The Black North

by Nigel McDowell

  Oona stayed where she was, half-stooped. If she went on without any weapon but her kitchen knife – against Invaders with a couple of guns each – then the old jackdaw was right: she’d be caught quick, and then what? She sank a little, and listened. And what she heard from the Invaders had to press through the hush, words just vague whisperings when they reached Oona’s ears –

  ‘Said we had to collect them all.’

  ‘We have done!’

  ‘What about the one from that falling Tower?’

  ‘They’ll turn up, those Witches will find them. They can sniff out a child from twenty miles off!’

  ‘We’ll need to get these supplies shifted off soon.’

  ‘Don’t worry. These children’ll be going nowhere any time soon. Or any time at all! Ain’t that right, Coachman! Eh?’

  The Invader’s call brought a slow stirring from the front of one of the carriages. From the seat stepped one of the dark figures – a someone see-through, shaped like a man but with no flesh or blood or bone. He was hardly more than shadow. And like the carriages and horses, the figure summoned no sound. He dragged a whip with a pale handle that looked to Oona like a rough bone. The rasp of the whip across broken ground made all of Oona shiver. When the Coachman reached the bars of the carriage the children tried to recoil but their movement was slow, without much strength. The dark, transparent figure extended one dark, transparent hand to them, like an invitation into comfort. None of the children took it.

  ‘They’d take it if they knew what was good for them!’ shouted an Invader, and he thumped the side of the carriage with the butt of his rifle. The Coachman’s dark head snapped around to face the Invader, who looked enough humbled (or frightened?) to take a step-and-a-half back.

  ‘What are they?’ whispered Oona.

  ‘More forces that have sided with the Invaders,’ said Merrigutt. ‘The Coach-A-Bower.’

  ‘The Funeral-Makers?’ said Oona. She remembered something, some trace. Or some story?

  ‘Up North we called them just the Coach,’ said Merrigutt. ‘They come to collect the dead on the night they are due to die. To take the souls, accompany them to –’

  ‘On to the end of the world,’ said Oona, remembering whispered words, prayers spoke for the Sorrowful Lady. She said what she recalled: ‘The Coachman will come and, if you pay him the proper price, he will extend his hand to the soul that needs guiding into the next world and make them as much shadow as he is himself. And then he will take them with care and gentleness to the place beyond all places, to the place neither above nor beneath – on into the final silence.’

  ‘True enough,’ said Merrigutt.

  The Invaders were joined then by others, maybe twelve more all jogging into sight.

  One of the arriving lot nodded to one of those already gathered, then said, ‘The last cottage has been destroyed, sir.’

  ‘Good man,’ said the Invader who was being addressed. ‘And whoever was inside, what happened to them?’

  Oona listened, waiting to hear of Granny Kavanagh’s end, but the conversation was interrupted by movement, by the upset of earth – what could only be to Oona’s eyes the swift burrowing of a Briar-Witch. It stopped in the centre of things, and Oona saw all the Invaders take many steps backwards, their faces repulsed by something Oona couldn’t see. A voice with no more shape or depth to it than a growl spoke from the ground –

  ‘There was one within the cottage, but it escaped me.’

  ‘What?’ said the Invader in charge. ‘You let one of them escape? The order was to catch every single child!’

  ‘We cannot catch all. We have been dormant for many seasons, and –’

  ‘Excuses!’ said the Invader. ‘You think my Captain will listen to excuses? Do you think the Faceless will take any of this nonsense? And what about the King himself?’ At these last words, Oona heard worry creeping into the Invader’s own voice.

  ‘We have gifted you many things,’ said the voice of the Briar-Witch. ‘Not least the skins of the Acre-Changeling – countless of them have been slaughtered and stripped, their coverings stolen and given to you so that you can match the look of the land you wish to conquer. And our Mother has given the greatest power to your King – to be able to reshape the land itself. We work tirelessly to assist you, and still we have had no reward.’

  ‘You made the Oath,’ said the Invader. ‘You know the deal – when all the children in this Isle are in our custody, when we find what the King is looking for, then you creatures will get what you want. All girls go North to the Witches, and all boys go North to the King.’ He took a breath, and looked to those Invaders looking at him, waiting. Then he faced again the ground, and told the Briar-Witch, ‘Tell no one of the loss of this or any other escaped child, but I want you to continue looking for them. Go!’

