The House of Mountfathom

by Nigel McDowell

  A shout of, ‘Luke, where are you?’

  Whoever holds him from behind stalls.

  ‘I’ve got this hot chocolate here! I said not to be wandering off!’

  And Mrs Bogram’s shout is enough of a distraction – Luke whips his hand through the air and mutters a Spell of Release and the boy cries out and is hurled backwards as Luke races down the passageway and through his panic and with hammering heart he shouts, ‘Intruders! Intruders in Mountfathom! Raise the alarm!’

  KILLIAN

  A hand takes him by the collar and hoists him up, spits: ‘Stupid little shit! Was it really that bloody difficult to just go upstairs and open a door!’

  Killian can’t think or move – whole body fizzing not just with pain but with confusion. Senses feel scattered! (If he’d ever experienced the effects of a Spell before, he would recognise these symptoms.) But he has enough sense in his head to say, ‘We have to leave. Now. Have to go or else they’ll catch us.’

  ‘Like hell,’ says the voice of Mr Gassin. Drops Killian to the floor. ‘I didn’t come this far to leave without doing some damage.’

  Killian hears the crunch of glass as the man with faded hair leaves the kitchen. Watches as Mr Gassin reaches into his coat and draws out a short pistol.

  LUKE

  ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ He is hammering on the door of Mr Findlater but there’s no answer. He feels though the whole House has been paralysed with a Spell of Inertia. Races to the spiral stairs that lead up into the House and settles one foot on the bottom step as –

  ‘Luke, what’s going on?’

  Turns back to see –

  Mrs Bogram emerges from a passage on the right. In her hand she has a mug, faint tendrils of steam rising. And from beyond, another figure. Stepping clear of the dark is a man so tall Luke almost takes him for Mr Findlater. But not. And it is as though his heart is failing, as though memory has been rendered real – seasons and years nothing and he feels as though he is back on the causeway as he watches the man with dark eyes and white face and faded hair approach. Sees the man, now, raise a pistol.

  Mrs Bogram registers Luke’s fear so turns; sees the man and the pistol and with no hesitation throws the mug at him and rushes forwards shouting, ‘No! Stop! Get out of it!’

  A single gunshot, too loud in the narrowness of the stone corridor.

  It makes something in Luke unlatch – he falls against the wall and sinks to the ground. And he sees Nanny Bogram fall too. The echo of the gunshot takes a long time to die as Luke locks eyes with the man for a long moment – he sees no pity there, only anger and cold spite and bitter resolve.

  Any Spell Luke might use to stop the man has deserted him – he cannot think, can scarcely breathe.

  Now footsteps from above? Surely some help descending the stone steps? But arriving too late – Luke watches as the man with faded hair turns and vanishes back into the dark.

  Now friendship founders on such rocks –

  Lone footsoles find stone and sand.

  Now light sends solace across the stars –

  Now a word, now an outstretched hand.

  ‘On the Shore of Loughreagh’

  Returning to Mountfathom & Other Poems

  Jack Gorebooth

  KILLIAN

  ‘I didn’t know what I was getting into! Was bloody tricked into it! Some fellas snatched me by the docks in Belfast and brought me here on a turf-barge. I was running away from all the rioting in the city, did you hear about that? Yeah, well … got lost and couldn’t find my da. So I got caught. Got knocked cold. And when I wake up I’m on this barge and the fella in charge says to me that he’s taking me somewhere safe. But when we arrived here he pulls out a shooter and starts telling me I have to break into this House!’ He allows a pause. Wonders, can he muster some tears? ‘He sticks the gun to my head and I have to do what he says or else. I didn’t know anyone was gonna get killed! I’ve never seen anyone shot before.’ And he trails off and lowers his head and presses the heel of his hand to his face and wipes his eyes. Because sure enough – here come the tears and the sniffles. He thinks: You are too good! You should be on the stage, boy! Or better – on the silver screen!

  He hears the man with the moustache telling someone, ‘Go and check Loughreagh for this turf-barge. Perhaps they are still on the water. If they are, do not approach them – come back and inform me.’

  Killian hears another voice say, ‘Can we not send a Spell of Finding after them? Track them down that way?’

