Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen)

by Stina Leicht

  She sighed and blinked the blurriness from her vision. He’s grown into the very spirit and image of you. My heart aches every time I see him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  They walked together between tombstones and Celtic crosses to the back of the churchyard. When she was sure they were far enough from the street she stopped beneath an ancient oak tree. “What is it that’s so important?”

  Bran’s face clouded. “You may be in danger. I’ll shield you both as much as I can, but the war with the Fallen has taken a bad turn, and I’m needed elsewhere.”

  “You’re always needed elsewhere.” And if you wanted the truth of it, that’s the very reason why I’ll not leave this life for you. I can’t count on you, she thought. I can’t trust you’ll stay and be a father to my children. I can’t even trust you’ll appear in regular intervals. She stood a little straighter in spite of the emotions ripping her apart. “Well, what is it?”

  “Do you know of a creature called a Redcap?”

  “You’ve come from the Other Side to warn me of a bogey man?”

  “He’s real, Kathleen, and he’s sworn to destroy my men, me and mine. One by one.”

  “Why?”

  Bran looked away. “It’s lovely here. So peaceful.”

  “Don’t you shy away from my question. You’ll tell me straight, or I’m walking out of this churchyard and never speaking to you again.”

  “Oh, Kathleen.”

  “I mean it.” To emphasize the point she took three steps toward the gate.

  “Wait!”

  She slowly turned to face him but otherwise didn’t move or speak.

  “Please! It’s important!”

  The urgency in his voice frightened her, but she wasn’t about to let him know he’d gotten to her, or how much she needed him. “Out with it, then.”

  “It’s only that I wished to speak of more pleasant things first. Rest in the shade of the oak together a while. Talk. Like we used to. When we first loved each other.”

  “I’ve no time for your pretty words. I should not have had it then. So, say what it is you’ve come to say. Or I’ll make you swear to speak only truth—”

  “You would put such a thing upon me? You would bind me so?”

  She didn’t understand why it was he felt so bound by the promises she forced out of him, but it had always been so; and because his word-bond was the only hold she had on him, she had always been careful of it. Bran was a proud man. She knew there was a limit to how far she could push without breaking him. And break him, she could. She’d seen it. Extracting that promise regarding Liam had come close enough. So many years. So much pain.

  Why do I torture him so? She narrowed her eyes and set her jaw, waiting with a shuddering heart.

  “I told you of the war with the Fallen. The ones the new religion brought with it.”

  She nodded. She didn’t know what to think of the things he’d told her over the years—that the old myths were every bit as real as the Church. Such thoughts were enough to shake the foundations of her faith. The Good Folk warring with fallen angels. She wasn’t sure if she should believe him. In truth, she couldn’t even be sure what or who Bran really was.

  Bran said, “There have been setbacks.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Fallen have summoned allies from over the sea. The Redcap is among the worst,” Bran said. “Very powerful. He established a rath not far from the coast. Me and my men broke it and burned it to the ground.”

  “That’s all?”

  “It’s been a long war even by our terms. Lies mixed with truth goad the fires of hate. Some of our own have died the final death. Emotions run hot, and there are those who thirst for revenge,” Bran said, staring at a tombstone. “Things were done at that rath that shouldn’t have been done. Things that went beyond the normal terms of war. It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t the one who perpetrated the acts, or that the ones that did have been punished. They were my men, and they stepped over the line. I’m responsible.”

  “Oh.” A cold gust blew from the north, tearing at the scarf on her head and stinging her cheeks.

  “Please, Kathleen. For my sake. For the boy’s. Be careful of strangers.” He closed his eyes. “The iron will do no good against the likes of him. Uncle Fionn says you’ll have to use your bitty cross. Keep it with you at all times. Tie red thread around it. Good Irish linen will do the trick.”

  “I will.”

  “Make sure the boy does the same.”

  It was her turn to flinch. “He’s gone. They’ve lifted him.”

  “Who?”

