The Black North

 

 

For Wendy

History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

James Joyce, Ulysses

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

First: Oona and Morris

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Second: Widening Divide

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Third: ‘Beware That Black Beneath your Feet!'

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Fourth: The Ponderous Pass of Giants

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Fifth: Battle on the Burren

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Final: The City of Cities

Chapter 86

About the Author

Copyright

‘Would you snap-shut your trap and listen – I can hear something.'

‘I hear nothing. Imagining things, so you are.'

‘Not. Tell the lads to be ready. They're close now.'

‘The lads are ready enough – we all are. Ready to die for the Cause!'

‘Not gonna die.'

‘Don't be frighted now, sister dearest.'

‘Not.'

‘Dying in battle isn't a thing to be worried about. Remember – it's how Da and Granda went.'

‘I know that. Can't forget, can I?'

‘Da and Granda – pair of them would be proud of us now!'

‘Give over, would you?'

‘I'm sure they're watching down over us, in the company of the Sorrowful Lady Herself!'

‘I'm sure they've got better things to be doing, wherever they are. Now
shush
.'

‘Don't tell me to –'

‘
Quiet
! I can hear something.'

‘It's near enough night now anyway – they'll not come. Cowards.'

‘Well, you better be ready, brother dearest – this is it. Things are about to begin.'

Then Oona cried,
‘There they are, lads!'
and Morris cried, ‘
Attack!
' and blood-red ran the river where the battle broke. The banks of the Torrid were whited by winter then dashed with crimson. Crimson too across many mouths: rags were knotted to hide tell-tale breath, boys of the Cause on bellies and knees behind trees and rushes, all firing, mouths bellowing –

‘!'

(Too much gunfire to hear anything but gunfire.)

When Invaders fell on the opposite shore others came rushing to take over. When boys fell on the side of the Cause, no one came to replace.

Oona ordered, ‘
Keep your heads down!
' and Morris ordered, ‘
Keep firing, don't give in!
' Not one was thinking surrender.

Morris roared, ‘
Don't let them cross! Don't let them into Drumbroken!
'

Look closely – Morris was on his front among reeds, small, skinny as a sally-rod and soot-haired, chilled to the soul but with heart blazing. He took aim with his granda's rifle, slowly and carefully and patient. But too slow – the thing jammed and his hearing rang with a long thin note as a shot went out from another rifle. The Invader he'd been eyeing fell.

Look closer – see Oona, the twin sister, on her belly too and only feet from Morris, same coloured head of hair on her.

‘That was my shot to take!' Morris told her.

‘Not my fault you're too slow,' said Oona. ‘Is it my fault that gun's too heavy for your wee hands?'

‘
One down doesn't win a war!
' said Morris. (Old bit of preaching from their da's mouth.)

‘Thanks for reminding me,' said Oona. She rolled her eyes.

So Morris had to prove: his finger tugged the trigger and there was a blue-white flash and the gun bucked against his collarbone and another Invader fell into the River Torrid.

‘Good shot, boy Kavanagh!' one of the Cause boys shouted.

‘Notice no one is so quick to thank me,' said Oona.

‘Now now,' said Morris, ‘none of them bitter words. Very unappealing from a lady.' Oona used words to reply that definitely weren't lady-likely.

‘Turf-mouth,' he told her.

‘Clod-head,' she told him.

Both kept firing like it was their own private game. But how did they get there, these two? Beside the River Torrid, bickering?

Morris's first meeting with the Cause had gone like this: in a tin hut on the edge of Drumbroken with flags rippling on all walls, whiskey bottles were lined up along the rim of a tin bath and the Cause had said, ‘Show how good you are with that gun of your granda's!' He'd done well enough, exploded all of the bottles except one. The boys of the Cause had all cheered and hailed him, ‘A legend in the making!' Then they'd waved their crimson flags, sunk enamel cups into the bath, drunk the whiskey that had collected there and all gotten wildly drunk as they sang their anthem,
The Song of the Divided Isle
.

Back by the river and Morris aimed once more. Fired – another Invader down. Again the call of congratulation: ‘Good one, boy Kavanagh!'

Oona held her breath and one-two-three quick shots = three Invaders falling.

No one acknowledged.

Oona's first meeting with the Cause: she turned up at the tin hut the night after Morris had, but was told she wasn't wanted. But she wouldn't be told, kept coming back and back every night, and in the end they said that if Oona wanted to try to act like a man and fight then that was her burial, but they wouldn't be there to pick her up or look after her. Then she'd done the same shooting trick as Morris, but destroyed every single bottle on the bath. Nothing was said. The gun Oona had used was one she'd found in a ditch on the way there.

Now Oona ducked low in the reeds by the River Torrid – suddenly so much gunfire was her way, Invaders knowing she'd be a good one to take out.

‘Watch yourself there, girl! Shouldn't be here at all, should be at home keeping house!'

This was Davy, near by. Fifteen years old, so only had two years on the twins, but he was their self-appointed leader. But Davy couldn't (Oona thought) have hit a cow in a cattle-mart. She showed him the tip of her tongue. Then she watched Davy's shoulder jerk, saw blood dash his cheek and any scowl slipped from his face. He collapsed.

Oona looked at Morris. They both did a deep swallow, and continued to fire. But night was determined to darken the scene, and each moment meant it was harder to see what was approaching. And maybe-minutes-maybe-moments and more of the Cause were felled.

Somebody else made a feeble cry, ‘They're going to cross into Drumbroken!'

But said too late: Invaders had entered the river and begun to wade across, their uniforms quickly shifting colour from winter-white and blood-red to just blood, matching the colour of the river.

‘See!' Morris told Oona. ‘It's true they have some North magic to make them blend into things, so they'll not be easy seen!'

‘It's just the river staining their clothes,' said Oona. ‘We're not winning this. We need to move into the forest – we know the trees and these Invaders don't. We'd be better off.'

Morris said, ‘No! You said you weren't frighted.'

Oona nudged him and said, ‘Not. Also said I wasn't going to die.'

Morris said, ‘You go. I'm staying.'

And then came the call from other boys fleeing: ‘Boys of the Cause retreat! Back into the trees! Run for it!'

Said Morris again, ‘I'm not going anywhere, sister dearest.'

‘Morris,' said Oona, ‘I know it's hard for you, but try not to be the usual stubborn eejit!'

Morris didn't speak.

Invaders arrived on the shore and were shouting, ‘After them! Pursue into the forest! We need them alive!'

Oona took her brother by the wrist and said only, ‘
Morris
.'

He swallowed. ‘I can't,' he said. ‘For Da and Granda, and for the Cause and for our county of Drumbroken, for all the Divided Isle I have to –'