‘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 hoar frost 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 of 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 towards the west, we saw the sea below us, and a small town huddled on the edge of a river estuary.
‘That’s Kenmare, my home town,’ 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 storeys 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 had been 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, when he was 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.’