With an irritated sigh, Mícheál threw aside the dregs of his tea, and began packing up the tea things into his sack. ‘Grand, you’ve got your wish, girleen – we’re moving on. Get in and I’ll untie us.’ He kicked the glowing embers of the fire into the river, where they fizzed and sank, and stashed away the plastic sack in a small hold in the stern of the boat. Relieved, Aoife climbed in and sat on one of the centre seats, looking towards the dark exits in the walls as she waited for Mícheál to cast off. There was no repeated wail. The mist ebbed in and out of the archways like a sparkling green tide flowing into many caves. Crouching by the stalagmite, Mícheál was muttering to himself, ‘Come on, come on . . .’ He wasn’t having an easy time with the knot – it had been drawn tight as the boat strained to go with the current. He fumbled impatiently at it, with square, calloused fingers. ‘Mary and Joseph . . .’
Was that a slight movement?
She whispered, ‘Mícheál.’
The small man looked up sharply. ‘What?’
‘Over there . . .’
‘Where?’
‘There.’ It was only a shadow in the lurid low-lying mist, but she was sure some creature was crawling on its belly, out from under the arch from which they themselves had emerged a short while ago. With a gasp, Mícheál Costello saw it too – he jumped into the boat and dragged Aoife down beside him. Then raised his head a few centimetres to peer over the side with his round, bright eyes.
‘Hmm. Small. Either a baby pooka, or it’s in human form already. Damn that knot – we could have been gone by now. ’
The creature was getting slowly to its feet out of the low-lying mist. Aoife caught her breath. ‘Oh God . . .’
The little man stiffened, whipping out his long knife. ‘Who is it? That boy you’re chasing after?’
‘No . . .’
He whistled quietly. ‘Ah, I see her now! A girl – and a pretty one.’
‘But it’s impossible . . . It can’t be . . .’
‘Your sister?’
‘My best friend – but don’t do anything yet, supposing she really—’
He shook his head with grim satisfaction. ‘Nope, the more you love ’em, the more certain it’s a pooka. Right, this is what we’re going to do: we’re going to work as a team. Pretend you’re glad to see her and call her over, then I’ll leap up and cut her throat.’ He winked encouragement, testing the blade of his knife with his thumb. ‘Come on, don’t look so worried – it’s not your friend. How could anyone have found their way down all those twists and turns without a guide? Call her!’
Heart pounding, Aoife steeled herself to lure Carla to her doom. Mícheál was right – and it wasn’t just the impossibility of Carla negotiating all those dividing stairways on her own. Carla was terrified of the dark. How could she have summoned up the courage to follow Aoife in the first place? Through a graveyard, into an open tomb . . . No. There could be only one explanation. Behind that dear, familiar face were the sharp, hideous horns, the twisted claws, the hideous tooth-crammed mouth of a pooka.
Cautiously Aoife took another peek over the side.
The pooka that was Carla looked muddy, dishevelled and very scared. She was still wearing her mouse ears, and also the Superdry jacket which the real Carla had gone to find in the parish hall. Her expensive make-up was in ruins. Peering through the mist in the direction of the boat, clearly attracted by the movement of Aoife’s head, she began crying out in a wavering voice, ‘Aoife? Is that you?’
The little man hissed urgently in Aoife’s ear, ‘Go on! Speak to her! Call her over, and then I’ll have her.’
‘Aoife? If that’s you in the boat, please don’t hide from me – it’s not funny. I’ve come such a long way to find you, and I thought there were ghosts and my phone broke and I’ve been so scared in the dark . . .’ The voice that sounded so much like Carla’s was cracking with fear; she was drawing nearer to the river.
Bristling with excitement, Mícheál whispered, ‘Here she comes now! As soon as she’s in slashing distance—’
‘But supposing she really is—’
‘Do it! Then I’ll slice her throat from ear to ear!’
Aoife’s mental image of the pooka was instantly swept aside by the even more hideous mental image of Carla lying dead with her throat cut, and she made her own snap decision. Rising to her knees, she screamed, ‘If you’re really Carla, go back the way you came! You’re in terrible danger!’
