The Wickerlight

by Mary Watson

  He shakes his head, eyes averted. ‘A gift. I guess I wish I’d given it to Laila.’

  ‘Canty,’ a voice calls from the shop. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Hey, John,’ I hear Breanna sing.

  ‘Stay in here.’ I can see the unease on his face as Canty moves to the door of the office. ‘No. Too late, they’re coming in. Quick, under the desk. You can’t let them see you here.’

  I pause a moment, my cheeks hot. Is this a trick? Am I going to find pictures of myself cowering beneath the desk shared at school?

  ‘Now,’ Canty bites out.

  I scramble under the desk.

  The office door opens and through the cable hole, I see long legs clad in denim.

  ‘I could have made off with your mam’s things.’ Cillian’s voice is lazy and arrogant. ‘Oh yeah, no one wants that shit.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Breanna saw something yesterday. Lots of hair, a bit of twine.’

  He’s talking about Laila’s ugly thing that fell out of my pocket. Why is he interested in that?

  ‘And?’ Canty says.

  ‘She got a feeling off it.’

  ‘You’re telling me this because?’ Canty sounds uninterested.

  ‘Did the girl get it from you? Did you scavenge it from somewhere and sell it on?’

  I press my eye to the hole to see Canty shrug.

  ‘And why would I tell you?’

  ‘C’mon, Canty. Small details. This is nothing important.’

  ‘You know my currency. I deal in chants, artefacts and information. You want to know something, you give me something I can use.’

  ‘Help a friend out here.’

  ‘I’ve always stayed in the middle, Cillian. I help those who pay. Anything else muddies the waters.’

  Cillian moves closer to Canty.

  ‘How can I change your mind?’ The threat is clear in Cillian’s voice.

  ‘Information. Or an object I can use.’

  Cillian is silent. He obviously doesn’t have what Canty wants.

  Then I hear a loud crash. Pressing my eye to the hole in the desk, I see Cillian shoving Canty against the wall. He has him by the neck, wrapping his hands so tightly the man can’t breathe. Breanna watches.

  ‘Get your hands off me,’ Canty breathes.

  Cillian pushes harder on Canty’s slim neck.

  ‘Not mine.’ Canty breathes in deep gulps of air. ‘She didn’t get it from me.’

  Cillian drops his hands, steps back. Canty takes a few moments to catch his breath.

  ‘You do that again, Cillian, and I won’t help you, any of you, again. That’s a promise.’ His eyes are furious as he steps forward to Cillian. ‘You don’t want to make an enemy of me.’

  ‘Always a pleasure.’ Cillian tilts his head and turns out of the room, Breanna leading the way.

  I wait a moment and then emerge from the desk. Canty has smoothed down his hair, his clothes.

  ‘Do you need anything else?’ He’s shaken.

  ‘No. Who is that guy?’

  In the last month or so, Cillian seems to be always around the village. Doesn’t look like he’s working or at school, so he’s usually just hanging around.

  ‘Do yourself a favour, give that boy and his friends a wide berth.’ These are the first words Canty’s said that don’t feel like performance. ‘They are dangerous.’

  Leaving the shop, it feels like coming up from underground. I’m feeling queasy, and not only because I’ve just spent a two hundred on a love chant and ash from a burnt oak.

  It’s gone five, so passing Kelly’s practice, I pop inside. If Mom is nearly done, I’ll walk back with her.

  A selfish part of me is glad that Mom isn’t as busy as she used to be. Before we moved, she had her own practice, a large and busy place that kept her there from early in the morning until late in the evening. At one time, that had been everything to her. That was before Laila and the jimsonweed, Dad and the last Lindy.

  I go inside and see Mom near the reception desk.

  ‘This is a surprise.’ She’s delighted and it makes me feel guilty. It’s a simple thing to seek her out like this and it’s cheered her up like nothing else these last awful months. It’s cheered me up too.

  ‘I thought we’d walk back together.’

  ‘I’ll be done in twenty. Take a seat.’

  Behind the half-wall is a new receptionist. She’s striking, almost ethereal, with her dark blonde hair and startling brown eyes.

  ‘I’m Zara.’

