The Wickerlight

by Mary Watson

  This is bigger than anything I’d imagined. Even with what he’s told me, I suspect I can’t fully grasp it because it’s totally outside of my familiar.

  ‘And Laila knew all this?’

  ‘Knowing things can be dangerous.’

  ‘I’m not afraid.’ Not any more. Nothing can be worse than what Maeve did to me this evening, and I’ve survived that.

  ‘You can’t breathe a word of this.’ His voice is urgent. ‘If anyone knows …’

  ‘This is not some godforsaken outpost where everyone has gone all primal,’ I bite back. ‘Normal society also has rules and these are policed. And people who do bad things get punished. I could take this to the Guards.’

  ‘Law and order are infested with judges.’ He gives a small, bitter smile. ‘That won’t help you.’

  ‘But how do I help you?’

  He says nothing, just draws me closer. He lifts me up and then I’m flat on the bed, my hair spread across his covers as he leans over to kiss me. It feels like we lose minutes, hours, days, weeks there. We’re so lost in each other that I don’t even hear the banging on his door until it opens a crack.

  ‘David,’ a voice hisses.

  David lifts his head and freezes.

  ‘It’s only Oisín,’ he whispers. ‘I’ll see what he wants.’

  ‘I should probably head home.’ I watch David as he gets up from the bed, calling for Oisín to hang on.

  I pull the covers over my shoulders, suddenly cold.

  ‘Shit’s going down,’ Oisín says as David cracks open the door. ‘Dad was on his way up for you.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘What isn’t?’ Oisín’s quieter. His voice is muffled, but I can hear enough.

  ‘There’s been an attack on warden homes. Three within a ten-mile radius have been vandalised. Dad’s going for immediate retaliation.’

  David turns to me and grabs his T-shirt. ‘I have to get down there.’

  ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  ‘Will I stay with Zara?’ Oisín pokes his head around the door. ‘After what happened?’

  David pauses in pulling down his T-shirt. ‘What do you mean, after what happened?’

  ‘You didn’t tell him?’

  ‘We didn’t get to it.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Zara found out the hard way what the woven room is,’ Oisín says. ‘I’ll explain as we walk.’

  David looks back at me. He’s anxious to hear this.

  ‘We really don’t want Dad coming up here.’ Oisín steers him away and nods to me. ‘I’ll be back in two.’

  With the door shut, I’m out of the bed like Jarlath Creagh is on his way up, breathing smoke out of his nostrils.

  I grab my things. And pause. On David’s bedside table is the replica brooch. I pick it up, and wonder: What would Horrible Zara do?

  Zipping up my hoodie, I see it: the long black beetle on the bed. I lift it, feeling the light touch of it on my skin. And then there’s a sharp burn.

  ‘Ouch,’ I say, dropping the insect back on to the covers.

  ‘That’s good luck.’ Oisín has opened the door, and he’s actually smiling. A genuine smile that lights up his eyes. Perhaps like the boy he was before. ‘It’s a really good sign.’

  ‘Being bitten by a beetle?’ I’m dubious.

  ‘When you’re with my brother, yes.’

  I don’t understand what he means but he seems happy.

  ‘Sounds pretty busy down there,’ I say, inclining my head to the sound of voices downstairs.

  ‘You’ve no idea.’

  ‘How will I get out?’

  ‘There’s another staircase that leads down to the kitchen. C’mon, they’re all in the war room. They won’t see you.’

  ‘You have a war room?’

  He looks at me curiously. ‘You still don’t know what you’re tangled up in, do you?’

  ‘What happens in your war room?’

  ‘That’s where Dad schemes and dreams.’

  Red the blade, how could I forget?

  Oisín is wrong. Getting downstairs isn’t a problem, but the kitchen isn’t empty. Someone is at the sink, running the tap. What is this house and how are there so many people up and about at nearly three in the morning?

  The slim blonde woman turns from the sink. Her eyes widen as she sees me.

  ‘Oisín,’ she gasps, and I want the earth to swallow me. I’m wearing pyjamas. I’ve been messing around with her son in his bed. I smooth my hair but drop my hand when I realise it probably makes things look worse.

