The Queen of sinister da-2

by Marc Chadbourn

  The constant itching that assailed Crowther's back became at that moment a full-scale rush of molten iron in his veins. Even if he had fought he wouldn't have been able to prevent his hands from darting to the secret pocket and removing the mask. If he was about to die, he wanted to do it in the luxurious, stimulating, cocooning world of the mask, the only place he had ever known true pleasure and true acceptance. But the moment he brought out the mask, the sunlight gleaming off its silvered surface, the little men drew back as one, as if they were about to be burned, their nasty little eyes grown wide with fear. Matt saw their response and clutched at Crowther's arm. 'Don't put it on — just hold it out,' he hissed.

  With trembling hand, Crowther just about resisted, though it edged slowly towards his face.

  Melliflor recovered first, his eyes filled with a hungry gleam that Crowther knew only too well. 'Give me the mask. It is too dangerous for Fragile Creatures. Give it to me and you shall be allowed to leave here.'

  'How can we trust you?' Matt shouted.

  'You have my word — on the weft and weave.'

  'A promise?'

  'A promise. And we do not give our word lightly, Fragile Creature.' Melliflor appeared hypnotised by the light dancing off the mask, desperately yearning and fearful at the same time.

  'Give it to him,' Matt whispered to Crowther. 'We don't have any choice. Even if we can't trust him, it might cause enough of a diversion for us to get out of here if you throw it right into the heart of them.'

  'No.' The word was quiedy spoken and steely hard.

  'Don't be stupid!' Matt dug his fingers into Crowther's arm. 'What's wrong with you?'

  'Do you have any idea what they could do with this mask?'

  Matt searched Crowther's face. 'That's not the real reason. What's going on?' Matt didn't wait for an answer, instead lunging for the mask. Crowther elbowed him sharply in the face and stepped away so he could turn defiantly and clamp the mask on to himself.

  An exclamation of terror rushed through the army of little men like a wind on a stormy night. At the back there was frantic movement as some of them turned and fled; others scurried for cover, while the ones near the front were paralysed with fear.

  Melliflor looked ghastly pale in the light coming off the mask. 'Good Son, forgive us,' he said in hushed, desperate tones.

  The second the mask had attached itself to Crowther's face, Matt, Mahalia and Jack noticed a change in the atmosphere. A terrible weight bore down on all of them; sound became muffled and light, what little there was, became distorted.

  Behind the mask, Crowther cried out. His hands rushed towards his face to tear the mask off, but then they suddenly fell limply to his sides, and he turned to face the little men. Melliflor was already backing away into the crowd. The little men scrambled and attacked each other in their desperation to escape, but their numbers were too great.

  The mask fixed its attention on Melliflor with those cold, unseeing eyes. He dropped to his knees beneath the weight of the stare and clutched at his face, his nails biting deeply into his sallow skin. There was a slight nod from Crowther, and in the blink of an eye, Melliflor turned inside out. His organs and musculature appeared outside his body in a sticky mess. His eyes, still staring, registered an instant of surprised horror, and then his body disappeared in a frantic cloud of moths. This time, however, they were of the deepest black.

  The atmosphere of tension broke as the frantic little men scrambled hither and thither, hunting for ways back into the dark places where they could hide. A route opened up towards the other side of the garden.'You can take the mask off now!' Matt yelled, but Crowther was lost to the surging power. The air around him shimmered and became like glass, ballooning out across the garden. Escaping figures were thrown into the air wherever it passed, limbs falling away as if they had been severed by surgical knives, organs pulled free and dismantled with a lazy curiosity by invisible hands. Soon the air was thick with black moths.

  'He's lost it!' Mahalia said.

  'Let's get him out of here!' Matt ordered. He grabbed one arm and Jack took the other, both of them fearful that the powers the mask was exhibiting would soon be turned on them. As they hurried out of the garden, the devastating attack by the mask continued in full force, lashing backwards at the fleeing little men, plucking up the stragglers, disappearing into passages, drains and culverts where some hid.

