Mistle Child (Undertaken Trilogy) (23 page)

Silas didn’t even feel them hit the surface of the sea far below the lighthouse.

He looked up through the water. Lights moved above them. Their limbs were still entwined, and Bea kept kissing him, even though his mouth was open now as they sank down together. She pressed her lips to his neck, his cheek, his eyes.

Silas did not feel them come to rest on the sea bottom. But he could see Beatrice, her face pulled back a little from his. She smiled and he heard her words, bubbling at him through the murky water.

“Welcome home, my love. Welcome home.”

L
EDGER

Those familiar with our Old Northern Literature will be well aware how often the forms of the dead were believed to be seen again on earth. And there is an instance, in the old Sagas, where not only did shade after shade revisit the pale glimpses of the moon, to the long and fearful disquiet of a neighbor, but where their often-comings could only be stopped by formal process of law; by use of which they were, however, at last driven away.

—
C
OPIED BY
A
MOS
U
MBER FROM
E
NGLISH
G
ILDS
, 1870

I have neither eye to see, nor tongue to speak here, but as the house is pleased to direct me.

—
C
OPIED
BY
J
ONAS
U
MBER FROM
R
USHWORTH’S
H
ISTORICAL
C
OLLECTIONS
, 1721

W
HEN
S
ILAS AWOKE,
the hall was almost completely dark but for a small candle left on the table, and the embers of the fire dying slowly on the hearth. Lars was still asleep in his chair. Standing to stretch, Silas noticed a pale illumination coming through a doorway on the far side of the hall. Curious, he quietly crossed the room, his passage noted only by the wide-eyed grotesques adorning the beams high above. He walked through the arch, following the line of light down a short hallway until he came to a large open door.

Before him was Arvale’s library and his heart leapt to see so many books. Candles were lit on a few of the massive and ornate tables. Someone else was there.

“Welcome, Silas,” said Maud in what seemed like feigned surprise, looking up from a table covered in scrolls and thick worn vellum volumes. “The quiet hours I like to spend here, among the genealogies of our ancient family. I can tell you, we are a strange, long-lived lot.” She quickly rolled up a scroll she had been looking at and flipped closed the covers of several books.

“I thought you had retired,” Silas said.

“Mortui non dormiunt.”

“The dead can’t . . . ,” Silas began, trying to work out the Latin.

“Almost,” said Maud. “The dead do not sleep.”

Silas nodded and walked over to the table and picked up a small book, idly perusing its contents though he couldn’t read them, for the Latin was written in a crabbed hand. He looked at Maud, wondering what she had been reading. His mind was still on that rite that awaited him and he was actually glad of her company. Maybe, without others present, Maud might say more about what was in store for him.

“Strange or not, we are all family. That’s what’s important, no?” Silas asked.

“Indeed, yes. And that we help one another, when we can,” replied Maud.

“I am ready to meet whatever’s ahead. I’ll do my best.” In his mind, Silas kept seeing that crown of corpse lights floating above his head, and it filled him with confidence.

Smiling then, and coming up very close to Silas, Maud said, “
I
know you are ready. You would not have been called if you were not. Silas, it is not so terrible as Jonas makes it sound. He is formal about such things and concerns himself o’ermuch with hierarchy. There’s no changing him, I’m afraid. I hope you may see the Door Doom as merely an elaboration of what you already do back in Lichport. The name sounds ominous, and its formality perhaps makes it intimidating, but the idea behind the rite should feel familiar to you.”

“Where does the name come from?”

“‘Door Doom’? That’s a term that originates from the northern branch of the family, those wonderful Saga-folk. “Dura Domr” they called it. It’s just a kind of legal gathering, a settling of accounts. The Janus may, at his or her discretion, make use of customs from many times and places. The dead are a various lot. The Janus must be able to treat with any contingency. But the core rite, the one practiced here at Arvale for more than a thousand years, is primarily a northern custom. Oh, there are perhaps a few older, more classical elements . . . truly, some things cannot be improved upon. After a time, should you feel the need to innovate, well, that will be your decision. But now, I think, sticking to tradition is best. Elements and fashions come and go. Every Janus makes adaptations to the extant rite. All that is truly required is your desire to put things in order.”

“Of course I want to help. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. I want to be like my dad and help the dead and the living both. I don’t think I need to be reminded by everyone that sacrifices are required of me. I know it. I promise you.”

Maud looked concerned. “Oh, Silas, dear child, I know you only wish to do what’s right. I know that should any of this house need your assistance, you would try to help in any way you could. I can sense that in you. We all can, I think.”

Her tone was saccharine. Silas began to wonder what she wanted from him. But why wouldn’t she come out and just ask? He tried to push the conversation back to where she might tell him something useful.

“Is that where the word ‘Janus’ comes from? From these ‘innovations’ of others, someone reaching back to the older, classical strains?”

