The Wickerlight

by Mary Watson

  ‘I worry about you with David.’ Her face clouds over. ‘A bad relationship can poison you slowly from within, I should know.’

  ‘I’m seventeen, Mom.’ I nudge her shoulder with mine. ‘We’re not getting married in the morning. And he’s really not like that.’

  I won’t mention the bonding thing. Because that’s different; I might fancy the pants off him, but that has nothing to do with what we did at Laila’s altar. Rather, our attachment feels grounded in how we’ve both discovered ourselves in ways we hadn’t before.

  ‘I like him. He wants to do the right thing. His home life is complicated, and his dad is hard on him. Romantic relationships aren’t the only ones that can be toxic.’

  She’s looking at me with sadness and I realise she feels bad for letting us down. For being absent in her grief, for not being brave enough to end things with Dad earlier.

  ‘There’s something different about you.’ She speaks hesitantly.

  ‘I’ve changed.’ She’s more part of me than ever now, Horrible Zara. In the cage, as I bled, I imagined my skin growing a chitinous layer. I imagined it encasing my heart, protecting me.

  In that cage, I awoke to myself.

  How different everything has become. How my world of school and camogie and my old friends are now a pale echo.

  The new real, with its beating intensity, is this world I’ve stumbled upon. Through her death, I found what Laila wanted. I am so deeply part of this world of impossible things. My attachment to David is armour against its many dangers.

  ‘Zara?’ Mom’s staring at me, worried.

  ‘Give David a chance,’ I say, and she squeezes my hand and nods.

  There’s a tap on the door and Mom rolls her eyes. ‘Speak of the devil.’

  ‘Mom,’ I warn.

  ‘All right, all right.’

  Mom lets him in while I finish my lemon water. She doesn’t hide that she is examining him with her doctor eye. But she’s polite, she smiles and I guess it’s a work in progress.

  ‘I’ve some news,’ he says. ‘You’re getting new neighbours.’

  ‘Really?’ Mom is happy. ‘Who?’

  ‘Oisín and I decided it’s time we set up by ourselves. It’s for the best, the way things are with Dad. We’ll still be close to Lucia.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mom is less happy. ‘Where are you two off to so early anyway?’

  ‘Going for a walk down the fields.’ David threads his fingers through mine. I feel it, that synchronicity between us, and it makes me smile. ‘Then my grandmother wants Zara for brunch.’

  I wish he hadn’t put it like that.

  But David’s very attached to his grandmother, and I’m relieved that she hasn’t outright refused to see me, as Jarlath has.

  ‘Will you leave me David and his mother’s numbers?’ Mom says. I guess she’s always going to feel protective of us.

  ‘Sure, Mom.’ I pick up my phone.

  ‘You play WordSpat?’ David sees the app on the screen.

  ‘Yeah.’ I smirk. I’ll beat his sorry ass any day. ‘I played with Laila.’

  ‘You can play me. If you want.’

  ‘If you dare,’ I say.

  I open the app, which I haven’t done since Laila died. The last game she started is still saved, awaiting my move.

  Boot. It’s a shitty word. Laila’s first words were always much better than that. Why would she play such a weak opening?

  ‘Oh my God.’ I’m in the garage as fast as I can get there.

  I open the boot to her car and there’s nothing. Just spare swimming gear in a musty gym bag.

  It’s so slight, it’s barely noticeable, but the floor isn’t sitting evenly. I lift up the flap and pull out the spare tyre. Beneath is a slim notebook. Laila’s diary.

  I pick it up. Her words. I am so elated to have found a way to understand what she was thinking and feeling in those last months. I look at the front page, and two letters fall out.

  The first is short:

  20 March

  I am going to the village green tonight. Maeve Lawless has a drug similar to devil’s weed that she’s been pushing me to try. I don’t want to experiment with devil’s weed again, or anything like it, but Maeve is relentless. I think she wants me to test it before she sells it to the kids in the nearby villages. She keeps on about it, even though I’ve told her no many times. I’ll try a small bit tonight. Just once, to get her off my back.

