Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

  Thomas wrapped a stick in some ruined curtains and made a torch. Inside the barn they found extra blankets for the horses. They made Mrs. Gillies as comfortable as possible on a bed of hay. Nora sat beside her.

  “I’m sorry about your things, Nora,” she whispered.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s grand,” Nora said. None of that seemed to matter now.

  “What was it all, if I may ask? Some of it seemed so strange. That pamphlet about Kilmainham . . .”

  Nora adjusted the blanket around Mrs. Gillies’s shoulders. What would tomorrow bring for this brave soul?

  “It was for a play. I was in a theater company in Belfast. We were . . . imagining the future. I guess I had some of the props in my bag when I left.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  Nora was glad she couldn’t see the older woman’s eyes.

  She waited until Mrs. Gillies’s breath slowed to a steady, deep rhythm. Then she went back into the yard. Thomas had started a fire near the stump. She sat next to him and stared wordlessly into the flames.

  “It was kind of you to offer to stay,” he said.

  “When I first arrived here, from the future . . . she was the first person to show me kindness. I think she suspects—I think she’s always suspected—that there’s something not quite right about my story. But she’s given me her trust anyway. I couldn’t just leave her here.”

  After several silent minutes, she asked what she’d been wondering for the past two days.

  “Why did Aengus Óg curse you, Thomas?”

  “You won’t believe me.”

  She tore her eyes from the flames to look at him. His profile stood out against the fiery backdrop. The long, straight nose. The determined set of the jaw. The furrowed brow. For all his lighthearted banter, for all his nonchalant demeanor, there was a great heaviness on him.

  She tried to tease it out of him. “It must have been bad, to make a god so angry with you. That’s who Aengus Óg is, right? One of the Tuatha Dé Danann? Like Brigid?” The Catholic in her rebelled at the thought of other gods, but she couldn’t rule anything out now. She’d have to sort it out with the priest later. If there was a later.

  “He is.”

  “Look, I’m here, aren’t I? You didn’t bat an eyelash when I told you I was from the future. So you’ve been cursed by a god. That’s no more unbelievable.”

  “I’ve never told anyone.”

  “In eighteen hundred years? Now that’s something I find hard to believe.”

  “You’re right. I did tell a few, at first. But then they tried to kill me . . . so I had to kill them instead. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “That’s what you’re worried about? That I’ll try to kill you?” He shook his head, the gray strands glittering in the firelight. “We’re in this together, remember? We want the same thing.”

  He picked up a long stick and poked the fire, sending sparks into the air. “I suppose we do.”

  “Then let’s be honest with each other. I told you about my brother. I haven’t told anyone that, not since I left Belfast. Tell me why you were cursed.”

  “Do you know the story of Diarmuid and Grania?”

  Was he trying to change the subject? “Not really. I mean, I’ve heard the names, but I can’t remember the story.”

  “It’s part of what they call the Fenian Cycle. Stories about Fionn mac Cumhaill and his band of warriors, the Fianna.”

  “Yes, I’ve been to the pub.”

  “What?”

  “Finn McCool’s. A cheesy, fake Irish pub in America and London.”

  He stared at her, nonplussed.

  “Sorry. Go on,” she said.

  He turned his attention back to the flames. “Diarmuid was one of Fionn’s men. They were as close as brothers. He was handsome, skilled with both bow and sword, could turn your eyes to rivers with his poetry. And that was before the love spot.”

  “The what?”

  “A hag gave it to him one night, on account of his kindness to her. You couldn’t see it, but it was in the middle of his forehead. Made every woman who set eyes on him fall madly in love.”

  “Lucky him.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Not so.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He wore a cap to cover the love spot. So long as the women could not see it, they regarded him as no more than any other handsome warrior. Until his leader, Fionn mac Cumhaill, decided to remarry. His wife Maighneis had died, and after the grieving period was over, he sent one of his men and his son Oisín to find a suitable wife for him. They found her. Grania. The daughter of Cormac mac Art, High King of Ireland. She was young, beautiful, and from a noble family—everything a man could want in a wife.”

