Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  The French Church was built by the Franciscans and converted into a residence for poverty-stricken elderly and ill at the Reformation, as well as used by French Protestants for their services. That much we know for sure. There is a side chapel, the Lady Chapel, that is now sealed off from the nave by a newer wall but can be entered through the ruins of the windows in the east—the back—wall of the church. Aunt Sorcha would have great arguments with Grandad that the Dearg-due was buried in that Lady Chapel, because her own great-grandmother had always told her so and that the grave was marked by a worn tombstone in the floor next to the wall that closed the chapel’s door into the nave.

  They stood thinking through the words Daria had read.

  “The Lady Chapel? Sealed off from the nave? What does that mean?” asked Eamonn.

  “Entered through the windows in the back wall? How is anyone supposed to climb up through them?” Annabel wondered. “Those windows we saw were halfway up the back wall! No one could ever climb up that high from the outside!”

  “It means there is a side chapel that used to be joined to the main body of the church but is closed off now,” Michael explained. “And the windows might not be that high from the street in the back of the church. Or there could be something to climb on there. We should go see.”

  “Wonderful,” muttered Eamonn. “Break into the church! Find the grave and build a cairn of stones on it! Then explain to the police, when they come checkin’, that we were just following your daft uncle’s directions from his even more daft great-aunt that she got from her most daft feckin’ great-grandmother!”

  “Now, that’s an adventure worth havin’, don’t you think there, Eamonn?” Donal clapped his friend between the shoulders and set off back up the street towards the lane that twisted around the back of the French Church.

  Laughing at Eamonn’s misgivings, everyone else trooped after Donal. Annabel tugged on Eamonn’s arm and he nearly tripped in his rush to catch up. Colm brought up the end of the group.

  They followed the narrow lane that curved back around the church ruins past a brightly lit restaurant. Singing and laughter from the bar drifted out the windows, but the upper windows, shielded by curtains inside, shed little light into the alleyway. The door remained closed, as everyone who wanted to be there seemed to have already arrived and no one within seemed ready to go home yet.

  The alleyway bent a little more and they were directly behind the ruins. Again an iron fence attempted to protect the church from the encroachments of the street around it, a good-sized yard between the fence and the church walls.

  “Well, at least this fence is shorter than the fence at the cathedral,” Michael observed.

  “But the iron fence posts are still pretty sharp,” pointed out Annabel. “Those points can hurt anyone pretty bad if they slipped when they climbed over them.”

  Eamonn snorted. “I don’t believe how you bunch seem to be blind whenever a gate is smack in front of your own two eyes.” He stepped forward, and with a strong push-and-pull, wrenched open the apparently rusty but unlocked gate that no one else seemed to have noticed. He stepped through the open gate and up the steps into the yard.

  “See?” Michael was the next one through the gate. “The front entrance to the church was several feet below the modern street level. That’s why there were steps down to the front gate and why the windows inside looked so far up the wall. But here, there are no steps down to the level of the church floor, so we are already halfway up the wall because that is how high the streets have gotten since the church was built. And the yard is a few steps higher than the street.” He gestured to the trash-strewn gravel-filled yard he and Eamonn stood in. Eamonn walked to the wall and, standing on his toes, peered into the main body of the church through one of the great arched windows.

  Daria and Annabel came up the steps into the yard, followed at last by Colm and Donal. They all spread out through the yard, coming over and peering into the nave with Eamonn. Windows from the modern buildings around the ruins overlooked the interior of the church but few were lighted; those few that were bright had blinds or curtains pulled across them. It was difficult to make out details in the dark, but the nave was a simple rectangular space. A few tombstones could be seen on the floor while others seemed to be set into the walls. Some of the larger ones had been extracted from the floor and propped up against the walls.

  “Here lads, help me get up,” Eamonn instructed Michael, guiding Michael into a half-bent-over crouch. Eamonn climbed onto Michael’s back and then clambered onto the stone windowsill without much difficulty. He held onto the great iron rods that filled the space once filled with stained glass. Chicken wire was stretched between the rods in the two windows on each side; the central, largest window was barred by only the few upright iron rods, supported by horizontal iron rods.

