by Mary Watson
‘Sure,’ Zara says. Again, I’m drawn by the rook on her bracelet. It doesn’t fit with the delicate gold and there’s something unsettling about it.
‘It was Laila’s.’ Zara sees me looking at the charm. ‘I don’t know where the crow charm is from. It’s kinda hideous.’
‘Kinda.’ Did my brother give this to Laila?
‘My grandmother lost a brooch in our field.’ I blurt the words out, hoping I don’t sound like I’m accusing her dead sister of theft. ‘I was wondering if Laila maybe found it, not knowing what it was. You haven’t seen anything like that, have you?’
Zara shakes her head. ‘My mom’s sorted through all Laila’s jewellery. C’mon, you can see for yourself.’
She swings herself off the bed. Like Laila, she’s graceful. I wonder how much this composure costs her. I recognise the internalised discipline that comes from relentless parental commentary. But I’d guess theirs was gentle, a careful nudging and shaping to their best.
In my family, with Dad, it’s something different.
In Laila’s room, she opens drawers. I touch the desk, attentive for that familiar intensity I feel when the Eye is near.
‘You see it?’ Zara says, perhaps a little snippy.
‘No.’
She goes around the bed and I follow. I feel a little bad, intrusive, but I’m going to feel a lot worse if Cassa gives me Niall’s ninth.
‘There’s another box in her wardrobe.’ She opens the door, flicking on the light. We step inside. All three walls are in arm’s reach and I know for sure it’s not among the dresses and folded shirts.
‘I’m pretty sure if Laila found your granny’s necklace she would have given it back straight away.’ Definitely snippy.
‘Brooch.’
‘I don’t get brooches.’ She slinks by me like a cat, out of the room, and I walk with her. Going down, she pauses near the top step. ‘I mean, no one wears them.’
‘My grandmother does.’
‘Exactly.’ She raises a pointed finger. ‘And they’re always ugly. Let me guess. A diamanté bow? A lady’s face in profile?’
‘Something like that.’ Nothing like that. But I’m enjoying the sudden animated tirade against brooches. She’s wrong, but it’s funny.
‘… quite useless.’ She stops abruptly. ‘I’ve gone off, haven’t I?’
She smiles and it’s infectious.
‘You have.’
We’re still standing on the top steps. Or she is, I’m two down. It brings her face closer to mine and I’m taking in the clear skin, brown and free of make-up. Her face is angular with large brown eyes. Burnt-gold patches in dark hair.
‘You’re not at Anne’s, right?’
She knows I’m not at the school a few villages over.
‘No.’
It’s impossible to explain that I’ve spent the last three years overseas at a school that’s trained me as a dutiful soldier. That I’ve spent years learning to fight, maim and kill. That even from a young age, my father trained me for this life, moulded me to his shape. It’s impossible, but there’s something about the way she looks at me that makes me want to tell her.
Downstairs, the front door opens and her dad, holding a bundle of papers and laptop case, appears at the foot of the stairs.
‘David’s from the Rookery.’ Zara steps by me, going down. Her dad stares suspiciously at me. ‘He’s come to fix things.’
‘Got to run.’ I check the time. ‘I’ll be back for the window.’
At the door, I glance at the stairs. Zara’s at the bottom step and she looks sad. Like there’s no fixing what’s wrong here. And with her sister gone, I guess there isn’t.
I’m back at HH before nine. In the upstairs room, heavy curtains have been pulled across the windows, blocking out the still bright sunlight. The room is lit only with candles.
When she heard about the reparation, Lucia tore apart the Rookery looking for the Eye. Dad, Mamó and Oisín worked together to ask the rooks to search the fields with their sharp eyes. This is not as easy as it sounds: the rooks help us, but on their terms. Anything more requires silver magic.
But the Eye is still missing. And now, Tarc, Elliot and Ian stand beside the tall, heavy wood frame near the entrance. It’s old, and if you look closely, you’ll see the knife marks and rust-coloured stains. Some call it the cradle, because it can make a grown man bawl like a newborn.
