Texting the Underworld (10 page)

“I want to see him
now,
” Glennie fake-sobbed into her hands. Conor hoped Dad couldn't see her rubbing her thumbs into her eyes to make them red. He couldn't believe his father hadn't caught on to that trick, but he hadn't.

Dad was distraught, helpless as always when Glennie cried. “Honey, I got some guys coming over to talk about the council. Sort of important guys, you know? I can't tell them not to . . . Well, I don't think I could reach them now, anyways. Can't you wait for Mom to come home with the car?”

“I want to see him
now,
” Glennie sobbed anew. Once she'd come up with a successful line, she liked to stick to it. But then, in a flash of foolhardy brilliance, she added, “Grump would've let you go when you were our age.”

Conor held his breath. This could go either way: Dad might have good memories of Grump trusting him . . . or bad memories of Grump endangering his children.

Dad took in a long, deep breath. “You'll stay together, right?”

Conor barely restrained himself from giving a fist pump.

“Turn on your cell phone, Con, and keep it handy,” Dad said. “Don't talk to anyone. And”—his gaze dropped to Conor's feet—“we'll tell your mother you got a ride with somebody. Somebody she doesn't know.”

“My teacher Mr. Rose,” Conor said. “His father was a friend of Grump's.”

Glennie emerged from behind her hands, wiping her face with her sleeves as if it were actually wet. “And we'll take Conor's new girlfriend.”

“What?” Conor almost fainted.

“What?” Dad looked faint, too.

Conor's bedroom door creaked open. He groaned in spite of himself.

“Good day to you, Brian Uí Néill.” Ashling smiled politely at Dad, who winced at her brown tooth.

But then a grin formed on Dad's face. “Good day to you, too. Who are you and what are you doing in my son's bedroom?” He winked at Conor, which somehow made the world a worse place.

“I am Ashling, daughter of Maedoc of the Uí Néill. I am from Uladh.”

“Ulster,” Conor said.

“Northern Ireland,” Glennie piped up.

“I know, honey, thanks. Are you visiting someone around here?”

Ashling's smile broadened. “You.”

“I mean, where are you sleeping?”

“Olivia Kim's,” Conor said. “She just arrived.” Conor felt this was the best he could do on the spur of the moment. His parents didn't know Olivia. If he could keep everyone apart long enough . . .

Dad was puzzling it out, hands in pockets. “If she just arrived, how is she your girlfriend?”

Conor felt his eyebrows peak up.

“Pen pal,” Glennie said. “From school.”

“Is Olivia her pen pal, too? I mean, it seems odd that she'd fly all the way over from Ireland to stay with a Korean family she doesn't even—”

“I had to leave Uladh,” Ashling said. “The IRS is after me.”

“IRA,” Conor said.

“Yes. That.”

“The IRA is after you? What are you, thirteen? Fourteen?”

Conor's heart sank. His father had to stop believing this at some point.

“Because of my parents,” Ashling said confidently. “Who are dead now, of course. I'm very emo about it.”

Dad frowned. “So who put you on the plane?”

“Plane?”

“Dad,” Conor broke in. “We gotta go see Grump. Can we talk about Ashling later?”

“Actually, son, I bet your mom's going to want to know who this girl is.”

“I am Ashling, daughter of—”

“Thanks. I got that.” Dad ruffled his thick black hair. “Boy, it's one thing after another today.” He scrutinized Ashling, then apparently decided she was all right and started down the stairs. “Okay, kids, head out. Stay with Grump until your mom or I get there.”

“Let's go,” Conor said, and they followed Dad down the stairs. Conor and Glennie grabbed jackets from the front hall closet.

“Do you need a jacket, Ashling?” Dad asked. “Or . . . I guess you're warm enough in that . . . that cape thing.”

“A jacket? Oh, you mean those things, with the . . . the zippits? No, no. I'd better not. It would be too hard to get out of if I have to turn—”

“See ya, Dad.” Conor grabbed Ashling's arm and hauled her out the door.

