Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen)

by Stina Leicht

  Although she’d once told him Bran’s name, it seemed neither of them were willing to bring themselves to speak it. “He needs its origins and history, if that’s possible. It’s important.”

  Father Murray frowned and then got up, checking the hallway before shutting the kitchen door. “I’ve never asked this before.” He paused. “But how often do you see… him?”

  It was her turn to be uncomfortable. “Before Liam was born, I saw him every day. But now? Sometimes I don’t see him for years. We’ve met twice in the past three months. And he keeps pressing me to leave with him. Something is wrong, Father. I’m frightened.”

  Father Murray’s expression grew more distressed.

  “Don’t worry, Father. It’s married I am and married I’ll stay. I may not be a good woman, but I’ll not break my vow.” She sipped her tea.

  “Don’t be so hard upon yourself. You were young. Such beings can be very persuasive.” He stared out the window, thoughtful. “You must be careful. They have great power to do harm.”

  “Not my Bran,” she said, but doubt lurked in the back of her mind. She’d seen Bran angry only the once, and that was after she had married. She had been angry too, telling him to leave her forever. He’d said he never would and that he’d kill Patrick. The fierceness of Bran’s rage had been terrifying, and that, more than any other reason, had been why she’d kept Liam from him. Patrick could be cruel, she knew, but it was a mundane cruelty—a cruelty that had boundaries and could be reasoned with. “Bran has good in him. I told you so before, Father. If he didn’t, would my Liam be such as he is?”

  “The Bible says that fallen angels can give a fair appearance.”

  “He’s no angel, fallen or otherwise,” she said. “He’s a púca. Didn’t I tell you so? And sure, all the stories of them are dark and foreboding, but that’s not my Bran. He’s a good man. I trust him. He’s looked after us even after I married another. He always has.” She didn’t look Father Murray in the eye. Even she could hear the self-deceit in her words.

  Father Murray sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am.” She said it with more confidence than she felt, and knowing that he was only humoring her made the silence that followed stretch raw across her nerves. “I’ve something I wish to ask you, Father. It’s about my Liam.”

  He looked up from his tea. “What is it?”

  “You told me to watch for… unnatural things around him.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “I don’t know. But Bran said he’d seen him at the Kesh and that he’d used ‘the Glamour.’”

  “How?”

  “I was too afraid to ask.”

  Again, the silence pulled at the tension in the bright hominess of the kitchen. Father Murray shifted in his chair and then took a sip of tea.

  “I can have someone check on him,” Father Murray said.

  “But we’ve tried to get a visit. No one will let us in.”

  Father Murray nodded. “I’ve made arrangements to meet with a member of the Advisory Committee next week. It’s worked before. Liam has no political connections. They’ll have to release him.”

  He sounded so certain that she breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Now, about this coin,” Father Murray said. “What makes it so important?”

  “Bran says we must discover the name of a monster before the creature harms my family.” She didn’t mention that it was actually Bran’s safety and not her own that was the worry. As good a man as Father Murray was, his understanding did have its limits, and it seemed those limits began at Bran.

  As if to illustrate the point, a skeptical look flitted across Father Murray’s expression. “What sort of monster?”

  “A Redcap.” She whispered it and put her hand to the crucifix at her neck lest the creature hear its alias spoken and come calling.

  “All right, Mrs. Kelly,” Father Murray said. “I’ll check my sources at Queen’s University and Dublin. We’ll see what they have to say.” He reached into a pocket and produced a clear vial. “In the meantime, keep this with you. It’s holy water.”

