Perhaps I’d be trapped inside the mound forever. Never being able to wake up…it was a terrifying thought.
I searched the inside of the chamber carefully, running my fingers over the place where I seemed to have entered. But the rock was seamless. I was in a cave with no entrance. Arkwright was still on the outside; I really was trapped inside. Had I bound the witch, or had she bound me?
I knelt close to her, staring into her eyes, which seemed to crinkle with amusement. Beneath the chain, her mouth was pulled away from her teeth; half a smile, half a grimace.
I urgently needed to find out how to leave the place. I needed to remove the chain from the witch’s mouth so that she could speak.
But I didn’t want to do it, because I suddenly remembered what happened next.
The conscious part of me—the bit that knew I was having a dream—desperately fought for control. Somewhere, I knew I shouldn’t be doing this. But I couldn’t help myself. I was a prisoner of the dream, forced to follow that same risky course of action. So I eased the chain from her mouth. Now I had to face the consequences.
Her lips free of the chain, the witch was able to cast dark magic spells, and she started immediately. Speaking in the Old Tongue, she uttered three rapid phrases, each ending in a rhyme. Then she opened her mouth very wide, and a thick black cloud of smoke erupted from it.
I sprang to my feet and staggered backward as the threatening cloud continued to grow. The witch’s face was slowly being eclipsed, the cloud becoming denser and taking on an evil dark shape.
I could now see black-feathered wings, outstretched claws, and a sharp beak. The cloud had turned into a black crow. The witch’s open mouth was a portal to the dark! She had summoned her goddess, the Morrigan!
But this was not a bird of normal size and proportions; it was immense, distorted, and twisted into something grotesque and evil. The beak, legs, and claws were elongated, stretched out, reaching toward me, while the head and body remained at a distance, looking relatively small.
But then the wings grew, too, until they reached out on either side of that monstrous bird to fill all the space available. They fluttered, battering wildly against the walls of the chamber, smashing the table so that it broke in half. The claws struck out at me. I ducked, and they raked against the wall above my head, gouging into the solid rock.
I was going to die here! But suddenly I was filled with inner strength. Confidence replaced fear; there was anger, too.
I acted without conscious decision, and with a speed that astonished even me. I stepped forward, closer to the Morrigan, released my staff’s retractable blade, and swept it across from left to right. The blade cut deep into the bird’s breast, slicing a bloody red line through the black feathers.
There was a bloodcurdling scream. The goddess convulsed and contracted, shrinking rapidly until she was no larger than my fist. Then she vanished—though black feathers smeared with blood fluttered slowly to the ground.
Now I could once more see the witch. She shook her head, her expression one of acute astonishment. “That’s not possible!” she cried. “Who are you that you can do such a thing?”
“My name’s Tom Ward,” I told her. “I’m a spook’s apprentice, and my job is to fight the dark.”
She smiled grimly. “Well, you’ve fought your last battle, boy. There is no way you can escape this place, and soon the goddess will return. You will not find it so easy the second time.”
I smiled and glanced down at the blood-splattered feathers that littered the floor. Then I looked her straight in the eye, doing my best not to blink. “We’ll see. Next time I might cut off her head….”
I was bluffing, of course. I was just trying to appear more confident than I felt. I had to persuade this witch to open the door of the mound.
“Don’t ever visit my land, boy!” she warned me. “The Morrigan is much more powerful there. And she is vengeful. She would torment you beyond anything you can imagine. Whatever you do, stay away from Ireland!”
I awoke in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, relieved to see that it was almost dawn.
I remembered the dark days we’d spent on the Isle of Mona, struggling to survive. Then, it had been the Spook who was plagued by nightmares. Mercifully, his had gone, but now I’d inherited them. Now I rarely enjoyed a restful dreamless sleep.