  But once the three of them led Crowther into the rooms beyond, the power became less aggressive, though still potent. Psychedelic colours painted the walls or surged in fountains in the air. Briefly, Mahalia's hand became like crystal. The motion-music burst from the walls with the force of a hundred orchestras, beautiful melodies and wild, percussive rhythms fighting for space, so loud they could barely hear themselves think, the compositions brilliance and madness in equal measure.

  And wherever they went, the air appeared to peel back to give views over alien landscapes, or into deepest space where cold stars glimmered, into other worlds, other dimensions. People came and went in a flash, faces that appeared vaguely familiar, some old friends, others strangers, but behind it all was an unnerving sense of meaning, as if they were seeing the structures of reality laid bare. Jack saw a Fabulous Beast soaring high over London, its jewelled scales glinting in the burst of fire that erupted from its mouth on to some dark tower. Mahalia glimpsed a desperate man who'd done desperate things shoot himself in the head, dead, dead as a doornail, and then later running with a sword through what appeared to be a cathedral, though the order of the visions made little sense to her. And Matt, he saw generals and spies and dead-eyed men sitting around a table plotting some big lie to deceive a population, only for that lie to become reality. And they all saw someone reading a book, painting mind-pictures from the words, creating more realities with every thought, making them hard and fast and real. Existence was fluid, everything was changing.

  They rushed onwards, dragging Crowther between them, while the chaos and the madness of the warp surged all around, so that after a while their minds began to rebel, not knowing where they were or what they were doing.

  The court was a vast maze, and in the heavy darkness it was impossible to tell if they were doubling back on themselves. They began to feel as if they would be in there for ever, trapped in an awful purgatory.

  But then they discovered that Crowther was beginning to lead them, at first subtly suggesting changes in direction with a shift of his body weight, then increasingly pulling them along with him. They hurried down extravagantly decorated corridors, through vast, ringing halls, until they came to an arch big enough for three buses to pass through side by side. Over the top was a carving of a coiled, bewinged Fabulous Beast with sapphires for eyes, and beyond lay steep steps winding down into darkness.

  'This looks like the way out,' Jack gasped breathlessly. He let go of Crowther's arm; the professor stood quietly, the mask now silent. 'Why's he suddenly calmed down?'

  'Don't hang around talking,' Mahalia pressed. 'I just want to get out of this creepy place.' She headed through the arch without giving the others a chance to debate. The stairs were broader and more grand than the secret way out of the Court of Soul's Ease. Celtic spiral patterns in mosaic lined the walls, suggesting that the route was perhaps ceremonial. After fifteen minutes, they opened into an enormous cave with a small beach and the river lapping against it. Through the cave mouth they could see the late-afternoon sun on the slow-moving water and, beyond, the thick forest pressing heavily against the far bank.

  'Looks like we bypassed the gorge and the rapids,' Matt said, with definite relief. 'I don't want to tempt fate, but we may be able to pick up Triathus.'

  'Blind luck,' Mahalia said. 'It's about time something worked out in our favour.'

  They helped Crowther as they picked their way over the slick rocks around the cave mouth, and after splashing through the shallows with the refreshing sun on their faces, they eventually pulled up on to the bank and lay amongst the trees at the river's edge.


  'I thought we were dead in there,' Mahalia said, one arm across her eyes, the rise and fall of her chest gradually calming.

  Jack sat next to her, unable to resist gently stroking her hair. 'Professor Crowther saved us. If he didn't have the mask…'

  'I don't reckon it's as simple as that,' Matt interjected.

  Mahalia looked up at the dark tone in Matt's voice. He was watching the professor uneasily, who sat against the base of a tree, unmoving, the mask still clamped to his face.

  'Why doesn't he take it off?' Mahalia asked.

