No time to be squeamish. ‘Killian, get out, quick.’
He stared at her from the depths of the coach; eyes black in the shadowy light. ‘I love you, Carla.’
‘I love you too! Get out of the coach and climb over the gate!’
‘I can’t climb. Open the gate.’
‘Oh God … OK, I will when you get out, I daren’t open it for more than a second.’
‘But you need to help me get out. I’m so sick. If you don’t want me to come into the church …’
‘Of course I want you to come in!’ Unlocking the gate, she ripped open the door of the coach. ‘I love you, come quick, come in!’
Rising to his feet, he stumbled gladly from the coach, falling into her arms, knocking her backwards to the ground. ‘I love you too!’ he cried, standing over her – ‘I love you too!’ – his beautiful face gazing down at her. Killian’s face, with his high, sharp cheekbones and hollow cheeks, and his gorgeous mouth, and his mocking eyes which were laughing at her as she lay sprawled in the dirt …
Ink-blue eyes, not silver-grey. And hair not the colour of Mayo sand, but the dark red of dying coals.
‘So, Carla Heffernan,’ said Killian’s voice, ‘Peter Munnelly tells me you’re the saviour of Kilduff! When all along I assumed it was that slave, Aoife O’Connor!’
And she knew him now – she had seen his face before, in a book: A Most Comprehensive Catalogue of Ye Irish Fairies.
The Fear Dorocha.
The man Aoife had called the devil, and who Carla had just invited in.
He wasn’t weak or sick; he was inhumanly strong. He hustled her in front of him up the path, crying, ‘Oh, would you look at that!’ – pointing upwards into the sky, where Father Leahy hung from his shredded vestments in the ancient yew tree, swinging to and fro in time to the chiming of the bell – ‘Couldn’t save the priest, saviour girl? Oh dear.’ And as Carla sobbed for poor useless Father Leahy, he kicked the unlocked side door open – ‘By Donn, this is too easy!’ – and hauled her in by her arm. ‘No point having walls of silver if you leave a door open, darling!’
Behind them, the banshees were already wandering through the open gate into the churchyard, pausing only to read the names on the graves.
‘Did no one tell you, saviour girl,’ jeered Dorocha, throwing her to the carpet, ‘that a chain is no stronger than its weakest link? Which with you appears to be my poor, weak son.’
Carla choked: ‘Your son?’
He grinned down at her. ‘Don’t look old enough, do I? But it’s true. Now, upsy-daisy!’ He hauled her to her feet again, and spun her round and marched her towards the inner door. Then stopped. ‘Ah. How very clever. Silver.’ The inner door was barred with the two huge silver candlesticks, jammed (for extra safety) in the shape of a cross. He laughed, and gave Carla a little push forwards. ‘Or it would have been clever, if I didn’t have you on this side to open it. Open it, saviour girl!’
Carla turned to face him, arms folded very tightly across the chest to still her violent trembling.
Dorocha said cheerfully, ‘Open the door, little saviour girl.’
Carla braced herself, not knowing what would happen next.
He appeared puzzled, head on one side. ‘You do know that, if you don’t open it, I will torture you until you do, so this whole hero thing is completely pointless?’
All Carla’s bravery drained from her – running out through the soles of her feet into the carpet. She said nothing and didn’t move.
‘Well, this will be fun! Let’s see – what have we got?’ Looking around him, the tall, beautiful man picked up the sharp toasting fork and jabbed it suddenly at Carla’s upper arm, piercing the delicate rose-silk dress.
‘Aaargh!’ She hadn’t meant to scream so loudly, but it was so ruthless and unexpected, and anyway it hurt! She fell to her knees, clutching her arm just beneath the shoulder, the blood dripping, her lovely new dress ruined.
‘Open the door?’ suggested Dorocha gently.
Feet came racing down the passageway outside, and Aoife called through the hole made by John Joe’s fist: ‘Carla? Is that you? Open up! I can’t do iron locks right now!’
‘Aoife, go back in the church! I’m fine, I just stubbed my toe!’
Toasting fork in hand, Dorocha stepped over her – but as Carla braced herself not to scream again, he only leaned slightly nearer to the door, the silver cross glowing dangerously as he neared it. ‘Aoibheal? Do I understand our little saviour girl correctly? Is that really you out there, back from the Land of the Young so soon?’
