Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1) (9 page)

“Stephen!” Mrs. Gillies called after him.

“Leave him be,” Mr. Gillies warned.

“What if he goes after them? You know they’re only looking for a reason to lock him up like the others!”

“He’s smarter than that. Just let him blow off some steam.”

“He’s still alive,” Nora said, feeling a faint pulse in Frankie’s wrist. “But he needs a hospital. Can you take him?”

The Gillies family exchanged a long look; then Mrs. Gillies spoke. “It would be best for us to care for him here.”

Nora stared her down. “He needs proper medical attention. He could die!”

“Open your eyes, Nora,” Pidge said. “The government was trying to kill him. You think taking him to hospital will help? It will only make it easier for them to finish the job. I’ll get the bandages, Ma.”

“And the iodine,” Mrs. Gillies called after her. She brought out a stack of clean cloths from the bedroom and began laying them out on the sideboard of the dresser. Nora grabbed the two pillows from Pidge’s room and used them to elevate Frankie’s head and feet. If she couldn’t convince them to take this man to the hospital, at least she could help them. She’d been trained in emergency first aid; now was the time to use it.

“I need some soap,” she said. “Let’s get him washed; then we’ll treat his wounds. We’ll need to see if anything’s broken—I don’t see how he could have survived that blast in one piece.”

Mrs. Gillies regarded her curiously as she tore a sheet into strips and dipped it into the boiling water on the stove. “Are you a nurse, then?”

“No, not really. I’ve just had some medical training.”

“As have I,” Mrs. Gillies said. “It came in handy during the Tan War, that’s for certain.”

Nora said nothing. For her, the War of Independence had been almost a hundred years ago. For this family, it had only just ended—and they lived in fear that, should the Anglo-Irish Treaty fall apart, it could start again at any moment. But as Nora picked the straw and mud out of the boy’s bloodied leg, she couldn’t help but marvel that their own countrymen had done this to Frankie and those other boys. This was different than the Troubles—she didn’t consider the Protestant Unionists of Northern Ireland her own countrymen. They belonged to Britain, and she belonged to Ireland. But this was Irish against Irish.

Pidge returned with a roll of bandages and a jar of some kind of ointment, then grabbed a cloth and swabbed Frankie’s torso.

“What was it like, Da?” she asked. Mr. Gillies paced the room while the women worked, one eye always on the window.

“It’s not for your ears, Pidge,” he said.

“But was it like she said?” Pidge persisted.

He shot his daughter an exasperated look. “Aye. ’Twas like she said. The bodies were still there. The birds were already feasting.”

Mrs. Gillies crossed herself with a bloodstained hand.

“Why’d you not bring them back?” Pidge demanded.

“Because the army would come looking for them. Given the state of things, they’ll probably not notice one man missing. But if they were all missing, they’d be searching this farm by noon. And what would we do with the bodies, anyway?”

“Can we not bury our own dead?” Pidge’s cheeks were flushed. “Did you not recognize any of them?”

“I didn’t look too closely, to be honest.” He dipped his chin and stared at the floor. “Even these lads’ own families would be hard-pressed to identify them, the state they were in. We found young Frankie in the woods, right where our friend here said he would be.” He regarded Nora thoughtfully. “That’s a sorry thing for a woman to witness. Your stomach must be lined with steel.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Nora said, thinking of a village in Rwanda her team had visited after the genocide. The bodies had been dead for a week, left to rot in the unforgiving African sun. And there had been children . . . so many children, their tiny heads bashed against walls, chests split open from navel to sternum.

“In Belfast, you mean?” Mrs. Gillies said in a shocked tone.

“Aye,” Nora said quickly.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Mr. Gillies said. “John Brennan’s wife just took in three Belfast orphans. Arrived on the train yesterday.” Nora nodded, wondering about her own family, and why they had stayed when so many others had fled. She’d have to ask Aunt Margaret about it . . . if she ever made it back to her own time.

“They arrested Frankie just last week. I thought he’d’ve been sent off to Mountjoy Prison by now,” Mrs. Gillies said, as if trying to reason it out in her head. “Never thought they’d do something like this.”

“They’ll call it a ‘retaliation,’ I’m sure,” Pidge snapped. “As if we don’t have the right to fight for our own country!”

