The House of Mountfathom

by Nigel McDowell

  ‘Into what?’ asks his mother.

  ‘I do not know,’ says Luke. ‘I didn’t see it all – just that they were all being shrunk. Their bodies looked to be transforming, growing dark – turning to earth.’

  Lady Mountfathom looks to Lady Vane-Tempest.

  ‘It is true,’ says Flann Dorrick, returning, with a shiver, to human form. ‘I saw it also. It looked to me like a Spell of Humiliation – though I confess I have never seen anything so merciless.’

  Lady Vane-Tempest grabs Dorrick by the lapels and shouts at him, ‘Did you know about this pact between Fortflay and the Politomancer? You work in the Castle – it cannot have escaped your attention!’

  ‘I didn’t know of this!’ says Dorrick.

  ‘Well, you should have done!’ shouts Lady Vane-Tempest. ‘You should have kept your ears open!’

  But Luke feels some sympathy for Dorrick (would feel sympathy for anybody being confronted by Helena Vane-Tempest), though feels a cold disappointment as Flann Dorrick says, ‘There were rumours – but there are always rumours of deals for more powers with Whitehall. I did not think it true! I did not think it would come to this.’

  ‘None of us would have,’ says Lady Mountfathom calmly. Her words loosen some of the anger of Lady Vane-Tempest – she releases Dorrick. ‘It is not your fault, Flann. We did not know how far the Major would go to retain control of matters in Ireland.’

  ‘But now you are enlightened.’

  All turn – Major Fortflay, a dozen Gards with rifles grouped around him.

  He says, ‘Magic can solve some problems, I will own to that.’

  ‘Not Magic of this kind,’ says Lady-Vane-Tempest, and Luke notices that her hand is hovering close to her Needle. Notices the same action elsewhere – his mother and Flann Dorrick also ready to act if they need to. ‘It is a clear violation of the second Bill of Cooperation! You cannot allow such Magic into Ireland without consulting with the Driochta. I shall see to it that –’

  ‘Listen,’ says Luke. Beneath his feet a tremor, some small shiver.

  ‘What on this good earth – ?’ starts Dorrick.

  Lady Mountfathom shouts, ‘Run!’

  And the ground around the Quicken Tree drops: earth falling-folding into earth as Luke and his mother and Lady Vane-Tempest and Flann Dorrick flee.

  ‘Fire!’

  Rifles raised as the Gards start to shoot into the ground.

  Luke is forced down by his mother but turns and sees now the results of the Politomancer’s Magic.

  Boreen Men fighting their way free from the ground like rabbits flushed from a warren, but scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding ground: their bodies small and enclosed in earth, eyes the only slips of humanity left and mouths wide and pink and screaming with anger and agony as they are gunned down by the Gards.

  ‘We have to do something,’ says Luke, and fights to his feet and lifts a hand, preparing to Work whatever Spell to stop the Fortflay and his Gards but –

  ‘No,’ says his mother. She grabs his wrist and holds it tight. ‘No, we must not act! We must force ourselves to do nothing!’

  Luke faces his mother. Sees tears in her eyes as she tells him, ‘We cannot interfere with this.’

  He turns to Lady Vane-Tempest – surely she will do something? Or even Flann Dorrick? But both remain, hands loose at their sides, faces almost impassive.

  ‘These men are fighting for their rights,’ says Luke. ‘We should help them. Is that not the job of the Driochta?’

  No one answers. No one acts.

  Luke turns last of all to Major Fortflay – sees in his face no compassion, only a sense of cold duty. And Luke understands. We cannot act. If we do, then Fortflay and the Castle will see us as enemies.

  ‘Back into the Rath! Back below, lads!’

  Luke is sure this is the voice of Malone commanding his men into retreat – sees some of the surviving Boreen Men making an escape back into the shattered ground. Is certain he recognises one set of blue eyes; meets them and feels their hurt and horror before Malone vanishes back underground. Humiliated, broken – Luke understands this now.

  Fourth Principle of Magic – Of Utterance & The Potent Word

  ‘Listen, and let me tell you a story …’

  In the nights following, Luke sees the Boreen Men – dreams them. Relives in vivid nightmares the moments below ground, wakes in The Amazon drenched in sweat. He leaves his four-poster and crosses the floor and slips behind the curtains to sit on the deep sill and look out over the silent grounds of Mountfathom.

