The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but though love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater. - J.R.R. Tolkien
November 11, 1919
A Dark Street, Dublin
Where had she gone? Evan Langdon cast about the dark street, but neither the girl nor the soldiers were in evidence. He had ducked into an alley to avoid being seen, and when he had emerged the street was empty. It was as if they had vanished into thin air.
His feeling that something was very wrong intensified, and he felt panic begin to rise in his gut. The young boy who had been with Maire passed him going in the opposite direction, and Evan stepped in front of him. Upon seeing his uniform, the child looked alarmed and tried to flee, but Evan grabbed his arm and held him in place.
"It's alright, son, I mean you no harm." The boy looked doubtful.
"What happened to the young woman who was with you?" he asked. The child tightened his lips and looked at the ground.
"I think she's in danger!" Frustration roughened his voice. There was no time for this! "Did you pass a group of soldiers…like me?" Still the boy refused to answer.
"Damn it, I think they want to hurt her!" The boy looked up, saw the fear in the soldier's eyes, and remembered that he had been tasked with getting Maire home in safety. Oh, God, if something happened to her Colum would kill him!
"Sh-she left me at the c-corner," he stuttered, pointing to the next street crossing. "She lives up the street to the left. Sh-she's most likely home by now," he added with bravado. "Maire's very smart…and tough." But his fear was a palpable thing, and in the next second he began to cry.
"Go on home, lad. I'll take care of it," said Evan, and began to run up the street, turning left at the corner. Still nothing. The neighborhood was working class, clusters of three row homes with narrow walkways between each group. He saw nothing. Maybe the lad was right; maybe she was home with her family while he ran around out here like a fool. But he didn't think so.
Then he threw himself down behind a rubbish bin near a front door as a group of British soldiers came out of a walkway, laughing and joking. They did not look his way as they passed by, turning away from where he crouched.
He waited until they were out of sight, and then stood and walked silently down the same passage. He could see now that it was a sort of alley leading to the next street, with carriage doors spaced at intervals along its length. Probably used for storage. He could hear nothing; not even the autumn wind reached down into this dark passage.
He turned to go, and then he heard it. A muffled mewling, like that of a lost kitten, came from the door to his right. He stopped and listened—heard it again. He tried the door, found that it opened easily, and crept inside.
At first Evan could see nothing; the darkness was all inclusive. But the moaning was louder here, and he tracked it to a corner. Lying in a heap on the dirt floor he could make out the figure of a girl. She had been bound and gagged, but someone had removed the restraints and thrown them on top of her. She was lying on her side, eyes closed. Her face was filthy from the tracks of tears that had run down her face, mixing with dirt…and something darker.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Evan moved closer…and gasped in horror. She was nearly bald. Patches of hair stuck up no more than a half inch all over her head, and blood seeped from cuts in her skin where the scalp had been nicked and scraped. Thick curls of long chestnut hair lay strewn over the floor around the girl, all that remained to identify her as the beautiful barmaid from Murphy's.
He had heard about this. Head-shaving—done to humiliate a woman believed to be consorting with the enemy, or to send a message. But he had never seen the results of such barbarism, or the effect it had on a helpless human being. Without thinking, he knelt on the floor and gathered the girl into his arms, rocking her as if she were a baby, crooning meaningless phrases meant to calm her. While he did, his medical training took over and he assessed her for other damage. Other than the superficial cuts to her head, she seemed unhurt—on the outside. But Evan knew from his experience in the Great War that sometimes damage went beyond the physical.
He continued to rock her as she keened, shocked at the feeling of tenderness that swept through him as he did so. He didn't know if she was strong enough to combat what such an invasion could do to her emotionally, but he was determined to be there to help her however he could. He felt responsible for her, assuming the guilt of his countrymen at what had been done to this beautiful young woman.
And he felt something more—something struggling to the surface from deep inside him. He couldn't identify it yet, but he knew that something about this girl called to him from the depths of her anguish and despair. She didn't know it, but she needed him. He looked at her face and thought, I wish I could tell her how lovely she is…even like this.
Her eyes opened, and she stared up at him.
