by Stina Leicht
Someone coughed and another man laughed. To her credit, Sister Catherine didn’t acknowledge either.
“—which will be a boon to the service. Thank you.” She returned to her seat with a dignified nod of the head to the Cardinal.
“With that,” Cardinal Sabatini said, “we turn to the respected representative from the Archdiocese of Rome.”
Another long discussion resulted, this one regarding the state of the secrecy of the Order, supplies and various other administrative issues. Commendations were given to various members for bravery, but Father Murray’s mind wandered to how he might approach the idea of a truce with the Fair Folk. As much as he’d prepared, he wasn’t entirely confident. As the meeting drew to an end, Father Thomas elbowed him.
“This is it,” he said. “Now or never.”
Father Murray raised his hand. “Your Grace, if it is permitted, I would like to address the Convocation.”
Cardinal Sabatini nodded his bald head. “You may do so, Father… ah….”
“Father Murray, Your Grace. From Northern Ireland.”
“Ah, yes,” Cardinal Sabatini said. “Please come forward. I understand you have been experimenting with the idea that some children of the Fallen might be… salvageable. A most controversial and dangerous position given the history of the Fallen.”
Sweating, Father Murray stood up with his heart pounding in his ears. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. This is it, he thought. “Yes, Your Grace. It is my work with one such individual that brings me here today.”
Cardinal Sabatini looked confused. “Yes?”
“Due to my interactions with the subject and those associated with him, I’ve come to the conclusion that he is not a son of the Fallen.”
“He is human?” Cardinal Sabatini asked. “The Spotter was mistaken in his assessment?”
“Yes and no, Your Grace,” Father Murray said. “I believe the Spotter was mistaken. However, he was correct in that the subject is not human. It is my belief that he may be a son of one of the Good Folk.”
The line between Cardinal Sabatini’s eyes darkened. “I don’t understand.”
“He is one of what the people of Ireland refer to as the Good Neighbors.”
“A fairy?” An elderly bishop at the end of the row asked. His voice was crisp and British, and it framed a perfectly mannered contempt. “Fairies aren’t real.”
“I beg the Convocation’s indulgence,” Father Murray said. “But I believe that the Church may have been short-sighted in categorizing all paranormal entities as demons, ghosts or fallen angels. I wish to make a study—”
The room erupted in shouts and arguments. Several members stood up and were waving their arms. Not all the objections were in English.
Cardinal Sabatini pounded the table with his fist again. “Silence! There will be silence!”
The voices died away.
“Father Murray, you propose that fairies exist?” Cardinal Sabatini asked, looking down his long nose. “This is preposterous!”
“I merely request the Convocation’s approval to investigate the matter. I feel it is important—”
“You waste our time, boy,” the English bishop said. “Chasing fantasies of children. Next, you’ll tell us leprechauns are real.”
“But what if it is possible that these creatures exist? We might count upon them as allies in our war.”
“I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in all my life,” an American bishop said.
“If there is even a small amount of uncertainty,” a bishop with a French accent said, “then I believe it is worth investigation.”
“We must be cert—”
“No!” The English bishop stood up. “I won’t stand for this ridiculous, childish—”
“Childish? It’s childish to question whether or not we’re making a serious mistake? Assassinating an entire people merely because we cannot admit to being wrong is beyond unethical,” Father Murray said. “It’s diabolical!”
The Cardinal was once again banging on the table in front of him. “Silence!”
This time it took several minutes for the room to grow quiet.
“Father Murray, you are to refrain from such outbursts,” Cardinal Sabatini said. “The matter has been brought before the Convocation and will be considered. The presbytery now convenes this Convocation. Go in peace.”
“That didn’t go so well,” Father Murray said, sitting down.
“What did you expect?” Father Thomas asked. “You practically called Bishop Wilkinson an advocate for racial extermination.”
Father Murray said, “I suppose I could have phrased it better.”
“You must watch yourself, Joseph,” Father Thomas whispered. “You can’t continue on this way. It won’t work. You’re committing career suicide. All for nothing.”
“It isn’t for nothing,” Father Murray said. “I’m right. I know it.”
“Well,” Father Thomas said, “you’d best start proving it. Otherwise, we’ll be facing serious problems. This isn’t just going to come down on you now, but Bishop Avery as well.”
Father Murray watched the delegates exit the room. A few of them glanced in his direction—most of the looks weren’t friendly. The room was nearly empty when Sister Catherine stopped at the end of the row in which they were sitting.
“For what it’s worth,” she said. “I thought you had a point.”
“Thank you,” Father Murray said.
“Hope you have better luck than we’ve had,” she said. “It took ten years to change the Cardinal’s mind. And as it stands, my Order will only participate in an administrative capacity.”
Father Murray felt his mouth drop open. “I thought—”
“It’s for show mostly,” she said, frowning. “We’re to free up the men who will fight. Isn’t that a kicker? Still, it’s a start.”
