Chapter 8: Aoife (part 3 of 3)

  Aoife bounded up the stairs and burst into the main bedroom. She discovered that the room was partially lit; Clodagh sat in her bed in the corner across from Ma's, reading by lamplight. Her sister turned a startled look toward Aoife, but not before slamming her book shut and shoving it under her pillow. "Aoife? What on earth—"

  "Can't get into it too much right now," Aoife panted, pushing aside her conflicted reactions to seeing that Clodagh hadn't given up on her adventuring-related studies. "Can you round up Fiona and the boys and dress them up warmly? It's very important that we all leave here, very soon. I'll explain when I can. Oh, and Lucy is here too."

  Right on cue, their great-aunt limped into view, standing regally and greeting the younger sister with a warm and apologetic smile. Sensing correctly that unusual events were afoot, Clodagh jumped up to do as she was bid. She leaned over to where Fiona slept, though the young girl was already stirring and groaning at the commotion around her.

  Aoife turned her attention to Ma. Asha Griffin still lay motionless on her side, bundled in her blankets with her back turned to the world, looking no different to how Aoife had left her this evening. Aoife exchanged a glance with Lucy before approaching Ma's bed. She knelt down beside it and spoke into her mother's back. "Ma. Can you get up? I've... I've made a mess and put the whole family in danger. We need to all leave, right now."

  No response. Not even the hint of a movement. Aoife had expected it, but it still made her chest tighten and eyes hot. Her emotions still flowed liberally since her breakdown on the walk from St Marcus. She sucked in a steadying breath before trying again.

  "Ma," she pleaded, voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Ma. I lied to you. I went and got myself in trouble, and I need help. There are... bad men, maybe powerful men, who're angry with me and probably want to hurt me. I don't know what they'll do to you... to us, if they find us. Please, Ma, wake up. Just this once. For Liam and Fiona, Ma. For Niall and Clodagh. We can't go without you."

  For me, Ma. There were words Aoife couldn't bring herself to say. Somehow, she felt undeserving of including herself among those she needed to protect. When her mother still did not stir, Aoife buried her face in the cold bedsheet and started sobbing freely again, not caring if her siblings could see and hear her.

  A hand fell on her shoulder, and she looked up to see Lucy standing beside her. Lucy suddenly dropped to her knees with an awkward disjointed motion, and Aoife could see her great-aunt wince in pain. Whatever ailed the older woman's left leg had made this position uncomfortable, but Lucy maintained her place beside Aoife, keeping an arm around her great-niece's shoulder and composing her own face to portray dignified calm.

  "Aster," Lucy spoke. Before them, Asha seemed to twitch but nothing more. "My child, listen to me. I know that my presence and what I represent bring you great pain and awaken barely formed memories you wished never to visit. But for your own sake and for the sake of your children, you must listen to me now."

  Still nothing that could be construed as a reaction, but Aoife thought that the rise and fall of Ma's breathing became slightly more noticeable.

  "During my week of self-imposed exile, I took the liberty of making myself known to one Cara Griffin, your sister by marriage," Lucy continued, and Aoife looked up at this revelation with numb surprise. Lucy hadn't mentioned this on their walk from St Marcus and neither had Aunt Cara during the week. But her aunt had always known a thing or two about keeping family secrets. "She is a lively woman, tough yet deeply caring, as I'm sure you don't need me to remind you. She may not show it usually, but she remembers. She remembers everything she saw of your life among the Griffin clan. All the growing pains of being fostered in an Eirish family as an orphan of Far Eastern descent. All of your triumphs, and all of your tragedies."

  Aoife was now sure that Ma's breathing had become more prominent, now slightly audible as she let out a small whimper. It was a sign of life, but it was disconcertingly reminiscent of the advent of her screaming fit a week ago. Aoife looked to Lucy with concern but her great-aunt remained calm, and pressed on.

  "She remembers Meadbh, the niece she never got to hold. You and your husband had taken on the enormous task of moving a family across Malady-infested lands. More than a few in the caravan you travelled with perished on the journey. Some to Malady attacks, some to senseless accidents, some to sickness and frailty. Your newborn was one such victim, one tiny casualty of the harsh realities of life between hubs. A tragedy, yes, but one you had no hand in, Aster. You couldn't have saved little Meadbh even if you tried."

  More tears fell from Aoife's burning eyes as childhood memories of the journey returned to her. Living in constant fear of threats on the ground, threats from the sky, threats from the rivers they sourced their drinking water from. Men and women in armour, wielding large weapons and using stern words to keep lay travellers in line. Holding a crying Clodagh at night as the sisters waited for the respite of fitful sleep. And little Meadbh who went to sleep one night and never woke up, her mother clinging to the bundle of cloths that housed her tiny lifeless body, for days after she had passed...

