by Mary Watson
I sit with my brother, listening as he sings the songs Laila loved, thinking over the strange afternoon.
It’s there that I remember: the scarf, the grey scarf with red stripes from David’s utility room. I had seen it before, when I was last in Canty’s shop and he showed me that photograph.
I’d seen Laila wearing it.
TWENTY-TWO
Sorry
David
The Eye isn’t here.
I want to rip the red silk cloth from the table and send it all crashing to the ground. I am so frustrated.
I search around Laila’s witchy altar, around the figurines and objects arranged there. I lift the girl/flower Bláithín, shift the stones, examine a detailed iron cailleach, an old hag. But no Eye.
I test the floorboards and feel the undersurface of the table. Nothing.
This broken-down, half-rotten house belongs to my family. As a young woman, Mamó lived here briefly. It’s the spillover home, where Creaghs go when we squabble too much. When it suddenly came to me what ‘Find Meadowsweet on School’ meant, I legged it here.
At the centre of the shrine, half-burned black candles circle the small antique glass and gold casing. The last time I saw this casing, it held the Eye and now it’s empty.
The entire wall is painted over with Ogham script. I recognise the song of the Crow-Mother, which takes up most of the surface. But immediately above the empty casing are three words that aren’t part of the song. Three words, in Ogham, that stand out. Words that are sacred to my family: Red the blade.
This was no accidental stumbling, despite the mishmash of different kinds of magic that’s displayed on the shrine. Laila knew.
It’s never felt right that Laila died in the same place on the same night that Cassa, through her ritual, changed Wren into the Bláithín. Under the wickerlight. Was Laila somehow injured by the changing ritual? Could she have been trying to salvage the remnants of Cassa’s magic and it backfired and killed her?
I ring Canty to ask him about salvaged magic. He can’t talk, and says he’ll call me later. Hanging up, I hesitate, my finger hovering over Zara’s number.
I put my phone away. My world is volatile and uncertain. And she wouldn’t want to talk to me now. It’s better this way.
Leaving Meadowsweet House, I set off home. There’s only a short while before Oisín faces the tribunal at HH.
Empty-handed and out of ideas, I’m fighting a rising dread that the augurs have found the Eye.
Just inside the gates to the Rookery, a lanky shape peels from a tree.
Sometimes Cill gives even me the creeps.
His affinity is animal and his guide is mink. Cute, right? Until I remember how one of them got into Lucia’s chicken house. Crawled right through two-inch mesh wire and killed all ten chickens. Bite marks in the neck. Several heads ripped off. I’d found the bodies arranged against the wall in two neat piles.
‘Davey.’ Cill stops me. Never forget: minks kill for pleasure.
‘Cill.’ I shove my hands into my pocket, hunching my shoulders against the sudden chill.
‘Long time.’ He pulls a half-cigarette from his shirt pocket, tapping it against his hand. ‘Want one?’
I shake my head. It’s been months since I took one of his smokes.
‘Grab a beer?’ He cups his hands around the cigarette and clicks his Zippo. The smell of lighter fluid is strong.
I feel guilty. I’ve neglected him, when I know he’s down about being out of work.
‘Going in to HH this evening.’ I walk, inclining my head so he’ll walk with me.
‘A quick one?’ He’s pleading. ‘At the Huntsman?’
‘Can’t. I have to bring Oisín in for his tribunal.’ And I’ve had enough of the Huntsman.
‘I’ll come along for the ride, so.’ Cill takes a deep drag.
‘It isn’t a party, you psycho.’
We turn the bend and the house is in sight. Laughing, he claps a hand on my shoulder. ‘Can’t stop me.’
He’s right. And since I have a night shift followed by a day, Cill can use my car to bring Oisín home after the tribunal. Saves me some driving.
‘I’ve heard the augurs are still searching for the Eye.’ Cill glances at me. ‘They haven’t found it.’
‘Good.’
‘What’s the deal with your tenants?’ Cill exhales hard. ‘The foreigners?’
‘Don’t be a dick, Cill.’ The stones crunch beneath our trainers.
