Shadowmagic
John Lenahan
A Lord of the Rings for the 21st century. Only a lot shorter. And funnier. And completely different.Conor thought he was an average teenager. OK, so his father only had one hand, spoke to him in ancient languages and was a bit on the eccentric side but, other than that, life was fairly normal. Until, that is, two Celtic warriors on horseback and wearing full armour appear at his front door and try to kill him. After that, things get pretty weird.Shadowmagic is a fantasy adventure for young adults (although grown ups will like it too). Written by one of the most popular magicians in the country it brings a fresh approach to the genre and will have a broad appeal beyond the fantasy sections.
SHADOWMAGIC
JOHN LENAHAN
Copyright (#uc0a8941f-ae3a-5903-b013-0752c14d767d)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published by The Friday Project in 2008
Copyright © John Lenahan 2008
John Lenahan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9781905548927
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2009 ISBN: 9780007341054
Version: 2016-08-11
For Finbar, of whom I am exceedingly proud.
Table of Contents
Title Page (#uc403e064-6228-539e-a016-9ccb77e3e7db)
Copyright (#u9d4ae323-fe41-5985-b27c-069e68ca14d8)
Dedication (#u7ef2561f-dd70-5f95-8026-0b2ca99879eb)
Chapter One - Aunt Nieve (#u7ad137a1-add7-591d-b73b-906305321605)
Chapter Two - Uncle Cialtie (#u4bfc7f26-f326-58af-a0b5-fd0f432e6eda)
Chapter Three - Mom (#ua7f8f2a1-3f55-52b2-a14c-61a2928d23a7)
Chapter Four - The Yewlands (#uf7557318-9666-5e2d-ba8d-d14bbedb53bc)
Chapter Five - Rothlú (#u95475e00-c3f7-5ed7-9a51-fbdaae02a4c8)
Chapter Six - Fergal (#u1d1b7e9a-a001-5ffd-9fd0-6c972e6408ea)
Chapter Seven - Brownies (#ud22427a9-d275-5cce-abde-2852be7682e3)
Chapter Eight - Araf (#u1de73fc5-04c9-5e2c-a46c-4132a4b39513)
Chapter Nine - Essa (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten - Gerard (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven - The Dahy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve - Acorn (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen - The Hazellands (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen - Lorcan (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen - The Reedlands (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen - Big Hair (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen - The Druid Table (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen - The Race of the Twins of Macha (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen - The Castle Beach (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty - The Shadowcasting (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One - Aunt Nieve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two - The Army of the Red Hand (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three - The Return of the Hazellands (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four - The Evil Eye (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five - Mother Oak (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six - Born Ready (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Aein (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Choosing (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Truth, a Second Time (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty - A Time to Bend (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One - A Decision (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two - Goodbyes (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter OneAunt Nieve (#uc0a8941f-ae3a-5903-b013-0752c14d767d)
‘How come you never told me I had an aunt?’ That was the first thing I said. I know, my first question should have been, ‘Are you alright, Dad?’ He didn’t look alright. The light was awful, but I could see blood on the side of his face. I’m amazed I didn’t say, ‘What is that smell?’ because it sure stank in there. I’m not talking about a whiffy locker room smell, but the kind of stench that can make it possible to see your breakfast a second time around. Or most obviously I guess I should have asked, ‘Where are we?’ or, ‘Why are we chained to a wall?’ But instead, the first question I asked when I regained consciousness was about genealogy.
‘Well, Conor,’ Dad croaked, not even looking at me, ‘the first time you met her, she tried to kill you.’
She had, too.
I was sitting in the living room watching crappy morning television. I was dressed, shaved and ready to go. You had to be with my father. It wasn’t unusual for me to run out of the house two minutes behind him and find that he had left without me.
‘Are you ready?’ he called from the bedroom–in almost Modern Greek.
That was a good sign. It was a simple matter to gauge my father’s moods–the older the language, the worse his frame of mind. Greek wasn’t too bad. I shouted back, in the same language, ‘Born ready!’ I had learned a long time ago that I had to speak in the language of the day, or else he would ignore me completely.
He came out of his bedroom in a white shirt with a tie hanging around his neck. ‘Could you do this for me?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
Tie tying was one of the very few things that Pop found impossible to do with just one hand. Most of the time I didn’t think of Dad as having a handicap at all–I know a lot of two-handed men much less dexterous than him, and anyway, I was happy to do him a favour. I was just about to hit him up for a bit of cash, so that tonight I could take Sally to a nice restaurant, as opposed to the usual crummy pizza joint.
‘What’s with the tie?’ I asked.
‘The dean wants me to smarten up a bit. There is some famous ancient languages professor visiting who wants to talk about my theories of pronunciation. As if I don’t have anything better to do than babysit some idiot.’
That question was a mistake on my part. He said that last sentence in Ancient Gaelic. That was the language he used when he was annoyed or really meant business–it was almost as if it was his mother tongue. I’m not talking about Gaelic, the language of the Irish, I’m talking about Ancient Gaelic, a language found only on crumbling parchments and in my house.
‘Aw c’mon, Pop,’ I said as chirpily as I could, ‘maybe this professor is a beautiful she idiot, and I can finally have a mom.’
He gave me a dirty look, but not one of his more serious ones, and tucked the bottom of his tie into his shirt.
I plopped myself down on the sofa. I could hear Dad humming some prehistoric Celtic ditty as he brushed his teeth in the bathroom. A fight broke out on the television show I was half-heartedly watching: two women were pulling each other’s hair and the studio audience was chanting the presenter’s name.
‘Turn that damn television off,’ he shouted, ‘or I’ll put a crossbow bolt through it!’
I quickly switched off the TV–coming from Dad this was not an idle threat. He owned a crossbow–as well as a quarterstaff, a mace and all sorts of archaic weaponry. If it was old, he had it. Hell, he even made me practise sword fighting with him every week before he gave me my spending money.
This gives you an idea of what life was like with my father–the mad, one-handed, ancient languages professor Olson O’Neil. People said that he lived in the past, but it was worse than that–it was like he was from the past. It was cool when I was a kid, but now that I was older, I increasingly thought it was weird–sad, even.
That Dad embarrassed me from time to time wasn’t really the problem. Now that I was starting to get a few whiskers on my chin, what really got me down was that he seemed disappointed in me all of the time and I couldn’t figure out why. I was doing well at high school. In a week I would graduate, OK, not at the top of my class, but pretty up there. I had never really been in trouble. My girlfriend didn’t have pink hair and studs through her nose, or eyebrows, or even her bellybutton. Dad liked Sally. It seemed as if he wanted me to be something–but he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell me what.
A knock came on the front door that was so loud, it made me jump to my feet. Now, weird is what my life is these days, but here is where all the weirdness began.
We live in a converted barn outside of town with a regular-sized front door that is cut into two huge barn doors. When my father answers a knock, he always peers through a tiny hatch to check who’s out there. I, on the other hand, like to undo the bolts and throw open the two big doors. It shocks visitors and it has the added effect of annoying Dad. I don’t do that any more.
I dramatically swung open the two doors and found myself face to face with two of the biggest, sweatiest horses I had ever seen. Riding them was a man in full King Arthur-type armour and a woman in a hooded cloak. With hindsight I wish I had said something clever like, ‘The stables are around the back,’ but to be honest, I was too gobsmacked to speak.
When the woman pulled back her hood, she took my breath away. She was astonishingly beautiful, with a wild mane of amber hair. She seemed to be about five or ten years older than me–twenty-five, twenty-seven maybe, except something about her made her seem older than that.
‘Is this the home of Oisin?’ she asked.
‘There is an Olson here, Olson O’Neil,’ I stammered.
She considered this for a second and took a step into the room–or, I should say, her horse did. I had to back away to stop from being trampled.
‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
She looked around the room and her eyes stopped on an oak fighting stick that was mounted on the wall. A look of satisfaction crossed her face. ‘I am his sister,’ she said.
I started to say, ‘Yeah, right,’ and then two things struck me. One was that she was speaking in Ancient Gaelic–I was so stunned by the appearance of those two that I hadn’t noticed it before. The second was her eyes–she had Dad’s eyes, and nobody had dark peepers like my father.
‘Dad!’ I called out. ‘There’s a woman out here who says she’s your sister.’
That is when all hell broke loose. Dad came charging out of the bathroom screaming at the top of his lungs, with toothpaste foaming out of his mouth like a rabid animal. He grabbed the war axe off the mantel, which I always assumed was there just for decoration, and hurled it at his sister. She pulled her head back just in time to avoid getting a quick nose job, but her companion wasn’t so lucky. The flat side of the axe hit him square on the shoulder and knocked him from his saddle. The rider desperately tried to stay on his mount. The horse made a horrible sound as he pulled a handful of hair out of its mane, but it was no good. He hit the ground with a crash of metal and then, as if being attacked in my living room by equestrians wasn’t surprise enough–he disappeared–he just vanished! One second I was watching the Tin Man falling through the air, arms and legs flailing in all directions, and the next second he was gone–poof! In the space where he should have been, was a pile of rusted metal in a swirl of dust.
Dad shouted, ‘Conor, watch out!’ I looked up just in time to see a spear leaving my aunt’s hand–and it was heading directly for my chest. Then everything seemed to go into slow motion. I remember looking into my aunt’s eyes and seeing what almost looked like pain in them, and I remember turning to my father and seeing the utter defeat on his face. But what I remember the most was the amazing tingling sensation that I felt all over my body. An amber glow seemed to cloud my vision, then I noticed the glow cover me from head to toe and then encircle the spear, just as it made contact with my chest. The spear hit me, I fell over from the force of it, but it didn’t hurt. For a second I thought, That’s what it must be like when you receive a mortal wound–no pain. Then I saw the spear lying next to me. I felt my chest and I was fine.
Dad sat me up. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
I wish I had a picture of my face at that point–I could feel the stupid grin I had pasted on it. A horn blew–Dad and I looked up in time to see my would-be assassin galloping away from the door.
‘Can you stand?’ Dad asked.
I remember answering him by saying, ‘That was very strange.’ I was kind of out of it.
‘Conor,’ he said, helping me to my feet, ‘we have to get out of here.’
But it was too late. Two more riders, this time in black armour and on black horses, burst into the room. Tables and chairs went flying in all directions. Dad grabbed my hand and we tried to run out the back, but before we could take more than a couple of steps I saw, and heard, a black leather whip wrap around my father’s neck. I tried to shout but my voice was strangled by the searing pain of another whip wrapping around my own throat.
