When she arrived she sank, settling the Loam Stone on the surface of the Burren.
Merrigutt was no longer a jackdaw, but not an old woman either. Instead a girl, and not much older than Oona. She was pale, and calm, and beautiful. She was restored, surely returned to the same person she’d been when she’d left home years before.
Oona took this Merrigutt in her arms. No words.
Then Oona wanted so badly to blame herself: ‘I should’ve just been up and left last night. Left you at home with your mother and daughter and just gone on by myself.’
And then Merrigutt found strength to lift one hand, to settle it against Oona’s cheek. To whisper: ‘Then I would’ve been alone. And I would’ve followed you – to the edge of everything, to the end of all things. You see what you’ve done for me, my girl? The dispell has left me. Like your mother – I found my place to belong. It was with you. You showed me home.’
Oona closed her eyes and gathered her friend close.
She heard Merrigutt’s last sigh: ‘My girl.’
And Oona waited. Held what little she could hold, and remained. But what she held closest was hope, this most futile kind of longing – that it was all a nightmare, and that soon she would awake, and things would be different.
Then someone shattered her silence, another shout across the desolation –
‘Good shot, boy Kavanagh!’
Oona looked up.
There was shadow on her, a coldness: the figure who’d fired. Oona watched fingers creep slowly to a mouth to tug crimson away, to reveal a face. Only a boy beneath. Only her brother, Morris. And the look he looked down on her with was so like their father. And in his grip he struggled still with that same rifle that had belonged to their granda.
Oona had a familiar, draining thought: Too heavy for him, that weapon. Still too much of a burden to be carried by such small hands.
78
Oona stood and punched her brother in the heart. It hardly moved him. So she thumped, pounded – both fists. He hardly reacted. And again and again and with eyes shut, Oona hit and cursed him, beat and battered, fists becoming feeble, flattening into open palms that surely stung her more than himself. All this, but near blinded: she saw nothing through eyes too scalded with tears. All this until Oona felt arms take her – from behind she was grabbed and dragged back, held too tight. She saw more shadows, a small crowd of boys surrounding. Less to this Cause than she’d imagined there would be: two dozen would’ve been kind, and some of them looking as young as seven.
Oona heard the click of rifles, a cold barrel pressed again to her neck.
And she thought: Now do it – end things. Because if I had the Loam Stone in my hand and could dream it and make it happen then I would. I would wish it.
Then Morris shouted at her –
‘Why are you even here? Why did you follow me?’
Oona said nothing. She could hardly stand.
‘I asked you a question, so speak!’ roared Morris. ‘Tell!’
‘I followed you …’ said Oona, and stopped. Because I’m a fool, she thought. A fool I am, true enough.
‘Why?’ said Morris. Then some slow realisation in his slow eyes. ‘You think I needed saving, is that it?’
Some laughter from the lads of the Cause.
‘For true?’ asked Morris, and his own mouth showed a neat smile so like the counterfeit smile of the Faceless. ‘You thought Morris Kavanagh of all people needed saving? And by a girl?’
Such laughter!
‘The last I saw,’ said Oona, ‘was you being taken by one of those Briar-Witches.’
‘Those Witches aren’t anything to be frighted of,’ said Morris.
‘I know,’ said Oona.
‘We escaped from them ages ago,’ said Morris. ‘Got free of them and the Funeral-Makers and had to travel by ourselves a good dozen miles before we got here.’
The boys cheered, so pleased – with themselves, with their efforts, with each other.
Oona looked to the Loam Stone – so dark. And to Merrigutt. And still to Merrigutt. Didn’t want to look, couldn’t stop looking, but –
‘I came farther than you,’ said Oona.
‘Shouldn’t have bothered,’ said Morris. ‘You should go home.’
‘I can’t now,’ said Oona.
‘You came all this way on your own so you can go home on your own,’ said Morris.
‘I wasn’t alone,’ said Oona. But to herself – Morris had already turned away.
