Eire of Mystery

by Gavin Green

Chapter 8

  The breeze from the foothills and the slopes beyond were warmer that sunny morning, so Simon left the large workshop doors open. The heat from the forge quickly nullified the chilly interior air that normally accumulated overnight. He made another condensing fold and hammered it flat for future use of the scrap metal he'd won from an online auction.

  As he stepped back to toss the forged piece aside, Simon heard the bell ring. He'd set a large brass bell of his own making on a post between the house and shop for any potential customers to ring, back when the smithy originally opened.

  He didn't expect the visitor to be a potential patron that morning, and he was correct. She was a younger brunette in slacks and a long wool coat, with a business case in her hand. He hadn't seen this one before, and assumed she drew the short straw. Simon murmured to himself, "Shit, let's get this over with."

  As soon as Simon walked through the open doors of his shop and toward his house, the young woman began her introduction. "Good morning, Mr. Rike. I'm Amanda Nash, and I'm with..." When he got within about ten feet of her, the young professional's face soured, as if she suddenly felt a cockroach crawling around in her mouth.

  Simon paused in front of her, his eyes blatantly looking the slim woman over. "Unless you're a whore doing door-to-door charity work, I'm not interested." He then resumed his course to the house without a backwards glance.

  Miss Nash, stunned at her own sudden utter contempt for the man, quickly gathered her resolve to update the file as quickly as possible before escaping the horrible Mr. Rike. She began again as she hurried to follow him into the public 'showroom' of his house. "Sir, I'm with the Denver legal depar - " Amanda had to stop short when the man suddenly stopped and turned in the doorway, making her much closer to him than she wanted to be.

  With a low, menacing tone, Simon said, "I know who you're with and why you're here, Miss Nash." He shoved the door open wider in reluctant invitation, and then turned around to walk through his showroom. She caught the door on its slow return and tentatively followed him inside.

  As the foul man walked through his own display area and through western-style swinging doors into the private rear of the house, Amanda stopped in dawning wonder. She was surrounded by a room packed full of iron-forged miscellanea and art, everything hand-crafted, all separated and arranged.

  There were a variety of digging and lawn tools; a large selection of knives, blades, and axes - even a few swords hanging on the wall; pots, pans, utensils and dinnerware sets, all with impressive scrolled detail; trade tools for a variety of manual vocations; surreal and abstract wall art, all with intricate tooling; even a large glass case displaying a wide selection of eye-catching jewelry.

  Amanda was confused at how such impressive craft could be made by such a despicable person.

  Simon walked into the back of the house and turned right into the kitchen area. While he searched his refrigerator for a bottle of juice, he saw the social worker hesitantly push through the swinging doors. She turned left to his small dining table, rested her case on it, and pulled out a file. He frowned at her back and said, "You can sit if you want."

  Miss Nash gave a fleeting glance over her shoulder as she found her inquiry sheet. "I don't want to be here, and I certainly don't want to sit. God knows what else has been on these chairs. I feel ill just talking to you, Mr. Rike, so I'll be as quick as I can."

  While he uncapped a bottle of apple juice, Simon offered his best false smile. "I sure am sorry I offend you, ma'am. I know I'm just some mudsill to you, but if you'd pull in your horns I'll be as pleasant as a peach. Or, you could get the fuck out of my house, if ya please."

  With a thick file in one hand and a pen in the other, she turned sideways to him. "I only wish that I could, but I have a job to do, Mr. Rike, so let's get it over with."

  Simon leaned against the wall, next to his back door, still sporting a grin. "Of course, ma'am, I get it. Would you like to wet your whistle? Coffee? Beer? Horse piss?"

  Amanda glared over her shoulder at the tall, lean, fair-haired man who still wore a leather apron over his denim clothes, and was also giving her a leering grin. "Mr. Rike, I have to ask… Did you make all of those second-rate metal supplies yourself, or did you just find them at the city dump?"

  His smile disappeared immediately, replaced with a tight scowl. Simon was used to verbal venom of a personal nature, but he took pride in his work and wouldn't hear of it being slandered. "You best hobble your lip about my wares or you'll find yourself on your backside, out on the other side of this door, wonderin' what the hell happened. Now get on with it or git. I got work to do."

