Bansi O'Hara and the Bloodline Prophecy Page 4

  She swept dramatically out through the door.

  Granny shook her head and looked at Bansi. ‘Well,’ she said, her eyes smiling merrily, ‘now that you’re awake, how would you like a very large omelette?’

  And they both burst out laughing.

  That was when the window exploded. Bansi whirled at the sound. She heard Granny scream, a long loud piercing sound. There was a torrent of broken glass; a great grey shape leaping at her.

  It landed heavily, bearing her to the ground. She felt hot savage breath on her neck as sharp animal teeth closed on her throat.

  Chapter Six

  Bansi was paralysed, her limbs heavy and useless. She could hear Granny’s voice screaming and cursing at the beast, and the sound of two elderly fists pounding uselessly on the broad grey back, but she could see nothing except one cruel yellow eye set hard in velvet fur, staring into hers. Then the pressure eased on her throat and she gasped as the wolf released its hold.

  It locked eyes with her again for a moment, its hot carnivorous breath almost suffocating her, before its head snapped round to turn its evil gaze on her grandmother. Bansi could see the muscles under its coat ripple with treacherous, fluid strength as it curved smoothly away from her, slinking round threateningly to face the old woman.

  She wanted to cry out – to tell her granny to run – but her voice, as if enchanted, refused to obey her. The wolf growled softly, its savage teeth exposed in a vicious snarl. From where Bansi lay she could see Granny’s face, at once furious and fearful. She tried to move, but her body would not respond. The wolf tensed to spring.

  Behind Granny, the bedroom door burst open. Bansi saw Mrs Mullarkey framed in the doorway, brandishing a cast-iron skillet. The wolf pounced; the old woman stepped forward and swung. There was a satisfying thud as the pan connected, and the wolf fell to the floor with a surprised expression on its suddenly unconscious face.

  Then Granny was kneeling over her, anxious and concerned. ‘Are you hurt, sweetheart?’

  Bansi tried to answer, but she could do no more than move her eyes. Even speech was beyond her. She felt numb all over, and uncomfortably drowsy. She looked into her granny’s worried face; heard her say, ‘Nora! There’s something wrong with Bansi!’

  Mrs Mullarkey shouldered her granny out of the way. ‘Did it hurt you, girl?’

  Again Bansi tried to answer, but her voice was paralysed and useless. The world began to swim around her, odd colours appearing in a blur at the edge of her vision. She heard her grandmother’s voice, echoing strangely and distantly.

  ‘It had her by the throat. But there’s no blood.’

  She felt herself slipping away now, as if some mysterious other realm had reached out to her and was drawing her into it.

  Mrs Mullarkey’s voice murmured at the edge of her consciousness, ‘It’ll be some magic, I don’t doubt. Maybe the touch of iron will do it.’

  There was a sharp tingling, an icy shock. Bansi felt her senses gasp; her nerves fired, shocked and alert. As if thrown into a cold pool on a hot drowsy day, her body flung off the enchanted lethargy. Her eyes snapped open; she found herself staring at Mrs Mullarkey, who was gently but firmly holding the edge of the iron skillet against her neck, just where the wolf’s teeth had gripped her.

  A subtle warmth began to flow through Bansi; her throat throbbed, as if the iron was drawing out some strange poison from the wolf’s bite. She blinked; moved her head; tried to speak.

  ‘Whoa,’ she muttered. Tentatively, she flexed her fingers; moved her arms; eased herself upright. ‘That was weird. And not in a good way.’

  Granny hugged her, held her tight. ‘Are you all right, love?’ she asked.

  Bansi’s head spun for a second; she blinked. Mrs Mullarkey held the skillet out to her, handle-first. Reflexively, she gripped it tight and the numbness and pain fell away from her like autumn leaves. In an instant she was clear-headed again. ‘I think so . . . Yes, yes I am, I’m fine,’ she said, puzzled, staring at the shattered window, and the huge, shaggy creature which lay, unmoving, where the blow from the skillet had felled it. ‘What’s going on? That’s – is that a wolf.? But it can’t be . . .’ She looked at Mrs Mullarkey, who returned her gaze unblinkingly. ‘You’re going to say, “I told you so”, aren’t you?’

