The Wren Hunt

by Mary Watson

  I was about to attempt a coherent sentence when from behind me the whistling started. It was a random tune, nothing I recognised but I felt my whole body tense. Beneath the whistling I could hear the coffee machine as water strained through the grounds. The milk frother gurgled and the tune segued into ‘The wran, the wran’. Cups clattered against the granite kitchen counter. Laney was talking to me but I was listening to the footsteps on the marble floor.

  ‘It’s the wran.’ David was right behind me. He was always closer than I thought.

  ‘Yep, small brown bird. That’s me,’ I said, finding my voice. Forcing myself to look him in the eye, I was vaguely aware of Cillian and the others crossing the room towards us. Hidden beneath my sleeves, my arms were covered in a raw rash brought on by anxiety. It didn’t matter that the last wren hunt had been interrupted, they had time to finish what they’d started.

  David seemed even bigger than before. His eyes trailed over my face, lingering on the mostly healed graze at my temple.

  ‘Nice to see you without leaves in your hair.’

  My hair. Long, blunt strands wrapped around his hand on Stephen’s Day. It had been worrying me. What had he done with it?

  Ledger Man looked up briefly, before returning his attention to his writing.

  To answer Laney’s silent question, David said, ‘We’re old friends.’ He moved closer, brushing his arm against mine. He stood as close as he could get with my overlarge bag between us.

  Anger coursed through me. I wanted to say something, but stopped myself. If I spoke now, it would involve four-letter words and the plan would go to the birds. I closed my hands into fists, as if that would help the fighting words stay down, and looked across to the other boys who’d gathered.

  But there weren’t four of them any more. Behind Cillian’s smirks and Ryan’s blank stare, I saw him. Eyes like a heavy cloud. Golden skin and dark hair. It was my murky-eyed stranger from the café.

  The boy with the snake tattoo was a judge.

  ‘Dr Harkness will see you when she can,’ Laney said, walking to her desk.

  The boys arranged themselves as they usually did, closing around me and blocking my escape. Big and imposing, they made me feel vulnerable. Cillian leaned against my desk, picking up one of the peony buds and burying his nose in it. I stood in the middle of them, small and angry.

  Without warning, the mood among the wrenboys changed. The smirks and smiles faded. Cillian moved away from where he’d been leaning on the desk, his dead little eyes fixed forward. They stood a bit more upright, a lot more guarded.

  And then I understood: at the door to her office was Calista Harkness.

  I couldn’t see much of her from between the boys; I got a glimpse of blonde hair, red lips, a white shirt dress. But we all knew she was there. Without saying anything, she drew our attention.

  ‘Laney,’ she called, her voice deeper than I’d have thought.

  When the door shut behind Laney and Calista, the boys visibly relaxed.

  ‘I’m Tarc.’ My stranger stood a little back from the circle of wrenboys. ‘I head up Cassa’s security.’

  I looked for some recognition that we’d met earlier. For the boy who’d teased me about furry dice. But he gave me nothing.

  ‘Looks like you’ve met my team already.’ The light flirtation from the café was gone and he was all business.

  I looked again at the tattoo on his arm. He was Team David. He was not my friend.

  Calista’s boys roughed them up really bad.

  ‘I’ve seen them around.’ My words were light as I inched away from David. ‘Excuse me.’ I pushed through the gap between David and Tarc. But David’s fingers trailed through the ends of my long hair. I took no small delight in the new scar on his hand.

  ‘Oh, Wran, we’re going have so much fun.’

  At the cottage, there was a single picture of Sorcha on the wall. My whole sense of her was concentrated in that one photograph. Wearing a blue dress with tiny flower sprigs, she was leaning down, her face tilted up. Her hair was long and sweeping and her mouth wide and generous as she smiled at the camera. But her eyes were sad.

  When I was little and still hoped that Sorcha would return, I would stare at the picture, hoping to find something that connected her to me. But I never did. Her pale, freckled skin was unlike mine. Her hair was red and stick straight to my dark waves. Sometimes it seemed impossible that she could be my mother. But the blue of her eyes was exactly the shade of Smith’s. The lines of her jaw and nose were the same as his. I would stare at the picture until the fixedness of my gaze inched Sorcha’s smile a little wider, made her eyes a little watery. I used to think that if I looked long enough, she would say: Oh Wren honey, I’m so, so sorry.

