STAGS 5, page 16
Henry was on the ground now, and still Shafeen hit him, while Henry, doll-like, was just letting him, as if this was all part of what he had been saying to me the other night, that he deserved to pay for his sins, and this was all a piece of his punishment. A nasty-looking cut had sprung through his eyebrow and was bleeding profusely. ‘Get up, damn you!’ shouted Shafeen, now on top of Henry.
I grabbed Shafeen’s arm. ‘Stop it!’ I screamed. ‘He’s had enough.’
He shrugged me off so violently that I fell to the ground too. Henry was blinded by blood now and I had a last, desperate thought. ‘Remember he saved your dad!’ I yelled. ‘Remember Hardy and Horatio!’
At this Shafeen, panting, stopped and sat back. He looked down at Henry, and at that moment they could have been their fathers, but engaged in war, not love.
‘I came to apologise,’ sputtered Henry, through the blood. ‘And to tell you that it was all my fault. I kissed Greer. She had nothing to do with it. And I promise you,’ he gasped, ‘I will never kiss her again.’
I’m sure you won’t think very well of me when I tell you that my heart lurched at this. But the fire went out of Shafeen. He got up and he held out a hand.
He hauled Henry to his feet and together they lurched inside, Henry leaning on Shafeen, and Shafeen helping him, for all the world as if they were comrades after a battle. Men are very confusing.
I followed them into the little sitting room. Ty and Nel were there on the couch and jumped up at the sight of us. ‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Nel. ‘What the hell happened?’
Shafeen didn’t reply but eased Henry down into an armchair and poured him a whisky. ‘You’d better put something on that cut,’ he said gruffly.
‘On it,’ said Nel, who’d brought some loo roll and a glass of water. She sat on the arm of Henry’s chair and dabbed at the mess. Thankfully, once the blood was cleaned off, it wasn’t as bad as it looked, but the eye below it was beginning to swell and close. Ty got some ice cubes and wrapped them in a tea towel. ‘Hold this to your eye,’ she said.
Henry complied, wincing just like they do in films.
‘In movies they put whisky on the cut,’ I observed from the sofa.
‘Not everything is a movie, Greer,’ said Henry, and I remembered when he’d said that once before, at the top of Conrad’s Force, just before he’d plunged off the waterfall. I wondered at how far we’d come. ‘I think the whisky will do more good in me than on me.’
He eased his aching back into the chair, so he was more upright. Then, suddenly, he said, ‘Where’s Ratio?’
‘When I woke up this morning, he’d gone,’ said Ty, before she realised what she’d said. ‘I mean, I haven’t seen him.’ We all smiled at her and she sighed. ‘OK, OK. He said last night he was going for a recce this morning. He’s plotting the course for tonight so we can film the Lammas Eve celebrations.’ I looked at the HAWK where it squatted, black and sleek, on the coffee table, then back at Ty. ‘You two are pretty hot and heavy then.’
‘Lucky,’ grumbled Nel. ‘Everyone’s getting some but me.’
‘Let’s leave aside everyone’s love life,’ said Shafeen sharply, ‘and get to the business of the day. Let’s go over the plan of campaign.’ In Ratio’s absence, he took over the briefing. ‘Right, tonight the Lammas Eve celebrations take place on the slopes of Ben Horneval. They will centre on this massive effigy of a stag.’ He went over to the CSI board of photographs and red thread and pointed to a large aerial photo right in the middle. Even in print the wicker stag looked scary.
‘It’s called the Damh,’ said Henry, slightly indistinctly through swollen lips. ‘Every year they build and burn one.’
‘So any remaining danger you face, Greer, is likely to do with the Damh and some ritual.’
‘The revellers jump under the fire,’ said Henry. ‘Through the legs of the stag. That might be one element of what they want you to do.’
‘In which case the Kevlar vest will be no good to you,’ said Shafeen.
‘Besides, there won’t be guns at Lammas,’ said Henry. ‘It’s a feast, not a hunt. So that means the HAWK won’t be in danger of being shot down.’
‘So that’s two big differences,’ said Shafeen. ‘No guns, and this time we’ll be there.’
