Page 35 of Heart of the Wren (Haunted Hearts: Season of the Witch #2)
DARA
“LOCK THE doors. Lorcan, lock all the doors! Now!” I darted to the square hallway at the rear of the kitchen to make sure the back door was closed while Lorcan fumbled with his keys to the front door.
The dogs cowered and whined so I calmed them down and led them to the greenhouse. “Good girls, stay here, okay? It’ll be okay. I promise.”
“What’s happening?” Lorcan shouted. “Dara, what’s going on?”
I ran upstairs, as fast as I could, with the others in tow. I pulled back the net curtain. The trio of Wrenboys stood silently as snow landed on them. I hurried into the bathroom which faced the side of the house. “They are more out there.”
Carol checked her window, at the rear of the house. “They’re out the back, too! Five, no, six more!”
Bullseye wandered around the landing. “What are yis all getting so worked up about? They’re only Wrenboys. Give them some food or spare change and they’ll go away.”
“They’re not from the village,” Carol said. “I made the Wrenboy masks and I don’t recognise any of those ones.”
“You said Clíona was coming to take me away,” Lorcan said with a frown. “What’s she got to do with the Wrenboys?”
“They’ve gotten muddled up in her story.
The photo in your bedroom was the first thing to break, wasn’t it?
The one of you and Bullseye dressed as Wrenboys when you were young?
She’s imprinted on it, used it as a medium to act in the world.
The same way I use my tattoos to focus my magic, to impart my will on the world, she’s using the Wrenboys to focus hers. ”
“But they aren’t part of her story.”
I could only shrug. “She’s a creature made of magic.
Witches reenact Persephone’s decent into the underworld, or Osiris’s death and rebirth, or a hundred other ancient myths — ancient stories — to bring about a change, to impart our will on the world.
Clíona’s harnessing the power of the Wrenboy tradition.
She’s taken in Mairead as well, because she’s part of your story. ”
“She’s out there…” Lorcan said .
I held the side of his face. “But you know it isn’t really her, don’t you?”
We all returned to the living room to shut the curtains. As Bullseye pulled them closed, a Wrenboy dashed to the window, startling him and making him fall backwards onto his armchair.
The Wrenboy, face obscured by the cone-shaped straw mask which covered his entire head, lay his hands upon the glass. The deathly silence which followed was cracked by the raising of his voice. “ The wren, the wren, the king of all birds .”
Another Wrenboy joined him in placing his hands on the window. “ St Stephen’s Day was caught in the furze .”
Carol picked up a poker from the fireplace. “What are they doing?”
Bullseye put himself between her and the window.
More Wrenboys approached the window, all singing low and in unison, their voices muffled by the glass. “ We got him there as you can see. ”
One of them shook a staff tied with ribbons. “ And pasted him up on a holly tree .”
A blast of chill air issued from the doorway.
“The tarp.” I hurried to the kitchen to find the tarpaulin which had been covering the shattered kitchen window frame billowing unnaturally outward. It had been shredded, as if by an animal’s claws, and blue ribbons wafted into the night air.
The haystack Wrenboy — biggest of the group by far — was right outside. “ We up with our wattles and gave him a fall .” He took a step closer. “ And brought him here to show you all . ”
I tried to close the door between the kitchen and the hallway but my hand stuck fast to the handle. The door wouldn’t budge an inch. I heaved and heaved with all my strength but the door wouldn’t move and I couldn’t let go.
The lights in the house flickered back on. Two Wrenboys climbed slowly through the gaping window frame, stepping onto the kitchen counter. “ Knock at the knocker and ring at the bell .”
The living haystack followed them in and dragged his staff across the counter, knocking mugs and plates to the floor where they shattered into a thousand pieces. His hands were larger than a child’s, and muddy, as if he’d dug his way out of the earth.
My own hand remained firmly stuck. “Everyone, get back! Get upstairs!” I grabbed my wrist and tugged, to no avail.
Carol remained by my side, poker in hand.
