The Wren Hunt

by Mary Watson

  It was a slinky pale-green thing. Too short. Aisling was ferreting about with the shoes she’d brought. I grimaced at the heels. Too high.

  ‘It’s cold.’ My objections were dismissed. But I let her do it anyway. I let her change my clothes. I let her do my hair, make-up. Maybe I wanted her to.

  ‘Isn’t this a bad idea?’ I said. ‘The two of us at the same party? David knows we’re friends. He watches me too carefully.’

  ‘So, we’re friends. That doesn’t tell him anything.’

  But I couldn’t explain to Aisling the way David watched.

  ‘We’ll keep a distance. Won’t draw attention to us.’ She circled a finger between our faces, a simple gesture for a rich, complex, beautiful thing. Us. ‘Laney invited me anyway.’

  I was possibly a little jealous of Laney. Aisling and I hadn’t had much fun lately. The plan seemed to creep into everything, like colours running in the washing machine.

  ‘How did you meet Laney?’ I said. They ran in such different circles.

  ‘A teeny tiny bit of online stalking,’ she said, and held up her thumb and forefinger to show a small gap. ‘It’s surprising how easy it is to manufacture connections, to know where people like to hang out. The things they’re interested in.’

  We stood side by side in the mirror, delighting in the differences brought on by pretty dresses and make-up. Then we walked down to the village.

  As we neared the main street, I hung back and let Aisling go ahead. It wasn’t a good idea to arrive together.

  Outside the Huntsman, the dying winter sun fell on the stone paving. On the far side of the hotel were the Straying Steps, where Ned Healy, haruspex and butcher, had left the severed hand of his cheating wife. When her lover arrived at the steps at the arranged time, he found only her outstretched hand, the bloodied wedding ring proof of the vows she’d broken. But that was from the secret history. The stories that only we knew.

  It seemed like the entire village had come to the first night of the Arabella de Courcy Retrospective. The function room was lively with fiddles and flutes, while villagers in their Sunday best clutched their drinks. Craning their necks to get a looky-loo at the American heiress and her big, strong boys. Who, admittedly, didn’t look half bad in their suits. Only their boots gave them away. Like cloven hooves peering out from their dress pants.

  And on the walls, the Arabella de Courcy paintings. I went a little closer. There were about twenty of them in total, all from Cassa’s private collection. The picture closest to me was a study of a daisy. I looked at the picture carefully, wondering why it bothered me.

  ‘If you were a flower, which would you be?’ Laney stood beside me with a glass of champagne.

  ‘Never really thought about it,’ I said. ‘Probably a daisy.’ I gestured to the painting in front of me.

  ‘You’re no daisy,’ Laney said. ‘I’m lisianthus. Purple. That’s a daisy.’ She pointed to Aisling, who was scrutinising a painting on the other side. I knew what she meant.

  ‘Does something strike you as odd about this picture?’ I said to Laney.

  ‘Odd? No. It’s just a flower.’

  I moved on to the next one. Again, there was something not right. I studied the picture, trying to figure out what it was.

  ‘You’re something different,’ Laney continued. ‘Maybe a rose.’ She tilted her head to examine me. ‘No, too classic. A poppy? Marigold?’ She paused. ‘Of course, a peony. White.’

  Like the flowers on my desk. It felt like Laney was trying to tell me something and I wished she would just say it.

  Excusing myself, I moved towards the bar. But someone stepped in front of me. I looked up and saw David. I edged to the left, and he did the same. I stepped to the right, and he did the same. Left again and he blocked me, all the while backing me towards the wall. I felt it against my back and tried to scoot around him, but his arms caged me in. He’d chucked his suit jacket and his tie looked like it wanted to strangle him. I knew the feeling.

  ‘What do you want, David?’ I said.

  ‘Security check.’ He relaxed his arms down to his side, but I still felt caged.

  Behind him was another man, one I didn’t recognise. He had a narrow frame and a thick moleskin jacket with a scraggly yellow flower on one lapel.

  ‘Go home,’ David said. ‘No one wants you here.’

  ‘Cassa does. She asked me herself.’

