As one, the group comes to a halt.
‘No!’ cries Aoife. Anto feels it too: the gut-wrenching terror that he might never leave this place again. And then, with no explanation at all, a jet of flame from the other side of the hill engulfs the Sídhe. Those who can’t get to the door are turned to ash. Others reel away, burning as they go.
‘Run!’ Taaft shouts to the squad. ‘This is our chance.’ Anto obeys; there’s no time for anything else, let alone thought!
Krishnan gets to the door first even as it flickers closed. But it flashes open just as quickly and he dives out of the Grey Land. Taaft bundles through after him, cursing and gasping. Aoife stumbles at the threshold while Liz Sweeney howls at her. But Anto picks Aoife up with his giant’s arm and all three tumble together out on to the other side.
‘Oh, God! Thank you, God!’ Anto wants to kiss the icy ground. He drinks the pure, sweet air in massive gulps.
‘Up,’ cries Taaft. ‘Everybody up! We can’t let them through after us!’
Only now does Anto notice that it’s daytime. The gate has dropped them far from Sligo, on to a road some place with the sea behind them. The peeling red paint of a postbox suggests it’s Northern Ireland.
‘Guns ready,’ Taaft shouts. ‘Pointed at the door!’
They obey, although nobody has more than a clip left. Here they stand: Liz Sweeney, Aoife, a weeping Krishnan; a boy with a giant’s arm and a stocky snarl of an American soldier. It’s a pathetic, battered group. But a deadly one.
Before them, a hole in the world shows burning Sídhe stumbling through the slicegrass and a sky of silver spirals. Yet, even as they watch, the door begins to fail. A space once large enough for an elephant and its rider could barely hold Anto himself now.
‘I see one!’ cries Liz Sweeney. Her gun is up, but Anto shoves it aside, although at first he has no idea why he did that, because one of the enemy is standing there now. A girl of the Sídhe. Except … except she’s not really one of them, is she? Or wasn’t anyway.
Nessa is just as beautiful as Anto’s fevered memories of her. More so, maybe. Her body quivers with exhaustion. Every muscle – he remembers them all! Oh, Crom! Oh, Lugh! – they tremble like chicks fallen from the nest, and her glittery skin, cut to ribbons, bleeds everywhere. She’s only two steps away. It will take less than a second to cross the gap, to feel her in his arms, to smell her skin and hear her laugh. ‘We’ll go to Donegal,’ she’ll say. ‘We’ll get some dogs. You’ll see.’ ‘Let me tend to your cuts first. Let me kiss you. Let me forget everything.’
So close …
However Taaft is even closer. She stands right at his shoulder. ‘The girl’s a traitor, kid. You see that, don’t you? She’s become one of them. She has to die.’
‘She’s poisoned you, Anto,’ says Liz Sweeney.
Yes! That’s the word. Poisoned. How else to explain the tearing pain in his chest? That feeling like a fist pressing against his throat?
The door has continued to shrink. Now it’s chest high so that the weeping Nessa seems a child. She knows they won’t allow her through, she knows that. It doesn’t matter that it must have been her who saved them by driving the Sídhe away from the door with fire. It doesn’t matter that she could still burn the entire group where they stand. All that counts is that she’s one of them.
Or is she?
‘Out of the way!’ Taaft insists.
Anto remembers the Sídhe woman in the park. He remembers what she said when she thought Liz Sweeney meant to eat her food. ‘You think if you look like us, we will spare you after the conquest?’
And that’s the moment Anto knows that Nessa’s no traitor. It’s just the food that makes her look like one. She could have burned Aoife in the Grey Land too, but never touched her. Of course she’s innocent! She was always better and stronger than him in every way. Fierce in her love, so that nothing the enemy did would allow her to hurt him, or her parents, or her beloved Donegal! Nothing!
She couldn’t look at him the way she is now if she were guilty: a swaying, wounded knot of love and sadness. Not pleading, as a coward would, as a traitor would. Because she knows, she does, that those who eat in the Fairy realm can never go home. It’s in all the stories.
Even if the squad did let her through, the authorities wouldn’t believe her. They couldn’t suffer her to live. Nor could her old comrades. Taaft will shoot her the second Anto gets out of the way, and Liz Sweeney might open fire even if he doesn’t. There simply isn’t the time to persuade them otherwise, before the door is gone away to nothing.
Nessa, therefore, will stay in the Grey Land, paying for sins she never committed. Hunted for ever in an eternal Call by the vengeful Sídhe.
Anto’s comrades shift positions, looking for an angle.
I could kill them all, he thinks, with this arm of mine. Then Nessa could come home.
