Chapter Twenty-Seven
Meg’s pale face is calm, her lips parted in an easy smile, revealing blood on her gums. Her eyes are completely black.
I am death.
I take a step backwards, edging closer to Nanny Bet. The night is falling faster than normal, the stars cutting through the darkening sky like knife points. The scent of blood, earth and fire emanates from Meg.
‘This isn’t funny, Meg.’
Her eyes glint. ‘I’m not laughing, Michael.’
Was she always like this?
‘I told you I’m done.’
She cocks her head to one side and the crow on her shoulder does the same. ‘You belong to the Morrigan. We both do.’
Nanny Bet steps alongside me. ‘Get out of my house.’
Meg sighs. ‘You really need to shut the fuck up now, Mrs Kenny. You’re starting to piss her off.’
The crow caws.
Nanny Bet opens her mouth to speak but the crow caws again. The sound amplifies and fills the garden. I can hear nothing else and my hands shoot to my ears. I catch Nanny Bet’s eye and gesture to the house. She nods and we start to back away.
Meg raises her hands, palms up, fingers curved like claws. The air in front of her shimmers and blood starts to drip from her nails. Jet-black blood.
No, it’s shadows. They trickle down her arms, pooling at her feet.
As the call of the crow blasts my ears I scramble backwards, but the shadows flow over the grass towards me like a river of viscous blood.
They cover my feet, where they freeze for a moment, before moving up my legs.
A chill stings my bones as the shadows swirl up to circle my waist. I can’t move my legs.
Nanny Bet is beside me, also stuck. I reach for her hand.
The crow stops calling and Meg flexes her fingers. This time, real blood – her own – flicks from her nail beds.
‘Meg, how—’
Her jaw clicks to the side and her veins pulse black beneath her skin. Her voice is dry and hot. ‘That’s not my name.’
I know what she wants me to call her, but I can’t say it. I won’t. I won’t make it real. ‘What do you want from us?’
Meg steps towards us, and her eyes and voice return to normal. ‘She wants you to do what you were born to do; uphold your family’s vow. Tell the stories of death. Tell her stories.’ She laughs. ‘Well, our stories now, I guess.’
I should be frightened, but instead I bite back. ‘Stop this. You aren’t the Morrigan. You’re just a girl.’
She folds her arms. ‘First of all, that’s unbelievably patronising. I’m a woman. Second, no, I’m not. I offered to serve the Morrigan and she said yes. I’m a channel for her now. I am death.’
I strain to move, but I’m held in place by the darkness. Meg rolls her eyes.
‘Meg, are you possessed or—’
Her eyes darken and that voice rasps, ‘Be silent.’ There’s a sound like wings flapping and a blast of cold air hits me. My cheeks sting.
She blinks and Meg’s features return. ‘Michael, please. We have to work together. She spreads out her arms, the outline of black veins tracing down them. ‘You can speak to her now through me. Find out what she wants you to do. With your power, you could—’
‘It’s a curse.’
Her jaw clicks and bones crunch. Meg lets out a breath and another pulse of air hits me in the chest. ‘Don’t say that, Michael.
Don’t anger her. She’s here. I feel them inside me.
All aspects of the Morrigan. Badb calls out in my mind, Nemain’s war frenzy is in my muscles and Macha’s power and vengeance run in my veins. ’
Her skin glows, cold and powerful, like the moon is shining only on her. The air around her shimmers with a blackness more vital than the darkness of the night. Crows call out from the trees and her neck clicks as it jerks, birdlike, towards them.
‘Why you?’ I say.
‘They needed my body.’
‘What for?’ Nanny Bet says.
Meg curls her lip. ‘I am needed because the filí báis are failing us. She –’ she points at Nanny Bet – ‘neglected her duty. Your father abandoned his land.’ She looks at me. ‘And now the last of the bloodline is trying to refuse his power.’
I shiver. ‘What happened to my dad?’
Meg sighs. ‘He… When he gave himself to the past, to the Morrigan…she grew stronger. He called her back to this world. He was her stepping stone.’
The shadow enveloping him.
‘She needed him. He was to be her channel. But he was too weak – the drinking, I guess.’ I flinch. ‘So I offered myself instead.’
‘What will happen to him now?’
Meg’s eye twitches.
‘Meg, that’s my dad.’
She looks away and with a crunch of bones the Morrigan’s voice fills the air as she whirls back, her eyes black. It’s deep, but pulses with a high discordant frequency. ‘He made his choice by leaving, and now he pays the price.’ The crow on her shoulder takes to the sky.
‘No.’ Nanny Bet’s voice is hoarse.
The anger inside me crumples and a chill digs at my insides. ‘You have to help him. I thought we were friends.’
Meg returns, but it’s a strain. A line of blood drips down her chin as she whispers, ‘I can’t, Michael. I have to do her will. And so do you.’
Something snaps and there’s a ripping sound in her jaw as her eyes darken. Meg’s skin glows brighter as the black in her veins forms rivers and streams across her face and arms. Crows fly from all directions into the shadows behind her and the darkness rises up like black flames.
‘You are a file báis. You are the last death poet. Your line made a blood pact.’
‘Meg, I—’
‘Silence!’ Her words slice through the air.
Nanny Bet reaches her arm across my chest. ‘Use me instead.’
‘I want nothing from you. You are a liar.’
Nanny Bet shakes her head. ‘No, I—’
‘LIAR!’ the Morrigan screams, and an ice-hot pain explodes in my ears. Crows take up the call.
‘I had no choice!’ Nanny Bet shouts over the cries. ‘You don’t know what they took from me.’
Meg’s body shimmers then she flows across the grass and grips Nanny Bet by the throat. The voice of the Morrigan hisses, ‘We took what is ours.’
