The Wickerlight

by Mary Watson

  But it doesn’t matter. Because I feel lighter. Because I caught a glimpse of him, the brother who tormented me all my eighteen years. A fleeting glimpse, but it means everything. It means that Oisín is still there.

  THIRTEEN

  The school road

  On the green, this woman wearing a dress with giant flowers was waiting for me. She asked me how I like it here in the village.

  LAS

  Zara

  Mom is cross. She’s loading the car, dumping the crate of bottles with more vigour than is necessary.

  ‘You need to tell me where you’re going when you leave this house. Especially at night.’

  Nearly three months of barely noticing us, and now she wants to know where I am. This must be a new stage of grief.

  ‘I was in the garden. Then went for a walk.’

  She drops a shopping bag of jars in the boot, they clink angrily. Wiping her hands, she stops in front of me.

  ‘Did you wear a vizzie vest? Were you alone?’

  ‘I don’t exactly have any friends around here,’ I say nastily.

  ‘I saw how that boy looked at you.’

  ‘That’s nuts. Why are you being like this?’ I’m almost shouting now, but I can’t help it. One time, three words. She saw David say three words to me, and now she’s constructed a disaster narrative around it.

  ‘Look.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Just let me know where you are, OK? I need to know that you’re safe. And stay away from the Rookery.’

  ‘It’s too late.’ I almost hiss the words. ‘Laila’s dead. And tracking my every move is not going to bring her back.’

  It’s a horrible thing to say. She freezes, her face a mask of pain, then turns away and gets into the car.

  ‘Nice one, Zara,’ Adam snaps at me as he gets in beside her. She reverses into the road and they’re gone.

  I stand in the drive, filled with this hollow, guilty pain. I am an empty girl, with gaping cavities inside.

  Since moving here, I’ve felt like I’ve been slowly unravelling. Like someone pulled a thread, and as I move, I come undone. And since dead-on-the-grass, it’s been faster, as if nearing the end. And I suspect that in my unravelling, I’m going to find something different at the core.

  Something both unexpected and known. Something Horrible, honest and true.

  I start walking down the road, so fast that I’m nearly running. I’ve no destination in mind, I just don’t want to be at home.

  I reach the yield in the road to the village, when a man stops me. He’s wearing overalls and wellies, and has a round smiley face.

  ‘Take the top road,’ he says.

  ‘What?’ I’m wondering if this is some kind of arcane life advice. But he gestures to the higher road that runs parallel to the one we’re on.

  ‘Go by the school road.’ He gestures down to the blind corner. ‘They’re moving cattle down here. It’ll be faster that way.’

  ‘The school road?’ Many of the roads around here aren’t named. There aren’t any signs, so the informal names of fields and roads is oral knowledge.

  ‘There used to be an old school up there. Closed down about a hundred years ago. It’s a nicer walk that way. Fine day for it.’

  A magpie lifts off a tree, disappearing down the top road and I follow. The hedges are wild with growth, and it’s quieter; there aren’t many houses up here. I pass what must be the ruin of the schoolhouse, stopping to step inside. There’s not much left of it, just the thick walls, the shape of rooms overgrown with ivy. I wonder if Laila came here. She probably did. And again, I’m so sorry I didn’t explore this with her.

  When I realise it, I’m so sure I’m right that my heart is beating excitedly.

  The card I found tucked behind Laila’s corkboard. Find Meadowsweet on School. It had to be referring to this narrow road. I continue down it, and after a little way, I find a place where meadowsweet grows in abundance.

  I go a little further and see the old gateway. It’s pretty overgrown, but it’s clear this was once an entrance. And down at the bottom of a meadow stands a small ivy-covered house. A magpie hops in the garden, and I wonder if it’s the one I saw earlier.

  Going closer, it’s obvious no one has lived here in a long while. The roof is sprouting leaves, and the ivy is thick and unchecked. Tattered curtains hang from grimy windows.

