The House of Mountfathom

by Nigel McDowell

  ‘What happened?’ asks Killian.

  ‘Was taken away from me,’ says Gassin, and for the first time sounds a touch agitated. ‘And now where’s all that knowledge? I’ll tell you where – all stolen. Hoarded and stuffed into places where no one except the well-off can get to it.’

  ‘Places like where we’re heading?’ asks Killian.

  ‘Exactly right.’ He downs the last dregs of his pint and stands. ‘And pretty soon, they won’t know what hit them.’

  LUKE

  He hasn’t slept at all. Instead he stands by the lagoon in the blue hour before dawn. A delicate web of mist has laid itself over the water, the surface beneath crowded with fallen leaves. Boughs around him naked and grey. Autumn has arrived too early; so many things already fading, failing. Luke could weave a Spell of Restoration – it is not so difficult to return a leaf to a tree, to reattach and restore its green. But what is the use? Things could be Restored, but only to lose their colour and detach and once more fall. All Magic is temporary, thinks Luke. All Spells can be undone. The failing of Goreland Hall proves that; even if he had managed the Reclamation it wouldn’t have lasted. And it this lack of permanency that is vexing him – why bother with anything, if all of it ends up ending?

  Suddenly, a summons –

  ‘Here! I’m under here!’

  A whisper from where? Luke turns to the patch of wild and wilting rhubarb.

  Whisper tells him, ‘Underneath!’

  He crouches and beneath spies his cousin Rose. She is smiling. ‘Want to play Secret-and-Secluded?’ she asks, and creeps off further into shadow. On all fours Luke follows – crawls and crawls until he rediscovers both his cousin and the same space where they hid at the beginning of the summer. Rose has a face of such excitement. As though she’s uncovered buried treasure – the pleasure of returning to a certain place, to a certain memory.

  She asks Luke, ‘Did you know that if you listen terribly hard you can actually hear rhubarb growing?’

  ‘Is that right?’ says Luke, sharing her smile.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Rose. ‘That’s what they say.’

  They sit close beside one another and pull their legs to their chests.

  ‘Aunt Edith and Uncle William have left?’ asks Rose.

  Luke nods. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Gone with the Driochta on some mission.’

  ‘Busy time for you here,’ says Rose.

  Luke says nothing. Knows his father has entrusted the care of the house to him, in the meantime; but thinks only how he wishes he could be with them. Closes his eyes and decides he better ask, ‘How is Uncle Walter?’

  ‘He’ll live,’ snaps Rose. Seems to become aware of her tone so adds, ‘Sorry, but he’s always complaining. Says he can’t wait to leave here. We’re going this afternoon. Doesn’t realise that he’s likely to be better off at Mountfathom than anywhere else.’

  Luke has an urge to say, I am not so certain about that.

  ‘We’re going to England,’ says Rose. ‘Probably to London. Ruth and Rory went to stay with our Aunt Dolores there a few months ago. And Roger is at Cambridge so we’ll be closer to him too.’

  A moment, and Luke lies: ‘I’m happy for you. You’ll all be together.’

  Rose makes a sound like a scoff.

  Luke opens his eyes.

  She says, ‘Roger always told me you were too nice for your own good. He said you’d rather be nice than say the truth sometimes.’

  Luke can find no reply.

  ‘But Roger was always a prat,’ says Rose. ‘I think you always just said the thing people needed to hear.’

  And rain starts.

  ‘Just like before,’ says Rose. ‘Same as it used to be, me and you playing a game. Remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ Luke says. He closes his eyes once more. ‘Yes – just like before.’

  KILLIAN

  By now the sun is skulking behind purple hills, and the barge slips out into open water – a wide grey lough with an ornamental island in its middle.

  ‘Not far now,’ the man with faded hair says. Shouts to the two lads, ‘Turn a bit more south.’

  The barge begins to lean towards a broken, stony shore.

  Killian fills time with as many more questions as he can.

  ‘But why bother bringing me? I know nothing about Magic or Spells.’

  ‘Because you have certain other talents,’ says Mr Gassin. ‘And as I said, if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is seeing good talent go to waste.’

