Shadowmagic

SHADOWMAGIC

JOHN LENAHAN

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by The Friday Project in 2008

Copyright © John Lenahan 2008

John Lenahan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9781905548927

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2009 ISBN: 9780007341054 Version: 2016-08-11

For Finbar, of whom I am exceedingly proud.

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One - Aunt Nieve

Chapter Two - Uncle Cialtie

Chapter Three - Mom

Chapter Four - The Yewlands

Chapter Five - Rothlú

Chapter Six - Fergal

Chapter Seven - Brownies

Chapter Eight - Araf

Chapter Nine - Essa

Chapter Ten - Gerard

Chapter Eleven - The Dahy

Chapter Twelve - Acorn

Chapter Thirteen - The Hazellands

Chapter Fourteen - Lorcan

Chapter Fifteen - The Reedlands

Chapter Sixteen - Big Hair

Chapter Seventeen - The Druid Table

Chapter Eighteen - The Race of the Twins of Macha

Chapter Nineteen - The Castle Beach

Chapter Twenty - The Shadowcasting

Chapter Twenty-One - Aunt Nieve

Chapter Twenty-Two - The Army of the Red Hand

Chapter Twenty-Three - The Return of the Hazellands

Chapter Twenty-Four - The Evil Eye

Chapter Twenty-Five - Mother Oak

Chapter Twenty-Six - Born Ready

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Aein

Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Choosing

Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Truth, a Second Time

Chapter Thirty - A Time to Bend

Chapter Thirty-One - A Decision

Chapter Thirty-Two - Goodbyes

About the Publisher

‘How come you never told me I had an aunt?’ That was the first thing I said. I know, my first question should have been, ‘Are you alright, Dad?’ He didn’t look alright. The light was awful, but I could see blood on the side of his face. I’m amazed I didn’t say, ‘What is that smell?’ because it sure stank in there. I’m not talking about a whiffy locker room smell, but the kind of stench that can make it possible to see your breakfast a second time around. Or most obviously I guess I should have asked, ‘Where are we?’ or, ‘Why are we chained to a wall?’ But instead, the first question I asked when I regained consciousness was about genealogy.

‘Well, Conor,’ Dad croaked, not even looking at me, ‘the first time you met her, she tried to kill you.’

She had, too.

I was sitting in the living room watching crappy morning television. I was dressed, shaved and ready to go. You had to be with my father. It wasn’t unusual for me to run out of the house two minutes behind him and find that he had left without me.

‘Are you ready?’ he called from the bedroom–in almost Modern Greek.

That was a good sign. It was a simple matter to gauge my father’s moods–the older the language, the worse his frame of mind. Greek wasn’t too bad. I shouted back, in the same language, ‘Born ready!’ I had learned a long time ago that I had to speak in the language of the day, or else he would ignore me completely.

He came out of his bedroom in a white shirt with a tie hanging around his neck. ‘Could you do this for me?’

‘Sure,’ I said.

Tie tying was one of the very few things that Pop found impossible to do with just one hand. Most of the time I didn’t think of Dad as having a handicap at all–I know a lot of two-handed men much less dexterous than him, and anyway, I was happy to do him a favour. I was just about to hit him up for a bit of cash, so that tonight I could take Sally to a nice restaurant, as opposed to the usual crummy pizza joint.

‘What’s with the tie?’ I asked.

‘The dean wants me to smarten up a bit. There is some famous ancient languages professor visiting who wants to talk about my theories of pronunciation. As if I don’t have anything better to do than babysit some idiot.’

That question was a mistake on my part. He said that last sentence in Ancient Gaelic. That was the language he used when he was annoyed or really meant business–it was almost as if it was his mother tongue. I’m not talking about Gaelic, the language of the Irish, I’m talking about Ancient Gaelic, a language found only on crumbling parchments and in my house.