A Cage of Roots (8 page)

A third creature was on her, claws digging brutally into her ribs as it fastened its sharp, hot teeth around the arm that held the torch. Her scream was throttled out of her by the creature at her neck, but she held on somehow and, even as a fingernail almost sank into her eye, she saw her target and pointed the flame to it. To her eternal surprise, the gruel not only took the small flame hungrily, as she had hoped beyond hope it would, but it erupted in a burst of white-hot light.

The screeches were deafening: wailing, squealing, hysterical shrieks as the black goblins flailed and thrashed around the cell, holding their eyes and cursing the pain. Ayla herself was blinded for more than a moment, and a deep cut stung beneath her left eye, but mercifully she had been saved from the worst of the flash by their grappling.

Desperately trying to keep clear of the thrashing creatures, she searched the walls for the gap. She elbowed one of them off when he thudded into her blindly, just as her fingers gripped the edge of the hole and she pulled herself out.
Her face pulsated with pain, but worse still was her arm: the deep bite was sealed with burnt flesh; blood and blister merged angrily, still bubbling with heat. Sight came back to her in flashes, just long enough for her to see a tunnel in the earth, strewn with the jerking bodies of blinded goblins. There were at least eight of them, two still holding their own dim torches and all writhing in sightless agony on the tunnel floor. Ayla staggered across them, kicking out when they reached to grasp her legs, and careened down the muddy corridor as fast as she could, stumbling headlong into the blackness.

‘Are ye Mr and Mrs Sheridan?’ asked the Guard in a thick Limerick accent. ‘Parents of one Sean Sheridan?’

‘Yes, Guard.’ Sean’s mother shouldered her husband out of the way, hanging up on Mrs Marnagh – just as the principal’s assistant had answered. ‘We have them home now, thank God. Apparently they were at a friend’s house and never told us.’

Sean was pale with panic now. His bottom lip trembled.
What are we going to do?
he thought, frantically begging his brain for a solution.
Ayla needs us! This is taking too long!

‘S-Sorry for the whole mess, Guard,’ he stuttered, ‘but we have to be off now on a school trip. Thanks for calling,
though! Protect and serve!’ He winced inwardly at his last sentence.

‘We know of no school trip, lad,’ said the Guard. ‘We’d have been notified of anything like that during our enquiries. I think I’d better come in to ask you a few questions.’

His mother looked triumphantly at her son, vindicated now in her doubt of the whole story.

‘Come in, Guard. I’ll put the kettle on. Jim, put the kettle on, will you, for God’s sake?’

The Guard stepped in, removing his hat and wiping his feet on the mat just as the phone let out its shrill beep. Mrs Sheridan removed an earring before putting it to her ear.

‘Hello?’ she asked impatiently, throwing the Guard an apologetic glance.

They could all just barely hear the voice on the other end; it sounded cross.

After a series of
okays
and
I-See’s
, Mrs Sheridan put the phone to her shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, Guard, but it seems Sean and Benvy Caddock have a bus to catch.’ She looked surprised, surpassed only by Sean’s stunned expression.

‘It’s their teacher, Mr Fenlon, on the phone. Apparently, the bus will leave without them if they’re not there in fifteen minutes.’

‘I’ll need to speak to him, please,’ said the Guard.

Mrs Sheridan handed over the phone. The plump
Garda cast his eyes to heaven in exasperation, unable to get a word in. He barked, ‘Well just tell us next time!’ before hanging up the phone and throwing it to Sean’s father.

Sean had no time to wonder. He just silently thanked the gods, and gave his mother a look of glorious smugness.

He raced upstairs to his room and filled a bag with extra jeans, a thick hoodie, fresh boxers and socks, and two t-shirts. He hesitated only for a moment before shoving his book into the front pocket of his rucksack. Downstairs, his mother had made egg sandwiches and his father had filled a flask of tea. She looked at her son with brow still furrowed.

‘Be good!’ was all she said.

