The Hawthorn Crown

by Helen Falconer

  She snapped, ‘I don’t care about you, I care about Carla. For some reason I’m sure she’d want me to save you.’

  He jeered, ‘Aoife, stop denying your feelings for me.’

  When she ignored him in disgust, he stepped a little closer, studying her arms and neck and face in the glow of the firelight pouring through the gate, inspecting the weals left by the grogoch’s whip, touching them with his finger. ‘How did you get all those nasty marks?’

  She lied angrily, ‘Barbed wire.’

  He winced and clicked his tongue – although he didn’t seem displeased. ‘Seriously? Then I guess that’s my fault. It must have happened when you followed me all the way from your house, all that way to the hawthorn pool, chasing after a boy you didn’t care about at all.’

  ‘I wasn’t following you, I was—’ She stopped.

  (He ran

  across the blood-red water …)

  He mocked her lightly: ‘Ah, come on. What else were you doing, if not chasing after me?’

  Yes – what had she been doing, exactly? Following him to make sure he came to no harm. Afraid he would fall into that flood. Yet then, when he ran across safely, couldn’t she have stopped and gone home? But she hadn’t wanted to; she’d been caught up in the music by then – her feet dancing to the intoxicating beat of the fairy road.

  We ran

  across the blood-red water …

  And as soon as she had stepped out of Carla’s protective circle, into the field behind the Munnellys’ bungalow, she had felt a dark creature within herself, uncurling beneath her skin.

  I am …

  the fairy’s daughter …

  An older, deeper, colder part of herself had surfaced outside the circle – a child from thousands of years ago, when the stars were younger than today, and the world emptier. A child who had had a fairy mother once, and had the strange dream of seeing her once more.

  Steeling herself against fresh tears, Aoife turned her head away. A solitary sluagh was flying awkwardly upstream, on injured wings. The sluagh from the zoo, already finished with its meal. Oh God … Vomit rose in her throat. She spat over the bridge into the scarlet water.

  Her fault.

  Killian was right.

  She had allowed Lois to follow her out across the bog. She’d been intoxicated by the scent of the hawthorns. And now the girl was dead – horribly murdered. And her poor parents … What would she say to Lois’s parents, when – if – she ever saw them again? Too horrible to imagine. Maybe it would be better if she never went home, but just hid here in this world for all eternity, taking whatever punishment was handed out to her. A slave.

  But that was a coward’s thought. She had to get home. To fight for her own family. For Carla. For Shay.

  Killian rested his hand on her upper arm. Without looking at him, she tried to shrug it off. He left it there. He said, ‘Look, I’m going nowhere and I can’t let you run off by yourself – you’d only do something impulsive and get yourself into trouble and maybe next time I won’t be able to rescue you. But at the same time I know this must be a difficult situation for you. So this is the third thing I am going to do for you. The last time you came into this city, you were the queen. You had a crown. People respected you. And now you’re … Well, you’re with me, the son of the new queen. And the reason we’re stopped here is, I don’t want this to be embarrassing for you.’

  The sluagh had disappeared round the corner of the city, in the direction of the smugglers’ secret entrance. A secret no longer, since Aoife had given the hiding place away, fleeing to safety in Mícheál Costello’s magical boat. And this act of carelessness on her part had led directly to the death of Wee Peter.

  Killian said, ‘Aoife? Although I guess in this world I should call you “Aoibheal” …’

  ‘Aoife,’ said Aoife hoarsely. Aoibheal was the name her fairy mother had given her, yet she’d always hated the sound of it – it was what Dorocha called her, especially when he was being cruel. It was the name of a queen, whose people died for her while she lived. Like brave Wee Peter. Like Lois – although not by choice.

  Killian seemed surprised. ‘You like your human name better than your fairy name? I thought—’

  ‘It’s not whether Aoife is a fairy or a human name – it’s my name. So call me by it.’

