Dragons over england, p.10
Dragons Over England, page 10
"Why do you want gold?"
"Because it's magic, lass! It is the most beautiful of all metals an' as such it has magic powers. It's gold dust I dip the mint leaves into so ye can speak in the proper old language. Leprechauns remember the value of gold — an' so do dragons."
"Father Ryan sometimes tells me stories about magic silver."
"Oh, aye, trust the Tall Ones to corrupt the real magic an' then try to make somethin' out o' second best. That's what happens when yur built so far from the ground. Ye lose sight o' the true nature o' things."
"Do fairies like gold? I've seen fairies dancing in the meadows at night."
"Fairies, ha? Those bubbleheads don't keer for nought but their dancin'. Gold means no more to them than it would to a butterfly. Come to think of it, a butterfly probably has more sense. It certainly can pay attention longer. An' lass, ye be keerful about bein' outdoors at night. There's more than leprechauns an' fairies waitin' in the mists. M' cousin Grassweaver saw a banshee a fortnight ago an' I'll bet m' pouch o' gold that come winter, the pooka will be roamin' the hills causin' mischief again. We little folks have nought to fear from them, but 'taint safe for Big Feet like yurself."
"Letty, how come I never saw fairies or leprechauns before? Mama and Papa told me stories about them, but I never saw one until I met you."
Letty sighed. "The magic went away for a time, lass. No leprechaun wants to live in a world without magic. But we trusted the land to return things to their proper order an' we just lay down to sleep until it did. Now an' again, some o' us would wake up and wander about for a bit to see if the magic was back, then return to the dreamtime. But recently, we all began to wake up, like flowers peekin' out through snow in the spring. We could feel the change. The magic isna as strong as it was before, lass, but I feel it growin'."
Elizabeth thought about that, her face tight with concentration.
"Could you teach me how to use magic to make Father Ryan laugh again? He used to smile and joke with me when I cleaned the rectory for him. Now he almost never smiles and on Sundays he shouts a lot during his sermon. People used to leave Mass happy, but now they look like they do when they leave a funeral. It's been like that since Mr. Tourret came to town. He scares me."
Letty hugged herself, as if warding off a sudden chill.
"What's this Tourret like?"
"He looks mad all the time, like Mrs. O' Dell's mean bulldog. He talks to Father Ryan a lot and afterwards, Father starts to look mean, too."
The leprechaun pulled her arms tighter together. "The land is tryin' to tell me somethin', Elizabeth. I'd like to get a look at this Tourret. Where d'ye think I might find him?"
"He'll probably be at Mass on Sunday. Can leprechauns go to Mass?"
Letty laughed heartily. "Lass, the religion hasna been thought up yet that can hurt a leprechaun. Ye wear somethin' ye can hide me in an' meet me by the bush that hangs over the wall in the corner o' yur churchyard. Now ye'd best be gettin' home, but take the leaf out o' yur mouth first. Yur people dinna appreciate proper talkin' these days."
"By this time, it was gettin' stuffy under Elizabeth's jacket inside her church," Letty told the other leprechauns. "I had to get a breath o' air, so I peeked out.
"The Tall One that Elizabeth sets such store by — Father Ryan, she calls him — was speakin'. At first, he sounded pairfectly normal. At first ."
"Much has happened in recent months," Father Ryan was saying, "to challenge what we accept as true. We have learned that life does exist on worlds beyond the Earth, worlds that now claim part of our planet as their own. Even here in Ireland, mythical creatures walk the land. Acts of magic have stepped out of children's fairy tales to become a part of daily existence. All of this has forced us to accept possibilities that once we would have scoffed at.
"I have come to believe we live in a new Age of Miracles, a time when God will speak directly to His servants as he did to Moses and Abraham, a time when faith can move mountains literally as well as metaphorically. This time of tumult challenges us all to re-examine ourselves and the world around us with an open mind. Remember that as you listen to our guest from France, Maurice Tourret."
Tourret, dressed in black robes, stood in a smooth, flowing motion. His tall, slim body gave him the look of a ferret standing on its hind legs, sniffing the wind. Long, black hair did nothing to dispel the image. His feral eyes glinted in the light, black and deep as the bottom of a well. When he spoke, his English seemed tinged with a hint of Irish brogue, despite his French origins.
