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.
“Who would do such a thing to a child?” Sister Cecilia demanded in outrage.
“A Ward,” Finbar breathed softly.
“What did you say?”
Finbar frowned. “Not a thing, Sister. Aye, there are all manner of bad folk in the world,” he said, peering at the revealed mark. “He don’t seem to be in any pain, though, do he? He’s a hardy little chap. Aren’t ya, little fella?” He clucked softly and chucked the boy under the chin.
Sister Cecilia picked up the beautiful blanket and something fell to the floor with a musical chink of metal. Finbar bent over and lifted a small black bag from the linoleum. He pulled the string that bound it closed. Gold glittered softly in the light. Sister Cecilia gasped. Finbar whistled appreciatively, weighing the bag in his calloused palm.
“Looks like St. Bart’s is back in the plus column, Sister.” The baby gurgled happily and splashed in his bathwater.
Finbar held out a little finger and the baby clutched it tight. “Hello, young Breandan.”
“Breandan?”
“In the old tongue Breandan means ‘prince.’”
“Does it indeed? Well, it’s a good enough name, I think. Breandan it is. Oh, he shall certainly be a prince in this house when all the sisters lay their eyes on his sweet little face. Hold him a moment while I prepare a bottle for him.” The sister held the baby out for Finbar to take in his huge hands, then she began shuffling around the kitchen, happily absorbed in her task. Finbar held the boy up, dripping, until they were eye to eye. He stared into the child’s face. The baby, sensing the mood of the man, became sombre and still.
“Failte, Breandan,” Finbar said softly in Gaelic and then repeated in English. “Welcome, My Prince.”
The medallion lay heavy in Finbar’s vest pocket. “It’ll be our little secret, awright?”
Out in the waste ground beyond the walls of St. Bart’s, the rain and wind flattened the tall grass. Two tiny figures scampered up to an empty oil drum that had been tipped onto its side and left to rust. A dark figure sat crosslegged on the drum, silhouetted by the lightning flashes. The rain poured down onto his bowed head, streaming from the tips of his white tresses. The small figures cowered on their knees at the foot of the oil drum, waiting on the figure to speak.
“Is it done?” The dark figure’s voice was cold, like a door flung open on a field newly rimed with frost: beautiful but cold.
“Done, Highness. Done. It’s done.”
“Completely done. No doubt.”
“Were you seen?”
“No! NO! NO!” the two little creatures squeaked insistently. “Not seen! Not seen at all.”
