Hollow Oaks

by Paddy Kelly

  The zone. The shimmer of the ghost pillars. What was I seeing with the fuath's sight? The zone in Crafters Lodge, its image leaking through? No, that was broken. Wrecked.

  I was seeing the zone in Tara, where craft items of concentrated anam sat in slots, still active. Their whisper, calling to me across the worlds.

  The ground shuddered, crumbling under the fuath's massed attack. Faces flashed in the froth, stretched around teeth, eating towards to where I knelt. And above, in the air, rang deep-voiced yells, getting closer.

  Think, dammit! The tree in Tara, when we'd escaped the lepps. Destroyed, but I'd still managed to crawl through. The fuath did that. She'd opened a way through a portal anchored only on one side. A portal anchored only on one side. Like here. Like now.

  An in-suck of breath. Stand, Bren. Stand. I couldn't. I weighed a million tonnes. The ground shuddered, yells rang out. And inside me, I felt her ebb, her fire flickering.

  I needed something to make her live, to make her burn. Pain. I needed pain.

  The arrow in my fleshy upper arm. Not deep, not hard, but still there, hanging.

  A hand went to it, grabbed it. I gasped from the dizzy kick. Deep breath. Three-count. And pull.

  On the first tug I threw up, but on the second I jerked it out, in a maddened bull-roar of a shriek, and tossed it away, and in the pain she emerged in a storm of screams.

  The sky churned, flapping like bright-veined skin. Stars oozing, and the Sidhe, drawing closer, the gun and the eyes, their hot asphalt terror now bubbling into steam.

  "My love," I yelled, crawling forward into the ring burned onto the ground, between the stubs and holes, shimmering ghost-pillars around me. "Help me open it save us—"

  Esmerelda was nothing but noise as she ignited, pulling in light and motion, draining every erg. Insects incinerated, grass shrivelled to sand. The other fuath, digging their channel, shrieked in a uniform rage, and I opened my mouth to match them, locating the six points, the knots held down, and pulled.

  Like hooks in my skin, the knots pulled back, spreading shoulder blades and buttocks, and the scream kept on, after all air was gone, on and on past grime and light. Another crack of a gun, the water churned, a bulge swelled and burst, and two worlds shook and ate themselves in a purple rage—

  Crack, like the world's spine breaking, as I slammed down. A din fading in my ears, replaced by a silence so total I feared I'd gone deaf, and that the angry stream was still coming, or that a bullet had found me and this was the last tick of my time, bleeding out.

  But my breathing was there, sharp through my nose. And close by, muffled, the rattle of leaves. Then smells, a violent reek of smoke and cinders and petrol.

  A thing was pulling at my hair. Speaking. I lifted my head with an effort, as if rubber bands held it to the ground, and opened my eyes to dim light, hardly any at all.

  I lay on a bare floor, inside a round trench that had been hacked into it. In the trench lay burnt and blackened sticks, hard blobs of melted plastic, adding to the reek.

  Outside that, a low circular wall, from which six oak trees sprouted, rising to a ceiling that seemed to be all branches. Then a short slope of earth leading up to an opening in a higher wall, an opening so small it could not be intended for people.

  And light from somewhere, the cold and grey of an impending dawn.

  "Get up," the annoying, hair-pulling voice said. "We must disable it."

  Sodden with water, shivering, I sat. My shoulder throbbed, my head a honeycomb.

  "What did you say?" This was Tara, I was sure of it. We'd jumped, bridging worlds using a zone anchored only on one side. But I felt no triumph. I was too drained.

  "The craft items!" Ishbéal barked. "Remove them, we must be sure it is closed."

  "Ah." She was right. In the niches of the six trees circling the zone sat the bottles of concentrated anam that Tommy had shoved in to open it. And if I could use them to come through from the dead world, then maybe Dreabh and the Sidhe could too.

  That fear stiffened my legs enough to stand. I staggered to the nearest tree, over the burnt debris on the floor, and grabbed onto it, icy water running down my sleeve. With my free hand I yanked two bottles from their niches, send them flying.

  I shuffled along the low wall to the next tree, and pulled out a third crimson-pulsing bottle. It hit the ground with a thump. That should be enough. The zone was dead.

