The People of Peace

"A Leannan Sidhe, she said to me, Can you believe that, Brother Finn?" Fr. Donahue's face was red from the effort. "I know I've dealt with some crazies before and God knows the drugs being the way they are, we have plenty nowadays, but in all fairness, a Leannnan Sidhe!"

"Did you get a look at her?" asked Brother Finn.

"I could barely make her out, through the grill of the confessional," said Fr. Donahue. "But what I did see was beautiful, and she in no way resembled the junkies and winos of the parish. If anything she seemed well dressed, well spoken even timid."

"So did you give her absolution?" asked the brother, as the two men strolled the outer perimeter wall of Mourne Abbey. It was a fine sunny evening in early May, and summer birds sang in the plush countryside of the valley below.

"I told her to get out. What else could I do? She was obviously a nutter, or high, or whatever. Either way I've enough of that parish I'll tell you." The priest shrugged his shoulders. "My time for dealing with Dublin's lost souls is at an end."

"Did she say any more?" asked Brother Finn. "Anything that caught your interest?"

"Her whole story caught my interest. That's why I was so angry. She told me everything, from what exactly happened to what she was thinking during her ordeal." Father Donahue sighed and sat on a low bench.

"It's the absurdity of it all, Brother Finn. How could a story be so obviously false but still leave me feeling so, so frightened! I tell you I can still feel the cold in that confessional, I can still hear her soft lilting voice, sweet, like velvet it was, yet it held a terrible sadness."

"You know, this doesn't shock me. You're not the first priest to come here telling tales." Brother Finn knitted his eyebrows. "It seems that lately, I'm hearing nothing but strange stories. Anyway, you'd better tell me it all," said Brother Finn in a serious voice.

The two men sat down. Below in the countryside a skylark called a plaintive song, the evening sunshine dimmed and Father Donahue, in slow earnest rhythms began his tale.

Jemma breathed in the cool night air and shuffled her sports bag over her shoulder. She walked down the driveway out of her home; the Boreen, or "little road," glowed silver in the moonlight. The night was crisp and the sky clear. Above her a three quarter moon lit the countryside. Wood smoke carried on the gentle breeze. All evening the bonfires had been burning for the feast of St John. Jemma began her trek along the country lane; the sides of the valley to her left were littered with glowing red and orange dots colored a deeper hue than the house lights beyond. Though it was near midnight, the fires still burned. "Bonfire night," or "bonna night," as it is known in Cork, brought back special memories for Jemma. But those days were behind her now, her youth faded these last dozen years. Now she resolutely walked toward Liscleary graveyard, her mind made up. On this, one of her favorite nights of the year, she would end her life.

Ahead, the lights of Cork Airport and from the city beyond turned the sky a deep crimson, contrasting starkly with the clear, moonlit sky behind. An aircraft, screamed a plaintive wail as it flew over the field to her right and continued on its final approach. When Jemma passed a farmyard, an angry sheep dog ran out and snapped at her ankles. She didn't care. In fact, she barely noticed. She just continued her steady pace until the dog turned away.

From Jemma there were no tears now. She felt hopeful, hopeful that this disaster she called a life would soon be over, hopeful that this pain would soon end. No one cared anyway, she thought. It would be better if I hadn't been born. Years before she mightn't have believed this, but now it felt as though she had never been any other way except in pain, always facing an overwhelming wall of hurt, a cloud of sadness that never passed, a black valley that never ended. But an old memory, on tonight of all nights, reminded her that once she had felt very different.

She remembered a bonfire night years before, her cotton dress of pale green billowing in the wind around her, and "Da," the father she had loved so much. The laughter in his eyes mixed with her cries of excitement as he lit the bonfire. She had squealed in delight as she'd jumped over the flames, dancing around the fire and calling for him to do the same. He did and caught her in a bear hug and whispered softly in her ear, "My lovely Jemma, you shine where you stand."

Not long now she thought, I'll be with you soon, Da. Will you swing me round the fire like you did before? Jemma wondered if there really was anything beyond, if she'd ever see him after all these years. She missed him, she knew that much.

She could remember the exact time the sadness began. The night her father had held her aloft in his arms and kissed her goodnight. "If you're good," he said with a smile, "I'll bring you back chips after the pub." And with that he had turned to her mother and said that he would be home soon. But he hadn't. Instead he and a friend had taken a new Toyota Celica for a drive after the pub had closed, and 'Da' had never come home again.

