Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

  Chapter Four

  Fourteen years later

  Darfur, Sudan

  “November Oscar, it’s go time!” The voice crackled over the walkie-talkie hanging from Nora’s hip, calling out her code name.

  “Aye, I’ll be right there!” Nora shouted, taking one last glance at the clipboard in her hands. She shoved it into a khaki bag on the folding table in front of her and then swung the bag over her head.

  She cracked open the flaps of the tent—a few strips of canvas and a sheet of corrugated tin propped up by a wood pole—that served as the Catholic Relief Services office in this part of the internally-displaced-persons camp. She fished her sunglasses out of her bag and tugged a ball cap over her hair, which was tied back in a loose braid that hung down her back.

  The children in the camp loved to touch her hair, and sometimes—on the rare occasions when she wasn’t running between emergency and disaster—she’d sit outside a family’s lean-to and let the little girls take turns braiding and unbraiding the red waves. A few of the kids ran after her now as she walked toward the two lorries that had just pulled up on the western border of the camp.

  “Miss Nora! Miss Nora!” They grabbed her hands and clothes. Nora stopped and squatted down to face them. They giggled and tugged on her braid, a few of the shier ones hiding behind their friends.

  “Aren’t youse supposed to be in school?” she said, addressing the older kids, who had a bit of English. They nodded sheepishly. “Off youse go, then,” she told them, smiling to show she wasn’t angry. The older ones spoke to the rest, and together they turned and ran back toward the half wall of stones that served as the school. She waved at their departing grins as she got back to her feet. How she ached for these kids. The ongoing war in Sudan had already created tens of thousands of orphans, and each day the camp was flooded with more tiny survivors, sometimes with parents or aunts and uncles, but too often they were alone. Her hand flicked to her pocket, where a cluster of worn wooden beads lay coiled. She would say an extra prayer for these children tonight.

  She’d been doing relief work for the better part of the past four years, and yet she’d never seen anything like Darfur. Of course, she’d said that about every disaster zone. How many had it been, now? Haiti, Afghanistan, Zimbabwe, Columbia . . . There was always a humanitarian emergency somewhere in the world. Always someone who needed help. She stifled a yawn as she trudged toward the lorries—she’d been up until 4:00 a.m. at their base in the town, filing a report and a request for more supplies. Her computer had only crashed twice during the process, which was better than usual.

  “What have we got?” she called out to her boss, Jan, who was directing two supply trucks through the gate and toward a large shipping container. “Please tell me there are more medical supplies in there. And coffee.”

  He grinned at her. Jan was the field coordinator for this camp, in charge of keeping things running as smoothly as possible under the tragic and ever-changing circumstances. The Sudanese staff was assembling by the lorries, ready to off-load the supplies into the container.

  “We will have to see,” he said in his Norwegian accent. “But they tell me there are some more jerry cans, food supplies, along with some High Energy Biscuits and Plumpy’Nut for the kids.”

  “Thank God,” Nora said. Most of the children arriving at the camp were severely malnourished.

  Jan examined the bill of goods handed to him by the driver. “Ah, a diplomatic container,” he said with a grin. Nora grinned back. Diplomatic containers couldn’t be searched by local authorities, which meant it was usually stocked with alcohol and coffee for the expat staff. Then Jan frowned. “But only a week’s worth of basic food supplies. I was hoping for enough for a month.”

  “Better than nothing?”

  “Always the optimist. How does it go with the latrines?”

  “I just talked to Francis about that. Some are starting to fill up, so he’s going to cover them over and dig more tomorrow. And Christopher said the new water pump in section D is up and running.”

  “Good, good. Now tell me this: While you were being so productive, did you manage to get any sleep?” Jan peered at her face closely, and she glanced away. He knew her too well.

  “Aye, after a while. I just had to finish those reports. Oh, and I put in another requisition for school supplies. The teacher said the kids are writing in the dirt, and there’s only a handful of books to go around.”