  “C’mon,” called Eamonn to Donal and Colm. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to climb over these rods. They’re sharp, but there’s more to hold onto than those ones at Christchurch! Just use the horizontal ones to support your feet and we should be able to swing into the church!” He began to follow his own directions, getting his feet wedged onto the first of the horizontal rods and preparing to pull himself higher.

  “But we don’t want to get into the main church!” hissed Donal. “We want to get into the side chapel. Over there!” He pointed to the left and headed that direction. Everyone followed him, including Michael, leaving Eamonn momentarily stranded in the windowsill. He leaped into the yard and hurried to join the others.

  The windows here were four, much more narrow, pointed archways whose glass had been broken out at some point long-forgotten. Much shorter iron fence posts filled these windows. Leaning into Annabel’s back and peering over her shoulder, Eamonn reported seeing a much smaller, much more square space, but with even less light than in the nave. Colm joined him and could eventually make out the tracework of old archways etched in the stone walls, the remnants of some decorative carving atop them. The floor seemed to be a patchwork of dirt and grass and stone, with some tombstones remaining flat in what had been the floor, though a few had been set upright against the walls, just as in the main church. Trash and broken furniture were also scattered across the chapel, tossed in at some time. A more derelict scene would have been hard to imagine.

  “So, which grave is it that we want again?” asked Annabel.

  “Over there.” Daria reached through the iron bars and pointed at the chapel wall to their right. “The letter said it would be by the wall that shut off the chapel from the nave.”

  “How will we know which tombstone along that wall it is?” asked Eamonn.

  “Let’s just get feckin’ in, first,” interjected Donal. “Maybe there is only one tombstone there. If there is more than one feckin’ grave, we can figure that out then, can’t we?” Eamonn nodded his agreement with that plan. A gentle breeze rustled the grass around them.

  “Who wants to play stepstool this time?” Michael asked.

  “Don’t you?” Eamonn teased his friend, jabbing his elbow into Michael’s ribs. Michael pushed Eamonn away with a curse.

  “I… feel funny about this,” Daria spoke up. “I… I don’t just mean breaking into the church. That’s not a problem. At least, that’s not what I feel funny about. It feels… creepy here. More creepy than around Christchurch.”

  Annabel shivered. “I know what you mean. I thought it was only me. But you’re right, Daria. This is a much more creepy place.”

  “Well, maybe that means this is the right place,” Donal offered jauntily. “Maybe that means you’ll get your wish, Annabel, and see the vampire-woman come screaming back to stop us from pinning her back underneath the earth.”

  Annabel pulled the cobblestones from her pockets. “Well, this is fair warning to her, then.” She tossed the stones through the window, one by one. They disappeared into the shadows, but the thud as each landed inside was followed by squeals and scampering. Dark, furry shapes with long tails darted
towards a corner of the ruins.

  “I still feel creepy.” Annabel shivered and turned away from the window.

  Eamonn followed her, pulling her into him and hugging her tight. “It’ll be fine, babe,” he reassured her. “Just fine.”

  “Well, I agree with you two,” Colm finally spoke up. “It feels very creepy here. More than just creepy. Nasty.”

  “It feels very dark here,” Daria whispered. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and shivered.

  Everybody laughed.

  “No, that’s not what she meant, ya feckin’ daft fools,” Colm snarled. “Not dark like in no light. Dark. Like in wicked. Like when Grandad told some of the old stories when we were little. Remember, Donal?”

  “Yeah, I remember, Colm. He did tell some grand tales, tales that would make the hair on the back o’ your neck shiver,” Donal agreed. “But them was tales when we was kids, Colm. Kids. The only dark sense here now is the one the ale back in the bar gave you three!” Donal turned his attention back to the window, examining the stone sill and iron fence posts.

  “Well, I think it’s more than just ale,” Daria insisted. “Did your Grandad ever say how to protect yourself from the dark, Colm?” she asked.

  A dim memory slowly crystallized in Colm’s thoughts. “Yes. Yes, he did,” Colm murmured. He spoke up, more confident as his memory became more certain. “He used to say that the Irish could protect themselves from the Sidhe and the witches or the faerie folk by wearing their clothes inside out. Or at least turning their jackets and coats inside out. That confuses the feckin’ magic somehow and protects the people when the wicked faeries come to attack ’em.”

