The Wickerlight

by Mary Watson

  ‘It must be so hard. Do you know what happened?’

  ‘I don’t.’ The words are difficult to form. ‘Yet. But I will find out. I must.’

  The chair, the song, every small movement, is like a dance. Movement art, set to music. The colours twirling outside. I shut my eyes and see a brief image. A memory of a David Attenborough video of a spider spinning its web. The ring with its black stone feels tight around my finger.

  ‘Have you found anything unusual?’ Maeve’s voice is far away. Soothing, and I feel such peace.

  When I look around me, the light has changed.

  It doesn’t feel like I’ve fallen asleep. More like I blinked, and the scene changed. I’m still at the table but Maeve and Sibéal are no longer there. I am disoriented, like I’ve been spinning too fast and come to an abrupt, giddy halt.

  I hear voices in the next room. See Sibéal and Maeve through the open doorway, their heads bent together. I hear the words, but struggle to make any sense of them.

  ‘… doesn’t know anything,’ Maeve says. ‘We’re wasting our time.’

  ‘So let’s rule it out then. Besides, he likes her. I can use that.’

  ‘You don’t have enough control.’

  ‘I can do it.’ Sibéal sounds frustrated. ‘Just give me a chance.’

  ‘Too risky.’

  ‘You’re awake.’ Aisling’s voice is startlingly loud. She’s standing over the stove, stirring something there.

  ‘Did I fall asleep?’ I push my hair out of my face. I’m mortified.

  ‘Yeah, Mam can talk all right.’ Aisling laughs.

  ‘I hope I didn’t offend her.’ I stand up too quickly and hold on to the table until the dizzy spell passes.

  ‘You’re grand,’ Maeve laughs as she comes into the room. ‘I’m delighted you’re comfortable here with us.’

  ‘I didn’t think I was tired,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t even feel like I’ve been asleep.’

  But the light outside has shifted. The chopped vegetables are soup.

  Maeve drops the bowls on the table and the sisters are bickering over spoons. We eat together and too soon, another hour has passed.

  ‘I should get home.’ I’m reluctant to leave. ‘Mom will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘Come again.’ Aisling smiles. ‘We’d love to have you back. Here, my number, go on, put it in your phone.’

  I oblige and she gives me Sibéal’s too.

  ‘We’re friends, Zara.’ Maeve hugs me as I leave. ‘You look like you could do with a few of those.’

  Her eyes run over me, maternal and concerned. And leaving, I feel a deep sense of calm. Of love. I leave the house, feeling certain that I’ve found good people.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The wounded soldier

  David

  The dungeon at HH is tiny, with only a six-by-six-inch square of light. This is the cage in Cassa’s beautiful garden.

  It’s state of the art, with retractable spikes that push up from the floor, blades that slice out of walls. For some crimes the disgraced judge, or accused augur, is made to sleep, sit, walk on the bed of spikes. For others, the nails creep up from the floor on an unknown schedule, the anticipation part of the punishment.

  And upstairs the house is filled with flowers and music and art. People drink champagne and flirt and laugh. Further up, on the next floor, is Cassa’s court. In her chambers is her selection of tools, some antique, plenty more modern. She takes pride in them, their strength, what they symbolise.

  She is not a bad woman. Rather, she’s a woman always on the back foot. There are a few, like Dad, who would like her power for themselves.

  This time, I’ve been lucky. Three days of solitude to reflect on my actions, no nails, no blades, no blood. Cassa was being kind.

  She called me in after Cill expressed a concern about me and Canty, hinting that I was using scavenged magic.

  Cassa was even more disappointed than usual, possibly perplexed. But if she knew the details of the bargain I struck with Canty, aiding a girl who doesn’t like me, I’d be getting a lot worse than the cage.

  I pull the small compact mirror from my pocket and open it for the hundredth time. Again, I see my own reflection. When I picked it up three days ago, Canty made me drink a disgusting tonic and swear an oath. This had better not be some elaborate con with a dud mirror.

  The cage is not the worst punishment, though the boredom and isolation could drive a boy too deep inside his head. I’m OK, solitary confinement was a Birchwood module where I excelled.