  ‘What’s that, Zara?’ Mom comes into the garage. I hand the page to her, not sure if she’ll buy it. She knows the results of Laila’s post-mortem, so she’ll have to believe that this unnamed drug is somehow untraceable or hadn’t been tested.

  But Mom wants to believe. She’s weeping big ugly tears. This is what she was searching for in all her sorting, it’s the proof she was always looking for.

  Clever girl, Laila. She’s made sure that Mom has a way to get Maeve to account for that night. While Maeve can keep her secrets of magic sacrifices, she’ll have to answer for providing a mind-altering substance that resulted in the death of an eighteen-year-old girl.

  The second letter is addressed to me. I hide it in my pocket when Mom isn’t looking.

  A little later, David and I go through the hollow at the back. A magpie lifts from a tree, a second following close behind. They fly towards me, flapping their wings as they wait. Reaching out a hand, one lands on it, briefly, then they lift up and fly away.

  ‘I think your guide has chosen you.’ David smiles. He seems relieved that even though it’s of the crow family, it’s not a rook.

  I think of that night when I first went through to the Rookery. I think of Laila finding her way through the hollow, stepping into these fields and into a world of magic.

  David leans down to pick a blade of grass, squeezing it for a moment.

  ‘Free,’ he says, and pulls a cloth from his jacket pocket, where he wraps it up. Then, his arm around my waist, we walk to the Rookery.

  AFTER THE END

  20 March

  My dearest Zara,

  If you’re finding this letter, then things haven’t worked out as I wanted.

  Tonight I will go beneath the wickerlight, the time when the veil between this world and the other realm is thin.

  A few weeks ago I stole an antique brooch called Badb’s Eye from the Rookery. Maeve arranged for me to get a key by introducing me to a man called John Canty. She gave me the code to the safe. In return for the brooch, she would grant me my greatest wish: to bring me into her grove. In the end, I didn’t need the code, because Oisín is such a sweetheart. I slipped it into my pocket when he was distracted. Tell him I’m sorry that I did that to him when he’s been nothing but a friend.

  But then I realised, if Maeve wants this brooch so badly, it must be very powerful. And if it’s magic I’m looking for then why give it up when it’s in my hands? Maybe I can get it to work for me. So I held it back, tried a few things, but I can’t crack it. So tonight I’ll give it to Maeve once the ritual is successful. For now, I’ve hidden it in your old smelly parka, the one you vomited on at the fair and never wear, even though I’ve told Maeve that I’ve left it in the ruined cottage until after the ritual.

  But I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

  I’ve come to the green earlier than we arranged. And there’s a blonde woman here, surrounded by boys. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen: these boys are half naked, dancing and drumming and marked with black swirling lines. This is real magic. A ritual is under way, but it’s not me that’s at the heart of it.

  I’ve rung Maeve, who says to hang on, she’ll be here any minute and my turn is next. I don’t know, I’ve got a bad feeling. I’ve rung you, but you must be busy. So I’m writing this down for you instead.

  Zara, if you find this, then something’s awry. Maybe the transformation only half took, and I’ve become something else. Or maybe they’ve wiped my memory to erase the secrets I’ve learned. It’s hard to know with Maeve.

>   But this letter is the truth of tonight. And if it has gone wrong, even if I’m now only a shell of a girl, or turned into meadowsweet or a toad, then know that the big adventure is all I’ve ever wanted. Life is nothing without risk. Hold your tears, because I’ve found magic. I wish you can too.

  All my love,

  Your bigger (more beautiful) sister,

  Laila

  GLOSSARY

  Augur

  Druid faction made up of seers whose magic lies in their ability to perceive and manipulate patterns.

  Badb (said: Bive)

  Irish goddess of war and death, often appearing as an old woman or as a crow. On the battlefield, the Badb would manipulate the minds of the enemy and confuse them. She may appear to foreshadow death.

  Bards

  The third group of draoithe, the poets, who are believed to have died out in the early twentieth century.