  A glance at my watch, thankfully waterproof. Twenty-four minutes to sunrise.

  "Bren," Ishbéal said, urgently. "Turn around, but very slowly. Do it now."

  I turned, not liking the tone of her voice, and liking it less once I saw what it meant.

  Fairies were coming in through the opening in the wall. In the low light, they were dim as everything else around me. But their spears, pointed at my face, were clear enough.

  "Sit," Ishbéal said. "Do it slowly but do it now. And be still once you are down."

  I settled onto my soaking arse, trembling with cold. Dribbles of water ran down my fingers, off my hair, down my back. The fairies kept coming in, until they numbered about twenty. They spread out in a curve, and stood in silence above me, many spears raised.

  Ishbéal, her hands held out, stepped forward. A couple of spears tracked her, but most were still pointed at me, on the person who, as they saw it, had ripped up their border zone and set the fucker on fire. And even if they overlooked that, I had a bigger problem.

  The sun was edging up, about to spill across this world a pretty, murderous dawn.

  After a rapid-fire discussion, during which many spears were raised but not flung, Ishbéal informed me I was to be taken to a place where I could shelter from the sun. Another interpretation would be that I was to be safely locked up while my fate was decided.

  But fuck it — either way, it meant I would live.

  By then I was shivering so badly I could barely stand. But I managed to crawl through the exit from the border zone, feeling like toothpaste dribbling from a tube, and into a forest clearing, grey and wind-still. A silver sky tinted pink and orange, terrifyingly close to dawn, but the shelter, according to Ishbéal and the five spear-carriers, was nearby.

  And it was — just across the gully, which ran by the border zone. An opening beneath a boulder, concealed by grass and a wooden door, leading to a tunnel barely wider than me. I wormed my way in, emerging into a cave no bigger than the back seat of a car.

  The light on my keyring showed it wasn't only a shelter, but also a storage space for the goods the fairies had acquired from Seamus through the border zone. Iron nails, copper wire, cigarettes, sugar — lots of sugar — and closed packages, some as big as pillows.

  "We are lucky," Ishbéal said, from the opening. "These ones are not of the queen's tribe, and not her most loyal. The news about the queen has troubled them deeply. If I can get them to believe me about the Sidhe, then I think we have a chance."

  "Thanks," I said, teeth chattering, as I pulled off my sopping wet coat in the tiny space.

  "And if it goes badly … I am glad we met, Bren McCullough. You are not terrible."

  Before I could reply, she'd headed back through the tunnel. Where, I assumed, the bargaining for our lives would now kick off in earnest.

  Shuddering cold, I stripped everything, even my binder. With claw-like fingers, I searched through the packages, and found plastic and string and then — hah! One bag contained, oddly, a few bathroom rugs. Not the most absorbent things in the universe, but I anyway managed to pat myself somewhat dry with them. The shivering, however, didn't stop. Neither did the flat grey exhaustion that was just growing heavier, like concrete slowly setting.

  I realised, as I lay out my wet clothes for hopeful drying, that I should be hungry, having not eaten in over a day. But I didn't feel it. The fact that the small folk were out there, discussing my fate, didn't faze me either. I just wanted to sleep, and drink the fuath's warming song.

  Ransacking another bag got me some socks. These I shoved onto fee
t and hands, then tore the bag and stepped into in, pulling it up around my body. I lay down on some bathroom rugs, wrapped some others around me, and shut my eyes.

  I heard her voice, rising as golden bubbles, showing me a world all warm and perfect and bright. On that wave, I slid into sleep, warmed by lies, and not really caring.

  I finally registered the voice and the shaking but I didn't want to wake up.

  You don't have to my love you can stay there is nothing outside that isn't inside.

  But the voice grew insistent, and the stings of pain harder to ignore. So I opened a ten-tonne eyelid, blinked away the gumminess and found myself staring at Ishbéal.

  "I thought you'd passed into the arms of Danu," she said. "You were so still."

  I pushed myself up, bathroom rug pressed to my chest. She stood in the tunnel that led to the outside. A gleam of light came in behind her, as did a snuffling, grunting sound.

  "What's happened?" My head was light and floaty, as if made of air.