  But the dim, lazy light. The way it never quite gets into the room with its lacklustre reach. And I hate the stale air. Being deprived of light, of outside air, affects me far more than being alone. I struggle for not hearing the crawl of insect feet, the soft sound of wings, butterfly, moths, bees through the air. I touch a finger to the beetle I’ve etched into the skirting.

  So much for Oisín wishing me free.

  On the third morning, Cassa comes for me.

  ‘In our brokenness we find our strength.’

  I don’t know who she’s quoting this time, if she’s even quoting anyone at all. But there’s a look on her face, and it’s almost a plea. Or maybe I’m imagining it; that’s what three days, three nights locked in a near dark room will do for you.

  ‘The wounded soldier makes the truest save.’

  I’m stiff and sore. I tried keeping an exercise routine, but the room’s too small and really, how many push-ups can you do while in a cupboard? Dad is going to be furious that my training is yet again compromised.

  ‘The sword passes through fire before it becomes a weapon.’ Cassa is still muttering while I pull on my T-shirt. I just want to get out. I want to move. I want to run and soak up the sun, feel rain on my face.

  ‘You’re well able for it, David,’ she says to me as I pass through the door.

  ‘Able for what?’ I hope she doesn’t hear the anger in my voice.

  ‘For more than you think. Don’t let fear dictate your choices. Sometimes the thing that breaks you is what makes you.’

  Yeah, put that on a greeting card. Or make a fucking meme with cute kittens.

  I’m up the stairs two at a time. I want to be outside.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Keeping tabs

  I prepare my shrine.

  LAS

  Zara

  By Thursday, I give up all pretence of going to camogie camp and Mom’s lost inside her head again because she doesn’t even notice.

  Most mornings I visit the shrine and Callie calls in for a chat. She tells me unhappy stories, with terrible endings and I find them strangely consoling. Leaving Meadowsweet, I might go to the woods, the main street, the green, the abandoned quarry, the lake.

  It’s become an obsession, this need to keep close to Laila. To find the places where she’s been. I match my own wandering with the photographs on her corkboard. I find the small hidden boathouse, the round stone bench by the lake, the broken TV in the quarry. I mark off each one, like I’m playing a kind of game. A scavenger hunt, where I’m searching for Laila’s destinations.

  ‘Zara,’ Sibéal calls from her front gate as I walk back from the old quarry.

  I stop. She blows hot and cold, this one. I never quite know where I stand.

  ‘You look thirsty, will I get you a drink?’ she calls. ‘Come on, I won’t bite.’

  She turns down the path and as I enter the gate, I hear the soft words: ‘This time.’

  Over her shoulder, she gives me a broad smile, and I follow her into the house.

  ‘Elderflower OK?’ she asks as we go to the kitchen. There’s a sketch pad on the table which she flicks shut. ‘Mam makes it herself.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Whenever I see you –’ she hands me the glass ‘– you’re just wandering around. Aimlessly. Alone.’

  She looks at me intently while I think what to say. Tracking my dead sister doesn’t seem like the socially acceptable response.

 
Sibéal breaks her gaze suddenly, like she’s forcing herself to turn away.

  ‘I could say the same about you.’ I drink from my glass.

  ‘Except I’m not aimless.’

  ‘Who says I am?’

  ‘What is it, Zara?’ Her eyes are dark and intense. ‘What are you looking for?’

  A loud noise, like a gunshot, sounds. So close, it reverberates through my body, propelling me forward.

  Sibéal’s face pales, her mouth opens. She spins around, black hair whipping my face. She’s at the door first, pushing it open. Me on her heels. When I go in, she’s shielding herself from an explosion of light and colour. There’s a loud whistling as another firecracker goes off, lighting up the room. Sparks fly, and I raise my arms over my face.

  ‘You bastards,’ Sibéal bawls, a deep guttural sound. Outside, an engine starts. Tyres squeal as a car pulls away.

  I run out the front door and see a blue Micra down the road. Too far to get a registration, but I take a picture anyway. Inside the house, Sibéal hurls a torrent of foul words.