They headed down the sidewalk, Ashling flipping her Mississippi quarter from hand to hand and giggling. “What a thing this is. What a thing, indeed.”

“They don't have coins in Ireland?” Glennie muttered.

“Metal shortage,” Conor muttered back.

Glennie half smirked. Never a good sign.

They turned the corner on the way to the bus stop, then passed the convenience store that used to be Grump's.

“This is lovely.” Ashling skipped over a sidewalk crack. “I've never taken a walk upon a surface such as this.”

“Didn't you walk to school yesterday?” Glennie asked.

Ashling stooped to examine a root poking up through the pavement. “This tree is tearing up your hard surface.”

“I mean,” Glennie persisted, “how did you get there if you didn't walk on the sidewalk? Did somebody drive you?”

Ashling straightened. “I thought about it, and I went.”

“But
how
did you—?”

“Look, Glennie!” Conor pointed, desperate. “The bakery has Easter cupcakes already!”

Glennie looked. “Big deal. They're the same as last year's. They weren't even all that good.”

“I wonder why they put them in there so early. I mean it's two weeks away and”—Conor was babbling, couldn't stop—“by the time anybody wants them they'll be hard as a rock as if they weren't already, I've never liked this bakery all that much except for those sticky buns they make, remember when Mom got them for Christmas breakfast, I wonder why she doesn't get them every year—”

“Your eyebrows are peaking up,” Ashling said.

“When we get to the hospital, I want to go up in the freight elevator,” Glennie said. “I like freight elevators.”

“I didn't know there was such a thing as a fright alligator,” Ashling said. “The American alligator weighs eight hundred pounds.” Conor grabbed her elbow and squeezed it so she'd shut up.

“I like the
idea
of a freight elevator,” Glennie rambled on. “
Freight
. It's an awesome word.”

The bus came. Ashling got on as if she'd been doing it all her life. As they jounced along she was mercifully silent, taking in the Saturday street scene of running kids, peeing dogs, chatting adults.

But then they came to the West Fourth Street Bridge, which took them over what was left of the channel. Ashling gave a sharp cry and pointed. “See how they built such a . . . a monstrous thing that crosses the river. Look at it! The craft! Will it hold if we . . .
Ach,
Mother Maeve, looks like we're going across.”

The bus lumbered toward the bridge. Ashling gripped Conor's arm, stopping circulation.

“It's perfectly safe.” He waited for Glennie to say,
They don't have bridges in Ireland?
But his sister was admiring the sequins on her sneakers, not even paying attention.

The bus crossed the channel and headed for the medical center. When they got there, the hospital's automatic doors rendered Ashling so speechless that she never got a chance to say anything stupid. Conor found an elevator that, while not for freight, was big and isolated enough to satisfy Glennie. He bundled her into it next to Ashling—who clung to the handrail, still bereft of words—and punched the button for the fifth floor, feeling that he was starting to get things under control. Even his eyebrows.

The elevator clanked upward. Ashling whimpered and pressed herself against the handrail. In the mirrorlike elevator door, Conor could see that Glennie was staring at Ashling as if she had grown bunny ears and a snout. He watched his eyebrows peak up.

When they got to intensive care, it turned out that Grump had been moved to a regular room. “He's doing great,” a smiling nurse said, and gave them directions. As they wound through the corridors, Ashling took the coin from her leather bag and clenched it in her fist.

Grump was all alone in a double room, still draped in tubes and with oxygen prongs in his nose. “Other guy's in surgery for the day,” he said to Conor. But his gaze was on Ashling. “Not the same one. Why not?”

“Same one what?” Glennie said.

“What is that sticking out of your arm?” Ashling peered at Grump. “And your nose! Awesome.”

“Hey Glennie, kiddo,” Grump said. “Wanna do your old grump a favor? I need a magazine or two to keep me from going nuts. Can you run downstairs and find me a couple? And get some sandwiches for you kids. Money's in my pants pocket in the closet there.”

