Raphael was definitely here.
‘Hey, little fellas,’ I whispered, taking off my shoes, conscious of the dirt I was dragging in. I traced a line on the floorboards with a sock but my feet came up clean. The floor had been mopped.
A few wild plants had won over masonry and broken through the walls, but this only added to the effect, as if the cottage were really an elaborate garden-room. I was bewildered. I watched the squirrels and it wasn’t long before a robin hopped in through the side window, and I began to feel as if I had stepped into Disney’s Snow White.
‘Good morning, Theo.’ Raphael stood on the last stair, wearing shorts and nothing else, but carrying a plastic box stuffed with cleaning supplies under one arm.
‘Hey,’ I said, ‘did you do all this?’
His chest rose and fell in a flutter, a rhythm of expansion and contraction that came and went with serene fluidity, the shrug of his narrow shoulders a rippling wave melting into the smooth sand of his skin. ‘Consider it a form of rent. There are many creatures who live in Hellingstead Hall apart from warlocks. They need a home too, a retreat from the weather.’ He shot me an accusatory glance. ‘Shame to waste a place for shelter.’
‘Since last night?’
‘I don’t sleep, Clemensen.’ He carried the box into the kitchen, placing it on the draining board. ‘Do you mind? You said I could use the cottage.’
True, but not quite what I had in mind. ‘What if Father notices you’re here?’
‘He can do nothing about it. I don’t fear him… or your uncle.’ He smiled, leaning over the counter to stroke the squirrels, their bushy tails draped over the nut bowl. The robin immediately flew into his hair and perched there for the remainder of our conversation. ‘Nor do I fear you.’
‘What are you, Raphael? How do you know about me?’
He didn’t answer, so I pressed him again, following him to the window where he sat on the sill, exposing himself to the warm air outside. ‘I cannot tell a lie, Theo. So it is best I do not speak at all.’
‘I’m fed up with people keeping things from me.’
‘We don’t have a right to knowledge without gaining experience enough to understand it.’
‘Okay, Confucius, calm down. Let’s agree to speak English and not riddles.’ I struggled not to shout. ‘Please.’
Raphael took a full minute to consider my request as if he were counting the ticks coming from the wall clock, which I guessed he’d wound up. ‘Without patience life frustrates us at every turn. Some choices are so important, Theo, that we must bide our time and consider the options with care and due reflection, we must rein in our feelings and avoid rushing headlong into danger.’
He paused, plucked the robin from his curls, and cupped it in his hands, frowning. I waited, trying to erase the image of my mother on that horse, galloping through the woods. My mother never reined in her feelings… and look where it got her, the robin’s beady stare seemed to say. Of course you’re on Raphael’s side, I shot back.
‘You must make the correct choices, Gatekeeper; death awaits the Nine Realms if you don’t. You guard the door that must never slam shut. I am the sentry that must watch you always. I will not allow you to leave your post.’
‘Odin, Thor, and Freyr! You weren’t kidding, you know exactly who I am.’ As if to emphasise the point, my muscles twitched along my jaw and down my neck. ‘Are you a Guardian?’
Raphael shook his head. ‘I am not associated with the Praefecti in any way. I go beyond that.’
Beyond that? ‘There’s an organisation beyond the Praefecti?’
‘No organisation, Clemensen. I am alone.’ He massaged the robin’s head with the back of his hand, his huge amethyst eyes mournful under those thick lashes. Raphael’s aloneness was a fact but his loneliness was a burden.
I knelt by his lap and gazed up at him, and although he blushed and averted his eyes, he stayed put. ‘Raphael, what choices are we talking about?’ I whispered, as if lowering my voice would lull him into a confession.
With some difficulty, he reached out and tucked a blond curl behind my ear. A jolt of electricity flowed between us, and the fire inside me whipped against its cage of bone. I struggled against it but my limbs ignored my commands. And then his voice, Raphael’s voice, tumbled into my head. Those who try to outrun the wheel of fate are crushed beneath it as it turns. He removed his hand from my cheek, and suddenly I was free to move again.
