‘True! We’ve had peace in this valley since we got rid of Slopebridge from the Big House!’
‘True enough! And we’ll stand for no more from anyone – agreed?’
All voices then: ‘Agreed.’
Enough, thought Oona. And before she knew what her feet were doing they took her to the doorway, and before she knew what her mouth was doing it was shouting –
‘No, it’s not agreed!’
Many a weary face looked at her (most cases – looked for her). Oona saw the oldest of old men from each Drumbroken family, all sat on raised and low levels, on fragments of rock long-fallen from the Tower. The lanterns they’d carried with them up the slope were still in their hands. Oona saw flowers and herbs of each family arranged in beards and hair – here holly and there thistle, some loosestrife, bit of houndstongue. Oona thought of all that agrimony Granny Kavanagh had scattered throughout the cottage and wished she’d brought some for ceremony’s sake.
‘Who’s there now?’ said one of the men, squinting, not seeing. ‘Is that one of the Wee Folk or some damnable spirit or what?’
Oona cleared her throat and said, ‘I’m no spirit or nothing like it, Mister – I’m Oona from the family Kavanagh. And I wanted to say that we can’t make agreements with these Invaders and we can’t send them on their way. They’re already here. And the rumours of these Briar-Witches are true. I didn’t believe in them either, but I saw my brother taken by one and that’s no word less than the truth. We were fighting with the Cause me and him and –’
Then there was too much noise to make herself heard at all.
‘Girls aren’t in the Cause! That’s a sin for you, lying like that!’
‘The Cause is the noble fight for the men to make!’
‘You shouldn’t be in here anyway, girl!’
‘Aye! A female hasn’t stepped foot in Drumbroken Tower for – for – I can’t even remember how long!’
‘Never, that’s how long!’
‘A sin for you indeed! Do you want to bring an unholy curse down on us all!’
‘Go and say your sorries to the Sorrowful Lady and hope she’s forgiving tonight!’
But Oona shouted, ‘I’ll not take anything to the Sorrowful Lady – she’s no good to us as far as I can see! And there’s no man left in the Kavanagh cottage to come here and talk for us! My da is dead and my granda with him, both killed fighting in the Cause! And my brother was taken, like I told! Snatched by them Briar-Witches!’
But the men barely heard her, too loud and decided on their bloody-minded outrage.
‘Such cheek from you, girl!’
‘Out this instant!’
‘Away home to your bed!’
Oona cried, ‘Now listen to me! I’m all there’s left of the Kavanagh family and I’ve a right to have some say! And I’ll not go home to my bed when it isn’t safe! I won’t rest, not with those Briar-Witches about. And if you don’t believe me, then look!’
Oona held her hand to the nearest light: the Briar-Witch wound was black, a bruise just as black surrounding it. Oona flexed her fingers and the wound wept something dark.
The Tower found some quiet.
‘I don’t know how to fix it,’ said Oona. Her head was beginning to fizz, the pain in her hand too much. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Then a voice said, ‘I believe you, child.’
Oona looked. One of the men was moving towards her, a pair of sticks to prop him up: Bridget’s grandfather. He had churnstaff, the herb of the O’Riley family, twisted into his thistledown hair.
‘I believe you,’ he said once more. ‘But what are we to do against these Invaders? What else but leave and head South? We know what they did up North; it’ll happen here too. And my son in Innislone tells me of more arriving every day, all –’
‘– coming across the Divide,’ finished Oona. She dropped her hand. She tried to shake some of the pain out of it but failed. ‘I know all this, but that doesn’t mean we have to run.’
Then she heard running. Heavy footfalls heavy breathing and a shout –
‘Granda!’
Oona knew who it was before she saw, and for the second time that day: Bridget O’Riley in a doorway, breathless.
‘What is it?’ said Oona. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s them,’ said Bridget. She swallowed. ‘The Invaders, they’re –’
A single gunshot and everything shivered, stopped – Bridget fell, slowly, and Oona had to rush to catch her.
8
Out of all silence, a shout –
‘We have the place surrounded so you haven’t got a hope! You’ve got to the count of three to make yourselves known! One –’
Oona held Bridget. She looked for help – to Bridget’s grandfather, who just stared at his grandaughter, eyes brimming with bewilderment.
