“But you saw the uncle?” I persisted.
“I did, but I can’t remember his face.” He shrugged. “Like I said. A long time ago.”
I exchanged a glance with Carl. Everything was fucked up. Everything.
“We can’t breathe a word of this,” Carl said. “It’ll screw Peter up even more.”
I nodded, but I was still thinking of how much I hated everyone who wasn’t us. Every time we took a step forward, we were tripped up by something from the past. It was all connected. Had any of us stumbled into each other’s paths accidentally? Esther had remarked on how strange it was that she and I had remained hidden and survived to adulthood, but what was really strange was that we had also met and befriended each other.
I couldn’t suppress my anger anymore. “Hey, Carl. Did you happen to see any bloody bright lights before you fell into Arthur’s hands?”
Carl shook his head uneasily, seeing where I was going with that.
“Mind telling me what’s going on?” Shay asked in a stern policeman voice, but there was an eagerness in his eyes, and I saw that he wanted to close that case as much as we did. The incident ate at him, and none of it made sense, so he was risking his job to tell us things he probably shouldn’t.
“What’s going on is that this world is a nasty place, and we’re all in the middle of shit we have no control of. The kidnapped children? The ones whose families are murdered, yet the houses aren’t broken into, and there are no witnesses or clues left? Yeah, those. Those stories have happened all over Ireland.”
Shay sat up straight. “That’s impossible. We rang around asking about similar cases. We were shut down in every direction. Are you telling me there’s a serial killer running around again? Or the same one?”
I had forgotten the police all thought Becca’s actions were the work of a serial killer. I gave a hateful laugh. “The last one was just hunting her food. This one has been going on for centuries. Here and the UK. Probably further out, too.”
“Ava, stop,” Carl said.
Shay’s eyes had already grown cold. “What is this? A joke?”
“It’s not a joke,” I snapped. “Do some basic research. Maybe grow a pair. Or are you holding out for another promotion?”
Shay’s jaw dropped, but I was already on my way out the door. I was angry and upset and confused, and I wanted to take it out on everyone. I stormed down the street until I found a bench. I sat there and waited for Carl to come find me. By the time he sat next to me, I was shaking. Whether with anger or fear, I really wasn’t sure anymore.
“What the hell, Carl?” I whispered.
He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close. “I know. I know.”
Everything was out of our hands, and everywhere we turned, the clues had been wiped away. I wasn’t cut out for finding information. I was only able to fight, but I had no idea who I was supposed to be fighting.
***
“Why are you in such a hurry all of a sudden?” Peter asked as we drove down a motorway in the early morning light. I had pretty much forced him into the car to follow old stories across the country. I didn’t know why. Okay, I did. I had to feel as though I were doing something.
Meeting Shay and hearing those extra details we hadn’t known had ruined any stability I might have had. There was no coolness or calmness about me anymore. I was out for revenge, and I was desperate to find out who had been playing with our lives. I needed to reach the end.
“Might as well get going on this,” was all I said.
He glanced at me curiously, but he stopped questioning, which was good. Carl and I had sworn not to tell Peter what we had done. In some ways, Peter held his past fiercely in his hands, hiding it from everyone so they couldn’t use it against him. We couldn’t tell him that we knew something he didn’t remember. Still, it sickened me to keep it from him. It sickened me even to think about it. I wasn’t sure of anything, but Shay’s words had convinced me that an angel had interfered. That left me with two questions. Which angel, and why?
I had let it bother me for two days straight before making Peter take me for a spin. I was running out of options, and I figured his idea of investigating the past, even the ancient past, was better than doing nothing.
Out of all the places affected by the scourge of child kidnappings, one area seemed to be cursed by it over the years, relatively speaking. Across a number of tiny villages in Kerry, an inordinate number of the same type of tragedies had occurred. That such a small population had garnered so many red flags made us figure it would be a good area to start in. I just hadn’t expected it to be so small and desolate.
We had left all main roads at least two hours ago, and we had passed more cow dung than I cared to think about. The roads became narrower, the breaks in farm life far more irregular, and I knew we were in proper rural Ireland, probably the Ireland that tourists came looking for before they had their wallets stolen in Dublin city. Maybe I was feeling a little more aggressive than usual, but the sporadically overwhelming stench of dung wasn’t helping matters.
Still, even I had to admit that the rough mountainous terrain and even the occasional glimmering lake were attractive enough to admire. Maybe some day I would have a real holiday somewhere.
We passed an unusual number of random places decorated with flowers and plaques to mark a fatal accident. I had the overwhelming sensation that we were in a forgotten place, a place marked by death, misery, and bad luck. I couldn’t shake the melancholy.
“Are you okay?” Peter asked, biting into my self-imposed silence.
“Fine.”
“You’re a little… twitchy today.”
I gazed at my hands and realised with horror that I had been tapping and counting. “God damn it,” I muttered. I had been trying my best to wean myself off of my obsessive compulsive behaviours, but as soon as I wasn’t paying attention, they came back in full swing.
“It’s okay to need it sometimes,” Peter said softly, but he avoided my eyes.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the sounds outside. It was actually quite peaceful once I stopped feeling determined to hate everyone and everything.
