by Calinda B
“I’m not sure.” Cillian’s voice sounded as shaky as hers.
“I’m coming straight away,” she said, rising to her feet. “Are you at Seamus’ house?”
“Yes, but…”
“I’m coming.” She reached for her yellow slicker hanging on one of the hooks.
“No, Lassi,” Cillian began.
“Not up for discussion,” she said, disconnecting the call.
Further away, in the house, footsteps and voices—one of them sniffling and plaintive—let her know Mary had returned with Siobhan through the front door. She pushed past Bres and Paul and made her way into the hall, just as Mary and Siobhan were removing their raincoats.
“We need to get Siobhan warm and dry,” Mary said. “Can you put on the kettle, Lassi?”
Siobhan huddled behind Mary like a newborn lamb who’d seen a wolf. Her hair hung in wet tendrils, sticking to her face. Her soaked clothes stuck to her skin like a shroud.
“Um, no, sorry. Bres and I just got a call informing us of a medical emergency.” She tried to beam her thoughts to Mary, conveying that something else bat-shit freaky had happened. I’m a shite liar, but I don’t want to upset Siobhan.
Mary met her statement with a confused, eyebrows furrowed expression.
“We have to go see Cillian. He’s, uh, not available to come over,” Lassi stammered.
“Oh,” Mary said, pressing her hand to her bosom. “Is he all right?”
“No, um, yes, I mean…I’ll tell you later.”
Bres stared at Siobhan.
She lifted her gaze to him, viewing him with dull eyes, ringed with sorrow.
His face pinched into some deep well of anguish like he wanted to stay and take away her pain. But, his dedication to his profession overrode whatever he felt. He passed Paul to Mary.
“I’m ready. Let’s go,” Bres said to Lassi.
They scurried out the front door and dashed to Lassi’s red Skoda hatchback sedan, getting soaked in the three-meter sprint.
On the short drive to Helvic, the seaside village where Seamus lived, Lassi gripped the steering wheel. How can Seamus be dying? Something awful must have happened to him.
Bres rubbed his palm along her arm. “Easy, girl. You look like you’re strangling your car.”
She side-eyed him, smiled slightly, then blew out her breath, loosening her hold on the wheel.
The windshield wipers were on overdrive, sluicing the rain back and forth. She could barely see the road. The windows were getting fogged, too. She flipped the defroster on high.
It let out a roaring whoosh and began clearing small openings in the fog in inconvenient places, like the bottom of the windshield. Lassi wiped the window with her palm.
“Are you okay? With the baby and all?” Bres asked.
Another sigh left her lungs. “I don’t know. Ask me tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure. No problem.” He directed his gaze out the window. “Weird about Seamus, right? I saw him a couple of weeks ago. He came in for his physical. Vitals, bloodwork, everything was perfect.” He shook his head. “He’s only thirty-five. How can he be at death’s door?”
She afforded him another glance. “I just saw him. He, Sixpack, and Billy were goofing it up at the Laughing Rat the other night. He looked fine like he could live to be a hundred.” She resumed her tight grip on the wheel.
“Maybe he got in a car wreck. Cillian didn’t say much. He was pretty tight-lipped,” Bres said.
“That’s Cillian.” Her mouth worked to keep the complaints in her mind from slipping through. She finally found something neutral to say. “When he’s in a mood, he withdraws.” She added a nod, congratulating herself on her restraint. “I think we should send someone to Siobhan’s for support. She looked like she needs a lot of care and compassion,” she added, in a redirect maneuver. Otherwise, she feared to go on a tear about how Cillian becomes a moody Leviathan when he doesn’t want to deal with her, slipping into a near coma as if he’s halfway to the ocean floor.
“Who do you suggest we contact?” Bres stuck his hand in his pocket and retrieved a tissue. He wiped the side window. “Here, want this for your side?” he added, extending the damp tissue in her direction.
“Thanks.” She took it and swiped against her side window. Shite defroster. “I’m thinking Lady Freddie. Let’s call the Laughing Rat. Do you have your phone? I need to stay focused on the road here. This tsunami downpour is making it hard to see.”
