‘No,’ I said a little too loudly, but I had heard it, of course. And with the sounds was the fleeting impression of small shapes, too small to be human, too large to be animals, scuttling back and forth, their eyes glinting red. But that might have been due to my disordered imagination, for by that time I was ready to believe that the demons of the pit – every last one of them – were amassing their dark forces to fight us off.
The reader will forgive me if this sounds like the sin of pride. I did not really believe Satan would send his entire army to fight our tiny band. Of course I did not. But at this point, I do feel I should issue for my readers the warning that to engage deliberately with any kind of evil adversary is immensely dangerous. As for trading with Satan, which was what the Earl was said to have done to get the chessmen – well, that never bodes well. If Satan doesn’t renege on the bargain in a particularly unpleasant way, he demands his share of the payment long before the term of the deal is reached. Either way you end up losing your immortal soul. There’s maybe some of you will whoop with mirth at the concept of such a bargain – maybe even at the concept of an immortal soul – but there are some strange and fateful things in the world.
Fintan’s Eithne met us at the door of the library. A slight little thing she was, with soft brown hair and wide, scared eyes. I noticed that Fintan took her hand and pressed it, and when he spoke to her he did so very considerately.
‘You be away to your bed now,’ he said. ‘Father Abbot and the rest of us will see to this bit of badness, and tomorrow you can forget all about it.’
She sent a frightened look at N.S. ‘Eithne,’ he said, softly. ‘Didn’t I say I’d be back for those devil figures? And so I am, for I’m a man of my word.’
‘Say your prayers devoutly tonight, and tomorrow you’ll be safe,’ I said.
‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said, bobbed a half-curtsey, and scurried away.
The Earl of Kilderry’s library was large and high-ceilinged, and it might have been impressive if it had not been in such a disgraceful condition. The sections of walls not covered by books were discoloured and damp-stained, and mirrors and old portraits hung on the walls – most of them crazily askew. The portraits were so smoke-blackened it was impossible to make out any features, and the mirrors so dim with years of wood smoke and candle grease I’d defy anyone to see a reflection in them. There was a not unpleasant scent of peat and cigars.
The chess set stood on a small round table near the fire, and small as it was, it dominated the whole of the room. I said, with as much authority as I could muster, ‘We’ll throw the lot in the fire and burn them to ashes. You’ll both join me in prayer while we do it.’
‘And then we’ll be off,’ said Fintan, who was setting light to the wall candles, using a taper thrust into the embers of the dying fire. As the candles flickered into life, I had the strong impression that the figures moved – that they flinched from the light. And then – and this is God’s own truth – as the fire and the candles burned up more strongly, the shadows seemed to swell and to link hands and prance round us in macabre symmetry.
I began intoning the powerful and beautiful Ninety-First Psalm and there was instant reassurance and comfort from the familiar phrases, and in hearing N.S. join his voice with mine. Still chanting the prayer, I began to walk towards the table.
Twice, intoning the prayer, I had to raise my voice because it seemed as if something was pressing down on it and smothering it, but I managed to continue.
‘Whosoever dwelleth under the defence of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty . . . I will say unto the Lord, Thou art my hope and my stronghold: my God in Him I will trust . . .’
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.’