by Ken Hood
Rory glanced around the group. "It's customary to make an offering. If you don't have anything suitable, I can lend you some money. That's always acceptable—isn't it, Father?"
He had addressed Keeper Murray, but Father Lachlan spoke up hastily.
"Of course. I brought a book of poems by Wilkin MacRobb."
Meg produced a small brooch. Hamish hesitated and then pulled out a tiny penknife in a leather sheath. Toby would have wagered real silver that it had been a going-away present from his mother, a hint to write often. As for Toby himself, he knew what he would offer. He met the inquiring glance blandly and shrugged.
Rory stood up. "I suggest you be our spokesman, Father Lachlan. The rest of you—stay silent unless you are addressed directly."
So spirits, unlike hobs, spoke to people?
The little acolyte seemed ominously worried, fiddling constantly with his spectacles. "Father Murray and I were discussing... We do not plan... Even if the spirit does determine that Tobias is possessed... as you know, I do not expect that... but we do not intend to ask for an exorcism, unless the spirit offers one." His smile at Toby might have been intended as reassurance but wasn't.
The implication was that a country doctor might be allowed to diagnose Toby's sickness, but treatment would require the services of a skilled surgeon in a city. Suppose the spirit decided to try its hand anyway? Did an adolescent elemental yearn to be a big, grown-up tutelary?
Rory gestured to the keeper. "Lead on, then."
Father Lachlan said, "Wait!" He wrung his hands. "Tobias, I must warn you that you may be going into danger. A spirit is not like a wisp. The wisp can be mischievous or spiteful; it cares only for its own whims. The spirit knows the difference between good and evil. It is benevolent. It means well. It looks after the glen and cares for its people. That is the problem! If it detects evil in you, then it may... It may take drastic action."
Toby felt all his muscles knot up. His fears were not groundless. He heard his voice come out very harsh: "It may protect you by killing me, you mean?" Unclean!
The dumpy little man nodded unhappily. "I do not expect this, my son, but you should know that the possibility exists. If you do not wish to enter the shrine, then we shall understand."
One morning, years ago, a little orphan bastard had called in at the tanner's shop in Tyndrum on an errand for old Mara Ford. Kenneth Campbell had been very drunk. He kept the boy there for hours, babbling about Leethoul, the Battle of the Century, how he had taken a musket ball through his leg, and how he had almost bled to death before he was brought to the surgeons. In the next few days the leg had turned black and begun to rot. Horrified, disgusted, fascinated, the boy had stayed to listen.
"They made me decide!" the tanner said, between his incoherent mumbles. "They said if they left it on, it would poison me, and I would die. They said I had lost so much blood already that if they cut it off I would probably die anyway. Then they asked me what I wanted them to do. They had a great butcher's saw there, and men standing around waiting to hold me down. Can't go near Rae's shop without seeing the saws and thinking of that day."
"And you told them to cut it off?" the boy asked, horrified.
"I did. I told them I couldn't stand the smell of it. And it still hurts! It isn't there, but I feel its ghost, and it hurts, hurts all the time..."
Now the boy was a man and it was his turn to make a decision.
Everyone was waiting. Meg and Hamish were aghast; even Rory was frowning. Murray Campbell's face was a granite outcrop.
"If I am possessed," Toby said, "then isn't a quick death the best thing I can hope for?"
Father Lachlan blinked over his spectacles. "Well, unless the demon can be removed..."
"Would it let itself be exorcised? Would it let me approach a sanctuary? I think I can walk into that cave—let me go and ask the spirit!"
"Very well, my son," the acolyte murmured, nodding to the keeper.
The keeper limped forward without a word and the others followed in single file into darkness.
Toby waited until the end, but Rory waved him ahead, bringing up the rear.
He might be going to his death. He might never walk out of this hole.
Why? Why was he doing this? Was it courage? He did not feel very brave. Or was it cowardice? Was he craven like Kenneth Tanner, who had chosen mutilation over the chance to remain a whole man? Was he just afraid to live with uncertainty, desperate for superhuman reassurance that he was only mortal?
