Plague of the Shattered

by E. E. Holmes

  Yeah, that always worked, and definitely never backfired on me.

  §

  Thankfully, Hannah and I both woke still fully in control of our bodies and minds, and made our way to the dining room. We’d only just sat down with our plates when Mackie shuffled over, looking tired and disgruntled.

  “Hey, Mackie,” I said.

  “Hey, yourself,” she said. “Everyone coping alright?”

  I shrugged. “I guess so. I mean, we’re not currently housing any hostile spirits, so we can’t really complain. You?”

  Mackie groaned. “I’ve been on permanent damage control. Celeste has got me running interference for the Council, calming everyone down so they don’t start a panic and break the quarantine. People are losing their bloody minds, as I’m sure you saw from the meeting yesterday. Some of them honestly can’t understand why they should have to stay. They think everyone else should stay, of course, but…” She trailed off with a disgusted shake of her head.

  “They’re scared,” Hannah said. “I wish we could leave, too.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not actually trying to do it,” Mackie said. “That’s the difference. We’ve had to post Caomhnóir at the doors to make sure no one is sneaking off.”

  “I have zero interest in becoming the next temporary resident of an unwanted spirit,” I said. “But we’ll sort it out soon, I’m sure. From what Celeste said, this isn’t an unprecedented situation.”

  “Could you please share some of your common sense and rationality with the other, more skittish Durupinen among us? It would be much appreciated,” Mackie sighed.

  “Nah, we can’t, Mack, sorry,” I said. “We can’t get a reputation for being calm and sensible. It will ruin our badass image.”

  “Well, never mind, then,” Mackie said, with a shadow of a grin. “I wouldn’t want you to compromise your badassery.”

  “Have there been any more Habitations overnight?” Hannah asked.

  Mackie nodded, her expression deadly serious yet again. “Three.”

  Hannah dropped her toast in alarm. “Three?!”

  “Yeah,” Mackie said. “Two Durupinen from one of the Irish clans and Jocelyn Lightfoot.”

  “Jocelyn Lightfoot? Riley and Róisín’s mom?” I asked, aghast.

  Mackie nodded, and then hitched a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the far corner. Róisín and Riley were sitting at a table there, huddled together with Keira, who was holding Riley’s hand. Instead of plates, piles of crumpled tissues lay on the table in front of them.

  “Wow. So, they’re all in the hospital wing now?” I asked.

  “Yeah, inside the circle that the staff set up. Celeste said they’re all behaving in identical manners—terrified of fire, confused, and anxious. They’re talking occasionally, too, but it’s all just vague nonsense. The staff is trying to figure out what it means, but they don’t think they’ll be able to make sense of it until all the Shards of the spirit are within the circle,” Mackie said.

  “This is terrible,” Hannah whispered, looking down at her food as though the sight of it suddenly made her sick. “What if they can’t find all the Shards? What if they can’t cure the Hosts?”

  “Oh, come off it, you can’t think like that!” Mackie said. “They’ve had Shattered spirits at Fairhaven before, and it turned out alright. We just need to be patient and have faith. It’ll be resolved in no time.” She spoke with complete confidence and not, as many I had heard, with the false confidence that one puts on to convince one’s self as well as others. Mackie believed in the system, bless her. I wasn’t nearly as confident.

  “So, seeing as all the sessions are canceled for the day, and you clearly aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, I thought you might want to come see the Léarscáil with me,” Mackie said. “I did promise to take you after all, and it would be a great way to hide from Celeste for a bit.”

  Hannah perked up at once. “Really? That would be so cool! I’m in! Jess?”

  I gazed longingly at my waffle. “Can it wait until after I finish breakfast?”

  Mackie shrugged with a smirk. “I suppose. Are you sure you want to be seen eating waffles? I’m not sure that’s a breakfast choice that entirely lives up to your ‘badass’ image.”

  I shoved a huge forkful in my mouth. “I’ll risk it.”

