The video was black and white and grainy. It showed a figure in the woods near the site of the new mill they were building. The ghostly structure of the half-built mill dwarfed the figure, which looked too tall for a man. Mike’s stomach clenched involuntarily as he watched the figure pause by the mill, turn towards the compound and then slip into the woods.
If we didn’t all have the Wicker Man on the brain, would I even be imagining the figure was taller than average? It didn’t matter. Whoever it was shouldn’t have been there at night.
“What are we looking at?” Sarah asked from over his shoulder.
“Just an eejit in a costume,” Mike said.
“A really tall eejit,” she said.
“But he’s here at night,” John said. “That means they know we’re videotaping them.”
The lad had a point. The cameras weren’t hidden. The so-called Wicker Man would have known exactly where to prance about in order to provide the best effect.
“Right,” Mike said, standing up. “Let’s put an end to this.”
“Are you going to let them see?” Declan asked. It was the first he’d spoken. He was still staring at the computer screen although the video had stopped.
“No point,” Mike said. “Anyone looking at it will see what he wants.” He spoke the words deliberately but whether or not Declan understood his meaning wasn’t clear.
Mike turned and walked out to the porch around which most of the compound’s inhabitants were waiting for his report.
“It’s only someone dressed up for Halloween,” he said. “It’s no more the Wicker Man than I am.”
A murmur ran through the group and when Declan joined Mike on the porch someone yelled out, “Well, was it him, Dec? Is he on the video?”
A muscle flinched in Declan’s jaw as he pushed past Mike into the crowd.
“It’s a prank, like Donovan said,” Declan said.
Mike held up his hands to get everyone’s attention.
“I meant what I said. If I hear anyone spreading rumors of monsters in the woods or talking trees, the compound sheriff will lock you up. So think on that. Meanwhile, nobody goes out or lets anyone in without direct petition to me or Declan Cooper. Now go to bed.”
Someone at the back of the crowd called back, “We want to see the tape! Show it to us!”
“You heard his Lordship,” Declan said. “Go back to your homes. We’re in lockdown. Go on now.”
Mike watched them as they turned and walked away. He closed the front door behind him.
“What the hell is Declan’s problem?” he said in exasperation. “He knows we have to keep a united front. Did you hear him at the meeting?”
“I did.” Sarah had retreated to the doorway of their bedroom. Her shawl was wrapped tightly around her shoulders. It was a cold night with autumn giving way to the first hints of winter. Mike turned to Gavin and John.
“The Franklin stove will be hot all night, lads,” Mike said. “If it’s too cold in your rooms doss down in the living room.”
They nodded and John gave his mother a goodnight kiss on the cheek before retiring.
Mike couldn’t remember ever feeling this tired. He watched Sarah change into her night clothes and was reminded that something wasn’t right. He waited until they were in bed and he drew her to his chest, smoothing her long dark hair down her back with a hand, and kissed her.
“What is it, love?” he whispered.
She laughed and he took heart from that. He loved her laugh, loved how she never held back. As long as he lived he’d never lose the amazement and gratitude that she’d come back to him—when she had every reason in the world not to. Sometimes it was hard to believe that he held her in his arms every night and that her beautiful face was the first sight he saw every morning.
“I’m not sure you can handle one more thing on your plate today,” she whispered.
“If it’s you dishing it up, I can. What’s been bothering you? Did something happen with Father Riley?”
“No, it’s not that, although it does sort of belong in the realm of miracles, I suppose.”
Mike turned to face her and frowned. “Now you really have my curiosity, lass. Out with it.”
“You know how it is when you know someone really well? Like how I think I know you?”
“Riddles is it?” Mike sighed patiently.
“And even though I know you so well that I can predict your next move, I’ve just spent a full day not at all sure what you’ll say.”
“Sarah, darlin.’ I’m begging you.”
“Because the one thing you and I never talked about in all the time we were fighting bad guys or battling fires or saving each other from death a few hundred times over is how we felt about adding to the current Irish population.”
Mike stared at her. “Adding to the…”
“I’m pregnant.”
His grin started before she even finished her two word statement. “Saints alive!” he crowed, crushing her to him and then pulling back as if he’d hurt her. “When? Feck me!”
“When is anybody’s guess since we have crap prenatal care around here.”
He threw his head back and laughed and felt a warmth spread through his chest that washed away the day, the crowd on his doorstep, and even the graves in the field.
“Sarah, we’re going to have a bairn? But I thought…didn’t you say…?”
“I’m as surprised as you are.”
“But happy about it?”
Tears sprang to her eyes and she cupped his face in her hands.
“So happy,” she said.
He laid a hand on her flat abdomen.
“A child together, “ he said, shaking his head. “How could someone so undeserving be so blessed?”
*****
The next morning Mike woke to the amplified sounds of Mickey Quinn outside his window. Mike turned to nudge Sarah.
“Did you really need to bring bullhorns back with you from America?”
Sarah laughed and kissed her husband.
“What was I thinking? As if you needed to make your voice any louder.”
“Good people of New Dublin,” Mickey shouted through the bullhorn. “It’s time to save ourselves by appeasing the little people!”
