Warlord

'How many men has he killed? In Londonderry? I think you said his garrison was in Londonderry last night? Yes?'

'Billy doesn't say much about the regiment. Against rules and regs, he says.'

'His regiment. That's the Prince of Wales's Own Regiment of Yorkshire? Infantry, isn't that right?'

'Like I say, he don't say much.'

'Too bad about that eighteen-year-old British soldier shot by a sniper last week. On foot patrol in the Creggan housing estate. Your brother tell you about that, did he?'

'You ask a lot of questions for a man taking a girl for a picnic. How do I know you ain't IRA? A bloody Provo, right? Is that what you are?'

'Don't be a silly girl. I'm just naturally curious, I suppose. I happened to be present when the soldier was shot. I was the only eyewitness to the shooting in point of fact. I know precisely who killed him. Know him quite well, in fact, watch him shave every morning.'

'Listen. We don't talk about such things in my family. It's dangerous. And we especially don't talk about such things to strangers.'

'I want to ask you a very serious question.'

'Then ask.'

'Would you marry me?'

'Me? Marry you? Barmy.'

'Would you?'

'Never.'

'Why not?'

'We're from two different worlds. We got nothing in common.'

'Two different worlds,' he said, a brief glint of bright red anger flashing in his dark eyes. He'd looked away just in time. She hadn't seen it.

'As different as two can get. Look, I don't want you to think I've anythin' against yer kind. But, really, it's just not thinkable. I think you're as handsome a bloke as ever there was, but-'

'But what?'

'A bit old for me, I'd say, Mr. Smith. Unless you were very, very rich of course. But you're only a poor schoolteacher. Or so you say, anyway.'

'Would you like to row out there to Mutton Island? It's not that far.'

'I told you I would. Going with a big strong fella such as you, aren't I? It's a haunt, y'know, that island is. Sure it is. Beasties. Goblins and banshees. When I was a wee one, I heard stories of people going out there. And never coming back.'

'I'll take care of you, don't worry.'

'It's what you promised. Show me the ruins, you said. The old Norman watchtower and the abandoned schoolhouse. And the graveyard.'

'Of course. I'll get the wine, you button yourself up and wrap this blanket round, it's getting quite cold. Storm front coming. My boat is the pretty little blue one down there on the beach.'

'Are you sure it isn't too rough, the water? I can't swim a stroke.'

'It's only half a kilometer across the strait. I think I can handle it. Let's go.'

MUTTON ISLAND ROSE FROM THE SEA to a height of 110 feet. It was covered in wind-whipped grasslands and surmounted by the ruins of an ancient settlement that still stood at the western end. It had been periodically inhabited since prehistory, and the legendary 'Children of Lir' had spent their last three hundred years on the island. They were now spending eternity in the island's ancient graveyard.

Myths about the place were common, most generated by the presence of a Pagan tombstone, six feet high, with hieroglyphic inscriptions. It stood in the center of the graveyard in absolutely pristine condition, despite countless centuries of horrific Atlantic weather conditions.

Pulling hard against the fierce rip of the narrow strait, Smith recalled the first day he'd seen this desolate, uninhabited place. He'd been drawn to it for any number of reasons. Not the least of which were many outings like this one, a beautiful fair-skinned lass seated in the bow of his rowboat, looking for adventure with the handsome stranger.

He timed and caught a wave that carried them high up onto the smooth rocky beach. He shipped oars and waited for the wave to recede, leaving them high and dry, so to speak. Once they'd climbed out, he fastened the long painter round a large boulder. Then he took her hand and led her across the slippery rocks to a pathway he often used. It led to the graveyard. Climbing it, he began to perspire.

They reached the top.

'It's lovely out here. Makes you wonder why no one ever comes. Lived here all me life and never been.'

'Mind your step,' he said. The weather-worn stone tablets of ancient graves had been heaved up topsy-turvy, as if the soil itself was rejecting them. Thick tendrils of fog had wreathed themselves into the ruins, and the graveyard had suddenly become an altogether more haunting place. She was shivering. She hadn't dressed for the cold sea wind.

'Who is buried here? So many graves.'

'Children. Centuries ago.'

'Sad.'

'Yes. Death comes and we go.'

'And what might that be?' she asked, pointing at the six-foot obelisk and wrapping his worn woolen blanket more tightly about her. 'The grave of some great laird, I wonder?'

'A Pagan tombstone, certainly. The grave of an infidel. A kafir.'

'What's a kafir?'

'Someone who doesn't believe in God.'

'Who doesn't believe in God?'

'You'd be surprised.'

'There's writing on it.'

'The hieroglyphs are proving much harder to decipher than I first imagined. But I'm working on it.'

'You're some kind of…archaeologist…then, are you?'

'Yes, something like that,' he said, walking toward the old stone building. 'I make a study of graves.'

'And that building there? It seems to be the only one still standing, if you can call it that.'

'I call it the schoolhouse. It was probably a church since it's adjacent to the cemetery. But I like to think of it as the place where I do my work. Teaching. And learning, of course. Oh, the things I do learn.'

'Oh. You seem to know an awful lot about this frightful place for someone who ain't local.'

Thunder rumbled overhead and there was a searing crack of nearby lightning. The air was suddenly charged with electricity. Fat drops of cold rain began to spatter on the upended stone markers of death. The temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees in the last fifteen minutes.

'You'll catch your death out here,' he said. 'Come inside the schoolhouse. Quickly. I want you to see something. In fact, I want to teach you a lesson. About life and-'

'Teach me a lesson, eh? Cor, the way you do go on!'

'It's my sense of humor. I simply can't help myself.'

She looked at him quizzically but went through the low opening, peering into the gloom.

He followed her into the one-room stone structure. The floor was covered with small white pebbles. There were no windows and only the single heavy wooden door. Faith thought it odd that the door looked so new, and had a bolt, but said nothing. She was staring at the strong shaft of light that came through a crack in the roof.

There was a rough-hewn stone table directly in the center of a jagged beam of sunlight slanting between the rain clouds. Beneath the table she saw a large wooden hatch, as if it covered a set of stairs leading below to… what? A cellar?'

'Look at the lovely light in here,' she said, turning to smile at him over her shoulder. He had his back to her, fussing with something about the door. He turned to her and smiled. An odd smile, rather queer, nothing like the easy smiles on the cliff overlooking the sea. It made her uneasy, like a small cold ache in the pit of her stomach.

'Why did you close the door?' she said as he approached her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it all. The