“Hush, Pidge,” Mrs. Gillies said. Her eyes flicked toward Nora.

Nora took the bull by the horns. “Mrs. Gillies, you’re all right. I’m as Republican as they get. You don’t have to worry about me repeating anything.”

“And who’s to say
we’re
Republicans?” Mrs. Gillies shot back.

Nora cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve said as much. But it doesn’t matter either way. I didn’t know which side this man was on when I came to get help. And I don’t care about your politics, either. I’ll help you here with Frankie, and then I’ll be on my way.” She felt along his shinbone and winced. “We’ll need some sticks for splints. I’m not much for setting bones—”

“I’ll do it,” Mrs. Gillies said briskly. “Let’s just pray he stays out cold. Sean, can you get us some straight pieces to use for splints? And the poitín, in case he comes to.”

Mr. Gillies glanced out the window again, then left the cottage.

“Nora, you’ve done right by Frankie here, and we’re grateful,” Mrs. Gillies said. “I’ll not have you going back into Kildare on your own, not after what you’ve experienced there. Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

“Not much,” Nora admitted. Adrenaline had been keeping her on her feet, but it wouldn’t last forever.

“Then you’ll stay with us. You can have the settle bed.” She nodded toward the large bench against the far wall. “You said you have family in these parts?”

“Only an uncle, but I don’t know where he’s gone. And thank you for your kindness, but I’m sure I can find a room in town.” She needed to get back to the cathedral as soon as possible to find the Brigidine Sisters.

“Well, you’re a grown woman, and I’ll not be making decisions for you, but I insist you stay until you’re rested and recovered from your ordeal. Sean will take you back into town later today if that’s what you want, and he can help you in finding a room. As for your uncle . . . well, it seems like half the men in the country are in Mountjoy, Kilmainham, North Dublin Union, or one of the other prisons. Perhaps he’s been arrested. One can be arrested for anything these days—even for the contents of one’s private thoughts, so it would seem.”

Frankie twitched.

“Christ have mercy, does he have to wake up now?” Mrs. Gillies muttered. “Where is Sean with the poitín?”

A minute later Mr. Gillies rushed into the room with several thick pieces of timber and a glass bottle of clear liquid, which he set on the sideboard. Frankie moaned, and his eyelids fluttered open.

“How’re you feeling, Frankie?” Mr. Gillies asked, leaning in close.

Frankie looked around at them all, his eyes wide. “Where am I? What happened?”

“Shh, it’s okay, you’re safe. You’re at our house now,” Pidge said softly. He gave her a blank look.

“What? What did you say?”

“O’course. His hearing is still impaired from the blast,” Nora said, remembering how it had made her own ears ring.

“Well, damn,” Mr. Gillies said. He tried raising his voice. “Frankie! Can you hear me?”

Frankie stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “A bit. I can make out what you’re saying.”

“There was a land mine. Do you remember?” Mr. Gillies asked loudly.

“I . . . I remember being tied to the other lads. And then I was flying . . . and now I’m here,” Frankie said. He closed his eyes again.

“Let him rest,” Pidge said, but her father leaned in and shook Frankie gently.

“You’re badly hurt, lad. We need to set some broken bones. But try your best not to cry out, will ye? We don’t want the Staters to hear you. D’you understand? Now I’m going to give you something to help with the pain.” He lifted the bottle to Frankie’s lips. “Take some good swigs, as much as you can.”

“Mr. Gillies, are you sure we shouldn’t take him to hospital?” Nora asked. “I really think—”

“Thank you, Miss O’Reilly, but we know how to take care of our own,” Mr. Gillies cut in. “Pidge, go fetch Stephen. He won’t have gone far. And then close all the windows.”

Pidge hurried to obey. Stephen mustn’t have been far because the two of them came in a scant moment later, and Pidge immediately started to close the shutters.

“Hold him down, Stephen,” Mr. Gillies said.

“What can I—” Nora started to ask, but Mrs. Gillies stepped in front of her and said, “We’ll take it from here. You can keep the water boiling, if you don’t mind.”

Nora frowned but took a brick of turf from a basket on the floor and added it to the fire. Then she stared at the smoke while trying to block out the sound of Frankie’s screams.