  ‘Luke,’ says the man with the moustache, ‘I shall do all I can to apprehend these men. But now is not the time – we must secure Mountfathom. When I am finished here I will require your help in setting fresh Spells around the borders of the demesne.’

  ‘But how did they even get in?’ the boy asks.

  Killian peers out between fingers – sees the man with the moustache and the boy (this father and son) sharing a look. The boy is holding himself, is shivering. His face is red and he looks as though he would be happy to fold up like a newspaper and fall smack to the ground. The father tells his son, ‘We shall discuss those matters later. I would be only too happy to hear your theories. For now, I want you to join your mother in the Gabbling Gallery and send messages to the other members of the Driochta. Tell them what you experienced. Let them know what has happened, that Mountfathom has been compromised. I shall meet you by the walled garden in half an hour.’

  ‘Gabbling Gallery’ and ‘Driochta’ and ‘Mountfathom’ aren’t familiar things to Killian, but he tucks them into his memory; in situations like this, as he well knows, he has to keep himself sharp for any knowledge he can pick up. Looking and listening – these are the best tools he has. Killian sees the boy called Luke watching him, so shuts his eyes and sniffs a bit more.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ says the boy, and he leaves the room. As obedient as anything! Must remember that, thinks Killian. Could be useful later on.

  ‘Now then,’ says the man with the moustache. Killian opens his eyes. He makes a brave attempt at a brave face and sees that he and the man are alone. He takes some quick looks around. They are in a library. Huge place, whole room teeming with books! Even more than in the Linen Hall! Killian has been sat down at a desk with slips of paper and a fancy pen and small towers of books with titles such as Seeking to Storm-Breach and The Rise of the Politomancer and Shillingham’s Guide to Protective Spells.

  The man takes a step towards him and says, ‘Now that we are alone, I was wondering if you could find it in yourself to tell me the truth of what transpired here tonight.’

  Killian holds the man’s gaze. Decides on playing a bit dumb. ‘Sorry, Mister – I don’t know what you mean. What was that word you said? “Transpired”? I dunno what you –’

  ‘I am the Lord of Mountfathom,’ says the man. ‘And tonight, in my absence and under my roof, a long-serving member of my staff has been murdered. I do not wish to contact the police. I daresay they have enough to be dealing with, and given the current climate I feel the murder of a member of staff at a Big House will arouse alarm with which we do not wish to contend. So I shall deal with this in my own way – you are an intruder in this House, you have proven yourself a practised but deeply flawed liar, and you are a fool if you think I shall believe such lies.’ Killian sits up straighter. ‘Now ponder this: if you are confident that you can break through the various layers of Spell-Work surrounding this House and not tell me how, then that confidence is misplaced. If you think you can sit there and implausibly fabricate for the benefit of your own pride and amusement, you are very much mistaken. You will tell me the truth, or I shall Work a Spell to make you spill all your secrets. Do we understand each other?’

  Well, I’ll be damned, thinks Killian. He almost has some respect for this Lord of Mountfathom for seeing through him so easily! He knows when he is beat. He knows – if only for now – that he best be dutiful and say, ‘Oh yes, Mister. Of course I shall tell you all the truth I can.’

  LUKE<
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  Luke stops at the top of the stairs and listens to the faces of the Driochta in the Gabbling Gallery –

  ‘If Mountfathom has seen violation, then I don’t know what will be next!’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic! This is not one of your plays, Jack!’

  ‘No need for such personal insult, Lady Vane-Tempest!’

  ‘The Spells were so well set, I believed.’

  ‘There’s no telling what way land will go, Spells or no Spells.’

  ‘Too true, Lawrence.’

  ‘But Mountfathom! Surely the land knows to whom it belongs?’

  ‘Do I hear some doubting there, Flann?’

  ‘Not at all, Helena! I am simply concerned …’

  ‘Aren’t we all! So, what is the plan, Edith?’

  A moment before Luke hears his mother say, ‘Firstly, Dublin must not hear of this. Major Fortflay must not be told – that is the priority. Word that the Spells of Mountfathom have been breached must not travel. Agreed?’

  Only firm agreement –

  Face of Jack Gorebooth: ‘Of course!’

