The Wickerlight

by Mary Watson

  ‘What could go wrong?’

  It’s time. I’ve let Sibéal stew long enough. I’ll get her to meet me at the village green for the handover, it seems the appropriate place. And here I will offer Truth. Picking up my phone, I see a new message.

  I know where you are.

  ‘Let’s go.’ I don’t want to face Sibéal in the woods. And I don’t want Adam involved.

  But Adam closes his fist around the replica.

  ‘You can’t do this.’

  ‘C’mon, Adam, I want to get out of here.’

  ‘I won’t let you.’

  ‘Give it back, Adam.’ I’m impatient. I glance through the trees. Too easy to sneak up on us here.

  ‘No. What if something goes wrong?’

  ‘Adam, stop.’ I try to snatch it, but he holds it out of reach. ‘Let’s just go. We can talk on the way.’

  But Adam backs away from me.

  ‘You’re not getting it.’

  ‘Adam,’ I yell. He’s moving closer to the ruined cottage. I scramble up the slope, trying to coax him to come with me.

  He flings the fake Eye into the woods. I track the movement and it lands somewhere just above the cottage.

  And then, in the distance, close to where the fake Eye landed, I see her. Sibéal. She’s not alone. There’s a bunch of them, maybe six or more, and they look wild. Frightening. They’re carrying weapons, maces, knives, chains. She walks a few steps and picks up the disc that Adam threw. She closes her hand around it.

  There goes that plan.

  ‘What’s that?’ Adam says suddenly.

  I hear the strange sorrowful chanting coming up from the ruined cottage. It’s a woman’s voice, low and strong.

  Sibéal gives a loud piercing whistle. I feel the forest stir. ‘Get them.’

  FORTY-TWO

  First duty

  David

  Dad sends four garraíodóirí with us, not because he’s worried about Cassa doing a runner but as a show of his strength.

  There aren’t usually a lot of people around this part of the woods because the villagers are superstitious and tend to stay away from the ruined cottage. Even so, we huddle in the most sheltered part of the ruin, where the walls are least destroyed. Cassa positions the garraíodóirí outside the ruin, one at each corner.

  ‘Do you have it?’ she says to Tarc. He takes out a paste made from the crushed petals and leaves of the magic peonies. He hands me a tub of ash to draw a circle. There’s no time to make a bone fire, so we light candles and sprinkle bonemeal, oakmoss and sage.

  Tarc anoints Cassa with the paste, on her forehead and chin, and Cassa smears the rest down her arms and legs. It’s a clumsy, fast ritual, but rushed is better than nothing. We can’t trust the garraíodóirí who stand guard outside the crumbled walls. Whatever they see, they will report to Dad.

  ‘Niall’s final song,’ Cassa says as she carves a large five-looped symbol in the soil. ‘Lucia already performed that ritual on you.’

  She sees my confusion.

  ‘She told you it’s a variation on the soldier ritual.’ I think of Lucia taking me down to the ring of stones at the lake, of giving me that armour. ‘It’s a ritual to help you find true bravery. It is not the easiest path, but it’s the right one.’

  She fixes her eyes on me. ‘It could hurt. You could lose a lot. But you will gain things you didn’t know were missing.’

  Cassa lays herself in the centre of the Bláithín symbol. She spreads her arms as she chants up to the canopy of leaves. Her hair, woven with flowers, is spread out on moss and stone, her dress is stained brown from the dirt. Her body is part buried in the soil. Tarc arranges sprigs all around her, drawing on the full strength of her totem as she chants. The garraíodóirí remain stationed outside the broken walls.

  Something doesn’t feel right. It feels like we’re being watched. A curious villager, perhaps. I whistle, signalling to Ian to take a look.

  Tarc retraces the Bláithín mark, drawn around Cassa’s body, with a staff. Her hair is matted with muck and flowers, her face crumbed with soil. She’s saying the closing words, and I’m relieved. I want to get out of here.

  ‘Attack,’ Ian yells in a hoarse voice.

