The Wickerlight

by Mary Watson

  I take her hand and she furrows her brow, like she’s wondering what odd thing I’m going to do now. I should come with a warning sign: proceed at your own peril.

  I ease her phone from her hand, as she watches me, I save my number under Handyman. More like handsy man.

  ‘Can I have yours?’

  ‘You want me to call you?’ She looks at the phone and laughs. ‘Handyman sounds like a hammer-wielding maniac from B-grade horror.’

  ‘That’s probably about right.’ I’m grinning like a fool as she gives me her number. I’m feeling lighter than I have in the longest time. Maybe my entire life.

  ‘Call if you need anything fixed.’ And I hesitate. ‘Or if you just want to chat. Hang out.’

  My heart is beating like I’m running with an armed grover yapping at my heels. Never has a girl made me feel this, I don’t know, nervous. Stupid.

  I’ve not done this, made friends with a girl like this. All my friends are judge kids, and I haven’t found myself trying to kiss any of them against the back-kitchen cabinets.

  ‘David.’ She hesitates. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  My phone rings. It’s Ryan.

  ‘You need to get to the hotel right now.’ He doesn’t waste words. ‘Sibéal just sat down at Mamó’s table.’

  ‘The Huntsman?’ I mouth an apology to Zara. As I turn away, she shuts the door.

  ‘Get that girl away from my grandmother,’ I say, already running down the road. It takes me five minutes to reach the hotel, and I’m a sweaty mess by the time I walk up the front steps.

  Breanna meets me at the entrance.

  ‘On the patio. Ryan’s watching. They’re just chatting, but Mamó got really mad when we tried to break it up.’

  Outside, my grandmother is at her usual table. The crisp white tablecloth, the pot of tea and scone, all of this is ordinary for a summery afternoon. Except for the girl across the table from her. They’re talking, and it’s so utterly bizarre.

  Seeing me, Sibéal stands up and leans over Mamó, dropping a kiss on her cheek. Sibéal waves to me, then goes down the steps to the garden where a bunch of tourists are milling.

  I go to Mamó, who is still at the table. Cold tea in front of her. Her scone untouched.

  ‘Mamó?’ I try to hide my anxiety. ‘You OK? What did that girl want from you?’

  Mamó is deep in thought and it takes her a moment to shift her attention to me.

  ‘Mamó?’

  ‘Sit down for heaven’s sake. Don’t make a scene.’

  I’m incredulous. Why has Mamó gone schoolmarmish on me? She’s not that kind of grandmother. My mamó loves a good scene. But I do as she says.

  I cast an eye over Mamó as she examines her scone with disapproval.

  ‘These are yesterday’s scones,’ she grumbles.

  It doesn’t look like any damage was done. I don’t know if Sibéal is a grover, if she’s an armed augur trained in guerrilla tactics. But if she hurt my grandmother here in this hotel, owned by a judge family, she wouldn’t have made it out alive.

  Mamó is looking out across the lawn, watching Sibéal push through the hedging trees that border the back garden.

  ‘She’s a fine girl.’ Mamó slices through her scone, and my blood runs cold. ‘Reminds me a little of myself.’ That any girl should be like Mamó is her highest compliment.

  ‘Mamó.’ I’m suddenly very frightened. ‘Don’t drink that tea.’

  Has Sibéal poisoned my grandmother? Slipped some potion in her tea? I examine her face. She looks the same, her eyes haven’t gone weird or anything.

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘We just talked.’ Mamó examines the jam, then goes for the cream. ‘She asked me about Badb.’

  ‘Badb?’ Why is Sibéal poking about my family lore? ‘What about Badb?’

  ‘She wanted to know about my family.’ Mamó is lathering cream on to the scone, unperturbed. She looks up, and I’m horrified by the single tear that runs down her cheek. Mamó doesn’t cry. The tear splashes on to the white tablecloth. Another follows, but when I look up, her face is clear, her eyes dry.

  ‘About Badb’s Eye.’

  ‘What did she want to know about Badb’s Eye?’

  ‘You know, David, you underestimate Sibéal. She’s a fine girl. A fine girl. David? What’s wrong?’