  I turn, and see black words sprayed on the wall: THE CROW WILL AVENGE.

  Inside, Sibéal is furious as she stamps out embers on the scorched rug. The wall is smudged black and the flame licking the curtain is growing. I scramble to the kitchen, Sibéal following after. She grabs a bucket and I take a pot from the drying rack. Water spills on to the floor as we run to the curtains. Half my first attempt ends up on the wall.

  We rush between the kitchen and curtain, trying to stop the growing flame. Sibéal slips on the wet floor and goes down with a bucket of water. Her hair is wet, her clothes patched with damp, but her face is set with grim determination.

  It takes a few trips before we put out the last of the flames.

  ‘This is a mess,’ she says, looking at the smudged walls, burned curtains, and wet floor.

  ‘We should call Garda Creagh,’ I say. Calling the police is the only option here. But Sibéal makes a strange sound, half a laugh, half a snort.

  ‘That’s not going to help.’ She’s bitter.

  ‘He could find who did this.’

  ‘I know who did this.’ Her mouth is tight. She looks like a girl plotting her revenge.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  It takes a moment before I realise who she means.

  ‘Breanna and the boys? No.’ I don’t believe it. ‘They wouldn’t go that far.’

  Sibéal’s face is grim. ‘They would go that far, and a whole lot more.’

  Later, I’m unlocking the door at home when I hear his voice behind me.

  ‘Zara.’

  I turn around, and there’s David.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Was just passing. Thought I’d see how you’re doing.’ He can’t quite look at me. He seems ashamed.

  I shrug. ‘The same.’

  He’s uncomfortable, but I don’t care. I don’t want to chat or hang out with boys who shove girls.

  ‘I have to go.’ I jerk my thumb back to the door.

  ‘I know. I get it, I do. And I’ll stay out of your way. But …’ He scratches his head, like he’s feeling stupid. ‘Just, I spoke to Canty, and if you have any trouble, call me. No matter how late.’

  He shoves his hands in pockets and walks towards the Rookery gates. Slowly, the gates gape a little before they swallow him up.

  I sit on the top step, watching him walk away. Into the green.

  A car approaches, heading towards the Rookery. It slows down, and the driver cruises by me with a deep scowl on his face.

  I know this car. I’d seen it just an hour ago. Driving away from Sibéal’s house.

  ‘You need to make better friends, little girl,’ he calls to me through the open window. Cillian.

  Oh, for God’s sake. Here? Really? He gets out of the car, taking the time to smirk at me, and punches in the code.

  I scramble for my phone camera and snap a picture of the car to get the registration.

  ‘Can’t get enough of me, can you?’ Cillian calls.

  ‘Why are you here?’ My lack of enthusiasm is evident.

  ‘Visiting friends. You keeping tabs?’

  They’re friends. The boy who threw a firecracker through Sibéal’s window is friends with the boy who shoved her. I shouldn’t be this surprised.

  I shake my head and blank him before he drives off. Opening my photos, I see one that I’d completely forgotten about: the photograph I’d taken at Laila’s shrine. I’d disregarded it, certain that the glow in the wall had been a false impression.

  I look at the photograph again and, in the picture, it’s obvious. One small section of the wall is definitely brighter. Like a light is shining right down on it, drawing attention to a strip of Ogham.

  Sitting on the front step, I find an Ogham translation site and forget about David, about Cillian the psychopath. After a little while, I’ve replaced the strokes and slants with letters.

  I examine the letters: D-E-R-G-A-N-L-A-N

  I mutter it out loud, trying to break the words up in a way that makes sense.

  Derganlan. Looks like Irish, maybe?

  But David. The solitary figure walking into the light, into the green.

  Give him and his friends a wide berth, Canty had warned me weeks ago. They’re dangerous.

  I have to stop thinking about David.

  Derg an lan? Maybe the Ogham is in an older form of Irish? And if that’s the case, what would happen if I changed the letters a little? I play with a few versions until it hits me.

  Derg an lann

  Dearg an lann.

  Red the blade.

  Oh shit.

  David’s family war cry.

