Hollow Oaks

by Paddy Kelly

  A shocking explosion as Debbie fired again. Lepps scattered, but more swelled in behind them, probing our edges, ready to charge the moment the veil fell.

  In the ringing of my head an image unfolded — the tree, the opening, becoming wide. And I saw what she was telling me, in the final, fading strength of herself. A way out.

  I jammed both hands into the folded-over wood hole, as Debbie yelled and swung and swung, as the lepps pressed in closer. "Your anchors," I yelled. "Be ready!"

  I reached down to the song of the tree, and then under it, following its roots, running down to light and then through into anti-light on the other side. A breath filled me, pulling our veil down to a neutron star of rage, and I shoved my hands into that space where wood folded over wood, song over song, and unshackled my breath, letting it all burst open and out.

  The tree shook, raining leaves, fibres exploding in cracks. I clawed wood from the opening in wet-crumpled clumps, flinging it back as I made the space bigger, tearing a wound to the tree's heart. "Get in!" I shoved Debbie into the gouged cavity, to the snap of failing trunk and the screams of the lepps, as the world was swallowed by a singular overdin, a mouth-wide god of noise roaring to break the ground and tremble great cracks across the sky.

  I felt the twang of Debbie's passage, as a crack exploded behind me. The tree had split, fibres bursting in a torrent of twigs and slabs of bark. A great chunk toppled aside and the cavity was a cavity no more, only an idea of one, a space, but in the blaze of my mind and hers it still hung there, a burning shimmer in chaos.

  The tree, its guts ripped out, began to topple. The lepps scattered. I crept to the non-portal emptiness, and squatted inside the collapse. The great trunk, now connected to nothing, tilted towards me. I flared with white fire, and pushed back, sending it creaking the other way. It smashed into the ground, leaving me squatting in a ragged stump, in a rain of old leaves.

  The lepps were coming again, a dozen or more, ready to rip and gouge. I dug for my anchor in my pocket, coughing on flakes and grit and blinding dust.

  Don't go don't leave I am hungry the dark the dark will eat me and the sun—

  They charged, claws and stones and sticks flying, a wall of snarling stink.

  "I'll come back," I yelled, "I promise I will, but now you'll let — me — go!"

  I grabbed the anchor, and dug to the place where both sides merged, deep at the join, then breathed into it with a yell, shaking head and hands and teeth, and I felt her try to hold me, to stop me, but we were too far from her water, she was too weak, and to the last pale wisps of her power, I held a fire to her ignited her and ripped the worlds apart.

  A purple roar, a squeeze of breathless pressure, and the next instant something was hauling me from a hole in a tree and flinging me flat across wet ground.

  Spluttering, I tried to sit, expecting a rain of blows. Instead hands grabbed me, turned me over, and I found myself staring into a brown-eyed face with a slash of red down one cheek. "Bren, are you … is she gone?" Debbie raised the knife. "Tell me. Quick!"

  I raised a hand, wincing with a crippling headache. "I'm good, she's … I can't feel her."

  Debbie frowned, then pressed the blade against my bare hand, making a cut.

  "Damn it! I said I was okay. It was … too far for her. Fuck it, do I feel awful."

  I found my feet and stood. The light didn't trail. The stars were only stars, the clouds were clouds, and no voice whispered. I was alone, back inside my own head.

  Debbie pointed the shotgun towards the opening in the tree, which, I saw, sat in a small park with other trees and neatly trimmed grass and bushes. It was night, streetlights gleamed beyond a high stone wall, and traffic rolled by out of sight.

  This was Dublin. We were, without a doubt, home.

  "Get back," Debbie said. "I'll watch this in case any lepps decide to—"

  "No point." I grabbed her shoulder for balance. "The tree's fucked. Nothing's coming through there." I pressed a hand to my forehead. "My head's going to explode."

  Debbie slung her shotgun and walked but mostly dragged me away from the tree and across the grass. Twenty steps away sat a bench by a tall hedge. We slid onto it, gasping like beached fish.

  "Okay," she said, after a while. "What in God's name just happened there?"

  A shake of my head. "I don't know. Crafting, I suppose. Can't talk. Too wasted."

  And I was. Shivering, aching, dirty, with a head that felt pummelled in a prize-fight. But we were out of Tara, and back in Dublin, and alive, so I considered that to be job done.