This would be his third trial in three days. The Laird of Fillan had tried him for the murder of Godwin Forrester and found him guilty. The elders of the village had tried him for the murder of Granny Nan and acquitted him. Now an immortal would try him for the crime of being possessed.
The still air felt warmer than the wind outside. It had a dead, stony odor, but the absence of rain was a real joy. Someone, at some time, had leveled a path, which wound to and fro like a snake, gently descending into the hill. A rail had been spiked to the wall to guide supplicants; the wood was worn to silky smoothness by the rubbing of countless fingers. He could see nothing ahead except Meg's cap, which was a paler shade than her plaid. He could hear only a faint shuffle of feet and rustle of cloth. There was no echo at all. He sensed that the roof was rising and the tunnel spreading, and he decided that the walls he felt nearby were probably only fallen boulders.
He wondered how safe the roof was, and whether the spirit ever dropped rocks on unwelcome visitors.
Then the others were stopping, edging into a line abreast, silhouetted against a faint glimmer of light ahead. The path had widened into a smooth floor. He stood with Meg on his left and Rory on his right. Taking their cue from the adepts, they all knelt. The rock was flat as ice on a bucket.
His eyes adjusted with maddening slowness. The cavern was huge—far larger than he had expected. He began to make out marble columns and carvings, a strange white stonescape of incredible beauty. Curtains of ice draped the walls. Pointed pillars hung from the roof, masking the source of light, which must be a shaft leading eventually through to daylight. Other columns rose from the floor, except that there was no real floor. He was suspended halfway up the side of the chamber. Overhead hung the toothed ceiling, but downward the chamber was equally rugged, with great white fangs fringing a funnel-shaped pit, from whose heart poured even more light than came from above. It was like nothing he had ever seen or imagined. The spirit must have worked for centuries to make this unearthly abode for itself.
Somewhere water was dripping.
Meg's hand found his, tiny in his grasp. Her fingers were shaking. He squeezed to convey a comfort he did not feel.
The shelf was completely flat and level. It ran all around the cavern, sometimes wide, sometimes very narrow. It was incredibly thin—how could anything so frail even support its own weight, let alone the weight of the worshipers kneeling on it?
Water dripped irregularly: Plop... plip, plop... plop... plip, plip, plop... plop...
Suddenly the lower half of the chamber rippled in spreading circles and Toby's head swam with vertigo. He was looking at a pool, a small lake—kneeling on a shore, not a shelf. Crystal-clear water lay exactly level with it, reflecting the roof. The light from below was the light from the chimney above, bent back by the mirror.
"Great Spirit of Shira!" cried Murray's raucous voice. "I bring you supplicants, who come in reverence and good will!" He was at the far end of the line. He had drawn a flap of his plaid over his head to conceal his face. The cavern swallowed his voice without a hint of echo.
"Hear our prayers, Spirit!"
There it was. At the far side of the lake, just over the water—a shimmer. It was a mist, a shower of faint sparkles, a hint of smoke, but not unlike the hob at Lightning Rock. Toby's skin broke out in sweat and goosepimples.
"They bring you offerings!" the keeper screeched. "First, Lachlan of Glasgow, whom you know, a holy man!"
Father Lachlan tossed his book out into the pool
. It landed with a splash, sending circles floating outward, rippling the phantom reflections. For a moment it bobbed and floated, and then sank in silence.
But while the surface was disturbed, Toby saw through it. The pool was very shallow, paved everywhere with ancient offerings. He saw all sorts of things: shoes, tools, candlesticks, bowls and goblets, carved figures, little precious things that worshipers had been able to bring with them and dedicate to the presiding spirit. Now they were all white stone. For centuries the immortal must have accepted offerings and preserved them by turning them into white stone to match the rest of its shrine.
The water stilled, the shiny surface again hiding the hoard beneath, but now the ghostly shimmer hovered over the place where Father Lachlan's book had submerged, as if the spirit was examining the sacrifice.
