M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

After checking our coats, I was charged with the mission of obtaining drinks for the both of us while my wife skittered about squealing with glee as she and long missed relatives became re-acquainted. Having located one of the two bars and placing my order, I decided to try and make the best of it. Had present circumstances been different, I’m sure I would have been more in the mood for a party. But they weren’t, and I wasn’t.

I was still wrestling with the re-awakened visions of Kendra Miller burning to death in the middle of a public park. I fought, from one moment to the next, with bleak stabs of pain mirroring the emotions I experienced coming from the two young women this afternoon. I steeled myself against the fear I didn’t want to acknowledge. And all of this I did alone, for I hadn’t uttered a single word of today’s events to Felicity. She had been preoccupied with her preparations, and I felt that at least one of us should remain unburdened by thoughts of loathing and death during what was intended as a celebration of love and life. Of the surplus of mental trauma I was struggling to keep at bay, the worst was my own agonized speculation. I couldn’t stop worrying over when the killer would strike next.

How would he strike?

Who would be the victim?

A dull ache through my very being told me that it was going to be soon, and I wasn’t going to be able to stop the inevitable. All I would be able to do is sift through the aftermath for another misshapen piece of the puzzle and, if it was there, try desperately to fit it into place with the bleak handful we had thus far.

I reached up and worked the knot of my necktie back and forth to loosen it and leaned against the bar. My eyes darted through the crowd searching for where Felicity might have settled. She was clad in festive Celtic attire-much like most everyone else in the room-and with the abundance of auburn curls filling the hall, it took me a few moments to pick her out.

She was wearing, not unlike several of the other women, a slightly shortened version of a traditional chemise and Irish skirt. Her shapely torso was cinched into a low-cut bodice complete with boning and laces. On her feet, she had replaced her snow boots with flat, black slippers secured firmly to her ankles with a criss-crossing leather cord tied in a neat bow.

I finally located her on the far side of the room, arm in arm with two of her cousins, executing a short, quick series of lithe leaps, kicks and jumps. The three of them bobbed up and down in perfect unison as they spun about in mock rehearsal for the dancing yet to come and came to a halt, laughing wildly at a minor misstep. I felt like I had landed in the middle of an Irish dance troupe and was beginning to feel self-conscious and terribly out of place in my grey tweed sport coat and slacks.

“Aye, keeper! Why don’t you be givin’ ‘im a real man’s drink then!” The thick timbre met my ears and was coupled with a rough slap across my back.

A pair of meaty paws proceeded to manhandle my shoulders, and I broke from my glassy stare.

“Me Grandmother wouldn’t be drinkin’ that fizzly water now,” my brother-in-law’s voice boomed once again. “Whiskey man! We’ll start with two and ye keep it flowin’!”

Felicity’s older brother was hopelessly enamored with his ancestral roots and had spent a large amount of time in Ireland during his youth. To this day he spent as much time there as he could. Fortunately, his position with an overseas firm as a structural engineer allowed him great latitude in his choice of assignments, and he had been able to work there continuously for the past several years. Because of this, his brogue was unfaded by distance and time and was only slightly tarnished by his inherent Americanism.

Coming from the same stock as my wife, he bore the ruddy complexion and bright red mop of a classic Irishman, right down to his rust-colored beard. He was at once jovial, cantankerous, loud, obnoxious, loyal, hard-drinking, and if the stories I had heard of his youth were true, hard-fighting as well. Of all my in-laws, he and I got along the best. I was sorry we didn’t get to see each other more often.

“Austin!” I cheerfully yelped as he greeted me further with a brotherly bear hug. “When did you get in?”

“Just last night, Rowan old man, just last night.” He cuffed me on the shoulder again and pushed a full shot glass of whiskey along the bar to me as he grasped his own.

In one motion he lifted the glass with his right hand and thrust it straight out from his shoulder. I mimicked the motion, and he clinked his shot against mine as he said, “May the grass grow long on the road to hell for its want of use! Slainte!”

“Slainte!” I echoed the Gaelic equivalent of “cheers.”

With that he tossed back the ounce of liquor and loudly clacked the glass back onto the bar. I followed suit with somewhat less gusto. I suspected he already had a substantial head start on me.

“Again, man!” he shouted to the hustling bartender then turned back to me. “And where would ye be hidin’ me charming sister then? I trust you’ve been takin’ good care of her now.”

I chuckled and pointed. “She’s across the way there. With a couple of your cousins.”

He followed my finger and nodded as he saw her repeating her earlier mini performance with the other two women.

“Aye, old man, you definitely got yourself the pick of the O’Brien crop with her. She’s the loveliest of the sisters.”

“As I recall she’s your only sister, Austin,” I laughed.

“Aye, and I’m prejudiced as well!” he chuckled in return.

The frantic bartender had refilled the two shots, and my brother-in-law nudged one to me again. “Here’s to the health of your enemies’ enemies!”

“I can go for that. Slainte!”

“Slainte!”

We raised our drinks in unison and clinked them together soundly. Before we could bring them to our lips, however, we were interrupted by the Celtic lilt of a familiar female voice.

“Austin! There you are!” the voice exclaimed, and we both swiveled our heads toward it. “Oh, hello, Rowan. I didn’t know you and Felicity had arrived.”

“Maggie,” I smiled and nodded to my mother-in-law.

“Austin, dear,” she continued, “your father needs to speak with you. You don’t mind, do you, Rowan?”

“Not at all.”

“Aye, can’t it wait?” Austin protested at first. However, since he instantly found himself on the receiving end of a sharp “don’t question your mother” glare that an offspring of any age would obey, he tossed back the shot of whiskey and settled the empty glass on the bar. “I’ll be catchin’ up with ya’ then, old man,” he told me as he followed her away. “Don’t you be runnin’ off now.”

“Don’t worry,” I called after him. “I’ll be here all night. Promise.”

Had I known at the time I would have to break that promise, I never would have made it.

“Shamus O’Brien, my father-in-law, would never be in any danger of becoming elected president of my fan club; of this you could be certain. Our relationship was one that stressed the boundaries of polite tolerance and mute indifference. I am sure he allowed this much solely for the benefit of his only daughter. In general, he wasn’t what you would call outwardly discourteous to me. I was, of course, well aware of his feelings, and I endeavored to respect them by keeping my distance; therefore he was rarely even given a chance to become rude. However, we would invariably be thrust together by holidays or other family functions at intervals throughout the year. At these times I would make it a point to avoid any controversial topic on which he may have a strong opinion-which was only a shade left of everything.