  “The BAs. The British Army. Who else? He’s gone, and I don’t know where they’ve taken him.” It felt good to tell someone who wasn’t merely interested in gossip—someone who could help. “Will you get him home?”

  “I’ll do what I can. I swear it.”

  “Thank you.” Her breath hitched and suddenly the tears were pouring down her cheeks enough to compete with the rain. Bran opened his arms to her, and she dropped her umbrella and went to him, grabbing his waist as if she were drowning. Maybe she was. She certainly didn’t care who might see. Most of her life was spent being strong for other people. For once she would have something for herself. She needed him. She needed this. It didn’t matter that it was against everything she’d been taught to believe and everything she taught her own children.

  She felt him tug away her scarf. His hand smoothed her wet hair and slid down her back. “Shhhh. There now,” he said. “My beautiful Kathleen.”

  A derisive sound worked its way up her throat.

  “You doubt me? It’s the truth, I’m telling.”

  She felt him kiss the top of her head, and she gloried in his tenderness. After a while she reached into her coat pocket, fishing out her handkerchief. She pulled back and wiped her face. Her nose and cheeks felt half-frozen. Her hair was sticking to her skin. She was shivering now. It was so cold in the churchyard.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He lifted her chin and before she could speak a word against it, he kissed her. She didn’t fight it. Worse, against her better judgment, she kissed him back. The strength of her passion made her forget all but the fire that ran through her body. His hands crept beneath her coat and inside her blouse. His fingers were cold at first but grew warmer by the time he plunged into her bra. Her pulse quickened in response. When she was sure someone was going to notice she released him and stepped back. “I have to go.”

  “Stay. Give me a little something to keep warm.” He winked.

  “I thought you had to be somewhere?”

  “Uncle Fionn can wait.”

  “And your son? What of him?”

  He combed the fingers of his right hand through his hair, a gesture she’d seen her eldest son replicate in every way since he was a boy. She shivered again and this time it wasn’t the fault of the chill.

  The sins of the father.

  Bran said, “You’re right. I’ll go to him.”

  “He knows nothing of you, or your kind,” she said, buttoning her blouse. “Bear that in mind when you find him.”

  “You’ve never told him anything?”

  “Nothing at all,” she said. “I’m still not sure he’d understand. He… he looks like you. You’ll know him by that at least.”

  A flash of pride and surprise shot across his expression.

  “Let me tell him in my own way,” she said. “It has to be done gently.”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll never even know ’twas me.”

  “Good.” She tucked in her blouse and smoothed her skirt. “How do I look?”

  “Like a beautiful woman in dire need of a good bedding.”

  “Hush now!” A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it. She covered her mouth to catch it but was too late. “I’ll have you know, I’m a respectable woman.”

  He arched an eyebrow at her. “Ah, more’s the pity. For I love you, Kathleen O’Byrne,
and I always will.”

  Kelly, she thought. I’m Kathleen Kelly, but not at this moment. She allowed herself an indulgent smile in spite of herself. “I love you too.”

  “Are you sure you’ll not come with me?”

  Retrieving her umbrella, she decided the rain had already done its work and closed it. Let them think her mad for walking in the rain. It was the same rain that ran over her lover’s body and the only intimacy she’d ever share with him again. “Ask me another time.” Before her resolve could break, she turned and ran out of the churchyard like a school girl.

  As she went, his voice floated after her. “I’ll love you forever, Kathleen.”

  She couldn’t help thinking that forever was a long time for one of the Good Folk.

  Chapter 3

  Long Kesh Internment Camp

  Lisburn, County Down, Northern Ireland

  December 1971

  Trailing behind Kevin O’Donohue, Tom Finney and Hugh Conner, Liam paced the perimeter of the chain link fence in the cold and battled intense homesickness. He used to believe men didn’t weep for their mothers no matter how frightened they were, but a few days in the Kesh had taught him otherwise. Men cried in the night when others couldn’t see. It didn’t matter that with forty prisoners packed into a space designed to hold half that many that there was every chance of being heard. The hearing wasn’t the issue. It was the being seen. So it was that the first lesson he’d learned from Long Kesh was that men didn’t acknowledge what happened in the dark no matter what.

