I trembled, pushing myself further back.
“Don’t be afraid of us, Melanie. Your ability to see and hear us makes you very special.”
Special? Not weird, or sick. I shook my head. This was madness.
“Yes, it does,” Orla said. “This is a good thing. I understand why you’re afraid. You’ve grown up believing we’re nothing but stories and myths. Of course it’s going to be a shock to find out we’re real. Most humans don’t want to accept that there are people like you, who can see not just what everyone else sees, but our world, the liminal world, too. So they call it mental illness, and lock you up. You’re not sick, Melanie. You’re special. There are others like you, here in Belfast. We need people like you.”
I’d never considered hearing voices, and now seeing who, or what, they belonged to, as useful. She waited for me, letting what she’d said sink in. I thought about the ward at the Mater, how I’d known all along that I didn’t belong there, how none of the treatments Dr. Taylor tried had helped me. They hadn’t worked, because they couldn’t block out reality. I couldn’t deny that Orla and the fay from last night were real. I heard them. I saw them. I could touch them. They weren’t just body-less voices in my head anymore. I’d hated being drugged and experimented on. I didn’t really want to go back there, did I? Sure, I’d be free of the judgment of the neighbours, of Dawn, but, what if there was something to this? What if I didn’t have to go back into the hospital? What if I could be useful instead of some doped up zombie walking the halls of the mental ward for the rest of my life? Wouldn’t it be worth looking into?
“How?”
“Liminal means in between. We are stuck between this world and the Other world. We’re a part of both, and yet we are not fully in either. Druids are our anchor into this world. We live here, yes, but over time, we have lost many powers we once possessed. Druids still have those powers, to intervene on behalf of the humans when the gods are angry, and you help us care for this land we live in. We depend on you to barter with the gods, to perform rituals to save this earth, and to protect us.”
“That’s not possible,” I whispered.
“It is, Melanie. Not right away, of course. It will take you years of study in the Druid Enclave, under Oisin, head of the Druidic Order. He and the others will teach you the stories and rituals. I understand this is overwhelming. Seeing us is the first step. A baby step.”
Overwhelming was an understatement. I huddled there, mulling over her words, trying to make sense of it all. Orla patiently waited.
As unbelievable as it all sounded, her explanation made more sense to me than Dr. Taylor’s diagnosis. Another puzzle piece fit into place. “So, I’m not sick?”
“Not to us, no,” Orla said. “To your parents and other humans, you very much are. But no amount of medication will help you, and when the doctors figure that out, they are going to put you in the hospital indefinitely. We need you out here.”
I sat up. Orla was very real. The winged men on the street last night had been very real. Fuzzy, but real. “The fay who were on my street last night, what were they doing?” I asked.
“Stirring up trouble for humans,” Orla said. “Us liminals live at night. It’s the lingering after-effect of our ancestors having been trapped under the hills for a thousand years. We were once nearly as human as you are, before we were exiled. We escaped the hills centuries ago but we still can’t co-exist with humans, not really. We usually only go out at night. Talking with you as I did today, that’s an exception for me. We have found we can survive if we give humans free reign during daylight, and free up the night for ourselves. My people figured out the easiest way to claim the night as our own was through creating conflict which made humans all too afraid to go out at night.”
Oh, good God! More puzzle pieces snicked into place.
“You’re responsible?” I asked. “Decades, centuries of violence in Northern Ireland—everyone living in fear, too afraid to go out because that’s when the bombs and riots happen—it’s because of fay?”
Orla sighed. “I’m afraid so, more or less. It’s not something I agree with. Eamon and I have very different opinions on it. He sees the conflict as necessary to our survival. I’m working with the druids and a few others in the liminal community, to convince Eamon, and others who think as he does, that it isn’t.”
“As a druid, would I be helping Eamon or you?”
“Both, at first. Though I hope you will want to help me should you have to choose.”
I was more than intrigued to think that what others thought of as my mental illness, might actually be useful in stopping the violence. “If I want to look into this druid thing instead of going back to the hospital, what do I have to do?”