But the old Anto is waking now. The one from before, who was horrified by the suffering of animals. Who, a lifetime ago, stood between the infestation squad and a giant wounded bull. That Anto was worthy to be loved, even by a creature as magical as Nessa.
He can’t harm his friends.
So instead he knocks them back with a sweep of his arm and dives in through the portal.
And then, with a final flash, it’s gone.
The survivors gawp at what is now nothing but a garden wall, unable to believe they’re all still here. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. Each has suffered appalling losses, yet if this thing is over now, if it’s really over, shouldn’t they be celebrating? They’ve earned the right.
There’s a hint of spring in the air. The birds know it, arguing noisily, gathering twigs for nests. Here and there, a snowdrop blossom raises its shy head above the grass.
Eventually Taaft clears her throat. ‘Come on, kids. Let’s find some food.’ But then, Aoife spins around and shouts in alarm. She points a shaking finger out to sea, where something monstrous looms on the horizon.
‘What …?’ she asks. ‘What is that?’
For a while Taaft just stares, a look of shock on her face. ‘That,’ she says eventually, ‘is Scotland.’
It’s the loveliest thing anybody has seen in twentyfive years.
Among the Dead
Before their banishment, the people of the goddess Danú loved Ireland so much they called it ‘The Many-Coloured Land’. It’s easy to see why on summer days like this, with roses flowering among the headstones and grass of the deepest green that can be imagined on this earth.
Aoife watches foreign tourists wander among the graves of what used to be Boyle Survival College. How strange they’d want to visit, she thinks, because outside the country, nobody believes in the events that happened here. Or so they say.
Even now, decades after the Sídhe invasion, they reach for explanations as to how the population of the island as well as the buildings, the machinery, the trees … aged twenty-five years in a single day. They’ll say anything. Scientists pepper their speech with words like ‘wormholes’ and ‘dark flow’. They’ll call it a cosmic fluke. They’ll prove it will never happen again. It couldn’t.
Yet, strangely, almost nobody migrated into the country afterwards to take up the rich, empty farmland.
But the tourists come. Aoife has met makers of entertainments in search of gory details; she’s heard of monster hunters, tracking down legends in the hills and bogs to which they fled, and more normal people, who tour the ruins and the graveyards like this one, giggling at the stories of the guides and taking selfies in front of Fairy Forts.
‘Granny?’
Aoife looks down to Mary’s black curls, to cheeks red enough to hide in a pile of ripe apples.
‘You said you’d listen to my story.’
‘I will, pet, I will. Just let me sit down. By Crom, my hips! Just you wait. Aaah, that’s better. By Lugh!’
Aoife never particularly liked children, but Mary, her wife’s grandchild, is a constant delight. ‘Here, just give me a minute to catch my brea
th, kid.’
‘Kid! Who even says “kid”, Granny! I’ll be back!’ and she adds, cheekily, ‘Don’t go away!’ And off she runs, giving Aoife a chance to get her flask out and pour herself a shaky cup of tea. Who’d have thought she’d ever grow old? Around her are the final resting places of those who didn’t.
Nearest her seat, under a carved moon, lies Nabil. It was Sergeant Taaft who recovered his bones from Longford and now she lies beside him.
On the far side of them both, beneath a great plaque to explain her place in history, Alanna Breen is buried, still getting flowers after all this time. The huntmaster isn’t so lucky; his accommodations – a narrow plot, a rusting marker – are much more modest. Nice man – what was his name? Doesn’t matter now. It’s all so long, long ago. Once upon a time. Like the fairy tales people still tell in every country in the world that isn’t Ireland.
‘Mary?’ she calls. ‘Mary? Help me up.’
The child skips over to help Granny stand. ‘Bring my flask too, pet. You’re a star.’
They walk over to the student area of the cemetery, where, as is her tradition, Aoife makes a point of looking away from Conor’s grave. Although she does remember that bizarre night when she spotted the Sídhe here, digging it up, stealing his bones. Nobody has ever been able to explain that one to her. No doubt the reason will be lost for ever now. But, oh, never mind. For here lies another peaceful stone, all grown over with wild roses in early bloom.
‘Give me the flask, pet. Ta.’
‘Ewww! Granny! Why’re you pouring tea on a grave!’
‘I think she’d like it. We never had any of the real stuff growing up. And she was my first love, you know? You never forget that. Never. Maybe some day, you’ll bring me a cuppa too.’
‘Ewww! Come on. Let’s go to the ruins. You promised. And I’ll tell you my story!’
‘Sure, kid. Sure.’
It’s another one of those ‘Glitter people’ tales that scare the living daylights out of anybody old enough to remember the Sídhe and the Call.
