Chapter 4
FOUR
“Did he wake?” Gran asked before I had managed to say hello.
It was eight seventeen in the morning. I was still naked beneath the duvet; my hair had dried into a curly mess and Creel remained at the foot of the bed with one leafy strand wrapped around my ankle.
“That’s a very specific question to ask before I’ve had my first cup of tea.”
“Kathleen.”
“Yes,” I admitted. “He woke.”
Gran released a long breath. I couldn’t tell whether she was relieved or disappointed. “And he spoke to you?”
“He’s been doing quite a lot more than speaking.”
A leafy strand curled around my ankle. I nudged it with my heel, but it travelled beneath the sheet and stroked the inside of my calf.
“I don’t need the details,” Gran said quickly.
“That makes two of us.” I glared at Creel. “Stop that.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Not you.”
Gran went quiet. The strand stopped moving, although its tip remained pressed against my leg. Creel had no face, but I knew he was listening.
“What exactly did you do with him?” Gran asked.
“You just said you didn’t want the details.”
“I mean before he woke.”
“I put a kale stalk in the basket. Moira made me pull it from the field. Never heard of that tradition before.”
“I'm sure you have. You've celebrated Samhain with me before. Although maybe you were too young for that particular tradition. And what happened then?”
“And then the basket ate it and grew a... cock.”
Creel gave an offended creak. I regretted my vocabulary choices - this was my grandmother I was talking to.
Not that she was prude. Whenever I called her, she told me of her exploits with whatever man she'd been able to seduce, usually men much younger than her.
She wore pearls, but she definitely did not clutch them.
You make it sound crude.
“You made a cock out of a vegetable.”
Gran cleared her throat. “Can you have this argument after I’ve explained a few things?”
“He started it.” I shifted against the pillows, holding the phone between my shoulder and ear while I pulled the sheet higher. “How did you know he might wake?”
“I didn’t know. I hoped.”
That answer removed the last traces of pleasant tiredness from my body. “You hoped your basket would come alive after I fed it a phallic vegetable?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds strange. And I didn't know that a vegetable was required. I'd just hoped he would wake for you.”
Creel’s strand resumed its journey. The soft tip brushed the back of my knee, careful enough that Gran couldn’t hear anything in my voice. I caught it before it went higher and wrapped it around my fist.
Gran lowered her voice. “Has he told you what he is?”
“He says he’s fae. Urgh. When I say it out loud, it sounds even more ridiculous. Please tell me this isn't a dream. Tell me he is real.”
“He is. He's the Gille Dubh.”
The name sounded familiar, although I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it.
Perhaps Gran had used it in one of the stories she’d told me when I was a child.
Her stories had featured enough faeries to explain why I’d spent several years leaving biscuits beneath my bed and had refused to ever pluck a flower.
“What does that mean?”
“Dark-haired lad, roughly. The Gille Dubh lived alone in the birch woods. He dressed in leaves and moss and hid from humans, although he was said to be gentle with children. One night, a little girl became lost in the forest. He found her crying beneath a tree and kept her warm until morning.”
I wanted to interrupt and ask her to stop with the fairytales, but I'd just been fucked by a wicker basket, so I should probably suspend my disbelief for a little while longer. There clearly were things in this world that couldn't be explained by science.
"The girl was one of our ancestors," Gran continued. "Jessie Macrae."
I looked down at the fresh leaves covering Creel’s handle. They trembled even though the bedroom was warm and still. He hadn't said anything in a while.
There were countless stories about Scottish families discovering that their great-great-grandmother had met a faerie or married a selkie. Most of them had been invented by tour guides to sell a romantic side of Scotland that no longer existed. This one was different.
“What happened to the Gille Dubh?” I asked.
“The men of the village heard Jessie talking about the dark-haired fae who had watched over her. They decided anything living alone in the woods had to be dangerous, so they formed a hunting party.”
“That seems a little ungrateful.”
“Men with weapons rarely wait for all the facts. That hasn't changed over the centuries."
Creel’s strand tightened around my fingers. I loosened my grip and stroked my thumb along the wet wicker. The tension disappeared immediately.
