Master of Shadows

by Neil Oliver

  As soon as his hand left the boy, the sensations were gone – the world fixed in place once more and his stance upon it secure. He stared at John Grant, aghast. The boy looked back at him, and nodded once, almost in sympathy, before turning and crawling back down the passage.

  After a few moments, his senses still rattled, Badr heard, or rather felt, the approach of galloping horses. Seconds later they appeared from the low ground below. With Sir Robert Jardine and Angus Armstrong at their head, they made a circuit of the stones before riding into the centre and gathering there. Badr listened to Jardine’s shouted instructions, and while he could not, at such a distance, make out the words, the intent was clear. The horsemen scattered in all directions and began searching the surrounding area. Wider and wider they moved, holding on to their horses’ reins while they rode, and leaning outwards and down, scanning the ground for evidence of disturbance.

  There was a shout, from a voice Badr recognised at once, and then Jamie Douglas returned to the stones leading three horses – Badr’s stallion and the two beasts he had selected for Jessie and John Grant.

  Badr had hoped to find the horses again at daybreak, but if only their mounts were seized this night, he and the boy would have to count themselves lucky. Once or twice a mounted man passed close by the gorse bushes. One of them even took the trouble to dismount and strike at a few jagged branches with his sword – but neither he nor anyone else spotted the earthen mound, and the stone chamber within it, squatting in the midst of the thorns.

  Armstrong cantered over to Jamie and the pair exchanged a few words. They would be encouraged no end by the find of the horses, thought Badr, and grimaced. As well as their means of transport, the horses carried on their backs the only food and supplies they had in the world. The fugitives were on foot now, and equipped with only their clothes and Badr’s weapons.

  Armstrong put two fingers to his mouth and gave a short, sharp whistle. The mounted men quickly gathered to him, and after a few more words and gestures, the hunting party spread out, with Armstrong and Jardine at the centre of a wide front, and headed off downhill into the night.

  ‘They think they have us on the run,’ Badr whispered to himself, as he crawled back into the chamber.

  John Grant was lying by his mother’s side, his head touching hers, one arm slung across her chest. When he heard Badr return, he sat up quickly, embarrassed despite his grief.

  ‘Can we take the arrow out?’ he asked.

  Badr did not reply, but crawled over to Jessie and touched the steel arrowhead with one hand. John Grant watched him closely but nonetheless missed the moment when the knife appeared in the big man’s hand. He glimpsed the flash of metal and then it was gone again, and Badr was holding the arrowhead, the ash shaft neatly cut away. He looked at it for a second or two, considering its shape, then tossed it aside. Gently he pulled on the feathered end of the shaft, turning it as he did so, until the whole length of it was clear.

  John Grant sighed heavily, apparently relieved to see the thing removed from his mother’s body, dead as she was. Content that the operation was complete, the defilement undone, he settled down by her side again. His need to touch her overwhelmed any care that the Moor might be watching him, and he began gently to stroke the hair over her ear with the back of his hand.

  Badr crawled into the darkness against one side of the chamber. He settled down with his back against the wall, his legs straight out in front of him. From there he could keep an eye and not be seen, and he watched as the boy curled into a sleeping position, his face back in the space between his mother’s neck and shoulder. John Grant opened one eye and, despite the shadow, fixed his stare on Badr’s face. For a moment the Moor felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  ‘Now you know what it’s like,’ said the boy. ‘What it’s like to be me.’

  Badr said nothing and only nodded, remembering the dizzying, sickening disorientation he had felt in the passageway for as long as his hand had been in contact with the boy. He was unsure whether or not John Grant was able to see his features there in the shadows.

  ‘I have never let anyone close before – while I could feel the push. I did not know what would happen if anyone touched me while it was upon me. You’re the first to … to share it.’

  Badr nodded in the dark and closed his eyes.

  He had not expected to sleep, but he awoke to find the silvery-blue light of the moon replaced by that of early morning. The boy was still sleeping; in fact he appeared not to have moved. Rather than crawling down the passage, Badr risked raising his head through the gap between the roof slabs. As he had expected, there were no signs of life. Armstrong and his men would surely be searching fruitlessly elsewhere, hopefully many miles away.

  It was when he ducked down into the chamber once more that he spotted the bones. Scattered on the ground around the walls were long bones, ribs and, here and there, fragments the Moor easily recognised as parts of skulls.

  Disturbed by Badr’s movements, John Grant awoke. For an instant he was unaware of all that had happened, still befuddled by sleep, but when he looked at his mother’s body, the truth of it all rushed around him like flood water. He turned to look at Badr and saw that the big man was holding, balanced on the palm of one large hand, a human jawbone, the teeth shining like misshapen pearls. He gasped, horrified, and then as his eyes grew accustomed to the light he spotted the rest, scattered around the four walls of the chamber like bleached driftwood. Feeling suddenly unclean, he stood up, brushing at his clothes, and it was only by luck that his head found the gap between the slabs rather than a skull-cracking collision. Realising that he was visible to any lurking predators, he ducked back down again.

  ‘They are long gone,’ said Badr. ‘Hopefully many miles from here. Perhaps back at Hawkshaw licking their wounds.’

