Twig of Thorn (The Blackthorn Cycle Book 1)

by L. M. Hawke

  The huge bonfire was set in the gravelly bare space Una had seen earlier that day, on the back side of Kylebeg’s main buildings. It had been burning for several hours now, drawing celebrants out of the buildings and toward its hypnotic red light. They came like moths drawn to candles, and like moths, they flitted drunkenly as close as they dared to the flames. The fire gave a heave and a tremendous crackle as its heart of logs collapsed; a plume of orange sparks rose high into the sky. Una followed the sparks with her eyes, then tipped her head back to stare up at the starry sky. An eerie column of light hung high over Kylebeg, as if the Beltane fire reached toward the moon with one long, glowing arm. Tiny black forms darted through Una’s field of vision, only briefly seen as they passed across fireglow or a patch of stars. Bats, she realized—drawn to the insects, which came to the light. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body to keep from shivering.

  “So that’s how my family came to settle in this place, generations ago,” Kathleen said. She was finishing up a brief history of the O’Malleys, explaining how they came to reign so thoroughly over the odd little fiefdom of Kylebeg.

  It was an interesting story—the parts Una had paid attention to, at least—but Beltane itself kept distracting her, so that she’d only digested parts of Kathleen’s tale. Kathleen had mentioned early on, during the walk from Una’s place to the village, that she herself kept the Old Ways and was a practicing pagan. “But you called the celebration a lark, back there in the cottage,” Una had protested. Kathleen’s grin had reassured her. “No reason why we can’t have a little fun with our religion, is there? You’ll like the Beltane fire. Who doesn’t enjoy a bonfire, anyway?”

  Kylebeg was certainly enjoying it. Now and then, an animal mask flashed through her line of sight, as rapid and unsettling as the bats that fluttered above. Foxes, rabbits, and strange birds snarled and leered redly in the dancing light. Antlers stood out against the mobile flames, sharp black lines in a dim, smoke-blurred wilderness. Flowers had dropped out of women’s hair and now lay crushed and spent on the ground.

  There’s no reason to be weirded out by Kathleen, Una told herself firmly, nor anyone else in this town. What if they are pagans? It’s nothing to be bothered about. Una claimed no beliefs of her own; “Live and let live” was her philosophy. But the pervasive, Catholic mistrust of the Old Ways, as Kathleen called them (and Una could hear the respectful capitalization in Kathleen’s voice, clear as a bell) plagued her with unwanted chills. The masks and dancing and howls deep in the night faintly repulsed Una, yet she was also powerfully drawn to them—compelled by a curiosity so intense it frightened her.

  “So, er…” Una grappled for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t make her feel even farther out of her depth. “What is it you do here? For work, I mean?”

  “Oh,” Kathleen said with her bubbly, infectious laugh. “I run the library, actually.”

  “There’s a library here?” Una brightened up. She might not be much of a student, but she did love to read.

  “Kind of. It’s a mobile library. The county administers it—sends us whatever books aren’t needed at the towns’ and cities’ branches—and I drive it.”

  “I fixed up a neat little moving van for her,” Angus said proudly. “It’s about the best library Kylebeg has ever seen.”

  “It’s the only library Kylebeg has ever seen,” Kathleen sighed. “It would be nice to have an actual building to keep our books in, but we’re making do. At least with a van I can bring the books to people who might not get to read them, otherwise. Oldsters out in the hills, and kids on the more remote farms, who almost never come into town… those sorts.”

  Una gave Kathleen a genuine smile. “That sounds wonderful. You must love the work.”

  “Oh, aye, it’s great fun. When the van isn’t breaking down. But I keep Angus around for that.”

  “So, you’re a mechanic, then?” Una said, turning to Angus.

  “When it’s needed,” he said. “I pick up whatever odd jobs I can find. Loved caring for your gran’s place, and did it for years. There’s a few other gardens I care for, too. And when I’m not doing that, I make jewelry.”

  “Jewelry? Go on with you.” Angus, with his muddy boots, tangled beard, and faded flannel shirt, was the last person Una could imagine designing anything delicate and pretty.