  ‘Zara had a break-in at the tenants’ house.’ I’m grateful for Oisín’s detached air. ‘So she came over. I’m going to hang there until morning.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were friends.’ His mother composes herself.

  ‘Zara is David’s friend.’ Oisín mimics the way his mother says ‘friend’ and her water goes down the wrong way, leaving her coughing. Is the idea of me and David enough to make his mother choke? My cheeks are burning hot and I don’t know if it’s anger or embarrassment.

  ‘Do you want anything before we go?’ Oisín is leisurely crossing the kitchen. I wish he’d just get a move on. ‘Water? Tea?’

  ‘No, I’m grand,’ I mutter. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Creagh.’

  ‘Zara, wait,’ Mrs Creagh says as I turn away. ‘It’s Lucia. And I’m sorry about your sister. About Laila. I spoke to her a few times down by the lake and she was a special girl. So passionate.’

  I don’t know why her words bring a lump to my throat, polite condolences rarely do. But there’s something heartfelt in the words and I’m grateful for them.

  We cross the fields and head back to the house.

  ‘Don’t mind Lucia, she doesn’t bite. If she seemed cold, it’s because she’s surprised. David’s never had a girl over. Dad puts a lot of pressure on him. He has ambitions for David.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘He’s trying to find his way,’ Oisín says. ‘I just hope he chooses to be free.’

  We’re quiet as we walk back to the house.

  At the hollow, I say, ‘You don’t need to babysit me.’

  ‘I’m not babysitting you, Zara.’ He leads the way through the hedge. ‘You’re my support group. This is the foundation meeting of the woven room survivors’ club. Do you have whiskey?’

  *

  When Adam comes home in the morning, Oisín has already left. We’d stayed up in the den playing Assassin’s Creed, then dozing off to Netflix. It’s unexpected, but Oisín feels like a real friend.

  ‘How well do you know Patrick?’ I start grilling Adam as soon as he’s inside. He’s leaning his guitar against the wall.

  ‘What do you mean?’ His cheeks are pink and he’s defensive. I follow him into the kitchen.

  ‘I mean –’ I need to chill so I don’t freak him out – ‘what do you know about his family?’

  ‘Nothing to know. They’re just ordinary.’ He’s bristling a little at my interrogation.

  I don’t know how to ask if they’re paid-up members of an ancient magic society and did he drug my wine? So I go with, ‘Are they Catholic?’

  Hurt flashes in his eyes. ‘What’s wrong with you? What does his religion matter?’

  And Adam is so scarlet that I’m beginning to realise something about my brother that I’d only half processed. About why he spends so much time with Patrick.

  ‘It doesn’t,’ I try to placate him.

  ‘They don’t care that I’m some Muslim-atheist-Christian confusion, so why should you care what they believe?’

  ‘I don’t. Sorry, Adam. I just want to know more about him.’

  I want to tell him to watch out for Patrick’s cousin, to never trust Maeve, when we hear the front door open.

  Dad’s home.

  He looks tired and I don’t know if he’s just back from a conference or a liaison. I wish I didn’t care.

  Distracted, he makes coffee. Then he just stands there, lost in thought.
He’s unlike himself and it’s making me nervous.

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I wasn’t at a conference yesterday.’ He speaks wearily. ‘I wasn’t honest with you or your mum.’

  ‘Where were you?’ My heart is thumping.

  ‘I had a job interview. In Toronto. I’ve been offered the post and I’m going to take it. You have to decide whether you want to move with me or live with your mum.’

  Both Adam and I are stunned. It should have been clear this was coming and yet we’re both taken by surprise.

  ‘Where will Mom live?’ Adam says.

  ‘I can’t answer that.’ Dad lifts the cup to his mouth and hides his face from us. ‘You’ll have to ask her.’

  I can’t look at Dad a minute longer. Even though I know he’s right, that he and Mom should split up, I need to get out of there. I’m walking out of the kitchen when Dad stops me.