Glennie kicked at a leg on Grump's bed. “Why do I have to be the one to go get stuff?”

“'Cuz you're the smartest.” Grump winked at Conor. “I trust your judgment.”

Glennie blew out her cheeks and expressed her feelings by waddling like an ape to get the money. “I'm buying Fruity Foolers, too,” she said in parting.

“Shut the door, Conor,” Grump said.

Ashling hoisted herself up to sit on the shelf under the windows and studied Grump, who studied her right back. “I don't know who the Death is,” she said. “So do not ask.”

“How come you're not the one who came for my little girl? I thought it was one banshee to a family.”

“Maeveen,” Ashling said. “She would have been the one.”

Grump waited for more. Didn't get it. “Well? Where is she now?”

“I can't say.”

Why not?
Conor thought.
Where'd she go?

“Hmm.” Grump narrowed his eyes. “And you don't know who the Death is.”

“No.”

“I want it to be me,” Grump said. “How do I make that happen?”

“You cannot control death.”

“I'm not asking to. But the Lady can.”

“We don't cause death, Grump Uí Néill. The Lady sent me to keen when it arrives and accompany the Dear Departed to the Other Land. Even she doesn't choose who goes.”

“The name's Davey O'Neill. Take me to see the Lady. I'll make my case to her.”

Ashling rolled her eyes. “Dude. The Dear Departed stream into the Other Land in their thousands, with only us to keep track of them. The Lady does not have time to listen to an old man who wants to change fate.”

Grump smiled the way he did when he was about to win a card game. “That so? How about if I ask to test the Birds?”

Silence, almost Javier-esque. Ashling drew a deep breath, let it out. “How do you know about the Birds, Davey O'Neill?”

“What birds?” Conor asked.

His grandfather's smile broadened—Conor realized Ashling had confirmed something Grump hadn't been sure he knew. “I've heard the tales, Miss Banshee Uí Néill. Tell me how to get to them Birds.”

“Grump,” Conor said. “What birds?”

Ashling pulled out her comb. “You think you know so much, Davey O'Neill.” She undid her braid, fingers shaking.

“When a banshee combs her hair,” Grump said, “you know you've upset her. If I ask to see the Birds, you can't refuse. That's right, ain't it?”

Ashling gave him an evil look, starting to comb.

Conor stamped his foot. “WHAT. BIRDS?”

“Keep your voice down, Conor,” Grump said.

“The Lady's Birds,” Ashling said, combing faster. “Three of them, big, black.”

“Ravens,” Grump said.

“They roost in a little room behind the Lady's throne,” Ashling said. “Hardly anyone ever sees them—
Ach
.” The comb caught in a knot. Blinking hard and fast—trying not to cry?—she struggled to disentangle it.

“If I outwit the Birds,” Grump said, “they change fate at my command.”

“How do you outwit them?” Conor asked.

“That's the question, isn't it?”

Ashling's shoulders drooped. She watched her finger trace the fancy carving on her comb. “The Birds,” she said to herself. “No way.”

“If you take Grump to see the Birds, you lose your new life, don't you?” Conor said.

She acted as if she didn't hear him.

“There's a bunch of tales,” Grump said. “In some of them the Birds give you the power of life and death. That's what I want.”

“Don't be so sure what you want,” Ashling said, head bowed. “The Lady is tricky.”

“Holy macaroni, girl, this won't harm you,” Grump said. “You'll get your Death all right.”

“It has to be the right Death.” Her voice was dull, defeated.

“I'm probably it anyways.”

She looked up. Grump gave a short laugh. “You think so, too, I see.”

Ashling put away her comb.

“It's fine if I'm your Death. I just want to make sure. Now . . .” Grump had a glint in his eye that Conor didn't like one bit. “How do I get there?”

