The Wickerlight

by Mary Watson

  Sibéal is still staring at me, her eyes are huge and bloodshot. She wipes a tear and it streaks red across her cheek. I don’t know if it’s because she rubbed a scratch too hard, or if she’s crying blood.

  ‘Mam.’ Aisling is staring at me, panicked. ‘Zara’s all over the place. We’ve got to do something.’

  It takes all my energy to get out. Out through the door and into the bright sunny day.

  I push open the garden gate and run out into the road. There’s nothing but woods and farmland around. Keeping close to the road, I run along the trees.

  Ahead is a thick oak and I’m moving towards it. I hear Aisling calling from behind and I go faster. I’m nearly at the tree, nearly touching the trunk, where I can just take a moment to breathe—

  And then I’m sitting further down the road. I don’t know how I’m there. There’s something I must remember. But inside my head is all basic shapes and primary colours. I can barely think, never mind chase elusive thoughts.

  The tree is gone. No one else is around. I’m on the ground with my knees pulled up to my chest. I’m shivering, despite the warm day.

  I get up, unsteadily, and begin to walk home.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Answer her

  David

  Cassa’s dress lifts in the breeze as Dad lays out the charges against her.

  ‘What evidence do you have?’ When Cassa speaks, she is still every bit our queen, wearied by incompetent underlings. She’s small but majestic as Dad puffs himself up in front of her.

  Don’t let him bully you, I want to cheer her on.

  ‘You will be held until your trial can be arranged.’ Dad ignores Cassa, nodding for soldiers to cuff her.

  ‘Why won’t you answer her? What evidence, Dad?’ I call across the field. The silence is jarring.

  Dad turns to me, a cold fury defines his stance.

  ‘In the interim, I am the highest authority.’ Because Lucia signed over her claims to him years ago. ‘And you will address me with respect, soldier.’

  ‘Where is the evidence, Commander Creagh?’ I load Dad’s title with just enough sarcasm to spare myself a backhand later.

  ‘We have proof that Cassa Harkness knew an augur infiltrated Harkness House before the nemeta locations were leaked.’

  Bluster and bullshit. Dad’s grasping. None of that matters any more.

  All eyes are on me. Cill’s beside me, gripping my arm. I try to jerk out of his hold without drawing too much attention to us. But Cill clenches tight and hisses in my ear, ‘Don’t be daft.’

  Then, far along the shoreline, I see her.

  Where the water meets land stands an old, old woman wearing a black cloak. She’s watching us and I want to point to her because she is so magnetic and I don’t know why everyone else isn’t staring at her in awe.

  A murder of crows flies over and Dad puffs up even more. He’s feeling validated by the crows. They settle on the old woman and still Dad doesn’t acknowledge her. She smiles at me and it’s the smile of a thousand years. Of damp moss, of secrets. Of true power, not the bluster that Dad thinks is strength. Of service, not the pride that had fuelled me before.

  Truth.

  I hear the whispered word inside my head and I feel like a child held by loving arms. Everything else has disappeared and it’s just me and the old woman.

  I look back at the gathering, and my stomach drops. Everyone has fallen. They’re strewn across the field, their bloodied bodies twisted and broken. The bonfire burns high and there’s a stink of charred flesh. The sound of keening fills the air as a few solitary figures hunch over the dead. Following a pounding sound, I turn to see a heavy grover hacking a body with an axe.

  Everywhere is death and desolation.

  I turn back to the woman, who watches without expression.

  ‘No,’ I whisper.

  Then don’t let it happen.

  ‘Jesus, Davey, you’re making a right fool of yourself.’ Cill pushes me forward. Everyone is exactly as they were. Not dead.

  And I realise where I am, gaping in the middle of the field. I look back to the old crow lady but she’s gone. Like she was never there.

  Truth.

  An offering. I received my first offering. And, with it, a warning.

  I am deserving. And what does it mean that I receive my first offering, like some kind of late adolescence, just as I stand up to Dad?