"Get… your filthy hands…off me." Quiet words, laced with venom and hatred and unspeakable pain.
Evan sighed.
November 11, 1919
The Branson Flat
Sybil sat with her feet on Tom's lap and watched him as he rubbed the soreness out, wishing he could rub the darkness from her thoughts as easily. It had been an awful day at the hospital. More and more people coming in with gunshot wounds from this infernal war, and most of them simply innocent civilians in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then there were those who were not so innocent…like the IRA, and republican journalists. Like Michael…like Tom.
"What is it, darling?" Tom never missed anything.
"Nothing," she sighed. "Nothing you can fix, at least. I just worry about you, in this new job. I'm afraid for you. But I know it's what you have to do, and I would never try to stop you."
"You know I would quit the Bulletin in a minute if you wanted me to," he said quietly. "You are more important to me than any cause…even Ireland. I would have lived in England with you, or America. You are my life, mo chroi…and you know it. So what's really wrong?"
Sybil looked down at her lap. When she looked up again, her eyes were full of tears.
"I'm so sorry, Tom!" Her voice came out whispery, ragged. "I don't deserve you!"
He chuckled. "Of course you do, darlin'. You deserve so much better than me! But what's brought this on?"
She continued to stare at him, tears now running freely down her cheeks. "You hate this flat, don't you?"
He stared. The flat? A minute ago she had been worrying about his safety, and now it was about the damn flat? If he lived to be a hundred, he'd never understand women.
But she was right…sort of. He didn't actually hate the flat, he just didn't feel comfortable in it. He wasn't used to this kind of luxury, he didn't like the echoes in the cavernous space…oh, damn it, the truth was he didn't like the fact that he hadn't earned it. It wasn't his world, and it never could be. But he had convinced himself that it was all right, as long as Sybil wanted it, and he thought he'd convinced her. He should have known better; she knew him too well.
"I don't mind it," he said carefully. "I just wish I could afford a place like this, and I know I'll never be able to. I don't like it that I can't provide you the life you had before…before me. But all that really matters is that we're together. The rest is—"
"I know, the rest is detail." She sat up straight and looked at him earnestly. "But details do matter, when you love someone. And the little detail here is, I've been very selfish. I told you the truth when I said I didn't care about all that nonsense. But then, the first time I was tested, I gave in to Granny and let her buy me back. It's been bothering me for a long time, Tom, but now I don't know what to do about it!"
Tom grabbed his wife's hand and pulled her onto his lap. "You're amazing, d'you know that?" he said, his voice thick with emotion. He wiped away her tears with a rough thumb. "Don't worry, darlin', we'll figure something out. Meanwhile, we need someplace to live, and with my new job, we can't afford much at the moment anyway. Besides, where would we put your sister? This place is as good as any for now"…he looked around at the luxury that surrounded them, and winked at her…"but what say we think about selling it one day soon and buying you a nice little shack on the other side of town?"
Sybil threw her arms around him and covered his face with kisses. "Oh, Tom, that would be perfect! I do love you so much!"
"Ahem. Excuse me?" Edith said from the doorway. "Michael's at the door, and he seems very upset. Says it's an emergency."
November 11, 1919
The Branson Family Home
All the lights were on in the Branson home. Claire was pacing, trying to keep her fear from leaching out to the others and failing miserably. Sybil was keeping herself busy, serving tea, straightening furniture, anything to distract herself. Kathleen sat next to Bernadette, holding her hand.
Edith had stayed back at the flat, not wanting to be in the way, helpless in this family crisis. She remembered another time a Branson family member had been missing, with the clarity born of a new understanding concerning that particular family member, and she remembered the fear and the agony of that night. This relationship was too new; it wasn't ready to share something like this. So she stayed away, and worried alone.
Maire had been due home more than two hours ago. Young Cabhan had gone back to Murphy's and gasped out a story to Colum about a British soldier who had been looking for her. Amidst his tears he had managed the admission that he had left her on her corner at her insistence. "She made me leave," he had protested. "She's probably home by now, but the soldier scared me. He said there were other soldiers that wanted to hurt her! Then he ran after her! I didn't know what to do, so I came back here. I'm so sorry…"
Colum had not waited for him to finish his self-recriminations, running to the Bransons' in the dark, hoping that this feeling of dread was wrong, knowing in his heart that it wasn't. Maire was just too reckless! If something had happened to her, he didn't know how he would ever forgive himself. He loved that young girl as if she were his own—why hadn't he protected her better?
