Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen)

by Stina Leicht

  “Oh, Kathleen. That’s not me at all. I’m no druid. Although, of late I wish I were.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re doing what you can.”

  “Speaking of which,” he said. “It’s possible you won’t be seeing me for a while.”

  “One of your battles?” She tried to hide her disappointment.

  He nodded. “We’ve a chance at giving the Fallen a good rollicking. I can’t tell you more. I wish I could.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “You’ve not seen the Redcap?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all.”

  His shoulders dropped, and he appeared relieved. “Well, then. It’s possible he doesn’t know about you. And I’ve been worried for you both for nothing.”

  “I should go.” She kissed him on the cheek. “To keep you company until I see you next.”

  Happiness and surprise flashed across his features. “I love you, Kathleen.”

  “I love you too.”

  “I wish you would come with me. If we lose, things will go very bad in the mortal world.”

  “And how would you fight your war with me tagging you?”

  He smiled. “You’d dress yourself in bronze and fight at my side.”

  “I’d do no such thing.”

  “Wish me luck then.”

  “I wish you all the luck in the world.”

  Chapter 9

  Londonderry/Derry, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland

  30 January 1972

  Liam woke to warm sunlight on his face. Pale yellow walls gave the bare room a cheerful air. Sometime during the night, someone had taken off his boots and laid a blanket over him. The knowledge that someone—probably Father Murray—had done so without waking him filled Liam with dread. A jug of water, an empty glass and two white tablets were set out on the nightstand with a note written in careful cursive script.

  Glancing up at the crucifix nailed at the head of the bed, Liam contemplated staying where he was. He didn’t feel sick, but then he had yet to sit up. When he did, he was thankful of the aspirin and the water. The headache wasn’t unbearable. He had only gone that far drunk once, and that had been in the Kesh when he had wanted to die.

  Pulling off the shirt he’d slept in, he then gutted the laundry bag. He discovered a new sweater and a present wrapped in bright paper. The card taped to the wrapping was one of Moira’s creations made from school construction paper, crayons and glue. She often told him that he reminded her of a shaggy black dog, and so that was what she had drawn. Something about it reminded him of the monster in the Kesh. He dropped it with a shudder.

  The present turned out to be an old book. Ma will never give up, he thought with a sigh.

  He had quit school the year before, Sister Margaret having made it clear that he was too stupid to bother continuing. At least he had learned his letters, but when he tried to read it was always with the feeling that he was playing a spiteful game of hide and seek, chasing vanishing words across a crowded page. He had often wondered why it was worth the struggle and with the exception of Mary Kate’s letters, frequently didn’t bother. His mother had other ideas.

  Fanning the book, hand-tinted images of fairies and spooks flitted by.

  He stopped when he came to a page marked with an old photograph of a young couple. The woman was younger and less worn by cares and hardship, but it was his mother just the same. The smile on her face shone out of the picture with openness he’d never seen in life. Her arms were wrapped around a tall man with thick black hair and light-colored eyes. The man’s face was so much like his own that for a moment he thought it was. His hands shook as he flipped the picture. It took him a while to puzzle out the inscription.

  Kathleen and Bran 1954

  “Bran. My father’s name is Bran Monroe?”

  The church bells pealed, giving him a start.

  I’ll be late to Mass, he thought. Still, he couldn’t tear his eyes from that face. There was something savage about it in spite of the happy expression. Feral. When he noticed the page the photograph marked he spied an illustration of a fierce black dog with demonic eyes. Shivering, he snapped the book shut and crammed it back in the bag. A loud knock came from the door. Liam snatched up a clean white shirt and stuffed his arms into it. The knock sounded again.

  “Liam?” Father Murray asked.

  Liam finished buttoning the shirt and pulled the new sweater over the top of it. “Almost ready, Father.” It would have to do. He had already outgrown the Sunday suit his mother had bought six months ago. He wouldn’t have another until next fall.

  “I have to ask you a question,” Father Murray said. “It’s urgent. May I come in?”

