Resistance

by Allana Kephart

  Right now a giant man, who I believe is the ‘leader’ of this group, is talking quietly to who I assume is his wife. She is a tiny little thing with a chestnut bob for a haircut, and standing next to him she looks about fourteen years old, although her eyes show she is much older. The man is a full head taller and her polar opposite, with his inky black hair and Irishman skin. They both hold an air of importance that could challenge some royalties I’ve met, but the husband is vibrating with excitement and nerves. The wife is nearly impossible to read, but I think she’s more anxious than eager.

  A man walks up to the couple and the husband kisses his wife’s cheek; whispering something in her ear. She pulls in a breath and nods before going back through the kitchen and disappearing from sight. The gentlemen start talking and, for some reason, I abandon my comfortable branch and leap down a few to eavesdrop. The heat and the iron must be getting to me.

  “—saying, Patty, is that you should probably tell Fi something before—”

  “No,” snaps the leader, ‘Patty’, with a shake of his head. “She is safer this way. She doesn’t have to know about this.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true—”

  “Seamus, please…” It’s a quiet plea, and judging by the look ‘Seamus’ gives him, it’s genuine. Looking at them closer now, it’s obvious they’re brothers. The lilt in their voice is discernible even from my perch seventy yards away, and they each use the same mannerisms and hand gestures as they speak. They are highly animated. I have to wonder how the older one ended up with such a stoic other half.

  Seamus sighs and nods but doesn’t move away. He is not happy that his brother is keeping secrets, this much is obvious, but he stands beside the man in spite of this. Family loyalty. How nice.

  No more than fifteen seconds pass and his wife is back, tailed by a girl who is a blend of them both. I’ve seen her before. She sneaks out in the middle of the night with her father all the time to practice her aim with a bow. She’s not the best shot I’ve seen in my lifetime, but she’s young. She’ll learn. Her name is Fianna. She is only a bit shorter than her mother and has a braid of ebony black hair that hits the small of her back. Her eyes are striking, a deep green, and they hold more knowledge and stress than anyone her age should be carrying. She hides her emotions well, but watch her a bit and you can see the pain as if it were a flashing neon sign above her.

  I am ashamed to admit I have been doing quite a bit of watching her lately. And I am ashamed of that because it’s not like I’ve been watching her to establish if she would be a friend or foe if I were to approach. No. It is strictly because I believe she is one of the most beautiful young ladies—human or Fae—that I’ve seen in a very long time, and evidently I have a tendency to stare. What a vain little fox I can be…

  The wife moves back to ‘Patty’s’ side and turns back to their daughter. The room is stock still and silent; even a human could hear a pin drop in the deafening quiet. All eyes are on the couple when the husband begins, and I chance another leap down. No one notices.

  “You all know why we’re here. The time has come for action. To be sure we are prepared, Maeve and I will be heading out to scout conditions. We shouldn’t be gone more than a fortnight, and in our absence, Fianna will be seeing to things. If we don’t return, you all know what to do. Look after yourselves and be ready.”

  The color drains out of Fianna’s face and she clears her throat as she moves forward. Patty looks to the other man and says, “You’ll watch after them, right?”

  Seamus smiles. He looks a bit sad, but he slaps the other man on the back and nods. “I’ll do my best to keep them safe, Patrick.”

  There is a big part of me that is thankful the giant isn’t actually named ‘Patty’. I might’ve spared a moment to think this over further, but I didn’t have the time…nor the interest, for that matter.

  Fianna, who heard only Seamus’ last remark, bristles. Her lips purse and she straightens up, and I almost laugh. She’s a feisty one. “Uncle Seamus,” she begins, “you know you’ll have your hands full with your own brood. Eir and I will be just fine on our own. Please don’t worry yourself.”

  Terrible things would be done to the young lady if she were to speak to an authority figure that way outside of this city, but her uncle just smiles and nods; giving Patrick a knowing look before moving further into the kitchen towards the coffee maker. In spite of her attitude, she looks like she might cry when she meets her father’s eyes. “I didn’t realize you’d be gone for two weeks,” she says shakily. “Has the plan changed?”

