The Black North

by Nigel McDowell

  Soon, Oona’s grandmother began to snore.

  Oona waited till she was certain of the old woman’s slumber and then said, like someone close could hear and care, ‘Well you know what Granny? I escaped. I’m the only one of the Cause left in this county, and if any Invader thinks they’re gonna come into this house and take me or you, then they had better be ready for a fight.’

  4

  Oona dreaming: in a cold forest, alone, so quiet. Then perhaps not alone: there were eyes of crimson watching from the trees.

  Oona walked on, and had the deep feeling that she was searching. She walked further, a little faster, and then knew who she was looking for – her brother. The trees were becoming darker as though dying, were almost black as though burnt. And then she was stopped. A voice she didn’t recognise spoke from the forest itself, a voice like this – not a whisper and not a shout, but something softly crackling and as slippery-sticky as sap, and then as smooth as poison. The voice told Oona –

  ‘My servants – those you call the Invaders – will soon be with you. Though I am hardly a whole and formed thing yet, though I am in pieces, I am still worshipped. I am scarcely able to speak, to move, but still I am obeyed. I am feared.’

  And in dreaming, Oona found she could speak, asking, ‘You’re an Invader?’

  The voice replied, ‘I am much more. I am one who will rule. I have come here from far away, but my roots are old, and deep. You do not know me, not yet. But soon you will. You shall see my work. You will see this Isle split and buckle and churn and transform, all at my will and word. I will command, and you will be bid. No tree, no stone, no bird nor blind thing beneath the earth shall defy me. Soon, I will own you all.’

  Again, Oona asked the only question she could think of: ‘What are you?’

  A pause, then the voice of the blackening forest replied: ‘I am your worst nightmares made real. And I am coming for you.’

  5

  ‘Waken-up now, girl!’

  Oona was struck – a quick clout to the back of the head that made her sit up. It was her grandmother, up and shouting, ‘We can’t lie about, girl! We need to make the preparations and concoctions for protection. We need to keep out those Invaders!’

  Oona didn’t speak. The voice she’d been hearing in her head remained, like an echo. Was it a dream? It had felt like more – closer, more than something made up. But no, Oona told herself. Wasn’t and couldn’t be! Need to be sensible now, she decided.

  Oona had fallen asleep at the family table, the kitchen knife settled on the smooth top. And, like gentle disagreement, her first ‘sensible’ sight was one of her mother’s paintings on the opposite wall. It showed a landscape rippled like the sea, but like a meadow too, with the colour of high summer in its greens and yellows and purples, with tall, skinny, silver strokes for trees. And in the distance were a scattering of small stone cottages with wooden roofs. An impossible-seeming place.

  ‘Stop your daydreaming!’ said Granny Kavanagh, and the old woman slapped a hand on the family tabletop. ‘Just like your poor mother – a dreamer, so you are! Now up and about – we need to get preparing!’

  Oona watched Granny Kavanagh’s fingers fussing on the dresser, one hand still holding something tight and the other searching through bottles and pots, saying, ‘Ash? Aye. And a bit of that birch. What else for protection? Better a bit of feverwort – no masterwort. Where’s the devil’s shoestring? Plenty of agrimony too – herb of the Kavanagh family. Yes, that’ll do …’

  Oona stood but could scarcely discover enough energy for the effort. The wound on her hand had spread its pain further, wriggling out into everywhere and making her weaker. But so much needed to be done! Sweeping and baking and preparing … and the chickens were out already so would need to be fed … and still Granny Kavanagh’s muttering went on: ‘Need winter’s bark, larkspur, neckweede …’

  Oona felt again the lack of Morris to help her. Felt the absence of mother and father and grandfather, whom custom had buried six spadefuls down, beneath her toes. But she needed to try.

  ‘Now Granny, why not sit down in your chair and I’ll wet some tay. I’ll bake the day’s bread too and you can have something to eat.’

  ‘No time now!’ her grandmother cried. ‘You think we’ve time for the tay and toast when the county is being overrun! Down from the Black North and over the river and into the forest and down the Eastern slope into the valley – they’ll be here soon, wait and see!’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Oona.

  ‘I know,’ said her grandmother. She stilled, voice low. ‘I’ve seen it.’