I went over in my mind what had actually happened next back in the County. I’d made a bargain with the witch. In return for her opening the magical door, I’d promised she could go free as long as she left the County and returned to Ireland. But once outside, I’d no sooner released her from my silver chain than Bill Arkwright threw his knife into her back, killing her on the spot. Later he’d cut out her heart, and it had been eaten by his dogs—thus ensuring that she could not return from the dead.
So there was no way the same witch could be here in Ireland, seeking revenge. I tried to convince myself of that, but I still felt uneasy and had a strong sense of foreboding—as if something had followed me back from the nightmare and was in the room with me.
Suddenly, from the far corner of the room, just by the door, I heard a faint noise. Could it be a mouse or a rat?
I listened carefully, but there was nothing. Maybe I’d been mistaken…. Then it came again. This time it was like a footstep, and it was accompanied by another sound—one that filled me with new terror.
It was the sizzle and hiss of burning wood.
That sound brought back the memory of one of my worst experiences since becoming the Spook’s apprentice. It usually heralded the approach of the Fiend, his cloven hooves burning into the floorboards.
My heart lurched up into my mouth as I heard the terrifying sounds twice more in quick succession. I could now actually smell the burning wood!
But just when I thought the Fiend would appear by my side at any second, the sizzling ceased and the burning smell faded away. Then there was silence. I waited a long time before I dared to get out of bed. At last, summoning my courage, I got up, carrying my candle across to examine the floorboards. The last time I’d seen the Fiend manifest himself in this way, deep grooves had been burned into the floor. Here, the prints had left only faint marks on the wood. But they were unmistakable: four cloven hoofprints leading from the door toward the bed.
Trying not to wake the household, I went to fetch my master and Alice and brought them to the room. My master shook his head; Alice looked really scared.
“There’s little doubt, lad,” the Spook said. “It’s the Fiend for sure. I thought that jar was supposed to keep him at bay.”
“Let me see it again, Tom,” Alice asked, holding out her hand.
“I fell on the jar when we faced that first jibber,” I told my master, handing it over. “But I showed Alice, and she thought it was all right.”
“Ain’t sure that it’s all right now,” she said, shaking her head and looking worried. She carefully traced her finger along the line of the crack. When she held it up, there was a very faint red smear on it. “It’s hardly leaking at all—but there were only six drops of blood in the jar to start with. Its power to keep the Fiend at bay is slowly lessening. Time is running out for us….”
She didn’t need to finish her sentence. As the jar’s power weakened, the Fiend would be able to get closer and closer. Eventually he’d snatch me away into the dark—and destroy Alice, too, in revenge for the help she’d given me.
“We thought we had plenty of time to deal with the Fiend,” I said to my master. “Now it’s becoming urgent. The jar could fail at any moment.” I turned to Alice. “Why don’t you try and contact Grimalkin again?”
“I’ll do my best, Tom. Just hope nothing’s happened to her.”
The Spook said nothing, but his expression was grim. From his point of view, it was all bad. By depending on the blood jar, we were already in collusion with the dark. If we didn’t summon Grimalkin, the jar would eventually fail and the Fiend would come for me and Alice—the Spook, too, if he tried to get
in the way. But in asking for Grimalkin’s help, we were using the dark once again. I knew he felt trapped and compromised by the situation—and it was of my making.
The night had been cold and windless, and a heavy hoarfrost whitened the ground as we set off west for Kerry. The early morning sun glittered off the still-distant snow-clad peaks ahead. Yet again Alice had failed to contact Grimalkin. She had been using a mirror, but in spite of her best efforts, the witch assassin hadn’t responded.
“I’ll keep trying, Tom,” she told me. “That’s all I can do. But I’m scared. There’s no knowing how long we have before the jar fails.”
The Spook just shook his head and stared out the window, watching the dogs as they ran alongside the carriage. There was nothing to be said. Nothing we could do. If Grimalkin didn’t answer soon, it would all be over. Death and an eternity of torment awaited us.
