man would faint before the cutting started. âDoc has morphine,â Ghan lied again. âYehâll hardly feel it.â
Morphine. Thatâs what the doc said it was. Wonât feel a thing. Last thing the butcher said before he rammed a bullet between Ghanâs teeth. Morphine, my arse! Gave him something that made him feel drunk but didnât numb the pain, just made him feel drunk and out of control, out of his mind with pain but too drunk or stupid to do anything about it.
The memories and the pain came back too quickly and his stomach cramped and kicked. Ghan rose stiffly. âIâll get the doc. Be over âfore yeh know it.â He fled the tent in jagged steps, galloped to the nearest tree and vomited.
C HAPTER 17
M orning dew held silver upon the grass, sparkled spiderwebs and dampened the soles of Father McIntyreâs shoes as he met the postman in the arc of the road. He smiled at the sound of the fairy-wrens, their chirps waning with the morning light, fading away and evaporating like the mist in the sun. âBeautiful morning, isnât it, Mr. Cook,â Father McIntyre greeted.
The postman pulled his head out of the canvas, his neck skinny, his face dark as cowhide. âMorninâ, Father. Didnât hear yeh on the stones.â He lifted a stack of letters tied with twine and handed them to the priest. âSaw yer ad in the paper.â The postman scratched inside his large ear, then inspected his finger. âGettinâ many bites?â
âA few,â he said sullenly. âHave two families coming this week to meet the children.â
Mr. Cook scrunched up his face. âThatâs a good thing, ainât it, Father? Gettinâ âem children adopted is a good thing, no?â
Sure itâs a good thing, Father McIntyre answered in his mind. Just like the cliffs and the ocean were good things. But they all made his head spin and his stomach drop. âYes.â Father McIntyre gave a weak smile. âItâs a good thing.â
Footsteps barreled onto the gravel. âDid it come?â James huffed between breaths.
The postman grinned, settled his hands on his hips. âExpectinâ somepin, son?â
Father McIntyre patted James on the shoulder and rolled his eyes. âHeâs been waiting for a letter from Ireland. I told him not to get his hopes up.â
âHo! Tâdayâs yer lucky day, mâboy!â Mr. Cook clapped his hands. âSaw one in there. From Limerick, I think.â
Father McIntyreâs stomach dropped again. He shoved the letters into the crook of his arm, locking them with his elbow.
âGâday, gorgeous.â Mr. Cook tipped his hat at the silent girl who joined them, then turned his attention back to the priest. âBe on mâway, now. See yeh in a few weeks, Father.â
âPlease open it, Father!â James begged as he held Leonoraâs hand, squeezing it in pulses.
With a sigh, Father McIntyre untied the pile of letters, shuffled until he found a thin blue envelope with an Irish stamp, the paper soiled and smudged. He ripped the glue that held the back flap and pulled out the card, read the words and blanched. He read them again, his eyes bobbing left to right, his jaw clicking near his ear.
James followed the priestâs movements. âWhatâd it say?â
Father McIntyre closed his eyes. âIâm sorry, son.â
âWhat?â The boy blinked fiercely and tightened his grip on Leonora. âWhat did it say?â
âThereâs no one there, James.â He couldnât look at the boy. âIâm sorry.â
âBut the l-l-letter,â James stammered. âIt . . . it was . . . they sent it.â
âThe letter was from a priest I know outside Limerick.â Father McIntyre exhaled and his eyes shifted under the lowered lids. âThe OâConnells are all gone. Theyâve either moved away or . . .
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
John O'Riley
Brenda Sinclair
Christopher George
Stephen Lloyd Jones
Karl Iagnemma
Celya Bowers
Jill Gregory
Aria Cunningham