The Wrenboys climbed over the kitchen table, knocking the candles over and snuffing them out. “ Give us a copper for singing so well? ”
“I’ll give yis a battering!” She swung the poker.
It passed through the closest Wrenboy as if he were smoke, causing her to stumble.
Still, the Wrenboy grabbed the poker and pulled it from her grasp.
It flew across the kitchen floor and smashed into a press, splintering the door.
She rummaged in her pocket, withdrawing the black stone I’d given her.
She flung it at the Wrenboy who caught it in his hand and simply dropped it.
“Get out, go!” I shouted at her while casting protective sigils in the air with my free hand and cursing myself for not retrieving the unbroken potion bottles from the ground outside.
While the Wrenboys opened every press door and pulled out the dishes and drinking glasses within, Carol retreated to the hallway to join Bullseye, Eddie and Lorcan.
Lorcan grabbed his hurley from behind the coats and held it up, ready to swing.
I lay myself flat against the kitchen door and whispered a silent prayer to my gods and goddesses as the first Wrenboy approached. And walked straight past me. As did the next, and then Mairead, with her shock of white hair and staring eyes.
My back started to sweat as I tried to make sense of it all.
I’d encountered a good many supernatural beings, and I’d spoken to deities face to face, but I’d never experienced anything so physical.
Touching the supernatural was akin to holding a dream in your mind.
It slid, and it slipped, and it changed on a whim.
It took focus and concentration to connect with it.
But there on that sheep farm in the depths of County Kerry, the supernatural wore masks, and shorts, and a dress, and marched through my lover’s house.
I’d told Lorcan how magic looked like a cartoon cel over the real word but these Wrenboys were as real as anything else around me.
Lorcan swung his hurley but it passed harmlessly through the haystack.
One of the Wrenboys swiped his cudgel at Carol but Eddie intercepted it and was flung into the living room where he landed awkwardly on the floor.
Bullseye attacked the Wrenboy but with a single strike of the cudgel he too went hurtling into the living room, as though he’d been struck by a speeding car.
The living room door flung closed of its own accord.
Bullseye banged and shouted, the door handle rattled, but like the kitchen door, it held tight .
Lorcan positioned himself in front of Carol, fists clenched.
The Wrenboys continued their song. “ For we are the boys that came your way .”
My face dropped. “No…”
The haystack Wrenboy raised his arms, obscuring my view. “ To bury the wren on St Stephen’s Day. ”
With the final line came a blow from one of the Wrenboy’s cudgels.
Lorcan crumpled to the tiled floor of the hallway.
The front door opened of its own accord and Carol was thrown out through it.
The door slammed shut behind her. The haystack took Lorcan by the ankle and dragged him back through the hallway, towards me.
I shouted, pleaded, and roared at the top of my lungs for Lorcan to wake up, for the Wrenboys to stop, for the spirits of earth and air to intervene.
But the Wrenboys marched on, drums banging and tin whistles blaring.
Mairead followed last, dancing and jigging all the while.
And all of them totally ignored me. As they passed back into the kitchen, I grabbed Lorcan’s clothes but the Wrenboys marched on and broke my grip.
Across the kitchen floor with its mosaic of broken dishes, they dragged poor Lorcan. Out through the back door out into the snow covered yard, free of footprints, but where Lorcan’s body left a wide track.
I could only watch, unable to think clearly.
The music. The Wrenboys’s tune muddled my thoughts.
My hand still firmly fused to the door handle, I put a finger in one ear and jammed the other to my shoulder.
I shut my eyes and hummed, trying to block out the sound.
I hummed, and my humming became a whistle, the whistling became Brian Boru’s March, one of the very oldest Irish melodies.
I whistled, and my whistling became a spell, a spell to free my hand. And my hand wrenched free.
Carol forced open the front door and tried to get into the living room. She shrieked and kicked at it but the door refused to budge.
“We have to help Lorcan!” I ran across the kitchen to the back door, only for it to slam violently in my face. I lurched back.
In a flash, Carol was up on the counter and out through the empty window frame. I followed as quickly as I could.