Shadowmagic

by John Lenahan

  Fergal nudged my side. ‘Look, it’s Gerard.’

  Gerard tried to raise his hand to quiet the crowd and almost dropped the balls he was holding. He laughed heartily at this, as did everyone. We all quietened down to hear.

  ‘My good friends,’ he boomed, and I instantly knew he meant it–he loved these people and they loved him. ‘Welcome to Muhn. Every year I am amazed and humbled that so many of you would travel so far just to sample my newest vintage.’

  Someone shouted, ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world!’ and the assemblage replied with a, ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gerard continued. ‘I am especially heartened that so many of you have come for this harvest. I know how difficult a time you have had this year.’

  The crowd mumbled. I heard Esus whisper, ‘That’s a first.’

  ‘What is?’ I asked.

  ‘Gerard never makes political statements like that.’

  ‘But as you know,’ Gerard continued, ‘Castle Muhn is no place for talk like that–even by me. Anyone heard grumbling tonight will be tossed out of my highest window’–this brought laughter and cheers—‘for tonight is a celebration!’

  At that, he threw the five glowing balls he was holding up into the air and began to juggle. All of the servants threw theirs, and all at once the air was full of cascading, glowing wire orbs. The jugglers then began to pass the balls among themselves. Guests everywhere were ducking as glowing missiles just missed their heads. Now I have done a bit of juggling in my day and I can tell you–these were no ordinary juggling balls. The jugglers weren’t even breaking a sweat. They never dropped one or hit anybody and if you watched closely, you could see sometimes the balls waited until the juggler was ready before they fell back to earth.

  Someone shouted, ‘Hup,’ and all of the jugglers threw their remaining balls high in the air, where they just kept on going! The balls intertwined themselves with the vine trellis and then glowed even brighter. They bathed the room in golden light. The applause, the hoots and hollering were deafening. The music kicked in and the party truly began.

  Fergal slapped me on the back and said, ‘We need some food!’

  Food! Every time I heard that, I thought, What a good idea. We weaved our way through vines of people until we came upon what looked like a five-acre buffet table. I have never seen so much food. Who was it all for? It made me worry that the busload of three-headed Giants and Trolls hadn’t arrived yet. I found a plate and just piled it on. I took a little bit of everything–if the apples were anything to go by, this was going to be the best meal of my life. I stopped when the food on my plate started to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pisa. One more crumb and I would have had a spilled food disaster of horrific proportions.

  I looked up to find that I had lost my friends. I searched around a bit but I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t risk weaving through the crowd looking for them with this overflowing plate, so I sat down alone in a nearby chair. My intention was to try to eat the top off my food mountain until it was transportable. The food was so good, my moaning drew stares. I chomped in ecstasy as I spied on the other guests. I was starting to figure stuff out. Banshees and Elves were mostly tall, with Banshees being dark while the Elves were fair. Imps were shorter and, as a rule, built like bowling pins, including the women. There were others that looked like they could have been TV presenters and still more that I couldn’t put into any category I knew yet. I was also starting to gauge how old people were without seeing their eyes. A sense of seniority poured out of some like an aura. The way they talked and walked, or just held themselves, made it easy to separate the young ones from the elders.

  A large dance started up. It looked like fun, but unbelievably complicated. It seemed as if the dance was designed for the room. Partners held hands and then danced around the statues in circles of eight, then sixteen, or more if a statue was on its side, and then as if they all had a secret radio in their ears, they made a huge undulating circle around the room before somehow finding their partners again. It was lucky they were immortals because it probably took a couple a hundred years to learn it.

  The monument of food on my lap had vanished. My stomach was full and the wine had pleasantly gone to my head. I was just about to dance my way through the room and search for my newfound friends when I was overcome by an awful pang of guilt. I slumped in my chair and thought, What right do I have to celebrate?. My father is lying wounded somewhere, maybe even dead. I may never get back to my life in the Real World and even if I do it will be in tatters. I’ll most likely flunk out of high school and Sally will never speak to me again. All of a sudden I felt out of place and alone–just a little boy who had lost his mother. That’s when I heard a woman’s voice behind me.

