. . .and under that wall of darkness. . .
Her mind was dulled with that awful weariness, and at first Nita thought she was looking at a hill, between them and the sea. Funny about that, she thought. That almost looks like a sort of squashed head, there. But no head could be that ugly. Huge twisted lips and a face that looked as if someone had malformed it on purpose; a sculptor's model of a gargoyle's head all squashed down, the nose pushed out of place, and one eye squinted away to nothing; the other abnormally huge, bulging out, the lid a thin warty skin over it. All this smashed down on to great rounded shoulders, a crouching shape, great flabby arms and thighs and a gross bulging belly - all the size of a hill. Face and body together combined to make an expression of sheer spite, of long-cherished grudges and self-satisfied immobility. The look of it made Nita feel a little sick.
And then she saw it breathe.
And breathe again.
Loathing, that was almost all she could feel. She was afraid, too, but it seemed to take too much energy. So this is Balor.
It was not the way she had expected the Lone
One to appear. Always she had seen It before as young and dynamic, dangerous, actively evil. Not this crouching, lethargic horror, this lump of inertia, of blindness and old unexamined hates. Before, when confronted by the rogue Power that wizards fight, she had always wanted to fight It too, or else run away in sheer terror. This made her simply want to sneak away somewhere and throw up.
But this was what they had to get rid of; this was what was going to destroy this island, and then the world.
It's gross, came the thought; Kit, tired too, but not as tired as she was. They'd better get rid of it quick.
Nita agreed with him. Off to one side she saw Johnny, looking almost too tired for words. But Johnny's back was straight yet. "Lone One," he said, his voice calm and clear, "greeting and defiance, as always. You come as usual in the shape you think we'll recognize least. But this one of our hauntings we know too well, and intend to see the back of. Your creatures are defeated. Two choices are before you now; to leave of your own will, or be driven out by force. Choose now!"
There was no answer; just that low, thick breathing, unhurried, untroubled.
"Ronan," Johnny said quietly. "The Spear."
Ronan moved up, but he looked uneasy. The Spear seemed heavy in his hands, and Johnny looked at him sharply. "What's the matter?" he said.
"It - I don't know. It's not ready."
Johnny looked at Ronan with some concern, and then said, "Well enough. Anne. . ."
Nita's aunt came up, carrying Fragarach. A Fragarach that looked dulled and tired. She glanced at him, looking slightly confused. He shook his head.
"Don't ask me," he said. "I think we've got to play this by ear. Do what you did before."
She held up Fragarach and said the last word of the spell of release. The wind began to blow again, but there was a tentative feel to it this time, almost uncertain. The gross motionless figure did nothing, said nothing. The wind rose, and rose, but there was still that feeling of a hollowness at the heart of it; and when it fell on Balor at last, there was no destroying blast, no removal. It might have been any other wind blowing on a hill, with as much result. It died away at last, with a moan, and left Fragarach dark.
"Doris," Johnny said.
Doris came up, holding the Cup. She spoke the word of release, and tilted it downward. That blue-green light rose and flowed out of it again, washing towards Balor. But it lost momentum, and soaked into the muddy ground around the Balor-hill, and was swallowed up; and afterwords the Cup was pallid and cold, just a thing of gold and silver, indistinct in the shadows.
"All right," Johnny said, sounding, for the first time since Nita had met him, annoyed. "Ronan, ready or not, you'd better use that thing,"
Ronan looked unnerved, but he lifted the Spear. The fires twisted and writhed in the metal of its head; he leaned back, balanced it, and threw.
The Spear went like an arrow, struck Balor. . .
. . .and bounced, and fell like a dead thing.
Silence. The wizards looked at each other.
. . .and the laughter started. It was very low, hardly distinguishable as laughter at all, at first. It sounded as if the ground should have trembled with it, and with malice, and amusement. Invulnerable, Nita thought. It's not fair. He could be stopped, the last time. Lugh put that spear right through Its eye. Nothing should be able to stop it. . .