Silence. Through the hole in the door, the passageway was in absolute darkness. In the distance, Carla could hear the bell still chiming, but only faintly; the heavy oak door at the top of the passageway must be closed. Outside, a sound of rustling filled the passageway. Heavy breathing …
Aoife’s turquoise eyes gleamed suddenly through the broken panel. ‘You let her go or I’ll kill you.’
Dorocha flinched back, then laughed. ‘Well, well, well. So it is you. Maybe it’s just as well we didn’t open the door just now. You might have taken me by surprise. Thankfully, now I’m prepared for you.’
‘I’ll kill you anyway.’
‘Now, now. Don’t try any funny business. Don’t forget I have your little saviour girl with me. Did you hear her cry? Do you want to hear that again? Let’s try it.’ He jabbed viciously with the fork.
As Carla screamed helplessly, Aoife shrieked, ‘No, no, stop!’
Dorocha leaned towards the hole in the door, the fork dripping red blood across the rose-pink dress. ‘Then how about a deal, Aoibheal? A changeling swap? Human for fairy. I let your little friend go and you come in to me.’
‘Good. Fine. Open the door.’
‘No!’ shrieked Carla, pressing her palms to her upper arms, trying to staunch the flow.
Dorocha said, ‘But I’m afraid you have to ask your recalcitrant little friend here to do that for us.’
The turquoise eyes pierced the darkness. ‘Carla, open this door.’
Carla sobbed as blood trickled through her fingers, ‘No. I won’t. This is my fault – it’s because I get candyfloss brains around Killian and I’m not letting you save me at the expense of your own life, so forget it.’
Dorocha kicked her in the thigh, viciously, with his red leather boot. ‘You’re a fool – that girl is no friend of yours.’
Carla wept, clutching her leg, ‘Yes, she is! She’s been my best friend for ever!’
‘Really? Shall I describe to you how she murdered your beloved Killian?’
Carla’s brain turned briefly black. Killian … Then pulled itself together. She shouted through the door, where all had gone silent, ‘It’s OK, Aoife, I don’t believe him!’
Silence.
Through the side door behind, three banshees came wandering in, looking inquisitively around them, their arms covered in dirt as if they had been digging in the graves outside. Dorocha bent over Carla, the sharp fork resting gently on her collarbone as she shrank trembling from his bottomless gaze.
Midnight eyes …
Eternal emptiness.
He said lightly, ‘Why don’t you ask our lovely best friend yourself? Let her tell you how she couldn’t help herself. She’s suppressed that side of her being for all of these years, but once she took back her crown … Aren’t I right, Aoibheal?’
Silence.
Dorocha grinned – so like Killian! – and said in a slightly sing-song manner, as if repeating an ancient folk story, ‘The poor boy loved a queen, and he kissed her and she sucked out his heart and then he died.’
Carla cried, ‘That’s a lie and I know where you got it from! That’s what the Deargdue did to Shay!’
‘But the Land of the Young and the Land of Death are one country now, with a single queen.’
‘Aoife isn’t the Deargdue!’
‘Yet Aoibheal’s mother was the spit of my darling demon. How many human men did I bring to her mother’s bed, so she
could break their hearts? And the daughter is no better, and your Killian died for love of her.’
It was an agony far worse than the stab of a toasting fork. ‘No! NO! Aoife, tell me none of this is true!’
Silence.
‘Aoife!’
In the darkness beyond the door, Aoife said in a flat, hoarse voice, ‘It’s true. Now open the door.’
‘No!’
‘Carla, it’s true. Open the door.’
‘No. No,’ wailed Carla. ‘You’d never do anything like that. I know you, I’ve known you since we were four years old and you would never, ever, ever do anything to hurt me, not the Aoife I know, not the Aoife I know …’
Aoife said in a low, hard voice, ‘Listen, Carla. I’m a dark creature, like the Deargdue. Like the pooka. I seduced Killian Doherty and murdered him.’
‘No, you’re not!’
‘The last drop of his heart had the memory of you, Carla. I swallowed it down. It was sweet.’
‘No, you didn’t!’