  ‘My father says that Castle Muhn does not have enough magic to solve all your problems–just enough to allow you to leave them outside the front door.’

  I turned and almost fell in love. She was casually rolling one of those glowing juggling balls over her fingers and from hand to hand, making the light waltz around her face and sparkle in young, dark eyes. She wore a purple velvet dress and her curly black hair cascaded onto her bare shoulders. I know I should be ashamed of myself, but at that second, my parents, Sally, my life–all shot straight out of my head. I was filled with the vision before me.

  ‘It seems by your face,’ she said, ‘that you have smuggled your problems in with you.’

  ‘Not any more,’ I said. ‘They’re gone, out-a-here.’

  She smiled and my heart pounded.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing the strange runes on your tunic’

  I looked down and laughed. I was amazed that no one had mentioned it before. I was wearing my New York Yankees sweatshirt.

  ‘These are special runes where I come from, they mean I’m cool.’

  She reached out and touched them. ‘They don’t feel cool.’

  ‘My name is Conor.’

  ‘I am pleased to meet you, Conor. I am Essa.’

  We bowed to each other without losing eye contact.

  ‘I am sure we have never met, Conor. What house are you from?’

  ‘I came with Araf,’ I said, sidestepping the question.

  ‘Araf!’ she screamed and jumped up and down. ‘Is he here? Where?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve lost him.’

  ‘Well, we must find him.’

  She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the party. She was moving fast and I was being thrown into fellow guests and upsetting mugs, but there was no way I was going to let go of that hand. We found Fergal and Araf with a bunch of others sitting on a horizontal black pawn. Essa released my hand and launched herself at Araf, who caught her and returned the hug. It was the first time in my life I wished I was an Imp.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’ she said.

  Araf shrugged.

  ‘And you must be Fergal. Araf has told me so much about you.’

  I couldn’t help wondering when Araf did all this talking. A servant brought us fresh mugs of wine. Fergal looked as if he’d had plenty already. Essa whispered into the servant’s ear.

  ‘Your father throws a hell of a party,’ Fergal slurred.

  ‘He does, doesn’t he? Here’s to Dad!’ Essa said, raising her mug in a toast.

  ‘Your father is Gerard?’ I asked.

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Well, I’ll drink to that.’

  The waiter returned, carrying two banta sticks that he handed to Essa. She took both sticks and threw one to Araf. The assembled crowd oohed at the challenge. Araf caught the stick but didn’t look interested. Another servant arrived with headgear and protective clothing. Essa put on leather gloves, a heavy leather jacket that almost came down to her knees and a protective headpiece–a white helmet with a thin gold wire mesh covering the face.

  Despite the heckling of the crowd, Araf refused to stand up. Fergal came up behind him and put a helmet on his head–but still he sat there.

 
‘I, Essa of Muhn, challenge you, Araf of Ur, to single banta combat.’

  She struck a stance similar to an en garde position in fencing–right foot forward with knees bent. She looked magnificent. In her right hand she held the banta in the middle. The weapon had a knot of wood at one end which she pointed directly at Araf. If this was a proper and formal challenge, Araf showed no sign of partaking. He just sat there.

  A smile crossed Essa’s face. She spun the banta in her hand like a baton twirler and in a flash covered the distance between her and Araf. She brought the smaller end of her stick down on his head and then bounced backwards, retaking her defensive stance–her stick across her chest with the left hand stretched forward for balance. I had never seen anything so graceful. She obviously knew what she was doing.

  The audience loved it. The group erupted when the thud came from Araf’s helmet. Someone shouted, ‘One to Essa.’