Ashling straightened, pointy nose in the air, eyes glittery. “I don't know how a living man comes before the Lady.”

Grump snorted. “You know, it's possible you're not a banshee at all. You could be some little trickster from the old country, out to snooker a boy and his grump. I got the map of Ireland on my leg, girlie, and I wasn't born yesterday.”

“Conor knows what I am.”

“Does he now.”

Ashling smiled faintly. She plunked the Mississippi magnolia quarter on the window shelf, folded her arms, and lifted off until her head touched the ceiling. And there she stayed, bobbing in midair, staring down at the old man in the bed.

“I knew you weren't IRA.” Glennie stood in the doorway, magazines, sandwiches, and three packs of jelly beans in hand.

Ashling groaned. “
Another
person finds out. Where will this end?”

Conor sat down on the end of the empty bed, feeling helpless.
I give up. I'll just see what happens.
It was a calming thought.

“Hey there, Glennie, kiddo,” Grump said, as if nothing was unusual. “Come in and close the door.”

For once, Glennie did what she was told without arguing. “Are you a ghost?”

“A banshee,” Ashling said, still floating.

“
Our
banshee?”

Ashling nodded, descending a bit.

“Who's going to die?”

Ashling shrugged, which almost tipped her over in the air.

Glennie looked at Conor. “You're the oldest. Do something.”

He almost said,
You're the brave one
. But he didn't, because Grump was listening. Ashling was floating there watching him. And Glennie was watching him, too, as if expecting him to act like the big brother. She'd never done that before.

“We're working on it,” Grump said. “Miss Banshee here is going to take me to the lady who runs things to see if I can talk her around.”

Glennie looked skeptical. “Talk her around to what? I mean, somebody has to die or we won't all fit on the earth.”

“Exactly.” Ashling drifted back down to her window shelf and settled there, one leg crossed over the other.

“Your hair's still floating,” Glennie said in a helpful tone.

Ashling tried to gather her hair and braid it, but clumps kept escaping and wafting upward. She looked like an octopus.

“I know somebody has to die,” Grump said. “I just want to make sure the Death comes from the right generation. The question remains: How do I get to the Lady?”

“I only know what to do with my Dear Departed. The living . . . nobody said anything about them.”

“What would you do with the Dear Departed?” Conor asked.

“We would hold hands and I would think us to the Other Land. At least . . . so I'm told. I've never done it, as you know.” She chewed her lip. “Here, Conor-boy. Come hold my hand.”

He stayed right where he was. “I'm not, you know, dead.”

Ashling jumped off the window shelf and held out her hand. “Dude, of course not. I will think us back to your home.” Against his better judgment, he took the hand. She closed her eyes and went very quiet. Conor listened to Grump breathe, to his own heart beating. The pump clicked on Grump's intravenous drip.

Nothing happened.

Ashling released Conor's hand. “No, it will not work with the living.”

“There's gotta be a way,” Grump said. “There are tales of people facing the Birds and living to tell about it.”

“So how do they get there?” Glennie asked.

“The tales never say.” Grump watched Ashling try to get her floating hair under control. “Maybe you could float me there.”

The thought came to Conor out of the blue. “Hey. You floated
me
.”

Ashling's hair escaped. “I did?”

“At school. When you choked at the water fountain and your braid lifted. My feet went right up off the floor. Paula almost fainted.”

“Hmm. Now that I think of it, Nergal has brought in the living sometimes, for what purpose I do not know.”

“Who's Nergal?” Grump said.

“He's Babylonian,” Conor said.

“He can't be.” Grump sounded peevish. “The Other Land's Irish.”

Ashling wasn't listening. “Such a journey would be difficult, old man. You are sick and weak.”

“So? What's the worst that could happen . . . I die?”

“We would fly over the sea, find a small rock in the waves, walk through a long tunnel, pass the Kai-lyu'gh.” Or that's what it sounded like. It ended with the same guttural sound as Dál Fiatach.