  "Now we need to get to my house," Debbie said. "I'll call Tommy to come pick us up. He's there now, guarding the place, and watching the tree for me—"

  "Tommy?" I said.

  "He's the one from the travellers I mostly deal with. He wasn't far off when the fairy arrived so I twisted his arm to come watch the house. And there's the dog to feed."

  I grunted. The word feed got my stomach gurgling. "But if he comes, then your house will be empty. Is that smart, given that someone robbed my place and burnt it down?"

  "You're right. A cab then. It's going to cost, though—"

  "Wait." I pulled out my phone and stared at the drizzle-spotted screen as it turned on. Battery, low as hell. I scrolled to the last number I'd added, and pressed dial.

  "McCullough?" an accented voice answered. "You must absolutely be kidding me. It is not even dawn outside. What is it?"

  "I need a favour, Gernaud. And you wanted to help. Do you have a car?"

  I heard the creak of a bed being sat on at the other end. "Yes." His tone was suspicious. "But for what terrible things do you want it?"

  "Nothing bad. We just need a lift. We're a bit stranded."

  "We? Who is this we?"

  Debbie was close enough to hear. She leaned in. "Debbie Gregory. And you're the Frenchman. I heard about you. My father swore about you regularly."

  "I have no doubts that he did. So, let me clarify. You wish for me to me pick you up, in the rain and the dark, and then drive you to … where? The countryside?"

  "That's the plan," I said. "We've been trapped on the other side for a few days. Someone tried to kill me. And we saw … things, that shouldn't be there. We have photos."

  "Photos?" came the sharp reply. The hook slid in. "Where are you?"

  "Iveagh Park," Debbie said, checking the map on her phone.

  I told him. "There is a portal oak there?" he said. "I never heard of this."

  "Kind of. Just not anymore. Listen, can you come? We're a tiny bit injured."

  Another creak of the bed, then footsteps and the shush of running water. "Perhaps," he said. "I assume there will be a breakfast presented at this house?"

  I winced to a pulse of pain from my leg. "It'll be amazing. Coffee, tea, whatever."

  "Real coffee, and not this jar-powder you imagine is coffee—"

  "Damn it, Philippe, can you just come get us? We'll discuss the menu on the way."

  "Very well. I anyway had no plans for Christmas. Be outside of the park."

  I slid the phone away and slumped back on the park bench, legs out. A foul smell rose off me, of leprechaun shit and rubbed-in sweat. But at least I was breathing.

  "Christmas," Debbie said. "That was today. I had a turkey in the freezer. A big one."

  I nodded. My ciggs were in my pocket but I didn't have the energy to reach for them.

  "I suppose we'll need to climb that wall," Debbie said. She patted my leg and stood. "I'll check it. Don't go anywhere."

  I watched her stride off with a slight limp, my thigh tingling from the ghost of her hand. A car growled past, behind the wall, and I closed my eyes, my breath a rasp.

  We were alive, and that was good. But the ones who'd tried to kill me by blocking that tree — and who burned down my house — were still out there. So not safe yet.

  Many things to consider. But all of them, even the attempted murder, felt a bit flat and distant. Because still glowing brightly was the
universe Esmerelda had shown me, the colours and tastes and promises, and the fierce burn of a power I'd borrowed and lost.

  She was gone, which was a good thing. But also the saddest thing ever.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Wake up." A nudge on my arm. "We're at the gate."

  "Not asleep." I opened my eyes and wiped drool from my chin. "Oh. Big gate."

  The car creaked to a halt and Debbie climbed out. She strode up to the gate, solid black bars of glistening metal, popped open a box on the wall and leaned in to speak.

  Officially, it was early morning, but the sky was doing its best to deny it with dark clouds and bleary drizzle. Bleary as my head. Probably the painkillers. It would pass.

  Debbie slid back into Gernaud's car as the gate slid behind the four-metre high perimeter wall. "Go," she said to our driver. "Don't dawdle, it won't stay open long."

  Gernaud eased the car through the gate. I sat forward, arm on the headrest of Debbie's seat, trying to catch my first glimpse of Brufort House in many years.