  Then the sound of something approaching – crunch of snow under swift feet. Oona snatched the knife from the family table and waited.

  ‘It’s them,’ said Granny Kavanagh. ‘They’re here.’ But then the call: ‘Oona Kavanagh! You in there?’

  Oona returned knife to tabletop as Bridget O’Riley appeared in their doorway, breathless.

  ‘You are here,’ said Bridget. She breathed out, then bobbed with a bit of respect to the shrine for the Sorrowful Lady and said all in the same breath: ‘Thank Herself you’re all right! They’ve crossed the Torrid, those Invaders. Word’s out everywhere. Paddy McGulder said he saw them on the Eastern slope near the Turn-Stump, and Eamon didn’t come home.’

  Oona knew, so only nodded. She saw again Eamon’s final look – terror, tears, then Bridget’s brother vanishing into the ground.

  ‘Lots of them,’ said Bridget. ‘Lots of guns and North magic and they’re saying that –’

  ‘Outside we’ll chat,’ said Oona, and she moved towards the door. She thought there was no sense in adding more worry to the worry already in her grandmother’s mind.

  ‘Where you going, girl?’ asked Granny Kavanagh. ‘You’re not to be off gallivanting! You’re hardly much use to man or beast at the best of times, but we’ve got too much to do here! I know what’s going on so don’t try to be hiding things!’

  ‘Won’t be long away, Granny,’ said Oona. ‘You get on with readying things and I’ll be back soon. Don’t fret now.’

  ‘Not fretting!’ her grandmother called. ‘I don’t fret! And don’t be hanging around with those O’Rileys – they’ve manners a Sow-Mam would be ashamed of. I blame the mother!’

  ‘What?’ said Bridget. ‘Hold on a minute, my mam is –’

  ‘Come on,’ whispered Oona, and she took Bridget by the arm and led her outside.

  ‘Just walk with me. I’ve got things to tell you that you need to hear.’

  6

  ‘So do you think Morris is still living or what?’ asked Bridget.

  Oona said nothing. Then she became too aware of her silence so said (near-shouted): ‘Course he’s still living. I’d know if he wasn’t.’

  ‘Is that the twins thing?’ said Bridget. ‘Do you feel it when he gets hurt and things like that? Cos my cousins Veronica and Vera are twins, and when I punch one of them the other one feels it.’

  ‘Don’t start punching me,’ said Oona. ‘Bloody sore enough as it is.’

  Bridget smiled, then said, ‘Well, if you believe Morris is all right then I believe Eamon is alive, too.’

  They had their favourite place to perch, the pair of them. Preferred tree to climb, same branches to sit. Best view! Oona looked Drumbroken over, searching. But the valley was silent, forests pale and unsuspecting. Every sound sounded clear in the stillness: the thud of a hatchet, the crack of ice being broken on the surface of a water-barrel, the snap of a latch being dropped on a front door. Oona saw smoke – the first fires in the first hearths, everyone in the county an early riser. And they’ve no idea, she thought. But they will soon.

  ‘Here – a bit more food?’ asked Bridget, holding out some potato-bread.

  ‘We’re supposed to be keeping a look-out, Brid,’ said Oona. ‘Not filling our faces.’

  But old habit, beloved ritual: Oona had brought just herself and Bridget brought plenty of food, and answers –

&n
bsp; ‘Do you know what a Briar-Witch is?’ asked Oona.

  ‘I heard of Briar-Witches,’ said Bridget. ‘Burrow like blazes underground!’

  ‘I saw that,’ said Oona. Saw, but something in her still didn’t believe.

  ‘And they used to be feared more than anything else in the Isle,’ said Bridget.

  ‘“Used to”?’

  ‘See – they were all supposed to have died out. Used to live above ground like us, then they became more like animals and went under. Had a nest up North someplace, haven’t been seen in the South for a long time. Were driven outta the South by the Sorrowful Lady, along with all the Changelings and Whereabouts Wolves and Giants and the –’

  ‘Brid, nobody believes all that!’

  ‘It’s true!’

  ‘Aye! As true as winter’s warm and the morning moon’s made of lard!’

