Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

  “What does it mean?”

  “I was not told. Do you not know?”

  “All I know is that Aengus Óg was one of the old gods. The Tuatha Dé Danann.”

  “Brigid will reveal the truth to you in time, no doubt.”

  “Well, what did she tell you?”

  “She said one would be coming to me, a young woman named Nora. That she would be in distress, and I was to comfort her. She also said that you would wish to go home, but that it was not possible. Not yet.”

  “What?” Panic welled in her throat. Nora rose from her seat and moved into the woman’s pew. “You don’t understand—there’s been a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you know . . . where I’m from?” She was afraid to say the words out loud.

  A glint appeared in the woman’s eyes. Was it fear? “You are not from this time.”

  “Aye, I’m not. One of your Sisters—or Brigid, if you want to believe that—sent me here to help a man. I’ve found him, but he doesn’t want my help. Says he doesn’t need it. So unless she’s got another plan, I’ve come here for nothing. I need you to send me home again.” The words tumbled out, stepping over each other in her haste to be heard.

  “I’m sorry, Nora, but it’s not within my ability to do that. You have a job to do.”

  “How the hell—sorry—how am I supposed to help a man who refuses to have anything to do with me? I can’t force him to listen to me, so I can’t. If I tell him I know he’s going to die, he’ll just think I’m crazy. There’s nothing for me to do here.”

  “Is there not?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Brigid is the most mysterious of saints. If she sent you here, it was for a purpose.”

  “Well, it’s a bit useless if I don’t know what that purpose is. If the relic worked to send me here, it’ll work to send me back. Where is it?” She leaned in closely to make her point clear.

  Bernadette stayed firm in her seat, frowning. “What relic?”

  “There’s a relic—a finger bone. It’s what I used to get here.”

  “The relic of Saint Brigid is not here, if that’s what you are seeking. It’s not been in Ireland for many centuries.”

  “What? Where is it?”

  “Portugal.”

  “That’s not true. I know it’s here. Eighty years from now, it’s in the basement, in the room with the fireplace.” I’m wasting time. She ran to the back of the church, to the door that led to the basement. It was locked. “Open it,” Nora called out, pulling on the latch with both hands.

  Bernadette walked up the aisle toward her, hands folded. “I don’t know where you expect to find it, Nora, but this is a Protestant cathedral,” she said, her voice calm. “Do you really think we would keep a relic of our most precious saint here, even if we still had it?” Nora let go of the door.

  “But . . . it must be here. Mary said the Brigidine Sisters had kept it safe for centuries. I saw it. I held it.” Her control slipped slightly. Her hands shook, and her entire chest was clenched tight.

  “You will see it, you mean. You will hold it.”

  She tried to comprehend what this woman was saying. But it was too much to understand, too much to believe.

  “So that’s it, then? I’m trapped in 1923 for the rest of my life? There’s no way to go back?” A dull ache spread through her entire body, a feeling of helplessness that she loathed and despised.

  “That will be for Saint Brigid to decide, I suppose. She is the Lady of Miracles. But there is no way I can help you. I can only pass on her words.”

  Nora sank down onto the cold stone floor, her head in her hands. What was she supposed to do with no money, no job, no family, here in the middle of a civil war?

  “Brigid is not cruel, Nora. If this man will not let you help him, she must have another design for you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Brigid can go to hell, for all I care. Who does she think she is, plucking people from their own time and throwing them back into the past? I was doing something good; I was saving lives!” Hot tears pressed at her lashes, but she would not let them escape.

  The Brigidine Sister laid a callous, wrinkled hand on Nora’s shoulder. “We need that here, too. More than ever.”

  Nora left the cathedral in a daze. Bernadette had given her an envelope of money, a gift from the Sisters to help her in her service to Brigid. She’d reluctantly accepted it and stuffed it into her purse. Then she’d stepped back into the sunlight, squinting after the darkness of the church. If she had no choice but to stay here for an indefinite period of time, she at least needed a plan.