“Possibly,” said Maud, pausing briefly at the non sequitur. “More likely, it is a holdover from those earlier times. The rite became more northern as time went on, but the name ‘Janus’ endures, perhaps to honor the god of that name, or because the power associated with that ancient title resonated deeply with the ceremony itself. But there have always been such rites. Words to call the dead. Words to banish the dead. These are the oldest formulas known to man and woman. So often what we love becomes what we fear—sometimes through our own fault, because we refuse to honor those who die. Sometimes the dead change, because in life something was kept from them, or they were hateful people, and death merely magnifies the problems they bore in life. You know this from your own work, of course. Or sometimes what we love the most is lost to us and no matter how hard we look, we cannot find it. . . .” Maud trailed off, gazing toward the window. It looked like she was about to cry, but a moment later she raised her head, composed herself, and continued.

“As time went on, people did not wish to negotiate with the dead themselves. Out of fear. Perhaps they forgot the formulas. Either way, certain families came to hold these rites. Those with the Umber name are part of that lineage of folk who kept the old ways. Some say we were chosen. Who knows? Perhaps we chose ourselves. There are other families who do this work. We are not the only ones. But we are surely the oldest, and certain of us feel we are owed some honor on that account. Janus is an important title, but there are other seats from which the dead are judged, and called, and those chairs have been empty for a long time. Surely if anyone is to occupy one of those hallowed thrones, it should be an Umber?”

Silas was fascinated by her words about other families with Januses, but he could feel her pushing him. It was becoming clear that she expected something from him more than merely becoming Janus.
Let her go on revealing her hand one card at a time,
thought Silas. He would listen and be wary.

“So, I am going to have to read some old script to perform the rite? Is it said in Norse?” Silas was only half joking. He didn’t like the idea of reading or saying words he didn’t understand. Though he wondered what such a ritual would have looked like in ancient times. He wondered what the oldest version was that Maud might have seen.

“Maud, have you ever been at an original one? What’s the oldest Door Doom you’ve witnessed?”

“I have only seen the rite performed in this house. But I have heard one of the old Dooms described by someone who saw it. Would you like to hear it? Let’s see if I might call it up. Maud closed her eyes and lowered her head. Her form dimmed for a moment, but then she sat up, her eyes wide, as if she were looking upon a scene in some far distant place.

“Now . . . there was a man, Thorfinn was he named. He and several of his companions went fishing. A great storm fell upon them, and their ship, like a submissive dog, rolled over and showed its belly to the angry sky. All the men drowned and the bodies were not found. As was the custom, a funeral feast was held for them, and the mead that was being saved for midwinter was used. That first night of the feast, when all the guests had come and been welcomed and taken their seats, who should appear at the door but Thorfinn and his shipmates, water falling from them like dripping stones left behind by the tide. They walked into the house, heeded none, sat down at the fire, and began wringing out their clothes while they ate and drank. No one minded, for in those days, heathendom still held sway and people believed that when a drowned person showed up for the first night of his funeral feast, that was to be taken as a very good omen; it meant that their god of the sea had received their kin. At the end of the feast, when the cooking fires had all burned down to ash, the dead men left the house. Sadly, the story does not end there. Those restless men returned for every night of the feast, getting louder and rowdier with each homecoming. They got into the stores of dried fish being saved for deep winter. People thought, let us be done with this funeral feast, and then the dead shall depart. So the feast was ended. But the very next night, when the small cooking fire was lit for the regular evening meal, the door flew open and the dead came in again. Well, now, as you can imagine, everyone in the house was frightened by this. But no one wanted to upset the dead and so this bad business went on, right through the Yule season and into the early part of the year, even though the food was running out and people were getting sick—perhaps because of an epidemic, perhaps because of the presence of the dead. Who could say? Finally, the family had had enough. They sent word to the old men of the nearest village and the cry went out, up and down the fells, that the Door Doom would be held.

A short while later, men began arriving at the farm. The wise gathered at night in the house, standing in a partial circle about the door, and then they called out the names of the dead. When Thorfinn and his men came to the doorway, they stopped and listened and did not enter farther, for the power of the threshold is a mighty thing unto itself and the dead cannot resist it if it is held properly. The wise men convened the court, and charges were read, and then Thorfinn, seeing the strength of the house, spoke.

“I have sat in this house, while the sitting was good. I see now that, perhaps, the time has come to move on. Maybe in the spring.” And though there had been a judgment against the dead, everyone could see the dead were still reluctant to leave. But then one of the wise stood forth and pronounced the Doom against Thorfinn and his men. Strong words, not to be ignored. Mighty words, that needed to be heeded.

Thorfinn spoke again.

“Even in my own house, there is no welcome. All right! All right! You have chanted at us enough. Come now, boys, let’s all be gone!”And Thorfinn and his men departed and did not return. And that summer, the weather was fine and the fishing very good.”