  John Grant slumped down on to the floor, his sorry head between his upraised knees and his momentary revulsion at the sight of the desiccated human remains replaced by overwhelming sadness.

  Aware of the need to get moving, and to keep moving, Badr gently ruffled the boy’s hair.

  ‘Let us take care of her now,’ he said.

  The thought of leaving his mother in such a lonely place, surrounded by the scattered remains of ancient dead, brought a horrified protest from the boy at first – until Badr suggested that perhaps there was no better place to lie than among friends.

  ‘These are the bones of people like your own,’ he said. ‘They lived and died long ago, that much is true, but no doubt they farmed the land around here just like you … just like your mother.’

  Without another word, John Grant silently set about tending to his mother’s remains.

  ‘She didn’t sleep like that,’ he said. ‘Never on her back.’

  With great tenderness they rolled Jessie on to her left side. Only a few hours had passed since her death and the stiffness of rigor mortis had not yet set in, so that John Grant was able to move her arms and legs until her body formed a familiar S shape. He placed her hands together beneath her chin, and arranged her long hair so that it seemed to flow over her shoulder and down towards her waist.

  They went outside then, and Badr used his scimitar to collect swathes of gorse branches, still covered in delicate yellow flowers shaped like tiny silk slippers. It was a laborious and painful process to get the greenery back inside the tomb, but when it was all in position, Badr withdrew from the chamber, back into the passage, so that mother and son might be alone.

  John Grant knelt down by his mother’s side. For an instant it seemed to him that he was the adult and she the child, and that he was a father come only to see that his daughter was safely asleep. The moment was brief, however, and quickly replaced by cold reality. He stooped and placed the gentlest of kisses on her cheek, and then another, and a third.

  ‘You will always be with me, Mum,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

  He began gently to place the gorse, layer by layer, over her body. Badr helped, and soon
there was not a trace of her left visible. By the time they had finished, the chamber was all but filled with the fragrant, thorny harvest, and they turned and left her there.

  ‘No one will disturb her,’ said Badr. ‘The thorns will deter even the most determined of passers-by.’

  John Grant nodded, his face expressionless.

  ‘Come,’ said Badr. ‘We must make a move. The sun has risen already, and by the time it sets, I swear we shall have put this place far behind us.’

  ‘I would stay here for ever,’ said John Grant.

  Badr turned to face the boy and found him gazing back at the entrance to the tomb, his mother’s tomb.

  ‘She lived her life protecting you,’ said Badr. ‘That duty is mine now. I will not fail her in death … as I did in life.’

  John Grant was silent.

  ‘Come,’ said Badr again. ‘Now. Our first task is to get down off this desolate hillside and find two horses. I plan to take you far from here, and walking is not in my nature.’

  Without looking again at the boy, he began striding downhill. He counted a hundred paces before he allowed himself a glance over his shoulder. He saw John Grant raise one hand to his mouth, kiss the fingertips, and hold them palm outwards towards the entrance of the tomb. Then he turned and ran towards the Moor without looking back.

  10

  For the rest of the day that followed, John Grant said not a single word. Badr Khassan, still unnerved by his momentary brush with the push, was content to let him be. As the last of the light was leaving the sky, they descended a steep slope that led on to a wide and level plain. A river, black and smooth as oil, ran parallel to the base of the slope, murmuring softly. Set back from the river, cut into a sheer wall of rock, was the low entrance to a cave. Badr judged they would find no better shelter.

  ‘We can allow ourselves a fire tonight,’ he said. ‘See if there’s wood to be gathered. Dry wood, mind.’

  For the next hour they occupied themselves making a camp – setting and lighting a fire, clearing stones from the spot within the cave where Badr proposed they might sleep, gathering piles of bracken and other foliage for bedding. They had no provisions, and the thought that tomorrow’s priority had to be finding food weighed heavily on the Moor’s mind. A look at the boy, however, reminded him that there were empty spaces in the world that required more than meat and drink to fill them.

  The cave was shallow, little more than a rock shelter, and as the darkness deepened so the stars revealed themselves once more.

  Doubting the boy was in the mood for answering questions, and in hopes of distracting them both from a grief so dark and heavy it was palpable, Badr began to speak.

  ‘There is more than one kind of light in the sky,’ he said.

  John Grant said nothing, but Badr sensed the boy was paying attention. He was seated cross-legged by the fire and gazing into the flames.

  ‘Long ago, Greek astronomers observed that while most of the stars remained in place, a few were ceaselessly on the move across the heavens. They called them planets, a word that means wanderers.’

  He paused to add more wood to the fire, and sparks danced high like living things.

  ‘Some people have seen patterns among the stars – the word for such shapes and forms is constellations – and there are many stories to explain their presence there … stories of animals, and hunters, and gods.’

  ‘My mother told me the righteous dead cut their way through the curtain of night on their way into heaven,’ said John Grant. ‘The pinpricks of light are glimpses of the glory of heaven, seen through the holes left behind.’

  Badr was taken unawares by the boy’s little speech – and found it was he who was suddenly lost for words. John Grant continued to look deep into the fire.