‘Sure, that’s what they are. They’re not from here.’ He tosses his cigarette end.
‘Here’s their home.’
‘What do you know about the girl?’
My attention is taken by the figure at the tree. Mamó.
‘Leave her be, Cill.’
Mamó’s staring at an oak tree close to the house. She’s eerily still and I’m suddenly terrified. Picking up speed, I race to the tree, Cill close behind.
I stop when I see something shiny on the ground. It’s round and gilded, with knotwork detail. The Eye.
But when I bend for it, I see it’s only Mamó’s replica brooch. It must have fallen from her dress.
‘Holy shit,’ Cill breathes, looking at the tree. I move closer, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.
Hanging from the oak are black shadows.
Not shadows, rooks. From the low branches, rooks are suspended, twisting in the breeze. They’re arranged, like maudlin decorations. Easily thirty of them, and all lifeless.
The horror of it. The dedication. How long did it take to trap and kill the birds? Weeks? Months?
It breaks my heart. Even though I don’t follow the rook, I’m attached to them. I can’t bear to see them hurt.
Mamó’s face is both furious and devastated. She can’t take her eyes off the birds.
How could an augur get in here long enough to do this? Even if they were dressed in some kind of protective gear, they would not have made it away unscathed.
It’s only then that I realise how silent it is. It’s unnatural that there isn’t a single rook, hooded crow, jackdaw or magpie calling in the early evening. Even when the birds are resting, there’s the odd cry or shriek. Silence this complete is unusual. Wrong.
And I realise it’s because the rooks are sad and angry. Rooks are smart. They know.
Dad and Lucia are out and I find Oisín in his room, staring at the ceiling. Since the attack, this is his favourite hobby.
‘Did the rooks go wild earlier?’
He looks at me, bored, then back to the ceiling.
‘What was the offering? The one you told the augurs?’ I nag him. ‘Oisín!’
‘I was asleep.’ He’s communing with the cobwebs up there. ‘I had these awful nightmares of rooks in cages while sharp spikes pushed up from the ground to impale them. They were screaming so much. It hurt.’
‘That wasn’t all dream,’ I sigh.
But Oisín is lost in the aftershocks of his nightmare. It’s like I’m not even there.
‘We have to go. Your tribunal.’
I pick up a shoe and throw it at him. He doesn’t blink.
After a minute, Oisín gets up like he’s getting out of his grave. He’s in one of his funks again.
‘Get in the shower.’
He can’t face Cassa like this. I herd him to the bathroom we share and run the taps. There’s barely any hot water from this morning but he’ll survive. I start pushing him in, clothes and all, when he shouts, ‘Hey.’
He pulls off his clothes and gets into the shower, leaning his hands against the tiles. The bones show through his skin.
From beneath my annoyance, I allow another feeling to rise to the surface. I let myself name it: fear. Seeing Oisín come to this makes me very afraid.
And I acknowledge what perhaps only Lucia has. That Oisín is not pathetic. That he’s suffering a kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. And he’s not able to work through it, because he doesn’t even know what the trauma is.
The water must be freezi
ng and still he stands there, bracing the wall like he’s holding up the house. And I want to say something. Help him somehow. Let him know that I care. So, I flatten my hand and bang on the glass, shouting, ‘Hurry up, dickwad.’
The water off, he shivers as I reach out a towel.
‘Sever,’ he whispers with chattering lips. Which means Sibéal wasn’t lying. The augurs know two of the four offerings.
We’ve underestimated them. Again.
At HH, Cassa insists Oisín must face the tribunal alone.
While we wait, Cill wanders off, probably to annoy Ian and Elliot. I stay outside Cassa’s court. I’m jiggling my leg as I sit on the hard chair, then I’m standing, then pacing outside the door.
What is taking them so long? Is Oisín able to speak for himself or is he self-destructing in there? I really don’t want another of Niall’s rows.
But what I’m most afraid of is that he’s confessed to telling the augurs Badb’s offering. I don’t want to think of the trouble that would cause.
