Page 33 of Heart of the Wren
“I hear you’re something of a newcomer yourself.” I held out my hand but Father McDonagh kept his behind his back.
“I haven’t seen you at mass yet.”
“And you probably never will,” I said. “I much prefer the outside of churches to the inside.”
“If you’re planning to stay here in the village, it won’t do you any favours to go against the grain.”
I grinned. “Don’t worry yourself, Father. I won’t be here for long enough to upset the apple cart.”
“Good,” said Father McDonagh. “I’m glad to hear it. We don’t need more of your sort around— Oh, good man yourself, Jon-Joe!” He clappedand shouted at the player as he returned to his flock.
Carol glared at him. “I don’t like him.”
“No,” I said. “Neither do I.”
“It won’t do you any good to get on his bad side,” Pat said. “He has the ear of everyone in the village.” He made prolonged eye contact with me, and I could swear I spotted the faintest hint of a smile on his handsome face. “He can make life very difficult for you. And for Lorcan.”
A cry from the crowd broke the moment. Donal was on the ground, holding his elbow. One of the opposing team had caught it with the end of his hurley.
Lorcan shouted over at me. “Dara! You’re up!”
Chapter 20
DARA
I TROTTED out to the pitch as Donal returned to the car, though I suspected the injury wasn’t anywhere near as serious as he was letting on. The referee blew the whistle and we were off. A fly buzzed past my ear, only no, not a fly. There weren’t any at that time of year. Again a whizzing sensation, just out of the corner of my eye. I twisted, trying to catch a glimpse. My team ran and before I’d gone ten paces, a great cheer came up from the crowd as the opposing team scored another point.
Bullseye wasn’t happy with me. “Get yourfeckin’ head in the game!”
Huffing with exertion, Lorcan caught the sliotar in his hand and ran a few steps before throwing it in the air and clattering it with his hurley.
Big Tom hopped about on the sideline, moving far quicker than I would have thought possible for him. “Go on, ye good thing, ye!”
The sliotar rocketed through the air and over the other team’s crossbar. Lorcan jogged a few steps, pleased with the point but wheezing heavily and wincing. He stopped, doubled over.
“Take it easy, you’ll do yourself an injury,” I said.
He stretched his back. “I’m used to long days on the farm but this is a different kettle of fish altogether.”
Big Tom cupped his meat pie hands around his mouth. “That’s us even now, Cillian!”
Two men chased after Eddie, making a point of going for him. He was younger and faster, though, and easily avoided their clumsy attacks. Still, the injustice of it rankled me. Using magic in a sporting match wasn’t entirely ethical but with nothing material at stake, I hoped the universe would forgive me.
Some spells require a certain atmosphere to work, as well as certain materials — my oils and ointments, my candles and tattoos. But some are smaller and simpler. I calmed my breathing, formed a spell in my mind, and tapped my thumb to my fingertips. “Trip, trip, trip.” One of the men immediately slipped in the mud and collided with the other as Eddie ran backwards, blowing them kisses.
Without warning, Jon-Joe pelted across the grass and struck Lorcanhard with his shoulder. Lorcan collapsed, dropping his hurley and grabbing his shoulder. The referee hurried over to check on him.
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Still, Lorcan took a few moments to gather his strength before getting back up on his feet. He waved over to us to let us know there was no harm done. The tackle had been deliberate, I was sure of it. Sweat drenched my armpits. What we give, we get back threefold. Was this the price of my spell? My intent was pure but had the spell been perverted somehow by the forces attacking Lorcan? He hadn’t been seriously harmed so I hoped it was just coincidence. But then, I didn’t believe in coincidence. I made sure to keep an eye on where Jon-Joe was from then on.
Again, something buzzed past me. I tried to follow the noise. The pitch on which we played was a rectangular strip of grass behind the national school, open on all sides. Essentially a field within a field, with the players’ and spectators’ vehicles all lined up on one side. One in particular caught my eye — a Hiace van, navy blue and unwashed. A dark, spikey shape crouched behind it but almost as soon as I spotted it, the thing retreated and was gone.
???
Barely a minute before the end of the match, Lorcan was on course for scoring a hat-trick. He feinted and dodged as rival captain Tommy Williams raced towards the goal where Bullseye spoiled his bouncing shot. Lorcan looked set to pounce on a loose pass across the posts but Jon-Joe intercepted him at the last second. Another chance quickly followed and Lorcan seized it, leading with his leg to get across the ball but another buzz past my ear preceded Tommy striking from out of nowhere, slicing his hurley intoLorcan’s bare knee. My heart stopped. Blood streaked across the field, dotting a patch of stubborn snow like raspberries. Lorcan fell, hard. The referee blew the whistle to end the match. We circled Lorcan to check on him.
“I didn’t do it!” Tommy said. “The hurley sort of… shot out by itself.”
Bullseye and Eddie helped Lorcan up.