“I know.” He rummaged in his coat pocket. “Give me the number, and I’ll put it on the speaker.” As she spoke, he tapped the number and then held the device near Lassi.
“Laughing Rat, how may I help you?” Lady Freddie said.
“Lady Freddie, it’s Lassi.”
“Oh, hey, Lassi-love, need to place an order?”
“No, I need something else.”
“Well, it better not be too complicated. We’re slammed, and Siobhan is absent again. At least she called this time.” Lady Freddie huffed into Lassi’s ear.
Lassi squinted at the road, as a blurry red light came into view. She stepped on the brakes. “Right. That’s who this is about. I need someone to go stay with her. She had an…” Her gaze slid to Bres’.
“Traumatic incident,” he whispered.
“She had a traumatic incident,” Lassi said, giving the car some gas. “And I feel it best to have more than Mary Conway by her side. Mary’s got to watch little Paul, too. I’m with Dr. Breslin heading to a medical emergency.”
“Oh, dear! I wish I could help. But, sorry, love, I’m in the middle of writing payments, and two delivery men are breathing down my neck for my attention.” She paused and muffled words came through the airwaves as if she had her hand over the speaker. When she resumed speaking to Lassi, she said, “I can send Petra. She’s as steady a soul as ever was.”
“Petra?” Lassi said as she flipped the turn signal, heading onto the road where Seamus lived.
To her right, the sea hurled angry waves toward the shore like a pissed-off baseball pitcher with one hell of a curveball.
“She’s our new hire. She’s returned to Ireland from Australia.” Again, she paused. “I hope it’s not a problem to send her. She’s Ailis’ sister.”
Chills iced Lassi’s neck. She sucked in a sharp breath. “Ailis’ sister? I don’t think it’s a good idea to send anyone related to Ailis to Siobhan’s.”
A muffled shout shot through the phone. Lady Freddie said, “I really must go. Shall I send Petra or not?”
“Yes. All right. Send Petra.” Lassi’s gut twisted into what must be the finest Clinch knot ever.
Seamus had entertained her a couple of weeks ago at the Laughing Rat by tying paper napkins into seaworthy knots. He unfolded the napkins, rolled them into long, slender strands, and tied them with his deft, calloused hands.
The memory jostled a few tears into her eyes. She said goodbye to Lady Freddie and waved her hand for Bres to disconnect.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to send Ailis’ sister?” Bres said, his jaw tight.
“We don’t have a choice, do we? Lady Freddie vouched for her. Maybe she doesn’t carry the same conniving trait as her sister, God rest her soul.” She turned into Seamus’ driveway and pulled to a stop by his red-doored cottage. “Get my medical bag out of the back seat. Please.”
He turned, grabbed it, and maneuvered it into his lap. “Ready.”
She reached for her door handle at the same time Bres reached for his. They hurried to the house with the calm urgency typically employed by medical professionals.
Lassi knocked. A busty carved mermaid seemed to study her from above the door.
“Look. That carving’s eyes appear to be staring at me. That’s somewhat disturbing.” She pointed at the mermaid.
“A little, yes,” Bres agreed.
“Seamus is a man for mermaids, that’s for certain. He always has a dreamy aura around him as if he sings to mermaids and speaks to angels.” Lassi sighed.
Lassi knocked again. When no one greeted them, she jiggled the doorknob and twisted it, opening the door a crack.
“Hello,” she called. “It’s Nurse Lassi and Doctor Breslin.”
“Back here, Lassi,” called Cillian.
Lassi pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold, entering Seamus’ modest cottage.
A small brown sofa and chair occupied the front room. Pebbles, shells, and driftwood sat on the mantel of the fireplace. A notepad and pen rested on a writing desk, which had been positioned against the wall. That’s probably for the poems he crafts. She shook her head. Not that I know of any poems he writes. He fits the appearance of a poet, but maybe he’s a numbers man, what do I know?
Whimpers filled the hallway to her right with heartbreaking grief.
Softly, she and Bres closed the distance between the front room and the whimpers.