  Presently, Ma's breathing became harsher and more irregular. She still didn't turn around but now made jerking movements with her shoulders that frightened Aoife. She looked again to Lucy, who maintained her stony expression, eyes fixed on Ma's shaking back. What was the point of digging up all these painful memories? Was she trying to make Ma start screaming again? Undeterred by the storm of emotions in front and beside her, Lucy pressed on.

  "She remembers Rian, your youngest, a beautiful and kind-hearted boy that Cara loved dearly. Along with all of your other children, you and your husband provided for him as best as you could under the circumstances. You both worked tirelessly in strange jobs in a strange city. And Rian was happy, well-cared for. He succumbed to a respiratory infection that any child in Dubhlind, rich or poor, could have fallen sick with. If you wish to curse anyone, curse this strange world we live in now, where our warriors extort ungodly amounts of wealth to destroy life as we know it, and our healers turn up their noses at the pittance commoners are left with. You, Aster, had no hand in Rian's death."

  Aoife also remembered little Rian, always quick with a smile and hug, the baby fat he never lost bouncing on his cheeks as he ran about. Even Niall, already surly from an early age, had a soft spot for his youngest brother. When the coughing started, and continued, and subsided only when Rian was at death's door, all the fat had gone from his body, leaving only tiny bones pitching against skin as he fought for air. Aoife let out a mighty sob, this one ending in a tremulous whimper not unlike the ones Ma emitted now, still jerking and breathing erratically. Still, Lucy did not relent.

  "She remembers Fionn, her own brother and the love of your life. She remembers that he was the first Griffin to befriend you, to bring you out of your shell as you learned to live among people who neither spoke nor looked like you. You became inseparable friends, and later faithful lovers, building a home together that withstood the test of time. Look around you, Aster. Look at your children, hale and loving. They've been beaten down and ravaged by this world, yet they carry with them their father's affectionate nature, and your once watchful and discerning eyes kept them safe and united. Fionn was also taken before his time, but he left knowing his children would grow strong in his absence. He left, safe in the knowledge that you were his children's mother."

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  Ma stopped shaking. Indeed, she stopped breathing altogether. For several heart-stopping moments, she lay with her back hunched, knees pulled to her chest, as if she wanted to fold into herself, fold into nothingness and fade away from the misery of her room, her world, her life. Aoife held her own breath and bit her lips. Then she saw Lucy reach a hand toward her mother. Lucy placed this hand on the small of Ma's back. Aoife felt the air around them grow warm. As if a balloon had popped, Ma let out a long, shuddering sigh. She relaxed her knees, then her shoulders, and began to breathe normally, regularly. No jerks or whimpers. Aoife's eyes filled with tears again.

  "Cara also remembers the day you arrived in her household," Lucy continued, keeping a hand on Ma's back. "Washed ashore on driftwood from an unknown shipwreck, discovered by a party of adventurers and left in the care of a local farmer. You were a small, frightful thing, always hiding in a nook or a cranny, never speaking a word to anyone... except to Fionn, eventually. In your timid eyes, you hid the fading memories of an unspeakable tragedy, the one that separated you from your birth parents. A tragedy that—whether you knew it or not—shaped your outlook on life for many years to come. But Aster... you were a child. Barely old enough to speak. Whatever happened to your parents on that ship... we may never know the full truth, but one thing is for certain. You were never to blame."

  Lucy slid her hand from Ma's back and brought it to the upturned shoulder. She gripped it tightly, bracingly, and Aoife felt the arm around her own shoulders tense up at the same time. When Lucy spoke next, there was a solemn and exalted air about it, as if she were passing down judgment.

  "Listen to me. Your name is Aster Ruili M?nktsetseg Tao. It is also Asha Griffin. You are the daughter of Ruihong Tao, missing and presumed deceased, and Ganbaatar Sartsetseg, deceased. You are also adoptive daughter to the late Cormac Griffin. Wife to Fionn Griffin, mother to Meadbh and Rian Griffin. All of that is true, and you alone bear the weight of the souls that you brought into this world, the ones you loved, and the ones you watched depart. But you must remember, my dear child. You are also mother to Aoife, to Clodagh, to Niall, to Liam, and to Fiona. You still have a role to play on this stage, a responsibility to bear for Fionn's children, for Medabh's and Rian's brothers and sisters.

  "Stand, Aster. Stand, Asha. The road is long, and you will fall again. But for now, I need you to stand. Your children need you to stand."

  Aoife could not believe her eyes. Her mother stirred, turning at last, away from her corner and toward the room, toward Aoife. Her face was gaunt, emaciated from days of barely eating or drinking, but her eyes had a light to them that Aoife hadn't witnessed for... years. She now fixed those eyes on her daughter and held out a hand. Aoife took it with the hunger and desperation of an animal that had known only starvation. She pulled her mother up, supporting her sweat-soaked back as she did. Beside them, Lucy stood up with obvious difficulty, letting a short grunt of discomfort escape from her otherwise dignified demeanour.