  "Many things. Word has spread about the Sidhe, and about the queen and her water of years. Opposition is rising. The queen, I think, will have to step down."

  I blinked. "I started a fairy revolution? That's one off the bucket list, I suppose."

  Ishbéal crossed her tiny arms. "It is not a thing to laugh at. It may mean war among my kind. But I think not. The Sidhe are feared by all, and this is to our advantage. We saw them, and that world of theirs. We talked to Carmath. Our knowledge will prove vital."

  I shivered. "Great, so. So did you get … help? About Esmerelda?"

  "Another reason they moved quickly. They want the fuath gone from here. So they will help you to get back, and create an urge that may expel it. But it must be manufactured on your side, as the water of years was. And for that you need items of craft—"

  "Debbie!" I said. "She has some items she was charging for the travellers."

  "That is what I hoped. We are going to her tree now. Let us pray it is active."

  I frowned. "Okay, but Brufort House is kind of … far, isn't it?"

  "There is transport. Get yourself ready. It is dark and we leave now."

  She left, and I pulled my clothes back up, cringing at their clammy touch. Not much drying in a cave. I piled the rugs and socks in a corner, and wriggled into the exit tunnel, pulled along by floppy arms. Outside, in fresh air and a darkening sky, I scrambled to my feet.

  I was in a patch of low bushes, beneath a sprawling oak. Ahead of me sat a gaggle of fairies, many on hares. Also, a giant pig.

  I swallowed. The boar was a metre high, with a band around its neck, and a hard look in its tiny eyes. It was chewing with sharp grunts. I raised a hand to point. "You mean…?"

  "It will not be an easy trip," Ishbéal said. "But it will be a fast one."

  I stared at it some more, as leaves jiggled overhead and a chak-chak-gooo rang out from the woods. "Shit," I said. Home. Debbie. Warm clothes. "Okay. Show me."

  Riding a wild boar goes as follows — sit behind the mid-point of the back, with a gristly spine pressing into your groin and bladder. Then lean forward, legs raised and knees bent, thighs desperately pressed to gain some grip. Finally, shove your elbows into the great pig's bristly back, grabbing the neck-cord, and try not to strangle your mount out of white-knuckled fear as you hang on for dear life.

  But, fuck me, as uncomfortable as it was, that big smelly pig sure could run.

  Moonlit woods whipped past, blurred by the battering of hooves. Fairies on their hares darted ahead, weaving, vanishing, reappearing. My muscles screamed and my fingers shook but I held on, drifting deeper into the one comforting thing — the fuath's whispers.

  At one point, pounding along a path beside a stony slope, leprechauns made an attempt to block us. But they scattered fast when the boar put its head down and charged them like a bulldozer. We rode on, through long grass and slapping ferns, alongside a rushing river, until, one very long hour later, the boar slowed, broke into a trot and halted.

  I toppled off the thing, rolling onto my back and expelling sharp little breaths.

  "We are here," Ishbéal said. I turned my head to her.

  "Can't … not yet. Can I have a minute? Maybe a rest. Just a short—"

  "You will fucking stand up, Bren McCullough."

  I managed a grin at that. "Did I just teach you how to swear?"

  No reply. I pulled it together and, moving limbs that felt like they belonged to somebody else — to me to us they're us together — I stood, slope-shouldered, and staggered, and looked.

  Watery moonlight revealed a grassy clearing with a big old oak in the middle. One great horizontal branch reached out over my head. By the tree stood the six fairies who'd come with us this far. Four stood with the hares, and two stood alone.

  Vesta's body was somewhere close. I wondered if the small folk had buried the charred remains after they'd found them. Or maybe they'd left them, beneath the punishing sun.

  Ishbéal joined the group of two. She nodded to me as I stumbled closer.

  "They are nervous of you," she said, when I'd stopped. "So pass over before them."

  "Sure. Will I take that for them?" The two fairies, between them, carried a satchel the size of a fat wallet.

  "Please. It has the most vital things required. The rest you must provide on your side."

  I pocketed the satchel, and checked my watch, angling it to catch the moonlight. Half past seven in the evening. "I'll head through," I said to her. "Are you riding with me?"

  Ishbéal nodded. The ones with the hares edged back as I came closer, and when I sat by the opening in the tree, Ishbéal squirmed into the pocket I offered.