  Essa waited in her defensive pose but it was unnecessary. Araf wasn’t playing. He sat there like an old dog ignoring a rambunctious puppy. This didn’t seem to bother her. She launched herself into a spinning, swirling attack that hit Araf on the right shoulder. If it hurt, and it sure looked like it did, Araf didn’t show it. The crowd, that was getting larger by the minute, howled with delight.

  ‘Two to nought for Essa!’ Fergal shouted.

  ‘How high does the score go?’

  ‘Essa challenged him to a formal match,’ Fergal said. ‘Each landed blow is one point and a knock-down is five. The first to eleven is the winner.’

  Essa attacked again. This attack was a mirror image of the previous one. This time she landed her stick on Araf’s left shoulder.

  ‘Well, it looks like Araf is going to lose this one,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Fergal said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he never has.’

  ‘Never has what?’

  ‘He has never lost. Araf is the undefeated banta fighting champion of all of The Land.’

  ‘Well, at the moment,’ I said, ‘Essa looks pretty good.’

  Fergal smiled. ‘Keep watching.’

  Essa backed away and then launched into a new and bolder attack. She came at Araf and then leaped over his head! I once saw a deer on a country road jump over a tall fence–Essa had the same majestic poise. In mid-air she connected with two blows on the side of Araf’s helmet and landed behind him with two more points under her belt. The crowd applauded. Araf didn’t even turn around.

  Essa walked around Araf and stood directly in front of him. She crouched down and looked into his eyes and smiled. There might have been a flicker of a smile from Araf in reply. With the big end of her stick she tapped Araf’s faceplate. The wire mesh glowed for a second. There was obviously some magic protecting the face. The entire audience shouted, ‘FIVE.’ She tapped again. ‘SIX,’ again, ‘SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE.’

  On the blow that should have been ‘TEN’, Araf moved his head quickly to the left, Essa was thrown off balance and Araf poked his stick between her feet and tripped her. She went down fast. The audience booed but in good humour. Essa had been cocky–she had that coming. She rolled quickly to her feet. Araf slowly stood.

  Now things were getting interesting. The crowd was buzzing. Essa backed away and the partygoers gave them room. A giant people-edged arena formed, with everyone watching. Essa backed into the middle of the room and retook her defensive posture. Araf walked towards her and stopped two stick-lengths away and bowed. Even though the score was nine-to-five, he was indicating that now, the duel had truly begun. Essa nodded in reply.

  Araf took a stance. Not the graceful Tai Chi-like posture of Essa, but a flat-footed straight-on stance. He held his banta across his chest with both hands, like the staff fights in old Robin Hood movies. This was a battle between style and brawn.

  Essa mounted a twirling attack to the head. Araf parried it and brought the bottom end of his stick up for a counter-attack. Essa spun and dodged it–just. The two of them were feeling each other out. Essa tried a lower attack but this failed. Araf’s parry was so strong that she momentarily lost her balance, allowing Araf to get her with a counterblow to her side that made me wince.

  ‘SIX,’ came a cry from the crowd.

  The combatants stared at each other for a minute and then Araf initiated his first offensive attack. For a big guy, he moved fast. There was no twirling or pirouettes, just a direct attack–wide, quick, sweeping blows from alternating sides. Essa had no difficulty with the speed but she didn’t have the strength to block the blows without a step backwards. She gave ground with every parry and was running out of room. I expected her to start swinging around in a circle but she continued straight back, each block pushing her closer into a corner. Just when I thought it was all over for her, she bent her knees and dived, head first over Araf’s head! With the poise of an Olympic high diver, she jumped Araf’s banta stick and then planted her own stick on top of Araf’s shoulder, pole-vaulting and somersaulting behind him.

  The crowd went wild. ‘TEN,’ they screamed in unison.

  Six to ten–if Essa could land one more blow, she would win. I heard someone yell, ‘Who is the student and who is the master now?’

  So that was it, Essa had studied under Araf. This was a student-teacher grudge match. The light-heartedness that marked the beginning of the duel was gone. Araf clumped into his stance–Essa flowed into hers. We waited to see who would initiate the next attack. The only sound was Essa’s breathing.