  “Don’t worry, Fi,” Patrick says; using the hand that is not on Maeve’s back to squeeze her shoulder. “Your mother and I are only leaving to follow up on something Hugh mentioned. You know what to do. You’ll be fine.” He releases his wife and pulls Fi into a tight hug. I can’t make out all of what he says to her, but as he pulls away he adds, “Take care of your brother. They’ll come for him.”

  Smarty. A+ for your knowledge, sir.

  Fianna, who didn’t seem to understand the weight that hung on that last statement, just shook her head. “Wait — Hugh mentioned something? Why haven’t I heard about this before now? Since when do you listen to anything he has to say?”

  I sigh. The tone in which she says things astounds me.

  Patrick opens his mouth to reply, but Maeve sticks her nose in the air and speaks over him. “Fianna, we are not so stubborn as to ignore information that could help our cause because of who it came from.” These people get dumber by the second. “Everything will be fine, I promise you.” She pats her palm against Fi’s cheek and pushes her hair out of her face. “We will see you soon. Why don’t you try and get some rest? Tomorrow will be busy for you.”

  Fi still looks like she may vomit, but she nods and accepts the hug her mother gives her. She kisses her cheek and whispers, “Be safe, my sweet. And look after your brother.”

  They walk away from her then, hand in hand. I leap to the next tree so I can see them further. Once they are out of sight, Fi pulls in a shaky breath and rushes back inside, followed shortly by her uncle. Patrick’s footsteps slow and I hear Maeve say, “What’s the matter?”

  “Do you think we should tell her?” he asks, unsure. He is about to continue when his wife huffs. “No, dear.”

  “Maeve, if something happens to us she’ll go into this blind—”

  “Listen to me,” she snaps. “Nothing is going to happen to us. We’re going to go, find these things and return in one piece. Everything will be fine.” I’m right above them now. She places her hands on his neck and kisses him. “Why stress her when we don’t have to?”

  After a moment of hesitation, Patrick sighs and nods his agreement. It’s obvious he doesn’t agree with his wife, and I have to concur that her statements are foolishly optimistic. He takes hold of her hand again and they step outside of their boundaries. The guard at their exit nods his head and they’re gone.

  A fortnight comes and goes and Fianna’s parents have still not returned. Weeks pass after that without disruption, and the hope slowly burns out of everyone’s eyes. It becomes more and more apparent that Patrick and Maeve are either dead or have been captured, either of which means they won’t return. No one says anything. It’s as if they never were.

  It’s early morning about eight weeks later, and the guard who nodded at them as they left is getting coffee. Fi sits outside on the patio with a mug of her own and looks at nothing in particular. I am on the ground, shielded by a pile of bright red autumn leaves, glowering up at the clouds above. An early winter would be just my luck. Fi doesn’t look pleased about it either, huffing to herself as she eyes the green-gray sky. She grips her coffee mug a little tighter and shakes her head.

  The tall guard comes out and nods to her; interrupting her train of thought. “Fi.”

  “Sean,” she replies. “Sean?”

  He stops and looks at her; lifting a brow. He’s tired, but he pulls himself out of a slouch and sighs, “Yeah
?”

  “Any sign of them?” she asks in a sad voice. She already knows the answer.

  “No.” He shakes his head, obviously tired of this conversation already. “Fi, they’re not coming back.”

  “You don’t know that,” she snaps back at him. “They might. There’s no proof anything happened to them—”

  “Fi…” He’s softer this time, but still holds his ground. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

  She deflates a little and nods; looking into her mug of coffee. He ruffles her dark hair, which hangs loosely around her face today, and walks away, nearly stepping on me as he goes. I shoot out from under his foot and hiss at him before taking off up the tree I’ve been hiding in all this time.

  “God!” he cries; stumbling back and cursing up at me. If I weren’t so irritated with his ignorance I would laugh at him.

  “Sean, calm down,” Fi huffs. “It didn’t bite you or anything.”

  “I hate rats,” he says. Rat? I knock an abandoned bird nest out of the tree and watch it explode on his head before leaping into the next oak; making it look like an accident.

