The Black North (30 page)

‘I've seen things. From my family. Horrible things. I don't know whether to believe them.' She wanted to be contradicted, craving disagreement from the dependably disagreeable old woman, but –

‘I believe you,' said Merrigutt. She sighed. ‘There's some things we learn and we wish we hadn't, my girl. And it changes you, but there's nothing we can do about that. And if we're in the mood for airing things, I should say that I've not been the most honest with you that I could've been.'

Oona opened her eyes. The old woman was looking off into the gloom. Oona didn't know if she could endure any more harsh truths. Instead she asked, ‘What am I now? I'm a Kavanagh still, but …' Oona tried to feel the familiar comfort of the name, that sure sense of somewhere belonging. ‘I'm a Kavanagh. And I –'

‘I'll tell you what you are, my girl,' Merrigutt interrupted. ‘You're just you now. Not this or that other thing or whatever name you have. This is the North, and Black as it is and miserable and ruined as it's become, there's one thing we say up here that's about right:
You are whatever you wake as in the morning. But if by evening prayers you're something else entirely, then be happy. Don't weep nor worry: it's no sin at all to become something today which yesterday you did not dream of being.'

‘Waken up now, my girl. We're far enough on from things, but I'd bet not far enough from harm.'

Oona had found sleep, and imagined herself near home. Dreamed herself and Morris: back in Drumbroken, scrambling up trees in a race to pilfer eggs from a kite's ragged nest, then fleeing the vengeful mother when it returned. Then Oona challenging her brother, ‘Race you to the Torrid!' And through forest and leaping into the river whatever season and splashing and diving down to disturb eels and search for imaginary treasure or snaring mayflies and using them as bait. And then after – dozing, damp to their souls, only waking when the first chill of dark descended. With eyes closed, it was easy for Oona to imagine this. And to dream the Kavanagh cottage closer – that she could just up and hurry to it. And home would be warm and secure and subdued, her grandmother whimpering with those worrisome dreams Oona understood well. And Oona would wake her slowly, whispering, ‘I'm here, Granny. I was away but now I'm home again. Don't worry. You're safe.'

Then Oona heard Merrigutt's voice once more and all imagining had to be left behind: ‘Up now and have a look. It's a better day about you, and another new place to look at.'

So Oona left dreams to look.

Unexpected day, unexpected daze – full of bluster, the sky shifting like an old skirt, its whites grubby and fast-moving, its blue wane but bright. Sunlight was scattered on the surface of the swollen river, and Oona could tell they'd travelled far – clear water, small shoals of minnow and stickleback. The idea of the North and its Black shrank almost to nothing in Oona's mind. She noticed the Loam Stone still lying in the bottom of the boat. Despite the day's light, the Stone kept its dark.

‘Where are we?' Oona asked.

‘We –' said Merrigutt. She stopped. She had the paddle in her hands and hadn't returned to her jackdaw form. And Oona thought: Such brightness is a good thing to wake to, but it can be cruel enough too, showing up every wrinkle and crease and tiredness in the old woman. Merrigutt found words to finish: ‘We're almost there. This here is a part of the North the King hasn't paid much attention to. Not since he first arrived anyway.'

No current hastened them. Their progress had to be at Merrigutt's discretion, and to Oona the old woman looked intent on slowness, on careful and delicate appreciation of everything. When Merrigutt allowed paddle to touch water it was only momentary, barely moving them on.

And then Oona said, ‘This place is where you came from.'

Merrigutt said, ‘Is indeed.' She suddenly half-rose from sitting and said in words so slow they had to be sighed, ‘Here. I suppose we'll leave the river here.'

The boat eased towards the bank, to a wooden set of steps hanging.

Oona half-stood, then thought of her possessions, then realised – all she had left was the Loam Stone. No cloak of her mother's making, no satchel, no food packed inside, no knife. She found the other sack that'd been used to hold her body, plucked the Loam Stone from the bottom of the boat and dropped it in.

Slowly, the pair of them helped each other from the boat.

Oona climbed the short steep bank and was stopped, caught sudden by a coupling of anguish and happiness: the touch of grass beneath her feet was a joy she hadn't realised she missed, so used to it in her Drumbroken life. She found herself smiling.

‘Keep going there,' Merrigutt told her.