He was shouting to his boys, ‘Come on now – we need to make preparations! We’ll march on the Hollow Mountain at –’
Dull explosions but not the sea – like thunder-strokes, or vast things, collapsing.
Oona looked – around the Burren, the wall of mist was thinning, slowly lifting.
The boys’ mouths all rounded with surprise, a stammer of questions half-formed –
‘What the –?’
‘How can they –?’
‘There’s no way they can –’
‘They can,’ said Oona. Everyone looked at her. She continued: ‘The magic is going around this place. Everything in the Isle is changing quick – I’ve seen it.’
‘You know nothing,’ said Morris.
And Oona’s voice built suddenly into a shout: ‘You’ve no clue about anything, Morris! I’ve seen the worst things and not you! I saw our cottage in Drumbroken fall in with Granny Kavanagh inside! I saw children all dragged down into the dirt by those Briar-Witches! And it was me that went down into their nest and chopped the hand off their Mother! I’ve been to Innislone! I’ve been to the Hollow Mountain you’re talking about! I’ve seen the Giants in the Melancholy Mountains and I’ve ridden a Whereabouts Wolf! I’ve seen Muddgloggs! I’ve been captured and taken by the Faceless and travelled across the Black in the carriage of a Funeral-Maker! I did all that, not you!’
Silence. Oona watched her brother’s face – it didn’t know what expression to wear.
‘I believe her,’ said a small voice.
Oona turned and saw another hand tug crimson from another face. Beneath was Eamon O’Riley. And Oona nearly wept – saw so much of Bridget in him, heard her voice almost as he asked, ‘Are them Invaders are on their way? Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ said Oona.
‘And what magic do they have?’ asked Eamon. ‘Things more powerful than our fathers’ guns?’
‘Aye,’ said Oona. She swallowed. ‘They’ve everything you can imagine and even worse.’ She felt the arms that held her weaken, grow loose. Saw boys of the Cause look to their battered rifles, to pistols dented and crawling with rust. And then to each other. Last of all, to Morris.
‘There’s nothing we can do to change where the Invaders are,’ he said. ‘We keep to the plan we’ve been making – Hollow Mountain is where we need to strike.’
‘Too late for that,’ said Oona.
Morris shifted from foot to foot, then found something to cling to: ‘Kavanaghs don’t do as expected!’
‘Kavanaghs are fools,’ said Oona.
The boys released Oona, backing away. Brother and sister faced each another. Oona didn’t move. Morris’s hand strayed to a dull-looking blade at his belt.
‘You won’t win,’ said Oona. ‘You won’t stand a chance in hell of beating these Invaders.’
‘Is that right?’ said Morris. ‘Then what’s your great plan, sister dearest?’
He didn’t await any answer, just jerked his head, drew his Cause closer, and started to whisper orders.
Oona looked to the Loam Stone. And as her eyes met it – as she began to wonder, to imagine – it began its blaze. Looked further, to the body still lying alone on the Burren. She heard words, and couldn’t know whether they were her own thoughts or not, the words of the King or her own worry: Such nightmares, such darkness still ahead. And no chance of beating it.
But Oona replied, ‘No: nothing ahead now darker than what’s behind. I’ve seen the worst, so whatever happens can happen. I’ve
nothing to be afraid of any more.’
79
‘Oona,’ said Eamon, settling a hand on her shoulder.
Oona flinched away. Eamon’s hand was ashen, crumbling, near broken. She looked farther – Morris going on, telling the boys what to do, but struggling more than before with their grandfather’s rifle? She saw: his hand too was greying, withering. And the other boys – no crimson flag worn whatever way could conceal it, not only their hands or fingers but faces blighted by the Echoes.
Oona swallowed, wanting to say so much but managing to say nothing. Not yet. She knew they wouldn’t listen.
‘Just wanted to ask,’ said Eamon, ‘if you’d like me to help.’ Oona nodded, and they moved together towards Merrigutt.