‘Two –’
And to the other old men of Drumbroken – none moved, not one of them knowing what to do.
‘Three!’
So Oona ordered them, ‘Get down you bunch of doddering old –!’
The remainder was lost in attack: gunfire, the Tower shaking and shedding more of itself. Oona dragged Bridget from under the doorway as bullet split lintel. A crack, a tumble trailing dust and heavy stone fell across the opening. Oona crouched over her friend and held her. The men all about were on their bellies, Granda O’Riley too, his sticks dropped beside.
Another Invader cry amid gunshots: ‘Move in, men! Take the children alive; do what you like with the rest!’
No, thought Oona. I’ll not be taken so easy.
‘We have to do something!’ she told Mr O’Riley. ‘Have to try to get out of here!’
But before old O’Riley could reply, an unknown voice cried out, ‘Leave him be! Sure he’s no good to you in that state anyway! None of them are!’
Oona searched for a source but didn’t see any.
Another cry from the voice of, ‘Look a bit harder and closer, my girl!’ and at the same time a darkness swooped at Oona, plucking at her hand. Oona cursed, and followed the dark: it settled as a large jackdaw in one of the narrow windows. Its eyes were wide and yellow and watchful.
‘Aye, it was me who spoke, so quit staring!’ said the jackdaw. And it hopped like it stood on something hot, telling Oona, ‘Now I’d suggest you be getting a move on or very soon you’ll be moving nowhere but six spadefuls down!’
A gunshot made the jackdaw enter the air and screech. (To Oona, it sounded like a sharp caw and a swear mixed together.) The bird completed a single bedraggled circle of flight then dropped, landing on a slab as wide as the Kavanagh family table.
‘Beneath this is the only way out now!’ the bird told Oona. ‘Crawl under – there’s a big enough gap.’
Oona turned to Mr O’Riley but the jackdaw leapt to her shoulder, telling, ‘He’ll not fit! So let them be captured – they waited too long without doing anything, it’s what they deserve!’
‘Get off!’ Oona shouted and flung her arm in the jackdaw’s direction.
‘Bloody cheek!’ said the bird, again in the air. ‘I’m trying to save you!’ Oona looked once more to Bridget – felt her shivering so still living.
‘She’ll be fine,’ said the jackdaw. ‘They’ve hardly any interest in the girls. Follow me!’
Again the bird dropped, but this time it didn’t bother reappearing.
Oona heard Bridget whisper, ‘Go. Leave me. Escape.’ Oona wanted to disagree, but hadn’t the will for it. She knew what decision had to be made. She looked to the old Drumbroken men – still unmoving, still unable to act.
‘Go on,’ said Bridget again. ‘The Invaders won’t let me die. They need the children. They’re taking them all up into the Black North.’
Invaders at the doorway were shoving stone, shouting, ‘Push it aside! Move it!’
Oona swallowed, then whispered into Bridget’s ear, ‘I promise I’ll find you. I’ll not forget.’ And she lowered her friend to the ground. One weight left, anot
her gained – guilt. But Oona crawled towards the place into which the jackdaw had vanished.
Invader: ‘None of you move! You’re all under arrest by order of the King of the North!’
But Oona was up and over the slab of stone. She stooped and saw an opening and had to slip in: tight squeeze, head-first, feet fumbling and –
‘One of them’s getting away!’
Oona stuck. One ankle was wedged and then she felt a damp hand on it tugging, an Invader screaming, ‘I’ve got him! Someone help here or he’ll get away!’
And Oona kicked out as hard as she could and felt such a flood of pleasure when the ball of her foot met bone. The Invader gave a roar, Oona was released, and she was let slither down into dark.
9
From slip to tumble – rock and earth was toying with Oona to turn her over and over and there was plenty of swearing lost from her lips on the journey down. She was stopped when her backside met the bottom. Surrounded by dark. But something was waiting –
A flutter overhead and the something touched Oona and she was on her feet, kitchen knife whipped from her dress as she demanded, ‘Who are you?’
‘Oh, calm yourself,’ said the voice. Female voice. A soft ruffle and shiver from somewhere – the jackdaw. It said, ‘We’ve no time to waste on much, so let’s get your legs moving. Follow!’
