Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen)

by Stina Leicht

  “Right. Thanks.”

  They reached the parochial house, and Father Murray let him inside, heading for the kitchen. Liam suspected his stepfather’s entire flat could fit inside the front room. It smelled of furniture polish and antiques. Dark wood paneling gleamed in the afternoon light, and a green carpet runner muffled the sounds of their feet.

  “Father Denton is at the civil rights meeting. Won’t be back for a few hours yet.” Father Murray opened a cabinet and brought out two bar glasses. “You had your supper?”

  “No, Father.”

  Father Murray paused. “Strong drink on an empty stomach is not a good idea. Mrs. Finney made stew. Care to join me?”

  Liam nodded. He had been unable to eat. In the Kesh, all he could think about was Mary Kate and food. Now that he was finally out, it seemed he could only manage to eat a few bites at each meal. “Thank you, Father.”

  They settled at the kitchen table with two steaming bowls of lamb stew and half a loaf of fresh bread. Father Murray prayed over it and then dug in. Liam picked up his spoon and checked the contents of the bowl for things that didn’t belong.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, Father.” Liam forced himself to put a spoonful in his mouth. It tasted lovely, but once swallowed it sank in his stomach like a paving stone.

  “You were in Long Kesh.”

  Liam set the spoon back down, and held up his head but kept his eyes to the table. His throat closed shut.

  “Sixteen is a bit young for that.”

  Listening to his heart pound in his ears, Liam waited.

  “You don’t have to say anything if you’d rather not, but you can if you’d like.”

  The table was scarred from years of use. Liam studied the polished swirling patterns of the wooden surface. Three of them together formed a face. It was screaming.

  “I’ve a brother on the Maidstone, did you know?”

  The prison ship, Liam thought. Shaking his head, he swallowed. He felt hollow except for that one mouthful of stew which gathered more weight until it anchored him to the chair.

  “Marion Francis volunteered for the IRA when he was eighteen. Stayed with the Officials after the split. We’re different, he and I. I don’t believe violence solves problems. It creates them. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have sympathy for the cause.”

  “Didn’t.” Suddenly, Liam couldn’t breathe. The memory of a boot on his back was overpowering.

  Father Murray stared. “Didn’t what?”

  “Wanted to see Mary Kate. Was two o’clock. Saturday.” Liam had to speak in short clips because he couldn’t force it out any other way. He shut his eyes so he didn’t have to see Father Murray’s expression. “Aggro Corner. Didn’t.”

  “Ah.” Liam heard him whisper. “I thought not.”

  Liam focused on breathing in short shallow fits.

  “So they put you away for being on the wrong street at the wrong time,” Father Murray said. “That’s hard.”

  Liam hadn’t expected to be believed. He was certain his own mother thought he was lying.

  Father Murray’s chair scooted across the hardwood floor. Liam heard footsteps. The clink of crystal. A heavy glass thumped on the table in front of him, and the rich scent of whiskey burned his nose.

  “To hell with it. We’ll eat later,” Father Murray said.

  “Aren’t you going to say God only gives us as much trouble as we can handle?”

  “Do you want me to?” Father Murray asked. “Liam, there are some things in this world the Lord God doesn’t have a fuck lot to do with. You ask me, that was one of them.”

  Liam’s eyes snapped open. He had never heard a priest swear before. Mrs. Foyle had said the new curate had disturbingly modern ways, but then Mrs. Foyle didn’t exactly keep up with current events. She—along with most of St. Brendan’s—preferred to hear Mass in Latin and still ate fish on Fridays even though it’d been six years since Vatican II.A young priest with a degree in psychology had no chance at all of being accepted.

  Father Murray said, “Surely we can arrange a stay of execution, it being your birthday. I’ll call your mother. You can sleep here tonight.”

  Liam looked up.

