The House of Mountfathom

by Nigel McDowell

  ‘I understand that,’ says Findlater. ‘However I do believe that –’

  ‘Listen,’ says Killian. ‘You’re a servant, right?’

  Findlater looks at him, doesn’t speak.

  Killian says, ‘I’ll take that as a yes. So, you’re the servant here and he’s the man in charge, so if he says light the fires then light the bloody fires. Got it?’

  ‘Luke.’

  Lowest voice in the room – enough to bring silence (and perhaps some sense).

  Luke leans close to ask, ‘Yes, Father? What is it?’

  ‘I need to speak to you,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘Alone. There are things we must discuss, whilst we still have time.’

  KILLIAN

  ‘No – I’m waiting right here!’

  Will not be shifted from outside the bedroom door. Promises not to listen but won’t budge.

  Mr Hooker sighs. ‘I’ve no energy for arguing. Not tonight.’

  Lawrence Devine and Jack Gorebooth talk of setting more Spells around the demesne, attempting to send more messages through the Gloaming. And the grumble of their conversation fades as they make their slow way off down the hallway. Too slow, thinks Killian. Everyone too slow to take action! Not ready or prepared for this!

  ‘I should make my rounds,’ says Findlater. ‘I would think it more useful than simply standing in a hallway sulking.’

  ‘Aye,’ says Killian. ‘Off you go then.’ Thinks, suddenly, of events in the tenements: the Uncovering in the shard of mirror. The tall, skinny boy, who looked so much like the manservant standing before him now. He has a sudden urge to run to find Luke – to tell him – but knows he cannot. Thinks: he must find Lord Mountfathom, to speak to him again about this.

  ‘You know,’ says Findlater, ‘we are not so different.’

  Killian laughs – loud!

  ‘Not as odd as you think,’ says Findlater. Attempts to straighten a portrait on the damp-stained wall, without success. ‘I was just like you. Ended up here by chance. Brought here by my father because he was so much in debt he had to offer his own son up for service.’

  ‘Good for you,’ says Killian. He sinks to the floor, pulls his knees tight to his chest.

  ‘You have a father too, I’m sure,’ says Findlater.

  Killian looks at him.

  ‘I made a few calls whilst you were away,’ says the manservant. He smiles. ‘You think you can leave all that colourful past behind – thieving and such?’

  ‘You don’t know me,’ says Killian.

  ‘Oh, I do, and better than you may wish to believe.’

  ‘You’re right enough,’ Killian tells Findlater. ‘Maybe we aren’t so different. And if that’s true then maybe you should watch yourself – cos maybe I know you better than you would want to believe.’

  A look; something passes between them. Killian feels suddenly afraid – though refuses to show it. Findlater nods curtly, moves to the door; Killian is left alone, a rapid thudding in his chest.

  LUKE

  ‘There are things you must know,’ says Lord Mountfathom.

  ‘It can wait,’ says Luke.

  ‘It cannot,’ says his father. ‘I need you to listen.’ He swallows, winces with pain. Continues. ‘Go to my desk – you shall find in the drawer details concerning a little project I have been working on.’

  Luke does as he is told.

  He tugs the warped, wood-bloated desk drawer open and inside finds a small, fat notebook with a marbled cover. The flyleaf bears an inscription in his father’s hand – A Quest to Reclaim Imagination!

  Luke leafs through, sees diagrams, scraps of map, Faerie song, drawings of Lough Gyants …

  ‘What is this?’ he asks, returning to his father. ‘Research?’

  ‘More akin to a record,’ says Lord Mountfathom. He does not take the notebook from Luke. ‘It is all I have been able to discover about the Gyants and the Good Folk – the races Major Fortflay made it his business to destroy.’

  Luke continues to examine the notebook – arrives at the centre pages and unfolds a map of Ireland with many areas circled with purple in.

  ‘These are Faerie Raths,’ he says. ‘And the places where the Gyant colonies used to live.’

  ‘Indeed,’ says his father. ‘They are the places that one could, if they so wished, begin to seek out and rediscover these lost races.’

  Luke raises his eyes from the notebook.