Only Tarc can meet my gaze. I can guess what they’re thinking. The War Scythe rounds are never announced in advance. We might hear an hour, even minutes, before one because being ready is part of the assessment. If a fight is called tomorrow, I’m out of the running for sure.
Cassa unlocks the cabinet at the back of the room and my shoulders tighten in anticipation. She brings out a black leather case and lays it on a small rolling worktable.
Tarc takes my arm to lead me to the frame, and his kindness will undo me. I’d rather he was rough and aggressive but that’s not his way. I do wonder how Tarc makes gentleness seem like strength.
I remove my jacket and T-shirt. Then shoes, socks and jeans until I’m in my jocks, the black more faded than it should be, and I hate how vulnerable I feel.
Tarc cuffs my wrists, while Elliot brings the chain. It’s clipped on the cuffs, and the chain raised to the hook at the top of the frame. The chain pulls, and I’m half suspended from the frame, the balls of my bare feet touching the ground.
Cassa opens the clasps of the leather case. She draws out a small pruning blade. There are bigger, uglier things tucked in the silk lining. Things that can do worse damage. But the art of Niall’s ninth is the symphony of wounds in strategic places.
Cassa dips the blade in a small tub and the tip is stained green with whatever poison plant concoction she uses to make hell more hellish.
The first incisions are never the worst. Cassa knows I struggle just before halfway and she saves the most delicate spots, under my fingernails, the long slices on inside skin. The poison on the blade burns as it chases through my body. Three-quarter-ways through, and my eyes are fluttering. My hands are slick against the chain, blood cooling my skin.
I should be impressed at Cassa’s skill, her precision. That she knows how to cut: deep enough to hurt without inflicting lasting damage.
By the time Cassa wipes her tools, I’m held up by the chain. I’m tired, bleeding, weak. My arms hurt and I want down. Someone opens the curtains and the candles are snuffed out and then there’s silence. I fall asleep or pass out but when I wake, I feel a soft touch.
‘Water.’ The voice comes to me in the dark. I feel a cup reached to my lips and I drink.
‘I’m not sure if you’re brave or stupid.’ Tarc’s voice, a low whisper. If Cassa catches him in here, there’ll be trouble. Even for him.
‘Get out of here, Gallagher,’ I say, but my words are slurred. ‘Before you’re strung up with me.’
‘Hang in there.’
‘No choice.’ I’m fading out. I don’t know if I even say the words.
Then he’s gone.
The night is long.
In the morning, Cassa comes in with Elliot and they take me down. On the ground, I’m all animal. The thinking part witnesses the boy groaning on the floor. But there can be no weakness in front of others. So I pull it together. Make myself stand up, a just-born calf on new legs. I’m sore and stiff as I pull my T-shirt over the burning wounds. But, back straight, chin up. Don’t let them see you’re hurting.
It’s wearying trying to shape myself into the man Dad wants me to be.
‘ “When the soldier is vanquished”,’ Cassa quotes Niall of the Waters to me, ‘ “his true strength emerges. Each time he is destroyed, he is forged into his most powerful weapon. He becomes man of iron.” ’
Then I must be really fucking strong.
‘Take the day off.’ Cassa is uncharacteristically generous. ‘But the ritual of the seed remains scheduled for tonight.’
Tarc is at the security rooms when I get t
here. He washes my wounds. He treats them with one of Cassa’s milder plant salves to seal the cuts, apologising that he couldn’t smuggle anything stronger.
And then I sleep, deep and dreamlessly, until late into the afternoon.
NINE
You’ll just have to suffer
None of them see me. I’m a no one, the invisible girl. But the invisible girl gets in where others can’t.
LAS
Zara
There are days in Kilshamble when outside feels different. The sky more purple, the trees too green. The wind has intent. Today, it nudges into me, lifts my hair and pushes me down the front path as I set off to the Scavenger Hunt.
A sharp gust rattles the heavy iron gates of the Rookery. The wind rests, then rises again, and it feels like it wants me to go to the gates. They’re open, just a little, and I draw nearer. Down the shaded drive, I see the bright green of the trees, the curve of the road.