  When Liam spied Father Murray’s face, he stumbled back. The priest’s jaw was set, and there was an angry line between his eyebrows. “Did you go near your stepfather’s car yesterday?”

  Liam swallowed. It wasn’t smart, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie to a priest. “Borrowed a flashlight from the boot. Didn’t want to go to Gran’s. Thought I’d need it if I was going to stay in one of the derelicts on Williams Street. Was going to give it back. I—”

  “The RUC are waiting outside the church. Your stepfather has filed a complaint.”

  “For a flashlight?”

  “Someone smashed his car windows with a brick and then kicked in the side. He says you did it in retaliation for throwing you out,” Father Murray said. “This is serious, Liam. They’ll put you away again.”

  “I can’t go back! I won’t!” Liam paced the room. His heart slammed against his breastbone, and he trembled with the need to run, but Father Murray was blocking the only means of escape. “Please, you can’t let them!” Liam whirled and emptied the laundry bag. Finding the heavy silver flashlight, he tossed

  it on the bed. “There. Give it back. They can’t. Not for that. Please?”

  “Did you or did you not vandalize your stepfather’s car?”

  “Do you think it matters?” Liam looked away, trying to remember. By the time he had gotten to the car he had been angry. The tingling had returned, and there had been a moment when he thought about kicking in the side, but he hadn’t done it.

  Had he?

  You don’t exactly remember what you did to that guard either, he thought. The image of a word written in blood and flesh surfaced. A voice pleaded in his head. Don’t. Please stop. He shuddered and combed his hair with his fingers as if to wipe brick dust from them. “I didn’t.”

  “You won’t go back. Not if I can help it,” Father Murray said. “Stay here. Someone will bring up food later.”

  “What about Mass?”

  “Mrs. Organ’s funeral is this afternoon. A private service can’t be arranged until after the march,” Father Murray said. “You’ll be safe. Just… stay away from the windows.”

  Liam sat on the bed and attempted to gain some sort of control over the terror and anger. He resented being confined. At the same time, he knew he should be grateful he wasn’t on his way back to Lisburn. “Thank you, Father.” He forced gratitude through clenched teeth.

  “We’ll get it sorted out. Don’t worry.” Father Murray shut the door and hurried down the stairs.

  Liam paced. He wanted to believe Father Murray, but dread had a vise grip on his chest, and he couldn’t breathe. Quietly opening the door again, he gained a measure of relief. Then he turned to organizing the laundry bag and attempted not to notice that his mother had packed all the clothes he owned. When that was done, he stared at the book resting on the bed. Touching the black leather cover as little as possible, he stole the photograph from between its pages.

  Next to his mother, his father’s clothes were old but well-tailored. His glossy hair was wild and brushed the tops of his shoulders. Neither rich nor poor, he didn’t have the look of a man used to work. He certainly wasn’t a farmer. At the same time Liam couldn’t imagine anyone who looked like that living in a city. While his mother’s arms were clamped around his waist in
possession, he rested one comfortable arm across her shoulders, taking pleasure in her presence but not bound by it. Although the picture was old and his father long gone, Liam placed his thumb over the smiling image as if that might help hold the man to his proper place.

  At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, a bolt of terror ran Liam through.

  He dropped the photograph on the bed and was still deciding whether or not to confront whoever it was in the hallway when Mary Kate appeared. She held her hand out in front of her in the universal sign of a toy gun and squinted, aiming.

  “I’ve come for you, Liam Kelly. Surrender with your hands up.”

  “Don’t make a joke of it.” Crossing the room in four strides he caught her before she could enter.

  She stood on her toes and kissed him. In a flash, he became uncomfortably aware of the proximity of the bed. Images from previous afternoons ran mad in his mind. It wasn’t easy, but he pushed her back. “I promised your father,” he said, trying to ignore the electric shiver running up his thighs.

  With a wicked smile, she took one step forward. He hopped back, afraid if he touched her again his resolve would vanish like so much mist.