I leaned forward at this. ‘I’m sorry, but how can you be there? Asian guy, black girl, green-haired super-nerd … I mean, you won’t exactly fit in with the gammons.’
‘This is how,’ said Nel. She went to the sideboard, where a tartan throw was covering a number of objects, making a bumpy, chequered landscape. Nel lifted the covering to reveal four objects that made my stomach flip.
They were masks, each in the shape of an animal’s head. Beautifully designed and deeply stylised, I nonetheless recognised a badger, a stoat, a hedgehog and a boar. They were slightly different colours of gold and bronze and copper, and all had summer flowers entwined about them. Even on their own they looked scary – part Eyes Wide Shut, part Midsommar.
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘In that case, it might just work.’
‘Yes,’ said Shafeen. ‘Actually, it was Henry who gave us that piece of intel – that the Lammas revellers always wear animal masks.’
It was very odd. Ten minutes ago they’d been re-enacting Raging Bull and now they were strategising like allies.
‘We’ll all be somewhere in the crowd tonight,’ said Ty. ‘If something happens to you – and in a way, sorry, Greer, but we have to hope it does – we’ll be on the spot.’
‘Nathaniel … the Abbot –’ Nel swiftly corrected herself, ‘promised to come with reinforcements, but there’s been no word as yet. So for the moment it’s just us.’
That was both reassuring and terrifying. We’d all be on our way home tomorrow, so tonight was our last chance to nail the Order, but it was good to know that my friends would be around me, and I included Henry in that group.
I looked at Shafeen – would he still care about my fate? – but he nodded reassuringly at me too. ‘The drone will be following you at all times. We have your facial-recognition matrix, but that will have a limited use after dark. So we’ll use the heat signature. The HAWK will “box” you as before, and it will only lose acquisition if you go indoors.’
‘Sounds like you know a lot about it,’ I said.
‘Ratio’s been teaching me to fly it. I was really interested in the technology, so I’ve been assisting him. He thought it best that someone else knew how to do it, just in case, so I’ve been doing a lot of the recce flights.’ He looked at me pointedly. ‘Quite the Savage I’ve become, Greer.’
God. I was now facing the possibility that he had actually been the one flying the HAWK when it had spotted me and Henry kissing.
‘We should be getting back,’ said Henry, as if he sensed the awkwardness. His eyebrow had stopped bleeding, but his face would take some explaining.
‘Just a minute.’ I couldn’t leave without talking to Shafeen in private. There was something I just had to say. I got to my feet and dragged Shafeen outside. Once we were a good distance from the door I turned to him. ‘I owe you an apology too,’ I said. ‘For the kiss.’
He eyed me. ‘I thought it was all Henry’s fault, according to him,’ he said sardonically.
‘Well,’ I said. I had to be honest. ‘He might have felt … encouraged, because we’ve … we’ve become friends.’ I tried to explain. ‘Henry was a monster, and no one is more aware of that than him. But he’s changed, and he’s sacrificing a lot to help us. He went from chasing Gemma Delaney (and us) around Longcross to saving Ty’s life, saving your dad’s life, and now he’s risking everything to bring the Order of the Stag down. Do you realise that if our trap works he’ll probably go to jail?’
This gave Shafeen pause – I could see that the thought hadn’t occurred to him before.
‘I think Henry began to change when he shared that story of his childhood with me – you know, the “fox in a box” story about the time his father trapped him in the boot room with Reynard and wouldn’t let him out? After that he took me to the Red Mass. That was like the moment in The Wizard of Oz – I got to see behind the curtain and see all the workings inside.’ I took a breath. ‘Because I sort of created this new Henry, I do feel attached to him.’
He snorted. ‘Are you actually giving me the Frankenstein defence? That you start to love your creation?’
‘No, not that,’ I said quickly. ‘But he’s turned against his family, left everything behind, and I’m kind of all he’s got.’
He looked at me coldly. ‘Your hands were in his hair,’ he said.
So he had seen everything. ‘I know.’