  Colm hadn’t even finished speaking before Daria and Annabel had their jackets halfway off their shoulders, ready to turn inside out. Colm paused, considering. Then he took his jacket off too and pulled the sleeves inside out. The three of them put their jackets back on, labels and hems and linings exposed to the night air. Donal, Michael, and Eamonn looked at them and burst out laughing.

  “Whatever makes you feel safer, babe.” Eamonn kissed Annabel’s forehead and joined Donal at the window. Colm also ventured to the window. Daria and Annabel huddled in the yard, near the stone wall of the nave rather than the wall of the chapel, but close enough that they could watch the men. Annabel shivered, and Daria hugged her tightly. The wind whispered around them again.

  The four boys climbed aboard each other’s backs and onto the sills of the windows looking into the chapel. Eamonn was the last to get onto the windowsill, and since there was no one left to climb up on, Donal and Michael helped him up by tugging and pulling on his jacket. Once up, the four of them stood there a moment, dark figures outlined in the windows.

  Donal was the first to climb over the ironworks and jump down into the chapel. Eamonn and Michael quickly followed, their footfalls making quiet thumps and thuds. Colm hesitated but then took a deep breath and followed his brother and their friends. But when he landed in the chapel, he twisted his ankle and fell, knocking into a rusted chair.

  “Bullocks! Shite!” he exclaimed, grabbing his ankle and wincing.

  “Colm! Are you all right?” Daria called out. She and Annabel appeared at the windows to see what had happened.

  Donal came to his brother, picking his way carefully through the grass and dirt and trash. He muttered a curse, too, though, when he kicked something accidently. He bent over and picked up one of the stones Annabel had tossed into the chapel.

  “Maybe I should use this to knock your daft feckin’ brains out with!” Donal threatened his brother. But he knelt and felt around Colm’s foot with his other hand. Colm bit his lip and whined bitterly.

  “Think you can walk later?” Donal asked.

  Colm frantically shook his head.

  “Well, then, we’ll have to figure out some other way to get you home,” Donal promised him. He stood. “But after we take our photos of this Dearg-due pinned in her grave.” He took a few steps towards the wall Daria had pointed towards.

  Michael and Eamonn moved towards the wall as well, stretching their hands out around them as if that would help them see in the dark and avoid an accident like Colm’s. Michael did manage, though, to find the other two cobblestones Annabel had heaved through the windows. He swung his arms, a stone in each hand, and looked like a shadowy version of Frankenstein’s monster lumbering through the dark.

  Michael, Eamonn, and Donal reached the wall that had been built to close the chapel off from the nave. They spread out along it, scuffing at the ground with their feet. They reported nothing.

  “Try again!” called out Daria. “It has to be there someplace. Maybe it’s gotten buried since then!”

  “All right, all right!” Eamonn called back. “We’ll do it again!”

  This time the boys walked parallel to each other, their line reaching across what would have been the chapel floor. They went slowly, poking at the earth with their shoes. A rat darted through the grass and vanished across the chapel in the dark. A plastic bag, caught on some other piece of trash, rustled somewhere in the breeze as it picked up strength.

  “Here! Look at this!” Michael, in the middle between Donal and Eamonn, bent down and set the stones to one side. He scraped at the ground. Donal and Eamonn got down on their knees to join him.

  “What is it? What did you find?” Annabel demanded.

  “Is it the grave?” Colm asked, still holding his ankle and grimacing.

  “Yeah, I think we found it!” “This is it!” “It’s here!” called the three boys, scraping a thin layer of earth off a large flat stone.

  “Is it hers? Is her name written on it?” asked Annabel.

  “What are the dates on it?” Daria wanted to know.

  “It’s hard to tell in the dark,” Eamonn admitted. He ran his hands over the portion of the stone they had uncovered.

  “It’s a grave marker, all right,” announced Donal. “I can feel something like letters carved on it.”

  “But they’re worn, nearly clean away,” Michael added. “They’re too faint to make out clearly. That, with the cracks and rough places, makes it really hard to read a name. Or dates.”