  He is sleepless much of the time now – cannot stop his brain whirring with worry. So much shifting in the country, and Luke feels unable to understand it.

  Morrigan leaps onto the windowsill. The cat gives him a (rare) consoling look.

  And then the headlines.

  FURTHER MAGIC NEEDED TO QUELL REBELLION:

  BOREEN MEN KILL THIRTY GARDS IN

  BLOODY BATTLE NEAR DRAGON COAST!

  ‘Liars,’ says Luke. Disappointed more than angered: saddened more than riled by what he reads in the papers. ‘Not a single Gard was killed – that is patently untrue.’

  It is a Thursday, and Mr Gorebooth is happy to let the lesson digress into other territories.

  ‘The Enquirer needs to toe the line, as they say. Needs to print what the Castle and Major Fortflay needs it to print.’

  ‘How can the people at that newspaper live with themselves?’ asks Luke.

  ‘I do not know,’ says Mr Gorebooth. ‘Though this is one of the many reasons why poetry is preferable to the writings of the press.’

  Fire of rebellion in the following year – each day the newspapers reporting on gun battles in bogland, skirmishes between Gards and rebels that destroy homes and leave bodies drifting in dark waters. And the Castle in Dublin struggles to contain what refuses to be contained – may as well try to capture shadows.

  The Driochta have scarcely been more active.

  Luke joins his mother and father on missions of a more ambassadorial nature: to the Aran Islands to meet with the Faithful, an attempt to forge some new civil agreement with the monks there; then on to the monks of Skellig, the so-called First Believers, in the hope of kindling some new cooperation. Both sects on both islands are disquieted by the business with the Boreen Men, and express their wish to be kept informed of any further Magical interference by the Politomancer at Whitehall. They make a sombre vow to let the Driochta know if they hear of any troubling plans by the Castle.

  Will they tell us? asks Luke, as he moves through the Gloaming with his mother and father. Are they on our side?

  It is not helpful to try to split matters in that way, says Lady Mountfathom.

  True, says Lord Mountfathom. There are no such things as sides any longer.

  And as though to mark the arrival of his fourteenth birthday, a realisation arrives too with Luke: We are not simply working with the Government in Dublin Castle any more – the Driochta needs to work to look after itself.

  And it is now, so suddenly, that Luke becomes ill.

  Happens too quick.

  First day – Everyone knows there is something wrong with Luke before he knows himself; he sleeps late. This is the first odd thing, so unlike him. When Nanny Bogram finds him still in bed at eight o’clock and asks him why he isn’t up and about, he tells her he is tired and needs more sleep. When she brings him his breakfast tray an hour later he cannot eat it – again pleads for sleep, some quiet and more rest. Morrigan lies across his chest and purrs deeply.

  Second day – Sudden rise of fever, a continual cough, wild sweats …

  Third day – Will hardly wake; is gabbling about Spells he needs to learn and how the walls of The Amazon are withering and the Boreen Men need to be rescued and returned to their families and he needs to be the one to do it or Mountfathom itself will crumble to dust …

  ‘Can we do nothing?’ Nanny Bogram asks Lord Mountfathom. She will not leave Luke’s bedside. ‘No Magic to he
lp him?’

  Lord Mountfathom says, ‘There are Spells, of a sort, that can ease pain. Of Inertia and Dreamless Slumber, of Soothing and Consolation.’

  Lady Mountfathom says, ‘But they will only ease things, not cure. They are Spells for the mind, and this illness is a matter of the body.’

  ‘We have to do something!’ cries the nanny. And she holds the child’s hand tight and vows not to let him go.

  Fourth day – The Traces arrive in The Amazon. Nanny Bogram would ordinarily be keen to shoo them but she lets them be. Is comforted to some degree by the sight of them – faintest figures, like pale fingerprints on a dark pane. And their mutterings too somehow soothe her –

  ‘Such a thing to happen – let him defy this illness!’

  ‘He has such things ahead of him …’

  ‘Such a special child …’

  ‘Such a one …’

  ‘Let him find his way back from the dark.’

  And all the while, the House of Mountfathom itself is grieving – any lantern that is lit keeps a low light; candles stutter and weep; any fire begun in a grate soon shrinks and dies; Errander boys and maids cannot speak their prayers; any small Spell Worked by Lord and Lady Mountfathom will not take; food is spoiled and milk curdles in the can and cold creeps into every room, windows shivering in their frames and doors trembling when shut and boards groaning underfoot. As though the entire House is in such agony.