“Bastard bugger,” Mike muttered, throwing the covers back and leaping out of bed. “I’ll ring his scrawny neck.”
“Mike, why don’t you invite him inside for pancakes? Mickey loves pancakes.”
“Jaysus and Mary, the whole world’s gone barking mad,” Mike said, pulling on his jeans and striding out of the bedroom. Still barefooted, he jerked open the front door to the cottage.
“Mickey Quinn, you old bollocks,” he bellowed, “put down that horn or I’ll make you swallow it, so help me I will.”
Mickey was standing on one of the benches surrounding the cold remnants of last night’s campfire. He looked at Mike with surprise as if he’d forgotten he was standing outside his cottage.
Sarah tugged on Mike’s belt. “I told you to invite him in for pancakes,” she said, laughing. “But I guess in Ireland threatening to shove a bullhorn down his throat is a close second. Shut the door. You’re freezing the whole house!”
Mickey turned the bullhorn toward Mike.
“You’ll not be keeping us from doing what’s needs doing, Michael Donovan! We have seen the Wicker Man and we’ll be doing his bidding.”
Mike bared his teeth as he felt Sarah pull him back into the cottage.
“You are not throwing that sad little old man in jail, Mike, so stop it this minute.”
“He’s waking the whole compound with his nonsense!”
“Well, they should probably be up anyway.” Sarah moved into the kitchen to light the stove and put the kettle on. She was dressed in jeans and a wool tunic and Mike tried to see if he could see evidence of the little one on the way. She turned to him and smiled.
“It’s early days yet,” she said.
He shook off his irritation with Mickey
and joined her in the kitchen, drawing her into his arms. Seems he couldn’t be in the same room with her without touching her. It had pretty much been that way since the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
And that moment if he remembered correctly she’d pointed a gun at him.
“When, do you guess?” he asked.
“May, I think. I should be well recovered in time for the harvest.”
“As if I’d have you out in the fields. Don’t even think of it, Sarah.”
Sarah stood on her tip toes and kissed him on the mouth.
“Well, we have plenty of time to work it out,” she said. “First things first.”
“You mean like kill that blighter Mickey Quinn?”
“I was going to say tea.”
An hour later, Mike joined a group of men standing in front of his house. Lately, he’d taken to meeting with them first thing in order to divide up manpower for the various jobs around the compound. This lot looked less like a work crew and more like a strike.
Six men stood with their hands in their pockets—never a good sign—and watched him come down the porch. Declan was among them. Four more men stood talking to Mickey who, thankfully, had tired of his new toy and was eating an egg biscuit Sarah had sent out to him.
Deciding action was better than reaction, Mike pointed to the ones who looked like trouble, noting that Barney Murdoch, the father of Gavin’s lass, appeared to be the ringleader.
“You lot work at the mill site today,” he said. “Barney? How are we doing with the dam?”
The gambit worked. Murdoch puffed out his chest at being singled out and tucked his hands under his armpits.
“Nearly done, Squire,” he said. “A few more wheelbarrows packed in the right spots and Bob’s your uncle.”
“And the stonework?” Mike wanted as much of the mill as possible made of reclaimed stone and rock. Post-crisis, fire was second only to starvation as the biggest threat.
“It’ll take twice as long,” Murdoch said. “If you’d let us create the house out of wood, we’d be grinding our own flour by Christmas.”
That was an exaggeration but it had its effect on the rest of the men. Ever since the mill was proposed as a way of storing the wheat sheaves—for many months if need be, erasing the terror of a bad harvest year—the compound had been eager to finish it.
“We’ll be grinding it soon enough,” Mike said. He turned to Declan. Whatever the man was upset about, he was clearly still upset. Maybe Mike should have a talk to Fiona to see if she knew any more about what was bothering her husband.
“We need a burial detail,” Mike said.
“They’ve already volunteered,” Dec said, his face impassive. Mike noticed the men standing with Declan were all gypsies. On the one hand he was sorry Declan was making this a race issue, but on the other hand, by doing so it kept the tragedy firmly in the realm of the secular.
He watched the compound women going about their usual chores of hanging clothes, plucking chickens, and baking. It occurred to Mike that he might want to drop in on Margaret Keenan and Siobhan but decided against it. Best not to stir the pot if things weren’t boiling over.
“Mickey,” he called to the old man who was licking the grease from breakfast off his fingers. “Will you be going with Mr. Murdoch to give your expertise on the stonework needed?”
Mickey stood up and set his bullhorn down.
“Aye,” he said. “With pleasure.” Mickey looked around the square as if he’d forgotten something. Mike very much hoped that was the case. He turned back to Declan.
“I’ll be ready in five,” Mike said to Declan.
Declan turned to walk away. “I’ll thank you to leave it to us,” he said over his shoulder.
Mike hesitated and then let him go.
With the compound back to its normal level of busyness, Mike tasked John and Gavin with cleaning out the stables and gave strict orders for both of them to stay inside the compound. Not surprisingly, the order was met with a certain amount of resistance but Mike did not doubt they would obey him.
