The darkness that had closed down when Roscius’s son dragged the well cover into place was more complete than anything Flynn had ever imagined possible. It was a thick solid blackness, and there was not even the knowledge that in a few minutes his eyes would adjust to night-vision. To have night-vision it was necessary to have a small amount of light ingress, and in here there was none.
He had climbed up to the mouth of the well at once, of course, feeling for the iron staves driven into the sides, stretching a hand cautiously up to feel for the underside of the cover. His searching hand found the other end of the rope that was tied round his waist. Roscius had secured it to the remains of what felt like an ancient hinge on the underside of the well lid. It felt rusty and so frail that Flynn realised with cold horror that it could give way under his suspended weight at any second. He tried not to think about this for the moment.
He had known, even before he tried to push the cover off, that it would be hopeless, of course; he had heard, with dreadful clarity, the sound of some kind of locking mechanism being used, but he still made the attempt, first managing to loop the rope around the top rung of the iron ladder which would at least reduce the slack if he fell, and which would go some way to saving him if the rusting lid-hinge gave way. He managed to knot it reasonably firmly, holding on to the rung with his left hand and using his right hand and his teeth to make the knot. So far so good. Now for the lid.
He steadied himself with his left hand this time, and placed his right hand, palm uppermost, against the underside of the lid. It felt horrid against his skin – as if lying across the ancient well for centuries had caused it to soak up the black, fetid air. Flynn set his teeth and threw all his weight behind the effort. Twice he lost his hold on the iron rung and dropped sharply downwards, but each time the knots around the ladder held.
But after several attempts, which left him gasping for air and covered in sweat, he knew it was an impossible task. The well cover was immovable: Roscius had locked it in place and he intended Flynn to die down here. Flynn found the footholds again, and curled his hands around two of the staves, and forced himself to concentrate on his appalling situation, and on how he was going to escape.
There was a brief spark of hope when he remembered the people in Flaherty’s Bar, and the priest – Father Mack – who had known of his destination, but this spark died almost at once. It was not very likely that they would send out the cavalry for a brief, chance-met acquaintance, and even if they did – even if the house was searched from cellar to attic and this part was scrutinised – all anyone would see would be a disused well shaft, the cover properly in place. There would be no reason to suspect that there was a prisoner hidden anywhere.
I’m clutching at straws, thought Flynn, his hands still curled around the iron staves. I’m absolutely alone. I’m more alone than I ever imagined possible. If I can’t get out of here I’m going to die, and God knows how long it will take. I don’t think I can hold on to these iron rungs for much longer. And when I can’t, I suppose I’ll just swing helplessly from the rope. It might take days to die. I’ll probably become purblind from the dark and deaf from the silence, and I’ll probably go mad with thirst— It’s supposed to be a very nasty thing indeed to die from thirst. But that’s what it’s going to be, thought Flynn. Despair, the agony of the soul, closed about him, and he thought: I’m shut in an ancient well shaft, beneath a deserted old house by a mad creature with half a face, and no one knows I’m here.
He had no idea how long he stayed like that, half clinging to the iron rungs, half swinging from the rope. He thought he might partly have lost his grip on consciousness again for a time – he certainly thought he might have lost his grip on sanity at some point as well. But at length he began to think more clearly again. I can’t go up, he thought. The lid’s locked in place, and if Roscius unlocks it, I’ll hear. And if I stay here I’ll go slowly mad. But supposing I could go down?
His heart at once began to beat faster with a mixture of panic and hope. What had Roscius said? There’s a legend that the well winds down and down beneath the ocean, and eventually comes out in the underworld lair of the leanan-sidhe. I don’t believe in the leanan-sidhe, thought Flynn, grimly. At least, we’ll say I don’t for the purpose of this exercise. But I can very easily believe in ancient wells that go down into sea tunnels. And anything’s better than staying here, waiting to die.
Undoing the knot in the rope around his waist was more difficult than he’d expected. And I’ve got to remember that once this rope’s undone, I’m wholly reliant on the iron rungs, thought Flynn, trying not to panic at the prospect.