  Before the young social worker could reply, the wall phone next to him rang. Still sharing a stare with the woman, Simon answered with his free hand. "Rike smithy."

  A man's baritone voice was on the other end. "Hello, this is Brody Lynch. I was hoping to speak to a Mr. Simon Rike?"

  Simon watched as the social worker broke eye contact and began making notes to the sheet on top of the file she held. "You got him; how can I help ya?"

  There was a moment of silence before the caller said, "Well, I'm not sure how to go about this, Mr. Rike, but I was looking to see if you and I are related."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "Yeah, I know it’s a little out of the blue. Sorry about that. But I had one of those lineage searches done. Do you know what I mean?"

  Something felt different to Simon. It wasn't anything could see or hear; nothing he could put his finger on, but he felt... lighter, somehow. He glanced around, but nothing seemed altered or out of place. And yet, it did in no way that he could explain. It was as if the world just took a tiny step to the right, and something in him felt it.

  "Su - uh, sorry," Simon stuttered, confused. "What'd you say your name was? Lynch?"

  "Yeah - Lynch. Brody Lynch. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

  Simon was about to answer when Miss Nash turned to him with a pleasant, inquisitive expression, silently asking him with a gesture if she could have a seat. He nodded to her dumbly, and said into the phone, "Mr. Lynch, could you hold on a minute?" Without waiting for a reply, Simon held the phone to his chest.

  The social worker was being polite, and the guy on the line sounded nice enough. There was normally a delayed reaction for folks on the phone to become angry with Simon for no reason; it was a tested fact… until then.

  With a quiet tone, he said to the social worker, "Miss, I really need to take this call."

  She looked up at him from her paperwork, stood, and with a simple smile, whispered back, "I'll just go look at your items. There are some really nice pieces out there. Take your time."

  Simon was unable to make his slack jaw work to reply, and could only watch her walk back through the swinging doors. He gave his head a small shake before putting the phone back to his ear. "Uh, Mr. Lynch… Are you still with me?"

  "Yeah, sure am. I think I might have called you at a bad time. I'll just call back later, if that's alright."

  "No!" Simon said loudly into the phone. With a calmer voice, he resumed. "No, now is fine. Now what were you sayin' about lineage?"

  "I had one of those genealogy charts done, ya know? I have an acquaintance that did it for me, and she has your name down with a question mark next to it. She said she called you a few days back. Do you remember a woman with an accent named Amy call you?"

  "An accent? Amy, you said?"

  "Yeah, an Irish accent."

  Simon grinned. "No, I'd remember an Irish accent. A lady with an accent flips my lid, if you catch my meanin'. But if it was early Monday she called, then I don't recall. I really don't recall last Monday morning in the first place. A few slugs of bark juice will do that on a Sunday night." Simon was almost giddy. He was having an actual, pleasant conversation with someone. He could honestly say that he hadn't had a nice chat in over 130 years, and didn't want this one to end.

  There was light laughter on the other end of the line. "Yeah, I've been there once
or twice myself." There was a slight pause. "Now, um, Mr. Rike, my friend Amy asked about your parents and you gave her a pretty weird answer. I get it if you don't want people prying into your business. I was just looking to see if I had any family out there. If you're not interested in helping me out, I understand, and I won't bother you again."

  Simon quickly became scared, confused, almost in a panic. Something about this phone call put him at ease, like everything was going to be alright again. Maybe it was just wild coincidence, but as soon as he started talking to that Lynch fella, Simon felt... better. But now the guy wanted to know if they were kin, which meant telling his unbelievable story. Lynch might just hang up on him, and then the light feeling might go away. 'Screw it', he thought; he couldn't stay on the phone forever.

  "Mr. Rike? Simon?"

  "Yeah, I'm still here. I just don't think you will be, once I tell you."

  "Uh, tell me what? Look, I figure you know your family tree pretty well. I mean, you mentioned to my friend about an ancestor of yours named Eileen Lynch. Well, I think that Eileen Lynch was the sister to one of my great-grandfathers. So, if you're related to her, then I guess we're related, but like very distant cousins."

  Simon walked over to the dining table with the cordless phone and apple juice, and wished he had a quirley handy. "Not as distant as you think, Mr. Lynch."