  The tension in her neck loosened at once. “Thank you, Father. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Father Murray escorted Mrs. Kelly to the door and then watched her until she vanished down the street. He didn’t look forward to the call he was about to make, and he wanted to give the situation full consideration before he did so. From the day he’d first seen Liam he’d known there was something different about the boy. Dangerous—even at the age of thirteen. All Father Murray’s training and experience said as much, but after he had spoken to the lad—a mistake, so certain members of the church leadership had claimed—it had been difficult to believe Liam anything but an innocent. Even so, it had been quite a struggle keeping him in school and out of trouble for as long as he had, but it had been done to positive result. Father Murray had previously maintained a distance from his subject lest others view his observations as muddled with an overabundance of sentiment. Nonetheless, it was easy to see that Liam had grown into a good lad with a good heart. And if that were so, was it possible Mrs. Kelly was right about the boy’s father?

  Careful, Joe, he thought. That is an argument you won’t win.

  The thing that worried him was the report of Liam using “the Glamour.” If that were the case then the situation was far worse than Father Murray had thought possible, and his experiment had failed. He didn’t want to believe it.

  St. Francis, give me guidance, he prayed. What am I to do?

  Returning to the kitchen, he cleared away the tea and washed the dishes. When he was done he went to the table and picked up the coin. It was a shilling piece, he was fairly certain, and based upon the woman depicted on the front it appeared to be from the Tudor era. If that were the case, it was quite valuable. He decided to give his friend at the University in Dublin a call first. See what could be discovered.

  As for the disturbing report about the Glamour, well, that was second hand, was it not? He would do some checking before he made that call. If he weren’t allowed to visit Liam directly for whatever reason the British were concocting this month, there were other internees in the Kesh. The first to come to mind was Mrs. McKenna’s son, Michael—although, it was said the lad had taken a turn for the worse. Father Murray had heard rumors that conditions in the Kesh were appalling. Illness was common. Michael McKenna was but one name among the many recited each Sunday at Mass. With both husband and son interned and eight children still in school, poor Mrs. McKenna was beside herself. Were it not for the community pulling together to help, the McKennas would’ve been hard pressed to make ends meet.

  Mrs. McKenna has enough concerns, Father Murray thought. Perhaps it would be best to start with Kevin O’Donohue. He’d been released a day ago. The two lads had attended the same school. They knew of one another. Surely, it was possible Kevin might have news of Liam Kelly?

  Father Murray pocketed the coin, putting off his report to Bishop Avery, certain in the knowledge that the right decision would come to him. He did, however, go to the phone and request to be connected to his friend, Paul, in Dublin.

  Chapter 6

  Londonderry/Derry, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland

  16 January 1972

  “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he hath visited and redeemed his people.”

  Kathleen bowed her head while Father Michael began the graveside ceremony. Father Murray handed off the thurible to one of the altar boys—the eight-year-old McGowan boy whose name Kathleen couldn’t remember at the moment — and the heavy scent of burning frankincense faded away. The second altar boy, another of the McGowans, stood straight as a soldier, holding the parish’s brass cross like a banner. His fingers were white, and when he shivered the big cross at the top trembled with him. A cold wind saturated with mist blasted the mourning huddled shoulder to shoulder around the open grave. Father Murray quickly moved to assist Father Mich
ael with the open Bible, saving his place in the reading. Black umbrellas dotting the crowd recklessly propelled their owners against one another like sailboats anchored in a harbor during a brutal storm. Kathleen kept one hand on her scarf to keep it from flying off her head. Seemingly untroubled, Father Michael droned on.

  “That we should be saved from our enemies and from the hand of all that hate us—”

  Geraldine McKenna sobbed into a sodden white handkerchief. Kathleen stood tense at Geraldine’s right, watchful of those around her. Old Mrs. McKenna scowled from the opposite side of the grave, claws at the ready like a harpy. Kathleen damned well knew who that look was for, and it wasn’t Geraldine or Barney McKenna, but there was nothing to be done. As always, she must endure.

  Barney sniffed and put a supportive hand under Geraldine’s left elbow. The remaining McKenna children, ages four to thirteen years, had lined up next to their father who’d been temporarily released from Long Kesh for the funeral. In spite of the news reports, the make-shift prison had a frightful reputation among nationalists. The Kesh had certainly left its mark on Barney. His back was stooped, and his face was grey with grief. The damp hair sticking out from under his flat cap was now mostly white. Kathleen could’ve sworn he’d aged twenty years.