Raphael was destiny – my destiny. He had more power to shape my future than any Guardian, or even my father. The realisation altered the colours of my reality by an infinitesimal shade, like a gradient hue in one of Mum’s paintings.
How he could do this, I didn’t know. His touch could paralyse a Gatekeeper, he’d proven that a moment before. Unfortunately, the Norns of Fate weren’t in the business of explaining themselves. An ancestor had written about the Web of Wyrd, or fate, in the Gatekeeper journal I’d found in the undercroft. Me pæt wyrd gewæf, he’d written: Wyrd wove this for me.
Wyrd wove Raphael for me.
‘Your mother was a good woman,’ Raphael whispered back, not answering my question about choices at all. I smiled, unable to do otherwise when the compliment was so genuine and devoid of malice. He’d known her. ‘You have her heart, Theo. I pray that is enough.’
Silvery wrinkles crinkled around his eyes, hardly noticeable except this close up, the only sign of age detectable on an otherwise flawless face. Raphael hummed, his lips contorting into a tiny bow as if he were arguing with himself about something. At last, he exhaled, the vapour sweet as figs in the damp heat of summer, and it tickled my nose and cheeks. He pointed to the ceiling. ‘There are some boxes upstairs. You want to look in them.’
I glanced at the clock. I had about twenty minutes before Uncle Nikolaj expected me back. What was up there that was so important?
The stairs creaked underfoot. Raphael stayed in the kitchen where I’d left him pulling out birdseed from his pockets. The upper floor of the cottage was nothing more than a continuation of Mother’s art studio, where she kept her sketchbooks, some dating back to the eighties, progressing from bare-chested sketches of my father, to a baby’s chubby face and dimpled smiles.
Several wooden boxes lined the window overlooking the entrance to the secret garden. Brown paper packets peeked beneath the lids, which had been slid aside. Why had Raphael been rifling through these rooms in the first place? Was he just trying to tidy up? I tore open the packets and found stacks of Polaroids and developed photographs, some no doubt shot with a Kodak Brownie, which I’d found with its matching carry-case on the writing bureau in the corner.
The first set were copies of the wedding photos hanging in Father’s bedroom. Glossy hair and grins that reached the eyes, as if the sun’s radiance were a pale reflection of their bliss. Somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong. Somehow, my mother died.
The thought of Nikolaj finding me with Raphael lit a fire in my fingers and I ploughed through the photos, chuckling at the silly costumes worn at fancy-dress parties – I had photographic proof that they once happened at Hellingstead Hall –, and cringing at my parents’ fashion sense. Nikolaj had played the hippie throughout the swinging sixties, an Elf with flowers in his hair. Bless him.
Nothing here explained Raphael’s insistence.
Until I plucked out the packet camouflaged at the bottom of the third box. It rustled as I peeled the paper back. It didn’t look as if it had been opened, but Raphael had known what was in it. His abilities were mind-boggling. My heart began to beat fast, faster than when I’d drawn my sword against Nikolaj.
But I had a mini embolism when I saw the photos inside. The childhood I remembered was a lonely one, but that was a lie. A dirty, stinking lie. I just didn’t know who was telling it.
Once upon a time, there had been a girl. A girl who played by my side, immersed in foamy bubbles, splashing in the freestanding tub in my bathroom. We had chased each other around the maze, ate our lunches on the
bench under the ash tree. She’d held my hand, mud smeared on her tights, and grass staining her pale lilac dress, her conker hair scooped back over her dark eyes.
And here, children who were fresh and innocent, and happy, slotted together on the saddle of an antique rocking horse, nearly the size of a pony, her chubby, child’s arms wrapped round my waist. We were beaming at the camera, but our joy was for each other.
I had no idea who she was.
No, it can’t be. I had bathed alone and chased shadows around that maze. Picnics under the ash tree were a cosy threesome of mother, child, and teddy. The rocking horse, stationed for years in my bedroom, gliding in time with the grandfather clock, a lone rider on its back. The last day the steady motion comforted me was the day after Mum died. I was wracked with grief, sobbing alone, the horse grating against the floorboards. No, there was no little girl with me… was there?
