by Anthology
"And just what age would that be?"
"Why I'm thirty just yesterday, Liam. You should be so blessed as to live to so fine an age as thirty."
"But, Conner, Tim was forty-four this year."
"Are you calling me into question, Liam?"
"Of course not, Conner. We all know you're up for sainthood when your day comes."
He rapped his cane against the floor, and squinted up at me. "And don't you go forgetting it. Otherwise I'll not put in a good word for you, and you'll wind up in hell with all the Englishmen."
That was nearly going too far, but I didn't say anything. I still remembered when he gave me hard candies as a lad; well, he gave me candy when he wasn't busy threatening me with his cane.
"It was good talking to you, Conner. You take care."
He snorted at me again as I walked away. I suppose I really didn't have any call to take offense; he treated all the men that way. He was far more polite to those that came calling in a dress and with feminine endowments. That reminded me of something as the band trotted out a jaunty tune. Once, when they were young men, my da and Tim had worn dresses and cheap wigs, and sneaked up to Conner when he was in his cups. Once he figured out what was going on, George Dooly had to convince him to put down an old pike so the lads could get out of the tree.
Mary had brought out more punch and porter, and people were starting to dance. I spun a few reels with lasses I had known, and shared more stories with old friends. The drink was bringing the sentiments out thick, and many an eye was starting to fill with tears.
I took a turn singing with Richard and his boys, and danced some more. I noticed Biddy O'Brian was starting to get more than a bit maudlin, and I started to get a bit worried. There'd been rumors some years ago; whispers saying that she and Tim had been more than just passingly acquainted. Mary never paid the rumors much heed; though, she would concede that her Tim certainly had a roving eye. She never worried so long as the rest of him always came back where it belonged.
Paddy McGee, red in his beefy face, was shaking his fist at Biddy. They exchanged a few harsh words. Biddy just sniffed and turned away from Paddy, but her detractors weren't done with her. Maggie O'Conner started up, and was just short of calling Biddy a slattern and loose woman.
No one had ever heard Maggie speak like that; at least, not in public. We were all shocked, none more so, I think, than Biddy.
Shocked as we were, we were pole axed by Biddy's reaction. She hauled back her fist, and let Maggie have one in the jaw. Biddy was nearly half Maggie's size, but it was a telling blow. Maggie just stood there with her mouth working like a dying fish's, and then just tipped over.
There was nothing for a moment ... we all held our breaths as one. It felt like there, in Tim Finnegan's house, the world had just stopped. For a moment only did it last, and then a ruckus like no other started up.
Mary Finnegan let Biddy have one upside the head. Paddy jumped at Tom, and Richard and his sons had dropped their instruments, and were taking on all comers. Frank Riley tried to hit me with a jug, and I was forced to kick him in the unmentionables.
Old Man Conner was singing. His voice was a deep baritone, and it sounded like some sort of marching song. He was also laying about him to great effect. Nary a soul came within three feet of him that didn't feel the sting of that old cane. Most of them stumbled away dazed, heading back into the brawl. A few of them tried to make an issue of Conner's fun, but found out the hard way that he really was in fine health.
It was truly a row of epic proportions. I don't have many clear memories of what happened in the middle. I recall biting someone's nose, and a lot of hitting and kicking all around. Things don't start to clear up again until the end.
Mick Powers was sitting on the floor, nursing a glass of porter. I'm not sure how he got there; let alone how he managed to find an unspilled glass. I heard someone shout his name, and saw him raise his head up. His gaze was bleary, and he lowered his attention back to his glass almost immediately. Good thing for him too, because someone sent a jug of whiskey flying for his head.
The missile missed by but a scant inch. With quite a noise, it broke against the barrel of porter resting above poor Tim's head. Shards of glass, and runnels of whiskey, trickled down to coat his face; until now, all reposed. For a moment, I thought I saw the body give a slight quiver, but shook it off as the effects of drink and perhaps one too many punches in my face.