  And Michael lasted less than five months in that place, she thought. Michael McKenna had been a strong lad when he was arrested—just like her Liam. Young. Healthy. Nonetheless, it’d been the pneumonia that had killed Michael. The corpse they’d returned to his mother had been thin and bruised. Kathleen tried not to consider what that might mean in relation to her own son.

  She’d been in the hallway when she heard Geraldine’s scream through the open door and had rushed into the McKenna’s flat. Shoving past the stone-faced constable, she’d wrapped her arms around the hysterical Geraldine. Years of unacknowledged resentment had vanished in that instant of terror and sorrow. Alone, Geraldine had collapsed under the weight of her grief. So it was that in those first hours, there’d been no one but Kathleen to answer the phone or to meet the children on their walk from school or to see to the baby or to make the dinner. And there she’d remained until Geraldine’s in-laws had returned from Belfast late in the evening. She had tried not to take old Mrs. McKenna’s cold thanks personally, but it hadn’t been easy.

  Some sins are never forgotten, no matter the penance, Kathleen thought.

  Unfortunately, Geraldine didn’t seem to be dealing with the shock of losing her eldest son. She’d done little more than stare at the walls and weep. Dull-eyed, she wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t dress. Were it not for the Valium prescription Kathleen didn’t think Geraldine would’ve slept either.

  And how is it I would be, were it my Liam lying in that hole and not young Michael? And him only seventeen, she thought, blinking back a fresh bout of tears. Liam will be seventeen soon.

  Mary, Mother of God, please, she prayed. Don’t let them give him back to me in a box.

  Liam was healthy and safe for now. Father Murray had whispered the news to her in Geraldine’s kitchen during Michael’s wake. Recently released from Long Kesh, Kevin O’Donohue had seen Liam three days ago. It’d been all Kathleen could do to keep from sobbing her relief into Katie Molloy’s pickled cabbage. Later, her joy turned to shame when old Mrs. Cunningham asked her what it was she had to be happy about.

  All were reasons why Kathleen would have preferred to be safe among her own, but Geraldine had asked if she would stand by her during Michael’s funeral, and Kathleen had found it impossible to refuse.

  “Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit as it was in the Beginning, is now and will be forever. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Father Michael circled the coffin, sprinkling the holy water and muttering a blessing in Latin. Kathleen scanned the crowd for Patrick. Most of those attending the funeral were women and children. The news headlines, television and radio were dominated by crowing Unionist MPs proclaiming that all those arrested were IRA or terrorists. Kathleen considered herself a moderate. She held no animosity for the British. Her own father had lived and worked in London, but even she was finding the reporters more and more difficult to believe.

  Shifting in order to view the back of the cemetery better, she spied Patrick standing by the gate. He hadn’t taken a place with her sister, Sheila, and the children. Kathleen felt her mouth pinch into a flat line. Bleary-eyed, he hunched inside what passed for his best jacket, shirt and tie. He’d been at the wake most of the night and had been sound asleep when she and the children had left for the funeral Mass.

  Two British soldiers and a constable were stationed outside the cemetery gate. The soldiers stared at the mourners, rifles at the ready. She gritted her teeth against a sudden stab of fear and looked away. They must be here for Barney.

  Father Michael traced the sign of the cross over the coffin. “Réquiem æternam dona ei, Dómine.”

  Nervous and restless, she attempted to focus on the funeral, but movement under the huge oak at the back of the churchyard drew her attention from Father Michael’s Galway-laced Latin. She squinted at the edge of a shadow running the length of the trunk. Suddenly frozen, her heart stumbled. Was it the IRA, come to honor one of their own? While Michael had been known for a regular at Aggro Corner, if Geraldine were to be believed he hadn’t been political. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had been kept secret from the family. Kathleen glanced to the soldiers and then back to Barney. No one seemed to have noticed.

