And so, the girl, the woman, the wife did. She brought her husband to the water’s edge, by means of cajoling and wheedling. And he leaned out over the shimmering surface, looking for the treasure his wife had sworn he would find there. The mari-morgan appeared beneath him, and he thought how beautiful she was and how much she’d be worth if captured, but before he could reach down for her, she reached up for him.
The mari-morgan pulled him under and dragged him a’down, a’down, a’down until the bubbles stopped coming from his mouth.
And his widow screamed and wept and wailed, for a while at least. But the girl hadn’t listened carefully enough – and it’s terribly important to listen carefully when monsters speak, whether they be two-legged men, or women who live in pools. Yes, she screamed and wept and wailed, but eventually she realised she’d got her part of the bargain: her life had been made better.
Perhaps that one was ill-chosen, but it’s what came to mind. Still, all change is painful, cutting and cauterising yourself for something better. It makes me think of the great tome I left behind.
Should I have taken the book of tales when I fled? But it was so large, so heavy, and too easy to identify me if I was found with it in my possession. Yet now, without it, I feel it as another loss. A sensible decision, but a hole in my chest, beside all the other holes where Aoife and Óisín, Maura and Malachi once were.
I resolve that when I am settled I will begin a new book. I’ll write down all I can remember so at least some version of them remains. They will be changed, there will be things my memory lets go, but they will still be. And a trace of a tale is all that’s needed to find your way in the world.
I’m about to dig for another when we round the bend and there it is: a high hedge of thickly entwined thorns the height of, well, an O’Malley, with clusters of bramble berries hanging like gems in the sunlight. How long have we been riding parallel to it, unaware of its existence just beyond the dark line of the forest? It’s too regular, to cared-for to simply be a work of nature. It’s been shaped and sculpted, kept neat and straight and tall.
‘Oh,’ I say, and rub the kelpie-horse’s neck. ‘Keep an eye out for that tree, then.’
23
The tree itself takes another couple of hours to find but, once seen, it’s not something to be easily missed. To my right, it stands out amongst the rest of the forest. The entry through the hedge-fence (to the left of the roadway) is another thing altogether, with no clear break in the weave of the green barrier. I dismount and approach the tree first. The face is far more detailed – although the work is rough – than the map gave hint of: a woman’s face, with antlers carved on the forehead. Maura’s stories told of hind-girls who chose their own fate, growing horns as a sign of being untamed and unchained and answering to no one. I suspect this idea would appeal to my mother. I stare at the wooden woman for a long moment, then glance behind me, trying to figure the line of her sight, to where she’s staring.
Pinpointing the spot, I pace towards the impenetrable wall of brambles. Indistinguishable, really, this patch from all the other patches that I’ve ridden past, that I would ride past were I to continue on. Reaching out, careful to avoid the thorns, I wrap my pointer fingers around two branches and shake them for all I’m worth – to no avail. One of Maura’s old tales creeps to mind: a girl faced with an impediment such as this pricked her finger on one of the barbs and her blood ate away at the briars, enabling her to pass through.
Tentatively, I snag one fingertip.
It hurts, blood wells, and nothing happens.
A stream of curses, days and days of frustration, comes from my mouth. Loud and wild and angry.
And it’s answered by an equally profane litany from somewhere on the other side of the barrier. I jump back from the movement in front of me. A thick panel of the hedge shifts aside, and there’s a man shouting ‘Mrs Elliott, you’re – oh.’ And his tone is one of terrible disappointment. He squints, tilts his head, says ‘You’re not… but you look like…’
And I reply ‘I’m Miren Elliott’, laying a claim to a name I’ve never used before. The words taste strange on my tongue; in the pit of my stomach there’s a tightness for it feels like a betrayal, I’ve been an O’Malley for so long. But who would know that name here?
The man’s scowling now, short iron hair, yellow-green eyes slitted beneath thick brows – not joined in the middle though, so I don’t take him for one of Ben’s shape-shifting brethren. A greying beard obscures his chin, but it’s kept neat and trim, and though his clothes are knock-about, they are clean. He hesitates, staring as if he might be able to see a lie on my face… finally stepping aside. ‘Well, you’d best come in then.’
I lead the kelpie-horse through what turns out to
