John Lenahan - The Shadowmagic Trilogy

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.

It seemed that all were welcome here. The guests’ clothes ranged from farmers’ rags to elegant flowing gowns, and everyone was mixing. I was expecting to get that we don’t like strangers around here stare but everyone was smiling and nodding, especially to Araf. We got to the bar and Fergal ordered ‘three of the new stuff’. While we were waiting for our wine, Fergal noticed he was standing next to someone he knew and slapped him on the back. He was a tall, lean man with very straight, shoulder-length blond hair. I could see by his expression that he liked being slapped on the back almost as much as I did.

‘Esus! How the hell are ya?’

‘Ah, Fergal, this must be your first celebration at Castle Muhn.’

‘It is indeed.’

‘And good evening, Master Araf,’ the tall man said.

Araf bowed.

‘Esus,’ Fergal said, ‘I would like you to meet Conor. Conor, Esus.’

‘Good evening,’ I said, bowing in the same manner as Araf.

The tall man bowed back, but only slightly.

‘Esus,’ Fergal explained, ‘is the Elf that takes care of the trees around Castle Ur.’

‘You’re an Elf?’ I blurted before I could stop myself.

‘I have that distinction – yes.’

‘Well,’ I said, trying to recover my composure, ‘some of my best friends are Elves.’

‘Oh yes,’ Esus said, ‘who?’

What a stupid thing to say. What was I going to do now? This was the first person I had met in The Land that I hadn’t tried to stab – I was starting to miss my old method of greeting people.

‘Ah … Legolas. Do you know him?’

‘No,’ said Esus. ‘What clan is he in?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Hey, when I said best friends, I really meant acquaintances.’

The awkward moment was saved by the arrival of our wine. Fergal and even Araf got very excited.

‘Ah, my first taste of the new vintage. To Gerard and his vines,’ Fergal toasted, and we all clinked our mugs.

I’m not a real big fan of wine. Oh, I’ll have the odd glass at a posh dinner, but by and large I’d rather have a beer any day of the week; but this was wine I would sell my soul for. It was the nectar of the gods. I had an image of Bacchus, the Roman wine god, waltzing in and throwing a barrel of this stuff over his shoulder.