  He sighed. ‘Fine. Grand. I was just trying to be respectful. Which is also why I don’t want to bring you into Falias looking like a scarecrow …’ Holding her shoulder very firmly with one hand, he combed his fingers through Aoife’s long red-gold tangles, picking out the wet grogoch straw, saying, ‘I’m not going to treat you as a slave, Aoife, whatever my father chooses to call you. I’ll talk my parents round – I always can. Didn’t I save you already from being eaten alive? I can always get my own way. You’ll have the best of everything. I’ll keep you by my side. It’ll be as if you really are the queen – you’ll live in luxury, with riches and beautiful dresses to wear. Your people won’t even realize you have no power.’

  Angrily she tried to turn her head away from his touch. ‘Sure. While you have me tied up like a slave.’

  ‘Do you want me to free your hands? Then we can ride in together, with you holding the reins yourself.’

  In astonishment, Aoife looked at him.

  He was smiling rather nicely – like that too-young boy, this time seeking approval: ‘Because I can untie you, if you promise not to try and escape.’

  She smiled nicely back at him. ‘I promise.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re such a liar, Aoife.’ Then added seriously, ‘But you know what? I’m going to untie you anyway, because it’ll be fine – you can’t get away from me. I’m a lot stronger and faster than you – especially now I’ve turned sixteen. Don’t you think?’ When she didn’t answer – reluctant to be caught obviously lying again – he looked at her with amused interest. ‘You think you’re stronger than me, even though I’m sixteen now? We should have a trial of arms – only for fun, of course, not to hurt each other. There are amazing weapons in my mother’s treasure room.’

  She couldn’t help herself. She said curtly, ‘My mother’s treasure room.’

  With a shrug, he pulled a small stone knife from his pocket and turned her quickly by her shoulder to face the gates. Within, shadows moved against the firelight, and happy voices rose in chorus (were they really chanting, ‘Kill the humans’?) and fiddles played at fairy speed. She could feel his teasing at the knot with the point of the knife, the rope pulling painfully at her wrists. She tensed her legs, getting ready to run. If Killian stood in her way, she would have to blast him. But she’d hold back on her power; she wouldn’t hurt him; maybe just flip him over the parapet into the river (like the dullahan’s head, bobbing away downstream, still shrieking obscenities). Strand after strand of the rope was separating. Freedom was coming. The dark ice was already trickling into blood. Her fingers twitched, longing to strike. As soon as her fairy power could flow freely, from shoulder to fingertip, then …

  Killian was saying in her ear as he worked, ‘What does it matter if we call the treasure room “mine” or “yours”? My mother says I can have anything I want from it, if I please her. Gold. Diamonds. And if you just play nice, I’ll let you have anything of mine you desire. Except not the sword – I’m having that. But there’s jewellery. Fancy dresses. You’ll look beautiful. Now then.’

  The last strand of rope gave way; her hands sprang apart; she spun on her left foot … He stood in her way, arms out, smiling as if he was expecting her to throw herself gratefully into his embrace. She raised her own arms – heavy, swollen with power – and extended her fingers, saying calmly, ‘Killian, please get out of my way because I don’t want to hurt you.’

  Still he stood smiling, with his arms thrown wide, leaving his slender torso exposed and vulnerable.

  She mustn’t strike too hard, she didn’t want to stop his heart. ‘Killian, please.’

  He took a step towards her.

  ‘Get out
of my way!’ She was unable to hold the power back in any longer; it tore through her shoulders, roared down her arms …

  And her hands remained as helpless as a beggar’s held out for change. And instantly she realized why: around each wrist was a neat bracelet of iron wire – damming the flow of power.

  The next moment – so fast she didn’t even see him move until it was too late – Killian had picked her up by the waist and was carrying her backwards towards the horse. ‘Let me go!’ She kicked to free herself, wriggling, hitting out at him. Now he was lifting her up onto the monstrous horse, dumping her back into the red leather saddle with brutal strength, keeping a grip on her ankle as he reached for the reins – unlooping them from the gargoyle’s head. And meanwhile the beautiful power that had filled her veins was fading, weakening, ebbing.

  Hating how pathetic she sounded, she begged him: ‘Killian, please. Please let me go.’

  He said curtly, swinging himself up behind her, ‘So you can try and blast me again?’