‘No,’ said Oona. ‘I’m not going anywhere till I see you proper and I know who you are. Tell.’
Sound of such a sigh. Then the jackdaw said: ‘I’ll tell you what I tell you and you’ll take it.’
‘Name,’ said Oona.
‘Evelyn Merrigutt,’ said the jackdaw. ‘But call me Merrigutt just.’
‘Who are you, anyway?’ Oona asked.
‘I’m telling you no more!’ said Merrigutt. ‘We’ve not time!’
There was a scatter of earth from the passage above. Oona looked up; was sure someone was trying to make their way down.
‘They’ll not take long finding their way, that lot,’ said the jackdaw.
The bird was back in the air, then back to perching on a shallow shelf of rock, then saying, ‘Them ones have more tricks up their sleeves than a travelling tinker, so consider this thing: above you’ve got Invaders and around us you’ve got Briar-Witches. Sure you want to hang about and chat?’
‘Briar-Witches,’ said Oona, and her voice sent a cold echo. She looked to the walls, worried.
‘They won’t get you,’ said the jackdaw. ‘Not any time soon – this stone is too much even for those things to be burrowing through.’ Oona heard the tap of beak against rock. ‘But eventually,’ said the jackdaw, and left it there. ‘Now follow on!’
A quiver like thrown silk, and when the bird spoke next its voice was all echoes: ‘Moving your feet will help you move forward more than all these questions!’
Oona wanted not to follow. But was there any choice? She went.
‘Don’t drag your feet!’ called the jackdaw. ‘Don’t dawdle!’
‘Not dawdling!’ said Oona. ‘I can’t see anything so don’t know where I’m going! Where are you leading me to anyway? Tell!’
‘Quit yapping and hurry up! Those Invaders won’t rest, my girl. So we shouldn’t either.’
Oona’s thoughts strayed – Drumbroken, the men in their Tower, Mr O’Riley, Bridget …
‘What’ll happen to those oul Drumbroken men?’ asked Oona. ‘And to my friend?’
‘Who knows,’ said the jackdaw. ‘Take them North is likely.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Oona. ‘How did you know anyway to come to the Tower?’
‘We knew,’ said the jackdaw. ‘We’ve been watching. Which is something the people in this valley needed to be doing more of! Too late now, though.’
‘We need to tell people,’ said Oona. ‘Warn them what’s going on.’ She slipped, reached out for support and swore, her hand stinging. ‘Bloody Briar-Witch bite!’
‘Here,’ said the jackdaw, and the bird returned to her, close. ‘Stay still now. I’m not gonna fib – this’ll hurt a good bit.’
Oona felt the jackdaw press a careful beak to the wound, into the wound. Oona had to bite down on her other hand and slam one sole to the wall to distract. The pain reached its queasy peak and –
‘There now,’ said the jackdaw. It sounded like it had something caught, then Oona heard the sound of small falling. ‘Creature left a bit of its spur in you,’ said the bird. ‘Should start to heal up a wee bit now. So – can we continue?’
Oona saw the bird move off. She flexed her fingers, then whole hand, shook it: not all painless, but any pain was slower to rise. She followed and soon saw the jackdaw pausing at a meeting of many ways. She saw its yellow eyes widen to almost human-sized, then fly on – leftways.
Oona went faster after, saying, ‘Thing we need to do is warn the people.’
‘And I said too late for that,’ said the jackdaw.
‘Not a bit!’ said Oona. ‘Never too late.’
‘Is that right?’ said the jackdaw. ‘Well this morning we saw two hundred Invaders cross your River Torrid into sleepy Drumbroken with we don’t know how many Briar-Witches beneath. And they’ve brought such magic with them that it’ll soon make this place you’ve been hiding all your life as unfamiliar as anywhere. So I’d say it’s late enough, my girl!’
‘I haven’t been hiding,’ said Oona. ‘And I can fight!’ Her head met stone – more pain, more cursing.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said the jackdaw, and Oona thought the bird’s tone not quite as scathing.
‘But that’ll not do much good now. These Invaders have their orders from the King and they’ll carry them out as quickly as they can, not caring a bit for anything.’