  And without meaning to, I’d managed to rattle him. It was fleeting but I saw it bothered him. That Cassa seemed to like me more than she did him.

  ‘Why, David?’ I said, pushing away from the wall. ‘Are you this bitter because, much as you despise me, you’re just a small village kid? Like me.’

  ‘I’m nothing like you.’

  It was then that I caught the ink creeping out of his rolled-up sleeve. He saw me looking and pulled it up further. A two-headed snake.

  ‘For passing my exams.’

  ‘Well, that’s not very original,’ I said. Nodding to his friend, who was still staring at me, I walked away.

  ‘You disappointed I didn’t get a wren?’ David called out. ‘Am I breaking your heart, Little Bird?’

  ‘Wait,’ Moleskin said.

  I turned. ‘For you.’ He took the flower from his lapel and bowed as he gave it to me.

  ‘I insist,’ he said when he saw me hesitating. He pushed it into my hands. Creeper.

  I strode across the room, anywhere to get away from them, then I looked at the flower. Ragwort. A poison flower. Sure, less so for me than a cow, but really, what kind of man gives a girl poison flowers? I dropped it to the ground.

  Not looking where I was going, I nearly walked straight into Tarc. Cillian was close behind him.

  ‘You look, uh, nice,’ he said, running an eye over my dress.

  ‘Nice?’ I smiled at him, ignoring that traitorous flair of delight. ‘Seriously. Stop with the nice.’

  He laughed and suddenly it wasn’t so awful, him there in Kilshamble.

  ‘You don’t look too bad yourself.’ Understatement. ‘That what you wear when you work evenings?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Cillian answered for him. ‘But we’re really here to look for girls, right? I’ve been telling Tarc all about the Kilshamble girls.’

  ‘I won’t get in your way so,’ I said, supressing that sudden awful bitterness. I had no business being jealous.

  I slipped through the glass doors to the wide veranda. Then down the steps into the garden. I could breathe a bit easier here, away from everyone.

  But I wasn’t alone. On the other side of the lawn, Cassa stared at the fountain. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was trying to read the water as it gushed from the stone fish mouths to the pool below. She seemed lost in memory, lost in something from long ago as she stood there.

  I only registered the soft music when Cassa looked up, tilting her head to the side. It was almost inaudible, the faint sound of long, sad notes. She stared at the darkened hedge. Then, as if drawn by the music, she set off towards it.

  I hurried across the grass. Reaching the fountain, I realised I’d heard the tune before. I didn’t know it, just enough to appreciate the disconcerting familiarity. The strangeness of it coming from the hazel hedge.

  Cassa’s high heels had been placed in a neat pair. As if she’d slipped them off before going into a temple. The ground was rough and uneven, so I placed mine beside hers.

  The music called to me. Like behind the hedge was a pied piper who stole girls from gardens. Like the tree prince who’d lured Arabella to the woods. Barefoot, I pushed through the thick foliage, feeling the stones and twigs and roots under my feet. The music stopped abruptly.

  When I emerged in the lane on the other side, whatever whimsy I’d felt was rudely dispelled. Cassa wasn’t alone.

  Lit only by the streetlights from the next road were several men wearing ski masks. Cassa was slung over a shoulder, her pale arms hanging down a broad back.

  ‘Hey!’ I shouted.
>
  One of them turned to look at me, and I felt a draw, a magnetic pull. He was an augur, a strong one. He ran on, catching up to the others. It didn’t take a genius to figure out they were Abbyvale augurs intent on revenge. I counted six of them as I ran behind, shouting at them.

  It was futile. I couldn’t stop them. I’d left my phone in my coat pocket. My best bet was to go back through the hedge and scream for Tarc and the wrenboys.

  Then he was there, as if I’d somehow summoned him. Tarc pushed through the hazel hedge. He ran hard, passing where I dithered, following the men down the lane. Realising they were pursued, they picked up speed.

  But Tarc was fast. He’d nearly caught up with them, when one stopped. Something sharp glinted in his hand. His face, like the others, was hidden. Tarc charged at the man and they locked into each other. Ahead, the other five ran down the tree-lined lane, one of them carrying Cassa. I sprinted after them.