The next thing I remembered, I was chained to a dungeon wall talking to my father about the family tree.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Nieve,’ Dad said, without looking at me.
I was about to ask, ‘Why does she want to kill us?’ when I felt something crawl across my ankle. It was a rat–no, I take that back–it was the mother of all rats. I’d seen smaller dogs. I screamed and tried to kick it away. It moved just out of reach and stared at me like it owned the place. Just what I needed, a super-rat with an attitude.
‘Where the hell are we?’ I yelled.
‘We are in The Land,’ Dad said in a faraway voice.
‘The Land? What land?’
‘The Land, Conor–Tir na Nog.’
‘Tir na Nog? What,’ I said sarcastically, ‘the place full of Pixies and Leprechauns?’
‘There are no Pixies here, but yes.’
‘Dad. Quit messing around. What is going on?’
He turned and looked me straight in the eyes, and then with his I’m only going to tell you this once voice he said, ‘We are in The Land. The place that the ancient Celts called Tir na Nog–The Land of Eternal Youth. I was born here.’
I began to get angry. I was in pain, we were definitely in trouble, and Dad was treating me like a kid, making up some cock-and-bull story to keep me happy. I was just about to tell him what I thought of him, but then I thought about the guy who fell off his horse. ‘Did you see that guy disappear?’
‘He didn’t disappear,’ Dad said, and I could tell he was struggling to make this so I could understand. ‘He just grew old–quickly’
‘Come again?’
‘When someone from The Land steps foot in the Real World, they instantly become the age that they would be there. That soldier was probably a couple of thousand years old.’
‘What!’
‘He was an immortal. Everyone from The Land is an immortal.’
I looked deep into his eyes, waiting for the twinkle that lets me know he’s messing with me. When it didn’t come, I felt my chest tighten.
‘My God, you’re not screwing around, are you?’
He shook his head–a slow no.
‘So what,’ I said half jokingly, ‘like, you’re an immortal?’
‘No,’ he said, turning away, ‘I gave that up when I came to the Real World.’
I shook my head to clear the cobwebs, which was a mistake, because I almost passed out with the pain. When my vision cleared, Dad was staring at me with a look of total sincerity.
‘So you used to be an immortal?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
At that point I should have come to the obvious conclusion that this was all just a dream, except for the fact that dreaming isn’t something I had ever done. Famously, among my friends and classmates at least, I had never had a dream. I had an idea what they were like from TV shows and movies but it was not something I had ever experienced. People always said, ‘Oh, you must dream, you just don’t remember it,’ but I don’t think so. When I put my head down, I wake up in the same place and I don’t go anywhere in-between. And anyway, I knew this was real–there was something in the air, other than the stench, that felt more real than anything I had ever known.
I was silent for a long while and then I asked, ‘Do I have any other relatives I should know about?’
The answer came, not from my father, but from a shadowy figure standing in the doorway on the far side of the room.
‘You have an uncle,’ he said.
Chapter TwoUncle Cialtie (#uc0a8941f-ae3a-5903-b013-0752c14d767d)
The instant he emerged from the shadows, I knew he was my uncle alright. He looked like an old high-school photo of my father, before the grey hair and the extra twenty pounds. He had that evil twin appearance about him, like one of those crappy TV movies where the same actor plays the part of the nice and the wicked brother. He even had the black goatee and a sinister sneer.
Don’t get the impression that this was a comical moment. Even chained against a wall, I tried to take an involuntary step back–this guy was scary. But the person who scared me the most at that moment wasn’t my uncle, it was my father.
‘Cialtie,’ he said, with more malice than I had ever heard from anybody–let alone Dad.
‘Brother Oisin,’ Cialtie dripped, ‘you look, what is that word? Oh yes–old.’
‘Where is Finn?’
‘You mean our father? I thought he was with you. Last time I saw him he was riding into the Real World looking for you. His horse didn’t look very healthy though.’
‘You murdered him.’
‘Oh no,’ Cialtie replied with false innocence, ‘I wouldn’t hurt Father. I merely stabbed the horse,’ and then he smiled. It was my first experience of Uncle Cialtie’s smile, and it made my stomach churn.
‘I’ll kill you,’ Dad hissed.
‘No, I think you will find that that is what I am going to do to you. But first I am going to kill your boy here, and you know the best part? After that I’ll be considered a hero–a saviour even.’
‘Why would killing me make him a saviour?’ I said, finding my voice.
Cialtie addressed me directly, for the first time, instantly making me wish I hadn’t asked the question. ‘Hasn’t Daddy told you anything?’ Cialtie scolded. ‘Tsk, tsk, Oisin, you really have neglected his education. Haven’t you told him of the prophecy?’
‘What prophecy?’
‘I didn’t think this would ever happen,’ Dad said without looking at me. ‘We were never supposed to come back.’
‘What prophecy?’
‘You are the son of the one-handed prince’ quoted Cialtie, ‘a very dangerous young man. It’s true, it was foreseen by a very gifted oracle.’
‘Who,’ my father said, ‘you murdered.’
‘Water under the bridge, Oisin. You really must learn to let bygones be bygones. You see, your daddy here carelessly lost his hand–which I still have upstairs, you know, it’s one of my favourite possessions–so that meant that having a baby was a no-no, but as always Oisin thought he knew best and it looks like it’s going to take his big brother to sort things out.’
‘You are using my hand,’ Dad hissed, ‘to keep the throne.’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Cialtie, ‘I find it works just as well in the Chamber of Runes without the rest of you. Better, in fact–because your mouth isn’t attached to it. That Shadowwitch you used to run around with did a really good job of preserving it.’
I could see the blood vessels in Dad’s temple stand out as he strained against his chains. My temples must have been throbbing too. I didn’t have a clue what was going on. Some oracle predicted that I had to die? Cialtie was using Dad’s hand? And what throne?
‘I would love to stand here and reminisce all day’ said Cialtie, ‘but I have a nephew to kill. Now, your father’s runehand has come in so useful these last few years, I thought I might as well have yours too. The start of a collection, maybe?’ He reached into his cloak and took out an ornate golden box. Inside was an imprint of a hand.
‘I’m going to cut off your hand,’ Cialtie continued, ‘preserve it with proper magic, not that Shadowmagic stuff she used on your dad’s mitt, and then you bleed to death and die. Your dad gets to watch and everybody is happy’
I used to think that anger was a bad thing, but now I realise that in times of extreme stress and fear, anger can be the emotion that focuses your mind and gets you through. Did I hate my uncle? You bet. And the idea of killing him was the only thing that kept me from whimpering like a damp puppy. I held on to that thought as he came at me.
Cialtie paused. ‘You know, I just had a thought. Is it not ironic that the day you become an immortal is the day you die?’
‘If I’m an immortal, how are you going to kill me?’
Cialtie laughed, a sickening laugh that deliberately went on too long. ‘Oh my. I never thought I would see the day when I would meet a son of Duir who was so thick. Immortality, my boy, may save you from illness and getting old, but it won’t save you from this.’ He drew his sword and swung at my wrist.
Then it happened again. The world seemed to slow down and a golden–no–an amber glow encircled Cialtie’s sword and me. I felt the pressure of the blade on my wrist but it didn’t hurt, and more importantly, it didn’t cut. Cialtie flew into a rage–he began hacking and stabbing at me. I didn’t even try to dodge it–the amber glow seemed to protect me. Finally he threw the sword across the room in a rage.
‘This is Shadowmagic,’ he hissed. ‘That witch’s doing, I’ll wager. Well, I have a sorceress of my own.’ He turned to leave–then looked back. ‘You have a reprieve, nephew. I suggest that you and Daddy say your goodbyes. Just don’t take too long,’ and then he was gone, leaving me shaking, half from fear and half from anger.
‘I’m sorry, Conor,’ Dad finally said.
‘How come you never told me?’
Dad laughed. ‘What was I supposed to say? “Son, you are old enough now for me to tell you that I am the heir to the throne of a magical kingdom.” You think I’m loony enough as it is. I can imagine what you would have said to that.’
‘So, you’re the heir to a throne?’
Dad thought for a second, and took a deep breath that looked like it hurt. ‘My father–your grandfather–was the lord of this castle. His name was Finn and he held Duir–the Oak Rune. He was the king, if you like, of Tir na Nog.’
I was struggling to make sense of all of this. My head was spinning. ‘You’re a prince?’
‘Yes.’
‘The one-handed prince?’
He nodded
‘So why did Cialtie say I was dangerous?’
‘Ona,’ Dad said, ‘made a prediction.’
‘Who is this Ona?’
‘She was my father’s Runecaster.’ When I looked puzzled he said, ‘Like a fortune teller.’
‘And what did she say exactly?’ I could tell that the question pained him but I was angry. Some old bat throwing stones around was causing me a lot of trouble.
‘She said, “The son of the one-handed prince must die, lest he be the ruin of Tir na Nog.”‘
‘That’s ridiculous! You don’t believe this crap, do you?’
Dad lowered his head, and when he spoke I could hardly hear him. ‘Ona was never wrong.’
‘So let me get this straight. You lose your hand in a gardening accident and then everybody wants me dead!’ As soon as I said it I realised how ridiculous it sounded. ‘You didn’t lose your hand in a lawnmower, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to tell me about it?’
‘That is a long story,’ I heard a woman’s voice say. It sounded as if it was coming from inside the wall to my right. ‘And if you want to get out of here,’ she said as she appeared right before my eyes, ‘we will have to save it for later.’
You could have knocked me down with a feather. If I thought my aunt was stunning, this was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Dark, tall, with a straight black ponytail plaited to her waist and wearing–check this out–animal skins. She seemed to just step through the wall.
She worked fast. She placed what looked like honey in the locks that shackled our wrists and Dad’s neck. Then she dropped to one knee, lowered her head, mumbled something and the irons fell away. I can’t tell you how good it felt. If you have ever taken off a thirty-pound backpack after a twenty-mile hike, you have the beginnings of an idea. Dad and I stood up.
‘Quickly!’ she said, and walked straight through the wall.
Before Dad could follow I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Who’s the babe in the skins?’
‘That’s no way to talk about your mother,’ he said, and followed her through the wall.
