Sean Cullen: The Prince of Neither Here Nor There

“There. I’ve got him again, the little nipper!”

“Drop him and let’s go. We’ve done what himself asked us to do.”

“Drop it? I only just picked it up again!”

“Just drop it and scamper!”

Sister Cecilia opened the heavy wooden door and stepped out into the rain. In the darkness she thought she saw a flicker of movement at the corner of the small vegetable garden. The tomato plants rustled briefly.

“Perhaps my ears were playing tricks on me,” she muttered. “Maybe it was just the rain on the roof.” She was about to close the door when she saw the bundle on the ground.

It glowed softly in the darkness, catching the light streaming from the open door and transforming it into a pale blue-green glimmer like the luminescent dial of the clock on her bedside table. Sister Cecilia stared in wonder at the object, frozen by its beauty. The cry of a baby jerked her out of her stupor. The bundle began to wriggle.

“What am I doing, standing here like a fool?” She crossed the garden in an instant, wading through icy puddles and bending to take the wriggling bundle in her arms.

It was indeed a baby, wrapped in cloth swaddling that, for all its simplicity, was exquisitely woven out of a thread the nun had never seen the like of before. The weft of the cloth repelled the rainwater, making the droplets bead and run off without soaking in. Its surface bore a repeating pattern of minute, intricately entwined leaves and vines so beautifully articulated that they seemed to be alive. Sister Cecilia ran her fingers over the fabric, her eyes wide. With trembling fingers, she reached up and pulled away a fold of cloth to reveal a tiny round face.

The baby had a thick head of wavy, wheaten hair that formed a golden comma in the middle of its forehead. Round cheeks, flushed from the chill rain, framed a tiny pointed nose. The mouth was a perfect little red bow. The most arresting feature, though, were the child’s eyes. They were slightly almond shaped and a most unusual greenish blue with flecks of gold. Though the baby had been crying, as soon as it saw Sister Cecilia’s face, it left off its whimpering and looked up at her, beaming a most beatific 15 smile that melted the old woman’s heart.

“What’s this?” Finbar’s voice rumbled close to the sister’s ear.

“A baby,” Sister Cecilia said, flustered. She hadn’t heard the Irishman approach. He stood looking down at the bundle in her arms. He raised a giant hand and with one calloused finger chucked the little baby under the chin. The baby gurgled with pleasure.

“Hmmm,” rumbled Finbar. “Curious thing. A child left on a doorstep on a stormy night.” He raised his pale blue eyes and scanned the rain-swept yard. “Uncanny.”

“Surely it’s just another child cast off by some poor soul at their wit’s end.”

The little baby gurgled happily and gripped the sister’s finger in its tiny fist. Her heart melted.

“Let’s get it in out of the rain,” Sister Cecilia said suddenly.

“Are ye certain ye want to do that?”

Sister Cecilia looked up into the heavy face of the groundskeeper. Something dark in the ordinarily cheerful face made her pause. “Why ever wouldn’t we?”

Finbar frowned and shrugged. “Strange turn of events, this. A baby left in the dark of a storm. Puts me in mind o’ stories o’ the Fair Folk me ma told us to frighten us i’ the winter nights.”

“Oh, Finbar,” the sister said with a chuckle, “I wouldn’t have thought you so superstitious.”

Finbar’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to speak but decided against it.

“What is it, Finbar?”

Finbar’s eyes became wary. “Not a thing. Those stories come from a grain o’ truth, Sister.” Finbar squinted at the dark rain. “You’re from the old country, you should know better. Some might say I ain’t so much superstitious as respectful of the Fair Folk. No good ever come o’ mixin’ in their plans. I heard tales of folks that were disappeared, lost in fairy mounds, shot by elf bolts, or even lumbered with the raising of a changeling child that had evil effect on all around it.” 16 He paused and looked at the little face. “And I’ve heard tell of children being led away by Fair Folk and kept for their amusement, forgetting all that they once knew.”

Sister Cecilia crossed herself. She had heard such tales too in her childhood in Ireland. She looked down at the beautiful little face framed in the cloth. The child had a radiant smile, showing a pair of perfect white teeth in its upper and lower gums. The sister’s heart melted again. “I can’t see this little one causing us anything but joy, Finbar. And with the dire state of our finances, it might be a welcome diversion to our sisters here. I must prepare a cot. Hold the child for a moment.” She gave the bundle over to the gruff Irishman, who grunted in surprise, and scuttled off down the hall.

Looking down into the eyes of the little baby, Finbar shook his head ruefully. “Ye may have charmed the Mother Superior. But I’m another kettle of fish altogether.” The baby stopped gurgling and looked up at Finbar. Finbar grinned back in spite of himself. “Still, yer a sweet little bundle, no doubt about it.” His eyes narrowed. “What’s this?” He dug a large finger into the swaddling, revealing a thin gold chain with a pendant hanging from it. The pendant was circular with spidery lettering delicately carved around the edge. The weight and the lustre of the object suggested that the gold was real.

Finbar’s eyes opened wide. He read the word aloud. “Breandan.”

He stared out into the rainy night. He suddenly had the feeling that eyes were out there watching him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. There was tingling across his shoulders.

“I know yer there,” he called into the empty courtyard. There was no answer but the wind and rain. “I know yer there somewhere. I can feel it. What mischief are ye about?”

Crouched in shadow of the courtyard’s brick wall, two small figures held a whispered conversation.

“He can’t know we’re here.”

“Does he see us?”

“Impossible!… I think.”

“Has he been given the Sight?”

“I think not. It would be plain if he had the Sight.”

“Something strange then… We should be off. Our deed is done.”

“The child will be safe.”

“Aye. For a while. For a while.”

The leaves of the tomato plants rustled. Finbar stared a moment longer but saw nothing more. He carefully closed the door and turned the bolt.

“I’ll hold on to this,” Finbar whispered. He lifted the chain from the baby’s neck, letting the medallion spin on the end as he examined it in a flash of lightning. “It may prove very useful indeed.”

When he got to the kitchen, the sister was standing at the sink, now brimming with soapy water and steaming gently.

“Let’s warm up the little one.” Finbar handed the child over to the Mother Superior. The child had fought free of the wrappings and was clutching at the woman’s chin with one fist. A smile lit his tiny face.

“It’s a boy, Finbar.” The sister laughed. “A lively one too.”

Finbar came and looked down at the little creature, who immediately turned his beautiful eyes upward to look into Finbar’s own.

“He’s a fine-looking child, he is. What’s this? Looks like a burn.” Finbar traced a crusted scab on the boy’s left breast. The bloody blemish marred the otherwise perfect ivory of the babe’s skin. Finbar had seen such a mark on the hide of sheep when he was a boy. “Someone’s branded the little tyke.”

“Oh dear,” Sister Cecilia cried. She took the baby from Finbar and plunged him into the soapy water. Gently, she took a cloth and sponged away the caked blood to reveal a wound in the shape of a spiral.