The Sin Eater(63)
‘Evil exists,’ said N.S. ‘And if you mean to confront that particular evil, you should have with you someone who understands it.’
‘Do you understand it?’
‘No. But I’ve encountered it.’ He looked up at me. ‘Father Abbot,’ he said. ‘I was the man who played that chess game with the Black Earl of Kilderry. I was the one who woke the evil in those figures.’
It was an uncomfortable journey we made to Kilderry Castle the next night, and it was not made easier by the blizzard that was raging everywhere.
N.S. and I were wrapped up against the cold; Fintan, a hardy soul, wore only his customary greatcoat with the deep inner pockets. A poacher’s coat, of course, but I’d have to admit that if a plump hare or two found its way to the monastery kitchens, or a side of salmon appeared on our table, we accepted them and asked no questions.
Fintan had acquired a small cart with a donkey to pull it – when asked whence it came, he murmured vaguely about it belonging to a pedlar who had been glad to loan it for a day or two. It was a rickety old thing; Brother Cuthbert, standing at the monastery door to bid us farewell, was shocked to his toes to think of Father Abbot riding abroad on such a contraption.
‘You’ll be jolted like an unset junket after ten feet,’ he said, ‘and your insides scrambled out of recognition, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s not fitting, Father Abbot.’
‘It’s not fitting that the Earl of Kilderry should be harbouring the devil’s arts,’ said I. ‘I shan’t mind a bit of jolting in God’s work.’
‘It’s a short enough ride anyway,’ said N.S.
But it turned out that Fintan – or possibly the pedlar – had spread a thick rug on the cart’s floor and the journey was not, in the event, too uncomfortable.
I carried the large crucifix from our chapel, and we each had a phial of holy water, blessed by the Archbishop on his last visit. I had the missal bestowed on the monastery at its opening and had marked the Ninety-First Psalm – “Whosoever dwelleth under the defence of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty . . .” It’s a powerful prayer against Satan’s minions, that prayer.
Fintan carried an ancient blunderbuss which his grandfather had used at Waterloo. He appeared to think that if discharged in the face of any evil adversaries that might be prowling the castle, it would banish them there and then. Cuthbert, seeing it, said it did not look as if it had been fired since Waterloo and he would be surprised if it made more than a splutter.
It was almost eleven o’clock when we finally reached Kilderry Castle, and very dark it was, with the moon behind clouds most of the time.
Kilderry Castle stands on a small hilltop – it’s a brooding, squat place, with frowning battlements and mullioned stonework adorned with gargoyles. I think former Earls liked to keep a watch for enemies sneaking up the hillside, and fire off arrows at them. On the crest of this thought I said, ‘Fintan, you are sure Himself of Kilderry is away at the moment?’
‘I am,’ said Fintan, who was hunched over the reins, encouraging the little donkey by means of various epithets.
‘He’s often away,’ said N.S. casually.
As we went through a belt of trees, a sharp spiteful wind stirred the leafless branches, causing them to reach down as if they intended to snatch up any stray enemies of the Lords of Kilderry. A faint dank mist rose from the ground, and I shivered. Beside me, N.S. drew the hood of his cloak over his head.
‘We’ll leave the cart here,’ said Fintan, when we were about two-thirds of the way up. He sprang down and tethered the donkey’s reins to a tree stump covered with a thick mat of ivy. ‘The path’s not wide enough for the cart from here. Will I bring the carpet bag with me?’
‘Why would we need that?’
‘To conceal the blunderbuss,’ said Fintan, as if it should be obvious. ‘For I’m not shouldering it and carrying it up there for all to see.’
‘Bring the bag,’ I said.
As we walked warily up the slope, the old castle lay deep in shadow, although several times I thought lights glinted in the narrow windows. As we climbed the steep slope I thought something huffed its sulphurous breath into my face, and a low voice, like the crackling of brittle leaves or snapping bones, whispered in my ear.
“Better to go back while you still can,” said this voice. “For you won’t beat the One you’re going to confront . . .”
‘Oh yes I will,’ I said, very softly, and N.S. glanced at me in surprise.
Kilderry Castle, when finally we stood in its courtyard, was the most ramshackle place I ever saw in my life. Ivy covered parts of the grey walls and weeds thrust up between huge cracks in the courtyard. The gargoyles leered down like very demons themselves.
Beside me, N.S. said, very softly, ‘It’s as if there’s something sick and evil dwelling in there, and it’s oozed its malignancy through the stones until they’re decayed and rotten.’
(The reader will see from that remark why I ascribe too much imagination to N.S.)
There was a massive portcullis at the centre of the castle’s front, its great iron teeth clamped firmly down. A rusting bell twist hung down at one side. It was a relief when Fintan indicated a more conventional door set into the outer wall further along. ‘Eithne said she would leave that door unbolted for us,’ he said.