The Black North (35 page)

But in the same moment two darknesses dropped – dusk, and the Coach-A-Bower sweeping to a stop in front of them.

Oona and Morris stopped where they stood.

The heard the queasy clash of metal against metal, saw the stallions with their off-milky eyes watching. But it was too dark to see the Coachmen.

‘Stay behind me,' said Oona, remembering Loftborough, remembering Bridget.

Morris cocked his rifle.

‘Won't do a bit of good,' Oona told him. ‘No bullet or blade will stop these things.'

‘How do you –?' began Morris,

‘I know,' said Oona. ‘I know too well.'

‘Well, we can't just stand here and –'

A crack like bone between teeth and a whip lashed out of the dark and closed around Morris's throat. He fell, was dragged, feet kicking but not relinquishing his grandfather's rifle – Oona took the blade from his hand and slammed it down on the whip. It didn't snap. She tried again – same nothing. Gave it a third time go and this time saw in her mind the Mother of the Briar-Witches in her nest, heard again the scream as Oona had separated the creature from its claw … and for a moment in her mind there was no
then
or
now
, only the act: the blade went down and the whip was severed, the rest of it retreating into the gloom and Morris left released.

‘Don't move,' said Oona, pulling Morris to his feet. ‘They could be standing around us.' They stood back to back, Oona still with the blade in her hand, Morris still with his rifle, the pair of them with eyes sweeping the sudden night.

‘We're near blind in this dark,' said Morris. ‘Could do with some more that fire right now, what you think, sister dearest?'

But Oona's hearing had snagged on one word:
blind
.

She had barely begun to think it before a fresh sound tore open the hush. A single howl sounded, then more – a myriad as so many hurtling bodies coloured grey-white-silver-mud arrived, Whereabouts Wolves storming from nowhere as they had down into the pass of the Melancholy Mountains. And just like Oona had first seen them, they were leaping high – over the carriages of the Coach-A-Bower or, if she wished it, colliding with and toppling them.

Morris's mouth hung open.

Oona did her best imitation of the same jig Mrs McSooth had done in Loftborough – clapped her hands three times quick and stamped the right foot twice – and one Wolf stopped beside her. She knew it was her very own Whereabouts, same one that had carried her across Black, and without a pause Oona took handfuls of its hair and pulled herself up to straddle its spine.

She looked at Morris.

‘Are you serious?' he asked.

‘Just get on,' Oona told him. ‘She'll not bite.'

Morris pulled himself up, awkward as anything, to sit behind his sister.

The coat of the Whereabouts Wolf went as stiff as wire – such a yearning for somewhere to go, and Oona had only to lean close and whisper into one of its hooded ears: ‘Take us to the edge of everything.'

Oona with her arms around the Whereabouts Wolf's neck and Morris with his arms around her waist, and they were a tireless thing bounding across Black, towards more awaiting dark – the line of Invaders massing, looking as much like one animal as the twins and their Wolf.

Beside them ran the other Whereabouts, as countless as they'd been in the Black and all hurling themselves forward with such speed it made Oona giddy to witness. She held on tighter, and looked ahead –

More Muddgloggs were stationed behind the Invaders, and in front was the squirm of dark scraps, more Briar-Witches making their magic. Oona felt terrified, but only for a moment: she had her Stone, after all, and her ideas, and herself.

‘Faster,' she told their Wolf.

‘Nearly there now,' said Morris, readying his rifle.

And sure enough there was sound – the sea not far, Oona imagining it shrugging restless against the shore.

The first gunshot that came was from the Invaders – Morris returned fire –

And Oona felt as though she only blinked and then suddenly could see the eyes of the soldiers, their rifle-barrels aiming and uniforms still adhering to their surroundings so perfectly as Morris told her, ‘Head down!' His hands left her waist and Oona ducked so he could fire over her head and keep firing.

She whispered to the Whereabouts, ‘Keep going. Keep going as long as you can!'

But they were deep into the thicket of briars and Oona felt them reach for her, the Wolf slowing as it was ensnared. The rest of the Whereabouts pack powered on and threw themselves on the Invaders, knocking some from their horses but most only falling, broken on the Burren.