  The old woman said nothing for a moment, but a small victorious smile tugged at her lips. ‘Well, I did, didn’t I?’ she said after a moment. ‘Maybe now someone else’ll admit to the truth of what I’ve been saying all these years – eh, Eileen?’ she added, glancing at her friend triumphantly.

  ‘You think this is one of . . . them, then?’ Bansi asked, a little more respectfully. ‘But what’s it doing here?’

  ‘That, young Bansi,’ Mrs Mullarkey said grimly, ‘is what we need to find out.’

  ‘Would the eggshells be any use, do you think?’ Granny asked.

  ‘Talk some sense, would you, Eileen! The eggshells are for revealing changelings. We already know this creature is one of the Good People.’

  ‘I’m only doing my best, Nora! I’m sorry if that’s not good enough for you. I just thought that since you don’t seem to have any ideas yourself, you might need some help, that’s all.’

  ‘Some help would be greatly appreciated, Eileen. What’s not so welcome is silly ideas from someone who knows nothing about what we’re dealing with here because she’s spent her whole life scoffing.’

  ‘Well! It just seemed to me that if you, Nora Maura Margaret Mullarkey, being our resident expert on fai—on the Good People, weren’t coming up with the goods, I might be able to contribute something – but if that’s not the case, I’ll go and start the water boiling.’

  ‘Eileen! Will you stop being so stubborn! I’ve just told you; boiling water in eggshells is no use for this.’

  Granny cut her friend short with a withering stare. ‘Eggshells? Who said anything about eggshells?I’m going to make a cup of tea!’

  She flounced expertly out of the room.

  Nora Mullarkey shook her head. ‘Bansi,’ she said, ‘go and get that poker your granny was talking about. Then see what else you can find in the house that might be made of iron. We may need all the protection we can get.’

  Bansi nodded, eager to be doing something. ‘OK. I’ll go and look through those boxes of junk in the garage, too.’

  ‘No!’ the old woman said sharply. She took the frying pan from Bansi and pointed at the wolf, still prone on the floor. ‘That one there might have some friends with him. It’s not safe to leave the house. Don’t even go in the cellar until you’ve armed yourself – just in case. With iron, mind!’ she added, her voice severe. ‘None of your steel nonsense!’

  Bansi caught the sense of urgency behind the old woman’s harsh tone. She closed the door behind her and hurried off on her errand, head swimming with the events of the last few minutes.

  Gripping her makeshift weapon, Mrs Mullarkey went carefully to the shattered window and looked out. There was no sign of movement. She turned back again – and froze in surprise. Where the unconscious wolf had lain just a moment before, there now sat, cross-legged on the floor, a cruel-faced boy dressed in animal skins. Beside him lay a shaggy pelt, as if someone had dumped an old rug there.

  Mrs Mullarkey raised the skillet, gripping its smooth handle tightly, and stepped forward. ‘That’ll be your skin on the floor there, will it?’ she enquired. ‘I hope you know a good glazier. That’s an awful lot of damage you’ve done to my friend’s window.’

  The boy smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. ‘Get rid of the frying pan, old woman,’ he said. ‘You’re going to help me, not hit me.’

  ‘Help you? I think you’ve got that wrong, young fellow-me-wolf. You’re going to tell me who you are and what you want with my friend’s granddaughter. Or I will hit you again, and you won’t wake up so quickly this time, I’ll promise you that.’

  The boy laughed. The laugh was even less pleasant than the smile. ‘If it’s a name you want, you can call me Con
n. It’s not my real name, of course – but then it can be dangerous giving a stranger your name, can’t it, Nora Maura Margaret Mullarkey?’

  Mrs Mullarkey stopped, confused. She blinked, and threw the pan out of the window. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘what did you say?’

  ‘You’re going to go downstairs now and tell your friend that I escaped, but that it isn’t important. Say whatever it takes to put her mind at rest. As soon as you can, and however you have to, get her out of the way.However you have to,’ he repeated malevolently. ‘And when I return before dawn’s first light – you’re going to hand the girl over to me.’

  Mrs Mullarkey nodded. ‘If it’ll help, young man, I’m always happy to oblige.’

  ‘Nora!’ Eileen O’Hara said, surprised, as the kitchen door opened. ‘You haven’t left Bansi guarding that creature, have you?’

