Page 35 of The Scald Crow
“The bike shop? Hmm. Did Dermot have a helper, a farm helper?” I pinned my lips together, glancing at each car filling the parking lot.
“Dermot? I’m not sure. Why do you ask?” He collected his violin and double-tapped the key fob. The beeper dinged, and the lights flashed.
“Hmm, no reason.” I nibbled my lip, deciding against sharing my crazy with him. Perhaps it was another hallucination. The whole thing. All of it. Huh.
I followed the cobblestones beyond the grave markers and raised tombs toward a family plot, ready for burial.
“Niall?” I glanced sideways, reconsidering my earlier decision. Niall was local and had lived in these parts his entire life. I considered him a neutral party. The question burned my lips. “Tell me about Ciarán O’Donnell.”
“Ciarán? I haven’t heard talk of the boy in a long time.” Curiosity lifted his brows.
“I heard he disappeared?” I shifted my gaze beyond the blue hydrangeas and past the cemetery walls to where the meadow faded into a green forest.
“Look at ye, not here a week and getting caught up in the rabble.” He grinned. “He had the sight, that one. Some say the Faeries took Ciarán.”
“So it’s true then? He just vanished.” I studied Niall. He believed.
“Aye. It was a sad time. We’re good here, Calla.” He unsnapped his violin case and stood beneath the broad branches of an ancient Yew.
The tree symbolized immortality, living, and breathing, protecting and purifying the dead buried beneath its boughs. The darkness called to me, and the ground swayed. I lifted my hand—the need to touch the ancient one overwhelmed me.
“Calla? Are you all right?” Niall’s words broke the spell.
I tore my mind away from the ancient one. A procession approached.
Six brothers, cloaked in black, walked in unison, their heads held high, their backs straight. They carried their late father’s casket on their shoulders, sharing the weight equally. Sweat trickled down their foreheads, yet united in their grief, they persevered.
The mourners congregated beneath the protective shadow of a Celtic cross. The brothers laid their burden onto the bier and then stepped back in reverence.
Enough time wasted.
Niall tucked the violin under his chin and drew the bow across the strings, releasing a cascade of clear, soothing notes that stretched through the air and captured the mourners’ attention.
We began with a traditional hymn—“Amazing Grace.”
Some dabbed their eyes while others wept. My heart skipped a beat. Among the attendees, the blond-haired man—Ciarán—stood behind Saoirse, casting her in a protective shadow. Ciarán and Saoirse. Saoirse and Ciarán. My inner voice hitched a treble beat. How did I not see that?
Niall drew out the crowd with the soulful notes of “Danny Boy,” always a crowd favorite. I rose to the occasion, belting out the familiar lyrics.
Our final tribute to the dearly beloved, a haunting melody—I sang to the angels, the Faerie people, and Ciarán himself. There was not a dry eye in the place except his. He turned his back on his father’s grave, Saoirse and his brothers, and walked away. I chewed the inside of my mouth, losing sight of him in the distant tree line.
I twined my fingers and squeezed my eyes shut, knee-deep in Colm’s and Saoirse’s sadness and my mysterious beginnings on that green island.
“May the road rise to meet you,
and the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm on your face
and the rains fall softly on your fields.
And until we meet again,
may God hold you gently in the palm of his hand.”
The robed priest recited the Irish blessing.
“And may you be in Heaven, Da, a full half-hour before the devil knows you’re dead!” A dark-haired lad shouted a requiem, transforming the mood.
