Oisín McGann - Ancient Appetites

Nathaniel knew that Slattery would be coming after them, so he led Francie cross-country, winding through the fields and narrow lanes, stumbling over the rough ground in the dim light from the sky. He couldn't stop thinking about Clancy, sure that his manservant must be dead by now. Gerald had taken one look at the wound and shaken his head, but Nate had urged him to do everything he could. Nate nearly tripped on a rabbit hole in the middle of the field and was brought back to his own predicament. He and Francie had been on the move for nearly two hours, but as the sky began to brighten, any hope of making the train station at Kingstown before dawn slowly faded with the darkness. From there he could catch a train to the south and seek refuge with some relatives in Cork.

They were descending a grassy hill, wet and muddied from their flight through the countryside. They could see lights in the windows of one building on the road. It was a pub, and Nate turned towards it, hoping he could borrow or buy a horse from someone within.

As they drew closer, they could hear the sounds of singing voices, fiddles, tin whistles and the beat of bodhráns. There appeared to be a party going on within.

'Must be a wake, to be goin' on at this hour,' Francie said. 'I wonder who for? I know this pub – it's Hanratty's. We're near Stepaside.'

'Hanratty's. That's a Fenian pub, isn't it?' Nate asked.

'Aye, I don't think yeh'll be too welcome there, sir.'

'We'll see about that,' Nate declared, striding ahead.

Francie hurried after him.

'Sir, you can't just walk in. It'll all be just family and friends in there. They won't take kindly to strangers bargin' in.'

They reached the end of the field and climbed over a stile. Once on the road, they found it was only a couple of minutes' walk to the front door of the pub, a small stone building with a thatched roof. Nate, who was not accustomed to being refused entrance to drinking establishments, opened the door and stepped inside. Francie followed him reluctantly.

If Nate had hoped to be discreet, he was sorely disappointed. The music faltered and stopped, and every face in the room turned to stare at him. For a moment he didn't know what to do… so he just stared.

Most of the musicians, about six or seven of them, sat in one corner of the room. More than sixty other people were squeezed in among the tables, either sitting on beaten-up benches or stools or standing against the wall. The air was thick with pipe smoke and the smell of stout and whisky. The scent of drink made Nate realize how thirsty he was himself. Most of the people were peasants, dressed in their paltry Sunday best for the funeral, now looking all the more worse for wear after an all-night drinking session. There were a few of the middle classes there too, their clothes and hair of a better cut.

Some of the people stood up when they saw that Nathaniel was a gentleman; perhaps they even recognized him. Others stayed in their seats. Some of them glared at him in open hostility. In the centre of the room, resting on two tables, was a cheap coffin. It was closed. He had never been to a wake before, but he had heard that it wasn't uncommon to have the box open so that the corpse could take part in the proceedings. He wondered if there was a reason the lid had been kept on. Sitting on the lid was glass of whisky, presumably for the corpse, should he want it.

'What… What can we do for you, sir?' a small, mousy-haired man with spectacles asked.

He was standing with a tray of drinks in his hands, obviously in the middle of serving. Nate felt everyone's eyes upon him.

'Pardon my intrusion,' he said, only just remembering his manners. He should show some sensitivity to the mourners before trying to wangle a horse out of them. 'What is the name of the deceased?'

'Duffy,' the landlord replied. 'Eoin Duffy.'

Nate drew in a sharp breath and his face dropped. Off to one side, Francie went pale.

'The moneylender?' Nate asked.

'He had a number of businesses,' another man in a grey tweed suit answered him. 'I'm his brother, Eamon. May I ask why you are interested, sir?'

Slattery had disobeyed him. Nathaniel had walked out of the dungeon and the bailiffs had completely ignored his instructions to release the moneylender. And now the man was dead. Nate put a hand to his brow and closed his eyes for a moment. He seemed to be surrounded by death, and he was sick to the pit of his stomach with it all. Looking up at the unfriendly faces around him, a thought occurred to him. He had no intention of obeying the Rules of Ascension any more… or any other laws for that matter. He just wanted to rescue Tatty, Berto and Daisy. Gideon and the rest of the older generation had too much influence with the British for Nate to trust the authorities, but the Fenians hated his family almost as much as he did. Perhaps his enemy's enemy could be his friend.

'How did your brother die?' Nate asked, ignoring Duffy's question.

'He was murdered,' the man told him. 'He was found floating in the Dodder River with the guts hanging out of him. Now what can we do for you, sir?'

His tone was polite but insistent. He was a square-built man with a stern face and grey hair flecked with black. A silver watch chain hung from his waistcoat pocket. He stood taller than Nate and with the confidence of a self-made man. It was clear he was a figure of authority in this room.

'He was killed by Patrick Slattery,' Nate told them, watching for their reaction. There was precious little. A few of the women exchanged puzzled glances, but nothing more. Everyone's expression seemed frozen in place.

'We know,' said Duffy. 'And it's a strange admission coming from you, Mr Wildenstern, seeing as it's Slattery who does your father's dirty work.'

'My father is dead,' Nate replied. 'And Slattery is working for his murderer. If there are men here who will aid me in my fight against the traitor, I will give you Slattery in return.'

That caused a stir. A wave of mumbling carried around the room. Duffy held up his hand and there was quiet again.

'Slattery will pay for his crimes – come hell or high water, he'll get his,' Duffy said. 'But why would we want to help you? Your family can simply hire a dozen more like him. Nothing will have changed.'

Nate bridled at the man's stubborn attitude. It sometimes seemed to him that the Irish peasant cared more for the dead than for the living. Perhaps that was the reason why so many of them seemed so apathetic about their lot in life.

'This is in your own interests!' he appealed to the people in the room. 'There have been some terrible changes in my family over this last night. The man who has taken over our estates is a fiend of the worst kind. He has taken my sister and sister-in-law as hostages and I am sure he means to kill my brother. They are all I care about. I can get you past the guards and into the house, do you understand? You can strike a telling blow for your cause by assassinating him and anyone who defends him. It's in your own interests. This man will make life a misery for all those beneath him. He has no conscience and his greed knows no bounds – he will bleed you dry ! If this tyrant is allowed to gain control of our businesses, you will all be reduced to living in misery!'

His plea was met with a brooding silence. Then a woman's voice piped up from the far end of the room.

'Sure, the British will protect us!'

The crowd burst into a roar of raucous, drunken laughter. Even Francie was trying to suppress a smile. Nate stood there helplessly as the hysterics lasted nearly a full minute before everyone settled down and wiped their eyes. Duffy rubbed his red, sweating face with a handkerchief and gave a final chuckle, followed by a sigh.

'It doesn't sound to me like anything will change at all, Mr Wildenstern,' he said. 'Not a thing. Your family have always gone about your bloodthirsty ways and the rest of us have endured one tyrant after another for centuries. Another change won't mean anything to us.'