  “That’s a Tyrconnell, man. Drink up.” Father Murray drank from his own glass with his eyes closed and then sighed. “God bless Aunt Catherine. The Lord never made a more thoughtful woman.” One brown eye opened, and he smiled. “I can see you’ve a bit to learn about whiskey. You don’t like it, you can count it as part of your penance.”

  Uncertain, Liam picked up his glass. He’d had a pint or two in the pub with supper and had sampled whatever swill the prisoners brewed in the Kesh—enough to wish he hadn’t the next day, but he’d never drank with a priest before. He took a sip. The whiskey tasted of oak and molten gold. It burned the inside of his nose and heated his belly, thawing the icy knot there in a flash. He wasn’t certain if he liked it or not.

  Father Murray nodded. “All right, then. One more to take the sting out, and then we’ll talk.” He poured another round and then capped the bottle.

  After they’d both finished, he poured again and asked, “So. How long have you known Mary Kate Gallagher?”

  Whether it was the whiskey or the change of subject, Liam didn’t know, but the answer came off his tongue without a fight. “All my life.”

  “That’s good. You been friends long?”

  Liam felt himself smile. “Taught me to take down Sean McGowan in one punch when I was nine. I’d say yes.”

  “Got a lot of passion, that one.” Father Murray stared at his empty glass. “Best ones do.”

  “What?”

  “A man would have to be a damned fool to commit to the priesthood and not know what he was missing. Sacrifice in ignorance is no sacrifice at all.” Father Murray sighed. “Her name was Mary too. Mary O’Brian. And I loved her with all my heart.”

  “You gave her up to become a priest?” Liam couldn’t imagine anyone doing such a thing. If he even thought about it he wouldn’t live long enough to cross the church aisle, and it wouldn’t have been Mary Kate’s father or her brothers or his mother that cut him down. It’d be Mary Kate.

  “No.” Father Murray filled the glasses again. “She died. Two months before we were to be married. We came up here to visit family. Went for a walk, and we were attacked. She was stabbed.”

  Liam felt he’d been gut-punched. “I’m… I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Only told you so you’d know I’m talking from experience,” Father Murray said and then emptied his glass. “Now. I’m supposed to tell you to keep your hands off her and that what you did was a terrible sin.” He took a deep breath. “All I can say is I cannot fault you for doing something I don’t regret doing myself.”

  This was not the conversation Liam was expecting to have.

  “Had you told me you’d only just met, I’d have given you a tongue lashing that’d set you to thinking twice. But I saw you Thursday. Fresh off the bus from Lisburn. And I’m looking at you now.” Father Murray paused. “She brought you back from the dead, that girl. She loves you and you, her. And that’s something else altogether.”

  “Ma wouldn’t think much of what you just said.”

  Father Murray nodded. “Yes, well, no disrespect to your Ma, but she’s never been to the Kesh has she?”

  Liam shook his head.

  “There you are,” Father Murray said. “There’s something I should tell you. Ah, now. Don’t look like that,” he said. “It’s only… Well, your mother and I discussed your situation when I first came here three years ago.”

  “And what did she tell you?”

  Father Murray blew air out of his cheeks. “She said that your real father was gone.”

  “Did she tell you who he was?”

  Getting up from his chair, Father Murray paused. Then as if searching for an excuse for having left the table, he got a glass from the cabinet next to the sink and filled it with water from the tap. He didn�
�t turn around. “She didn’t.”

  If the man weren’t a priest, Liam would’ve sworn he’d just told a lie. Liam watched Father Murray drink, return the glass to the sink and then sit back down.

  “I’ve been watching over you without your being aware. Don’t worry. Your mother knows.”

  “You been spying on me?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” Father Murray said. “Merely, taking an interest in your life. Making sure you got a fair shake at school—”

  “You got to be fu—fecking kidding me.”

  “In general, attempting to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Why me in particular, Father?”

  “You must be careful, Liam.”

  “Careful of what?”

  Father Murray paused again. “The fighting. Don’t get involved. The conflict is about power and money, not religion. And those things are not of God’s realm.”

