Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

  What the hell am I doing here? She needed to hide, to figure out which end was up. The last thing she should have done was march clothed in twenty-first-century leather and denim into a pub full of soldiers.

  She reached into her purse for her wallet. Shite. All she had were euros, which hadn’t been created yet. The bartender swiped up her empty glass. “Another?”

  “No . . . ,” she said slowly, her mind spinning. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Six pence’ll do it.”

  She pulled out a euro and placed it on the counter. “I’m afraid this is all I have. But it’s worth much more than six pence.”

  “Is it, now?” the barman said, picking it up and examining the coin. She prayed he wouldn’t notice the date stamped on it. “And what exactly is it?”

  “It’s American. I’ve only just got back, you see, and haven’t had time to get my money changed.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with American money?”

  “Ah, keep it, Bill!” said a man sitting a few stools down at the bar. “We’ll all end up there someday, the way this country is going.”

  The barman snorted. “Is that what you think, Ned? Think someone’ll give a job to a worn-out coot like yerself?”

  “I can still put in a good day’s work when there’s work to be had,” Ned retorted.

  “I don’t see you sitting over there with them lads,” the barman said, pointing his chin at the tables of soldiers.

  “I’m not desperate enough to join the army. Not yet anyways,” Ned said darkly.

  Nora took advantage of their bantering, slipped off her stool, and left the pub. The door had just closed behind her when it opened again. Three of the soldiers who had been drinking inside followed her onto the street.

  “You there!” one of them called. She kept on walking, but they quickly caught up and blocked her path.

  “What’s your name and business here?” the tallest of the three asked. His hair was dark and cropped short, and the eyes under the black brim of his cap were narrowed in suspicion.

  “I was having a drink, just like you,” Nora said, ducking her head and trying to move around them. Her heart pounded. Could she outrun them? How was it that she’d not been in this century for an hour and she was already getting into trouble?

  “Likely story,” he said, stepping in front of her again. “I’ll ask you one more time. What’s your name and business here?”

  Nora looked him in the eye this time. “My name’s Nora O’Reilly, and I was having a drink, as you clearly saw. Now get out of my fucking way.”

  One of the boys gave a low whistle. “Got a live one here, Kevin.”

  “Where do you live?” Kevin, who seemed to be the officer in charge, demanded.

  “Boston,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Where are you staying here?” he asked, impatience lining his words.

  “Not with you, that’s for sure,” she snapped. “Is harassing ladies on the street after dark the way things are done here?”

  The other two soldiers looked down at their feet. God, they’re young.

  “What is a ‘lady’ doing on the street after dark, I wonder?” Kevin asked.

  “I feel perfectly safe being out here, knowing you fine men are doing such a spectacular job keeping our country safe.” They seemed to be unsure of whether she was being serious or making fun of them.

  “Well, I think we should escort the lady back to her lodgings, don’t you agree, lads?”

  The other two seemed to think this was an excellent idea, and the three of them formed a semicircle private guard around her.

  “I don’t need your protection,” Nora said. “I can walk on my own, thank you very much.”

  “We insist,” Kevin said, giving her a little prod in the small of her back. She slowly began to walk forward, struggling to keep an outer composure to mask her inner panic. Where could she go? She could lead them back to the church, but what good would that do? She had to get away—and avoid getting shot or arrested in the process.

  They continued walking, the stomp of the men’s boots breaking the silence. Ahead, another group of soldiers approached them.

  “Stay with our visitor,” Kevin told one of the younger men. Then he and the other guard called out to their comrades and crossed the street to greet them. The man who’d been left with Nora stood a little straighter, gripping his rifle firmly in both hands.

  Nora bent down by the side of the road under the pretense of tying her shoe, using the opportunity to palm a large, jagged stone. In one fluid movement, she leapt to her feet, her arm swinging, and struck the soldier on the side of the head with the stone. He dropped, and she ran, ignoring the screaming protests of her muscles.

  She didn’t need to hear the shouts behind her to know the other soldiers were hard on her heels. Her trainers pounded the dirt as she spun into an alley, her hair waving behind her like a red flag. She turned again and again, trying desperately to keep track of which direction she was headed so she wouldn’t loop around and run straight into them. A stray cat hissed at her from a doorway. Nora tried the door, but it was locked. Her breath was ragged as she hunched over in the dark alcove, listening for the sounds of her pursuers. Loud, angry voices erupted nearby, and she stiffened. But the racket was muted, as though it was coming from the next street over.

  “We saw her come down this way. If anyone here is found harboring her . . .”

  “What are you chasin’ after a woman for, Kevin Miller? You and your boys have been at the pub too long; I can tell by the smell of you.”

  “Now, Mrs. McCurdle, I’m an officer of the National Army, not some farm boy you had at your table—”

  “I’m starting to regret ever having you at my table, Kevin, if this is how you’ve turned out. Disturbin’ decent people at this time o’ night, accusin’ them of harborin’ fugitives!”

  “Grand so, we’ll let you get back to your evening, Mrs. McCurdle.”