  ‘There’s more.’ Dad takes another gulp. ‘There’s a chance I won’t go alone. It’s not certain yet, but you should know before you decide. I’ve met someone else but that’s not the reason …’

  ‘I hate you.’ My voice is cold and calm. ‘I will never choose you.’

  ‘Zara, I know you’re upset but you know that your mom and I …’

  I leave the kitchen. I won’t hear more. I think about how I replaced his shaving oil with the love chant. With everything I’ve learned since, it probably was a love potion. Did I somehow tip the balance? Force Dad to realise that he really doesn’t love Mom any more? Push him into the arms of another Lindy?

  I throw myself on my bed. It’s so bleak, I can’t stop the tears.

  Adam opens the door. He takes one look at my face, at the puffy eyes and red nose.

  ‘C’mon.’ He holds out a hand to pull me up. ‘I know it all really sucks right now. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Where will we go?’

  ‘To where we buried her.’

  Laila’s ashes were buried in the woods near the ruined cottage. She’d loved the stories of the tuanacul, of the blonde tree girl who lived in the ruin; it seemed a fitting place for her earthly remains.

  ‘I’d like that.’ I hesitate, then grab the silver disc from its hiding place and put it in my backpack. Adam is looking at me with a question in his eyes. ‘It’s Laila’s.’

  ‘Do you think she … lingers?’ Adam says it almost shyly. We’ve been brought up with no religion, no heaven or hell or other conceptions of the afterlife. I can’t think of Laila as finished, but I don’t think of her as a ghost peering in through the windows either.

  ‘No,’ I say honestly. ‘But I think being here helps us hold on to her.’

  I’m terrified of losing Laila again. Our memories will become weaker. We will begin to lose details of her face, the way she moved. Her voice will fade and our stories will become family myth, replacing true recall.

  But not yet. For now, walking through the woods, it’s pure memory. I can almost see her running in dappled light, gleeful as she talked of the tree prince who would kiss her and make her one of them. I remember her wild laughter, her pure delight, and my heart is so very, very full.

  We stop at the tree where we buried her ashes. A cairn of stones marks the spot. A wish, a fear. In the middle distance is the ruined cottage.

  While Adam stands over the stones, I move away and take out the silver knotwork disc.

  ‘Sever is offered,’ I whisper to the disc. I think of my father’s face when I rejected him.

  And now, Entrap. I take out my phone, take a picture of the Eye and send it to Sibéal.

  I have the Eye. It’s yours, in exchange for the truth of how Laila died. No deal without proof.

  She texts back immediately. Where are you?

  I don’t answer. I want her to stew. I have a few hours before I return the Eye to David. A sharp sense of loss stabs at my heart. I really don’t want to give it back. It feels like mine now.

  So in our last hours together, I’m going to make the three offerings. Because, and I am fully aware of how nutty this sounds, I feel that the Eye wants me to.

  FORTY

  The only beneficiary

  David

  Dad’s in the war room, and it sounds like he’s arguing. Going inside, I see he has a visitor: Meg, Laney’s much older sister. Laney’s been allowed a few supervised visits, mostly to bring Cassa books, but Meg is unexpected.

  ‘Meg, everything OK?’ Meg’s doing a PhD, and I haven’t seen her much this year. I don’t remember seeing her at midsummer. The tension is thick between them.

  But Meg barely looks at me as she storms out of the room.

  ‘What was that?’ I say to Dad, who’s now steering me to the chart of key augur locations. It feels like he’s trying to draw my attention from Meg.

  ‘I ordered three raids early this morning.’ He points out each house on the map. A bubble of blood forms at the tip of his finger. ‘There were two augur casualties.’

  Two augurs dead. Woken by a raid. Killed when they defended their homes.

  ‘You’re asking for retaliation.’ It’s an overreaction to the vandalism and Dad knows it.

  It’s beginning to stir, this sleeping war, and I don’t know how to stop it. Remembering that vision of bloodied bodies strewn in the field, I go to Cassa’s room. She always knows what to do.

  Outside, Elliot stands guard.

  ‘Open up.’

  To my surprise, Elliot steps aside. Guess there are advantages to being War Scythe.