"Brothers and sisters, you will find little comfort in the sermon today. Comfort and complacency lead to the fires of Hell itself! It is indeed an Age of Miracles you now live in, miracles long denied you by villains I will soon name. I have been sent to lead you into the fold of the GodNet, where you will hear the voice of God, not just in your hearts, but with the same clarity you hear my voice now."
Trust him. He speaks the truth.
Letty bit her lip to keep from screaming in pain. A second voice was tearing at her eardrums, cold and lifeless, coming from everywhere at once in a crackling, grinding echo. If the Tall Ones' machines could speak, she told herself, surely this would be their voice. But no one else seemed to hear a thing.
Trust him. Follow him.
Tourret raged on, spewing anger and damnation, and always the metallic, grinding voice demanded Trust him. Follow him.
"Oh, God," he beseeched, "these humble people have sinned, led astray by false prophets. Give them a sign, Lord, to show them the truth of the message that I bring to them. Steer their great faith onto the right road. Give them a sign!"
From somewhere within the church came a loud gasp, followed by a shriek. Other voices quickly joined in.
"The cross!"
"Blood! Blood on the cross!"
A great rustling from the sudden stirring of hundreds of bodies echoed through the room. On the wall behind Tourret's head hung a crucifix. A dark red liquid was sliding in rivulets across it, creating large drops that vanished as they fell. Throughout the church, worshippers were on their knees, crossing themselves and appealing to a variety of saints.
Trust him. Follow him.
"Yes, blood," Tourret shouted, pointing at the crucifix. "First the blood, then the faith. It has been ever thus! In blood you shall be redeemed! I come to bring you the message that has been hidden from you. You shall break the limitations of the body of Adam through cybertechnology and find the powers the Lord intends for those who follow the True Way of the Cyberpope. You will speak directly with God. Father Ryan, are my words true?"
The Father leapt from his seat as if catapulted. "Yes, oh, yes, it is the truth! The Voice of the Burning Bush, The Voice that gave the plans for the Ark, has spoken to me. It foretold the arrival of Brother Tourret and spoke of how Neary's Parish shall be the birthplace of a new and greater hope for all Ireland. God can and will speak to the ears and not just the hearts of those who trust in Him and his true servants. This is the new Age of Miracles of which I spoke, and we shall spread its message across the land!"
Sobs, joyous shouts, and frantic questions mingled noisily.
Trust him. Follow him.
"Follow us now to the churchyard," Tourret shouted, "and you will see even greater miracles!"
With Father Ryan beside him, Tourret led the congregation into the churchyard. A young man stood among the tombstones, a dark figure under a grey sky, his jacket gleaming wet in the drizzling rain. As he turned to face the crowd, there were gasps of recognition.
"Jeremy Bratton," someone muttered.
"Yes," Tourret said, "Jeremy Bratton of your own village. One of your own lambs, gone from your flock nearly ten years, now returns as a ram to lead you to better pastures.
"Brother Bratton has already converted to the True Way. He stands before you as living proof of the strength and power that await all who will open their eyes. God gave us a brain to develop the technology that now leads our bodies and minds to a higher evolution. It is only due to a plot of deception, an abuse of your faith, that this information, this higher calling, has been denied you. Jeremy, show your friends what gifts await them."
Slowly, with a sly grin, Bratton removed his jacket, then his shirt, his undershirt, to stand bare chested before the crowd. No hair grew upon his torso, no scar or wrinkle marred its perfect surface. His face was unnaturally smooth with no lines of worry or laughter to hint at what lay behind it.
Finally, he removed his gloves. The sharp intake of breath into a hundred lungs created a hissing sound in the stillness. Bratton's left hand was a metal claw, glistening blue-black in the pearly light.
From beneath his robes, Tourret produced a throwing knife and hurled it at Bratton's chest. It struck between his breasts, bouncing off harmlessly. Without a word, Tourret pulled a wheellock pistol and fired. The bullet flashed as it ricocheted from Bratton's torso. The crowd muttered like rising waves hissing onto shore.
