The Prince of Neither Here Nor There (3 page)

“What’s she doing?”

“Rubbing a cup. Be quiet.”

“What a strange thing to do.”

“They are an odd folk. We must be wary.”

“Ooh. He’s getting heavy, this little baggage.”

“Shhh. She’ll hear you!”

“It ain’t my fault it won’t sit still!”

“Just be quiet, will you?”

“Uh-oh. Do you smell that? I think he’s soiled himself!”

“Be careful! Don’t …”

“EW! What a filthy little baggage!”

“Just don’t …”

“Uh-oh! I dropped it.”

The sound of a baby crying cut through the drumming of the rain. Sister Cecilia’s head jerked upright and, for a second, she thought she saw two small faces peering into the rainstreaked window. She blinked and looked again but they were gone. She could have imagined it, but she hadn’t imagined the sound of the baby crying. Years of comforting frightened children had honed her ears to pick up that sound. A baby was out there in the terrible storm. She immediately dropped the clean cup back into the soapy dishwater with a plop and went to the kitchen door.

“There. I’ve got him again, the little nipper!”

“Drop him and let’s go. We’ve done what himself asked us to do.”

“Drop it? I only just picked it up again!”

“Just drop it and scamper!”

Sister Cecilia opened the heavy wooden door and stepped out into the rain. In the darkness she thought she saw a flicker of movement at the corner of the small vegetable garden. The tomato plants rustled briefly.

“Perhaps my ears were playing tricks on me,” she muttered. “Maybe it was just the rain on the roof.” She was about to close the door when she saw the bundle on the ground.

It glowed softly in the darkness, catching the light streaming from the open door and transforming it into a pale blue-green glimmer like the luminescent dial of the clock on her bedside table. Sister Cecilia stared in wonder at the object, frozen by its beauty. The cry of a baby jerked her out of her stupor. The bundle began to wriggle.

“What am I doing, standing here like a fool?” She crossed the garden in an instant, wading through icy puddles and bending to take the wriggling bundle in her arms.

It was indeed a baby, wrapped in cloth swaddling that, for all its simplicity, was exquisitely woven out of a thread the nun had never seen the like of before. The weft of the cloth repelled the rainwater, making the droplets bead and run off without soaking in. Its surface bore a repeating pattern of minute, intricately entwined leaves and vines so beautifully articulated that they seemed to be alive. Sister Cecilia ran her fingers over the fabric, her eyes wide. With trembling fingers, she reached up and pulled away a fold of cloth to reveal a tiny round face.

The baby had a thick head of wavy, wheaten hair that formed a golden comma in the middle of its forehead. Round cheeks, flushed from the chill rain, framed a tiny pointed nose. The mouth was a perfect little red bow. The most arresting feature, though, were the child’s eyes. They were slightly almond shaped and a most unusual greenish blue with flecks of gold. Though the baby had been crying, as soon as it saw Sister Cecilia’s face, it left off its whimpering and looked up at her, beaming a most beatific
¹⁵
smile that melted the old woman’s heart.

“What’s this?” Finbar’s voice rumbled close to the sister’s ear.

“A baby,” Sister Cecilia said, flustered. She hadn’t heard the Irishman approach. He stood looking down at the bundle in her arms. He raised a giant hand and with one calloused finger chucked the little baby under the chin. The baby gurgled with pleasure.

“Hmmm,” rumbled Finbar. “Curious thing. A child left on a doorstep on a stormy night.” He raised his pale blue eyes and scanned the rain-swept yard. “Uncanny.”

“Surely it’s just another child cast off by some poor soul at their wit’s end.”

The little baby gurgled happily and gripped the sister’s finger in its tiny fist. Her heart melted.

“Let’s get it in out of the rain,” Sister Cecilia said suddenly.

“Are ye certain ye want to do that?”

Sister Cecilia looked up into the heavy face of the groundskeeper. Something dark in the ordinarily cheerful face made her pause. “Why ever wouldn’t we?”

Finbar frowned and shrugged. “Strange turn of events, this. A baby left in the dark of a storm. Puts me in mind o’ stories o’ the Fair Folk me ma told us to frighten us i’ the winter nights.”