  She’s staring at me so intently, it’s a little unnerving.

  ‘Aisling.’

  ‘You’re new here?’ I say.

  ‘I’m covering Emer’s maternity over the summer.’ She smiles.

  I’ve taken a seat when I hear the door open.

  ‘I’m sorry, we’re closed.’ Aisling stands up. She doesn’t look at all sorry. Her body is lined with tension as she stares at the door.

  I can’t see who’s come in, the wall is in the way, but Aisling really doesn’t like whoever it is.

  ‘I said we’re closed,’ she says.

  When they emerge from the short passage, I see David. He’s with someone, his brother by the looks of it. But the brother is a cheaper version of David. It’s like whoever made David ran out of materials to finish the second and so made a dull, scrawny copy. Still beautiful, but in the way of a dying prince. Elegant, haughty with that sense of being beyond earthly things.

  This is a boy Laila would have loved.

  And, if I believe John Canty, Laila had a ‘key’ to the Rookery.

  But I don’t believe John Canty. Whatever the connection is, if there is one, I don’t get it.

  ‘Emer not here?’ David falters as he approaches the desk.

  ‘Do you see her?’

  ‘I need a script.’

  ‘Please.’

  He sighs: ‘Please.’

  ‘No.’ She folds her arms.

  ‘You can’t do that.’ David sounds weary.

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  There’s history here, and I wonder what it is. Watching them from my corner in the waiting room, I decide that it must be bad romance. Perhaps they dated and maybe he couldn’t bear her chewing gum and she despised his obvious obsession with fitness and now they’re barely civil with each other. But it surprises me, this tiny smear of jealousy. I don’t know this boy, why would I care?

  ‘Look, I know you can print one out for me.’ David is barely holding on to his patience. ‘Emer’s done it before.’

  ‘I can.’ She drags out the word as if contemplating it. ‘But I won’t. If you want a script, I have to check with the doctor. And since your buddy Kelly’s away for the weekend, you’d have to ask Dr Salie. But sorry, we’re closed. So you’ll just have to suffer.’

  She looks at him a moment and a slow smile spreads on her face.

  ‘Wow, someone got you bad. Who was it? I’d like to send them a gift basket.’

  He turns to his brother and I see David’s face. He looks pale and drawn. Like all of this takes effort. Whatever he needs a script for seems pretty serious to me.

  ‘If it’s a repeat prescription, I’m sure my mother won’t mind.’ As I speak, David and the other guy turn to me, surprised. I’m across the room, on the low couch. They hadn’t realised I was there.

  Down the passage, a door opens and I hear her heels on the tiles.

  ‘Aisling, have you sent the …’ She stops as she sees the two boys.

  ‘What’s this?’ Mom looks at them. Worry crosses her face. ‘Do you need an emergency appointment?’

  ‘I need painkillers,’ David speaks up. ‘Dr Kelly’s prescribed them for me before. I know you’re closed and I’m sorry to bother, but could you please print the script?’

  Mom’s a sucker for good manners.

  ‘Aisling, can you call up the record for me?’ Mom steps into the reception office. ‘You’re Jarlath Creagh’s boys, right?’ Her words d
raw attention to how weird it is that we’ve not really met. But their house is set back on their land, behind paddocks and hidden by trees.

  And we live in our ruts. Blinkers on, we do the same things, see the same people day after day. Until we die.

  No wonder Laila longed for magic.

  Mom leans over Aisling’s chair and reads the computer screen. Whatever’s there, she doesn’t like.

  ‘I won’t prescribe these without a consultation.’

  David goes rigid. ‘Never mind.’

  The other guy says, ‘David, just do it.’

  ‘I’ll manage without,’ David says, but he sounds tired. ‘C’mon, Oisín.’

  Oisín puts a hand on his arm. ‘Please.’

  After a moment of silent fighting between them, David relents and follows Mom down the passage.

  David returns to the waiting room ten minutes later, folded white sheet in hand. Mom follows behind him. Her face has gone tight and she can’t meet his eyes. He pulls out a worn wallet and puts a few notes on the counter.

  ‘See ya, Zara,’ David says to me, lingering a moment.