Chapter ThreeMom (#uc0a8941f-ae3a-5903-b013-0752c14d767d)
I stood there as if rooted to the spot. I don’t have a mother. My mother is dead. My father told me so. Emotions swirled around me like a leafy breeze. I was five years old. I remembered the pain in my chest, the taste of my tears. I remembered the look on my father’s face as I stared up to him from my bed.
‘Is Mom in heaven?’ I sobbed.
‘I’m not sure I believe in heaven,’ a younger version of Dad replied. ‘The ancient Celts believed in a place called Tir na Nog, where people never grow old. I think that’s where your mother is.’ He held me until the tears slowed and my sobs were replaced by sleep. Was this the only time my father had ever told me the truth?
‘Conor?’
I looked up and saw her standing there. ‘Are you my mother?’ I said in a voice I hadn’t used in fifteen years.
‘Yes,’ she said, and I knew it was true. I looked into that feminine mirror of my own face, complete with the tears, and I could hardly stand it. I know it contravened all eighteen-year-old cool behaviour but I couldn’t help myself. I threw my arms around her.
She held me tight and stroked the back of my head.
‘Conor, oh my Conor,’ she said.
I could have stayed in those arms for days, for months, for the rest of my life. She gently pushed me back by the shoulders, and in a motherly voice I so long had yearned for, said, ‘Conor?’ When I didn’t reply I heard the other motherly voice, the one that says, I’m your mother and you had better listen to me or else. She shook me and said again, ‘Conor!’
That got my attention.
‘We don’t have time for this. We must leave here.’
Still in a daze, I wiped my eyes and nodded.
Mom gestured to our right. ‘This way’
That was when I heard his voice at the door.
‘You!’ shouted Cialtie.
That snapped me right out of it. I looked to the door and saw my uncle standing there with some tall, spindly, pale woman. She was dressed in hanging black lace with dark, dark eyes, black lips and a skunk-like streak in the front of her jet-black hair.
I lost it–I flipped out. ‘Leave me alone!’ I screamed so forcefully that spit flew out of my mouth. Neither of them was prepared for a fight. They expected to find us chained to the wall. I loved the look on Cialtie’s face as he reached for his sword and realised that he had thrown it across the room after he had failed to cut off my hand. It was lying on the floor to my left. We both looked at it at the same time. Cialtie went for the sword, but I went for Cialtie. Some people would think I was brave, but bravery had nothing to do with it. I was plain loco. All of the day’s craziness, the pain, the revelations, the emotions–I had just had enough! I hit Cialtie with a picture-perfect American football tackle. My shoulder caught him square in the solar plexus and smashed him into the wall. I actually heard all of the air fly out of his lungs and I knew he wasn’t getting up in a hurry. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the goth woman smash into the wall with a shower of golden light from something my mother did. I reached down and picked up the sword. It was so much lighter than it looked. The pommel fitted in my hand as if it was made for me. I started to raise it, fully intending to bring it down on my uncle’s head, when two guards ran into the room. As they reached for their weapons my mother grabbed me by the collar and threw me at the wall.
Passing through a wall is a scary thing. I instinctively threw my hands in front of me but they went right through. When my face reached the stones every cell in my body said, This is going to hurt!- and then pop–I was on the other side. Technically speaking I hadn’t gone through a wall, I had gone through an illusion of a wall. The real wall was in front of me with a big hole chiselled in it. I could see daylight through the opening and Dad beckoning me through. My mother appeared next to me and lobbed an amber ball behind her. I heard screams of, ‘My eyes!’ and then I crawled through. Dad was on the other side standing next to three enormous horses but I hardly noticed him. My eyes were filled with my first look at Tir na Nog–The Land.
Imagine spending all of your life in a world of black and white and finally seeing in colour…No, that’s not right. Imagine never being able to smell and then walking into a bakery, or being sealed in a bubble and feeling a touch of a hand for the first time. Even that doesn’t explain it. Try to imagine that you have another sense, one that you feel in your soul. A sense that activates every nerve in your body. Imagine a view that makes you feel like you could live forever–and you can. That’s what I was looking at now.
Ahead of me I looked down onto a vista of magnificent oak trees. Trees that if you hugged, might just hug you back. Trees that you could call family without irony. Trees that if you were to chop one down, it would mark you as a murderer to the end of your days. To the left, rolling fields started as foothills and culminated in blue, snow-capped mountains that seemed to touch the sky. To my right the trees changed to beech, but not the thin spindly trees I was used to, but spectacular white-barked beeches with the girth and height of California redwoods. When I finally tore my eyes away, I saw that my father too was lost in that panorama, and his eyes were as wet as mine.
‘Come on, boys,’ my mother said as she came through the wall, ‘tearful reunions and sightseeing will have to wait for later.’
‘What about Cialtie?’ I asked.
‘He didn’t seem to be breathing all that well,’ she said with a smile. A smile of approval from my mother–I can’t tell you how good that felt.
‘Nice sword,’ Dad said.
‘Yeah, my Uncle Cialtie gave it to me.’
Dad smiled. ‘I always liked that sword.’
‘You recognise it?’
‘I should,’ he said, as he swung himself up onto a horse. ‘It used to be mine.’
‘Come, Conor,’ my mother said as she jumped into a saddle, ‘he will be back with reinforcements in a minute. Mount up.’
‘I can’t ride that thing!’
‘Surely you know how to ride,’ she said.
‘Nope.’
She gave my father a stern look. ‘You didn’t teach him to ride? You, of all people, didn’t teach your own son to ride?’
‘I taught him to speak the tongue,’ he explained, ‘and I taught him swordplay.’
‘But not ride,’ she said, in a tone that made me realise she was not a woman to be trifled with. ‘Typical.’ She kicked her steed and galloped directly at me. Next thing I knew she grabbed me by the collar and hoisted me into the saddle in front of her.
‘Hold on tight and be careful with that sword.’
She took two amber balls out of her pouch and hurled them over the top of the wall above us. ‘Cover your eyes!’ she said. Even at this distance and with my forearm over my eyes, I saw the flash and could imagine how painful it must have been up close. To the sound of more screams, we galloped off towards the beech forest.
Considering that this was my first getaway, I thought it went pretty smoothly. I got spooked by a couple of arrows that zinged past us, but by and large we just rode away. I sat in front of my mother as we galloped and imagined I was an infant and she was behind me in my pushchair.
‘What is your name?’ I asked.
‘Deirdre,’ she whispered.
We entered the beech forest. Every time I spoke she shushed me, like I was speaking in a library, but when the trees thinned out, Mom answered a couple of my questions. She told me that she had been planning this jailbreak for a long time. She and some people she called the Fili had been secretly tunnelling through that wall at night for weeks. Each morning she would cast some kind of magic to conceal it. I asked her how she could have known that we were going to be there. In a conspiratorial tone of voice, she told me that she cast Shadowrunes. When I asked her why we were whispering she answered, ‘Because beech trees are very indiscreet.’
Other than that we rode in silence for about an hour. The beeches gave way to flowering ash trees. Fine yellow flowers covered the ground and marked our hoof prints like snow.
Dad pulled up beside us. He looked very tired. ‘Castle Nuin is near. Can we get sanctuary there?’
‘I’m afraid when the lords find out about Conor,’ Mom said, ‘we won’t have friends anywhere.’
Dad nodded in resignation.
‘We don’t have much further to ride. I have a boat up ahead. If we can make it to the Fililands we will be safe.’
We travelled for another fifteen minutes or so until we came to a river. Dad dismounted and splashed his face with the water. ‘River Lugar,’ he sighed, ‘I thought I would never see you again.’ He looked up at my mother. ‘Nor did I think I would ever see you again, Deirdre.’
‘Come, Oisin.’ Her voice cracked a little as she spoke. ‘We don’t have time for this. The boat is just a little way downstream.’
The boat was a canvas-stretched canoe. Dad called it a carrack. It was hidden under some ash branches. Mom returned the branches to underneath a nearby tree, then placed her hand on the trunk and said, ‘Thank you.’ Maybe it was a trick of the light but I could have sworn the tree bowed to her–just a little.
The boat was lined with straw mats and was big enough for Dad and me to lie down next to each other. Mom sat in the back and told us to rest. We had drifted downstream for maybe thirty seconds before I was out cold.
Let me tell you, the dreams in Tir na Nog are worth the price of admission. Even though I had nothing to compare it with, I can’t imagine that people in the Real World have dreams anything like I had in that boat.
I dreamt my father was teaching a lecture at the front of a classroom and I raised my hand in answer to a question. He drew a sword and sliced it off! My hand landed on my desk where it seemed to be encased in amber glass, like a huge paperweight. When I looked back, my father was now my uncle and he was laughing at me, saying, ‘No glow now’
The classroom became a room in a high tower; my mother and my aunt were clenched in a fight to the death. Mom’s pouch was open and amber balls were falling to the floor in slow motion. Each time one hit the ground there was a blinding flash, and after each flash the scene in front of me changed. One moment the two women were fighting, the next, they were embracing, like two sisters sharing a secret. Fighting–embracing–fighting–embracing–the scene kept changing until the flashes came so frequently that I could see nothing but bright light.
The last image I saw before I awoke was Sally. She was waiting for me outside the cinema. She waited so long that her legs became tree roots and burrowed into the ground. Her arms turned to boughs and sprouted leaves. At the last second before she turned entirely into a tree, she saw me. She tried to say, ‘Where are you?’ but the wood engulfed her in mid-sentence.
I awoke from my first dream with such a jolt that I instantly stood up, which was a mistake. I was still in the boat. Even though it was beached, it tipped over. I fell smack down in the shoreline as the boat flipped over painfully on the back of my legs. I quickly struggled out from under it and desperately searched for Sally (or the tree that had become Sally) before I came to my senses. I collapsed on the ground and rubbed the back of my calves. So that’s what a dream is like. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to close my eyes and continue it, or never fall asleep again.
A tug on my collar made me realise that something was hanging around my neck. Attached to the end of a leather strap was a beautiful gold ornament. It was shaped like a tiny tornado with leaves spinning in it. As I marvelled at the intricacies of my new jewellery, the smell of food and a campfire hit me. My nose went up like a batter who had just hit a fly ball. It was a smell I was powerless not to follow.
At least this day was starting better than the previous one. Yesterday I awoke to the nightmare of finding myself chained to a wall by a lunatic uncle who was determined to give me a new nickname–Lefty. Today I walked into the dream-come-true of my father and my mother sitting around a campfire. They were holding hands (well, hand) and deep in conversation when I came around a huge weeping willow. They broke off when they saw me.
