The Black North

by Nigel McDowell

  Oona half-glanced back – the boy could only lag, might as well have been dragging a millstone. But Oona didn’t slow. Not till she arrived at the long limbs of Loftborough’s houses. She crept and kept low. And then she saw her hopeful thoughts made visible –

  ‘Children,’ she breathed.

  A single carriage was stopped in the street. Only one, though. What about the dozen from Drumbroken? Where was the rest of the procession? Oona examined and saw so much bewilderment in the children’s faces trapped inside: their pale peering-out soft, incurious. Just a pair of Invaders on horseback were doing the guarding, the rest elsewhere with their shouts to the women of Loftborough, ‘Drop your ladder down! We are here to search your home in the name of the King!’ But no ladder or anything like it came tumbling. There was no light in any of the houses.

  ‘Maybe they left,’ whispered Merrigutt. ‘Saw the Invaders coming and just deserted, like we should be on our way to doing.’

  Oona didn’t answer – she was examining the carriage, seeking just one face and one set of eyes, certain that she’d recognise them even in such cram and dark. And like it might even bring him into existence, to her attention, Oona murmured, ‘Morris? Morris?’

  Merrigutt said, ‘Stay put. I’ll go investigate. Stay.’

  The jackdaw left. She went high to circle then suddenly down, landing lightly on the carriage. One Invader standing close gave the jackdaw a glance, but only that: wasn’t bothered.

  Oona saw Merrigutt’s head dip between bars. What was she asking? Was she getting a response? Oona waited but didn’t want to, more anticipation bubbling in her belly than she could bear, her breathing shortened, hands holding tight to the leg of the house.

  Then Merrigutt soared, circling so no one would watch or care where she went, then finally down to resettle on Oona’s shoulder. She said, ‘Isn’t there. They don’t know of him.’

  ‘Might still be in there,’ said Oona, needing to believe. ‘Maybe they just don’t know his name. Or maybe –’

  ‘No,’ said Merrigutt. ‘Can’t be – all the children in that carriage are girls.’

  Oona said nothing. She closed her eyes. And there again, indelible – the image like a mockery of Morris whispering, ‘Follow me, Oona. Follow …’

  And Oona wouldn’t rest, wouldn’t relent – she opened her eyes and all energy and agitation she switched to another mission.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’m still not letting any of these girls be fed to the Briar-Witches. I won’t let that happen.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  Oona turned.

  The landlady of The Loyal Martyr stood close, and around her stood the answer for the lack of light in Loftborough: all women were waiting, all with rifles in hand and looking more than ready.

  ‘We’re here to help,’ said one.

  ‘Time to put an end to this,’ said another.

  ‘I won’t let any more young girls be taken,’ said the landlady. ‘Not a chance of it.’ And every head gave a slow, solemn nod.

  ‘Good,’ said Oona. ‘Then we fight.’

  ‘Oona,’ Merrigutt began, ‘listen to me, I think we –’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ said Oona. ‘It’s decided now.’

  The jackdaw persisted, her tone hardly troubling with whisper: ‘Oona, these women can’t fight. They can’t even –’

  ‘Go then,’ said Oona. ‘You don’t have to stay. Leave if that’s what best for you, but I’m staying to help. I’m helping these girls. Morris might not be with them but I’m not gonna let them be fed to those things underground.’

  No more words from the jackdaw. But Oona pictured – perhaps nightmared – Merrigutt lifting once more, not circling or wheeling, and not returning. Making her decision: leaving.

  ‘We have to do this,’ Oona told her. ‘No choice.’

  Still no words from Merrigutt.

  Oona thought she knew what to say to soften the old bird –

  ‘Look: it’s these women against all those Invaders, all men. We can’t leave them to it. You wanted some fight out of them and now we’re gonna get it.’

  The jackdaw flexed its wings. Twitched and spasmed and Evelyn Merrigutt appeared as an old woman and said, ‘Right, but on one condition: I’m in charge of them. Because if we’re going to have any chance at all against Invaders and Funeral-Makers and Briar-Witches, we’ll need more than rifles. We’ll be needing some strong North magic of our own.’

  55

  ‘All right, my girl,’ said Merrigutt, returning to Oona’s shoulder, ‘now the magic’s been sown, let’s see what shape it takes.’