"Hamish Campbell of Fillan, a distant kinsman of my own."
Hamish's penknife made a tiny plop, sinking instantly. The ghostly glimmer of the spirit moved to inspect it. Toby could only just detect it, and he wondered if anyone else had noticed it at all. Meg did not seem to be looking in that direction.
He leaned forward a little. Staring almost straight down, he could see the bottom through the illusion of space. He made out a baby's shoe of pure white marble. What story could that tell?
"Meg Campbell of Fillan."
Meg tossed her brooch only a little way and the glimmer drifted closer.
"Tobias Strangerson of Fillan."
Now! Toby reached up and dragged the straps over his head. He took the great sword in both hands... and froze.
This is right! I must be rid of this thing before it perverts me utterly and I wreak devastation with it.
But it had been a gift... it would not be right to throw away a gift. If he was possessed, then throwing it away would solve nothing. One sword would do as well as another.
He hugged the blade and its clumsy wooden scabbard to his chest, unwilling to part with it, unable to make the effort.
This is a massacre sword. My arms and strength could do infinite damage with a blade like this. Give the terrible thing to the shrine, and it will never kill anyone again.
If he was only human, then the sword was meaningless. If he was a demon, then he could easily find another. Throwing it away would be a foolish gesture, perhaps even a deception. That might even make him relax his guard, thinking he had disposed of the problem when it was really still there. His fascination with the crude broadsword was a constant warning, and he would be safer keeping it by him as a reminder...
Plop... plip, plop... plop, plip...
Do it now! Quickly!
He raised it overhead with both hands.
Plop, plop, plop...
Sweat trickled down his face. The others must all be watching in bewilderment. How long could he hold that weight up there?
Hours, probably. The spirit... He thought it was watching him, and such delusions were the toes of madness.
Help me, please!
He heard no answer but he knew what the answer must be: Help yourself!
He swayed back to throw and again his muscles locked.
If I do not do this thing now, then I am damned!
So go ahead and be damned! Start by chopping off Rory's head. Then run Meg through and... Ugh! Demon sword!
He jerked forward, hurling the monster from him like a deadly snake. A spasm of pain almost pitched him face-first into the pool. Done it!
The sword spun across the lake, struck the rock wall on the far side, and seemed to fly apart as the scabbard broke open. Water flew up, splashing over the stone draperies and cornices. Tiny waves rushed out, lapping over the edges of the platform. Two narrow planks of wood floated, but the blade had gone.
The spirit stayed where it was, a misty glimmer hovering above the surface a few feet away from him.
"And one already known to you!" Murray cried.
Rory tossed something into the pool without taking his eyes off Toby. There was not enough light to reveal his expression.
"Accept these, their humble tokens!" the keeper brayed. "Guide them in goodness. Holy Shira, hear their prayer!"
The shimmer drifted toward him.
"Most Holy Spirit," Father Lachlan squeaked, an octave higher. "We thank you for rescuing us last night from the evil that pursued us. We thank you for giving us sanctuary here. We come seeking guidance. There is one among us who is grievously troubled."
The cave fell silent. Then:
"Lachlan, Lachlan!" said a new voice. "Why does a man of peace consort with men of violence?"
It could have been the voice of a woman, or an adolescent boy. It was soft, tuneful, appealing. It came from Father Murray, but it was emphatically not his voice. He knelt very still, head bowed, face concealed. He was enveloped in the shimmer of the immortal.
Father Lachlan grunted, and took a moment to frame his reply. "They are not evil men, Holy Shira—no more evil than others. They would gladly go home to their wives and children and be at peace, if only their enemies would do the same."
"We see," said the spirit, through the keeper. "And how do their enemies feel?"
"I think they feel the same."
"Tell us, then, why do they not do this?"
"If the English will go away to their homes, then the war will end. If the rebels go to theirs first, then the English will kill them."
"So why do the English remain here?" asked the haunting, insinuating, inhuman whisper. It might be genuinely seeking knowledge on a tricky ethical problem, or it might be trying to make Father Lachlan admit that he was supporting an evil cause—Toby could not tell.
