For Wendy
History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
James Joyce, Ulysses
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
First: Oona and Morris
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Second: Widening Divide
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Third: ‘Beware That Black Beneath your Feet!’
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Fourth: The Ponderous Pass of Giants
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Fifth: Battle on the Burren
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Final: The City of Cities
Chapter 86
About the Author
Copyright
1
‘Would you snap-shut your trap and listen – I can hear something.’
‘I hear nothing. Imagining things, so you are.’
‘Not. Tell the lads to be ready. They’re close now.’
‘The lads are ready enough – we all are. Ready to die for the Cause!’
‘Not gonna die.’
‘Don’t be frighted now, sister dearest.’
‘Not.’
‘Dying in battle isn’t a thing to be worried about. Remember – it’s how Da and Granda went.’
‘I know that. Can’t forget, can I?’
‘Da and Granda – pair of them would be proud of us now!’
‘Give over, would you?’
‘I’m sure they’re watching down over us, in the company of the Sorrowful Lady Herself!’
‘I’m sure they’ve got better things to be doing, wherever they are. Now shush.’
‘Don’t tell me to –’
‘Quiet! I can hear something.’
‘It’s near enough night now anyway – they’ll not come. Cowards.’
‘Well, you better be ready, brother dearest – this is it. Things are about to begin.’
2
Then Oona cried, ‘There they are, lads!’ and Morris cried, ‘Attack!’ and blood-red ran the river where the battle broke. The banks of the Torrid were whited by winter then dashed with crimson. Crimson too across many mouths: rags were knotted to hide tell-tale breath, boys of the Cause on bellies and knees behind trees and rushes, all firing, mouths bellowing –
‘!’
(Too much gunfire to hear anything but gunfire.)
When Invaders fell on the opposite shore others came rushing to take over. When boys fell on the side of the Cause, no one came to replace.
Oona ordered, ‘Keep your heads down!’ and Morris ordered, ‘Keep firing, don’t give in!’ Not one was thinking surrender.
Morris roared, ‘Don’t let them cross! Don’t let them into Drumbroken!’
Look closely – Morris was on his front among reeds, small, skinny as a sally-rod and soot-haired, chilled to the soul but with heart blazing. He took aim with his granda’s rifle, slowly and carefully and patient. But too slow – the thing jammed and his hearing rang with a long thin note as a shot went out from another rifle. The Invader he’d been eyeing fell.
Look closer – see Oona, the twin sister, on her belly too and only feet from Morris, same coloured head of hair on her.
‘That was my shot to take!’ Morris told her.
‘Not my fault you’re too slow,’ said Oona. ‘Is it my fault that gun’s too heavy for your wee hands?’
‘One down doesn’t win a war!’ said Morris. (Old bit of preaching from their da’s mouth.)
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ said Oona. She rolled her eyes.
So Morris had to prove: his finger tugged the trigger and there was a blue-white flash and the gun bucked against his collarbone and another Invader fell into the River Torrid.
‘Good shot, boy Kavanagh!’ one of the Cause boys shouted.
‘Notice no one is so quick to thank me,’ said Oona.
‘Now now,’ said Morris, ‘none of them bitter words. Very unappealing from a lady.’ Oona used words to reply that definitely weren’t lady-likely.
‘Turf-mouth,’ he told her.
‘Clod-head,’ she told him.
Both kept firing like it was their own private game. But how did they get there, these two? Beside the River Torrid, bickering?
Morris’s first meeting with the Cause had gone like this: in a tin hut on the edge of Drumbroken with flags rippling on all walls, whiskey bottles were lined up along the rim of a tin bath and the Cause had said, ‘Show how good you are with that gun of your granda’s!’ He’d done well enough, exploded all of the bottles except one. The boys of the Cause had all cheered and hailed him, ‘A legend in the making!’ Then they’d waved their crimson flags, sunk enamel cups into the bath, drunk the whiskey that had collected there and all gotten wildly drunk as they sang their anthem, The Song of the Divided Isle.
Back by the river and Morris aimed once more. Fired – another Invader down. Again the call of congratulation: ‘Good one, boy Kavanagh!’
Oona held her breath and one-two-three quick shots = three Invaders falling.
No one acknowledged.
Oona’s first meeting with the Cause: she turned up at the tin hut the night after Morris had, but was told she wasn’t wanted. But she wouldn’t be told, kept coming back and back every night, and in the end they said that if Oona wanted to try to act like a man and fight then that was her burial, but they wouldn’t be there to pick her up or look after her. Then she’d done the same shooting trick as Morris, but destroyed every single bottle on the bath. Nothing was said. The gun Oona had used was one she’d found in a ditch on the way there.
Now Oona ducked low in
the reeds by the River Torrid – suddenly so much gunfire was her way, Invaders knowing she’d be a good one to take out.
