Echoes Through the Mist: A Paranormal Mystery (The Echoes Quartet Book 1)

by K. Francis Ryan

  “Really? Being able to know things you shouldn’t know? Seeing who is on the other side of your door before they knock? These things don’t seem even a little unusual to you? Maureen Tracy says you read her mind and left her with impure thoughts, although that one I doubt as that ol’ trout has always had impure thoughts. But what about Tommy Gallagher? He says you turned him blind and then gave his sight back to him not two minutes later!” Sean shouted.

  “That Hagan creature has you bewitched. And isn’t it she who is putting your immortal soul at risk? Don’t you see it? She’ll have you turned away from the bosom of Holy Mother Church and doing her dance with the devil before you know what’s happening.”

  Sean continued with force. “It is the way with witches. A small thing here, a tiny thing there and before you know it you are caperin’ neeked around fires in the woods at midnight with all her familiars!”

  “Sean, it isn’t as if I’ll be wearing a goat-head hat, sacrificing virgins, or putting babies on spits any day now. There isn’t any witchcraft. No pointy hats, no broomsticks, no hairy warts, no spells to make your tender bits shrivel up – none of it. Get it? No witches. No witchcraft. So take it easy.”

  Sean Maher visibly shuddered then exploded. “Julian, listen to yourself! Jaysus, Mary and Joseph – how is it, Julian Blessing that you think of such things? And isn’t it you who says them like they are normal. Tender bits, goat heads, and, as if the rest weren’t blasphemous enough, babies on spits! By God!”

  Both men became lost to their respective thoughts, but Sean announced his first. “For the love of God, Julian - babies on spits,” he said, “That’s just proof of how diseased is your poor soul!”

  ***

  “Who is that young girl?” Julian asked Kathleen Maher. He indicated a young woman who followed the Hackett sisters like a skiff in the wake of two ships of the line as they made their way down the main thoroughfare.

  “Ah ’tis Gwyneth Kirby and a shining success she is, thanks to you,” Mrs. Maher answered. She and Julian stood side by side in front of Flynn’s general store.

  “Pardon me? Shining success thanks to me? I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Would you be remembering the talking to you gave the Hackett sisters? That was the day you were more than passing tetched. If people are to be believed – and they are, but only about half the time – you convinced the Hacketts they had a duty to pass along their knowledge to a younger generation.”

  “Well, I did mention something like that.” Julian looked embarrassed.

  “Indeed and rightly you did. Sure it would be a pity for the two of them to take to their graves – for that can’t be long off since they are each a hundred and fifty years old – before passing on the wisdom they have gathered to themselves. It would deprive us of the various medicaments we depend on. We can’t be bothering the sainted Doctor Dwyer for every little thing ya know,” Kathleen Maher said.

  “Okay, in a way I might have suggested it would be a good idea to train an apprentice. So that’s what they’re doing with that girl?”

  “You’re quick as lightening, Mr. Julian. ’Tis the Hacketts’ youngest cousin’s daughter up from Wicklow way. She is a bonny lass, strong and anxious to please, bright as a penny and pretty besides.”

  At the mention of her name, Gwyneth Kirby looked up as she crossed the street and Kathleen Maher motioned for her to join them. Gwyneth whispered to her aunts who gave their assent. The young girl ran to join Mrs. Maher and the stranger.

  Mrs. Maher introduced a red haired young woman of about seventeen years with egg white skin and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Julian noted she was a beckoningly pretty girl with a soft smile and eyes alight with the potential for mischief.

  “Gwyneth, this is Mr. Julian Blessing. With my husband, he provides safety and security not only to our village, but also to the entire area here abouts. He is an important man of vast experience and learning. Should a problem present itself which your sainted aunts can’t answer, present yourself to Mr. Julian and he will find a solution.”

  The young woman curtsied and Julian inclined his head and smiled.

  “‘Vast experience and learning’ is it, Kathleen Maher?” Ailís Dwyer said. Julian spun around to find the doctor standing behind him. “Is it our Mr. Julian you would be talkin’ about then?” she asked and smiled slyly.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” Julian said with an enthusiasm he did not intend to show.

