Irish End Games, Books 4-5-6

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  “It’s fair true,” Margaret said. “The fairies are unhappy with your man, so they are.”

  “All right, ladies,” Mike said, entering the garage. “If you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  Siobhan and Margaret scurried away and Sarah turned to him.

  “You’ll find him,” she said. “He’s probably already on his way back.”

  Mike took her into his arms for a hard, fast hug and then released her.

  “Declan has his instructions,” he said as he climbed into the Jeep. “No one is to come after me. I’ll be back when I’m back.”

  Sarah leaned through the window and kissed him. “I love you, Mike.”

  “Love you, too,” he said. But his eyes were already on the road and the job, ahead.

  He drove out of the garage and to the opened gate where John was waiting to close it behind him. She noticed John stood and watched his stepfather until he disappeared from sight. She wondered if he was thinking about another time and another man who had left and never come home again.

  *****

  The roads were a mess. The pastures on both sides were crisscrossed with rough drystone walls, most of which were broken down so that a horse only needed to step across to get from pasture to pasture. A little trickier with a four-wheel drive. It had been over a year since most people in these parts had stopped using the roads. Without cars, what was the point? Horses rode better in the pastures, especially unshod horses, although Mike had lately heard of more and more farriers taking up the skill.

  Was it the harsh words last night? Did they have anything to do with Gavin’s disappearance? Had the lad really slunk out of the compound in the dead of night?

  Mike tried to focus on the road ahead.

  Where would the lad have gone? Straight out toward Ballinagh? Into the woods?

  And then the biggest question of all.

  Had he gone willingly?

  Two days ago Mike and Declan had ridden five kilometers out from the compound in search of the druids.

  And found nothing.

  Now, with the Jeep, Mike’s plan was to drive the twenty kilometers to the edge of the county before shifting direction. True, the lad was on foot but the only clue to go on was the possible connection with the druids and the so-called Wicker Man.

  Had Gavin gone to find them himself, perhaps to raise himself in his father’s eyes? That made no sense since Gavin hadn’t told John about it and the two lads were close.

  The further Mike drove from the compound, the smoother the roads seemed to get. That made sense. There were fewer travelers this distance from Ballinagh and New Dublin. The road only bore the wear of the weather, not feet nor hooves nor cart wheels. There was heat in the Jeep and it surprised Mike to remember that’s how easy life used to be before the Crisis. You just pushed a button, no matter where you were and your environment was instantly warmed or cooled.

  He touched the heat button in the Jeep but decided he needed to feel the cold.

  He had left the compound at just after nine in the morning. It was closing in on lunchtime now. The sky was gray—a winter’s sky, his grandmother used to say. No difference between morning and afternoon.

  Was Gavin’s lucky red plaid shirt warm enough for him in this chill? Had the crazy bastard not even thought to bring a jacket? Had he been in that much of a hurry? Why?

  Mike stopped the Jeep on a rise and got out. Taking out his binoculars, he scanned the landscape before him. From his vantage point, he could easily see the next five kilometers of abandoned crofters and holiday cottages, stone walls keeping nothing in and nothing out and the road winding everywhere like a drunken snake. And there, on the horizon, just beyond the last broken down cottage at the end of the road something caught his eye.

  A long needle of smoke from a campfire.

  Mike threw the binoculars into the jeep and headed for the smoke. Building a fire in the middle of the day didn’t sound like something Gavin would do, but perhaps he was with someone. His heart pounded with anticipation. If he found Gavin, he promised himself he wouldn’t cuff him or bellow at him. He swore he wouldn’t. Nor would he fall down on his knees and weep for pure joy either.

  Maybe something in-between.

  When he crested the next hill, he could see the smoke drifting above the forest of green firs beside the road ahead. So they were in the wood. Whoever they were. He pulled the Jeep to the side of the road beside the forest. He got out and grabbed his rifle from the backseat, checking first to see that it was loaded. Whoever had made the fire might be friendly, might not. He stood for a moment and listened but could hear no voices. Then he slipped into the thickest part of the wood, feeling an immediate absence of the biting wind as he did.