Carla’s scared face transformed with joy – she rushed towards the boat with her arms held out. ‘There you are, thank God! Why did you run off on me? I’ve been so afraid!’
‘No! Listen to me! Don’t come any further!’
‘Come closer, my dear!’ Mícheál Costello shot to his feet, a ghastly parody of a welcoming smile on his plump face, his knife held behind his back. ‘Do come and join us! I’ve heard so much about you from your lovely best friend here!’
The small man succeeded spectacularly where Aoife had failed – Carla stopped dead where she was, looking in horror from one to the other of them. ‘Aoife, what are you doing here with that lunatic?’
‘Carla, I’m begging you! If you really are you, go home! Now.’
But the pooka – or Carla – took another step forwards, her face setting into an expression of terrified determination. ‘Has this man kidnapped you?’
Mícheál Costello had his foot on the rim of the boat now, grinning and beckoning with his free hand in a way that could only be described as creepy. ‘Come closer to us, Aoife’s best friend. Closer, closer.’
Aoife gripped him by the back of his jacket. ‘No, wait – I don’t think—’
‘Closer, little friend!’
Carla pulled out her phone (which looked extremely broken), took yet another step towards them and announced in a high, strained voice: ‘You let my best friend out of that boat – the guards are on their way and I’m calling them again right now!’
Suddenly shedding his jacket, Mícheál Costello sprang from the boat and raced towards the girl with his knife raised above his head, howling, ‘Die! Die, ya filthy rotten—!’
Cowering, Carla screamed, ‘Oh my God!’
‘NO!’ Leaping from the boat, Aoife threw herself upon the little man, bringing him crashing to the floor.
‘I don’t want to die!’ shrieked Carla.
‘That’s what my grandmother said!’ roared Mícheál Costello, still wriggling forwards on his elbows, desperately reaching for his knife as it skittered away from him into the mist. ‘Before she tried to bite my head off!’
‘Stop! Stop!’ Aoife clung fiercely to his plump legs. ‘She’s not your grandmother! Look at her! She hasn’t changed!’
‘I’m not your grandmother!’ wept Carla, who by now was obviously – surely, even to the most paranoid of pooka hunters – just a teenage girl in paroxysms of real terror. ‘Please don’t kill me! Please, please, please, please, please . . .’
‘SHE’S NOT A POOKA!’
‘Oh, for . . .’ But the little man had stopped struggling. He said irritably, ‘Danu’s sake, I guess you’re right. If this one was going to bite my head off, she’d have done it by now.’
Aoife still clung on. ‘You promise not to do anything? You really mean it – I’m right?’
‘Yes, yes, you’re right. Now let go of my legs – this is extremely embarrassing.’
She released him with great caution, but all he did was sit up, adjusting his comb-over and saying grumpily, ‘And by the way, when I say you were right, even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and I hope you know that was a completely unjustifiable risk to take on the battlefield, and if we’re going to keep journeying together, then next time you have to let me do what I have to do, or our partnership is over and you can walk the rest of the way.’
Aoife was already kneeling at Carla’s side, hugging her distraught friend. ‘Darling, you can relax now – everything’s fine, you’re safe. Mícheál’s very sorry—’
‘He tried
to kill me!’
‘Ssh, ssh, everything’s fine – he thought you were a shape-shifter just pretending to be you—’
‘He’s a delusional psycho!’
‘He’s not – relax, please. Here, give me a hug, you poor thing . . .’
Slowly, while Aoife held her tight (and Mícheál Costello sat with his back to them in the boat, trying not to look guilty, and stuffing his face with biscuits), Carla’s shrieks ebbed to moans, although mainly because her voice was simply giving up.
But then a different voice chimed in. ‘Carlie? Can I have a hug too?’
At the sound of that high, sweet voice, Carla broke away from Aoife’s embrace and twisted round to stare behind her, choking out in disbelief: ‘Zoe?’
The little girl was leaning in one of the many archways along the walls – although not the one which led to the surface. She was wearing a fluffy white baby-lamb onesie – a miniature of the one beloved by her big sister – and she was smiling and sucking her thumb.
(‘Zoe?’ said Aoife, stunned.)
