The blast of Aoife’s power caught him full in the chest, where the cooshee claws fastened the fur across his heart, but to her shock he barely staggered. Her second blast didn’t even wipe the smile from his half-hidden face, and before she could even summon a third, he had seized her wrist with terrible, unnatural strength, while continuing to quaver upwards, ‘Here, birdie! Here, birdie!’
’Aoife!’ Carla came racing round the curve of the avenue, with Ultan right behind her.
Aoife screamed as the zookeeper dragged her away down the avenue. ‘Carla, run! Ultan, get Carla back to the house!’
He grabbed hold of the human girl and brought her to a halt, but for a moment stayed hesitating between doing as Aoife asked and coming on to rescue her instead . . . The sluagh was spiralling downwards, its beaked head jabbing in all directions, seeking the source of the cry.
‘Ultan, go! I can look after myself!’
Like a helicopter landing, the whoop of leathery wings was shaking the bower of white flowers, sending clouds of petals whirling. Ultan – with a horrified glance upwards – unfroze, grabbed Carla off her feet and ran with her back up the avenue as she beat on his plump shoulders with her fists, shrieking, ‘No, put me down!’ Then, just as they disappeared: ‘I wish we were both safe home!’
Instant terror flooded Aoife’s heart. No, no . . . Her arms were pricking, as if pins were being forced through her skin from the inside out; within her body, the sinking drop in pressure . . . No, not me, not me, don’t wish me home . . . Eyes closed, staggering, she fought the sick sensation of the wish being dragged from her reluctant body, like a long ribbon drawn out of her heart. No, please, God, please, Carla, stop, you go, don’t take me, I’ll never find my way back here in time to save Shay . . . And then the mists cleared, and to her relief she was still in the scented avenue of flowers, and still being hustled away by the zookeeper, who was grasping her arm with brutal strength. She craned to look over her shoulder – the avenue was empty and, high above in the hazy golden air, the sluagh was already corkscrewing back up towards the shimmering tower with a bough of roses clutched in its foul claws.
A vicious yank at her arm. ‘Wish-granting, my queen?’ Seán Burke was peering suspiciously out at her from inside the cooshee head. ‘Surely that wasn’t a human girl?’
Still nauseous, Aoife panted, ‘Of course she wasn’t a human – do you think she’d survive here one second if she was? Anyway, I didn’t grant a wish. If I had, I wouldn’t be here, would I?’ (Please God, I granted the wish ‘quair’, as Ultan’s mam would say. Please, Carla, be safely home.)
‘Hmm . . . That’s true. She did wish for you both to be gone home, and you’d hardly pass up a chance to grant that one, I’d say!’ But still he looked puzzled – tapping the knob of his walking stick thoughtfully against the cooshee’s long thin snout, causing the blind white eyes to leak more jellied tears. ‘The druids would be very interested to know if there was a teenage human girl in town. The Beloved promised them one for their festival, only he forgot for some reason. Too busy, I expect. The druids were very disappointed – can’t say as I understand why. Ye teenage girls are abominable creatures – worse than banshees.’
Aoife’s flesh was crawling at the feel of his horrible bony little hand clutching her arm, sliding around beneath the fur of the dead dog. They were nearing the gate, but the fairy power was building up in her veins again. She steeled herself to shake him off and push him out into the street and slam the gate behind him. This time I’m prepared, I’ll smash him . . .
‘Such a shame your little friends turned traitor,’ said Seán Burke, grinning at her from behind his visor of cooshee teeth. ‘But sure, if you “come quietly”, as the guards say, then I won’t have this ridiculous palace turned upside down and your big ugly stupid changeling friend – what was her name? Caitlin McGreevey? – and that fat fool Ultan McNeal fed to those hungry dogs you prize so much. And on the off-chance there is a human girl in their company, I won’t have her delivered to the druids tied up in a big pink satin bow . . . Or will I? Oh, that’s so much better, my queen! You’re actually quite lovely for a teenage girl when you remember to behave yourself – just like your mother!’