I go downstairs to the Harkness Foundation office to see if Laney is around. She might have some idea of how bad things are. Laney may be Cassa’s assistant, but she’s our childhood friend. Oisín’s first kiss.
She’s not there, but at the tall windows near her desk is Wren. Cill’s there with her. He’s leaning over her, not too close, but his stance is aggressive. His smile is a sneer.
And again, I’m hit by the shame from yesterday. It’s like being slapped in the face with a wet fish.
‘Go on then, use your magic to make me go away.’ Cill looks down on her with outright hostility. ‘Oh right, you don’t have any.’
‘Cill,’ I warn as I approach them.
‘I don’t have to explain myself to you.’ Wren is annoyed. I wonder how many of these conversations she’s had. How many times she’s been sabotaged by pissed-off judges who want answers.
‘You may have Cassa fooled. But we don’t believe you are some magic flower girl. Right, David?’
‘Cill.’ I’m closer. ‘You really need to stop.’
‘What do you tell your grover boyfriend, Wren?’ Cill ignores me. ‘When you sneak out to meet him?’
‘Would you ever just shut up?’ Wren tries to sound bored but I’m not buying it. He’s rattling her.
Cill moves closer to Wren. She’s uncomfortable but stares him down. She won’t show how much he’s intimidating her.
I place both my hands on his shoulders and steer him away.
‘Give her some space, OK?’ I pat him on the back. ‘If you have concerns, take them to Cassa.’
Cill is looking at me with astonishment. I’ve gone so far off script that he’s gaping at me like he doesn’t know me.
‘Fuck you, David.’ He marches to the door, slamming his hand against the wooden surface.
Wren’s looking at me with those eyes that dissect. Lucia’s armour pulls again, but this time I feel stronger for it.
‘I’m sorry.’
They are difficult words to say. Words that choke a throat. Funny how my stupid pride, all the things that once seemed important, just aren’t any more.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, and this time it’s easier. ‘For terrorising you. For making you afraid.’ For being one of those boys.
She takes a sharp intake of breath and looks away. I’m glad for it. But I sense my strangled apology means something to her. And saying it has made me feel lighter.
I leave the Foundation office and head to the marble staircase. Canty rings, just as I see Oisín coming down. He looks wrecked.
‘Canty, I’ll call you back, OK?’ I say, not taking my eyes off Oisín. ‘Give me five.’
Oisín leans against the wall.
‘What happened?’
‘They don’t accept that the Eye is lost. They think I was compromised during my capture and gave our family heirloom to the enemy. I have two weeks to prepare my defence.’
‘Did you tell them about the offering? That they got one off you?’
‘Not yet, but Cassa knows I’m hedging. It’s going to come out.’
This is bad. The only thing that will save Oisín is finding the Eye. He sinks to the ground, head in hands. I help him up before Cassa finds him on her floor and fines him for untidying the place.
We go out the garden door, down to the garage. Cill is in the car and gives me the stink-eye. I deposit Oisín.
‘What did Canty want?’ Oisín says to me. Cill looks up sharply.
‘Nothing.’
‘You doing business with Canty?’ Cill says.
‘It’s nothing.’
He snorts, and starts the ignition. He shakes his head with a small laugh. Like I’m a lost cause. ‘You need to get your head right.’
I turn away. He’s not wrong.
Once Cill and Oisín pull out of the drive, I ring Canty.
‘I’ll give you one year. Not a minute more.’
‘The terms have changed,’ Canty says.
‘You can’t do that.’
He sighs. ‘I thought you’d want to change them.’
‘I don’t trust you.’
‘And you shouldn’t usually. But this time is a little different.’
‘What is the change?’
‘It’s just a small adjustment.’
‘What do you want, Canty?’
‘There’s a girl I think might be in danger. She’s stumbled into a mess and I’m worried for her. You will pay your debt to her instead of me.’
‘This is unexpected. What’s going on?’
‘Let’s just say I didn’t speak up when someone else was in danger. This is the only way I can think to make it right.’