Only a moment before Eamon asked the thing Oona was expecting –
‘Bridget – do you know is she all right?’
Oona said nothing, and Eamon O’Riley was no fool.
‘She’d have died fighting,’ he said. ‘I know that much.’
‘She did,’ said Oona. ‘She did braver things than I ever could.’
They arrived. Sun was strong, too bright – Oona felt as though the whole world should’ve darkened itself, fallen into instant grief at the fall of her friend. She knelt – first for the Loam Stone. And as soon as her fingertips were reunited with it, she felt better. Not warmer nor a bit happier, but not so alone: perhaps bolder.
‘What is that thing?’ asked Eamon.
‘The thing that’s going to save us,’ said Oona. ‘Or else destroy us.’
She stood and held the Stone on her palm, allowing Eamon to see, allowing it to blaze. Not long, and he had to look away.
‘I’ll lift her sure,’ said Eamon, leaning down for Merrigutt. But Oona said, ‘No. I’ll carry her.’
The young girl Merrigutt had become once more was hardly any weight at all. Oona carried her easily, held her close.
‘Where?’ was all Oona asked, craving purpose.
‘Follow me,’ said Eamon.
They walked to one of the splits in the surface of the Burren, found shallow steps hacked from the stone and Oona descended. A narrow place, walls so close, like the space between two trees in a neglected forest. But it was cooler, darker, so quiet. And when they reached the bottom they walked a slip of ground between high stone, and Oona remembered the roar of the Giants in the Hollow Mountain: ‘Why do you wish to know the way into a place of such safety, of such healing? Why would you seek such solitude as it provides, that place of oldest North magic …’ And in quietness – this solitude and safety – Oona did feel a slow healing: a calming, any anger ebbing, and any hurt and heartache draining away. But still she had her burden, and was grateful for it – Merrigutt unmoving in her arms.
Moment by moment, she found she could force herself to keep moving, to exist.
‘Here’s the place,’ said Eamon.
They’d reached an opening, an alcove carved, and within was a tall shrine for the Sorrowful Lady hewn in the wall. There were no candles gathered, not one meagre offering on display. An empty space, simple. And for the first time Oona felt the softness of the Lady – her placid gaze softened more of the pain, soothed it, because Oona knew Merrigutt would’ve appreciated this place.
So Oona laid her friend gratefully on the ground.
‘Will we say a wee prayer?’ asked Eamon.
‘No,’ said Oona. ‘No need for prayers – this is enough. Thank you.’
A last thing – Oona tugged the cloak from her shoulders that Merrigutt’s daughter had given, must’ve made, and laid it over the body.
Last words –
‘I wish I was more,’ said Oona. ‘I should have dreams strong enough in me to wake you. But I don’t. If I could dream you back to life then I would. I’d not wait – I’d imagine you in the world again.’
Oona looked to the pale, impassive face of Herself.
‘But I’ll keep going,’ said Oona. ‘I’ll not stop till this is done. I swear it on this Sorrowful Lady.’
The Loam Stone grew hotter in her hand, a searing hurt. But, Oona thought, it’s only pain. And only on flesh, so how much did it matter?
She would not allow herself to weep.
And when an explosion sounded – a thousand thunders! – from somewhere above, she didn’t scream, didn’t shudder. Instead it was Morris who made most noise, calling for her –
‘They’re here! This is it – things are about to begin!’
80
Burren stained by the sinking of the sun: red and looking raw, and the twins were looking out over, saying –
‘That sound is the magic being torn open, Morris. We don’t have long.’
‘Rubbish. Can’t be! Safest place in the Isle, this.’
‘No more. Nowhere safe. Not now.’
‘Look: we need to get ready. I need to rally the lads.’
‘It’ll do no good, Morris.’
‘Course it will – we need to fight!’
‘You can fight all you like but it’ll not stop them.’
‘I’ll put a bullet in any Invader who comes near!’
‘You might and all, but these Invaders aren’t the ones to worry about.’
