BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  Bronwyn smoothed her skirt, wanting to change the subject. “What was it like to wake up in Fuilgaoth after spending all that time in the bog?”

  The knuckles of Cree's right hand traced an arc across the jet's window glass. “I wasn't happy to find myself imprisoned at Fuilgaoth, if that's what you mean.”

  “It must have been like going from one prison to another.”

  Cree looked away. “Aye.”

  “Were you and Sean...?”

  He turned, his eyes narrowed. “I don't want to talk about Cullen. Is that clear?”

  She raised her chin. “Why not?”

  “Leave it alone, woman!” He looked away, dismissing her.

  The rest of the flight was spent in silence. Somewhere over Kentucky, Bronwyn accepted a soda pop from the stewardess and a bag of salted nuts, but Cree refused to even acknowledge the stewardess’ presence. He stared out the window, his hands doubled into fists on the luxury chair arms. At one point, he got up, retrieved the satchel into which Bronwyn had placed the extra plastibags of Sustenance, and took it to the restroom. When he came back, he sat down, avoiding Bronwyn's look, and resumed his contemplation of the clouds.

  When the plane landed in Milledgeville, a light rain was falling. The tarmac was slick with silvery shadows as the plane settled on the runway. The sudden drag upon landing was not as exhilarating to Bronwyn as a takeoff, but it was nevertheless a slight thrill that always made her smile.

  A representative from the local funeral home was waiting with a limousine to take Bronwyn and her companion to Mason and Sons’ Funeral Home. He got out of the limo, opened an umbrella, and stood waiting for the plane to taxi to a stop.

  “He looks like a bloody vulture,” Cree snarled when they approached the waiting man.

  Bronwyn had to agree. The man was tall and thin, and dressed in black as he was, he did resemble a wiry bird of prey. His neck was crooked forward, adding to the vulture image, along with dark, beady eyes that seemed devoid of animation.

  “Dr. McGregor?” he inquired, coming forward to hold the umbrella over Bronwyn. “I am Richard Ludlum from Mason and Sons'. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Is Dr. O'Shea at the funeral parlor?” she asked.

  The lanky man winced. “We prefer to call it ‘the home,’ Dr. McGregor. It implies an abode from which we will take our final excursion.”

  “Bloody idjut.” Cree mumbled as he jerked upon the back door of the limousine. He glared at Bronwyn. “Will you get in or do you plan on catching your death of cold?”

  Mr. Ludlum tsked, obviously dismayed by Cree's behavior, but too polite to say anything. The gaunt man looked at Bronwyn with sympathy.

  “He's been cooped up too long,” she explained and heard Cree snort as she ducked into the back of the limo. “He's a bit out of sorts.”

  “He's a bit out of sorts,” Cree mimicked as Ludlum shut the door.

  “Better than me telling him you're a blooming ass,” she quipped and was surprised to see shock pass momentarily over Cree's face before he squinted and turned away.

  Ludlum kept up a continuous chatter about the places they passed on the way into town. Waving his thin hands like semaphores, he pointed out local attractions as though he had personally been responsible for their conception and building.

  At one point Cree leaned over and whispered in Bronwyn's ear. “If you don't shut that fool up, I am going to leap over the seat and pull out his throat!”

  Bronwyn turned to him, her gaze going automatically to the full lips that had sent a shiver straight through her ear to her belly. When she raised her eyes to his, she saw the lethality of his warning.

  “I mean it, Bronwyn. Either shut him up or I will.”

  “Mr. Ludlum?” Bronwyn asked, tearing her attention from Cree's steady look. She sat forward, her hand on the seat between herself and Cree.

  “Yes, Ma'am?”

  “Mr. Cree and I would like a few minutes of silence to pray. Would you be so kind as to accommodate us until we get to the home?”

  Ludlum looked at her in the rear view mirror, then shifted his beady eyes to Cree, who was glaring back at him with murderous intent.

  “Of course, Dr. McGregor,” Ludlum sniffed. He tightened his birdlike hands around the steering wheel. “I would be most happy to oblige.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ludlum,” Bronwyn said, breathing a sigh of relief as she sat back. She was unprepared as Cree reached over and covered her hand with his.

