Chapter Seventeen #2
Her voice hardens. ‘She won’t let us be.’ She flicks her hand towards it, but the crow ignores her and preens its feathers.
‘So we’re meant to tell people about the Morrigan?’
She sighs. ‘I’d advise you against running around saying that you’re a creative servant of the goddess of death.
I’d prefer it if you weren’t locked up. No, we do it by making art about death and war.
We write a poem, we paint a picture, we sing a song.
’ She taps the camera. ‘Or we photograph what we see. We tell people about what happened. And we do it quickly or we forget.’
‘Why do we forget?’
‘They want us always ready to take down what we’ve seen, to do it right away. We’re servants to them.’
Her features harden when she talks about the goddess.
‘Why don’t you write poems any more?’
A brisk shake of the head. ‘That part of my life is over. I don’t really have visions these days and I block out what she tries to make me see.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m done with her.’ Her fingers grip the camera.
‘I thought you said we can’t break our vows,’ I say.
‘You can, but there’s a price.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘Now –’ she hands me the pinhole camera – ‘tell me what you’ve seen.’ She lifts the notebook and her pen hovers over it.
‘What’s the price?’
There’s a tap from the bottom of the garden. The crow on the fence. It catches my eye and calls out.
‘Ignore it.’
The bird taps again and a pain jabs behind my shoulder blade. Something’s not right.
‘Why do you need to write down my visions?’
Nanny Bet lifts a stone and throws it at the fence.
The thump makes Fergal hiss and the crow flies off.
She turns back. ‘We need to work out what she wants you to know. My powers have faded, but they were never as strong as yours. They’re appearing in your work, and I want to help you find out why. ’
I try to relax. ‘They appeared in Dad’s photos too. Do you think this has something to do with him?’
‘I do, and I hope we can work out where he is. But you have to tell me everything.’
Under the unnervingly watchful gaze of three crows in the tree above, I start from the beginning.
Nanny Bet writes it all down, occasionally asking for more details as Fergal lazes in a patch of sun, swatting at a bee.
I describe the photos, which I don’t say are hidden in the bag at my feet.
When I get to the most recent one, the vision in her garden, she goes pale.
‘What exactly happened?’
I close my eyes. ‘There was a soldier right at the bottom of the garden. And Dad was there. He was just a kid. He was shouting at the soldier.’
She swallows.
‘Why was there a soldier in your garden?’ I ask.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘They were always in people’s gardens back then. Looking out for the IRA. Hard to imagine, I know, but you got used to it.’
How could you get used to the army being in your back garden?
‘But Dad was shouting at him.’ I picture his red face, his bared teeth. ‘He said “murderer”. Who was murdered?’
She sets down the notebook and wraps her arms around herself. ‘Your granda Frank. You know he died of a heart attack?’
I nod.
She sniffs. ‘He witnessed something unthinkable and never recovered. Jack, your daddy, always blamed the army. He took it out on that soldier. He was only a child and he was so angry.’
Dad never spoke about his father. I’d seen photos but heard little about him. ‘What did Granda Frank see?’
She looks towards the city. I wait for her to say more but she turns back with a sigh. ‘That’s a story for another time. I’m getting quite the headache now. I’m sorry, son.’
A crow calls out and a shard of pain twists in the back of my neck.
‘But what about Dad? You said we could work out what this might mean for him.’
‘I can’t do any more today.’ She sags back in the chair and suddenly looks very old, very tired. Lost in grief.
‘Can we speak tomorrow?’
‘Of course. Now, son, before you go, make me another cup of coffee and grab me two paracetamol.’
‘Don’t you want water?’
‘Pfft.’
I laugh and she winks at me.
While the kettle boils, I search for the tablets and try to process what she’s told me. I’m not alone in this. I have my nan to help, and together we can find Dad.
With the coffee in one hand and a glass in the other, I head back out to the garden. ‘I poured you a glass of water too. It’ll be better for your stomach. I—’
I freeze. Nanny Bet is holding my photos.
‘You went through my stuff?’
She thrusts the picture of the young girl in dungarees at me. ‘You lied to me.’
Angry caws shake the tree as more crows arrive.
‘I’m sorry. I just—’
‘You just wanted to keep secrets from me.’ Her eyes soften. ‘I’m trying to protect you, Michael. I want you to be safe.’ She has torn-out pages from her notebook in her hand too. The ones containing what I told her about the visions.
I take a careful step forward. ‘I know. I know that. I do.’
‘I’d do anything for you,’ she says.
As I take a step closer, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a lighter. There’s another stab of pain in the small of my back.
She’s going to destroy them.
The screech of a crow makes me close my eyes, and then I see her. Days ago. When I was first here. I told her everything. She wrote what I said and she burned the words. My camera…
She made me forget.
I open my eyes, breathing hard. ‘You destroyed my camera and the memory card. You took my memories.’
Her eyes widen. ‘How did you remember?’ She waits for me to speak but I take a step closer. She did this all before. Wiping my mind. Making me forget.
Heat flushes through me. ‘You had no right.’
‘I had no choice.’ With an elegant flick of her finger, a flame leaps from the lighter.
‘Nanny, please.’
‘I want you to know what you are, but I can’t let you remember this. I’m sorry.’ As she brings the flame to the photos and notebook pages, crow calls fill the air and she pauses.
A black shape swoops in towards Nanny Bet and she ducks.
Needle-like claws dig into my shoulder as a crow lands on it; oily wings brush against the side of my face. I gasp and drop the glass and mug. As they smash on the ground, I hear someone call out my name.
‘Michael!’
Meg runs into the garden towards my nan.
I wince and close my eyes as the crow on my shoulder cries out. When I open them, I see Meg trying to wrestle the photos and papers from Nanny Bet.
‘Get the camera!’ Meg shouts at me.
‘Let go!’ shouts Nanny Bet, and she brings the lighter to Meg’s arm. Meg releases her grip with a gasp and falls to the grass.
‘Trust me, son,’ says Nanny Bet as she brings the lighter to the pictures. As the flame begins to lick their edges, the crow on my shoulder digs its claws into my flesh and screeches.
The trees seem to scream in reply and the branches shake. Then the air around us fills with crows, a heaving swirl of black feathers.
I can’t see Nanny Bet any more.
The crow on my shoulder screeches then flies high into the sky, its calls deafening. All the crows scream in unison. It’s her – the Morrigan – shrieking in rage.
Amid the storm of birds, I see Nanny Bet clutching the photographs and papers that have started to burn. A crow on her arm is pecking at the hand holding the lighter. Blood streaks down her fingers, but she refuses to let go.
I run towards her then stop as a shrill, terrified sound cuts through the air. Like the wail of a baby.
I see Fergal slash out a paw at a crow as they surround him, circling above. The birds descend on the cat and he howls in pain.
Nanny Bet dives towards Fergal. The photos and papers flutter to the ground as she waves her arms in a desperate attempt to push the birds away.
Meg stamps out the flames and picks them up. ‘We have to get out of here.’
I snatch up the camera and my bag.
Nanny Bet is lost in the dark cloud of feathers now. I smell blood as sharp beaks and claws tear into flesh and fur.
More crows above call out.
The voice of the Morrigan screams at me to run.
Without looking back, Meg and I race from the garden.