  The men were nearing the end of the lane. On the other side of a cattle gate was a blue van.

  ‘They’re getting away,’ I yelled at Tarc as he dealt a blow to the man, sending him reeling. I felt it in my gut, that punch from judge to augur.

  Ahead, the men were a few feet from the gate.

  I turned to see Tarc looking at the trees with fierce concentration. Just a few seconds he stood there, I might almost have imagined it.

  Then he was barrelling forward, with no heed that he was outnumbered. As he charged, the man carrying Cassa tripped over one of the thick roots. Cassa went skidding on the dirt. Quick to his feet, the man was already in a fighting stance as Tarc approached. The others stood ready, holding knives and clubs.

  It was that moment before. Laden, like a cloud about to break. Within seconds, things were going to get really ugly. I didn’t know where I stood; I didn’t want Tarc overpowered, nor did I want him hurting augurs. Again, I felt it, the tug of the pattern I’d made between Harkness House and Carraig Cottage, that pull in both directions.

  The men began to move on Tarc. As he fought them off, it became clear that, unlike the men he was fighting, he was no casual brawler. Every movement revealed a grace and efficiency that came with years of training. It sickened me to hear the crunch of his fists, his boots on the bodies of augurs. He was alert to every man, wherever they stood, anticipating their moves.

  Several augurs were down. One man’s ski mask had come off, revealing a soft-cheeked face streaked with eye black. These were just ordinary young men. It was so wrong.

  I went to Cassa. If I could get her away, the fight would stop.

  ‘Can you stand?’ I said to her.

  Looking up, I saw an augur charge Tarc from the side as another holding a club ran at him from behind. He blocked the first, just missing the second. It was a brutal blow by the heaviest man, bringing him to his knees. Seizing the advantage, two augurs grabbed him by the arms. Another landed a hard fist in his gut. Then another. The blows kept coming, until a loud crack sounded. Tarc reared back, exploiting the distraction to pull free.

  A tree had split down its length. Part of the trunk came crashing down, the branches hitting two of the men. It missed Tarc by inches. I stood there, gaping.

  The tree had fallen directly between him and the augurs, blocking them off.

  Tarc was in front of Cassa, his knife out.

  But the men were up and jumping the gate. Car doors slammed and they sped away.

  ‘Tarc,’ Cassa said.

  He was breathing heavily, and even in the dim light I could see he’d been hurt.

  Tarc helped Cassa up while I gawked at the split tree. It had been so quick and so unlikely, my brain was frantically trying to rationalise what I’d seen. Tarc staring intently. The tree that had looked perfectly healthy suddenly dividing in two. That was one well-timed coincidence. Except, as Smith always said, there was no such thing as coincidence, only partially formed patterns.

  Laney was at the hazel hedge, her face pale and worried. She reached for Cassa, soothing her hair and checking her face.

  ‘Wait,’ Cassa said. She turned Tarc towards her, inventorying the damage. She took in the scrapes and grazes, the soil and blood on his white dress shirt.

  ‘I will make them pay for every drop of blood they spilled tonight. They will regret laying a hand on one of mine.’ Her awful words were at odds with her soft murmuring tone. A mother singing a terrible lullaby to her children. I made myself watch. This was how judges were nurtured. With whispers of war and retribution.

  I was grateful for the dim garden lights. No way could I hide how her words affected me.

  ‘Wren?’ Tarc came to me. ‘You OK?’

  He steered me along the hedge, into the corner. He walked carefully, trying to hide his pain. I heard Laney’s low, anxious voice as she tended to Cassa.

  ‘Is this what you meant when you said the curriculum at Birchwood was non-standard?’ I said, as Tarc ran a hand over his face.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What just happened?’ I moved closer to him. ‘That tree?’

  Across the garden, on the veranda, stood David and Cillian. Cassa was striding towards them.

  ‘Got lucky,’ Tarc said.

  ‘That wasn’t luck,’ I pushed.

  ‘We should go in,’ he said. ‘You’re freezing.’

  With the adrenalin comedown, the cold was fierce. But I wasn’t going to let this go.

