Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  Marie Hanover, the medical examiner, had called Jamie yesterday morning to tell him her “expert” was willing to meet with Jamie to provide more background information about the Mandean skandola mark that was found burned into the victims’ skin. “You’d better not go in there with an attitude, mister.” Marie just managed to clear five feet in height, but she could be as fierce as any cop. “Luiseach Mac Eachaidh is a friend of mine and I told her you would be on your best behavior.”

  “I will, I will.” Jamie protested. “I’m taking Cushing with me to keep me in line. He buys into this supernatural crap too, so it’s all good.”

  “Oh sure—you say, ‘supernatural crap’, and I’m supposed to think it’s all good? I’m warning you, Griffin, if you ever want any favors from me again, you’d better watch what you say.”

  “I promise to do my best,” replied Jamie seriously. “This Luiseach is a seanchaidhe, a wise woman, you said? So I’ve got to be on my best behavior simply because she’s Irish.”

  “Hmph,” Hanover snorted. “You’d better.”

  “Bye, Marie. Thanks.”

  Jamie drank his coffee and watched out the living room window for Cal. When he pulled up in his BMW Z4 roadster, Jamie opened the door and held up his right palm, then one finger. He wasn’t going to risk Cal waking the womenfolk on a Saturday morning. It would be a fate worse than death. Since they weren’t acting in an official capacity this morning, Cal had driven his car rather than check out their department car. Jamie went out a few moments later, carrying two travel mugs of coffee—one for him and one that he had grudgingly “spoiled” for Cal.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Jamie said as he got into the car.

  “Shut the door and shut your mouth,” groused Cal.

  “Now, now,” scolded Jamie. “I can dump out this mug of spoiled coffee.”

  “Gimme the damn coffee,” said Cal, grabbing the cup and taking a big sip. “Ahhh. Now that’s good coffee.” He put the mug into a cup holder, backed out of the driveway, and then gunned the car forward, the engine growling like a furious beast.

  As they turned northeast onto Dorchester Avenue, Jamie said, “Don’t press your luck. Most of our guys will give you a pass, but if Harrison or Whitney are patrolling, you’ll get at least a warning.”

  Cal made a rude noise, but slowed down a bit. “Where are we going again?”

  “Near Blake House.” The oldest house in Boston, Blake House had been built sometime around 1661 by an English immigrant named James Blake.

  “I swear, you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting some type of historical building in this town,” griped Cal.

  Jamie laughed. “Look who’s talking. Your ancestors did their fair share of building over the years, Caleb Newmarch Cushing.”

  “Hey.” Cal gestured, taking one hand off the wheel to point at Jamie. “Don’t be using those names out loud.” Cal had been named after Caleb Cushing, a distant relative who served as a Congressman and Attorney General under Franklin Pierce and John Newmarch Cushing, a direct ancestor who was a wealthy shipbuilder and merchant. He was not fond of either name. “Tell me again about this gal we’re going to see.”

  “Okay, okay.” Jamie opened up his portfolio and read from the notes he made after Marie Hanover’s call. “Her name is Luiseach Mac Eachaidh, though most people call her Lucy. I couldn’t find her exact age, but I think she’s around 50. She lives alone in an old bungalow near Blake House. She’s known in the Irish community as a seanchaidhe, which is an old Gaelic term for a story-teller or master of lore. In Lucy’s case, she’s also an herbalist, selling homeopathic and traditional herbs, remedies, etc. She’s been investigated by various agencies wanting to make sure she’s not selling anything illegal or harmful, and she’s been cleared each time. Reportedly, she also teaches her lore to others who are interested in carrying on this tradition, which dates all the way back to pre-Christian Ireland.”

  “Well thank you very much, Jamie-pedia.”

  “That coffee had better start working soon, Cushing. Your grumpiness is getting on my nerves.”

  “What? You gonna slug me like you did your brother last night?” After a moment of awkward silence, Cal said, “Sorry, Jamie. That was uncalled for.”

  “Nah,” replied Jamie. “I deserved it. I don’t know what got into me last night—I was too exhausted to enjoy the game, so I probably should have just stayed home.”

  “I’m sure it was good for you to get out. Besides, maybe that little tussle helped clear the air.”

  “Maybe.”

