an eerie place to be at night with a terrified donkey.
A metallic rustle caught their attention, some kind of movement in the back of the cart. The two women circled it warily holding their lantern aloft, sure that they had picked up some crawling creature or other. Quite a big one, by the sounds of it. The mass of scrap quivered and the women jumped back, clutching each other. They both picked up sticks and started batting the mess of wire and metal bits and pieces, hoping to scare the creature out of hiding.
Suddenly the rusted mesh of scrap started to move, dragging itself towards the tailgate of the cart. The latches on the tailgate flipped open all by themselves, and the scrap heaved itself off the end of the cart, dragging most of the garbage with it. The women screamed and hugged their panic-stricken donkey. Covering its eyes as well as their own to stop this strange evil from entering their heads, they cowered , unable to move.
When they dared open their eyes again, the scrap was gone, lost in the darkness of the trees, although they could still hear it, dragging itself along the ground, snaring bushes and catching on undergrowth. The donkey decided it had had enough. It brayed hysterically, shook itself free of the women and bolted, galloping up the dark road towards the village, hauling the cart after it. The remains of the rubbish spilled out of the back, but the women didn’t care; they sprinted after their cart, intent on getting home even before the donkey did.
* * * *
The lantern was going out. Paternasse shook it gently to listen to the oil; it was almost gone. In the light from Noogan’s headlamp, he turned down the wick until the flame went out, used a cloth to lift off the hot glass and then unscrewed the body to check the length of the wick. It lay there like a coiled worm; there was plenty left. He refilled the reservoir from the tin of oil he had in his satchel and put the stock and glass back on. They had enough for one last refill after that. The methylated spirit in the headlamps was low and they had one tin bottle between them, but that would last them less than half a day.
They had found more rooms, smashing down each door they came upon, only to find that each of the twenty-three rooms joined up with another, forming a network of chambers , corridors and stairways – none of which led outside. They had discovered three wells, but the water in each was stagnant and would have to be filtered and boiled before it could be drunk. All the rooms had the same style of decoration , carvings of flowers and leaves and trees and disturbingly lifelike animals, all suggesting a yearning for the outside world. There were false windows in every room. It was downright peculiar.
‘I’ve found something,’ Dalegin called.
He had been searching some of the alcoves and storage areas and came into the large octagonal room now with a glass jar full of silver powder.
‘We haven’t seen any candles or lamps, right?’ he said, once he had their attention. ‘But they had to have light. I found bits of this powder in the plates behind the windows , and just on a hunch, I flicked a match over it.’
The powder in the jar had solidified, so he jammed a chisel down into it to loosen some and tipped a small pile of the grains onto the stone tiles. Then he took out a box of matches and struck one, touching it to the silvery grains. The powder ignited, burning with a brilliant blue-white light.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Nayalla said softly, as they all leaned in for a closer look.
‘You haven’t seen the half of it,’ Dalegin chuckled.
He reached down and rubbed his finger in the still burning powder, then lifted it out. Part of the flame flickered on his fingertip. They all gaped.
‘It has no heat,’ he said. ‘This stuff burns cold.’
They each found a piece of wood or rusted metal that could be used as a handle and coated the end in the powder which they set alight, equipping themselves with
A metallic rustle caught their attention, some kind of movement in the back of the cart. The two women circled it warily holding their lantern aloft, sure that they had picked up some crawling creature or other. Quite a big one, by the sounds of it. The mass of scrap quivered and the women jumped back, clutching each other. They both picked up sticks and started batting the mess of wire and metal bits and pieces, hoping to scare the creature out of hiding.
Suddenly the rusted mesh of scrap started to move, dragging itself towards the tailgate of the cart. The latches on the tailgate flipped open all by themselves, and the scrap heaved itself off the end of the cart, dragging most of the garbage with it. The women screamed and hugged their panic-stricken donkey. Covering its eyes as well as their own to stop this strange evil from entering their heads, they cowered , unable to move.
When they dared open their eyes again, the scrap was gone, lost in the darkness of the trees, although they could still hear it, dragging itself along the ground, snaring bushes and catching on undergrowth. The donkey decided it had had enough. It brayed hysterically, shook itself free of the women and bolted, galloping up the dark road towards the village, hauling the cart after it. The remains of the rubbish spilled out of the back, but the women didn’t care; they sprinted after their cart, intent on getting home even before the donkey did.
* * * *
The lantern was going out. Paternasse shook it gently to listen to the oil; it was almost gone. In the light from Noogan’s headlamp, he turned down the wick until the flame went out, used a cloth to lift off the hot glass and then unscrewed the body to check the length of the wick. It lay there like a coiled worm; there was plenty left. He refilled the reservoir from the tin of oil he had in his satchel and put the stock and glass back on. They had enough for one last refill after that. The methylated spirit in the headlamps was low and they had one tin bottle between them, but that would last them less than half a day.
They had found more rooms, smashing down each door they came upon, only to find that each of the twenty-three rooms joined up with another, forming a network of chambers , corridors and stairways – none of which led outside. They had discovered three wells, but the water in each was stagnant and would have to be filtered and boiled before it could be drunk. All the rooms had the same style of decoration , carvings of flowers and leaves and trees and disturbingly lifelike animals, all suggesting a yearning for the outside world. There were false windows in every room. It was downright peculiar.
‘I’ve found something,’ Dalegin called.
He had been searching some of the alcoves and storage areas and came into the large octagonal room now with a glass jar full of silver powder.
‘We haven’t seen any candles or lamps, right?’ he said, once he had their attention. ‘But they had to have light. I found bits of this powder in the plates behind the windows , and just on a hunch, I flicked a match over it.’
The powder in the jar had solidified, so he jammed a chisel down into it to loosen some and tipped a small pile of the grains onto the stone tiles. Then he took out a box of matches and struck one, touching it to the silvery grains. The powder ignited, burning with a brilliant blue-white light.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Nayalla said softly, as they all leaned in for a closer look.
‘You haven’t seen the half of it,’ Dalegin chuckled.
He reached down and rubbed his finger in the still burning powder, then lifted it out. Part of the flame flickered on his fingertip. They all gaped.
‘It has no heat,’ he said. ‘This stuff burns cold.’
They each found a piece of wood or rusted metal that could be used as a handle and coated the end in the powder which they set alight, equipping themselves with
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