No Dominion (The Walker Papers: A Garrison Report) (33 page)

“That’s a
terrible
cover story, Suze.”

“Your parents believed the zombie movie thing, didn’t they?”

“Mmrgh.” Kiseko rolled her eyes. “I guess so. And so what, did the windstorm blow you in too?”

“That’d be an awfully big storm. Uh—”

“Suzy! Your aunt called!” Kiseko’s parents, wearing robes and slippers, came down the stairs together and stopped, expressions comically confused at the mess spread around the basement. “She said you were coming up as a surprise for Kiseko’s birthday, but we didn’t expect you so soon…what happened down here?”

Suzy gave Kiseko a wide-eyed look, then smiled at her parents. “I, um, got in way earlier tonight but I was, um, trying to surprise Kiseko so I snuck in and then we, uh, fell asleep? And then  the window let in the storm and we were all like ‘Oh god we have to clean this up before Mr and Mrs Anderson see,’ and—but you woke up. Early. Uh. Hi!”

“It must have been the wind that woke us,” Kiso’s mom said to her dad, who frowned at Kiseko. “How many times have I told you to be sure the windows are closed at night?”

“I’m totally sorry, Dad. We’ll get it cleaned up, okay?”

Mr Anderson nodded, appeased, and his wife smiled. “I’m glad nothing was destroyed. It’s good to see you again, Suzy. I’ll make you girls some strawberry waffles in the morning, but we’re going back to bed now.”

Kiso’s parents waved and went back upstairs, leaving the two girls to blink uncertainly at each other. Kiseko finally whispered, “Your
aunt
called?”

Suzy shook her head. “No way. It’s the magic, or the effect of magic. Making sense of  things that don’t make sense. I hope it worked on Aunt Mae, too, or I’ll be grounded until I leave for college.”

“Are you still gonna go  to UDub?” Kiseko became light and chipper again as she looked over the wreck of the basement. “Think Mom and Dad will mind if we don’t clean up until morning?”

Suzy gave her a look and Kiso giggled. “Yeah, I thought so. Okay. I’ll get some towels for the water and I’ll scrub up the chalk marks if you can get the branches and things.” She ran off to the bathroom without waiting for an answer, and Suzy picked up the nearest branches. The window was still open, so she pushed the branches through and peered into the darkness, trying to see if Robert had escaped safely.

There was no sign of him, anyway. Instead there were stormclouds on the horizon, colored yellow by Seattle’s lights. They had a dark heart, as dark as the seed she’d burst in her mine. Suzy shuddered. She knew there were other colors out there too, like Detective Walker’s gunmetal silver and blue, but she couldn’t see them, not even when she looked through the
other
gaze, the one that showed her the possible futures. She should be able to see them. She’d always been able to before. But there was nothing there now, just the seed of darkness.

The darkness and the shadow she cast herself, of the rising green.

Band-Aids and Bog-Men

“Band-Aids and Bog-Men” takes place about a month after SHAMAN RISES, the 9th and final book of the Walker Papers, but contains no spoilers for that book.

THEN
.

Auntie Sheila was a tall woman whose black hair grew wild and whose nose was as pointed as her wit. She wore skirts and strong boots, for she said knees were easier to clean than jeans and that there was no sense risking your ankles climbing up and down the mountainsides. And climb she did, up the Reek eight times a year, up Croagh Padraig, Saint Patrick’s holy mountain, to say holy prayers on holy days. The strangest thing was that the Reek was always empty when Auntie Sheila went up, even if it meant there were a hundred tourists coming down and looking as if they weren’t sure why.

Caitríona O’Reilly was a little afraid of her aunt, but that had never stopped her from scrambling up the loose scrim that called itself the pilgrim’s path on the Reek to watch Sheila MacNamarra lay down her prayers. The same way every time, first striding North East South and West to touch the ground, and in the last year or so Caitríona had fancied that she saw a flare of white, like the aurora borealis bursting up from the earth, when Auntie Sheila finished that circle. Then she wandered the mountain’s small top, avoiding the chapel at the front-center, and laid her palms against the rocky soil time and time again. Sometimes pain creased Auntie Sheila’s face, and sometimes she flinched like the ground had burned her, but she never stopped. For an hour beneath the open sky each time, she laid her hands on the earth, and at the end of that hour she walked her circle the other direction to unwind it, and came back to the switchback trail leading down the mountain.