  Killian knows enough about himself not to feel flattered – knows he can slip silent into many a place and steal and escape and not be seen, so doesn’t need some fella to tell him so. He starts to wonder now, What can I get out of this?

  ‘How much of a cut for me?’ he asks.

  ‘A boy who knows what he wants!’ says Mr Gassin. ‘I like that.’

  ‘No stalling – how much?’ asks Killian.

  ‘Half,’ says the man.

  Instinct makes Killian say, ‘Not enough. I want three-quarters of whatever you make from selling the stuff we steal.’

  ‘Look now,’ says the man, trying to sound mild. ‘I have two other lads here hardly older than you and they’ll need paying.’

  ‘From what you’ve said,’ Killian tells him, ‘they aren’t going to be the ones climbing through windows and unlocking doors and all. That’ll be me. That means danger and that means more money. So – three-quarters.’

  He sticks out his hand.

  Mr Gassin rubs a hand over his face.

  ‘You drive a hard enough bargain,’ he says.

  ‘I do indeed,’ says Killian. ‘Hard but fair.’

  They shake on it.

  ‘I’ve not much interest in money anyway,’ says Mr Gassin. And he is smiling to himself once more. ‘There’s more precious things to be had in this place than gold and silver. There’s things in there that could unlock a whole new future for you and me, just you wait and see.’

  LUKE

  ‘Now,’ he says, ‘let us see.’

  Near midnight but still Luke is sleepless – sits at the desk with Morrigan on his lap as the pair of them peer into a circle of spotted mirror, a lantern with a pick of flame beside.

  He thinks to himself, If I’m not allowed to go along with the Driochta, then maybe I can be some good here; perhaps I can prepare myself for what might be coming.

  Now Luke holds a pen high, its nib loaded with ink. Now shakes it a little and lets one solitary drop fall and as soon as it meets the mirror it plays – goes coil and split and shiver, like a child racing around a garden it makes nonsensical and gleeful shapes. Luke weaves a slow and intricate hand and slowly the ink settles, stills, makes for him a bold Impression in the form of a tall figure.

  Luke thinks, Is it Father? Mr Dorrick? Or some unknown other? Looks a little like Mr Findlater.

  ‘Trouble always is,’ he says to Morrigan, ‘it could be illustrative and not literal – merely indicative? What do you think, lazy cat?’

  Morrigan offers nothing but a slow blink of the eyes.

  Such an imprecise branch of Magic – doesn’t rely so much on learning or knowing of facts, so Luke doesn’t like it or trust it.

  Morrigan offers a small mewl of consolation or concern or (more likely) impatience. She sits up straight and stretches and Luke scratches her behind the ear and at the same time his fingers flick through Reflections on Mirror-Predicting. He is no further than Chapter Two: The Poetry of Patterns: the page is populated by lines of print so minute Luke brings the lantern closer and as he does so the word Dismissal leaps out at him again and again. So he sweeps a decisive hand over the mirror and starts again – ink flees to the fringes of the mirror where it trembles in fat globs. Morrigan extends an exploratory paw to the ink, tries to leap onto the desk and Luke has to drag her back.

  ‘One more time,’ says Luke, ‘then sleep.’

  Now the word Recall, and a helpful diagram of the needed gesture – another slow sweep of the hand brings ink r
acing back into the centre of the mirror.

  ‘And now what can we see?’

  Only this same tall figure, though now joined by someone smaller – a boy? Must be. The ink settles, relaxes, losing its slight shiver as if to tell Luke, Yes. Very good. And what else …?

  A mumble-whisper comes from one of the Traces.

  ‘Magic cannot cure all ills – makes one infinitely short sighted. Should always be on the sharp lookout for low-flying Ash-Dragons and the terminal risk of dry-rot!’

  Must be a dozen or more Traces tucked tight under Luke’s desk. They’ve taken lately to following him – spending increasing time under his bed or in his wardrobe or beneath the firedogs. More and more they dislike any light – sun or lantern or tallow – and more and more gabble with such little sense. The same Trace says, ‘Careful! Spend so much time looking one way and from the other comes the threat! From the other comes the blade or the bludgeon or the stray bullet or –’

  ‘I hear,’ says Luke. ‘I’m listening to you. Don’t worry yourselves.’

