The Sin Eater(65)

I had reached the part that promises, He shall deliver thee from the snare of the hunters and from the noisome pestilence, and N.S. and I were both reaching for the chess pieces, when something very strange happened to me. From wanting – intending – to burn the chess pieces, I suddenly knew I could not. They were so beautiful, so intricate. I thought: someone must have spent many, many hours fashioning these pieces. How cruel to cast them into the flames.

At my side, N.S. said, very softly, ‘Father Abbot.’

‘What is it?’ I said, whipping round.

‘Look at the mirror,’ he said.

‘What? I see nothing.’

‘The reflections of the chess figures are alive. And they’re watching us.’

This was impossible, of course. And yet it was true. In the room the chess figures were still and inanimate. In the mirror there was movement. A horse, ridden by a knight, tossed its carven mane, the head of a bishop half turned, and one of the kings tightened a hand around a sword. And the eyes of all of them gleamed with unmistakable life.

I began to shake so violently I dropped the crucifix I had been holding. N.S. retrieved it, but I had the dreadful thought that it would be of no protection.

For it’s only two sticks of wood nailed together, after all . . .

‘Go on with the prayer,’ urged Fintan, but I was struggling to breathe and something was tightening painfully around my chest. It was with deep gratitude that I heard N.S. resume the prayer. ‘He shall defend thee under his wings and thou shalt be safe under his feathers: his faithfulness and truth shall be thy shield and buckler . . .’ He broke off and said, in a low urgent voice, ‘Father Abbot, don’t look at their reflections. Just throw them on the flames. Do it now.’

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘God help me, I can’t.’

‘You must.’ But he, too, seemed unable to touch the figures. Then he said, ‘Tip up the table. Slide them into the bag. But don’t look at their eyes.’

But when we tried this, the table felt as if it was made of lead or as if some invisible giant held it down. We struggled and sweated, but to no avail, and I became aware that the shadows had stopped moving, and they were standing in a line, as if preparing to face an attack. Then at last – I think it was N.S.’s younger strength that did it – we managed to tilt the table just enough and the figures tumbled into the deep bag. I threw the small crucifix in with them, and Fintan snapped the hasp shut. Clutching the bag, we ran from the Earl of Kilderry’s library.

The three of us, together with Brother Cuthbert, sat together in my study. I had produced a bottle of brandy and we had all had a goodly measure.

It was N.S. who said, ‘Father Abbot, you can’t keep those things here.’ He glanced to the corner of the room, where the bag lay quiet and lumpen, but still somehow imbued with malevolence. ‘I’ll take them,’ he said. ‘It’s my responsibility. My family’s responsibility.’

‘You’re a Kilderry?’ I said, but I think I already knew he was.

‘I am. Not openly recognized or acknowledged as such, but I grew up knowing the legend of the chess pieces. I came to hate and fear them, and I was determined to destroy them. That’s why, earlier this year, I tried to win them from Gerald Kilderry. And I believe,’ he said, his expression intent, ‘that those figures need to be imprisoned in some very remote place where the evil has nothing on which it can feed. Nothing at all – not prayer nor ritual. Not even people. Because evil needs to be fed in order to grow, Father Abbot.’

‘We’ll burn them,’ I said. I did not like N.S.’s words about evil being fed, although there were – and are – several reputable sources to support that concept.

‘They’ll fight you,’ said N.S. at once. ‘And they’ll probably win. They’re so old, they’ve overpowered stronger adversaries than us down the centuries. And it wouldn’t necessarily be a . . . a physical fight, Father Abbot. They would trickle their poison into your mind and corrode your soul and you wouldn’t even realize it was happening.’

‘He’s right,’ said Fintan. ‘They almost overpowered us in that library.’

‘I couldn’t destroy them,’ I said, half to myself. ‘When it came to it, I couldn’t do it. I could only think it would be a wanton cruel waste of someone’s intricate work.’

‘I felt that,’ said Fintan.

‘But,’ said N.S. ‘if the evil can be weakened – starved – then it might be possible to destroy them.’

‘That could take years.’

‘I’d wait years,’ said N.S. ‘I’d seal them up and keep watch over them.’

‘But where would you go?’ This was Cuthbert.

‘There’s an old watchtower on the Moher Cliffs. It’s a lonely, remote place – hardly anyone goes near. I’d seal up the figures inside that tower. And I’d be their guardian.’

‘You’d leave your Galway Parish?’

‘I would.’

‘But you can’t simply withdraw from the world for an unknown time,’ I said. ‘No, if they’re to be sealed up, it must be here. This is one of God’s houses – steeped in layers of prayer and goodness, and if anything can cause an evil to wither, it’s surely that.’