  Bláithín (said: Blah-een)

  Translates as ‘little flower’. In draoithe lore, the Bláithín is an augur girl who fell in love with a judge boy. After he was fatally injured in battle, she made a deal with the forest to save his life and was changed into a meadowsweet bush. Some judges believe a new Bláithín will bring on the golden age of magic.

  Brithemain

  The historical name for the judges, derived from the Brehons, the lawmakers in early Irish history.

  Cailleach (said: Kal-yagh)

  The Irish word for hag or old crone. It is linked to an ancient, mysterious figure, the Cailleach, a mother goddess and winter queen, who has strong connections to the land.

  Camogie

  Camogie is a women’s Irish sport very similar to hurling. It is played with a long stick with a flattened end (hurley) and a leather ball (sliotar).

  Cleave

  The Cleave is the leader of a gairdín. The First Cleave is the highest authority in a country and may also be the Grand Magistrate, the leader of all judges.

  Delve

  An exceptionally strong, potentially destructive talent that has died out. It allows an augur to read and manipulate the patterns of the mind.

  Draoi [pl. draoithe] (said: dree/dree-huh)

  Druid(s).

  Gairdín (said: gore-deen)

  Garden. Used as the collective noun for judges. It refers to the smaller communities to which a judge may belong. They’re usually organised by geography, except for the Rose, the First Cleave’s gairdín, where membership is determined by family status.

  Garda

  An Garda Síochána, the guardians of the peace, is the police force in Ireland. Both gardaí (pl.) and guards are commonly used.

  Garraíodóir [pl. garraíodóirí] (said: gar-eea-dor/-ey)

  Gardener(s). The military unit of the judges, who pride themselves on their skill and art in fighting.

  Grove

  Collective noun for augurs. As with gairdíní, they are smaller communities of augurs and perform rituals together.

  Judge

  Druid faction made up of lawmakers believed to descend from the Brehons, the lawmakers in ancient Ireland. Judges are a hierarchical society with a strong connection to nature. They can be found in both Ireland and the US.

  Knot

  Knot magic is a complex form of draoithe magic. It usually involves a knotwork design, for example a triquetra, triskele, spiral or cross. The knot may be a precious object, but could also be made by hand. Knots require action: there will be words or offerings attached to a knot and these must be performed in order to make magic.

  Nemeta

  Threshold space. Nemeta are sacred sites where the veil between the real and the magical is thin. They are the source of all draoithe magic, and without them draoithe have no access to magic. Nemeta must be bonded to a grove or gairdín.

  Offering

  An action required in order make Knot magic. Draoithe must complete the offerings in order to release the magic of the Knot.

  Ogham (said: Ohme or Ogam)

  Early Irish alphabet made up of strokes across a line.

  Raker

  See War Scythe

  Ré órga (said: ray oarga)

  Golden age. The judges recognise two ré órgas in their history which brought them military prowess and wealth. They anticipate a third, which many believe will be triggered by the third Bláithín, bringing abundant silver magic.

  Talent

  Before they turn sixteen, augurs receive a talent. While augurs have a generally enhanced sense of pattern, their talent is their particular strength. Many augurs can use their talents to divine the past and present.

  Totem

  Judges have an affinity for natural elements (for example plant or animal) which is narrowed down to their totems (tree, flower, bird) and then their specific guides (oak, peony, magpie).

  Tuanacul (said: tua na cwyll)

  Kilshamble folklore warns of the people of the forest, the Tuatha Na Coille, who seduce their victims and extract their vitality.

  Sunder

  A historical moment where draoithe succumbed to internal division and fighting. During Sunder, draoithe split to form separate communities of judges, augurs and bards.

  War Scythe

  First Warrior. The contest for this title is open to young garraíodóiri, with the right family history, at the onset of manhood. The title is for life, though there are ways in which a Raker may be challenged and usurped.

  Wickering

  Augur form of mental manipulation using rhythm and patterns.