Her thoughts of long ago began to wander and she remembered the councilors, the doctors, the drugs and of course, the boys. It wasn't long before Jemma was known in the village as the fast girl, an image that suited her just fine. Men always played a role in her life, right up to her latest disaster with the very married Mark. Good old Mark, always the life and soul of the pub. The center of every joke, of every childish prank and always the "go to" guy when there was a scandal. Good old Mark who let his kids go to school dressed in rags while he drank in the pub, who slapped his wife around a few nights a week. Good old Mark who was in with the Guards, hence their lack of interest when he had decided to give Jemma a taste of his wife's medicine.

In the distance the graveyard became visible, its wall a darker shade of navy blue than the sky beyond. Inside, two tall Pine trees stood sentinel, forever-keeping watch to the west. Jemma noticed the air glimmer ahead of her. It surrounded the cemetery and cast a glowing tinge on the velvet sky above. It straddled a line across the road similar to a rain belt. She stood for a while in the center of the road admiring this sight. Whatever it was, she thought, it was something in between, neither rain nor air, neither dark nor light. As she approached, the tall headstones became visible over the boundary wall. At the back of the graveyard stood an ancient ruin, once the "Lios of the Clerics," the church of the white friars, it was now no more than a Gable wall and a pile of stones. At the front, silhouetted against the night sky, were several large white and grey limestone Celtic crosses, silently monitoring Jemma's approach.

Here lay family graves that housed generations of Ireland's dead. Graves etched with names that Jemma could make out in the moonlight - Shields, O'Brien, Murphy and Leahy. Local people who had seen it all, and lived out their lives. Natural selection thought Jemma. She entered the graveyard and headed for the back of the site, behind the ruins of the ancient chapel. Here, in the oldest section of graves, stood an old oak tree, its limbs wizened and gnarled from the unforgiving wind roaring down the Owenabui valley, its deep girth fed on the dampness of the soil and nourished on the human flesh beneath.

Jemma sat and opened her bag. She pulled out the bottle of Vodka and sleeping pills and wasted no time in swallowing four or five, washing them down with a swig from the bottle. The liquid burned her throat, but she ignored the discomfort and did the same again, this time swallowing a fist full of pills. The hard part was next. She gathered her strength for a minute and then resolutely she reached in and took the Swiss army knife from her bag. Rolling up her coat sleeve she opened the knife and, as quickly as she could, made a horizontal cut into her left wrist. She grimaced in pain then felt a hot gush as her veins opened and the blood spilled onto on her knife hand. It flowed in a fast stream down into the soil. Where it would mingle with what lay beneath. And now she thought, some blessed relief.

Jemma sat back again and felt the life begin to drain from her body. A sense of calm shrouded her as a soft wind caressed the graveyard and gently swayed the high growth of midsummer. She surveyed the ancient ruins one last time, then looked up into the night sky. Billions of stars sparkled in the clear air. Their beauty gave Jemma a sense of hope. She felt the first pangs of drowsiness and inwardly smiled. It was beginning.

After a time, Jemma noticed the stars begin to shift and move, first one, then many, until finally cascades of stars shot through the heavens. They ran and ran across the night sky leaving a trail of light behind them. Jemma was attracted into their movement as the lights of billions of dancing stars dipped and changed, moving both swiftly and slow. Her mind was tugged towards them, a mental reaching to touch the universe. She felt a pull in their direction, drawing her toward them.

The lights continued to shimmer and change for a while then began to gather; first a tiny star joined another at the center of the sky, then another and another, slowly building up into one large star. It grew larger and larger filling the night sky and bathing the graveyard in light. Jemma was warmed and touched by the light and she smiled at its beauty and comfort. The light was blinding, but still Jemma looked on. From somewhere within the light three small figures walked toward her. The figures grew larger as they came closer until eventually Jemma could make out three female forms. The figures came closer, their forms blurred and changed and eventually merged into one. An old woman finally stood within the light before Jemma. She held an ornate cup in her hand and with a faint smile on her wrinkled, kindly face she offered it to Jemma.

"Drink this and live forever," said the kindly old woman.