  David. Mamó never calls me David.

  I’m up like a shot, leaping over the banister and into the garden as I sprint after Sibéal. Through the trees and into the lane. I jump the cattle gate down the other end and see the solitary figure walking. I’m running so fast, not even winded, yelling her name.

  She turns, like she’s not surprised to see me there. I get right into her space. I know that somehow she’s messed with Mamó.

  Mamó would never disclose anything she shouldn’t. That woman could be buried beneath the weight of her untold secrets. She’d never reveal the offerings.

  ‘Worried?’ Sibéal gives me a sympathetic frown.

  ‘What did you do to my grandmother?’ I snarl the words at her. I’m so terrified that whatever Sibéal did may never be put right again. That I’ll have a well-behaved grandmother who calls me David and cries delicately, rather than a chain-smoking badass with the sharpest tongue I know.

  ‘Did she tell you that you underestimated me? That I’m a fine girl?’ She’s smiling, and I can’t bear it. ‘I thought that was a nice touch.’

  ‘What did you do to her?’ I’m shouting right in her face but she’s laughing and it’s making me madder. Then she takes me by surprise. I feel the knife right above my heart.

  ‘I should put you out of your misery,’ she whispers. ‘But where’s the satisfaction in that?’

  Grabbing her hand, I twist it away from me, oblivious to whether I’m hurting her or not. I’d just rather she didn’t have a blade to my skin.

  ‘Don’t ever –’ I spit the words – ‘go near my grandmother again.’

  She holds my gaze. I turn away. I have to get out of here.

  ‘The first offering is Entrap.’

  It’s only a whisper, but it makes me stop.

  ‘What?’ I turn around slowly.

  Sibéal gives me an infuriating Mona Lisa smile.

  ‘And the second –’ she steps closer ‘– is Sever.’

  I think she’s about to pull the knife on me again, but instead, I feel this weird whoosh inside me. The force of it reminds me of when the rooks fly really close to my face.

  Suddenly thoughts flood my head. Feelings push to the surface. Zara wearing the tiniest skirt in the world. Zara slipping away from me in the back kitchen. The brutal, crushing disappointment of her rejection. I’m thinking of Dad. How he’d ignore me in favour of Oisín before he broke, and how stupid and useless it made me feel. Mamó poking her stick at my ribs. Cassa lifting her small blade to my skin. Lucia’s love as her hair sweeps over my cheek while I kneel in ritual.

  The weight of my emotion is unbearable.

  My head is throbbing. A bird caught inside a small bright room, flapping furiously to find a way out. Bashing against this glass window and then that one. I want to put my hands over my head to stop the weirdness inside.

  Sibéal is looking at me intently with bloodshot eyes, and I know that whatever is happening to me is her fault. I want it to stop. I would rather a hundred days on Cassa’s cradle than this. It’s too much. It feels like my head is going to explode. I will it to stop.

  Desperate, I shove her. Hard.

  She lands on her arse and everything is right again. I don’t know what that was, and it’s left me breathing heavily. But I can’t help thinking that even though she’s on the ground and I’m standing, she’s won this battle.

  ‘You’re full of surprises, David,’ Sibéal says. ‘That girl?’

  I’m totally confused as I look down at Sibéal. What girl?

  Then I see the figure standing on the side of the road. She’s hanging back, keeping out of sight. Zara.

 
She looks at me with complete disgust.

  ‘Zara,’ I say, moving towards her. But she glances at Sibéal, and suddenly I see what she sees. What this looks like. Me, having shoved a girl so hard that she fell to the ground.

  I did that. I was feeling bad, and I lashed out. It doesn’t matter that my head felt weird in the moments before. In my anger, I hurt someone smaller, weaker than myself.

  And it wouldn’t be the first time.

  Zara goes over to Sibéal, who fends her off with a hand.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Sibéal, who arches an eyebrow at me.

  She picks herself up and saunters down the road. I don’t know how long we stand there, Zara staring at me. Me seeing myself through her eyes.

  And finding a monster.

  ‘You pushed her,’ Zara says. ‘You hurt her.’