‘Zoe?’ Carla rose to her knees. ‘Oh my God, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with Mam at Nan’s house—’
Aoife snapped out of her stupor. ‘Don’t touch her! Mícheál, cast off!’
‘Hug me, Carlie!’ The little girl had left the shelter of the archway and was trotting trustfully towards her big sister, offering up her arms for an embrace. ‘Give me a hug!’
Mícheál was wrestling wildly with the knot as Aoife dragged a freshly screaming Carla backwards into the boat. He howled, ‘I can’t undo it! I’ve lost my knife! Ah, sweet Danu . . .’
Carla fought furiously to get out of the boat. ‘Let me out – you’re crazy – what are you doing, it’s Zoe!’
‘Stay down!’ Holding the human girl back with one hand, Aoife leaned at full stretch towards the rope. If her power could work on locks . . . The loop at the far end of the rope unravelled and the boat swung violently out into the centre of the current.
‘Thank Danu!’ panted Mícheál Costello, seizing a pair of oars and starting to row vigorously, sending the boat shooting down the centre of the current.
The little girl in her baby-lamb onesie was racing along the bank beside them, smiling and waving. ‘Carlie, don’t you love me? Give me a hug!’
Carla made a frantic effort to throw herself over the side into the river. ‘Stop the boat! Aoife, I’m begging you – it’s Zoe, we can’t leave her, she’ll never find her way home, you’ve known her since she was a little baby, she loves you . . .’
Aoife threw her arms around Carla’s waist, hauling her back. ‘It’s not Zoe, it can’t possibly be her – she’s at your nan’s house, ages away from Kilduff!’
‘It’s Zoe!’
‘It’s a shape-shifter!’
‘Aoife, this shape-shifting thing is a delusion! You and that lunatic are both mentally ill! Let me go! Zoe!’
Between the current and Mícheál Costello’s furious rowing, the boat was rapidly gathering pace. The little girl was having to run faster now – very, very fast for a four-year-old. ‘Carlie? Don’t you love me? Give me a hug!’
‘I’m not going anywhere without you!’ Carla hung desperately out over the side of the boat, reaching out. ‘Get to that rock up ahead as fast as you can! Climb! You can jump into the boat!’
The little girl glanced where Carla was pointing – and her brown eyes widened with sudden understanding. Despite the shortness of her plump legs, she put on an astonishing burst of speed, racing ahead of the boat towards the rocky shelf under which the fast-flowing river left the cavern. Seeing what was happening, Mícheál Costello tried desperately to row faster, to beat the child to the exit. He roared at Aoife, ‘Get the other oars!’
Aoife scrambled for them, but it was too late – the little girl had already gained the rocky overhang, and was leaping and scrambling up it like a mountain goat.
‘Danu help us, Danu help us!’ Now Mícheál was trying to turn the boat and, with Aoife’s inexpert help, he actually succeeded – but it made no difference: the current was stronger than their combined efforts, and swept them on, stern first, towards the overhang where the child stood poised, thumb in her mouth again, looking anxiously at the fast-flowing river beneath her feet. With a war-like cry, Mícheál rushed past Aoife and fell to his knees in the stern, clutching one of the oars like a weapon under his arm, resting the shaft of it on the back of the boat like a knight in a tournament going in to joust, his comb-over blowing behind him like a bright flag of war. In his panic, he was now praying to another God, more familiar from his human days: ‘Our Father who art in Heaven . . . Deliver us from evil . . .’
Aoife, on her feet, raised her hands above her head, willing a bolt of power to blast from her fingers, to knock the tiny child from her high perch. Snap decision. Come on . . . She could feel the power growing in her hands and arms, bubbling, ready to burst out . . . And yet . . . And yet . . . This is Zoe . . . I’ve known her since she was a little baby . . . I can’t kill Zoe . . .
The child wept shrilly, ‘Carlie! I’m scared of the water! Where are you going? Don’t leave me!’
Carla pushed past Aoife, screaming: ‘Zoe, jump as we pass under! I’ll catch you!’
‘I can’t! I might fall in!’
‘You can swim, you know you can, I taught you myself! Jump!’
‘I can’t!’ But with a terrified cry, Zoe jumped.