Until Caitríona was thirteen, Auntie Sheila pretended that she never saw her at all, not even when she swept by Caitríona’s hiding place at the edge of the mountain. The year Caitríona turned thirteen, Auntie winked when she passed by, and all the times after that, Cat crept closer and closer to the mountaintop, trying to see more clearly. Auntie never stopped her, but nor did she tell her what it was she was doing, beyond what was clear: blessing the holy mountain, as if a site for Christian pilgrims needed a pagan’s help as well.

For there was no question of that, at least. Auntie went to the mountain on the old high holy days, on Imbolc and Beltaine, Lughnasa and Samhein, and on the quarter-days as well: the solstices and equinoxes, or close enough as didn’t matter. “Every day is holy somewhere, to someone,” she said to Caitríona the summer Cat turned fifteen, the first words she’d ever spoken to Cat as they came off the Reek together. Caitríona, in trainers and cut-off jeans, was cold and wet to the bone after a summer storm had lashed them on the mountaintop. Sheila was every bit as wet, her denim skirt sodden and sticking to her legs, but her boots gripped the slippy mountainside more surely than Cat’s trainers did, and Sheila gripped Cat’s arm in turn, keeping her arright. “I like to come on the old holy days, but if I can’t make it then I come as close as I can. It’s what’s in your heart that counts, Caitríona.”

“What’s in yours?” Scree shifted under Cat’s feet and down she went, Sheila’s grip not strong enough after all. Scrapes and bruises appeared as if by magic, but her head hit last and there were no stars to be seen, thanks be to God. She sat and turned her hands up, palms abraded, and Auntie Sheila clucked like a good maiden auntie and pulled Cat to her feet.

“All that’s in me heart now is getting me auldest niece off this hill alive,” Sheila said cheerfully. “Ask me again on another day and perhaps I’ll tell another tale. Now I’e a plaster for ye when we get back to town, but ye mustn’t take it off for three days.”

“You always say that, Auntie.”

“And I always mean it, and I trust ye’s always listen.” Auntie Sheila gave Caitríona a green-eyed glare that made her laugh and squirm at the same time, for as often as the cousins listened, they also didn’t. No one could stop themselves, not with what they called Auntie Sheila’s magic plasters. Auntie Sheila herself called them Band-Aids sometimes, because she’d lived in America for a time and that was the American word for plasters. Cat’s youngest brother was certain the magic of Auntie’s plasters was that they
came
from America, where everything was better, and so of course no matter how soon a lad took the plaster off the wound beneath was healed.

That, of all things, that was the moment that came back to Caitríona over and over as she stood at her auntie’s graveside. None of the other times, none of the hunting thigh-deep through mucky bogs for ancient bodies whose spirits Auntie Sheila said needed laying to rest, not the hundred times Cat had asked again what lay inside Sheila’s heart, not the digging for herbs or the winding of holly and hawthorn together for protective boughs to hang above a door. Those things
did
come back to her, sure and so, but it was the magic plasters that she couldn’t stop thinking of. She had plasters in her purse now, ones she always carried so she would always think of Auntie Shelia.

And thinking of those plasters was safer than thinking about the tall lean American woman who was Auntie Sheila’s daughter, and who had no tears in her eyes as she stood alone at the grave, for all that the whole family stood together. Joanne Walker still remained apart, her jaw set in a way that reminded Caitríona of Auntie Sheila, though they didn’t look so much alike as all that. Cousin Joanne wore her own black hair short and had shoulders like a man, broad and strong in the black knit turtleneck that fell over faded blue jeans. She wore shoes like Auntie Sheila had favored, heavy boots for walking in, and at her throat glimmered the silver necklace Auntie Sheila had always worn.

