Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1) Read online

  Nora spun around wildly to see if anyone else was observing the same thing. Perhaps it was a special effect, some part of the tour. But no one else seemed to notice the women piling up at their feet. They were all either listening to Liz or blandly surveying their surroundings. When she looked back at the staircase, the women were gone.

  Nora closed her eyes tightly. Her breath was ragged and shallow, and she struggled to control it. What the hell was that? The group was dispersing to look inside some of the cells, but the tour guide came toward Nora. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

  “I . . . I . . .” Nora stammered. “I just thought I saw some women on the staircase, that’s all. Must have been a trick of the light.”

  Liz looked at her thoughtfully. “This place has a long and tragic history. You’re not the first visitor to get a glimpse of the past. I don’t often say this in my tours, but I believe some of the inhabitants of Kilmainham have never left.”

  Nora smiled awkwardly. “I think . . . I’m just tired,” she said, pulling her arms close to her chest. The bright sunlight shone through the large skylights in the ceiling, but it did nothing to dispel the chill she felt deep inside. She cast a nervous glance back at the staircase, then meandered over to one of the open cells. Carved into the doorframe were the words, “The Manse.” Who had carved that, and why? She stepped inside. It looked as if it had been recently whitewashed. A small window was set into the far wall, a good distance above her head. It let in a tiny ray of sunlight. Nora stood in the beam of light, willing it to warm her.

  “Creepy place, isn’t it?” asked a middle-aged woman who had entered the same cell.

  “Oh, aye,” Nora answered.

  “Are you a local?” the woman asked in an American accent, a delighted look on her face.

  “No. I’m from Belfast.”

  “Oh, I see,” the woman said, looking concerned. “Do you know anyone who’s been bombed?”

  “What?”

  “They told us we shouldn’t go to Belfast because of the bombs. Have you been bombed?”

  “No,” Nora said, turning away.

  “Well, that’s good,” the woman answered. She continued gazing around. “I wonder who was kept in this cell.”

  “Annie Humphreys,” Nora answered without thinking. How did she know that? And yet it was true; she was sure of it.

  “Oh, you’ve done the tour before!”

  Nora turned around slowly. Her eyes skimmed over the woman’s excited face and kept turning, taking in the four walls of the cell. “No,” she said softly. “I haven’t.” What was going on? First the women on the stairs, then this. Was her mind even her own anymore? She pushed past the woman back into the open atrium, where she found Liz.

  “Do you recognize this man?” she asked, showing her the photograph of Thomas Heaney. “I’m wondering if he was a prisoner here.”

  Liz examined the picture closely and then turned it over to read the inscription. She handed it back, shaking her head. “I don’t recognize him, no. But there were hundreds of political prisoners here in the early nineteen hundreds. Was he a relative of yours?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, once the tour is over you can ask the museum staff; they might be able to help you.” Turning away, Liz called out to the rest of the group, “If you’ll follow me, we’ve one more stop on our tour.” Nora followed her through a narrow doorway and down a claustrophobic corridor, her fingers trailing the stone walls. Liz opened a door and motioned for Nora and the others to step outside.

  This is it. She knew it with the same unshakable surety with which she’d known so many impossible things lately. It was the courtyard she’d visited last night in her dream.

  She stepped into the center of a stone yard, surrounded on all sides by thick, windowless walls rising at least thirty feet high. She spun in a slow circle as the tourists milled around her. The highest branches of a single tree waved just above the wall, a taunting reminder of the world outside this cold monolith. A small cross, only a foot tall, stood at one end. She held her breath and waited, looking for some vision or sign that would guide her next steps. But there was only the sound of Liz’s voice as she explained the significance of the yard. Once used for hard labor, it was the site of the 1916 executions that had fanned the flames of the War of Independence.

  Is this where Thomas Heaney was killed? She walked slowly around the yard, touching the stone walls, listening for a voice from the grave. “Thomas?” she whispered.

  Nothing. She was the last to leave when Liz directed them back into the museum. Disappointment settled in her stomach. She took one last glance back at the empty courtyard before the door closed behind her.

  The museum was fascinating, two floors of informational plaques and glass-covered displays containing everything from old prison locks to playing cards to heartfelt letters prisoners had written before their execution. But there was no indication Thomas Heaney had ever been here. As she wandered through the brightly lit room with other tourists, the tension in her gut lessened slightly.

  She bent over to examine a collection of small autograph books. The sign beside the glass cabinet said the prisoners would sign each other’s autograph books as a way of commemorating their time behind bars. Nora peered in closely, examining the books lying open under the glass and reading the poems and slogans that filled the pages.

  “How are you feeling now?” Liz asked from behind her. “Any more visions?”

  Nora swiveled around. “No.” She hesitated before saying, “But I did have the impression that I knew whose cell I was standing in earlier. A woman named Annie Humphreys. I don’t know why—the name just came to me.”

  Liz raised her eyebrows. “Annie Humphreys? She was here during the Civil War. Have you read about her?”

  Nora shook her head. “I’ve never heard of her before. It was just a feeling.”

