Mark Chadbourn - The Burning Man

‘It is.’

‘And you know where that knowledge is and how it all fits together?’

‘I do.’

‘Then you can tell us where Math is, and the others. Where the Market of Wishful Spirit is. The location of the Extinction Shears.’

‘That and more.’

‘We need that information. Everything depends on it.’

Ogma smiled and Mallory thought instantly of his father. ‘You are confusing knowledge, or wisdom, with the journey to achieve that wisdom. Both are separate, both equally important. For the journey is transformational, and is necessary to impart the power to use the wisdom once it is achieved. One without the other is worthless.’

‘So find it yourself — that’s what you’re saying.’

‘The key to your search is here and within your ability to locate.’

‘But people could be dying while we waste time looking! All I’m asking is to cut a few corners-’

Sophie restrained Mallory with a hand on his arm. ‘Everything valuable has to be earned. That’s the lesson of the Craft. We can do this.’

‘All right. But you’ll give us some help if we ask the right questions?’

‘Of course.’ Ogma gestured expansively around his library. ‘Open yourselves to Existence. It will help you.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mallory muttered. ‘No such thing as coincidence. I know the drill.’

While Jerzy sat next to the blazing fire, the others drifted off amongst the stacks in search of inspiration. Superficially it appeared a hopeless task — there were more volumes than they could examine in several lifetimes — but their instincts told them otherwise. What they had witnessed during the ritual in Math’s tower still flickered across their deep unconscious with two words rising repeatedly — MAT and ANM.

Some of the books were in unknown languages that gradually became comprehensible the more Mallory scanned them. Others left him with inexplicable emotions, euphoria or dread, and he was forced to close them quickly.

Occasionally he would glimpse figures flitting amongst the stacks, ghosts of the past or future, some like wisps of smoke in a shaft of light, others unnervingly substantial, their feet dragging on the flags.

One, a chilling figure with a body constructed from twisted blackthorn and a face that appeared to be made from crushed and folded paper, paused then turned slowly to stare at him. Mallory sensed a threatening aura emanating from the creature. The paper shifted gradually into an expression that appeared to say, ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again, soon.’

Mallory hurried on.

After a while his attention was caught by a full-length mirror trimmed with ebony on a silver stand. It caught the torchlight in an unsettling way. A legend was inscribed in gold on the top: We are all books, our experiences writ large for everyone to read .

Don’t look in it , a voice in Mallory’s head warned. He looked.

A sensation of falling came a second after he saw the reflection of a Mallory he did not recognise. Memories swam before his eyes. The cocky young man who thought the world couldn’t touch him. Nights in the club, the music vibrating through his bones. The rushing joy that only came before you realised troubles might wait just over the horizon. And then the hard men who had taught him a hard lesson. The realisation that some choices are impossible, but you have to make them anyway, and the price is etched on your soul. He saw the blood on his hands and relived the feeling that nothing would ever be right again. He’d come to terms with what the sickening criminal thugs had forced him to do — worse, what he’d chosen to do — but he knew he would always be trying to make amends for it.

Death was always the catalyst, the philosopher’s stone whose alchemical touch transformed the base to the sublime, sadder, more frightened but wiser. That terrible night had given him new eyes. He recalled the next day, walking down the street and being able to tell at a glance those who had had their first experience of death, and those who were still innocent; you always remember the first time.

And then Sophie had come along and shown him that there was still life after death, a new life, more vibrant than the one before. Sophie who had saved him.

Blue flames flickered in the depths of the glass and Hal appeared briefly, superimposed over Mallory’s own reflection. A sad smile appeared on the flaming face and it mouthed the words, ‘Hold on to moments of joy — they slip through your fingers like sand.’

Caitlin’s three constant companions bickered incessantly deep inside her head. The old crone Brigid cackled and mocked, much to the irritation of the neurotic Briony, while Amy pleaded and whimpered for them to stop. Caitlin had learned to fade them out so that she had some respite to hear her own thoughts, but every now and then they would break back through. No peace, ever.

‘You can’t have him. He belongs to someone else,’ Briony was saying in her snide tones.

‘I don’t want him. That doesn’t mean I can’t like him,’ Caitlin said, then looked around in case any of the others were near enough to hear her talking to herself.

‘She’s already forgotten Grant.’ Brigid cackled. ‘Out of sight, deep in the ground, out of mind.’

‘I haven’t!’ Tears sprang to Caitlin’s eyes. Was there some truth in what Brigid said? Was she forgetting her husband? It couldn’t be — the grief was still sharp.

‘And what about Thackeray? Isn’t he your boyfriend?’ Amy’s innocent voice made her questions even more poignant.

‘I don’t know where he is. Leave me alone!’ Caitlin clutched at her head. Silence, that was all she wanted, and there were times when she thought she would only find that in death. Never alone, she felt so alone.

She caught sight of Mallory across the aisle and three stacks down. He didn’t see her. A tingle ran down her back and into her groin, followed by a pang of guilt. The feelings were mysterious in origin, and she did her best to suppress them, but they were growing stronger. As long as she could keep them locked away there wouldn’t be a problem.

Sophie watched Caitlin watching Mallory and instantly saw every thought inside her head. It felt like a betrayal. Her feelings were already a stew of guilt and doubt and confusion; now she could add mistrust to the mix.

Was Caitlin attempting to steal Mallory away behind her back? Or was she just going to be barefaced about it? And if she couldn’t trust these two, who could she trust? It only confirmed her feelings that they were wrong about Niamh. She’d only ever showed Sophie kindness, and love, and what had happened between them was wrong, a betrayal of her relationship with Mallory, but it had only been once, an accident arising out of closeness, and there had been a lot of good in it, and it wouldn’t happen again, so that was all right.

Anger bubbled up in her. She hated losing control, and that made her angry at Caitlin even more. Why couldn’t she control her stupid crushes? Didn’t she realise how much was at stake?

Unable to look at Caitlin any more, she turned and let out a cry when she found Ogma standing behind her. His gaze delved into the deepest part of her. She shifted uneasily, but could not escape its focus.

‘You remind me of the other Sister of Dragons,’ he said. ‘The other mistress of Craft.’

‘Ruth?’

‘Both of you so fragile behind the face you show the world, both searching, inside and out.’

‘I’ve found what I’m looking for. And now I’m going to make sure I hang on to it.’

Ogma grew puzzled. A silver pin at his shoulder grew and changed shape. The Caraprix crawled down his body, unable to settle on a new form.