  She sat down on the low stone wall of the ruined Fire Temple. Her humanitarian training was kicking in. Her first priority was survival: food, shelter, water. She could find a boardinghouse in town, rent a room. But then she had a second thought. She could pay Mr. and Mrs. Gillies for her room and board. At least, until she found a job. Her nose wrinkled at the thought of the jobs available for women in this era—secretary, nurse, or teacher. Nursing appealed to her most, although her only formal training had been a brief course in emergency field medicine. Perhaps she could get a job with the IRA; at least then she’d be close to the action.

  She stood up and brushed off her skirt, pleased that she had a plan. But then what? Bernadette had said Brigid had a purpose for her. She didn’t want to merely survive in this new life. If Thomas wouldn’t accept her help, perhaps someone else would.

  A horrible—and enticing—thought struck her with the force of a bullet. She sat back down on the stone wall, her hands pressed to her mouth. Would her presence in the past change the course of history? She’d never been much for science fiction. She’d certainly never thought about the intricacies of time travel. But there would inevitably be consequences. Had her mere appearance—running into the soldiers, saving Frankie’s life, meeting the Gillies family—changed the future?

  More importantly, could she change the future?

  She held her breath, lest the thought escape through her lips. Was that what Brigid wanted? For her to change the course of history? And even if it wasn’t, what was there to stop her from doing it? She took a deep breath and exhaled long and slow through her nose, trying to remember anything she’d read or heard about this precise moment in history. The end of the Civil War was near, that much she knew. But how close? Was there still a chance to turn things around, to win the war for the Republicans, tear up the treaty with Britain, and keep Northern Ireland with the rest of the country?

  She moaned when she realized what this could mean—if the partition never happened, there would be no war in Northern Ireland. No Troubles. And that would mean her brother would never be killed.

  That’s why she was here. What was it Mary had said as she gave her the relic? You might be able to help others who are close to you.

  She could change history. Her history, and the history of everyone she loved. She could save Eamon’s life.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She had to talk to Thomas again. He had mentioned Brigid, acted like he knew her. Could he be from the future as well? Did he know how this worked? Maybe Brigid had sent him to the past on some sort of mission, but he had failed, which would explain his anger over Nora’s interference. Or maybe it had nothing to do with that at all. Maybe he was just a devotee of the saint, like the Sisters. It didn’t matter, not now. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want her help. Now he could help her.

  She ran to the gate and swung onto the bike. Gone was the anxiety in her chest, the blind helplessness. In its place was a lightness that crackled and consumed.

  She cycled through the main square, looking for Pidge. Her friend wasn’t among the vendors and shoppers in the market, a collection of tables covered in eggs, produce, and barrels of flour and sugar. Nora turned up a side street, curious now to learn everything she could about where and when she was.

  S
he found Pidge standing in the doorway of a narrow brick home. Her bicycle was leaning against the house, a paper bag and bolt of cloth in the large basket. Pidge was glancing over her shoulder when she saw Nora.

  “Nora! You gave me a fright.”

  “I looked for you in the market—what are you doing here?”

  Pidge beckoned her closer. “I’m delivering Coogan’s message. Come with me?”

  “Aye.”

  Pidge knocked smartly on the door. After a short wait, a young woman in a maid’s uniform answered.

  “Can I help ye?”

  “We’re here to see Mr. Hyland,” Pidge said.

  The maid nodded, keeping her eyes down. “Right this way, if you please.” She had a strong Northern accent. Someone else who’s away from home, Nora thought. They were shown into a parlor, which was sparsely but tastefully decorated. It reminded Nora of her aunt Margaret’s house.

  “Do you just need to give it—” Nora started, but Pidge hushed her. A moment later, a stocky man with a bristling mustache came into the room, followed by the maid.

  “Do you want I should bring some tea, Mr. Hyland?” the woman asked, her eyes still on the floor.