  Araf broke the calm. With an unexpected twirl of his banta stick he came at Essa with a series of angled-down swings that blurred into a continuous figure of eight. It looked as if Essa had just stepped in front of a taxiing airplane. I could see in her eyes that the master had not taught the student everything. Initially she didn’t even try to parry. She backed away, attempting to decipher the rhythm of the attack. Before she ran out of space, she experimented with parries that succeeded in slowing down the attack–but only a bit. For a second time she tried her flipping pole-vaulting manoeuvre–she should never have attempted it twice. Araf dodged her stick, turned and made contact with her calf in mid-air. She landed on one foot, not enough to keep her balance. She hit the floor skidding. The only thing hurt was her pride. A five-point knockdown–she had lost.

  Araf helped her to her feet, then stood in front of her and formally bowed–Essa hit him over the head with her stick. The crowd erupted in laughter. The fighters took off their masks and Essa planted a huge kiss on Araf’s cheek. For the second time today I wished I was an Imp.

  Essa hung on Araf’s arm as they returned. Fergal added his slap to all of the others that Araf had received on his back as he travelled through the crowd.

  ‘Thank you for upholding the honour of the House of Ur,’ Fergal slurred. He was past tipsy and well nigh on to very drunk.

  ‘That was very impressive,’ I said to Essa.

  ‘I would have been more impressive if I had won.’

  ‘I was rooting for you.’

  She smiled. It was very nice.

  ‘You should have a fight, Conor,’ Fergal said as he stumbled into me. ‘You would kick ass around here with that snap spell you are wearing.’

  ‘You are wearing a snap spell?’ someone said behind me.

  I turned to answer when out of the corner of my eye I saw Fergal grab Essa’s banta stick.

  ‘It’s an amazing spell–watch this!’ he said as he swung. I remember the look of surprise on everyone’s faces as the stick hit my skull. Then everything went black.

  The first thing I remember thinking as I came to was, Is this my third concussion this week or my fourth? In my whole life, I had never even been dizzy–now it seemed I couldn’t go a day without being knocked cold. I was disappointed that you don’t actually see stars and tweeting birds, like in cartoons, but I can assure you that you get great big bumps.

  I felt a cold compress being applied to my forehead, and when I opened my eyes I saw that my nurse was E
ssa.

  ‘I’ve died, haven’t I?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She looked worried.

  ‘No, I must be dead because you’re an angel.’ OK, it was a bit corny but I was quite proud of coming up with a line that good so soon after multiple concussions.

  ‘I think you must be feeling better,’ she said, and took the cold compress off my forehead.

  I sat up. I had a pain in my head that I hadn’t experienced since my last blow to the head–earlier that day I think. I winced.

  ‘You wouldn’t have any of that willow tea around, would you?’

  ‘Here, drink this.’ She handed me a tiny glass with no more than two thimblefuls of brown liquid.

  ‘Is that all I get?’

  ‘Believe me, that is all you need. It’s my father’s special tonic. It will make you feel better.’

  I downed it in one. Had I been facing a mirror, I would have seen steam shooting out of my ears. I sat bolt upright in bed and croaked, ‘WOW!’

  Essa laughed. ‘You’ll be better now,’ and stood to go.

  I was instantly better but I didn’t want to let her go. I grabbed the wet cloth and put it in her hand. ‘Don’t go, I think I’m going to faint,’ I said, trying to look as ill as I could and lying back down on the bed.

  ‘What makes me think that you are not being sincere?’ She smiled.

  ‘Oh, the pain!’ I said and I pulled her hand, to make her place the cloth on my forehead. She lost her balance and pretty much fell on top of me. She laughed a little bit and didn’t immediately get up. Her face was only inches away, her lips were so close I could feel her breath. I stared straight into her eyes, those magnificent dark eyes and then…her father came in.