Chapter Ten

Finally Frankie passed out again and the Gillieses were able to work in silence. Nora helped however she could, by sterilizing bandages and passing jars of strong-smelling ointments. She boiled the bloody rags and fetched clean water from the pump in the yard. She felt useful again—a wonderful feeling.

“Thank you, Nora,” Mrs. Gillies said, accepting a towel to dry off her hands, which she’d just cleaned of blood. Nora took back the towel and handed her a cup of tea.

“You were amazing, so you were,” Nora said. “So calm and efficient.”

“Ah, well, it’s not the first of our lads I’ve had to tidy up a bit.” Mrs. Gillies sank into one of the chairs they’d shoved against the wall and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

They all sat silently. Stephen hadn’t spoken a word all morning. After a moment, he and his father both stood. “Well, back to work, then,” Mr. Gillies said. “We’ve already lost a good few hours.”

“We should move him,” Mrs. Gillies said. “’Twill be no good for any of us, havin’ him on our table if the Free State comes knocking.”

Mr. Gillies nodded grimly, casting a sideways glance at Nora.

“She’s fine, Sean,” Mrs. Gillies said. “She’d ’a left long ago if she was going to turn us in.”

“O’course I won’t,” Nora said. “I swear to it.”

“The wall, then,” Mr. Gillies said, nodding to his son. “Easy now.” Together they gathered up the sheet beneath Frankie, holding it taut so it hung like a hammock. They headed into Mr. and Mrs. Gillies’s room, which was hardly larger than Pidge’s. Pidge and Mrs. Gillies pushed the large chest of drawers to one side; then Mrs. Gillies bent down and lifted a latch near the floor and another one above her head. A section of the wall swung open to reveal a tiny space, just large enough to accommodate a man. Pidge stripped the quilt off her parents’ bed and spread it out on the floor. With difficulty, they eased Frankie into the small space.

“We added this when we built this room after Pidge was born,” Mrs. Gillies told Nora. “Used it to hide the lads during the war with the British. Now it looks like we’ll be using it again.”

“I’ll sit with him,” Pidge said. “If I hear any commotion, I’ll close him in and move the chest back.”

“Let’s pray there won’t be any commotion,” Mrs. Gillies said. “But there’s a farm to be run. Off you go,” she said to her husband and son. Then she turned to Nora. “And you, my dear, need some sleep.”

“I couldn’t,” Nora protested. “At least I can sit with Frankie if Pidge has other things to do.”

“I insist,” Mrs. Gillies said. She took Nora’s elbow and steered her into Pidge’s room. “You saved a man’s life today. The least you can do is reward yourself with a little sleep.”

She closed the door, and Nora sat down hard on the stiff mattress. The adrenaline was finally wearing off. She collapsed back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

There was no other way around it. This was no period festival, no practical joke, no dream or hallucination, no psychotic break. She had really traveled back in time to 1923. She’d run from the Free State Army, witnessed the massacre of several men, and saved Frankie Halpin’s life.
This can’t be happening
, her rational mind told her. But even though she did not understand how or why Brigid’s relic had done this, it was undeniable that it had.

Panic flared in her chest as the implications sunk in. Was she stuck here forever?

I have to get out of here. I have to go back to Kildare.
She sat up and swung her legs off the bed. But as she stood, a rush of dizziness made the room spin, so she sat back down, her head between her hands.
Sleep first. Then Kildare.

Sleep would not come easy. What of Thomas? He had been driven from her thoughts by the chaos of the last few hours, but now that she was alone in this quiet room, his face surfaced in her mind again. She reached for her purse to examine his picture, then realized it wasn’t with her.

Had she left it in the front room in all the commotion? Another jolt of adrenaline got her off the bed. What if they went through her purse? Its contents were decidedly not from 1923. The British government had issued her driver’s license, and it had her date of birth on it. There were euros stamped 2005. The bag also contained her tourist brochure for Kilmainham Gaol, her cell phone, and her picture of Thomas.

She tiptoed toward the door and opened it gently, suppressing her panic. Mrs. Gillies wasn’t in the main room. No one was. She knocked gently at the other bedroom door and opened it when Pidge answered. Pidge was sitting on the bed, a pile of mending in her lap.

“All right, Nora?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m just looking for my bag—the one I had with me when I arrived. Have you seen it?”