‘Sister dearest, you don’t know what you’re –’
‘Show me your hand.’
Nothing, for a moment. Then –
‘No, Oona. I dunno where you’ve got your ideas from but I –’
‘That thing that’s happening to your hand is what needs worrying about.’
‘Shut up.’
‘And happening to the others too.’
‘Be quiet!’
‘There’s only one way to save things – to stop the King of the North.’
Another moment of nothing, then –
‘And how will you be doing that, sister dearest?’
‘With this.’
And Oona showed the Loam Stone – it shred of light was shivering, awaiting.
‘Let me see your hand,’ said Oona.
And Morris showed, slowly – two fingers already lost, hardly able to hold his granda’s rifle.
‘Soon there’ll be nothing left of you or any of the Cause,’ Oona told him. ‘Trust me – I’ve seen it.’
And then another impact –
Mist almost a memory, any protection threadbare, failing –
Final thing: everything trembled, and a call came from a voice Oona recognised –
‘Members of the Cause – this is the King’s Captain addressing you! Surrender the Burren, surrender yourselves, and perhaps we will decide to show you some mercy!’
Oona saw a line lengthening along on the horizon, a heavy darkness like the spread of spilled ink. It was masked only faintly by the linger of mist, then things were revealed to make the heart quake: a mass of soldiers, hundreds on horseback and well readied with rifles and cannons and mortar all waiting to be unleashed. And behind them moved more massive darkness – an army of Muddgloggs.
‘As you no doubt see,’ the Faceless called,’ we have more power at our disposal than you can possible conceive of! We have too the magic of the Briar-Witches, who have worked to shred the last of your magical fortifications! We have the shadows of the Coach-A-Bower! We have the very earth itself at our disposal! Your own precious Isle has risen against you! And the Cause has this – in simple words for your barbaric minds, no hope at all!’
Oona felt the gaze of every member of the Cause settle on her. She heard one boy say, ‘What now?’
Another ask another, ‘What can we do against all that?’
A final wondering, thrown at Morris: ‘What do we have? What power that can match them?’
Silence, and then a softer voice: beside Oona, Eamon whispered to her –
‘Show them what we have.’
Oona stood. And her cry wasn’t just for the boys of the Cause, not just for the Faceless and the army of Invaders of creatures they’d recruited, but for Merrigutt –
‘We have this!’
; She lifted the Loam Stone high and its light brightened as though it sought to blind, bleaching the already white Burren whiter and sending everyone into a cower, shielding their eyes. And even distance couldn’t stop Oona seeing: the Invaders too were lowered by the sight, shrinking from the Stone’s power, menaced by their own nightmares.
It was Morris who regained himself first. ‘You see! We’ve got more magic than you and we’ve got more fight! And we’ve got something on our side too that you can’t ever come and claim – the blood and bone and history of this Blessed Isle!’
And the cheer that erupted from the Cause was enough to cheer Oona: she felt an unexpected enough (near unwanted) rush of warmth for her brother, wondering where he’d found such words.
They looked at one another.
‘If all we have left of the Kavanaghs is us two,’ said Morris, ‘then we might as well work together. Like back in Drumbroken?’
‘Aye,’ said Oona. ‘I’d say that’s a plan.’
‘Very well!’ called the Faceless. ‘You have made your decision, and now in the name of your King – you shall die by it!’
81
Oona saw so much strength in the lads of the Cause as they formed their own line, kneeling, crumbling hands fumbling with old rifles and crooked pistols. It was the same kind of attitude she’d seen on her journey: in Innislone and Loftborough, in the Hollow Mountain, from men and women and jackdaws and Giants, prepared to fight even if victory couldn’t be predicted.
They could never be ready, Oona realised. Not now, not against this.
But Morris was there, calling, ‘That’s it, boys! That’s the spirit! We’ll be fit to fight them, won’t we? Send them back across the sea to whatever hole they crawled out from!’
A roar of agreement from the Cause.
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