  Beside the front door is an old nameplate. It’s cracked and spotted with mildew, but says Meadowsweet House.

  This is what Laila had been looking for.

  The front door is locked, but that’s kind of irrelevant since at least two of the windows are broken. I lift up and swing a leg over the ledge. Inside, the smell assaults me. It’s wet plaster, damp, mould, old piss, and who knows what else.

  The room is empty, stained a greenish grey. Large water marks pattern both the walls and cement floor. The ivy has crept in from outside. Built-in shelves line the walls, holding a random selection of objects: a dusty china shoe, a stained mug, a ladle. An old broken couch sits in the centre of the room.

  Leaving the front room, I’m in a small, dark hallway. Faded, blackened wallpaper peels from the walls and some of the floorboards are missing. I peer inside the kitchen and see an old wooden table and a cabinet with missing doors. I continue down the passage.

  I’ve watched enough horror movies to be uncomfortable. The bath is ringed with blackish brown, and I get a fright when I see myself in the distressed mirror.

  At the end of the passage, beside a closed door, is a pile of stones. Crouching down, I touch the smooth texture. They’re not as dusty or grimy as everything else.

  Mom, years ago, told us about wishing stones. We would write a fear on a slip of paper and fold it up. Then write down a wish and fold it along with the fear. We’d heap stones on the papers, thinking of ways we could defeat the fear and make the wish come true.

  I can see now that it was Mom’s way of understanding what was going on inside our heads. That when we weren’t looking, she’d read those slips of paper with our wishes and fears, so she’d know how to help us better.

  This pile of stones, too new for the house that time forgot, looks exactly like our wishing stones.

  I begin to remove them from the pile. At the bottom, on bare cement, are two slightly damp squares of paper. My fingers shaking, I unfold them. The ink has bled a little, but Laila’s writing is large and clear:

  I wish to be one of them. I wish they’ll fulfil their promise to bring me into the grove. I wish for a talent, one with strong magic.

  Laila was looking for magic.

  I unfold Laila’s fear:

  I am afraid they are lying to me.

  Who? I am so frustrated I want to scream.

  I stand up, placing a hand on the doorknob. The floor is warped and the door struggles to give. I push my weight against the door several times until it gives way and I fly into another room.

  Despite the thick growth right outside, the room is filled with bright sunlight. It doesn’t smell as bad as the rest of the house. The wooden floors are still intact. At the centre of the room is an old cane rocking chair.

  But it’s the table that runs along the side wall that takes my attention. I recognise the red silk with silver swirls, I think Mom bought it in India. I’ve seen before the battery-operated fairy lights that still turn on when I push the switch. The table is covered with small statues, all women. Candles, large and small, are arranged around stones and feathers and spirals. Celtic knots are painted in gold. An eye inside an open hand, to ward off evil. A knife with a carved handle. Rune stones painted in Laila’s hand. Is that the delicate white skull of a small dead animal? The entire wall is covered with marks I recognise as Ogham, the ancient Irish system of writing using strokes and lines.

  This is Laila’s sacred space. I found my sister’s shrine.

  FOURTEEN

  A little different

  David

  I’m rapping at the door of the Scavenger Hunt. The sign is turned to
‘closed’ but I can see the figure inside.

  ‘Open up, Canty,’ I holler, and the door buzzes open.

  I don’t trust John Canty, but he has his uses. He trades information with both augurs and judges, depending on what he gets out of it. He’s been known to cause mischief. Sometimes I wonder if Canty wants to see us destroy each other. If it’s true, if he is descended from the third group of the draoithe, the lost bards, as he claims, I can’t say I’d blame him.

  ‘What can I get you today?’ Canty leans over the counter like it’s an ice-cream parlour.

  ‘I need help locating something.’

  ‘Oh? Something you’ve lost? Or are you seeking something new?’

  My blank stare shuts him up. He’s nuts if he thinks I’m giving him any details.