‘Good morning,’ my father said.
‘Good morning,’ I replied, not really looking at him. My eyes were glued to my mother. At a glance I would have thought she was my age until I looked into her eyes. I was starting to learn that here, in Tir na Nog, it wasn’t grey hair or a wrinkled face that betrayed someone’s age, like in the Real World–it was the eyes.
‘Good morning,’ I said.
She stood up. It was an awkward moment, like we were meeting for the first time. She was nervous.
‘Good morning, Conor.’
I wrapped my arms around her. I had a lifetime of mothering to make up for. Her return hug told me she felt the same.
‘I could get very used to this,’ I said, trying unsuccessfully to stop the dam from breaking behind my eyes.
‘And I too.’ She wept.
Dad left us for a respectable amount of time before he interrupted. ‘Cup of tea, Conor?’
I wiped my eyes and saw Dad grinning from ear to ear, holding a steaming cup in his hand. ‘Thanks,’ I said as I took a seat next to him. ‘I think I just had a dream.’
‘Yeah, me too. Intense, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Are all dreams like that?’
‘I don’t know. Like you, I never had a dream in the Real World. This being your first one, it must have…What’s that phrase you use? Freaked you out.’
‘Freaked you out?’ Mom said.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ Dad replied.
I have had a lot of breakfasts in my day, but let me tell you, if all breakfasts were like this, I would never sleep late again. The tea was made from willow bark. It didn’t taste good as much as it felt good. Mom said that it would ease the strains and bruises of the previous day. It wasn’t until the willow tea started to do its work that I realised just how much pain I had been in: my neck from the whip, my arms and wrists from being clapped in chains, my back from the horse ride and my head from–just plain shock. Blessed relief came as each part of my body stopped hurting, like the peace you get when a neighbour finally stops drilling on the adjacent wall.
‘Found this around my neck,’ I said.
Dad reached inside his shirt and produced an identical necklace. ‘Me too. It’s one of your mother’s specialities. It’s a rothlú amulet.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘it’s beautiful.’
‘It’s not for show,’ she replied, ‘it’s for protection.’
‘I don’t think I need any protection around here. Every time I get attacked, I seem to be surrounded by some gold force field.’
‘You have been lucky,’ she said. ‘I placed that spell on you when you were born, but it only protects you from attacks from your relatives.’
‘Like a spear from Aunt Nieve,’ I said, ‘or Uncle Cialtie’s sword.’
‘If Cialtie had gotten someone else to cut your hand off…’ she said.
‘Then Dad and I would be bookends.’
‘Yes. Also,’ she said, ‘it only works for one battle with each relative.’
‘So next time Aunt Nieve decides to make a Conor kebab–I’m on my own?’
‘What’s a kebab?’ Mom asked.
‘That’s right,’ Dad said, ‘that’s what the rothlú amulet is for.’
‘What’s it do?’
‘It’s only to be used in an emergency,’ Mom said. ‘All you have to do is place your hand over the amulet and say “Rothlú.” Then you’re somewhere else.’
‘Like on the edge of a cliff,’ Dad said, ‘or a snake pit.’
‘There are no snakes in The Land,’ Mom retorted. ‘Oisin here is not a fan of this spell.’
‘It’s dangerous, Conor, you can end up anywhere and it hurts like hell. Did she mention that?’
Mom nodded reluctantly. ‘But it may save your life. Make sure you do not use it unless you really need it.’
‘Is this that Shadowmagic I’ve been hearing about?’
They both seemed to jump a little bit when I mentioned Shadowmagic, like I’d blurted out the plans of a surprise party in front of the birthday girl.
‘No,’ Mom said. ‘This uses gold. It’s Truemagic’
My fifty next questions were stopped dead by the next course. I had never had roast rabbit before but I can tell you right now, I’m never going to be able to watch a Bugs Bunny cartoon again without salivating. Breakfast finished with an apple each. I thought it was a bit of an anticlimax but Dad took his apple like it was a gift from God. He held it in his hand like a priest holding a chalice, and when he bit it, a moan escaped from his throat that was almost embarrassing. I looked at my apple anew. It looked ordinary enough but when I bit it–I’ll be damned if the same moan didn’t involuntarily pour out of me. What a piece of fruit! It hit you everywhere and all at once. This was real food, not the fake stuff that I had been wasting my time eating all my life. This is all I will ever need–this is the stuff that makes you live forever. This was forbidden fruit!
‘Wow,’ I garbled with my mouth full, ‘I feel like Popeye after his first can of spinach.’
Dad thought that was funny. Mom looked confused.
‘Come,’ Mom said, ‘we cannot stay here any longer–I would like to reach the Fililands before tomorrow night.’
Dad packed up the mugs and the water skin. Mom placed the bones and the apple cores on the burning wood and then placed her hands in the flames. The fire died down and then went out. The charred wood and earth seemed to melt into the ground until only a dark circle remained.
As he left, my father placed his hand on the trunk of the willow we were under and said, ‘Thank you.’ My mother did the same.
When I started to walk to the boat, my mother said, ‘Are you not going to thank the tree for his shelter and wood?’
Feeling a bit stupid, I went up to the tree and placed my hands on its bark and said, ‘Thank you.’
I swear the tree said, ‘You are welcome.’ Not with words–it felt like it spoke directly into my head. I will never make fun of a tree-hugger again.
I got back to the boat to see Dad rooting through the supplies. He found a belt with a sword in a leather scabbard. Without any of the clumsiness that you would expect from a one-handed man, he withdrew the sword from its case and replaced it with the one I had taken from Cialtie.
‘You’re taking your sword back?’
‘Actually, I think you should have it,’ he said.
He handed me the belt and I buckled it on. He reached for the hilt and withdrew the sword, holding the perfectly mirrored blade between us. It made for a strange optical illusion. I saw one half of my own face reflected in the blade, while the other half of the face I saw was my father’s weathered countenance.
‘This is a weapon of old,’ he said with gravity, ‘it belonged to your grandfather Finn of Duir. It is the Sword of Duir. It was given to me and stolen by my brother. He was foolish to lose it.’ He turned the sword horizontal, breaking the half-father, half-son illusion I had been staring into. ‘I want you to have it.’
‘Are you sure?’ I said as I took the blade.
‘Yes, I’m sure. To be honest, I would be glad not to have it hanging around my waist–reminding me.’
‘Reminding you of what?’
‘That’s the sword that chopped my hand off
Chapter FourThe Yewlands (#ulink_284f6696-efc9-5c5c-a7a8-ed7ecdcc6698)
I was so stunned I couldn’t speak. Not until we were well under way and I had gotten the knack of paddling did I blurt out, ‘You lost your hand in a sword fight?’
‘I find it hard to believe,’ Mother said, ‘that you never told your son how you lost your hand.’
‘Dad told me that he lost it in a lawnmower.’
‘What is a lawnmower?’ she asked.
‘It’s a machine that they use in the Real World to keep the grass short,’ Dad said.
‘What is wrong with sheep?’
Dad and I smiled.
‘OK, Pop, tell how you lost your hand–the truth, this time.’
‘I refuse to let you tell that story while we are in a boat,’ Mom said, ‘and we are approaching Ioho–we should not be talking in the Yewlands.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because it disturbs the trees and you do not want to disturb a yew tree.’
Under normal circumstances, I would have thought about calling a shrink and booking her into a rubber room, but I had just had a little chat with a tree myself. ‘What could a yew tree do? Drop some leaves on us?’
She gave me a look that made me feel like a toddler who had just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. It was going to take a while to get used to this mother and son stuff.
‘Yew trees are old. The oldest trees in Tir na Nog. We of The Land think we are immortal, but to the yew we are but a spark. To answer your question, if you wake a yew, it will judge your worth. If it finds you lacking–you will die.’
‘What will it do, step on me?’ I said, and got that same icy stare as before.
‘It will offer you its berries, which are poisonous,’ she said, in a tone that warned me that her patience was thinning, ‘and you will be powerless to resist.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Please, Conor,’ she said, ‘do not put it to the test today.’
I didn’t have to ask if we were in the Yewlands, I knew it when we got there. Heck, I knew it before ‘we got there. We rounded a bend in the river and ahead I saw two huge boulders on opposite sides of the bank. On top of them were the most awesome trees I had seen yet. They weren’t as big as the oaks, but these were definitely the elders–the great-great-grandfathers of all of the trees and probably everything else in creation. The roots of the yews engulfed the rocks like arthritic hands clutching a ball. It seemed as if these two trees had just slithered up onto their perches to observe our approach. It made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Past the guard trees we entered a thick forest that stretched as far as the eye could see. A dense canopy turned the world into a dark green twilight, and there was no light at the end of this tunnel.
The first corpse was just inside the forest. Within ten minutes I must have seen fifteen of them. On both sides of the bank, human remains in various states of decay adorned the base of one tree or another. Some of them were clean, bone-white–others were still in their clothes. Many of them had quivers with arrows on their back. All of them were looking up, open-mouthed, as if to say, ‘No!’ or maybe, ‘Thy will be done.’
Mom’s warning about not speaking in the Yewlands proved to be unnecessary. I wasn’t going to say a word. Never have I felt so humbled and insignificant as I did in the presence of those sleeping giants. I didn’t want them to know I was there, and I definitely didn’t want them to judge me. If they bid me to eat their berries, or throw myself off a cliff for that matter, I would do as they commanded, just to make them happy. Like a dog to a master–or a man to a god.
We spent most of that day silent, in an emerald dusk. It was slow going: each paddle was done with care so as to not make any splashing sounds. The frequency of the corpses diminished, but still from time to time a skyward-facing skull, encased in moss, would be just visible. As we came around a bend my mother’s breath quickened. Ahead was a moss-covered altar surrounded by a semicircle of what must be the oldest of these primordial trees. The bases of the trees were littered with women’s corpses. Each tree was surrounded with five or six sets of bones, some bleached white, some in white robes, a couple still with long, flowing hair, and all were in the same position. They were embracing a tree trunk, as if for dear life–which I suppose they were. I noticed that my mother didn’t look.
When, in the distance, I saw a clear white light at the end of the forest, I let out a tiny yelp of joy that I instantly regretted. My parents shot me a disapproving look. Luckily the trees took no notice.
