Spook's Destiny (21 page)

I WALKED STEADILY
up the hill, shivering with a chill that suddenly travelled the length of my spine. It was the usual warning that something from the dark was near, but I paid little heed, intent on my purpose.

Moments later I was standing within the circle of stones, close to the pit that we had dug for the Fiend. All I could hear was my own rapid heartbeats and breathing. The mist seemed to be thickening and rising in snake-like coils. I spun slowly on my heels, checking the area through a full three hundred and sixty degrees. The mist seemed to be rising up from the ground and there was a lot of it. It just didn’t seem normal. Could it be the breath of the dragon? I wondered.

No, that was absurd. Dragons weren’t fire-breathers with hot breath; they were huge elemental spirits of the air. This was just ordinary mist.

Then I saw a sudden shimmer in the air directly opposite the pit. I was face to face with Alice. My heart gave a lurch, but then I saw that she wasn’t smiling; she didn’t seem at all pleased to see me – she looked terrified. Her face was caked with dirt and the whites of her wild eyes were showing, her hair matted and her mouth twisted in a grimace of terror. She seemed to be standing behind that shimmering curtain. It looked so flimsy. Surely it would be easy just to step through …

All at once Alice thrust her left hand towards me. It came right through into the world where I stood. ‘Help me, Tom!’ she cried. She seemed to be shouting, but her voice was muffled and faint. ‘You’ve got to pull me through. I can’t do it alone!’

Without hesitation, I gripped her hand firmly; my left hand squeezing her left hand – which felt so cold: it was as if I was holding a dead person.

I pulled hard, but Alice seemed to resist. Was she stuck? Was something holding her back? I tugged even harder, but then the grip on my hand tightened and it really hurt. It was as if Alice was trying to crush my finger bones. Then, as I was dragged forward against my will, Alice’s face began to change. It wasn’t her. It was the face of Scarabek!

I tried to resist, but the grass was slippery, my feet lost their purchase, my staff went flying from my hand – and I was dragged into the shimmering curtain, the doorway to the dark.

There was a bright flash of yellow light, and Scarabek jerked my arm and then released her grip very suddenly, sending me spinning away from her. I hit the ground hard and rolled over several times before coming to a halt against a tree trunk, which knocked the breath from my body.

I rose up onto my knees, gasping, and quickly glanced about me. I was in a wood, and all the trees looked huge. That was strange enough, but everything was also bathed in a silver light. It was as if it radiated from everything – trees, ground and sky – and I knew one thing for certain: I had left the world I knew far behind.

Suddenly I realized the truth. This wasn’t the dark. I was back in the Tech Duinn, the Hollow Hills – the place where Pan had taken me in spirit.

I looked up at Scarabek. She gave me an evil smile, but she seemed to be fading. I remembered what Shey had told us. Witches could not stay here for very long.

‘I’m leaving you here, boy! I’m handing you over to the Morrigan. She’ll come for you at the twelfth peal of the midnight bell! You won’t forget that, I’m sure! And try not to forget
who you are
!’ Scarabek cried in a mocking voice.

And then she was gone, leaving me to my fate.

I got to my feet, her final words spinning around inside my head. Forgetfulness! That was a real danger. What was it that Pan had told me?

Memories bleed away into the silver light and they are lost for ever. Only heroes can endure …

The heroes were those of Ireland – the ancients; the great ones such as Cuchulain. Despite her magic, even a Celtic witch couldn’t stay here for long. So what chance had I? I was here in the Otherworld – both in body and in soul. How could I hope to survive against the Morrigan? I had salt and iron in my pockets, and my silver chain tied about my waist. However, they couldn’t hurt a goddess. I remembered my fight with the Ordeen back in Greece – how she had simply shrugged off the silver chain I had cast about her.

I’m not entirely sure what happened next – but I suddenly found myself crawling on all fours rather than walking, and I felt befuddled and disorientated. I was searching for the staff, which had been knocked out of my grasp. Where was it? I desperately needed a weapon; I knew instinctively that without one I couldn’t survive.

Midnight was fast approaching, and a terrible creature would come for me then. But what was it? Some sort of daemon? All I could remember was that a witch had sent it. She wanted revenge for something I’d done to her. But what had I done? What was it?

Why couldn’t I recall these things properly? My mind was whirling with fragments of memory – pieces that I couldn’t fit together. Was I already under some sort of dark enchantment? I wondered. I suddenly felt cold, very cold. Something from the dark was drawing close now.

In a panic, I leaped to my feet and desperately began to sprint through the trees, hindered by branches and thorny bushes that scratched and tore but not caring. I just
had
to get away.

I could hear something chasing me now, but it wasn’t on foot. There was a furious flapping of gigantic wings. I glanced back over my shoulder and wished I hadn’t, because what I saw increased my terror and panic.

I was being chased by an immense black crow.

A fragment of my shattered memory fell into place
.

The huge crow was the Morrigan, the bloodthirsty Old God of the Celtic witches. She scratched her victims to mark them for death. She haunted battlefields and pecked out the eyes of the dying.

A second fragment of memory slotted into its correct position
.

This one filled me with hope. I knew that I still had a slim chance of escaping her. Ahead lay a church of some sort: once inside, I would be safe from the goddess. Could I reach it before I was seized by the Morrigan? I had dreamed this situation so many times, but now it was real. Were it not for for that recurrent nightmare, this silver-lit world of the Hollow Hills would have snatched every last bit of my memory. I wondered if this ability to learn from my dreams was another gift I’d inherited from Mam.