  ‘I know.’ No excuses. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

  I feel the heat of Zara’s revulsion. Of my own self-loathing. I don’t want to be this. I don’t want to be what I am.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I don’t know what else to say to her. I’m without words.

  ‘You seem to say that a lot, David,’ she snaps, then walks away.

  On my way back to the Huntsman, everything is in turmoil. I am confused, uncertain. I feel that armour from the fortification ritual, when Lucia did something to me down at the lake, but now it’s tight and hurting.

  My head is a mess. Ten minutes ago, I knew with utter certainty what I most wanted, what was right, what was wrong, and now I’m fuzzy. I’m not sure what anything is any more.

  But there’s no time to examine these unfamiliar, conflicting feelings. I have to see if Mamó is OK. And find out if Sibéal was simply repeating what Oisín revealed to the augurs when he was chained and unconscious, or if she somehow tricked another offering out of Mamó.

  Back at the Huntsman, Mamó insists I sit down as she orders another pot.

  She’s quiet, distant. And slowly she returns to herself. A discomfited, slightly more fearful version of herself. I don’t know if she seems like an old woman, frailer than I like, who is churlish with the waiter because that’s what she is and always has been. Or if it’s something else. But I’ve never looked at her like this. Since that awful moment with Sibéal, with Zara, everything seems different. It’s like a picture taken out of its frame and suddenly the whole image reassembles in an entirely different way.

  After not drinking her tea, Mamó and I walk back from the village to the Rookery. We’re quiet. Moody. I’m trying to deal with this new identity that Zara gifted to me, cursed me with, in that awful moment.

  Monster.

  ‘What happened, Mamó?’ I say eventually. ‘With Sibéal?’

  ‘The augur girl?’ She’s stalling.

  ‘Yes, the augur girl.’

  Her lips are pursed like there’s something unpleasant in her mouth. I wait for her to respond.

  ‘Nothing,’ she says eventually.

  ‘Mamó, please.’

  ‘I said nothing, Davey.’ This evening, the bird in Mamó is not a wondrous, strong thing, but fragile and delicate, and it scares me.

  It scares her too.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Wishmaker

  Is David really this obtuse and oblivious to my hints? A pretty boy, but perhaps a little dumb?

  LAS

  Zara

  I’m walking from the Huntsman trying to take in what just happened. One thing is certain: I saw David shoving Sibéal. Hard enough to push her to the ground. I’m haunted by her red-rimmed eyes.

  I’m less sure, but it’s possible, that I saw a glint of steel in Sibéal’s hand. Had she pulled a knife on him and that’s why he shoved her? Does it matter? A big fella like that, surely he could have just taken it from her without hurting her?

  An hour ago, he stood on my doorstep. I thought he seemed the gentlest boy, both awkward and graceful, that I’ve ever crushed on. And now this. This is not something I can just brush aside.

  And still, I can’t help but feel that there’s a large chunk of things that I’m missing. That I’m not seeing. Like trying to read a secret document where half of the words have been redacted.

  A few minutes after David left my house, I decided I’d go to the Huntsman. That I’d catch him on his way out. I wanted to tell him everything: explain how I’d found the disc in the hairball, and how I was sure it was linked to Laila’s death. I’m so tired of doing this alone, of having no one to talk to.

  Now, feeling shaky, I stand outside the Scavenger Hunt. This wasn’t the plan, but I’m glad I’m here.

  The sign on the closed door says ‘Gone Hunting’. I cup my hands against the window and peer inside. Someone is sitting at the counter, and I bang a hand against the glass.

  The door buzzes open. Canty’s wearing glasses and doesn’t seem to have his poet persona on. He’s looking even more dishevelled than before, if that’s possible.

  Inside, the smell of musty coats and polish is comforting.

  ‘I found something,’ I say, and pull the strange disc out of my pocket.

  Canty looks at it, mildly irritated, but this quickly changes to shock.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘Laila.’

  Canty looks like he wants to touch it, but I hold it back.

  ‘Is it valuable?’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘Why would Laila have this?’