  Walking quietly and stopping frequently to listen, Mike was sure he was walking toward the fire. Finally, he smelled meat cooking. He took his rifle off his shoulder and carried it in his hand as he carefully put one foot in front of the other. The leaves had fallen months earlier and were buried under pine needles. That and the last rain softening the ground ensured his footsteps were soundless as he approached.

  He heard voices. Laughter. He stopped again and held his breath, hoping to hear Gavin’s voice. Still too far away to make out what they were saying, or how many of them there were, Mike crept closer. He was surprised when a rooftop and chimney came into view. He wasn’t expecting a house.

  Standing in the gloom of the stand of trees that ringed the clearing in front of the house, he saw five men sitting on stones in front of the fire. He could see their rifles on the ground beside them. The house, clearly abandoned, looked like it might have been falling down even before the Crisis. There were large holes in the roof and all the glass in the windows was broken out. Shrubs and sapling weed trees grew around the house as high as the roof.

  Was this the lot that killed the gypsies? A chill tickled the back of Mike’s neck. Five to one. If they wanted to kill him, it would be easy. And out here in the middle of nowhere? Buried and never found.

  Gavin wasn’t here. The disappointment was crushing and Mike took a moment to collect himself. Then he stepped into the clearing. Instantly the three men facing him jumped to their feet and grabbed for their guns. Mike brought his rifle up and pointed it at the tallest man—and the only one who hadn’t reacted. The leader.

  “Oy,” Mike said, “you’ll not be needing those, lads. I’m just here to ask if you’ve seen someone I’ve lost.”

  He was right about who the leader was. The men glanced at the tall one as if to query how they might react. He held his hands up almost like he was giving a benediction to a meal and the men relaxed.

  “I’m looking for my son,” Mike said in a strong voice, keeping his rifle aimed at the leader.

  “Sure, we’ve not seen any lost sons, now have we, lads?” the leader said. His voice was high and reedy. Mike wondered how such a voice could command respect from this gang.

  “I am Cormac. We here are the descendants of the Celtic druids. Come to save Ireland and all who cherish her.”

  Mike forced himself not to take a step backwards. So he’d found them. Behind Cormac, he saw a pile of clothing that looked like robes. They were cooking something over their campfire. It occurred to Mike that druids were occasionally thought to be cannibals. He swallowed hard.

  “I’m happy to take your word,” Mike said, “after I see for myself.”

  A tall, ugly man with a deformed mouth who stood at Cormac’s side took a step toward Mike, but Cormac laughed and waved his hands in an expansive gesture.

  “By all means, Mr. Donovan. These days it’s hard to trust anything anyone says. We’re here to change all that.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Everyone for a hundred kilometers knows Michael Donovan and his wonderful New Dublin. It’s like the before times never stopped, so it is.”

  Mike approached the campfire and scanned the ground. There was no sign of Gavin’s belongings or any hint he’d been here. H
is eye caught a glimpse of a piece of fabric just as Cormac made a movement toward him. Mike placed the end of his gun barrel against the leader’s chest.

  “We mean you no harm, Mr. Donovan,” Cormac said, holding his hands up. “In fact, we’ll be the saving of you—and your whole camp, please Dagda.”

  The smarter part of Mike told him this was neither the time nor the place. He was alone. He was looking for Gavin. It was five against one. Even so…

  “We found an altar,” Mike said. “With dead dogs on it.”

  “Aye,” Cormac said, nodding. “The offerings will be made.”

  “And a mass grave of twenty people.”

  Cormac spread his hands again and smiled. Mike felt the evil emanate across the campfire as if it were a visible, palpable thing. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Tell your people, Michael Donovan, that they are living an abomination,” Cormac said pleasantly. “The gods do not want you to thwart the stream. We will not allow you.”

  He’s talking about the mill.

  “The gods destroyed our world for a reason,” Cormac continued. “You can’t be allowed to recreate it.”

