The Hawthorn Crown
Page 1
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Book One
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Book Two
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
I Wish to Acknowledge
About the Author
Also by Helen Falconer
Copyright
About the Book
Every story needs a hero. Every hero needs a friend.
Carla never believed Aoife’s tales of monsters and changeling girls. But she faithfully followed her best friend down into the dangerous fairy world – to rescue a boy, and save a kingdom.
Now Carla has been sent back, for her own safety. And it’s not long before the promised war between humans and fairies explodes onto the fields of rural Ireland.
While Aoife fights for the hawthorn crown in the Land of the Young, Carla must use all her ingenuity and skill to protect the village she grew up in – the village she loves.
Every story needs its heroes …
A story dedicated to Alana Quinn
9th March 2001–6th July 2005
‘If you ever meet a fairy on the road, be sure to move out of their way and be polite. You’ll know them by their red hair and their green eyes. They’ll grant any human three wishes, so be sure to ask them for yours, and if you’ve been good to them, they’ll grant the three wishes freely, and if you’ve been bad to them, they’ll twist your wish and grant it quair. So never forget to put out the cakes and milk.’
Kathleen McNeal of the Glen
BOOK ONE
PROLOGUE
Deep below the surface of the earth lay a little girl.
She was lonely for her mother.
And bored.
And hungry.
Outside her nest, she could hear the scuttle of rats and the scratchy creep of cockroaches, and the fine whirr of a spider’s spinning. But she couldn’t hear the heavy step of her mother returning with tasty food for her ‘precious daughter’.
After a while, made bold by hunger, the little girl uncurled herself and crawled out of her nest of broken bones and away down a dark, slippery, rocky tunnel.
The little girl was not a pretty child. She was a pooka, one of the darkest creatures of the fairy world – two metres long from nose to rump, and covered in thick black oily fur. Her eyes burned on either side of her blunt muzzle, and she had twisted yellow horns and wrinkled, clawed hands like turkey’s feet, and when she opened her snout to bleat for her mother, she had no tongue – only row after row of thin triangular teeth, crammed top and bottom of her mouth, as far back as her soft frog-like throat.
Coming on the spider in its web, the little girl popped it into her mouth and sucked it like a soft-centred sweet. The cockroaches had harder skins, but she used her cheese-grater teeth to grind them into a tasty paste. A rat cringed against the wall in terror; she ripped off its skull like popping the cap off a bottle, and – tilting back her head – squirted its hot blood and guts straight down her throat, discarding its empty body.
Then, still hungry, she crawled on.
The tunnel came out into a narrow stairway. Stone steps covered in slimy moss led steeply up or steeply down. Following the stench of her mother’s sweat and drool, the little girl slithered downwards.
After a while a shining emerald mist filled the tunnel. Creeping under a low archway, she found herself in a vast cavern through which a lime-green river ran. The sight of the water almost sent her scurrying back to her nest – because water is death to pookas. And yet her mother’s scent-trail drew her on. Not far into the cavern, creeping through the mist, she picked up another scent – strong, meaty, tender – which made her tummy rumble again.
Human girl.
Yet at the river’s edge the human scent ran out and only her mother’s continued on, tracing a dangerous route along the edge of the water. The young pooka followed the trail, whimpering with unease, until the river flowed out of the cavern under a rocky shelf. For several minutes she snuffled around, puzzling.
Until she saw her mother. Or rather, what was left of her. A black rotting island, floating damply on the surface of the water. Clumps of wiry hair; gobbets of still-melting flesh; one pathetically raised claw. For a long disbelieving moment the pooka stared. Then, with a desolate whimper, she crept to the very edge of the water, stretching out a black and hairy arm, ready to fondle the very last remnants of her loving, protective, beautiful parent …
A ripple surged through the water, as from the wake of a departing boat, and rocked her mother’s disappearing body. The wavelet splashed the little girl’s hand, burning into her flesh like acid. In pain and shock, she turned and ran. Not remembering the way she came, she squeezed out under the wrong archway and rushed up a very different set of steps.
Where was the safety of her nest? Her mother was dead, and she couldn’t find her way home! Her mother was dead. The little girl’s heart pulsed with a terrible grief. She raced wildly along tunnel after tunnel. Up and down a labyrinth of stairways, all leading nowhere. Until, in a dark, dim corner curtained by cobwebs, she collapsed and slept, exhausted.
Then woke and carried on, until on another far-flung stairway a terrifying smell assailed her nostrils …
Mother-killer!
Trembling, the young pooka snuffed around in the stairwell, fighting down her nausea. The revolting smell was everywhere – the human might have gone in either direction, up or down. But after much thought the pooka turned upwards. Her mother had told her that that was where humans lived, in a beautiful mysterious world far above, full of light and heavenly music. And when she found that girl, first she would murder every single one of the girl’s loved ones and then she would kill the human girl herself.
Eager for revenge, the young pooka raced upwards.
