Page 17 of Heart of the Wren
My world was one of spirits and deities, of ghosts and fairies, of banshees and phouka. It ran parallel to the “real” world, it wove through it, informed and coloured it. When left to my own devices, my mind was prone to wandering as I took trips into this neighbouring world to converse with its citizens. I spoke with shades of long-dead Celtic warriors, with giants who lived in a mist-shrouded island, with gods and goddesses who eons past departed our world for a better one. These flights into other realms were all well and good when I was lying in a field or wandering a back lane, but when I was supposed to be shovelling hay, for example, they could make things difficult.
“Get your feckin’ head out of the clouds, baldy!” Michael said on his way past the hay shed.
???
I changed the sheets on the spare bed and gathered up my meagre belongings. “Good as new,” I said to Carol.
She tried to smile at me as she sat on the bed. Her aura flashed blue, sapphire, and turquoise. I rarely saw a person’s aura so vividly, and never without actively trying to see it, but since arriving at the farm, I’d been more in tune than ever. I wondered if something was amplifying them.
“I think I’ve still got some clothes in the wardrobe from the last time I was here,” she said.
“I did wonder about those,” I said. “I didn’t think the leggings would suit Lorcan.”
That got a little laugh out of her. She sat at the dressing table, fixing her blonde curls. A slight smear on the mirror bothered her so she took a tissue and rubbed it clear. Moving her head for a better look, she noticed the smear continued the whole way around the mirror, in a circle. “There’s some greasy fingermark drawing on here.”
I tutted and pretended not to know why as she wiped the whole thing clean. I’d used the mirror for scrying a couple of nights ago. With a dot of yarrow oil, I drew a circle on the glass, set a candle in front of it, and tried to see what was causing the problems at the farm. It hadn’t worked. Magic isn’t a science. Sometimes we’re simply not meant to know everything and learning to accept that is part of a witch’s life.
She fished in her bag for her earrings. One of them hit the floor and rolled under the bed. “I’ll get it.” On my knees, I lifted the edge of the bedsheet and remembered the ring of chalk drawn on the floorboards. I quickly grabbed the earring and let the bedsheet fall. I’d drawn a protectivepentagram under my bed and placed three rusty iron nails in the centre. I wasn’t sure how she’d react to it, but going by the crucifix around her neck, I guessed it wouldn’t go down well. With any luck, she wouldn’t look under there before I had a chance to clear it away tomorrow. I handed her the earring and she paused.
“I think I dreamt about you,” she said.
I cocked my head. “Did you?”
She squinted at me, trying to remember. “It happens sometimes. I’ll dream about someone before I meet them.”
“Did you dream about Eddie?”
She brushed some of her blonde hair behind her ear. “He was wearing a leather jacket and had a Harley Davidson. In the dream, I mean. In real life, he had a waistcoat and a moped.”
“Close enough,” I said. “If you have any weird dreams tonight, will you let me know? I’m fascinated by them. They’re like glimpses into other worlds. Well, look, I’ll leave you alone. Goodnight.”
I couldn’t help but poke my head into the third bedroom. The door only opened partway as a disassembled bed frame blocked it. I reached in and flicked the light switch for the bare bulb hanging overhead. Cardboard boxes stuffed to the brim with clothes filled the room, with barely enough space for some insipid pastoral paintings and ornate mirrors, all covered with dust. A child’s jumper — moss green and dishevelled — hung on a bedpost.
Lorcan’s bedroom was half as big again as Carol’s, with a double bed on wine-coloured carpet. At the end of the bed was a deep, shaggy, sheepskin rug. I threw a blanket down on it and covered it with a duvet.
“Are you sure you won’t take the bed?” Lorcan had come in without me noticing.
“Not at all, not at all,” I said. “I wouldn’t kick a man out of his own bed. Sure I’ll be grand here.”
Lorcan grumbled as he pulled back the blankets on his bed. “It doesn’t feel right, making you sleep on the floor like a dog.”
“I’m used to sleeping in fields like a cow. This is an upgrade.” I kicked off my shabby boots. The loose sole flapped where it fell. Next came my heavy linen shirt which I neatly folded onto a chair. I unbuttoned my jeans and let them fall to my ankles. “I suppose I’d better not sleep in the nip, now there’s a girl in the house.” I chuckled as I retrieved my jeans from the carpet and put them on the chair.
Lorcan turned away as he undressed and I tried to respect his privacy. I honestly did, but I couldn’t resist a quick peek at his curvy bum in his pale blue briefs. They were cut high and showed off his figure nicely.
He pulled on a pair of stripey pyjama bottoms. “I always sleep in these.” He climbed into bed. “It can get a bit draughty in this house.”
I lay on the floor, suppressing the urge to grunt. I kept my socks on for extra warmth. “If we get a chance tomorrow, I think we should rebury the brooch.”
“Right you are. But I don’t want anybody to see. They might go and dig it up again.”
Lorcan switched off the light and we lay in pitch darkness. “Will you do something for me?”
I lifted my head from my pillow. “Of course.”
“Keep the witch stuff to yourself for the time being, alright? It’s a small village. I don’t want people talking. You know how it is.”
“Oh, yes.” I lay down again. “I know how it is.”