“Why here?” I wondered out loud. “Why do they keep picking on these people?”
“That’s what I’m hoping to find out. There’s a small village about a mile away. Do you want to drop in there and see if there’s anything going on?”
But there was nothing there. Nobody who remembered anything. Nobody who wanted to talk. Same with the one after that. The occurrences there had happened too long ago.
“One more,” Peter promised, persisting with the belief that there had to be someone out there who knew something.
I didn’t feel like giving up yet, so I was happy when he drove into the last village in the area. The place was almost silent, eerily so. An old man stood in a doorway and stared as we drove past, and my stomach grew cold. I couldn’t imagine asking anyone questions in that place.
A strange feeling overcame me. No talking. No questions. Keep quiet and go home.
“We’ll have a drink in the pub,” Peter said. “You can bet your arse some old crone will give us a story.”
“Please don’t talk like that in there,” I whispered.
“What’s with you?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I just feel… quiet.”
He shook his head, probably wondering why I was in such an odd mood, but I couldn’t help it. Something was creeping over me the further we drove. The village was smaller than I expected, but I saw at least two pubs. We went into the smaller of the two, once we had parked the car.
I readied myself to drive home afterward, but Peter just nursed a shandy. The bar man was nice enough, but nobody was overly friendly. We sat in a corner for a long time, feeling the chill of unspoken words. I tried to look touristy, staring at the wooden beams and old Guinness post cards decorating the walls, but I felt myself crawling inside a shell instead.
“This is kind of creepy,�
� I whispered, but Peter wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy staring at the bar, so I turned to see what he was gaping at.
A tall, broad figure was approaching the bar, and the barman almost dropped a glass when he spotted him.
“Ah, it’s the Whelan baby,” the bartender exclaimed. “Come to see the oul’ woman, have ya?”
“Shay?” Peter said, and the figure turned slowly. I gulped down a swear word as Sergeant Shay Whelan looked straight at Peter.
He gave an easy grin, muttered something to the barman, and came over to sit with us. “It’s been a while, Peter. You’re all grown up now.”
Peter laughed. “I almost didn’t recognise you. You’ve gotten old. If your man at the bar hadn’t said Whelan…”
“Enough of that out of you,” Shay said good-humouredly.
Peter sobered. “It’s funny, but I was thinking about you today. I remembered your family were from this part of the woods. Not working in Dublin anymore?”
Shay cast his gaze on me, and I shivered. “I’m just down for the day, following a lead. Besides, I haven’t seen a relative down here for a while.”
I heaved a sigh of relief when he didn’t acknowledge me at all.
Peter jumped to his feet. “I’ll buy you a drink.” He practically ran to the bar, and I stared after him, confused by the way he was acting.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Shay said, taking a seat.
“Following a lead,” I mumbled, unable to take my eyes off him. If he told Peter that Carl and I had gone to see him, only bad things would follow. “Don’t tell him,” I pleaded.
He shook his head. “I wasn’t planning to. But you and your pal got under my skin the other day. Idiot that I am, I couldn’t resist taking a look at what you were talking about. Funny how we both landed here.” His face changed. “What’s strange is how many times I visited this place and heard the old stories at my nan’s fireplace, yet I didn’t connect how similar they were to himself over there.”
I started to ask him what stories he was talking about, but Peter set a pint in front of Shay, interrupting us. “Forgot the introductions. Shay, this is my friend, Ava. Ava, this is Shay. I’d call him a friend, but he was just doing his job.”
They shared a little banter, but all I could think about was why Shay had turned up in the same place as we had. Had he believed me? Was he really trying to figure out what the hell was going on?
Shay took a deep drink of his beer. “So are you going to tell me why you’re really here then?”
Peter grinned at him. “Sight-seeing. We’re interested in hearing about the local folklore.”
“Ah, sure, I can help you with that. You’ve come to the right place at the right time. My dear old nan doesn’t talk to strangers, but a friend of mine? No bother. She’s a bit of an expert, you know?”
Peter cocked his head to the side. “You offering?”
“Of course. Just let me sink this pint, and I’ll take you to her. Both of you, is it?”
Peter glanced at me. “Only if that’s okay.” He ignored my glare.
Shay smiled at me. “I’m sure we can squeeze her in.”
He wasn’t joking. He took us to a tiny cottage. The old woman sat by a range in the kitchen, leaving one other chair. Shay practically shoved me into the seat as he made his introductions. His nan was really his great-grandmother, a wizened old lady with white eyes and a balding head. Shay was from the closest town, but he often visited her, although less often since he moved to Dublin, he explained.
The old woman’s fingers curved around an old blackthorn walking stick, but the root end that acted as a handle was so large, I couldn’t imagine her being able to lift it. She spoke quietly, seeming confused, until Shay asked her to tell us some old stories.
A smile deepened her wrinkles. “It’s a story you’re wanting, is it? We have many of those. Is it the wee men you’re looking for?”
Peter shifted his feet impatiently.
“Actually,” I said softly, “we’re more interested in something specific to this area. There have been a lot of tragedies here. Murders, kidnappings. Can you tell us if there are legends associated with those?”
