The Dark Beloved

by Helen Falconer

  Finally she managed to roll over onto her stomach and, digging her fingers into the carpet of wet moss, slowed her momentum bit by bit, until at last she stopped sliding and lay face down on the stairs – dizzy with the pain and shock. Gradually her panting eased and all was silence again. Silence and darkness. It took a moment to orientate herself – in the utter blackness, it was hard for her mind to tell which way was up. Then she got to her knees, wriggled the dress down over her hips, and got back into a sitting position. She prodded around with her feet, feeling for the invisible, slippery steps. Then prepared herself to carry on.

  Onwards and downwards.

  No, stop again . . .

  Far below, more scuffling in the dark. She braced herself for another rat to come racing past her. But this time the creature was moving much more slowly – padding slowly and softly up the stairs towards her. Heavy – more like the badger that had crossed her garden on her first night home.

  Aoife got to her feet, very slowly, flattening herself sideways against the earthen wall, making herself as small as possible.

  Below, in the dark, all movement ceased.

  She waited, breathing as quietly as she could.

  A few seconds later, the padding began again. Closer, nearly upon her. She held her breath. The creature was passing her now, rubbing against her in the narrow space. She could feel its rough bulk pressing against her knees and thighs.

  A man’s voice muttered softly, somewhere near her waist, ‘Knife . . .’

  Not a creature – a man. The man.

  Skin crawling, Aoife pressed her back even harder to the wall. The body leaning against her knees tensed, as if it had sensed her slight movement; shifted position, the pressure on her thighs increasing. A hand passed across her dress, paused, fingering it . . .

  The light of a match flared briefly, blinding her before it went out; the man’s voice was shouting, ‘I know you, you dirty devil!’ and the next moment her head was dragged sideways by the hair and coldness streaked across under her chin. With a horrified cry, Aoife smashed her elbow at where she hoped the man’s face would be in the dark, then tried to leap over him, risking a headlong fall down the steps. A hand seized her leg, jerking her foot out from under her, twisting her in mid-air. Falling onto her back, she kicked out fiercely with her right foot, connecting with something hard. With a deep howl, his body crashed on top of her, crushing her under his bulk; a knee in her stomach, a calloused hand thrusting her chin back, the cold sharp blade across her throat again, pressing, pressing. She grabbed for the knife, forcing it away, the razor-sharp edge slicing across her thumb—

  Light burst across the darkness.

  Her fairy blood was pouring from her hand, and by its silver glow (so bright, now that she was in the otherworld again) the changeling man’s face sprang into view, his small eyes blazing with fear – and then relief. ‘A fellow changeling, by Danu – you’ve silver blood!’ He lowered the knife and climbed off her, adjusting his red comb-over back over his bald spot and saying chattily, ‘Sorry about that, but I knew your face from McCarthy’s shop and I couldn’t take a chance on your not being a pooka, this place being infested with them . . .’

  Aoife was also filled with relief – at least he hadn’t been trying to kill her just for following him. The rumours of smuggler savagery must be untrue. She got back into a sitting position. ‘Is this the way to Falias? I have to get there fast.’

  He seemed anxious to explain himself. ‘Wait till I tell you! Them pookas are awful tricky buggers. They come on you in the shape of someone you know from the human world, and then, if you don’t cut their throat straight away before they change – bam! Your head is in its stomach.’

  The blood was still leaking from Aoife’s thumb – she bit the edges of the wound to stem the flow. ‘Is this the way to Falias? I can’t wait around.’

  ‘I cut my own grandmother’s throat once. Snap decision. Her or me.’

  Briefly shocked out of her single-minded focus on getting to Dorocha, Aoife said, ‘What?’