When Aoife emerged on the zookeeper’s arm – walking tall with fury, her long red-gold hair flying loose and turquoise eyes snapping – there was still a hopeful crowd of changelings sitting against the wall opposite Caitlin’s gate. At the sight of her a surprised buzz ran along the row; heads jerked up; a couple rose to their feet. But remembering Wee Peter’s contempt for those who encouraged the ‘little people’ to risk their lives for queen and glory, Aoife jerked up the red shawl to cover her face and ducked her head to make herself seem more of a height with the chortling Seán Burke as he hurried her away.
CHAPTER TEN
The church bell she had first heard in the distance from Caitlin and Ultan’s courtyard sounded much louder now. Ding, dong . . . A vibrant steady clanging, rising from the heart of the city. Ding, dong . . . The sound-waves almost visibly rippling through the blue-gold hazy air.
With inexplicable strength, the old man hustled Aoife on down the long, curving, marble-cobbled streets. The hot sun was high, and their shadows were short and black. The scent of fruit and flowers was strong. Small birds were gathered on windowsills and roofs, but silently. A few teenage changelings lurked in the crystal doorways, but none seemed interested in her or the zookeeper – their faces were turned towards the centre of the pyramid city, listening intently to the bell tolling.
Hugging her elbow and grinning up at her, the old man was saying chattily, ‘Rather an imposition on us fairies, don’t you think, the way a human can demand three wishes from us? When we go to war against the surface world, we’d better hope not too many of them know about it. Imagine if a fairy said to a human, “I’m going to kill you,” and the human said, “I wish you wouldn’t.” Terrible source of confusion.’
Aoife said fiercely, ‘Nobody’s going to war.’
The zookeeper guffawed, jerking painfully at her arm. ‘Oh yes we are, my queen! There are great plans for war! A grand alliance, between life and death! The worship of roots and shoots, brought into step with the worship of the lead-lined coffin! Changelings alongside the mighty dullahans! The beasts of the wilderness unleashed! Talking of beasts, what do you think of my magic armour?’ He glanced proudly down at his furry dark green costume, with its yellow claw toggles. ‘The power of a cooshee coat is wonderful protection, even if it’s not the cooshee itself that’s wearing it.’
So that was the source of his newfound power – it was stolen from the cooshee he had murdered. It made complete and revelatory sense: the last time Aoife’s own power had failed her so dramatically, it was when she’d attacked a living cooshee. Through clenched teeth, she said furiously, ‘Assassin.’
He laughed, delighted. ‘Ah, now, don’t be churlish, my queen – I was acting in self-defence! The youngest was after being very noisy and aggressive.’
The youngest. She fought not to sob, not to show weakness. ‘I left them in your care. You said you’d look after them.’
He grinned, peering at her out of the depths of the cooshee head. ‘But I am looking after them, my queen. The others are very well-fed today, thanks to our enormous friend, the hilariously nicknamed “Wee Peter”.’
For a childish, unguarded moment she imagined her poor hungry dogs being fed on crisps and Kimberleys and exclaimed in disgust, ‘Cooshees can’t live on junk food!’
He howled with mirth. ‘Junk food? Is that your opinion of Peter Joseph? Myself, I thought he’d make a healthy mouthful – but maybe you’re right; maybe he was more fat than meat. And bone marrow.’
Aoife’s stomach lurched. She choked out, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Ugh, these incredibly sharp cooshee teeth keep digging into my poor old face!’ Seán Burke adjusted the heavy cooshee skull over his own balding cranium, pushing the elongated jaws further forward to get the sharp yellow inciso
rs away from his cheeks. He set the whole thing back slightly crooked, so that the dog’s long green snout ended up twisted slightly towards Aoife, its white, weeping eyes fixed on hers.
‘What did you do to Wee Peter?’ She was hissing her rage at the zookeeper, but the cooshee’s skull trembled from side to side, and for a weird, irrational moment she felt like patting her youngest dog on the head and saying: I didn’t mean you, I know it wasn’t you.