He had expected to feel overwhelming fear when the knot finally loosened, but instead he felt a fresh surge of hope. It’s another step towards escape, he thought. At least, I’ll say it is. Here I go, then. Down into the depths. I’m not liking this at all, but I’m damned if I’ll admit it!
The well got nastier the lower he went. It grew steadily colder as well, and the bad air seemed to get worse. It’s like crawling down into the maw of a monster, thought Flynn. No, I won’t think that, I’ll think I’m going down to freedom. I wish I could see a bit better.
He thought it was not quite so silent now; once or twice there was the sound he had heard earlier, that was so uncannily like a massive, invisible creature breathing out. He caught the dripping of water more clearly as well and hoped very strenuously that this did not mean he was simply climbing down to a reservoir filled with stagnant water.
He had to feel for the iron rungs as he went, and to test each one before he dared put his weight on it. Several rungs were missing and he had to slither lower, his hands taking his entire weight; several times the rungs broke away from the brickwork as soon as he found them. When this happened Flynn froze at once, clinging to the remaining staves, listening to the sound of the fall. What will I do if I hear them splash into water? he thought in horror. But there was no splash, only a faint thud as the iron staves reached the bottom. Flynn tried not to think that it sounded a very long way down. He tried not to hear the curious breathing-out sounds as well, although he had the uneasy impression that they were louder. I’m getting closer to whatever’s making the sounds, he thought. The air’s getting worse, as well. He had no idea if this was because he was inside a sealed vault and using up oxygen, or if it was from some other reason entirely. He wished he had not lit on the expression ‘sealed vault’ and he wished he had not thought about using up oxygen.
His leg muscles were coping fairly well with the descent, but his arms and shoulders were aching abominably. He was just wondering how much longer he could go on, when, without any warning at all, the iron rungs stopped. Flynn, holding on by his hands, explored the wall immediately below him, using his feet. Nothing. Then either there was such a short drop to the bottom that the rungs were no longer necessary, or—
Or a whole series of rungs had rusted and fallen out of their own accord.
I’ll have to jump and trust to luck, thought Flynn, appalled. There’s nothing else for it. He took several deep breaths, which tasted dreadful and made his head swim all over again, and he was astonished to find himself sending up a prayer. But, Mother of God, if I land safely on terra firma, I’ll return to the bosom of the Church immediately! I’ll go to Mass every Sunday, and I’ll even—
It was now or never. He let go of the rungs, and for the space of six heartbeats slithered painfully against the brick wall. And then incredibly and wonderfully he was on firm hard ground, slightly jarred by the short fall, but in one piece. I’ve done it! thought Flynn, hardly believing it. I’ve reached the bottom and I’m more or less unhurt, and I’ve even done it before I could swear away any more of my immortal soul. This unexpected spurt of irony cheered him up more than he would have believed possible. I mustn’t get carried away, he thought. I’m a bit nearer to freedom than I was an hour ago, but I daren’t get carried away.
The shirt he had donned a hundred years ago that morning was sticking to his shoulder-blades with sweat, but his head felt noticeably clearer. Because there was an ingress of air from somewhere? He had lost all sense of time, but he thought it could not be more than a couple of hours since Roscius’s son had imprisoned him. I’ll beat you yet, you evil sod! he thought.
But a sneaky little voice whispered that this might be as far as he was going to get, because if there really was a way out of here, Roscius would surely have known of it. Flynn could almost imagine that tortuous mind enjoying contriving a prison that allowed for escape, and then lying in wait for the hapless prisoner who believed himself free.
It was then that he realised that not only were the sounds of dripping water and strange exhalations much nearer, for the first time he could make out, very faintly, the outlines of the bricks. Light was coming in from somewhere.
