The Black North (2 page)

‘Don't give me that chat,' said Oona. ‘“
All the Divided Isle
”? You think they care up North about what you do here? And what about Granny? Going to leave her alone in the Kavanagh cottage and us pair dead in the Torrid? We're Kavanaghs, remember? And what did Da always say?
Kavanaghs don't do as expected
.'

Morris looked at her.

‘We run,' she said. ‘We live. We fight tomorrow.'

A moment. Then Oona's brother gave her something close to a nod and they were both up and off.

An Invader saw and shouted, ‘Get him!'

Just
him?
thought Oona. Am I bloody invisible or just not worth bothering with or –? Morris turned and fired one-two shots and one-two Invaders dropped.

Gunfire was returned but the same Invader cried, ‘No! I said don't shoot them. Remember the Captain's orders!'

Oona and Morris hurried on through the trees and deepening dusk, across snow on bare soles, shouts and calls and commands all flying and more boys of the Cause being brought down. Shot down? Not a bit –
dragged down.
Oona heard another shout from one of their own: ‘They've got Briar-Witches with them!'

‘What chat's this?' said Oona, to herself, and she had to stop to see …

A low rise was racing along underground, a hump that moved fast, weaving between trees, burrowing. A rabbit wouldn't do that, Oona thought. Nor a badger neither. Her look went to one of the Cause boys standing: he was backed up to a tree, his gaze on the ground. The boy was Eamon O'Riley. Oona watched. She saw Eamon's last expression: terror and some tears, and then he was gone, pulled into the ground.

Some other in the Cause announced, ‘Beware that ground beneath your feet!'

Oona said to Morris, ‘Quick – up and climb.'

Oona leapt from the spot she stood on and caught a branch but Morris was too slow …

Her brother cried out, swore as he was taken by the ankles and yanked down, falling into the earth to his armpits. Still he held tight his granda's gun, and with the other hand he snatched for what little was there – grass, root, weakened weed, all snow-soaked and slipping.

‘Hell's bells,' said Oona.

She returned to the ground and dropped her gun so she could take her brother's hand with both her own. Oona tried to drag him back, but already he was telling her, ‘Leave me be. Run on. Go!'

‘Shut up,' she told him. ‘Stop trying to be a bloody martyr. And let go of that gun, will you?'

‘Not a chance,' said Morris.

Then whatever held her brother snapped out at Oona – a rough, clubbed claw flew and a sharp spur like a cockerel's entered her hand at the fatty bulge below her thumb. She had to recoil and Morris slipped further into the ground, almost gone. But Oona Kavanagh wasn't being beaten – from the pocket of her dress she took a kitchen knife she'd brought from their cottage and slashed at the claw. It was quick to retreat. But still something held Morris and wouldn't relinquish. And Oona wouldn't let go of him either.

‘Don't be so bloody stubborn,' said Morris, teeth gritted. ‘You're gonna have me in two halves!'

‘Stubborn?' said Oona, teeth gritted too. ‘You should talk!'

But she knew she was losing him to this creature underground, this Briar-Witch. A call of an Invader: ‘Over there! They're having trouble with one!'

‘Let me go,' said Morris. ‘Like you said – think of Granny, her being alone …'

Invader: ‘It's only a girl. Do we bother capturing her?'

And this was the thing that made Oona lose strength and lose her brother –
It's only a girl
…

Suddenly she had only a hole in the ground to stare into, and nothing in her hands but the crimson rag Morris had shed on his way down. She heard another Invader asking, ‘What girl are you talking about? I can't see no one.'

Didn't see because Oona was already gone. She ran alone, the only member of the Cause in Drumbroken left standing.

Follow Oona – but need to be quick to see her! Fast through forest, up over or under or around any obstacle nature threw. She knew where she was going without needing to think it. And not a soul in Drumbroken could've caught her; no Invader could've laid a hand. Those things underground, though? Oona went on faster.

‘By the blazes you're a fast one!' her granda used to tell her, and she always agreed, always liked to hear it said. He'd told her, ‘Could run a mile a minute, couldn't you, girl?'