‘I will, Mum,’ Sean replied, and threw his arms around her in a long hug.

When he met Benvy outside, she winked at him in celebration.

‘We owe my brother two months of slave duty.’

‘Two months, Sheridan!’ her brother, Mick, shouted from his car, throwing the passenger door open for his sister. He was only a few years older than her, but he was spoiled rotten and had been given the car as an eighteenth birthday present. Benvy was never given anything. Mick was the great Caddock hope; she was just a girl.

‘You can have three!’ Sean replied, sliding along the back seat.

‘What are you up to, sis?’ asked Mick as they drove the short distance to Rathlevean.

‘Nothing, Michael, okay? Just please say nothing to Mum and Dad, and we’ll iron your disgusting underpants for as long as you like.’

‘Sold,’ he replied. ‘Just look after yourself, alright?’

‘We will,’ she said. ‘And thanks.’

The world was still waking up and it was beginning to rain when they arrived at Ayla’s house. Inside, the uncles had packed small bags and were gathered around the kitchen table. Oscar sat amongst them, his own small backpack at his feet. Benvy and Sean felt a bit foolish with their giant camping rucksacks.

‘You took your time,’ Finny said, with no hint of joy. He looked nervous and pale.

‘That would be the presence of the Garda Siochána, Finny,’ Benvy informed him. ‘But don’t worry,’ she said when she saw the concern on the uncles’ faces. ‘It’s all fine. Long story.’

Lann stood up from his seat and walked to the head of the table.

‘Okay, we’re all here. We have no more time to waste. We are to go to the gates. We can only open them at certain times, so timing is all-important. Benvy, you will go with Taig to Meath. You must be there for sunset.’

‘What?’ she asked in surprise, ‘All the way to Meath?
Where’s the gate there?’

‘Newgrange,’ Taig told her.

‘I suppose it’s obvious really,’ she reasoned.

Lann continued, ‘Sean, you’re to go with Fergus. To the Burren, to the Ailwee Caves. You must be there for the evening sun.’

‘And you are sure of Ailwee, Taig?’ Fergus asked. ‘I could have sworn he said “Ardee”.’

‘Yes, I’m sure, Fergus. Cathbad was very clear,’ Taig replied impatiently.

‘It was Ailwee, Fergus,’ Lann confirmed, ‘For evening sun.’ He turned to Finny. ‘Oscar, you’re coming with me.’

‘Oh God, let me guess: the Giant’s Causeway, the Rock of Cashel, the Blarney Stone?’ Finny asked sarcastically.

‘To Sheedys’ farmhouse,’ Lann answered, and slung his bag onto his wide shoulder.

Chapter 7

A Door in Time

I
t was late morning when Lann and Finny arrived at the summit of Knockwhite Hill. The October sky was heavy and grey, and the air drenched the grass without a single raindrop falling. They had all left the house as soon as their destinations were set: Taig and Benvy took the jeep, having the longest journey to Meath. They dropped Fergus and Sean at Colbert Station in Limerick City on the way. From the station Fergus and Sean would get a bus to Ballyvaughan, on the north coast of Clare, and make their way on foot to the caves. Finny and Lann had made the short journey to Knockwhite, marching directly through the fields and the outskirts of Coleman’s Woods. From the top of the hill, they could see out over the whole parish of Dundearg, and scan the Sheedy farmhouse for unwanted visitors.

The house was hunkered in a stand of trees at the foot of a small hillock, about a kilometre or so ahead – too far for Finny to tell if there was anyone there or not. But Lann gazed out over the area in silence, arms folded and unmoving, before setting off down the hill without a word. Finny had realised early on that this would not be a talkative journey. He followed quietly, scampering to keep up with Lann’s long strides.