  Despite my sass, Mackie let me finish my breakfast before leading us up the South Tower. No one would ever have guessed how crowded the castle was; though all of the sleeping quarters in the building were occupied, the halls were nearly deserted. Those who did venture out did so in a constant hush, not unlike the quiet of hospital wards, or school corridors when classes were in session. Everyone seemed afraid of disturbing whatever malevolent force had nested in the castle, afraid to draw attention to themselves as possible targets. And so, when there was a sudden loud wailing sound, all three of us jumped.

  We had nearly reached the base of the South Tower. Across from the spiral staircase that would lead up to the Léarscáil, was the door to the hospital ward. It was from beyond this door that the wailing had begun.

  Mackie threw us an anxious look, then cocked her head toward the door, beckoning us forward.

  “No, Mackie, we can’t go in there!” Hannah cried, her voice shrill and sharp in the deserted hallway.

  “I don’t want to go in. I’m not daft,” Mackie said. “I just want to have a look.”

  We crept forward until we could all press our faces against the row of little glass-plated windows set along the top of the door.

  All five of the plague’s victims thus far were sitting on the ends of their beds in the same peculiar posture: legs tucked up in front of them, night dresses pulled taut across their kneecaps, and their right hands traveling rapidly back and forth, back and forth, across their knees.

  “What in the world…” Mackie’s voice trailed off in a kind of horrified wonder.

  “What are they doing?” Hannah whispered.

  “They’re writing,” I said. “Or at least, they think they are.”

  It was true. Each hand seemed to grip an imaginary writing utensil. Each set of eyes was watching a string of invisible, yet meticulously formed letters and words. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it appeared that they were all doing it in perfect unison.

  “Blimey, I think you’re right. That is… not normal,” Mackie said weakly.

  Mrs. Mistlemoore and several other Durupinen were circulating amongst the patients, tucking blankets around them and checking their temperatures. Each of them wore a heavy sweater or coat, as well as gloves and scarves. I was about to comment on this odd choice of wardrobe when one of them shifted away from the furthest bed, and I saw that the fire in the massive stone fireplace was not lit.

  “The fire’s gone out!” said Hannah, who had noticed it, too. “Are they insane, leaving the fire out like that? They’ll all freeze in there! This place is way too drafty not to have the fires lit!”

  “I bet it’s because of the way Catriona reacted to the fire in the Tracker office,” I said slowly. “She absolutely lost her mind when she spotted it. We thought at first she was going to throw herself into it or something, but then she ripped down the drapes and tried to smother the flames instead. And of course, Siobhán went mental when she saw that candelabra. Mrs. Mistlemoore can’t risk a roomful of patients hurling themselves at the fireplace any time there’s a spark. It’s safer to keep the fire out.”

  “They’ve got space heaters, look,” Mackie said, pointing into the nearest corner. Sure enough, a small rectangular box was plugged into the wall there. I scanned the room and counted at least half a dozen more.

  “They’ll need every one of them to keep that room above freezing,” I said with a shiver. Just the thought of it made me want to crawl into my bed and never move. There was nothing as cold as a medieval castle in winter. The chill crept right into your bones and nested there.

  “What about that writing, though?” I asked shaking my thoughts away from the
temperature for a moment. “Don’t you think that’s worth investigating?”

  Mackie tore her eyes from the windows to frown at me. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, they’re trying to find out everything they can about that Shattered spirit, right? So why not give every one of those hosts a pencil and some paper? It might just be gibberish of course, but what if it’s not?”

  Mackie blinked. “That’s a really good idea.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s a really obvious one,” I said.

  “Obvious to you,” Hannah said. “You’re a Muse. You know more about spirit-induced writing and drawing than almost anyone in the castle, aside from Fiona.”

  “I’m going to go tell them they should give them something to write with,” I said, placing a hand on the doorknob. Mackie knocked my hand away.

  “Mate, you can’t go in there! You might get infected!” she cried.

  “Mackie, those Shards already have Hosts! I doubt they’re going to abandon the bodies they already Habitated in just because I showed up.”