  ‘Got your attention now, have I?’ Delighted, the man settled his plump backside on the step above. ‘Like I said, it was a snap decision. You can never be sure it’s a pooka and not the real person – and the old dear sounded absolutely terrified when I went at her with the knife. “No, Mícheál, no, it’s Nana, don’t hurt me!” But I asked myself, what would the old lady be doing down here in the otherworld? And as soon as I had her throat cut ear to ear, the pooka turned back into her natural form. I was sweating with relief, so I was! Big as a bull, horns and all – black blood spurting everywhere. I stank of it for a week. So make sure to remember – if you see someone you love from the human world wandering around down here, definitely kill them. Anyone you know but don’t love, probably kill them anyway – the pooka might just have it wrong about how much you care. Strangers are OK.’

  Trying to be polite, Aoife said, ‘I’ll remember. Is this the way to Falias?’

  With a sigh, the man said, ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a one-track mind? Yes, this is the way to Falias.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She set off down the steps. The flow of blood from her hand was lessening now – still dripping silver drops that glimmered like fallen sequins, but shedding very little light. She should get as far as she could while she could still see.

  The man shouted anxiously after her, ‘Stop! Wait!’

  She called back in exasperation, ‘I can’t – I have to save a boy I know! He’s been stolen by a demon girl!’

  ‘You’ll never find him if you go on alone!’

  She slowed, looking over her shoulder. The man was pulling a small copper lamp from his pocket; he struck a match neatly off the wall, replacing the gathering black with a flickering orange. ‘I don’t know a thing about demon girls, but I do know all about pookas, and you’re fair set to get eaten by one if you go on alone. I know every inch of this road myself, so usually I save the candle. But for you, I’ll make an exception.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She started to descend again.

  ‘Hold your horses!’ He bounced down towards her on his plump bottom. ‘Let me go first – the road divides a lot, and if you go the wrong way, you’ll end up in a pooka’s nest, being reborn as a pooka baby. ’Tis a fate worse than death.’ As she moved aside to let him squeeze past her, he paused, awkwardly leaning on one elbow, holding out his hand. ‘Name’s Mícheál Costello. I’m sorry to hear about your boy . . . It’s hard to break your human ties, isn’t it, even though we’re not supposed to sneak back home?’

  ‘Aoife O’Connor.’ She was beginning to like this little man, despite his frustrating, time-wasting chattiness. She held out her left hand; the one not still dripping little splashes of silver blood. ‘And I don’t break my ties to anyone – human or fairy.’

  He grinned and nodded. ‘Fair play to you, girleen. And I’m Mícheál Costello, and I won’t be betraying you to anyone either, for using the secret ways.’ He took her hand and shook it. His palm was calloused with hard work; perhaps in his previous life he had been a farmer. Then he turned over onto his stomach, and – lantern raised in his left hand – began half scrambling, half sliding backwards down the steps, remarkably fast for a small, fat man, changeling or not. He called up to her, ‘It’s not an easy road, this one. Stick close to me and watch where I put my feet!’

  Aoife also turned on her front and followed in the same way. It was far easier with the lamp below her, its light glancing off the walls. Also, by mimicking his movements, she could find the least slippery places for her feet.

  I’m coming, Shay!

  But then they were stopping again – the sack of party food had been left lying against the wall, and Mícheál had paused to sling it over his shoulder, grunting at the weight, gripping it in the same hand as the lantern to leave his other hand free. Before continuing, he looked back up at her, small bright eyes blinking.

  ‘Just to let you know, I wouldn’t have left your body lying cold on the
stairs for any passing pooka to eat. If I’d killed you and you’d turned out to be yourself, not a pooka, I would have taken you out into the forest and buried you deep enough for nothing nasty to dig you up, and you’d have been reborn as yourself some day, after being a butterfly or a bird.’

  ‘Thank you, I appreciate it. Can we—?’

  ‘I know it might seem mad to you, big men needing their little treats so much they’re prepared to be killed by a pooka getting them and maybe risk killing their own grandmother . . .’

  Was he ever, ever going to stop talking? ‘I don’t think it’s mad. Can we go now, please?’