  “Good girl,” he said, giving her fingers a light squeeze before removing his hand.

  “Don't mention it,” she mumbled, feeling like a pet that had had its head patted.

  Brian was on the wide veranda of the funeral home when they arrived. He was smoking, something Bronwyn wasn't aware he did. When the limo pulled to a stop in the circular driveway, Brian flicked his cigarette into the nearby azalea bushes and came down the steps to meet them. He opened the limo door and reached for Bronwyn's hand, then helped her from the car, barely glancing at Cree, who climbed out of the other door.

  Brian gathered Bronwyn into his arms. “I've needed you, Dearling,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

  “I'm here, now,” she told him, putting her arms around him.

  “Let her get in out of the rain, Brian,” Cree grumbled, taking Bronwyn's arm to escort her up the steps.

  Bronwyn caught the look that passed between the two men and was surprised when Brian released her and gave in to Cree's possession of her.

  “They told me you have taken care of everything, Bronnie,” Brian said, following in their wake. “I really appreciate it.”

  “It's okay.”

  “I wasn't up to it,” Brian said and his gaze strayed to Cree.

  “Where is she?” Cree asked.

  Brian nodded down the hall. Tears filled his eyes. “They are....they have to...” He broke down, his shoulders sagging against the weight of his grief.

  Bronwyn put her hand on his back and rubbed gently. She looked at Cree. “Will you take care of him while I go talk to the funeral director?”

  Cree nodded. He cut his eyes down the corridor, then looked away.

  When she returned, Bronwyn told them everything was in order. Mr. Ludlum would be driving the body to Albany and they would be ready to go in about fifteen minutes.

  “I called our pilot and told him we would be accompanying Mrs. Cullen home,” Bronwyn said. “He'll fly the plane to the terminal in Albany and get a room for himself and the crew until we're ready to go back to Kellogg.”

  “I'll ride with Dorrie,” Brian said, but Cree angrily vetoed that suggestion.

  “You will ride with Bronwyn,” he said. “I will ride with my...” He shook his head brutally. “With Mrs. Cullen.”

  Brian opened his mouth to protest, but the look on the Reaper's face warned there would be no further discussion. Reluctantly, Brian bobbed his head and went to sit in one of the dainty chairs lining the hallway. He clasped his hands and looked at the ornate rug.

  “You handled that well,” Bronwyn whispered after casting Brian a quick look. “He didn't need to be in the hearse with her, but—”

  “But what?” Cree demanded, standing arms akimbo, his gaze narrowed.

  “Don't devour poor Mr. Ludlum in the bargain, okay?”

  Cree blinked, then the right side of his mouth twitched in what might have been a carefully controlled smirk. “I will attempt not to do so, but...”

  “But what?”

  “Warn the vulture I will not tolerate his useless prattle. One extraneous word out of his beak and I will squash him like an overripe melon.”

  “So noted.”

  “I mean it, Bronwyn.”

  “I know you do,” Bronwyn replied and went in search of Ludlum.

  * * * *

  Brian raised his head as Cree hunkered down before him. “Are you all right?” he asked the Reaper.

  Cree nodded. “Are you?”

  Brian shrugged. “I don't think so. I don
't think I ever will be again.”

  Cree put a hand on Brian's knee. “We're here for you.”

  A gentle smile stretched slowly across Brian's face. “We, is it, now?”

  The Reaper drew in a long breath and looked down the corridor where Bronwyn had walked. He exhaled slowly before locking gazes with Brian.

  “I love her,” he said. “I've always loved her and maybe one day I'll be able to tell her who I am.”

  Brian shook his head. “That would be the worst thing you could ever do, son.” When Cree started to protest, Brian put a hand on his cheek. “If you love her, then show her. Start fresh with her. Here and now. Make a life together if you want, but let the past bury the past. Don't resurrect Sean Cullen, Viraidan. Don't make the mistake of bringing him back. Let him go as she is letting him go.”

  “Is that what she's doing?” Cree asked, uncertainty clouding his amber gaze.