  Like anxious children – more accurately, worrisome old men – the Traces are soothed into silence.

  But when Luke turns attention again to the mirror, the ink has left him a new Impression – the tall figure has shrunk and now there are two small forms. Two boys? Luke lets his fingers twitch, gently, over the mirror. He tries to tease out some more meaning. And a small slither of ink joins the two figures – like a pair of children holding hands.

  Morrigan lets out a small, mournful meow.

  Luke frames a question in his mind, and asks of the mirror, ‘Where will the threat come from? What will become of Mountfathom?’

  The ink does not answer, will not change its shape. And Luke can interpret nothing more from the Impression. Yet something about it makes him shiver.

  One of the Traces whispers, ‘You would do well to heed me: it is when we, the past keepers and custodians of this ancient House, decide to leave it that you will begin to worry. When the past has no place in the world, that is when things begin to burn.’

  KILLIAN

  On the shore, Mr Gassin gives Killian some stern advice.

  ‘Listen now, lad, you can’t just walk into this place like you would walk into anywhere else.’

  ‘I don’t need telling,’ says Killian. ‘I’m an expert at this, you said it yourself!’

  ‘You’ve never broken into somewhere like this. It has some rightly vicious Spells on it. Believe me – I know what goes on here. They’re secretive, these people. They keep themselves to themselves because they don’t want anyone coming in and sharing any of their treasures.’

  They are standing on the shore of small stones, in shadow beside a wall of sheer limestone. Killian sees no way ahead. ‘So how’re we gonna get in?’ he asks. ‘How do we get past all this Magic and these dangerous Spells?’

  The man with faded hair tells him, ‘We’ll get in because we’ve been invited.’

  From his jacket pocket he produces a folded sheet of paper and shakes it out. Killian cannot see what is written there but watches closely for what comes next. Mr Gassin lays a palm on the limestone, muttering to himself whatever words are on the page, and pushes … and slowly shadows mass and swarm around his hand, darkening and delving till they form a narrow opening. A sudden rush of cold lifts Killian’s hair.

  ‘Easy if you have the knowledge,’ says Mr Gassin. He weaves a hand in the air, startles Killian and the other two lads as the sheet of paper suddenly catches fire. Gassin holds it between fingertips until the page is almost consumed, and then casts it aside and steps into the tunnel.

  Killian looks at his red-headed comrades – no weapons, not even a bit of wood to defend themselves with. Older than him, but they look as though they’ve not seen much of the world, no wiles about them. Their eyes keep flicking back to the barge so Killian decides to tell them, ‘If anything goes skew-whiff, just run back here and head on. I know how to handle meself.’

  ‘We haven’t all night!’ Mr Gassin calls back to them. ‘Our invitation won’t last forever and this tunnel won’t stay open forever either!’

  ‘And I’ve a feeling,’ Killian tells the other two, ‘that this fella with his faded hair knows how to handle himself too.’

  All three step into the dark, and soon as they are over the threshold the limestone wall seals up behind their backs.

  LUKE

  He steps into the cool, stone passageway – sees no one, realises that anyone sensible is surely asleep. But he calls for her anyway. ‘Nanny Bogram?’

  A creak of bedsprings, quick footsteps across stone floor and a door halfway along the corridor opens and her face appears.

  ‘What you doing down here?’ Bogram asks. She’s in her nightdress and cap and is dragging on a dressing gown. She has a small Bible in her hand. ‘You should be asleep! What’s worrying you now?’ She is padding towards him, arms folded tight. ‘Not still fretting about the business at your uncle’s house?’

  Luke says nothing – can’t lie and can’t admit.

  Nanny Bogram settles one hand on his shoulder. ‘I know you don’t agree but your mother and father have put too much on you, and too soon. That’s what I think and I don’t mind saying it.’

  Luke doesn’t want to disagree. Instead asks, ‘Can I have a drink?’

  ‘Let me guess – some of my special hot chocolate?’ says Bogram. She sounds stern but Luke can see her starting to smile. He nods. ‘Alright!’ she says. ‘I’ll go find some. You stay here though! You shouldn’t be down here at all – catch your death!’

