The Magic Cottage (45 page)

Flora Chaldean stretched up her other hand, so that both rested on my shoulders.

I suddenly understood with that touch the extraordinary gathering of spiritual energy it had taken for her to reach this point. Her past peripherality, her gradual drawing closer to the cottage, had been no more than a visual (or visionary) representation of her struggle for materialization, the accumulating of psychic forces, the moulding of her spirit existence into tangible form. Yet somehow I felt that only what was happening inside Gramarye that night had allowed the final barrier between the spiritual and the physical world to be breached.

I saw all this in her cloudy eyes, as though those vapours were her very thoughts. And I was aware that her presence was a warning, as it had been throughout our time at Gramarye, when her form had been observed only as a spectral shadow in the distance.

She drew close and her mouth opened, but again, I’ve no idea whether I heard the word or sensed the thought.

But what she said with her mouth or with her thoughts, was:

‘
You
. . .’

And then she began to decay before my eyes. It was as though she had burnt up all the psychic energy it had taken to bring her to this moment, the final thrust of entering Gramarye using the last of her strength; now the process was going into reverse, into decline, the advancement towards the physical sense backtracking like a video rewind. Soon I was glad I hadn’t got close during those early stages, those times I had seen her out there near the forest watching Gramarye.

The wrinkles in her face and hands deepened then dropped away leaving only faint lines, as her flesh became . . . loose. Passion went from her eyes as if the clouds had joined in a blanketing fog. Her hands shook on my shoulders, tapping a soft, irregular drumbeat, and her skin became waxen, almost shiny like glazed meat. It began to stretch, become paper-thin; it began to tear.

Her decomposition was rapid, taking no more than a minute or two, yet each second was timeless in itself.

The festering of her body started.

Where flies had settled on her as she had lain slumped at the table in Gramarye’s kitchen all those months ago, so their spawn reappeared, white rippling maggots that feasted and grew, forming a correlation of restlessness, a superbly drilled regiment of minute carnivores. They disappeared into holes that they, themselves, created.

The deep stench poured over me and I held my breath, afraid to take in the fumes.

Her meat began to sag, to drop away, exposing muscle and bone, uncovering those crawling things busy inside her. Her eyelids were no longer firm enough to contain her eyes, which drifted out onto her ravaged face. One hand that had rested on my shoulder slowly slid down my chest, the bones of the fingers – there was little flesh left on the hand – snagging against the tattered material of my shirt.

She shrank before me, a figure that had been small in life becoming smaller as bones and muscle relaxed into each other. Her other hand – the skeleton of her other hand – fell away.

Other things wriggled in those dark, bone-ridged eye cavities, black things that scuttled over each other, things like pieces of string that curled and slimed, all glorying in their treasure house of sustenance. Her jaws gaped open, nothing left to control its movement, and it seemed that even her blackened, withered tongue had joined the ranks of the crawling beasts, had become one of them.

The shawl slipped from her head and her white hair hung in sparse, limp clusters, and skin was only islands of tissue layers on the grey skull.

Her body slowly collapsed and mercifully started dissolving before reaching the floor. Clothes, bone, and liquefying flesh lay in a heap on the tiles, but within moments, those too were gone. There was nothing left of Flora Chaldean save for the smell.

I staggered backwards, jolting hard against the doorframe.

Val was staring at the kitchen floor in disbelief. Mycroft had all but collapsed against the stairs. I saw that his eyes were half closed as though he had been wearied, drained of strength.

Yet strangely, I felt charged, a kind of chemical energy sparking within me, sending blood pounding round my body, causing nerve-endings to tingle and throb. She had touched my shoulders and her eyes and thoughts had filled me.
But still I didn’t understand!

Until I found Mycroft watching me warily and I sensed his fear and respect. Then I began to know . . .

Things Unleashed

Mycroft vanished back up those stairs – and there were other footsteps too, obviously of those followers who had remained out of sight – as I held up my hands and studied them, wondering why they palpitated so and why my scalp (and other hairy parts of me) prickled and felt so itchy-dry. I touched my head and my hair was brittle (I’d almost expected it to be standing erect, punk-like). So was this the physical sensation that came with the possession of Magic?

The possession of Magic.
Now that just couldn’t be! Not me, not Mike Stringer, sceptic and part-time infidel. But I was being carried along by something that had little regard for my own self-doubt and confusion.

‘Mike . . .’

Val was resting against the table, hands on either side clutching the edge. She looked shocked, and that was hardly surprising with all that had happened since she’d stepped inside the cottage. Now, though, she was growing curious about me, sensing the change that was taking place.

I don’t suppose that change was visible in any real way, but she knew it was happening all right. Of course, there might have been blue sparks shooting from my ears for all I knew, but I didn’t think so. The shift in my mind was slight, however, otherwise I think I’d have been totally overwhelmed by this metamorphosis.

The funny thing was, I was afraid, but the fear didn’t frighten me. Does that make sense? The fear
excited
me, because this was something new, and with the acquisition – or I should say, the
releasing
– there came a feeling of well-being, an essential element that helped balance the power. Imagine being born blind and then, one day, a knock on the head enables you to see (the ability having been there all along). Think of the excitement, the awe for everything around you. The fear of it.

Yet still I wasn’t a hundred per cent certain. Flora’s touch and thoughts had instilled the knowledge, flicked the switch of awareness, but what the hell? – I could have been hallucinating. There was only one way to find out, and a nervous thrill flushed through me as I headed for the stairs.

Val attempted to grab my arm as I passed, but something made her withdraw her hand before she made contact.