  ‘No need to get so pissy.’ He holds up his hands, a smirk on his face. ‘What are you looking for? A chant? Something stronger?’

  ‘Something stronger.’

  He nods thoughtfully.

  ‘C’mon back.’ I follow him into the back room. While Cassa turns a blind eye to Tarc getting information off Canty, she would be livid to find out about the chants and artefacts. Canty’s able to do this only because it’s clandestine.

  ‘I have something that I’ve been holding for the right person.’ He passes the cabinet and turns the dial on the heavy floor safe.

  ‘Just show me.’ I get weary of Canty’s performances.

  In his open palm is a small silver compact mirror. It looks like something Mamó would use.

  ‘This mirror tracks magical objects. You have to tell it what you’re looking for, and as long as that item is in use, the mirror will show you who wields it.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ I don’t believe him. Scavengers don’t find magic like this. Even Cassa or maybe Mamó, who have more silver magic than most, would be surprised to find it.

  He holds the mirror in his hand, with his eyes shut. When he opens them, he holds out his palm: ‘Where is my Healer’s Amulet?’

  After a few seconds, the reflective surface clouds over. Then, in his open hand, is the image of Canty’s mother, Dorothy, asleep in bed. She’s deathly pale. The amulet must only be soothing her pain. It’s uncomfortable to watch.

  Canty swallows a little. And I appreciate this small vulnerability that he’s shown me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say to him.

  ‘It is what it is.’

  ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘Got lucky.’

  ‘How much?’ I ask him. I want the mirror. Badly.

  ‘The pricing on this one is a little different.’ He opens the cabinet and searches among the vials.

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘You will give me complete honesty. For one year. I won’t pry unnecessarily, nor will I demand garraíodóir secrets, but whenever I have a question I need answered, you will tell me. You’ll drink from this vial to ensure compliance.’

  ‘No.’ I can’t give him that. Nothing is worth that.

  ‘Then we have no deal.’

  FIFTEEN

  Death wish

  I overheard some women talking about an abandoned house on the old school road. This might be what I’ve been looking for: a place to build my shrine.

  LAS

  Zara

  The next few days pass with Mom and me in silent battle. Determined to keep me busy, she hands me brochures for coding camp, camogie camp, horse-riding camp, nun camp, how-to-avoid-dying-on-the-village-green camp. OK, not those last two, but her intentions are obvious. She wants me away from any possible danger and temptation, and she’s decided, based on nothing, that the boy next door falls into this category.

  But I am looking for Laila. I want to find traces of my sister in the village she loved.

  I visit Laila’s shrine. I leave her disgusting hair spell there. It seems the right place for it.

  Most of the figurines on her shrine are women. I recognise Medusa by the snake hair, Baba Yaga with her mortar and pestle. There’s an old hag, forged in iron. A woman with a melted middle, like she’s given birth to a monster. Some have deeply lined skin and breasts that touch their stomachs. One woman in her three forms: maiden, mother and crone. Another that’s half tree, half woman.

  Today, I’ve brought the ash chant from Canty. I figured I may as well use it. Not saying I believe in magic, but things are definitely odder than I’m used to, so who the hell knows?

  I pour the ash on my hand and blow it over the shrine. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but after a few minutes of nothing, I’m disappointed.

  I’ve been staring so hard at the table that when I notice the wall, I’m not sure if it’s my eyes playing tricks on me. A small section, immediately above the ring of black candles, seems somehow brighter. Perhaps it was like that before and I hadn’t noticed.

  Or perhaps the wall is glowing a little.

  The glow highlights a small selection of Ogham marks. Like it’s telling me, Hey, Zara, check this out. I pull out my phone and take a picture.

  When I look up, the wall appears normal again.

  This place. My imagination is working overtime.

  Something bangs in another room. I freeze. Then I hear the tread down the passageway. Slow and heavy. And coming closer.

  I fix my eyes on the door, wondering what’s on the other side. A creepy clown. A shadow man with reed-thin arms and legs and glowing eyes. A little girl with a stitched-up mouth.