  “It’s true,” Kathleen said eagerly. “Have a look at this.”

  She held up her wrist, displaying a gorgeous bracelet made of interlocking pieces of hammered metal. Even in the strange, red glow of the bonfire, Una could see the layered colors of copper, silver, bronze, and gold, and could appreciate the intriguing textures and fine glitter.

  “That’s lovely, Angus. You’ve got a real gift.”

  “And what about you?” Angus asked. “What keeps you busy?”

  “Oh…” Una hesitated, staring helplessly into the fire. How should she answer? She hadn’t been to school in nearly two years, so it seemed ridiculous to claim she was a student. And none of the work she’d picked up of necessity seemed worth mentioning at all. “Well,” she finally said, “I don’t exactly have a specialty. But I have been trying to think what I might do here in Kylebeg. To be honest, I don’t think I can stay. I suppose it’s best to sell my grandmother’s cottage and take the money back to Dublin.”

  “You can’t,” Kathleen said at once. “We’re already friends, and I don’t like to lose my friends.”

  Una chuckled, gratified. But she said, “I don’t think there’s anything for it. This doesn’t look like the kind of place where a girl can just take up work and expect to support herself. You said yourself that all the families here are old—you’ve all been rooted in place here for a long time.”

  “But you have roots here, too, Una,” Kathleen said. “Kylebeg was your gran’s home, so it’s your home, too.”

  “I wish it were as simple as that. I didn’t really know my gran at all, though, so I don’t feel as if I belonged here. And as for supporting myself, making ends meet… no, I think I’ll have to sell the place after all. Seems a shame, after my gran owned it for so long, and loved the place, too.”

  Kathleen reached out and pulled Una into an unexpected side-hug. “You do belong here. I know it; I can just feel it in you.”

  “Feel what in me?” Una asked, surprised.

  “Belonging. You’ll see. By and by, Kylebeg will prove it to you, and then you’ll know I’m right.”

  This time when Una laughed, it was bitterly. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I’ve ever belonged anyplace. That’s all I’ve ever wanted—to find where I fit. But this isn’t the place for me. It’s nothing like Dublin.”

  “Did you fit in Dublin?” Angus asked casually.

  Una smiled ruefully. “No. But I’m a modern girl, aren’t I? Cities are where girls like me are supposed to live.”

  “Maybe,” Kathleen said, softly and rather drawn-out, as if she were musing comfortably on how utterly wrong Una was.

  A bat sped past Una’s cheek, chasing some unseen bug toward the fire. Una could almost feel its leathery wing brush her cheek. This time she couldn’t suppress her shudder; her shoulders hunched with her involuntary shivering.

  “Getting a bit cold out here,” Angus said. “And I’m a getting a big hungry, besides. Let’s go into the Black Sheep and have a bite to eat.”

  Kathleen clapped in excitement. “Cheesy chips!” With that, she grabbed Una and Angus both by their hands and dragged them through the darkness toward Kylebeg’s cobblestone street.

  * * *

  The Black Sheep was one of two pubs in the village, though looking around at its old, hand-hewn tables, uneven board flooring, and dusty, mirror-backed bar, Una felt sure the other pub was of exactly the same quality and character. Not that she was being judgmental; the place was as comfortable as any pub in Dublin. But unlike city establishments, whose proprietors worked hard to recreate the primitive air of long-established country halls, the Black Sheep had come by its nick
s, bruises, and ample patina honestly, through countless generations of use. A tang of old pipe smoke emanated from its dark posts and beams, mingling with the smell of good whiskey so perfectly that Una was seized by a sharp cramp of nostalgia. For what, she had no idea—she certainly didn’t know anybody who smoked a pipe with his whiskey—but the sensation was undeniable.

  Una and her friends found a table with four chairs, tucked back in one of the Black Sheep’s most dimly lit corners. Angus put in their orders at the bar. Across the room, in a little windowed alcove near the pub’s entrance, a pair of microphones were standing before an empty stool.

  “Live music tonight,” Kathleen noted. “You see? Kylebeg isn’t without its perks.”