“Oh, Finbar,” the sister said with a chuckle, “I wouldn’t have thought you so superstitious.”

Finbar’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to speak but decided against it.

“What is it, Finbar?”

Finbar’s eyes became wary. “Not a thing. Those stories come from a grain o’ truth, Sister.” Finbar squinted at the dark rain. “You’re from the old country, you should know better. Some might say I ain’t so much superstitious as respectful of the Fair Folk. No good ever come o’ mixin’ in their plans. I heard tales of folks that were disappeared, lost in fairy mounds, shot by elf bolts, or even lumbered with the raising of a changeling child that had evil effect on all around it.”
¹⁶
He paused and looked at the little face. “And I’ve heard tell of children being led away by Fair Folk and kept for their amusement, forgetting all that they once knew.”

Sister Cecilia crossed herself. She had heard such tales too in her childhood in Ireland. She looked down at the beautiful little face framed in the cloth. The child had a radiant smile, showing a pair of perfect white teeth in its upper and lower gums. The sister’s heart melted again. “I can’t see this little one causing us anything but joy, Finbar. And with the dire state of our finances, it might be a welcome diversion to our sisters here. I must prepare a cot. Hold the child for a moment.” She gave the bundle over to the gruff Irishman, who grunted in surprise, and scuttled off down the hall.

Looking down into the eyes of the little baby, Finbar shook his head ruefully. “Ye may have charmed the Mother Superior. But I’m another kettle of fish altogether.” The baby stopped gurgling and looked up at Finbar. Finbar grinned back in spite of himself. “Still, yer a sweet little bundle, no doubt about it.” His eyes narrowed. “What’s this?” He dug a large finger into the swaddling, revealing a thin gold chain with a pendant hanging from it. The pendant was circular with spidery lettering delicately carved around the edge. The weight and the lustre of the object suggested that the gold was real.

Finbar’s eyes opened wide. He read the word aloud. “Breandan.”

He stared out into the rainy night. He suddenly had the feeling that eyes were out there watching him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. There was tingling across his shoulders.

“I know yer there,” he called into the empty courtyard. There was no answer but the wind and rain. “I know yer there somewhere. I can feel it. What mischief are ye about?”

Crouched in shadow of the courtyard’s brick wall, two small figures held a whispered conversation.

“He can’t know we’re here.”

“Does he see us?”

“Impossible!... I think.”

“Has he been given the Sight?”

“I think not. It would be plain if he had the Sight.”

“Something strange then.… We should be off. Our deed is done.”

“The child will be safe.”

“Aye. For a while. For a while.”

The leaves of the tomato plants rustled. Finbar stared a moment longer but saw nothing more. He carefully closed the door and turned the bolt.

“I’ll hold on to this,” Finbar whispered. He lifted the chain from the baby’s neck, letting the medallion spin on the end as he examined it in a flash of lightning. “It may prove very useful indeed.”

When he got to the kitchen, the sister was standing at the sink, now brimming with soapy water and steaming gently.

“Let’s warm up the little one.” Finbar handed the child over to the Mother Superior. The child had fought free of the wrappings and was clutching at the woman’s chin with one fist. A smile lit his tiny face.

“It’s a boy, Finbar.” The sister laughed. “A lively one too.”

Finbar came and looked down at the little creature, who immediately turned his beautiful eyes upward to look into Finbar’s own.

“He’s a fine-looking child, he is. What’s this? Looks like a burn.” Finbar traced a crusted scab on the boy’s left breast. The bloody blemish marred the otherwise perfect ivory of the babe’s skin. Finbar had seen such a mark on the hide of sheep when he was a boy. “Someone’s branded the little tyke.”

“Oh dear,” Sister Cecilia cried. She took the baby from Finbar and plunged him into the soapy water. Gently, she took a cloth and sponged away the caked blood to reveal a wound in the shape of a spiral.

“Who would do such a thing to a child?” Sister Cecilia demanded in outrage.

“A Ward,” Finbar breathed softly.

“What did you say?”

Finbar frowned. “Not a thing, Sister. Aye, there are all manner of bad folk in the world,” he said, peering at the revealed mark. “He don’t seem to be in any pain, though, do he? He’s a hardy little chap. Aren’t ya, little fella?” He clucked softly and chucked the boy under the chin.