  He shook his head, grimacing. ‘You do think it’s mad. And so do I. But we can’t help still loving our Kimberleys and our Taytos, and our Barry’s Tea. I suppose it’s the taste of childhood, somehow. The things our human mothers gave us.’ And shouldering his black plastic sack of childhood memories, Mícheál Costello carried on sliding down into the dark.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Aoife was glad she’d waited for him. The staircase divided at least fifty times, but each time – left or right – Mícheál Costello seemed confident about which way to go. And mercifully, he didn’t stop to talk again, seemingly saving his breath for the long descent – although nimble enough, the little man was already panting heavily. Despite the increased speed, it still felt like they’d been sliding for hours before he gasped up to her, ‘Nearly there!’

  ‘Oh, thank God.’

  A green glittering mist was rolling up to meet them and the steps had got wider and less steep. Mícheál Costello rolled over into a sitting position, reorganized his sack and lamp, and carried on down on foot, saying breathlessly over his shoulder, ‘And all without meeting a pooka, thanks be to Danu.’

  Aoife hurried eagerly after him. ‘Falias?’

  ‘Ah no, we’ve a small bit to go yet, before the city.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘A week’s walk, if you want to go it alone.’

  ‘A week?’ Tears of horror rushed into Aoife eyes. Even if she found Shay in Falias, two years would have already passed in the surface world . . .

  ‘But stay with me, and I’ll get you there in a day.’

  ‘A day . . . Oh God . . .’ Better, but the disappointment was still crushing.

  The little man glanced back at her in exasperation. ‘Be grateful, girleen. It’s the best offer you’re going to get – they don’t do trains in the Land of the Young.’ And he would say no more.

  After another turn, the staircase became a short, sandy passageway; the green vapour was pouring in through a low arched opening just ahead of them. The man dropped to his hands and knees, disappearing into the mist. ‘Mind your head!’ Hunkering down, Aoife crept after him, and when she stood up again on the far side of the arch, his plump little figure was wading away through the mist, which was only knee-deep. They were in an underground cavern now, down the centre of which ran the source of the sparkling green haze – a river of phosphorescence, which poured out from under a high protrusion of rock some distance off, ran the entire length of the cavern and flowed out again under another, similar, shelf. Lying low in the river, barely visible in the thick vapour rolling off the water, was a long green-painted boat, its prow carved in the likeness of a cooshee’s head.

  Aoife felt light with relief as she ran to admire the neat fifteen-footer. ‘A boat – and it’s beautiful!’ It was – there were green silk cushions on all its seats and two sets of long, strong mahogany oars.

  The small man beamed at her proudly, patting the cooshee figurehead’s snarling snout as if it were a real fairy dog rather than a wooden carving with white alabaster stones for eyes and gold-painted teeth. ‘Like her? I bought her off a man in Falias for six packets of Kimberleys, ten boxes of Barry’s and a six-pack of cheese and onion Taytos. She’s magic as well as beautiful. She knows her own way home to Falias, and she fixes herself if she gets a leak.’

  ‘And I have a special power that will help us get there much sooner than a day! I can make boats, cars – anything – go really fast!’

  He nodded brightly. ‘Grand stuff, girleen. Speed is a handy power to be having.’ But instead of stepping aboard, he leaned in over the side of the boat and lifted out a bundle of sticks, quickly arranging them into a small pyramid on the bank.

  Aoife, already preparing to untie the rope by which the stern was tightly tethered to a thin stalagmite, stared in shock. ‘Hey, what are you doing?’

  ‘Don’t worry, we can jump in and cast off if a pooka appears. They hate the water, it burns them up – just like this!’ He tilted the candle of his lamp to kindle the sticks, and the little pile crackled up in flames.

  ‘No, but . . . Why are you lighting a fire?’

  He reached into the boat again, and took out a small copper pan, which he dipped into the river. ‘Tea-break. I’ve been promising myself a nice cup of Barry’s and a couple of biscuits all the way down from the surface.’

  ‘What . . . No . . . What? I’m in a hurry!’

  ‘So you keep telling me, girleen.’ Mícheál set the pan of green, glittering water on the fire. ‘But there’ll be no hurrying on my account until after I’ve had me tea, so if you want to go by boat rather than walk for a week, I suggest you stop complaining and join me.’

  ‘Oh God . . .’