“Are you there?” Father Murray whispered to the trees in the back of the cemetery outside St. Agnes’s Church, feeling ridiculous. “Bran?” It was dark under the frigid branches of the ash tree in spite of a full moon peering out from among the clouds. He’d made two attempts to reach Bran to no avail, and he was about to give up when a wind gust clattered the tree branches, and a chill crawled slowly down his back. He got the feeling he wasn’t alone just before he spied movement near the big Celtic cross in the center of the churchyard.
“This had best be good, priest.” There was no sign of Bran, only his voice floating hollow on the wind.
“I brought my proposal before Bishop Avery as promised.”
“What proposal?” The voice was more solid now, but Bran still didn’t make an appearance.
“The truce. It took some time but I was able to speak before the Convocation.”
“And?”
Father Murray sighed. “It will take more time than I’d hoped. They refuse to believe you exist as separate entities.”
Cold laughter echoed between the gravestones, containing layers of bitterness and anger that had been distilled for years—perhaps even centuries.
Moving nearer to the stone cross, Father Murray said, “I wish I had better news. There are those among the order who might support my position. But I need more time.”
“Time is all that I have, priest. Regardless of what happens. You, however, are another matter.”
“Let me bring Bishop Avery to you.”
“No.”
“The killing has to stop,” Father Murray said. “There must be an end to it.”
“There will be an end,” Bran said. “It won’t be one either of us will like. But there will be an end, I assure you.”
“Please. Give me another—”
“You had your chance, priest. Do not call upon me again. I will kill you if you do.”
Father Murray walked around the Celtic cross and found no one there. He laid a hand on cold limestone, the rough surface scratching his palm. “Please. We must not give up. For the sake of your son—if for no other reason.”
The wind rustled the dead leaves among the graves.
“They know who he is. They know where he lives,” Father Murray said. “Now that I’ve angered the Convocation, I don’t know how much longer I can protect him.”
“Was that a threat?”
Starting, Father Murray turned to see Bran standing directly behind him. His eyes glittered red in the darkness, and once more Father Murray wasn’t sure he liked having Bran so close.
“It was meant only as a warning.”
“A warning,” Bran said, frowning.
“There are members of my Order who don’t agree with what I’ve done. They believe I should have—” Father Murray stopped himself and swallowed. He may be on sacred ground, but he was far from safe.
Bran’s eyes narrowed. “Speak, Joe Murray, priest.”
A curious tingling sensation brushed against Father Murray’s skin, and he felt a sudden need to continue. For a brief instant he recalled reading about the use of names among the Good Neighbors, and fear raised the hairs on his arms before he dismissed it as mere superstition. “Bishop Avery supports my decision regarding Liam as does my direct supervisor. However, there are those who are pressing for action.”
“Execution, you mean.”
I’ve said too much, Father Murray thought. “I’m doing everything I can. But I need help. Give me something—anything—I can take to the bishop to convince the Convocation.”
“Your priests have killed us for demons since setting foot in this land. Centuries of murder. Is there any such proof in all the world to make them stop?”
“I must try.” Father Murray let his shoulders fall. “The hopelessness of the fight doesn’t matter.”
A sad smile crept across Bran’s face. “I understand.”
Pausing, Father Murray said, “I grant you my word that I will not stand for further assassinations of the Fair Folk.”
“You would go against your own in this?”
“I must act as my conscience dictates.”
Bran stared, the flames in his gaze fading into mere sparks. “I am confused.”
“Christ lived among the lepers and the tax collectors—”
“You would compare us to the weak and disreputable among mortals?”
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I intended at all,” Father Murray said. “I was attempting to—”
“You choose to follow the ways of your gods regardless of whether or not those among your elders believe as you do.”
Father Murray paused and then nodded. “However, I am not sure how I can tell the difference between our mutual enemies and….”He let his voice trail off. He’d been searching for the distinctions between the Fallen and the Good Folk, but there was no information available. No comparisons had been made in all of the history of the Church. He had only the old stories, and those were rarely consistent. Most were obvious fabrications.
Bran shook his head. “You wish to know the difference between ourselves and the Fallen?”
“If I were able to show the committee a clear distinction then I could make progress. Otherwise, I’ve nothing but my intuition and that isn’t enough.”
“Interesting,” Bran said, sitting on the top of a tombstone. “It is possible that a talisman might be arranged. However, its use would be restricted to yourself and no other.”
“But that won’t help me prove to the Convocation that a difference exists. Once again, they would only have my word.”
“Your committee is not my problem. The safety of my own is, and such a thing could be used against us.” Bran shook his head and sighed. “So, tell me. How is it you make a distinction between mortals in your wars?”
Father Murray gave the question consideration. “Uniforms. Language. Appearance.”
One of Bran’s eyebrows twitched upward. “I saw a man shoot another dead in the street while he was waiting for a bus. Neither one was wearing a uniform. And I’d swear both were Irish.”