  They were silent until they drew closer to Columbia Road. As they passed streets, Jamie said, “Okay, turn left here. It should be in the next block.”

  Cal complied with Jamie’s directions, and they soon pulled in front of a modest house tucked in amongst some neighborhood businesses and larger houses. North Dorchester was more urban, with a greater number of apartment complexes and industrial parks than other areas of Dorchester. The house was well-kept, and as Jamie and Cal walked up, they could see the remainder of a small herb garden, which continued in the house on the window sills.

  Jamie rang the bell, and a few moments later a slender, older woman with shoulder length brunette hair, tied back, opened the door. “Ms. Mac Eachaidh?” Jamie asked.

  The woman’s dark green eyes lit up with laughter, and she chuckled out loud.

  “Oh, Ms. Mac Eachaidh, is it now? Well, I’m thinking ye fine gentlemen must be Detectives Griffin and Cushing. Come in, come in,” she said opening the door wider and gesturing for them to enter, “but ye must drop that ‘Ms. Mac Eachaidh’ business. Most folk call me Luiseach or Lucy, if that’s easier.”

  Jamie and Cal entered a clean, but cluttered, living room screaming that an older woman living alone occupied it. The paisley couch was covered in afghans and craft supplies. There were small tables put in various spots amongst bookshelves and corner hutches, each containing various items Jamie could not begin to identify. The hardwood floors were spotless, and he could see a small dining room and kitchen off to one side and a doorway leading down a short hallway.

  “Sit, sit,” Lucy commanded. “Can I bring ye gentlemen anything to drink? Coffee, tea, somethin’ stronger perhaps?” she asked with a gleam in her eye.

  “Coffee would be fine ma’am, nothing stronger while we’re on duty.”

  “I’ll have coffee too.”

  “Fine, fine, but lose the ‘ma’am’ as well—just Lucy will do fine.” Her Irish accent was heavier than Nuala’s, Jamie thought. It reminded him more of his grandmother, gone now a dozen years. Lucy moved quickly and silently into the kitchen and returned with a tray bearing a coffee carafe, cups, cream, and sugar. She was dressed in loose gray satin pants, with a black satin shirt and a black velour robe with three quarter length sleeves. She had piercings in her ears, including the cartilage, and one in her nose, with heavy hoop earrings and several rings with large gemstones.

  As she laid out the coffee serving, Jamie noticed the tattoos on both of her hands. “I see your tattoos are Ogham script, Lucy. Black is fine, thank you.” He took the cup from her, and then she gave another cup to Cal.

  Lucy held up her hands and turned them back and forth, then gave Jamie and appraising look. “Marie said ye were a bright Irish lad, she did,” Lucy replied. “Can ye read them then, boyo?”

  Jamie laughed. “No, but my wife uses Ogham script on her business sign.”

  Lucy nodded in recognition. “The music store down just a bit in Uphams Corner, eh? Sure, I’ve seen that—ye don’t see much of the old writing here in this country. Ye both must be very Irish, then?”

  “Yes, ma’am, sorry, Lucy,” Jamie corrected himself. “Both of our families are very Irish and….”

  Before Jamie could continue, Cal gulped his coffee, set his cup down on the coffee table with a clank and jerked his head downward, lifting one leg, saying, “What the hell?”

  A small white face with a dark brown mask stuck out from beneath the
dust cloth, with short arms clawing at Cal’s shoe. As Cal jerked his shoe out of the way, a small sable ferret darted out, swiped at his shoe, then jumped to Lucy’s side and hopped up and down sideways. The ferret made a clucking sound that did not reassure Cal.

  “Pay him no nevermind,” said Lucy, swatting playfully at the ferret, which dodged and continued hopping. “That’s just Fionúir; he’s excited to have company, and that hopping is his ‘war dance.’ He’s telling ye he’d like to play.”

  “Really?” replied Cal. He replaced his foot on the floor but eyed the ferret warily.

  “Ooh, aye,” said Lucy. “If he was angry with ye, he’d be hissing up a storm.”

  “Good to know.”

  “So, his name in English would be ‘Ghost’?” Jamie asked.

  Lucy fixed her emerald eyes on Jamie again, as if taking inventory of him. “My, but ye are clever. Who taught ye the old tongue, now?”

  “My grandmother and mother—both from County Cork.”