“Oh, yes, I tucked it in the corner when they brought Frankie in, so it wouldn’t get blood on it,” Pidge said. She started to get to her feet, but Nora waved her down.

“You’re grand. I’ll find it,” she said. She went back into the main room. Mrs. Gillies was standing by the door, Nora’s purse in her hands.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” she asked. Her expression was inscrutable. Nora met her eyes and tried to keep her face equally neutral.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, taking the bag. Was it her imagination, or did the other woman hold on to it for just a fraction of a second too long?

She felt Mrs. Gillies’s gaze on her as she walked back to Pidge’s room, trying to keep her steps as even as possible. Even after she closed the door, she maintained her aura of calm. How many other secrets were hidden in this house?

She unclasped her bag and looked inside. Everything seemed to be there, but she couldn’t tell if it had been rifled through. She tucked Eamon’s rosary in her pocket. She’d toss the Kilmainham brochure in the fire the first moment she had. And her phone, the euros, and her modern ID could be buried somewhere if need be. But surely she wouldn’t be here, in the past, that long. The woman at the cathedral had told her she had a job to do—to help Thomas. Surely she could go home as soon as she found him and helped him. She glanced at the photo one more time. Then, cradling the bag in her arms, she sank down into the mattress and let the sleep that had been clawing at her senses take her away.

When she awoke, her first thought was that she was back in Sudan, on her cot in the staff quarters. But there was a plaster ceiling above her . . .

Belfast
.
I came home for Mick’s funeral.
No, something else had happened after that. Slowly, her mind caught up. Dublin. Aunt Margaret. Kilmainham.
Kildare.

She sat up, her fingers gripping the homemade quilt wrapped around her. Her body was still stiff and sore, but sleep had helped somewhat. Wide eyes surveyed the room and listened for voices.
I’m still here.
She threw back the quilt and stood up. Her purse had fallen on the floor, its contents spilling out. She picked up Thomas’s picture and a pen. As best she could, she scratched out the
Killed in action, 1923
written on the back. She didn’t need any more questions about why she was searching for a dead man. Then she tucked her purse under Pidge’s bed. That would have to do for now.

Quietly, she eased herself into the main room. The house seemed empty. “Pidge?” she called out softly. There was no one in Mr. and Mrs. Gillies’s room, but the door of the secret nook was ajar and a soft moan escaped throughout the crack. Nora crossed the room and pulled the door open a little wider. Then she knelt down by the injured man.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, unsure whether he could even hear her.

“Like I’ve been blown up,” Frankie answered, but he managed a small smile. Nora’s heart constricted. The boy looked to be about the age Eamon had been at his death.

“I’ll see if I can find Mrs. Gillies. She might have something more for the pain.”

“Who are you? Are you Cumann na mBan?”

“No. I’m just . . . visiting. My name’s Nora.”

“Nora,” he repeated. “They say you’re the one who found me.”

“More like you found me. You nearly landed right on top of me.”

He laughed, then winced. “Well, lucky for me I did.” Then his eyes darkened. “Not so lucky for the other lads.”

“No.” Nora looked away. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She held up the picture of Thomas so that Frankie could see it. “I’m looking for this man. Thomas Heaney. He’s IRA. Do you know him?” A horrible thought struck her. What if she was too late? What if she’d been sent here to stop the bombing? “Was he with you yesterday?”

Frankie looked at the picture with glazed eyes. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I know him. But I only just signed up.” He looked like he was about to say something more, but his eyes closed and his breathing steadied. Nora didn’t press him. She adjusted his blankets and then closed the hidden door most of the way, leaving only a crack of light shining in on him.

She found Mrs. Gillies in the yard, filling a tub with water. “Ah, here you are! I was just about to wake you. How did you rest?”

“Grand, ta,” Nora said. “What time is it?”

“Just about time for tea,” Mrs. Gillies said. “I expect the men back shortly. What do you have there?” She nodded at the photograph in Nora’s hand.

“I was wondering if you recognized this man,” Nora said, handing it to her. As expected, Mrs. Gillies turned it over and read the name on the back.

“Thomas Heaney,” she said. “No, I don’t know anyone by that name. There’s the Heaney family down in Stradbally, but I don’t believe they have a Thomas. Might be a cousin of theirs, though. Handsome fellow. A friend of yours?”