  Lord Mountfathom tells him, ‘Luke, there are many important things which are lost, and many things of no significance which survive. The loss of the Good Folk and the Gyants – and many other Magical creatures – has been, I believe, the greatest tragedy of our time. It was the end of imagination itself. To lose so much … I believe it was the opening of a dark chapter in a dark and terrible story. A story we are still living within.’

  ‘What can we do with all this?’ asks Luke. ‘If the Gyants and Faerie colonies are gone, then what use is this?’

  ‘Nothing is truly lost,’ says his father. He shifts himself, painfully. ‘I wish you to keep this notebook – keep it close to you at all times. Now: I told you once that the dark door leads to many places. There are many things to be learned from the Gloaming, Luke. Do you remember the story told to you by Mr Gorebooth?’

  ‘Yes – about the lonely Magician of Fermanagh.’

  ‘Do you remember what he learned to do? Something no one else had managed?’

  ‘To travel into the past, and the future – to revisit certain parts of his own life. But it was only a story.’

  ‘And why should that matter!’ says his father with sudden passion. ‘Why can we not believe, for example, that we could return to our past? Do we not do it all the time? Do we not at times become utterly lost in memory?’

  Luke lowers his head.

  ‘Father,’ he says, rising from his seat, ‘I shall leave you now to rest.’

  ‘You must face the Monster,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘You must know the Unknown.’

  Luke remains.

  ‘How?’ he says. ‘I will be alone.’

  ‘No,’ says his father. ‘You are so very far from being alone.’ Takes a breath, goes on. ‘I want you to think of this: time can be likened to a well-thumbed book, can it not? It could feel akin to a familiar and much-read story?’

  Luke is unwilling to think, doesn’t wish to theorise. But he nods.

  His father says, ‘So, does it not then stand to reason that with a careful diligence and understanding of the story, you may learn to flick ahead or browse backwards? Does that not strike you as simply logical?’

  ‘I suppose,’ says the son. ‘If I knew the story well enough?’

  ‘Indeed!’ says his father with sudden passion. ‘This is the possibility! But as you say so rightly, if you do not know well the story, you risk losing your place. But more than this, you may risk losing your own self …’

  Lord Mountfathom settles back into bed.

  Luke sits silent beside.

  He says, ‘Everything is failing now. So how can I know where to begin? If I have no destination, how can I be sure where the door will lead?’

  ‘You cannot,’ says his father, in a keen whisper. And manages to smile. ‘You cannot know for certain what awaits in the dark. And is that not a great excitement? As with an unknown story on the shelf – where will you be taken? My advice is this: simply open the book, and trust. Turn the page, and so begin …’

  KILLIAN & LUKE

  ‘Will all these Spells do any good?’ asks Killian.

  ‘Can’t hurt,’ says Luke. ‘We need as many defences as possible.’ His father’s words echo in his head: ‘You must know the Unknown.’ Yet Luke can only think of one thing now: to try to save Mountfathom.

  They stand before the house under bright moonlight. Luke stoops to the shingle drive and teases from the surface a pale Messenger. Thinks of his discussion with his father and teases it taller, gives it the fiercest form he can conceive of – a Vale Gyant, muscular and snout-nosed, a
heavy shelf for a brow.

  ‘Nice,’ says Killian.

  Luke moves two paces to the left and again brings another into being – and continues until a row of Gyant Messengers stands in front of the House. And to the nearest whispers his command: ‘If anyone enters the grounds, find me and give me the warning.’ And the Messenger whispers this message to its neighbour who in turn passes it on, and so it is communicated to all who will stand watch over the grounds. Something in their whispering makes Killian shiver.

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy being woken up by one of these things,’ he says.

  ‘Young sir!’ Lawrence Devine crosses the shingle from the direction of the lagoon. ‘I have set some Spells – anything that tries to enter will have a hard time getting through and more than they bargained for!’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Luke.

  They are joined by Jack Gorebooth – appears from the forest that leads to the front gates to report, ‘I have given the command to the limestone lions along the drive – attack if anything tries to enter. Stubborn creatures, but they appeared to understand.’

