“No, Corporal, you cannot fight this thing. Do not endanger yourself, I beg you!”
“I will not desert my post!” he insisted.
Even as he spoke, the dark spirits advanced. Within seconds they had enveloped him. He fell to the ground, stricken, his sword falling from his hand, his eyes wide in horror though no more words came from him.
Hecate knew she must act to save him. She was certain the spirits were only truly interested in her. Seeking to draw their attention away from the soldier, she darted to the right of the desk. Her action worked. The mass lifted from the young man’s ghostly figure. Too late, though, she understood that they wanted not only her, but the book, too. The mass divided, half moving toward the desk. Hecate leaped back toward it, reaching out for the vital book. She was aware of Brother Michael moving his arms in a frantic attempt to beat back the spirits but his efforts were ineffectual. As she made one more lunge across the desk she felt the oppressive weight of the spirits pressing down upon her. She held her breath, so as not to inhale the toxic air of the things, lifting her scarf into position over her mouth, and snatched up the book. With it in her hand she turned to flee but was thrown to the floor by the spirits’ force.
Winded by the fall, she curled into a ball, still clutching the book, determined that she would not give it up. The room was a chaotic blur of movement and noise. The spirits swirled and twisted; the creatures of the Mappa Mundi fought against their confines, squawking, yapping, and crying out; Brother Michael could be heard praying fervently; Solomon spat and hissed as he clawed at the terrible being that was doing its all to attack Hecate. The griffin launched swooping attacks, fierce but futile, and she watched appalled as he was thrown back against the wall with such force that he fell to the ground and lay stunned and motionless.
“No!” she cried out, trying to get up. She was on her knees when the spirits began to rain objects down upon her. First the things from her desk came hurtling through the air. She tucked the book inside the bodice of her dress and put her arms over her head to protect herself, yelping as an inkwell struck her elbow. Then her attackers tried to wrench the books from the shelves but the chains prevented them from doing so. Thwarted, they sought to push the bookcases over. Hecate scrambled across the floorboards, scurrying out of the way just as the first of the shelves crashed to the ground. More followed. She got to her feet, but found she was trapped against the far wall, the fallen bookcases blocking her path. In their determination to attack both her and the book, the spirits had knocked over the lamp which had shattered. Brother Michael shouted in alarm but was powerless to stop some of the parchments, papers, and scrolls that had been scattered catching fire. Hecate knew a fire could spread through the library in moments. While she looked for something with which to smother the flames, she saw the marble statue of St. Esmond lifting slowly into the air. It was the largest piece of statuary in the muniments room and almost certainly the heaviest. The spirits raised it higher and higher and now their purpose became clear. In seconds they would send it crashing down upon her. She knew she should call for help, try to climb over the shelves, do something to save herself, but she felt unable to act, paralyzed by the inevitability of what was about to happen.
She summoned her courage.
“I think not!” she told the vile being that would see her crushed. She forced herself to move toward it, leaping over the fallen shelves, screaming as she did so, her own voice terrifying to herself, even through the scarf. It was like the battle cry of the member of an ancient tribe, or the shriek of a furious witch. She flung herself into the very midst of the dark mass. As she did so she pulled a vial from her belt, removing the stopper and emptying the contents into the spirit. The being let loose its own screech of rage and pain, whirling around her, dropping the marble bust, seeking to rid itself of the holy water. She emptied another at it as she found her feet. It writhed and shrieked, dividing into two. She had been correct that the size indicated more than one Resurgent Spirit.
“You do not belong here!” she shouted. “You will not hurt anyone else. Not while I live!”
She had to jump to one side to avoid the fire that was now taking hold of the stack of papers under her desk and growing at an alarming rate. One of the spirits swirled about her. She raised her voice, reciting the words of the protective prayer she had memorized from her father’s book. As she did so she removed the stopper from the last vial, waiting until the spirit was tight around her. Just when it seemed it would squeeze the breath from her, she flung the contents at it. The being recoiled, screeching, breaking into small pieces, falling to the floor. For a moment, Hecate thought she had killed it, but the pieces took the shape of beetles and swarmed under the door, fleeing from the room and down the stairwell.
The creatures and people of the Mappa Mundi gave in to cheers and whoops and yaps of delight.
She peered through the thickening smoke, but the other spirit was nowhere to be seen.
Hecate felt relief weaken her legs. She concentrated on steadying herself, taking hold of one of the fallen bookcases as she clambered over it. She ran to the corner of the room to collect the fire bucket. Upending it, she poured the heavy sand over the main part of the small but dangerous blaze that had taken hold. There was a puff of smoke but the flames continued to sprout. She ran to the other bucket and repeated the process but by the time she had done so she knew she was losing the battle.
Hecate turned and bent over the fallen griffin, calling to him. To her relief he stirred and flapped up to sit on her shoulder where he clung on tightly. From beneath the table came a mewing.
“Oh, Solomon!” She crouched down, peering into the gloom at the terrified cat. “Come along, little one, come. We must get out. We must get help!” The smoke was already beginning to make her splutter. She knew there were more fire buckets downstairs, and she could run to the vestry and raise the alarm. She could not be certain anyone would respond to Lady Rathbone’s ringing of the bell. If she did not act swiftly the whole collection could be lost. “Please, Solomon, you have to come with me.” When still he did not move she reached forward. At the same moment, Brother Michael blew his cool, ghostly breath from the other side, causing the cat to spring forward. Hecate scooped him up and ran to the door, pulling at the handle. It would not move. She tugged frantically, gasping and coughing as she did so, Solomon setting up a wailing.