When she reached the back bedroom, she peeked through the doorway.
Seamus lay in his bed, eyes closed. He looked like he’d washed up to shore, bloated and pale, but breathing.
A woman sat next to him, holding his hand and weeping. “Are you the medical team?”
“Yes,” Bres said. “I’m Doctor Breslin.”
“I’m Ciara, Seamus’ sister. What can you do to help?” she said in a voice so sorrowful the tone alone could drag a caring man down to the bottom of the sea.
Cillian sat on his other side. His eyes locked with Lassi’s. He gave her a look she took as, “This isn’t over. I love you and want to work it out.”
She flashed him a simmering gaze conveying, “I’m not so certain. Your failure to greet the life between us with any sort of enthusiasm or let me in on your current secrets tells me how you feel.” With a toss of her long hair, she dismissed him and cast her attention back to Seamus.
Seamus stirred beneath the rumpled blue bedding. Sweat beaded his forehead. His blond hair lay pasted to his scalp. Dark sweat stains spread along the dingy white pillowcase. He writhed, clutching the bedspread with his strong, seaworthy fingers.
Ciara reached for a cloth resting in a basin of water on the bed stand. She wrung it out and dabbed it on his forehead.
A creepy high-pitched wail, like steaming gas escaping Satan’s pinched sphincter, escaped from Seamus’ lips.
“Sweet Jesus, have mercy.” Ciara crossed herself.
Every hair on Lassi’s body pricked to attention. She tugged at her earlobe. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What a ghastly sound.
Bres rushed to Seamus’ other side, gripping the medical bag. “Father Ward, if you please, I need to perform an examination and determine if there’s anything we can do for him.”
Cillian nodded and rose, crossing to where Lassi stood.
Another wail, longer and deeper, emerged from the depth of Seamus’ soul. He sounded like a keening mourner at his own funeral.
It sent shivers up Lassi’s spine.
“Have mercy on his soul,” Ciara said, dabbing frantically at his face with the cloth clutched in her hand. “The devil’s trying to take him.”
“I’ll do what I can, Ciara,” Bres said in his kind, matter-of-fact voice. He unclasped the exam satchel and removed Lassi’s pink stethoscope.
It’s no use. Seamus is dying, as sure as I’m standing here bearing witness. Lassi wrapped her arms around her belly.
“Can I talk to you?” Cillian said, in a quiet voice. He gripped her elbow and ushered her from the room, without waiting for an answer.
She allowed herself to be led, hoping he might say something that would make this whole mess between them disappear.
When she stood in the front room, facing Cillian, she asked, “How did this happen? He looks awful. And his moans…they sound like they’re emerging straight from some hell realm.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ve been listening to them for hours. They’re getting more intense with each passing hour. It’s as if he’s being wooed by dark forces.” He blew out a long sigh. “I got a call from Ciara in the middle of the night. She said it came on sudden. She’d stopped by to fix him supper. When he first went down, she thought it the flu. It got worse, so she called me. But, that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”
Lassi ignored his last statement, preferring to stay focused on the here and now. Her mind whirled with possible reasons for the abrupt illness. First, all the kids around here coming down with the flu. Now, this. Are the two connected? “You don’t think it’s the Dearg-Due, do you?”
He shook his head. “Not her style. I’ve been managing her for three centuries. She bleeds them out in creative ways. She doesn’t simply suck the life out of them.”
“Yes, but maybe she’s evolved.” Lassi stared out the window at the waves crashing along the shore. “Surely you’ve noticed the weird weather pattern.”
“Oh, I have, believe me.” His eyes sought hers with unfathomable depth and longing. “Listen, love…I want to reconcile with you. I need to reconcile with you. I love you too much.”
Lassi’s cold heart began to melt inside. “Cillian, I…”
“But you have to understand,” he continued.
An inner wall snapped into place, protecting her heart, readying herself for whatever he needed to say next. “There’s always a but, isn’t there?” she said, folding her arms across her chest.
A gust outside the window sent seagulls shooting through the sky like beaked missiles.