He hated not being a part of what he knew was one of the worst chores anyone in the little community had ever been asked to do. He was the leader. He should be there. But if Declan saw Mike’s involvement as an intrusion in any way, Mike had to respect that. It was a delicate balance but in the end, easier to just step back.
He tacked up his big bay, Gunner. He didn’t expect to be gone long but Sarah had insisted he bring several ham biscuits with him. He knew her thinking. If he truly did return in time for lunch, he’d give them out along the road. Probably should do it even if he was going to miss his lunch.
It was cold and the heavy ceiling of fat gray clouds meant rain at some point. Good. Maybe that would keep the blighters from dressing up and trying to scare the compound.
And what is the point of that? Who is doing it? And why? Is it connected to the gypsy killings? Is it the gypsy contingency in the compound that’s made New Dublin a target? Because while it’s true the people are imagining things that aren’t there, the fact remains that there are some things that are there. The bodies of twenty men, women and children. The shaking bushes on the video. The figure masquerading as the Wicker Man.
When he and Declan went looking for the leader of the druid group who was supposed to be in the area, they found nothing. Not a cold campfire, not a hoof print. How can they be here but not be here?
Mike shook his head. I’m starting to sound like Siobhan. Or crazy Mickey Quinn.
A kilometer outside the village of Ballinagh the road stretched and wound around rocks and hedges like an undulating snake yet afforded a view of the horizon unimpeded by trees. Mike could see the smoke rising from the chimneys in the village off in the distance. And he could see the one horse trap making its way slowly toward him, coming from the direction of Ballinagh.
He frowned. He knew every man, woman and child in Ballinagh and their mode of transportation. There were few horses and fewer horse-drawn conveyances. He squinted into the dim sunlight as the pony trap drew closer.
A man sat in the seat of the buggy with a hat pulled low over his eyes. Clearly he’d been watching Mike for the last mile.
These days were not a good time to be a stranger.
When it became obvious the man intended to ride by without stopping, Mike held up his hand and hailed him.
“Whoa, friend,” Mike said, pulling his horse up in front of the buggy. The man’s horse looked tired and underfed but that wasn’t unusual these days. Mike kept his hand up in a stopping motion in order to allow the man to see that he was armed, his shoulder holster visible under his jacket.
The man reined the cart to a halt and dropped his right hand to the seat next to him.
“I’m not here to rob you,” Mike said, “so I’ll be needing you to keep your hands where I can see them.”
The man brought both hands up. His eyes were cold and wary.
“What do you want with me, friend?” he said with a French accent.
“Where are you from?” Mike asked. He moved closer to the cart and glanced in the back. There were boxes and a suitcase.
“I came from Wales,” the man said. “My name is Antoine Berger. I mean no harm. I am just passing through.”
“I see you just came from the village,” Mike said, moving around the cart. “May I ask why?”
“I was hoping to sell my wares for food. That is all.”
“You’re French.”
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“You’ve come to Ireland by way of Wales.”
“That is what I said.”
“I can’t help but think there must be more to your story, Monsieur Berger.” Mike leaned against the pommel of his saddle, trying to catch the man’s eyes.
Berger dropped his hands to his lap.
“My story,” he said, his voice bitter and halting. “I am looking for someone.”
“Who?”
Berger paused and then said, “My daughter.”
“It is a sad story, Monsieur and I am sure you have heard many such.”
Mike made up his mind. He swung down from his bay, opened his saddle bag and pulled out the sandwiches.
“You have something I want, Monsieur Berger,” Mike said as he climbed into the cart, startling the man.
“Monsieur?”
Mike handed him one of the biscuits. “You have news of the continent. I will happily trade for that.”
Berger hesitated only a moment before snatching the food and devouring it with both hands.
Mike handed him all the sandwiches. “For later,” he said. “Now, tell me your news.”
After an hour, Mike was back on the road to Ballinagh and the Frenchman was on his way to the center of Ireland to continue the search for his daughter. The girl had been eight when the bomb dropped and had been living with Berger’s ex-wife and her new husband on the western coast of Ireland. A year ago, Berger packed up his belongings and made the trek across France, England and Wales—trading along the way for food.
When Mike asked him why he waited so long to look for her, Berger said his government had encouraged its citizens to believe the power grid would be restored to Ireland soon. So he waited. He would be waiting still if something terrible hadn’t happened to make him abandon his home on the outskirts of Paris and begin his journey to Ireland.
“What was it that made you leave?” Mike had asked.
“A sickness in Italy that spread quickly to France, taking lives by the thousands, overnight.” Berger stared into the cold winter landscape as if reliving the devastation of the disease in his country.
“What are your leaders doing about it? Will the rest of the world help?”
“It is a sickness that the government is powerless to stop,” Berger had said.
When they parted and Mike continued on to Ballinagh, his shoulders weighed down with the horror of what Berger had told him.
Could it come here? Was it bacterial? A virus? Berger hadn’t known.
While France and the rest of Europe had not been affected by the EMP that disabled all of Ireland and much of England, all the electricity and working cellphones on Earth were no match for what the watching world was calling the New First World Plague.
Irish End Games, Books 4-5-6 Page 7