  What creature . . .?’ said Nora Mullarkey. ‘Oh – oh, him. No, he got away. Now, how about that cup of tea?’

  ‘Got away?’ Mrs O’Hara’s mouth fell open in surprise. ‘Well – shouldn’t we call the police or something?’

  ‘Och, no, Eileen, why would we want to make such a fuss as that? I’m sure he’s perfectly harmless!’

  ‘Nora, he’s a wolf!’

  ‘Ach, well, we’re none of us perfect, are we? Now, what about that tea?’

  Granny stood obstinately, furiously still. ‘Nora Maura Margaret Mullarkey, what is wrong with you?’ she spluttered.

  Mrs Mullarkey pushed past her. ‘If you’re not going to make it, Eileen, I’m sure you won’t mind if I help myself. Some of us are thirsty, you know.’

  Upstairs, Pogo peeked warily from his hiding place as Conn swept the wolfskin cloak over his shoulders and drew the fur together at the throat, where by some magic it joined seamlessly. He watched the boy pull the grisly hood over his head and draw the cloak around him. He saw the garment wrap itself around the boy, clinging and bonding; watched the muscles thicken, rippling beneath the pelt, as the great beast leaped without effort through the shattered window and disappeared into the darkness below.

  Face grim, the little man turned and looked around the room. It was littered with shards of glass and pieces of broken window frame; there were matted tufts of wolf-fur on the furniture, and muddy paw prints on the floor. The bedside rug had been kicked into a heap during the scuffle and several of the camping stoves had been knocked over, spilling the water and scattering fragments of eggshell everywhere. Besides which, he noticed, Granny hadn’t been too careful about dusting lately – and as for the state of the carpet under the bed . . .

  Pogo felt himself gripped by an uncontrollable urge – a primeval impulse, stronger than his sense of duty; stronger almost than his survival instinct. It was irresistible.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, his conscience whispered to him: Ignore it! Find Tam! Keep the girl safe!

  Yes, yes, another voice in his head replied impatiently, but this’ll only take a minute.

  We may not have a minute! his conscience reminded him frantically.There’s a powerful enemy on the loose! He’s bewitched the old woman! He’s going to take the child!

  Aye, there is that, the other voice answered.But that said . . . I mean . . . look at this mess! I’m a brownie, for goodness sake! I can’t just go off saving people when there’s housework to be done!

  But . . . but . . . well, yes, it is a bit of a tip, his conscience conceded.And it won’t take very long, will it?

  No, not long at all, the other voice soothed.Look – we’ll get started now, shall we?

  Pogo, thoroughly under the spell of his own instincts, began to gather the broken glass together. A brush would have helped, but his hands were tough and he knew what he was doing. Within seconds, he was lost in concentration.

  Until, that is, the spell was broken by the firm press of a cold point of iron against the back of his neck.

  ‘Turn round very slowly,’ Bansi O’Hara said. ‘And no funny business.’

  Pogo turned round and looked up at the girl who stood over him, an ornate poker held sword-like and threatening in her hand.

  Bansi glared down at the small intruder, filled with anger and apprehension. She had no idea how dangerous the little man might be, though at least he seemed to have fewer teeth than the wolf. ‘And you would be . . .?’ she asked, trying to hold her voice steady.

  The little man glowered. ‘I would be . . . very much obliged if you’d stop waving that thing about, that’s what I would be,’ he said. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t work on me,’ he added, grabbing the end of the poker suddenly, twisting it out of her hands and shaking it aggressively in her face.

  Bansi stepped back warily, eyes casting around for another weapon. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘You do know that’s made of iron, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ sneered the manikin, moving towards her, poker still raised. ‘Well, that doesn’t affect me, does it? Because apparently I don’t exist. I’m just a wee girl who comes round selling biscuits. Which means I could knock your brains out with this if I wanted to!’ He lifted the poker as if to strike, baring his teeth in a dreadful scowl, and threw it over his shoulder. It struck the wall by the shattered window with a dull clanging sound. ‘So now we’ve established that,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’ll believe me when I tell you I’m here to help.’ With one agile movement, he leaped onto the bed and looked her in the eye.

  Bansi regarded him suspiciously. ‘Why should I trust you?’ she asked. ‘You’re one of the “Good People”, aren’t you? Like that wolf. In fact, how do I know you’re not the wolf, in another disguise?’