The transformation happened in mid-air. The lamb onesie ripped apart, and from its scattering fragments burst a monstrous creature with curved horns and massive claws, thickly covered in black fur; deep scarlet eyes burned on either side of its blunt snout; its gaping mouth appeared to have no tongue but instead was crammed top and bottom, as far back as its throat, with row upon row of thin, triangular teeth like a monstrous cheese-grater . . . It came crashing down on the boat, then screamed with rage as it put its clawed foot straight through the side into the water. The boat lurched. Carla rolled howling under a seat. Mícheál Costello was on his feet, swinging the oar like a hurley stick. The pooka knocked it aside, then grabbed him by the front of his shirt with one clawed hand, opening its vast jaw wide, cramming the little man’s head into its maw, the red threads of his comb-over catching in its serrated rows of teeth.
Aoife’s power burst out of her, slamming the pooka full in its chest. With a roar, it threw the man to the floor and sprang over his body towards her. She hit it with a second, lesser, bolt of power, then – as the beast staggered – snatched up her own oar and ran forwards, thrusting it against the mighty chest. Off-balance, the pooka crashed backwards into the river, sending up a fountain of green spray – and there it rolled, screaming in agony, thrashing, buckled arms and legs pounding the water. It was as if it had fallen in a bath of acid. Its thick black hair was peeling off in handfuls, clumps of it swirling away on the surface of the water. The boat slid on, turning in the current. The pooka, howling in agony, grabbed for the cooshee figurehead on the prow, but Aoife pivoted on one foot and slashed down with the blade of the oar, slicing off three massive claws, black blood spurting. Yowling, the monster grabbed for the side of the boat with its other clawed hand, trying to haul itself aboard. But Carla was beside Aoife now, on her feet, wielding an oar of her own – together, they battered at the monster’s ghastly face from which the rest of the hair was sliding away, leaving only black, bubbling, melting flesh behind. The current swung the boat right round. The dying pooka grabbed for the rope trailing from the stern, missed, and disappeared face down in the water with a despairing cry.
And Aoife pulled Carla to the floor just in time to avoid being slammed clean out of the craft as it rushed under the overhanging rock into darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
For the next few seconds Aoife just lay holding Carla against her, huddled under the prow. The shaking girl clung to her in stricken, panting silence as the boat rushed smoothly on, carried by the fast-flowing current. The tunnel they were passing through
was very narrow; the walls flashed by centimetres from the gunwales, and the roof hung so low above them that Aoife could have touched it by reaching up a hand. The phosphorescence glittered off the wet curved rock, enclosing them in a cylinder of flickering green.
Slowly Aoife’s heart and mind steadied.
At least they were on the move again. And in the right direction – Mícheál had said the boat knew its own way to Falias. She could hear the little man behind her, muttering quietly to himself in the stern. She should go back and make sure he was not too badly injured. After that, when she’d recovered her strength from the encounter with the monster, she would concentrate on making the boat go faster – driving it on with the power of her mind.
Shay, I’m coming to find you.
Although . . .
A desperate, frustrating realization. She couldn’t bring Carla with her on such a dangerous journey. Before she went any further, she had to get her best friend home – right now. It was a miracle the human girl hadn’t been killed already.
She closed her eyes and spoke to him in her head. Forgive me, Shay, but I can’t keep Carla from her family for months on end, maybe for ever, and I can’t have her risk her life for you. I’ll be as quick as I can, I swear.
And then, still with her eyes closed, she focused on her power to control the speed of any vehicle. Could she put the boat in reverse? She thought strongly: Go back. In response, the boat merely rushed on a little faster. Perhaps it needed room to turn – how much further would they have to go for that? She needed to check with Mícheál.
Carla wailed suddenly against her neck, ‘Oh my God, what just happened and where is this place? What happened to Zoe?’
Aoife hugged her tighter, smoothing the glossy hair. ‘Ssh. That wasn’t Zoe. That was a shape-shifting monster that looked like Zoe. The real Zoe’s with your mam at your nan’s house.’
‘I can’t believe it, it’s impossible, you went down through a grave . . .’
‘I’ll explain everything, I promise. Look, will you be OK by yourself just for a moment?’
The Dark Beloved Page 17