  “Mmm-hmm. And sleep?” Jan pressed.

  “A couple of hours,” Nora admitted.

  Jan shook his head. “For someone with as much experience as you have, you push yourself too hard. It’s a good thing you’re leaving for R&R tomorrow. I’m worried about you burning out.”

  “I won’t burn out. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Any more dreams?”

  Nora blushed. She’d made the mistake of telling Jan about the series of interconnected dreams that had been stealing the peace from what little sleep she managed. In each dream, the face of a man appeared to her. It was not a face she recognized, but it was the same man each time. Though the dreams were vague and incoherent, they were imbued with a sense of urgency that awoke her in a cold sweat. They’d been happening more frequently lately. Jan thought it was a sign the stress was getting to her.

  “I’m grand,” she said. “Nothing a couple of weeks on the beach won’t cure.”

  “You still plan to go to Mombasa?” he asked. “When was the last time you were home?”

  Nora shrugged. “Not long enough. My ma’s funeral, I suppose.”

  She was saved from saying more by the opening of the first lorry. Nora joined the others, grabbing crates and sacks of rice and stacking them inside the container, where they’d be sorted later. Given the toxic security situation in the area, it was important to get them into a secure location as quickly as possible. She tried to push the dreams out of her mind as she threw herself into the work. There was always more work.

  Nora took Jan’s advice and went to bed early that night, back in the relative safety of the compound in Nyala, several miles away. From the small window in her room she could see the broken glass and barbed wire rimming the wall outside the building. She prayed for those gathered together back at the camp. Hopefully their numbers would ensure they got safely through the night. Then they could start trying to reconstruct their lives. Wasn’t that what she was trying to do?

  Her thumb caressed the smooth wooden beads of the rosary as she whispered another Our Father. She closed her eyes again and continued the same prayer she’d whispered every night for too many years, for too many people. The prayer for the dead. Then she surrendered to sleep.

  In her dream, land spread out in front of her, lush and green and full of life, a sharp contrast to the wasted desert outside the compound. Clusters of large, broad-leafed trees swayed in a soft wind, and foot-high limestone fences wound their way over the emerald hills like a network of veins. As she walked, the warmth of the sun on her skin was comforting, not scorching. She was barefoot, and the grass tickled her feet. She was tempted to lie down in it, to revel in its fresh smell and feel before she had to wake again, but something stopped her. A man was sitting on the fence about a hundred feet away. It was him, the one she’d been dreaming about; she could tell even from this distance. She ran toward him, her feet thudding into the grass, desperate to see him clearly before he disappeared, before he faded away as he’d done so many times before.

  Her hopes rose as she drew closer and his figure remained solid. She could see his features much more clearly this time: a long, straight nose, a high brow, full lips. His eyes were closed. His skin was clear and unwrinkled and his body straight and strong. But his hair was perfectly gray, almost silver. He wore it short and swept to the side in an old-fashioned style. His clothing was old-fashioned, too, a three-piece suit and a black trilby clutched in his hands. He appeared to be sleeping. She stood and watched him for a moment, so close she could touch him, trying to fi
x his features in her memory before he disappeared. But he didn’t disappear this time. And so she reached out a hand toward him, hesitating just before brushing the top of his shoulder with her fingers.

  His eyes opened.

  They were as blue as the water that lapped at the Giant’s Causeway, where her father had taken her and Eamon as children and told them stories of ancient heroes. Paired with his strange gray hair, those eyes made the man in front of her look like the ocean itself, turbulent and strong. His eyes bore into her, and she had no words. She wanted to touch him, to understand him, to know why he kept appearing to her. A tremble passed through her body like a wave.

  “I need your help,” he said. Her breath quickened. This was the first time he’d spoken to her. “Go to the church at Kildare and ask for Brigid,” he continued. “She’ll explain everything and lead you to me. You must come.”

  Nora struggled to hang on to his words. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “The church at Kildare. Brigid. I don’t have time to explain.”