  Mom looks up sharply. She turns away when they thank her and she’s still not talking on the walk home.

  ‘What was wrong with him?’ I ask as we near our road. I know she can’t tell me, but I want her to say something about it.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Mom?’

  She stops. ‘Keep away from those boys, Zara. I don’t like them. Especially David.’

  ‘You’ve only just met them.’ It’s not like Mom to be this hasty to judge. Mom’s the kind who’d argue the devil himself is just misunderstood. Mom will pick up stray demons on the side of the road and invite them home so she can heal them.

  She walks faster and I chase after her. ‘Sometimes once is enough,’ she says.

  ‘I thought you said no one is beyond redemption.’ I’m getting cross.

  ‘People have to want to be redeemed.’

  ‘And how do you know they don’t?’ I challenge her.

  But she won’t say anything more.

  When she examined David she discovered something she really doesn’t like. Like maybe he’s addicted to whatever drugs he was looking for. Something that made her decide that David is beyond fixing.

  We walk the rest of the way in silence. It’s uncomfortable and heavy, like I’ve done something wrong. Even during dinner and after, the mood doesn’t lift. Dad’s out again and I have to escape.

  I go out back and up the steps into the wild garden that Laila loved. I’ve avoided the garden because it reminds me too much of last September, when Adam and Laila and I would waste time out here. Laila would tell stories about the Horribles or we’d just be quiet, stare at the sky, the trees, the many rooks that fly overhead.

  I lie back on the grass as the evening finally begins to darken around me. I turn over the things that weigh on my mind: Breanna and Sibéal. Cillian and Canty. David. His brother. Mom’s certainty that David is bad news.

  A large yellow moon is rising against the indigo sky. I think it’s the new light that helps me see what I hadn’t seen before. Looking at the hedge, I notice how the thin trunks of the trees are a little bent. How they make a small opening, like a gateway.

  Getting to my feet, I move closer and peer inside. There’s a deep hollow formed by the hedging trees.

  It’s the Horribles’ ditch. My ditch. Here’s where Horrible Laila cut her first Awthrack, the vicious biting creatures with blood on their teeth. Where Horrible Adam sang his Death Song, the dirge that lured a hundred rats to their death, and Horrible Zara trained her insect circus. I can’t believe I haven’t found this before. Leading through the hollow is a small trail. Overgrown, but distinct. And through the trees at the other end, I can see the green of Jarlath Creagh’s fields.

  I step inside the hollow, moving towards the Rookery.

  Where Laila had a key.

  TEN

  I never understand

  David

  Had I realised Aisling was the new receptionist at Ryan’s dad’s practice, I would have broken into their house, empty this weekend, and helped myself to Bryce Kelly’s prescription pad. Anything would have been easier than this.

  Dr Salie examines my eyes in her consultation room and I realise, with dread, that she’s one of those doctors. Earnest, with a burning need to help. She’ll want to understand everything. I can only imagine that she’s responsible for hiring a fucking augur.

  Headaches, I tell her, but she knows it’s more. She knows I’m injured. I curse Bryce Kelly for not finding a less observant doctor to take over as he retires.

  ‘Did someone hurt you, David?’ She examines my bruised jaw, my cut lip. The compassion in her voice nearly breaks me. So I put on a stony face and tell her I’ve been in a fight.

  ‘Fight?’ She wrestles her disappointment, trying to reconcile well-mannered son of landlord with violent thug. ‘Were you attacked?’

  I glance up at her. Does she think I am a victim? Has she seen me? I’m a soldier. We get hurt.

  ‘Nothing like that.’ I want to leave it there but, as with her daughter, I have this urge to explain myself. It’s the way they look at me, that steady gaze that sees beyond the surface and finds me wanting. ‘A disagreement. It got physical.’

  Cassa would have me back on the cradle without hesitation if I drew unwanted attention to us. But the ritual of the seed is tonight and I will be expected to contribute as if I hadn’t spent the previous night chained and bleeding.

  ‘I never understand how that happens.’ The doctor Velcroes a cuff to my arm, agitating the wounds there. ‘Must have been something important. A girl?’ Her eyes are on the blood-pressure monitor.