  ‘No, we have to go home.’ She grabbed the reins and made a furious attempt to swing the horse herself. It began to turn, snorting and tossing its huge head, red smoke bursting from its nostrils, and flames from its eyes.

  Killian grabbed the reins from her, saying angrily as he turned it back, ‘Stop acting like a stupid girl, or I’ll dump you off and then you’ll see how you manage without me to take care of you.’ And he kicked the horse on through the gates into the fire-lit city.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A deafening, glittering activity filled the city square, although not one of games and feasting as it had been the first time she was here. Tonight it seemed as if something darker and more organized was afoot: columns of marching children; chanting crowds of teenagers, voices strident: Kill the humans!

  Far above, the moon hung behind the queen’s tower – a swollen moon, the colour of an orange – but down here the square was a hot cauldron of black and gold; shadows and fires. A haze of lilac incense, studded with hot crimson sparks, drifting from copper braziers set crookedly around the marble fountains and under archways leading into many courtyards. In the centre of the square, under the colossal statue of the bronze elk, young musicians squatted on the steps of the plinth, playing flutes and fiddles, and beating at bodhráns.

  The horse flared its nostrils angrily, arching its thick, snake-like, muscular neck, shaking its massive head – the red leather bridle jingling with its green copper bells. Killian murmured, ‘Easy now,’ as he edged the monster through the choking incense and noisy confusion. Aoife sat forward in the saddle. In all this mess, if she could suddenly slide sideways, land on her feet – more likely on her head, but still – then leap up and run, she could disappear instantly into the crowd.

  Killian shifted the reins so that he could hold them with one hand and slipped his other arm around her waist. ‘Easy now,’ he said in her ear, like he was talking to his horse. His arm like iron. ‘Don’t forget I’m doing you a favour. My father wanted me to bring you in lying over the saddle like a sack of grain. I’m bringing you in as a queen. Lift up your head and look the part. If you start any trouble, I will call my people – and then your people will die, do you hear? Like Lois. Which was all your fault, and you know it.’

  She flinched, feeling the accusation like a knife in the heart. She said quietly, ‘I do know it.’

  Nearby, a three-deep line of teenage changelings marched up and down, wearing the usual mix of fashion from the last hundred years, chanting: ‘Left, right! Left, right!’ Some were shooting flames from their hands, and others were floating a metre above the ground. Some were crowned in ice; some shimmered like mist, in and out of view. A youth of seventeen, kitted out in a uniform from the First World War, was waving a short baton, keeping time to the chanting: ‘Long live death! Die to be reborn!’ Aoife had seen that soldier boy before – the last time she was here, he’d been on his way to consult a new guru (‘She Who Knows Everything – entry, one orb’) about the war. In other words, the rabidly anti-human Caitlin McGreevey.

  Aoife scanned the square. Keeping watch on the marching magical teenagers was a tall, robed, shadowy figure, standing on the corner of a street.

  And another.

  Aoife’s stomach lurched in disgust. Several dullahans were clustered in every exit from the square, their putrid heads held in their hands and clouds of flies circling their amputated necks.

  So that’s what Killian meant by calling ‘his people’.

  Dorocha’s minions of death.

  ‘Easy,’ hissed Killian to his horse again, as another line of soldiers – twelve- and thirteen-year-olds – clattered across their path (‘Left, right! Left, right! Revenge on humans!’). These ones only held thin bronze spears – they were too young to have come into their special power. And here was a third column, even more junior; and a fourth, so young now that many were wearing lacy communion dresses and short grey jackets and trousers. Following each other in barefoot circles around the square, chanting their hatred of the human parents who had reared them until the fairy world had called them home again.

  Aoife watched the little ones marching, with great grief for them all in her heart. She’d been so wrong. She’d refused to believe that her own people would turn against the surface world, or rush to die in some pointless war. Yet it seemed a terrible darkness was growing in Falias – even among these sad, lost youth. As if every one of these children had been listening to Caitlin McGreevey, and drinking in her sorrowful, poisonous rage …

  And there she was!