  Matt grimaced. 'I don't think he can.' Caitlin marched through the night, the world red and black. Birmingham was far behind her. Lightning surged through her arteries, blazed across her mind; she was supercharged, glorious, almost floating above the land as she walked. At times her own mind was present, though hyper- aware, with none of the doubts that had torn her apart before. The clarity and confidence only added to her sense of ultimate wellbeing. At other times, the Morrigan's dark presence wove its way through her consciousness, like the thrashing of a murder of crows, and then there was only chaos and fragmented thoughts, like glimpses of a terrible battle through the drifting smoke of destruction.

  Caitlin had covered miles in her energised state; she had no idea where she was going, but the Morrigan certainly did. The Midlands landscape had rolled under her feet. She neither tired nor paused for rest over a day and a night, gaining sustenance only from the fruit and wild vegetables she found on her route. Now she was passing through the lush Leicestershire countryside, a place of overgrown fields and a rampant, once well-tended forest that had spread almost magically across the area.

  She came to a village called Griffydam, so named, according to myth, because its water supply had once been guarded by a griffin, the legendary half-eagle, half-lion creature. Crowther could have told her that such ancient stories were a code, denoting places where the barrier with the Otherworld was thin and where strange things often crossed over. But Caitlin knew this instinctively.

  As she approached an old stone-lined well beside the road, thin lines of blue slowly rose to the surface of the ground beneath her feet, growing brighter and stronger as they rushed towards the well, casting a sapphire glow across the hedgerows and walls in that dark time just before dawn.

  At the base of the well, cold blue fire blazed up higher, then formed lines of coruscating energy that rose up and up, crossing over, building a structure like a church with the well at its heart, as visible as a beacon across the surrounding countryside.

  A burst of thunder shook the ground and continued to roll out all around as blue sparks fizzed and crackled in the ionised air. Caitlin stopped and stared in a moment of clarity brought on by the awe and the wonder, but then the familiar, urgent cawing of the Morrigan rose up once more.

  Standing nearby, though he hadn't been there before, was the knight in the boar's-head mask. In her detached state, Caitlin half-made to speak to him, still not sure if he was there to help her or torment her. But all he would do was guide her towards the crackling blue light with his pointed sword.

  She cast one last, wary look at him, and then the Morrigan propelled her into the blue.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Long memories

  'Women must come off the pedestal. Men put us up there to get us out of the way.'

  Viscountess Rhondda

  All day long, carrion crows swept in clouds so vast they brought a nocturnal gloom down on the fields, even in the middle of the day. Rats, too, swarmed everywhere, bigger, more daring and more vicious than any Mary had ever known. She tried not to get too biblical, but the symbolism of portents and omens was vivid for anyone who wished to see them.

  Her winding journey through England's heartland had followed ancient trackways away from the centres of population, but signs of the plague tightening its grip were evident in even the smallest hamlet. Plumes of smoke rose up like markers of despair, sometimes whole villages burning. The stink of decomposition tainted the wind, ever-present behind the sweet aromas of summer countryside. Mary knew her history. During the Middle Ages, the Black Death wiped out twenty million people across Europe and killed a third of the population in its first onslaught, with even more dying subsequently. Questions haunted her. How many were dying now? Thousands? Millions? How many people were needed to create a viable population? Once that defining line had been crossed, humanity would just wither away, another extinction in a long, long line.She had spent many an evening next to the campfire considering the nature of those malign imps she had seen tormenting the infected and spreading the plague with their touch. In her contemplation, she had sensed subtle strands coming together into a grand scheme, and as she examined them she realised that something didn't make sense.

  And so she broke her journey at Stonehenge. As she entered its circle, the energy in the ground was so potent it made her entire body tingle. She found she could follow the flow by sense alone, making her way to the focal point. She wouldn't even need to spirit-fly to achieve connection.

  She sat cross-legged with her eyes closed and visualised the Blue Fire. Instantly, she felt the force rise through her chakras, the Kundalini snake of the Eastern mystics. The site was like an enormous battery! The flames surged up her spine to her head, rushing into the metaphorical third eye. When it opened, it felt as if her skull was unfolding to let the universe in. And when she opened her real eyes, the truth was revealed.