  Nora snorted. Thomas gave her a half smile. “You have to understand this was another age,” he said.

  “Sadly, not much has changed.” Nora took the stick from him and rearranged the wood in the fire.

  “The date of the wedding was set. Fionn and his men went to the house of Cormac at Tara for a week of feasting before the wedding. He and Grania spoke many times. She was charming, gracious, and kindhearted. He loved her almost at once.

  “The day before the wedding was the grandest feast of all, in the long hall. Hundreds of men, women, dogs.”

  “Dogs?”

  “The hunting dogs, like Bran. They rarely left the warriors’ sides. There was plenty of wine and ale. The dogs were fighting over the scraps. When Diarmuid intervened and tried to separate them, his cap was knocked off.”

  “Ahh. And someone saw his love spot? It wasn’t . . .”

  “It was. Grania. Fionn’s betrothed. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was Diarmuid’s own curse; I see that now. I was so blind . . .” He broke off and put his head in his hands.

  Oh dear God. So this was why he was telling her the story. The truth stunned her as surely as if he’d cracked her head against a stone wall. “Wait. Thomas. Are you saying . . . ?”

  He stood up, putting the fire between them. “I don’t expect you to believe me. But yes. I am Fionn mac Cumhaill.”

  Brigid . . . time travel . . . and now Fionn mac Cumhaill. She would have laughed at the absurdity of it all if there hadn’t been so much at stake. “Tell me the rest. Tell me what happened.”

  She couldn’t make out his face behind the flames. But then he started pacing on the other side of the fire.

  “Grania forced Diarmuid to run away with her that night. There were different customs in that time. She bound him, not with ropes, but with words. A geis, it’s called. He had no choice but to do her bidding. So they ran. And for years I hunted them.”

  “Years?”

  “I had already lived a long life. Grania was to be my last queen.” The words hung heavy in the air. “I was a different man. I was arrogant, proud. I wouldn’t listen to the counsel of those around me, not even my own son. I became a man obsessed.”

  “Did you find them?”

  “Yes. We made peace, after many years.”

  “Well . . . that’s grand then, isn’t it?”

  “And then I killed him.”

  “But—”

  “I wish I could say it was an accident. But it was not. Even though we had made peace, I saw my chance for revenge, and I took it. I tried to save him at the last minute, but it was too late.”

  “Is that why you were cursed?” she asked softly.

  He walked around the fire and stood beside her, still staring into the flames. She said nothing. Waited.

  “Aengus Óg had fostered Diarmuid as a child. He had helped Diarmuid hide from me for years. When he found out I had killed his beloved foster son . . . his anger would not be quenched. I was very powerful then. My mother was the granddaughter of the great Nuadu Airgetlám, High King of the Tuatha Dé Danann. At the time, many warriors had sidhe blood in their veins, and it gave us great strength, skill, and longevity. I was the greatest of them all. But even I did not have the power of the old gods. Aengus Óg took my powe
r, making me as weak as any other mortal man, and then he cursed me. I would not die until I saved Ireland from her enemies. And so I have lived. And lived. And lived. And watched everyone I’ve ever loved grow old and die. Century after century after godforsaken century.”

  Nora reached up and grasped his hand. It was cold, and his fingers twitched in surprise. She pulled him down beside her onto the stump. “Then what does it take to save Ireland? Every country will always have enemies, so what exactly did Aengus Óg mean? Did he tell you?” She kept his hand tight in hers, as though she could siphon off some of his pain.

  “The gods delight in being oblique. If I knew exactly what Aengus Óg wanted, perhaps I would not still be here,” he said in a voice so soft she could barely hear him over the crackle of the flames. “I tried everything . . . I fought the Vikings, then the Normans. Cromwell. The 1798 Rebellion. The 1916 Rising. No matter how hard I fought, it only got worse. I thought—I dared hope—that when we won the Tan War, when we beat off the British after over seven hundred years, the curse would be broken. But . . .”