  Oona had watched Merrigutt pinch some scarlet powder from that useful supply in her clothing, enough to bury by the legs of two opposing Loftborough houses – two volunteered by the two most willing of the women, a Mrs Molloy and a Mrs Hanlon.

  Then Oona, Merrigutt, the Loftborough women and the beleaguered boy of the Big House all waited. And slowly, things began –

  ‘Stand back,’ said Merrigutt, speaking more to the women of Loftborough than Oona. The long legs of the nearest house began to tremble, Merrigutt’s magic making them wake. And then the legs of the other on the opposite side of the street, the same – started to shudder in a way unrelated to any element. The two guarding Invaders were noticing because their horses were noticing – tossing their heads, spooked. So the soldiers began to debate, but stupid against stupid –

  ‘What’s going on there with them houses?’

  ‘It’s nothing! That’s the way these houses are, they shift about!’

  ‘Nah. Something else.’

  ‘I said it’s nothing, so stop your –’

  Then they couldn’t deny it –

  Terrified and excited at the sight, Oona saw the houses tear themselves free: like men fresh out of The Loyal Martyr and full of the drink, they staggered towards each other, windows fracturing, glass as fine as splinter falling, slate slipping from roofs and legs crunching almost buckling –

  One Invader cried ‘Look out!’ and the other echoed and they both drove heels into their horses to make them fly one way together, abandoning the single carriage of the Coach-A-Bower and captured children –

  ‘Ready yourself,’ Merrigutt told Oona.

  And then the collision: Mrs Molloy and Mrs Hanlon’s houses slammed into one another, rebounded and – as the Oona and Merrigutt had planned and hoped it – toppled to the street on either side of the carriage.

  Oona said it to herself: ‘Now.’

  She took the Master of the Big House by the sleeve and led him. Merrigutt stayed, ready with the women to fight, to cast magic on any other house that needed it.

  Oona had to scramble over the fallen legs of Mrs Molloy’s home, the boy from the Big House doing his best to follow, but doubting: ‘You sure this is the best possible plan?’

  ‘Yes,’ she told him, though really she was thinking, It’s all the plan we have! ‘Keep moving – you’ve got some making up to do so you better do as I say!’ Both over and then low.

  Oona looked to the dark figure that sat at the front of the carriage – the coachman hadn’t moved, his whip remained limp, looking threatless. Oona went slower though. Faces inside the carriage saw her and might’ve stirred a bit, but not in any way lively. Oona knew it would take a lot to get them moving. Luckily enough, just one large lock kept them in. Locks were easy – Oona had seen plenty and knew the knack. She took her knife from her cloak and slipped it into the keyhole, letting the blade do the work, feeling, and letting those subtle feelings travel into her fingers.

  Then a volley of Invaders’ shouts –

  ‘What’s happened here!’

  ‘Keep an eye on them children! That’s the most important thing!’

  ‘Them Witches won’t be happy if we don’t have any fodder for them!’

  But the lock wasn’t for opening at all so Oona said, ‘Bloody thing.’

  Then a voice inside the carriage asked, ‘It’s not Oona
Kavanagh, is it? I must really be dreaming here.’

  Oona stopped her work with the lock – the face of Bridget O’Reily was peering out at her. They looked at each another, saying nothing. Bridget’s eyes were dark, had almost entirely misplaced life. And then Oona went to work harder, grinding the blade, trying just to crack the insides, any subtlety done with –

  Invader: ‘Coachman! Keep an eye on those children!’

  Bridget whispered, ‘Hurry!’

  ‘Trying,’ said Oona. She grabbed the stone arm of the Master of the Big House, lifted it and (small apology to him: ‘Sorry’) slammed it down on the lock. The lock came apart like shattered porcelain, breaking into many small pieces. But before any freedom for anyone –

  ‘Behind you,’ said Bridget.

  Oona dropped, crawling under the carriage, boy of the Big House beside. She watched feet make a slow approach, then stop: dark, see-through, and a whip that idled like a cat’s tail. Oona held any breath, and reached into her satchel and found another weapon: the pistol intended for Bridget. She held it as ready as she could.

  ‘No use,’ the boy told her. ‘No bullet nor blade will hurt these creatures.’