  “I don’t think it’s a rat,” Fi snickers as Sean freaks out, smacking twigs and eggshells from his hair. He is thoroughly pissed off now, and I’m finding way too much pleasure in that. “I don’t think it liked being called a rat, either.”

  Sean scoffs and continues swearing at me; something about how he’s going to fry me over hot coals. I’d love to see him try. He looks utterly ridiculous right now, screaming into the sky, and part of me wishes video cameras were still in existence just so I could watch this repeatedly.

  I’m not sure why I don’t like him. I’ve only seen him a few times now, and this is the first time I’ve heard him speak. Perhaps it’s because I cannot pick up any emotion from him. Even now as he spews threats my way, I don’t feel any energy. It’s a bit unsettling, and I don’t like that.

  After a few more minutes of bitching he finally stomps off, promising Fi he’s bringing me home for dinner tonight. I am unimpressed with his bratty attitude, and positive he won’t be catching me any time soon. Fi doesn’t seem to believe him, either, but she just nods and waves. Seamus, who stood in the door watching the whole encounter, moves to sit beside her. “It’s not a rat.”

  She startles for a moment before staring at him. “No?”

  “It’s a fox,” he continues. “A little one, but it is a fox.”

  She nods. Neither of them is curious about me, which is a relief. I don’t need anyone shooting arrows at me. I really am here to help, and being shot in the head is not on my agenda.

  “They’re not coming back, are they?” Fi asks quietly; glancing in his general direction but not actually meeting his gaze. Again, she is asking questions she already knows the answer to. She just wants someone to tell her she’s wrong.

  “I’m not answering that,” Seamus replies. “Frankly, I think your father just managed to get lost. I’ll bet Maeve is yelling at him right now.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders and pitches his voice into a screech. “Patrick, I’m telling you, we’ve seen this tree before!”

  Fi snickers but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She leans into him and sighs, and they sit there in companionable silence. In spite of their joking they both look absolutely miserable, and in spite of their optimism they both know the truth… Patrick and Maeve aren’t coming back.

  Not in one piece, anyway.

  Chapter 2—Fi

  January 2102

  The moon is full overhead; its pale light illuminating a macabre scene unfolding in the valley below. I hear sounds of a struggle, a woman’s terrified scream and then the sound of a blade meeting resistance in the form of flesh that rips and tears. From where I’m standing at the top of a hill, I see my mother fall in a heap to a bloody patch of grass below. Her assailant bolts to the south, and stifling a cry of disbelief, I race down the hill determined to save her. I see her struggle to move as I run as fast as I ever have, trying to reach her to see how badly she’s injured. I’m still twenty feet away, the cold air slapping hard against my face, when the gurgling noises she’s been making cut off and she goes still. My mind refuses to explore the possibility that my mother might be dead. I push myself harder and choke on the tears I can’t let fall.

  It can’t be her, can’t be her… is repeating in my mind as I push myself harder. That woman lying there bathed in her own blood can’t be my mother. I’m ten feet away when the coppery smell overwhelms me and I stagger to my knees, retching. Heart pounding, I try to take gasping breaths through my mouth and look up to take in my surroundings. Merely feet away, lifeless eyes stare out of a face frozen in terror; a face I know almost as well as my own. I can see now that her throat has been cut and the wound resembles a gaping smile above her collarbone. I hear someone scream and realize in some small corner of my mind that I am the one keening and sobbing.

  Disbelief floods my system and I shake my head, looking around belatedly for her attacker. Whoever it was they’re long gone now, I realize. I make myself look at the body again, knowing what I must do. I crawl the remaining distance to reach my mother’s body. On my knees by her side, I try to staunch the tears running down my face. I tremble at the very core as my eyes pass over the wound that took her from me. This isn’t her; the already waxy gray complexion and the dull brown eyes. This isn’t my fiery, fiercely opinionated mother. It can’t be her. Tearing my eyes away from her neck, I close my mother’s eyes with a shaking hand, bow my head and murmur, “Go dté tú slán, Mama.”