And now the men were out looking, and the women were at home waiting. Just like it had been throughout the centuries, Sybil thought in despair. She knew that she had to stay in case…someone…needed medical attention, but the inaction was killing her. She needed to do something. She needed to see Maire sauntering through that door, not a care in the world. She needed Tom.
A heavy knock came at the door, and everyone froze. Time stood still, those in the room remembering that other time with Patrick, and then Claire forced her body to move, to open that door to whatever news waited on the other side.
A young man stood in the doorway, his arm around a figure that was slumped against him, face hidden, a blanket wrapped around its head and shoulders. The man wore the uniform of the British army, and his eyes were bleak.
"I've brought her home," he said simply, and gently moved forward with his burden. Claire looked at him in confusion, and then looked at the figure held in his arms. Maire.
"Is she hurt? What have you done to her?" Claire demanded. She took Maire from him and shoved him back, away from her daughter. The blanket fell back from her head, and everyone gasped in horror. Her beautiful hair was gone, replaced by a red and white palate of blood and raw skin interspersed with tiny patches of chestnut fuzz. Her swollen eyes fastened on her mother's face, but she said nothing.
Claire clasped her daughter to her breast, and turned back to the soldier in the doorway. "Who did this?" she demanded, her voice breaking. "Who did this to my precious girl?"
"Soldiers." His voice was low, filled with self-loathing. "British soldiers, just like me."
"Why did you bring her to us?" Claire's voice was flat. She had to keep her mind on something besides the pitiful thing in her arms. Had to keep herself from attacking this man. "What happened?"
"I followed them from Murphy's. I …found her like this…I tried to clean her up." "I-I have medical training"…his voice was halting. He choked out the words, "I hate what they did!"
Michael appeared in the doorway behind Evan Langdon, followed by Tom. "Is she home?" Then he took in the scene before him, saw his sister and what had been done to her, and focused his rage and impotence on the British soldier in front of him. "I will kill you!" he screamed, and lunged for the man in uniform. Evan stood still, making no effort to defend himself as Michael grabbed him around the throat.
"Stop! Stop it, Michael!" Claire's voice rang out. "This man brought Maire home to us. He found her; helped her. He didn't need to do that!"
Reluctantly Michael stepped back, keeping a cold eye on the soldier. "Talk."
So Evan did, telling them about the soldiers who had followed Maire from the pub and his suspicions about them, about losing the men and finding the young lad who had been with her. About seeing the men emerge from the alleyway and going in to investigate. About finding the girl, cleaning her wounds. Finding out with difficulty where she lived, and bringing her here. He did not tell them about the girl's words to him in the dark room. He deserved them, and the pain they brought.
Sybil came forward and gently took Maire from Claire's arms. Her sister-in-law still had said nothing; the eyes in her white face were glazed and dull. She was in shock, Sybil realized. About that, she could do something. She walked with her burden into the kitchen, those in the front room watching them go and saying nothing, still in shock themselves. There was nothing to say.
Claire shook herself and stepped forward. "It seems that we have you to thank for saving my daughter," she said formally. "So…thank you.
"And now I think you should leave."
Evan turned without a word and left the Branson home, his heart heavy. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving him alone in the darkness. He trudged to his barracks, wondering what kind of God could allow such love and grief to exist in the same universe, and where faith and hope fit in. If they even did.
A/N: During the Irish War of Independence, head-shaving was common on both sides as a form of intimidation. It was seen by the perpetrators as a humane punishment, although the violation of a woman's femininity was as painful as the act itself. The attacks most often took place at night, and away from others who could rescue the woman. A woman with a shaved head had to endure the shame of her status as a "warning" to others, and the psychological damage was often intense and lasting.
Pronunciation Guide:
Cabhan - kav + an
Maire - my + ra
Mo chroi (my love) - muh+ khree
