The Place of Dead Kings (5 page)

The stabbing sensation in his chest brought him back to the material world. Forcing himself to ignore the pain, he pushed open the hut’s door and entered the dimly lit interior. As his eyes adjusted, the single room came into focus. The window shutters were closed and the only light came from the fire in the central hearth. A large banner displaying an intricate yantra hung across one wall, the image trembling in the firelight. About a dozen young men sat cross-legged on the earth floor, staring up at the design. Two others sat scratching yantras into boxes of wet sand, and a third meditated with his eyes closed.

Jack had ‘discovered’ all these young men. Most had been sent to him from elsewhere in Shropshire when it became known that he was looking for people who experienced second sight, saw ghosts, or suffered from fits. Many who arrived were simply mad or ill, but a few, a very few, turned out to be sensitive to sattva.

A handful of women had even shown up. That had surprised him and he suspected some might even have been sensitive enough to become siddhas. But it was of course out of the question to train women in the secret arts. It wasn’t right to get them involved in something that could be dangerous, especially as his aim was to develop siddhas who could eventually fight the Rajthanans.

Mark, a tall lad who was slightly older than the others, walked across to Jack, carrying a stick he’d taken to using like a drill sergeant’s cane as he led the meditations. ‘Morning, sir.’

Jack tightened his face as a pulse of pain crossed his chest. ‘Any progress?’

‘Afraid not yet, sir.’

Jack nodded. It was a long, difficult process training siddhas. It was almost a year since he’d started teaching and so far Mark was the only one who’d mastered a yantra. Jack didn’t know why the success rate was so low. Was it normal? Did the Rajthanans face the same problems? Or were his training methods wrong?

The difficulty was that he didn’t know nearly enough about yoga. He’d only been given the basic training by Jhala and had only ever seen three yantras – only two of which he’d been able to use. In truth, he was a disciple himself rather than a guru.

A disciple who’d lost his own guru.

‘Any of them finished memorising the native yantra at least?’ He motioned to the banner strung across the wall. It was the first yantra he’d learnt and the first one he taught his students.

‘Not yet.’ Mark looked down. It was the same news every morning. ‘Stephen’s not far off, I reckon.’

Jack rested his hand against the door frame for support. Black specks danced before his eyes. ‘Ah, Stephen. Promising lad, I thought.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Jack’s gaze drifted to the native yantra. It unlocked innate abilities in Europeans, but you could never tell what power it would produce. When Jack had learnt it years ago, he’d been gifted the power to track quarries using the traces they left in sattva. Mark, on the other hand, had gained the ability to find lost animals. Who knew what powers Jack’s other disciples might develop?

If only they could progress.

Jack felt sweat beading on his forehead. ‘And you, Mark? Anything?’

‘No.’ Mark picked at a piece of dirt on his sleeve. ‘Still trying to memorise it.’

Jack patted Mark lightly on the shoulder. ‘It’s all right. It’s a difficult one. Took me a year.’

Mark drew a sheet of paper out of a pouch and unfolded it to reveal a huge yantra sketched in blue ink. The paper was precious – a rare item in Shropshire – and the Rajthanan pen used to draw the design was the only one in the village. But these were both as nothing to the priceless yantra depicted on the sheet. Jack called it the ‘mystery yantra’ because he’d never been able to learn its purpose. A strange Sikh called Kanvar had given it to him in London three years earlier, and since then he’d been trying to use it. Despite memorising the design and learning to hold it steady in his mind, it had never given him a power.

He could only hope that Mark would do better.

‘This part.’ Mark pointed at a particularly intricate piece of the image. ‘Can’t seem to get it.’

‘Yes. Tricky. You’ll get there.’ Pain punched him in the chest and he couldn’t help but grimace.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Mark asked.

‘I’m fine. I’ll be back later.’

‘Sir?’

‘Carry on with the training.’

He left suddenly, doing his best not to trip over as he walked. He knew Mark would be watching him and he didn’t want to show any weakness. If he could just get back to his hut and meditate he could at least hold the sattva-fire at bay for a little longer.

But his chest was so tight he could barely draw in air, and his surroundings seemed overly bright. He stumbled through the trees, crossed the brook and lurched past the green. It was strange to walk through the peaceful village, seeing everyone busy at their tasks, and yet be on the brink of death. It was as though he were suffocating behind a sheet of glass, unable to attract anyone’s attention.

But what could anyone do to help him anyway? He had a sattvic injury, and only yoga could treat that.

If only he’d learnt more yantras, then he might have been able to cure himself. But he knew just the three – the native, the mystery and the yantra that healed his chest. Not much to treat himself with.

And not much with which to build an army of siddhas.

His right knee buckled and he almost toppled over. He grasped a tree stump and only just managed to stay on his feet. A pool of blackness passed before his eyes but he blinked and fought it off.

‘You all right, sir?’ a young girl called Marian asked as she came up the street.

‘I’m fine,’ he muttered.

‘You sure, sir?’

He grunted and staggered on.

One step at a time. Keep going. Back to the hut.

He felt as though he were floating, as though he were in a dream. There were houses and trees and fields and hills about him, but they were as real as hallucinations.