  Face of Helena Vane-Tempest: ‘Absolutely.’

  Of Flann Dorrick: ‘Won’t say a word to anyone! Though you should know – eleven more Houses have been lost to the Land Grabbers this night.’

  Face of Lawrence Devine: ‘I heard that too, on the wireless – five in Mayo and six in Clare.’

  ‘Also by Indigo Fire?’ asks Luke’s mother.

  Dorrick: ‘From what witnesses are saying, yes indeed.’

  ‘Then that Cailleach is still helping them,’ says Luke. He can’t stay silent – walks into the Gallery and stands beside his mother, swiftly returned that night, along with Lord Mountfathom. Sees the four pale faces of the Driochta swimming in their dark mirrors. All eyes turn to watch him. He goes on. ‘They’ve clearly made a decision to use Magic. The Land Grabbers don’t care that it’s something they swore they’d never use.’

  ‘Indeed,’ says Lady Vane-Tempest, ‘attitudes are changing. If they can find a way to empower themselves, they will take it.’

  ‘How are you, lad?’ asks the Lawrence Devine. Luke wants to say he is fine, or that he will be – that he will cope. But he says nothing. His mother places a hand on his shoulder and Lawrence Devine says, ‘I knew Mrs Bogram for forty years and she was some woman.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ says Vane-Tempest. ‘Very formidable!’

  ‘So very kind and attentive too,’ says Jack Gorebooth. ‘Always at your side, Luke. Always there to –’

  ‘What is the plan?’ asks Luke. Has heard enough talk – needs some sense of action.

  ‘We must do nothing to arouse suspicion from the Castle in Dublin,’ says Lady Mountfathom, addressing the Driochta. ‘I hope you will agree that we cannot place our entire trust in Fortflay any longer – he has lost his belief in us, and so we must be cautious.’

  All faces agree.

  ‘And my requests to each of you are as follows,’ says Luke’s mother. ‘Helena – I wish you to track down this Cailleach. We need to know what her next move will be.’

  ‘I accept your request and will begin at once,’ says Vane-Tempest, and instantly she departs her mirror.

  ‘Flann,’ says Lady Mountfathom, ‘can you please keep a close watch on the goings-on at the Castle. We need to be warned in advance of any machinations that Major Fortflay is setting in motion.’

  ‘You have some suspicions?’ says Dorrick. ‘Something in particular?’

  ‘I do,’ says Luke’s mother. ‘He talked of requiring additional powers. If he is going to enlist Magical help from elsewhere – beyond those of the Politomancer – we need to know.’

  ‘I shall keep both eyes and ears wide open!’ says Dorrick, and he too fades fast from his mirror.

  Only two faces remain, and both Devine and Gorebooth ask, ‘And us?’

  Luke’s mother says, ‘I request that you both come to Mountfathom.’

  Gorebooth looks relieved, excited! Devine looks not altogether agreeable, but he gives a grim nod.

  ‘Lawrence, I know I am taking you away from your own family and your farm,’ says Lady Mountfathom, ‘but I believe we need more members of the Driochta here to help, should the need arise.’

  ‘We would be glad to,’ says Jack Gorebooth. ‘By sunrise I shall be at Mountfathom.’

  ‘And I too,’ says Lawrence Devine.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Lady Mountfathom.

  And Luke watches the final two faces disperse into darkness and instantly says, ‘It was my fault. You and Father left me here in charge.’

  ‘It was the fault of no one,’ says his mother. She doesn’t look at her son; stays focused on the mirrors. ‘It is a great loss to us and of that there is no doubt. However we must remain strong – it is what Mrs Bogram would have wanted.’

  Luke begins to say more but –

  ‘Nothing else just now, Luke.’ His mother looks at him, softens a little. Sees Luke’s pale face, his eyes red with crying. ‘Apologies, son, but I am afraid I am simply not in the mood for more discussion. Now, I believe your father requires your help – go to him, and do what you can to make Mountfathom safer.’

  KILLIAN

  Left alone in the library, Killian wanders restless. After their chat – Killian telling all he recalled about his journey from Belfast, all that was said on the turf-barge and a little of what he managed to puzzle out about Mr Gassin – the posh fella told him not to make a nuisance of himself. Said to sit and wait and behave and someone would come and see to him. But Killian is incapable of sitting and doing nothing.