Up, up, up …
Finally the stairs came to an abrupt end in a cramped stone box. Cold air and light streamed in through narrow cracks around a square panel of wood. The pooka crouched, blinking and shivering.
The scent of her mother’s murderer was weaker here, as if faded by time. Hoping she’d come the right way, the little girl curled up and slept again. And hours later she was woken by a very beautiful, heavenly sound, like nothing she had ever heard before. Ding, dong; ding, dong. A sweet, rhythmic musical note.
And a short time after that, a meaty smell began to tickle her nostrils. Humans passing by on the far side of the door … The little girl raised her head and inhaled carefully.
Sniff, sniff, sniff.
Ready for her stomach to turn over when she caught the foul scent of murder.
But the human girl she was seeking was not among these others. These others smelled only tender and delicious.
And the pooka, having run so far and eaten nothing for ages, realized she was very hungry.
If the pooka hadn’t been rather smart for her age, she would have burst out of the tomb, grabbed th
e nearest person and bitten off their head. Instead, she took time to think. She knew now – after what had happened to her poor, innocent mother – that humans could be dangerous to pookas.
Outside, the noise and bustle died down, then stopped. After a while the pooka eased open the door and poked out her ugly, horned head. A shining white world confronted her, with silvery flakes falling through the air. Little white flowers were also everywhere, poking their heads through the soft white carpet. From a grey stone building with lighted windows, the beautiful sound continued to ring out.
Ding, dong! Ding, dong!
Then, abruptly, stopped.
Leaving her hiding place, the door swinging closed behind her, the little girl followed the human scent into the building, her mouth watering. Here, hundreds of people were kneeling in rows with their backs to her, listening to a man in long black robes. Nearby, a small fat boy was yawning. Very carefully, the pooka reached out one long and hairy arm …
Her knuckles hit solid air, as if an invisible shield protected the boy. Puzzled, she pushed at the glass doors. The latch was made of iron, which fairies hate, and the shock of touching it made her snort with pain. At the far end of the church, the man in the black robes looked up and met the hurt red eyes of the pooka glaring in at him, through glass made cloudy by its monstrous breath. Startled at being noticed, the pooka turned and fled, back out of the church into the freezing world.
Somewhere there must be easier pickings.
And there was.
A little way off, an old woman in a red hat was kneeling before a snow-capped gravestone, arranging snowdrops in a jar. This time the pooka decided to do things properly, the way her mother had taught her – by shape-shifting into the old woman’s loved one.
Creeping up behind the old lady, the pooka gazed into her ageing mind and immediately spotted a handsome boy with thick black hair. Name? Johnny Forkin. Age? Nineteen. Relationship? Secretly engaged to this old woman, whose name was Mary Barrett.
‘Mary?’ said the pooka softly.
Mary Barrett, now aged eighty-five, raised her head sharply. But then went back to arranging the flowers. ‘Ah, Johnny, my angel,’ she sighed to herself, ‘I do believe I’ll be joining you soon.’
Puzzled, the pooka tried again. ‘Mary?’
Still the woman failed to look behind her, only shaking her head and saying a little louder: ‘Oh, Johnny, if by some miracle you can hear my voice as clearly as I seem to hear yours these days, then I wish you a happy birthday as I do every year, and I forgive you for running off to Dublin with my best friend Sheila Cunningham.’
‘Mary!’
‘Hush, Johnny, lie still. I know well it was all my own fault, because I was too boring and dull to run away with you myself. I tried to keep you here with me in Kilduff when all you wanted to do was see the world. But believe me, I’ve been regretting that mistake all my life and if you’d only come back to me before you died, I’d have followed you to Dublin in a heartbeat, and then maybe you wouldn’t have been murdered at that wild party.’
The pooka was getting very cold now as well as hungry. Her skin had softened and the black coat of hair melted – apart from a thick handsome shock of it left on her head. She was wearing a white shirt and black trousers, but they were far too thin for a snowy day. Losing patience, she tapped the old woman on the shoulder, and this time – with a wince of ageing joints – Mary Barrett twisted to look behind her. After a moment’s stunned disbelief, her wrinkled face lit up with the purest happiness. ‘Oh, Johnny,’ she quavered, ‘you’ve come for me at last! I have loved you so, for all my life! I’ll take your darling hand, I’m not afraid! Where are you bringing me, my angel? Heaven?’
‘Dublin,’ grinned the pooka-Johnny, and bit off the old woman’s head.
The pooka licked up every last drop of blood and choked down every morsel of tough old flesh. She ate most of the bones, which were nicely thin and full of tasty marrow, but left the hands and feet, which were too gristly. These she buried with Mary Barrett’s tweed coat and red hat under the snow – because, like any tidy animal, she liked to cover her tracks. That done, the pooka headed back towards the tomb, to digest her meal at leisure. But before she could open the door of the tomb – which was slightly stuck – people began spilling out of the church.