He reached his hut, fell though the door and collapsed on the ground. Fighting for air, he rolled on to his back. He heard the sound of children playing in the distance. A sheep bleated and a dog barked incessantly. Tom the blacksmith’s hammer tinged and tinged against the anvil.

He tried to sit up, slipped back, tried again and finally got himself into the correct posture for meditation. He closed his eyes and brought up the image of the healing yantra. It circled and danced in his mind’s eye, white on black, with intricate, lacy detail. He tried to keep it still but it constantly blinked out of view as other thoughts flooded his head.

Your mind is like a rippling pool.

Darkness enclosed him entirely and he passed out for a moment, only waking just before he slumped to the ground. He stuck out his hand to steady himself and eased back into a sitting position.

The fire in his chest seared him.

He didn’t have much longer – he was sure of that. If he were going to live, he must use the power now. He thrust every other thought aside and focused solely on the yantra. Finally, he held it still and complete in the centre of his mind’s eye, and the image blasted him with white light.

He slipped immediately out of the trance, expecting the sattva-fire to have been forced back – at least, to some degree.

But there was no change at all.

Damn it.

The pain was as fierce as before and his chest was just as constricted. He rasped down what air he could. His small hut was hot and oppressive and the sound of Tom’s hammer echoed as if down a long tunnel. The children’s laughter seemed to taunt him.

He brought up the image of the healing yantra once again, but now the darkness was clutching at him and drawing him close. He tried to fight it off, tried to keep his focus on the yantra. But everything was slipping away.

He was choking.

Was he going to die?

He was certain he would. These past few years had been a temporary reprieve, but the healing power was no longer enough to save him.

At least he’d had a few good years with Elizabeth in Shropshire, and at least he’d been able to save his daughter’s life. He thanked God for that.

His only regret was that he would never get the chance to see his grandchild.

B
ells pealed. Several bells. Two were small and high-pitched, while a third was large and dolorous. The sound was familiar to Jack but he couldn’t place it. It seemed to come from the past, from far away, from another world.

Then he recognised it – the call to Vespers.

He opened his eyes and found he was lying on his back and staring up at a shadowy, vaulted ceiling. The ringing bells were close, the sound vibrating in the air about him.

Was he dead? Was this heaven?

Then he felt a stab of pain in the centre of his chest and he knew he was still alive and in the material world.

He sat up. He was lying on a hard cot in what he thought at first was a small church, until he noticed the row of ten other cots stretching away beside him. Most of the beds were occupied by old men who lay huddled beneath blankets.

He was in a monastery hospital.

A blast of pain hit him in the chest and he slid back down. He tried to sit up again, found he was too weak, tried again, and then darkness swirled around him.

He fought to stay conscious, but couldn’t prevent himself slipping away.

He woke to the sound of the bells chiming Nones – three o’clock. Chalky light floated into the hall from the window behind his cot and he smelt a trace of frankincense.

His chest still hurt and each breath was a struggle.

‘Father.’

He shifted his head and saw Elizabeth standing next to the cot. She whimpered and put her fist to her mouth when she saw his face.

An elderly monk in a black habit stood behind her. The man had a sombre expression and skull-like features. He looked as though he’d just risen from the dead.

Elizabeth knelt beside the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Terrible.’

Elizabeth smiled and gave a short laugh. She took his hand and he felt her icy fingers coil into his. Her eyes were watery and he could see she was fighting to hold back the tears.

‘Where am I?’ he asked.

‘Clun Abbey. We found you out cold. No one knew what to do. We brought you here.’

Jack had seen the abbey up on its hill many times but had never visited. It stood about two hours on foot from Folly Brook and the path to Newcastle passed beneath it.

The old monk stepped closer and folded his hands within his habit’s sleeves. ‘It’s good to see you awake. I’m Brother Michael. I’ve been trying my best to treat you, but I’m afraid no one here understands your ailment. It is beyond our knowledge, I fear.’

‘Ah.’ Jack eased his head back. ‘It’s a strange matter.’

‘What is it?’ Elizabeth’s face was creased with worry.

Jack turned his head to Michael. ‘Can we speak in private?’

‘Of course.’ Michael bowed his head and withdrew, making no sound save for the rustle of his clothing.

Jack held Elizabeth’s hand tighter. ‘Listen, you mustn’t worry.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘I was injured. A long time ago, on a battlefield. You know about sattva-fire?’

‘Yes. You told me once. It’s like magical flames.’

‘That’s it. The Rajthanans use it in war. I got hit by some once – an accident. It’s in here now.’ He placed his shaking hand across his chest. ‘It’ll never go away and once it gets bad enough it’ll stop my heart.’

A tear rolled down Elizabeth’s cheek. ‘But can’t you get rid of it?’

‘I could. Before. I had a power that held it back. It’s not working any more.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then you need another power.’

‘I’d need a new yantra for that, and I haven’t got one. The Rajthanans have all the yantras and they keep them secret.’ He struggled to breathe and sweat burst on his forehead. ‘I don’t even know if there
is
another yantra that can help.’

Elizabeth gripped his fingers tighter. ‘There has to be something you can do.’

‘You mustn’t worry. It’s in God’s hands now.’

‘No.’ Fresh tears trickled down Elizabeth’s face.

‘Listen.’ He reached under his tunic and drew out Katelin’s necklace. He held up the cross, with its sinewy designs. ‘You remember this?’