  “Well, isn’t this interesting,” she said.

  “Have some mercy, will you?”

  “Say please.”

  “Please.”

  “Say ‘I’m an idiot for putting a brick through my stepfather’s car window.’ Shite. Sometimes I wonder if you think at all.”

  “Didn’t do it. I swear.”

  She gave him a hard look, and he held her gaze for what seemed an eternity before she sighed. “All right. I believe you,” she said, backing into the hallway. “I’m going on the march this afternoon, and I want you to go with me.”

  “Can’t leave. Father Murray said the RUC—”

  “Your stepfather withdrew the complaint.”

  “What? How?”

  She shrugged. “Didn’t hear. Your mother and Father Murray both took him aside after Mass. Whatever it was they said, it must’ve been good. Don’t think I’ve ever seen your stepfather apologize quite so sincerely before.”

  Liam’s legs felt weak. He wanted to sit before he fell down, but the only place to sit was on the bed, and he wasn’t about to do that.

  “Father Murray said you should get something from the kitchen. Then we can go,” she said.

  “Have you not heard? Mrs. Foyle said the Paras will be at the march,” he said. “And they’ll be out for blood.”

  “And how would she know?”

  “How do you think?” he asked. “She heard it from Mr. O’Brian who heard it from Mr. Porter. He’s got a radio. Listens in on army channels before the marches.” He sighed. “Ma told me what happened at Magilligan last Saturday. Paratroopers had to be stopped from beating protesters to death.

  I’ll not have you near those bastards.”

  Instead of being shocked or frightened as he expected, she put a hand on her hip. “Oh, so you think you can order me about?”

  “I’m not ordering—”

  “This march is for those who’ve been interred without trial. That means you, Liam Kelly. You and the rest of them that’s still being tortured in that freezing hole. If you won’t stand up for yourself, that’s fine. But you’d let the others rot without so much as a word against it?”

  He saw her standing there with her eyes shining and knew he was lost. “I’ll go.”

  “Good.”

  “But you have to leave. Now.”

  She tilted her head in a question.

  “I promised your father. I intend to keep my word.”

  “What? Do you think for a moment I’d ravish you in a parochial house?” she asked. “A girl could go straight to hell for a thing like that.” She winked. “You’ve no worry. Sean is in the kitchen. Making a note of how long it’s taking for me to get you downstairs too, no doubt. Let’s go.”

  He paused. “Your brother?”

  “Only one of them,” she said. “Why?”

  Liam felt his face heat up. “He didn’t care for me much before. Now that he knows I—”

  “Do you think for one moment Sean is going to kick the shite out of you in Father Murray’s kitchen?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “I should think,” she said with a smile, “he’s got manners enough to wait until you’re outside.”

  Sean Gallagher was three years older than Mary Kate and worked down at the docks. His hair was the same sandy brown color as his sister’s. Although Sean was short, he was powerfully built and was—Liam was certain—the brother who’d taught Mary Kate to punch. Sean stood glowering at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Thóg tú do am,” he said.

  “I wasn’t up there for that long,” Mary Kate said, hopping down the remaining steps.

  “Tá se mo chinneadh,” Sean said, and then turned on Liam. “Cad a rinne tú thuas ansin?” His brows pushed together in a suspicious line, and the tone of his voice was harsh.

  Since he didn’t have any Irish, Liam decided it was best to stay silent. He glanced at Mary Kate.

  “Sean, you’re being rude.”

  “Nil gaeilge aige a chór ar bith. Tá an bastún mór ag stánadh consúil iasc. Conas a feidir leat a phosadh rud mar é?”

  Mary Kate said. “Keep it up, and I’ll tell Laoise I saw you with Nóinín last night.”

  “Ní bheidh tú,” Sean said.

  “I would,” she said. “I may do it anyway.”

  “Níl,” Sean said.

  “An Bearla,” she said.

  Sean sighed and stepped back, allowing him to pass. “Just remember,” Sean said. “I’m watching you.”