The fresh air and sunshine made me feel like I had been rescued from a premature grave. I waited until the Yewlands were out of sight before I dared to speak.
‘Well, that was fun,’ I said, trying to sound cooler than I felt. ‘Who were all those dead people?’
‘Archers mostly,’ Dad replied.
‘Why archers?’
‘The best bows are made from yew; if you want to be a master archer, you have to ask a yew tree for wood.’
‘And those were the guys that didn’t make the grade?’
He nodded.
‘Have you ever been judged by a yew?’
‘Not me, I was never much of an archer. Good thing too–one-handed archers are traditionally not very good.’
‘I have,’ my mother said, in a faraway voice that sent a shiver down my spine. ‘I have been judged by a yew. Next to giving up my son, it was the hardest thing I have ever done.’
I thought that maybe she wasn’t going to say anything more–her face told me it was a memory that was painful to remember. I waited–she took a deep breath and went on. ‘The place you saw with the altar is called the Sorceress’ Glade. Like archers with their bows, a true sorceress must translate a spell onto a yew branch.’
‘What, like a magic wand?’
‘If you like.’
‘And you were judged?’
In reply she reached into her pouch and produced a plain-looking stick, carved with linear symbols.
‘What does it do?’
‘It gives me power over the thorns,’ she said.
‘Huh?’
‘You will understand when we reach the Fililands.’
We were floating by fragrant fields of heather, inhabited by sheep, rabbits and deer. I even saw a black bear fishing on a bank. It was like a 3-D Disney film. I almost expected the bear to wave.
‘How did you become a sorceress?’
‘Her father,’ Dad said, ‘wanted to make a superwoman.’
‘My father wanted his daughter to be educated,’ Mom corrected. ‘He hired twelve tutors to teach me in the arts, philosophies, combat and magic. I loved all my tutors, almost as much as I loved my father for providing them for me. Of all my studies, it was at magic that I excelled. Against my father’s wishes, I made the pilgrimage to the Sorceress’ Glade with my tutor, my mentor, my friend.’ Mom fell silent and sadness invaded her face.
‘It was Nieve,’ Dad said.
‘Nieve? My Aunt Nieve? The one who tried to pierce my sternum with a javelin?’
‘I am sure she took no joy from that task,’ Mom said. ‘Nieve has a very strong sense of duty.’
‘Could you give her a call and maybe we could sit down and talk about this?’
‘Nieve and I have not spoken to one another for a long time,’ she said.
‘Because of me?’
‘No, before that, when I left her guidance to study Shadowmagic’
Shadowmagic–there was that word again. Every time someone mentioned it, they sounded like they were selling a stolen watch in an alley.
‘What is the deal with this Shadowmagic stuff?’
‘Magic is never without cost,’ she said. ‘Like wood is to a fire, gold is to magic. Gold is the power that is made by the earth. In order to cast a spell you need to spend gold. The greater the spell, the more gold you need. That is what they call here in The Land, Truemagic. Gold is not the only power in the world, it is just the easiest to find and use. There is power in the air and the water, that is too difficult to control, and then there is another power–the power of nature that can be found in the trees. Harnessing this power is the force behind Shadowmagic. It is not as powerful, but it can do things that Truemagic cannot.’
‘So what does Nieve have against it?’
‘Shadowmagic is illegal,’ Father said.
‘Why?’
‘Ages ago,’ Mom explained, ‘in the early reign of Finn, there was a Fili sorceress named Maeve. Maeve detected power in amber stones and devised a way to use amber to power magic. Since amber is only petrified tree sap, she started to use fresh sap, the blood of trees, to power her magic. She became very powerful and that power drove her mad. She decimated an entire forest and used its energy to raise a huge army. Maeve and her army laid siege to Castle Duir. No one knows what happened–it is believed that in the midst of the battle, Maeve cast a mammoth spell that catastrophically failed. Maeve and all of the Fili army were killed. Afterwards, Finn outlawed Shadowmagic and decreed that Maeve’s name should never be uttered again. The Fili were so decimated it was thought they were extinct.’
‘You found them, I take it?’
‘Yes. Maeve’s daughter Fand lives.’
‘And she taught you Shadowmagic?’
‘She was reluctant at first. She was deeply ashamed of her mother, of the wars and death and the forest she destroyed, but deep down she knew that it was her mother that was wrong, not her magic. Together, we found and read Maeve’s notes to try and find out what happened. It was the killing of trees that corrupted her soul. We found trees that agreed to allow us to tap them for sap, and we swore never to kill a tree. We revived the art of Shadowmagic and found that it was good. Just as valid as Truemagic. After all, the yew wand is an integral part of Truemagic but at its heart, it is actually Shadowmagic.’
‘Did you ever try to convince Nieve?’
‘Oh yes. When I returned from the Fililands I told her about it. She was shocked and appalled that I would do such a thing. As I mentioned before she has a strong sense of duty, but she agreed to discuss it again.’
‘And what happened?’
‘We never had that talk.’
‘Why not?’
‘I was banished,’ Mom said.
‘Banished?’
‘Yup,’ Dad said, ‘your mother here is an outlaw. A regular Ma Barker.’
‘Who banished you?’
‘Finn,’ she said.
‘Finn, my grandfather? Why?’
‘Your mother performed a very public display of Shadowmagic in front of almost every Runelord in The Land. My father had no choice.’
‘He should have had me executed,’ she said.
‘What happened?’
‘That is part of the tale of how your father lost his hand. Not only is it a long-overdue story–it is a long one as well. I know a shelter up ahead. We can camp for the night and you can hear the tale properly over food and a fire.’
Food and fire, now that was a good idea. After paddling all day and the stress of the Yewlands, I was overdue for a break.
The meadows of heather gave way to fields of tremendously tall holly trees. We pulled the boat ashore and stashed it under a bush. (Mother of course asked the holly for permission.) We walked a faint path until we saw a stone hut with a thatched roof.
‘This is a lovely Gerard hut,’ Mom said.
‘Is Gerard home?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Dad laughed. ‘Gerard is an old Runelord who likes to travel. He built a bunch of these huts so he wouldn’t have to sleep out-of-doors.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it looks cosy’
‘They usually are,’ my father said, opening the door.
I had heard the sound of a crossbow firing before, but I had never heard the sound of an arrow piercing flesh. In the old cowboy movies, the sound of an arrow entering a body was always a clean thwap–in reality, the sound is a pop, followed by a hideous squelch. Dad spun completely around like a top and hit the ground hard on his back–a crossbow bolt was sticking out of his chest.
Chapter FiveRothlú (#ulink_5cbd6faf-bd02-5ff5-8604-f0ffa443b07d)
When I saw the air gurgling out of the wound in my father’s chest, I dropped to my knees and screamed, ‘Dad!’ This turned out to be a lucky choice–if I had remained standing the second arrow would have got me right between the eyes. As it was, it still gave my hair its first centre parting. Dad had opened the door to an ambush.
‘Don’t move,’ I heard a woman’s voice order.
I looked up expecting a second attack, but instead I saw a deadly scene frozen in time. Aunt Nieve was standing in the doorway, and behind her were two soldiers with empty crossbows. My mother and my aunt were face to face, eyes locked–Mom was holding an amber ball while Nieve was holding a gold sphere made of wire.
‘Make one move towards him and we all die,’ Mom said.
‘If the boy dies then my duty is done,’ Nieve replied. ‘If we die with him–so be it.’
‘If I set off this Shadowcharm then all will die except the boy,’ Mom said. ‘You have seen the protection I have given him already. Your duty will fail and you will be dead.’
They stared at each other for a time.
‘You should be with me in this,’ hissed Nieve.
‘You want me to stab my own son in the neck?’ My mother said neck with such vehemence that it made me jump. ‘We all realise that if Conor wasn’t around we would all be safe.’ She spoke in such a strange voice that it made me think she wasn’t talking to Nieve–she was talking to me. ‘You don’t expect me to risk his neck just to make us safe!
The amulet! She was talking about the rothlú amulet around my neck. I reached up, slowly wiped my lips and casually let my hand drop to the gold charm hanging around my neck. I wrapped my little finger around it.
‘Do you really think you and Dad would be safe if I was gone?’ I said to my mother.
‘Listen to him,’ Nieve said, ‘the boy is beginning to understand.’
‘I hope he does understand,’ Mom said, talking to me, while never taking her eyes off Nieve. ‘Yes, it would be safer for all if you were gone.’
I looked down at my father, who nodded to me with his eyes. I did understand. Mom wanted me to escape with the amulet and defuse this situation, so that maybe Dad could get some help.
‘You know, Aunt Nieve,’ I said, ‘all of my life I wished I had an aunt that would send me an unexpected birthday present, like other kids. Instead I got one that tries to kill me every time we meet. Well, I want you to know that I am taking you off my Christmas card list. Oh, and by the way–rothlú!’
A rothlú spells kick in fast but I did have a split second to see Nieve’s expression before all went black. It was so satisfying that it was almost worth the pain.
Pain! Did I mention pain? Man, did I hurt. I didn’t hurt all over, like with a killer hangover–it was more like every little bit of me hurt. My lips hurt, my earlobes hurt, my toes hurt, my hair hurt and I don’t even want to talk about my groin. It felt as if every tiny fragment of me was torn apart and then quickly reassembled. For all I know that’s what actually happened.
I was lying on my side in a foetal position. I must have been unconscious all night because I could feel the hot sun on my eyelids, but there was no way I was going to open my eyes, let alone move–I knew it was going to hurt too much. I think I would have stayed like that for a day or twelve, if I hadn’t been disturbed by a tug on my foot. Normally, a tug like that would have had me alert in a flash, but I was so out of it that I only managed to crack one eye open, a slit. The light sent a pain into my head that made me want to moan, but I was sure that moaning would have hurt too. When I finally could focus, I saw a disgusting leather sandal on the ground next to my face and a pair of hands fumbling with a shoelace as they tried to pull one of my Nikes off.
I heard a voice say, ‘Not bad,’ and then I felt a tug on my other foot. He was stealing my shoes. Some twerp was nicking my sneakers! Concussion or no concussion, I wasn’t going to stand for this. You can whip me, shoot me, kidnap me or try to kill me, but there is no way I was going to let my Nikes go without a fight. I jumped to my feet, and in one swift movement drew my sword. I caught the thief completely off guard. First, he was utterly engrossed with my shoelaces and second, I think he presumed I was dead. I must have looked dead–I certainly felt it.