  Fully sat up on the edge of her bed, Asha Griffin took and let out another deep breath. She looked up at Aoife, eyes gleaming, and spoke with the gentle conviction that Aoife knew and loved from her childhood.

  "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, love. Tell me where we're going."

  #

  The Griffins trekked across the cold dark streets of Enfield, herded by their intrepid eldest sister and escorted by the limping figure of their Temasekian relative. They used the cover of darkness to remain inconspicuous, and the older children kept watchful eyes over the younger ones to ensure that they didn't whine too loudly about the monotony and distance of the walk or the sleep that they had been rudely ripped away from. Their progress, however, was limited not by the youngest feet but rather by the matron of the family, who required a break every few blocks to catch her breath. But she never once complained, and kept a steady pace when she could. Occasionally her aunt, the tallest among their ranks, would limp to her side and place a hand on the small of her back, an act that provided both reassurance and genuine warmth.

  Before too long, they reached their destination, one that was detected readily by the eldest sister who had visited this place at night once before. Tonight, no hint of light seeped through the front windows, the occupant inside likely having turned in for the night. The Griffin family's de facto leader lifted the doorknocker and rapped it hard against the metal door, already iterating in her mind silent apologies for disturbing the peace. The family waited, growing colder by the second, but the eldest sister was confident that the knock would be answered.

  ***

  John Rockford had lain awake for hours in his bed—as he was more wont to do in his advancing age. He had learned over the years that ghosts were most eager to make their presence felt in the twilight between wakefulness and sleep. And he often flitted between either side of this divide, eyes growing heavy then snapping wide as he snatched at shadows that remained ever out of his reach.

  Tonight, the ghost that had traversed the indelible chasms of time to visit him was one that hadn't come to him in years—an old friend. He used to know this ghost well, but it had been so long—so many chasms—that he had forgotten its name. It had taken on the form of a young boy in tattered clothes, large blotches of soot blacking out his smooth face. A chimney sweep, one of many John and his companions would walk past without so much as a glance on their daily patrols. Yet he did stop for this boy, not knowing what had compelled him. Perhaps it had been the fierce eyes that shone bright amid the grime. Perhaps it had been the shaggy mutt that circled the boy's feet, huffing proudly and craning its neck to catch a glimpse of those brightly blazing eyes. Whatever fragment of a dream had taken hold of him, John Rockford had stopped and reached out a hand. And the boy reached back.

  The thudding call of the doorknocker downstairs seized John and tore him out of the twilight, and the boy—along with his outstretched hand—faded into thin air. Before him was only the tired darkness of his bedroom.

  He stood up, light on his feet despite his massive frame, and grabbed the lantern on the side table before making his unhurried way down the stairs. The hour was late, so he knew the visit to be one of urgency or desperation. There had been a notable commotion earlier tonight, drunks and hooligans in greater force than usual streaming onto the streets in an uproar, though the nature of their outrage seemed as muddled as their speech. Vague threats, some shattered glass, then the streets were quiet again, business as usual. John wondered whether those earlier events bore any relation to the knock on his door, though he also had an inkling exactly who the unannounced visitor might be.

  He opened the front door and was shocked, not at the sight of Aoife Griffin whom he half-expected, but of her considerable entourage of followers big and small. Aoife looked up at him with an expression depicting contrition and humility, yet her features were dominated first and foremost by fatigue. Behind and around her stood the shivering figures of what he assumed to be the rest of her family—as he spotted an unusually subdued Clodagh among them—though the two older women looked to be foreigners. John cleared his throat, but thought better of idle chatter and simply stood aside to let them in. Aoife took the invitation just as wordlessly, and the rest of her retinue poured into his house one by one.

  A strange quietude fell over the group as John busied himself with relighting the furnace and retrieving as much spare furniture as he could find. Some were too weary to speak, others too shy, too sullen, too polite, too sleepy... children and adults alike all had their unique reasons for keeping their silence. Eventually, however, John felt compelled to breach the unspoken peace in the interest of etiquette. "Would anyone... be wanting tea then?"

  From the corners of his eyes, he saw Aoife spring to life at these words. She stared up at him, exhaustion incarnate, her pale lips chapped and arid. He suddenly saw yet another ghost, doubling up with the scrawny auburn-haired girl. It was a reflection of his much younger self, depleted at the end of a gruelling hunt, his throat, mouth, nostrils, seemingly every orifice on his body screaming out for water, water, water. In those moments, he would be dreadfully thirsty yet always hungry for the next challenge. The next adventure. The ghost spoke to him with perfect sincerity, in the familiar voice of a scrawny auburn-haired girl. "Yes, please. All the tea you have in your house. Now."

  And as he stared back into those shining blazing eyes, he remembered. The boy had a name. And to his dying days, John Rockford must not forget—must not let himself forget. The boy's name was Royce Callaghan, Slayer of Leviathan.