  Una tried to imagine what kind of live music the tiny village might offer. All she could picture was an assemblage of white-bearded old farmers, blowing into empty jugs and scratching their fingernails rhythmically against dilapidated washboards. A truly exceptional ensemble might include a rusty old cowbell.

  Angus appeared, set down the girls’ drinks, and vanished again to retrieve the cheesy chips. When he finally sat down at the table, he said to Kathleen, “I’ve just been talking to old Joe. Guess who’s playing tonight.”

  His obvious excitement drew Kathleen to the edge of her seat. “The Puddles?”

  “No; look at the stage, you muppet! Do you see any drums?”

  “I thought maybe they hadn’t brought them out yet.”

  Una thought it was outrageously charitable to call the unraised alcove by the door a “stage.”

  “I give up,” Kathleen said, availing herself of the cheesy chips.

  “Ailill.” Angus said the word as if it were a fat brick of gold he’d just dropped onto the table. He sat back, sipping his beer with a look of triumph.

  Kathleen sucked in a gasp of awe and anticipation that seemed to go on forever. A cheese-covered wedge of potato dropped from her fingers back onto her plate.

  “Who’s Ailill?” Una said. She was definitely interested now; taking in live music was one of the few things she really enjoyed about city living, and this Ailill character certainly seemed to have Angus and Kathleen fired up.

  “See for yourself,” Angus said, nodding toward the stage. “Here he comes now.”

  A man stepped out of a side room, carrying an acoustic guitar slung across the front of his body. Even before he reached the stage, even before he opened his mouth or strummed a single chord, Una felt oddly captivated. He was tall and thin, bordering on rawny, but there was nothing delicate or frail about him. In spite of his slenderness, he moved in a decidedly masculine way. But he was graceful, not bullish or blundering as some tall men are. His face was pale—so pale he almost seemed to glow in the dim atmosphere of the pub. His dark hair fell down across his forehead in an artful shag, complemented by a short scruff of beard. His face was angular, each feature sharply defined, and his eyes were such an intense shade of blue that Una could see their color from across the room.

  “He’s from Kylebeg,” Kathleen murmured. “Born and raised here, though he hasn’t been back to town for a while. His music has started to catch on, so he’s been touring. Sure he’s even gone to Dublin a time or two. You never saw him there?”

  Una couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of Ailill, so she only shook her head vaguely in response. “What a ride,” she said quietly. Then her cheeks burned when she realized she’d said it aloud.

  “Wait till you hear him sing,” Kathleen said.

  Una didn’t have long to wait. Ailill sat easily on the stool, adjusted the mics so one was at the level of his wide, curving mouth and the other pointed at his guitar, and then strummed the opening chords of his first song. The music filled the Black Sheep with a gently imperative strength. The humming strings played neatly off one another, stirring a pleasant chill along Una’s skin, drawing her attention like no music had ever done before. She wasn’t the only one; all around the pub, conversation died away, and all eyes turned to the stage—to Ailill, sitting poised and graceful on his stool, his miraculous blue eyes shut tightly as he communed with his music.

  The rhythm, the delicate interplay of chords, the sure way Ailill’s hand moved across the fretboard… all of it combined into a strange, intoxicating spell, and left Una feeling that, as many shows and musicians as she’d seen before, she had never seen or heard anything like this before.

  But when he sang…

  Una forgot how to breathe. Ailill’s voice was a rich, soft tenor that slid easily into the glittering frame of his chords. Every pitch was perfect, every word of his song a miracle of timing. The lyrics and the notes seemed carved of the same stuff—the same luminous stone, the same worn old wood. The words were simple enough, yet they reached right into Una’s heart, tormenting her deliciously with a welcome, poignant pain. Ailill seemed to be singing her own song… one of loneliness and loss, of a deep, indescribable longing. She never wanted the song to end, and yet when it did, she felt as if she wanted it to go on forever, to know that someone out there in the world knew exactly how it felt to be her.

  When Ailill’s first song finished, he sat for a moment, his eyes slowly coming open, while the patrons of the Black Sheep stared at him in stunned silence. Then applause erupted, and Ailill responded with a tiny, almost shy, smile.