  Each night their cots were shoved edge touching edge in order to fit inside the old tin Quonset hut. Of course, about all that did was keep the rain off since the space heater didn’t work past the first row of cots. Built in the 1940s and intended for use as an airplane hanger, the barrack was bloody freezing and the air seemed crowded with the hacking cough of the sick.

  Being the youngest in his “cage”—the term the prisoners used for the fenced compounds inside the Kesh—meant that at best he was tolerated or at worst, bullied, which wasn’t much different than the outside when he thought about it. It didn’t hurt that Liam was taller than average. He had a good three inches on Kevin and a whole foot over Tom and Hugh. Some of the older prisoners liked to joke and call him the “big man.” Although, what the others didn’t have in height they made up for in brawn, unlike Liam.

  “You want a smoke, Liam, my lad?” Kevin was eighteen and as luck would have it, from Derry. He had sandy-colored hair that brushed his shoulders, and he walked with a limp, the result of a confrontation with a BA.

  A blond guard in the tower above them looked down at them. Something about the way he was staring spooked Liam.

  “Sure.” He accepted the cigarette, uncertain what to do with it. His mother didn’t approve of smoking—not that he’d had the money for it, anyway. As a result, he’d never smoked in his life and didn’t carry matches or a lighter. His stomach tightened in a jittery knot. He was afraid of shaming himself. He didn’t know Kevin well, having only seen him in the streets around Derry. The other two were from other parts of the country, and he didn’t know them at all, but it was easy to see that Tom and Hugh didn’t approve of Kevin’s sympathies.

  “Aren’t you going to light it?” Tom squinted at him.

  Hugh sneered. “Maybe he don’t got a light.”

  Stuck, Liam looked to Kevin, who pantomimed placing the cigarette behind an ear. “Oh,” he said, taking Kevin’s hint. “Ah. I think I’ll save it. For later.”

  Hugh laughed. “Look at him. A right cool one, he is.”

  “To be sure,” Tom said. “Until someone knocks the piss out of him. Then we’ll see him crying for his mammy like a babby.”

  Kevin said, “Maybe Liam is saving it for trade.”

  The chain-link fences between the cages were where one went to barter with the other prisoners. News, books, food—all flowed through the fences from one cage to the next. The entire make-shift prison was connected like one big organism in this way. Some Loyalists were known to barter with Catholics upon occasion. Cigarettes made good trade because no matter the brand they crossed the divides.

  Hugh asked, “Saving it for trade? What you got in mind must be special. What might that be?”

  “Don’t know, yet,” Liam said. “But I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

  “He’s sure to think of something,” Tom said in a sing-song falsetto. “Oh, pull me other one.”

  “Knock it off yous,” Kevin said. “Let’s talk to the boys in the next cage. Maybe one of them got the paper.” Kevin played football and was among the best in spite of the leg. He liked to keep up with the Derry City team as well as Celtic—not that there would be any football news. The season was well over, but there was always the speculation about next year’s season.

  The moment Kevin’s back was turned Tom’s expression changed into something that said Liam was no better than a dog’s leavings and whispered, “Going to pound the shite out of you, mammy’s boy.”

  Liam was confused as to why Tom insisted on calling him that. There’d been no word from home yet, and he hadn’t had a visit either. He was starting to wonder if his mother had forgotten all about him.

  Hugh gave him the two fingers and then trotted to catch up with Kevin.

  Deciding it’d be best to stay behind, Liam paused and considered his options, but Kevin turned and shouted for him to stop lagging. He glanced up at the blond guard who was still watching with an intent expression. A chill ran down Liam’s back for no reason he could name and that settled it. He ran after Kevin.

