Page 4 of Heart of the Wren (Haunted Hearts: Season of the Witch #2)

LORCAN

“SHOULD YOU not be working?”

“I’m only in for one,” I said. “Two, actually. This is Dara. He’s going to be working at the farm. Dara, this is Big Tom.”

Named for his expansive belly, more than his height, Big Tom nodded to him and began pulling a pint of Guinness.

Clean shaven and dark haired, he was often to be found standing with his meaty arms folded, staring at the black and white portable television on the wall.

He sniffed and rubbed his nose with a tissue plucked from his back pocket.

“Are you still suffering?” I asked.

“Ah, would ye stop. I can’t shift it at all.” While the first pint settled, Big Tom poured another.

“I can boil you up some carageen,” Dara said. “I’ll even throw in some burdock, if I can find any. Works a treat, so it does.”

Big Tom didn’t know how to respond so he went back to his pint pulling.

At that time of the afternoon, Casey’s pub was empty save for one regular, known as the Monk, who practically lived in it.

A thin man in his seventies with a long, wispy beard, who lived alone and didn’t talk.

He sat at the end of the bar and never lifted his head to acknowledge anyone.

Not even to Dara who made a point of smiling and trying to catch his eye.

I was certain Dara had managed to say hello to everyone he’d seen.

He waved out of the car window like a rock star from a tour bus.

The Monk was never seen without a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Casey’s was a single room divided in two by the bar, which faced the front doors.

Both ends of the room held small black hearths, lit and crackling.

One end featured curving booths with padded seats on a carpeted floor, while the other had round tables and rickety chairs on tiles.

Wallpaper, yellowed from decades of tobacco smoke, covered half the pub until it met the wood panelling for the rest.

Big Tom set the pints on the bar. As I lifted mine, the glass cracked, spilling its contents.

Dara’s eyes darted, like he was following the path of a housefly.

“Ah, for Jaysus sake, Lorcan!” Big Tom slapped a cloth onto the counter. “Ye big eejit, ye.”

“It’s not my fault!” I shook Guinness from my wet hand. “You must have given me a cracked glass.”

“I don’t have any cracked glasses!”

“Well you do now!”

Before he could respond, the doors clattered open as Eddie burst into the pub. “Lorcan, come on, quick! The farm’s on fire!”

I spluttered and ran to the door.

“Here, you have to pay for those!” Big Tom said.

“Later,” I shouted over my shoulder. “I’ll sort you out later!”

???

After a hair-raising race along the twisting laneway, I turned hard at the flat bridge.

The car slid on the icy road and came to an abrupt halt by a line of sheds.

Eddie had sped on ahead of us on his moped.

A column of smoke rose from somewhere in the farmyard.

I ran with Dara across the yard while the dogs barked wildly.

Michael and Eddie were already tackling the blaze in a small shed.

One had a bucket of water, the other a hose.

Orange flames licked from the open door with a mockery of intent.

The fire fondled the stonework, caressed the door frame, and kissed the roof tiles.

The shed stood alone but left to burn, the blaze could easily spread to a nearby barn.

I grabbed the hose from Michael’s knobbly hands and directed it to the base of the fire while barking orders at the men.

Dara had his eyes closed, whispering to himself.

I wondered if he was afraid of fire, given the way he kept his distance.

He paced around the shed, muttering under his breath the whole time.

He kept tapping his fingertips together.

The flames, poking out through the tiles, pointed to him.

I squinted in the smoke, eyes watering, certain I must have been seeing things.

But like the hands of a clock, the flames followed Dara in his slow march around the shed.

Putting it down to the shifting winds, I shouted at Dara to make himself useful by helping to fill buckets.

Glowing embers wafted around us like fireflies, threatening to land on the barns.

But after a frantic twenty minutes or so, the fire was out.

The shed remained standing, though roofless, with the inside scorched black as coal.

Dara stuck his head in, then checked around the outside. “Who did it, do you think?”

I wiped my wet hands on his trousers. “Why would anyone want to set fire to an old shed?”

He shrugged. “To test your defences, maybe?”

I frowned at him and nodded to some lumps of melted plastic. “It must have been those paint cans. They shouldn’t have been packed away in there with all those rags.”

Eddie held his hands up. “Don’t look at me, I’ve never been in there.”

“I probably did it myself,” I said. “Feckin’ eejit that I am.”

We would need to wait until tomorrow for the shed to cool down enough to begin a proper clear up.

“We’ll have to knock it down,” Michael lit a cigarette. “It wouldn’t be safe to leave it as it is.”

“Are you sure one of your butts didn’t start this?” Dara pointed to the shed.

Michael’s sleepy eyes widened. “What sort of gobshite do you think I am? Sure haven’t I worked here for twenty years with no fires, do you think I don’t know how to stub out a cigarette?”

“I’m only asking,” he said.

“Well don’t,” Michael said. “And get a feckin’ haircut, ye hippy, ye.”

???

Dara helped me to return the buckets to the nearest barn. After stooping to stroke and talk to a black cat, he started poking around in a dusty corner and uncovered a workbench.

“Do you always talk to animals?”

“They make more sense than most people.” He moved some clutter and pulled out a horseshoe.

“Dad always had a couple of horses,” I told him. “But they were a lot of work so after the last one died, I didn’t replace it.”

Dara rubbed the horseshoe with his sleeve, clearing off the cobwebs. “C’mere, I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “but do you always wear odd shoes?”

I wore a brown boot on one foot and a black one on the other. I didn’t think anyone would notice. “I couldn’t find the match to either. Dark winter mornings, y’know how it is.” Truthfully, I searched with every light on but couldn’t find a matching pair of any of my shoes.

The barn creaked overhead, as it sometimes did. A pigeon flapped noisily around the rafters. I hugged myself as I was suddenly struck with a bone-deep cold. Leaving Dara to his own devices, I stomped across the farmyard and into the house.

In the bathroom, I splashed water on my face.

Partially to clear the soot from my eyes but also to calm myself down.

Despite the constant spray from the hose, soot had caked under my fingernails.

I scrubbed them so hard with a frayed nailbrush I thought I might break the skin.

I gripped the edge of the sink. The shed wasn’t important, nothing of particular value had been lost and yet…

And yet, it was one more thing. One more kick in the teeth.

One more nail in the coffin. I reached for a towel as the banging started.

Hurrying downstairs, I swung open the front door to find my way blocked by a ladder. “What are you up to?”

Dara paused his hammering. “It’s good luck to hang these up.”

Face turning red, I hurried through the hallway and out of the back door. I marched right around to the front of the house and pointed to the horseshoe now hanging in the archway above the door. “Who told you that you could do that?”

Dara beamed down at me. “Don’t worry, it’s the right way round. See? The ends point upwards so the good luck doesn’t fall out.” He climbed down from the ladder. “After the fire, I thought you could use some of it.”

I huffed and my ears were burning. “I don’t want it up there.”

“Ah, sure you can hardly see it, up in the eaves. It’s a good one. Made of iron. It’ll help keep them away.”

“Keep who away?”

Dara flashed his canine teeth again. “The fairies.”