The Weirdstone of Brisingamen and The Moon of Gomrath. Alan Garner

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       CHAPTER 9

       ST MARY’S CLYFFE

      The room was long, with a high ceiling, painted black. Round the walls and about the windows were draped black velvet tapestries. The bare wooden floor was stained a deep red. There was a table on which lay a rod, forked at the end, and a silver plate containing a mound of red powder. On one side of the table was a reading-stand, which supported an old vellum book of great size, and on the other stood a brazier of glowing coals. There was no other furniture of any kind.

      Grimnir looked on with much bad grace as Shape-shifter moved through the ritual of preparation. He did not like witch-magic: it relied too much on clumsy nature spirits and the slow brewing of hate. He preferred the lightning stroke of fear and the dark powers of the mind.

      But certainly this crude magic had weight. It piled force on force, like a mounting wave, and overwhelmed its prey with the slow violence of an avalanche. If only it were a quick magic! There could be very little time left now before Nastrond acted on his rising suspicions, and then … Grimnir’s heart quailed at the thought. Oh, let him but bend this stone’s power to his will, and Nastrond should see a true Spirit of Darkness arise; one to whom Ragnarok, and all it contained, would be no more than a ditch of noisome creatures to be bestridden and ignored. But how to master the stone? It had parried all his rapier thrusts, and, at one moment, had come near to destroying him. The sole chance now lay in this morthwoman’s witchcraft, and she must be watched; it would not do for the stone to become her slave. She trusted him no more than could be expected, but the problem of how to rid himself of her when she had played out her part in his schemes was not of immediate importance. The shadow of Nastrond was growing large in his mind, and in swift success alone could he hope to endure.

      With black sand, which she poured from a leather bottle, Shape-shifter traced an intricately patterned circle on the floor. Often she would halt, make a sign in the air with her hand, mutter to herself, curtsy, and resume her pouring. She was dressed in a black robe, tied round with scarlet cord, and on her feet were pointed shoes.

      So intent on her work was the Morrigan, and so wrapped in his thoughts was Grimnir, that neither of them saw the two pairs of eyes that inched round the side of the window.

      The circle was complete. Shape-shifter went to the table and picked up the rod.

      “It is not the hour proper for summoning the aid we need,” she said, “but if what you have heard contains even a grain of the truth, then we see that we must act at once, though we could have wished for a more discreet approach on your part.” She indicated the grey cloud that pressed against the glass, now empty of watching eyes. “You may well attract unwanted attention.”

      At that moment, as if in answer to her fears, a distant clamour arise on the far side of the house. It was the eerie baying of hounds.

      “Ah, you see! They are restless: there is something on the wind. Perhaps it would be wise to let them seek it out; they will soon let us know if it is aught beyond their powers – as well it may be! For if we do not have Ragnarok and Fundindelve upon our heads before the day is out, it will be no thanks to you.”

      She stumped round the corner of the house to the outbuilding from which the noise came. Selina Place was uneasy, and out of temper. For all his art, what a fool Grimnir could be! And what risks he took! Who, in their senses, would come so obviously on such an errand? Like his magic, he was no match for the weirdstone of Brisingamen. She smiled; yes, it would take the old sorcery to tame that one, and he knew it, for all his fussing in Llyn-dhu. “All right, all right! We’re coming! Don’t tear the door down!”

      Behind her, two shadows moved out of the mist, slid along the wall, and through the open door.

      “Which way now?” whispered Susan.

      They were standing in a cramped hall, and there was a choice of three doors leading from it. One of these was ajar, and seemed to be a cloakroom.

      “In here, then we’ll see which door she goes through.”

      Nor did they delay, for the masculine tread of Selina Place came to them out of the mist.

      “Now let us do what we can in haste,” she said as she rejoined Grimnir. “There may be nothing threatening, but we shall not feel safe until we are master of the stone. Give it to us now.”

      Grimnir unfastened a pouch at his waist, and from it drew Susan’s bracelet. Firefrost hung there, its bright depths hidden beneath a milky veil.

      The Morrigan took the bracelet and placed it in the middle of the circle on the floor. She pulled the curtains over the windows and doors, and went to stand by the brazier, whose faint glow could hardly push back the darkness. She took a handful of powder from the silver plate and, sprinkling it over the coals, cried in a loud voice:

      “Demoriel, Carnefiel, Caspiel, Amenadiee!!”

      A flame hissed upwards, filling the room with ruby light. Shape-shifter opened the book and began to read.

      “Vos omnes it ministri odey et destructiones et seratores discorde …”

      “What’s she up to?” said Susan.

      “I don’t know, but it’s giving me gooseflesh.”

      “… eo quod est noce vos coniurase ideo vos conniro et deprecur …”

      “Colin, I …”

      “Sh! Keep still!”

      “… et odid fiat mier alve …”

      Shadows began to gather about the folds of velvet tapestry in the furthest corners of the room.

      For thirty minutes Colin and Susan were forced to stand in their awkward hiding-place, and it took less than half that time for the last trace of enthusiasm to evaporate. They were where they were as the result of an impulse, an inner urge that had driven them on without thought of danger. But now there was time to think, and inaction is never an aid to courage. СКАЧАТЬ