  Dinner consisted of a thin stew which Kevin warned him not to eat with a shake of the head. Liam put his spoon back down and reached for the slice of bread balanced on the corner of the bowl. Tom kicked him hard under the table, and when Liam reached down to massage the hurt out of his shin Hugh snatched the bread slice and glared. Taking a big bite, he paused to give Liam a toothy grin. It was easy enough to get the message: Don’t say a word, or you’ll regret it.

  Liam drank his tea in silence. A strange prickling sensation started in his fingers, shot up both arms and slammed into his chest. Breathing became difficult. The tingling grew painful. He tried rubbing his palms on his jeans to make it go away, but it didn’t work. Increasingly uncomfortable, he reached down and shifted his chair. The instant his hand gripped metal, the feeling stopped.

  “Sit still, you wee shite,” Hugh hissed.

  Fuck you and your fucking friend, Liam thought and went back to his tea. He imagined giving Hugh a good kicking and the prickling returned. Experimentally, he touched the edge of his chair. Again, the sensation receded. Interesting.

  Guards strolled along the edge of the canteen, the blond man from the tower among them. Liam looked away before anyone could notice and caught the stench of bad cologne with an undercurrent of stale beer as the man moved closer. Something brushed the back of Liam’s neck when the blond guard went past. Instinctively, Liam jerked away.

  “What’s with you?” Tom asked.

  “Sod off,” Liam whispered.

  “I heard that,” Hugh said.

  After dinner Liam decided to take a walk. The others were off practicing football to keep warm and while a good runner, Liam was shite at football. The older ones were off playing cards or writing letters in the study hut. Each cage had four or five huts which included living quarters, the recreation hut with the washroom, the study hut and the drying hut where wet clothes were hung when the weather was bad. In Liam’s short experience, the weather was almost always bad. He’d heard the drying hut was where you went when you wanted to be alone. However, he was new and wasn’t sure it’d be safe. So, he pulled up his collar against the north wind and buttoned his coat. He considered what Mary Kate might be doing. It would be Christmas soon, and if they didn’t release him, it’d be his first away from home. Christmas was his favorite holiday. His mother did the baking every

  year, filling up the flat with the smells of fresh bread, b
iscuits and tea.

  His stomach rumbled.

  It was no good torturing himself. He changed the image in his head from the kitchen to the sitting room. His Aunt Sheila would make a huge paper chain out of yellow construction paper with the help of the little ones. The tree would go up next week, and if he were home, the thing would annoy him something fierce—not the smell. He loved the smell of fresh Christmas tree, but no matter how small it was it would take up half the room. Now, he wished for nothing more than to be tripping over it in the dark on his way to bed. His chest ached, and he blinked back tears, taking a deep breath of cold air.

  Furtive whispers to his left stopped him. Too late, he saw it was Tom and one of the other young internees. A glimpse of ragged magazine pages and a photo of a bare breast told Liam that Tom was negotiating the use of his most recent and most valuable commodity—three pages ripped from a copy of Mayfair. Liam had heard that Tom and Hugh were charging for five minutes alone behind the shed with the photo of your choice.

  Blushing, Liam brought his shoulders up and continued walking in the hope that he’d not been noticed.

  “Liam!”

  Dread knotted Liam’s stomach in an instant.

  “I’m feeling generous today. You can have a go at Eleanor for that cigarette you been holding.”

  Liam shook his head no. The heat in his face spread out to his ears. He turned his face away.

  “What’s the matter, mammy’s boy? Never seen a snap of a naked bird before?” Tom asked, retrieving the wrinkled pages. His latest customer vanished down the path in hurry.

  “I have,” Liam said. “My stepfather has whole magazines. Not only a page.” At age twelve he’d stumbled upon a copy of Mayfair hidden in a cupboard and was found out before he’d had a chance to peek inside the cover. Patrick had nearly beaten the life out of him and had threatened worse if Liam said a word to his mother. The next day the magazine was gone, and he’d never had another chance since.

  Tom said, “All right, then. One cig.”