Otranto, Tallywag, Tower of Loss—and back again

Day 28 in the Realms I am the only man living to have seen the Castle of Otranto twice. On the way out, we were full of joy—who wouldn’t be? We were heading to new lives in the infinite Realms. It was Mary who spotted it first—dear Mary—as the convoy broke for tiffin. ‘Oh, look at that spectacular rockface!’ she said. ‘I’d love to get my crampons into it!’ ‘Mary, sweet’, I said. ‘That's no cliff. The top’s all crenellated. I think it’s a castle!’ Still extravagantly delighted in our elopement, we went. A gatetop inscription read simply ‘Otranto’. In the courtyard beyond was a great Fae helmet, a hundred times larger than life, tightly covered in black feathers. Intriguing art, we agreed, very pre-Raphaelite. We explored a maze of subterranean galleries then went on our way. A month later, a storm was lashing the makeshift convoy as I fled disaster. The soldiers had stayed behind to hold off our pursuers, never to be seen again. As we bedraggled few passed ‘neath the rockface, lightning struck, and I saw a silhouette of that great helm, moving above the battlements. I was too busy fleeing to cry.

Day 4 in the Realms The Fae knew—know?—how to build landmarks. From the moment we entered the Realm, we were beneath the eyes of a colossus of impossible proportions. And beneath other parts too! Our route beneath the statue’s ‘arbor vitae’ caused much consternation amongst we older prudes—none of us knew where to look. Then I saw Mary gazing with deep focus at it. ‘Mary!’ I spluttered. ‘It is eye-catching, but—’ ‘Observe’, she replied, ‘chisel marks just beneath the tallywag’s tip—they’re enormous! See that gull beside them for scale. The sculptors must have been titanic themselves. Even so, it would have been the work of generations to turn a marble mountain into a statue!’ With new eyes I stared and stared. At the impossible artistry and persistence of those ancient giants, the shaping of a mountain of raw stone with such refinement—until the tutting of the old prudes behind me at my gawping got too loud, and I found myself blushing. I never saw the statue on our return, now that I recall. Even the howls of our pursuers couldn’t have distracted me for that long. Funny, how could a mountain have disappeared?

Day 32 in the Realms Torn, burned and sodden, I kept on. I had left the Argentian refugee group I’d first joined up with, beneath an abandoned lighthouse. Their tales of horror and loss had matched mine—the change from friendly lands to hostile Realms had occurred everywhere at once, and I feared for the Realms, for England and for the Empire. Perversely, I felt Mary was secure. I was glad of that, however lost to me she was—whoever that was who’d taken her hadn’t projected malign intent, however awry our feelings can be concerning the Fae. Now I only had to worry for myself. I’d left the refugees after our encounter at the castle because travelling in such numbers was slow and noticeable, even for our near-sighted stalkers. I was loping along quietly through undergrowth the only time that I saw one clearly. A figure was bent double on the ground, snuffling at it like a trufflehunter. Its bare skin was purpled, not with cold but by nature, and over its body inky cords had been stretched, dangling with golden coins. Its face was a parody of a woman’s smile, distended and distorted. I froze.

Day 12 in the Realms I was sleepless on the crowded rafts, in that dead tower’s lee. Pocks of black ivy marked its mangled rise from the flints fallen at the water’s edge, a finger stabbing silent accusations at Heaven. In the dark, it echoed, warping the cries of night-gulls and worse things imagined inside. Mary, of course, was unperturbed. Secured by her science and that Calcularian acceptance of death. Past midnight, she shook my shoulder, dark lantern in hand, eyes gleaming with the challenge of a climb. I never could resist her. We detached our raft from the group and sculled closer. The tower was as horrible and ancient as I had feared. Fire and age had marked but not weakened it, even after centuries in watery depths. We ascended the cut stone, Mary fearless in front, while I scrabbled behind. At its top, we wedged ourselves into the bell-cavity, dozy with effort. Suddenly, I woke to a smacking sound, like a jar lid suddenly giving way. Looking down, the other rafts, our companions old and young… All were gone. A single ripple spread out across the still lake. In terror, stark terror, we huddled there ‘til morning. Then we fled back to Nightingale.

Day 61 in the Realms I don’t know how long I was huddled in that copse—long after the Bound had vanished and night had fallen. When I came to my senses, I looked up at the stars and saw instead gleaming marble—and the insignia of Nightingale. It was the aqueduct—Brunel’s great design to bring fresh water to the city. I could follow it home! Through that long night, I crept between the arches. In places, water poured freely from fresh gouges torn into its side—I didn’t dare wonder what might could have done it. As dawn rose, I stumbled on sleepless, into fresh-cut wood. My cry of pain was met with a hullabaloo, guns and lights were pointed at me, then warm cloth was put around me, and I was taken in. I had reached St Augustine, walking straight into newly raised barricades that encircled the old Portal town. I learned I was among the last to be found before they sealed the gates. The Transept to Nightingale is empty—there is no way home for any of us. Of the other refugees from Argentia... I survive and bear forevermore that guilt. But I believe my Mary is safe—I must believe it.

Day 14 in the Realms Against an ancient wall, we paused our headlong dash, gasping. And realised the pursuit had ceased. There were still whisperings in the dark, profane hands scratching the dirt, but nothing approached. Then, through the cracks in the dry stones, I saw firelight. ‘Giants?’ I whispered. ‘What else could scare off these?’ Mary ventured. I clutched a stone, more as a comfort than a weapon, and rounded the tumbledown wall. Enclosed in that circle of stone, atop a cairn, burned a fire. A beautiful, tall Fae stood there, lean musculature daubed in woad spirals. Mistletoe and grapes draped his broad shoulders, great antlers crowned his head. A primaeval stone bust loomed above. He stretched a flawless hand to Mary and—I meant to step forward, I did, but… Quiet music in the air. That just held me. She stood dazzled and—oh!—grasped it. And they were gone, slipped elsewhere—golden cloth and exquisite maenads and party chatter. An unforgettable glimpse. Then I was alone. With a dying fire. With the sounds of our pursuers newly raised about me, like a vengeful Greek chorus. I hefted the stone, snatched a burning brand, and prepared to defend myself.