When I turn to leave, Jarlath Creagh is just a few feet behind me. Not for the first time, I feel that blast of panic. He strikes me as volatile, a man ready to drop a match after pouring petrol. There’s no friendly nod as he passes. It’s like I’m not even there. He looks past me, and I feel insignificant. Invisible. Stepping through the gates, he disappears down the drive as they swing closed behind him.
In the village, tucked away down a quiet lane near the hotel is the junk shop. It’s so small and hidden, you wouldn’t know it was there. After calling several times, I’d finally reached a young woman who gave me the address, explaining they were on restricted hours. Check the shop door, she’d told me.
But now the door is slightly ajar and I push it open.
Near the counter a young man, I’d guess early twenties, leans against a wall, so lost in thought that he barely glances at me.
The shop is jam-packed with an odd assortment of things: ornaments, DVD collections, musty old coats. Above the cash register, I see the sign made of salvaged scrap: THE SCAVENGER HUNT.
‘Shop’s closed.’ He barely pays me any attention.
Then he looks at me again, properly this time, and straightens up in a slow, languid movement.
‘You’re Laila’s sister.’ He steps towards me, wearing an old, misshapen moleskin jacket. A yellow flower in the lapel.
‘You knew Laila?’
‘I did. Such a loss. Your sister was a rare creature.’ He looks like he means it. ‘I’m John Canty, but everyone calls me Canty.’ He gives a small bow and takes the flower from his jacket, handing it to me. ‘Poet.’
‘She came in here?’
He pulls his phone from his pocket and fiddles with it. After a moment, he holds it out and there’s Laila. I’m greedy for it, this picture of my sister that I’ve never seen before. Laila is laughing so hard her eyes are nearly shut. Her head is thrown back and she’s wearing a wide grey scarf with red stripes at the bottom. Canty is beside her, a broad smile on his narrow face. The letters from the salvaged scrap sign are behind them. I don’t know why he’s shown me this evidence of their friendship, but I’m grateful.
‘This is my mother’s shop,’ Canty says. ‘But she’s been poorly these last months, so I’ve helped out where I can. Laila would come in sometimes. Loved a good chat. She bought the key from me, but it wasn’t right for her.’
‘What key?’
He gestures to the charm bracelet. But there’s no key charm.
‘A bad fit, the cadence was all wrong, you know? She talked about you, asked if she could bring you here. We’d agreed, but then … well. I guess you’re here now.’
Having hung out with the Drama crowd for years, I recognise the exaggeration, the voice intonations, the careful facial expressions. John Canty is one of those people, the ones who are always performing. The world is their stage, everyone their audience.
‘Do you like poetry?’ he says.
‘Sometimes.’ I don’t really think about it much. ‘So … you write?’
‘I scavenge.’ He smiles with too many teeth. ‘Words are overrated. Come on. I’ve some new things in.’
He jiggles his keys and turns for the back of the shop.
‘Do you know what makes a good poem?’ He opens the door at the back of the room and I scurry to catch up.
‘Um, the right words?’
‘Poetry isn’t limited to words,’ he scoffs. ‘Poetry is when human experience, emotion, impressions, moments, are exquisitely distilled and perfectly organised.’
Laila must have lapped this stuff up. I feel like I’ve found a piece of my missing sister here in this strange shop.
In the small office at the back, the desk is cluttered with papers. Boxes with picture frames, teacups, feather boas, lampshades spilling from them are stacked around the room. The small space is dominated by a heavy cabinet.
‘Poems have power.’ John Canty searches through the bunch of keys. ‘The gift of the poet is to capture what’s otherwise elusive and present it to his audience.’
He holds my eye, pushing meaning into his words: ‘Bards are magicians. Enchanters.’
Enchanter. Okaaay.
‘Was Laila alone when she came in here?’
‘Laila was always alone, even when she wasn’t. No, don’t be sad.’ He must see my face fall. ‘That’s a good thing. Her solitariness was her strength.’
It doesn’t make me feel any better for pushing her away.
‘That key on your bracelet is one of my rarer pieces. One-hundred-per-cent crow feather, all harvested from the Rookery. I told your sister I didn’t think it would work for her, but she’d fallen in love with it. Not all chants suit everyone. Sure, it didn’t matter, it wasn’t like she was going to use it. Well, I hope she didn’t. She’d be crazy to mess around at the Rookery.’
