I stare at him. Despite all the things I saw last night, to hear him say them so matter-of-factly… ‘Those aren’t real.’
‘They’re not?’
I shake my head, but even as I look at him, his appearance changes. His shoulders broaden, and his face changes, becomes more rugged. His eyes grow darker, and his hair and beard grow longer, thicker, bushier, plaited in places and threaded through with intricately carved wooden beads. He’s just as handsome, but in a different way.
‘How are you doing that?’
He shrugs, ‘I have more than one form and can change between them. Human eyes see me through a magic called Glamour that means you see what I want you to see. We’re all different.’
‘What are you?’
‘Not completely human. I’m one of the many types of Kinfolk who lived originally in the Underworld. We spend our lives in the mountains, mining for precious jewels and metals.’ He sighs as if he misses it.
‘The Underworld,’ I whisper. The voices in the mist last night mentioned it and suddenly I remember that growing up my parents told me stories about another world, one which overlaps the one I know. It exists in the same place, but not, and these two worlds connect at certain points, known as thin places. Sometimes, the unwary or the foolish find these places and pass through– usually with disastrous consequences.
Is that what I’ve done?
And the stories weren’t just about a place, but about people, too. Kinfolk. How could I have forgotten? Every detail they told me about the magical powers each Kin held was so elaborate and intricately described I thought they must have read it in a story, or in a book about folklore. Were they actually telling me something true? That the Kinfolk I thought they’d made up to entertain me, might really exist? I loved those stories. How did I forget them?
With every piece of information Declan tells me, I feel more questions coming, and then more answers unlocking in my memory. But there’s still more I want to find out from him about the Hunters, about this place, about my future.
Somewhere in the depths of the monastery a bell tolls, and Declan shakes his head.
‘Enough,’ he says. ‘It’s dinner time. Put this on, and I’ll take you downstairs to meet the others. You must be hungry.’
‘Starving.’
‘As well as meeting the other seekers, you will also begin your duties shortly. Dominic and I have discussed it, and we agree that while you are here you must cook and clean to pay your way. It’s what will make you most useful, but also keep you safe. You must also mind your own business. There are secrets here. Don’t dig. You’ll only get hurt. Understand?’
‘But I have questions about this Underworld you’re talking about. Given everything I’ve been through in the past day, you owe me. And just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I should get stuck with the cooking and cleaning. Is there nothing else?—’
‘You know how to operate a brewery?’
‘No.’
‘Then there’s nothing else. And believe me, your tasks are going to earn you the most popularity points with the rest of the Seven. We owe you nothing. You’ve been granted sanctuary here, just like us.’
‘The Seven?’ I swallow the lump in my throat as I follow him out of the room.
‘There’s currently seven of us here. And now you,Gléigeal. For now you will be in charge of the domestic chores the rest of us despise.’
I roll my eyes, but I know nothing about breweries and cooking and cleaning is at least in my skillset whether I think they’re being sexist or not.
‘How long have you all been here?’ I ask not really expecting him to answer.
‘Remember what I said about not asking questions,’ he says. ‘Besides, time moves differently here.’
‘All right, then. Can I ask what Glay-gyal means?’ I do my best to copy his pronunciation.
‘It’s Irish. It sort of means Snow White,’ he says and chuckles. ‘One woman, seven men, hiding somewhere beyond the enchanted forest. Hair like ebony, lips like blood. And you’re so very, very pale. I don’t remember it all now. Life here is far from being a fairy tale.’
‘I don’t think there are many monks in fairy tales.’
‘Monks?’ Declan chuckles and looks down at his robes. ‘Aye, we certainly live like monks. Not by choice, though. And certainly not for a higher purpose.’
I had never truly believed the story that the brewers here were monks. It always feels wrong somehow that they, of all people, make a product that causes so many problems in the city. According to the people who sell it, it’s not the product but how it’s misused that’s the problem, and that’s down to the customer. Which sounds just like the kind of excuses business owners would make to maintain their profit margins or whatever.
Brother Declan leads me through the building, our footsteps echoing against the flagstone floor. We descend a spiral staircase with me clutching the iron handrail to avoid tumbling around the twist. The door at the bottom opens into an internal courtyard surrounded by cloisters similar to those along the water’s edge. In the centre of the neatly mown grass is a huge stone Celtic cross engraved with interlaced knotwork and what looks like four figures carrying staffs or spears.