  And now at night, Luke begins to scream.

  Fifth day – The Driochta assemble in The World.

  Sombre gathering. Mr Jack Gorebooth describes it, ‘As though some precious light is leaving the place. As though some key and enduring Spell is beginning to fade!’

  Flann Dorrick agrees. ‘Yes – so true.’

  Lady Vane-Tempest tells him, ‘Let us not aggrandise this illness with such poetry, fancy words.’

  Mr Halter: ‘Perhaps words are what we need?’

  Mrs Halter: ‘Perhaps such words can be put to use?’

  Lawrence Devine: ‘He is fond of the words, the boy – fond of stories. Maybe too much! I remember when he used to be out getting mucky all day – collecting bones and dead animals.’

  There is a stretch of silence.

  There is much time without speech before Lord Mountfathom says, ‘What makes any illness thrive is silence – we must find a way to fight back.’

  Lady Mountfathom says, ‘Our son loves his stories. So perhaps there is some answer there. Perhaps with words we can lead him back into the light?’

  Later, a Spell seeps beneath the door of The Amazon – a mere thread that snakes its way across the floor, arriving with Mrs Bogram. She is snoring in a rocking chair, a small Bible in her hands. The Traces arranged by the bedside see the Spell, and respectfully withdraw to the shadows.

  The thread of Spell slowly encircles and eases the Nanny from her chair, lifting her to rise towards the ceiling, to enclose Bogram in a complete, dreamless, undisturbed sleep. And when this Spell of Inertia has done its silent work, the door of The Amazon opens.

  ‘Well cast, my love,’ Lord Mountfathom tells his wife. ‘As always.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ says Lady Mountfathom.

  ‘Jack?’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘Are you ready?’

  Jack Gorebooth says, with a slight shake in his words, ‘Yes, I am ready.’

  He steps into The Amazon and the door eases shut behind him. The room is almost dark, a lantern by the bed holding a humble flame. And such dampness in the air, such a heady sourness – an atmosphere that can only be attributed to sickness.

  Morrigan stands on the bed: bristles with back arched, tail straight.

  ‘Who’s there?’ cries Luke. ‘Malone? Is that you?’

  ‘Do not fret,’ says Gorebooth, crossing the floor in small, near-silent steps. Morrigan settles – lies down and curls herself tight on the counterpane. ‘It is only myself – Mr Gorebooth. The poet, you remember?’

  ‘Owl,’ says Luke. Sighs and says once more, ‘An owl.’

  ‘That is quite correct,’ says Gorebooth. ‘My animal form when I choose to Mogrify is an eagle owl.’ He lowers himself into the rocking chair where Nanny Bogram had been keeping her vigil – glances up to see her drifting so serene, just below the chandelier.

  And when all things feel right, Mr Gorebooth begins to talk to Luke.

  ‘Do you know what the next Principle of Magic is? The Fourth?’

  ‘Utterance,’ says Luke. A struggle to swallow – coughs and winces, one limp hand crawling to his chest and throat and settling there. ‘And the Potent Word.’

  ‘That is quite correct. And in my humble opinion, there is no more important a Principle than this Fourth.’

  Luke coughs and coughs, for such an extended time Mr Gorebooth feels as though it may never stop. Or perhaps stop suddenly, horribly. He takes Luke’s hand and holds it between his own and says low, ‘Listen to me now: let words weave their own Spell. Listen, and let me tell you a story …

  ‘In the county of Fermanagh – which, being such a learned boy, I am sure you know is the most Magical of all counties in Ireland – there once lived a Magician of great intelligence and power. He lived alone in the shadow of the Forlorn Mountain, in a cottage of stacked limestone. And, as I say, he was a most intelligent man – wrote long and erudite pieces that were published in many a Magical journal.’

  Luke groans – struggles to half-turn away and Mr Gorebooth knows he needs to shift his story, to find some detail to hold the boy’s attention.

  ‘He was a most creative man – invented many things, but his most infamous invention was a Skeleton Key that he fashioned from the bone of a Lough Gyant, and which allowed him to open any door and to step into the Gloaming.’

  Luke settles. His eyelids part a little – he is watching now, he is listening. He is waiting. And so Jack Gorebooth goes on.