  “Well, I can make out some of it!” protested Donal. “I think this is an ‘E’ here. But then…” He paused. “There’s a crack and some other dirt and… I’m not sure what the next few letters are. But I think there is a ‘B’ further on. Is this part of her name, do you think?” he asked Michael and Eamonn.

  “Maybe you should close your eyes and concentrate!” suggested Daria. “Like a blind man. Focus on what it feels like and cut off one of your senses. Isn’t that s’posed to make your other senses better?”

  “Yeah, they could do that if we all really wanted to spend the night here in the feckin’ dark tryin’ to read the feckin’ gravestone of a vampire-woman!” snorted Colm. “Me, I would just like to get meself back out those windows and on the way back home!”

  “Wait!” Annabel exclaimed. “Maybe you should keep looking to make sure there’s not another grave next to it. Just to make sure it’s the right one!”

  Eamonn stood. “Colm’s right. I vote that this is the only grave here and that it’s the feckin’ grave Uncle Sean wanted Colm and Donal to find. So it’ll do. Let’s make the feckin’ cairn on this one with the three stones and take the feckin’ photo.” He reached for the two stones he had set down and arranged them on the grave marker where Donal had been tracing the letters. Donal contributed the stone he had found, placing it across the other two.

  “That’s a grand cairn now, so it is,” he announced, standing and brushing the dirt off his hands and knees. He took the camera out of his pocket and raised it to his eye. Eamonn and Michael stood back. There was a small click and flash of light as Donal took the photo. Donal took a few steps and took another photo from a different angle, the flash blinding them all for an instant. One more photo and he turned his back on the grave. Michael and Eamonn rubbed their eyes and took a few steps toward Colm, h
olding onto one another’s elbows to avoid stumbling into each other.

  “Leaving so quickly?” a raspy woman’s voice came out of the dark corner of the chapel nearest the gravestone Donal and the others had unearthed. The girls at the windowsill clapped their hands over their mouths, stifling a squeal of shock. The boys froze in midstep, startled. Colm leaned forward, trying to make out who had spoken.

  “Who is it?” Colm demanded. “Who’s there?”

  “Who is it? Who is there?” repeated the voice, a sharp edge of mockery mixing with the slightly more formal tone often associated with the conversations of the elderly. Something moved in the dark corner where the voice came from.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Colm’s voice raised a pitch or two, the pain in his ankle and his nerves getting the best of him. He thought he recognized the voice. “Is that you, Jack O’Grady, hidin’ there in the dark and tryin’ to scare the feckin’ shite outta us?”

  The voice chuckled. “Jack O’Grady? Now, why would you think that it might be Jack O’Grady hiding here in the dark, trying to scare you brave young men on this fine summer night?” Something shifted in the shadows again and Colm thought he could see a figure lurking near the wall. Why hadn’t they seen it before?

  “Because it sounds like you, O’Grady!” Donal, recovered from his initial shock, turned to face the voice, as did Eamonn and Michael.

  “It sounds like you when you make fun o’ your grandmother, Jack! When she tells you to take the rubbish outta her feckin’ kitchen!” Eamonn took a step toward the voice. “An’ if you think you can pull a feckin’ stunt like this and not get pounded into bloody hell when I get my hands on you…!” He balled his hands into fists as he took another step toward the shadows in the corner.

  Colm heard a snatch of a whispered conversation between Annabel and Daria. “Jack is much taller than that,” Daria insisted.

  “What a poor old woman she must be, the grandmother of that shameless Jack O’Grady, if he mocks his poor old granny in such a manner,” chided the voice. An almost nauseating stench—a stench like very sour milk—assaulted Colm’s nostrils just as a squeak and a rustle caught everyone’s attention. One of the rats they had seen earlier darted out, away from the corner. Seeing the boys in front of it, though, it ran in frantic circles, as if caught between whoever was speaking in the dark and the boys standing in a row, blocking its escape. The wind rustled around them and clouds parted, allowing a sliver of moonlight to fall into the chapel. Michael lifted his head to look up at the sky, and the rat, sensing an opportunity, raced around the boys and into the shadows near the windowsill, where Annabel and Daria were still riveted by fear.