Seán Burke blinked at her from inside its parted jaws: ‘Oh . . . What? Oh, sorry, my queen, excuse the mind of an old man. I was distracted by the thought of cooshee teeth and how very, very sharp they are . . .’ He laughed again. ‘As indeed, was Peter Joseph! Yes indeed – very distracted when he saw those teeth – and still attached to their rightful owners! But still he refused to apologize for letting you escape; nor would he redeem himself by joining the hunt for you. I warned him it would be mightily unpleasant to be reborn as a cooshee puppy – that he wouldn’t be himself at all, but would take its dark heart for his own, and carry it with him afterwards, into the future. But apparently someone had told him that he would remain his own true self, whatever happened to him.’
‘Oh, you disgusting, evil, wicked— You monster!’ But Aoife’s heart was swollen sick with guilt. Peter had refused to hunt her down – and he wasn’t even a follower of queens. Why had she told him it didn’t matter how he died? It wasn’t even as if she really knew – she’d only had a feeling that it had to be true; that however a fairy was transformed, it would not destroy their basic nature. All because of the sweetness of some stupid apples growing on a dead child’s grave . . .
Seán Burke was saying chippily, ‘Ha! Me, a monster? Personally, I blame whoever told Peter Joseph that utter nonsense about a clean rebirth, and gave him the stupid courage to face a cage of half a dozen ravenous cooshees . . . They still have a lot of very big bones to chew on— Danu’s sake, what’s going on here?’
Their progress had been brought to a sudden standstill by a procession of banshees pouring out of one of the steep alleyways. The tall, beautiful women had their crimson hoods thrown back, and their long hair – a deep, dark red – flowed freely to their knees. Most of them were cradling human babies – the ones they had stolen from the surface world, replacing them in their cradles with fairy children like Aoife herself.
Ahead, the dull, monotonous bell was still ringing – even louder and closer now. Boom, boom, boom . . .
The zookeeper was tapping his stick impatiently on the cobbles. ‘Ah, that’s where they’re headed – the temple, for the harvest festival. It happens every seventh year, when the fabric between the worlds is at its thinnest. Come, my queen, we’ll take another way to the zoo. You asked to see Dorocha? Well, you’re in luck! I have a delightful bedroom set aside for you, with humble servants to wait on you hand and foot until your Beloved returns from his travels.’ He dragged her away towards a set of steps cutting downwards to the left, but before they had begun their descent, a group of the black-robed dullahans came up the same steps and glided straight past the two of them – pushing on down the street through the crimson-cloaked throng, which parted as if even the banshees found them untouchable.
The zookeeper turned to watch, intrigued. ‘Where are they off to when they should be minding the shop? Lads! Hey, lads!’ But the crimson cloaks were closing in again, behind the black.
Jerking Aoife round, Seán Burke began shoving his way after the dullahans, swinging his stick to create space. ‘If the lads are off to the Festival of the Dead, we might take a peek ourselves. Sure, we might even enjoy it! What else have we to do to amuse ourselves in paradise? Besides, it will be an education for you, my queen. Observe how the other half worships – not the followers of the Goddess Danu, such as ourselves, but the followers of Death and the Dark Man. This is their cry: Long Live Death! You might get to hear it, and don’t forget to stand up when you do . . .’
A sudden hope flamed within Aoife, and instead of dragging against his arm, she quickened her pace, helping him force his way through the banshee throng. ‘Would the druids know about the House of the Dead?’
‘The druids know many things, but they don’t tell the likes of me.’
‘If I ask them?’
He chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t go near them today! And while we’re on the subject, keep your face covered in the temple – this isn’t a festival for the followers of Danu. Pull up that red shawl, then you’ll look like a banshee yourself – and I can be your wild beast. Ha, ha – woof, woof! Though I refuse to go on all fours!’ Seán Burke tugged his cooshee helmet forward as far as it would go, so that his own face disappeared entirely between the upper and lower jaws of the dark green snout. ‘Woof, woof!’ He must have turned to look at her from inside the head, because the white eyes of the dog swung towards her, dripping their tears down each side of the snout; the dog’s upper lip was drawn back over its thin yellow teeth in a stiff, sad smile.
The banshees paid no attention as Aoife and the old man merged into the throng – their dark eyes were fixed too closely on the stolen babies, which they held wrapped tenderly in the folds of their cloaks. There were round-eyed toddlers as well, clutching the hands of their surrogate mothers; some banshees had charge of both a baby and a toddler – the older child clinging to the banshee’s crimson cloak, trotting to keep up with her long strides.