I found myself standing over him with my sword pointed at his chest. He was a young man in both face and in his eyes. His hair was the remarkable thing–it was jet-black with a pure white tuft in the front. He was surprised to see me standing over him, and to be honest, so was I. Then the world began to spin–I had gotten up way too fast. I was going to faint.
As I swooned, I blurted out, ‘Were you stealing my shoes?’ Then I lost my balance. I stumbled forward, the tip of my blade inadvertently moving towards his chest. He understandably thought I was going to kill him. I tried to pull my sword away. I tried to keep my balance. I thought I was going to be sick. That’s when I saw his sword. Even if I had been alert I don’t think I could have parried it. With the quickest of flicks, he cocked his right wrist and a short blade travelled like lightning out of his sleeve. In one instantaneous motion he caught the pommel in his hand and stabbed me in the chest.
The amber glow engulfed the two of us the microsecond before his blade touched my chest. I realise now that life is made up not of days, or hours, or even seconds, but moments. One tiny moment follows another. One moment I saw the blade about to enter my heart–the next I was impossibly balanced on the tip of a razor-sharp sword, protected by my mother’s wonderful amber force field.
I had just met another member of the family.
Chapter SixFergal (#ulink_dabf8aca-8ecc-5f51-b031-d1b70952a301)
I stood there at a forty-degree angle with the shoe thief’s blade holding me up, and I started to chuckle. I couldn’t help it. I was losing it. I held my arms straight out at my sides and laughed. Not a that’s a funny joke sort of a laugh but a crazy laugh, the kind of maniacal sound that comes out of Dr Frankenstein just before he screams, ‘It’s alive!’
Through the golden glow, I could see that my opponent was confused. He pushed at my chest a couple of times, trying to figure out why I wasn’t perforated. Every jab just made me laugh louder. Finally, I rolled off the point of his sword and fell to the ground, in hysterics. He stood up fast, leaned over me and actually poked a couple of times. Each prod made the glow return and I howled, tears pouring from my eyes. I saw the thief take off my Nikes and carefully pick up his sandals. I could tell he was a bit freaked, ready to run.
I tried to compose myself. ‘Wait,’ I croaked, as I struggled to sit up. He started to back away. ‘No, wait,’ I repeated as I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, ‘I won’t hurt you–look.’ I threw my sword away and held up my hands. ‘Sit down for a second.’
He stopped, still wary. ‘I’m not looking for any trouble,’ he said. ‘Honest to the gods, I thought you were dead. Well, not dead but I didn’t think you were going to last long.’
‘I believe you. Sit down.’
He sat a respectable distance away. I rubbed my eyes with my palms, trying to make them focus. The specific pain of before was becoming one giant all-over pain–an improvement but not much.
‘I think we have gotten off on the wrong foot.’
He stood up and started to back away. ‘I told you I was sorry for the shoe thing.’
‘No, no, relax,’ I said, palms forward. ‘I mean, I don’t think we should be fighting. I’m sorry I pulled a sword on you but I have had a really rough couple of days. Can we start over?’ I stood up and extended my hand. ‘My name is Conor.’
He looked me square in the eyes for a time and then slowly an amazing smile took over his whole face. It was so infectious that I couldn’t help turning up the corners of my own mouth in reply. He cocked his wrist and his sword disappeared instantly up his sleeve. He stepped right up and shook my hand enthusiastically (which hurt) and said, ‘They call me Fergal. Pleased to meet you, Conor.’
‘The pleasure is all mine, Fergal.’
‘So tell, Conor,’ Fergal said like we were old mates, ‘what the hell were you doing lying in a ditch?’
‘That’s a long story. You wouldn’t have a couple of aspirin and a glass of water, before I start, would you?’
‘Don’t know what that first thing is but there is a lovely wee stream just over there if you’re thirsty. Follow me.’
We put our shoes on, I picked up my sword and we climbed up out of the ravine. My legs howled in pain, as if I had just run a marathon with a sumo wrestler on my back. When we reached the top I saw that we were in the middle of rolling farmland. Fields of waving grain, periodically interrupted by the odd tree, stretched as far as the eye could see.
‘Where are we?’ I asked.
‘The fields of Muhn. The Castle Muhn vineyards start not far–just over that rise.’
My vision was clearing. I looked in the direction of Fergal’s finger and saw rolling hills in the distance. Fergal’s definition of not far was quite different from my own.
‘Oh, I get it,’ Fergal said, way too loud for my liking, ‘you were at a shindig at Castle Muhn last night–weren’t you?’
I almost said, I wish, but then it occurred to me that everyone who knew who I was had tried to kill me. ‘Maybe,’ I said, thinking that lying might be a sensible idea.
‘Well, that explains it.’ Fergal laughed. ‘You wouldn’t be the first guy to be found hung over in a ditch after a party at Castle Muhn.’ He slapped me on the back. It felt like I was hit with a sledgehammer.
The water made me wonder if I had been drinking sawdust all of my life. It was cool and crystal clear. It hit the back of my throat and made me feel like I would never be thirsty again. That’s one of the best things about The Land, it forces you to appreciate the simple things in life: fresh water, fragrant air, magnificent views, and not being dead. All of my problems and pressing engagements in the Real World were fading in my mind, except for that nagging image of Sally, still waiting outside the movie theatre.
‘I thought the big party was at moon bright,’ Fergal said. ‘Oh no! I haven’t missed it, have I? I could have sworn it was tomorrow night.’
‘No. You’re alright. It was an unofficial thing last night,’ I lied, ‘tomorrow’s the big night.’
‘Phew I would have been well upset if I’d missed it,’ he said, slapping me on the back again. I had to figure out how to break him out of that habit. ‘So what are you doing then, Conor me friend? Are you on your way home or are you coming back for a bit of the hair of the dog?
What to do? I knew that I should keep a low profile, especially when the motto around here seemed to be–to know Conor is to kill Conor. But what could I do on my own? I had to find my mother and father again. But where were they and how could I find them without telling people who I was? And a party! Why not? After all I’d probably get murdered by an in-law before the week was out–so why not party? This Fergal seemed like a nice guy and he was family (which may or may not be a good thing). If I hung around with him maybe I could come up with a plan before someone figured out who I was.
‘What the hell,’ I said. ‘One more night of partying can’t kill me.’
‘Well, maybe you should go easier tomorrow, you look awful rough.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ I said, and together we set off for a party at Castle Muhn.
‘That was a clever bit of magic you pulled back there,’ Fergal said.
‘Yes, I liked it at the time.’
‘It’s a snap spell, isn’t it?’
‘A snap spell?’
‘Hey, sorry,’ Fergal said, raising his hands. ‘I shouldn’t be prying into another man’s magic’
‘No, it’s OK,’ I said, ‘I just never heard of a snap spell.’
‘A snap spell is one that happens by itself. You don’t have to cast it or pay for it or anything–it just happens. Kings put them on their jewels and such to stop them from getting nicked. I never saw a proper one before–till now’
‘I guess it is a snap spell then.’
‘Where’d you get it?’
What should I say to that? The problem with lying is that it gets you into trouble. I learned that painful lesson last year. I was dating a girl named Dottie when I met Sally. I told Dottie I was going out to dinner with my father when I was really taking Sally to the movies. The next day I saw Dottie and she said, ‘What did you have for dinner, popcorn?’ Man, was I busted.
The other problem with lying is you have to remember what you said, and since it seemed like I was going to be doing a lot of lying in the near future, I decided to tell the truth as much as I could.
Fergal noticed my hesitancy. ‘Hey, mate, you don’t have to tell me nothing. I talk too much and ask too many questions. Just tell me to shut up, that’s what all my friends do.’
‘No, it’s alright. My protection spell was a gift from my mother.’
‘Phew Nice gift. Must have cost her weight in gold.’
‘Don’t know. Never asked.’
‘Well, I’m glad she gave it to you. I never stabbed anybody before, it would have been a shame for you to be the first. There’s something about you, I don’t know what it is but it seems like we are old friends already, or should be. You know what I mean?’ Then he slapped me on the back–again.
‘I do,’ I said, and meant it. We were definitely related. Fergal didn’t know what this feeling was, but I did, my mother’s spell confirmed it–we were kin. I slapped Fergal on the back, hard, so he would know what it felt like. It hurt my hand.
‘That sword of yours appeared like it was magic,’ I said.
‘What, this little thing?’ he clicked his wrist and the long knife popped into his hand with frightening speed. ‘My Banshee blade.’
‘You’re a Banshee?’ I blurted.
‘No,’ he said sarcastically. ‘What gave it away? Was it the bit of white hair? Or was it the bit of white hair?’
‘I think it must have been the bit of white hair.’ I smiled and replied as casually as I could. Banshees have a tuft of white hair. I stored that piece of information away.
‘So how do you get it to pop out so fast?’
‘Ah well, that’s the magic part. Here, let me show you.’ He stopped and took off his shirt. His right arm was strapped with leather in three places. Entwined in the straps was a gold wire that seemed to be on some sort of pulley system. The wire was attached to the blade, so as to propel it in and out of his sleeve. ‘The magic is in the gold wire,’ he said. ‘It cost me a packet. When I need the blade, I do this motion and this half of the wire straightens and expands–poof–instant sword. The spell doesn’t use much gold. The wire’s supposed to work for years.’
‘Cool.’
‘No, it doesn’t get hot or anything.’
‘I mean, nice.’
‘Oh, I could set you up with a guy to make you one if you like. It isn’t cheap though.’
‘I am afraid I’m a bit broke at the moment.’
‘Me too. You and I have got so much in common,’ he said with another slap.
As we followed the stream Fergal waxed on about the intricacies of Banshee blade manufacture but I didn’t take much in. His voice was increasingly drowned out by the bass drum solo that began playing in my head. After I don’t know how long (by which time the pounding in my head had graduated into a full-blown marching band), Fergal turned to me and said, ‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?’
‘Huh? Oh, sure I have.’
Fergal looked me in the eyes and I had a scary moment when I thought he was going to quiz me. Then he broke into an ear-to-ear smile and said, ‘I like you, Conor, it usually takes friends ages to learn to ignore my babbling–you figured it out right away’ He went to slap me on the back but then stopped when he saw me flinch. ‘You know, you look awful rough. We’re in no hurry; how ‘bout we make camp here?’