The light was not good, but it was a million times better than the solid blackness had been. It was a dull, smeary light, rather horridly reminiscent of poison oozing from a wound, and it seemed to be coming from Flynn’s left. He waited for his vision to adjust, trying to take stock of his surroundings before moving again. Above him was the well shaft, and at his feet was what seemed to be a solid mass of rock. Ahead of him, in the direction of the sluggish light, he could just make out the shadowy outline of a tunnel.
Flynn forced himself to stay calm. It was possible that the tunnel led absolutely nowhere and it was still possible that Roscius was tricking him, but it was a chance that had to be taken. He set off warily.
The tunnel was narrow and the floor was perilously uneven, but it was possible to walk upright and there was sufficient light to guide his way. It wound steeply downwards, and as Flynn went deeper he had the sensation that he was crossing a dark threshold and descending to a forbidden and very sinister realm. And I don’t believe I’m entirely alone here, either, he thought. Is Roscius following me? Or waiting for me somewhere up ahead? I wouldn’t put it past him. With every step he expected the shadows to part and to see the dreadful, incomplete face appear, but nothing moved and the only sound was the strange breathing, growing perceptibly louder.
The tunnel twisted and turned sharply so that for most of the time it was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. Flynn kept imagining creatures gathering just beyond each turn of the tunnel, their heads bobbing together, whispering and plotting . . . Clucking and gobbling, and mopping and mowing . . .? Don’t be absurd! he said to himself angrily.
But the feeling that he was entering some diabolic and devil-haunted nether-world persisted. There was something goblin-like about this place, there was the impression of small, bony bodies dodging out of his line of vision, and of peering, inward-slanting red eyes. Was he really going into the lair of the leanan-sidhe after all? And supposing they were not the sensuous, sensual creatures that Fael Miller had created and that Flynn had brought to life, but something very different indeed? But that’s ridiculous! he thought. That’s absurd.
He stood still for a moment, thinking he could hear other sounds now: dry little rustlings that might have been fleshless fingers rubbing gleefully together, or whisking, boneless tails poking out beneath trailing velvet gowns . . . There was the smell and the feel and the imprint of bloodied legends waking, and of centuries-old elvish courts being convened, almost as if—
Almost as if the pitiful, mad creature who lived in the clifftop house had called to something immeasurably ancient and incalculably evil. And as if that something, once summoned, had stayed.
Flynn shook off the clustering thoughts, and went on again. The light was perceptibly stronger and the breathing-out sounds were all around him, but he had gone a fair way through the tunnel before it suddenly dawned on him what the sounds were.
It’s the ocean! he thought, half relieved, half fearful of a different danger altogether. The well tunnel goes down beneath the ocean – Roscius said it did – and that’s what I’m hearing. I’m probably under the ocean now, or at least I’m very near to it. I don’t know that I much like the idea of being several fathoms beneath the Atlantic, he thought, sending an uneasy glance at the tunnel roof and seeing that it gleamed faintly in the uncertain light. I hope that’s just phosphorescence, thought Flynn. I hope it isn’t the ocean oozing through.
And now he could see that the dull light was in fact waterlight that rippled and played on the rock walls. There were carvings in the rock as well: pictures of strange sea-beasts with horned heads or round, seal-like heads and sinuous bodies, with tiny wizened-faced creatures crouching at their feet. The leanan-sidhe with their servants? Or the leanan-sidhe themselves, in their stages of metamorphosis into humanish shape?
I’m not at all sure I’m really seeing this, thought Flynn, staring in repulsion at the carvings. And where did I get the word ‘humanish’ from? It’s got a distinctly unpleasant sound to it, that word. I’m not at all sure I didn’t die inside that revolting well, or that I haven’t toppled over into real madness. Because I think I’m crossing over into Cauldron’s world, and although it isn’t quite the world I designed in London, there’re some alarming similarities.
I’m very likely approaching my own particular hell or at the very least purgatory, he thought. I’m very likely going towards hell’s fire-drenched caverns, and I’ll be torn to pieces by the red-eyed demons who hold gobbling malevolent court there . . . Or at best, I’ll find that I’m flung into the iron-hued dungeons where pieces of time are frozen inside the molten furnaces . . .