  Liam blinked. Father Murray seemed to be concerned he was going to volunteer. It wasn’t that unusual for Catholics to have Protestant family members. Liam’s uncle was a Prod. Now, it seemed, so was his father. By getting involved he would run the risk of killing his own, but if that was the worry, wouldn’t it be better to know his father’s name? Well, more than simply “Monroe”—if Monroe was his name at all. Why all the secrets? Why lie? “I never want to go back to prison, Father.”

  “There’s no difference between Protestant and Catholic, you know. We’re all the same. Peace is the only—”

  “I’m not political.”

  Father Murray gave him a long stare and then seemed to come to a conclusion. He relaxed, settling in the chair with one arm draped on the back. “So, do you think you can eat now?”

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  “Good. I’ll give your Ma a call then.”

  While Father Murray made the phone call in the other room Liam finished eating. Father Murray returned several minutes later and refilled the half-empty bowl, pouring another glass of whiskey without a word.

  “I’ll be drunk, I drink that,” Liam said.

  Father Murray said, “There’s times when drinking means cowering and times when drinking can heal. Don’t expect you to know the difference. I think in this case, I do. So, you’ll have to trust me—if you can.”

  “This is some of that college psychology shite Mrs. Foyle goes on about, isn’t it?”

  Father Murray smiled. “That it is.”

  “Fair enough. Only wanted to be sure.”

  Hours later Liam found himself staring at the kitchen wall and sobbing while Father Murray listened to his confession. There was plenty he couldn’t even bear to think about let alone speak of to a priest—Sanders, for one—but he confessed what little he could. He was sober enough to think himself weak for crying yet again but couldn’t stop himself. When it was done, Father Murray absolved him of his sins, spoken and unspoken and then helped him stagger upstairs. Liam collapsed fully clothed on the bed and slept soundly and without fear or dreams for the first time in months.

  Chapter 8

  Londonderry/Derry, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland

  29 January 1972

  “I’m going to my mother’s,” Kathleen said, putting on her coat. “Give some thought to what I said.” The children were outside playing. She’d made sure of it. All the years she’d been married she’d been careful not to fight in front of them. It wasn’t always the easiest to arrange.

  “Our whole life together he’s been nothing but trouble. The rebellious wee shite,” Patrick said. “He drove me to it, he did. He delights in making me angry.”

  “You’re a man, and he’s a boy,” Kathleen said. “Between the two of yous who’s the one should have better control of himself?”

  “I’ll not have the wee bastard in this flat ever again.”

  She stepped forward, getting as close as she could so he could be sure to know she was serious. He towered over her, but she wasn’t letting that stop her—not this time. “Don’t you ever call him that… that… word again.”

  Startled, Patrick’s mouth gaped.

  She used as much venom as she could muster. “You’re as much as calling me a whore when you do. Fifteen years of marriage and five children. I’ll not have that from you.” She yanked her scarf from the peg on the wall. “Now. I’m to see that Liam is settled. He’ll only be there for a day or two—”

  “Woman, this is my flat, and I’ll have the say of who’ll be staying in it.”

  “It’s man of the house, you are, and I’ll not shame you. But you listen to me, Patrick Kelly. The day you married me you took my Liam for your own. You swore it would be so, and I’ll not hear otherwise.” She placed the scarf on her head and tied it under her chin with a jerk. “You will spend the time while I’m away cooling off, or there’ll be no supper in this flat tonight. As it stands, there may not be anyway.”

  She turned and walked through the door, slamming it behind her. She stomped down the hallway and past her neighbor’s open door. “Afternoon, Mrs. Foyle.”

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Kelly. Weather’s up, is it?”

  “Everything is fine,” Kathleen said, attempting to ignore the feeling of being watched as she reached the stairs. The door gave out a thump as Mrs. Foyle went back inside her flat.