  Nora listened as the soldiers’ voices faded. She peered into the alley, which was still empty, save for the cat. Slowly now, listening for the fall of boots around each corner, she crept through the town. She had no idea where she was headed, only that she needed to find somewhere safe to hide—and think—for the night. If she could find the main road again, she could make her way back to the cathedral. Then she’d track down one of the Brigidine Sisters in the morning and find out what the hell was going on.

  The road she found herself on was not lit by gas lamps like those in town. Hazy clouds obscured the moon, but she could still see well enough to make out the path ahead. Going back to the cathedral would mean turning around and heading back through town—and risking another encounter with the Free State Army. Perhaps it would be best to head out into the country for the night, or even to the next town over. She trudged along the road, keeping an ear and an eye out for approaching vehicles.

  It was unnaturally quiet. In the refugee camps, there was always the sound of babies crying, people making their way to the latrines, new arrivals being ushered in, and tents being hastily erected. Even the staff compounds were filled with the sounds of people coming and going. And in Belfast, she was lulled to sleep by the rumble of lorries and late-night revelers. This silence was disconcerting.

  A hardened rut in the dirt road caught her foot. She stumbled but couldn’t regain her footing and ended up sprawled on the road. “Ach, that’s just brilliant,” she muttered, searching for a tissue in her purse to wipe the mud off her hands. One of the knees of her jeans had torn open, and her scraped skin stung. Her stomach cramped painfully—reminding her she should have ordered some food to go with that whiskey.

  The shape of a couple of large buildings loomed off the road in front of her. Barns, maybe? Perhaps she could lay low there for a few hours. Sleep seemed out of the question, but she needed time to figure out which end was up, and what she was going to do come daylight.

  She picked up her pace as the buildings grew closer, but t
hen swore silently and flattened herself against the road. Guards were silhouetted on either side of an iron fence. A lookout tower rose above the buildings. There were two armored lorries parked in the yard outside. These buildings weren’t barns—they were barracks.

  Shite, shite, shite. Nora rolled over into the ditch as silently as she could, praying that the sentry hadn’t spotted her in the darkness. Slowly, she crawled inch by inch back the way she’d come. The water from the day’s rain had gathered in the ditch, and soon her entire front was soaked through. An owl hooted overhead. Her arms burned, and her scraped knee cried out in protest. Should she stay in the ditch until morning? No. She needed to get far away from the barracks. Otherwise, she’d be hauled in for questioning before daybreak. And she was in no condition to answer any questions right now. Not unless she wanted to end up in an insane asylum—or worse.

  After she was out of sight of the barracks, she crawled out of the ditch and lifted herself painfully to her feet. A road on the left led away from both the town and the barracks, so she took it, her eyes peeled for any kind of shelter—a barn, a chicken coop, even a pile of old ruins would hide her from passing eyes. Finally, a dark shape emerged on the side of the road—a thick copse of trees. She stumbled toward it. The darkness thickened as she passed under the first branches. She had gone only a few feet when she tripped again. This time, she didn’t even try to get up for several minutes. Eventually, she pulled herself to sitting and leaned against the thick trunk of a tree. She found Eamon’s rosary in her purse, pressed it to her lips, and started to pray.

  An explosion ripped through the night, jolting her awake. Immediately her instincts—and training—kicked in. She threw herself to the ground and covered her head. Shouts and cheers followed the explosion. Something shattered through the trees and landed with a thud beside her.

  She opened her eyes and peeked through her arms. Lying on the ground at her feet was the naked, bloodied body of a man.

  Chapter Nine

  Nora stifled her screams, her wide eyes fixed on the man splayed on the ground beside her. He moaned, and she pressed her hands against her mouth. The men on the road jeered, and someone shouted, “We’ll come back when it’s light to collect the bodies, lads.” The roar of lorries bumping down the uneven road faded. Then silence.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Nora breathed. She was shaking too badly to stand, but she managed to crawl closer to where the red-haired man lay bleeding. The clouds had cleared, and the moon shone through the trees. She felt for a pulse—he was still alive. “Hello?” she whispered. “Can you hear me?” His only answer was a tortured moan. He did not even open his eyes.

  Nora scrambled to her feet, then leaned against the nearest tree as a wave of dizziness passed over her. “Right. Get yourself together,” she muttered. Moving as slowly and quietly as she could manage, she crept through the trees until she could see the road. There was a rough crater in the middle of it. Around it, glowing eerily in the moonlight, lay the destroyed remains of several men. Nora covered her mouth in horror. The men had been blown up by some sort of explosive—a land mine, by the looks of it. Body parts were strewn around haphazardly, limbs torn from torsos, entrails spilling out into the dirt, faces unrecognizable. The stench of charred flesh filled her nostrils. Nora stepped back too quickly and found herself sprawled on the ground beside a chunk of flesh that was still burning. With a stifled yell, she got to her feet and ran back to the man in the woods. The sole survivor of this massacre.

  He was still breathing. She stripped off her jacket and covered his torso, laying it gently over him so as to not exacerbate his injuries. What was she supposed to do now? She couldn’t leave him here to die alone in the woods. But she knew she couldn’t hope to carry him—or even drag him—very far. She looked up at the sky. How long until the soldiers came back?