And those are quite interesting images, he thought with sudden wry humour. If I ever get out of here, I’ll use them for a stage-set some time.
Fael had been so immersed in the legend of the Self-Bored Stone, and in the strange bargains that had been struck at its base, that she had not noticed the hours slipping away. She had left the lights burning through the day because of the winter darkness that enclosed Maise, and day had slid down to twilight and then to full night almost without her noticing.
Once, somewhere in the middle of the evening, she thought there was the sound of something massive and heavy being slammed below her in the house – a door? – and she lifted her head to listen. But there were no more sounds, and Fael plunged back into the ancient myth-worlds which were peopled with heroes and giants and princesses, and laced with heady, heavy enchantments. There were upwards of half a dozen plots here, and any of them would make a terrific follow-up to Cauldron. And this time I’m spinning the magic all by myself, thought Fael, in sudden delight.
She was vaguely aware of the old house settling into silence all about her, but she was absorbed in the unravelling strands of myth and in any case she had started to know the house’s sounds now; she was in fact beginning to find the little night creakings and rustlings familiar and rather friendly.
It was only when she heard the turret door being unlocked, and turned to see her captor in the doorway, that she realised it was almost midnight. He had discarded the wide-brimmed hat he so often wore, and droplets of moisture clung to his dark hair. His eyes behind the mask shone, and there was a crackle of energy from him, as if his whole body was alive with electricity. Fael felt a hammer of panic begin to beat against her mind. Something’s happening. Something’s changed.
He crossed the room and caught her wrists in one of his hands, and she felt the remembered magnetism again and was suddenly and angrily aware that it would not take much, it would barely take the crooking of a finger to lure her to bed. If he beckons, I’ll go, thought Fael, staring up at him in mingled horror and stirring fascination. If he really set the magic spinning again, I believe I would. Does he know it, I wonder? But it isn’t bed he’s got in mind tonight: it’s something far darker and far more sinister. Oh God, is this the reckoning – the real reckoning?
He lifted her in his arms then, and Fael at once struggled and said, ‘What are you doing? Put me down, damn you! What is all this?’
‘It’s another phase of your captivity, Fael,’ he said, carrying her down the steps. ‘Probably it’s the last phase.’
‘Well, whatever it is, you needn’t think you’ll have it all your own way!’ said Fael, and was pleased to hear quite a respectable note of defiance in her tone. ‘Don’t think I won’t fight you, because I will!’ she added, for good measure, and as he carried her down the narrow turret stair she twisted around in his arms as much as possible, and glared at the covered face. ‘Listen, if you don’t tell me where we’re going and what you’re going to do, I’ll claw your eyes out. I really will, you know.’
‘Without eyes I can still shoot you, my dear.’
There was a very nasty echo of all the better to murder you, my dear, about his tone. Fael heard it and flinched. ‘You’ve still got the gun,’ she said, after a moment.
‘I have. And it’s interesting to contemplate where a bullet could go, isn’t it?’ He paused on the curve of the stair, the narrow eyes studying her. Fael felt a breath of cold air, and saw the curtains on the half-landing stir slightly. She repressed a shiver. ‘Straight into the spine, perhaps,’ he said. ‘A bullet in the top of the spine might be the best place – below the brain but above all the nerve centres. Yes, I believe I could be fairly accurate about that. And you’d suffer irreversible paralysis this time, Fael. But there’d be complete mental awareness. You’d be dependent on other people for absolutely everything. How would that feel? You came close to it after the car crash, didn’t you, but the damage was repairable. How would you cope if it wasn’t?’
He paused, and then said, very coldly and very deliberately, ‘And you’d be alone this time, Fael. Tod’s dead, you know. Or didn’t you know?’
Fael said, ‘Oh get on with whatever you’re going to do and stop being so bloody melodramatic!’ But she thought: Yes, of course Tod’s dead, and of course I guessed it. Only I can’t think about that now – because I daren’t think of anything other than what’s happening now.
