Page 12 of Heart of the Wren (Haunted Hearts: Season of the Witch #2)

LORCAN

THE FIGURE at the treeline ducked lower.

It appeared to be a boy — young, with a small build — but there was something spiky on his head.

I almost shouted but when I looked again it might have been a bush.

Though still chilly, the sun was splitting the skies.

Tall, evergreen trees — snow-capped, their branches sagging — edged the uneven top field.

Michael had gone into the village and Eddie was in the sheep shed, so I led Dara to a spot in the shade of the solitary mature holly tree. “I dug it up around here.”

“Around here or here?”

“How exact do I have to be?” I searched for any sign of disturbed soil but the rain and snow made it impossible. I drew a circle in the air. “It was this sort of area, I’m sure of it.”

Dara dug his spade into the earth. After a few moments, he stopped and pointed to the treeline. “I thought you said children never come up here? I could swear I saw someone over there.”

“I thought the same but it’s those bushes, they play tricks with your eyes.” Nevertheless I scanned the treeline again.

When he’d dug a hole deep enough, Dara carefully removed the brooch from its covering and laid in the ground.

“We are sorry to have disturbed you and ask your forgiveness. Come on, Lorcan.” He gestured to the ground.

I had been adjusting myself so I’d only been half listening. I took my hand out of my trousers. “What?”

Dara kept his voice to a whisper. “You dug it up, so you have to apologise.”

“To who?”

“The earth. The air. The wind. The spirits. The fairies. The gods and goddess of the land. Whoever. Just apologise.”

I shuffled from foot to foot and coughed. “For feck sake… Alright. Fine. I’m sorry I dug up your ancient jewellery from my own feckin’ farm.”

Dara stared at me. “Like you mean it.”

I huffed and threw my head back. “I’m sorry!” I bellowed at the top of my voice. “I apologise wholeheartedly and unreservedly.”

Dara popped the lid of a jar of honey and carefully let one big dollop drop out onto the soil.

“Here,” I said, “that’s my good honey! I’ve been saving it.”

“We need to make an offering.”

“To who: the ants?”

Dara closed his eyes and his voice became solemn.

“We return what was taken, with love and humility. No harm was intended. We ask for peace and we ask for calm. So mote it be.” He clapped his hands once and shook them out.

He shovelled dirt into the hole, the gold of the brooch reflecting the sun.

After filling the hole, he set down the spade, closed his eyes and tilted his head to the sky.

“There.” He grinned, flashing his canine teeth again. “Hopefully that’ll do it.”

“What does so mote it be mean?”

“It’s what we say as a way of ending a ritual. It’s like closing the front door behind you when you leave your house. It makes sure nothing can get in. Or out.” He squinted. “Are you sure those are bushes?”

I followed the direction of Dara’s gaze in time to catch shadows in the treeline. Although where before I had only seen one, now there were two.

???

Back in the kitchen, I clicked on the Super-Ser gas heater and wheeled it to the table. It soon glowed with heat. “It’s a weight off my mind, I can tell you. What do you think it was?”

“I’m not sure.” Dara sat close to the heater and held out his hands.

His silver rings caught the vibrant orange of the element.

“Maybe the brooch belonged to some long dead Celtic warrior and their spirit came to get it back. The dead can be very materialistic. And over-dramatic. It’s not as if they’re still using it.

Or maybe your granddad was right and you have fairies on the land.

They can be very malicious when they want to be. ”

There wasn’t a farmer in Ireland who didn’t have some story about fairies, either from personal experience or passed down to them from an older generation.

And not just farmers. Belief in the little folk was widespread and any number of superstitions surrounding them were followed.

One never dared break a fairy ring, for example, and damaging a monkey puzzle tree meant certain disaster.

No man would build a house until a new spade was stuck into the earth and if the fairies hadn’t taken it overnight, then it meant the site was safe.

Whether people openly admitted to following certain superstitions out of fear of upsetting the “other crowd” was another matter altogether. I certainly tried to follow some of them as best I could, but we all make mistakes from time to time.

“I should head back out,” Dara said. “Michael will be back soon and he’ll be wondering why I’m getting all this special treatment from you.”

“Is it special?” I busied myself making tea. When I turned around, Dara was smiling at me. Again. Dara smiled a lot. No matter what time of day or night, a smile was never far from his lips. Or maybe it only appeared when I was around. A nice thought.

“I think it is, anyway,” Dara said. “It certainly felt special the other night.”

I sat close to him. “You mean when I lured you up to my bedroom to show you my wares? ”

Dara laughed, and a deep hearty laugh he had too. He lightly tapped my forearm. Electricity shot through my whole body.

“Did you always know you were gay?” I asked.

He sat back. “Never had a doubt in my mind. I think it's why Dad resented me. I never tried to hide it. I never tried to pretend to be anything different. What about you?”

“I knew from an early age as well but I tried not to be, for a while.

I kissed some girls when I was a teenager but I didn't like it.

I think I only did it because Bullseye and the other lads were doing it.

I thought I'd sort of live in the shadows my whole life. Half a person. Because gay people didn’t exist in Ireland, did they?

Or so everyone would have us believe. They lived overseas; they lived in London and New York.

Not here. No, men like me and Pat Lynch were invisible. Mythical, even.

“And then I watched David Norris being interviewed on Last House , what, ten years ago now?

He was the first gay man I'd ever seen on the telly.

The first to just...exist. And he gave me a bit of hope, y'know?

He gave me a glimpse of a life lived out in the open.

He showed me it was possible. I still don't want people to know, though. I don't want people talking about me behind my back. I don’t want to lose my privacy.”

The light shifted as the afternoon’s brightness gave way to heavy, grey clouds — clouds which brought with them a gentle fall of snow. We held each other’s gaze and gingerly leaned forward until our lips touched. Dara’s hand gripped my forearm more tightly.

“Now I’d definitely call that special.” He rubbed my arm.

A thump at the window made me jump. With my heart in my mouth, I leapt from my chair, terrified in case Michael had seen us kiss.

But there was no one there. The snowfall grew heavier, with flakes the size of bottle tops.

Another thump reverberated as a shadowy lump quickly struck the window, causing a hairline crack.

Dara was suddenly on his feet, by my side.

Cracks spread across the kitchen window like rupturing ice.

A third impact brought the whole pane in on top of us.

We ducked and covered our eyes. Snow blew in with shards of glass, bringing with it a blast of wintry air.

Crouching as the glass finished falling around us, Dara reached over and lifted something from the floor.

“What is it?” I asked.

He showed me the dead goldfinch in his hands. “It didn’t work,” he said.