  She tucks her Bible into the pocket of her dressing gown and heads off down the passageway.

  He does as he’s told. Stands and inspects the row of brass bells with their enamel plaques – Berlin, The Amazon, Valhalla, The World, the Seasonal Room …

  ‘Young sir, what are you doing down here?’

  Mr Findlater now, appearing from another doorway and not dressed for sleep but still in his starched shirt and tails.

  ‘Getting a drink,’ says Luke. ‘Mrs Bogram is fetching it for me.’

  Does Findlater look a bit flustered? Does Mr Sunshine appear a bit strained at the sight of the young master and future Lord of Mountfathom below and not safe above in bed? He has such a strong notion of etiquette and decorum, Findlater, that Luke even admires the manservant sometimes; cannot imagine Mountfathom ever fading with someone like this so keen to keep things in order. And yet …

  Luke asks, ‘Are you not going to bed, Mr Findlater?’

  ‘No,’ replies the manservant. He sighs. ‘No, I was trying to prepare some things for your father, for his return. He wants brought out of the attics the oldest maps we have of Ireland – wants to see where the old Faerie Raths and Gyant Towers were situated.’

  ‘Did he say why?’ asks Luke.

  ‘No,’ says Findlater. ‘At least, not to me. Though I have no doubt he knows what he is doing.’

  ‘Yes,’ is all Luke says.

  ‘Well, I shall let you get your special drink and then I would advise bed,’ says Findlater, very quickly, and then returns to his room and shuts and locks the door.

  There is a minute more of waiting, and then, suddenly, the shatter of glass.

  ‘Nanny Bogram?’ calls Luke.

  No reply.

  He starts down the corridor – starts to run.

  KILLIAN

  Favourite old trick: fistful of something to smash with (shirttail this time), but he worries he might’ve made too much noise. He is remembering last time too clearly, in the shop – owner and owner’s wife and the gunshots. But he slips in anyway and lands on a cold, stone floor. Sees a large table and dark range and empty fireplace and an array of copper hanging from hooks on the ceiling.

  ‘Don’t stand about!’ Mr Gassin tells him.

  ‘Where now?’ asks Killian.

  They speak in fierce whispers through the broken window.

  ‘Go out and then left,’ says Gassin. ‘Along the pa
ssage then up the stone spiral stairs and they’ll bring you out in a hallway with loads of maps and oddball drawings on the walls. Go to the end of that, then down another hall with loads of stuffed animals, strange-looking things, and then across the entrance hall and open the front doors – the lads and me will meet you there. Then we head to the library.’

  Man with the faded hair nods to his two other boys and they hurry off.

  ‘Go on,’ says Mr Gassin. ‘I’ve got your back, don’t worry about that.’

  Killian takes some steps across the kitchen, not stirring a sound. But he hears something: sound of someone approaching, someone shouting. He sees a knife in chopping block and snatches it up –

  LUKE

  ‘Mrs Bogram! Nanny Bogram, are you alright?’

  He stops – peers into the scullery and moonlight shows shattered glass on stone floor. Luke doesn’t think, just steps inside … and gets perhaps two steps before someone grabs him from behind –

  LUKE & KILLIAN

  ‘Don’t shout out. If you do I’ll cut your bloody throat!’

  A calm enough voice, and truthful – Luke feels the blade tucked tight against his Adam’s apple. He doesn’t dare swallow, let alone shout out. And even trying to throw some Spell at the person behind him might mean a risk … might not be quick enough, or not as quick as the blade.

  But Killian doesn’t move much either. He’s never cut someone’s throat, though he has witnessed it done umpteen times. He makes the only decision he can. ‘Stay quiet and you’ll not get hurt. We’re here for the valuables and that’s all. Understand?’

  Luke manages a mumble. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re gonna guide me upstairs,’ says Killian, though he needs no guide; still sees clear in his mind all the directions Mr Gassin gave him. The boy he has by the throat doesn’t budge so he says more forcefully, ‘I’m not messing! Now move!’

  Together they shuffle slowly towards the door. Killian stays sharp for any sound and Luke waits, waits – is awaiting the right moment …