A sudden tightening around Oona's arm, the one that held the Stone – a briar that had her, then pulled her bodily from the Wolf, any cry for help lost to the air and Morris being carried on, still shooting at the Invaders.

Oona was slammed against stone and instantly encircled, and no matter how much she tried with the blade to beat the briars back they had the better of her – around ankles and chest and neck and she thought of the Briar-Witch nest and herself and the boy of the Big House almost strangled …

‘I spy her over there, Sally! Go and help her, quick! She's trapped in those fouls things!'

Had Oona even thought it? Dreamed it fully? Whether she had or not she had help in the next moment – a stone girl liberated from her fountain sprang into the scene and started to rip and tear at the briars that held Oona, swearing and cursing and shouting as she tore one squirming limb after another, ‘Leave her be, you filthy weeds! Let her go! I'll show you some strength!'

‘That's it,' said a voice, ‘keep at them, sister!'

And the boy – liberated from his Big House – was beside Oona, his stone hands too doing their best to free her. Not as strong as his sister, but he was as decided on helping and soon Oona was free, abandoning the blade, holding only to the Loam Stone.

‘Very well done, Sally,' said the boy of the Big House.

‘Not so shoddy yourself,' said his sister.

The three of them moved closer together, but it was a reunion short-lived –

‘There she is! Don't let her escape! Get the Stone!'

Cry of an Invader – the Faceless? She could hardly tell – and Oona felt the earth shake beneath her as soldiers on horseback and Briar-Witches and Muddgloggs all made her their target –

‘Oh dear,' said the boy of the Big House.

‘Oh dear indeed,' said Oona.

‘Stop with your oh-dear-dears!' Sally told them. ‘You've got that Stone, girl – use it!' But what else or who? From where?

‘Look out!' shouted the Master of the Big House, pointing upwards. Oona registered crimson eyes, dark feather, claws ready to snatch –

A volley of images and wishes and hopes shot through her –

A knife thrown into the air sent the Changeling wheeling at the last moment –

‘You lose that gun I gave you?' said Billy O'Riley. ‘Prefer these anyway.'

He stood with another blade in his hand, and many more at his belt. Then more detail, the more Oona remembered him: arms tattooed to the elbows, hair and clothes singed, just as she'd seen him last, as though no time had passed between the night of Innislone's burning and there on the Burren.

‘Are you even real?' she had to wonder aloud. She realised she was asking herself. Realised it didn't matter a bit.

And behind Billy were more of the men of Innislone, all with knives ready. But not only men, thought Oona. She decided: we need more.

‘We're ready and willing as ever,' said another voice, a woman's voice.

Out of the black stepped the landlady of The Loyal Martyr. And behind her all the loyal women of Loftborough – Mrs McSooth and Mrs Molloy and Mrs Donnelly and Mrs O'Keefe and more, all with rake and shovel and spade and whatever weapon in hand.

‘Are these women up to this fight?' asked Billy, looking them over.

‘We're better able than you, sonny jim!' the landlady told him.

‘Now this is an army!' cried the boy of the Big House, knocking his stone hands together. Gunshots from the Invaders, and a roar went up, not from the men of Innislone but from the stone statue of Sally: ‘Attack!'

As one, they raced ahead: Oona between the children of the Big House and Billy and his men and the Loftborough women behind. And behind Oona sensed the trio of Giants she'd summoned following too, ready for the fight. Whatever Whereabouts Wolves that still remained threading by them. One Wolf ran up alongside, and from its back someone called –

‘Get on!'

Morris took Oona's free hand and hauled her onto the Wolf's back.

‘Now quickly,' he told the Whereabouts. ‘Straight ahead now!'

Oona saw the line of Invaders and Muddgloggs and Briar-Witches –

‘Now leap!' Morris ordered, and the Wolf rose high, vaulting over the army –

Moment like weightlessness, hovering in the dark –

And then down, and then on.

‘I could get used to having one of these,' said Morris.

‘Is it far?' asked Oona, seeing nothing.

‘Not far at all,' said Morris.

‘How do you know?'

‘Because we're already there.'

