Mark Chadbourn - Jack of Ravens

‘You came,’ she said with faint humour.

‘Where are you from?’ Church recalled she had said her name was Niamh. ‘It’s a long walk to the next village.’

‘I have come from a place further away than you could imagine yet only a heartbeat from here.’ She surveyed Church with familiar haughtiness, then motioned to a bundle of cloth on the ground. ‘Sit. Join with me in food and drink for a while.’

Church was both irritated by her arrogance and entranced by her beauty. He sat next to her as she unwrapped the cloth to reveal a crystal decanter of water that sparkled in the autumn sun, two crystal goblets and some bread. The water was unlike any he had tasted in his life, filled with subtle, complex favours that invigorated him. The bread, too, was especially nourishing.

‘I saw you with that girl,’ Niamh said when Church had eaten and drunk his fill. ‘Are you in love?’

Church didn’t like her smile, which had an odd triumphant tinge. ‘Are you spying on me?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, unabashed. ‘I have watched you since our first encounter. You intrigue me. The Blue Fire burns strongly inside you.’

‘Maybe I should be honoured by your interest, but I’m not. You’ve obviously got a lot of time on your hands.’

‘Time is all I have. It means nothing and everything to one of the Tuatha De Danann.’

Church tried to work out if this was some game. ‘You’re saying you’re a god?’

‘We call ourselves the Golden Ones. It is the people of the tribes who named us Tuatha De Danann. We are travellers, lost in the Far Lands, unable to find our way back to our homeland. That fills us with a great sadness that we can never escape.’

Church glimpsed the briefest hint of that sadness in her face. ‘The people here think you were all driven back to T’ir n’a n’Og after you defeated the Fomorii at the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh-’

‘Driven?’ she said contemptuously. ‘Nothing could make the Golden Ones do what they did not wish. We chose to go as part of the pact. It was decided we would leave these Fixed Lands to your people, for a time at least. But many of my kind like this world and its bountiful riches, and we shall choose to visit from time to time, if it pleases us.’

‘Good to hear it. Thank you for the bread and water. Now I have to be getting back.’

‘I desire that you should return to T’ir n’a n’Og with me. See the wonders of the Far Lands. Experience sensations beyond your dreams.’

‘It’s tempting, but I think I’ll decline.’ Church’s attention was caught by what appeared to be a flash of black lightning in the vicinity of Carn Euny. It reminded him of what he had seen on the night of the storm more than three months ago, and filled him with a deep dread. ‘I have to go.’ He could smell something bitter and unpleasant on the wind.

‘You are worried about the girl?’ Niamh said. ‘And about those Fragile Creatures who took you in like a stray animal?’

Church strode down the slope. Niamh called after him, ‘Did you enjoy my food and drink, Brother of Dragons? It was not given freely. It was not given without obligation.’

Suddenly Church could not move his arms or legs. An abiding fear sprang up in him at what he had done.

The sun was setting in an angry red blaze when Church came to his senses. Niamh was long gone. He ran wildly down the slope, thoughts careering through his head: about how the gods of Celtic myth were diminished over the centuries until they were classed as fairies, their Otherworldly home became fairy mounds, their rituals dances under moonlight around a toadstool ring. But their random cruelty never diminished; the name of the Fair Folk was never taken in vain.

And Church recalled how they lured mortals to their fairy homes and forced them to dance for 200 years. And how their food and drink was enchanted — once tasted it could hold a man in thrall to the wishes of the Fair Folk for the rest of his days.

Not given freely. Not given without obligation .

Carn Euny was eerily deserted as Church skidded down the grass slope and dashed past the midden into the main street. He called out, but no one answered or came to investigate. No children played; no dogs barked. Instead, tasks were abandoned half-complete: the preparation of the evening meal, the water buckets being brought back from the spring.

Church made his way to the roundhouse given over to the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons to see if Tannis or one of the others had left a message as to where everyone had gone. The house was as still as the rest of the village, but the moment he stepped across the threshold his entire world fell apart.

It was a charnel house. Blood had been splashed up the walls and pooled on the floor, and dripped in a sickening rhythm from the roof to sizzle on the embers of the fire. Amongst it lay the bodies of his friends, all slaughtered: Tannis, Owein, Branwen and Etain, the one that crushed his spirit the most.

Church grasped her in his arms so that her blood smeared across his face and clothes. He prayed that there was some flicker of life that the Pendragon Spirit could fan into a flame, but she was already cold, her consciousness long gone. He cried for her and for the others. He cried for himself.

For a long time he sat there, lost to the shock and the grief, until eventually he saw the mark of the murderer scrawled on the wall in blood. One word: SCUM .

An English word. A word from his own time.

Church staggered out into the twilit street where Niamh was waiting for him.

He was filled with fury when he saw her. ‘I could have saved them if you’d let me go!’

‘Or you could have died with them.’

‘Who did this?’

She smiled coldly, said nothing. His grief and despair threatened to wash his thoughts away and he covered his face to drive out the terrible images.

‘Come with me,’ she said. It was not a request, and even if he had had the will he could not refuse.

In his daze, he sensed movement in the shadows beside one of the roundhouses. It was a boy, Oengus, to whom Church had told stories on many a morning. As he approached, Church could see the whites of his eyes. He was scared, but his curiosity overrode his fear as he noticed the smear of Etain’s blood across Church’s clothes. You are mortally wounded?’

Niamh answered for Church. ‘His wound is much deeper than you could ever know. It runs to the very heart of him.’

‘Are you leaving?’ the boy asked.

‘He is.’ Niamh eyed Oengus with a curious contempt. ‘Say your goodbyes.’

‘And you are going to the Isle of Apples?’ The boy’s eyes grew wider still.

Niamh gave a mocking smile. ‘Your warrior-king sails across the ocean to fair Avalon.’

‘And will we never see him again?’

‘I am sure he will return when you need him most. In your darkest hour, call his name.’ Another sly smile.

‘Find the others now, Oengus,’ Church said flatly. ‘Tell them to keep safe. Watch out for enemies.’

The boy fled into the night. Niamh’s smile chilled Church to the bone. ‘The ravens are ready to feast here. They follow you, Jack Churchill, always hungry.’ She gave a mocking bow. ‘Jack of Ravens.’

Church hung his head.

‘Say goodbye to this dreary place of never-changing. You have a new home now.’

Without a backward glance she walked out of the village. Church followed. Beneath the hawthorn tree, he looked back to where Carn Euny lay and realised that, despite being dispossessed, he had been happy there.

‘This world is gone,’ Niamh said.

She snapped her fingers and night fell.