  No bullet or blade (thought Oona, one of each in either hand), then what’ll work? How do we win this?

  ‘Well,’ whispered the boy from the Big House, ‘perhaps I can make some amends now.’ And he took a breath and rolled out from beneath the cart, squirming to his feet and calling to the Coachman, ‘Here! I’m here and I’ve escaped!’

  Oona saw the dark figure turn, then drift with such painful slowness towards the boy.

  ‘Good man,’ said Oona, and she rolled back out, stood and threw wide the carriage door. Out streamed girls – dirty, ragged, like they’d been dragged across the North and not carried, and first was Bridget who threw herself on Oona.

  ‘I knew,’ said Bridget, holding tight. ‘I dunno how I knew but I knew, I said to myself and everyone – if anyone’s gonna come and rescue us, then it’ll be my mate Oona Kavanagh! And I just knew that –’

  Then many cries –

  From one Invader: ‘They’re escaping! Get them!’

  From Merrigutt, passing overhead: ‘Oona – any time for chat is later! Move it!’ And from the boy of the Big House, cornered by the Coachman: ‘Help! Help me!’

  Oona freed herself from Bridget’s arms and stood, pistol ready to be aimed at whatever target. But there was no problem a bullet could solve. The boy of the Big House dodged the Coachman’s calm outstretched hand, and limped a return to Oona’s side.

  ‘Now what?’ he asked.

  Oona had no answer.

  Then falling fire – Invaders with their torches, hurling them. And the fallen houses – whether slate or wood, round window or long legs – were quick to burn, to let flame race across and Oona and the others were soon encircled by their blaze.

  ‘Now what?’ the boy asked Oona, again.

  She looked, trying to see something, a way free. Oona couldn’t see the Coachman, his dark indistinguishable from smoke and shadow. Her eyes settled finally on the only thing – the carriage.

  ‘Everyone!’ she called to the girls. ‘Get behind the carriage and push!’ At her order, the girls all moved quick, keen.

  ‘Now push like you’ve got the strength of any man in you!’ she told them, but they didn’t need much telling – already they had heads down and hands pressed to wherever they could. And slowly, as painfully snail-paced as the walk of the Coachman, the carriage was pushed towards the flames. Oona kept an eye and then cried, ‘Stop! That’s close enough. Now up top!’

  Taller girls helped smaller, and a good few had to help to get the weight of the boy of the Big House up. Bridget and Oona stayed on the ground till they were the only two left.

  ‘Right,’ said Bridget, ‘you go now, Oona.’

  Oona returned her knife to her cloak but kept the pistol in hand, settling one foot on a carriage-wheel and finding hands ready to take her, pulling her up. She turned for Bridget to offer the same help, but then a sound shook her – a crack like bone between a dog’s teeth and she saw the whip of the Coachman lashing out of the dark, enclosing Bridget’s ankles. Bridget was dragged back.

  ‘No!’ cried Oona.

  But it was pointless – the Coachman already had one hand around Bridget’s arm. Had already claimed her. From the roof of the carriage Oona still called like it might change things, like it might not be too late: ‘Don’t touch him! Shake him off, Brid!’ And she would’ve leapt, would’ve gone to save her friend if she hadn’t seen: Bridget wasn’t moving, was only fading, the darkest parts of her spreading, shadows like slow smoke enclosing her. It took less than little time, and Bridget was nothing, was soon nowhere to be rediscovered in the dark.

  56

  Oona stood. Shaking, shaken. Her heart felt as though it was ending. Tears came that she had to ignore because she had to aim, to direct the pistol that had been destined for Bridget’s hand. And she felt she had to fire – the first bullet struck earth, passing through the shadow and silence of the Coachmen. She fired again, and again and again, but her anger was so deep it couldn’t be drained and as ever on her journey, Merrigutt arrived on Oona’s shoulder to talk sense: ‘My girl, no gun in this world and no amount of shooting it will do anything to that creature. You have to move.’

  Oona saw flames laying themselves against the carriage to further blacken.

  ‘You have to jump!’ Merrigutt told her.

  Oona heard the sound of the girls coughing, throats swallowing smoke. Choking. She did her best to banish tears with a fumbling pair of fingers and then told them in a scream, ‘Go!’