  My imaginary Sorcha always sounded just like Maeve.

  ‘Did you talk to her?’ Smith’s voice came from the kitchen, where he was serving up the one-pot. For a second, I thought he meant Sorcha, who was still smiling down at me.

  I wandered into the kitchen.

  ‘What’s Calista Harkness like?’ He put two steaming plates on the kitchen table and we sat to eat.

  Smith had always been intrigued by the enigmatic leader of the judges. He’d call it research, all those Sunday mornings reading the interviews and lifestyle spreads.

  ‘They call her Cassa,’ I said, trying to swallow down a bite of meat. ‘I didn’t speak to her.’ Smith’s one-pot was always tasty, but the meat was as tough as old boots.

  Cassa Harkness had remained shut in her office all day, with only Tarc and Laney going in. My tea-making skills were underappreciated.

  Smith didn’t say anything but his disdain was evident as he raised an eyebrow and picked up his fork.

  ‘They’ve run some really cool art projects,’ I said, spearing another chunk of meat. My fork met with resistance so I went for a carrot instead. ‘And they offer generous scholarships.’

  ‘Judges are very good at appearances,’ Smith said, taking another sip from his glass, the red wine staining the cracks in his lips. ‘But look at the Abbyvale three. Mick Murphy has pins and metal plates in his arm after what happened. He’ll never regain full mobility. Can’t be a carpenter with a useless arm.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised,’ I said, putting down my fork.

  ‘That’s Cassa Harkness for you. Make no mistake. David and his boys might have got their hands dirty, but they act on her orders.’

  And Tarc’s, since he was head of security.

  ‘Wren,’ Smith said, placing his knife and fork at twenty past four. ‘Watch her.’

  I wasn’t sure what he was saying.

  ‘You want me to spy on Cassa Harkness?’

  ‘I mean she’s a manipulative woman. Stay vigilant. Be careful.’

  His eyes were locked on mine. Behind him, from the living room, Sorcha in her wooden frame smiled her secret smile.

  ‘But you’re right. It makes sense to keep a lookout while you’re at Harkness House. We won’t have an opportunity like this again.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I …’ And I gave up. Poised over his plate, alert, I knew he had already considered what I might discover while at Harkness House. ‘What do you mean? Am I to find out something in particular?’

  Smith didn’t respond. He seemed to be choosing his words.

  ‘Like the locations of her nemeta?’ I said.

  He glanced up sharply.

  ‘What good would that do?’ I said. ‘It takes six months to forge binds, and we can’t have a repeat of what happened in Abbyvale.’

  ‘Just watch her,’ Smith said again. ‘Find out about judge ways, how their magic works. Observe everything. Especially Cassa. I want to know her weaknesses.’

  We knew little about judge ways. They didn’t receive talents or follow patterns the way we did. Their magic was nature based: in the old days they’d understood the language of trees, the whispers of water, the howls of the wind and the signs of smoke. And as interpreters of nature, of the divine, they’d la
id down the law.

  ‘But how will this help us?’ I said.

  There was something a little dirty about being a spy. It felt like that smudge of red wine on Smith’s lips had somehow seeped into his words and stained the air.

  ‘After we have the Knot, we’ll still have to protect ourselves. What you learn now could be vital to securing our position then. I’m just saying keep your eyes open.’

  ‘OK.’ My reluctance was clear. And yet it seemed foolish to object to this when I was already neck-deep, so I added, ‘Anything else?’

  Smith moved to standing at the sound of voices at the kitchen door. ‘Look out for anything about Birchwood.’

  ‘What’s Birchwood?’

  ‘Find out.’

  With a gust of wind, Maeve came in carrying a large plate of sugar buns while Aisling and Sibéal followed behind.

  ‘Beef and carrot stew, must be a special occasion,’ Maeve said and winked at me. Placing the buns on the table, she opened a bottle of Prosecco.