  Luke again gives his thanks. The air around him feels primed with such Magic – so ready to protect them he wonders how can they be taken by surprise.

  ‘This is all great,’ says Killian, ‘but what about the House itself ? All the rot inside – what can be done there?’

  Lawrence Devine says, ‘I have to be truthful here – I’m well used to Working Agrarian Spells and seeing them go a bit wrong, but I’ve never seen any go as bad as what is happening in Mountfathom.’

  ‘Can you fix it?’ asks Killian.

  ‘You can’t “fix” Magic,’ says Devine. ‘Don’t work like that. Setting these Spells around the grounds can be like scattering seed – they can fail to take, or they can grow wild. Either way, we can’t undo them.’

  They turn back towards the House, mount the front steps towards the front doors as Luke wonders aloud, ‘I don’t understand what is causing them to turn on Mountfathom. Why would the Spells turn bad? Turn inwards and try and ruin the House?’

  And Killian thinks to himself: Cos maybe someone in this House wants to see it fail.

  KILLIAN

  ‘Feckin useless.’

  Sits on the floor in The Menagerie of the Dead, trying to reunite all elements of the starling skeleton he has shattered. He would rather fix things than have to lie/invent/make an excuse, so he has set to work – discovered a pot of glue in a drawer, has even dug a book out from one of the cabinets and is using it for a guide. But things aren’t working as they usually do for him – simple luck isn’t enough with this, and it angers him.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  He abandons the effort and already his mind is concocting the story he’ll tell, when someone knocks on the door.

  ‘What?’ Killian calls.

  The door opens a little and the pale face of Mr Findlater comes into view.

  ‘What do you want?’ Killian asks.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ says Findlater. His voice is shaking. ‘But I did not know who best to approach. I though it best to come directly to you …’

  Killian stands.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I think,’ says Findlater, ‘it would be better to show you. If you would follow me?’

  Killian moves fast to the door– what has the manservant worried? Some new threat appeared? Anyway, can’t be good news, he thinks. Definitely can’t be good news!

  He steps into the hallway and sees: two young boys, both red headed – two familiar faces.

  ‘What the hell is – ?’

  Killian manages a half-turn and sees Mr Findlater raise a candlestick –

  Is struck hard on the forehead and falls insensible to the floor.

  LUKE

  I have heard it tell that the Magic that was used to raise the Faerie Raths of Ireland was of the most enduring kind. I have to wonder: enduring, or everlasting? Can this Magic still exist in the very soil of this island? And so (does it not stand to reason) that this Magic could be resurrected, and with it the lost wonders of an entire species?

  Luke as sleepless as ever – sits cross-legged on his bed with his father’s notebook on his lap, reading. Morrigan is close beside – restless and half-rising at times as though she detects something, suspects the shadows. Luke stops reading for a moment, but the room offers no opportunity for thoughtfulness; too much distraction, rainforest wallpaper leaving the walls in great damp sheets, puddles spreading dark across the floor. And all around The Amazon made hollow by the distracting drip-drip-dripping into pots and trays, all settled on the floor to catch moisture leaving the ceiling like slow rainfall.

  Luke turns the page of the notebook and continues.

  Such things we could learn from the Good Folk! Such knowledge from the Gyants! How best to serve the island of Ireland, for one thing. And for another, the truth of existence, the true joys of the world as experienced by two species that routinely enjoy life-spans extending far beyond any human being! So much we could know, if we could only –

  Morrigan stands and hisses, spine stiff.

  Luke sees: a Messenger – not a Gyant but a woman – has appeared in front of him. She informs him without waiting to be asked, ‘The Spells around the entrance to Loughreagh have failed.’

  Luke settles his father’s notebook on the bedside.

  ‘Someone trying to get into Mountfathom?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ says the Messenger. ‘Someone is trying to get out.’

  KILLIAN

  ‘Keep going! Do not stop or these Spells will try to get the better of you!’

  First thing he is aware of is Findlater shouting.

  Second thing: only pain, then dampness on his face he takes for blood.