  There’s a wild scream on the other side of the broken walls. The next seconds are confused, chaotic. Grovers are leaping over the walls of the ruin. Ahead of me is Sibéal; I guess she is a grover then. Behind me, more pour in. They come from all directions, letting out blood-curdling cries. My knife is drawn and I’ve swiped the blade across skin before I fully realise what’s happening.

  They’re lashing out with knives, hammers, pipes, broken bottles. Something slashes my arm, my blood dripping to the ground. Tarc hands a knife to Cassa and I see her gut a grover without hesitation.

  ‘Behind Cassa,’ I yell at Tarc, and he strikes at someone coming at Cassa from behind the broken wall.

  There’re grovers coming at me, more than I’d like. They’ve painted symbols on their arms and faces, making them look savage, menacing.

  Then I hear something that makes no sense.

  ‘David! Behind you!’

  I turn in time to see a man coming at me. I get him in the shoulder and turn back.

  She’s right there, I didn’t imagine it. Zara’s there in the woods. Her hands to her face. The horror in her eyes.

  ‘Get out of here,’ I yell, and turn to fend off another grover. As I turn, I see Tarc fighting two grovers at the same time.

  We were vulnerable, exposed at a time when things are precarious between augurs and judges. When Dad has been agitating the hostility between us. Someone must have seen us heading to the cottage; we should have spotted their spy.

  We’re holding our ground but it’s hard. I see a club with spikes hit a new garraíodóir. Blood spurts and he clutches his hand to his head, howling. I throw my knife at the grover, getting him in the neck. I don’t watch him fall.

  I’m close to Cassa when it happens. A grover charges, swinging a mace. Tarc has his hands full, fighting off two of them. The grover lets go of the mace and it hurtles through the air, towards me. I roll away, but coming up, I find myself with a knife at my throat.

  This is it. I will die here, now.

  It lasts seconds, the tip of the blade at my exposed throat, but it feels like a lifetime.

  Cassa flings herself at my assailant. It’s a foolish move and she’s so exposed. She’s raised her knife and slashes it across his face. Blood bubbles and he touches a hand to his cheek. I’m still looking at him, the surprise in his eyes when I see Cassa slump to the floor. He must have got the knife to her heart at the same moment she slashed his face.

  She took a knife to save me.

  She saved me, when it’s my duty to protect her.

  I’m crawling towards them, shouting, ‘No, no, no, no!’ Tarc is charging the assailant and I hear him screaming as he lashes out.

  Blood seeps through Cassa’s dress as she lies on the ground. Tarc is as white as a sheet.

  Outside the ruin, Zara shuts her eyes to the horror of what she’s just witnessed. And I realise I know this: white T-shirt, green leaves. It’s the image frozen on Canty’s cracked mirror.

  I turn to the grovers. Simon watches Cassa, her face a mask of pain. Her body limp. I catch his eye, and something passes between us.

  ‘Fall back,’ Simon yells.

  ‘They’re vulnerable,’ a woman objects. ‘We’ve got this.’

  ‘Now.’ Simon turns away, striding from the cottage and the others follow. His words are nearly lost, but I hear them: ‘Let them tend their fallen.’

  They peel away. I’m grateful for the reprieve.

  ‘We’ll have the best medical team waiting for you at Liscarron,’ Tarc says to Cassa. There’s an operating theatre at the army base.

  ‘Promise me –’ she clutches Tarc’s arm – ‘that you’ll protect my legacy. Guard Wren, don’t let them use her. You too, David.’ Cassa is lucid but so very weak.

  ‘Wit
h my life,’ he says.

  ‘She’s my first duty.’ The words are right and true.

  ‘My wounded soldier,’ she says to me. ‘My beloved nephew. I know it hurts. But in breaking, the true strength that’s hidden beneath will emerge.’

  We have to move fast because the grovers will be back to collect their injured and dead. Around me, garraíodóirí are already gathering our fallen. One of them is calling the nearest Garda station, alerting the judges on the force. They might put up a roadblock, send officers to make sure that villagers don’t come near so we have a chance to clean up before anyone sees us.

  Other than Zara, who’s no longer there. I scan the trees, but can’t see her. I don’t have time to process what she’s seen: an unrestrained battle. Me with blood on my hands. The truth of what I am.

  Tarc lifts Cassa and runs through the trees towards his car.