  “Why, Oi am honored that such a weighty individual as your fine self would see fit to talk with but a poor country doctor,” Ailís intoned with a mocking broad, flat Irish brogue. “Sadly, I have little time for idle chitchat right now.”

  Just then, a group of village women surrounded the doctor and spirited her into Flynn’s store. Julian looked on as she left and grinned at the doctor’s playfulness.

  Kathleen Maher and Gwyneth Kirby’s lips formed subdued, but knowing smiles, heavy with meaning and rich in understanding.

  ***

  “George Sullivan is altogether dead,” Jimmy Grogan declared as he ran into the police station.

  Julian, Sean and Father Fahey were seated around the desk playing a card game whose chief feature was lying and cheating. But the lying did not end with the playing cards. The score was being kept in turns and each scorekeeper unabashedly shaved points from his opponents and added them to his own score.

  “That’s forty-eight points for me,” Julian said.

  Sean said, “Forty-eight” and wrote down twenty-eight adding the wayward twenty points to his own score bringing it to fifty-five.

  “Saints be praised,” Father Fahey said. “I have forty-eight also. What a coincidence.” Father Fahey leaned out of his chair and watched as Sean attempted to turn the thirty-eight he had put down for the priest back into a forty-eight. Father Fahey raised an eyebrow and looked at Sean. Sean looked at his pencil as though it was an instrument of the devil.

  The rules for scoring were simple. Laymen could be cheated as freely as one’s conscience would allow. Priests were cheated less enthusiastically. If one was a scorekeeper-priest, it was permissible to cheat with abandon all except bishops. Bishops did not, it was assumed, cheat cardinals and so on.

  Father Fahey did not breathe the rarified air of bishops and cardinals so did not concern himself with such matters. But as much as it was his obligation to cheat while playing and scoring, it was his holy duty to caution his flock about fudging the numbers on the score sheet. He reconciled this as being for their own good. And his.

  “Were you hearin’ me? Auld George Sullivan is dead,” Jimmy said again.

  “That’s a total of five hundred fifty points for meself, five hundred forty-eight for himself, Father Fahey, and one thousand one hundred…”

  “That’s one thousand eight hundred for me,” Julian corrected.

  Julian had invented his own way of scoring. He kept the numbers in his head and would correct the score sheet when it was passed to him. This didn’t keep his opponents from re-correcting it later, but in the end Julian always won by such a large margin that he thought it churlish to argue over a few hundred points.

  “Nine plus four, carry the one, naught from naught equals naught, seven plus nine take away three and carry the two…” Sean intoned. “It is right you are, one thousand six hundred…”

  “One thousand eight hundred,” Julian interrupted.

  “Right. As I said, one thousand eight hundred points,” Sean announced.

  “Is it deef as stones you are? Does no one here care if a Christian has died?”

  “Shut your gob, Jimmy Grogan and it is a civil tongue I would be thinkin’ you should keep in your head or a knot Oi’ll put on you that ye won’t be forgetin’,” Sean said. “Besides, chances are he isn’t dead this time either ya ugly little creature.”

  “Well, if you’re so sure, take me bet,” Jimmy said. “Oi’ll bet a hundred you are wrong and for another thing, the likes of y
ou wouldn’t recognize me true beauty if it bit y’r arse.”

  “Jimmy Grogan, you would bet on a bag of dead pigeons in a horse race, ya eejit,” Sean enjoined. “But you say truly, I know little of beauty. That said, ya ugly spud, Oi do know you have a face on ya as would drive rats from a barn.”

  “How dead is Farmer Sullivan? Oi’ve said the rosary over him four times this year and gave him last rights twice more besides. Each time they were ready to put him under the earth. Each time it was so George could get some porter under his roof,” Father Fahey added.

  “No, but Father, a hay bale fell on him and crushed his head like a gourd! As Jaysus alone is my judge, George Sullivan is surely dead this time.”