He did not care overmuch. He had won a victory of some sort. His heart ached for that splendid giant sword, but he was jubilant at having found the strength to discard it—he was not damned yet! But why had it been such an effort? What had the others thought? What had Meg thought?
Then he realized that Father Lachlan's ordeal had ended and the conversation had turned to him.
"Let him speak for himself," said whatever spoke through Murray's mouth. "Ask us what you would know, Tobias."
"Am I possessed by a demon?"
"You are in great danger. Two dangers. The hexer and her demon host await you. She will not trespass here in search of you, but we cannot defend you at any great distance—and would not, anyway. You must go forth and face her."
So spirits were capable of evading issues? It had not answered the question.
"Will you tell me what she wants of me?"
"Your body and your soul."
No evasion there! He almost wished he had not asked. Before he could frame another question, the spirit put one of its own, in its calm, delicate voice:
"Why did you throw away the sword?"
"I could not stand the smell of it." Then Toby realized that Meg might recognize her father's words. She must have heard that story a thousand times. Too late to call them back... "Is it a demon sword?"
"No more than any other sword," the spirit whispered. "Because you gave it to us, Tobias, and because we know what that giving cost you, we shall give you in return what hope we can. We do not fully understand the ethics of the burden you bear, so we shall leave it to others vaster in wisdom. If you can thwart the hexer, which will not be easy, then your troubles will be only starting. We see no great evil in you—not yet—but the possibility is there. So is the possibility of greatness. You are a gathering storm, and we cannot tell where or how you will strike. Be resolute and true to yourself and go with our blessing."
After a moment of silence, Toby realized that the spirit had departed.
"Advise us," Father Lachlan cried, "how best we may escape the woman and her unholy minions."
There was no answer, of course. Toby began to rise. Rory grabbed his shoulder to stop him.
Toby rose anyway. "It's gone."
"You could see it?"
"Yes. Let's get out of here!" He had learned nothing of any use. He had thrown away a valuable sword to no purpos
e.
"It is customary to wait for the keeper," Rory snapped. "He needs to recover..."
Murray stirred and raised his head. "What did you hear?" he mumbled in his normal coarse voice.
"Nothing much!" Toby reached down and lifted Meg bodily, setting her on her feet. "Let's go!"
"Take your hands off me!"
"Fine!" he said. "I'll wait outside." He turned and marched up the tunnel.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The rain seemed less and the day brighter, but that might just be after the dark of the cave. Toby was staring out at the rain and the narrow glen when the others came blinking into the daylight. They regarded him warily, as well they might. Gathering storm...! Twaddle!
"I wish the spirit had advised us how best to proceed," Father Lachlan fussed. "But the fact that it did not shows that it has faith in our judgment."
"Or it doesn't know!" Toby growled.
"What?" The old man blinked, peering up over his glasses.
The spirit was frightened of Valda and had not answered Toby's questions because it had no answers. But to say so would just get him accused of blasphemy. Hamish had Cynic! written in his eyes.
"I promised I'd get Meg to Oban. Which way from here?"
Rory shrugged disdainfully. "Back the way we came yesterday and through Pass of Brander. The Sassenachs will still be there, I expect. Or you can go down the glen, but that takes you in the wrong direction, and you will have to get past Inverary. In case you don't know, that's the seat of the earl of Argyll, a traitor who never misses a chance to lick the Sassenachs' boots. You will be stopped and questioned."
Trapped!
"North it is, then," Toby said. "We'll try Pass of Brander at night. Come along, Meg." He stepped out into the rain and was alone. He turned.
She was standing very close to Rory with her chin up. "And suppose I don't want to come?"
What had made her so mad all of a sudden?
"Then I'll put you over my shoulder and carry you!" Couldn't they see? He had a hexer and four demons to worry about. The spirit had as good as told him he had to go and fight them. He could not keep running away. He must stop and fight—and he had no idea how to begin.