Suddenly I felt incredibly sorry for him. Shafeen must have really suffered over the last two days. In his tower bedroom, deserted by Ratio who was now snuggling up with Ty, he must have suffered lonely agonies thinking about his faithless girlfriend and what she might be up to at the castle.
‘I just don’t know if I can trust you again.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ I said. ‘But I want you to try.’
‘It’ll take time.’
‘As long as you need.’
Just then Henry emerged, somewhat sheepishly, from the door of the Peel Tower. ‘Sorry, but we’d better go.’
Shafeen stood back without looking at either of us, but as we walked away I could feel his eyes following us.
‘What now?’ I said to Henry, a question that could mean many things.
He took it literally. ‘Let’s go and see Regina on the way back. She’s going to be my alibi for this injury.’
We walked into the walled garden but didn’t have to go into the mews proper because all the hawks were pegged outside on bow perches, fluttering and preening in the sun.
‘Hello, old girl,’ said Henry, using that warm and tender voice that seemed to be reserved for Regina and me. ‘We’ll say she bated, and caught my brow with her beak. They don’t know her as I do. They don’t know she’d never do that.’ He stroked her breast feathers with the back of his scarred fingers; I could see the red thread I’d given him tied around his wrist. I wondered if he carried the rowan twig with him too.
Regina whickered and trilled, making happy little noises in her throat. I smiled, oddly moved. ‘She loves you.’
‘No. She doesn’t love anyone. Every time you release a hawk for a hunt, there’s a chance you’ll never see her again. You spend time crafting something beautiful, and then you let it go.’
I thought about what Shafeen had said about the Frankenstein defence. What I’d said to Shafeen was true – I’d become attached to something I’d helped create. But just like Henry when he flew Regina, I had to be ready to lose him one day.
And that day could be any time now.
28
The mask lay on my bedspread when I got back to my room.
It stared up at me, malign and hollow-eyed, suddenly more frightening than anything I had yet seen.
It was beautifully crafted, like those Venetian masks you see in films like The Wings of the Dove, and in the form of a hare’s face. I feared there was a significance to the disguise they had chosen for me. Hares were chased. Hares were prey. Was my hunt still to come?
I picked the thing up in my hands. The eyeholes were almond-shaped, the fur was rendered with incredibly delicate brushstrokes, and there were no ties, but rather the whole thing was part of a soft brown hood, so not a hair on my head would be seen (no pun intended). The ears were woven with garlands of summer flowers, twined by careful, skilful hands. Why? The ritual nature of it all chilled me. A little note, which looked as if it was written with a quill on parchment, fell out of the mask.
Please don your mask, hood and gloves before leaving your room.
We wish you a joyful Lammas!
The rest of the outfit was draped over my chair. There was a floor-length floral dress in all shades of brown – copper, cinnamon and umber – and a fur jacket the colour of caramel – I hoped not hare fur. There was a pair of chunky hill boots, glossy as conkers, and as a finishing touch a pair of pliant brown gloves. Clearly no skin was to be seen, and actually I found this reassuring. Ty and Shafeen, as the only people of colour on the island, would be able to mix with the guests undetected, and Ratio’s grass-green hair would be hidden by his hood.
I got ready. On any other day I would have loved that dress, but that evening my hands shook as I buttoned it. I noticed there were no zips or hooks on the outfit – everything about the costume was natural. But there was nothing natural about my reflection. I couldn’t look at the strange hare/girl hybrid in the glass – I turned away and headed downstairs.
A hawk waited for me below the duelling pistols. He was wearing a tweed suit in the same natural browns as my own outfit, and his mask was the face of a peregrine falcon, with petrol-blue feathers and a sharp raptor’s beak. Henry crooked his arm for me as he’d done on the night of The Gathering.
I took it without speaking.
We knew we were in the endgame.
