Perfect Circles

A Sorcerous Mist-2

He walked back across the gangboard to the quay and the waiting stranger. He was taller when you were close to him, and his face looked old and worn. But his clothes and boots had once been well-made.

The stranger reached then into his leather bag and pulled out a sheet of creamy parchment and a quill pen. Swiftly, resting the thick paper on his spare hand, he made some marks, then handed it across to Quirk.

“Give this to Caillagh-Ny-Ghueshag and I think she will help us.”

Quirk nodded. He had met perhaps one other person in his entire life who could write. He took the paper and looked at the marks on it. They meant nothing to him although he liked their clever intricacy, like so many knots in a fine rope. He folded the paper carefully and put it in a pocket.

The stranger made a sudden, complicated movement with his left hand then and touched the lamp Quirk carried. It sparked instantly into flame and began to burn with the greenish-yellow flame of fish oil.

He smiled. Quirk, unable to think of anything to say, nodded once again and strode off towards the town.

Outside Douglas, the island was dark save for the occasional croft or cottage. The land sloped upwards away from the coast, and he soon climbed up far enough to escape the fog. By then it was fully night. There was no moon and the stars seemed especially cold and distant. His oil-lamp was a flickering, insubstantial smudge of light, crushed by the weight of the darkness. There could have been anyone or anything walking behind him, or beside him, and he would never have known.

He knew the tracks and paths of the island as well as anyone; he had spent much of his youth wandering over them. But even so there were frequent alarms when it seemed he was lost. The night played tricks on him. Time and again he thought he was long past turnings in the path before they finally slipped out of the gloom.

He had been to Slieu-Whallian twice before. Once as a boy, brave enough to get within sight of Caillagh-Ny-Ghueshag"s house, not brave enough to approach it. The second time, as a young man, brash and foolish no doubt. He had come to a rolling. He had been full of excitement at that, he remembered, probably the worse for drink. But when it came to it he couldn"t watch. He had stood apart from the shouting crowd, and left quietly before the end.

On both occasions it had been a bright, clear summer"s day. Now it was the middle of a very dark night, and a different matter indeed. He could easily turn around and return to the harbour. Everyone would understand. No one need even know.

Across the valley, he could see the light from the Witch Queen"s house. She may or may not be awake. As a Firegiver she would always keep a flame burning for people to take from when they needed it. The long, steep, slope of Slieu-Whallian was invisible of course, but he knew that her house, an ancient crofter"s cottage, was right at its foot, within sight of the small lake in the valley. He shivered. It was a terrible place. And that she chose to live there, of all places on the island, was the most chilling thing of all.

But he had come this far, he wouldn"t turn back now. He thought of his men back on Sheerwater, wished McBride at least was there with him. He thought about the stranger, and wondered once again what the writing on the note said. And if this really was Mannanan Mac Lir, what was he doing stepping out of their fireside stories and onto the decks of his own boat?

It was the thatch-weights that finally rattled him. He skirted carefully around the lake and up to the cottage and was about to knock boldly when he saw them. Most people lashed large stones to the ends of the ropes they slung over their roofs to keep them in place. Caillagh-Ny-Ghueshag used skulls: sheep, cows, horses, other animals he couldn"t recognize. Skulls filled with small stones and packed soil, the ropes tied through eye-sockets, around horns. In the daylight he would have barely noticed them. Now, standing there in the depths of the night, after that long walk, his nerve finally failed at the sight of them. The impulse to run was strong. He stood there unable to move.

The cottage door opened. Against the wavering, red light from inside he could see only a silhouette, a single figure about his own height. For a moment there was silence as the Witch Queen considered him and he, in turn, stood as still as any standing-stone.

“Well, well, a strange visitor in the middle of the night. John Quirk is it not? It is some time since we last met.”

He had expected an old crone, a cracked and hard voice. But she sounded only a little older than himself, and there was a hint of amusement in her voice. It was enough to allow him to speak.

“I … I"m sorry, but we"ve never met before. I"ve … seen you from afar, that is all.”

“Nonsense. It was about this time of night we met last. Perhaps that was your thinking? You were much smaller then, of course, but you made about as much sense. Your mother laboured for a day and a night and a day to bring you into this world.”

“You … delivered me? I never knew.”

“You thought we spent all our time putting the evil eye on people, and bringing down diseases on sheep?”

“No. No, I didn"t think that. I … don"t think like that.”