  In the kitchen, Mary Kate heated leftover stew and then poured it into a bowl while Liam watched. She set it on the table in front of him. “Eat every bite.”

  “Now who’s ordering who about?” Liam asked.

  She smiled. “If I’m to be your wife you’d best get used to my looking after you.”

  Sean let out a snort from the hallway.

  “Thought I was to look after you,” Liam said.

  “That’s not the way my mother tells it,” Mary Kate said. “Eat.”

  He ate to make her happy and felt better for it. When he was finished she washed the dishes and set them to dry. He couldn’t help smiling as he looked on, imagining the future with them in their own flat. As birthdays went, he decided this one wasn’t too bad.

  “We’re to meet mother and father at Bishop’s Field. We’ll come back for your things after. Then we’re walking with you to your Gran’s. Just in case Patrick Kelly decides to file another complaint.”

  “I won’t go to Gran’s,” Liam said.

  “Sure, she doesn’t like you much, but where else will you go?” she asked. “Your stepfather may have called off the Peelers, but we both know he won’t allow you back in his flat. Maybe I can talk Bridget into letting you stay with her and Gerry, if you’d rather. But with the new babies—”

  “Fine. I’ll go to Gran’s.”

  Sean stuck his head into the kitchen. “Are you two going to argue all day? It’s nearly three.”

  “Grab your coat, Liam. We can’t be late. We go and do that, I’ll be locked in my room for a year.”

  They passed several barricades and check points on their way to Bishop’s Field. BAs and Saracen Armoured Personnel Carriers filled the streets. A military helicopter passed overhead. Derry was being invaded. As they crossed Waterloo, Liam yanked Mary Kate from the path of a speeding Saracen. It braked suddenly and the passenger side door swung open. A paratrooper leaned out, his beret the color of drying blood. When the Para smiled, Liam thought he saw teeth sharpened to points in a wizened face. The creature was staring right at him with burning red eyes. He’d seen that face before.

  Aggro Corner. The day he’d been arrested.

  The tingling sensation returned, and the beast that lived in the back of Liam’s head shifted. Enemy, it said. Danger. Kill it.

&n
bsp; “Going to blow your fucking head off,” the Para with the sharp teeth said, pantomiming the action with two fingers and a thumb. “See you soon, dog.”

  Liam blinked in shock. A normal-looking Para slammed the door, and the vehicle sped off down the street. Sean made an obscene gesture at the Saracen.

  “Did you see that?” Liam asked.

  Mary Kate tugged him by the arm. “They’re only trying to intimidate us. Bastards.”

  No, he thought. Did you see that thing? It wasn’t human. Seeing monsters. The tingling. The memory loss. He was beginning to question his sanity, but if he said anything Mary Kate might leave him. “It’s working then.”

  “Never mind them. It’s just a short walk and then we’ll listen to some speeches.” She looped her arm through his. “You mentioned something about a wedding. Any idea when it might be?”

  Sean snorted, and Mary Kate slapped him on the arm.

  Locating Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher among the thousands gathered at Bishop’s Field wasn’t easy. Television and radio crews recorded the crowd as they laughed and chatted. Were it not for the banners he would have sworn it was a festival day. The sun was high in the sky, and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, making the bad feeling in his stomach all the more incongruent. He took a deep breath of cold air and tried to relax, but the beast was still there, muttering dire warnings in the back of his brain.

  “Mother!” Mary Kate pushed through the crowd, dragging him with her. Her palm was sweaty, and nervous energy fueled her voice. “We’re here!”

  Mrs. Gallagher was in her Sunday best—a brown plaid coat with a hat and tall boots to match. “There you are.”

  Liam hung back, uncertain. Mrs. Gallagher studied him as if she were really seeing him for the first time. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Gallagher,” Liam said, feeling this was some sort of test.

  Mary Kate moved next to her, the pair of them forming a judge’s line. “What do you think, mother?”

  “He isn’t much to work with,” she said. “Tall. That’s good. The rest is all elbows, knees and hair.”