  Lucia takes my hand and squeezes it. I recognise the conflict she has, her loyalty and love for her sister against her duty to Dad. I feel it too. She squeezes a second time before letting go, and I find solace in standing with her, a mirror image to Cassa with her quiet strength.

  The Rose loves blood, but not like this. Not when we turn upon ourselves in a way that threatens to destroy us.

  ‘Take her away.’ Dad is enjoying this.

  Cassa allows herself to be escorted to the house. Dad announces dinner and I can’t face it. I see some people have slipped into the shadows. They will leave, they will refuse to participate in this. But most of the crowd follow on to the courtyard. Their allegiance is easily swayed.

  My world has become infinitely more perilous in the last few hours. What did Mamó say? Dad is hungry. For power, but also for revenge. He will make the augurs pay for what they did to Oisín. And when they strike back, he will be ready.

  I stay out there at the bonfire. Oisín appears at some point, telling me to get food. But I shake my head. Around me ants gather, bees hover. I open the mirror, see nothing, snap it shut again.

  Then I hear her approach. I turn around and there she is.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Infestation

  I approached Jarlath Creagh today but he brushed me off rudely. Arrogant tosser. If he knew what he’s just turned down.

  LAS

  Zara

  I’m walking home from Aisling’s house and it’s slow going. Everything looks different. Luminous and too much, like the filter from the picture of Hannah and Nathan has been transposed on to everything I see. The road and trees are covered in an Insta glow.

  I’m feeling a deep, sharp terror at the strangeness of things.

  The woods are behind me and I can’t look. Because I’m sensing something hidden. Something with a beating heart. I think of Laila and her certainty that there was truth to the stories of the tree people. I think of the Horribles, and how afraid they were to venture out of their ditch. I feel the touch of the Inky Black there in the forest.

  I should get away, but my legs are shaking. I sink down, just for a moment, beside the road.

  There is something wrong with that family.

  They did something to me.

  My head feels odd, like it’s been put back together wrong after Sibéal rummaged through it. Something really strange happened when she was reading the cards. But I’m too woolly. I can’t put this together. Exhausted, I put my head in my hands.

  I hear the car pass and pull up a little way ahead. First I think it’s Aisling, but then when I look up, I see it’s Dad’s car, which is odd because he doesn’t come down the old quarry road.

  But I don’t think it through. I run up to the passenger door and just before I open it, I see them through the window.

  Dad’s not alone. There’s someone else in the car and it’s disconcerting to see a woman who’s not Mom in the front. I can’t see her face, but I recognise the hair and the sundress.

  Dad’s with Meg. And it’s utterly horrific. He’s leaned back in the driver’s seat while she straddles him. Both of my hands fly to my mouth. She’s kissing him, and it’s more than I can bear. I turn away, heaving.

  Unsteady on my feet, I lurch towards the car. I have to make him stop.

  But when I look up again, the clouds have shifted. The car is gone. I’m further along the road. I’ve never lost chunks of time like this. Once again I’m terrified. What if Laila and I have some rare genetic condition that makes us lose control over ourselves, like wind-up dolls running out of juice? What if
it’s my turn to switch off?

  I need to get home.

  And then, I’m barefoot in our drive. One of my Havaianas is broken and I’m just standing there. Dad’s car is parked in the drive, and it makes no sense. I guess it is possible that he went out down the quarry road and came back but it seems unlikely. I’ve no idea how much time I’ve lost, so I can’t even begin to piece it together.

  I push open the front door and find them in the living room. They’re all there, Dad, Mom and Adam. Their laughter sounds unfamiliar in this house. It looks like some other person’s family. On the coffee table, a game of Risk is under way. Mom’s stretched out on the duck-egg-blue couch, with Dad’s head brushing her legs. I’m floored by the ordinariness of this. A family playing a board game on a Saturday afternoon.

  Except, we never do. This is not my family.

  Dad calls out when he sees me. ‘Zara. Come and save me.’

  ‘How long have you been playing?’ I say to them, noting the time. It’s been two and a half hours since I went walking.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Dad’s intent on the game. He moves, playfully threatening Adam. Mom is reading Laila’s autopsy report again, which is more normal.