  ‘For Wren’s first day,’ she said, gathering glasses and grinning at me.

  I plastered a smile on my face, but inside I was angry and confused. Hurt. They had me do this big complicated thing and then brought out cake and sparkling wine like it was my birthday. Maeve was still smiling as she poured a small glass of Prosecco for me. Thirsty, I took big gulps, feeling it fizz down.

  And then I got it. Bringing cake and wine was the only way she knew. It reminded me of the whiskey and apple bread on Stephen’s Day. The biggest problems were treated with sugar and booze.

  ‘How was it, honey?’ Maeve said, both hands gently squeezing mine. ‘How’d it go? What’s she like? Tell us everything.’ And then a little quieter, ‘Those boys say anything to you? They do anything?’

  And I thought about my hair wrapped around David’s hand.

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ I said. ‘Must be those lucky hairpins.’

  Over Maeve’s shoulder, Smith drifted through the wide square arch into the living room. Sorcha’s eyes followed him as he settled at the worktable in the corner of the room. He’d built up the miniature war table over the years. Small villages, woods, rivers and fields, trenches and tanks were arranged and rearranged, according to the maps of old battles that he studied.

  Smith spent hours working out new strategies and tactics between his endlessly warring sides. The pieces were collected carefully, rescued from obscure fates through online searches, and he often got Sibéal to help him redesign them to fit the different regiments he needed for his battles. She had become increasingly interested in the mechanics of warfare, and the two of them spent many hours with their heads bent over the worktable.

  Aisling watched him carefully. There was a slight frown on her face as her eyes ran up and down his body. She was unaware of my gaze on her as she concentrated on him. Read him. I was scratching at my arm again, and it had nothing to do with David or Harkness House.

  ‘Aisling,’ I said, and it sounded like a question. She broke away from Smith and turned to me, guilty.

  ‘Wren honey, grab a bun before Ash eats them all,’ Maeve called over from the sink as she tipped the Prosecco into her glass.

  Aisling was beside me, a slight blush on her cheeks.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with him, Wren, I swear,’ she spoke quietly. ‘Mam and Smith, they’re getting older. I check over them every now and then.’

  I understood. Maeve had been dangerously ill last May. We’d all had an awful scare.

  ‘You sure?’ I scratched at my arm, feeling the skin tear. The stinging burn was a relief. I looked down and saw a pinprick of blood on my shirt.

  There, the third stain I’d been waiting for. It bothered me that it appeared at this moment, as I worried about Smith. He was everything to me. But he’d lived most of his life and, if I survived Harkness House, I’d a lot left of mine. Thinking about Smith becoming ill and frail caused a hundred times the anxiety that David and his wrenboys did. Whenever it happened, it would be too soon.

  ‘That’s all, I promise.’ Then, dropping her voice, Aisling said, ‘Let’s get more of that Prosecco before Mam polishes it off.’

  We fed on sugar buns and topped up our glasses when Maeve’s back was turned. I wasn’t sure if it was the fizzy wine or my imagination or if Aisling really did turn to Smith several times later in the evening, the faintest look of worry in her eyes.

  EIGHT

  A warning

  Since that night in the woods, my art has been transformed. It is as though there is someone else inside me, directing my hand as I draw.

  AdC

  I paused beside the gate of Harkness House. Before, on my wanderings with Smith, I’d felt like the Little Match Girl, always watching from outside. Now I’d been invited in and I realised that, actually, I was an outside kind of girl.

  My hand hovered at the old-style latch while I fixated on the stone detail just beneath the roof. A traditional knot design looped around the whole building. The house was cold and elegant, and set on over an acre of garden with mature trees.

  ‘That latch can be tricky.’

  I turned to see Tarc. In one hand, he carried a take-away cup from the café. With the other, he reached across me for the latch.

  ‘How old is the house?’ I said, staring at the intricate stonework as he pushed the gate. The twisted detail mirrored the knots in my stomach. I wasn’t looking forward to meeting Cassa Harkness.