  Trees came into view, lining both sides of the road and merging overhead into gloomy, tangled archways. The road was in need of repair, and through spaces in the trees I saw shrubs and grassy areas, some trimmed, but most of it pretty wild.

  "I have a gardener," Debbie explained. "But I can't afford him very often. As you can see."

  We rolled on, thudding into the occasional pothole, then swung left out of the trees. The house came into view, a hundred metres ahead, skirted by bushes and a low wall. The road curved a few times as we drew closer, giving visitors time to admire it.

  But it became quickly apparent there wasn't a huge lot to admire.

  Big, but not huge, it was two storeys of dirty grey stone. Square, with a flat roof, from which rose four oversized chimneys like little towers. The middle fifth of the house stuck out, and the front door sat there, with a single huge window above it. In total, I saw nine windows, all in need of painting. No lights were on. It almost looked abandoned.

  We swung the final curve, passing a plant like a giant mutated rhubarb. I spotted other buildings around the back of the house, maybe stables, all of grey stone. The whole thing slouched sadly under the rain, remembering better days.

  Gernaud aimed the car through the low wall surrounding the house. Gravel squeaked as we pulled up in front and rolled to a halt. Debbie clambered out, letting chilly air in.

  "We go in around the back," she said. "The front is for guests and tourists."

  I climbed out as a man came striding around the corner, wide-shouldered, in battered jeans and a grey hoodie. Two gaudy rings sat on each hand and his hair was brown with blonde highlights. "So you made it," he said, coming to a stop. "Miracles happen, like."

  "You were right, okay? Debbie said. "It was a bad idea. But we fixed it." She nodded to me. "Tommy, this is Bren. Bren, Tommy."

  He studied me. Clearly he'd heard about me, and I pretty much saw his mind start to spin. A he or a she? Which bits had been messed with? Why would a person do that to themselves, what awful childhood issues drove them, God, sin, creation, blah blah blah.

  Most people pretended not to stare. Tommy went for the full ten seconds. I cut his staring short by stepping up and sticking out a hand. "Bren." He extended his own, a little warily, and I gave it the hardest, manliest shake I could muster. "Nice to meet you."

  "Tommy Quinn." He pulled the hand away. "You're the poacher. Working Dublin."

  "That's me. And I've heard almost nothing about you. Which means you win."

  Not even the ghost of a smile creased the faint scar that cut across the left side of his chin.

  "Suppose. Glad ye made it, anyway. The house is — ah fuck it."

  Our driver chose that moment to climb out of the car, and Tommy directed a fierce stare at him. Gernaud stepped around the car, and stopped, staring back at Tommy.

  The damp breeze fell away, depositing a sodden silence on us.

  "You brought him?" Tommy said. "Fucking serious, like?"

  They stood five steps apart, like a pair of puff-chested birds, counting feathers.

  "Okay, what's the problem here?" Debbie said.

  "The problem," Gernaud said, "is that this man owes to me an apology."

  "I owe you a fuckin' apology?" Tommy boomed. "Now that's rich, you sunburnt—"

  "Can it, Tommy," Debbie said. "I'm the only person allowed to yell here. Now, tell me what happened. In nice words."

  Tommy stiffly crossed his arms. And big arms they were. Gernaud was no weakling either, and while not as broad and beefy, was certainly taller.

  "I was making a deal with the queen," Tommy said, "and I mean the fuckin' fairy queen. And this amparán comes burstin' out of the woods, fucked it all right up—"

  "I was being chased," Gernaud said, "by a giant spiny thing—"

  "And, yeah, the other thing — he brought a fuckin' gráinneog right at us. Small folk were screaming and flinging spears. Madhouse. Lucky no-one had an eye out."

  "I took two spears in the leg," Gernaud said, "if that serves to improve your mood—"

  "The fuck do I care. You cost me gold. And that wasn't a tree you had the rights to use."

  "Trees are trees," Gernaud said, icily. "I was not aware they had a schedule."

  "The tree at Lough Derg's been the travellers for ages. Just ask anyone. And I heard you were goin' in there again, even after that, and if I ever catch you doin' it—"

  "Alright," Debbie said. "Stop. We'll sort this out inside. In, both of you."

  "Think I might keep on standin' right here," Tommy said.

  Gernaud crossed his arms to mirror him. "And therefore so will I."

