The Black Museum

Prologue

Jarlath’s Monastery. Connacht. Eire. AD 510.

The flame that danced atop the candle could best be described as being a bit on the thin side, nevertheless, it was doing its job and allowing the boy carrying the candle to navigate the dark corridors of the monastery without tripping over, or falling down any of the steep stone stairs and breaking his neck. The youth was slightly taller than average, had very dark brown eyes, almost black when caught in a certain light, and a pale complexion. His darling mother, who had not warmed to the child at first, now doted on the boy and had remarked to any that had not already heard the story a hundred times that year, that her son had never suffered a moment’s illness, that all the usual ailments present in childhood had passed him by – and for some strange reason, of which she was justly proud – the boy never felt the cold. Or at least he never complained of it, or of an empty stomach – which all other young boys seemed to suffer from all of the time.

thin sideThe boy’s name was Odhran, meaning dark-haired, and he was walking down a narrow hallway with one hand cupped protectively around the thin flame, shielding it from the legions of draughts that whistled through the gaps between the bricks and under the doors, intent on the annihilation of any n***d flame. As he padded along in his threadbare slippers and flimsy cassock, he smiled, then chuckled to himself, because something had occurred to him: the little flame was like everything else inside this monastery. The food the monks ate was … thin. The menu each day was much the same – soups with less flavour than the average contents of a puddle of rainwater and bread that could have been passed under a closed door. The fires in the hearths were almost transparent (one could get more warmth from cradling a recently used privy pot) and the flagstones underfoot were colder than the layer of ice found on the horse troughs at first light.

OdhranthinThe monastery was a place of prayer and self-reflection and was as damp as a trout’s pocket, and Odhran could not wait to get back to the wild pathways, the clean air and the open skies, with his master. They had set out from the west coast of the country and were making their way inland, visiting as many places of worship as they could. His master referred to their jaunt as a long walk with a pilgrimage thrown in for good measure, and he had enjoyed every step of it. Odhran was on his way to wake his master, and tell him that the horses had been fed, a bowl of something hot – and thin – was waiting for him in the refectory, that his master’s belongings were packed, and his favourite travelling cloak was aired and ready.

and thinAs he drew near to the door of his master’s cell, he was half expecting to find him asleep. He spent long hours in prayer and in discussion with his close friend the Abbot, and was often to be found snoring loudly or emitting sudden snuffles that would startle him awake, at least for a second or two. This morning, however, was different.

Odhran heard raised voices from inside his master’s room and he stopped abruptly. He should have coughed to announce his arrival, or knocked, but Odhran was fond of listening at keyholes. He loved to hear and to spread gossip, saw no harm in lying if required, and always made a note of what he had seen or heard in his book so that he might use the knowledge at some point in the future if he needed to get his own way – to secure a promise from someone, or their silence if he had been caught doing something wrong. The book also contained some of his ‘other’ thoughts, snippets of phrases and sketches of shapes that came to life as he drew them on the page.

bookHe knew deep down the images he created were not entirely decent. They always felt wrong at first but somehow, after a while, they became strangely right. At first, he had been petrified that someone would see them and he would get into trouble, but then a thought occurred to him. If the words were written in a secret code then whatever he thought would be disguised and kept safe. So he devised a secret language to hide their meaning from prying eyes. How he had learnt this new language was a mystery but he cared not. He loved his secret words and the comfort they gave him.

Odhran took a deep breath, then crept up to the door and pressed his ear against it. The first voice he did not recognise. It wasn’t the Abbot. It could have been the Abbot’s second in command, the Prior perhaps? The second voice, however, belonged to his master, and their conversation chilled him to the bone.

“The child has to die! You know this to be true, my friend. It is quite clear that he is Fae, or something even worse. He is without doubt a mirror child. He stands in the light of day but all he reflects is darkness. Many have sensed it and recoiled. It is the real reason you have come on this supposed pilgrimage, to seek out friends and allies in other holy places that have an understanding of the twilight world, is it not? Does the boy know what he is? And the words he scribbles in that infernal book of his … you know as well as I do what they mean.”

“Yes, my friend,” his master replied. “I persuaded his mother to let me take him on this journey, citing that he was by far the best and the brightest that I had met and that he should broaden his horizons and drink in the culture and the history of this island. She was happy and not a little proud to allow him to leave. He is the greenest apple of her eye and it took some flexing of the truth to convince her that his talents should be shared. The boy has been observed and studied and it is clear to everyone that I have spoken to that he is indeed what we have feared for so long. I cannot like the child or come to feel any warmth for him, but he is still only a child. Is there nothing we can do for him?”

Odhran’s master sounded genuinely sad but the other voice in the room had no such misgivings.