  “Fine ladies they must be. Most folk don’t have anything to do with the old ways any longer.”

  “My mother still speaks fluent Gaelic, and she’s tried to beat some of it into my thick head over the years. I know a few words here and there.” Jamie sipped his coffee, then continued, “but we’re not here to discuss Ogham or Gaelic, Lucy.”

  She shook her head. “I didna think so. Marie tells me ye have something connected to one of your cases that I might be able to help ye understand.”

  “That’s correct, Lucy,” Jamie said, handing her the printout he had made of the Mandaean skandola. “Do you know anything about this symbol? Have you seen it before?”

  The woman took the paper, and as she looked at it, her head jerked slightly, in recognition of the skandola. Lucy’s face took on a serious cast, and she stiffly handed the paper back to Jamie. “Oh, aye. I’ve seen that mark before, lad. Tis called a skandola or a Mandaean skandola. Why do ye ask?” She looked sharply at Jamie and Cal.

  Cal took that question. “It came up in connection to a string of murders we’re investigating.”

  She held their gazes for several seconds, took a drink of her coffee, and then replied. “In and of itself, the mark is benign. Tis a religious item worn mostly by priests of the Mandaean religion, an ancient religion that shares its roots with Christianity. Both religions derive their practices from an older religion, Nazarene Essenism. The lion, wasp, and scorpion are all symbols of power, surrounded by Ouroborus, the Eternal Serpent. It is eating its own tail to symbolize the cyclical nature of the universe.”

  When Lucy paused, Jamie asked, “Why do you say that ‘by itself’, the mark is benign? Do you know of cases where it is not benign?”

  Lucy patted her lap and Fionúir jumped up. She stroked his fur and paid no heed as the ferret rolled over on his back and nipped at her tattooed hand. “Aye, lad. I know cases where that mark means dark and evil things.”

  “Please tell us what you know,” Jamie urged.

  Lucy sighed. “I know of a dark practitioner of magic here in Boston who uses that mark for her own personal symbol of power.”

  “Sedecla Aba?” Cal asked.

  Lucy’s eyes flashed. “If ye already knew of her, then why are ye here?”

  To Jamie, she seemed more upset than angry. “Because we cannot find out much about her. We have tied her to a group known as….”

  “The Disciples of Endor. Aye, I know of that group as well, and their connection to that vile woman.” Lucy looked at the men intently, “but what of ye? Do ye know anything of the dark forces, the powers that lie beyond the pale?”

  “Ah, here we go,” muttered Jamie.

  “Pay no attention to him,” countered Cal. “Jamie doesn’t believe in anything he cannot see, hear, or touch.”

  Lucy smiled as she asked Jamie, “So ye do not believe in God then, young man?”

  Jamie was not accustomed to being addressed as a young man. It reinforced his perception that Lucy was much older than she appeared. “I believe in God. I am a devout Catholic, but that’s different.”

  “How? How do ye think that’s different? Can ye see God? Hear or touch him?”

  Jamie shifted uncomfortably on the couch. He was getting exhausted, even with no more than he had done today. He pushed the exhaustion aside, determined to make it through this interview. “Lucy, I have no problem with others having whatever beliefs make sense to them. I know there are many who disbelieve in the rites and beliefs of Catholicism.”

  Lucy considered this for a moment. “Does not the Bible speak of Satan and the powers of evil?”

  “It does,” Jamie admitted.

  “Then why do ye refuse to believe in forces beyond our knowing? If ye intend to continue to investigate Sedecla and the Disciples of Endor, ye’ll have to open your mind.”

  “I’ve tried to open his mind for years, Lucy,” Cal said, “but I think I might need some dynamite to get through his thick skull.”

  Lucy chuckled. “So, Detective Cushing, ye believe in such things?”

  “I do.” Cal paused for a moment before continuing. “I understand that there are fakes and con men out there, trying to take advantage of people who believe in the supernatural. If someone is making money or gets a kick from claiming supernatural powers, I tend to suspect their sincerity.”

  Lucy nodded. “Aye, I’ll not disagree that there are charlatans out there.” She looked at Jamie. “Did Marie tell ye what I am?”

  “Yes,” Jamie replied. “She said you are a seanchaidhe. Also an herbalist and teacher.”