  The little man’s leathery face creased into a deep frown. ‘For goodness’ sake, girl! I’m a brownie! We don’t do all that changing shape nonsense! We’re nice faeries, all right?’

  ‘According to Mrs Mullarkey, there aren’t any nice . . . what you said,’ Bansi pointed out.

  ‘Aye, well according to that silly old fool, there aren’t any brownies at all. But here I am.’

  ‘And how do I know you’re really a brownie?’

  Pogo lifted his hands skywards in exasperation. ‘Look at me! I’m a wee brown man in a brown loincloth! You’ve just caught me tidying up! What else would I be? Besides which, like I said, iron doesn’t affect me – look.’ Leaping off the bed, he picked up the poker in one hand and slapped it against the other. ‘See? We couldn’t have tidied up around you big gallumphers if we couldn’t touch your iron pots and pans, now, could we? Come to that, we don’t have to wait to be invited in, which is how come I was able to see those old biddies doing all the nonsense with the eggshells. So there you go, I’m a brownie, and if you don’t mind I’d quite like to save your life. If it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘Save my life? That’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’

  The little man bounded back onto the bed and drew his face close to Bansi’s.

  ‘Over the top?’ he said. ‘Not at all. That wolf is a shape assumed by Conn, a faery warrior of the Dark Sidhe. He is here to kidnap you, and to take you back to the Other Realm – the Land of Faery. Me? I’m Pogo. I’ve been sent to protect you. And believe me when I say that right now, I’m just about the only thing standing between you and certain death.’

  Chapter Seven

  Bansi felt laughter welling up inside her. The idea of this little man as some kind of hero sent to save her was ridiculous. In fact, the whole situation was ridiculous. None of it could possibly be true.

  Except that a wolf had attacked her. And there was a brownie in her room. Suddenly she found she was simultaneously trembling and wanting to giggle uncontrollably. Taking a deep breath, she sat down hard on the bed, clenching her fists in order to steady herself.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But there must be some kind of mistake. I mean, I don’t even . . . didn’t even believe in f— in, um, you people. And I’ve never heard of this “Dark She” woman–’

  Impatiently, the little man cut her off. ‘It’s not “she” like a woman. It’s S-I
-D-H-E, “Shee”. The sidhe are one of the oldest faery races–’

  ‘Hang on,’ Bansi broke in suspiciously. ‘Should you be using that word?’

  ‘A mortal shouldn’t, but it’s safe enough for a faery,’ Pogo retorted. ‘And us brownies are faery beings, whatever that old battleaxe friend of your granny’s may tell you. As are the sidhe, which brings me back to what I was saying: the Court of the Dark Sidhe is one of the faery kingdoms, and it’s the Lord of the Dark Sidhe–’

  Already Bansi was having difficulty keeping up. ‘Is he the King of the . . . Good People?’

  The brownie shook his head in scornful exasperation. ‘Not at all. The Dark Lord is king of nothing but a bunch of hooligans and hoodlums. Ach, I suppose the Court of the Dark Sidhe is a kingdom, strictly speaking, but a very minor one; and if you ask me it’s nothing but a gang of villains who’ve pledged allegiance to a bigger villain.’

  ‘So the sidhe are the bad fai . . . what you said?’

  This was met with a contemptuous roll of the eyes. ‘There are good sidhe, bad sidhe and sidhe who just mind their own business. Same as mortals. Some of the worst of the faery folk are sidhe, I suppose – like the Dark Lord himself – but then so are some of the best and most noble. Most of the so-called Dark Sidhe aren’t even of the sidhe race; they’ve just taken the name to make themselves sound better than they are. Look, do you really need the whole story now?’

  Bansi was losing patience herself. ‘Well, some kind of explanation would be nice. If there’s someone trying to kill me, I’d like to know why. What’s this Dark Lord got against me? And what brings you into all this?’

  The little man tutted with irritation. ‘Right. From the beginning, then.

  ‘There are dozens of different faery races: the brownies, the sidhe, the púca, the blue men, the leprechaun, the cluricaun, the boggarts, the selkie, the merrows, the hags, the kelpie – to name but a few. The sidhe are the one of the oldest and most distinguished, most powerful and most magical. With me so far?’ he added, with what Bansi felt was quite unnecessary sarcasm.