  “Do you really want to risk it? I don’t think you should tempt them by giving them the chance!” Mackie said.

  “But how else are we supposed to—”

  “We’ll tell Celeste when we get back downstairs. The medical staff is giving regular reports on the Hosts to the Council. She’ll pass it along, I promise.” Mackie practically begged. “Come on, mate, don’t give that thing a reason to attack you, okay? I can feel them through the door, and believe me, you do not want to have those feelings inside you, mate.”

  I blinked. I’d forgotten. Mackie was an Empath; it was her unique ability, similar to my gifts as a Muse. When spirits were trying to communicate with Mackie, she experienced their feelings on a level that none of the rest of us could comprehend. If the spirit was in pain, she felt every bit of that pain. If the spirit was grieving, Mackie could not separate herself from that grief. The intensity of it all could be crippling for her. Anything I might experience when opening that door would be magnified a hundredfold for someone like Mackie. How could I see that look of sheer terror on her face and still turn that doorknob?

  “Okay, fine, fine!” I grumbled. “I don’t know why you think we’re any safer out here than in there.”

  “We don’t know if any spirit Shards are out here right now, but we know five of them are in that room,” Mackie said. “I like my odds in the hallway, thanks. Come on, then.”

  We couldn’t talk further on the matter because we had to use every ounce of our strength and breath to survive the climb to the top of the South Tower. It took several minutes after we finally staggered onto the top landing to sufficiently recover before we could knock on the door.

  “State your name and your business,” came a sharp, echoing voice.

  “It’s Mackie, Moira. I’ve brought two more Durupinen to see the Léarscáil,” Mackie said, with exaggerated patience.

  “Enter slowly and carefully, and be sure to close the door securely behind you,” the voice snapped. It was both a tiny voice and a voice I wouldn’t want to trifle with.

  Mackie pushed the door open according to our instructions, very slowly and deliberately. I stepped confidently through it, but Mackie grabbed onto the back of my sweater and yanked me backward.

  “You’re going to want to tread carefully, mate. There’s a steep drop through that door,” she said.

  “What?”

  She eased the door the rest of the way open and I saw, with a start of surprise, what she meant. The floor of the room was about ten feet below us, reached by a narrow set of wooden steps that hugged the inner curve of the tower walls. Had I plowed ahead, I would surely have plummeted right past the narrow tread that was the only place to step upon entering the room.

  “Wow, close one,” I muttered. “Thanks, Mack.”

  “Anytime. Follow me, and mind you keep to a whisper,” Mackie said, stepping past me and starting down the steps.

  The room below us was perfectly circular, just like inside the other towers, but unlike the other tower rooms, there were no windows anywhere. In fact, there was nothing on any of the walls at all; no paintings, no tapestries, nothing. The unbroken stretch of bare stone reached up to the dark shadowy recesses of the rafters and disappeared. In the absence of windows, the only light in the room emanated from four large torches in tall bronze standing brackets set at what I knew instinctively, after creating countless Circles, to be the four points of the compass. These torches threw an orange, wavering light over the floor, which was painted with an enormous and incredibly detailed map of the world. I stared at it for a dumbstruck moment. Though it was clearly a map of the world as I knew it—I recognized the shapes of the continents—it was not the world as I knew it. The golden borders that snaked their way through the land masses were not of the familiar countries and cities I had learned in school as a kid, but instead divided the world up in Durupinen terms. This, I realized, was a clan map, carving out the strongholds and ancient seats of different clans through the ages. All of the words were in a form of Britannic so ancient that I was sure I wouldn’t find a single familiar word upon it, even with all of my recent study of Gaelic and Britannic Castings.

  But by far the most fascinating aspect of the room was the gargantuan gold pendulum that hung suspended over the map. It was easily the size of a small car, with a round, bulbous body and a pointed bottom, rather like a spinning top. Shining runes were engraved all around it, encircling its massive bulk like an equator. The gilded monstrosity hung on a great chain of golden links, which disappeared up into the rafters, and was swinging in a very steady rhythm, back and forth over the face of the map. Other than the swish of air, it made no sound, but the longer we watched it, I felt something like a hum—the steady, singing presence of powerful energy—ringing in my bones.