  “Thank you,” he said. His voice was just as beautiful when he spoke as when he sang. “This next one’s a new song. I wrote it while I was on tour. I hope you like it.”

  Like it they did. And the one after that, and all the songs that followed. Una, her blood prickling and her eyes watering, couldn’t tear her gaze from Ailill whenever he played or sang. And between songs, she stuffed cheesy chips determinedly into her mouth and slurped at her beer, wondering how the hell it could be that she’d never heard Ailill’s name before. Surely there was no better musician anywhere in Ireland.

  A few times, in the midst of one of his hypnotically intense songs, Ailill opened his eyes and seemed to look directly at Una. Once he even smiled—apparently at her—with a cocky confidence that made her shiver.

  But he couldn’t have, she told herself sensibly. It’s dark back here in our corner, and anyway, what would an incredible creature like him want with a plain, boring girl like me?

  When Ailill finished the final song in his set and the audience applauded wildly, Una leaned back in her chair with a sigh. She felt drained by his music—wrung out by the overwhelming emotions, but in a very pleasant way. She could still feel his final notes tingling up her spine.

  “And that’s Ailill,” Angus said, satisfied.

  “All right,” Una said with a weak laugh, “I’ll admit that Kylebeg’s music scene is satisfactory.” She watched Ailill put his guitar away; then he sauntered casually to the bar. Una faced her friend again and slumped. “I can’t believe I never heard of him when I was in Dublin. I’ve seen some good shows there, but never—”

  “Oh my god,” Kathleen said, frantically stuffing the last of the cheesy chips in her mouth—apparently a nervous reflex. “He’s coming this way.”

  Una sat bolt upright again, but she couldn’t make herself look around. She had just enough time to swallow a gulp of beer—it went down harder than beer had any right to—and then that melodious voice was drifting from somewhere near. Somewhere very near.

  “Mind if I have a seat?”

  Una didn’t move, but her eyes, fixed on Kathleen, opened as wide as they would go.

  “Please,” Angus said, pulling out the fourth chair slightly.

  Ailill sat with a slight sigh, as if playing for an hour had tired him out. He took a long drink of a whiskey on the rocks, then said, “Sorry, mates—I always have to get my energy back after a show. Takes it out of me, it does.”

  “I can see why,” Angus said. Though he clearly admired Ailill’s music, he didn’t suffer from the total discombobulation that had fallen over the girls. He did wink at Kathleen, though, apparently amused by his girlfriend’s crush. “It was a good
show, mate. Glad to have you back in Kylebeg.”

  “Bloody good to be back. You don’t know how much I missed this place. Tours aren’t bad, but Dorothy was right: There’s no place like home.”

  Una and Kathleen continued to stare at each other. Una felt utterly helpless and stupid as a potato. Ailill was right next to her—she could smell him, a strangely green scent that reminded her of a woodland on a rainy day, of ferns and earth and wild things, undercut by the faint, compelling musk of a light sweat. She knew it was rude to ignore him, but she wasn’t sure she could trust herself to speak intelligently to Ailill.

  After Angus had exchanged a few more friendly words with him, Ailill turned pointedly to Una. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in town before.”

  Una cocked her head slightly at Kathleen, silently pleading, What should I do?

  Kathleen bit her lip as if holding back a squeal. Go for it, her eyes said.

  Going for it was the last thing Una trusted herself to do. She’d only just arrived in this strange little village, and was still far off from finding her feet. Plus, her last relationship had neither gone nor ended well. For god’s sake, she told herself, he’s only trying to introduce himself; he’s not trying to date you.

  Praying to any gods that existed to preserve her from making a complete ninny of herself, Una forced herself to look at Ailill, wearing what she hoped was a natural and very unflustered-looking smile. “I’m Una Teig. I just got here… to Kylebeg, I mean. That is, I… I’m new,” she finished faintly.

  “You remember old Nessa Teig,” Angus said.

  Ailill nodded, his bright blue eyes searching Una’s face while her heart tried to pound its way out of her chest.