  Mother Mary, please don’t let it be a sniper.

  “Et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace. Amen.”

  “Amen.” She repeated the word along with the other mourners, unaware she’d done it. If it is, will the children be able to get away safe?

  “Anima ejus, et ánimæ ómnium fidélium defunctórum, per misericórdiam Dei requiéscant in pace. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  The shadow shifted again. This time she recognized him and gasped.

  Bran.

  He seemed vigilant as if standing guard. When he saw her he gave her a businesslike nod and a wink—acknowledging her presence but not indicating he had any need to meet or speak with her.

  Still, no one seemed to register he was there.

  What is he doing here?

  The funeral ended, and Freddie McGowan led the procession out of the graveyard. The littlest McGowan boy followed, carrying the Bible in front of him. Then Father Michael and Father Murray joined the procession. The crowd made a path for them, and Freddie’s brown curly head vanished in the sea of adults. The cross seemingly floated over their heads of its own accord, stopping at the cemetery gate and the soldiers. The air filled with the sounds of mourners preparing to leave. Two elderly ladies walked past the oak. One of them brushed Bran’s sleeve. She apologized without noting who it was she’d bumped and joined the others politely waiting for the grieving family to exit first.

  “What is it? Is something wrong?” Barney asked her, frightened.

  Kathleen paused before answering. “No. Everything is fine.”

  “We should get back to the flat,” Barney said. “They’ll be coming for me after the dinner.”

  Geraldine’s dull eyes grew sharp, and she clutched Barney’s arm in a panic. “No! I need you home! They can’t take you from me! Not now!”

  He curled a protective arm around Geraldine and made soothing noises. “There. There. Calm yourself now. It’s going to be all right.”

  “No it won’t! They’ll kill you too. Like they did our Michael. He didn’t do anything!”

  Kathleen forgot about Bran and turned to help Barney quiet Geraldine. Slowly the hysterical cries faded into sobs. Kathleen and Barney were able to half carry her as far as the gate. Then Geraldine tore herself free from Kathleen’s grasp.

  “Go away home, yous! Murderers!” Geraldine pointed a finger through the iron gate bars at a young private.

  The private brought his rifle to bear. A
ll at once, someone screamed, the mourners scattered, and the constable dropped to a defensive crouch. Kathleen tensed up in anticipation of gunfire. She scanned the churchyard for Sheila and the children, but didn’t see them. Father Murray stepped next to Geraldine. Barney rushed in to pull his wife from danger. Kathleen moved to follow but felt a cold hand on her wrist.

  “Stay back,” Bran whispered in her ear and tugged her toward the shelter of a tombstone.

  “They let my boy die! He was sick! And they let him die!” Geraldine turned away from the soldier, throwing herself into Barney’s arms.

  Father Murray held his hands up, and at the sudden movement the end of the rifle changed targets, digging into his chest. It made a dent in his vestment robes. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” His tone became steady and quiet. “Please, Private. Put down the gun. This is a funeral. These people are grieving. No one here means you any harm.”

  The young Private’s face was pale, and his grey eyes were wide. He blinked and swallowed. Kathleen thought she saw him shudder as the rifle was lowered.

  “Thank you, Private,” Father Murray said.

  Crouched behind a large tombstone with Bran, Kathleen let go of the breath she was holding.

  “That could have been a mess,” Bran whispered.

  Kathleen nodded, afraid to speak. Glancing up and to her left, she saw Barney comforting his wife less than six feet away.

  “And you almost walked right into the middle of it,” Bran said, keeping his voice low.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked in a fierce whisper, still searching for her children.

  “Protecting you from your own foolishness, it seems.”

  “What about your war? I thought you had more important things to do?”

  Bran smiled in an obvious attempt at charm. “What could be more important than keeping my sweet Kathleen safe from harm?” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles.

  The gesture was so tender that she winced and checked to see if anyone was looking. “You have to leave,” she said. “Now. Before someone sees you.”