Sister Cecilia picked up the beautiful blanket and something fell to the floor with a musical chink of metal. Finbar bent over and lifted a small black bag from the linoleum. He pulled the string that bound it closed. Gold glittered softly in the light. Sister Cecilia gasped. Finbar whistled appreciatively, weighing the bag in his calloused palm.

“Looks like St. Bart’s is back in the plus column, Sister.” The baby gurgled happily and splashed in his bathwater.

Finbar held out a little finger and the baby clutched it tight. “Hello, young Breandan.”

“Breandan?”

“In the old tongue Breandan means ‘prince.’”

“Does it indeed? Well, it’s a good enough name, I think. Breandan it is. Oh, he shall certainly be a prince in this house when all the sisters lay their eyes on his sweet little face. Hold him a moment while I prepare a bottle for him.” The sister held the baby out for Finbar to take in his huge hands, then she began shuffling around the kitchen, happily absorbed in her task. Finbar held the boy up, dripping, until they were eye to eye. He stared into the child’s face. The baby, sensing the mood of the man, became sombre and still.

“Fáilte, Breandan,”
Finbar said softly in Gaelic and then repeated in English. “Welcome, My Prince.”

The medallion lay heavy in Finbar’s vest pocket. “It’ll be our little secret, awright?”

Out in the waste ground beyond the walls of St. Bart’s, the rain and wind flattened the tall grass. Two tiny figures scampered up to an empty oil drum that had been tipped onto its side and left to rust. A dark figure sat crosslegged on the drum, silhouetted by the lightning flashes. The rain poured down onto his bowed head, streaming from the tips of his white tresses. The small figures cowered on their knees at the foot of the oil drum, waiting on the figure to speak.

“Is it done
?” The dark figure’s voice was cold, like a door flung open on a field newly rimed with frost: beautiful but cold.

“Done, Highness. Done. It’s done.”

“Completely done. No doubt.”

“Were you seen?”

“No! NO! NO!” the two little creatures squeaked insistently. “Not seen! Not seen at all.”

“Are you certain?”

“Uh …”

“YES?”

“There was one who sensed us. He didn’t see us but he felt our presence.”

The dark figure was utterly still for a moment, water dripping from his chin. Finally, he spoke.
“Very well. I release you from service. Go now. Get out of my sight.”

“Gladly. Oh, gladly, Your Highness!”
Squeaking, the little creatures fell over each other, darting through the grass in their eagerness to be away. Like twin comets, they leapt into the air and streaked off between the raindrops.

The figure waited until they were gone and then unfolded from its position, stepping lightly down onto the wet grass. Lightning flashed above, illuminating briefly the stark, angular lines of a male face, not quite human, with dark molten eyes of black fire.

“
I have done what I could, love,”
the dark figure announced to the empty field, his voice choked with grief.
“He is safe for a while.”
He raised one hand skyward and beckoned. In answer, a jagged finger of lightning scorched through the air toward his outstretched hand. If the human eye were capable of registering such speeds, a person watching would have marvelled to see pale fingers grasp the lightning like a rope. The lightning retreated into the sky, yanking the dark figure along with it.

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  Saint Bartholomew lived in the first century
AD
. He was flayed alive in Armenia. This had an adverse effect on Armenian tourism for several centuries afterward.

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  I know what you’re thinking: how original! A dark and stormy night! I would love to change the

⁸
  When I say nineteenth century, I mean the hundred years between
AD
1799 and 1899, that is to say the eighteen-hundreds. It’s confusing to call the eighteen- hundreds the nineteenth century as they have 18s instead of 19s in them, but that is the way these things are done. So… get off my back.

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Burgher
is another word for citizen, not to be confused with
burger,
a delicious patty of beef on a bun. I wouldn’t want you to think huge sentient hamburgers were wandering the streets of Toronto. That would be weird.

¹⁰
 There are other theories as to how Toronto got its nickname. Some say it’s because the city hogs all the resources in the country of Canada. Some say that the residents have gluttonous eating habits. Another theory is that the city was built on a mound of bacon that went bad on the journey over with the first colonists from England. I don’t subscribe to that last one… although the soil
is
quite salty.