Orla’s smile was kind, caring, maternal. “You need to find a way to the Enclave. It isn’t some weird-looking place. It looks like any other house when you walk past it. Oisin will be expecting you. He and the others will take you in. I promise they will teach you everything you need to know.”
My bag was half-packed already. Mum and Dad were trying to ring Dr. Taylor. If what Dad had said was true, I had a day or two at most to consider this before I would be sent to the Mater permanently. “Where is this place?”
“Fitzwilliam Street,” Orla said. “Number 63. Do you know where it is?”
I nodded. I had no idea how I was going to get myself there.
“I’ll leave you to think on it,” Orla said. “I’m going to tell Oisin that your family wants you to go back to the hospital. Hopefully he will find a way to get you, but he can’t come and take you. He has to be careful. Please, find your way to Fitzwilliam Street.”
“I’ll do my best,” I whispered.
I took a few minutes to collect myself, fix my hair and my clothes, then went down stairs to the computer. Mum and Dad were in the kitchen, at the table, talking in low voices over tea and biscuits. I slipped into the front sitting room without them seeing me.
Instead of going to my usual Sugababes fan forum—I had so much to catch up after having no computer access all summer, but that would have to wait—I opened up Google and typed in 63 Fitzwilliam Street. It came up as “Care Home for the Mentally Ill.” In the corner was a picture of a square Celtic knot. I clicked on it and a new page opened up, welcoming me to—
The Druidic Order of Belfast.
I wondered if anyone who searched the website could see that image.
Or just people like me.
Mum and I sat on our front step watching people gathering on the street in anticipation of the parade that would pass in about half an hour. The security gate cutting Workman off from Springfield had already been adorned with Union Jacks and a white sign saying, “Equal Access Denied Once Again.”
Though the red, white, and blue paint on the curbs hadn’t been refreshed in several years, it was still prominent, even in its faded glory.
I wondered if Dawn would come out to watch. It was possible she was with her mum at the Whiterock Orange Lodge helping get the lunch set-up for when the marchers arrived. What would I do if I saw her? What would she do if she saw me?
“Are you sure you want to be out here?” Mum asked.
I nodded. Other than feeling a little groggy from my tablets, anxious about this whole druid business, and desperate to appear normal, I was all right. “I want to cheer Dad on when he marches by,” I said. I’d lain awake again, most of the night, thinking about what Orla had said to me. All the puzzle pieces were now in place, and the picture made sense in its full-colour glory. I made sense. I was a druid. I could find others like me, and I could be useful, if—and it was a big “if”—I could make contact with Oisin.
In the periphery of my vision, I noticed several fay standing on the roofs of the homes on my street looking down on us.
Orla stood in the neighbouring garden. She stepped over the low brick wall dividing our property. “How are you? You had quite a shock yesterday,” she said, with a lilt in her voice.
Th
ough I’d eaten breakfast not long ago, my stomach rumbled. I looked at Orla, wondering if it was the subliminal lilt that had caused my hunger. Orla merely winked at me.
“We need nibbles,” Mum said. “Would you like some crisps, Love?”
“That would be brilliant. And maybe a sandwich? Thanks.”
Mum kissed the top of my head before going in. I could tell she was still worried about me, but I was doing much better at acting normal today.
“You gave me a lot to think about,” I muttered to Orla. I turned a bit to my right so I could keep an eye on the intersection of Workman and Forth, where the bands would be coming from, where some of the hard men of the paramilitaries were gathering, watching the rest of us.
Eamon hopped from rooftop to rooftop. He stopped on top of the house across the street from me, turned to me and dipped his head in a bow, acknowledging that I could see him. I returned the gesture. He joined the other fay on the rooftops closer to the security gate.
“I thought you said the fay don’t come out during the day,” I said.
“Parades are different.” Orla stood next to me, arms crossed, shaking her head as Eamon and his soldiers settled into their places above us. Suddenly, she stifled a cry. “Oh, goddess. Dawn, no,” she whispered. “She’s not supposed to be here. She was supposed to be on holiday this weekend.”