  Cassa is at the window, looking out at the trees where nests are hidden in the thick green. There are no plants, no flowers in the room. It’s cruel to deprive a judge of her totem like this.

  When she turns to me, Cassa seems distressed. I have never seen my aunt this distracted. Worried.

  She glances at Elliot, who remains just outside the open door.

  ‘So. You’re our new War Scythe.’ She studies me carefully. ‘I have some books you might find useful.’

  Touching a hand to my wrist, she walks me deeper into the room. She gestures for me to sit at the desk, and opens an old, thick book. As she leans towards me, she says in a voice too low for Elliot to hear, ‘I need help. Can I count on you?’

  I give a brief nod. Elliot looks over at us, uninterested as we both bend our heads over the book.

  ‘Niall of the Waters wrote about the wounded soldier, the soldier that has been broken and remade.’ She speaks loud enough for Elliot to hear. ‘He believed that the broken soldier would become the War Scythe.’

  ‘What can I do?’ My words are barely audible. I realise Cassa is taking a risk. She has little reason to believe I won’t repeat all this to Dad.

  ‘It will be wickerlight later.’ She’s quiet again. ‘I must perform the final ritual today. If I don’t, the Bláithín will remain unfinished.’ The ré órga won’t happen. No silver magic.

  ‘To start this and leave it unfinished …’ Cassa expels a breath. ‘It’s dangerous for Wren. It’s dangerous for our world.’

  ‘Dad wouldn’t stop you.’

  Cassa tilts her head slightly towards Elliot, a small warning, and says in a louder voice, ‘There were some who believe that the wounded soldier will save us from disaster.’

  Elliot gives me a small smile, rolling his eyes at the lecture.

  ‘The silver magic will be channelled through Wren,’ Cassa continues quietly. ‘Jarlath will use her and destroy her.’ Cassa is not exaggerating.

  ‘And he’d be the only beneficiary.’

  Cassa nods. ‘I have to do the ritual today, in the forest, but your father can’t know. We must hide it from him.’

  Elliot steps into the room. He’s looking at the book, which Cassa snaps shut.

  ‘If you are the wounded soldier,’ Cassa says to me as Elliot watches her with suspicion, ‘you need to undergo Niall’s final song.’

  She puts the book in my hand. ‘I’ve always sensed this in you. That you could fulfil the words of Niall o
f the Waters. Tell your father.’

  ‘Tell Dad?’

  ‘I’m sure Jarlath would agree. What an honour for him, if his son were favoured this way.’

  I take the book, wondering where she is going with this. If Lucia or Dad performs the ritual with me, that won’t help her at all.

  ‘Of course, you’re going to have to find someone who can lead you through Niall’s final song, a rare and ancient ritual known only by a handful of people.’

  She stands up and moves to the window again. I have to admire how she’s manipulated Elliot, who hasn’t a clue of what’s passed between Cassa and me.

  ‘Fortunately,’ Cassa continues, ‘I am one of them. It’s best performed outside. I would suggest the forest.’

  FORTY-ONE

  Like attracts like

  I hate seeing Zara so miserable.

  LAS

  Zara

  Tell me where you are.

  I’ve been ignoring the string of texts, increasingly irate, from Sibéal. Adam and I sit near Laila’s ashes and talk about our sister. And really, we should have done this before. Because talking about Laila here in the woods she loved has brought an unexpected peace. I can finally accept that saving my family means breaking us up. Mom and Dad need to sever their bond for us to heal.

  You’re going to be sorry.

  That was the last text, more than ten minutes ago.

  ‘What’s going on with you, Zara?’ Adam says. ‘Is it the boy next door? David?’

  ‘I like David,’ I say. ‘His family is pretty messed up.’

  ‘Like attracts like.’ Adam is dry. ‘Is that what’s been bothering you?’

  ‘I think Maeve Lawless knows something about Laila’s death,’ I confess. ‘And Patrick and Simon haven’t been upfront with you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He sounds defensive.

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘How?’

  I take out the replica of the Eye. ‘I’m setting a trap. There’s something Maeve wants. I’m going to give her this, a fake. But only once she’s told me what she knows about Laila’s death.’

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’