Gran continued. “Jessie went back to warn him. Her mother helped them weave a creel from willow cut beside the burn, and the Gille Dubh put himself into it. The hunters searched the birch grove and found nothing but leaves.”
“So the basket was a hiding place?”
“At first. The spell that held him was badly worded.
He asked the MacRae women to keep him safe until the danger had passed, but nobody said how long that would be.
Fae promises do not leave much room for common sense.
And since there's always some danger in the world, he stayed inside the basket, trapped.”
“You’re telling me he’s been trapped in a basket because one of our ancestors forgot to set an end date?”
A disgruntled creak came from the foot of the bed. It was a time of considerable urgency.
“You could have reminded her.”
I was a basket. I could not speak.
“Fair point.”
Gran made an impatient noise. “Will you stop arguing with him while I’m talking?”
“You can’t hear him.”
“I don’t need to. Your side is quite enough.”
I smiled despite myself. I could picture her sitting beside the care home telephone in her dressing gown, annoyed that her supernatural family revelation wasn’t receiving my full attention. I bet she'd been desperate to have this conversation.
“How long has he been asleep?” I asked.
“He hasn’t woken in my lifetime. My grandmother said he spoke to her once when she was young, but she never managed to free him.”
Creel had spent all those years sitting in the cottage while generations of my family carried him from house to house. He had heard their voices without being able to answer. They had touched him without him being able to feel it. Poor basket. Well. Fae.
The strand in my hand curled around my wrist. This time, the touch didn’t feel like teasing. I stroked one of the new leaves with my fingertip, taking care not to pull it.
“Why did he wake for me?”
“You gave him an offering while Samhain’s magic was already gathering. Perhaps that was enough. But I honestly don't know. I'd hoped he'd wake for me. Or for your mother. I was starting to give up hope."
"What happens now?" I asked. "How do I free him from the basket?"
The wicker strand tightened around my wrist, but Creel didn't say anything.
"I don't know," Gran admitted. "Maybe he knows. Or maybe Samhain is the answer. Maybe the old magic will help. You might want to take him to the bonfire tonight."
"I won't burn him!"
Gran chuckled. "That's not what I was suggesting. Either way, I think he is the only one who holds all the answers. And now I have to go. We have some puppies coming to visit today."
I was sure Gran was more excited about the man bringing the puppies than the dogs, but I didn't call her out on it. I ended the call while staring at the wicker basket.
"So... you're trapped because there is still danger. How would I prove to you that you're no longer in danger? Is that a way to break the enchantment?"
I do not know.
That was not the answer I had expected. “You’ve had a long time to think about it.”
Most of those years were spent unable to speak or move.
“Gran said her grandmother heard you.”
I woke for less than an hour. She was frightened and ran from the room.
“That must have been awful.”
Being abandoned by a screaming woman is rarely pleasant. And I'd had such high hopes.
I rubbed my thumb across the strand around my wrist. “I meant going back to sleep.”
The wicker softened beneath my touch. Yes.
Nobody had asked Aonghus whether he wanted to hide inside the creel. Jessie and her mother had saved him, but the spell they used had taken away his freedom. Since then, my family had filled him with vegetables, carried him around and shoved him into pantries whenever he became inconvenient.
I had done exactly that within minutes of arriving. I felt so sorry for him.
“You said names have power. Could your real name help?”
Perhaps.
Better than nothing.
“Will you tell me?”
The leaves covering his handle closed around themselves. He had given me orgasms, tied me to the bed and allowed me to handle every part of him, but apparently his name required serious consideration.
“I’m not going to use it against you.”
Every human who uses a fae name says that.
“That seems unfair. I didn’t even know faeries existed until last night.”
You also called me an ugly basket.
“I didn’t say that to your face. And I was overreacting.”
I could still hear you.
That was unfortunate. I had said several unkind things about his appearance, including the suggestion that he should become part of nature again. Oops.
I stroked the wicker handle. “I’m sorry.”
The strand around my wrist moved into my palm and threaded between my fingers.
Aonghus.
The name filled my head in his deep voice. I knew at once that it belonged to him. It had weight in a way Creel didn’t, carrying an image of wet woodland, dark hair and green leaves. I committed it to memory.
“Aonghus,” I whispered.
Every strand on the bed tightened at once.