  ‘Don’t let the colour of the water put you off – she makes a lovely brew. Reminds me of the tea we used to make out of the black bog water when we were above in the Glen, cutting the turf.’

  She seized on this fact of geography to stir his compassion. ‘The boy I’m looking for is from near the Glen!’

  At last the little man looked up from poking the fire. His small bright eyes were round with surprise. ‘Well, I’ll be . . . What’s the name?’

  ‘He’s a Foley!’

  The man’s interest faded slightly. ‘That’s not near the Glen – the Foleys are from the next valley. Anyways, it makes no difference – if you’re going demon-hunting, you’ll manage a whole lot better with a nice cup of Barry’s and a few biscuits inside you.’ And he pulled out of his sack in quick succession: a clay mug, a box of tea bags, milk, sugar and the already open packet of Kimberleys, which he held out to Aoife. ‘Come on, cheer yourself up.’

  Aoife surrendered; she moved closer to the fire, taking the packet of biscuits from him, saying miserably, ‘Thank you.’ It was obvious that whatever she tried, they were going nowhere until Mícheál Costello’s tea break was over – yet sticking with him was clearly her best, and maybe only, option. Also, there was no avoiding the fact that she was very, very hungry. Starving. Maybe he was right – she’d run better on a little basic fuel.

  While he was blowing on the fire to get the water boiling, Aoife rapidly ate her way through the soft marshmallow biscuits – crouching by the boat, looking around the cavern. Up-lit by the peculiar light of the glittering mist, stalactites dripped from the roof, meeting stalagmites to form giant wasp-waisted columns. The cavern walls were lined with shadowy archways of various heights; within were ghostly glimpses of other stairways, some leading up and others down.

  ‘Danu’s sake!’ On a high note of alarm, Mícheál grabbed the Kimberleys off her, and handed her a packet of Rich Tea instead. ‘Have these if you’re that hungry! Them Kimberleys are a big favourite and the brothers won’t be thanking me if I arrive back with none left.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Unable to stop eating now she’d started, Aoife stuffed three of plainer biscuits into her mouth one after the other, and then another three.

  Mícheál huffed and puffed, tucking the packet of Kimberleys away into the sack. ‘Umph. You’re grand, but you can thank Danu it was me you ran into and not some other smuggler – there’s many who would have lost their temper entirely over a Kimberley. Lucky for you, I’m a reasonable chap. Too reasonable, to be honest – I know the other lads call me soft behind my back. They’d not be overly pleased with me for not killing you in the first place. No one’s supposed to know a
bout the secret ways but us smugglers.’

  ‘Really?’ So the rumours were true – she might indeed have died in that black hole, so far from saving Shay. ‘Then thanks for not trying to kill me. At least, after you realized I wasn’t a pooka.’

  ‘No problem. Just don’t touch the ice cream. Wee Peter’s very, very fond of his ice cream. Lovely, lovely man – but not if you mess with his ice cream.’

  She crammed in another biscuit. ‘You smuggle ice cream?’

  ‘I do.’ He sounded smug.

  She couldn’t help but be interested. ‘Doesn’t it melt?’

  ‘Nope. Keeping things cold is my special power.’ He ripped the cellophane off a box of Barry’s Tea, threw six bags into the boiling pan, added milk and sugar, poured out a cup and passed it to Aoife, saying, ‘There now, take that and I’ll drink from the pan . . . Mary, Mother of God, a pooka!’

  From somewhere deep within the walls of the chapel had risen a wild, ghostly wail. The little man shot upright, staring around fiercely with his small eyes. Aoife did the same, hairs prickling up her arms. The wail died away. The pale green mist flowed up and down the many staircases, faintly visible through the shadowy archways. The two of them remained on their feet – tense, listening. But apart from the soft whispering of the water, all was now silence.

  Mícheál Costello relaxed. ‘Don’t worry, I’d say we’re grand – I’d say it’s gone another— Mother of God!’

  Again, the wordless, heart-wrenching cry – much closer now, high and trembling, shrieking out from within the cavern’s walls.