I blinked a few times, then took a deep breath, trying to clear my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Old Man Conner, and what I saw made me turn to look straight at him.
He was shaking, and his hands were locked in a white-knuckled grip on his cane. His expression could only be described as one of fear. The man's beard looked like it wanted to crawl back into his face.
Without a word to anyone, Conner started for the door. We were all still in a sort of daze, and he used his can to prod aside anyone who wasn't moving fast enough to suit him. I saw him muttering to himself, but don't think anyone was able to make out the words. He fetched his coat and hat, and then was gone into the night; leaving me wondering how a little spilled whiskey could put the fear into a man like that.
After a minute or two, we all started to come back to our senses. We'd set the place to a terrible mess; broken glasses and crockery everywhere; furniture overturned, and one chair broken; not to mention the mess we'd made of Tim himself.
Quietly, with whispered apologies to Mary and each other, we began to set things aright. It was never spoken aloud, but we all knew we'd pool among our own possessions, and what little money we had, to help replace the things that had been damaged. With everyone working, the job was done soon enough. We made more apologies to Mary, and collecting our things, shamefully departed from her house.
At the funeral, we were showing signs of the wake. I had bruises on my face, and everyone else was showing signs of the fight. No one spoke of it, and we all passed polite nods. I was among the men who loaded the coffin into the wagon, and we performed our solemn duty with what dignity we had, and in quiet contemplation.
The funeral procession was far bigger than the wake had been. Those who knew Tim but had not been invited, or those who had not felt comfortable with being there, lined up behind us. Mary rode next to William McEldoo, the undertaker, and Father John, Tim's priest.
As we set off, a gray rain started to fall. We marched through it, trying not to see the shabbiness of our homes and our neighbors' homes. Trying to ignore the smoke and the soot as we walked through the roughly paved streets. Anger warred with sadness in my heart; looking at us that were poor, and thinking of the splendor men like Captain Kelly lived in by comparison. I pushed such thoughts away, saving them for another time.
It wasn't a far march to the cemetery, but the rain kept coming down harder. Most of us were drenched to the bone. I glanced back for a moment, making sure my mother was taking shelter under a companion's umbrella. We paused long enough to help get those who most needed it under the shelter we could find; often it was no more than someone's coat held above a head. It was a job that needed doing; we were already having a funeral, it wouldn't do for someone to become sick and catch their death from this.
The burial itself started out normal enough. Father John said his words, and tears fell freely from many an eye. Maneuvering the casket took a bit of work; Frank slipped in the mud, and nearly fell into the open grave. When everything was ready, we started to lower the coffin into its resting place ... that's when things started to take a disturbing turn.
We took a grip on the ropes and moved the casket over the hole. It started rocking, and we took a moment to steady ourselves and tried again. Even with the ropes perfectly taut and still, the thing kept rocking. Then the pounding started. Every eye in the cemetery looked on in horror.
From somewhere in the back, I heard Conner's voice. "Hurry and drop it down! Hurry, you lazy slugs, or we're all going to pay! It was the uisce beatha, you never should have let it been
spilled!"
I took a tighter grip on the ropes, and turned to look at Conner. The pounding got louder, but I tried to block it out; I wasn't very successful, but I tried anyway.
"What are you talking about, Old Man?"
"The uisce beatha, you shite! It's the water of life, boy, and you let it touch the dead! Get that unholy thing down in the ground or surely we'll all be damned to the fires...."
As he trailed off, I could see his eyes rolling in panic. I don't think anyone had ever seen Conner in such a state. Even as I watched, he ran behind a tree, only to emerge with that old pike of his. I tried to wrap my mind around what he was saying, but my concentration was drawn to more immediate concerns.
Richard had let his rope slip, and we were all tugged forward before regaining control of the coffin. I don't think anyone could blame him for his lapse. The top of the box was splintering, and we could see the beginnings of a hand starting to emerge. Worse than the hand, was the voice.