  I’ve watched too many horror movies.

  It would take weeks to find my body.

  I’m at the window, one of the few in the house that’s still fully intact. I’m about to open it when I see the massive wasp nest outside, right there at the corner of the window.

  Wasps or killer clowns?

  And then the door pushes open. It doesn’t catch on the warped floor, opening smoothly and silently.

  An old woman stands there. She leans on a stick, watching me with surprisingly clear eyes.

  ‘I wouldn’t. Those wasps have a terrible sting.’

  I’m at a loss for words. She’s no apparition, dressed in black trousers and a red-and-black jumper. Her hair is silvery and tied in a low bun.

  ‘I’ve frightened you.’ She smiles. ‘I must be a sight for sore eyes.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I was just … visiting.’ An old derelict house. A shrine built by my dead sister.

  ‘I’ve been watching you coming in here these last days. I wanted to see what you were up to.’ She glances over at the altar while coming closer.

  ‘Is this your house?’ I say.

  ‘It belongs to my family.’ She looks around the room. ‘Been many a year since it was lived in.’

  ‘Looks it.’

  ‘Houses need families. They ruin without humans to live and love and fight and weep inside them.’ She taps her stick on the wooden floor. ‘Rotten. Mind it doesn’t give in on you.’

  ‘These walls must know many stories.’

  ‘That they do. So many stories. I know them all. This place has seen a lot of strife. People arguing with each other. Endless fighting and squabbling.’

  ‘This house?’

  ‘This village. This world.’

  Can’t argue with that.

  ‘With all this greed and gloom, no one visits an old woman any more.’ She sighs. ‘I’ll leave you to your sister.’

  ‘Wait,’ I say, and she turns. ‘If you’ve time, I’d love to hear your stories. No one visits me either.’ I mean to say the last bit lightly, but even I can hear how wistful I sound. How lonely.

  She fixes me with her sharp blue eyes. Then, holding both handles, she sinks into the cane chair. I sit on the floor.

  ‘A very long time ago, there were two families who couldn’t abide each other,’ she begins. ‘Now, these weren’t ordinary families. They were superstitious folk, and believed in the old ways. They were united in their love for nature, but this is what caused the conflict between them.’

  ‘A love for natu
re?’

  She nods. ‘One family believed that nature was about design and order and that those who couldn’t perceive that order were inferior. The other family was more severe, but they honoured the wildness of nature. So, they could never see eye to eye. And then they began to argue about land.’

  Listening to the old woman’s stories, I lose track of time. She tells me about people knocking down stone walls to settle disputes over property. Of people releasing each other’s cattle into the road out of spite. She talks of murder and mayhem that grow from small disagreements.

  ‘Would you give me a hand up, there’s a good girl,’ she says eventually, and I help her out of the cane chair. ‘Will you visit with me again?’

  ‘I’m Zara,’ I tell her as she makes her way to the door. She looks at me over her shoulder.

  ‘People call me Callie.’

  ‘Where can I find you, Callie?’

  ‘I’ll be here, among the ghosts of the living, with the dust of the dead.’ I must look startled because she lets out a bark of laughter. ‘I like coming to this house, picking through the bones of the past.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I like you, Zara.’ And then she’s gone.

  I’m reaching the fork in the road when I see them. Cillian, Breanna, Ryan and Sibéal. It’s obvious from their body language they’re having a disagreement.

  Another disagreement. Three against one.

  They haven’t seen me coming and I creep closer to listen. Cillian and Sibéal are having an intense staring match.

  ‘We told you to get out of here,’ Ryan says.

  ‘You’re blocking my way.’ There’s no emotion in Sibéal’s voice. She’s still staring at Cillian.

  ‘That’s the intention, Captain Obvious.’ Breanna sounds impatient. ‘Look, it would be awful if you found your home trashed or broken into. We wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you or your sister.’