We found the remnants of an old campfire under a tall, broadleaved tree that had roots creeping into the stream. Fergal said it should be OK to camp under an alder this far away from the Fearnlands. I wanted to ask him what that meant but I had a feeling asking too many questions would arouse suspicion, and anyway I was too tired. Fergal took some kindling out of his bag and piled it within the ring of stones.
‘You wouldn’t have a decent fire-coin, would you? Mine’s practically silver.’
‘No. I’ve lost everything except my sword,’ I said, which was pretty much the truth.
Fergal produced a half-dollar-sized disc out of his pocket and placed it beneath the little bits of wood.
‘I think this thing has one more fire in it.’
He mumbled under his breath, there was a faint glow and then smoke appeared under the wood. He blew it into a small flame. ‘Keep an eye on this and I’ll beg for some wood.’
Fergal climbed the alder as I lay on my side and blew on the tiny flame. Just this was enough to make me feel light-headed. I was still in pretty bad shape after that damn rothlú thing. Whether I fell asleep or passed out I don’t know, but the next thing I remember, Fergal was shaking me awake and handing me a stick with a fish on it that he had just cooked on a roaring fire.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Prince Conor?’ For a second I thought he had figured out who I was. I sat bolt upright expecting his Banshee blade to fly out of his sleeve, but then he smiled and said, ‘You’re a fat lot of good around here. Next time I’m nursing a hangover, you wait on me.’
‘Deal,’ I said with a nervous laugh, and took the fish. ‘Thanks.’ We ate in silence. I’m not a big fan of food that can stare at me but I was too hungry to complain. I apologised to the trout’s face and wolfed the rest of it down.
After dinner Fergal put a couple of logs on the fire and said that even though he would love to talk all night, he was beat. He touched the alder, put his pack under his head and closed his eyes. My short nap had done little to ease my overall body pain. I put my head on the ground and moaned. Just before I went out, I thought I saw some strange movement in the branches above. I sat up and had a good look but then decided I was just spooking myself.
I dreamt I was back in the Real World in a super-posh shoe store where I didn’t even have to put the shoes on myself. Sales clerks actually knelt down and placed all kinds of really cool footwear directly on my feet.
Dawn, as it always does, came too early. I find that going to sleep under the stars is lovely but waking up outside is a drag. It leaves me itchy, damp and with terminal bed hair. It wasn’t until I stood that I realised my shoes were missing. Well, that explained the theme of my dream. I walked over to the still-sleeping Fergal and lightly kicked him with my bare foot. He shot straight up.
‘What?’ he sputtered.
‘Ha ha, Fergal, very funny. What did you do with my shoes?’
‘What are you talking about?’ he said, getting his bearings.
‘My shoes, I don’t know how you did it without waking me up but I want my shoes back.’
‘I don’t have your shoes,’ he said, confused.
‘Quit mucking around, Fergal, I had them on when I went to sleep.’
‘I’m telling you I don’t have your…uh-oh.’ Fergal jerked his hand a couple of times and then pulled his tunic over his head. ‘Damn it,’ he said, ‘damn it, damn it, damn it!’
‘What? What is it?’
‘My Banshee blade is gone–and the wire too.’
‘What do you mean gone?’
‘Robbed, we were robbed last night.’
Oh, just great, I thought, now I’m going to have to walk in this godforsaken land barefoot. Then I had a terrible thought. Slowly I reached down to my waist and felt for my scabbard–the Sword of Duir was gone.
Chapter SevenBrownies (#ulink_0fe07c67-c101-5179-9bd6-08c5ce051d99)
‘They took my sword. Oh my God, my father is going to kill–L me.’
Fergal went over to the alder and placed his hand on the bark, then kicked it. A rain of branches showered down that made us run out from under its cover.
‘Fergal, what the hell is going on?’
‘We got rumbled by the alder last night.’
‘Are you telling me the tree mugged us?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Then who could take my shoes and your wire from under your shirt without waking us up?’
‘Brownies, damn them.’
‘Whos-ies?
‘Brownies–who else?’
‘You mean like girl scouts?’
‘Why do you think they were girls?’ Fergal said, confused.
‘Never mind. I have to get that sword back. It is very important.’
‘Well, that’s not going to be easy. Brownies weigh nothing and are famously difficult to track.’
We looked around at the dew-covered grass and then at each other. We were both wearing the same ear-to-ear grin. You see, Brownies are usually difficult to track–except when one of them is wearing Nikes.
Whoever stole my shoes must have had tiny feet because he dragged them along the ground, trying to keep my size elevens from falling off. The tracks led into the stream but were easy to pick up on the other side. Fergal dashed under the tree and grabbed a couple of branches that we could use as weapons. He shouted a sarcastic, ‘Thanks,’ as the alder tried to rain more wood down on him.
We followed the trail across some wide, open fields that led to rolling hills. The trees were thin and the ground pretty spongy but periodically my bare feet made contact with a rock or a twig that made me yelp. I wasn’t sure how long I would be able to keep up this pace, but saying that, I felt a lot better than I did yesterday.
Every time I wanted to ask Fergal if we could rest, I remembered the Sword of Duir–I had to get it back. I had a vision of meeting up with Dad and him saying, ‘Let me get this straight, I give you a sword that has been in our family for thousands of years and you lose it–in a day!’ I really wanted to avoid that conversation. After about an hour of jogging we rounded a small hill. I lost the trail but Fergal laid his head on the ground and pointed to a small cliff face about a quarter-mile to our right.
‘If we are lucky, they are camping in those rocks,’ Fergal said.
‘What makes you think they made camp?’
‘Look, my Nanny Breithe always got mad at me when I talked badly about any race but the truth of it is, Brownies are cocky and stupid. They think they are so stealthy that they are untrackable, but look at these idiots. Not one of them bothered to look behind them to check if they were leaving a trail. My guess is that they were up all night watching us, so I’m hoping they are camping in those rocks.’
‘And if you’re wrong?’
‘Then you’re going to have to buy a new pair of those fancy shoes of yours. Where did you get them anyway?’
‘Scranton,’ I said without thinking.
‘Scranton? Never heard of it.’
‘Yeah.’ I laughed. ‘A lot of people say that.’
The way was a bit harder here and Fergal shushed me every time a pebble underfoot made me bark. When we reached the foot of the knoll Fergal and I took a minute to rub the small stems and leaves off the branches we were carrying so as to fashion them into staffs. They weren’t the best weapons in the world but they would have to do.
Climbing the rocks would have been a cinch if I’d had anything on my feet, but barefoot it was flipping difficult. What was harder than the actual climbing was trying not to curse every time I stepped on some jagged edge. My poor tootsies were taking a beating. If I got through this without getting stabbed by my own sword, I was going to throttle whoever took my Nikes. Fergal reached the summit before me. He peeped over and instantly ducked down, placing his index finger over his lips and indicating that our light-fingered quarry was just over the rise. I pressed up next to him.
‘There’s only two of them,’ he whispered. ‘We need a plan.’
‘Have you ever done this before?’
‘Done what?’
‘Attacked two armed men with sticks?’
‘No, but I’m looking forward to it.’ He smiled.
His smile was so infectious I said, ‘OK, what’s the plan?’
‘One of us should circle around behind them, and when he is in position the other one makes a frontal attack from here. The one of us that comes from the rear should be able to take them out before the one who attacks from here gets sliced up too much.’
‘As much as I don’t fancy the idea of getting “sliced up too much,” you have to go around the back–my feet are killing me.’
‘OK, take a quick look and you’ll see the gap in the back. I’ll be coming from there.’
I was nervous until I stuck my nose over the ledge. They looked like a couple of teenage street urchins. They had black matted hair and wore tight dark green clothes stretched over bodies so skinny they would have made a supermodel look chunky. Between them was a campfire that had a dome of gold wire over it. The smoke rising from the fire seemed to disappear when it hit the wire. The two swords and Fergal’s pack were lying behind them on the ground. When the larger guy got up to tend the fire I saw that the smaller one had my shoes on the ground between his legs. He had removed the laces from one of them and then to my horror I realised he was about to cut the tongue out of the sneaker. That’s when I kind of forgot where I was. I stood up and yelled, ‘Hey!’ vaulted over the ledge and slid down to two very surprised Brownies.
‘What is the matter with you?’ I shouted.
The little guy just froze. The bigger one grabbed the Sword of Duir and pointed it at me. What confused him was that I just ignored him. I walked over to the little guy and grabbed the shoe–I was mad.
‘What’s the matter with you? If you are going to steal my Nikes the least you could do is give them a little respect. What the hell are you cutting them for?’
The bigger guy poked me in the back with my sword. I turned to him and said, ‘I’ll deal with you in a second.’ I looked around–Fergal was nowhere to be seen.
I turned back to junior. ‘I’m talking to you. Why the hell were you cutting up my sneakers?’ He seemed too terrified to speak. I towered over him. ‘Well?’
‘My, my feet got sweaty in them,’ he stammered.
‘Oh, so after sweating in my shoes you decided to cut them up.’ I think I would have slapped him if the big guy hadn’t just then given me a good jab in the ribs that demanded my attention.
‘If you take one more step towards my brother,’ the bigger one said, ‘I’m going to run you through.’
I turned. He had striking pale blue eyes that, unlike his brother, had no fear in them. He was holding my sword to my chest but I remained calm.
‘That is my sword,’ I pointed out, ‘and in about three seconds I’m going to take it back.’
‘And how are you going to do that?’ His voice betrayed a tiny loss of confidence.
‘I’m going to pick it off the ground after my friend Fergal clocks you in the head with a tree branch.’
He went down like a house of cards. I quickly turned to little brother, who was still frozen like a rabbit in headlights. I picked up my sword and pointed to the soles of my feet.
‘Look at my tootsies! Do you see how dirty they are? I should make you lick them clean.’
I took a step towards him and he started to shake. I instantly felt sorry for him–this kid was way out of his league. I crouched down.
‘Hey, little guy, relax, we’re not going to hurt you.’ I turned to Fergal. ‘We’re not going to hurt them–right?’
‘Well, I’m not going to hurt anybody,’ Fergal said as he began to tie up big brother, ‘but you seem a bit worked up about your footwear.’
‘Well, I like these shoes.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
I turned back to the boy. ‘OK, it’s decided, no one is going to hurt you. What’s your name?’
‘My brother said I’m not supposed to tell you my name even if you torture me.’
