eased myself right to the edge, grateful that the brown tide had halted just short of me.
When I looked down again, the mages were heading off. I realized that it was impossible to climb down the high wooden tower with my hands bound, so it seemed sensible to conserve my energy. I leaned back against a broad wooden post, drew up my knees, and tried to drift off to sleep. But in vain. Under the influence of the poisoned gruel, I’d spent most of the previous two days unconscious, and now I felt wide awake.
So it was that I endured a long, miserable night with the goat on that high platform, trying desperately to think of some way to escape. But I found it hard to focus—my mind kept returning to the same questions. What had happened to my master after we’d escaped from the castle? Had he managed to avoid capture? But uppermost in my mind was my anguish at the loss of Alice. Those thoughts circled in my head endlessly, but the one emotion absent was fear. My own death waited no more than a couple of days in the future, and yet for some reason I wasn’t the slightest bit afraid.
Fear came just before dawn, in the faint light of the fading moon.
I suddenly noticed that the goat was staring at me intently. Our eyes met, and for a moment the world began to spin. The goat’s face was changing as I watched, stretching and twisting impossibly.
Now I was afraid. Was this transformation taking place because Pan was entering its body? I’d half hoped that the rituals hadn’t worked, but now, with a shudder, I realized that the mages might well have been successful. I could end up sharing a platform with an Old God renowned for bringing fear and madness to those he came close to.
Suddenly the goat gave a loud bleat, and my moment of terror passed. A cold wind was rising now, blowing in from the northeast, and I began to shiver.
At dawn the mages returned to the square and lowered the platform to the ground. I was dragged off onto the cobbles, while, thankfully, someone scrubbed the goat’s filth off the wooden boards. My hands were untied, and a bowl of hot soup and two slices of thick bread were thrust at me.
“Don’t want you dying on us too soon!” one of the mages said maliciously.
I ate ravenously while the goat was also fed and watered. Surrounded by dozens of watchful eyes, I had no chance of escape. When the empty bowl was taken from me, the mages moved back to allow a huge, shaven-headed man to step forward and confront me. I recognized him immediately.
“Bow your head, boy!” a voice hissed in my ear. “This is Magister Doolan.”
When I hesitated, my head was seized roughly from behind and forced down. As soon as I was able to straighten my neck again, I looked up into the face of the most powerful of the goat mages, the one they called the Bantry Butcher. When his eyes met mine, I saw that they were indeed the eyes of a fanatic: They gleamed with certainty. Here was a man with an inflexible mind who would do anything to further his cause.
“You are here to suffer, boy,” he said, raising his voice so that the assembled mages could hear his every word. “Your suffering is our gift to Scarabek, in thanks for her generosity in giving her life for our cause. The life of a spook’s apprentice should be a most welcome addition to our sacrifices. It will also serve as a lesson to any who might think to oppose us.”
He pointed to the executioner’s block and smiled coldly; then my hands were tied once more and I was hoisted aloft.
Within the hour the triangular patch of cobbles was full of stalls. Cattle were driven through the streets to holding pens. As the day progressed, people gradually became more boisterous, sitting in doorways or lounging against walls, tankards of ale in their hands. This was the first day of the three-day fair, and the inhabitants of Killorglin—along with those who had traveled many miles to be here—were starting to enjoy the festivities.
By the time the sun set behind the houses, the marketplace was empty again. The platform was lowered, and I was dragged off onto the cobbled area. Magister Doolan was waiting with his huge double-bladed ax. Now he was dressed in black like an executioner, with leather gloves and a long leather butcher’s apron. But there were leather straps crisscrossing his body: These held knives and other metal implements, and I was reminded of Grimalkin, the witch assassin, who carried her weapons in a similar manner. He turned and looked me up and down as if estimating the size of coffin I’d need, and then gave me an evil grin.
For a terrifying moment I thought I was going to be executed there and then. But I was mistaken. There was no sign of the witch, but standing next to the executioner was Cormac, the mage whom we had interrogated. It seemed that the moment of his death had now arrived. The candles were lit, but the mages were gathered around the execution stone.
Cormac knelt and placed his neck in the hollow of the stone. Below his head a metal bucket waited. Someone brought the goat to stand beside the bucket. To my surprise, it thrust out its tongue and licked the mage’s left cheek three times, then bleated softly. At that, the other mages nodded and smiled. They seemed to be congratulating themselves. Apparently the ritual was going well.
Doolan opened the collar of Cormac’s shirt so as to expose his neck. Then he raised the double-bladed ax. One of the watching mages started to blow into a small musical instrument. It consisted of five thin metal cylinders bound into a row. The sound was thin and reedlike, and it reminded me of the wind sighing through the rushes at a lake edge. The sound was melancholic—it was filled with the sadness of loss and the inevitability of death.
The mages began to chant in unison, a singsong lament. All at once both the voices and the pipes became silent, and I saw the ax come down in a fast arc. I closed my eyes and heard the metal blade strike stone; then something fell heavily into the bucket. When I looked again, Doolan was holding Cormac’s head by its hair and shaking it over the goat so that the severed neck sprayed it with drops of blood. Soon the goat—presum
ably under some dark magic spell—was greedily lapping the blood of the dead man from the bucket.
Five minutes later, they were ready to haul the platform up again. They didn’t bother to feed me this time. I wasn’t hungry anyway; I felt sickened by what I’d witnessed. However, they did hold a cup of water to my lips, and I managed four or five gulps.
Aloft once more, I watched the mages. The procedure was exactly the same as on the previous night. Round and round the candles they went, against the clock. This time, when the chants reached a shrill climax, the goat merely turned its head and looked straight at me.
Can a goat smirk? All I can say is that it seemed to be mocking me, and a chill went right down my spine. I was now certain that the ritual was working. At any moment Pan would enter the body of the goat, and I would be sitting on this small platform next to him, facing madness and terror.
The night seemed endless. The mages had gone, and a wind was now shrieking across the rooftops, driving squalls of cold rain in my face. I turned my back on the wind, then bowed my head and tossed it forward repeatedly until my hood dropped down over my hair. I hunkered down, attempting to shelter from the elements as best I could. But it was useless, and soon I was soaked to the skin. The goat began to bleat, louder and louder; after a while it seemed to me that it was even calling my name, then laughing insanely. With my hands tied, I couldn’t push my fingers into my ears to blot out the noise.
Finally the sky grew lighter, and within hours the market was full of people once more.
It was growing dark again and the rain had eased by the time the platform was lowered and I stepped onto the cobbles. I was shaking with cold. I was really hungry by now and glad of the plate of mutton and dry bread my captors gave me, once my hands had been untied. I wolfed the whole lot down.
My instincts told me that something was about to happen. Was it the witch’s turn to be sacrificed? My stomach knotted with nerves at that thought. Before she died, she’d no doubt want to have her revenge in full. But if I was indeed to be executed now, why had they bothered to feed me? Time ticked by. The mages were growing agitated. And then Doolan arrived, ax over his shoulder.
The Spook's Destiny (Wardstone Chronicles Book 8) Page 10