We walked outside in the company of other pairs of woodland animals, like some kind of reverse Noah’s Ark. Other creatures were milling around, and I could see wolves conversing with rabbits, squirrels chatting with hedgehogs. All the ladies were in flowing florals, and the gentlemen in suits of earth colours – greens, browns and ambers. They reminded me of Beatrix Potter characters, only much, much scarier, with their human clothes and animal faces. I looked at all those gathered, wondering which among these strange hybrids was Lord Peregrine, Lady Fiona and the twins. Which of these beast masks covered the Medieval faces of Piers, Cookson, Lara, Charlotte and Esme? Then I considered the fact that I’d probably seen all of these people before. Not just at The Gathering, but at the STAGS Club, at Longcross, in the crypt of Cumberland Place, in the House of Lords. This cult ran like a cancer right through Britain’s high society. And maybe tonight was the night we could cut that cancer out.
In the time we’d been standing there, twilight had thickened to darkness. and masked footmen lit torches as big as clubs, which they held high, passing the fire from hand to hand. Then, almost as one, the company turned to face the castle.
‘What’s going on?’ I whispered to Henry.
‘It’s called the Dousing,’ he said. ‘Watch.’
I did. One by one, every light in the castle went dark. Every tower, every battlement, every floodlight, every arrow slit, every light was extinguished. I looked at the landscape around me. In the little farms and crofts that were dotted about the hills, every light went out too. If it wasn’t for our torches, Skye would be in utter blackness. I clutched Henry’s arm more tightly. There was something incredibly creepy about the removal of light. Such a primal thing for humans, the need to see what is going on.
‘It’s part of the festival,’ said Henry. ‘The locals put out all the lights in their houses and douse their fires. It’s all about death and rebirth. The fire that we light at the Damh symbolises a new day. In medieval times it was all about asking the sun to shine to give a good harvest and plentiful crops, to see the island through the darkness of winter. The revellers would take the fire home from the Damh and light their lamps again from that.’
The torchbearers, in their animal masks, began to process down the drive, and all us guests followed. As we reached the slopes of Ben Horneval other revellers joined us from the farms and crofts, and I fervently hoped that the Peel Tower Rebels were among their number. I looked hard, I can tell you, for the badger, the stoat, the hedgehog and the boar – the masks I’d seen earlier at the tower – because they would indicate the presence of my friends – but I couldn’t see them.
In the foothills of the black mountain we came to a flatter place, which I realised must have been where I’d got lost in the mists two days ago. The lightbearers thrust their torches into the ground and I could see the wicker stag – the Damh – rising into the darkness, huge and looming. In front of it was a long trestle table, covered with food and drink and garlanded with summer flowers. A folk quartet, all masked, played jolly Highland tunes on an accordion, guitar, drum and flute, and a girl in a magpie mask sang beautiful lilting folk songs in – I assume – Gaelic.
I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I took a plate and picked at all the delicacies – pies and pastries and stews and scones and cakes and cheeses. There was wine too – something strong and sweet – and whisky. I made sure that everything I took was from a communal jug or plate and Henry did the same.
As the revellers began to drink more and eat more and laugh more, the music changed subtly – it was no longer beautiful vocal folk that made you think of Highland streams and heather, but upbeat instrumental music that invited your fingers to drum and your foot to tap; music that made it almost impossible to stand still. At this point the folk band organised everyone into a dance on the hillside – a formation that was a little like a dance we’d all done at The Gathering – the one called, appropriately, Strip the Willow. We made two lines across the grass, and as the music began each couple would go down the centre, breaking off to link arms with other partners, spinning back down the lines. As Henry and I waited our turn, clapping along to the music as was obviously customary, I looked again for the masks of the Peel Tower Rebels. I identified the stoat and the boar, but I couldn’t see the badger or the hedgehog anywhere. As I looked about me I was struck by another thought – no one in the company was wearing a deer mask. Which I found quite weird, considering why we were all here.
Then it was mine and Henry’s turn. Holding both his hands, wondering how this looked to Shafeen if he was watching from somewhere in the crowd, we polka’d down the centre of the clapping lines. Then, as we divided at the end of the lines, I happened to link arms with the stoat. I knew from the body shape that this was either Nel or Ty, but of course they wouldn’t know that the hare was me. I took a shot. ‘Ty?’
‘Greer? Thank Christ it’s you.’ She clutched my arm with relief, as if she might fall over without it.