  Wickerlight

  Threshold time. A period of time when the unexpected may occur.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  When I was a young teenager, my best friend died in a car accident. Writing this book, inhabiting Zara’s grief, made that time feel immediate again. She was a beautiful soul: bubbly, kind, full of fun, thoughtful, popular and so very loved. Her name was Marsha Trimmel and, decades later, I still feel that loss.

  As usual, there are many people who helped create this book and prepare it for the world. I am fortunate to work with a brilliant editor, sharp eyes, sharp mind, who really gets stuck in with the revisions – Ellen Holgate, thank you. I am grateful to the wonderful people at Bloomsbury, both past and present, and especially Cal Kenny, Emily Marples, Emily Moran, Jessica Bellman and Hali Baumstein. I know there are more, and I am deeply appreciative of the work you all do. Thank you also to Emma Young and Jessica White. In South Africa, thank you Jennifer Ball and Verushka Louw.

  Claire Wilson, iron hand in a velvet glove, I am endlessly grateful to have you, with your wisdom and humour, in my corner. And also at RCW, thank you Miriam Tobin.

  Emma van der Vliet, my partner-in-crime from before times, thank you for reading, for identifying my particular brand as the ‘vrot Ophelia’ – you get me. Thank you Catherine Creaven for the beautiful artwork you’ve drawn for my fictional world, but also for letting me drag you into the woods, to ruins, to post offices, or wherever, and always laughing.

  Thank you David Joyce for talking torture with me. I learned so much.

  Thank you Cathal, most excellent of men, for reading and for all your support, practical and emotional. But mostly, I’m really happy that you’re not like the dads in this book.

  ONE

  With honey

  You catch more flies with honey.

  Maeve’s words chased through my head as I walked towards the village, her flowery bag slung over my shoulder. Good girl gone looking for trouble.

  It was quiet in the main street. It always was the day after Christmas. In other towns the wren hunt was a happy occasion with dancing and music. Wrenboys in costumes with loud banging drums. Delighted crowds looking on. But things were a little more bloody in Kilshamble. That’s how it goes in a village built around an open-air slaughterhouse.

  The Spar was shut, the handwritten sign at the Gargoyle turned to ‘closed’. The twinkling lights outside the pub only emphasised the quiet: no laughter, no music spilled from inside. I paused, scanning the villa
ge green. They liked to hide around there. They’d fold out of the shadows, from the church’s stone façade, from the thick hedge.

  I passed the butcher’s, the hotel, until I came to the ghost estate on the outskirts: semi-detached houses that had been hastily assembled in the boom years and now stood empty, running to ruin. No one wanted to move out here. Not if they didn’t have to.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. The boys usually came looking for me, not the other way round. But earlier that afternoon, Maeve had found me in the kitchen, where I’d been staring at burned toast.

  ‘You catch more flies with honey,’ she’d said, handing me the flowery bag, the one she used at the Spar for bread, cheese and a naggin of Powers. She stepped closer, conspiratorially.

  In the bag was a bottle of whiskey and a loaf of Maeve’s apple bread.

  ‘I think you should talk to them,’ Maeve had said. Backlit by the window, her fuzzy hair was framed by the dark clouds and their silver linings. ‘Reason with them. They’re older now. The game has run its course.’

  ‘Smith said to stay home.’

  ‘Smith also says that facing up to problems,’ Maeve looked at the burned toast in my hand, ‘is better than hiding from them.’

  Hiding seemed pretty appealing to me. But if I didn’t go out today, they’d wait. They’d come to the cottage tonight, throw stones at my window, signalling the beginning of the hunt. And the anticipation of when they would finish, maybe on my way home from the shop tomorrow or out at the weekend, was worse.

  She frowned, and standing there in her dress with its crazy flowers Maeve looked strangely dangerous.

  ‘I’ll go.’ Before Smith woke from his nap.

  ‘This ends today,’ Maeve had said. She spoke so fiercely it seemed like it was possible. That I would give them gifts and it would stop.

  Taking my face in both hands, Maeve kissed my forehead. I had to dip to let her. Her roots were showing grey again.

  ‘This ends today,’ she repeated. But it lacked the fervour of the first time.