Another sound began, a shadow of the first: rocks grating against rocks, a low tortured rumbling that grew louder and louder. With it, the earth really did start to tremble. People fell over in all directions, tried to find their footing, lost it and fell again. Nita was one of them; when she got up again, she noticed a particular feeling of insecurity, as if something she had been depending on had suddenly vanished.
Johnny was standing up again, having fallen himself. He looked at Nita's aunt in shock, and said, "That was the Stone going. The linkage to it is dead."
Nita's aunt looked at the shadows down by the seashore and said softly, "Then there's nothing to prevent… that."
Johnny shook his head. "And what happens here
Nita swallowed.
The groaning of the earth subsided; many who had fallen managed to get back to their feet. But there was no relief, for unchanged before them squatted the huge, dark, immobile form with its spiteful, pleased look. A soft protesting noise of distress and anger went up all around.
"It's enjoying this," Kit muttered. "We've lost, and It knows it, and It's prolonging it for fun."
"That's as much fun as it's going to have, then," came a sudden small voice: Tualha. She struggled down out of Nita's bag and splatted on to the ground, then climbed up hurriedly on to a nearby stone. She panted a little, and paused; and then her little voice rang out in that sick silence, louder than Nita had ever heard it before.
"See the great power of Balor lord of the Fomor!
See the ranks of his unconquerable army! See how they parade in their pride before him! See how they trample the earth of Eriu!"
Nita stared at first, wondering what Tualha was up to. But the irony and sarcasm in her small voice got thicker and thicker, and she was staring at Balor in wide-eyed amusement, the way Nita had seen her stare at captive bugs.
"Is it not the way of his coming in power? His splendor is very great, he bows down all resistance! Never was a better way for the conqueror to come here; May all who follow him fare just the same way!
See how the children and beasts flee before him, And their elders, just hoary old men and women,
With their few bits of rusty ironmongery, And a crock and a stone, that's all they have with them!
Can it really be so, what we see before us. . .? or is it a trick of the Plains of Tethra, where everything seems otherwise than it is, and night might be day, if one's will was in it?
Is it truly what we see, the mighty conqueror, with his armies ranged and his ships all ready? Or something much less, just a misconception, a fakery made of lying and shadows?
No army here, just some shattered stonework, some poor bruised goblins, all running away? No ships at all, but just the old darkness, the kind that used to scare children at bedtime?
And no mighty lord, no mastering horror, just a bad dream left over from crazier times, a poor ghost, wailing for what's lost for ever? Some run-down spook complaining about hard times, and what he can't keep? Can it be that mortals are too strong for him even here, on his own ground?. . .that accountants and farmers, housewives and shopkeepers, and children and cats are even too mighty?
Then all hail the ragged lord of the Fomor, a power downthrown, a poor weak spectre that ought to take himself off to the West Country and haunt some castle for American tourists! Be off somewhere and beg your bread honestly, and don't come around our doors with your threats, you shabby has-been! Just slouch yourself off, crooked old sloth-pile: show some initiative!
“Get up and. . .”
The voice that spoke then made the earth shake again, and a violent pain went right through Nita at the sound of it, as if she had been stabbed to the heart with something not only cold, but actively hateful. “Let me see this chatterer who makes such clever noise," the voice said, hugely, slowly, with infinite malice.
Tualha stood her ground. “Get up and do something useful, if you dare. . .'
It got up.
The terrified screams of many of the wizards made this seem to take much longer than it did; seconds dragging out to minutes of horror, as the huge shape began to tear itself up out of the ground, bulking up against the darkening sky huger than Bray Head. Indeed the Head looked to be crouching down in terror itself, getting smaller as that form rose up beside it, not just the ugly warped man-shape, but a steed for it as well - black as rotting earth, eyes filled with the decaying light of marshfire, fanged, taloned, breathing corruption. Above it its Rider rose, and Nita heard Its breathing and knew her old enemy again, knew by sight the One that she had been desperately afraid would catch her, that night after the foxhunt went by. Its pack was gathering to It out of the shadows now, ready to hunt the wizards' souls out into everlasting nights and tear them to shreds like coursed hares, screaming: in the pack's longing thoughts, dangerously close to becoming real in this otherworld, Nita could hear the shrieks, smell the blood already. But at the moment she could look nowhere but that dark face: see the bitter smile. But there was as yet no glance from Its eye. The Balor-shape still bound It to that shape's rules.