  “No, Edna.” He was eyeing Pidge and Nora. “That will be all, thank you.” Edna left and closed the door behind her. “Three years in my service, and I still can’t understand half of what she says,” he remarked.

  “You’re an Englishman!” Pidge declared. Nora bit back her own surprised response. Why would the IRA have Pidge delivering messages to a Brit? Was this a trap? Her eyes darted to the door.

  “Yes, and so was Erskine Childers, though I’d like to avoid his fate if I possibly can. Firing squads do not suit me.”

  “But why—” Nora started.

  “English birth and Irish nationalism are not mutually exclusive.” His tone was testy, so Nora let it drop. “I understand you have a message for me.”

  “Oh, yes,” Pidge said. She took off her hat and turned it over. With a fingernail, she lifted the inner lining and extracted a folded piece of paper.

  Mr. Hyland grunted as he took it. “Have a seat. I may need to send a reply.”

  Pidge sat with her hat in her lap, watching Mr. Hyland with avid eyes. Nora was suspicious, but she said nothing. Her job was to watch and listen, to try to fill in the blanks in her knowledge of the war. She should have read the message when it was still in Pidge’s drawer.

  “Hmph. Well, it seems you ladies have another task. I would have thought they’d send men for this, but . . .”

  “We can do it,” Pidge said eagerly.

  “What is it?” Nora asked.

  “I’m a collector of handguns. It seems our boys are running out. I told Lynch it was a last resort—some of these pieces are worth a fair amount, you see. But he doesn’t care, so long as they shoot straight. Wait here.”

  “What if it’s a trap?” Nora asked Pidge as soon as Hyland had left the parlor.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if he means for us to get caught? Isn’t it against the law to have a weapon unless you’re a Prod or a Free Stater? That’s why Childers was executed, wasn’t it?”

  “We won’t get caught. That’s why Lynch sent us instead of the lads. Who would suspect two young women, out doing their shopping?”

  “You trust him?”

  “Liam Lynch trusts him, and that’s all that matters.”

  She’s right, Nora thought. This was a real chance to help. She could deliver messages, smuggle arms, maybe even take part in combat. Maybe her involvement would be the tipping point. Wars had been won or lost on lesser things.

  “Grand, so,” Nora said, standing to pace the small room. “We’ll hide them in with the shopping, then?”

  “I reckon. What do you think?”

  “It should work. I imagine he’ll want them taken to the camp?”

  “I suppose we’ll find out.”

  They didn’t have long to wait. Hyland came back into the room, puffing slightly beneath his mustache. Under his arm was a roll of canvas, which he spread out on the floor, revealing half a dozen pistols. “I’ve kept two for my own protection,” he said. “This is the rest of them—those that still work, that is.”

  “I’ll get the fabric,” Nora said. She slipped out the front door and hoisted the bag of groceries into one arm and the bolt of cloth into the other. Edna, the maid, was watching her through the windows. Surely Hyland trusts where his servants’ loyalties lie.

  Back in the parlor, Nora emptied the bag of groceries and wrapped three of the pistols in Hyland’s canvas. She stuffed the bundle in the bottom of the paper bag, then covered it with tea, a bag of sugar, and a jar of face cream.

  Then they turned to the bolt of fabric. Pidge held one end while Nora worked out the tube in the center. Then they stuffed the other three pistols inside. Nora tore two pieces of the cardboard tube off and stuck them in either end. “It’s a little lumpy, but I don’t think anyone’ll notice.”

  Pidge lifted the bag of groceries and turned to Hyland. “We’ll take these straight to Lynch, then? Or Coogan?”

  “I don’t think that’s wise. There are rumors of an informer in Coogan’s ranks. Too many odd coincidences of the Free Staters knowing where our boys are about to strike.”

  “But then how—”

  “Keep them somewhere safe. Lynch will send someone to collect them when they’re needed. Or he’ll ask you to deliver them.”

  Nora’s eyes narrowed. “Can I see that message? The one Pidge gave you?”