‘Wow, you guys are a real bunch of desperados. Mind if I call you Jesse?’
‘I, I guess.’
Fergal finished hogtying the brother and came over.
‘Fergal, meet Jesse.’
Fergal leaned over the boy. ‘What kind of a name is Jesse?’
I tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘I made it up but I think he likes it–just go with it.’
‘OK, hi, Jesse. What are you two doing so far from the Fearnlands?’
‘My brother said there would be easy pickings out here but we haven’t seen anybody for ages. I wanted to go home–only he made me keep going. He said Father would let him take his scrúdú early if we came back with quality acquisitions. I, I didn’t mean to hurt your shoes, honest. What are you going to do to us?’
‘ scrúdú?’
‘It’s the manhood test,’ he said, then the poor kid turned ghastly white. ‘Oh gods, I shouldn’t have told you that.’
So that was it–a story as old as time, big brother with delusions of manhood, roped little bro into doing something incredibly stupid.
I picked up a canteen from the ground, walked over to big bro and poured some water on his head. He spluttered awake and tried to get up. When he realised he was hogtied he looked at Fergal and me. His bravado from earlier had vanished.
‘Good morning, Frank,’ I said.
‘What is Frank?’ he said.
‘You are. Since your little brother over there has informed me that we won’t know your real names until after we torture you, I decided to call you Frank and him Jesse until then.’
‘My name is Demne and my brother is Codna.’
I turned to Jesse/Codna, who now had his mouth wide open in amazement. ‘Well, Jesse, it looks like your brother isn’t much for torture.’
I turned back to the big bro. ‘You know, Demne, I like Frank better. You don’t mind if I call you Frank, do you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. OK, Frank, here’s what we are going to do. First, we are going to take our acquisitions back. You don’t have any problems with that, do you, Frank?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You know, I really am starting to like your attitude, Frank. Next I’m going to borrow your shoes and let you have the opportunity, like I had, to climb barefoot over those rocks.’ I crouched down and took Frank’s sandals off his feet, picked up Jesse’s from the ground and threw them over the stone ridge as far as I could. ‘We are going to leave you now, but before we do, you are going to promise me that the next time you have a harebrained idea, you are not going to drag your brother into it. Right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Fergal, do you have anything to add?’
Fergal had reattached his Banshee blade and was now examining the gold wire dome he had taken from its position over the fire. Smoke was now floating freely in the air. ‘Now that you mention it, Conor, I was thinking of taking this interesting thing as payment for our troubles.’
Frank tried to stand when Fergal said this, and fell on his side. ‘Please don’t take our father’s smokescreen. He’ll kill us if we lose it.’
I grabbed Frank by the arm and pulled him back up into a sitting position. ‘So let me guess, Dad doesn’t know you took it?’
He shook his head–a pathetic no. I took the smokescreen from Fergal and placed it on Frank’s head like a skullcap.
‘Jesse, can I give you a little piece of information that will help you for the rest of your life?’
Jesse just stared at me and then slowly nodded yes.
‘Your big brother is an idiot.’
He nodded to me again.
As we walked to the rim of the knoll Fergal said, ‘I would really have liked that smokescreen.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but I know what it’s like to get in trouble with your dad and I didn’t have the heart to do that to them.’
I gave them one last look before I climbed back down. Jesse was still sitting stock still.
I called to him. ‘Jesse, you can untie your brother any time you want but if I were you I would make him suffer for a little while longer.’
He looked up to me and then gave me the tiniest of smiles and then waved.
‘Behave, you two,’ I shouted as I jumped down the rock face.
Our encounter with the outlaws had put us behind schedule for the party. Fergal set a jogging pace that made me wish I had tortured those two a little bit.
‘So I said we need a plan,’ Fergal said to me as he ran alongside, ‘and you said “OK”. Do you remember that?’
‘I do.’
‘And then we made a plan. Do you remember that too?’
I nodded, conserving my breath.
‘Good, now here is the point I’m getting to. I don’t know how they do things in Skwinton.’
‘Scranton,’ I corrected.
‘OK, Scranton, but where I come from, after you make a plan you don’t just up and jump over a wall screaming.’
‘Well, it worked, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, Conor, but remember, some of us don’t have a priceless snap spell to come to our rescue.’
I almost told him that my mom’s protection spell didn’t have anything to do with it, since it works solely on relatives and only once, but then I thought, He doesn’t need to know all that and I’m a bit out of breath anyway, so all I said was, ‘Yeah, sorry.’
‘Do not worry about it,’ he said, slapping me on the back, almost precipitating a full-speed jogging wreck–somehow I kept my footing.
Fergal seemed to think that running at this pace for a couple of hours was an OK thing to do. It wasn’t easy but amazingly I kept up. Usually any sport more strenuous than bowling pushes me over the edge. Maybe those annoying callisthenics that Dad used to make me do before and after sword fighting lessons were paying off. After a while I started to enjoy it. I got a glimpse of the high that joggers say they get from running. I took in the magnificent scenery as my body set a cadence that echoed in my brain. I think I was about to slip into a perfect Zen-like state when Fergal slapped me on the back again and snapped me out of it.
‘Hey, you hungry? There’s an apple tree over there.’
Hungry? Now that I thought about it, I was starving! I saw the tree and ran straight towards it. The apples looked even better than the one that my mother had given me. I know I go on and on about the trees in The Land, but I can’t emphasise enough how magnificent they are. Never in my life had I ever seen a fruit tree so bountiful. Directly above my head was an apple bigger than my fist. I stared at it for a moment and marvelled at how my face reflected in its mirror-like red skin. I bent my knees and jumped to grab it.
That’s when the bus hit me.
Chapter EightAraf (#ulink_c96071c9-6a06-579e-8e08-24f754d87d70)
OK, it wasn’t a bus, but it sure felt like one. One moment I was in mid-jump with an apple in my hand, the next moment I was hit–hard in the shoulder and went flying ass over teacups through the air. Luckily I landed in a pile of thick barley that was pretty soft.
Fergal was at my side in a second. ‘Are you mad?’
‘Did you get the licence number of that truck?’ I groaned.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Give me a second to check my bones to see which of them aren’t broken.’
‘For the gods’ sake, haven’t you ever picked an apple before? Wait here and I’ll talk to her.’
‘Talk to who?’
I sat up and found that I was a considerable distance from where I had been moments before. Fergal slowly approached the apple tree and placed his hands on the trunk. He mumbled a few things, pointed to me and then jogged back.
‘She said she won’t hit you again. She wants to talk to you. If I was you I’d start with an apology.’
The tree hit me? The tree hit me! Of course it did. If I had to thank a willow tree for its shade, I must certainly have had to ask permission before picking an apple. I just wished I could learn something in this place without it being so painful.
I stood up. I wasn’t hurt as bad as I should have been. The blow was so unexpected that I didn’t have time to tense up. Still, I had one hell of a dead arm. I walked warily towards the tree. I had spent a lifetime with trees. I always knew they were living things but I never really treated them like they were living in the same world as me. Again, The Land was forcing me to re-examine my perceptions. I placed my hand on the trunk.
A conversation with a tree is not like communicating with anyone or anything else. It’s not a dialogue, it’s more of a meeting of the minds. Even though I spoke out loud it was not necessary–words are not the medium of communication.
I didn’t have to worry about convincing the apple tree that I was sorry, she knew as soon as I touched her and I knew I was forgiven–the sensation of it washed over me. She was happy I was not seriously hurt–she had never hit anyone so hard before. I learned that it was not uncommon for her to give a child a little smack, just to teach a lesson, but she had never had a poacher as old as me and let loose a good one. She told me (felt me?) that Fergal and I could each have a couple of apples with her blessing. The only part of the conversation that was almost in words, was when I thanked her and said goodbye. I could have sworn she said, ‘Good luck, little prince.’
We sat under the apple tree’s shade and ate and drank water from Fergal’s canteen. Who’d have thought that an apple and some water could make such a superb meal? It was so satisfying I felt as though I could live on these two things alone. I have since found out that many people in The Land do just that.
‘You still look pretty wrecked, Conor. The castle’s only an hour or so away and we don’t want to be too early. Why don’t you have a snooze? I promise I won’t steal your shoes.’
‘I won’t argue with that,’ I said as I put my head on the soft grass. Before I dozed off I raised my hand behind me and touched the apple tree. I asked her if she minded me resting here a little bit. She told me she would look after me as I slept. Next thing I knew, I was dreaming again.
I dreamt I was a child, maybe five years old. I was walking between my parents, holding their hands as we passed under huge yew trees. These yews were not menacing like the ones on the river. The trees moved out of our way and bowed to us as we passed. An arrow sailed through the air and hit my father in the shoulder. I was upset but my father told me not to be silly and pulled the arrow from his flesh, like he was dusting dandruff off his suit. Mom rubbed the wound and it healed.
We sat together under a tree. Mom pointed and I looked up. I saw that the yew we were sitting under was now an apple tree. I turned to ask my mother if I could have an apple but she and my father were gone. Next, the apple tree raised itself up on huge roots, pushing itself free from the ground and kicked me! I rolled like a ball into the base of another tree and that one kicked me as well. Soon all of the trees had gathered around me having a kick-about, with me as the ball! The funny thing was I liked it. They weren’t hurting me, it was fun. After a while I got bored with the game and I laid down under a tree. The tree kept kicking me but I refused to move.
I awoke with a tree root sticking in my back. I am sure it wasn’t there when I fell asleep. Fergal was snoring away to my left. I toyed with the idea of stealing his shoes as a joke, but I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t stab me first and get the joke second. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. That’s when I saw him approach.
He was close enough that I could see that he was short, but not slight. He was built like a brick outhouse–not fat, just a solid body with a head sitting directly on the shoulders. I got the impression that if I ran at him with all of my might I would just bounce off. Maybe that’s where they got the word bouncer from–‘cause that’s exactly what he looked like. If you got rid of the leather toga he was wearing and put him in a tuxedo, you could imagine him standing in the doorway of any night club. He was walking directly towards us.
I stood and said, ‘Hi.’
He didn’t even notice me. In his hand he held a thick wooden stick with a gnarled top and seemed to be heading for Fergal. ‘Ah, excuse me,’ I said, trying to be polite, ‘can I help?’
He walked straight at Fergal and raised his stick. I drew my sword and covered the ground between us. That got his attention at least.
‘If you are looking for your neck, I can assure you we don’t have it.’
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