  “How interesting,” Liz said, her dark eyes fixed on Nora. “I believe that some people are more sensitive to the spiritual realm, if you don’t mind me saying so. Maybe some of those who have passed on are trying to speak to you.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus, I hope not. The dreams were maddening enough. Did this mean she was to start having visions of the dead in the daytime, too? “I should get going.”

  She stumbled past the rest of the displays and squeezed through a group of German tourists who were clogging up the entryway. Once outside, she walked briskly to the bus stop.

  Go to Kildare.

  “Fine,” she said out loud, startling the man standing next to her. Maybe going to Kildare was the only way she’d find answers. Then she could get back to her life and forget this madness.

  She took the bus back to the city center, then walked to her hotel. She got as far as the front door before she turned around. A drink—she needed a drink before she did anything else. A few minutes later, she sat down at the bar of Murphy’s Pub and nodded to the barman.

  “What’ll you have, then?”

  “Jameson.”

  The barman poured and mixed and conversed all at once, and she watched him to avoid thinking of the women on the stairs at the jail, of Thomas Heaney’s haunting voice, and of the chill in her bones she couldn’t shake.

  “Rough day?” he said to her once her glass was nearly empty. It hadn’t taken long.

  “Aye,” she said, swirling the rest of the amber liquid in her glass.

  “You from the North, then?”

  “Aye. Belfast.”

  “Derry, myself,” he said. “Just here for the weekend?”

  “I don’t know. I’m on break from my work in Darfur.”

  “Darfur!” he said, raising his brows. “Now there’s a fucked-up place. You a relief worker?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, then, the next one’s on the house. Saving lives—that’s a whole lot better than pulling pints.”

  She smiled at him. “I’m sure you’ve saved a life or two without even knowing it.”

 
“Ha. Mebbe. Ready for another?”

  “Aye.”

  You’re making something out of nothing, she told herself as the barman returned to his other patrons. Perhaps Jan was right and she was just burned out. But then she remembered what the tour guide had said.

  Maybe some of those who have passed on are trying to speak to you.

  Was Thomas Heaney trying to send her a message from the afterlife? If the saints could do miracles and there really was a life after death . . . was it so impossible? She supposed she would soon find out.

  Chapter Seven

  When Nora awoke the next morning, she felt strangely invigorated. It took her a second to remember why. Then she sat up and flung the covers back.

  I have a mission.

  She showered and dressed with the efficiency of an assembly-line worker, then pulled on her favorite leather jacket. She ran across the road to grab a bun and cup of tea from the baker’s opposite her hotel. The sun was shining between clusters of cloud in the freshness of the morning as she walked from the baker’s to the train station, past shining office towers and ancient cathedrals. The River Liffey was glittering in the sunlight, a ribbon of silver through an ever-changing city.

  Now that she’d made the decision to go, she didn’t know why she’d been so hesitant. Finally, this was something she could do. There were so many things she could not control in her life, but at least she could do this, as far-fetched as it seemed. The dreams, the strange experiences at Kilmainham—they all had to mean something. She’d go to Kildare, find a woman named Brigid, and see if there was some kind of message waiting for her. If there was one, then she’d have to figure out what to do about it. And if there wasn’t, she would tell Thomas Heaney to leave her the hell alone the next time she dreamed about him.

  She bought her ticket from a machine outside the station and soon boarded the train. The brick and concrete turned into blurs of green as they sped toward the southwest. Less than an hour later, the automated voice broke into her thoughts with the announcement that they were approaching Kildare Station.

  Nora stepped onto the platform, then watched the train continue on its way with a cocktail of foreboding and anticipation. She’d felt this way every time she’d entered a new country, a new disaster, a new opportunity for her to prove herself. Right. Don’t just stand there. Let’s get to work.

  Her first destination was the tourism office, which she found on a map she’d snagged at the station. It was only a couple of blocks away. As she walked toward it, a large cathedral loomed on the right, just down the street. Behind it was a tall round tower that soared even higher than the cathedral spires. She checked the map. Saint Brigid’s Cathedral. Thomas had told her to talk to Brigid. Had he meant she should go to the cathedral? To pray to the saint? Or was there an actual woman here named Brigid who might have the information she was seeking?

  Saint Brigid of Kildare was one of Ireland’s patron saints. Nora’s ma had even hung a Saint Brigid’s cross above their doorway in Belfast. She’d loved Brigid above all the saints. Nora had never thought to ask why.

  She found the tourism office with little difficulty. A tall, thin man was just flipping over the “Open” sign. He smiled when he saw Nora approaching. “Good morning to you!” he called.

  “Good morning.”

  “Are you a visitor to our fine town, then?” the man asked, ushering Nora inside. The tourism office was tiny, not much more than a desk and a few shelves of maps and tourist kitsch.

  “I am. My first visit,” Nora said. “I’m doing a bit of . . . research, and I was wondering if you might help me.”

  “Of course! We get a lot of amateur historians in here. Kildare has a long, proud history. If you’re wanting to take one of our walking tours, my nephew Oisín—”

  “Actually, I’m trying to find out more about this man.” She showed him the picture of Thomas. “Someone told me he might have a connection to this town.”