They approached the farmhouse from the east, where the trees were most dense and the driveway was obscured by a thick ditch. Lann ordered Finny to crouch behind a tall, silver-barked birch, while he crept closer for a better view. Within a few steps, low branches obscured him and Finny was left alone in a drift of wet leaves. Minutes crept by, and Finny started to wonder if there was a point to this James Bond stuff. It was Saturday after all, so the site would be empty and this all seemed overly cautious.

Finny stood up from his hiding place, swept wet leaves from his soaked jeans and set off casually through the copse towards the main house. He could see a cement mixer beside a pile of grey blocks, stacked up against the gable end of the main building. Scaffolding coated much of the house. Beyond it, the courtyard lay carpeted with mud, flanked by half-finished stable buildings and beige prefab offices. There was no movement, and no sign of Lann. He called out: ‘Lann!’ before a wide hand covered his mouth and pulled him backwards.

Finny’s face was wrenched around to face Lann, who was scowling with a finger to his lips. He pointed to the other side of the house, where a silver BMW jeep was parked. The boy’s face flushed in embarrassment as he saw a man, covered head-to-toe in high-viz work wear and a gleaming safety hat, exit the prefab. He was holding a clipboard, making feverish notes while squinting around the site. After a minute, he ambled off, out of sight.

‘We don’t have much time,’ Lann whispered. ‘The gate will be open soon – at midday, when the sun is highest. We can’t wait for him to leave. I’ll have to deal with him.’

Lann signalled for Finny to stay put, emphasising the need to be silent with a warning look and another finger to the lips. He slipped noiselessly back into the foliage while Finny peered back out to the house.

After a few minutes the man in the high-viz gear appeared again, this time alarmingly close. He had walked around the main house, and now passed just metres in front of Finny’s hiding place. The man was close enough to hear the scribbling of his biro on the clipboard and smell his sickly-sweet aftershave. Finny held his breath. His heart skipped more beats when he noticed the tall form of Lann prowling behind, looking for all the world like a lion on the point of pouncing. The poor man had no idea of the threat.

When the car door opened and shut, both men stopped
in their tracks. Lann’s eyes widened, but there was no time to move. The man turned and his notes were pitched into the air as he leapt in fright.

‘Jeepers, Lann! You scared the hell out of me!’ he said when he realised who it was. The man’s voice was an annoying drawl. He was obviously from the posh part of Dublin.

‘Ah, Mr Fitzgerald. Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I came down to check on the place. I see you’re doing the same,’ Lann said calmly, without breaking a sweat.

A young boy had opened the car door. He was about eight or nine years old, with white-blond hair. He carried a hurley and sliotar.

‘Dad, I’m bored! Can I please just knock the ball around? I won’t break anything!’ His accent was just as grating as his father’s. He didn’t even acknowledge the colossal man who had appeared from nowhere.

‘Lann, this is my son, Jarlath. Jarlath, say hello to Lann, the builder.’

The boy flicked a nod at Lann and bounced the ball on his hurley.

‘It’s as well you’re here anyway, Lann: I want to talk to you about that bloody mound of rocks in the corner. It has to go! We want it levelled first thing on Monday, yes? We need you to put down foundations for …’ he fumbled with the sheets of paper on his clipboard. ‘For this:
a home office and gym.’

The architect handed over a plan of the new building. Finny could see the expression darken on Lann’s face. His great brow scrunched in frustration and his sideburns bristled as his jaws clenched. It was obvious to the teenager that the big man was contemplating an aggressive solution to their dilemma. But it escalated quicker than he had expected. Lann crumpled the paper in his hands and reached for Mr Fitzgerald’s collar.

Finny made his move, stepping out from his cover in the trees. ‘Sorry about that, Uncle Lann,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t hold it any longer. Oh, hi.’ He turned towards the architect, doing up his fly and shaking his leg.

‘Uh. Hello, young fellah,’ Mr Fitzgerald replied, confusion scrawled on his face. Lann turned red, but before he could speak, Finny looked to the boy.

‘Ah, a hurler I see! Mind if I have a puck?’

The boy looked to his father, reluctant to hand over his toys.