Could, did: Oona ran miles with only her own deep breathing for company and the thump-thump-crunch of her feet across snow. She didn't stop, not till she was almost home and she heard –

‘
Morris! Morris, no!
'

A screaming. She ran on faster, the final half-mile conquered in less than half a minute. Then the Kavanagh cottage appeared between trees, a small stone tower with snow a blue-white cap on its hat of thatch. The front door of the cottage was wide. But when the screams came again they didn't sound from inside –

‘
Help! Someone help!
'

It was Granny Kavanagh. Oona held tight her knife. What if Invaders were near by, skulking? She remembered:
It's only a girl, do we bother capturing her or …?
And she thought to herself in answer:
By blazes, I'll show them!

‘
Help me!
'

Her grandmother was standing in just her nightdress in a clearing, arms outstretched and grappling with things unseen, screaming, ‘No! Leave me alone! I can take no more of these sights! Leave me be now!'

Oona approached slowly. She settled her hand, gently, on her grandmother's arm.

I'm no good at this kind of thing, she thought. No good at being soft. Morris was better – he knew how to deal with her well, how to bring her back to herself.

‘It's all right,' tried Oona. ‘I'm here, Granny. I'm back.'

Her grandmother wasn't startled by Oona's sudden appearance. Didn't recoil at all or seem frightened. And this worried Oona more: the look Granny Kavanagh gave Oona was almost uncaring, as though they were scarcely more than strangers passing.

In the trees there was unrest. Oona saw plenty of yellow eyes watching and feet shifting. She looked closer – jackdaws.

‘Come on now, Granny,' said Oona. ‘It's cold. And not safe either now. Let's go home.' And slowly, she led Granny Kavanagh back towards the cottage.

‘Where is he?' her grandmother asked. She had her hands clutched close to her chest like she was holding something safe inside. ‘Where's Morris?'

Oona said nothing. She wasn't one for lies.

‘He's in trouble,' said Granny Kavanagh, shuffling through snow. ‘He's been taken. He's down in the dark with all the other children.'

‘How did you know that?' said Oona, before she thought.

‘I know,' said her grandmother. ‘I know too well. I've seen.'

When they stepped over the threshold into the Kavanagh cottage it was too dark to make much out. No fire had been lit in the hearth so their only light was candlelight – their small shrine for the Sorrowful Lady by the back door, flames like small tongues wagging. Oona heard the soft cluck of the chickens in their corner. Still wary, she went slowly, looking to all shadows. But she found no lurkers.

‘Now,' said Oona, and she settled her grandmother in her armchair. ‘You'll be all right now, Granny. I'm here.'

‘None of us will be all right now,' said Granny Kavanagh. Her breath smelled like milk on the turn. ‘They're here, aren't they? Those Invaders. They're going to take everything from us.'

‘No,' said Oona. ‘I won't let them.' She held her kitchen knife tightest and the wound on her hand, the bite of that thing – Briar-Witch? – screamed and spread its hurt.

‘Promises like petals,' said Granny Kavanagh. She swallowed with a sound like a lock. She still kept her hands clasped tight across her chest. ‘Promises like petals, like I always say – dead as soon as they're dropped. We've no hope now. Soon the South will be made as Black as the North. They'll come and take this cottage and all in it, us included. And if the boys and men of the Cause can't stop them, then there's not a thing you or I can do about it.'

Soon, Oona's grandmother began to snore.

Oona waited till she was certain of the old woman's slumber and then said, like someone close could hear and care, ‘Well you know what Granny? I escaped. I'm the only one of the Cause left in this county, and if any Invader thinks they're gonna come into this house and take me or you, then they had better be ready for a fight.'

Oona dreaming: in a cold forest, alone, so quiet. Then perhaps not alone: there were eyes of crimson watching from the trees.

Oona walked on, and had the deep feeling that she was searching. She walked further, a little faster, and then knew who she was looking for – her brother. The trees were becoming darker as though dying, were almost black as though burnt. And then she was stopped. A voice she didn't recognise spoke from the forest itself, a voice like this – not a whisper and not a shout, but something softly crackling and as slippery-sticky as sap, and then as smooth as poison. The voice told Oona –

‘
My servants – those you call the Invaders – will soon be with you. Though I am hardly a whole and formed thing yet, though I am in pieces, I am still worshipped. I am scarcely able to speak, to move, but still I am obeyed. I am feared.
'

And in dreaming, Oona found she could speak, asking, ‘You're an Invader?'