  A cathedral of flaming blue energy soared high over Stonehenge and everything within it was alive with such a potent spirituality that Mary reeled. The Elysium stood all around.

  'Sharish?' Her guardian angel came forward at her summons. He bore a faint, knowing smile. She cut straight to what was on her mind. 'You weren't there randomly at Dragon Hill. You were waiting for me.' With the blue light surrounding him, he appeared truly angelic for the first time.

  'Why do you say that?' he asked simply.

  'I was thinking about connections and coincidences, and how some things always seem to turn out the right way… as if they're planned.'

  The quality of his smile changed slightly, suggesting infinite wisdom, forever beyond Mary's reach. 'There are no coincidences.''So, there was some kind of… plan. And I thought I was acting on free will.'

  'All living creatures naturally assume themselves to be the centre of the world. It is not within human nature to consider oneself a part of something much, much larger-'

  'A cog in some machine-'

  '-an essential part of a grand plan.'

  Mary hardened. 'That Jigsaw Man — he wasn't sent after me by whoever's causing the plague. You put him on my tail.'

  'Not us-'

  'Then whoever you're working for. It was obvious when you think about it. The thing that created the plague, those little imps, could have destroyed me in an instant. It didn't need to set that thing hunting me across five counties. What's going on?'

  Sharish nodded benignly. Mary had feared the worst — that somehow the Elysium were working with the one behind the plague — but her instinct told her otherwise. 'If you had not been pushed to the limits, you would have failed in your search,' he said.

  'So it was for my own good?' she said tartly.

  Sharish pressed the fingertips of both hands together and thought for a long moment, as if deciding how much he could tell her. 'Growth and development only take place through… trials. Not just for individuals, but for entire races. Trials bring about change within. Those who wish to achieve the next stage must embark on a spirit- quest. They must overcome obstacles, plumb the very depths of their resilience, develop new skills. Become.. He gave the final word added weight.

  'Then the Jigsaw Man can't really kill me.'

  'Oh, yes, it can. And it will. If it were not a true threat, it would not serve its purpose.' 'And is that what this plague is? A trial for the human race? Millions might die, but don't worry about them because the ones who survive will come out of it better?'

&
nbsp; 'It is a trial, but not of our making. All of life is a trial on the road to…' He caught himself. '… somewhere else. It is a school, if you will. A school for the spirit.'

  'And we don't get to graduate until we pass all the exams.' She laughed without humour. 'Excuse me if I don't cheer. I'm too busy concentrating on all the pain and suffering.'

  'I understand your reaction. From your perspective…'

  'Oh, bollocks to it!' She flapped a hand at him. 'I suppose it's too much to ask that you just leave me alone so I can get on with what I have to do?'

  'There are schemes, grand schemes, great powers beyond your wildest imaginings. From your perspective, it is impossible to see what part you play, great or small. Or what is at stake.'

  'You could tell me.'

  For the briefest second, his face became frightening and filled with awe; she thought she saw whole universes reflected within it. 'Your part must remain closed to you or your development will be tainted. But as to what is at stake? Everything is at stake. All of human existence has been leading to this point. We stand on the cusp of Everything… and Nothing. Of Life and the Void. Humanity must ascend if the seasons are to continue to turn.'

  Sharish saw her puzzlement, and in response reached out to touch her in the middle of her forehead. An image flashed into her mind: a figure wrapped in what looked like a shroud, the one Mary had come across at the crossroads.

  'The gods who came here with the Fall are not the only ones. There are greater gods above them, older gods,' Sharish said. 'They are the ones who have been guiding you. In your world, they are now seen as spirits of place, genii loci, at crossroads and lakes and rivers and mountains, but their appearances belie their true nature.'

  'And the god of Wilmington and the missing Goddess are part of them?'

  'They exist beyond your frame of reference,' Sharish continued obliquely. 'The scope of Existence is too vast to understand even a part of it, and it encompasses many things, in a scheme of bewildering complexity. For any living thing to see even the smallest aspect is too much.'