At the top of the bank Oona looked out over a portion of land not flattened and not Blackened but torn across by wind. Low hills were lurking, a shallow rippling still holding some shade of green. She saw trees with pale bark and slim trunks and skinny boughs, tender leaves casting a flurry of turquoise shadows. What she saw was familiar, so she said: ‘My mother was here sometime. Must've been. I know this place from a painting she did.'

Oona turned for Merrigutt, but the old woman was already a little ahead.

‘This way here,' she called to Oona.

They followed a path that feet might've walked along in the past, but was almost concealed, so overgrown. Its meander took them between low rise and hollow. Oona saw no houses at all, not a person about, but enough modest life anyway to cheer: a patch of damp snowdrops, flags of winter sun like stepping stones across grass, and then a simple sight that warmed – a single swallow scissoring across sky. They walked. And walked the path all the way to a taste of salt on the tongue, to the sound of distant sounds – a strong sigh in every other moment.

‘The sea,' said Merrigutt, and she stopped for a moment. Then she continued.

Only a minute more of walking and Oona saw a small cottage settled in a hollow. It was one-windowed, walls white-washed, and had a tough roof on it of what looked like driftwood. Not grand but neat, and simple. And simple was good enough for Oona after all the homes she'd endured in the North. It had a dark door, and some signal was offered of life inside: pale scrolls of smoke straying from a narrow chimney.

Merrigutt said, ‘Let's go,' and started to walk down the slope.

‘Who lives here?' asked Oona.

‘Someone who might help,' said Merrigutt. Her feet slowed, each step held hovering by uncertainty. ‘Someone who I once relied on more than anything.'

When they reached the cottage, Merrigutt was again full of pause, and when she eventually knocked it was with knuckles so gentle they could hardly have wanted an answer. It took a long time for anything inside to respond. When someone did appear it was two someones – an old woman leaning on a rough driftwood cane, eyes in her head of no colour at all that had to squint and search out her guests, and a young girl.

Oona was suddenly very aware of herself – standing in just her thin dress, hair damp and face mucky, bare-footed, sack hanging from her hand that held the Loam Stone. Her shame increased the more this old woman and young girl looked and looked. Then the old woman's mouth worked hard to expel a word: ‘
What?
'

‘It's me,' said Merrigutt, her voice small.

‘I know it's you!' said the old woman in the doorway, and her jaw shook like a tray seeking spare change. ‘I'm not that far gone! And what do you want coming back here like this, disturbing us?'

Merrigutt had no answer.

The young girl stayed silent, half-hidden behind the old woman.

‘We aren't asking for much,' said Merrigutt, voice still soft. ‘Just some food, somewhere to stay even. Bit of rest.'

Silence, and then Oona's stomach took its chance to growl. They all looked at her.

‘Sorry,' said Oona. ‘Bloody starving!'

The young girl gasped and slapped a hand to her mouth. It annoyed Oona, this attitude. Irritated her, the whole situation of them standing on the doorstep, so she said, ‘Look: you heard Merrigutt, can we come in or not?'

All heads but Oona's went into an embarrassed bow.

‘Don't leave the door open or you'll let the heat out,' said the old woman, suddenly, mouth snapping shut on each word. She turned and took herself away from Oona and Merrigutt, followed so close by the young girl.

Oona looked to Merrigutt and asked, ‘Is that us being asked in?'

‘It's the best we'll get,' said Merrigutt.

‘Who are these people anyway?' asked Oona.

‘The woman,' whispered Merrigutt, settling one foot on the threshold, ‘is my mother. And the young girl trying to hide herself is my daughter.'

One room, and it hadn't much to make it worthy of the word ‘home'. Only the essential things were in sight: Oona saw two chairs sitting at a scrubbed table, and a tall dresser. A third chair, bit softer, was backed into a corner on its own. Nothing on display, except a large and lurid-looking shrine for the Sorrowful Lady. The flames in their hearth had to make do with a single twist of driftwood to cling to.

Oona held tight to the sack with the Loam Stone in it, and took one of the two chairs going at the table. Everyone gave her a look.

‘I'm tired,' she said, but it was no attempt at apology.

‘There's a bit of bread about I suppose,' said the old woman, sinking onto the soft seat in the corner and turning to face the wall. ‘And the kettle's only just boiled.'