I ran up the stairs, ready (and eager?) for combat.

The Synergists were waiting, but were in some disarray; it wasn’t just Mycroft’s evident panic, nor my approach, that had caused their disorder.

A blue-violet sheen emanated from every object in the round room – the sofa, the chairs, the units, books, pictures, the mantelshelf, the windowframes, curtains: everything – bathing the room in its eerie light, the ceiling light itself tainted by the electric colour. Spielberg himself couldn’t have produced a more startling effect. To a lesser degree, but equally mind-boggling, the same glow outlined the living bodies in the room. If someone had snapped their fingers, static would have thundered in the air; if someone had sneezed, air currents would have created a storm.

The round room was alive.

It throbbed and hummed with its own power, but there was no sound and there was no movement: its existence could only be sensed and wondered at.

I stood in the doorway and felt the room breathe on me. Off to one side, Gillie was being helped to her feet by the girl called Sandy. Others were peering anxiously around at the walls, the furniture. Neil Joby looked about ready to throw up again. I watched as one of the men touched the drawing-board easel beneath the broken window and quickly drew back as the glow spread along his arm, strengthening his own light for a moment. The Bone Man was there and I could tell he wanted out, only I was blocking the doorway; he stood frozen in a loping attitude. Kinsella still had hold of Midge, and he seemed calmest of all.

Even calmer than Mycroft, who was near the centre, his eyes for me alone.

Now was the testing time. I gulped.

First, Kinsella.

I was hesitant – and who wouldn’t have been in my position? – so maybe that was why it didn’t work immediately. I needed time and experience to build confidence, and had neither.

Kinsella suddenly found himself with an armful of goat. I’ve no idea why I chose a goat – it just flashed into my mind and I transferred the thought into his arms. Unfortunately, the image was only fleeting: Midge was back there under his grasp before he had time to register surprise and let go. His astonishment followed a second later, but he still held on to her, his jaw dropped and eyebrows arched. He blinked, thinking there’d been some mistake, and Midge struggled to free herself.

None the less,
something
had happened and that at least lent a grain of credibility to what I was asking myself to believe. I could do it! I only had to concentrate hard and it could happen! I’d been wrong all along about Midge: she was certainly an important element in all this, a catalyst of some kind, but she wasn’t the successor to Gramarye. Oh no, it was
me
, for Chrissake!
Me!
But now wasn’t the time to ponder.

My thought struck again, and I tried to sustain it, already learning the tricks, or the art, or the craft, of Magic. Kinsella discovered he had an arm-lock on a grinning python. The image was more than momentary and, with a girlish shriek, he let go.

Midge collapsed to the floor.

‘Get over here, Midge!’ I yelled and she began crawling, not understanding why the American had dropped her and probably not caring – she just wanted to get to me.

But Mycroft’s cane prodded her back and froze her there.

‘Do you think you’re a match for me?’ Mycroft shouted in my direction.

And, honest-go-God, I chuckled. I think hysteria had returned and was sweeping me along at that point.

He became undeniably enraged – I suppose he felt I was mocking him (and maybe he’d got it right). He aimed his cane/wand and the doorframe around me burst into flame. I stumbled back into the hallway, singed and frightened, as the opening became a door of fire.

I had time to notice Val watching me bug-eyed from the stairway, her horrified face lit up by flames. I’d never known her lost for words before, but to give her credit she did her best to speak. All she managed was to flap her mouth.

‘Don’t ask,’ I said to her.

Then I plunged back through the fire-filled doorway without giving myself time for further consideration, because at this stage of the game either I believed or I didn’t – there were no halfway measures.

I heard Val’s raspy scream, but other noises inside the room quickly drowned that. The fire behind me instantly snuffed out and I found I wasn’t even scorched.

Mycroft and I faced each other across the room, while around us his Synergists moaned and groaned, not particularly concerned with me, more interested in what was going on around
them
. Everything in the room – the supposedly inanimate objects, I mean – was not only weirdly glowing, but was now pulsing: chairs, units, even the walls, were now all beating like odd-shaped hearts. The carpet was moving as though strong hands underneath were pushing upwards. And the glass fragments that had been scattered from the windows were oscillating inches from the floor like jumping-bean crystals. Bone Man was reaching for a window-catch, several followers jostling him from behind, eager to be off and away from the cottage; but when he clasped the metal catch his body vibrated and what hair he had crackled as if he’d been shocked. He leapt away, taking the others with him in a tumble of thrashing arms and legs. There were screams from women in the room (and no doubt from several of the men) and I saw that Joby had finally given up the contents of his stomach, except his vomit refused to leave his body completely – it flowed down his neck and chest and over his shoulders in a lumpy coating. Bricks and soot crashed down into the fireplace, a cloud of dust spreading outwards to curl and linger in the air; the fungus on the walls seemed to be bubbling putrescence.

The round room had lost a lot of its charm.

Mycroft was mouthing something I couldn’t quite catch over the hubbub; I guess it was an incantation rather than a grumbled complaint, and I wondered what he had in mind. I soon found out.

A web began ravelling itself around me, pinning first my arms and then my legs, spinning round and round, taut like fine steel, covering my chest and lower body, taking no time at all to join the weave that rose from my thighs. The silver web crossed over my shoulders and I saw there were scores of tiny spiders among the strands, busy at work, darting hairy-legged to and fro. The cocoon grew rapidly, taking less than a minute, soon reaching my throat, where it tightened. In fact the whole mess became tight, so that I had difficulty in breathing.