The Black North (32 page)

Oona looked to the Loam Stone.

‘That can't be right,' said Oona. ‘The Stone showed me the two of them. Showed me what he was like with her. How can she have been any way happy with him?'

Merrigutt sighed once more.

‘Don't know,' she said. ‘These things aren't simple to work out. You can't know everything, even with that Stone in your hand.'

Both were quiet then.

They felt each other's breathing, felt each other's memories like something shared in that small space. Oona didn't need to touch the Stone to feel Merrigutt's grief – it was the same as her own.

‘Rest yourself now,' said Merrigutt.

‘Stay with me?' said Oona.

A moment, and Merrigutt nodded. They lay down beside each other on the bed.

But Oona couldn't let sleep come without saying, ‘I'm not like them. Don't want to be like my father or Morris or –'

‘No choice there,' said Merrigutt, and her tone returned to that commanding way she had, to the same dogged insistence, but softer. ‘Listen to me now and don't disagree: there's no escaping family. There'll be a time when you're speaking and you realise you're using the same words your own mother used, you'll half-hear yourself sounding just like her. Or you'll be walking along as happy as anything and catch yourself in some mirror and see your own father glaring back. There's no getting away. More you try, more you'll know there's not a bit of use in bothering.'

‘Then what do I do?' said Oona. ‘No home to go back to, no home I want.'

‘Then wait,' said Merrigutt. She settled a hand on Oona's cheek. ‘In the end – if you're lucky and like your mother – you'll find your own. You'll find a way home.'

‘Open up in the name of the King!'

Oona awoke, sat up, Loam Stone still in her hand. She heard fists against a door – not the bedroom door but somewhere close. She shook Merrigutt awake.

‘I said open this door now or we'll kick it down!' Invaders.

And then the bedroom door was thrown wide –

Merrigutt's mother was in the room, Merrigutt's daughter beside. The mother kicked at the rush-mat and showed an iron handle in the boards. She kneeled and tugged on it: a trapdoor, a square of cold dark. Nothing needed saying. Merrigutt and Oona were both on their feet as two gifts came from Merrigutt's mother and daughter: from the young girl Oona was given a fresh fur cloak, and Merrigutt's palm was blessed by her mother with something small and almost-silver.

‘Just break the door down!'

The sound of boots beating and it was Merrigutt's daughter who spoke, strong words for her mother: ‘Go, Mammy. I heard all last night. I know now.'

The sound of the dark front door surrendering –

‘Go,' said Merrigutt's daughter.

And Merrigutt moved, crouching by the hatch as Oona hunkered beside and they both leapt, adding themselves to the space beneath the room. The trapdoor was dropped shut.

‘Follow,' was all Merrigutt said, and Oona saw her move off.

Some light accompanied them – dawn in thin strips showing through boards, slicing them into light and shadow. The sound of things falling followed. And then the sound of someone screaming. Merrigutt slowed, then said aloud, ‘No, this is more important,' and moved on faster.

The passage took them far, farther. And when they reached its end it surprised Oona – it was open to the world like anyone could've found it. But the place it left them was uncertain: once more they were stranded in cold mist that looked solid. Oona couldn't see anything except some of herself, some of Merrigutt. Could see tears trembling new on the old woman's face.

‘She'll be all right,' said Oona.

Merrigutt twitched as though pinched, then said, ‘No time for that worrying now. We're close to the Burren.' She wet her lips and breathed in. ‘On now – this way.'

Oona shook out the cloak that Merrigutt's daughter had given: a dark and well-made thing, the hood lined with stoat fur. She flung it around her shoulders and instantly felt warmer. She hurried after Merrigutt, and still the sounds persisted on the air – screams, things falling, things coming for them? And other sounds – an immense smashing-crashing that Oona imagined was the sea. She still had the Loam Stone in her hand and she focused on it, wanting knowledge, but was pierced by a single image: a legion of Invaders in pursuit, and Muddgloggs and Briar-Witches and Coach-A-Bower and fire and smoke and shadow their weapons … such potent North magic in their service! And at their lead marched the Faceless, the Changeling with its crimson eyes …

‘No,' said Merrigutt. She snatched at Oona's hand. ‘Not now. Almost there, my girl. Keep going. Stay close.'

Only then did Oona notice the thing Merrigutt had been given in the last moments by her mother, the only close-to bright thing in sight – a rough coin. Merrigutt held it tight and high, like its modest shine might lead them.

More noise from behind them, louder. They moved faster.

Through the nothing, a nowhere like everywhere else in the North … and then something formed. In the mist stood an archway. Tall, tapering to a sharp point, crumbling. Oona saw no walls on either side – no Worshipping House or cottage or anything else for the arch to be part of. In the archway was something that Oona described to herself as a door – a single sheet of bark stripped whole and settled there.

They stopped.

Oona was certain she could hear the sibilant rush and retreat of the sea. She thought, This is it – the entrance to the Burren.

But Merrigutt wasn't looking at door or arch but down, so Oona did the same –

Someone was slumped at the foot of the archway. He looked like he was asleep, but looked too like wakening wasn't something he often bothered with. Oona watched, and then saw some sign of life – in the man's right hand he held an empty enamel cup, and he started to shake it.