  Dirt flew into the air, the Briar-Witch making a fresh path underground, leaving the clearing as the Invader shouted, ‘Coachmen – take these children North!’

  ‘They’re looking for you, my girl,’ Merrigutt told Oona. They know you’ve something important, otherwise they wouldn’t be bothered with every single child. You can’t reveal yourself.’

  ‘I know,’ said Oona. ‘Stop pestering me. So now what if we don’t do something?’

  ‘We go to the White Road,’ said the jackdaw. ‘You won’t be the only one trying to escape from here. South is the only safe place now. Let’s go.’

  But Oona didn’t move. She waited – knife in one hand, her grandmother’s gift in the other. She saw all the Coachmen raise dark arms, their whips all poised, and as one they struck their stallions, the crack they sounded bringing everyone in earshot lower. She felt a cold wind shake the clearing, deep hush became a dark rush and the dozen carriages were gone, chased like unwanted children off into the night.

  14

  Oona walked herself sore. Jackdaw on her shoulder, she wandered a dispelled Drumbroken until the world lost some of its stubborn dark and what she took for morning arrived. But it was a sky to match her mood – the colour of damp stone and screwed down tight, any glimpse of the dawn hidden behind. Then the ending forest finally ended and Oona stopped and saw the extent of shadow – she and Bridget had seen it seeping into Drumbroken, and it had seized the entire valley, a pitiless stain that wouldn’t be shifted. And just below Oona, at the bottom of a slope, was the only thing white: a wide trail of chalk, the White Road, wandering off on its way South and towards the coast. But to safety? Oona doubted that idea.

  ‘See now,’ said Merrigutt, speaking at last. ‘Told you that you wouldn’t be alone, didn’t I?’ Oona said nothing, just watched the creep of dark along White: a slow mass of people with possessions all strapped to their backs and across shoulders and wrapped around arms and legs and heads and anywhere at all that could take weight, or leading carts stacked high as hillocks with chairs and sawed-short-scrubbed-down tables and clothes flapping limp farewell, pots and pongers and kettles and coal scuttles and spoons and griddle plates all rattling like the grimmest band at a Nip-Winter Fair. And everywhere Oona could see the small porcelain shrines for the Sorrowful Lady, stuffed wherever they could fit.

  ‘So quiet,’ said Oona, and all of her shivered. Apart from the scuff of bare feet and crackle of cartwheels and the sometimes sniff and whimper, there was no sound.

  ‘You’ll be fine now,’ said Merrigutt. ‘You’ll be safe with so many.’

  Sounds like she’s trying to convince herself, thought Oona.

  ‘And looks like you’re not the only child either,’ said Merrigutt.

  And Oona could’ve counted the number of children without needing both hands – all of them were seated high, as much distance between them and the White Road as could be managed.

  The jackdaw swapped Oona’s shoulder for a branch, the first hint that she was about to leave. ‘Don’t stop,’ Merrigutt told her, ‘not for anything.’ The jackdaw’s eyes went to Oona’s cloak – the bird had ordered Oona to hide Granny Kavanagh’s gift the
re, alongside the kitchen knife. ‘And if anyone tries to take anything from you – fight like you’ve never fought yet and run and don’t slow till you the see the sea!’

  ‘Where will you be?’ asked Oona.

  ‘I’ll need to round up the other women,’ said Merrigutt. ‘We’ve things of our own to do, plenty of watching that needs to be done. But we’ll be checking on you all, when we can find any time.’ The jackdaw’s head was flick-flick-twitching all the time, its gaze going everywhere, watching, appraising. Then its look rested once more on Oona’s cloak. ‘Take care of yourself now,’ said Merrigutt.

  Off, away high, the jackdaw’s wing-beats left only the faintest ruffle on such stillness, and Oona was left alone on the edge of the White Road.

  15

  Oona allowed herself a few moments, and then was down the slope and accepted into the exodus without welcome or question or hello. There was nothing to do but walk. Oona would’ve liked to scream just to see what it did. She didn’t – she behaved, and walked on without words, just like the rest. But she watched.