  “But the treaty doesn’t include the North.”

  He squeezed her fingers; then his hand slid away, leaving her hand cold and alone in her lap. “I’m not a hero, Nora. I’m not who I used to be. I’m just a soldier. An ordinary man with an ordinary man’s strength.”

  “Maybe that’s all it will take.” Wasn’t she also just an ordinary woman, trying to do the impossible?

  “Or maybe I need to take my head out of my arse—pardon my language—and accept someone’s help. Those were Brigid’s words.”

  “You and Brigid have known each other for a while, I gather?”

  “Aye. She’s always been fond of me. But she can’t interfere directly. Not with the curse. There’s no love lost between her and Aengus Óg, but I know she won’t act directly against him.”

  “So she sent me to you.”

  “So she did. And I’m glad, though I know I didn’t act it at first. I’d have had no clue about Lynch if you hadn’t come here. You’ve given me another chance.”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Let’s hope it works.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When Nora opened her eyes, the sky was lightening, a pale gray rimmed with pink, blending together with wisps of cloud. A bird chirped nearby. The ground beneath her was hard, and her back ached. Half her body was cold. She turned her head, ignoring the protest of her neck. A pile of black ash in a circle of stones. Right. She didn’t want to know what the house looked like in the harsh reality of daylight. Her other side was warm, and she turned toward it instinctively, drawing closer to the source of heat. Thomas—no, Fionn—lay next to her, eyelashes resting on his cheeks, his mouth slightly open. Stubble grazed his jaw.

  Fionn mac Cumhaill. Impossible. He was just a soldier, an actor, spinning a wild tale so that . . . why? What could he possibly gain from such an outlandish story? Unless he wasn’t acting alone. Brigid could be playing with her.

  But if she believed in Brigid, was it really such a stretch to accept that Thomas was Fionn? Being Catholic and believing in the gods and warriors of legend weren’t mutually exclusive. She certainly wouldn’t be alone in that. Plenty of old women in Belfast went to Mass every day, clutching their rosary beads and their Bibles, but still tried to keep the fairy folk happy by tying ribbons to trees and pouring a little bit of whiskey onto the ground. In 2004 the government had diverted a new motorway to avoid cutting down a fairy tree in Clare. Would Father Donovan accuse her of idolatry, or did he harbor the same secret belief in the old ways?

  Her father had told her some of the stories of Fionn and his Fianna. At least, that’s what Eamon had once said. She’d been too young for the stories to stick, but she’d heard them later, at school. Fairy tales, so they were called. Fionn and the Salmon of Knowledge. Fionn and the Giant’s Causeway.

  How many women has he been with over the centuries? The thought came unbidden into her mind. What does it matter? He can take you to Lynch. Then you can go home, and your father and brother will be alive and well.

  Besides, the women he had loved were all dead now. And how about his children? How many children had he watched grow old and die? She reached out a hand to touch his cheek, moved by the magnitude of sorrow he must have suffered in his long life. But she hesitated and withdrew it. Rolling onto her back, she stared at the sky. She could contemplate his past later. It was time to reinvent the future.

  When she reached over to wake Fionn, his eyes were open. “Good morning,” he whispered.

  She stood and brushed soot off her dress. “I’ll go check on Mrs. Gillies. Then we need to go. Can you . . . talk with Bran? Find out where Lynch is?”

  He sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Aye. Go on and make sure she’s all right.”

  Nora gently shook Mrs. Gillies, who looked at her wildly for one moment before her eyes softened in recognition. “Nora. You’re still here. Is it morning already?”

  “Aye. How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine, no doubt.” She pulled herself up from the hay and got stiffly to her feet. “I appreciate your concern, but you don’t have to stay, Nora.”

  “We’ll take you to the neighbors, then we’ll be off. We could really use a car. We have a long way to go, and not much time. Do you think . . . ?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have anything for you here. But the McQuarrys have a motorcycle, I believe. I’ll ask them for you once we get there.”