The photos ended. It was as if the whole family died that day. The day Father had gathered her broken body from the rocks. It was a miracle she hadn’t been washed out to sea, but sometimes I wondered if that wasn’t a curse. Father had to find his wife like that. It wasn’t right. None of this was right.
Raphael hovered in the doorway, and I rose to face him, clutching the photos in my hand. ‘Why don’t I remember her? Who is she?’
‘Do you believe in soulmates, Theo?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I don’t agree with what they did, Gatekeeper. Love is not a flame that should be snuffed out.’
His meaning sank in gradually. Had I been in love? Could a child love like that?
Yes, the magic said, a child’s love is pure – spiritual.
I stood there, staring at Raphael, lost in the broken passages of time, scrambling in the dark, but even a blind man can guess. I’d heard of powers being stripped away. It was a death sentence for many Pneuma and varmint, unable to live without magic, the thing that defines them. One verdict by the magistrates was all it took. But I’d never heard of the Praetoriani erasing memories. I shuddered. ‘Was Menelaus involved?’
Raphael filtered out of view, a phantom negative drawn inside the doorframe. He was nowhere in the cottage, which in the interim had collected a tabby cat and a hedgehog, who was attempting to clamber into the logs piled in the blocked-off fireplace. I didn’t have time to look for Raphael; Uncle Nikolaj was waiting.
25
Hunt For The Amulet
‘The Anchor’s Friend is like time and fine sand; it slips away when you strive to possess it most.’
—Extract from The Book of Gatekeepers
I slept through the day and overnight but was aware of creaking floorboards and the aroma of hot food arriving on a tray, placed on the side table by my bed. At some point, I surfaced to find the Eye of Horus watching over me, and I drifted again.
When I awoke, sometime in the following afternoon, I gawked at the empty plates and pitchers of water. Surely, we didn’t have such a bad mice infestation? It was the only thing that made sense; I hadn’t eaten the food, had I? Vague impressions formed, bleary and distant, as if they belonged to someone else. Yes, the tang of cheese and pickle sandwiches, devoured rather than chewed, buttery crumpets, flapjacks, baked goods that betrayed Uncle Nik’s signature spice blend, washed down with tea. My lips tasted sticky and yes, the bedsheets were covered with crumbs, irritating as sand.
Weird. I hated the feeling that I no longer acted alone. That this thing called the Gatekeeper thought it had co-habitation rights, allowing it to take control whilst my attention was diverted in dreams. Would it take over if it thought my life was in danger? Just how far was this magical beast willing to go to keep its vessel alive?
I stretched, bones popping and whining, my muscles sore. The sword fight had caused some stiffness but I’d had twenty-four hours to heal – more than enough thanks to the supernatural medic that had set up its surgery in my cells. However, my pyjamas had split across my chest and thighs and strained at the biceps. Well, that explained the pain. Looks like I’ll be sleeping naked from now on.
Standing, I swayed across my bedroom like a seaman finding his legs upon the shore. The cool bathroom tiles sucked the heat from my feet, toasted by a day under blankets. Once the tub was filled with steaming water, I slid into its depths, trying not to wince.
Today’s objective, find the amulet. Father had told me, when the time was right, the key currently hiding in the sock drawer would call and I would answer. Right, should I wait by the landline or my mobile? Maybe it’ll Skype me. The truth was that waiting for momentous stuff to randomly happen wasn’t good for my sanity. Besides, maybe finding the locked box would make the key a little more talkative.
I wanted to learn about the girl in the photos too, but the amulet was a pressing issue; possessing it would force Father and Uncle Nikolaj to loosen their grip on my life. They would never grant the independence I coveted if they believed I didn’t have the balls to claim the tools of my heritage. Once I had the amulet, the Gatekeeper book, and the key, there was nothing to stop me leaving whenever I felt like it. And if they wanted me to stay with them, they’d have to start by laying the cards on the table and telling the truth. Then I could gain my bearings and work out how to proceed. At the very least, I could visit our pal Menelaus Knight at the university, and not feel like a clown outside the circus tent.