  ‘I know that there are some strange things in the village,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard that some families are a little … different.’

  He looked so tired. His shirt, smeared with dirt and blood, hung loose and several buttons were missing. His head was bent and the gingerly touch to his ribs told me he was in pain. But if we went back in, I’d never know. If he didn’t tell me here, now, he never would.

  Eventually he spoke. ‘And if some of us were different, how would that work?’

  ‘They say some families are descendants of the ancient druids. That magic runs in their blood.’

  I stopped and tried to discern his features. ‘Is that what happened with the tree?’

  ‘Magic.’ He exhaled. ‘I’m not sure I even know what that is. I think my idea of magic is different to the usual understanding.’

  His eyes held mine as he acknowledged what he was. I felt so guilty I couldn’t be honest with him too.

  I waited. I wanted to hear him describe it, this sense of magic that was both pervasive and limited. And I wanted to hear how it worked for judges.

  ‘You have to keep this between us, Wren.’ He moved closer so that the space between us became tight. He paused, as if trying to find the words. ‘There are particular natural objects that we’re drawn to. That we’re agitated without. Our totems. And it feels like this thing, maybe plant or rock or flame or some other natural element, gives us strength. That they could almost speak to us. Except, they never do really. Not in any kind of obvious way.’

  ‘A tree cracked down the middle is pretty obvious.’

  He looked back to the lane, as if he could see the damaged tree. He seemed almost as perplexed as I was.

  ‘I don’t know how,’ he said. ‘But sometimes, when I really need it, it is.’ His words were a confession. Quiet and closed. Words to be whispered in the dark.

  ‘Promise me you won’t tell?’ Tarc leaned towards me, his voice urgent.

  I stood stupidly. How could I make a promise like that?

  ‘You have to promise, Wren.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone about the tree.’ And the words were like poison. It was a promise I couldn’t keep.

  He nodded. ‘I need to get back there.’

  I thought he meant Cassa, but then realised he was speaking about the injured tree. Great. The boy I was crushing on against my will was off to talk to a tree.

  ‘To retrieve their knives.’ He almost smiled. ‘It could help us identify them. And also, the tree.’

  Then he was gone.

  On the veranda, Cassa, her dress creased and mucky, was an
nihilating David and Cillian in her cold, controlled way. I waited until she and Laney were inside before I went up the steps. David glared at me, his misery and fury loaded into that one look.

  Back in the event room, I found Aisling talking to her schoolfriends. She was bright and feverish, like she’d been drinking. Brian and Ryan were at the entrance, looking a little dazed. Cassa must have torn a strip off them too.

  I viewed the paintings again before I left. Making a slow circle around the room, I examined each one in careful detail.

  Arabella’s flowers were exquisite. More than simply a reproduction or a scientific document, the watercolours conveyed personality. The coy seductiveness of a cherry blossom, the innocuous toxicity of oleander. But, as I made my way around, I began to understand what had unnerved me earlier. Not unlike my spinny eye, hidden in the pictures was something a little human. The form of a girl, the line of a nose and mouth below the barest hint of an eye. The curve of hip and breast. Not only had Arabella de Courcy painted the flowers with personality, she’d hidden a girl inside them.

  SEVENTEEN

  But false

  The Girl of Leaf and Petal is but a game and yet, in our preparation, there are moments when I glimpse an almost ancient truth. At times I feel that Elizabeth and I have stumbled upon something uncommon, whose power we cannot begin to fathom.

  AdC

  ‘Wren,’ Laney said. ‘There you are. You’re getting started on the archive today.’ She smiled at me, dimples showing. Apparently, hanging out at a hazel hedge after an attempted kidnapping was a bonding ritual with Laney.

  ‘No more journals?’ I was almost disappointed. I wanted to know more about the troubled girl in Lady Catherine’s garden books.

  ‘Don’t be silly. There are always journals. Now,’ she talked at me, ‘loads to do.’

  She gave instructions while ushering me down the hallway to the basement. We found Tarc along the way and she gathered him too. She talked fast as she moved us to the staircase, explaining what needed to be done. I didn’t hear half of what she said.