Aoife – thinking of Eva, who had so lately been carried around by a banshee herself – asked, ‘Why are they bringing children to the festival?’
From deep within the dog’s skull the zookeeper answered, ‘Sure, why wouldn’t they? Maybe there’s clowns and balloons. How would I know? I’ve never been to one of these myself – it only takes place every seven years, and I’ve not been here that long. Besides, I don’t care for druids. I know we’re going to all be on the same side when we go to war, but the mistletoe-and-harp brigade are very clannish, and to be honest with you’ – here he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, pushing the dog’s snout coldly against her ear – ‘I find these banshees a bitteen creepy, the way they carry them babies around like big dolls. I prefer them headless boyos. They’re poor conversationalists, and not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but at least ye know where ye are with ’em – all they worship is death, plain and simple. No taking human lovers like them mad lenanshees, or adopting human babies like them banshees.’
Aoife felt a tug on her shawl – a child was walking calmly beside her, a little boy of around two, gazing about with solemn, long-lashed eyes. He was wearing a child’s Liverpool strip and smart white trainers. In her disguise, he must have mistaken Aoife for his own banshee – although her shawl was not as long as the other cloaks, her hair not such a dark black-red, and she was not quite as tall.
The bell was tolling louder and louder now – massive tidal waves of sound.
At the far end of the widening street, hewn from the crystal heart of Falias, stood the vast temple where she had been crowned, and where Dorocha had attempted to marry her. The gorgeous bronze doors, fifty metres high, were open wide. The bronze bell above swung heavily; it was in the shape of a bull, and as wide and as broad. Boom . . . Boom . . . Under the bell, the banshees ascended the temple steps, the toddlers clambering and jumping to keep up. The little boy’s legs were too short; he began to whimper in panic. Aoife reached down to scoop him onto her hip – it seemed best to bring him along; if she shooed him, he would still have followed her. The zookeeper shot her an amused glance, from under the dark green snout. ‘An excellent disguise, my queen – every banshee carries a child!’
As they went through the doors, Seán Burke pulled her to one side against the wall, allowing the banshees behind to pass. The dullahans were already moving to join several others of their kind who stood along the crystal walls of the temple, cradling their decomposing heads in their arms as tenderly as the banshees cuddled their stolen babies. A grey man as insubstantial as a mist at sea drifted past; Seán Burke pointed him out to Aoife, whisper
ing in reverential tones: ‘There’s yer Fear Liath, a fearsome murderer of sailors.’ Other more aggressive creatures were restrained, as if the druids didn’t want to risk a bloodbath. A hairy orange grogoch was in a cage, clinging to the bars, its fierce little eyes watching everything. A pooka in real form – relatively small, only about three metres tall – crouched chained by one clawed foot to a pillar of the temple, its black ape arms folded across its hairy chest. A few sluagh, high in the roof, clung to the carved summits of the columns, their wrinkled wings folded around their bodies.
No lenanshees were present – a fact that surprised Aoife. She hated it when Shay called himself a monster, but at the same time – were not lenanshees numbered among the dark creatures? Even Dorocha was wary of them.
The little boy slipped down from Aoife’s hip to the floor and stood holding her thumb, watching the proceedings with nervous interest. A banshee paused to gaze at him; she already had a baby in her arms, but she held out her hand to the boy in his Liverpool shirt and clean white trainers and murmured in a deep, musical voice – hungry with the love of her kind for human children, ‘Martin, I thought I had lost you.’
With a cry of surprise, he looked from Aoife to her, realized his mistake, and trotted obediently to the real banshee’s side, taking hold of a fold of her cloak as she rejoined the procession.
The crimson-cloaked women passed steadily on across the white floor of the temple, reduced to a stream of dark red ants by the vast open space. The enormously high rough-hewn marble altar was empty, but a crowd of white-robed druids – old and young, female and male, with mistletoe and hawthorn wreathed around their heads and arms – were standing on its lower steps. They swung silver filigree lamps from slender chains, which gave off bright purple puffs of incense – even at the back, the scent was strong and dizzying, like the smell of poppies multiplied across a thousand fields.
The Dark Beloved Page 26