Some French pasture is the last place I should be doing my dying. It irks me especially to be dying for a foreign king… Ah, still, it seems unavoidable. The shrapnel from the mortar bomb sliced clean through something major in my chest. Blood is everywhere. I can feel its warm stickiness on the hard ground beneath me. I wouldn't be so worried, except the pain disappeared an hour or more ago. Now, all that's left is a sort of gut-wrenching, floating feeling. Off in the distance, beyond the artillery fire, I can hear some birds singing. Between their twittering and that warm breeze bringing the smell of sweetgrass, a guy could get to feeling peaceful.
Not that I'm going anywhere without a fight. As another wave of nausea ripples through my body, I dig my fists into the frost-lined grass. Hell, I figure I'm holding on to this earthly plane one way or the other. There'll be none of this "may you be in heaven half an hour" crap for old Jack McCahey. If I'm going, the Devil himself is going to have to carry me away.
The way I've lived my life, I hardly can expect a choir of angels, now, can I? A more likely choice is the flying black horde of the bogie on their thistle brooms. Anyway, from the stories I've heard, the faerie are continually taunting the priests. Not a good track record for the wee folk, I'm afraid. It's the Devil for me, then.
Besides which, I've never been crystal clear what God's opinion is of Republicans. In my da's time, an IRA man could be pretty certain the Lord was on his side, all excepting the partition, of course. When I was a boy, the bad guys wore black and tan. The good guys were always in green, if you get my meaning.
Myself, I've been a good Catholic. Well, good enough to attend Mass every Sunday—not good enough to keep from spending my time in the church watching Fiona McCarthy bow her pretty head so fetchingly. That sight, my boys, was far more divine than anything coming out of the side of the mouth of Father O'Rourke. I can see how the wee folk get such pleasure out of teasing the likes of priests. Sure, and half what they say is nonsense. It's not proper Irish faith, at all.
Another wave racks through me, breaking my reverie. My fists grasp uselessly at the crumbling dirt and shriveled grass between my fingers. I moan lowly. I wish I had the strength to curse. It's time for going, but I'm not ready yet.
A shadow blots out the sun. I focus on a tall figure standing over me. Sure, and doesn't it look like the dark angel himself. His eyes strike me most of all. They're a piercing sort of black. I think they stand out so much due to his pale, almost Irish complexion. I smile. I always knew the Devil was Black Irish, like me.
"So, you've come for me, then?" I ask. My voice sounds strange to my ears, like it's coming from a long distance.
"I have." I'm disappointed not to hear a Donegal accent in his words.
He kneels beside me. Those dark, bewitching eyes flick over my wounds. I wonder for a moment if I haven't mistaken him. Perhaps he's a priest or a medic. Truth be told, he looks more like the Devil, with those eyes and that even blacker hair that seems to swallow the sunlight instead of reflecting it.
"I didn't know dying would be such a formal affair," I joke. I gesture at his clothes. He's wearing a tuxedo. It looks to me as though he was on his way to some grand ball, instead of kneeling in the gore of a spent battlefield. "If I'd have known, I'd worn my Sunday best."
"The uniform is more than acceptable." His tone is serious. "It's dress code in most black-tie places, after all."
I get a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach suddenly. "I'd rather not go wearing the British uniform," I find myself protesting. "Could you arrange to hold things off until I get a proper one? I'd rather be wearing the green of óglaigh na héireann. My own sainted da would spit to see me in this."
His lips spread to a tight closed-mouth smile. "You should have thought of that before you got yourself in this pickle, my dear friend. But, it's not in my power to stop the inevitable, just ease your pain."
He opens his mouth, showing off pointed incisors, and draws nearer to me.
"Ah," I say, "I know you now. And, I wouldn't, if I were you."
He pauses to chuckle wickedly. He sneers. "Catholic blood isn't poison to me, fool."
In a swift movement, he plunges his fangs into my neck. The tearing pinprick of pain is brief, and nothing compared to the pounding in my chest. He drinks greedily from me. The wet smacking sounds he makes seem distant. I can see the dark curtain's frayed edges now, fluttering like crow's wings.
He coughs, then sputters. Strangled choking sounds bring me briefly back to awareness. He tries to retch, struggles to rid himself of the poison of my ancient Irish forebearer's blood.
"Not Catholic," I murmur, though I doubt he can hear me. "Fey. I'm half-faerie."
Lyda Morehouse was born in 1967 in Sacramento, CA, which might explain her strange first name, except that her parents swear they were NOT hippies (beatniks, maybe, but NEVER hippies.) Plus, her folks came to their senses after only a few months under the California sun, and moved to LaCrosse, WI. Lyda spent her formative years in that magical town where three rivers meet, nestled in the valleys of the "driftless zone."
She moved to the Twin Cities in 1985 to attend Augsburg College, (not, unfortunately Oxford, which so many of her friends misheard "Augsburg" as.) While the college didn't particularly impress her, the Cities did, and she settled permanently there when she and Shawn Rounds bought a house in Saint Paul in 1997. Minneapolis/St. Paul is a haven for writers, especially science fiction writers, and Lyda would recommend it--winters and all--to anyone, anywhere.
At Augsburg, Lyda received BAs in English and history, despite the fact that everyone, including many of the department's professors, thought she was a studio arts major. Their assumption wasn't completely without substance as Lyda does dabble in the visual arts. Though she briefly sold some of her work as tarot greeting cards, these days, she mostly sketches the occasional "stud" or comic book superhero. However, she teaches cartooning on a semi-regular basis through Eden Prairie Community Education.
On August 5, 2002, Lyda became an "ima" (Hebrew for mother) to Ella Durene Mae Morehouse Rounds. Ella was stillborn, but she lives in our hearts. We tried again as soon as Shawn was physically able, and we are now the proud parents of the best little boy in the universe, Mason Gale Morehouse Rounds, born July 24, 2003. Lyda legally adopted Mason on December 5, 2003.
Lyda is currently attempting to live the life of a full-time writer. Due to the recent budget crunch in Minnesota, Lyda was recently laid-off from her job at the Minnesota Historical Society.