‘What King is this?’ asked Oona. ‘The Isle looks after itself, we’ve no King.’
‘Really are backward and behind the times in this part of the world,’ said the jackdaw, something like sorrow in her voice. ‘Things changing around you and you can’t even see them.’
‘Not bloody backward!’ said Oona. She stumbled, staggered on, shouting, ‘I’ll tell you one thing – they’ll not be changing me!’
‘You can’t help the change,’ said the jackdaw. ‘You’ll have no choice in it.’
‘Says you,’ replied Oona.
‘Just keep up, Oona of the contrary Kavanaghs!’ said the jackdaw, all impatience returning.
‘You’ll soon see just how much Drumbroken has been changed, and how quick.’
10
Some leaking-in moonlight let Oona see more – the pale promise of an outside, an end to the tunnel, and she rushed towards it.
‘Stop!’ called the jackdaw. ‘I told you, it won’t be like you left it!’
Oona ignored the bird for blessed cold, a welcome chill to soothe the wound on her hand some more. But when she breathed in, there was no relief: she near retched, sniffing a stench sudden and unfamiliar. Oona stood, looked, and wondered, was it even Drumbroken she was in?
Everywhere had the appearance of a place ancient. The forest looked like it had seen the woes of a multitude of ages, and had been slowly beaten and broken open by them. An unkempt web was spun in great tangles between boughs, cruel cat’s cradles. Trunks had twisted and split as if they had many mouldering secrets to spill, and roots had wriggled free of their earth to battle with the onset of briars and bitter weeds. A litter of leaves lay over everything, like a floor never swept. Oona walked and the reek rose higher and for a moment she was reminded of the dream she’d had in the cottage – the memory of walking through a blackening forest.
Oona stopped, asking of the frigid air, her breath making cold shapes: ‘What’s happened?’ The jackdaw landed beside her on a branch that bobbed as though it might break.
‘The North magic,’ said the bird. ‘I told you – they’ve brought it with them. Doing like they did up North when they ruined and made it Black. They –’
Oona had time for no more – the land might’ve been so changed but still she recog
nised it, knew that home wasn’t far. She ran and didn’t stop until the Kavanagh cottage came to sight, but nothing showed her a greater change than home – the place was leaning, thatch rotten and sagging, door open like a desperate mouth with a gasp. Oona ran on – over the threshold with knife in hand and calling, ‘Granny!’
The hearth was cold and there was no light from anywhere, not even at the shrine for the Sorrowful Lady. The same smell existed inside as out – sweet, like the rot of things left long alone. Oona stepped forward and many softnesses touched her face. Her fingers moved fast and fumbling to remove them – a web had been woven wild across the one room of the cottage. Briar and creeper and vine had ensnared the family table, claimed dresser and sideboard and encircled the hearth at the centre of the room. Weed and nettle and dock were as high as her knee.
‘No,’ said Oona, softly. Then again, feeble protest: ‘No. Can’t be like this. Can’t.’
Her home was no longer her own. Oona couldn’t discern her memories of the place past the thicket of transformation – no more the comfortable space her mother had tended, nor the busy place that her father and grandfather had worked hard to keep and improve. Not the happy place she’d grown alongside Morris. And if her brother reappeared just then, would he even know that he’d come home?
Oona listened but heard no sound from the chickens in the corner. She took a step to explore but felt something sharp at her ankle.
‘Don’t move!’ said the voice of the jackdaw, somewhere.
Oona saw a thorn as long as her middle finger threatening her ankle. Then she saw more – many longer, most sharper.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Oona. ‘Like a hundred years gone by.’ She hated the solemn echo her words sent. She had a notion then, a memory of Bridget’s words and asked, ‘Is this the Echoes they talk about?’
‘No,’ said Merrigutt. ‘Not that. The Echoes aren’t as simple as that.’
‘Then what?’ snapped Oona, and she remembered more of Bridget’s words. ‘Some spell or something? Isn’t that what they call it?’
‘A dispell,’ said the jackdaw. ‘Takes away, doesn’t give. Gets rid of things. I’d say what’s lacking and been banished from here is hope.’
The Black North Page 3
