It was a harsh day out. Fitting, maybe.
The black birds still lined the wharves. They were huddled on perches, feathers fluffed against the rising wind. Zach noticed that signs were out all over, advertising the Christmas flotilla. It was just four days away.
He wondered if Sean would still participate, then realized that of course he would. It was tradition, and he would feel honor-bound to participate, if only in Bridey’s honor.
It was raw out on the water, but they’d taken one of the larger boats, in order to have a dinghy to bring them right up on the island, so they took turns staying warm in the cabin.
Morrissey hadn’t lied. There were a number of men there, some still searching the island, and some digging around Banshee Rock. The three of them explored the island, too, but with so many others traipsing around, there was little to find. Zach found Aidan just standing, looking at the rock and beyond.
“Do you see something?” Zach asked his brother.
“No,” Aidan admitted. “But it’s always good to look at the whole of a place, memorize it, map it in your mind. Later on, you may get information that literally falls into place.”
A moment later, Jeremy joined them and asked, “What are we doing?”
“Memorizing the island,” Zach said.
“Oh, good. I thought we were just standing here.”
At last they left and went back to their boat.
Zach wasn’t sure why, but he thought maybe Aidan had been right. Memorizing a place, seeing it as it was today, couldn’t be a bad thing. And he was getting nowhere else fast.
By the time they got back to the house, everything was set up for the wake.
Bridey lay in a beautiful coffin, adorned with flowers and crosses, in the parlor.
Zach stopped by the coffin before going upstairs to change and thought how strange it was to say that a corpse was beautiful.
When life and light were gone, beauty usually departed, too. Morticians could be artists, but they couldn’t restore the flash in the eyes, the vibrancy that came with living.
Except with Bridey. She seemed merely to sleep, her lips curved in a slight smile. Her skin was clear, and many of her wrinkles seemed to have disappeared. She was tiny, as she had been in life. And she was at peace.
She was beautiful.
“Rest well, old friend,” he said softly.
It was a long night, a night of mourning, and yet also a night of joyous memory. Zach, Aidan and Jeremy were glad to be there—moral support for the family and literal support for Bridey’s elderly friends, who used their arms for balance.
Kat would smile, even laugh with someone, and then she would cry.
Clara spent most of the night in a chair near the coffin, with Tom at her side, holding her hand.
Amanda was the lady of the house again, treating Marni and Cal, who had once again taken care of the arrangements, like hired help.
Sean was often lost in his own thoughts, his own memories, and he spent much of the night sitting by Kat’s side.
Caer stayed in the background, but Zach saw that she was watching everyone with keen attention.
The priest spoke, and his words were important to them because they would have been important to Bridey. Then Sean talked about his love for his aunt, about how her help had taught him to survive in a new world, and how she had been a link to a past that was as dear to his heart as it had been to hers.
Then Zach suggested to Kat that she sing one of her beautiful laments. Guitars were brought out, and Zach wound up at the piano.
One song became two, then three, and as the mourners joined in, the mood became Irish indeed. As if the very air had lightened, people began to talk about Bridey with love and laughter. Ale and whiskey flowed, food was produced, and sorrow was leavened with the joy of memory.
At one point Zach looked up and caught Caer’s eyes. She wanted to smile, wanted to beg him to forgive her.
To love her.
To what avail?
He did neither, but he did say, “Caer, come and give us an Irish tune.”
She shook her head.
“I can’t. Believe me, I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” he told her.
“Come on, lass!” Sean encouraged. “All the Irish can sing—except for the banshees, of course. ’Tis said if they try to hum a tune, it sounds like the wind howling in the midst of a storm, or a wolf, crying to the moon.”
She froze. Then she quickly smiled and said, “Trust me. I love to listen, but even a wolf would be insulted by having its cry compared to my singing.”
Somehow, the moment passed.
She looked at Zachary again.
He studied her speculatively, then turned back to the piano.
There was so much noise in the house that none of them heard the birds.
Not until everyone else left and they tried to sleep.
Then there was no avoiding the cacophony of screeching and cawing, or the wind’s howl.
It was like a chorus from hell or some dark legend.
As if all the banshees of Ireland were singing as one.
17