The pooka hastily shape-shifted back into Johnny Forkin and stepped out of sight behind the grave. Most of the people leaving the churchyard were shadows in the heavy snow, but passing close by came a middle-aged woman with a tasty-looking child – blonde and blue-eyed in a pink hat, kicking at the snow with little pink boots, crying: ‘Pretty!’
If the pooka hadn’t been already full to bursting, that little child would have made the perfect snack. But Johnny’s trousers were very tight around the pooka’s waist – thanks to a bellyful of Mary Barrett, his faithful, forgotten teenage love.
A tall man with thick iron-grey hair joined the woman, taking her arm. He said to her, ‘I had a word with Noel.’
The woman leaned against him with a sigh, letting the child skip on ahead. ‘Well done, you. I did try to talk to Dianne, but she’s so upset and angry she wouldn’t even meet my eye. Did you try telling Noel that Aoife and Carla have gone to the fairy world?’
‘No. Dianne thinks fairy talk is a sign of madness, and Noel is a good man and stands by his wife. I just said to him that I was certain the girls would be back any day now.’
‘Please God, you’re right.’
‘I am right, Maeve. Aoife knows about the time difference between the worlds, so she won’t let Carla stay away for long. I’m sure they’ll spend only a few hours having a quick look around paradise …’
‘It’s been nearly three months!’
‘In this world, because time goes a hundred times faster here. But I know they’ll be back soon. That’s what Aoife said when she texted you. And I trust her, Maeve.’
The pooka, in the shape of Johnny Forkin, was listening hard to all of this. And although the couple …
Maeve and James O’Connor …
… were talking about several different people, there was a central image – a very important image – so strong in both their minds, that – almost without intending to do it – the pooka began changing shape again.
Long, red-gold hair, a slight wave to it.
Creamy skin, oval face.
Sky-sea eyes, green-blue, the colour of a summer’s day.
Name? Aoife O’Connor.
Age? Fifteen.
Relationship? Precious daughter.
The pooka felt a deep, painful sadness. It would be so wonderful to be someone’s ‘precious daughter’ again. Looked after and petted and made to feel special. Tears pricked her lovely turquoise eyes.
Maybe for just a little while …
At least until she tracked down that horrible human girl who had murdered her mother.
Kicking off her high-heeled shoes – because now she was dressed for a party, in a short black dress – the pooka stepped out from behind the statue and followed the couple down the graveyard path and out of the gate into the snowy square, where the human child …
Eva.
… ran in circles and then flopped down in the snow to make a snow angel.
CHAPTER ONE
In panic, Carla raced down the tunnel of white roses. A foul demon was swooping from the hot blue sky, its vast leathery wings beating up a foul storm, its shrunken head poking forward on its long scrawny neck, its mangled beak snapping at the air …
‘Run!’ screamed Aoife, pointing upwards. ‘Carla, run!’
But Carla couldn’t run; she couldn’t abandon her best friend, who was being dragged away by that horrible little man in his dog-skin coat. She and Aoife had been together all their remembered lives. Side by side. Sisters at heart. She had to rescue her friend, never mind the risk …
Like a helicopter landing, the whoop of leathery wings was shaking the white flowers, sending clouds of petals whirling.
‘Ultan!’ screamed Aoife. ‘Get Carla back to the house! Go! I can look after myself!’
The next moment Carla found herself wrenched off her feet by a strong pair of arms, and swung over a broad back. She howled in fury as she beat at Ultan’s shoulders with her fists: ‘No, put me down!’ Then, in sudden wild hope, she screamed towards Aoife at the top of her voice, ‘I wish we were both safe home!’
But already the teenage boy had fled with her, racing up the tunnel and across the gold-paved courtyard towards the mansion. And the winged demon was upon them, swooping from side to side through the hordes of golden men, crashing the statues over with its wings, its scaly neck extended, eyes blazing, shrivelled fingers stretching out to snatch her from Ultan’s back …
So this was how it ended.
With a despairing sob, Carla closed her eyes.
Please God, look after my parents and my little sister Zoe and let them not be too sad.
Please God, look after Aoife.
The air around her exploded. She was seized like a leaf by the wind, whirled up through the hot blue air, nothing below her feet. She could hear Ultan yelling faintly somewhere: ‘Nooooo!!!!’
Please God, Carla prayed as the world fell away below her, the city of Falias dwindling to a dot of pink light as dark clouds of terror swirled in her mind. Please God, look after everyone and let my death be quick.
Still the wind swept her upwards, howling like ripped metal in her ears, tearing the breath from her lungs, the strength from her heart. It swept her around in a nauseous light-footed dance on empty air. She was on a roller-coaster ride to death.
Please God, if this must be, let my death be quick.
She was slipping away into unconsciousness.
Merciful Father …
She was alive. On her knees, being violently sick. And she didn’t dare open her eyes, because she knew she was in the monster’s nest, and the leather-winged sluagh was standing over her, waiting until she finished vomiting to rip the first strand of tender flesh from her back. Slowly the retching stopped. She crouched in terror, waiting for the pain to start …