  “It isn’t takin’ our Lord Jaysus name in vain that’ll save ya because if Oi find this is more of your filthy lies, Jimmy Grogan, you’ll be prayin’ to all the saints to save you from me,” Father Fahey said. “Oi suppose we should go have a look though just to make sure.”

  The three men walked out of the station with Jimmy bringing up the rear and closing the door behind him.

  They all walked the mile out of the village to the Sullivan farm where they found George Sullivan was good and truly, altogether dead this time.

  ***

  While the mourners gathered for George’s wake, Julian and Sean inspected the barn where the farmer had died. Walking into the barn, Julian doubled over in pain. He staggered, then stumbled into the lee of his friend. Julian was beset by an aching melancholy and in the next moment, he was there. He was watching George Sullivan die.

  Julian lost all color in his face, his hands shook and his eyes looked as though he was witnessing pure horror. “Get me out of here, Sean,” Julian managed to say.

  That evening’s wake going on inside the farmhouse was an event that demanded hushed tones and temporary decorum. Alcohol flowed with abandon. It was explained to Julian that strong drink was necessary to toast the newly departed and to put the living in a reflective frame of mind to better consider their individual mortality.

  Julian thought it was an excuse for getting drunk.

  He sat on the back porch, pale and exhausted from what he had witnessed in the barn and got profoundly and reflectively drunk.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dr. Ailís Dwyer wasn’t pleased. It was near noon as she hurried from her practice to the police station without knowing why. Jimmy Grogan had arrived at her office with an urgent request from Sean Maher.

  “That’s all he said?” the doctor asked.

  Out of breath from his run up the street, Jimmy answered, “Aye, Doctor. Sean said to come quick. That’s all I know.”

  The doctor pulled her wool shawl close around her slender shoulders and, with a sharp breeze biting her face, continued on toward the station house.

  Arriving, she raised her hand to knock, but before her knuckles could touch the wooden door, she heard Julian’s voice softly calling for her to come in. Ailís forehead furrowed and wondered how he always knew she was there.

  She entered and hung her shawl by the door. The station curtains had been drawn. The only light was from a turf fire. She overheard Sean say, “I really wish you wouldn’t do that! I’ve told you, knowing who is at the door before you should know anyone is at the door, well, it isn’t the sort of thing a Christian gets up to.”

  Both men were seated in the rocking chairs before the fire. Ailís approached and welcomed the warmth of the fireplace. She took a seat on the long bench and turned to ask the nature of the problem. Sean motioned her to stay still and nodded toward Julian.

  Julian sat transfixed. His eyes were heavy lidded as he stared into the fireplace. His face wore a weary and painfully sad expression. He was distant and distracted.

  Ailís sat a long time watching Julian. The only sound in the room was the occasional pop of the peat and the ticking of the station’s wall clock.

  She moved to him slowly and knelt beside his chair taking his wrist as she did. “Julian,” she said. She had no difficulty locating his pulse, it was fast and matched his rapid shallow breaths. “Look at me.” He shifted his attention from the fire to focus on her face. His smile was slow and slight.

  “Tell me what has happened. When did this start?” She exchanged a look with Sean who only made a hapless, concerned gesture.

  “I’ve asked, but he won’t tell me. He wasn’t well at George’s wake yesterday. He took the death hard and he had the drink on him by the end of the evening. I left him here in the chair last night and he was this way when Oi got here this morning. We were going to talk about Georgie Sullivan, but, well you can see for yourself,” the big man said.

  Julian’s voice was low and slow. “I’m fine. Really. Probably just tired. I’ll be okay after I get some sleep. Please, don’t worry – either of you. There is no reason to talk about George though.”

  “What do you mean, Julian?” the doctor asked, but he did not respond. “I want you to come with me. Sean, help him up,” she said. Julian continued to look into the fire as though he hadn’t heard. She saw something, a flicker in Julian’s eyes. She relented and shook her head when Sean began to move to his friend.

  “Julian,” she said with whispered softness. “Do you know something about George Sullivan’s accident?”