  I think it happens while he holds her, the woman who is like a mother to him. That as he runs down the slope, desperate to get the help we need, he loses her. I think it’s then that she slips away, her essence withdrawing like a word detaching from an object after a law.

  Cassa leaves, and only the husk remains.

  I walk behind them. I hear Tarc from beneath the trees. A single, haunted cry.

  On the path, I find the white orchid and pick it up.

  FORTY-THREE

  No

  One thing I regret is having deceived Oisín. I would like to repair my friendship with him.

  LAS

  Zara

  There’s a terrible sound, and it feels like the forest itself is waking. Rustling. Pounding and shouting. I stand my ground, anticipating the worst.

  Even more men and women come out from the trees and rocks. I don’t know how many. They brandish their weapons menacingly.

  Adam grabs my hand.

  But they pass us, moving towards Sibéal and storming the ruin. Some have painted symbols on their faces, others have streaked black across their eyes. A man no more than ten feet away is carrying a club spiked with nails. I surge forward with them.

  ‘Zara.’ Adam sounds afraid. ‘Come away.’

  People are fighting, aiming to wound. To kill.

  And there he is, right in the middle of the mess. David. He’s fending off a man when a woman tears at him from the side. She scrapes a broken bottle across David’s arm.

  I can’t look away. I can’t even move away.

  Injured, David is even more vicious. He’s strong, gracefully brutal. He hurts quickly and without remorse. This is not unfamiliar to him: here is his world and it’s ugly. He is also badly outnumbered.

  ‘Don’t look, Zara,’ Adam says, but I can’t not.

  Adam is now beside me. I follow his gaze, and he’s watching Simon swing a wicked-looking mace towards Gallagher.

  I pull Adam back, holding on to his T-shirt like that will stop us from being swept up in the chaos.

  Through the crumbling walls, I watch. It’s barbaric, loud with screams and cries and grunts. I watch David. He’s intent on the two men in front of him, and doesn’t seem to hear the woman coming from behind. I step forward, screaming, ‘David! Behind you!’

  And he turns and blocks the woman as she swipes at him.

  Maybe I’m more involved than I’d like to be.

  It’s carnage in there.

  And then above the noise, I hear David howl, ‘No no no no no!’

  He’s crawling across the ruin, his face contorted with horror. He’s looking at something I can’t see and there’s rage and grief etched into his features.

  ‘Something horrible has happened.’ Adam’s face is crumpled. Laila’s death is still too raw.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say.

  ‘We should get help.’ Adam sounds so young. ‘Call the guards.’

  I don’t think our police can help here.

  ‘Can you give me a minute?’ I say to Adam, still looking at David. ‘Wait for me at Laila’s grave.’

  When he’s gone, I take out the Eye and look down at it. My trap failed. I don’t know what I was thinking, goading Sibéal. Playing a game when I hadn’t a clue of the rules or stakes. I can’t help feel that what happened here is my fault.

  I’m out. I’ll give the Eye back to David. Now, before there’s any more damage.

  A hand snakes around my waist, another around my mouth, and I’m dragged away from the ruin. I’m trying to yell for David, for Adam, but he’s too strong. I struggle against him, and after we’ve gone a little way, he pulls my arms behind him.

  ‘Stop,’ he hisses, searching in his jacket. Then a cloth covers my nose and mouth. He holds it there, and holds it and holds it, and then I don’t know any more.

  FORTY-FOUR

  On the birch

  David

  There’s a dark mood at the Rookery.

  Lucia has retreated to her bedroom, locking herself inside. Dad, planning the next retaliation, has gone to HH. I’d warned him the augurs would strike back after this morning’s casualties. But this is what he wanted.

  The sleeping war is waking.

  I take a long shower; I can’t face anyone. I keep thinking about how Dad used my words. Looks like he won: he’s triumphed over Cassa.

  Cassa. The pain is fierce. She was my aunt, my leader. Even though she was hard on me, I admired her. Loved her. She was my true Magistrate.

  When I get out of the shower, Cill’s in my room.

  ‘The girl next door is a problem.’