I look down at the ugly crow on the bracelet. Why is he calling it a key?
‘How is it rare?’
‘I’ll take it back if you want. Same price, four hundred.’ He doesn’t answer my question.
Four hundred? Laila spent four hundred euro on this? Where was she getting the money?
Canty pulls open the cabinet door, his body blocking my view of what’s inside.
‘I think I’ll keep it, thanks.’
Canty steps aside. In the cabinet are jars and vials and tubs. Everything labelled in a small spiky hand. On the middle shelf are boxes, a weird blank-faced doll made out of red floral cloth and leaf limbs. Creepy. I can well believe the black crow charm came from here. Key. Whatever.
‘Here –’ he points to vials and tubs on the top shelf; there’re some objects, like a tiny wheatgrass wreath, or twigs bound together to form a star – ‘are the chants I’ve made. Beneath are what I call my curious artefacts.’
Like Laila’s spell. The one she’d cut her hair for. Did she get the idea for it here?
‘Do you know why Laila cut her hair?’ I say as Canty reaches for something on the top shelf.
His hand falters. And then he turns to face me.
‘I didn’t mean for her to do that.’
‘What did you mean for her to do?’ I feel like I’m on the edge of something, but it’s just out of reach.
‘She wanted to know if she could make found magic hers. I told her it needs to be encased in her essence. Next thing she chopped off her hair. I don’t know any more than that.’
He looks guilty. And it’s beginning to make sense.
John Canty is a top-notch scam artist. The poet-wizard who makes money by selling his magic ‘chants’ at stupid prices. Offering stupid magical advice. And Laila cut off her hair for his lies.
He pulls a small vial with a greenish oil from the top shelf. ‘Can I interest you in a love chant? Any boys you want to reel in? This one is made of grass from a handfasting. The lovers would have stood right on it when they pledged to each other. Their love is strong, this is A-grade stuff.’
‘Why not?’ My words are tight, angry, but Canty doesn’t notice. It’s like I’m greedy for his lies, so they may fuel my anger. I’l
l buy his fake love potion, because it is evidence that he is a cheat.
‘You look like a girl who’s searching and I have just the thing for you. Here, ash from a burnt sacred oak to weed out the irrelevant. Just blow the ash and it will guide you.’
It’s an elaborate theatre, but if he’s getting four hundred for an ugly black crow, it must be worth it.
‘Where do you get these?’ I gesture to the wood cabinet.
‘Poets are scavengers, whether they use pretty words or not.’ He smiles at me with his lank hair, his ill-fitting jacket and crowded teeth. ‘Magic always leaves remnants and I trawl through the leftovers hoping to find traces. It’s usually only grey, or maybe blue if I’m lucky. But the rare time, I get silver.’
He eyes Laila’s charm bracelet with some greed.
‘But if a chant doesn’t work, I don’t take responsibility,’ Canty continues. ‘There’s no money-back guarantee.’
Of course there isn’t.
I cast a final glance at the cabinet before he closes the doors. On the top shelf, I see a tub with a dark smear inside it. There’s a rough label with a date and a single word: Sacrifice.
John Canty sees me looking at the tub and hastily pulls the door shut. But it’s too late, I saw it. In his cabinet of scavenged things, John Canty has a jar labelled Sacrifice and the date of Laila’s death.
Laila’s death chant. And that anger surges again.
How grim. How utterly vile that he uses my sister’s death to flog his potions.
I have to get out of there. I knock over a box in my haste to leave. In a minute, I’ll be screaming, and the whole village will know that the second daughter lost it. Mom will be humiliated as well as grieving and cheated upon.
‘That’s not Laila’s.’ He speaks softly. I don’t believe him. ‘Please, wait.’
I stop. Look at him over my shoulder. He reaches into his pocket and comes towards me.
‘I have something for you.’ And holds out a thin delicate band, a small black stone on the ring.
‘Is this a chant?’ He must see how rigid I am. How furious.