  Oona saw a pair of boys a bit younger than herself go by. Both were pale-haired, pale-skinned, noses scattered with a trowelful of freckles. Their appearance said to Oona – twins. They were standing at the top of a cart, arms out stiff to keep balance. Oona knew that if one went to fall the other would grab and she recognised the game she and Morris had played in the high reaches of the forest around the Kavanagh cottage: private, quiet, something just for them two. An ancient mare was dragging their cart, pulling their world along on big, wheezing wheels with their mother walking alongside, head lowered.

  Oona let her gaze fall to her feet: her toes were already white. She knew each step was taking her South, was taking her from everything. Maybe to safety, but most important of all to her, the thought of which she couldn’t let go: each step was taking her further from her brother. I would know if Morris was dead, Oona told herself. Somehow, don’t know how, but I’d know it if he were gone. I’d know if I was alone.

  Then things changed –

  No screams, but things shifting. Was there a tremble against Oona’s soles? In her bones? Oona stopped and turned to see.

  Carts were being tossed high, toppling, everything tumbling –

  The pair of pale-haired, pale-skinned boys began to cry with a mewling like newborn kittens, ‘Mammy, what’s happening? Mammy?’

  But Oona knew what would happen.

  A ripple that raced, things underground rushing to tip – the twins were falling, the mother thrown aside. The boys struck ground and cried out and their looks went anywhere, to everywhere, to anybody that might help or explain or save. Last of all, to Oona. But she couldn’t have helped – not even time for a final word and the twins were gone. Tugged down into the earth.

  And everywhere the same. All along the road was the crying, the pleading, the vanishing –

  There was nothing Oona could do but save herself. She ran, leaping places where the ground had sunken and was being shifted as she heard voices shouting –

  ‘No one move! You’re all under arrest in the name of the King!’

  A quick glance back – rifles appearing, then Invaders, their uniforms a perfect blending-in of what surrounded. Mostly, Oona saw mouths emptying words –

  ‘Get down!’

  ‘Hands in the air!’

  ‘Stop crying!’

  ‘Get away from that hole, you can’t help him now!’

  Oona reached the same slope she’d descended minutes before and fought her way up, eyes on the forest. It might be a corruption of its former self but still she saw the trees of Drumbroken as sanctuary. She hoped herself unnoticed. But always, there was one –

  ‘There, someone’s escaping! Stop her!’

  Oona dragged herself on hands and knees and fingers, soon scrambling, but the earth was too loose beneath and too keen to send her sliding back to waiting rifles and waiting White Road seething with waiting Briar-Witches. And when Oona next looked up it was a rifle that met her. A mouth behind it promised, ‘Move an inch and I’ll blow your barbaric little brains out!’

  Oona half-stood, half-raised her hands, some instinct making her. She thought of her knife in her cloak but knew she couldn’t be quick enough to retrieve it.

  ‘That’s a good girl,’ said the Invader. Oona still didn’t see all of him, his uniform coloured the same kind of decay as the forest behind. But she saw his grin, his mouth shivering a little with laughter.

  Then another stronger instinct crept over Oona – defiance. She let her hands fall.

  ‘I said keep them up!’ the Invader told her.

  ‘No,’ said Oona. ‘Shoot me if you want.’

  ‘I’ll do worse,’ said the Invader. ‘We’ll take you North with all the other children and then you’ll wish you’d done as I said!’ His eyes wandered, going to the White Road behind Oona. ‘But he’s not too keen on the girls, the King of the North, so I’ll just let those creatures underneath have you, eh?’

  The Invader jammed his rifle into Oona’s belly. She slipped, then slid all the way down and stopped herself just on the edge of the White Road.

  The Invader was at her back with his rifle saying, ‘Walk! Go!’

  Oona could only be forced on, no choice. Her toes touched white and claws exploded from the ground –

  Instinct: Oona turned and swung a fist and caught the Invader’s cheek. He swore, spat, aimed at her and –

  A flash of feather-claw-beak –

  Jackdaws fell like they’d had forgotten flight and attacked – the birds took to the Invader’s hands and legs, covered him, pinning him to the ground. One jackdaw took his tongue in its beak to keep him quiet. A familiar weight fell on Oona’s shoulder with a familiar voice of disapproval: ‘I left you not five minutes ago and already look at the trouble you’re in!’