“A . . . distant relation,” Nora said. “My cousin in Belfast asked me if I would look for him while I was visiting my uncle.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, but I’m sure there’s someone in these parts who can. Ah, here come the men.”

While Mr. Gillies and Stephen washed, Nora helped Mrs. Gillies spread a clean cloth on the table and lay out the crockery. Mrs. Gillies brought over a plate of potato cakes and a pot of stew that had been hanging from the crane over the fire, plus a basket filled with warm wedges of soda bread. Pidge came in through the front door and set down a large basket of washing. Nora joined her at the basin on the sideboard, where they washed their hands.

“Did you get any sleep?” Pidge asked with a friendly smile. She had a dimple in her cheek Nora hadn’t noticed before.

“I did, yes. I checked in on Frankie. He seemed to be in quite a bit of pain, but I think he fell back to sleep. I was wondering if you might have something for him when he wakes again.”

“That boy is full of poitín already,” Mrs. Gillies said from behind them. “But I’ll have a look at him when he awakens.” She beckoned them to the table. Nora and Pidge sat on one side, across from Stephen, and Mr. and Mrs. Gillies sat on the ends. They all bowed their heads, and Mr. Gillies said a prayer.

“
Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord
.” There was a moment of silence as they all thought of the men who had been blown apart the night before. Then Mr. Gillies said, “Amen,” and they filled their plates with food.

Nora hadn’t realized how hungry she was. The food was plain but surprisingly good. She’d never learned to cook, so she’d grown accustomed to eating whatever was available on the field—sometimes rice and beans, sometimes a boiled egg and fried chicken leg, sometimes noodles with spicy sauce. There were few foodies among humanitarian aid workers. Occasionally she and her colleagues would flee to the closest large city in search of a McDonald’s or KFC, but these splurges usually left her stomach roiling, so she indulged infrequently.

“This is delicious,” she told Mrs. Gillies between bites of stew.

“Thank you, dear. Pidge made it,” Mrs. Gillies said with a proud glance at her daughter. “She’ll make a fine wife someday.”

Nora raised an eyebrow at this comment but said nothing. Pidge did not appear to be pleased with the compliment, but she, too, held her tongue. “It’s wonderful,” Nora told her.

“It’s not all I’m good at,” Pidge said, lifting her chin. “I can shoot straight through a can from two hundred yards.”

“Oh yes, a fine skill for a respectable young woman to have,” Mrs. Gillies snapped.

“I’m not a respectable young woman, Ma,” Pidge said. “I’m a Republican.”

“That’s enough, Pidge,” Mr. Gillies said.

“I don’t know why you thought it was a good idea for her to learn how to shoot,” Mrs. Gillies said, turning toward her husband.

“Every farmwife needs to know how to handle a rifle,” he remarked calmly. “You’re a fair shot yourself.”

“Besides, Ma, it was Cumann na mBan who taught me most of it,” Pidge said, coming to her father’s defense.

“Are you both members?” Nora asked, intrigued. As a young woman she’d idolized the IRA women’s auxiliary organization, but had never met someone with firsthand knowledge.

“We are, though apparently it’s illegal now. As is possessing a gun, distributing anti-treaty literature, and assisting Republicans in any way,” Pidge said haughtily.

“Well, we don’t have it as bad as Nora did up in Belfast, I reckon,” Mrs. Gillies said. “And it will all be over soon, Lord willing.”

Stephen, who had wolfed down his food, pushed his chair back with a screech. “I’m going to brush the horses,” he said, then left the house. Mrs. Gillies watched him go with a worried expression on her face.

“He’s a quiet young man,” Nora remarked. The others exchanged dark glances.

“Been that way ever since . . . well, since Nicky was killed,” Pidge said. “He was our older brother. Fought in the Tan War. The Tans tortured and murdered him, then left his body on the church steps. Stephen was the one who found him.”

“I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” Nora said, closing her eyes against the image of Eamon in his hospital bed. “I shouldn’t have said—”

“It’s all right,” Pidge said. “That was three years ago. But you can understand why we’ve no love for the Brits or those who want to get in bed with them.”

“Tell us about your family, Nora,” Mrs. Gillies said, her voice thick.