A few of the enemy remained behind in the Many-Coloured land when the last of the doors closed behind them, but within a week their skin and eyes had turned normal. They no longer had power in their hands, and anyway, they spent most of their days, when not fleeing for their lives, staring at the sky and trees and suchlike.
But stories among the younger generations persist.
‘I didn’t see the magic people myself,’ Mary says. Thank God, Aoife thinks, ‘but Alexandra in my class did. She got lost in the woods and two of them guided her out.’
‘They … uh, they didn’t try to kill her, then?’
‘Oh, no! They smiled and showed her the way home.’
‘Uh-huh. And what did they look like, exactly? Beautiful, I suppose? Perfect?’
Mary shakes her lovely little head so that the curls bounce. ‘Not perfect at all, Granny. The man had this big arm. I mean huge! And the woman walked funny and – Granny? Are you all right? Granny?’
Aoife wipes a tear away. ‘It’s just a story, pet. I’m sorry I don’t believe it. But it just … it just reminded me of people I knew once. This whole place does.’
Could they really have found a way back, those two? In all her long life, Aoife never met anybody as determined as Nessa. It wouldn’t surprise her if she ended up ruling the Grey Land, or if she found other doors out of the place into whatever worlds lie beyond it.
‘But she saw them, Granny! Lots of people have seen them. They rescued—’
‘Enough, kid. Look, we’re here!’
On the far side of the trees around the graveyard, the ruins of the school lie choked in ivy. Even the gym, which survived Conor’s fire, has been allowed to decay. A dozen tourists stand around it, while a guide tells them the story of the attack, a tale that has now become known as ‘Traitors’ Night’.
‘Can we listen, Granny?’
‘You can, pet. I want the rest of that tea.’
‘Already?’
‘Why not? I’m exhausted.’
Mary runs over to the tour guide and squeezes in among the foreigners.
Aoife rests against the trunk of a tree, drinking in the scent of it. Still alive, she thinks. Thank you, God, or gods, or whoever. She’s had an amazing life, and now, with a new generation rising that never knew terror, the whole country is starting to blossom again, with youth and beauty everywhere. Time for laughter. Time for gardens and cuddles at midnight under the magnificence of the sky.
Aoife doesn’t know why the invasion died when it did, the gates shutting down so suddenly. Who saved us? she wonders. Who saved me and gave me my life back?
Whoever you are, I love you. Wherever you are, I wish you a happiness as deep as mine.
Bored with the old stories, Mary is already running back.
Acknowledgements
Most sequels are written in response to reader enthusiasm, so, first place in these acknowledgements must go to anybody who made it through The Call. You are magnificent. You kept me going, kept me interested. The five-star reviewers who loved the book; the onestar reviewers who feared their grandchildren might read it – all of you made me want to write The Invasion. You have my big, nay! my monstrous thanks.
The staff at David Fickling Books supported me every step of the journey. Especially Bella, who made me face reality, and David who dragged me the other way into poetry. Caro fed me. Rosie encouraged me. Bron and Phil, Simon and Anthony oiled the clanky bits that nobody sees, while Emma Draude pushed and pushed.
In America, Scholastic floated me everywhere on a carpet made entirely of love. They put in so much enthusiasm that it triggered a world shortage. They were all heroic, but for now I’d like to single out Jennifer, Nick, Lori and Nancy for their welcome and their kind treatment of an Irish waif blown to them across the sea. I’d also like to extend sincere thanks to Lizette, Emily, Christopher and Sam.
As always, I owe debts of blood and tears to my beta readers: Carol, Doug and Iain. It’s not nice to be brought down to earth with a bang, but they do it with extreme tact and the bruises heal eventually.
In a similar vein, I want to thank Talya ‘The Eagle’ Baker, who returned to us as our special guest-star line editor. Many blushes were spared!
And what about all those booksellers and librarians out there who pushed The Call on to people who were just trying to mind their own business? I’ve met dozens of you, but not once did I do the right thing and kiss your feet. Without you I am nothing.
I am also nothing without family and friends. Much love to the BwB who always turn up, as well as to the organizers of conventions like TitanCon where people buy books to read or to use as missiles.
Finally, let me express my appreciation and love for the entire population of Australia and New Zealand. I won’t tell you why, but if any of my other readers ever meet anyone from Down Under, please buy them a coffee and tell them I sent you.
The Grey Land Series
Book 1 – The Call
Book 2 – The Invasion
Copyright
The Invasion
(The Grey Land – Book 2)
First published in 2018
by David Fickling Books, 31 Beaumont Street, Oxford, OX1 2NP
This ebook edition first published in 2018
All rights reserved
Text © Peadar O’Guilin, 2018
Cover Illustration © blacksheep-uk.com, 2018
The right of Peadar O’Guilin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the auth
or’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 978–1–910989–66–1
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