  “You don't think it is? She's interested in you. Even a blind man can see that.”

  Cree got up and walked a few feet away. “Does Viraidan Cree have a chance with her, though?”

  “More than most other men. She can't keep her eyes off you, and the way she tells it, she likes rye as opposed to white.”

  “She does what?”

  “You talk too much, Brian O'Shea,” Bronwyn snapped as she joined them.

  “What did he mean?” Cree queried.

  “Never mind.” Bronwyn cast Brian a warning look before changing the subject. “Have you had anything to eat today, Brian?”

  “Aye,” he replied.

  “Liar. Mr. Mason said you refused breakfast and lunch. I called the hospital and they said you didn't eat last night either.”

  “He had Sustenance,” Cree told her.

  “How do you know?” she demanded.

  “He'd be a raving lunatic if he hadn't.”

  “Better than being a flaming idjut,” Brian sighed.

  “Who administered your tenerse while you were down here?” Bronwyn asked.

  “One of the nurses,” Brian replied. “I told her it was insulin.” He shrugged. “She didn't question it.”

  Viraiden snorted. “What he isn't telling you is he mind-screw—”

  “I hypnotized her,” Brian interrupted, shooting Cree a stony glance.

  Bronwyn grinned. “Oh, you mind-screwed her.” She chuckled at Brian's immediate blush. “Makes sense.”

  “Happy you approve,” he mumbled.

  “The hearse will be ready in about twenty minutes,” Bronwyn informed them, looking at her watch. “Would you like to get something to eat before we leave?”

  Brian shook his head. “I couldn't eat anything if my life depended on it.”

  “Are you hungry?” Cree asked Bronwyn.

  “Yes,” she replied, “but I can wait if you two don't—”

  “Take her to get something to eat, Viraidan,” Brian ordered. “I'll be right here when you get back.”

  “There's a submarine shop around the corner,” Bronwyn suggested.

  Cree hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind. He took Bronwyn's arm in his powerful hand. “Let's go, then.”

  When they were almost out the door, Brian called after them. Cree turned to look at him. “Make sure she gets her rye bread, Cree,” he said, then chuckled.

  * * * *

  The ride to Albany was boring for Bronwyn. Brian had fallen asleep, his head on her shoulder, and the limo driver—a tall, cadaverous, black man dressed in an ebony suit—was not inclined to carry on idle conversation. He answered Bronwyn's questions but volunteered no information on his own.

  Above them, the sky was dark with occasional flashes of light to the West. A storm was brewing, and Bronwyn hoped they would get to Albany well in advance of it.

  By the time the entourage of two funeral cars reached the Stein Funeral Home, Bronwyn was worn out from the trip and dreading what she knew lay ahead. She had made arrangements to have a rental car at her disposal and she thought she recognized the one it would be when they pulled into the parking lot. It would be necessary for her to go to the church, speak with the priest, and to make what other final arrangements were necessary to lay Dorrie Cullen to rest.

  “We're here, Brian,” she said, gently shaking him.

  Brian sat up and rubbed his eyes. He winced when he looked around. “The hearse...?”

  “They've already pulled around back.”

  There had been a heated discussion as they wound their way to Albany. Bronwyn refused to allow Brian to stay a minute longer with Dorrie's body once they arrived. There were procedures that must be followed. Despite his virulent protests, there would be no exception. Some things, Bronwyn had reminded the grieving man, should not to be witnessed by loved ones.

  “You've been with her all morning, Brian,” she said. “Let others care for her for a while.”

  Brian lowered his head. “I hate letting go.”

  “We all have to at some point, sweetie.”

  “As you have let go?”

  Bronwyn smiled. “In my mind, I let him go long before now, but my heart is finally losing its grip on him, Brian. Don't get me wrong. I will love him forever, but I've finally come to realize that it's time to move on. I don't think he'd want me to spend my life alone.”

  “I know he wouldn't. But he'd want you to be with the right man.”

  “And who would that be?”

  A light tap on the window brought Bronwyn's head around. Cree opened her door and offered his hand to help her out.

  “They're expecting a severe thunderstorm,” he said. “You'd better get to the motel.”

