Ministry Protocol: Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences

by Tee Morris

  *****

  Miss Snow fetched first the golden figure laying on its side in the salt. She wrapped it carefully. Even touching it bothered her, and she wore gloves.

  Whether this were truly the symbol of Cromm Crúaich or not, Miss Snow was not qualified to know. That it contained a power eager to be harnessed was without a doubt truth.

  She carefully pocketed the item in her coat, still inside out, and hurried up the stairs behind the scattered Miss Kennedy. She found the girl on her knees just outside the pub, watching in horror as smoke rose from the square.

  “Up, you go!” Miss Snow ordered, seizing the Irish lass by the arm and hauling her bodily to her feet. “Can’t stay here, the fire’s spreading!”

  Sure enough, the first tongues of flame licked the dark sky. Given the direction of the wind, it would blow the flames their direction quick as tinder.

  Good girl that she was, Miss Kennedy followed. The streets were filling with British and Irish alike, a veritable mob screaming at each other. Fists and shillelaghs flew, fires were set deliberately, and glass shattered in shop fronts as looters seized the opportunity to make a point.

  They ran fast as they could, dodging groups of men prowling for Irish and British blood to spill, until the gates of the cemetery loomed out of the smoke-encrusted black.

  Remembering the arch, Miss Snow tucked her hand into the crook of Miss Kennedy’s elbow and dragged to the locked fence. “Up and over, my dear,” she shouted.

  The girl did not balk, clambering up the grating with only a minor disagreement between her feet and hanging skirt.

  As soon as she was on top, Miss Snow scaled the fence with the easy agility of a trained agent.

  Almost immediately, the air lightened, smelling now of tilled earth, burning wood and smoke rather than the wrongness that permeated the rest.

  Miss Snow took a deep breath as she landed beside Miss Kennedy, who had wrapped her arms around herself and watched her city burn.

  For the first time, Miss Snow wasn’t quite sure how to address the situation.

  She touched the girl lightly on the arm. “They’ve taken their payment in fortune and flesh,” she said, as kindly as she could. “Twelve souls for the story, and a burning for the end as proper. It’s unlikely they’ll linger past the night.”

  “What of Galway?” Miss Kennedy asked, her voice a whisper strained to the point of breaking.

  Drawing the girl away from the wrought iron gate—a protection this city did not know it afforded its dead—she tucked an arm about Miss Kennedy’s waist. A companionable gesture.

  A comfortable one, no less.

  “Chin up, Miss Kennedy,” she said. “Although it’s true Galway is caught in the eye of the storm, the land war was bound to spill over eventually. That they were surely given a helping hand does not change the realities of it.”

  “But if Bertie hadn’t—” She lowered her head. Her breath shuddered out on a white mist—distress fragmented by the bitter wind. “The Folk are known for mischief, but this is cruel.”

  “Such peculiar beings often are, my dear,” Miss Snow said quietly. “That is why we must be ever vigilant.”

  “What of the fighting?”

  “Ah, my sweet girl,” Miss Snow said, now a little sad for this harsh lesson. “There are peculiar occurrences, and these require a solution which we are uniquely suited to. Then there are matters of mortals and men, which by and large will only be slaked by blood.”

  Miss Kennedy said nothing to that, though she did walk away to stand alone on a small hill, facing the orange flame reaching hungrily for the sky.

  Thunder rumbled overhead, and the skies opened up over Galway’s silhouette. The rain poured from the clouds, a torrential flurry that soaked them both within moments.

  Not only did it freeze them to the bone, it tamped the fire down, until the city that burned and the passions that raged cooled abruptly as they started.

  If she were a woman to believe in such things, Miss Snow might think that somewhere, a forgotten god—aggrieved to find his legend so abused—might have reached out a cooling hand to shelter his people.

  Miss Snow wrapped her arms around her self, huddling to conserve warmth, and watched the tall Irish lass with the shoulders of a blacksmith and the hands of a tinkerer.

  Some time later, Miss Kennedy picked her way to where she perched upon a worn stone marker, twisting the Ministry ring upon her finger.

  “I think I’d like to see the world, Miss Snow.”

  Miss Snow smiled. “As the nearest branch is in Dublin, we shall be sure to introduce you immediately. Here, have a rest.” She inched to the farthest part of the marker, making room for the Irish girl to sit.

  Miss Kennedy perched with care, her arm against Miss Snow’s. When her head came to rest upon that shoulder, Miss Snow said nothing of it. “What of the gold figure?”

  Miss Snow was very much aware of it, heavy in her pocket. “It shall be archived, as all dangerous items must.”

  “Good.” And that was all the girl had to say of that.

  Later, when Miss Snow would compose her report for Director Fount, the news of the near-fire had been watered down to minor reports of violence between forces angry over the famine, the land, the evictions that would not cease.

  None knew the story of bloodshed by young Bertie Bannigan—angry at the world for the conflict tearing his home apart, and meddling where those of flesh and blood should not. Although peculiar occurrences were this organisation’s specialty, Miss Snow did prefer it when such occurrences came from the minds and madness of men, not gods.

  Some months later, as Miss Snow stood in to witness the recruitment of the newest Ministry agent—a certain fresh-faced Irish girl with eyes like a tropical sea—reports from the province of Connacht declared the famine over. In fact, the potato crops were coming in strong and healthy.

  The Archivist had confirmed in writing her assertion of sluagh influences, and Director Fount had determined that as the artefact was securely tucked away, Galway would see no more obvious meddling. It was all the Ministry was qualified to do, after all.

  “Come, Miss Kennedy,” she called, mandate in hand. “There’s a rash of vanishing bloomers from County Clare to investigate.”

  Gods and Folk, magic or madmen, it didn’t matter what was out there. All agents should start small. A pattern of missing bloomers seemed a lovely change of pace.

  The girl hurried to catch up, eyes sparkling.

  “Yes, Miss Snow!”