  ‘Not my fault,’ said Oona. ‘I was walking like you said and –’

  But the Invader smothered in jackdaws managed to shout, ‘Help! Help me!’

  ‘Go!’ Merrigutt told Oona. ‘Keep to the trees and we’ll draw them off!’ Merrigutt took to the air and Oona to the slope.

  Then Oona stopped, turned. And made her decision. She went back into the valley of Drumbroken – only moments alone before Merrigutt returned to chide, ‘What in blazes are you doing? You’re going the wrong way! I said to follow the Road South!’

  ‘Nowhere’s safe now,’ said Oona, running.

  ‘What?’ said Merrigutt. ‘South is the only way and –’

  ‘– North is the way they’ve taken Bridget and my brother and everyone else!’ said Oona. She ran faster – the fire of an idea made her fleet. ‘Morris is still alive, I know it. And King or no King and Black North or not, I’m going to follow, and I’m going to find him!’

  16

  ‘– and I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, my girl! But I’d place a farmer’s bet that you don’t!’ Merrigutt, badgering and flapping. Oona didn’t know where the jackdaw found the energy to keep on at her. ‘And just off on a whim! Just like a Kavanagh: no stopping nor thinking it out first!’

  Oona had no breath left to tell the jackdaw to give it a rest. And if she’d discovered a breath it wouldn’t have been wasted on words: there was too much climbing to be done, too much stepping over and slipping and squeezing through the tangle and disintegration of the dispell. But Merrigutt with plenty of breath said: ‘Where in blazes are we going anyway? Top of this slope and then where? Tell me that!’

  Oona thought but didn’t bother saying – top of the Western slope, then up and along the ridge, then on down. Then where, though? Follow the River Torrid? The next county North was Ballyboglin, but how safe was it there? Not safe at all, if Bridget’s words were to be relied on – Crawling in like lice, trying to destroy Ballyboglin, make it Black as the North! And like her own nagging doubt flying beside, Merrigutt still kept on with, ‘You’re just going to dander on into the Black North to find this twin brother of yours
? A brother that even if he’s somehow still living is probably on his way to see the King of the North! And what then? If we’re planning on coming face to face with the King then what –’

  ‘Oh hell’s bells, would you ever shut up, woman!’ shouted Oona. She had to slow – she hardly had energy left to stand, exhaustion making a mess of her as she staggered and sniffed and gasped.

  Merrigutt said, ‘The cheek of you to talk to me like that! And after I helped you!’

  ‘Quiet,’ said Oona. ‘I’m thinking of things.’

  ‘What things?’ asked Merrigutt. The jackdaw flew on ahead, stopping on a branch so she could perch and preach without interruption. ‘I hope these thoughts are for how you’re going to survive in the Black North, how to not get yourself captured. Or is it how to find food not befouled or water not polluted, or air not feeling like glass when you breathe it in? And keep this in your mind – that’s even if we manage to cross the Divide itself!’

  ‘Oh, give it a bloody rest,’ said Oona. She didn’t shout: couldn’t. She slowed, and then stopped: the slope too sheer. ‘A wee minute,’ said Oona, sinking. ‘Rest a minute here.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Merrigutt. ‘Oh, I see – planning on some prayer for your answers, are we?’

  Oona half-turned, looked – the jackdaw was perched on a tree relieved of its limbs, the trunk cut short and worked into a shape. Oona blinked: it was the shape of a woman, the shape of the Sorrowful Lady. But it was such a rough likeness, as though someone had just hacked and hacked at the oak and discovered something like the image of the Lady cowering inside. Always she was cowering – Oona had never seen the Lady any way else. Even so, the sight gave Oona some pause, and stirred something in her. Though she didn’t often bother with believing, she felt something close enough to hope.

  The Sorrowful Lady’s heart glowed: a rough cavity had been cut to contain candles, some looking new and others with hardly any height left, but all scarlet, wax bleeding free and solidifying around offerings of winter flowers, woodcarvings the size of children’s noses, and some things that looked to Oona edible.