“He must die! There is no other way! How he came to know the dark verses is beyond me. To my knowledge the Lost Songs are all accounted for and hidden away, yet he writes them down as if he has known them all his life! How can that be? Some knowledge has been gifted to him, but by whom? And when? And where?”

Odhran’s master sighed and said, “I discovered the boy so it must be me that ends his life. I shall not shy away from my task. The boy will die by my hand, and I shall leave the body by a standing stone if I can, so his true people can perform whatever ceremony they choose if they find him. It’s the least I can do.”

Odhran stepped away from the door quickly, stung by the words he had heard and the tone of his dear master’s voice. He needed to act, and quickly, so he blew gently on the candle before stepping away into the arms and comfort of darkness. His first instinct was to cry out and plead with his master to save him, but something inside the boy, a voice that had been developing over time, had a better idea.

“Why not kill the old man instead?” it said.

Why not kill the old man instead?”“Why not push him into the bog and then hold him under the brown water? You are younger than he is, you could outrun him, and just think what fun it will be to draw his bloated white corpse on a fresh page in our book.”

“Why not push him into the bog and then hold him under the brown water? You are younger than he is, you could outrun him, and just think what fun it will be to draw his bloated white corpse on a fresh page in our book.”The voice was familiar to him. It comforted him, and he whispered his reply.

“I’ll steal his soul and keep it inside my book so that I can look at it and scratch away at it when I feel low. Yes, I’ll draw him dead, surrounded by my symbols, and then I can keep him alive and t*****e him.”

When the door to his master’s chamber opened moments later and the boy’s name was called out to come and collect his master’s belongings, there was no answer. He was called for again and again, and when he could not be summoned, the monks searched the monastery for him. Even the stables and the hen coops were investigated, but the boy was gone.

It was nearly mid-morning when one of the field hands returned to the monastery to arrange transport of the recently harvested turnips and cabbages and heard the monks wittering about the dark child. Had the boy stepped through a doorway into the underworld and disappeared? Or had he swapped clothes with a big black crow and flown away into the morning mist? All of this speculation was laid to rest by the farmhand who had seen the boy stalking away that very morning, wrapped in his cloak with a pack on his back and a box under one arm. Once this story had been told to the Prior and then communicated to the Abbot, the search was called off and the monks returned to their tasks. The boy would not be missed or mourned. In fact, the mood amongst the remaining monks and novices lifted when news of his disappearance was made known.

Odhran’s master did not participate in the search. Instead, he turned the boy’s cell upside down looking for the book, and when he could not find it, he retired to the refectory where he sat down with the Abbot and they spoke in hushed tones until the cooks started to slap the monks’ wooden bowls down in preparation for the next meal.

“Where do you think he will go?” asked the Abbot.

“If I had seen the direction he was heading in when he left this morning, then maybe I could suggest a destination, but he could be going anywhere.”

The Abbot looked uncomfortable, and when one of the kitchen boys tried to edge a stone jar full of cold water between them, he shouted at the boy and sent him scampering back to the kitchen. He rubbed his thumb against the index finger on his other hand, a sure sign that he was perplexed.

“Why do you think he fled?” asked the Abbot.

“I have asked myself that question many times since he disappeared. My only conclusion is that he must have been coming to wake me and heard the conversation between myself and the Prior.”

“What do you think he will do?”

The Abbot was getting worried now.

“If we just stand back and let him go, he might come to harm in the wilds. He might find others that feel as he does, and if he is one of the mirror children, he’ll have power over them and we could have more than one problem to deal with. And there is something else. The evil that created the boy could come looking for him or have some form of a plan for him.”

The Abbot reached out for the stone jug at his elbow and poured himself some water. His mouth had suddenly become very dry.

“But it will all come to nought because I will find him first and deal with him. If it takes me a day, a month or a year, I will prevail, have no fear of that, my dear Abbot.”

And with that, Odhran’s master stood up, said goodbye to his old friend, mounted his horse and rode out into the waking world under a sky so blue that the birds did not fly for fear they might spoil its brilliance. A light dusting of snow had fallen during the night and turned the fields to silver. It was a beautiful sight, and would normally have brought him great joy, but he had a heavy heart because he knew what must be done.

As his horse trotted down the path and away from the abbey, he started to entertain some very dark thoughts indeed.

What if the lad was hiding on the road up ahead, behind some vast oak tree or hidden in the reeds by the water’s edge, just waiting to step out and destroy any who followed him?

What if the lad was hiding on the road up ahead, behind some vast oak tree or hidden in the reeds by the water’s edge, just waiting to step out and destroy any who followed him?The thoughts chilled him, but the boy must be stopped before he came into his powers. It did not matter how long it took to find him or where he went. Odhran could travel to the far ends of the earth, it mattered not. The man patted his horse’s neck and clamped his heels into its flanks. The horse responded. If it had known how many shoes it would wear down over the course of that year, it might have thrown its rider and bolted instead.