I’m clutching the phone tightly. I could be getting myself into a whole lot of trouble here.
‘So I have to promise to answer questions honestly to this girl? Who?’
‘Do we have a deal?’
This is insanity. But, Oisín.
‘Not to an augur,’ I say.
‘She’s not an augur.’
‘Fine.’ Agreeing to this stupid deal is making me almost light-headed. ‘Who then?’
‘The girl who lives in your rental. Zara.’
TWENTY-THREE
Love to have you
Maeve Lawless paid me two hundred to spray paint a black, large smiley face on a stone in a field in Gortashee.
LAS
Zara
This week, I continue my quiet rebellion by mitching camogie camp. I have a sense of purpose, a mission even. It’s like I’m tracking Laila, searching the quarry, the woods for echoes of my sister. I can almost sense her, just beyond that tree, or reading behind that fallen bough. Tramping in and out of fields, I imagine her boot-covered feet on winter grass. But when I look down, it’s my Havaianas part hidden in long grass, buttercups and wild flowers.
‘There you are,’ Sibéal says.
It’s late afternoon and I’m walking from the Spar. Her face is covered in red, angry scratches. There’s bruising near her eye, puncture wounds on her hands and arms.
‘What happened?’
‘I did something I probably shouldn’t have.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, do you ever do something you know is wrong? But you do it anyway because the bastards deserve it?’ And the way she looks at me, with that mild disdain, she knows the answer. No.
I suppress my Horrible. I put a lid on my baser, instinctual self. I let things fester inside. And I do as I’m told. I hold my darkness close while being the good daughter and behaving as is expected of me.
Except the love juice in the shaving oil thing.
Sibéal starts walking, gesturing for me to walk with her. ‘Look, I wanted to say thank you. For the other day.’
‘I’m sorry that happened.’ I sound dull.
‘Do you want to come over?’ Sibéal says.
‘Come over?’ The invitation is abrupt, unexpected.
‘To ours. You can eat with us. Mam would love to
have you.’
I hesitate. But then I think how lonely it is at home. Laila’s not there, and Adam is always visiting Patrick these days.
We walk to the old quarry road mostly in silence, until we reach a cottage and a seventies bungalow. There are no other houses around, just fields and the woods.
‘Mam,’ Sibéal calls, ‘I’ve brought Zara for dinner.’
In the kitchen, a short woman with curly hair comes towards me and pulls me into her arms. I’m a little startled by the sudden intimacy.
‘Oh, my sweet girl, your sister.’ Her words are sugary. ‘Such an awful, awful thing, dead on the grass. Now. You’ll eat with us this evening.’
She steers me to the table on the opposite side of the room. Through an open door, I see Aisling in the living room. She’s wearing a jacket and pencil skirt like she’s just home from Kelly’s practice.
‘You’ve met my sister, Ash, right?’ Sibéal says. ‘She works with your mom.’
Sibéal drops into a rocking chair and starts humming. With each rock, the chair squeaks. Maeve looks at her sharply, then calls Aisling in.
Maeve talks to me, about the weather, the village, their summer holiday plans. She’s chopping vegetables with the ease of an efficient and systematic cook. Aisling sits beside me, tapping a pen.
The window is open, and wind chimes chant intermittently through Maeve’s mindless chatter. On the patio are dream-catchers and colourful objects that spin around in the breeze.
It’s all strangely soothing: the even taps of Aisling’s pen. The knife slicing through onions, through celery, through carrots. Sibéal’s wordless song that weaves in and out of Maeve’s talking. The rocking of her chair.
‘Tell me about Laila,’ Maeve says.
How jagged and agitated my home is. Not like this place, where everything flows. Even the people are in tune with each other. I bet they don’t fight. I bet they don’t throw things at each other.
Suddenly, I’m achingly jealous. I’m jealous of Sibéal, that she has a sister who is alive. A mother who isn’t floundering. I’m jealous of this house, of the togetherness I sense. It’s so beautiful, so out of my reach. These are people who love each other fiercely, who’ll do anything to protect each other.