  The three of them walked in silence through the back field and onto a little dirt road. After about half an hour, they reached the McQuarry home. A middle-aged woman rushed out to greet them. “Kathleen, are you all right? What’s happened?”

  Nora took Fionn’s arm, and they fell back, letting the two women talk in hushed voices. Mrs. McQuarry kept looking over her shoulder at them. Finally she nodded and addressed them. “Owen is away, but he took the pony and trap. He’ll not be happy, sure, but you can take the motorcycle. I know Kathleen wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

  “Thank you,” Nora said.

  Fionn brought the motorcycle out of the shed while Nora helped Mrs. Gillies get settled in the house. When she came out, he was waiting for her. She climbed awkwardly onto the back and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  “How far to the Knockmealdown Mountains?” Nora asked.

  “A couple of hours, maybe.”

  “Do you know exactly where he is?”

  “As long as Bran stays with him, we’ll find him.”

  Nora couldn’t help but look behind, through the strands of hair whipping in her face. “God, I hope she’ll be all right. And the rest of them.”

  “You can’t take care of everyone, Nora.”

  “I can try.”

  “You’ll only get yourself hurt that way. Believe me, I’ve learned that lesson.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means people are usually best when left to their own devices.”

  “That’s ballix, so it is. Everyone needs help sometimes. Even you.”

  He gripped the handlebars tighter. “You’ll learn. Someday.”

  She scanned the awakening countryside for signs of roadblocks.

  “So how does it work with you and Bran? You can speak with her, even if she’s not here. How does that work?”

  “It’s always been that way. It was one of the few mercies Aengus Óg left me. Her life is tied to my own.”

  “You mean she’s been with you all these years?”

  “We’ve been separated a few times, but for the most part, yes. I don’t suppose your children’s stories tell you how she came to be?”

  “Maybe they do, but I don’t remember them.”

  “She was born to my mother’s sister, after one of the sidhe—the Tuatha Dé Danann, that is—turned my aunt into a hound.”

  “Now you’re just messing with me.”

  “It’s true. Tuiren, my aunt, ma
rried one of my men. Only his lover, who was one of the sidhe, didn’t appreciate him taking a wife. You’d think he would have considered that. Anyway, the lover paid the new wife a visit and turned her into a hound. But Tuiren was already with child. Two whelps, actually. Bran and Sceolan.”

  “And they were born as . . . wolfhounds?”

  “Aye. Tuiren eventually regained her human form. But the pups remained as they were, though with the minds of humans.”

  Nora grappled with this. “Bran has the mind of a human?”

  “And the instincts of a hound.”

  “So she’s your . . . cousin?”

  “That she is.”

  “What happened to the other one?”

  “She died. While we were hunting Diarmuid.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” They rode in silence for a while. “Is that how you know about the deal with Lynch and Cosgrave? Bran’s your spy?”

  “You could say that. She’s very observant, for a hound.”

  “A hound-woman.” A sudden thought struck her. “So she can understand what I’m saying?” She racked her brain, trying to think of anything embarrassing she’d said or done while Bran was around.

  “She can. But don’t worry; she’s very discreet.”

  Nora resolved to be more circumspect when Bran was in earshot. “And you can understand her?”

  “It’s not as simple as communicating with another human, but we’ve figured it out over the years.”

  “They’re true, then? All the stories?”

  His hands twitched. “Not anymore. The sidhe have withdrawn. All save Brigid. I don’t think she’ll ever leave. But the druids, the bards . . . everything you would call magic. Gone. All we have left now are our mortal selves. And our guns and our hatred and our base desires. It’s a different world you live in.”

  “You live in it, too.”

  “So I do.”

  “What if Lynch doesn’t believe us?” Nora asked.

  “He’ll sure as hell want to know how we know the Free State is in the area. How will you explain that?”

  “I don’t know . . . I’ll say I have a lover in the Free State Army.”

  Fionn glanced back at her and raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”