  I shrug. I can’t exactly tell her the truth: You see, Dr Salie, the wounds all over my body are evidence of ritualistic punishment, carefully designed to be excruciatingly painful without totally incapacitating me. Performed with cold precision by my mother’s half-sister. Which I opted for, to spare my brother, who was seriously fucked up by augurs back in December. What are augurs, you say? They’re a bunch of mean, hard-drinking bastards who think they can tell the future but it hasn’t seemed to help them much.

  Dr Salie’s face is carved with distaste. I realise I’ve been smiling, because it’s so absurd. I must look a sick bastard who amuses himself with violence and jealousy. Her words are clipped as she turns away to print out the script, warning me how to use it, like I haven’t gotten it off Ryan’s dad many times before.

  The pharmacy is thirty minutes each way and by the time we get back to the Rookery, we’ve not long before the ritual of the seed.

  The reparation last night was only the beginning. There’ll be a cloud of suspicion over us, over Oisín especially, until the Eye is returned.

  I have to find a way forward, and there is only one thing for it.

  I have to use my words.

  I wolf down the dinner Lucia’s kept in the oven, anxious to go down the back fields. To the old oak, thick and moss covered, with a hidden hollow near the base.

  At the oak, I reach my hand into the cavity, feeling under the leaves. At the touch of small legs, I pull out my hand and examine the beetle there. It stays on my hand, the black legs ticklish.

  ‘Hey, little fella.’ I run a light finger down its wings and the plates covering its abdomen, the tail that’s slightly raised even though I know it’s not at all agitated.

  And all my pain and tension disappears. I sit there, letting the devil’s coach-horse crawl on the palm of my hand.

  Lucia knows the secret magic of trees, how alder may be used for protection or whitethorn for heart’s desire. Dad, Oisín and Mamó are bound to the rooks with a respectable blue magic. Cassa, who is touched by silver magic, has her flowers. Rumour has it they can steal secrets and then whisper them to each other, all the way back to Cassa. Some swear they’ve seen her make a rose bloom in thirty seconds. I know for sure her plant salves can bring a man to his knees.
She is never stronger than when surrounded by flowers.

  And me? Insects like me.

  This is my magic trick, my dull, grey superhero power: insects come to me. I’m an invertebrate pied piper, luring beetles, termites, moths. But beyond this magnetism, nothing more. I do not command an army of ants, I can’t wield the mysticism of bees. Insects find me. That’s all.

  It’s never going to help me save the world.

  The devil’s coach-horse gone, I reach into the tree, feeling for the metal box I keep there.

  With enough words, we can form a law. In my pocket, I have the strip of leather that I cut from the steering wheel. And in my box there’s a stone, a blade of grass, some jagged plastic, a thumbtack, a metal pencil parer, a button, a girl’s shoelace and a lock of bloodied hair. My words are encased in these objects, and I can use them to help me find the Eye.

  This is not an immediate abracadabra kind of magic, or else I would have come here before reparation. Rather, when a law passes, a path to the desired outcome opens up. It’s up to the judge to follow this path and it’s not always easy. There will be events, opportunities that will help me find what I’m looking for. I have to be ready to take them.

  I feel around beneath the leaves but my hand hits only dirt. The panic doesn’t start at once. No one knows I keep my words here, and even if Dad or Oisín or Lucia did, they wouldn’t move it. Not even Mamó, who has little respect for the rights of others, would touch another judge’s words.

  My box isn’t there.

  My words have been stolen.

  I can’t pass a law. I feel myself curling up tight and then reaching out as I roar. Everything has been fucking horrible and now it’s worse.

  I have no words.

  I stand there, helpless. Furious and inert with this large sense of awfulness that is about to overtake us.

  Think, David. Where could they be?

  Who could have taken it? Sibéal? Possible, but the rooks would go mad if an augur came to the house and fields. There’d be blood and feathers to show.

  When last did I see the box?

  A while ago. It’s been pretty dry with the old words lately. Aside from Keep, encased in the steering wheel leather, I haven’t received one since Stephen’s Day just after Wren stabbed my hand. Nearly six months ago. As luck would have it, that word wanted hair. I’d checked up on the box a couple of times, but probably not since March.