‘Watch yourself there, girl! Shouldn’t be here at all, should be at home keeping house!’
This was Davy, near by. Fifteen years old, so only had two years on the twins, but he was their self-appointed leader. But Davy couldn’t (Oona thought) have hit a cow in a cattle-mart. She showed him the tip of her tongue. Then she watched Davy’s shoulder jerk, saw blood dash his cheek and any scowl slipped from his face. He collapsed.
Oona looked at Morris. They both did a deep swallow, and continued to fire. But night was determined to darken the scene, and each moment meant it was harder to see what was approaching. And maybe-minutes-maybe-moments and more of the Cause were felled.
Somebody else made a feeble cry, ‘They’re going to cross into Drumbroken!’
But said too late: Invaders had entered the river and begun to wade across, their uniforms quickly shifting colour from winter-white and blood-red to just blood, matching the colour of the river.
‘See!’ Morris told Oona. ‘It’s true they have some North magic to make them blend into things, so they’ll not be easy seen!’
‘It’s just the river staining their clothes,’ said Oona. ‘We’re not winning this. We need to move into the forest – we know the trees and these Invaders don’t. We’d be better off.’
Morris said, ‘No! You said you weren’t frighted.’
Oona nudged him and said, ‘Not. Also said I wasn’t going to die.’
Morris said, ‘You go. I’m staying.’
And then came the call from other boys fleeing: ‘Boys of the Cause retreat! Back into the trees! Run for it!’
Said Morris again, ‘I’m not going anywhere, sister dearest.’
‘Morris,’ said Oona, ‘I know it’s hard for you, but try not to be the usual stubborn eejit!’
Morris didn’t speak.
Invaders arrived on the shore and were shouting, ‘After them! Pursue into the forest! We need them alive!’
Oona took her brother by the wrist and said only, ‘Morris.’
He swallowed. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘For Da and Granda, and for the Cause and for our county of Drumbroken, for all the Divided Isle I have to –’
‘Don’t give me that chat,’ said Oona. ‘“All the Divided Isle”? You think they care up North about what you do here? And what about Granny? Going to leave her alone in the Kavanagh cottage and us pair dead in the Torrid? We’re Kavanaghs, remember? And what did Da always say? Kavanaghs don’t do as expected.’
Morris looked at her.
‘We run,’ she said. ‘We live. We fight tomorrow.’
A moment. Then Oona’s brother gave her something close to a nod and they were both up and off.
An Invader saw and shouted, ‘Get him!’
Just him? thought Oona. Am I bloody invisible or just not worth bothering with or –? Morris turned and fired one-two shots and one-two Invaders dropped.
Gunfire was returned but the same Invader cried, ‘No! I said don’t shoot them. Remember the Captain’s orders!’
Oona and Morris hurried on through the trees and deepening dusk, across snow on bare soles, shouts and calls and commands all flying and more boys of the Cause being brought down. Shot down? Not a bit – dragged down. Oona heard another shout from one of their own: ‘They’ve got Briar-Witches with them!’
‘What chat’s this?’ said Oona, to herself, and she had to stop to see …
A low rise was racing along underground, a hump that moved fast, weaving between trees, burrowing. A rabbit wouldn’t do that, Oona thought. Nor a badger neither. Her look went to one of the Cause boys standing: he was backed up to a tree, his gaze on the ground. The boy was Eamon O’Riley. Oona watched. She saw Eamon’s last expression: terror and some tears, and then he was gone, pulled into the ground.
Some other in the Cause announced, ‘Beware that ground beneath your feet!’
Oona said to Morris, ‘Quick – up and climb.’
Oona leapt from the spot she stood on and caught a branch but Morris was too slow …
Her brother cried out, swore as he was taken by the ankles and yanked down, falling into the earth to his armpits. Still he held tight his granda’s gun, and with the other hand he snatched for what little was there – grass, root, weakened weed, all snow-soaked and slipping.
‘Hell’s bells,’ said Oona.
She returned to the ground and dropped her gun so she could take her brother’s hand with both her own. Oona tried to drag him back, but already he was telling her, ‘Leave me be. Run on. Go!’
‘Shut up,’ she told him. ‘Stop trying to be a bloody martyr. And let go of that gun, will you?’
‘Not a chance,’ said Morris.
Then whatever held her brother snapped out at Oona – a rough, clubbed claw flew and a sharp spur like a cockerel’s entered her hand at the fatty bulge below her thumb. She had to recoil and Morris slipped further into the ground, almost gone. But Oona Kavanagh wasn’t being beaten – from the pocket of her dress she took a kitchen knife she’d brought from their cottage and slashed at the claw. It was quick to retreat. But still something held Morris and wouldn’t relinquish. And Oona wouldn’t let go of him either.