“There is much to take into account,” he said, his gorgeous face becoming an unreadable mask. The only sign of passionate expression blazed in his eyes.
“Oh, here we go with the Cillian Ward reasonableness,” she blurted. She stomped the few steps to the sofa and dropped into it. Then, she crossed her legs at the ankles and repositioned her arms in a knot Seamus would applaud. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“Like hell you are,” he said, as he crossed toward the comfy green leather chair. He settled his tall body into it and continued speaking. “You’re as fortified as Kilkenny castle.”
“No, Cillian, what I am is pregnant with our child,” she said, tightening her arms. “Maternal hormones are whizzing through my bloodstream, calling, ‘Protect! Arm yourself! Protect this child and keep her safe.’”
His jaw dropped. His expression transformed into some likeness of a wounded beast. “And you don’t feel safe around me?”
“Not at this moment, no.” She turned to gaze out the window. The stupid seagulls had finally got the message that it wasn’t safe out and all of them had disappeared. Either that or they’d been flung across the miles to Galway. Only dark clouds galloped across the sky. She swung her gaze back to Cillian. Then, she huffed out a sigh and unfolded her arms. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
Cillian’s face softened. He clasped his hands loosely and placed them on his knees, leaning forward slightly. “I never in a million years dreamed I could fall in love, sweetness, let alone get you or anyone pregnant. Ever since you told me, my mind’s been wondering what kind of sperm I have. They’ve got to be altered, same as your egg. We don’t know what kind of monster we’ll create.”
She nodded. “I know, I’ve thought the same thing.”
“And, even if the child emerges resembling a human, we don’t know what kind of abilities he or she will have.”
Again, she nodded. “You’re right, we don’t.”
She uncrossed her ankles and relaxed against the sofa back.
“Everything seems so complicated,” he said. He unclasped his hands and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not unhappy about the child, simply cautious.”
“I suppose I’m the same,” she conceded, her stomach loosening its knotted grip. “But I’m the one carrying ‘the child,’ as we’re calling him or her, and I’m not willing to let it go.”
His head bobbed up and down. “Understood. I’m not asking you to terminate the child. That goes against all I believe in.”
She
sighed. Tears pricked at her eyes. “Good,” she said, with a sniffle. “That means a lot to me.”
“But,” he began.
She stiffened. She gathered a lock of hair in her hand and twirled it around and around. With clenched teeth, she said, “Go ahead.”
That drawn, pinched eyebrow look of anguish she’d become familiar with over the past two years crossed his face. His expression tugged at her compassion, but she wasn’t ready to yield. She dug her fingernails into the sofa cushions.
His jaw muscles twitched. “Generations of parishioners have been born and died under my care. It's complicated for me because it's not just about me—or even about me and you. It's about the people who trust me with their secrets and their souls. I just need a little time to figure things out.”
She pursed her lips. “I see.”
He searched for answers in the ceiling and then turned back to her. “I don’t know what to do.” He rubbed his palm with the fingers of his other hand as if conjuring answers. “Seamus’ sister called me as her priest. The celibate man who speaks God’s word and gives Last Rites. She didn’t call me as Lassi’s lover, the guy who’s madly, passionately in love with you, Lassi Finn.” His gaze grew fierce, piercing her armored mood.
She sucked in a breath but said nothing.
“The very few in Bally—Siobhan, Mary and Ryan Conway, and Bres—keep their knowledge to themselves. The others assume I’m still their faithful, God-fearing priest.” His head fell back against the chair and his eyes focused somewhere above him. When he leveled his gaze toward her, he said, “I’ve known Seamus and Ciara since they were children.”
Lassi snorted. “Have you now? And you never thought to wonder if they’ve asked themselves ‘why, exactly, has our priest not aged a day in all these years? Divine providence has rendered him forever in his twenties. It’s a miracle, I tell you. Or, maybe he’s not all he’s cracked up to be.’” She scoffed.
He glowered. “I’ve told you. Something about the Leviathan spell modifies what the people see in me. It should work the same with you, dear-heart.”