Caitríona wanted nothing more on the earth than to ask Joanne the story of Auntie Sheila and
himself
, the man not one of them even knew the name of. Joanne’s father, who’d stolen Auntie Sheila’s heart and never given it back. Cat was the oldest of the Irish cousins and only seventeen, so she had no memory of Auntie Sheila’s pregnancy. It was something the sisters barely spoke of, and only when they were certain Sheila was nowhere within hearing. She’d fallen in love, they said, and come back to Ireland to bear a child when a baby out of wedlock was still a shocking and shameful thing. She’d shown not a whit of shame, they said, but before the child was born something happened, and not one of them knew what. Sheila had grown reserved and cool, given no sign of joy when her daughter was born, and in the dead of night six months later she had left Westport for America, only to return days later with no babe in arms. She’d said not a word about it, either, save that Siobhán was with her father now, and that was the end of it.

And now Siobhán, who called herself Joanne, was here, because Sheila had announced months ago that she was dying, and she’d say no more about that than Joanne’s father. She called Joanne to her and they’d disappeared together, touring Europe, Caitríona’s mother said. Learning to know one another before it was too late, though from the look of it they’d not known each other well enough for Joanne Walker to weep over her own mother’s death.

The whole of them, all the clan who were MacNamarras once and O’Reillys and Curleys and Byrnes and some few MacNamarras still, they stood together as one, left behind by the American cousin who turned and walked away with the first fistful of dirt thrown onto the coffin, and that was that, so. The end of Joanne Walker as much as the end of Sheila MacNamarra, and the one left a hole because it left them with nothing at all of the other.

And sure, as Cat’s da would say,
and sure
if Caitríona wasn’t still thinking of magic plasters when she reeled off the train early on a Monday after the St Patrick’s craic in Dublin town, and sure if those thoughts didn’t bring her to visit Sheila’s grave first, before going to the Reek herself, as she’d done a dozen times since her aunt’s death.

And sure and if she didn’t pass Joanne Walker on the way, and another woman, calling herself Maeve, who was the tallest thing Caitríona had ever laid eyes on, and sure and if by the end of the maddest three days any mortal had ever known, if Caitríona didn’t know then that her aunt had been the Irish Mage, and that she, Caitríona O’Reilly, the oldest niece of the MacNamarra clan, was meant to take up that mantle now.

NOW
.

Perfect, Caitríona O’Reilly thought, and because Joanne was on her mind, she then heard the word echoed as Joanne would have heard it:
pair-fect
. And what, Joanne would have wanted to know, was a Pair Fect? Maybe it was two people who were fecked, as if
fect
might be the past tense of
fecked
, which was already the past tense of
feck
, the Irish way of saying a word that puritanical American television always bleeped out. Unless it was an Irishman saying it, because
feck
slipped by their censors when the more Anglicized version of the word wouldn’t.

Americans and Irish. Separated by a common language.
Caitríona put her fingertips against the glass case encompassing the Clonycavan Man, one of the most perfectly conserved bog men to be found in Ireland. His fragile thin skin, sagging over shriveled muscles, his bones, his teeth, they were all stained rich mahogany brown from the ancient peat they’d nested in. Pickled, they were: bog acid pickled the creatures caught in it, and she’d read about each and every circumstance that improved the chances of a body being preserved instead of disintegrating. They were many, and in Ireland, they were easy to come by. Nearly sixty bog men had been found over the years, and that, Caitríona reckoned, was just the ones they’d
found
. Whole civilizations might be buried in the peat, if only they dug deep enough.

So it wasn’t only herbs Auntie Sheila had been digging for in the bogs. What could be worse than being murdered and thrown into the bogs but to lie in rest for centuries before being dug up by a rumbling peat harvester with teeth so vicious that no one could be sure if the poor mummy had been cut in half before death, or if his lower half had been severed and chewed up by the peat cutter. And the Clonycavan Man, he was one of the
lucky
ones. He’d
only
been murdered, his head smashed in and so well-preserved there were still bits of brain inside his perfectly preserved skull, and they knew what his last meals had been as well. And he’d been a bit of a dandy as well, with imported hair gel in the straggly hair that remained on his head. Caitríona hoped he’d died before being chopped in half, but she could feel the poor creature’s spirit still trapped within his body, the agony of his death never leaving him.