  ‘It was built by Arabella de Courcy’s father but owned by Cassa’s family for the last hundred years.’ Tarc slipped by me, the cotton of his shirt brushing my coat. He paused in the wide rose-covered archway, studying me. ‘C’mon.’ The word was lazy, easy. But Tarc standing there, waiting for me, was somehow too much.

  I hesitated. The anxiety I’d felt moments before took on a different shape as I looked at the boy beneath the climbing roses. A boy from Team David.

  ‘Nothing to be afraid of.’ He was so very wrong.

  When I didn’t move, he smiled and turned, heading for the door.

  ‘Wait,’ I called as I followed beneath the thorny branches. I had to try and get along with them.

  ‘How do they do this?’ I pointed to the rose bushes, blathering to hide my discomfort. This morning I felt it acutely, that den-of-lions danger. There was nowhere safe in Harkness House. No one safe. No matter how nicely some of them smiled at me.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Train them so perfectly over the arches and yet make them look so wild.’

  ‘Good gardener, I guess.’ Tarc seemed wary. Evidently, garden design wasn’t scintillating conversation. But I wasn’t great with strangers. My circle of friends was small: usually just me and Aisling, maybe Sibéal. Sometimes Simon, with our on-off flirtation. And with Tarc, I was worse than usual.

  ‘Yeah, gardening is cool.’ It was like I’d read a book on how not to talk to boys. ‘My father was. A gardener, I mean. Not cool.’

  ‘Thought you said he was a con man.’ Tarc was looking at me like he was wondering what kind of weirdling they’d let loose among them.

  ‘He moonlighted.’

  There were few sure things I knew about my father. I’d heard the grown-ups whisper that he was a cheat and a charmer who could sell a condom to a nun. That with skin as brown as a bear, he came from some hot place far away. And that he was a gardener, and good at it too.

  We walked up the front steps, a small frown on Tarc’s brow.

  ‘You don’t look like a gardener’s daughter.’

  ‘What does a gardener’s daughter look like, then?’

  The way he studied me made me feel like I was going through some sort of security check. Like those eyes could see more than you’d want to share. It made me want to turn and run.

  But I was done running from judge boys. So, awkward, we stood at the front door, where he continued to stare. And then he gave a tight, unfunny laugh.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head like he was clearing it. ‘They have
gnarled roots for fingers and toes. Bark for teeth and leaves instead of hair.’ Tarc reached a hand to the doorknob. His grin was forced.

  ‘You know about the tuanacul?’ I said as he moved into the large entrance hall, still holding the door. I crossed the threshold, brushing past him and stepping on to the white marble. ‘About the women with lips of petals, their touch as soft as a leaf, who will kiss you senseless, breathing poison into your veins?’

  ‘You make it sound appealing.’ This time the smile was real. His arm dropped and he closed the door, inching closer to where I stood.

  ‘They’re meant to be appealing.’

  His smile was infectious. Dangerous even. I felt my anxiety dissipating beneath its warmth.

  ‘That’s the point,’ I went on. ‘They lure you, they seduce you with their charm and beauty. And, when you surrender, because surrender is inevitable, they feed on you, drawing your very essence from your body. Then, sucked dry, they cast you out.’ I wasn’t sure if it was amusement that made his eyes gleam so. ‘I grew up half in love with tree men with big strong muscles and half terrified that I’d actually find one.’

  ‘And did you?’ he said. ‘Find one?’ His body angled towards mine.

  ‘It’s practically a requirement, living in Kilshamble, to have an encounter with a sexy tree man.’ And I heard myself. That light flirtation making my voice soft and words lilt. My stance mimicking his. If Smith could hear me now.

  ‘And what happened with your sexy tree man?’ He seemed to loom over me.

  ‘Nothing. It’s just stories.’ I stepped back and shut it down, whatever it was that had opened up here. ‘I didn’t realise they were known outside of Kilshamble.’

  ‘That’s what you get, hanging out with Cassa.’ Tarc sounded disappointed. My gear change had been abrupt.

  ‘She’s interested in fairy stories?’

  ‘Only certain fairy stories.’ He moved past me, going inside the room behind.

  ‘This is the white room,’ Tarc said, all business again. ‘For parties and special events. We have a few scheduled over the coming weeks for the Arabella Project.’