  “Hmm, well, I can’t say I recognize him,” he said. After flipping over the photo, he peered down at it through his bifocals. “Thomas Heaney, so it says. A relative of yours?”

  “I don’t think so. I was told to look for a woman named Brigid. Do you know of anyone by that name?”

  He laughed. “Besides our precious saint, you mean! I know of a couple Brigids, but I don’t think they’ll know who this young man is, if that’s what you’re thinking. What kind of research are you doing?”

  “Um . . . Civil War.”

  He shook his head and frowned. “A sad time for Ireland, that was. There are a few local history groups that might be able to help you better.” He shuffled around behind the desk and pulled out a printed list. “Here are their names and contact information. They meet on various nights of the week. But if you ring one of these numbers, they might be able to help you out. How long are you here for?”

  “Good question,” Nora answered. “Until I find what I’m looking for, I suppose.”

  “Do you have a hotel already?”

  “No, but I’ve got one back in Dublin.”

  “Well, here’s a list of some of our recommended accommodations.” He handed Nora another handmade brochure. “And here’s some information about the cathedral, the tower, and the holy well.”

  “Is the cathedral open now?” Nora asked.

  “Yes, it should be. Just cross the street, and you’ll see the entrance gates straight ahead.”

  “Ta.”

  Nora stuffed the papers into her purse and stepped back out into the sun. Was Thomas Heaney buried in the church graveyard? The thought made her shiver. If he was truly dead, how could he speak to her?

  A stone fence, as tall as Nora, was built around the cathedral, but the iron gate in front was open. A silver car was parked on the gravel patch outside the church door, above which was carved a skull and crossbones. Odd. Nora gave it a sidelong glance, then veered left into the graveyard.

  She tried to make out the names on the stones. It was near impossible on most of them, and those that she could read were not the final resting markers for Thomas Heaney. She sat down on a smooth, low, rectangular stone wall that, according to the plaque, marked the site of Saint Brigid’s Fire Temple. Candles, flowers, and prayer cards had been placed against the back wall.

  Without warning, a flame erupted in the dead center, shooting at least six feet into the sky. Nora scrambled back off the wall and held up an arm to block the heat. When she lowered it, hooded figures stood around the flames, chanting. And then the entire scene was simply gone, just like the women on the stairs at Kilmainham. No ash, no scorch marks, no sign of anything out of the ordinary. A vase of silk flowers seemed to wink at her as they swayed softly in the breeze.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Nora whispered, backing away from the site and almost tripping over a fallen headstone in her haste. She ran to the church doors and heaved them open.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” she called, her voice echoing in the cavernous space. Just inside the entrance was a series of standing display cases and several large stone sarcophagi. A thin woman popped her head around the corner.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Do you work here?”

  “I’m one of the volunteers, yes. My name’s Suzanne. How can I help you?”

  Nora thrust the picture of Thomas into her hands. It was time for complete honesty, come what may. “Right, Suzanne, I know this is going to sound crazy. I’m not off my head, I swear it. But I’ve had several dreams about this man. He told me to come to Kildare so I could talk to a woman called Brigid. And then I found this photo of him. See, it says here he died in 1923. And I keep seeing visions of the past, knowing things I shouldn’t know. So I’ve come here, just like he asked.” She stopped, unable to believe she’d confessed all of that out loud to a complete stranger.

  The woman glanced at the photo for a moment, then handed it back. “Are you looking for prayer?”

  “No! I’m trying to find out how a man who’s been dead for almost a
century is getting into my head.”

  It was clear from Suzanne’s expression that she thought Nora was mentally unstable. “Have you checked at the heritage center? They might be able to—”

  “Yes, and they sent me here. I’m not making this up! Someone must know—”

  “Is there a problem?” Another woman emerged from a door at the side of the church. She was short and on the plump side, with closely cropped coarse brown hair and an uneven fringe. She wore a long green shawl with a gold brooch.

  “May I?” Suzanne said, taking the photo from Nora. She passed it to her colleague. “She’s trying to find out about this man. He’s called Thomas Heaney. Do you recognize him, Mary?”

  Mary’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “Yes, I do,” she said slowly, her eyes drinking in the photograph. Finally, she stared up at Nora. “You’re the one looking for him?” Her voice held a hint of incredulity.

  “Aye,” Nora said warily. Was this woman having her on? Or was she really about to find some answers?

  Mary pressed her hand over her heart. “It’s a fine day. Why don’t we take a walk outside? Thank you, Suzanne, I’ll help this young lady from here.”

  Nora followed Mary past another stone coffin and a display of Kildare in the fifth century, back into the churchyard.

  “Well,” Mary began once they were well away from the front door. “I’m not exactly sure how to proceed, but I’ll do my best. You see, we’ve been waiting for you.”

  “You’ve been waiting for me?” Nora repeated, dumbfounded. “Why?”

  “Are you a religious person, Nora?”

  “Yes, o’course.” They were behind the cathedral now, wandering among the tombstones. The round tower loomed overhead.

  “That’s good to hear. So many young people have left the church these days. If they only knew how it sustained us in days gone by. But I digress. I belong to an order called the Brigidine Sisters.”