“Well, maybe. You had better come inside. John Quirk must have some pressing reason to come and visit so terrible an old woman at this time of night.”

She stepped back, granting him access.

He followed her in, immediately grateful for the warmth of her cottage. He wasn"t sure what he had expected to find, but he was surprised at how ordinary it was. A small, stone room lit by fire and candle, rough rugs on the floor, wooden furniture, everything meticulously swept and cleaned. Familiar smells of peat-fire. Only three shelves of books, strange liquids brewing and bubbling in pots and the occasional alarming totem – a longtail skull, a dead crow, an eye daubed in red on a wall – marked the place out as belonging to the Witch Queen.

Near the fire, the perpetually burning fire, lay a huge black dog, a great shaggy wolfhound. It watched him keenly as he moved, panting faintly as if it had just returned from a chase.

“My dog. He is called Moddey Doo.”

“Ah … really?”

“Just my little jest of course.”

“Of course.”

The dog didn"t move from its place as Quirk sat down, nor did it take its eyes off him once. He tried to ignore it.

“I have come to ask a favour of you.”

She handed him a beaker of some hot liquid that smelled slightly of heather and sat down opposite him. Her hair was deepest, richest black, shining in the candle-light. “Drink this. Go on, there"s no enchantment in it, it"s just a hot drink on a cold night. Drink and tell me of this favour you wish to ask.”

He took the beaker and sat. “I have need of travelling to the Western Isles but we are becalmed. The whole island is becalmed. A passenger I am taking suggested you might be able to help us.”

“Indeed?”

“He gave me this letter to give to you.”

She took the piece of parchment from his hand and angled it towards the fire to read it. Quirk sipped from his drink. It tasted good, warming him from the inside.

She looked back up at him. “Well, well, you do have interesting passengers aboard your boat.”

“You know who this man is?”

“Of course I do. As do you if you"ve any sense at all.”

“Can I trust him? Is he evil?”

“A little. And a little good, like all of us. But the balance between the two is about right in him. We have dealt with him over many years. There is no malice in him; he won"t deliberately set out to do you harm if that"s your meaning. He has protected this island for a long time. Be aware of that; he might consider that to be more important than you and your crew and your boat.”

“So, you will help us?”

She seemed to study him for a long moment, as if assessing him or, so it seemed, remembering things about him. He sipped the last of his drink and said nothing.

“I will. Partly because of this letter. Partly because of who it is you carry with you on your boat. Partly because you are your mother"s son. And partly because of you. You are not a bad man and you may even be a good one, some day.”

“I … thank you.”

“But there will be a price for my help, Captain Quirk.”

He sighed quietly. “I thought there might be.”

“It is nothing you cannot afford. If I do this for you, and you return safely to the island, all I ask is that you rename your ship Caillagh-Ny-Ghueshag.”

“She has been called Sheerwater since the day she was made.”

“You are afraid to rename her? Afraid of the Druidh maybe, of what folk might say? These are bad times for the old ways, John Quirk.”

“No, I am not afraid. She is an old friend, that is all. But I will gladly rename her and gladly sail her with such an auspicious name.”

“So it shall be. Stay and guard my dog for me whilst I prepare the magic.”

She stood and up and walked into the shadows at the back of the room, disappearing completely from view. It was said there were tunnels and caverns underneath Slieu-Whallian, a whole Faerish palace perhaps. He wondered if there was some entrance way to them back there. The huge dog"s eyes were still intent, unblinking on him. He had the distinct impression he only had to make a single move and the hound would leap up and kill him. He tried to ignore the thought.

A single, pained scream rang out from the shadows then, alarming and urgent. He started to move, then thought better of it as the dog growled faintly, almost gently. Another scream came, and another. If he was back on board he would have run instantly to see what was happening. Here, he was out of his depth, had no idea what he should do. Another scream came, and then silence.

She reappeared back into the light then, looking a little drained, panting a little like the great dog. In her hand she carried a short length of rope, with four intricate knots strung out along it. She offered the rope to him. He didn"t recognize any of the knots; couldn"t immediately see how they were tied or how to be untied.

“Take this. When you have need of the wind, stand with your face in the direction you wish to travel and untie a knot. Take care, untie only one at a time. Use two together and your boat will be smashed to twigs by the storm you summon. To calm the wind, cut off the piece of rope you have untied and cast it into the sea. Four knots should be enough to reach the Western Isles. I presume you can make your own way back.”