"Interdermal plating," Tourret shouted, sweeping his arm toward Bratton. "A Heaven-sent gift to make human flesh as strong as the Will of God!
"Behold now the wonders of the left hand of God!" he shouted, tossing a stone to Bratton. In seconds the stone was powder, crushed in the unrelenting vice that was Jeremy Bratton's left hand.
"Behold God's Right Hand as it will mete out justice to the unrighteous!"
Bratton pointed his right index finger at the base of a bush overhanging the wall around the churchyard. A quick series of flashes from his fingertip were accompanied by a flat CRACK-CRACK-CRACK. The bush toppled, hung for a moment on the ancient stone wall like a drowning victim going down for the last time, then tumbled out of sight behind the moss-covered stones. Silence and a burning smell hung in the air.
Bratton turned to face the crowd again.
"You all remember me," he said. "I grew up here among you, before I went north to work in the factories and see a bit of the world. Well, I worked and I saw."
He slammed a fist into the claws of his other hand with a sound that reverberated against the church walls.
"I saw that no Irishman is ever truly free as long as our country is divided, with someone not of Irish blood sitting on the other side of the Irish Sea and deciding Ireland should be split in two. And I saw that others felt as I did. I joined them and we made things unpleasant for Englishmen and Orange alike, unpleasant enough that I had to flee to France or rot in an English prison. For years I stayed there, staring across the grey water and dreaming of my green home and cursing the English who kept me from returning to it.
"Well, now the English know what it's like to have someone sitting above them and determining their fate. Pella Ardinay dropped her Maelstrom Bridge on them and brought her dwarves and elves and all the rest from Aysle to make England her colony. If England was all she wanted, I'd say let her take it and best wishes. But she dropped a bridge into Belfast too, and that belongs to Ireland! With the help of God, we'll throw out these new invaders and the damned English, and Ireland will stand free and united!"
"What are you offering, lad, the IRA?" someone asked. "It's been dead around here since before you were a gleam in your father's eye."
"Not the IRA! No, Neary's Parish will be the birthplace of a new hope with an old name — a new Fianna Fail — the Warriors of Destiny!
"This time, we will win the war, for God will truly be on our side. Brother Tourret," he growled, "continue your sermon."
"Your old friend and my new one speaks the truth," Tourret said, pacing among the headstones. "Although I am not of your soil, I share your country's long hatred of those who seek to impose their will on others by force. Did Lady Ardinay ask the permission of a single Irish soul before dropping her bridge on your green island? Do you think she'll ask permission whenever she wants to rearrange your land and your water, your people so that Ireland will be 'a little more like home' to her and her kind? Do you think the masses who fled their homes in Belfast to live in tent cities left behind all they owned without good reason? They were fleeing Lady Ardinay's terrors — terrors that will soon come to your village, to your wives and children, unless you stop them where they are and then drive them into the sea!"
There was muttering among his audience. Some shook their heads in agreement.
"Pella Ardinay does not fight alone. She is aided in her dream of conquest by your unseen enemy, a glib, scheming mocker — the false pope of Rome, who gives his evil blessing to those who oppress you!"
"You can say what you like about the English or that woman Ardinay, Frenchman," growled a middle-aged shopkeeper, "but we're pious people here, loyal to God and loyal to the Church, for they're one and the same! And don't you be forgetting that again, blood on the cross or no."
"Hear him out, Laurence Pearse," Bratton said quietly.
"Thank you, friend Jeremy," Tourret continued. "I do not question God nor your faith in Him, but your trust has been shamefully abused. Did the Church you placed your faith in ever aid you in overthrowing your yoke of English slavery? When your brave ancestors were defeated at the Boyne, did not the Vatican rejoice for your oppressors with a High Pontifical Mass and Te Deum for bloody William of Orange? Do you think Rome will help you now? Has a single Pope ever called upon the good Catholics of England or any other country to rise up for you?
"No? You were told the meek shall inherit while others stole what was yours. Now, at last, the Cyber-pope, Jean Malraux I, has come with a flaming sword to drive your enemies from your land like sinners from the Garden of Eden!"
"I've heard enough," said Laurence Pearse. "The rest of you can listen to this heretical blather if you want, but I'm leaving. I've trusted in the Catholic of Destiny Church all my life and I'm not about to change just because some Frenchman wants me to." He started away from the crowd, toward the road.