Within the hour, a group of armed riders in emerald-green tunics joined us to provide an escort—two ahead of our carriage, four behind. All day we continued southwest, our elevation increasing as the brooding mountains ahead reared up into the cloudless pale-blue sky. Then, as the sun began to sink toward the west, we saw the sea below us, and a small town huddled on the edge of a river estuary.
“That’s Kenmare, my hometown,” said Shey. “It’s a haven from the mages. They have never attacked us here—at least not yet. My house lies on the edge of a wood to the west.”
The house proved to be an elegant mansion built in the shape of a letter E; the three wings were each three stories high. The doors were stout, and the windows on the ground floor were shuttered. Additionally, there was a high wall completely encircling it. Entry to the grounds was through a single wrought-iron gate, which was just wide enough to allow our carriage to pass. It certainly provided a good deal of protection from attack. There were also armed guards patrolling both the inside and outside of the wall.
The hospitality of our host was excellent, and we dined well that night.
“What do you think of this green country of ours?” he asked.
“It’s like home,” I told him. “It reminds me of the County where we live.”
His face broke into a grin. I had said the right thing, but in truth mine was an honest reply. I had meant every word.
“It’s a troubled land with a proud but good-hearted people,” he said. “But the Otherworld is never very far away.”
“The Otherworld?” asked the Spook. “What do you mean by that?”
“It’s the place where the dead heroes of Ireland dwell, awaiting their chance to be reborn.”
The Spook nodded but was too polite to air his true thoughts. After all, we were guests, and our host was generous indeed. By the Otherworld, Farrell Shey probably meant the dark. I knew nothing about Irish heroes, but it was certainly true that some malevolent witches had returned from the dark to be born again into this world.
“We don’t have many heroes in the County, alive or dead,” Alice said, grinning mischievously. “All we have are spooks and their daft apprentices!”
The Spook frowned at Alice, but I just smiled. I knew she didn’t mean it.
My master turned to Farrell Shey and asked, “Would you tell us something of your Irish heroes? We’re strangers to your land and would like to know more about it.”
Shey smiled. “Were I to give you a full account of Ireland’s heroes, we’d be here for days, so I’ll just tell you briefly about the greatest of them all. His name is Cuchulain, also known as the Hound of Calann. He was given that second name because, as a young man, he fought a huge, fierce hound with his bare hands. He killed it by dashing its brains out against a gatepost.
“He was immensely strong and skilled with sword and spear, but he is most famed for his battle frenzy—a kind of berserker fury. His muscles and his whole body would swell; one eye would recede back into his skull, while the other bulged from his massive forehead. Some say that, in battle, blood erupted from every pore of his body; others that it was merely the blood of the enemies he slew. He defended his homeland many times, winning great victories against terrible odds. But he died young.”
“How did he meet his end?” asked the Spook.
“He was cursed by witches,” Shey replied. “They withered his left shoulder and arm so that his strength was diminished by half. Even so, he continued to fight and took the lives of many of his enemies. His end came when the Morrigan, the goddess of slaughter, turned against him. She had loved him, but he had rejected her advances. In revenge, she used her powers against him. Weakened, he suffered a mortal wound to the stomach, and his enemies cut off his head. Now he waits in the Otherworld until it is time for him to return and save Ireland again.”
We ate in silence for a while: Shey was clearly saddened by the memory of Cuchulain’s death, while the Spook seemed deep in thought. For my part, I had been unsettled by that mention of the Morrigan. I met Alice’s eyes and saw that her mischievous teasing had been replaced by fear. She was thinking of the threat to me.
“I’m intrigued by your talk of this Otherworld,” said the Spook, breaking the silence. “I know that your witches can use magical doors to enter ancient burial mounds. Can they also enter the Otherworld?”
“They can—and often do so,” said Shey. “In fact, another name for the Otherworld is the Hollow Hills. Those mounds are actually gateways to that domain. But even witches don’t stay there long. It is a dangerous place, but within it there are places of refuge. They are called sidhes, and although to ordinary human eyes they look like churches, they are actually forts that can withstand even an assault by a god. But a sidhe is a dwelling for a hero: Only the worthy can enter. A lesser being would be destroyed in an instant—both body and soul extinguished.”