"Thundering jaysus you bunch of gobshites! What do you think I am, a corpse? If this is your idea of funny, then by God I'll crack someone's skull."
We'd been stunned and rendered speechless more than once since Tim died, but never like this. There was no mistaking that voice, now raised in an angry bellow. That was Tim Finnegan's thick brogue, sure as I'd been hearing it since I was just a small lad.
I'm not ashamed to say that I almost soiled my trousers. Truth is, I don't know what it is that stopped me from it. I saw more than a few men with pants that seemed to suddenly be a bit wetter in the front than even rain would cause.
I didn't see what happened, but I heard Mary. "It's a miracle! The blessed Lord's gone and sent my Tim back to me."
She tried to rush forward, but Richard's eldest boy James grabbed hold of her. My mother later told me that Tom had to grab hold of Conner to keep him from leaping upon the coffin with his pike. They were the exceptions, though. We men tasked with lowering the box into the ground pulled it back up; after that, we made like everyone else, and tried to get as far away from it as possible, while still staying close enough to watch in sick fascination.
I suppose we would have sought advice from Father John. Too bad for us, then, that he had fainted dead away at the sound of Tim's voice. I know I certainly would have been comforted by a priest's advice about then. Especially since we didn't know if we were dealing with something from Heaven, or some horrible blackness brewed up by the Devil.
I think it was the sight of Tim breaking out of the coffin, and bellowing to stun a banshee that finally did it. As his head, then his body emerged, we broke and ran. None of us had ever seen a man come back from the dead, and I think we had all mutually decided that Conner was right when he called it unholy. To my credit, I did pick up my mother and carry her as I ran in fear for my life and immortal soul. I hope someone did the same for the likes of Father John and those other poor sods who were unable to get fast away on their own. I was slowed down a bit, but wasn't about to tell my mother she needed to cut down on the tea and cake. Even if I'd been able to form the thought and make it come out my mouth at the time, my mother, potential legion of hell on our heels or not, would likely have knocked me senseless.
Tim Finnegan was the first of them, but he wasn't the last. In the days following his waking, more men and women climbed from their graves. As near as we could tell, Tim dug up those who died before him, and then poured the water of life over them. With each new arrival, there were more hands to do the work. Soon, they started visiting the recently dead; raising them up shortly after they passed.
People were staying shut up in their homes. Few traveled the streets, and then only when necessary. When someone would die, often with a look of fear frozen on their face, their relatives would try and hide the bodies the best they could. Those who had no relatives weren't so lucky. Old Man Conner died in his bed, and was among their ranks within days.
I was a wreck; jumping all the time at sounds, and flinching at every shadow. My mum's health hadn't been grand for years, and the added strain was taking a visible toll. I watched over her night and day; often forgetting to attend to my own needs.
Even shut up, rumors still managed to spread. Seeing an insurrection of some sort, police and British soldiers had gathered in force. They tried to kill Tim and his crew, but failed utterly. Their bullets and bayonets had no effect. The men didn't know how to fight corpses, and many were killed: more than a few deaths occurred as they stepped into their comrades lines of fire in their haste to escape. In brighter days, news of this defeat being suffered by the British would have brought rejoicing. Instead, it only deepened our fears.
Even worse than the solitude, I felt, was the lack of a drop to drink. The dead had taken it all, and were residing in Bobby's pub. Whenever some fool who hadn't heard, or didn't believe, the news came with a new load, it was quickly taken from them. We thought it might be the only thing keeping them alive, but every attempt to take it back from them failed; so even had our idea had weight, we were never able to find out.
The days dragged on. Eventually, my mum went to bed one night, and never again woke. I went out of my mind with grief at her loss. She had been the only thing I had during those days. Unable to see those few people I knew I could rely on after my stint in the jail, I was left utterly alone.
