Caitlin Roesbuck and The Foil Men

Chapter Three

Caitlin and her uncle lay panting against the back door, the whole of their concentration focused on getting their somewhat erratic breathing under control.

Over the pounding in her ears, Caitlin thought she could hear something out in the garden, not so much rustling the bushes as uprooting the trees, weaving them into a wicker basket and wearing it as a hat.

Ms. Britten came out of the kitchen, mopping at her brow with an embroidered handkerchief, and gave a start upon finding the pair huddled by the door.

“Goodness, child, but you gave me a fright,” she said, in a tone of voice that included Caitlin’s uncle as well. “We were beginning to wonder where you’d got to. I was just about to help myself to some milk, in order to calm my nerves.” She blinked, nervously, as if in illustration. “I trust you enjoyed your walk?”

Caitlin’s uncle straightened himself up, ironing out the kinks in his face and body with sheer force of will. “As much as could be expected, Ms. Britten,” he said.

Ms. Britten sniffed, lightly, into her handkerchief. “Of course, of course. Troubled times. It even looks as if we’ll have a storm later.” She stretched out a bony hand as if she meant to ruffle Caitlin’s hair, then thought better of it, and ended up studying her wristwatch with great fascination.

“Come, Caitlin. We don’t have any more time to lose.”

Sparing an uneasy smile for Ms. Britten, Caitlin fell back into step behind her uncle as he set off into the depths of the house.

They passed the door to the kitchen like fugitives, keeping to the shadows. Inside, it seemed that the police were now being served with tea and scones, and regaled with savoury anecdotes collected during eighteen years in the hotelier business.

Caitlin and her uncle crept past.

In the hallway, her uncle pulled aside the door that led down to the basement, and motioned his niece on ahead.

“You’ll be safe here,” he said. “For the time being.”

But, safe or not, her uncle still looked both ways, with wide and watchful eyes, before drawing the door to and locking it from the inside.

Caitlin had already begun to descend the curved wooden staircase that led down to the den. The steps were lit by a single dim bulb suspended halfway down, and most of the passage was cloaked in shadow, meaning that she had to feel for the rim of every step before moving forwards. She kept one hand on the grubby white-washed wall for the whole of the way down.

Finally, she reached the thick metal door at the bottom of the stairs, and, after fumbling for the handle, swung it open.

A sudden breath left her, sounding very much like a gasp of wonder and delight.

So this was her uncle’s basement.

All around her were marvellous items that seemed to have been collected from every stage of history, stacked up against one another as if they were trinkets picked up on Blackpool promenade. Immediately beneath her feet was a deep-pile rug, its thickly coiled fibres depicting a huge city, with twisting minarets and domes that were richly painted in gold, silver and bronze. Between the Arabic minarets, saucers and DaVinci helicopters twirled and spun. Off to her right lay a pile of newspapers, tightly bound and yellowed with age, and behind them, a gold brazier, filled with softly-glowing coals that warmed the room and diffused the scent of jasmine into the air.

There were crystal balls and cardboard boxes; books by the hundreds and burnished Tiki masks; pikes and longstaffs that stood ready for combat, and a primary school chemistry set that bubbled with an eerie inner light. It seemed to be distilling orange juice into chocolate liqueurs.

On a set of shelves towards the back, Caitlin thought she recognised an old Amiga 600, but it was connected to an octangular box that hissed and spurted steam as its cogs and pulleys whirred and tugged, and that didn’t seem to make any sense at all. A metallic slot from a bubblegum machine punched out a new ticket every four minutes, while a converted shredder below it chewed them up before they could touch the floor.

In the far corner, just in front of the immaculately tidy four-poster bed, there was a machine made out of brass and wood. It was the size and shape of a tumble drier, and had several accordion-like tubes coming out of the side. Every so often, it would give itself a little shake, like a puppy with a headcold, and emit a matching whimper. There were a number of shiny buttons along the front, among them a red one that was twice the size of the others.

Caitlin bent to read the label, which said; “deus ex machina”.

“Don’t touch that, please,” her uncle said, with restrained urgency, as he came through the door at last. “I caught several Furies and Neptune’s younger brother the other week, and I doubt they’d be pleased to see either of us if you set them loose.”

Caitlin didn’t know what her uncle was talking about, but she was getting used to feeling that way, so she just nodded and walked backwards, slowly.

In moments, her uncle had produced a pair of ornate, high-backed chairs for them to sit in, along with a cup of tea, for himself, and a glass of something that was bright purple and fizzy, for Caitlin. She murmured her thanks and raised the glass to her lips.

“I think it’s long past time I told you my true name.”

“But, Uncle, I know… I mean, it’s John, isn’t it?”

“Ah, that’s just one of my names, Caitlin. I’ve never been a man to be content with what I’ve been given, particularly when a change will let me blend in more easily. I’ve been many people, and used many names. Evander, Hjalmar, Wilberforce, Richard… For several years I was even known as Dieter, but that was largely because I was infiltrating the Nazi High Command.”

“Then – you’re a spy?”

“I have been, but I wouldn’t presume to call it my occupation. Occasionally, my aims, and the aims of those in a particular government… align… for a time. During the last big war, I was searching for the Spear of Longinus – that’s it on the wall, there, by the way. A very powerful artefact. That I managed to leave Berlin with several rolls of microfiche detailing missile testings, along with troop movements for the next five months, was completely incidental.” He smiled, a hint of self-satisfaction tugging at the corners of his lips.