  “It’s fine, Nora, I have just the place for them,” Pidge said.

  “I threw it in the fire,” Hyland answered, bristling. “But I assure you this is not some trick, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I’ve bigger fish to fry than entrapping two silly messenger girls.”

  Nora’s nostrils flared. How dare he, after asking them to take such a risk? “These silly girls could march over to the barracks and turn you in,” she spat. “Why aren’t you delivering your own guns? God! It’s like this in every fucking era. The women are always left to do the dirty work.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Nora, hush!” Pidge said with a panicked look at Hyland. His large face was turning red.

  “Are you questioning my loyalty?” he seethed.

  “No, not your loyalty. Just your manners,” Nora shot back. “Let’s go, Pidge. Let’s go risk our necks for the rich Englishman while he stays home and enjoys his tea.”

  “You’re only proving my point. You have no idea what I’ve risked for the Republic. Now get out of here before I send word to Lynch that you’re threatening one of his last suppliers.”

  Nora picked up the bolt of cloth and walked out without a word, Pidge behind her. She put the bolt in the basket on her bicycle. When she turned around, Pidge was staring at her.

  “You’ve quite the temper on you, haven’t you? And here I thought it was just Thomas who set you off.”

  The window curtains split open slightly. Nora pushed her bike down the road, toward the main square. “The man was a sexist eejit.”

  “A what?”

  “A sexist. Don’t you have that word? It means he thinks we’re less than him just because of our gender.”

  Pidge looked thoughtful. “Maybe. But everyone thinks that way. And it’s not just the women doing the dirty work—most of the time we’re not allowed to even fight, except for Countess Markievicz. She does whatever she wants. But it’s the lads who do the real dangerous work.”

  Countess Markievicz—another Republican hero. “I know. I didn’t mean that . . . I know it’s dangerous for the men. I just wish we had a bigger role, or that the role we do have would be better recognized, that’s all.”

  “I feel the same way, but I’d not hold my breath. And we’re not risking our necks for him, you know—the ‘rich Englishman.’ It’s for the Republic. And that’s a cause worth dying for.”

  Once they had passed the market, they got back onto their bicycles and rode tow
ard Pidge’s home, keeping a careful eye on the road lest they spill their precious cargo.

  “Have you met the countess?” Nora asked.

  “Me? God, no. She travels in far different circles.”

  “But she’s Cumann na mBan, right?”

  “Sure, but she’s also one of them—those at the top. They treat her almost like an equal. O’course, she demands it. Was furious that her sentence of execution for taking place in the Rising was commuted to prison on account of her sex.”

  Nora raised her eyebrows. “You’d think she’d be grateful to be able to carry on the fight.”

  “Sure, but she wanted to be treated the same as the men, even if it meant she’d be shot.”

  “Have they executed any women?”

  “Not yet. Doesn’t mean there won’t be a first, though. They keep threatening it.”

  They stopped talking as they approached the barracks. Two guards were posted at the gates. Nora nodded to them cordially, trying to keep her racing heartbeat from showing on her face. One of them raised his hand, but not in greeting.

  “Hold up there,” he said.

  Nora brought the bicycle to a stop, clutching the handlebars tight to keep her hands from shaking.

  “Pidge,” the soldier said, nodding.

  “Hullo, Daniel. How you been keeping?”

  Nora gave Pidge a curious look. Was she on friendly terms with soldiers on both sides of the war?

  “Who’s this?” he asked.

  “My cousin Nora, down from Belfast. You’ve heard what’s goin’ on up there, aye?”

  He frowned and nodded briskly. “Aye.” Then he glanced at the packages in their baskets. “I’m supposed to search everyone passing by.”

  “You’re not going to steal my mother’s tea, are you, now?” Pidge said with a wink and a giggle. Trying to relax her own face, Nora smiled at Daniel with as much warmth and innocence as she could muster.

  “Is that all you’ve got, then?”

  “This time, yes. Unless you’ve got something new for me?”