Sighing, Father Murray said, “Our current troubles are difficult to explain. The sides are less demarked.”
“Aye?”
“There are those who feel Ireland should exist free from the English. All of Ireland. Not only the south. They are Nationalists,” Father Murray said. “And the Loyalists fear such a thing and wish to prevent it from happening.”
“Why?”
“As long as partition exists the Loyalists are the majority. They have power. The moment Northern Ireland becomes a part of the Republic is the moment they become a minority. They will lose their control. Their power. They fear being abused as they have abused.”
“I see,” Bran said. “And how is it you know the difference between these Nationalists and Loyalists?”
“It’s difficult to explain. In part, it is divided along religious lines. However, the conflict has nothing to do with religion.”
“But you are aware of the differences?”
“For the most part, I am.”
“Not all of the Good Folk are to be trusted,” Bran said. “There are those among us who work for the Fallen. I can’t give you an easy answer for why any more than you can give me one.”
Father Murray looked up into the sky. God help me, he prayed. “Nonetheless, this talisman would be a step in the right direction. I would be grateful for it.”
“Then I will put my faith in you, Joe Murray, priest.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not certain it is a gift for which you should be thankful. Possession of such an item will make you many enemies,” Bran said. “But you will have my protection as you grant your protection to my son.”
“May I contact you again?”
Bran looked away and didn’t speak for a long while. Father Murray heard a rabbit or a cat move through the hedge to his right.
“Aye,” Bran said. “You are convincing, priest. You risk much. It is only fair that I should do the same. We, the Fianna, cannot win this war alone any more than mortals have a chance against the Fallen. It would be wise for us to fight together. Together there is hope.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“But take care where you use my name,” Bran said. “And take care how you would use the talisman.”
“I will.”
Several days later there came a knock upon the parochial house door while Father Andrew was away. When Father Murray answered there was no one there. However, resting in the exact center of the mat was a round stone with a hole in the center. A leather thong was tied to it. Picking it up, he stepped out onto the walk and scanned the area. He didn’t see anyone.
“Thank you,” he whispered and went back inside to see what he could discover in his research about holey stones.
Chapter 20
Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
23 December 1976
“Can’t believe you took such a risk,” Oran said.
“What better way? Delivered safe and whole to the man’s own car park?” Liam asked. He sipped his whiskey and winked. Sitting at Oran’s table, he was having a quick glass of Christmas cheer before heading home. A nagging thought had told him he should go home, but when Oran had held up the bottle of Bushmills and raised an eyebrow the matter had been settled. Elizabeth and the children were gone to her mother’s, and Liam didn’t know when Mary Kate might make another slip. One more round would lend him the courage to tell Oran the news. Every day for two months Mary Kate had exacted a promise not to speak of it but that morning before Liam had left she’d forgotten. It was an opportunity he couldn’t miss.
Oran said, “Surely, you didn’t walk from the Shankill?”
“You were the one saying the RUC was getting close,” Liam said with a shrug.
“It’s fucking mad you are. Leaving the car in front of a known Loyalist’s house. One of the RUC, no less.”
Liam smiled. “Did the man a service, I did. Gave the car a new set of spark plugs and a nice cleaning. Thi
s way, we don’t have to burn it out after. And who knows? I might borrow it again. Already done all that work on the suspension. Owner couldn’t possibly begrudge a few miles on the engine and some petrol.”
“And did the RUC catch on?”
Waiting until Oran had taken a drink, Liam said, “Came for him this morning. Who’d have thought they had such a grudge against Captain Beefheart? One small sticker, and they go mad.”
“You’ve gone off your nut.”
“Maybe I have,” Liam said. “It isn’t the first time.”
“What?” Oran asked. “You’ve done this before?”
“Just giving the RUC the guidance they need.” Liam took another sip of whiskey. “Anyway, I’ve got some news.”
“What news?” Oran asked, looking uneasy.
“Congratulate me.”
“What for?” Oran asked. “Surviving your own foolishness?”
Liam grinned. “Is that any way to speak of someone’s Da?”
Oran looked blank. “What are you on about?”
“Mary Kate. She’s pregnant.”
“But I thought you two were waiting?”
Liam shrugged. “She changed her mind.”
Holding up his glass, Oran said, “Well, then. Congratulations, man. It’s about damned time. Was starting to think something was wrong with your—”
“Don’t even.”
“How many tries did it take?”
“What makes you think I’d tell the likes of you a thing like that?” Liam leaned forward and grinned. “The first time.”
Oran whistled. “Wait until Elizabeth hears of this. She’ll be that jealous I got the news first.”
“You can’t.”
“What do you mean I can’t?”
“Mary Kate has some stupid notion that speaking of the baby will bring bad luck.”
“She’s going to have to say something sooner or later,” Oran said. “Has she not told her own mother?”