  Mike’s rifle was repeat action with twenty rounds. If he had to, if they attacked him, he might still walk away.

  “If you come to the compound,” Mike said, biting off every word, “or the mill site or if I find anything that connects you to the massacre, I’ll have the Irish Guard down from Dublin.” He waved a hand at the campfire. “Whatever you’re doing here, if you’re killing people, I’ll stop you.”

  “Remember what I said, Mr. Donovan,” Cormac said, all friendliness gone. “Tell your people we’re coming. They’ll want to know.”

  Mike turned and slipped back into the woods. He could hear that they weren’t following him but he didn’t stop until he reached the Jeep and slid back into the driver’s seat. Then he took a long shuddering breath and recalled what it was he’d seen on the ground beside the campfire.

  A child’s hair ribbon.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sarah stuck the spade into the soft earth and tossed the loamy dirt into a bucket by her feet. The morning was colder than yesterday—and all the mornings before that. Winter would be here before Thanksgiving. She wiped her hands on the rag slung over her shoulder.

  Would they have a reason to celebrate Thanksgiving this year?

  “Cor, you shouldn’t be doing this, Sarah.” Siobhan clucked disapprovingly. “One of the lads should do it.”

  Sarah didn’t respond. She knew by the sudden intake of breath that Siobhan already regretted her words. One of the lads.

  Where was Gavin? Why wasn’t he here? That boy was always hungry. Had he even had breakfast this morning?

  Sarah slammed the shovel into the ground again. It helped. Physical work definitely helped. More than baking or mending or going over the books or even walking the perimeter.

  Mike hadn’t come home last night.

  “Take a break, darlin’. What you’ve done is grand. Stop now.”

  Siobhan reached for Sarah’s shovel. Her hand was old but tan and strong.

  “I’m fine,” Sarah said. But she wasn’t. Not a bit. Not at all.

  Hadn’t David said I’ll be right back that time he left and didn’t come back for four months? And then came back a changed man? Hadn’t David said I’ll be right back when he went to mend a fence post in the pasture and then proceeded to change Sarah and John’s life forever by never coming back again?

  Nobody leaves and comes back. Not really.

  And now Gavin’s gone.

  And Mike.

  “Oy! Sarah!” Declan called out from the main path twenty yards away. He held Ciara in his arms. “Is Mike back yet?”

  Sarah shook her head and smiled. She tried to imagine she was responding as she would if Mike had just popped out to go to the corner deli for milk. Mike? Nope. Not yet. Any minute though…!

  Declan stopped, shaded his eyes and looked toward the main gate where Mike had disappeared yesterday morning. He turned to Sarah as if he would say something, then thought better of it and walked on. It occurred to Sarah that Declan seemed less friendly these days. She wondered where Fiona was. It was unusual to see him alone with the baby.

  Siobhan touched her on the shoulder.

  “You said yourself, dear,” Siobhan said gently. “We don’t even need the trench. Why not come and have a nice cup of scaldy? I made biscuits.”

  Sarah looked down at the hole she was digging. It was true, with the compound refrigeration system, digging a trench to store their cabbages seemed like a waste of time. But Mike said it was the backup to their backup system. That was his basic philosophy in life. You always needed an insurance plan in case the generators failed and the community was left with a summer’s worth of rotting cabbage in nonfunctioning refrigerators.

  “He’ll be back,” Siobhan said. “And with the little eejit in tow, I’ll wager.”

  “I know,” Sarah said as she continued to dig.

  “Everything will be fine.” Siobhan sat on an old wooden chair wedged into the slope of the hill where Sarah dug. “So it will.”

  “And the murders?” Sarah pushed a long tendril of hair from her forehead. As cold as it was, there was a sheen of sweat on her face. “Not two miles from the compound? How do you figure that in our happy little world?”

  “That is a tragedy, so it is. But we’re safe here, please God.”

  “Unless we step outside our armed camp? Is that how we live now?”