  “Indeed, that is correct. Then if ye have come to me, ye must suspect that there is something more to this woman, Sedecla, and her disciples, than meets the eye.”

  “We do,” agreed Cal. Jamie said nothing.

  “Then I’ll tell ye what I know, little as it is. Do ye recognize the word ‘Endor’?”

  “Isn’t that from Star Wars?” Cal asked. “The little furballs in one of those movies?”

  “Yes,” said Jamie, “but I think she’s referring to the Biblical reference.”

  “Good. Ye know your Bible, young man.”

  “Well,” admitted Jamie. “I thought I recognized the word but couldn’t place it. So I did some research online and found a reference to ‘the Witch of Endor’ in the first book of Samuel.” Jamie looked back at Lucy. “What does this have to do with Sedecla?”

  “Ah, now there’s the rub, at least for ye, Jamie me boy,” replied Lucy. “The Disciples of Endor believe that the woman, Sedecla, is the actual Witch of Endor.”

  Cal exhaled a soft, “Wow.”

  Jamie was silent for several seconds, and then said, “She’d be kind of old now, wouldn’t she? The woman Cal and I interviewed doesn’t look to be more than thirty.”

  Lucy nodded. “Correct. Set aside your skepticism for the moment, lad, and think. If it’s possible that Sedecla is the actual Witch of Endor, how might she be still so young?”

  “I have no idea,” replied Jamie, “but I get the feeling I’m not going to like the answer.”

  “It has to be tied to the bodies somehow,” said Cal. “Somehow she uses the bodies?”

  Lucy crossed herself as she spoke. Like many who observed the old ways, Lucy had no problem mixing Catholicism with mysticism. “Indeed. I do not know the exact nature of her rituals, but I have heard stories that she is a necromancer.”

  “A necromancer?” said Jamie. “Oh, this just gets better and better. Witches and dark wizards. I may have to borrow some of your books, Cushing.”

  “Pipe down, Griffin. I thought necromancy was only supposed to be used to communicate with the dead?” Cal asked.

  The seanchaidhe made another sign to ward off evil. “True, but there are some practitioners who seek to do more than speak with the dead. They actually consume the life force of those newly deceased. Those dead for any length of time no longer have any life force to take. An unwilling victim, ritually murdered by such a dark practitioner, supposedly yiel
ds the most life force.” Lucy’s green eyes flashed as she explained. “Tis a great evil, but I’ve heard tales that Sedecla maintains her power and youth by some such ritual.”

  “So, the bodies that we’ve found with the mark of the skandola burned into them…” began Cal.

  “Are most likely victims of whatever ritual this vile woman is performing,” finished Lucy.

  “Okay, let’s stop,” protested Jamie. “This is getting to be too much for me. You’re saying that Sedecla is the actual Witch of Endor? That’s she’s really thousands of years old and she has been keeping herself alive by killing people and absorbing their ‘life force’?”

  Lucy held Jamie’s gaze for several seconds before responding. “May I remind ye, young man, that ye came to me seeking answers? I do not claim anything about that woman. I’m only telling ye about her beliefs and the beliefs of her followers. She could, possibly, be a charlatan.”

  “You don’t believe that,” prompted Cal.

  “No. I’ve heard too much about her for everything to be false.”

  After another pause, Cal turned to Jamie. “Look, it really doesn’t matter if you believe in this ‘claptrap’ or not. It’s part of the case, and clearly Sedecla and the Disciples believe it, or at least pretend to believe it. So we have to find out more about this and see where it leads us.”

  Jamie sighed. “I guess that’s true. Lucy, can you appreciate my skepticism?”

  The seanchaidhe nodded. “Aye. I’ve known many hard-headed Irishmen over the years, but I’ll tell ye this, Jamie Griffin. If ye intend to pursue this woman, ye’d better take care. Ye recall the saying that it doesn’t matter if ye don’t believe in God because he believes in ye?” When Jamie nodded, Lucy continued. “The other side of that saying is true as well, boyo. It doesn’t matter if ye don’t believe in Satan or his minions. They believe in ye, and more importantly, Sedecla and her followers believe, which makes them very dangerous.”

  “I do believe in evil, ma’am,” replied Jamie. “After twenty years as a cop, I’ve seen a great deal of evil in this world—I just believe that it is caused by bad people, not demons.”