So that night, I began writing this, my testament, and hatched a most daring scheme. I left my mother outside, for to be taken in by the dead. My father's old gun sits here beside me. Soon, I will hear them coming. When the tramping of their feet sounds, I know what I must do. After tonight, I'll be back with my mum, and truly, I'll finally be able to once again have a drink....
CATHERINE'S WELL
By Jeff Brown
They say it's time for me to confess my sins. Confess what sins? I've done nothing wrong. Besides, I'm not Catholic and this isn't some confessional I am in. Though, quite a few inmates do their confessions in these concrete walled rooms to other inmates who are just as "innocent" as they are. That doesn't really matter, though. You see, I am innocent. For some reason they say I'm lying, they say I'm as guilty as the next "innocent" criminal behind bars. That just doesn't make much sense to me---I passed four of them liar's tests they give to us "innocents before proven to be guilty's." They have no evidence against me. Nothing at all. No weapon, nothing. Worst of all, they don't have a body. I know. I know. People who say they have no proof are usually guilty of the crime they are being tried for. Not me.
But, here I am in this gray, chalky 8' x8' jail cell staring out of a window just a wee bit bigger than my head. I've been in prison for the better part of sixteen years now. For the most part I have been in this isolation ward in a part of the Lee County Correctional Institution that they put the head cases like myself. Presumably.
I'm not crazy. I know what I saw that night seventeen years ago. I know what happened. Hell, they did tests on me to see if I was sane---and I am. They even did one of those ink blot tests---the ones where they pour ink onto a piece of paper, fold it, and make shapes that look like grisly looking butterflies, or big black blood splotches. You know, things that some four-year-old kids could do. And, more than likely they have four year old kids create the blotches for those head shrinks.
They---the psychiatrist---said, and I quote: "He's as sane as the next person." However sane that is.
Never-the-less, I am sitting in a damp and musky jail cell with an open jon, steel sink and an old cot with piss stains (at least that's what I hope they are) on the thin cushion they call a mattress. They said the cot was new when they brought it in about a year ago. But those stains were on there then, and I don't believe I have added to the mess. The prison was relatively new when I got here in 1993, having been transferred from another facility. I was one of the first people that they sent here when it opened. I must say they do treat me pretty damn good, all things considered (especially since they don't let me around too many other inmates). But, all's the same when they don't do a lot of cleaning
around this joint. One time I saw a rat the size of a small cat---not a kitten, but a cat.
Oh, wait a minute---I haven't introduced myself, yet. I'm Jonathon Clary. I was a truck driver for Overnite in Columbia, South Carolina, making trips back and forth, up and down, and all around the great U. S. of A. I was a truck driver, mind you. Until all of this happened. Until all of what happened, you ask? Why, I never thought you would ask.
All of "this" is about Bobby "Buster" Lennon and his death. We called him "Buster" when we were kids because of the Buster Brown shoes his mother always bought him. The name kind of stuck, and it didn't seem to bother him too much. Buster was, for all practical purposes, stupid. He wasn't retarded nor did he have any mental problems, he was just plain stupid. He had the common sense that is comparable to sheep. Well, no, sheep have a little more common sense, I guess, than Buster did. Matter of fact there are quite a few animals and people out there who have more common sense than Buster did.
Buster was also my best friend. He had been since the third grade when we got into a fight over who was going to play on the monkey bars first---him or me. Turns out neither of us got to play on the monkey bars. Sammy Johnson got to when Mrs. Grable yanked us both up by our ears and led us to the principal's office. It was seventeen years that we had been friends. Seventeen years ended in the Coachi Swamp.
Coachi Swamp. Now, there's a place I highly recommend taking the wife and kids for a family outing on the weekend. It sits about thirty or so miles outside of Sumter, South Carolina. It isn't very big to be honest with you, maybe two miles in length. At one time Coachi Swamp wasn't even a swamp. It was a lake. Well, not really a lake but it was called one---Lake Coachi. But, that was way back when, in the early 1800's (I think it was back in the real late 1700's that it got its name. But, I'm not entirely sure).
