Prologue: An Easter Story

Shakespeare wrote: "There are more things in heaven and earth."

Ireland

Easter Uprising of 1916

The young military officer sat stiffly upon his steed, trying not to listen to the idle gossip of the soldiers marching behind him. They were dressed for battle in older issued thick woolen tunics, which had been dyed khaki, puttees were worn round their ankles and calves, and hobnail soles on their boots. None of his small detachment had a Brodie helmet, since most of these steel helmets had been issued to the troops fighting in the trenches overseas on the Western Front. He adjusted his Webley Mk V revolver's holster, which was his only firearm unlike the men behind him who had their rugged reliable Lee–Enfield rifles. "I herd them heathin Irish in Dublin are 'elping the Huns," a rifleman said in a very distinct Cockney accent. "Them bloody Paddies are less than a man, everyone knows they are no more than a walkin talkin monkeys! I say 'ang the lot of 'em."

"You didn't mind that pretty young Irish redhead you were bouncing on your knee a few nights ago," another soldier snickered.

"I 'ad me a pint or two too many. I was so snockered, that I'd 'ave bedded a cow that night," the first soldier laughed back.

"Silence boys, you're the King's Men and so act like it!" a Sargent at the head of the line snapped back.

"Any idea how much further to this manor?" the officer asked the Sargent. "It seems that we are marching around in the middle of nowhere, we should be putting down the insurrection."

"Aye, the killing is taking place down in Dublin town but the Captain wanted us to check out the landlord for this land. The locals say that there are strange things going on around here and there is a rumor that he has been seen with German spies."

"Isn't he from an ancient family of good English heritage?"

"The family bloodline goes back to the time of FitzStephen, but the last lord died and his distant cousin inherited the land through his will. They say the current lord comes from somewhere overseas, but no one has seen him."

"Surely he has servants?"

"No sir, they were all released from their duties by the last lord."

"That is odd, who takes care of the land?"

"No one, it has gone to ruin."

"What do the locals say?"

"That like the previous lord, this one practices the dark arts," the sergeant softly answered.

"The dark arts, what Papist nonsense!" the officer laughed. "Well, we will visit this mysterious lord of the manor and set things right."

After hours of marching, the small detachment entered the local village. It looked like many of the rural settlements which they had been to before, simple whitewashed huts clustered around a church. Most of the villagers only peeked out their windows or stood silently while they watched the soldiers with disdain and fear, even in a place this remote they had heard of the Easter Uprising in Dublin.

Most of the soldiers had unslung their rifles and were now carrying them at the ready as if they were expecting trouble. "Steady lads!" the sergeant growled out.

The officer reined in his mount when he saw the parish priest standing in the church's doorway. He was an elderly man with a crooked back, dressed in his black robes with a stark white collar around his neck. "Good afternoon Father," the young officer called out to the priest, who nodded in reply. "I was wondering if you might have a moment to talk, we are on our way to the manor and I was hoping you could tell me something of his lordship?"

"He's no lordship!" the priest replied.

"But he did inherit the manor and the land around here, did he not?"

"Yes, but none have seen him before or since. The old lord was injured by an unholy scientific experiment that he was conducting."

"Surely someone in this village must have seen the new lord, doesn't he have provisions delivered? After all, a man has to eat!"

"Aye, he has some poultry, fish, and vegetables delivered, but they are left on the stoop."

"But how does he pay for his provisions?"

"They are his rent due for the land, for he wants no other payment from the land's tenants. His only other rule is no poaching, but it is not enforced."

"But he pays the King's taxes every year?"

"Old money paid by his bank in London."

"As the village priest, surely you must have paid him a visit."

"I did and we spoke through the door, he refused to let me inside and said that he is a private man who does not like visitors."

"That is strange, well I am an officer of the King's Army and he will open his door to me and my men or I will tear them down!" the officer proclaimed.

"That is an evil place!" the elderly priest called out as he crossed himself. "May God watch over you!"

The soldiers in the unit followed, but the officer knew that they were nervous after hearing the priest's words.

"It sounds like the lord of the manor is not a very hospitable fellow," the sergeant said.

"We will do as ordered," the officer replied. "Once we are satisfied that there is nothing illegal, then we will leave him to his peace."

"And if he has been consorting with the Huns or the rebels?" the sergeant asked.

"Then he will be arrested and escorted back to the captain."

For another hour they marched until they came upon a forlorn sight, a once-mighty mansion darkly brooded over the overgrown and weedy landscape before them. "He has let this place go to rack and ruin!" the officer sadly sighed.

"Aye!" was the answer the sergeant tersely gave. There was a large sign with a rusty rabbit trap hanging from it which read "No poaching! No solicitation!"

"A bloody hospitable sort," someone in the ranks snorted out.

"Spread the men out!" the officer commanded as they came closer to the manor, all was silent around them except for the song of the birds chirping in the trees. The place had an almost primal peacefulness to it as if nature had now reclaimed what man had once torn from its bosom. Dismounting he stepped to the great oak door and knocked.

"Go away!" a voice growled from behind the door. The speaker had a guttural accent. "I will see no one."

"We come in the name of the King!" the officer commanded. "Open up or we will force our way into this place."

There was a clicking noise and then it sounded like a dog's nails on the wooden floors inside as if something scurried away. With his hand on his pistol, the young officer reached for the door's handle and hesitantly turned it. The door creaked open, but there was no one in the hallway to greet him and it was dark and musty. "Hello!" he called out while he entered. Behind him, the sergeant and his men followed, fanning out with their guns at the ready. "I have come to speak to the lord of this manor, where are you?"

There was no answer, but a light shone from the partly open door of the nearby library. His hand still on his pistol and followed by the sergeant the officer opened the door to see a small fire in the hearth. "You are welcome to any food you find within the house, but come no closer," that strange-sounding voice said from behind a large tall backed chair before the fire. "I have an affliction."

The officer could not see the occupant of the chair. "We have been sent with orders to find out where your loyalties stand…"

"The rebellion has no interest to me," the voice answered. "I neither support the crown nor the rebels, I just want to be left alone."

"Now see here…" the officer protested as he stepped forward.

"You seem to be of noble birth," the voice continued. "I'll bet you rode in many a hunt."

"A hunt? What kind of hunt?" Then the officer's eyes saw the shredded remains of a large oil painting strewn on the nearby floor, it was an idyllic painting of riders in red tunics and their dogs chasing after a fox. "Yes, I have been fox hunting a few times."

"I'm sure it is a great sport," the voice sadly replied. "A great sport for everyone but the poor fox."

"Now see here sir, I have my duty to perform and you will answer my questions!" the officer said even as he charged further into the room. He stopped in surprise when he saw the chair's occupant. "My God, you are a fox!" he exclaimed. "A talking fox...that is impossible!"

"My name is Nick Wilde and I am lost," the red fox wearing an ill-fitting shirt said while he looked up with sad eyes at the officer.