  I stay bent over my mother’s body for what feels like forever, shaking with sobs. I hear a wet, sputtering sound and tense all over, not knowing what to expect next. Moving slowly, I lift my head to peer around my mother’s death scene. I try to make myself as small as possible, just as my father taught me, so I’m less of a target in case her assailant has returned. I start inching away from her body and try not to think about the fact that I’m moving through a puddle of my mother’s blood. I turn my head both ways, terror making my heart pound, and when I hear the gurgling noise again I realize it is now coming from behind me. I spin, staying on my knees, and gasp when I see my mother’s brown eyes are now open wide in panic and confusion. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water and I scramble back to her side.

  “Mama!” I yell, forgetting about the unknown enemy in my shock. She must not have been as badly injured as I thought, I tell myself. Her hands are flailing weakly and she sputters again as I reach her side.

  “Wh..Wha…?” she manages, and I take hold of one of her hands; trying to get her to focus on me instead of the pain I know she has to be in. I think it’s working when she looks at my hand holding hers.

  “Mom! Listen to me — you’re going to be okay. Look at me, Mom.” I brace her head and hold her eyes with my own as she continues her struggle to say something. “I’m going to get you out of here. Don’t try to talk.”

  I’m using my shirt to try and soak up the blood from her wound before attempting to move her when my mother gasps out, “Wh…why? Y...you…your fault!”

  “Mom?” I manage; frozen at the unmistakable hatred in her voice when she chokes it out again. “Your fault, Fianna.” And then her freezing, bloody hands are scrabbling at my throat, trying to strangle me. Her nails dig into my neck while I try uselessly to pry her off, and I start to see spots in front of my eyes. I try to drag air into my starving lungs and fail, and then the blackness slides in and takes over my consciousness. My mother’s hate-filled eyes are the last thing I’ll ever see. I feel myself fading and everything goes black.

  I bolt upright in my bed with my heart pounding and a cold sweat coating my body. I can still feel my mother’s cold, dead hands digging at my throat and smell the blood surrounding her body. I struggle to bring air into my lungs as I shake and focus on my environment; reminding myself for what feels like the millionth time that it was just a dream. One of many I’m plagued with these days. Sometimes it’s my mother I fail
to save, and sometimes it’s my dad. The worst nights are when it’s my brother’s face looking at me with hatred etched in his normally jolly blue eyes. Incidentally I don’t sleep much anymore. I take in the familiar surroundings: the four poster bed and large dresser against the opposite wall; both relics I salvaged from my grandmother’s belongings after she passed away. The handmade patchwork quilt bunched in my shaking hands was hers as well; one of the few things she brought with her from Ireland. Shuddering, I get out of bed. There will be no returning to sleep for me, that much I know.

  Moving on autopilot, I navigate my bedroom in the dark, not wanting to alert anyone on guard duty outside that I’m awake. I pull a long sleeved tee shirt on over the camisole and yoga pants I wore to bed and add a sweatshirt on top of that. I pull on thick socks and my shoes, and rather than unbraiding and brushing out my waist-length, black hair, I coil the thick braid I wore to bed into a bun and quietly close my bedroom door behind me. I eye the closed door opposite mine and strain to hear movement from within. The last thing I need is my brother waking up now, asking questions I don’t have the heart to answer.

  I make my way down the hallway into the huge kitchen at the back of our home. This used to be where I would find our mother and father every morning, sitting with their heads bent together over their coffee and breakfast, finalizing plans for whatever project they were taking on that day. I ignore the chasm in my chest as best I can. After six months you’d think I would have learned how to live with their absence from my life. Instead, this hole inside me only widens with time.

  The kitchen is chilly in the pre-dawn hour and I make a beeline for the coffee pot. I take comfort in the routine of filling the basket with the aromatic freshly ground beans, adding the water and setting the timer on the machine. I grab my gloves from the hutch by the back door, knowing my fingers will be frozen otherwise. I look around the silent kitchen, take it all in and remind myself this is my normal now. Nothing amiss here, I tell myself. I sigh, not able to lie, even to myself. The reality of the situation settles around me again and I head out the back door.