  With an aching slowness, Julian said, “Wasn’t an accident. George was murdered. Three men beat him nearly to death. The hay bale didn’t fall. It was pulled down onto him.” The way Julian said it was definite. He said it with absolute assurance. It was as though he had just read it in the newspaper or seen it on television. For reasons neither could explain, Ailís and Sean believed him. They were troubled before, but Julian’s friends were nearly frantic with worry now.

  The room was warm, but Julian rose slowly and threw more peat on the fire. He sat and distractedly looked at the doctor, then looked back to the fireplace. Julian said, “That will be for you, Doctor. You’ll need to go quickly. He is in a great deal of pain and he is very weak. Sean, go with her, please. I would like to rest if you don’t mind. I feel so desperately tired.”

  Ailís’s concern was palpable. Sean was afraid for his friend. “Julian,” Sean said gently, “What are you talking about?”

  Julian never looked away from the fire. He raised his hand and pointed casually at the station door.

  A young boy pushed the door open without knocking causing Ailís and Sean to jump. “Come quick, Doctor. There’s Farmer Monahan and he’s hurt bad. They’ve taken him to your surgery. He’s bleedin’ somethin’ awful.”

  Ailís turned slowly and looked carefully at Julian. His features hadn’t changed. He sat and stared intently into the fire with the hope the flames might burn the images he saw from his mind.

  The doctor and Sean started to leave and Julian spoke again. “You’ll need to stay at your office, Ailís. Another injured man is being brought to you. I think it is Tommy Ryan. He’ll be here shortly. Sean, you’ll want to be there. Both men have been attacked.

  “They’ve been set upon by the same three men who killed George.” He closed his eyes tightly and pain was etched deeply on his face as George’s death scene played out before him again.

  Sean Maher, a man afraid of very little, crossed himself and was afraid for his friend. He held the door for the doctor.

  “Julian,” Ailís said as she gathered her shawl from the peg by the door, “we’ll talk about this later.”

  He looked up and smiled kindly, almost tenderly, cocked his head and said, “Talk about what?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “I watched a man die, Moira. George Sullivan – I watched him die. The images wouldn’t stop coming. I feel like I’m stuck in some endless loop. I’ve been watching him die over and over,” Julian said and closed his eyes trying to will away the images in his mind.

  “There have been other assaults and I’ve seen some of those attacks, but never so close and never in such detail. I was there this time. If this is a talent, I don’t want it.”

>   Moira had been watching Julian intently since he entered her house and sat down. With palpable compassion she said, “I’m sorry, Julian. I’m sorry you have been thrust into this position so soon. I am sorry I can’t take the bitterness away. As for the other, sadly, lad, the return window is closed.

  “Under normal circumstances you would not experience anything close to this for many years. Even then, it would have been slight and you would have built up to it. You have come so far, farther than I thought possible for anyone. I was fully three years getting to where you are now and I was considered lightening quick.”

  “Is this the Sight, Moira? I’m serious, if it is I honestly don’t want it.”

  “The Sight is it? What would the likes of you know of such things?”

  “I’ve seen it. My friend in Dublin has it. You have it. I don’t know how you live with it,” Julian said.

  “Well then, it is time we put some things to rights. As to your friend, I can’t say if she possesses the Darna Shealladh or not. If she does, she is one of the few. As for me, there you are mistaken. That is a gift I do not possess and am thankful for that. It is something a person is born to and a dreadful responsibility it is. It takes a person of rare character to bear it.

  “I see things, ’tis true, but what I see are bits and pieces only. Sometimes I see it all very clearly. At other times, I see scenes or an image and nothing more. Honestly, I’ve found it useful at times but a great distraction for the most part and like you, sometimes what I see has been agonizing.

  “As for your good self, you may trust me, you do not possess that gift. You may be able to see only into the past. Some can only see into the near future, while some see nothing at all. It is different for everyone,”

  Moira said and then continued. “I’m mindful of what you said, son. Seeing a horror like this is not easy. It will not get easier. If it does, if ever it isn’t painful to you to witness the suffering of another, quit. Get out. Set your burden down and never pick it up or speak of it again.