‘Eh. Go on, Jarlath, give …’

‘Oscar.’

‘Give Oscar a go. Lann, we can go and look at that mound.’

Lann cast a look of distilled rage at Finny as he passed; it warned of consequences after he had dealt with Mr Fitzgerald.

Jarlath, pouting, gingerly handed over the hurley and sliotar. Finny threw the leather ball in the air and caught it deftly on the end of the stick, turning it round in his hands and casting the sliotar behind his back to land again on the hurl in a blur of motion. He repeated a few similar tricks, expertly flicking the ball up and around his body. Jarlath’s expression changed to one of beaming respect. Finny glanced to the scaffolding by the car.

‘Watch this, Jarlath,’ he said. In one flowing movement, he stepped forward, knocked the sliotar up into the air and swung at it, launching it high over the house and down on to a latch on a scaffolding pole. The catch flicked open, and with a groan of grinding steel it keeled over, pulling two platforms down with it, booming, clashing and clattering on to the roof of the silver BMW. Finny looked on in horror. He had only intended to knock a pole down. But the horror subsided with the need to move quickly.

Mr Fitzgerald’s caterwauling holler rose above the bedlam as he sprinted towards the dust clouds kicked up by the fallen metal.

‘My baby! My baby, are you okay?’ he howled. ‘Jarlath, what have you
done
?’

Jarlath hadn’t moved, except for his shocked expression curling slowly in a gleeful grin. Finny looked to Lann, to tell him to run, but the big man was already at the mound, running a finger around the spirals on a cornerstone.

Sky and stone blended seamlessly in battleship grey, flecked with green. The landscape was a watercolour wash of limestone, distorted by runnels of rainwater on the bus window. Sean leaned his head against it, staring out into the lunar hills of the Burren. His trance was broken with a bump, as the bus careened up the narrow road and leapt on the uneven asphalt. He looked up at his companion, fast asleep and snoring thunderously, and shifted to try and get comfortable. But he was jammed in place by the snuffling red giant beside him, and returned his gaze to the stone fields rushing by outside.

Fergus had proved to be a fine travelling companion: a well of talk, anecdotes and stories, and an expert on many things around them. All the while in the car with Taig and Benvy, and standing outside Colbert Station in the drizzle, and for the first hour on the bus, he had barely taken a breath between tales of how those places had changed in the thousands of years he had known them.

For someone who looked so intimidating, he was a surprise; at the peak of this mountain of hair and muscle, there was a brain that bubbled over, but his enthusiasm couldn’t mask the sadness in the giant’s eyes. Sean was grateful to Fergus for trying to distract him from the seriousness of
their mission; he could see that was the big man’s ploy. But Sean’s mind swam with thoughts of Ayla and what all of this craziness was really about.
What is she going through? What are we going through?
He thought of his friends.
I hope they’re alright
.

He was looking forward to getting off the bus, though, that was for sure. He barely had room to breathe, wedged against the window. And while Fergus slept, Sean’s mind had more time to fret, and that was not a path he wanted to tread. Best just to go along without engaging the brain, he told himself, and trust in Fergus. At least, unthinking, he could just take it as it came. Panic lay the other way.

Fergus woke as the bus rolled into the small town of Ballyvaughan and hissed to a stop. They stepped out into the crisp, wet air, and Sean allowed himself a long stretch while Fergus got their bags from the luggage hold. They set off through the streets without delay, making for the hills behind them.

‘Right, lad. No more roads for a little while – quicker to go as the crow flies.’

‘Why are we walking there, Fergus? There’s buses every ten minutes,’ Sean asked, although the thought of being crushed beside Fergus for another journey was not an attractive one.

‘Because, lad, it’s best you get used to walking. There’ll be a lot of it from here on out.’ Fergus stepped over a high
gate as if it were a foot tall, and set off through scattering cattle. ‘We have some time until the gate opens. Be good to have a talk.’