“But what about your name? Why is it so important?”

“Names are power, Caitlin. You know I told you that the name of the greatest foil man would take over a day to recite… well, if we could do that, if it were written down anywhere, we would have mastery over him.”

“So, if you tell me your name, you have to do what I say?” For some reason she couldn’t quite pin down, Caitlin quite liked the sound of that. However, she wasn’t surprised when her uncle shook his head.

“No. At least, not exactly. But if you call my name, my true name, I will be able to hear you, and aid you, wherever you may be. That is important. You should never have to face these creatures alone.”

“So what is it?” Caitlin asked, suddenly aware that, for all that it seemed like they were having a cosy little tea party, there were giant, sharp, silvery things outside that wanted to slice her into pieces.

“My name is Cathaoir Roesbuck. At least, it has been since the day the creatures came to my village. Not even my mother can remember what they christened me, largely because she has been dead five hundred years, but after I fought off the creatures, single-handedly, that’s what they called me. Cathaoir. It means ‘warrior’. Even at five, I had a pretty good sword-arm, and by the time I was eleven, I was convinced I was invincible. I wasn’t, of course, and I still have the scar on my leg to prove it, but I was close enough to invincible that it didn’t matter any more.”

“Uncle – Cathaoir,” Caitlin began, stumbling over the unfamiliar pronunciation. “Are you even my uncle?”

Cathaoir looked grave, as if remembering family from long ago. “I’m a Roesbuck, of that you can be certain, but a Roesbuck seven or eight generations old.”

“Do my parents know?”

“No. It would draw unwanted attention to me, if they did. As far as they are concerned, I am your uncle; nothing more, perhaps a little less.” He ran a finger around the pattern on the arm of his chair. “Or perhaps,” he added, his face opening into a grin, “they pronounce the great-great-greats silently. I don’t know.”

“How are you so old, then?”

“Stubborn resiliance in the face of immutable truths, my dear. Everybody lives forever, Caitlin, in some form or another.” His eyes flickered over to an alcove on the wall. “Almost everybody. Not the ones that the foil men take. But I’ve personally never seen the point of going away, just to come back again. So I stayed.”

Outwardly, Caitlin was calm, but inside, her mind was boggling. Her ‘uncle’ was over five hundred years old! ‘Stubborn resiliance’. Ha! Caitlin bet he had a potion lying around somewhere. That was probably what was bubbling up through the glass tubes on the table. Or bubbling down. It was hard to tell.

“What happens to the people who the foil men get?” She asked, in a voice caught between bloodthirsty eagerness and a desire for self-preservation.

“They end up in the belly of the beast,” Cathaoir said, his eyes raking the alcove again. “It is said that the foil men have stomachs big enough to hold all the souls of several worlds. Once they are taken, they never come back.”

“N-never?”

“Unless the beast is killed, and his belly is slit. Then, and only then, could all the souls break free. Even I have never killed one of these creatures – at least, not permanently.”

“Maybe we can find a way. You’ve got me on your side, now, haven’t you?”

“That’s right. I have.”

They sat in silence for some time, until Caitlin said: “Uncle, what’s in the box?”

“Which box, my dear?”

“The one which you keep looking at – in the funny little hole in the wall.”

Cathaoir Roesbuck stood, sadly, and guided his niece over to the alcove.

A thin wooden chest, richly gilded and studded with star opals, sat within, and, set above, was a portrait of the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.

Caitlin said so.

“Thank you… but the portrait doesn’t do her justice. I drew it from memory several months after she had been taken. She was my wife, and I could not protect her.”

“What – what about me?”

“I will protect you will all the breath I have left in my body, Caitlin. And I have accumulated a lot, in my time. I have been training too long, and too hard, to fail you now.”

“So, what’s in the box?” Caitlin pressed, after a moment’s pause.

Her uncle touched the box, stroking it gently.

“Her heart. The only part of her that they couldn’t take. Perhaps it was because it was so full of good, even at the end, when she could have been screaming hatred… or perhaps they could not digest it. Either way, it is all I have of her.”

Caitlin reached out, tentatively, and ran her fingers across the lid, fascinated and horrified in equal measure. The box was cool to the touch, as if something was kept frozen inside.

“Somedays, the thought of seeing her again, and reuniting the two, is all that keeps me going.”

Caitlin took her uncle’s hand in hers. “We’ll find her again, Uncle Cathaoir, don’t you worry. We’ll find her. I promise it.”

“Thank you – ”

There was a thud, and the tinkle of breaking crockery from the kitchen upstairs, and then a shrill, familiar scream.

“Mum!” Caitlin cried. “I thought you said they couldn’t get in! I thought you said we were safe!”

“It appears that I was wrong. Quickly, take the Spear, and stay close to me!”

“I can’t take the Spear! I don’t know how to – ”

And then Caitlin’s fingers closed around the perfectly weighted wooden shaft, and she knew.

There was another scream, and without pausing for a moment more, Cathaoir and Caitlin Roesbuck flung open the basement door and ran up into the house.

To Be Continued…