  ‘Well,’ said Bridget, ‘those Briar-Witches must’ve joined up with them Invaders now. And let me tell you what else – my uncle Billy up in Ballyboglin, he sent word down to my granda, said that more and more Invaders are coming over the Divide. Crawling in like lice, trying to destroy Ballyboglin and make it Black as the North! And all the men in Innislone are fighting as hard as they can to keep them back. They’re more fishermen than anything else, though. Granda says Billy doesn’t hardly know what a gun is let alone which end it fires outta. But they’re luckier than us in Drumbroken cos Innislone is an island town, and they saw the Invaders coming and could draw up their bridges or whatever. They’re fighting and fighting against the Invaders. Calling themselves the town that won’t be drowned! I’d go and fight too if I was allowed. Uncle Billy, he’d like me there. Says I’m the best with a gun he’s ever seen, boy or girl! We’re not so lucky in this county, Granda says. He says we can’t see the wood for the trees, and we’re too busy climbing and planting seeds and growing vegetables and flower arranging to be fighters when things get nasty. What does your granny say about it all?’

  ‘Granny’s making her potions,’ said Oona. ‘She seems to know some things. Then she goes off somewhere else, forgetting. Ranting and worrying.’

  ‘My granda says we’ll need to be ready to leave,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Leave?’ said Oona. ‘Leaving Drumbroken?’

  ‘That’s what he said,’ said Bridget, nodding, and more potato-bread in her mouth.

  ‘Says if the Invaders take over we’ll not stand a chance. Apparently lots of people are going South and going to see about boats on the coast. See if they can leave the Isle altogether.’

  ‘Aye, right,’ said Oona. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it. And your granda wouldn’t get far on those sticks of his.’

  ‘Think Granda’s frighted.’ Then, her voice lowering, Bridget said, ‘They’re talking too about this thing the Invaders are bringing with them – the Echoes.’

  ‘Doesn’t exist,’ said Oona. ‘That’s just a story to scare.’

  ‘Isn’t,’ said Bridget, and she had forsaken any food to shuffle closer to Oona, to whisper: ‘Isn’t just a story, Oona. My uncle Billy sent word about it too – everyone in the North has come down with it. It’s like a disease.’

  ‘Well, if it’s true, then what is it?’

  ‘That’s what makes it so bad – no one knows. Not how to stop it or even how to look for it.’

  ‘That’s cos it doesn’t exist. More stories, same as the like of Giants and Wolves and whatever else.’

  ‘Like Briar-Witches?’

  Oona squirmed, sought something to say and decided on, ‘Don’t believe it.’

  ‘Always the doubting-Dervla,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Always the gullible-Gráinne,’ said Oona. Then some silence. Oona felt it like a challenge, and again felt compelled to fill it.

  ‘When’s your granda planning to go from Drumbroken if he’s going?’

  ‘They’re having a meeting tonight,’ said Bridget. ‘At midnight, all the grandfathers from all families in Drumbroken. Going to decide what to do.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Oona.

  ‘At the Tower,’ said Bridget. ‘But now – don’t tell anyone about it. I heard Granda talking to Mammy and he’ll kill me if he finds out I said anything to anybody.’

  Oona spoke nothing, just took the remaining piece of potato-bread and tore it in two.

  ‘Oona?’ said Bridget. ‘Do you hear me now? I’ll be such bother if he finds out I said. Sorrowful Lady herself won’t be able to stop me getting slapped!’

  ‘Oh, calm down woman!’ said Oona. ‘I hear you well enough. And here – share this last bit of bread with me. I know if I don’t give it you’ll have the hand eaten off me anyway.’

  They had some final moments of sharing, and then Oona saw something. She half-stood, and Bridget half-upped too, and together they watched. Like the opposite of dawn, a shadow was being cast, slipping slowly into the valley.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Bridget.

  Oona shook her head. ‘Like a shadow of something.’ And she even looked to the sky, like it might harbour a cloud large enough to cause such dark. She almost shivered.

  ‘Like a dispell,’ said Bridget.

  ‘What are you on about now?’ asked Oona.

  ‘Kind of North magic,’ said Bridget. She swallowed, did shiver. ‘Now what? Go tell the grandfathers?’