Jemma lifted the cup and smiled and then she drank deeply. The liquid was delicious, a soft cooling touch that seemed to warm her soul. Ecstasy flooded through Jemma. In her ears came the sweetest music she had ever heard. Her mind flooded with luscious poetic thoughts. She looked around her and felt the beauty in this ancient graveyard and throughout the land beyond, it's energy hitting her like a giant pulse. She looked for the old woman but in her place was the most beautiful young woman she had ever seen. Jemma rose, tears cascading down her cheeks, "Thank you, my lady" she sobbed, "Thank you for this release." The young maiden took Jemma by the hand and turned her to face the north. Instead of the Owenabui valley, a giant grassy mound with a narrow stone-cut entrance lay before her.

"Come with me my child," said the figure, "I have much to show you." They walked hand in hand inside, Jemma's consciousness still swimming at what she was seeing. The mound was hollow, and it opened up into a wide hallway where what seemed like thousands of people waited to see the two enter.

The maiden spoke again. "Behold my child, the people of peace, generations of Ireland's dead since the dawn of time." Jemma looked at the thronging crowd of white-faced people and thought she recognized faces she knew from the village in her youth.

"These are my children," said the maiden, "Some served me well in the older times." Jemma looked around the figures she was now beginning to recognize. There was uncle Michael! And Timmy Lyons, the old man from the corner store, but where was her father?

"Some of my children," the woman continued, "I have asked to die for Ireland." The woman's features grew older before Jemma's eyes. "Some of my children," the woman spoke again, her features becoming older and more corrupted as Jemma gazed on, "I have asked to leave my land so that the name of our island would be known forever." The woman became a creature now rotten and decrepit, flesh peeling from her face, skin falling in folds and dropping to the floor at her feet. Jemma backed away, she turned toward the crowd and caught a sight she had not seen in years. A tall well-built man stood with his back to her, but she knew that hair.

"Da, Daddy, it's me." She reached through the crowd grasping for the father she loved so much. "Daddy, turn "round! It's your Jemma." The man began to turn. From behind, Jemma heard the rotten creature call.

"But you my child, my child who has suffered, who has lived in sadness and without hope, you will FEED for Ireland." Hundreds of arms reached out and took hold of Jemma. They grabbed every part of her in an iron grip. She fought as much as she could, stretched her arms forward and screamed, "Daaaaadeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" The man in the crowd turned and recognition flooded his face. He reached towards her. She could just make out him mouthing the word as she was carried aloft among the crowd and back towards the entrance of the mound. Through the blizzard of arms and faces of the dead she could see her father mouth the word "Jemma."

Jemma woke in the graveyard, the creature standing before her. Her body felt (the coldest she had ever felt in her life,) her wrist throbbed and her heart ached for the father she loved; yet she began to sense new things. She heard a rustling in the field beyond and instantly knew it was a field mouse. She could smell the decayed flesh in the earth all around her. From the house a few fields away came the most wonderful smell. It drew her and called to her and made her body shiver. It gave her the most incredible thirst she had ever felt.

The creature looked upon Jemma with malevolence in her yellow eyes. "I condemn you to wander this island in darkness, to feed upon human kind," she said, bending low to bring it's rotten face closer to Jemma. "You will walk between the dead and the living and will feed upon the irreverent. You will be a portent of the great sorrow that is to come. Yours is now a life eternal, a search unending for human blood." Jemma, now delirious, screamed and screamed. She kicked and flailed her body like a mad woman but the figure simply turned and shuffled out of the graveyard. Jemma howled after her, after her father, after her life.

"And that was her tale, Brother Finn," said Fr. Donahue, his voice shaking. "She told me she has wondered the country since, sleeping in old barns, in ruined cottages and of course in ancient tombs. She told me she has fed upon the living the length and breadth of the country."

"Have you seen her since?" asked Brother Finn.

"Every night. She haunts my dreams and my waking thoughts are filled with her story...yet logic tells me she was just another whacked-out junkie."

"I don't think you believe that, do you?" Brother Finn asked incredulously.

"What am I to believe, Brother? I know of the two farmers missing in Cork, of that plumber- what was his name, Mark Byrne-that was found at the bottom of a quarry!" cried the now tearful priest. "But logic tells me it can't be true."

"What will you do now?" asked brother Finn, who had been at the abbey for some five years now.

"I don't know, Brother. This is my third retreat in as many weeks. And wherever I go she haunts my dreams. Even here in my bed she haunts me. My mind is full of stories, of song, of the most amazing poetry, of thoughts and ideas I never thought possible. I feel weaker by the day. It's that cold, Brother Finn. It shrouds me. It touches me to the very bone. I shall never get over it."