  It was raining and dark when Kathleen entered the churchyard for the third time in a month. Having never had a means of contacting Bran before, she wasn’t confident of it working. It had been a little over a week since she’d given Father Murray the coin, and yet, she felt like so much had happened since then. Her neck ached with tension from the fight with Patrick. She tried to put it out of her mind and made her way to the wall at the back of the churchyard, stopping under an old yew tree.

  “Bran?” She called as loudly as she dared. “Are you here?”

  Wind shook the trees and tugged at the umbrella in her hand. She re-situated herself and her umbrella to prevent being soaked further than she already was and hoped it wouldn’t take too long for him to appear. She hadn’t been lying when she said she was going to visit her mother. When she’d called to tell her that Liam needed the extra room for a few nights her mother had been less than pleased. She’d asked her how long it would be for this time and when given an indefinite answer had stated that the sofa was good enough for the likes of him. It was obvious Kathleen would need to smooth some feathers before he showed up, or the lad would be on the street.

  “Bran? Please, come. I need you.”

  “And what is it you need me for, Kathleen?”

  She suppressed a scream and then slapped him on the arm. “Damn you.”

  “According to your priests I’m already damned. Or is it you’re adding more damnation upon my soul?”

  “According to the priests you don’t have one.” She hit him a second time. “You’ll be the death of me.”

  “No, Kathleen. Never,” he said, stepping closer with wide open arms.

  She moved her umbrella in front of her, using it as a shield and felt him bump into it.

  “Now what did you go and do a thing like that for?” he asked. “And it laced with the iron, no less?”

  Shifting her umbrella out of the way she saw he was holding a hand to his face, but he was smiling. She covered her mouth to hide a laugh. “I’m sorry.”

  “The things I suffer for love.” His face grew serious. “Were you able to find out anything?”

  “It came from a museum in London. They were more than a bit upset that it’d gone missing,” she said. “It’s lucky I am that I went to Father Murray with it, or I’d be on my way to Bligh’s Lane or worse right now.”

  “I didn’t know, Kathleen. I didn’t.”

  “I know you didn’t,” she said. “But Father Murray had to do a wee bit of storytelling. He told them he’d found it in the church collection box.”

  “The priest lied for you?” Bran blinked.

  “He’s a friend. I told you.”

  “Did he learn anything else?�
�

  “Was minted in the Tudor era. 1554. Those that are depicted on the front are Queen Mary and King Philip of Spain.”

  “It’s Spanish, then?”

  “No. English. She’s Queen Mary. Bloody Mary. The one that killed all those Protestants.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She reached into her purse for the notes Father Murray had given her. “Queen Mary’s father was King Henry the Eighth. The one who established the Church of England. The Pope excommunicated him for divorcing Mary’s mother. Henry killed English Catholics who wouldn’t convert. Mary didn’t agree with her father. So it was when Mary eventually became Queen long after her father’s death she abolished the Church of England. Burned three hundred Protestants for heretics, Father Murray said. It was then that the hatred between the Catholics and Protestants was born.”

  “Oh.”

  “After Mary died her half sister Elizabeth became queen. She brought back the Church of England. And that brought about more religious turmoil.”

  “What does a splintering within the new religion have to do with Ireland or the Redcap for that matter?”

  “I don’t know. It would make more sense if all this were about Oliver Cromwell. Was him that came to Ireland, declared Catholicism illegal and murdered the Catholics here. But he didn’t come about until a hundred years later.”

  “So, the coin depicts an English Queen who burned three hundred people to death.”

  “Didn’t you say the Redcap was English?”

  “Aye. He is.”

  “Maybe he has a connection to Queen Mary, then.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Does that help?”

  He tilted his head. “I’m not sure. It means something, but what?”

  “It’s all that could be got from it.” She refolded the paper and stuffed it back into her handbag. It was difficult to hide her distress.

  “You did well,” Bran said. “Thank you.”

  “What happens now?”

  He looked past her toward the street. “I wish I knew.”

  “Some great dark thing you are. Are you not able to foretell the future like the púca of Leinster?”