They stopped at the end, the edge – a cliff that dropped deep and sheer and Oona looked out over her first sea. It spoke in small whispers of cold and loneliness and danger. She looked with a kind of longing towards the battle.

‘No,' said Morris. ‘They're all back there fighting so we can do this, remember?'

‘Yes,' said Oona, but still she had to fight to tear her gaze away: from friends, from those she'd brought from miles away to fight the Invaders. The Loam Stone grew hot in her hand. She heard that voice say: ‘
Do not pretend that what lies behind is what you are craving, Oona Kavanagh. The dark of what lies ahead is what draws you now.
'

‘You're right,' she said, and Oona slipped from the Whereabouts.

‘He's a handy one to have,' said Morris, laying a hand on the Wolf's snout. It shook him off – so docile and suddenly so violent.

‘What's wrong with it?' asked Morris.

‘It's not a
he
,' said Oona.

‘Sorry,' said Morris.

But the Whereabouts was gone – pale thing streaking off into the dark, back towards the battle.

‘Here,' said Morris, kneeling by the edge of the Burren.

Oona saw a shallow steps trickling down the cliffside. Near-vertical, not a bit of support. It was all they had as a way down.

‘Let's go,' she said, and began.

As soon as she settled her first foot on the step, the weather began to harass them: wind plucking and rain beginning, driving cold into their bones. It reminded Oona of the contrary magic that controlled the rope-bridge spanning the Divide – something wanted to stop them.

‘We're gonna be blown clean off this!' cried Morris.

‘No!' Oona told him. ‘I'll not be beaten by a bunch of bewitched steps!'

The tumult from the Burren was lost – there was no point in thinking of what was happening there, Oona knew. The King of the North was right – there was only the way ahead, the way down into the dark.

Soon they had to move in a crouch or risk falling, and holding hands, and shuffling.

‘How did you learn to use that thing?' asked Morris, suddenly.

‘Don't know,' said Oona, not being able to remember exactly when, exactly how she had come to understand the Stone. ‘Our great-grandfather Aedan explained first to me about it.'

‘Great-grandfather?' said Morris. ‘You mean one that's dead?'

‘Yes,' said Oona.

‘Sounds true enough,' said Morris.

‘It is true!' said Oona.

‘Sounds like you were dreaming,' said Morris. Oona didn't bother with anything more.

And not too soon or any way unwelcome – their feet touched rock together. Shattered rock, everything broken, ruined shore, and Oona remembered: what Merrigutt had described when the King's City had first surfaced, the wave it had sent crashing over land destroying, removing so much of the coast.

‘What the –?' said the Morris.

Oona saw a desperate litter of thousands, fish all stranded on sand and stone, bodies darkened and bloodied. Poisoned, just like Merrigutt had said. And she glimpsed other things too: stone that might've been a wall once, driftwood that might've been a roof. All homes, all destroyed.

‘We need to keep going,' said Oona.

Clamber, crawl – Oona's feet were grazed, elbows becoming bloodied, the rattle of Morris's rifle one of the few sounds. Her brother didn't ask where they were going exactly, or how far or how they'd get there even. And Oona was grateful – in the image she'd been given there'd been the full moon laying light across the sea, but no moon was above, the sky too overcome with cloud.

Morris slipped, swore.

‘Can't see a thing!' he said. ‘Anything could be hiding here and we'd not know!'

So much shadow. Oona stopped: she remembered the cellar of the Big House, the boy she'd since come to know so keen to remain concealed within it. And remembered Merrigutt's magic –

‘Don't move,' said Oona.

She held the Loam Stone high and saw in her mind those silent lightning strokes, bright shivers, and the black above them was rent by a single streak of scarlet. The clouds were thrown back and the face of the moon was unveiled. So bright, so full it looked overflowing. It poured a long trail of silver on the surface of the sea – a causeway stretching from broken shore, but towards where? What unknown elsewhere at the edge of the world?

‘This way now,' said Oona, stepping down to the sea.

‘Where are you going?' asked Morris. ‘Have you lost it completely?'

Oona settled one foot on moonlight. Cold raced into every bit of her, as though the surface had frozen solid beneath her soles. She stood for a long time, wondering if she could bear it, breathless.