They reached the ground floor and Scathach threw open the door and stepped out into the night. The wind snatched at Fael’s hair and took her breath away.
He moved with the swift, cold efficiency she remembered, depositing her in the back of the car, and tying her wrists behind her back. Fael said, ‘You don’t use much variation, do you? We’ve done all this once already,’ and as he drove off, struggled fruitlessly to loosen the ropes.
She thought they drove only a very short distance – perhaps a quarter of a mile – before stopping, but it was very dark and the wind was driving little flurries of icy rain against the car’s windows. Fael shivered and glanced at the dashboard clock. Just coming up to midnight.
He parked on a narrow grass verge on the roadside and lifted her out. The rain had stopped, but the wind was driving the clouds across the night sky and there was a full moon, a pale globe that rode high in the sky, and cast a cold radiance that Fael found unspeakably sinister. She looked about her, trying to identify landmarks, trying to see if there were any nearby houses with occupants who might hear or see what was happening, or hear if she yelled for help. Nothing. He picks his spots, she thought wryly.
It was not until Scathach carried her down a roughish track that wound down from the road and she saw the black outline of the Self-Bored Stone that she understood where they were. He knows this path very well, thought Fael, and he’s approaching the stone with familiarity. But behind the familiarity was something else. Respect? Something even stronger? Submission? It was absurd to think of the word in connection with him, but Fael did think it.
And there’s something else out here with us, she thought suddenly, feeling the fear rev up again. It’s something I can’t quite see but it’s something that shrieks inside the wind and that screeches with laughter. He was holding her firmly, but she managed to twist her head to look back. The path was sparsely covered with scrubby patches of grass, and the wind was whipping miniature dust-storms across it. Ridiculous to think that dozens of little footprints were appearing on the wind-tossed ground, as if invisible creatures danced along in Scathach’s wake. Absurd in the extreme to imagine figures half-forming in the darkness and to think they were forming a circle around Scathach. The leanan-sidhe with their chill, seductive music . . .? I’m hearing things and I’m definitely seeing things, thought Fael.
But as they approached the huge silhouette of the stone, she thought the shapes came a little more clearly into focus. As if they’re shedding their outer skins, thought Fael, in sudden panic. I daresay I’m going mad, but I can hear their music! cried her mind. And I can see them, I truly can! They’re linking hands and prancing in a wild devils’ dance, and although they wear gloves of human skin, under it their fingers are fleshless and horny-nailed . . . All the better to dig out your heart, my lady, and all the better to steal your new-born babe, my lady . . .
Is that why he’s brought me here? thought Fael. Because of the night we spent together, because there might be a child? But it’s the most outside chance in the world – he must know that. And it won’t be a first-born – he knows that as well.
Even so, a different, more primeval fear started to uncoil, and for the first time she thought of the tiny speck, that might or might not exist inside her, as a living thing: a child with dark eyes and hair and with feelings and emotions – perhaps with a slightly other-world perception and an intuitive ability to spin marvellous music and twist it around people’s emotions . . . His son. But I don’t want it! cried Fael silently. I don’t want to feel like this! Oh God, I’m not believing any of this at all! I must be in a nightmare or somebody’s drug-induced hallucination!
But I can see shapes forming in the darkness, and I can make out huge, ragged wings that they sometimes fold around them like cloaks, but that sometimes beat frighteningly on the night when they’re hunting the humans . . . Their faces are hidden, but if they weren’t they’d be gnarled and sly: cats’ faces and rats’ faces with evil wizened features— The leanan-sidhe, the water-demons who can bestow genius but who steal human children. And it’s a fearsome, grisly process watching them form – he told me that and I didn’t believe him, but tonight I do.
Scathach stopped in the lee of the stone, and only then did Fael see that lying at its foot, gagged and bound, was a girl with dishevelled red hair and frightened eyes and vaguely familiar features.
Mab. Mab from Cauldron who was caught in thrall by the soulless sidh prince and who fought against yielding to him lest she become his, body and soul and blood and bone.