Churches weren’t usually places of refuge from the dark. Priests might think so, but spooks certainly didn’t. Nevertheless, somehow I knew that I had to reach this one – or face death.

I’d been running hard, taking little heed of obstacles such as fallen logs and roots. Inevitably I tripped and went down. I got to my knees and looked up at my pursuer.

A dreadful creature was standing before me wearing a black, bloody gown that came down to her ankles, part woman, part crow. Her feet were bare and her toenails were talons – as were her fingernails – but she had a huge feathered head with a deadly beak.

She began to shift her shape. The beak shrank, the bird-eyes changed, until the head became human in appearance.

A third fragment of memory clicked into place
.

I knew that face. It was the Celtic witch, Scarabek. No doubt the Morrigan had taken on that identity to remind me of my crime against the witches who worshipped her.

All at once, in the distance, I heard the chime of a bell. Was it a church bell? If so, I could follow that sound to its source and take refuge!

It was worth a try, so on the second stroke I leaped to my feet and began to run towards the sound. I suddenly wondered how far away it was. Could I get there in time? The third peal sounded very near, but I could sense the Morrigan behind me, gliding closer and closer with every rapid step. I glanced back and saw that her face had been replaced by the huge crow’s head. The sharp beak was open wide, the pointed talons lunging towards me, ready to tear my flesh, mangle my body and scatter my splintered bones.

But now, through the trees, I glimpsed the silvery outline of a building. It was little more than a chapel with a small bell-tower. If only I could reach it!

As I got nearer, however, its outline began to shimmer and slowly shift its shape. The sharp angles softened, the tower disappeared, and it settled into the form of a burial mound. There was more: beneath the dome of the grass-covered roof lay a structure of gleaming white stone. Now I could see an open doorway with an intricately carved stone lintel; absolute darkness waited within.

The Morrigan’s talons raked towards my left shoulder, but I twisted away and dived through the small square entrance to that dark refuge. When I hit the ground, it felt soft; there was a covering of yellow straw, and I rolled over a couple of times before coming to a halt. I let my eyes slowly adjust to the dark – and soon I was able to make out my surroundings.

I took a couple of deep breaths, then came up into a crouch and looked about me. In the centre of the high ceiling of the mysterious chapel hung a seven-branched golden candelabrum, the thin candles blue and almost transparent. But the dim light didn’t reach the four corners of the chamber, where darkness gathered in impenetrable pools.

However, most significantly, the mysterious silver light had completely disappeared. The chapel was indeed a refuge from the Otherworld, and my mind, which had become increasingly sluggish and forgetful, felt sharp and clear again, and I recalled everything that had happened.

I heard a low growl and then the padding of heavy feet. Out of the shadows emerged a monstrous hound. I began to tremble. Claw and her fully grown pups, Blood and Bone, were fearsome beasts, but this hound was the size of a Shire dray-horse, as big and powerful as all three wolfhounds put together.

Was it the guardian of this place? If so, I had little chance against such a creature. But I didn’t need to defend myself, because an even bigger monster emerged from the shadows and put an enormous hand on the hound’s head to restrain it.

HE WAS A
giant of a man with a wild mane of coarse red hair. He carried a spear in his right hand and a sword at his belt.

His striking red hair suddenly drew my attention again. Although there was no breeze, the hair seemed to be moving. It was standing on end and writhing slowly, like underwater reeds moving in a swirling current.

‘You’re safe here, boy,’ he said in a deep booming voice as he settled down next to the magnificent hound. ‘This beast won’t touch you. It’s what’s out there that you should fear. I fear the Morrigan too, but she can’t enter here. This is a
sidhe
– a place of refuge. Do you have a name?’

My throat was dry, and I had to swallow before I could speak. ‘Tom Ward,’ I replied.

‘And what do you do, Tom? What brings you here?’

‘I’m an apprentice spook. My master and I fight the dark. I was tricked by a witch into entering this Otherworld – she wants the Morrigan to hunt me down.’

‘Well, as long as you stay within this sidhe she can’t touch you. Not even a goddess can enter. But it wouldn’t be wise to stay too long. Time passes differently here. It doesn’t flow at the same rate as it does back on earth. It moves forward in great surges. It is nearing midnight. Very soon the bells will chime the hour. At the twelfth peal, time will suddenly lurch forward: in one second spent here, many long years will have passed back in your world. Everyone you know will be dead. Go quickly while you still have something to return to.’

‘I want to get back, but I don’t know the way. And how can I get past the Morrigan?’

‘You could fight her. I’ve fought her before, but it always ends in pain, and I wake up here and wait for my strength to return.’

‘Who are you?’ I asked.

‘They once called me the Hound of Calann because I killed this dog here with my bare hands. Now, in the afterlife, we’re bound together.’

I remembered the tale Shey had told us. ‘So you’re Cuchulain – one of the great heroes of Ireland …’

The giant smiled at that. ‘Is that how they describe me, Tom? I like that. What else do they say about me?’

‘They say that you’re resting here and will return when Ireland needs you.’

Cuchulain laughed. ‘Me – return? I don’t think so! One life was enough for me, short as it was. I’ve done with killing men. No, I won’t be going back, that’s for sure. But I’ve a good mind to help
you
get back. I’m in the mood for a fight – though I must warn you, I’m not the best of men to accompany you. In battle a great fury comes upon me and a red mist clouds my vision. In that state, I’ve killed friends as well as enemies. I’ve regretted it afterwards, but that doesn’t undo what’s been done. It doesn’t bring back the dead. So beware! But the offer is there – take it or leave it. Though don’t spend too long making up your mind now.’