His words brought back an image from my recurrent nightmare. Running from the Morrigan, I’d sought refuge in what appeared to be a church. Was it really a sidhe? My dreams were starting to make some kind of sense to me. Was I learning from them, gaining knowledge that might help me in the future? I wondered.
“You see, that’s what the mages ultimately seek,” continued Shey. “By drawing enough strength from Pan, they hope one day to gain control of the Otherworld—which contains items that could endow them with immense power back here.”
“What things?” asked the Spook. “Spells? Dark magical power?”
“Could be,” said Shey. “But also weapons of great potency, manufactured by the gods themselves. Some believe that a war hammer forged by the blacksmith god Hephaestus is hidden there. Once thrown, it never misses its target and always returns to its owner’s hand. Doolan the Butcher would love to get his hands on something like that!”
The Spook thanked our host for the information, and the topic of conversation changed to farming and hopes for the next potato crop. There had been two bad years of blight; another poor harvest would bring many people close to starvation. I began to feel guilty. We had dined well during our stay in Ireland, while, out there, people were going hungry.
We were all tired after the journey and went to bed early. Alice was in the next room, close enough to be protected by the blood jar, the Spook farther down the corridor. I was just about to undress and climb into bed when I heard a muffled voice.
I opened the door and peered out. There was nobody there. I stepped through the doorway, heard the voice again, and realized that it was coming from Alice’s room. Who was she talking to? I leaned against her door and listened. It was definitely Alice’s voice, but hers alone. She seemed to be chanting rather than engaged in conversation with someone else.
I eased her door open and crept in, closing it carefully behind me so as not to make a noise. Alice was seated in front of the dressing-table mirror, gazing into it intently. By her side stood a candle.
Suddenly she stopped chanting, and I saw that she was mouthing something silently into the mirror. Some witches wrote on mirrors, but the more skilled used lip-reading. She must be trying to reach Grimalkin.
; My heart leaped, for instead of Alice’s reflection I could see the outline of a woman’s head in the mirror. From my position by the door I couldn’t make out her features, but for a moment my blood ran cold. However, as I moved closer to this mirror, the chill quickly passed, for now I recognized Grimalkin’s face.
Alice had established contact at last. I was elated, filled with hope. Perhaps the witch assassin would soon come to Ireland and help us to bind the Fiend so that we could finally stop relying on the failing blood jar.
I knew that if she emerged from her trance and found me sitting there, she might get a terrible shock, so I left, shutting the door quietly behind me. Once back in my room, I sat down on the chair and waited for her. I felt certain that she’d soon come and tell me about her conversation with Grimalkin.
The next thing I knew, I was sitting up with a jolt. I’d fallen asleep. It was the middle of the night, and my candle had burned low. I was surprised to find that Alice hadn’t paid me a visit, but maybe she’d fallen asleep, too. We’d been traveling for two days and were both tired. So I got undressed and climbed into bed.
A gentle rap on my door woke me. I sat up. The morning sun was streaming through the curtains. The door opened slightly, and I saw that Alice was standing there, smiling at me.
“Still in bed, sleepyhead?” she said. “We’re already late for breakfast. I can hear them talking downstairs. Can’t you smell the bacon?”
I smiled back. “See you downstairs!” I said.
It was only when Alice had left and I started to get dressed that I realized she hadn’t mentioned talking to Grimalkin in the mirror. I frowned. Surely it was too important to leave until later, I thought.
For a moment I considered the possibility that I’d just dreamed it, but my master had always stressed the importance of knowing the difference between waking and dreaming. The state in between could sometimes be a problem for spooks; that was when witches and other servants of the dark sometimes tried to influence you for their own ends. It was vital to know which was which. No—I knew it hadn’t been a dream.
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