‘I’m not the Aoife you know …’
‘Yes you are, you’re the real Aoife!’
Dorocha said cheerfully, ‘See? You don’t owe that fairy queen a thing. Now, saviour girl – open the door, or I’ll bring you straight to that silken temple in the square, and the druids can sacrifice you on the wedding table.’
‘I don’t care!’
In a fit of amused exasperation, he grabbed hold of the back of her dress, hauling her to her feet. ‘Grand. Sacrifice first, and then we’ll starve out your friend anyway …’
‘Carla, listen to me!’ shrieked Aoife, out of sight in the darkness. ‘If you won’t believe what I say, then just trust in me!’
Carla shouted back as Dorocha pulled her away. ‘I do! I trust you too much to believe you!’
‘No you don’t, or you’d listen to me! You’d trust me when I ask you to open the door! Whatever I’ve said or done, trust me now. If you don’t believe I murdered Killian, then trust me now.’
Carla wept in confusion, ‘I don’t know what to believe!’
‘It’s not about belief, Carla. It’s about trust. Remember what you said to me when we were fighting in the balcony? Trust me. And when I say, open the door: trust me.’
‘Oh, just do it,’ said Dorocha wearily, giving Carla a push back towards the door. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘Oh … Oh …’ Brain melting, not knowing what to make of anything – only seizing desperately onto those two words – Trust me – Carla, in despair, ripped down the silver candlesticks, throwing them to the floor, dragging the iron key from her pocket and forcing it with a shaking hand into the lock.
But as the door swung open, Dorocha seized her again from behind, holding her against him like a shield. ‘Don’t leave me, saviour girl!’
‘Get off me!’ Carla kicked and fought to get away.
Because there was Aoife, standing there in the pitch-black passage, facing them like a girl ablaze, the hawthorn crown shining with emerald leaves and silver flowers and pearly berries in her hair – her hands raised, wreathed in gold power, only waiting for Carla to stand aside …
And there …
Oh, amazingly, there …
A pale, beautiful figure at Aoife’s side, saying, ‘Carla?’
As Dorocha hurled the iron toasting fork with horrible power straight at Aoife’s face.
Carla was never sure what happened next. Had Killian lunged to free her from Dorocha’s grip? Or thrown himself in the way of Aoife?
Either way, the iron entered his heart.
As Carla’s true love fell, clinging to her, pulling her down with him, Aoife released a stream of brilliant power like a shaft of sunshine – hot, furious gold – forcing Dorocha back across the vestry, pinning the devil against the wall. The banshees surrounded him, but here came a howling, snarling stream of monsters, pouring through the vestry door, led by a very angry otter riding on the back of a massive green misshapen dog – and more demon dogs, and white cats the size of ponies, with red-hot eyes; and lumbering ugly pig-shaped creatures, dragging green seaweed from their bellies, hurling themselves roaring into battle – going for throats and eyes. Pursuing the furious banshees into the graveyard, grabbing them, sinking teeth into their backs. Cooshees racing out of the open gate to get at the remaining dullahans; the merrow-men flinging themselves stinking over the wall, sending the druids shrieking from the marquee …
And here came a big, ugly changeling girl, racing after the creatures from the zoo, her hands shooting fire, with Ultan beside her, pouring black choking smoke (and mercifully rushing out after Caitlin into the open air of the graveyard).
Dorocha was on his feet again, his back to the wall – but Aoife was on him now, blasting, blasting, golden spears of light thrusting through his empty chest – hitting out with all the rage and strength of having turned sixteen. And Shay was at her side, swinging a silver candlestick to batter the devil’s brains out – the metal burning bright each time it struck the king of death, knocking him repeatedly to his knees.
As yet Dorocha was laughing at them both, holding up his hands to shield his head as if they were mere children hitting him with pillows. As if their young rage had barely any power over him at all …
Carla sat on the floor with Killian’s head in her lap, her tears falling on his upturned face, demented by grief. She should join the battle, but she couldn’t leave her love. She ran her fingers through his silky hair, touching his mouth, his closed eyes. Dead because of love. Dead because of love.
And here came the lenanshees, a sea of slender pale feet and whispering lace passing her by; pausing to look down at Killian with sad sighs – because lenanshees prize nothing more than beauty, alive or dead.