The voice replied, ‘
I am much more. I am one who will rule. I have come here from far away, but my roots are old, and deep. You do not know me, not yet. But soon you will. You shall see my work. You will see this Isle split and buckle and churn and transform, all at my will and word. I will command, and you will be bid. No tree, no stone, no bird nor blind thing beneath the earth shall defy me. Soon, I will own you all.
'

Again, Oona asked the only question she could think of: ‘What are you?'

A pause, then the voice of the blackening forest replied: ‘
I am your worst nightmares made real. And I am coming for you.
'

‘Waken-up now, girl!'

Oona was struck – a quick clout to the back of the head that made her sit up. It was her grandmother, up and shouting, ‘We can't lie about, girl! We need to make the preparations and concoctions for protection. We need to keep out those Invaders!'

Oona didn't speak. The voice she'd been hearing in her head remained, like an echo. Was it a dream? It had felt like more – closer, more than something made up.
But no
, Oona told herself.
Wasn't and couldn't be! Need to be sensible now,
she decided.

Oona had fallen asleep at the family table, the kitchen knife settled on the smooth top. And, like gentle disagreement, her first ‘sensible' sight was one of her mother's paintings on the opposite wall. It showed a landscape rippled like the sea, but like a meadow too, with the colour of high summer in its greens and yellows and purples, with tall, skinny, silver strokes for trees. And in the distance were a scattering of small stone cottages with wooden roofs. An impossible-seeming place.

‘Stop your daydreaming!' said Granny Kavanagh, and the old woman slapped a hand on the family tabletop. ‘Just like your poor mother – a dreamer, so you are! Now up and about – we need to get preparing!'

Oona watched Granny Kavanagh's fingers fussing on the dresser, one hand still holding something tight and the other searching through bottles and pots, saying, ‘Ash? Aye. And a bit of that birch. What else for protection? Better a bit of feverwort – no
masterwort
. Where's the devil's shoestring? Plenty of agrimony too – herb of the Kavanagh family. Yes, that'll do …'

Oona stood but could scarcely discover enough energy for the effort. The wound on her hand had spread its pain further, wriggling out into everywhere and making her weaker. But so much needed to be done! Sweeping and baking and preparing … and the chickens were out already so would need to be fed … and still Granny Kavanagh's muttering went on: ‘Need winter's bark, larkspur, neckweede …'

Oona felt again the lack of Morris to help her. Felt the absence of mother and father and grandfather, whom custom had buried six spadefuls down, beneath her toes. But she needed to try.

‘Now Granny, why not sit down in your chair and I'll wet some tay. I'll bake the day's bread too and you can have something to eat.'

‘No time now!' her grandmother cried. ‘You think we've time for the tay and toast when the county is being overrun! Down from the Black North and over the river and into the forest and down the Eastern slope into the valley – they'll be here soon, wait and see!'

‘How do you know that?' asked Oona.

‘I know,' said her grandmother. She stilled, voice low. ‘I've seen it.'

Then the sound of something approaching – crunch of snow under swift feet. Oona snatched the knife from the family table and waited.

‘It's them,' said Granny Kavanagh. ‘They're here.' But then the call: ‘Oona Kavanagh! You in there?'

Oona returned knife to tabletop as Bridget O'Riley appeared in their doorway, breathless.

‘You are here,' said Bridget. She breathed out, then bobbed with a bit of respect to the shrine for the Sorrowful Lady and said all in the same breath: ‘Thank Herself you're all right! They've crossed the Torrid, those Invaders. Word's out everywhere. Paddy McGulder said he saw them on the Eastern slope near the Turn-Stump, and Eamon didn't come home.'

Oona knew, so only nodded. She saw again Eamon's final look – terror, tears, then Bridget's brother vanishing into the ground.

‘Lots of them,' said Bridget. ‘Lots of guns and North magic and they're saying that –'