  “But . . . where are you? Who are you? Are you in trouble?”

  At this, he tore his gaze away from her and stared out at the rolling hills. “Please, there is not much time. You must come and help me.” His voice sounded distant, ethereal.

  “But . . . help you with what? I don’t understand.” The man didn’t answer—he only got up from the fence and strode away from her. She tried to follow, but her legs would not move. “Wait!” she called after him. “Who are you?” There was no answer. He faded into the hillside, and she was left alone.

  She opened her eyes in the darkness, then rolled over and switched on the lamp beside her cot. She was breathing fast, and her cheeks felt hot. “It was just a dream . . . ,” she muttered, willing her heartbeat to slow down. Still, she couldn’t forget the desperate look in the man’s eyes.

  She opened her laptop, looking for a distraction. Maybe she’d get another requisition form in the pipeline before she left for Kenya. She’d be more likely to actually relax on her break if she knew the camp would be adequately stocked when she returned.

  Jan’s question about going home niggled at the back of her mind. It had been a long time. But what was there to go home to? Her family was dead. And her other family—the Provos—well, she had left Belfast for a reason. No good would come out of going back. She pulled up the homepage of the Belfast Telegraph and scanned the headlines. Same old bickering between politicians, same old . . . wait.

  She read the headline again.

  PIRA Member Mick O’Connor Killed in Pub Brawl.

  She scanned the article, her heart pounding. Mick had been released from prison early as part of the Good Friday Agreement, but she’d made no effort to get in touch, not even to tell him she’d left Belfast.

  She’d felt bad about it at the time. In those lost, wild years after Eamon’s death, Mick had become both father and brother to her. He’d tamed her rage and channeled it into something productive: breaking the grip of the British on their country. She’d loved him, or at least she’d thought she did. But everything had changed after he was caught and sent to prison. Nora had finally dared to dream of a life away from it all. Away from the constant fear, from the devouring hatred. Away from the ghost of her brother. Away from her own guilt.

  And now Mick was dead.

  She read the article again. The memorial service was in three days.

  Maybe Mombasa could wait.

  Chapter Five

  Nora sat with her back to Eamon’s gravestone, staring up at a towering stone cross decorated with intricate scrollwork. Belfast’s Milltown Cemetery was empty, and it was nearing dusk.

  She pressed the heels of her palms into her forehead. Why had she returned? Going to Mick’s funeral had been a bad idea. Too many memories. Too many reminders of everything that had been lost. They’d shared so much, the two of them, both blazing with hatred and the driving need for revenge. The fact that Mick had died so ignobly—in a pub brawl, of all things—would have been laughable if it weren’t so sad. He’d have hated to go out that way.

  Her eyes found an inscription on a nearby plaque that read, “To Ireland’s Glorious Dead.”

  “That’s shite, so it is,” she whispered to Eamon’s grave. “I’d rather Ireland be enslaved and you be alive.” She felt guilty for saying that. Most of Ireland was free now, but that had only been achieved out of the blood of its sons and daughters. Would she really prefer for the entire island to be back under the thumb of the British Empire, for her people to be dispossessed and landless and starving to death by the hundreds of thousands?

  All the same, she wished she could take Eamon’s place. If only there were more like him: softhearted, intelligent, and peaceful. Eamon would have been able to tell her what to do.

  She wiped at her eyes and rearranged the lilies she had brought in a silver vase, leaning them more securely against the stone. “I wonder what you would think of these strange dreams I’ve been having.” She tried to imagine what he would say. He’d think they were interesting, to be sure. He’d press her for details and then discuss all the possible meanings with her. He wouldn’t laugh at her. He’d probably say God was trying to speak to her.

  Maybe he was, but if so, she didn’t have a clue what he was trying to tell her. She could still picture the gray-haired man’s face clearly, and she could hear the sound of his voice as he begged her to come help him. He had told her to go to Kildare. To Brigid. But would he be in Kildare? Besides, hundreds of Irish women were called Brigid—how was she to know which one to look for? None of it made any sense.