Dorocha had managed to rise to his feet, backing towards the open door – for the first time with real alarm on his face as he saw that their leader was Eimhear. Because he was the devil who had sent his lover to murder Eimhear’s youngest son, and fifty sluagh to murder her eldest son. And although fairies aren’t especially fond of their own children, sometimes they take exception …
The lenanshee woman pushed Shay and Aoife carelessly aside – she was so much stronger than any other fairy, when she could be bothered – and threw her slender arms round Dorocha’s neck, and dragged him to his knees, and kissed him closely as he groaned, his beautiful midnight eyes closing.
More lenanshees, flooding the vestry.
One more than before – old John McCarthy’s niece.
Aoife – no longer needed – came to join Carla on the floor, crouching beside her, gazing down into that pale, beautiful face. And Carla sobbed, ‘He was trying to save you.’
And Aoife said, ‘No – he was trying to save you. There was no darkness left in him. Only his love for you. I’ll tell you how I know, one day.’
And they sat together, holding his body – Carla with Killian’s head in her lap, and Aoife holding his feet. And Shay crouched on the carpet beside Aoife, his arm round her.
In the graveyard around the church, the battle raged.
But in the vestry, Dorocha knelt in his black coat by the open door, only a step away from the golden-blue October light, caged by slender arms and kisses, drowning in a sea of white lace.
EPILOGUE
A soft spring day; and Aoife O’Connor was sitting on the edge of a cliff. Behind her was the russet bog, and purple mountains of north Mayo. Before her was the wild Atlantic, stretching to the far horizon. Hundreds of metres beneath her dangling feet, milky-blue waves crashed against the cliffs. And down there – hidden by the overhang – was the sea-cave in which the lenanshees liked to play, their white lace dresses clinging to them like the foam of the breaking waves. Waiting for seven years for the road to open. And meanwhile breaking soft human hearts in Kilduff – despite all their efforts to be good.
It was to the sea-cave that the lenanshees had brought Dorocha. Not home to the Land of the Young, nor the Land of the Dead, but to that unmapped land
that nobody knows – giving his body to their watery sisters, the seal wives, who plunged with him beneath the turbulent waves.
Below Aoife, the grey gulls whirled and dived.
Thinking of flying, she kicked her feet, stirring the soft air below her like warm water, as if she was sitting on the bank of a pool rather than on the edge of a cliff.
Shay Foley was stretched out beside her, eyes closed, hands pillowing his head; taking a sneaky break from helping his brother on the farm; idling in the sun, dreaming lenanshee dreams, a haze of blue butterflies rising from the grass around him.
Bored, Aoife took out her phone and Facetimed Carla, who turned out to be at her grandmother’s house. ‘I’m out on the cliffs with Shay. It’s beautiful. Do you want me to come and get you?’
‘Sorry, baking scones with Zoe and Eva.’ On the screen, Carla was standing in the kitchen, stirring the contents of a truly enormous bowl while fighting off the two little girls, who were trying to eat the dough. ‘Why don’t you come here? I’m making hundreds of them.’
‘Hundreds?’
‘Hundreds. Ultan and his dad are coming over for their tea, and they’re bringing “little Ultan” and “little Caitlin”, and all the other hangers-on. It’s gone mad up there at the house, but at least Grainne’s promised to build them an extension. Ultan was thinking of restoring the old house as well. If we can get charitable status we can maybe get a grant. And Nan has agreed to take a few of the teenagers, if they’ll only help around the house, now her knees are gone. Maybe even do the driving!’
Caitlin’s child soldiers had turned up several weeks after the battle. The magic boat had streamed ahead, carrying Caitlin, Killian and Wee Peter. The animals from the zoo had kept up by running along the banks, but many of the changelings were only six or seven years old, and the oldest had fallen back to help the youngest, and they’d all got lost for a few hours.
Now that they had finally arrived, Ultan was busy running a support group and helpline for any of them who had decided to stay in Mayo for good. It was difficult for the fairy children, reconnecting with the families for whom they were only sad distant stories: a great-uncle who had died very young; a child who had got lost on the bog; a yellowing photo in a box.
The Hawthorn Crown Page 30