‘Gate-Keeper,' whispered Merrigutt for Oona. ‘He's been here longer than anyone can remember.'

‘Is he dead or –?' asked Oona.

‘No closer to death than he is to life,' said Merrigutt. ‘But here anyway to keep people out. And to let others with the right means in.'

Merrigutt obliged with payment – dropped her silver coin into the cup and the sound it made was loud enough to make the old man shift, for his legs to kick and body begin to rise. It looked to Oona more like magic than proper life, the man being tugged and teased into action. Whatever mystery moved him made his left arm twitch and his left hand shudder, and his fingers went to do some searching in his waistcoat. What they came back with was a key that looked closer to a gnarled twig.

About-twitch and sharp turn and the old man faced the sheet of bark inside the arch. He lifted the key and began to draw shapes. Slow and deliberate, the sound like something being split: branch of a tree being torn, hard earth being tilled in winter, throes of a fast river against broken stone. He dragged and drew in long patterns for the longest minutes and Oona worried about how close the Invaders were, thinking they'd be on them soon if they didn't hurry.

Then the old man stopped his sketching and spoke, voice a low crackle –

‘I have drawn the map of the place I once knew. I have shown my knowledge of the Blessed Isle, as it was. I have declared my dedication to the place I was born and the place I shall die in.' A moment more of waiting, and then the door opened.

Beyond, Oona saw a stretch – perhaps only two steps' worth – of stone to walk on, and then more mist. But was it perhaps lighter, brighter? Touched by some trace of sun?

‘Many thanks to you,' said Merrigutt. She stepped through the archway, telling Oona, ‘Quick. Follow.'

Oona didn't hesitate – stepped through and then turned, but there was nothing at all to see. As the sound of following footfalls and shouts almost reached them, the mist softly conspired, and stole the archway from sight.

‘Almost there now, my girl.' Merrigutt's refrain. ‘Not far. Keep going. Stay close.'

But Oona felt some strangeness in the air she had to struggle against, something wanting to hold them back. Like a soundless gale – some stubborn magic didn't want them there.

‘Pig-headed protection!' cried Merrigutt, and Oona heard the same battle in the old woman's voice, saw it in her jaw tensed and eyes crushed tight. ‘Trying to keep the women out! But it's failing! Weaker than usual, not able to –'

Oona heard nothing more: her hearing was twisted towards a single shrill note and it was suddenly too much to fight on. She wanted to crumple, retreat … but Merrigutt was there, gabbing fast and contrary, mouth moving though no sound was heard, taking Oona's hand and pulling her on further into the press of noise.

A few words reached Oona's ears, Merrigutt saying: ‘Just a wee bit further …'

Then sudden release: Oona felt as though she'd surfaced, gasping for each shallow breath, eyes streaming, hair flung wild by a breeze.

Oona heard sound: explosions of unseen sea smashing unseen shore.

Sight: a landscape like an ancient palm under strong sun, the whitest stone riven and cracked and worked flat by weather. A darkness wounded it, splitting its surface in narrow veins. Nothing was vertical but Oona and Merrigutt. Nothing moved. Mist encircled the space like a barricade.

Such quiet.

Oona felt she should whisper, ‘Where is everyone? Anyone?'

Then some flicker: from broken ground something upped like it was budding, and then retracted.

‘What was that?' asked Oona.

‘That,' said Merrigutt with a snap, ‘was the Cause. Watching us and just hiding.'

‘Maybe they'll be able to help,' said Oona. ‘Might know where the children were taken to, where Morris is.'

She heard Merrigutt sigh.

‘All right,' said the old woman. ‘For your sake only, my girl – I'll try my best to be all helpful and polite to this crowd.'

Oona watched.

Then once more and only for a moment – an appearance and disappearance. But this time Oona registered eyes and a face half-obscured by crimson: flag of the Cause tied across a mouth.

‘We should call out,' said Oona. ‘Shout maybe so they know that we –'

Then cold steel was pressed tight to Oona's neck and she heard a muffled voice behind her threaten, ‘Don't move or I'll put a bullet in you. You even breathe in a way I don't like and in the name of the Cause I'll shoot you dead and don't think I won't! Now give me answers: why're you two here, how'd you enter the Burren and what's your business?
Tell!
'

With a groan of deepest agony, Merrigutt managed to become her jackdaw self once more. She worked hard to lift herself high, fast, calling loud, ‘We're here to warn you, members of the Cause! The Invaders are on your threshold and the magic that surrounds the Burren is failing!'

Then a louder shout from someone hidden: ‘Lies! There's some dark magic in that bird – bring it down!'

The gun left Oona's neck to aim and at the same time she screamed, ‘
No!
'

Single shot.

Merrigutt jerked in the air, wings turning suddenly inward. The jackdaw fell, a slow spiral through sunlight. The unendurable echo and echo and echo. Oona didn't move. And then she was only movement – she ran, voices calling,
Stop!
Hands reaching and wanting to grab. But she didn't let herself slow. With each slam of her soles on rock she felt she was shedding small pieces, losing little and little more of herself along the way. Thought by the time she reached that small scrap of dark there'd be nothing of Oona Kavanagh left at all.

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.