  I turned to the hole in the tree, and I climbed in.

  Around me, a tiny tremor. The oak was active, thank the goddess. It would work.

  "Here we go." My hand drifted toward the trouser pocket containing my anchors. My coat pocket jiggled. "On the count of three. Ready? A haon, a dó … a trí!"

  The flash of purple and the accompanying kick to my gut was tremendous, and for a few seconds, purple was all I saw. The air, though, had changed — colder, muddier.

  I reached out, into darkness, locating a curve of bark. An opening. I traced it. For the tiniest second, I feared I was back in the place of bugs and death. But when I reached blindly beyond the hole, there was a flicker, and lights snapped on in several places at once.

  I flinched, hand over my eyes, and crept out, feeling ahead. My fingers met metal. Squinting in the glare, I made out thick bars, a cage around the tree, and a space beyond, enclosed by high walls, with wires running across them. A space I'd seen before.

  A boom sounded from the other side of the tree, of a door being opened hard. Voices rang out, footsteps hammered the ground. I'd barely managed to climb out of the tree and stand up when into view sprinted a very angry looking woman wearing a black polo-neck and peering down a shotgun.

  I raised my hands, as Debbie's mouth and eyes widened. She lowered the gun.

  "Bren?" she said, taking a step closer to the cage. "Oh my god, Bren!" She thrust the shotgun to the side, and stepped up to jangle with her keys at the gate in the cage.

  Gernaud, who'd grabbed the shotgun, stepped into view. Wearing no shoes or coat, he nodded at me. "You die badly, McCullough," he said, unable to suppress a grin.

  Debbie had by then pulled the gate open and hauled me through it and into a crushing hug. Smelling of coffee and fruity deo, she didn't seem inclined to let go of me. I returned the hug, sinking my head into the scent of her neck, while Gernaud pretended to find something on the wall to look at. Finally, I pushed her back, and nodded downwards.

  "Careful. Fairy. Pocket. And listen, I'm not in great shape. But I brought some help." I turned, pointing to the two fairies peering out of the tree. "They'll need some things."

  Crouching down, I let Ishbéal out of one pocket, and set down the satchel. The two other fairies kept nervously back, near the bars of the cage.

  "It is a
very bright light," Ishbéal said, squinting up. "How are you not blinded?"

  I couldn't even manage crouching, and heavily sat. "Tell Debbie what you need."

  Debbie squatted in front of Ishbéal so they could talk and plan, while I focused on breathing and keeping myself present in this dubious excuse for a reality.

  One of the other fairies gave a hesitant wave to Gernaud, who waved back. I guess he'd sold them ciggs at some point. Or worse than that.

  "I can get all those things," I heard Debbie say to Ishbéal. "Plus, we have two bottles of distilled anam. Max Grey and Tommy pulled them from the border zone—"

  "Tommy?" I said, turning to her. "Where is he? How is he? Did he—"

  "Your friend Ms. Grey came looking for you in Crafters Lodge. She found Tommy locked behind the gate and let him out. The basement was demolished, she said, and no-one was in there. We've been looking for you since. They're in Dublin now, and we came here in case you turned up at my tree. So where were you, Bren? What happened?"

  I shook my head. "Long story. But for now let's get this lot to work. They're going to make something I need." A gurgle in my belly, an angry shifting of heat. She knew.

  "I'll get on it." Debbie stood, full of sparkly energy. "Gernaud, fix some water for our small guests. And Bren, you should go eat, you look like death warmed up—"

  "No," I said. "I need a hot shower and a whole pile of coffee. Dry clothes too, if you have them. Then I'm waiting down here until they're finished."

  Debbie nodded. "I'll wash your stuff and hang them. But sleep, Bren—"

  "I said no. When she's gone from me, I'll sleep, okay?"

  Debbie nodded. Her gaze lingered on me, and mine lingered back. "Wait there," she said. "I'll get what the small folk need, then we'll sort you out." With that, she strode off.

  I expelled a sigh, and leaned back, with Gernaud watching me, saying nothing.

  The thing was, I did need to sleep. I was a sack of loosely connected bones hanging from a vacant head. It was all I craved, the golden babble of her dreams.