  Go, get out of here, get back to the cathedral, she told herself. But the man at her feet moaned again, and his eyes fluttered open.

  “Shh, it’s okay, I’m going to help you.” She placed her hand on his forehead and smoothed back his singed hair, then gathered leaves and light branches and covered the rest of his body as best she could. “You must stay quiet,” she said, not sure if he could even hear her. Her own ears were still ringing from the blast. “If they come back, they might look for you. I’m going to get help.”

  But from where? Who could she even trust? She squeezed his hand lightly, then found her way back to the road, praying she wouldn’t step on anyone. Once clear of the bodies, she ran. The sun was starting to lighten the horizon. Soon she spotted a thatched, whitewashed cottage across a field. She made for it, keeping an eye out for soldiers all the while. A figure—a young woman, judging from the shape of her—emerged from the door of the cottage, carrying a basket under one arm. Seeing Nora, she stood stock still. Nora kept running until she reached her.

  “Help,” Nora gasped, doubling over in front of the woman, who looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. “I need help.”

  “Are you hurt?” the girl asked, setting down her basket and taking Nora by the arm.

  “No. There was an explosion on the road—”

  “We heard it,” the girl said. “What happened?”

  “I can explain later,” Nora said. “But a man is badly injured. He needs help. I can’t carry him myself.”

  “You’d best come inside,” the girl said, looking down the road. Nora followed her into the cottage. The interior was dark, lit by a couple of oil lamps and a fire burning in the hearth at the end of the main room. The sweet, smoky smell of peat filled the room. “Ma!” the girl yelled. “Da!”

  A man and a woman came out of another room behind the fireplace. “Who is this? What are you yellin’ about, Pidge?”

  “She just showed up. Said that sound we heard was an explosion, and someone’s been hurt.”

  Both of the adults eyed Nora suspiciously. “Who are you, then, and how d’you know about this?”

  Nora glanced around the room, hoping something would give her an idea as to what kind of people these were. A tall pine dresser stood against the wall, its shelves filled with plates, bowls, and mugs. A settle bed with a high back stood against another wall. A wooden table with a bench and three chairs was the only other furniture in the room. A brooch lay on the dresser, beside a bowl of flour. It was the same brooch she’d seen in the photos Aunt Margaret had showed her of the Cumann na mBan. She took a chance on the truth.

  “I was hiding from the soldiers in the woods. I fell asleep but was woken by the sound of an explosion. Then a man landed at my feet. He’s badly wounded. When I went out onto the road . . .” She shuddered. “It looked as though several men had been killed.”

  “God between us and all harm!” the woman of the house exclaimed, crossing herself. Her husband and daughter did the same, and Nora followed suit.

  “I came looking for help,” Nora said. “I don’t know how much longer he’ll last.” The husband and wife exchanged glances.

  “I’ll collect Stephen from the field and go with the cart,” he said.

  “Are you sure, Sean?” the woman said, her eyes pleading. “What if they find you there?”

  “The soldiers left,” Nora said hastily. “But they said they’d come back when it was light enough to collect the bodies.” They all glanced at the window. The sun was just peeking above the fields.

  “I’m allowed to drive on the roads by my own farm, am I not?” the man said hotly. “They’ve no reason to arrest me!”

  “What if it’s a trap?” his wife argued with a sharp glance at Nora.

  “I swear I’m telling the truth,” Nora said. “You’ll see for yourself. The mine went off maybe a mile down the road. He’s in the woods, about a hundred yards to the left of the explosion. I covered him with some branches and my coat.” At the mention of her coat, they all gave her a once-over. She was sure she looked a fright—covered in mud, with one knee torn and bleeding and her hair a wild, tangled mess. Bu
t she didn’t care. “Please, I told him I’d find help. I’ll go with you.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” the woman said. “You look dead on your feet. We’ll let the men go.” She nodded curtly to her husband, who grabbed his cap and jacket from a hook on the wall and left without another word.

  “I’ll go too, Ma,” the young girl said, reaching for a shawl.

  “You’ll do no such thing. Now go fetch a basin of water, and let’s get this girl cleaned up.” The younger woman looked keen to argue, but she went outside and came back with a bucket of water, which she poured into a shallow basin and warmed up with water from the kettle that hung on a hook over the fire. Nora sank into the chair she was offered, feeling dazed and exhausted.

  “I’m Mrs. Kathleen Gillies,” the older woman said, dipping a cloth into the basin and handing it to Nora. “This is my daughter Hannah, but everyone calls her Pidge. And you are . . . ?”

  “Nora O’Reilly.” She rubbed her face with the cloth the girl had offered her and rinsed it out before moving on to her arms and hands.

  “And what’s your business here, Nora O’Reilly? What has you running?”

  Nora wondered if Mrs. Gillies was trying to bait her in order to determine her allegiance. There hadn’t been enough time to think of a convincing cover story. What was she to say—that she’d come from the future to help a man she’d never met? She pretended to wash her face again while thinking of a suitable lie.