  Debbie shot me a pleading glance. "Fuck's sake," I said, and stepped in between them. "Okay. Tommy. You're a defensive arsehole, with a short fuse. Gernaud, you're a rude foreigner who shits on our traditions. Happy? Now let's get the fuck inside and talk."

  They both gaped at me. Tommy cracked a grin. Gernaud's expression didn't shift, but he did permit a shrug. "I would not put it quite like that. In fact I respect your traditions more than you seem to do. But fine. In the interests of peace. Plus, it is too cold out here to argue."

  "Good." Debbie gave me a nod of thanks. "Now, Tommy, did it go well?"

  "Sure. Except I missed the Christmas dinner at my mam's and she won't forget that in a hurry."

  "We'll send her a hamper," Debbie said. "Now, around the back. We'll get breakfast on and I'll defrost that turkey. Maybe we can get some Christmas a day late."

  She led the way, then Tommy, then me and Gernaud.

  "Are all your friends this fun?" Gernaud muttered as we turned the corner of the house.

  "They're not quite my friends," I said to him and he left it at that.

  I limped on, feet heavy, hair slack from drizzle. Hopefully the dullness in my skull would soon shift, as we had a lot to do. Step one was a shower to shift the sweat and lepp turds and whatever else. Then fresh clothes, eat food, see to wounds. Finally, work out who was trying to kill me. Because once they discovered I'd survived Tara, they'd surely try again.

  The rattling of cutlery came from the next room, a sound like angels singing.

  I was sitting at the big table in the scullery, with a mug of sugary tea. Around me drifted the warmth of burning turf, coming from a stove with doors heavy enough to anchor a boat. On the wall sat a pair of bronze sconces, their light turned a cosy yellow by sooty glass.

  Gernaud was wandering the house, and Tommy was outside, looking into installing the security cameras that Debbie had never got around to putting up. My stories about murderers had rattled them. So I sat alone, my foot stretched out under the table. The swelling had gone down and even the bruises weren't looking so bad. Had the toe been broken at all? Maybe it was only a bad stubbing, and I'd overreacted.

  I gazed around the scullery. A newish part of the house, according to Debbie, meaning only a hundred years old or so. Two blue and peeling cupboards sat across from me, laden with bo
oks and ornaments and candlesticks. Between them was the doorway to the kitchen, from which came the aroma of frying sausages. And I wasn't, technically, alone — a scruffy Red Setter lay on a brown sofa to my right, giving me the most uninterested of stares.

  My thoughts drifted to Debbie, toiling in the kitchen on her injured foot. She had refused all help, and I hadn't protested too hard. I was still thinking of her when the door bumped open, shoved by a shapely hip, and she stepped through to slide a plate onto the table.

  "Egg and pig-tubes, toast on the way. More tea?"

  My guts growled at the sight and smell of the food. "I'm good for tea. Should we call the boys in from their playing?"

  "I've texted Tommy. Gernaud's not far off. I'll call him. And I'll get some coffee on."

  She strode through the door leading to the older parts of the house, and I cranked some numbers. She'd be twenty six or so. Younger than me, but not by a huge amount—

  I derailed that train of thought. I needed no more of that particular kind of pain.

  Grabbing a spoon, I stirred more sugar into tea that was already too sweet. The stove grumbled, turf inside it collapsing. Eyes closed, I listened. Feeling the heaviness.

  "Are you okay?" Debbie was back, and I hadn't even noticed.

  I nodded. "I think I have a cold. My head feels stuffed. I'm all just … slow."

  "Painkillers can do that." She sat across from me. "I have to ask a thing. In the car, you told Gernaud most of what happened. But not the bit with Esmerelda, or what you really did to that tree when we made it out. Why not?"

  "Why not? Because it was … I mean, he wouldn't believe it, and…"

  "It was magic," she said, flatly. "The impossible made real."

  I couldn't help flinching. We tried not to use the M-word. Terrible luck.

  "You did things with light and air," she said. "You threw five or six lepps, without touching them. I saw it. And ripping the hole in the tree … come on, you know I'm right."

  A terse nod. I'd already partially convinced myself I'd imagined it. But no convincing could wipe away the memory of her fire burning inside me. The ache of her golden light.