The woman swallowed hard, then sucked her false teeth furiously. “You’re asking a hard question there,” she said. “It’s true we’ve been struck by tragedy in this part of the world. Have ye noticed there are no children running around? Only old ones, coming home to die, mostly.”
Shay embraced her. “But not you,” he said firmly.
She gave a low cackle. “No, not me. Not yet. Not if I can help it anyway.” She frowned. “What was I saying?”
“No children,” I prompted.
“Ah, yes. We’ve learned since then. Nobody talks about it, of course, but anyone young enough to have a child moved along. Before that, children were sent to the town to live with relatives for a time. They say this place is cursed for children. And there are stories, yes.”
“Do you know the stories?” Peter asked.
She nodded. “Shay, love. Can you make me a cuppa? I’m gasping.”
Peter fidgeted while Shay moved around the tiny kitchen, swallowing up the space with his size. The smell of the brewing tea managed to calm me a little, and I watched with interest as Shay and his nan spoke about a seemingly endless amount of relatives.
When Shay finally handed her a cup of tea, Peter’s face was coloured with impatience, but the old woman took a couple of sips, smacking her lips in satisfaction. “You were always a good boy,” she said to Shay. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been cold today. I have a chill in these bones that won’t leave me.”
Shay found another blanket and draped it over his nan’s lap, but I had a feeling nothing would warm her at the moment.
“The story, Nan,” he said gently. “They’re still waiting for the story.”
“Of course they are. Waiting, waiting.” She sighed. “People say the old days were a different time, but the crimes committed here have been going on for a long time. A shocking long time. My grandmother used to tell me that they blamed the Ogham stones, back in the old days. Runners-in called them bad luck, but the old families knew the truth of the matter. We might not talk a lot, but we remember everything. And yes, it all began with the Ogham stones.”
I inhaled sharply and stared at Peter in dismay. Shay saw me and kept his gaze on me, so I turned back to the old lady. I was probably overreacting, but so much was connecting together that it seemed more than coincidence that Ogham stones were mentioned when one of the gods Eddie had told me about was Ogham.
“We have more Ogham stones than anywhere else,” she said proudly, her face brightening. “It’s said the old gods blessed us with knowledge, gave us the art of script before any others to reward us for our dedication. We were a faithful people, and even now, the remaining Ogham stones are protected like gold. The old gods were good to us, so long as we were loyal. We were the centre of something special. We were a very lucky people then.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
The woman leaned toward me, another smile creeping across her face. “This is one of the important places of magic, my dear. The magical beings were attracted to us because we were on sacred land. We were important. But it all went wrong.”
“How so?” Peter asked in hushed tones. The air had quietened again. I could hear no wind, no crackling fire, only an old dog barking far off in the distance and some heartbeats. Some beat faster than others.
“People forgot the things they learned. They grew selfish, less grateful for the gifts they had been given. Christianity came, all fresh and new, and we forgot the old gods, so they punished us. They took their power and left us alone. What was sacred turned unholy, and the protection we had was gone. They say demons came to us then, instead of the gods.”
“Demons?” I asked breathlessly.
“Demons,” she echoed. “That was our punishment for abandoning the old gods. They abandoned us in turn, and we were left
defenceless when evil came for us. All we had was the blessed waters that the gods themselves had bathed in, and it gave us strong children, special children. Children so special that the demons wouldn’t stay away, no matter how hard we fought. There was a fierce battle and good lost, so the gates were opened, and many things squirmed free. We were silenced and cursed and—” She hacked a phlegmy cough, gripping her walking stick tightly. “I need to sleep.”
“Wait. We need to hear more,” Peter demanded.
“More? They’re just stories, my boy. No need to be afraid of the dark. It’s the light that brings shadow. No children here anymore. Nothing for the demons to come for.” She tried to stand, but fell back in her seat.
I knelt at her feet and took her cold hand in mine. Her pulse was fading, slowly, but fading all the same. I gazed at Shay. “She’s not well.”
Peter took a step toward me. “But we need—”
“No, Peter!” I said. “Leave her be.”
Frustrated, Peter stormed out of the cottage. I was relieved to see him go.
“Can you help me?” Shay asked.
We both half-carried her into her bedroom, a tiny room connected to the kitchen. We lay her on the bed, draped a warm blanket over her, and huddled together as we watched her chest heave up and down.
“It’s always been hard to talk here,” she muttered before her eyes closed.
A chill fell across the room, and I moved closer to Shay. “How old is she?”
“Ninety-eight. Thanks for the help.”
“It was our fault for getting her over-excited. She’s a real storyteller.”
He nodded. “Some stories are better than others. Why did you want to hear the legend? Why not the truth?”
“What’s the truth, Shay? Can you tell me?”
He looked away, and I saw his shoulders tense.
“Why are you really here?” I asked.
He caught my eye, rock steady in his gaze. “Because I’ve seen things that don’t make sense. Ever since I started working, there have been things I can’t explain, and there have been so many more things swept under the carpet. I’d like to understand, and you gave me an excuse.”
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