  "Hey, if we're related, then just call me Brody if you like. So, are you saying that Eileen Lynch is in your family tree? She married a guy named... um, Andre Rike. Do we have the same information?"

  With a sigh of resignation, Simon said, "Since I'm pretty sure we're kin, I'm going to tell you a quick story that you will honestly not believe, Brody. No one else has."

  "Is that right? Try me. I've seen some pretty wild shit, so I'm very open-minded at this point."

  With a deep breath, Simon began giving the facts of his origins. He stood and looked out to the mountains behind his house as he gave dates, locations, and a few specifics. Describing how he grew up in a time during and after the civil war, Simon tried to add details to give his story some sort of validity. His attempt to give credibility to the wild tale was most likely in vain, but he hadn't had anyone to talk to about it - or anything, for that matter - for years.

  In simply talking to the man on the phone, albeit with a crazy story as the topic, Simon felt the warmth of human interaction. It was sharp contrast to the last number of years, with his life being a hollow and desolate shell, surrounded by bitterness and hate.

  Simon hurriedly went on with his story before Mr. Lynch either hung up or begged off the phone. He told about his nap in the mountains, and the ensuing nightmare that his life became, waking up in the modern world. While Simon gave mention of it taking nearly a year before he had even a basic understanding of how things worked, he chose to omit everyone's new reaction to him. He figured Lynch had heard enough of his bullshit and saw no need to add icing to the cake.

  Pausing for a breath, Simon heard the creak of his saloon doors and turned to see the young social worker standing there with a serene, expectant look. He hurriedly said into the phone, "Just a sec" before pressing it to his chest again. "Uh, my apologies, Miss Nash; I won't be but another couple minutes. Sorry to keep ya."

  With a nod of her head, she quietly replied, "I'm afraid I do have somewhat of a schedule to keep, Mr. Rike. I won't take much of your time this morning, I promise."

  "Yes, ma'am, I understand. Just let me wrap this call up." Simon offered a small smile to her patient nod, and waited until she meandered back out into the showroom before getting back to Lynch. "Sorry 'bout that."

  "That's alright."

  "So anyway, that's about it. Your ancestor Eileen Lynch was my ma. You can go ahead and call me a crackpot before you hang up. It won't hurt my feelins none."

  Brody gave a short, pleasant chuckle. "No, Simon, I won't do that... but you gotta admit it’s a lot to swallow. And you said you couldn't find any other cases like yours?"

  "Nope, but I figure, who'd want to let a tale like that fly? Their whole damned life would come a cropper lickedy-split."

  "Say again?"

  Simon grinned; the old talk still came out now and then. "I mean that their life would go to shit, and quick. They'd... I'd lose credibility. Can't make a decent livin' when folks think your head is a bag full of squirrels."

  "No, I guess not. Hey, Simon, I really do need to get going here, but I'd like to give you another call sometime soon, okay?"

  Nodding his head in resignation, Simon replied, "Don't worry about it. I understand."

  There was a slight pause before Brody said, "No, Simon, I'm not blowing you off. And I don't think you're a crackpot. Look, you can even call my number back, okay? Just keep the time difference in mind. I'm seven hours ahead of you, I think."

  "Seven hours? Where the hell are you callin' from?"

  "Ireland; I live here now. I was born in Kansas City, but I just moved out here."

  Simon's eyes widened. "Damn, this call must be costing you a fortune. Now I feel like a shit-heel for keepin' you so long."

  Brody gave another chuckle. "Don't worry about it, really. I'm the one who called you, remember? Now, just check your caller I.D. and feel free to call me back to make sure I'm not scraping you off. I give you my word I'm not. Hell, I'll even give you another call in a little while, if that's alright. You can call back first, just to be sure, or you can wait until I do, but I keep my word when I give it. It's however you wanna handle it, okay?"

  Simon felt the honesty in those words, and it relieved him more than he could say. "I appreciate that. I do, honest. I'll give a holler back in a short while, fair enough?"

  "Sounds like a plan. I'll talk to you soon... cousin."

  Hanging up the phone, Simon felt the smile on his face. He couldn't remember the last time he had reason for one.