‘Don’t be so bloody stubborn,’ said Morris, teeth gritted. ‘You’re gonna have me in two halves!’
‘Stubborn?’ said Oona, teeth gritted too. ‘You should talk!’
But she knew she was losing him to this creature underground, this Briar-Witch. A call of an Invader: ‘Over there! They’re having trouble with one!’
‘Let me go,’ said Morris. ‘Like you said – think of Granny, her being alone …’
Invader: ‘It’s only a girl. Do we bother capturing her?’
And this was the thing that made Oona lose strength and lose her brother – It’s only a girl …
Suddenly she had only a hole in the ground to stare into, and nothing in her hands but the crimson rag Morris had shed on his way down. She heard another Invader asking, ‘What girl are you talking about? I can’t see no one.’
Didn’t see because Oona was already gone. She ran alone, the only member of the Cause in Drumbroken left standing.
3
Follow Oona – but need to be quick to see her! Fast through forest, up over or under or around any obstacle nature threw. She knew where she was going without needing to think it. And not a soul in Drumbroken could’ve caught her; no Invader could’ve laid a hand. Those things underground, though? Oona went on faster.
‘By the blazes you’re a fast one!’ her granda used to tell her, and she always agreed, always liked to hear it said. He’d told her, ‘Could run a mile a minute, couldn’t you, girl?’
Could, did: Oona ran miles with only her own deep breathing for company and the thump-thump-crunch of her feet across snow. She didn’t stop, not till she was almost home and she heard –
‘Morris! Morris, no!’
A screaming. She ran on faster, the final half-mile conquered in less than half a minute. Then the Kavanagh cottage appeared between trees, a small stone tower with snow a blue-white cap on its hat of thatch. The front door of the cottage was wide. But when the screams came again they didn’t sound from inside –
‘Help! Someone help!’
It was Granny Kavanagh. Oona held tight her knife. What if Invaders were near by, skulking? She remembered: It’s only a girl, do we bother capturing her or …? And she thought to herself in answer: By blazes, I’ll show them!
‘Help me!’
Her grandmother was standing in just her nightdress in a clearing, arms outstretched and grappling with things unseen, screaming, ‘No! Leave me alone! I can take no more of these sights! Leave me be now!’
Oona approached slowly. She settled her hand, gently, on her grandmother’s arm.
I’m no good at this kind of thing, she thought. No good at being soft. Morris was better – he knew how to deal with her well, ho
w to bring her back to herself.
‘It’s all right,’ tried Oona. ‘I’m here, Granny. I’m back.’
Her grandmother wasn’t startled by Oona’s sudden appearance. Didn’t recoil at all or seem frightened. And this worried Oona more: the look Granny Kavanagh gave Oona was almost uncaring, as though they were scarcely more than strangers passing.
In the trees there was unrest. Oona saw plenty of yellow eyes watching and feet shifting. She looked closer – jackdaws.
‘Come on now, Granny,’ said Oona. ‘It’s cold. And not safe either now. Let’s go home.’ And slowly, she led Granny Kavanagh back towards the cottage.
‘Where is he?’ her grandmother asked. She had her hands clutched close to her chest like she was holding something safe inside. ‘Where’s Morris?’
Oona said nothing. She wasn’t one for lies.
‘He’s in trouble,’ said Granny Kavanagh, shuffling through snow. ‘He’s been taken. He’s down in the dark with all the other children.’
‘How did you know that?’ said Oona, before she thought.
‘I know,’ said her grandmother. ‘I know too well. I’ve seen.’
When they stepped over the threshold into the Kavanagh cottage it was too dark to make much out. No fire had been lit in the hearth so their only light was candlelight – their small shrine for the Sorrowful Lady by the back door, flames like small tongues wagging. Oona heard the soft cluck of the chickens in their corner. Still wary, she went slowly, looking to all shadows. But she found no lurkers.
‘Now,’ said Oona, and she settled her grandmother in her armchair. ‘You’ll be all right now, Granny. I’m here.’
‘None of us will be all right now,’ said Granny Kavanagh. Her breath smelled like milk on the turn. ‘They’re here, aren’t they? Those Invaders. They’re going to take everything from us.’
‘No,’ said Oona. ‘I won’t let them.’ She held her kitchen knife tightest and the wound on her hand, the bite of that thing – Briar-Witch? – screamed and spread its hurt.
‘Promises like petals,’ said Granny Kavanagh. She swallowed with a sound like a lock. She still kept her hands clasped tight across her chest. ‘Promises like petals, like I always say – dead as soon as they’re dropped. We’ve no hope now. Soon the South will be made as Black as the North. They’ll come and take this cottage and all in it, us included. And if the boys and men of the Cause can’t stop them, then there’s not a thing you or I can do about it.’
The Black North Page 1