  ‘I’m wondering the same thing.’ He comes a little closer. ‘Do you want me to hold it for you? Buy it from you? It’s not safe to go around carrying things like this.’

  I shake my head. This is my key to finding what happened to Laila.

  ‘I think this is connected to why Laila died.’

  Canty tries to keep his face clear but he’s too much of a drama llama and I see it at once: he thinks so too.

  ‘What is it?’

  Canty turns away, straightening teacups on a shelf.

  ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘It’s a trinket called Wishmaker.’ He goes to the counter and pulls a bit of silk from a drawer. ‘Worn by young girls such as yourself at Lughnasa in order to wish for their true love.’

  Oh. It looks a lot more impressive than that. I feel inexplicably disappointed. Something this majestic should be more than a love charm.

  ‘It’s very strong magic.’ He hands me the silk and I see it’s a small, neatly stitched rectangular bag. ‘So it’s best not handled too much.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘For your own safety.’ He nods for me to put the disc inside the bag. ‘You need to keep this hidden. Very well hidden. You also have to hide it from your mind. Forget about it.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘Disguise it inside your head.’

  Right, OK. Laila’s world is making my head ache with its strange logic.

  ‘Every time you hide the disc, imagine it looks different. Maybe it’s copper, maybe more delicate. Then put it in an iron box in your mind. Put your iron box inside a silver box, and then inside a gold. Use the strongest, most beautiful key you can imagine, lock it and throw your box in the lake. Then imagine a cottage, keep it small because the detail is important. Imagine it very carefully and put the key on a hook. As you do it, take a sip from the chant I’ll give you. If you need to retrieve it, go to the house, get the key and take the Wishmaker out of the boxes.’

  ‘Why would I do this?’ It’s too much. Too weird. And way too much bother.

  ‘Why would you not?’ he says. ‘It’s the best way to protect valuable things. And if anyone, anyone at all, asks you about it, don’t tell them you have it. This can be dangerous, Zara.’

  He’s enjoying the theatrics again.

  ‘Promise me, Zara Swart.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you’ll hide the Wishmaker. Or else, let me keep it for you.’

  I don’t miss the look of longing
on his face.

  ‘I’ll hide it. I promise.’

  He fetches something from the back while I think about what he’s just told me. It’s without a doubt the strangest thing I’ve been told to do. But when he brings me the small vial with a darkish liquid, his face is sombre.

  ‘This will help you cover any traces of it. There are people who want this very badly.’ His worry is genuine. ‘Even if you don’t believe me.’

  Busted.

  I’m about to leave the shop when his voice stops me.

  ‘I’m a selfish man, guided by my own interest. But Laila’s death haunts me. I will always wonder if there was something I could have done to prevent it. So please be careful, Zara. Things aren’t as they seem. Trust no one, not even me. But know this: Laila was a good person and she didn’t deserve what happened to her. I will do what I can to help you stay safe.’

  I leave the shop chilled by Canty’s warning. Mostly because of the words he used. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. For the first time, someone else has acknowledged what I’ve always felt. That Laila didn’t just die. That it was caused by something, a chain of events that I can’t understand. That it could have been prevented. And for that, even though I do not trust or believe him, I will do as Canty says.

  At home, I pull the silver disc from the silk bag and examine it again, tracing my fingers over the elaborate knotting. Then I stuff it back into the silk bag, open the knee-wall door behind the chest of drawers and hide it in the attic.

  Taking a sip of Canty’s chant, I imagine placing the disc in an iron box, the iron box inside a silver, and the silver in a gold. I lock the box with an old rusted key. Standing on a rock, I drop the box with the Wishmaker into the lake. Behind me is a small cabin. I can see the faded red of the front door. I go inside, seeing the scuffed wood floor, the worn leather couch. On the wall, beneath a painting of a beach, is a row of hooks. I put the rusted key on the hook.

  Leaving my room, I follow the sound of music until I find Adam on the patio strumming his guitar.

  I must be very suggestible, because for the first time since I found it, the disc isn’t an urgent nudge that demands my attention. I haven’t forgotten about it, but it feels well hidden. It feels safe.