  ‘No, she isn’t, Cill,’ I sigh. I chuck the towel on the floor as I dress. Then I pick it up. Lucia doesn’t need me to annoy her today.

  ‘I’ve seen her with Sibéal,’ he argues.

  ‘I know what happened between Zara and Sibéal.’

  ‘She’s an outsider, David.’

  ‘And? I can’t see her because you say she’s an outsider?’

  ‘So you’re seeing her now?’

  ‘I like her.’

  ‘She’s not one of us.’ He’s stubborn. ‘You can’t be with her. We have to protect our ways. Outsiders have no right to our words or laws.’

  My room door opens a crack, and I’m relieved to see Tarc.

  ‘Do you have a moment?’ He tilts his head, and I follow him to Cassa’s room.

  Wren has returned. She’s standing over Cassa’s books on the desk. When she turns, I see it. She’s different. Perhaps it’s her posture or the cold light that comes from her eyes. It is something so very subtle, but unmissable if you’ve ever really looked at her.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’ Wren sounds raw.

  I glance at Tarc. Wren seems oblivious to any difference in herself. Looking at Wren is like looking into the heart of some ancient thing. Her skin makes me think of tree bark and her eyes remind of the green at the very top of the trees in the woods. Her hair falls down her shoulders in ropes and I think of tree roots jostling for space around an ancient oak.

  And then the light shifts, and she’s an ordinary girl again.

  Cassa’s final ritual has achieved her lifelong dream: Wren has become the Bláithín.

  ‘Stop staring at me, David.’ I’m glad to hear her snap at me. It feels normal.

  ‘My dad will want to see you.’ I’m still staring. ‘You up for talking to him?’ Meaning, can you be ordinary Wren for that?

  ‘I’m not afraid of your dad.’ Her words fall somewhere between teenage boredom and queenly disdain. She moves to the wardrobe and starts packing Cassa’s things.

  ‘Do you see it?’ Tarc whispers to me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do we manage this without Cassa?’ He runs a hand down his face.

  ‘My dad.’ I lower my voice. ‘He’ll use her, and he won’t care.’

  ‘I know.’

  I touch a hand on his shoulder. We’re unlikely allies. He’s never trusted me, and I guess I’ve resented him.

  ‘We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.’

  ‘Cassa will have notes,’ Tarc say
s. He’s terrified that without Cassa to guide her through this, the magic will destroy Wren. ‘I need to find them.’

  ‘They must be at HH. I’ll get Laney looking. But …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I think you need to have an escape plan. Prepare cash, have bags packed. A place to go. Just in case. We might need to get her away from Dad.’ And I need to say it, because Tarc has no reason to trust me. ‘I’m on your side.’

  The words are very soft, as if Dad is lurking in the hallway and can hear me pledge an allegiance that he would not approve. ‘I meant my promise to Cassa. My first priority. We’ll fix this.’

  The scepticism on his face hurts, but I guess I deserve it.

  ‘I swear on the birch,’ I say, reaching out my hand, and Tarc is a little dazed. This is the ultimate pledge between brothers in the garden. ‘I never thought I would do this with you.’

  ‘I swear on the birch.’ He touches his snake tattoo, the mark of the garraíodóir, to mine and just like that, my allegiance is shifted.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Thief and spy

  I love this village. Life has been so intense here.

  LAS

  Zara

  I am kneeling on a white marble floor. My eyes slowly adjust after more than an hour of darkness. The ceilings are high, and the furniture is mostly white, stylish, with sculptures on display and paintings on the wall. I’ve never been here before.

  When I turn around, I see a line of young men. They have their hands at their sides and look straight ahead. I recognise the clothes, the black gear with the five-looped symbol I’d seen David wear.

  ‘Garraíodóirí,’ Jarlath barks. ‘We’ve found our thief and spy. The Eye is recovered.’ He raises the true Eye, the one that I’d held just moments before Cillian nabbed me in the woods. ‘Oisín Creagh’s name is cleared. He’s no longer accused of collusion.’

  Jarlath pulls my phone from his back pocket and scrolls through the text messages. I’m so angry that I start shouting at him, ‘What are you doing? Give that back.’ I launch at him, like a fly attacking a mountain, but two men in black step forward and hold my arms.