  ‘Little more than an hour? We took a break because your mum had some calls, so we’re not too far ahead if you want to join?’

  I’m agitated and hot. I can feel my hair sticking to my face, the taste of vomit in my mouth.

  ‘You all right, Zara?’ Mom looks concerned. ‘You don’t look so good. Did you get too much sun?’

  ‘Yeah, a little hot.’ I go into the downstairs bathroom to wash up. I must have dreamed it. I must have dreamed Dad and Meg in the Lexus. I don’t see how he could have dashed out for a ten-minute shag in the middle of a family game of Risk unless he is a psychopath. Or maybe he is. Maybe he is that kind of liar, one who enjoys the game. Maybe the thrill of sneaking around is what Dad chases. I close my eyes and picture Meg on Dad’s lap, his hand snaking up her dress. I open them, and the world looks different.

  Through the mirror, the room has become wider, the angles of the doors and walls curve in. I can see everything down the passage, the details on the brass vase are in clear focus. I see myself: my eyes have changed. They dominate my face. Large and bulbous, there are thousands of small lenses shimmering like a mesh screen.

  I have insect eyes.

  Horrible, Zara.

  I close them, clutching the sink. This time it’s not Dad and Meg in the Lexus I’m mis-seeing. It’s me. Dark hair, dark insect eyes. Thin antennae reaching above my head. I can’t look.

  When it’s been long enough, I cautiously open my eyes. Back to normal.

  I get it. Whatever happened with Sibéal has messed with my head. I’m seeing things. Dad wasn’t in his car with Meg. I didn’t have weird bug eyes.

  Or did I?

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Mom is standing in the doorway.

  ‘Just walking.’

  ‘You hungry?’ She’s watching me too closely, her doctor’s eye dissecting my posture, my shallow breathing.

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’ I want her to go, but she knows this and that’s why she hovers in the doorway.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ she says sharply, and I hear what she wants to know: have you taken drugs?

  ‘Really, Mom, I’m fine. It’s hot. I’ve a headache. I walked too far too fast, and got a little dehydrated.’

  She nods, not entirely convinced, and leaves.

  I open the tap and bugs burst out. A spray of beetles and hopping things and flies spurt out with the first rush. I squeak and Mom is right behind me, holding a box of ibuprofen.

  Without taking her eyes from the sink, from me, she takes her phone from her pocket and it rings a long while before it’s answered. We’re both mute and unmoving as we look at the insects scrambling to get out of the sink. Not a drop of water has come out. Mom moves to the bath and turns on the taps, another spray of bugs is released. The flies have lifted off and are buzzing around the room and Mom’s mouth is downturned with revulsion.

  ‘Jarlath, yes, this is Dr Salie. We’ve a problem with our pipes … No. No it can’t wait … It looks like an insect infestation … Yes, I said insects … Tonight. And please not your son, no offence, but this isn’t a job for an eighteen-year-old.’

  She pauses impatiently.

  ‘I don’t care how talented he is. I want a plumber right now.’ She bats away a fly.

  In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water and go to my room to wash my teeth. I don’t know what’s happened, but I’m furious. The rage runs through my body, needing a release. I need to walk or run or punch something. I can’t stay in the house, pretending that everything is normal when it’s not.

  One thing is becoming clearer: I am caught in something bigger than I understand.

  Only this morning, I’d been sure that Sibéal was on the side of right. That David and Cillian were persecuting her. But what Sibéal did today has turned everything upside down.

  I pull out a hoodie and sneak out the patio doors. From the back garden, I slip through the hollow and into the Creaghs’ field.

  I only see the cars when I’ve crossed over to the Rookery. There’re lots of them lining the drive and parked on a field. I can hear the voices and music coming from behind the house. I take out my phone and call David, but it goes straight to voicemail.

  Skirting the house from a safe distance, I walk along the lake. In the distance, I see a dying bonfire and head that way.

  And then I see him, the solitary figure at the bonfire. I know it’s him right away. David is so lost in thought that he doesn’t hear me approach.