Merrigutt was the one who went to find food, leaving the room, leaving Oona feeling alone. The young girl stood by the dresser, the old woman kept her face to the wall. Neither spoke. And this was supposed to be Evelyn Merrigutt's mother and daughter? These two quiet creatures? Mischief made Oona look to the young girl and ask, ‘So you're not gonna say hello?'

‘
Oona
,' said Merrigutt, returning. It was all she said – the look she gave was enough. Oona sighed, and sat silent too.

Merrigutt poured tay the colour of vinegar from a stone crock, and had found a solid loaf of black bread and a earthen dish of butter. Oona wanted something to do (something to eat): she stood and sliced the bread, buttered it thick and was the first to start eating. She'd have liked something more – something heartier and warm – but it would have to do. Roughened wanderer she'd become, Oona crammed as much into her mouth as it would hold, only half-heartedly holding a hand under her mouth to catch any crumb.

Merrigutt gave her mother a small plate with a heel of bread, a tumbler of tay, and asked, ‘Any Invaders, Mammy? Been any trouble?'

‘No,' said her mother. The old woman took her bread between two fingers and took a large wet mouthful, made wetter by slurps of tea. ‘Not that I've got the sight to see anything any more! I've not long left, you know. Like the Isle itself – I might not live to see tomorrow!'

‘What about you?' Oona asked the young girl. ‘Seen any Invaders?'

The girl shook her head, then nodded, then didn't seem to know what she knew. They ate on in silence.

‘We'll rest now,' said Merrigutt, after a while. Oona almost marvelled: so outspoken at all other times, and here was Evelyn Merrigutt shuffling about with head bowed and saying with a horrible sense of sorry, ‘We'll just have a sleep and then be on our way.'

Merrigutt twitched her head towards the door, and Oona understood it was time to leave the room. But Oona couldn't stop herself from asking the old woman, ‘Do you not care that your daughter's back to see you, missus? Do you not care that the whole Isle is going to blazes and she's doing something to help stop it?'

The old woman turned her old head, colourless eyes quivering on Oona.

‘You don't know,' she said. Her mouth went in for another sloppy bite of butter and black bread, tucking it all into the left side of her face to fill out a hollow cheek. ‘You don't know what my daughter did, do you?'

‘Let's go,' said Merrigutt, hand on Oona's shoulder, moving her towards the door. ‘Please, just leave it all be.'

‘Should be ashamed!' called the old woman from her soft chair. ‘Should be ashamed coming back here!'

Oona wanted to ask more, but Merrigutt was so keen to steer her from the room. Shoulder to shoulder they walked a short, bare, narrow hall.

‘What's going on?' asked Oona. ‘Why's your own mam treating you like you've turned up and flung dirt at her door?'

Merrigutt said nothing.

(Not yet, thought Oona. Not just now).

Short hall ended in another short room: barren but for a tiny window showing green, a narrow bed draped with a quilted bedspread, narrower wardrobe, and a rush-mat on the floor. When the door was shut Oona said again, ‘What's going on?' Then she somehow felt the right question would've been:
What happened here?

Merrigutt sank onto the bed.

‘She's not had it easy,' said Merrigutt. ‘You shouldn't be too hard on her.'

‘You sound like me when I was saying about my granny,' said Oona. She stood by the wall, arms folded, sack containing the Loam Stone hanging from a hand. ‘And you know what else you said to me then – that people have a choice how to be behaving, no excuse for anything. Remember?'

‘Did I say that?' said Merrigutt. Her hands held tight to the edge of the bed, like it might suddenly try to tip her off. ‘Sorrowful Lady – don't I talk some amount of rubbish sometimes?'

‘No,' said Oona. She sat down on the bed by Merrigutt. ‘You were saying the truth. Now do the same for me –
tell
.'

Merrigutt nodded, and then asked something Oona couldn't have expected: ‘You said the Stone was showing things to do with your mother?'

‘Yes,' said Oona. ‘But why do you –?'

‘Do you remember your mother well?' asked Merrigutt. She'd turned to face the window. After a moment Oona said, ‘A wee bit, but not much.' She didn't say that any memories of her mother had been almost eclipsed by what she'd seen in the Stone.