“I cannot open it!”
“It will not yield!” Corporal Gregory shouted. “That dark spirit has sealed it with cursed magic!”
Hecate fought down the terror that was rising inside her. The fire was now consuming the edge of the desk and a stack of maps that had been stored beside it. There was a fierce heat coming from it in addition to the suffocating smoke that now took the place of the dark spirits high in the room. There was no need for a lamp, for the fire cast its own lethal light. She knew however much they wished to, her ghostly friends were powerless to help her. It was up to her to save herself and raise the alarm. She ran to the small door set in the wooden interior wall. It had not been opened in years, and as it led onto a void dropping thirty feet to the floor of the north transept, Reverend Thomas always kept it locked. If she could open the door, she could climb down to escape the blaze and get help to extinguish the fire. She looked at the ring, but she knew she did not have the specific key. The smoke began to fill the room more and more. Perhaps one would fit? Many of the internal doors had the same mechanisms.
“Oh, which one, which one?” She tried the stairwell door key. It would not go into the hole. Each time she guessed incorrectly she wasted vital seconds. Solomon ceased wailing, the smoke subduing him. On her shoulder the griffin fidgeted. “I can’t find one to fit!” she told them, desperation coloring her voice, the smoke making her cough and causing her eyes to stream.
It was then she felt a supernatural coolness touch her hand as Mrs. Nugent took shape beside her. “There now, young mistress, fret not. You have the key you require,” said the mop-capped cleaner with a reassuring smile.
“But which one? Where?”
“This one, here,” she said, laying a ghostly finger on Hecate’s brooch.
She looked down in time to see the tiny golden key attached to it begin to glow and pulsate. She held out her hand to catch it as it grew in size and then fell from its position on the cameo into her palm.
Hecate gasped, quickly grasping the key and inserting it into the lock. It fitted perfectly. With a soft clunk the mechanism released and the door swung open.
Hecate gave a small cry of triumph.
The other side presented a terrifying drop two floors down to the flagstones, the height causing her to feel dizzy. The griffin tightened his grip on her shoulder. She clutched the doorframe. There was a narrow ledge along part of the great window. It was no use to her, but wide enough for a nimble cat. She picked up Solomon and leaned out, averting her eyes from the drop, setting him down carefully on the ledge.
“Off you go, little one. Make haste!” she said, giving him a little push.
The fresh air revived the cat and he did not hesitate to dash across the window, his deft paws not faltering once as he used another part of the tracery as a landing point, and then another, quickly jumping down to safety.
“Yes!” Hecate cried.
And then she saw them. Viscount Eckley and Constable Mitchell had realized what she was trying to do and had descended the stairs and were now at the bottom of the great window, looking up at her, Lord Brocket coming to stand behind them seconds later.
As she watched, the Embodied Spirits began to climb.
She turned to see the room was filling with smoke which was also now billowing out past her. What was worse, the air from the open door was feeding the flames of the fire. The room presented a tragic scene. The ceiling was obscured by a pall of smoke, several of the bookcases lay broken upon the ground, everywhere were charred pieces of paper floating through the hot air. And the map! The beings that inhabited it were now stricken with terror. They cried out, the animals squawking or braying, trying to escape their given spaces, the top of the vellum starting to blacken as the ever-thickening smoke and soot descended.
“The map!” she whispered.
And as she did so, the griffin let go his grip on her shoulder and flapped into the room.
“No! Come back!” she called.
It turned and looked at her with a baleful expression but it did not come. Instead it flew to the ledge of the frame surrounding what was, after all, its rightful home, and there it perched, waiting for the end, prepared to be destroyed along with all those with whom it shared its rare existence.
“No! No!” Hecate could not stand it. Her mind was made up.
She stepped back into the library and closed the door behind her, locking it against the possible arrival of the Embodied Spirits. As she removed the key from the lock it shrank back to its normal size so that when she touched it to the brooch it was able to instantly fasten itself back onto its rightful place. As quickly as she could, Hecate removed her coat, her hands trembling. With all the doors closed, she believed there was a chance she could smother the fire. Thanking her mother for the good quality raincoat, she used it to beat at the flames. At first she seemed to be having no effect at all and the flames licked at her boots as she stamped on them, but then, gradually, inch by inch, she began to see progress. She had succeeded in suffocating some of the fire. She knew she must press on, moving forward a bit at a time. She must save the map.
It was not, however, the flames that presented the greatest danger, but the smoke. For all that she was defeating some of the flames, the smoke increased in thickness, robbing the room of breathable air. She knew that the fire had caught some extremely flammable substances, such as varnish and glue, and these were giving off harsh, acrid fumes, making her cough and splutter. She dropped to her knees, trying to avoid the worst of the smoke, but it was harder to beat at the flames when she was nearer the ground. Dizziness began to assail her.
There came a hammering on the library door. Not the Embodied Spirits this time, but help, real and wonderful. She recognized her father’s voice.
