John Lenahan - Shadowmagic

The landscape changed the closer we got to Castle Muhn. The fields of grain changed into towering vineyards. Ancient trellises of black hawthorn were draped with vines producing grapes in bunches so large I was amazed that they could stay on the vine. Bees the size of hummingbirds roared through the white and pink blossoms. Castle Muhn was not like the imposing fortress of Castle Duir. It was huge-it must have taken up over an acre, with low walls, and I noticed a conspicuous lack of sentries. Actually, with the vineyards around it, it looked more like a sprawling French chateau.

We walked in silence for a while, which I was starting to realise was unusual for Fergal. Things had been so crazy, this was the first moment I had time to collect my thoughts. Jeez, I hoped Dad was alright. He looked bad when I left him but he was definitely alive. I felt guilty going to a party, but something in my mother’s voice back there made me think Dad would be OK. And then there was my dream. Was that a vision or just wish-fulfilment? Well, as much as I would like to be able to help him, there was nothing I could do about it. Still, that didn’t stop me from worrying.

I decided to look at the big picture. Right. My father is a prince or maybe a king. My mother is an outlaw sorceress, and everyone in this place (that shouldn’t even exist) wants to kill me. OK, let’s forget the big picture-that was just freaking me out. I needed a plan for the here and now. What should I do? I should get out of here, that’s what I should do. I needed to get out of The Land. If the prophecy was right, and everyone around here seemed to take it seriously-deadly seriously-then my parents’ plan was a good one. Let me live a long and happy life in the Real World and when I reach a ripe old age, I pass away in my bed. The son of the one-handed prince will die, and Tir na Nog will be saved. Good plan-I liked it. But how do I get back to the Real World? There had to be a way, after all my father and I had done it. The answer was Mom. She was the one that sent us in the first place. If I could find my mother, I could get out of here. OK, I had a plan-find my mother. Where? How? She said she was going to the Fililands, so now all I had to do was find out how to get there. I chuckled to myself-the fact of the matter was that I was lost and scared and the only plan I could come up was- I want my mommy! -real mature.

The approach to the outer wall of the castle was strange-eerie, in fact. The gate was wide open but there were no guards, no anybody. I could just about hear music coming from within but there was no one outside or inside the doorway as far as I could tell.

‘I’m not an expert on castles,’ I said, ‘but aren’t you supposed to, like, guard them?’

‘Gerard doesn’t need guards, he’s got a mountain of gold,’ Fergal said. ‘This place is crawling with snap spells. I’m sure if you were up to no good, you wouldn’t get in here.’

‘Gerard?’ I said. ‘Is this the same guy who built the huts?’

‘Of course.’

We were actually inside the castle and still there was nobody around. There was definitely something going on. I could hear music but there was no sign of a party. I was startled when huge wooden doors at the end of the hallway opened and half a dozen servants with trays of dirty mugs and plates hurried past us without even a second glance. Music and the smell of food escaped from the room like a caged bird. The sound and the aroma were instantly intoxicating. I had been thinking that maybe going to such a public event was a bad idea, but after I got that nose-and earful-just try to keep me out.

Fergal reached the door first and then jumped when he heard a voice saying, ‘Name?’

To the right of the door was an alcove with a split door, the top half open. Behind the door was an old guy-and I mean an ancient old guy. Physically he didn’t look that old, but I could see the years in his eyes. It’s amazing how quickly I had gotten used to examining people’s eyes. This guy’s peepers had been around for a long, long time.

‘Name?’ he repeated.

‘Fergal of Castle Ur.’

‘Castle Ur?’ the old man questioned. ‘You don’t look like an Imp to me.’

‘He is with me,’ Araf said, in a beautiful bass voice.

‘My God!’ I said. ‘He can speak.’

‘Ah, Master Araf,’ the old guy said, ‘it is good to see you again.’

‘This is my kinsman, Fergal,’ Araf said. ‘He is indeed of Castle Ur, and this is Conor of…’

They all three looked to me for an answer-what could I say? ‘I am Conor of-the Fililands.’

They all looked at me like I was from another planet (which I guess I was) and then burst into laughter.

‘The Fililands!’ the old man repeated. ‘That’s a good one. Try not to eat any babies tonight, will you?’

Fergal and Araf laughed at this. So I did too.

‘I promise,’ I said.

‘Any friends of Master Araf are welcome in Castle Muhn,’ said the old man. ‘I’ll take your weapons now, if you please. That would include the one up your sleeve, Master…Fergal, was it?’

Fergal looked shocked but produced and unhooked his Banshee blade.

‘I was hoping to get into a banta match.’ Araf spoke again. ‘Can I not keep my stick?’

The doorkeeper held out his hand and Araf handed him his banta stick. The old man inspected it and placed it with a bunch of others behind the door. ‘There will be sticks provided if you wish to compete. And our sticks,’ the old man said with a wry smile, ‘have the added advantage of not being hollowed out and filled with lead.’

Araf nodded like a guilty schoolboy.

Fergal and I both handed over our weapons. He filed Fergal’s blade away, but looked at mine for quite some time.

‘This is an exquisite sword,’ the old man said, as he placed it alone in a narrow cupboard. ‘Does it have a name?’

‘Does what have a name?’ I asked.

‘Your sword-a weapon as superb as this should have a name.’

‘Oh, of course-I-I call it,’ I announced, “the Lawnmower!”

Since my first experience of a castle was inside a sewer-scented dungeon, I was expecting the other side of the door to be filled with disgusting barbarians in bearskins. I imagined them chomping on huge legs of animal flesh as they slapped the backsides of passing serving wenches, their greasy chins glistening in dim torchlight. How wrong can a boy be?

This place was spectacularly elegant. We were no longer strictly in the castle but in the Great Vineyard, a football-pitch-sized courtyard adorned with fountains and huge black and white marble statues. The statues were like oversized chess pieces strewn about in a haphazard manner-some upright, others on their side. It was as if the gods had just dumped out a giant chess set before they set up for a game. Roofing the courtyard was a black trellis that supported grapevines with fruit as big as plums. What was left of the day’s light filtered through the leaves, giving the room a majestic green hue.

Remembering the incident with the apple, the first thing I did was place my hand on a vine and ask nicely if I could have a grape. ‘NO YOU MAY NOT!’ The answer came back so clear it made my head hurt. These were proud plants.

Fergal whacked me on the back, ‘You weren’t thinking about plucking a grape from the Great Vineyard, were you?’

‘Who, me?’ I lied. ‘I wouldn’t be that stupid.’

‘Come on, let’s try Gerard’s new vintage.’

The party was in full swing. The music was infectious. It instantly lifted me into a party mood and made my walk resemble a little dance. It reminded me of Irish traditional music-but not quite. I was starting to think that there must have been some cultural exchange between my world and this one, because so much of The Land was almost familiar. The couple of hundred guests were standing around with mugs or sitting at wooden tables. I noticed that no two tables were of the same wood and each one would have made an antique dealer drool.