  Which is why you should just forget it, she told herself.

  Dreams had no meaning in real life. She picked up some dirt from the ground and let it run through her fingers. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. This is all we are.

  A breeze blew behind her as she left the cemetery. Years ago, she’d sold the family home and bought a tiny flat near the center of the city. She rented it out most of the time, but it was between tenants at the moment. She let herself in, turned on the telly, and cracked open a beer. She sank into one of the two chairs in the living area and sighed. Bare-bones furnishing and a single suitcase of clothes—this was what she had to show for thirty years on the planet.

  She changed the channel to the news and immediately regretted it. Pictures of a ruined police station flashed across the screen. The stern-faced newscaster appeared beside the carnage and announced, “Today’s bombing killed two police officers, Sergeants Elizabeth Law and Stephen Mitchell. No one has yet claimed responsibility for the attack, but it brings into question the ongoing talks regarding a possible cease-fire.”

  She ran to the toilet and threw up.

  “Ballix!” She fumbled around for a cloth beside the sink and wiped her mouth. Then she stared up at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks flushed. “Can’t I get away from you?” she whispered.

  She brushed her teeth, then phoned for a cab.

  The doorman looked up at her in surprise as she stomped past him, her one suitcase in hand. “Hiya, Nora. Where you off to, then? You’ve only just arrived back.”

  “Anywhere but here,” she said, pushing open the glass door and heading out to the street, where her cab was waiting. “Central Station, please,” she said as the driver put her suitcase in the back.

  At the station, she bought a one-way ticket to Dublin. It wasn’t as far away as she would have liked, but it was far enough. For now. Besides, her aunt was there, and she needed to see a friendly face.

  When she arrived, she checked into the first hotel she found and collapsed onto the bed. She was both relieved and depressed that absolutely no one knew where to find her.

  She had the dream again that night for the first time since leaving Darfur. They were standing in a barren courtyard this time, surrounded by high stone walls. The ground at their feet was stained red.

  Her pulse quickened as he grabbed her hands and pulled her close. �
�Nora,” he said, his eyes flickering. “You must not delay. You must come at once. Please, I beg you.”

  “I still don’t understand why . . . or how,” Nora said, unable—unwilling—to look away. “Where are you? Who are you?”

  But there was a roar of gunfire, and they both fell to the ground.

  Nora sat upright in bed, awoken by her own scream. She listened, but the night was silent around her. Five a.m. Determined to shake off the dream, she took a shower, then grabbed her coat and umbrella and headed out onto the streets of Dublin.

  Kildare was only an hour away. She’d come this far, all the way from Sudan . . .

  She shook her head. It was just a dream.

  But was it? The very night the stranger had told her to go to Kildare, she’d found out about Mick’s death, which had drawn her back to Ireland for the first time in several years . . .

  Don’t be daft.

  She went to a café and waited until it was a reasonable hour, then pulled out her cell phone and rang her aunt Margaret.

  “Hiya, Auntie Margaret, it’s Nora.”

  “Nora, love, how are ye? Where are ye, I should be askin’?”

  “I’m in Dublin, actually. Mind if I pop round for a visit?”

  “Do you even have to ask? Come on over; I’ve got the kettle on. Do you need me to collect you?”

  “I’m grand, ta. I’ll take the bus. See you soon.”

  Twenty minutes later Nora was enveloped in the warm embrace of her father’s younger sister. Margaret’s salt-and-pepper hair was pinned up in a loose bun, and her dark eyes sparkled as she held Nora at arm’s length to inspect her.

  “You’re as skinny as ever, child. You look like a Biafran!”

  Nora flushed. “We don’t really use that term anymore, Auntie.”

  Margaret raised a dark eyebrow. “No? Well, whatever you want to call it, you need feeding. Have a seat while I fetch us some scones and tea.”