He put the Spear right through Its eye, Nita thought abruptly. That's it! Unless It opens Its eye first. . .
Here it comes, Kit said to Nita. This had better work. . ./
Off to one side, Ronan was holding the Spear. It was immobile no longer; it was shaking in his hands, its point leaning towards the terrible dark shape before them, the fires writhing in its point. "Not yet," Nita said under her breath, "Ronan, not yet. . .!"
She knew he couldn't hear her; even if he could, it was a good question whether the being he was becoming would recognize Nita as someone it might be useful to listen to. Ronan was wrestling with the Spear, holding it back as it pulled and strained in his hands.
A bare slit of light opened in the dark face of the bulk before them, like the first sliver of the sun coming up over a hill. It hit Nita in the eyes and face like thrown acid, searing. She cried out, fell down and crouched in on herself, trying to make herself as small as possible, as the light hit her all over and burned her. All around her she could hear the screams of others going down, and right next to her, on top of her she thought, the sound and feel of Kit crying out hoarsely and rolling over in agony. It was worse than almost anything she could remember, worse than the time the dentist was drilling and the novocaine wore off and he couldn't give her any more; the pain scraped down her nerves and burned in her bones, and no writhing or crying helped at all. The tears ran out and mixed with the mud that her face was grinding into.
But at the same time, something in her refused to have anything to do with all this, and was embarrassed, and angry - the same kind of anger that had awakened in her while she was fighting, and liking it. Shaking her head in that anger, Nita pushed herself up on her hands and knees, even though it felt like she would die doing it, and squinted ahead of them. Through the mud and her tears of pain she could just make out Ronan, still struggling with the Spear. Further ahead, the darkness was broken only by that awful sliver of evil light, getting wider now as the Eye opened. And if it had opened all the way, all Ireland would have burnt up in that one flash, she heard Tualha half-singing, half-saying. But it has to be open enough for him to get a clean shot. He won't get another chance, and if he misses it'll all have been for nothing. Ronan, Ronan, don't let it go yet!
Tualha yowled and fell off the stone on to Nita. She scooped the kitten up, fumbled for her rucksack, couldn't reach it, and stowed her, writhing, inside her shirt, where her clawing made little difference against the storm of pain Nita was already feeling. It could be fought, but not much longer; she could feel the onslaught of the light increasing its power-building. Soon it would be ready. . .Beside her, Kit stirred and bumped up against her. "Come on," she moaned, grabbed him by one arm and tried to get him up at least on his hands and knees. "Come on. Oh, God, Kit, Ronan!"
She looked over and saw that the Eye was open enough. But Ronan was still holding the Spear, despite its struggles. It was roaring now, a desperate noise, trying to get loose. What's the matter? Nita thought. "Ronan!"
He was nothing but a silhouette against that light, writhing himself, kept on his feet by the Power that had been dwelling in him more and more since they came here. “Ronan, let it go!” she cried. “Kit, he has to - he won't. . .“
Their minds fell together, as they had before. That reassuring presence: frightened, as she was, but also perturbed, looking for an answer. What's the matter with him? she heard him think. With me, Meets. RONAN!
Their minds hit him together, fell into his. Only for a second, for something larger than both of them was fighting for control, and losing. Ronan was holding that Power off, and he had only one thought, all fear and horror: // I let it go now, if once I throw the Spear, I become the Power, become Lugh, become the Champion. Never mortal again. . .
Make him do it, Kit cried, frantic, to him and the Other who listened. He's going to get the whole world killed!
No! It doesn't work that way! Nita was equally frantic. He has to do it himself! Ronan - and she gulped - go on!
Silence. . .
. . .and then Ronan lifted the Spear. It shouted triumph as Ronan leaned back, and then it leapt out of his hands, roaring like the shock wave of a nuclear explosion, trailing lightnings and a wild wind behind it as it went. That terrible eye opened wide in shock as a fire more terrible than its own hurtled at it. In the instant of the Eye's opening, the pain increased a hundred times over. Nita screamed and fell. . .