  “Aren't you coming with us?” she asked as she took his hand.

  “I need to buy a suit, remember?”

  “Do you want us to come with you?”

  “I think the man is old enough to buy his own clothes, Bronnie,” Brian snorted.

  “Yes, but he doesn't know Albany and—”

  “I'm not an imbecile,” Cree growled. “I can find my way around.”

  Bronwyn ground her teeth. “I didn't say you were stupid, Aidan,” she began but a severe thunderclap cut her off. She shrieked involuntarily.

  “Get her to the motel, Brian,” Cree ordered.

  “Will do.” Brian ushered Bronwyn toward the rental car.

  As Brian started the engine, Bronwyn looked back and wondered aloud why Cree was entering the funeral home.

  “He's got to have a car, doesn't he?” Brian asked, pulling onto Dawson Road. The downpour started and he squinted at the windshield. “He probably went in to call the rental place.”

  “I suppose you're right. I just hate for him to be roaming around lost in the rain.”

  Brian adjusted the rear view mirror. “He'll be fine. The man is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”

  * * * *

  They allowed him to see Dorrie before the embalming process began. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her flesh before it was corrupted with chemicals and by the touch of strangers’ hands.

  The ride to Albany had been hell. He could smell her as she lay in the coffin behind him. It was the scent of death, of impending corruption, and it had saddened him more than he thought possible.

  It was also the scent of his mother—flesh of his flesh; she, who had brought a portion of him into this world. It had been she who had been the first to love him; she who had taken care of his needs, and had seen to his hurts; she who had known of the love that had been his entire being and had encouraged it.

  The funeral director had opened the coffin and left the lid up. There was a dim light just to the right of the catafalque upon which the coffin sat. The glow from the torchiere cast its light upward, away from the coffin, so the illumination did not fall directly on the dead woman's face. Thoughtfully, the director had also placed a prie-dieu before the coffin.

  Viraidan Cree stood beside Sean Cullen's mother's coffin for a long while, gazing at the serene face that belied the years of physical and mental abuse she
had suffered at the hands of Tym Cullen. He let his attention crawl over the deep lines in Dorrie Cullen's countenance—refusing to dwell on the scars he also found there—and marveled at the stark whiteness of her cropped hair. His vision traveled to the gnarled hands lying atop one another. There were wrinkles there, too, and liver spots and extended purple veins that seemed so fragile against her milky white skin. Returning his scrutiny to her face, he traced the paper-thin consistency of her half-closed eyelids and the thinness of her lips. The creative touch of the cosmetician had yet to apply the rouge, powder, and lipstick. The stitches had yet to seal those thin lips and eyelids together for all eternity.

  Taking a deep breath, the part of him that was still Sean Cullen made the Sign of the Cross and slipped to its knees on the prie-dieu. He hung his head, his hands clasped on the back of the prayer stand, then began the memorized prayers of his childhood for the Repose of a Soul. When his prayers were done, he raised his head and looked at his mother.

  That part of him that was Viraidan Cree had never known a mother's loving touch. He had never seen the female part of the equation that had given him life; had never heard a lullaby sung to him when he was sick or a gentle voice assuring him all would be well with his world. He wondered what Dorrie Cullen's voice had been like, and when the soft singing began in his head, he knew Sean was giving him the opportunity to know.

  Tears fell heedlessly down the Reaper's cheeks as the old Irish lullaby wafted gently through his mind. He felt a phantom touch—long-remembered by the man that was so much a part of him—upon his brow, along his back, and knew vicariously the loving touch he had been denied as a bantling. He felt arms surrounding him, holding him, giving him comfort, and he thought his heart would break with the grief that welled up inside him.

  “Mama,” he sobbed, and felt to the very depths of him the agony that Sean Cullen was feeling.

  He covered her frail hands with his own. The hardness of her flesh, the coldness, did not register. All he felt was the sadness at the loss of those loving hands. Never again would his mother touch him, hold him, or place her sweet kisses upon his feverish brow. Never again would she croon to him in her lilting voice or chastise him with exaggerated annoyance. She was gone from his life forever. Only her gentle memory would remain.