  The big changeling girl was standing on the plinth above the musicians, under the bronze belly of the elk, hands on hips, surveying her youthful troops like a general, occasionally roaring out over the noise of the instruments: ‘Kill the humans! Revenge the queen! Hooray for Dorocha the Beloved!’

  Aoife clenched her fists uselessly in their bracelets of iron. Why was that angry fool still on Dorocha’s side? Hadn’t she worked out from her precious magic book that it was Dorocha himself who had killed the queen?

  The horse was skirting the bronze statue now, and Caitlin spotted Aoife riding past and came rushing down the steps, screaming with joy. ‘Aoife! I mean, Queen Aoibheal! Look, everyone, look! Queen Aoibheal’s alive, she’s not been killed after all, she’s back from the war!’

  Instantly the marching columns broke step and the youthful soldiers came rushing across the square to surround the horse. ‘Queen Aoibheal!’ ‘We love you, Queen Aoibheal!’ ‘We heard you were killed, leading the sluagh into battle against the humans!’ ‘Are you reborn already?’ ‘Long live rebirth!’

  And the boy in uniform was shouting earnestly, ‘You should have taken me with you, Queen Aoibheal! I would have lain down my life for you!’ ‘Me too! I’d die for you too!’ cried other, eager, younger voices.

  ‘Get away from my horse!’ ordered Killian irritably; he was struggling to control the beast, which was snorting clouds of crimson smoke. Still the crowd pressed against them, far more focused on Aoife than on Killian: young faces, pale in the light of the fires. Hands reaching up to touch the marks on her arms left by the grogoch. ‘Oh, you’re awful hurt, Your Majesty.’ ‘Did the humans cut you?’ ‘Did the sluagh destroy them in revenge?’

  ‘Don’t answer them,’ hissed Killian in her ear.

  Young arms reached for Aoife, ready to lift her down: ‘Is there many humans left for us to kill?’ ‘Tell us about the war!’ Bronze spears were being thrown aside with a clattering that spooked the horse further.

  ‘Get away!’ cried Killian as his steed reared up, lashing the air with its front feet, its back feet slipping on the semi-precious cobbles. As if sensing trouble, the black-robed dullahans stepped forward from their dark corners, fanning out around the square, brandishing their deadly whips made of human spines …

  ‘What happened to the lenanshee boy?’ chorused several of the older girls. ‘Did he kiss you or did the Prince of Donn rescue you from him in time?’

&
nbsp; Killian grasped Aoife’s waist tighter, crushing it painfully. ‘For Queen and Prince!’ he shouted. ‘The queen is with me! I’ve rescued her from the wicked lenanshee boy and now I’m bringing her to my mother’s tower, to be bathed in healing water and fed sugar plums and dressed in beautiful dresses and be taken care of in comfort for ever and ever! Now let us through!’

  These lies seemed enough to settle the innocent mob. Caitlin and other older changelings took up the cry – ‘For Queen and Prince!’ ‘For Queen and Prince!’ ‘For life and death!’ ‘Rebirth and the grave!’ – and began roughly shoving younger children aside, quickly followed by the boy in uniform, and then by a tall youth with a dusting of ginger beard, wearing flared jeans and beads, and another older girl in a pale blue velvet trouser suit – all three shouting: ‘You heard the prince! Get out of his way! Let the queen and the prince through! Long live life and death!’

  The changelings fell back, making room for the horse to walk forward. Caitlin remained striding alongside them, beaming up at Aoife, her red plait bouncing behind her. She was still wearing the white lace dress that the lenanshees had given her, although she had added an emerald tiara – no doubt ‘borrowed’ from the queen’s chambers – along with an emerald necklace. The gap of her missing front tooth had also been plugged with an emerald, and her smile twinkled green. ‘If you have a moment, Aoife – I mean Queen Aoibheal – there’s someone I’d like you to bring with you, who I think is a bit young for the war and needs looking after.’

  ‘They’re all too young for war,’ said Aoife instantly. ‘They’re children. They need looking after. Don’t let them follow Dorocha. Don’t teach them to hate humans.’

  Caitlin looked shocked. ‘Even though a human killed your mother?’

  ‘It’s not true. Trust the book.’