  Such bravery, Oona saw: some of the girls went alone but most hand-in-hand, leaping together from the roof of the carriage, clearing the flames and landing in the awaiting arms of Loftborough women. Soon, only Oona and the boy of the Big House were left.

  ‘I’m not cut out for this,’ he told her, and she took his sleeve.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Oona.

  They ran what little they could run – no more than a trio of tripping steps – and then hurled themselves forward … but the boy’s weight in stone was enough to drag them down and falling into fire was a certain thing, Merrigutt on Oona’s shoulder holding tight and flapping. They fell, rolled, Oona’s hair shortened by the singe and the boy landing with flame clinging to his back. He was able to extinguish himself, one-armed. Oona breathed again when he showed what was beneath burnt-away clothes – stone, flesh almost completely dispelled.

  Pain then – Oona was taken by the little hair she had left and lifted by an Invader.

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’ came a cry.

  And Mrs Hanlon was there too, some dull instrument in her hands to drive into the back of the Invader’s legs. He released Oona and buckled at the knees like Mrs Hanlon’s home. She gave him another whack on the skull to floor him.

  ‘Hooligan!’ she cried.

  And through the creep of smoke and steady fire, Oona saw the women of Loftborough fighting: some still on the ground, some in their houses, firing on Invaders or, if they had no rifle, attacking with rake or spade or shovel or strong words. But the Invaders had the better preparation – those uniforms, skins reaped from Acre-Changelings, allowed them to mirror flame and any whim of shadow, keeping them hidden. And then more allies of the Invaders: racing underground then bursting through full, leaping on the Loftborough women, spurs ready to tear what they wanted – Briar-Witches. Fiercer than ever they attacked, just as the boy of the Big House had predicted.

  ‘Run!’ Merrigutt cried, entering the sky to shout. ‘All up into the houses!’

  ‘I’d say that is a bloody good idea,’ said the Master of the Big House, and this time it was him that led Oona. They joined the rush of girls. Rope-ladders had been dropped from the remaining homes and the girls were climbing quick, not needing to be told. Oona’s choice was The Loyal Martyr.

  ‘Go,’ Oona told the boy of the Big House. (Slowes
t, so he needs to go first, she thought.)

  Then Oona felt the tremble. Against her soles the ground shivered and knew without looking what was approaching so she leapt as high as she could and grabbed, hanging from the rope-ladder. But the Briar-Witch was snatching – long-fingered hand and claw both burst through stone to tear at Oona’s feet and she saw what could be shot this time. Oona half-turned and shut one eye, gave herself just a moment, and then fired. The Witch fell to the ground; into it – the creature returning to its own forged dark.

  ‘Where did you get that gun?’ asked Merrigutt. ‘Who from?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Oona. ‘It was made for Bridget, so it’s only right I use it now.’

  A call from the landlady, dragging the Master of the Big House into the pub: ‘Hurry!’ Oona climbed quicker –

  Gunfire rattled against wood, Invaders seeing, firing –

  She reached the top and crawled into the pub, head down.

  ‘That’s it!’ the landlady told her, helping her up by the scruff and then pointing her rifle down and firing two shots, and then adding like there’d been no break in the chat, ‘You’ve lost a bit of hair there, girl, but that never hurt anybody.’

  Oona stood and saw only one small girl in the pub. She stood close to the empty fireplace as though it might still confer some warmth.

  ‘That gun won’t do any good,’ Merrigutt told Oona. ‘May as well be rid of it, my girl.’

  But Oona paid no attention – she’d approached the girl. Slow approach, not wanting to frighten: careful, delicate, because she wanted one answer. She thought there was only one thing that might ease the loss of Bridget.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘There were other carriages carrying boys, taking them North – can you tell me where they are?’

  The girl didn’t look ready to give answers. Oona settled a hand on the girl’s arm.

  ‘Please tell me,’ she said again. No good at softness, she wanted to shake answers from the girl. ‘You have to tell me – where are the others?’

  Slowly, the girl raised her head, pale tongue emerging from dark face to wet Blackened lips. She didn’t look at Oona, but said, ‘They weren’t for here. The boys were all for the King. They went on, towards the Muckrook Mountains.’