  ‘Do you think my mother made it through?’ he asked. ‘To heaven, I mean.’

  Badr took a deep breath before answering.

  ‘I hope so, John Grant,’ he said. ‘If your mother was undeserving of heaven, then there’s precious little hope for the rest of us.’

  ‘So there ought to be another star in the sky tonight,’ said John Grant, looking beyond the flames and out into the night.

  ‘There ought to be,’ said Badr. ‘There surely ought to be.’

  The morning that followed was bright and clear. Badr awoke lying curled on his side against the rear of the cave. He glanced at the boy, lying on his back close by the smoking remains of the fire. He was quite still, but his eyes were open. Badr wondered if any sleep had been had there, and then, noting the blue of a cloudless sky, resolved to try and raise his own spirits, if not those of the boy. A fresh start was in order and he stood and stretched, feeling the years in his muscles and bones. He slowly rolled his head around on his shoulders, his beard brushing his chest, and then stretched back until he was looking at the roof of the cave. He repeated the move over and over, first in one direction and then the other, listening all the while to a crunching sound deep in his neck like a wooden wheel grinding upon gravel. He stopped and rubbed his face with both hands. Feeling suddenly unclean, aware of his own heavy scent, he strode down to the river and began removing his clothes.

  Still immobile, disinclined to move as much as a finger, John Grant watched the Moor strip off. He could not recall ever having seen a man’s naked body before, far less the body of a black man. Dark though the skin of Badr’s back and legs was, still John Grant could make out distinct shiny patches – some on the shoulders and others on the man’s lower legs. They were clearly burn scars, healed well enough but with a texture that looked tight, less flexible than the surrounding flesh. He thought about what Badr had said about the circumstances leading to his father’s death – how Patrick Grant had rescued him from a burning bed in a burning house.

  The Moor waded out until the dark water was up to his armpits before leaning forward and beginning to swim. He kicked his legs up behind him and his strokes were powerful and sure. John Grant watched as he struck out for the opposite bank, some tens of yards away. The current carried him downstream, but his confident poise in the water made it clear he was unconcerned. Reaching shallow water once more, he turned and began swimming back. Before he made it, the flow of the river had carried him out of sight, and John Grant wondered vaguely what would happen if he never saw his guardian again. After a few minutes he heard the sound of heavy breathing and Badr appeared beside the pile of clothes he had left behind. He picked up his cloak and dried himself roughly with it before dressing once more.

  He returned to the cave and crouched by the smouldering embers of the fire, gauging whether it might be brought back to life. Seeing glowing flecks of red among the greys and blacks, he stooped and brought his face close to them, before blowing softly. John Grant watched, still as a corpse, until there was a soft whoosh and the Moor’s efforts were rewarded with a bright orange tongue of flame that curled upwards from the remains. Carefully Badr placed small twigs around the flames, coaxing them with more of his own soft breaths.

  ‘I have heard it said that no one who has been loved is ever truly lost,’ he said, attending to the fire rather than looking at the boy. ‘That if those who loved them breathe on the embers now and then, their memory returns to warm the living.’

  ‘How is it you know so much about everything?’ asked John Grant.

  Badr smiled and shook his head, in the manner of a big dog, so that droplets of water were flung in all directions.

  ‘I had the benefit of an education, my boy,’ he said.

  ‘I am not your boy.’

  Badr kept tending to the fire, slowly adding larger pieces of wood. There was already warmth to be had from it, and he rubbed his hands together over the flames.

  ‘No indeed, and I do not forget it,’ he said. ‘It is nonetheless my duty to take care of you. I gave my word. You are not mine – but you are my responsibility.’

  John Grant roused himself at last, stood up and walked away from the fire.

  Minutes passed while
Badr allowed his thoughts to be absorbed and consumed by the flames, and John Grant stared out at the eddies and whorls winding and unwinding on the black slick of the river’s surface.

  ‘You felt the push, didn’t you?’ the boy asked at last. ‘When you touched me … just before the horsemen came back … you felt it, didn’t you?’

  Badr looked up, but the boy still had his back turned to him.

  ‘I felt … drunk,’ he answered. He was struggling to find the words to describe the sensation. ‘Or as though I was falling. And there was pressure … like the force of that river I just swam in. I felt I might have been swept away.’

  ‘What you said last night about the stars that move across the sky …?’ John Grant turned to look at him. ‘The wandering planets?’

  Badr nodded.

  ‘Well I think there’s another planet – and that we live our lives upon it.’

  ‘My teachers said only the heavens moved,’ said Badr. ‘That we alone are fixed in place and all else moves around us.’

  ‘Well I tell you we are on the move as well,’ said John Grant. ‘I feel it – and now you have felt it too.’

  Badr turned back to the fire, poked at the flames with a stick and watched as the end blackened and charred in the heat.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

  John Grant shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Well I am,’ said Badr. ‘And now you have a decision to make.’

  John Grant looked at him squarely.

  ‘I am going in search of food,’ said Badr, standing up straight. ‘And when I leave, I shall not return. I have had my fill of this place. There is a fire here, and shelter of a sort. If you want to stay, I will not force you to leave.’