‘Meg.’ I lurch forward, but my legs are still bound by the shadows. I reach out and grab Meg’s wrist. Her skin is freezing. I let go as my skin blisters.
Meg loosens her grip on Nanny Bet and steps back. The screams stop, her eyes return to her own, but her skin is still criss-crossed with black veins. ‘I didn’t mean to do that. It was her. I…’ She points at my nan. ‘She lied to you, Michael.’
Nanny Bet rubs at her throat. It’s red and raw like my hand.
‘She’s told me everything now,’ I say.
The Morrigan’s voice pushes through, twisting in with Meg’s. ‘She didn’t tell you about the warrior.’
Nanny Bet closes her eyes and mumbles something.
‘What is it?’
Meg steps towards me as the Morrigan speaks. ‘You must know the truth.’ She reaches into my jacket and takes out Dad’s wallet. She slides a finger behind the bank-card slots and extracts a photo.
Nanny Bet gasps as I see Brigid – the girl from my visions. She’s a teenager here, hugging Dad as a child. Their eyes are the same as each other’s. The same as Nanny Bet’s.
Meg’s eyes pool with inky blackness as she towers over me. She places a finger on my forehead as the Morrigan softly hisses, ‘See.’
A shard of ice needles into my skull.
Nanny Bet’s screams fill my ears as I’m blinded by light.
A heartbeat pulses as shapes start to form. I’m in the garden. It’s daytime. Wasn’t it just night?
‘Nan?’
She’s not here. Neither is Meg. My head spins and I put a hand out to steady myself on the garden chair, but it’s gone.
A chill spreads out from my stomach.
A door opens and I turn to see a child – my dad – seven or eight years old, running into the garden.
I’m in the past.
‘But it’s not fair!’ he shouts. ‘I want to go too.’
‘Shut up, ye melter,’ says Brigid, following him. She’s about sixteen, wearing a green bomber jacket, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail with a yellow scrunchie.
‘Please, Brigid!’ Dad looks up at her.
‘No.’
‘You’re meant to be minding me. I’ll tell Mummy.’
A wave of dizziness makes me step backwards.
She’s my aunt.
Brigid folds her arms. ‘You know what happens to snitches, don’t ya?’
Dad turns from her.
Brigid comes over and gives him a hug from behind. ‘I’ll be back in an hour. Look, if you don’t tell Mummy, I’ll give you 20p.’
His face softens and then everything seems to slow for a moment as something wavers beside him.
A shadow.
It slowly takes shape into the outline of a woman. Long hair flows as the shadow-woman bends down and whispers in Dad’s ear.
He pushes away from Brigid. ‘Go away. I hate you!’
The shadow swirls away from Dad to join Brigid. Her features harden and she tuts. ‘You’re such a baby. Do what you want.’
She walks off and Dad stands with his hands balled in tight fists, watching her go.
‘Our warrior.’ A voice fills the air. It’s clear, strong and beautiful.
And terrifying.
A dark form floats in the sky.
The shadow-woman spreads her crow-like wings, and inky trails of darkness flow out in all directions. I turn to see Dad running round the side of the house after Bridget, as darkness flows over me.
Then the garden is empty again. I search for shadowy forms, but I’m alone.
The back door is open and inside someone screams. I don’t want to be anywhere near whatever made that noise, but my feet are already carrying me in through the door. The air is thick as I move through the kitchen and into the hall.
A woman is kneeling on the floor, an old telephone at her side. The cord is wrapped around her arm and the handset rests against her knee where she dropped it.
It’s Nanny Bet. She’s about the same age as Mum is now.
She’s pale and trembling, wide eyes staring blankly. I approach her. A voice is coming from the receiver.
‘My poet.’ The voice again, lower this time and softer than before, like a breeze blowing through dry leaves. The shadow-woman is there, kneeling by Nanny Bet. Darkness billows to fill the hallway.
Then I am alone again. Voices come from the living room and Nanny Bet is sitting on the sofa. She’s the same age, but her skin is grey. Her hair hangs lank and greasy around her face. A shadow sits beside her. Nanny Bet stares unblinking and I follow her gaze and see Granda Frank.
He died long before I was born, and this is like a photo come to life. He looks so like Dad. His hair is messy and he’s unshaven. He punches the arm of the chair. ‘I’m sorry, Betty. I’m so sorry.’
Nanny Bet points at the stairs where a young Dad is clutching the bannisters.
‘He sees the visions now, Frank. He’s eight years old and he sees death everywhere because she died in your fucking fight.’
‘My fight? It’s our fight, Betty.’
Her lip curls. ‘What have you done to us? What’re we supposed to do now?’
My granda buries his face in his hands.
‘The duty.’ The shadow-woman rises from the sofa and the darkness sweeps over me, erasing the ghosts of Nanny Bet and Granda Frank. They’re replaced by Dad, a few years older, maybe thirteen or fourteen.
He opens the living-room door and calls up the stairs. ‘Daddy, Mummy says come down for dinner.’
No reply.
‘Daddy! Your chips will get cold!’
‘He’s probably sleeping,’ Nanny Bet calls out from the kitchen. ‘Go wake him, son.’
Dad tuts and walks up the stairs. I watch Nanny Bet come into the room, rubbing her temple.
‘Mummy!’ Dad’s voice is shrill.
Nanny Bet runs up the stairs and I follow.
Dad is standing outside what is now the spare room. The room I sleep in. But here it has posters on the wall of some eighties band I don’t know the name of, a dressing table and a yellow bedspread. An empty vodka bottle lies on the floor.
Brigid’s room?
Before I turn my head, I see the outline of a man’s feet turning slowly in mid-air.
‘The price.’
The shadow-woman leans forward, towering over me, and again my eyes are dazzled by a burst of light.