. . .and then came the piercing. Nothing alive on that field failed to feel it, for everything alive had entropy in its bones; all cries went up together as the essence of all burning ate the darkness to its heart, and however briefly, to each of theirs. It was painful, but a terrible relief: terrible because the mortals present knew that, once they returned to the real world, that small personal darkness would be back with them again.
Something else, though, did not find it a relief; something that had almost nothing but entropy about it. The scream of the Lone Power in Its shape as Balor went up, and up, and would have torn the sky if the sky were made of anything solider than air. It took a long time to die away.
The pain was gone, at least. Nita got up to her knees and looked around her, blinded no longer, though her ears were ringing. Kit was just getting up next to her: she helped him up, hugged him. "Are you all right?"
“I'll live," he said, sounding dazed, and hugging back. "Where's Ronan?"
He was standing there not too far away, looking fairly dazed himself. The Spear was in his hand again, but quiet now, not straining to go anywhere. Ronan was leaning on it, panting, his forehead against the shaft of it; so he did not see the tall shadow rising up over him, towering higher and higher; the immense shape of a woman dressed in black, but with light flickering in the folds of the darkness like a promise, and long dark hair stirring in the wind that had begun to come down from the heights, blowing the blackness of the clouds out over the sea, so that high up the sky began to show again, dark blue, with here and there a star.
Against the growing light, and the clean darkness, that woman raised her arms, and her voice went up into the silence like thunder. “Let the hosts and the royal heights of Ireland hear it," the Morrigan cried, and even Ronan looked up now in terror and wonder, “and all its chief rivers and invers, and every rock and tree; victory over the Fomori, and they never again to be in this land! Peace up to the skies, the skies down to the earth, the earth under the skies; power to every one!”
The wizards and the Sidhe shouted a
pproval. And the wind rose, and took the clouds away; and the Morrigan's great shape too bent sideways in that wind and dissipated like a mist, though Nita particularly noticed how her eyes seemed to dwell on Ronan before they vanished completely.
You know, Kit said in Nita's head, it's funny, but she looks kind of like Biddy…
She shook her head in bemusement, and she and Kit went over to Ronan. He was looking up at the sky, still leaning on the Spear. But when he looked down at last, and saw them coming, he straightened up slightly and smiled. Even through her weariness, Nita was very relieved; that abstracted, inhuman look was gone completely.
“It came back," he said to Nita, sounding very bemused. “By itself." He looked ahead of him. The great bulk that had first been Balor and then the Hunter was nothing but a hill now; there was only the vaguest shape about it that suggested that awful bloated bulk. Grass grew on it, and as they looked a rabbit hopped out of cover under a thorn bush growing on it, and began to graze.
“I didn't dare let it go," Ronan said.
Nita nodded. “I know. But you're OK - aren't you?"
He looked at her. “He's still in there, if that's what you mean."
Kit shook his head. “I think you may be stuck with Him," he said. 'But remember which side He's on. I think He'll behave… if you do. If you're lucky, you'll never hear from Him again."
“And if I'm not lucky?" Ronan said.
“Those who serve the Powers,"' said the small voice from down by their feet," "themselves become the Powers." It's usually the way."
“You," Nita said, picking Tualha up. “I didn't know you knew language like that - that last bit. Don't think I didn't hear."
“I got carried away," Tualha said, sounding pleased.
All around them the light was growing. Nita looked up and around, watching the clouds retreating, and the brightness growing still, though there was no sun now, but a soft violet evening all around them. Everything was beginning to burn with a certainty surpassing anything Nita hatt seen even in the duns of the Sidhe.
Beside her, one of the wizards, that handsome woman with the dark hair, said with a chuckle, “Ah… the Celtic twilight." But Nita knew a joke when she heard one, and also knew that more excellent clarity drawing itself about them; she had seen it before. All around them, the wizards gathered there began to shine in that light, seeming more perfectly themselves than ever before; the Sidhe, already almost too fair to bear, began to acquire a calmer beauty, more settled, older, deeper.