  TWENTY-SIX

  You will be held

  David

  Today the Rose will descend upon the Rookery for the midsummer rites. We will serve a feast we can’t afford. We will welcome our gairdín into our home, hoping the broken floorboards and peeling paint aren’t too visible. And in return, they’ll whisper about our problems just loud enough for us to hear. And we will smile and serve them, because we are good subjects. We do as our Cleave commands.

  It’s busy downstairs. The courtyard, surrounded by semi-derelict outbuildings, is set up with tables and chairs for the dinner tonight.

  I find Lucia arranging sprigs of rowan and blackthorn in the courtyard.

  ‘Take this down.’ She hands me branches to carry to the lake field, to place inside the stone ring. Dad prepares the bonfire.

  When everything is set, I change into my day uniform, the black wax jacket with the Bláithín insignia over a black T-shirt. I’m almost happy.

  As the afternoon draws, members of the Rose trickle down to the lake for the summer rites. Some weave garlands. Cassa arrives with Tarc and for the first time in months, Wren isn’t with them; she’s travelled to Boston to meet her father.

  Children run, screaming in delight. Everyone looks nicer with flowers strung in their hair, looped around shoulders and trailing down dresses. The scent of roses and wildflowers, sunshine and laughter. This is the Rose at its best.

  Cill arrives and it’s still tense between us. He hasn’t forgiven me. Can’t say I’m happy about the cage.

  When there’re more than eighty of us gathered in the field, Cassa begins chanting. She moves searching hands over the stones. Children gather around her, each bringing a different sprig. When she finds the right stone, she touches two wooden staffs to it, signalling the beginning of the duel of light and dark.

  This year, Dad takes on the role of dark. He clashes his staff against hers. The movements are choregraphed, but Dad is rougher than is necessary. He hits her staff with too much force and Cassa stumbles. A murmur goes around the Rose. These movements are ritual, which means every small gesture matters. Stumbling does not bode well.

  Cassa rights herself and they finish the duel. Dark vanquishes light, as it must at the summer solstice.

  Wreaths are laid at
the stones, new alder and blackthorn staffs are hallowed, and the rites completed. Dad lights the bonfire and as the flames catch, the crowd cheers. The band starts from the side of the field and it’s just perfect. Lucia grabs my hand, laughing as she pulls me up to dance. Even Cassa is barefoot and dancing in the field.

  When the band takes a break, Cassa stands in front of the crowd, who are fuelled with sunshine and wine.

  ‘Liscarron has asked me to announce the first round of the War Scythe finals,’ Cassa says, and the Rose goes wild.

  I’m not too surprised. An already assembled audience, of course there’d be fighting. Nothing like spilt blood to complete a Rose party.

  I glance at Elliot, who doesn’t look happy. He ranks fourth and he’s probably had a beer or three.

  ‘Today’s elimination round is a knife fight. The fourth rank will fight the other contenders. If he loses two, he’s out. Our soldiers will fight until blood stains the earth.’

  More cheering. The Rose just loves eliminating losers.

  We draw tokens for the order of fights, and the first is between Elliot and Ian, then Elliot and Tarc. If he loses both fights, he’s out and I’m off the hook for today.

  Ian and Elliot face each other. Judges circle them, with bets taken. While Elliot’s cheeks are a little red, Ian is ready. It doesn’t take long before Ian holds Elliot down on the ground, taking his knife and running it down his arm. Blood falls, turning a patch of grass red. The Rose gives a frenzied cry and hands pound the grass, feet stamping their delight.

  Cassa allows Elliot a minute. He’s sobered up, and he’s entering the zone. I’ve spent years training with these boys and Elliot performs better when he’s properly warmed up. He focuses best after he’s taken a few hits.

  He launches into Tarc with new energy. Elliot is nowhere near as good as Tarc, despite the leg that still gives him trouble. He gets a few jabs in before falling to the ground.

  But still no blood has stained the earth.

  Tarc allows Elliot to clamber to his feet. Tarc leans forward, knife out. But Elliot is fast, feinting left, then going for the back of Tarc’s leg, right where he took a bullet three months ago.