  ‘These journeys into the Gloaming allowed the Magician of Fermanagh not only to travel anywhere he wished in the material world, but also to more numinous places: he was able to visit or revisit any part of his own life. So, he could choose to return to his boyhood to set eyes on his long-dead parents. Or to see his future wife, long deceased – to witness once more their very first meeting. But yet more of a wonder, the Magician had taught himself to travel so far from his own present self that he could travel into the future years of his life, meet himself as an old man … It allowed him to feel as though, perhaps, nothing in this world could truly be said to die. For if he could return to it – could see again his wife or parents – did that not mean that they lived still somewhere? Somehow endured?

  ‘But for all these wonders and achievements, the Magician of Fermanagh was a solitary and isolated man. The locals in the surrounding countryside had little care for him. They thought him unsociable and rude. Though the reality (as is often the case) was very different – in fact, this Magician spent a great deal of time interacting with the people of Fermanagh, though not directly. For example, he had a rod of ivory and gold he had been gifted on his travels in the East, which acted something like a Needle. Being able to exert some command over the elements, he used this Needle of ivory to Conduct the weather – to Summon showers when the crops were crying out for rain, or to part the clouds and allow warm sun when that was what the people of the county desired. Or to drive back dark waters when rivers burst their banks. Any number of acts small and large he undertook to benefit the lives of these strangers who so derided him.’

  Jack Gorebooth pauses, plotting his next move. Luke squeezes his hand and whispers, ‘Go on, Mr Gorebooth. Please.’

  ‘Well,’ says Gorebooth, ‘the years passed in such a way – the Magician Working his thankless Spells and fashioning more and more intricate inventions from Faerie branches and lough water and fallen stars. And making his frequent excursions into the Gloaming, which was where he felt most contented – amongst the past, amongst those he had loved so dearly and lost. But this was not to continue. One cold morning, very sud
denly, something changed. The solitary Magician of Fermanagh realised that he was not only alone, but unbearably lonely. He asked himself, “What is the point of a life if so much of it is lived in the past? What is the point of Spells Worked without care or appreciation?” For ten years, since the passing of his wife, he had been bereft on the mountainside beneath his stack of limestone. But no more, he vowed. The Magician decided that it was time for things to change.

  ‘So, on this fateful morning, he stepped out onto the slope of the Forlorn Mountain and from the ground conjured a group of thirty-two Messengers.’

  ‘What form did they take?’ asked Luke.

  ‘Why, they took the form of Peak Gyants. All thirty-two of them were thirty-two feet tall! Now, the Magician thought long about what words he wished to impart to the Messengers – this would be the message they would carry across Ireland, and he was a man who prided himself on the precision of his words and so wanted it to be worded perfectly. And after much thought and deliberation, this is what he simply told his Gyant Messengers: “If there is any on this island who through words can help an old man mend his broken heart, then send them here and I shall hear what they have to say.” And so the Magician of Fermanagh sent forth his group of thirty-two thirty-two-foot tall Messengers to each of the counties of Ireland, in search of someone who might cure him of his isolation and grief.

  ‘Now, you shall not be surprised to hear that such phenomena does not go unnoticed. Messengers as tall as Peak Gyants moving across Ireland? People were both frightened and deeply fascinated. The matter was discussed in all counties – in pubs and fields, bogland and townland – and, eventually, in the Castle itself in Dublin. And I am rather ashamed to say (human nature being as it is), many people began to wonder at how the plight of the lonely Magician of Fermanagh might profit them.’

  ‘Did anyone go to see him?’ asked Luke. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Nothing less than hundreds upon hundreds descended on Fermanagh! The roads of the county were packed with people coming from all over, and the locals of Fermanagh were not best pleased. They cursed the Magician for bringing such disruption to their lives when all they wished for was a bit of peace and quiet. So many came, and the Magician resolved that he would see each and every one of them. A long, long queue formed on the mountainside – snaking all the way through Florencecourt and the island town of Enniskillen and ending at the small doorway beneath the stack of limestone that was the Magician’s home. And he invited each person in and gave each person precisely one minute to tell him of how to cure his loneliness and heartache. And the stories they came out with! Some told him he needed to invest in their farms and he would surely feel the benefit of having helped someone less well off than himself. Some said he needed to Work Magic on them to make them finer of voice and more pleasing to the eye, and surely the joy that would bring would make his heart lighter. Or (said a man from the Castle in Dublin who had attempted disguise) he should concentrate on offering his services to the country at large and Work widespread Spells of Reclamation to bind the land more firmly to the Big Houses!