  He climbs one of the tall stepladders to the top shelf and pushes himself along, wheels sliding smooth across the wooden floor. He selects so many books – covers of velvet and lace and something that looks like human skin, spines sewn tight or neatly embossed or loosely woven or bound with brass – and reads the last page of each book, and understands none of it. Jams them back onto the shelves in the wrong place. And he decides to shout his name loud and enjoys the boom of his voice and the bounce of its echo … until the books begin to whisper back: ‘Killian … Killian … Killian …’

  He swears loudly and leaps from the stepladder and lands on the floor with a violent thud.

  ‘Enjoying yourself in here? Not a playground, you know.’

  Killian turns and tucks his hands into his pockets and tries for innocence.

  A tall man, skinny as a drainpipe, has appeared in the library. Balanced on one hand is a silver tray; he approaches, saying, ‘I was told to provide you with some refreshment.’

  Killian returns to the centre of the room – reclaims the leather seat behind the deal-topped desk, leans back and rests his feet on top. Has the desired effect – the manservant wrinkles his nose and rolls his eyes and says, ‘Very amusing of you. And where do you suggest I put this tray?’

  Killian thinks: I know where he can put it!

  ‘I’ll take it off your hands,’ he decides to say, and hops to his feet and snatches the tray from the man. ‘Cheers. Now, off you go!’ And sits down with the tray on his lap and gets stuck into some tea with plenty of sugar and toast that he covers with a good slather of strawberry jam.

  Mr Findlater says very slowly: ‘Let me give you some advice, young sir – I would not get too comfortable here, if I were you.’

  ‘Really?’ says Killian, cheeks bulging with toast, lips dribbling tea. ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because we have long memories here at Mountfathom,’ says the man. Killian pauses. ‘There are a lot of people greatly upset by what has happened here tonight. I myself worked with Mrs Bogram for the past thirty-five years. It is therefore very upsetting.’

  ‘Really?’ says Killian again. He swallows. ‘Because you don’t look too upset to me, good sir.’

  Findlater says nothing.

  And Killian smiles and looks the manservant over and takes in so many little details: the heavy mauve bags under both eyes, so mustn’t sleep much; the nails clipped so
close to the quick, the tracks of a long-toothed comb in his slicked hair and the white scalp showing through.

  ‘Going bald, Mister?’ asks Killian.

  Findlater shifts his weight and says, ‘How very observant you are.’

  ‘I am,’ says Killian.

  ‘And you seem very secure in yourself also,’ says Findlater.

  ‘I am,’ Killian repeats. ‘And I believe I have the measure of you, my man.’

  The manservant flinches as though scalded. He nods, stiffly, and turns and walks all the way to the double doors, and on the threshold stops (as Killian knew he would) so he can have the last word. ‘Be careful, young sir. Times are shifting, and very quickly. None of us should feel too secure in ourselves, even a Lagan Rat who thinks he has the whole world worked out.’

  LUKE

  ‘Tell me your theories, son – I very much wish to hear them.’

  ‘I’m not certain of anything. I only have ideas.’

  ‘Ideas are good. Ideas are always a profitable beginning.’

  Luke and Lord Mountfathom walk the boundary, son in the shadow of the father. Both have a left hand held to the limestone wall, their free hands weaving and resetting Spells of Seclusion and Security; a mere whisper and waving of a hand entices trees to ease together as though for comfort, entwine, branches to embrace; hawthorn and bramble to sprout and thrive and form a thicket, and any shattered or cracked stone to heal itself like a mended seam. This Magic is a slow and precise and diligent business. And it helps Luke – requires such concentration and focus he slowly starts to feel a little usefulness once more.

  He says, ‘My understanding is that the Spells we set around the demesne will only hold true if everyone at Mountfathom is united in its protection, is that not so?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then I believe the men who were able to enter the grounds were invited.’

  ‘Interesting,’ says Lord Mountfathom. He Works a hand – a patch of nettles rises from thigh-high to neck-high. ‘By whom?’