I followed her gaze. Dawn and her mum stood in their front garden, flags in hand, ready for the parade. I waved. She smiled and waved back. Her mum spotted me and, scowling, quickly turned Dawn around. Dawn turned back and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
Orla lifted into the air, then settled again, clearly agitated.
Dawn’s mum. Huh. So that was it. That was why Dawn hadn’t visited me in the hospital, or come to see me yesterday. She hadn’t . . . abandoned me. She was still my friend. “You know her?” I asked.
“She’s . . . oh goddess.” Orla pressed her hands to her temple. “Of course. He made it so she’d be here. That’s why he’s doing this.” She lifted into the air again, craning at Dawn as if trying to see better.
“What do you mean? What’s going on?”
Orla took a deep breath. “Dawn. She’s my daughter.”
“What?” I spluttered. Dawn had a mum—
Orla landed and paced the narrow patch of cement that made up my front garden, her eyes never leaving Dawn. “Eamon took her from me just after she was born. He gave her to this family.” She waved in the direction of Dawn’s home, her mum. “He destroyed any connection she might have had to our world, to me.”
Good God! “What kind of evil is he? Why would he do that?”
“Politics.” Her pacing increased, and she absently pounded the brick wall in front of our garden with her fists as she roamed. “He wants me to suffer because I oppose him.” She stopped. “He must have manipulated her family into staying for the parade. He knew he was going to start a riot today.”
The fay song had manipulated Dawn into protesting. “But, he was nice. He told you about me. Why be nice to me?”
She whirled, her eyes pleading with me. “Because we need you. We need druids. Not even Eamon can deny that.” She turned back to the innocent scene before them, grabbing her hair with clawed fingers. “But to him, Dawn is expendable.”
I was having some serious second thoughts about wanting to be a druid and helping the liminals. They were more messed up than the human world. “Go. Help her.”
“I can’t!” Orla cried out, agony inflecting her voice. “I can’t touch a human!”
Mum came out of the house carrying a tray with a couple of Fantas, bacon sandwiches, and packets of Tayto Cheese and Onion crisps. “Everything all right?” Mum asked.
I stared at Mum. Be normal. Be normal. I helped myself to a sandwich and Fanta. Dawn was now standing on the curb with some other neighbours, chatting laughing. She had no clue what was going on around her. “Aye, grand,” I lied, chomping down on my sandwich. If only Mum was still inside so I could keep on talking to Orla. Why was Eamon so duplicitous? Orla would explain it to me if I could just ask her.
The small clusters of neighbours chatting broke up as more and more people gathered on the street. Several waved small Union Jacks. Across the street, too far for me to hear, one woman sang to her baby in a stroller, marching in place and waving her flag to the beat of her song.
The fay began to sing. Celebration and discontent nudged at me from the periphery. Though I knew the emotions were caused by Eamon and his soldiers, I still struggled to push them aside.
Orla flitted over the wall and stood by Dawn, softly humming a soothing melody, edging out the discontent. Her song calmed me and a few others in close proximity.
Drum beats and the first notes of the flutes announced the arrival of the parade. The first pipe and drum band rounded the corner, led by their banner carriers, representing the Whiterock Orange Lodge.
I got up. Discontent niggled at me but Orla’s song was strong enough.
Mum grabbed my arm. “Melanie, stay here, with me.”
“It’s all right, Mum,” I said with a reassuring smile. “Come with me.”
Reluctantly, Mum followed me out onto the sidewalk. I edged closer to Dawn. Orla used her magnificent black-webbed butterfly-like wings to balance along the waist-high wall that defined the boundaries between garden and sidewalk.
More bands rounded the corner. Lodge members in their bowler hats and orange sashes marched between each of the bands. Three more lodge bands passed before I could cheer my dad marching by. He waved and tipped his bowler to me, a smile cracking his concentration. A couple of the fay hovered over a handful of the younger marchers, cawing their discordant song. Thankfully, they left Dad alone.