  Killian starts to struggle. Something soft has been crammed between his jaws to stop him shouting out. He feels the rub of rope around his ankles and wrists … but to his amazement he squirms and almost frees himself of whoever is holding him until Findlater shouts, ‘Keep a good grip on the Lagan Rat! We cannot let him escape or the game is up!’

  The two red-haired boys – one holding him near the head, the other at the feet – strengthen their grip.

  ‘Quickly,’ says Findlater. ‘Almost there.’

  They move on though Killian feels all the while a gentle series of tugs – like small and determined hands grabbing and grabbing at him, not wanting him to move any further. He knows what this is: has learned and seen and gleaned enough of Spell-Work to recognise it.

  ‘Almost there!’ shouts Findlater – though sounding distant, as though from the farthest side of a forest, his voice strained.

  And suddenly a release as though Killian has resurfaced: free of the webs of Spell-Work, they emerge from the tunnel onto the shore of Loughreagh. Surface of the water bright with moon, and from somewhere a low grumble … a sound Killian recognises as the engine of a turf-barge.

  ‘Where is it?’ asks Findlater.

  ‘By the wee island,’ says one of the red-headed fellas.

  ‘Along the causeway then,’ says Findlater.

  Killian starts again to squirm but the boys keep him fast in their arms, Findlater still telling them, ‘Quickly! We only need him on the barge and then when we get closer to Belfast we can dump him overboard.’

  ‘Why not here?’ asks the boy at Killian’s feet.

  ‘Too close to Mountfathom,’ says Findlater. ‘They shall suspect something.’ And as they move along the strip of dark rock towards the Isle of Solitude, Findlater lowers his gaze to Killian and explains, ‘I know you like your stories, Lagan Rat. Rest assured, I shall see to it that all loose ends are tied up – some significant objects shall go missing from Mountfathom tonight, and when you also are seen to be missing, the connection shall be made. I shall ensure that your last story is a very convincing one.’

  And Killian struggles hardest as they reach the isle and the tor and the turf-barge moored alongside – kicks and tries to twist
out of the grasp of the boys as they mount a gangway and take him aboard, manages to spit out whatever rag has been pushed into his mouth to shout, ‘Help! Help me!’

  ‘No one to hear,’ says Findlater calmly. ‘No one to care.’

  ‘I would not be so certain of yourself.’

  LUKE

  He and Morrigan stand on the isle.

  ‘Let him go,’ says Luke. ‘Let him go and I shall let you go unharmed, Mr Findlater.’

  Killian is dropped to the deck of the turf-barge and the two red-haired boys find two spades and lumber towards Luke.

  But he is quicker. Works a swift hand through the air, bids a spout of silver water leap from Loughreagh to enclose the boys and drag them from the barge and out of sight.

  ‘You have grown so much,’ says Mr Findlater calmly, standing on the deck beside Killian. ‘Learned so much in the way of Magic.’

  ‘I asked that you release him,’ says Luke. ‘I shall not ask again.’

  Morrigan sits by Luke’s ankles, unconcerned.

  ‘Now,’ says Luke.

  ‘Your mother and father have taught you so much,’ says Findlater, and his tone is losing any coolness, ‘but you know nothing of the world. They told you so little, and kept so much from you.’

  ‘I know enough,’ says Luke. ‘I understand now: you betrayed us. You have compromised the security of Mountfathom. You wrote an invitation and gave it to the man with the faded hair.’

  ‘Indeed,’ says Findlater. ‘The ubiquitous man with faded hair – otherwise known as my father.’

  Luke’s hand falls.

  ‘It’s true!’ Killian shouts now. ‘I saw the two of them together in the mirror in the Cailleach’s house!’

  ‘Just one of the things your mother and father kept from you,’ says Findlater, ‘was that my father was a member of the Driochta. And very powerful he was too. He took it rather hard when my mother passed away and he was left to raise me on his own. So hard did he find it, in fact, he decided to pass me over into the service of Mountfathom. And your father – so charitable, so understanding – both took me in and, perhaps seeing some potential in my father, offered him a place in the Driochta. The arrangement didn’t last long. My father was rather too indecently keen on the power he was gaining, on the Spells he could Work. He is rather lethal with a Needle, as you and your cousin discovered.’