  Oona said, ‘No. But we can’t just sit about here either. We have to do something.’

  ‘“We?”’ said Bridget.

  ‘I,’ said Oona.

  7

  Near enough midnight and Granny Kavanagh was asleep and snoring in her armchair.

  ‘Whether she thinks she needs it or not,’ whispered Oona, dropping a blanket over her grandmother. Oona had changed into a fresh dress, one she’d hurried to set the last stitches of that afternoon after doing so much – sweeping, churning butter, turning the heel on a pair of stockings, cracking the neck of Ethel (one of their fatter chickens) and plucking and boiling the bird for soup.

  ‘Sorry for leaving you, Granny,’ Oona whispered, ‘but there’s things important that need doing.’

  From under the bed Oona took her mother’s old cloak, where it’d been bundled and kept safe – rabbit and hare pelt, warmest they had in the house. What else before setting out? Only other thing: Oona made sure to take her knife. She dropped a few more sods into the hearth to keep it going, gave a swift bob to the Sorrowful Lady, pressed a kiss to her granny’s forehead, and then entered the night.

  To keep herself warm she kept moving, climbing the Eastern slope of the valley fast. At certain times Oona scrambledquickly up an oak to have a look, and soon the men of Drumbroken appeared: their journey slow, a trail of lanterns rambling up the Eastern slope. And Oona thought, Do they not know better? Too obvious in the dark! What if the Invaders are watching?

  She returned to the ground and went on in a hurry.

  How to get to the Tower – even without the wander of firelight to follow – wasn’t difficult. It was a forbidden place for women and children, so it was somewhere of which every child and woman in Drumbroken knew the whereabouts. And Oona knew she could get there well before the men. But a single thing was trying to slow her: the Briar-Witch wound. Each touch to a tree was a sting, whole hand sharp like she’d added needles to it. No time though for pain. Oona kept on climbing.

  When she emerged it was under a moon so full it looked overflowing – grey-white spills on a bald rise, snow shrunken up but not gone. A wide circle of birch was the forest’s last outpost, the bark peeling like scuffed knuckles. And at the centre of the rise was the stone Tower of Drumbroken. It was stunted, crumbling, with windows as narrow as knife wounds.

  The Tower held firelight, and the low grumble and echo of old men.

  Oona looked all ways then hurried across the rise to crouch beneath one of the windows. So many voices inside, but all slow, all disagreeing.

  ‘So we’ll leave Drumbroken, is that what we’ve decided?’

  ‘Is that the consensus, to leave? Is that wha
t we’ve said? I must’ve missed something …’

  ‘Speak up all! I can’t hear a damnable word! Did you say something?’

  ‘Are we going to vote on this or what happens? I’m sure that’s the routine – a proper vote?’

  ‘How long do I have to stay here? I’m cold to me bones!’

  ‘I said “speak up”!’

  ‘Does anyone have a pencil or chalk or slate? Need to write it all down. I’m sure we should be writing all this down … does anyone fancy some tay?’

  Oona thought, Invaders in the county and children being snatched by those Briar-Witches, and these men in there talking about pencils and and tay and votes?

  Then a softer voice she’d not heard before said: ‘Has anyone else heard the rumours about these Invaders? Rumours from the river, all about some Briar-Witches and boys being stolen? About children being taken North?’

  ‘Nonsense! Briar-Witches were driven out of the South a long time ago! Long gone and long dead!’

  ‘I know that, too, but I’ve heard –’

  ‘Rumour and gossip – that’s what you’ve heard and nothing else worth chatting about!’

  ‘And what about these whispers from Ballyboglin?’

  ‘My son lives there!’

  Granda O’Riley, thought Oona. Must be. He went on with: ‘Sent me word of all that’s going on. And it’s not half-good, I can tell you.’

  Then some stronger voice, determined –

  ‘What happens in the next county is none of our concern! Who agrees with me?’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘Aye! Me too!’

  ‘It’s our concern only about our own county, not the next one over!’

  ‘Sure they’ve taken the North and made it Black. Why not let them stay up there?’

  ‘I agree – let them keep their land and not bother us! We’re only a small county, after all. If they come, we’ll just tell them there’s nothing here worth bothering with, and they’ll be on their way.’