  “Wow,” Hannah breathed. Her face was alight with awe.

  “Be careful not to step on the map itself,” Mackie said. “Keep to the path.”

  When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Mackie stepped onto a wide gold stripe of paint that left a narrow pathway all the way around the outside of the room, and it was along this shining band we trod to meet the keeper of the Léarscáil.

  The old woman was tiny, shriveled, and hunched, like an old crone in a fairy tale; I half expected her to offer me a poisoned apple. She wore a long, wool robe which fell to her ankles, revealing leathery old feet, the soles of which appeared to be tattooed with dozens of runes. She was seated on a rickety wooden stool at a long, narrow table that had been built into the curve of the wall. She was writing with a quill— I shit you not, an actual quill—on a long trailing piece of parchment covered in markings and words so tiny and cramped that they must surely be illegible unless you had your nose half an inch from the surface of the paper, as the woman now did. She did not acknowledge us right away, but finished whatever it was she was recording, and then slowly and carefully rolled the parchment up into a tight scroll with knobbly, gnarled fingers. Then, still without looking at us, she turned and tucked the scroll into one of hundreds of tiny cubbies built in rows above the table. Each was labeled with map coordinates, longitude and latitude recorded in degrees.

  When the scroll was meticulously tucked away, the woman shuffled over to us and looked up. I actually stepped backward right on top of Hannah’s foot, and she let out a sharp gasp, though it may have been as much a gasp of surprise as a gasp of pain. The woman was wearing a strange contraption on her face that was straight out of a steampunk fantasy. I guess for lack of a better word, you could call them glasses, but they were strapped onto her head with a leather thong, like aviator goggles. There were several sets of brass lenses, some of which she had pulled down in front of her eyes and others which stuck up at wacky angles around her face. But it was the fact that her eyes were magnified to such cartoonish proportions that had caused me such a shock.

  “Moira, I would like to introduce you to Jessica and Hannah Ballard of Clan Sassanaigh,”
Mackie said, with a little tremble in her voice that made me certain she was repressing a laugh at my reaction.

  Moira still said nothing, but twiddled several knobs on her goggles, so that the little gears began to turn and multiple lenses whirred up out of place. Her eyes, now visible behind only a single set of lenses, were much less shocking, though still nearly swallowed by the black of her wildly dilated pupils.

  “Aye, I know who ye are. I knew ye were about. I felt the wee shifts in the balance,” Moira said curtly by way of a greeting. She spoke with a thick Scottish brogue that left every third word almost unintelligible.

  “N-nice to meet you,” Hannah said, so softly that I don’t think anyone but me heard her.

  “You two gave Moira the most eventful few months of her life three years ago,” Mackie said with a wink. “She’s never had so much excitement before, have you?”

  “Excitement in this room is not a desirable turn of events, lass,” Moira snapped, frowning severely at Mackie. “But aye, I earned my keep that year, I did, and no mistake.”

  “Moira is the Mapkeeper here at Fairhaven,” Mackie went on, for Moira had turned back to her table and broken into a string of muttered complaints. “She’s been in charge of recording and interpreting the findings of the Léarscáil Spiorad for the last eighty years.”

  “Is that a Foucault pendulum?” I asked.

  Mackie frowned. “A what, now?”

  “A Foucault pendulum,” I repeated. “I saw one once on a museum field trip in middle school. They used it to demonstrate the turning of the earth.”

  “Oh, I see,” Mackie said. “Nah, this is different. This beauty moves according to the patterns of spirit energy in the world. When all Gateways are working properly and no major disruptive spirit events are underway, the pendulum swings in a perfect circle around the outside of the map. When there are disturbances, though, the pattern changes, and Moira can record and interpret those changes. For instance, look at what it’s doing now.”