The Thorns Remain by JJA Harwood

Author:JJA Harwood [Harwood, JJA]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2023-01-18T17:00:00+00:00

The brownie was dozing by the fire, its saucer of cream empty, and Moira Jean was the only one who could see it. The cù sith was up on the hillside, staring down at her cottage, and Moira Jean was the only one who could see that, too. When she’d come back from Drewitts she’d heard weeping echoing around the houses, and had to stop herself looking to see where it was coming from when she noticed her neighbours staring at her.

It had been three days since Martha had been found in the greenhouse – three days for all Moira Jean’s frustration to come bubbling to the surface. Mr Cameron had disinfected his keys and asked Malcolm to install a bolt on the greenhouse door, after wiping everything down with iodine. Moira Jean’s mother had come home and given her the requisite talking-to, but her voice had faltered halfway through. Her eyes kept flicking to the distant shape of Drewitts, where Martha was sleeping. She still hadn’t woken up. The rest of Moira Jean’s neighbours closed their doors when she went past. Each time, it felt like a slap. She’d done nothing wrong. Couldn’t they see that? She’d found their children, not harmed them, and yet door after door was closed in her face.

But other things could open them fine.

In the three days since Martha had been returned, the village had been overrun. The cù sith stalked through the street, growling at passers-by. Brownies peered from the doors of abandoned houses, their tiny, hairy hands full of old feathers or the bodies of dead mice. When the rain lashed against the window, Moira Jean saw a bent-backed old woman hobbling past, gusts of wind tumbling around her like excited puppies. On clear days, when she turned her eyes to Ben Macdui, Moira Jean could have sworn she saw a vague, dark shape moving up the mountainside. But her neighbours saw nothing. Their eyes glazed over the vast dog; they blamed the wind on doors that brownies closed. Moira Jean knew better. Brudonnock was alive with unseen things, and she could see them all.

It was starting to become a problem.

Her mother opened the door, windswept and drenched. ‘That fence has come down,’ she said, dropping her wet boots in front of the fire. The brownie scuttled out of her way. ‘I put the planks near the coop for you, but you’re to fix it tomorrow, Moira Jean.’

‘I will, if this has blown over,’ she said. ‘Did you see anyone coming back?’

Her mother snorted, stripping off her wet things. ‘See who? Anyone with any sense is in bed – as you should be. I told you not to wait up for me.’

Moira Jean passed her a bowl of porridge. ‘Aye, you did say that.’

‘You’ve not seen anyone out in this weather, have you?’ her mother asked, sprinkling salt on the porridge.

She had seen someone: the old woman, hobbling along the road with the wind in her wake. The old woman had stood outside Moira Jean’s house, peering in through the window, her gaunt face wreathed in shadows.

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