No one was certain how Jeremy Bratton got to Pearse as quickly as he did. One second he was standing near Tourret, the next he had a hand around Laurence Pearse's throat, holding the stout shopkeeper six inches off the ground. Pearse's feet churned and he dug at the vise-like fingers while his face flushed dark red.
"Release him, Jeremy," Tourret said. "Let the Hand of Righteousness fall upon him that he may see his error and repent."
Bratton opened his fingers and Pearse dropped to his knees, gasping for air. Tourret approached, grasped the man's head and, looking skyward, prayed.
"Oh, God, this man knows not his folly for he has long been misled by the heretics of Rome. Show him the suffering that awaits him if he refuses the truth of Your Word as revealed through the Cyberpope Jean Malraux I, Vicar of Christ."
Suddenly Pearse stiffened. His eyes widened as spasms rippled across his face. A few of his neighbors started forward to help him but were restrained by others when Jeremy Bratton stepped forward.
"No, no," Pearse muttered, "please, no, no, nuhaahh!"
His scream continued to rise until the cyberpriest released him and he fell face down into the wet grass.
"Better a man should see Hell while he lives and turn from it than to live in ignorance and learn too late his soul is eternally damned. Brother Pearse will recover to tell you what awaits those who refuse the True Word."
As he spoke, Tourret moved among the crowd, which quickly shifted to give him room. He stopped in front of William M'Kenna, a large man in his early forties who ran a bakery. M'Kenna's ruddy face was lined with deep wrinkles, like barren ground cut by dry creek beds. His clothing bore stains and signs of recent neglect. It was obvious his shoes hadn't seen polish in months.
"Brother M'Kenna, you were good enough to come this morning after all."
"You and Tim Ryan pestered me enough this past week. I told you I'd come to your Mass and I came. But I also told you I'd been Protestant all my life and when I needed God, He was busy elsewhere. I won't be troubling Him again, so keep your rosary beads to yourself. And don't waste your time showing me Hell. I've already seen it."
"We of the GodNet can show Heaven as well, brother M'Kenna," Tourret said softly. He placed his hand on the baker's head. Moments later, M'Kenna began smiling. Joyous tears sparkled in his eyes, and a half-laugh, half-sob, escaped his lips. Then he wrenched his head free.
"Don't ever do that again, Tourret," he gasped, trembling. "I don't need you to remind me of what I've lost, to make me see what I can't touch. Keep your Heaven because I don't give a damn what you papists do. Or the Protestants or the bald-headed Hare Krishnas, for that matter." His eyes darkened. "But if it's war you're going to, give me a gun and I'll join your bloody army. If I'm to worship a god, then I'll serve Mars. At least in war death makes some kind of sense, doesn't it? Doesn't it?"
"First the blood," Tourret whispered, "then the faith."
***
Letty paused for breath before continuing.
"An' through all this was the demon voice tellin' one an' all 'Trust him, follow him,' but ye'd have sworn I was the only one hearin' it for all the attention the Tall Ones seemed to give it."
"I never heard it," Elizabeth said.
Letty twisted to face her.
"Are ye certain, lass?"
Elizabeth thought. Sometimes remembering was so hard. It was like there was a big black stone in her mind and when she tried to remember things, they hid behind that stone.
"I'm not sure, but I don't think I heard it. Are you mad at me for not hearing it, Letty?"
"No, lass, o' course not. Perhaps only leprechaun ears could hear it, although it was worse than a banshee to me."
"Demon voices," Leafflyer said. "Flesh that canna be cut or hurt. Blood flowin' without flesh around it. Ye may be right, Letty. This is unnatural even for the Tall Ones. But to ask the aid o' a dragon an' to pay the beast with gold ..."
"Not all dragons are evil, Shamus, but I'll not be beholden to any o' them, good or bad. A debt owed to a dragon is a terrible thing, for they always collect their due one way or t'other. We'll pay this dragon up front an' honest, because we canna fight this fight by oursel's. We've all amused oursel's playin' tricks on the Tall Ones at times, but like Elizabeth's, our magic willna let us do real harm.