  “Not at-tall’,” Siobhan said, her eyes moving over Sarah’s head to the horizon. “We’ll not be protecting ourselves by hiding under our beds.”

  Sarah stood up and let the small shovel hang from her hand. She could feel blisters coming on. She welcomed them.

  “I know you’ve got a plan, Siobhan, that involves putting dishes of milk in windowsills but if you think fairies and goblins killed those poor people or ambushed Mike on his way to look for Gavin—”

  “Whisht, lass! You’re just fretful. Your man will be home anon, so he will. You need to believe that.”

  “Yeah,” Sarah said bending her back to her work. “I tried that once before.”

  “Is it your faith you’ve lost then?”

  “I’m almost finished,” Sarah said, deliberately not answering her. And after this I’ll dig the runoff trench and then see about boiling up a new batch of soap.

  The fact that they had plenty of soap—and shampoo for that matter—was irrelevant. The point wasn’t to make soap. The point was not to think.

  *****

  The dam shivered with the force of the water pushing against it. Three meters high, it stretched twenty meters across the stream. The power of the water was visible, even from a creek as small as this one. There was no question that—pent up and corralled in an unnatural way—it would fight to be released. And they would use that natural frustration to turn the wheel.

  Declan hoisted the baby into his arms and walked over to the creek bank to inspect the base of the dam. Already water was squeezing out around some of the rocks. Donovan said it was because they weren’t engineers, but Declan knew the real reason the dam failed.

  Would always fail.

  Gavin was gone. And soon there would be others. Declan stood up and noticed the knee of his jeans were wet from the puddle beside the dam. It wouldn’t be long now.

  Something this wild and urgent can’t be held back. Why couldn’t Donovan see they were fighting nature, itself? Everything about this world felt wrong Declan thought as he looked up at the skeleton structure of the mill house. Work wouldn’t go forward on the house until the stream was diverted.

  And that would never be.

  Declan placed his hand on the dam and felt the fury of the thwarted water humming against his palm. The force vibrated up into his chest and he clutched the baby until he felt his very heart would burst. He staggered backwards.

  Ciara cried out. Of course she was afraid. They were all a
fraid.

  “Da da, no,” Ciara whimpered, grabbing Declan’s shirt with her little baby hands. Such innocent, helpless hands, like tiny plump starfish. She was his own angel. His own fairy-princess.

  He couldn’t tell anyone what he’d heard. Saints above, especially not Fiona.

  At the thought of her, the trembling returned and he walked over and slumped against a nearby elm at the shoreline that miraculously had not been felled to make room for the grist mill.

  How could he tell Fi that he too had heard them singing? She’d say he was as crazy as old Siobhan. How could he tell her they would all live in fear as long as her fecking brother insisted on fighting the very world they lived in?

  Ciara began to cry in earnest now. Declan tried to quiet her. He jostled her in his arms but she cried louder. He dipped his hand in the water seeping steadily out of the dam and touched it to her face. The coldness of it shocked her and she sucked in a gasp of air before letting out a long howl of fear.

  Go on and cry, dear one. Tis’nae hope for any of us now.

  *****

  In the end, Mike drove twenty kilometers past the point where he’d planned to turn back. He discovered that he didn’t need a plan beyond how much daylight there was and how much gas he had. Next time, he’d bring the damn horse and only have one set of parameters to worry about.

  He’d met a few people on the road but nobody had seen a boy in a red plaid shirt. Whenever he came upon woods or a thicket, he parked the Jeep and searched on foot, calling Gavin’s name and listening to his own voice reflect back to him off the stones and tree trunks.

  There was no way Gavin would have gotten this far on foot but Mike knew his boy. There was no way he would have gone anywhere alone. It wasn’t in him to have an independent thought or to act on it. Wherever he was he was with people—that much Mike knew.

  Mike slept the first night in the Jeep parked on the side of the road and wondered where Gavin was laying his head. The night was full of sounds from the wide pastures, which were empty of livestock but full of birds and rabbits.