  ‘I’m not much company tonight,’ he says, but pats the grass for me to sit.

  Maybe this is all part of becoming Horrible, but the rules here are different. Girls die for no reason at all, I see the truth of people in my dreams. Boys dig holes and walls glow. People hurt each other, and it’s strangely normal. And ladies trick you with their smiles and homemade soup while they break into your brain and want things from you.

  I sink down beside him, watching the fire flicker over his face. He looks so forlorn, so weary. On his jacket, I see the five-looped symbol from my dream and I understand.

  Somehow in the last few weeks, I’ve passed a threshold. Not an obvious door or portal, but something like an invisible dolmen. I’ve entered into the world of impossible things.

  THIRTY

  Made you Horrible

  David

  When Zara appears in front of me, she’s angry or upset. Her mood is dark. We’re well matched.

  ‘I’m not much company tonight.’ I touch the grass, gesturing for her to sit.

  She drops down beside me. The world is falling apart, my whole sense of who I am is in turmoil. And here I am, my heart speeding up like some giddy schoolboy because this girl is here.

  Last midwinter, I was in bits after Oisín was captured, presumed dead. This midsummer, the other side of the winter solstice, I feel an immeasurable peace because Zara has come to me.

  She sits close, our shoulders touching, her knee brushing mine. She looks at my face, reading the worry and fear that I’m too exhausted to hide.

  ‘That bad?’ she says.

  ‘Worse.’

  The silence is comfortable, but the words want out: ‘I am so ashamed.’ I have to say it. ‘Of what I did that day.’

  ‘Why did you push her?’ Zara asks.

  ‘No excuses.’ I shake my head. ‘I should have walked away.’

  ‘Did Sibéal do it to you?’ Zara is looking out to the lake. ‘Nose around inside your head?’

  I turn sharply to look at her. ‘You too?’ Is that what it was? And how does an augur have that kind of skill?

  ‘It was a violation.’ She looks down. ‘Invasive. I would have shoved her too, given the chance.’

  ‘You’re not …’ A trained soldier with a whole lot more pounds on him. ‘Me.’ I finish lamely.

  She bumps my should
er. ‘You should have told me.’

  But Sibéal isn’t the problem here. She’s just the fly on top of the rubbish heap.

  ‘There’s more.’ I can’t look at her. ‘I terrorised Sibéal’s friend. I understand why she hates me, because I deserve …’

  Zara’s hand is on my mouth.

  ‘Stop. I know. I know you’re Horrible.’ She breathes the last word and I hear the emphasis on it. Horrible, with a capital H.

  And the way she’s looking at me, I think she really does know.

  ‘But Horrible isn’t cruel. If you’ve done wrong, and understand how it’s wrong and are truly sorry, then you need to fix what you damaged. You know your heart.’

  She pulls her hand away.

  ‘What has made you so broken?’ She watches me another long moment. ‘What has made you Horrible?’

  It’s not a question looking for an answer. We’re quiet, watching the lake. We stay out there for a while, until near dark on the longest day of the year.

  ‘David –’ she sounds hesitant ‘– have you been honest with me?’

  ‘I won’t lie to you, Zara.’

  ‘Whose grey scarf was that in your utility room? Was it yours?’

  ‘Do I look like I’d a wear a scarf? In summer?’

  She chucks a blade of grass at me.

  ‘It’s Oisín’s.’

  ‘Then why was Laila wearing it in a photograph?’ Her phone buzzes with an incoming call. She ignores it.

  ‘Laila visited him sometimes. They’d talk.’

  ‘Does he know anything about how she died? Did she tell him anything?’

  ‘She stopped coming around at the beginning of March.’

  ‘What … oh, bloody hell.’ Her phone starts again. When it stops, I see the flood of texts lighting up the screen.

  ‘I should go,’ she sighs.

  I don’t want her to go. I don’t want to get back to the mess Dad made. But I must.

  ‘C’mon,’ I sigh. ‘I’ll walk back with you.’

  We stand up and I lead her down to the shoreline, avoiding the house.