The tail end of the parade disappeared down the street. Before Orla and I could complete our sighs of relief, a small group of marchers, the ones the fay had paid the most attention to, broke off from the parade and returned. They carried their banner and beat their drums in front of the security gate.
“Melanie.” Mum tugged at my elbow.
A police Land Rover pulled up to the corner of Forth and Workman and the crowd, maybe two hundred in total, pooled around it.
“Melanie—”
Other fay stood next to the vehicle. With every dissonant note the fay sang, the police officers tensed.
A few young men climbed up onto the security gate and hung their Orange Lodge banner over the razor wire, dangling it on the other side. There must have been Republicans over there because moments later a handful of rocks and an empty wine bottle were thrown over the gate.
The volume of the fay song rose. So did Orla’s, but Eamon drifted over, directing his song at Dawn, one eye on Orla. Dawn stepped off the curb.
“No! Dawn!” I cried out.
Orla rose into the air, singing desperately to her daughter, trying to worm between Dawn and Eamon. Eamon shoved her away.
Dawn drifted towards the crowd, beyond the reach of Orla’s soothing song.
“Dawn!” I yelled.
“Dawn!” Orla’s song broke off in a screech, and Dawn disappeared into the crowd.
“Melanie!” It was my Mum. “Get home, now!”
I pulled my elbow from Mum’s grasp and ran onto the street into the crushing masses. Mum called after me but I ignored her.
The crowd moved in slow motion toward the security gate. The top of Dawn’s head was still visible at the back of the crowd. The fay song was loud. I couldn’t hear Orla. I had to rely on myself to suppress the anger they stirred in me.They’re manipulating me, I repeated to myself as I got closer to Dawn.
The marchers, the instigators, pounded on the metal. The ones on the gate tossed debris over to the other side. Others fell in around me, pushing me further from Dawn. If they got any closer to the gate, Dawn was going to get crushed.
I pushed harder, shoving, elbowing, kneeing, whatever was necessary to get to her. The press of the surging crowd nearly picked me up off my feet. An errant elbow narrowly missed my
nose, landing squarely on my forehead instead. It stung but I had to keep going. Dawn had flung a hand into the air, and her fingertips were still in my sights.
I’d never say I was the slimmest of girls, but I was thinner than most around me. I bent low and did my best to squeeze between the bodies. Someone stepped on my foot. My ankle twisted.
“Orla! Help me!” I could only hope she heard me. I didn’t even know where she was.
By the time I reached Dawn, she had fallen. Her eyes were filled with terror.
One of the younger marchers was trying to use her as a stepladder to climb the gate. I pushed at his knees with everything I had. He lost his balance and fell into someone else.
I grasped Dawn beneath her arms and pulled her up. The crowd shoved us against the gate, mashing me into Dawn and forcing the air from my lungs.
There was no way out—
Then the crowd changed direction.
Orla. It had to be. I couldn’t quite tell because of all the shouting, but the fay song of Eamon and his soldiers had ceased.
There was a tiny space in the confusion as a touch of sense returned to the people around me. I could breathe. Dawn shifted, scrabbling to keep from falling.
A new song started, off-key and harsh. Most of the protesters turned back toward the police Land Rover, and part of me wanted to push in that direction. Dawn tugged against me. She couldn’t hear the song, but it was having its effect on her.
“Dawn!” I shouted in her ear to be heard above the cacophony. She could fight the influence of the fay, but she had to have something to focus on. “Your mum, Dawn. She’s worried sick.”
Dawn blinked at me, then her face cleared and she nodded.
There was enough of a momentary break for us to get our footing. Locking arms, Dawn and I fought our way back through the sea of people, swimming across the current of their determined push toward the police vehicle.
A glass bottle shattered on the ground, and oily blue paint spattered over our trainers. Dawn and I shrieked.
A second song interrupted the first. Orla, dueling with her brother. But how could she hope to overpower the songs of all the fay?
Strangers Among Us Page 22