After getting dressed, I cast my net out, hunting for the five elements within the house, choosing a vase of flowers, my bath tub, the fireplace, and an open window to draw upon, Anchoring my body to the earth.
How does a monk get used to the view from his temple on a snow-capped mountain? How could a man, standing on the moon, not gaze in wonder as he looked back at the blue marble called Earth? I admired the blond hairs on my hands as they glimmered in the daylight, entranced by the caramel grains in the neat planks lining the bedroom floor. The pigments in the yarn, spun into a canopy over the bed, rained down as stars from the ceiling.
Everywhere the magic flowed. I understood what it meant to claim that God is omnipresent, the natural world a crease in his palm, time undulating through the veins crisscrossing his hand. And this being, which the Gatekeeper book called the Orlog, had picked me to be the oxygen in its blood, feeding the many branches of life that flexed like fingers, ready to grasp at the world, and create.
I was a living metaphor, taking on the physical attributes of Thor, but astounded by the violent explosions of colour, magic, and stars that built the cosmos, enfolding before me in all its glory, challenging me to understand it, and above all, to protect it. I ventured forward, having as much of an idea as to what my future held as a sailor roaring towards the horizon.
I crept into the corridor with the key stashed in my jeans, hearing my heart pulse over the soft ticks of the grandfather clock. It was ridiculous sneaking around when the amulet was mine, especially as I had no evidence that Father would prevent me from taking it, or object if I simply asked for it to be handed over.
But our relationship had to change. It boiled down to power. Blaming my problems on my family had to stop. Waiting for Father’s permission to act had to stop too. It was time to relegate that attitude to the past; I was a man, technically the most crucial person in existence, even if it jarred with how I felt, and how I’d behaved my whole life.
If I didn’t change, I couldn’t move forward. If I couldn’t move forward, I couldn’t protect myself. If I couldn’t protect myself, then why not shake hands with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and invite them to lay waste to the earth?
Peculiar, how being Anchored was like holding everything under the microscope.
I straightened my spine, and strode down the tartan runner in the corridor, heading for the grand staircase while summoning the courage to carry out my convictions.
The library was empty. With a precise flick of the wrist, I tripped the lamp switches and lit the chandelier, hunting through rows of books with intuition as much as sight, trusting that I’d know when I�
�d found the amulet, wherever it was hiding. Working up the rows, which stood in line like obedient soldiers to the general that was Father’s mahogany desk, I re-charted my course, exploring the crevices and grooves of the fireplace’s carved surround, sticking my head up the chimney for good measure.
Nothing. Uncle Nikolaj’s curio display, near the wall that hid the secret door, seemed a good place to stop. The glass top secured the items inside, which included silver boxes containing ‘Fae dust’ – or so Nik claimed –, a spear tip that allegedly felled a rampaging giant who’d massacred a whole family of Sarrows, and a tortoise-shell looking-glass that bizarrely shed no reflection.
I pressed my nose to the protective glass but couldn’t discern whether any of these objects stood out, screaming I’m the amulet! I’m the amulet! Considering the Fae and the Elves had often declared war upon each other, I was hesitant about cracking open a case of fairy dust and unleashing a different kind of hell than the one I was trying to prevent.
I couldn’t get past the barrier unless I broke it, and the key was the wrong shape for the lock. The engraving on the mirror’s handle caught my attention: a snake’s head biting its tail. I’d seen drawings like that in my illustrated edition of the Eddas. It was The Midgard Serpent – Jormungand – the very creature whose destiny it was to kill Thor during Ragnarök. A great beast, so large it encircled the world.
That can’t be a coincidence, I thought. One way or another, I wasn’t going to be stopped by a pane of enchanted glass. The display cabinet hummed with weighted magic, a dusty film that was hard to see with the naked eye, and indeed, I never would have noticed it without being Anchored.
The Descendants of Thor Trilogy Boxset: Forged in Blood and Lightning; Norns of Fate; Wrath of Aten Page 19