FicWad

Liam is alienated by Kerrigan’s reading and Jack’s letter-writing, as he is illiterate. Kerrigan, who can barely walk, senses this and makes her way to the barn, slowly and carefully, where she finds Liam sitting on a crate in Pyro’s stall, the grooming brush looped around his right hand, the brush awkwardly outward, backwards of how it ought to be held, his head in his hands in frustration and disgrace, and she takes the brush from him, setting it on the dividing half-wall between the two stalls, and gently strokes his hand the way the mother he never had may have done to comfort him when he was a young child. He looks up at her nearly on the brink of tears, and she pulls him close to her, realizing how much comforting he needs and that Jack knows nothing of his own son’s plight. The anguished Liam lays his head on Kerrigan’s shoulder as she pulls a crate next to his and assures him that he can confide in her and that she will tell nobody, not even Jack, a word that Liam says. Liam tells her that there is no problem besides his foolish pride and that she ought not to worry about him when she herself is injured so badly, but she insists on comforting him in silence, having done so for his father many times before for every event in his life and after his death from the loss of the twins, to returning from a war only to find friends and family dead, to the recent loss of Maire and the custody of his young sons.

Liam finally speaks, “’Tis awful growin’ up a bastard. Everyone knows your ma’ an’ da’ never married an’ that your ma’ slept wi’ at least one man, if not dozens, she didn’t marry. ‘Tis harder still when all ye know o’ your da’ is that he’s a soldier, so ye’ve no chance o’ findin’ who he was, if he’s even alive when ye’re old enough to look. ‘Tis harder without a ma’ to look after ye, dry your tears, keep ye in the right, an’ love ye when no one else does. ‘Tis hard not havin’ a last name’, an’ knowin’ ye killed your ma’ yourself, first thing ye ever did. Life was easy compared to this. I have to hide constantly, so as nobody knows- finds out-”

“You cannot read.”

“Aye. Ye know.”

“You fooled even your father. Michael Crane told us. McAlpine, the silversmith, probably told him.”

“Aye, McAlpine knew. Me superiors know. None o’ the men I lead know, an’ those what do are sworn to secrecy on pain o’ death. I’m surprised Mike told ye. He can’t read neither.”

“It is less of a liability in his trade, for he has an excellent memory and a talent for mental mathematics, at least, the mathematics of which he makes use in commerce.”

“Ye ken we report to our superiors one at a time. Everyone else signs his name on the papers. I just answer questions, an’ they write me name for me.”

“Would you like to learn to read and write?”

“Aye. Someday.”

“I could teach you, Liam. Your father could as well. I could ask him for you.”

“No children’s work, if either o’ ye don’ mind. I’m not Jason.”

“You must start with simple words, but folktales, proverbs, and conversations need not be children’s stories.”

“I don’t want anyone to know, especially not Billy Fitz. I’d hear no end’ve it.”

“Tell them you are coming for dinner and drinks or cards. Jack is your father. They have met him. If one of them comes along, we will have dinner and drinks. Any primers can be explained away as belonging to Jason. Tell your command the truth. Nobody else needs to know, and they will not have you write a word until you are ready.”

“How could I ever pay ye an’ da’?”

“You need not pay us. If you grew up in the Vampire District, you would probably have gone to school as a child.”

“How did me da’ learn?”

“My husband taught him to read and write when he was a child.”

“Morietur?”

“He used a different name then. He was Brian Harte, a gravedigger, coffin-maker, and headstone-carver. I was Róisin Harte. I was a young orphan who married the gravedigger around the time your grandfather left your father with your great-uncle, who lived next door to us. If there are two things nobody wants near the town, they are livestock and dead bodies.”

“I never knew me da’ was raised by his uncle.”

“You ought to know something else as well. His father was a married man whose wife would have killed the baby. Your father’s mother was a maid before he was born. She had no money, so she left him with his father. His father could not keep him, so he gave him to his uncle.”

“Me da’ was a bastard too?”

“He was named for the priest who absolved his parents and would have baptized him, had he lived that long. The new priest refused. Do not tell your father that I told you this, for he would be terribly angry with me if he knew I was the one who told you. I am surprised that you did not know this, for it is no secret. I suppose nobody really talks about it anymore.”

“I suppose ye think me troubles petty compared to what ye face at home. Me da’ told me about what your oul’ fella did.”

“I do not think that your troubles are petty. I will admit that my husband can be a bit difficult at times, but your father ought not to have told you.”

“I’m a Bridgeton man. I cannot seem weak in anyone’s eyes.”

“You are definitely your father’s son.”

“How so?”

“Your father is obsessed with seeming untouchable. He sees himself as more of a guardian than a Senator. He feels that, as a Senator and as the pater familias, he must always be the strongest. You are very similar. You cannot ask for help, and you cannot accept charity. You are worried about how to pay us back if we teach you to read. Your father sees it as his obligation to make up for not having been there for you all of these years. He will also let you stay in his house in Highton. His wife has always wanted children, but your father’s sons from his previous marriage, Jason and John, already have a mother. Your mother is nowhere to be found. She will treat you like her own child.”

“An’ yourself? What’ll I do for you?”

“Do you know General O’Casey?”

“Aye. His father was a Revolutionary General. His mother died when he was a child. Your father asked me to see to it that the children all grew to adulthood. Saxen O’Casey is one of the few Bridgeton men willing to accept outside help. General Ronan still calls me ‘Ma’ Kerrigan.’”

“Really?”

“We could visit him if you would like proof.”

“I believe ye. I’m just surprised that General O’Casey would use anyone’s given name if he’d a rank and surname to use.”

“You were deployed before Yule. You will meet him personally next Yuletide, I am sure, for your father hosts a grand feast every year, and Genearl Ronan O’Casey has never missed one. Your father will see to it that you are able to attend. You will, I am sure, be surprised by many of these commanders when you meet them personally.”

“How come he didn’t tell me this?”

“I cannot say for certain, however I suppose that he probably did not want to seem too strange to you.”

“How’d he meet ye? I mean after he died an’ that.”

“Your uncles Sean and Seamus lived with me for a time when they were children, as they died too young to attend school. I took them into my home, rather than allowing them to live with another Banshee family or in an orphanage for a number of years because I knew them personally. A few years after they graduated, your father died, and he lived with them for a time before a law required him to live in the Vampire District. Your uncles re-introduced us while he was thatching a roof for a friend of theirs.”

“So, Miss Kerrigan, what d’ye think o’ me da’?”

“When he applies himself, he is truly a brilliant man. He is honorable. He is genuine. He is kind-hearted and a gentleman. He is very loyal, and-”

“What’re the two o’ ye talkin’ about?” asks Jack.

“We were talking about you,” replies Kerrigan.

“Liam, why did ye walk out like that?” asks Jack.

“I-I-da’, I can’t-” stammers Liam.

“Jack, you know that Liam is illiterate,” explains Kerrigan.

“Jaysus, I’m sorry if what I did upset ye. I didn’t think it’d bother ye,” Jack says remorsefully. “I just wanted to write back to me wife. Surely, ye’ve had a girl ye missed at least once by now.”

“It didn’t bother me,” lies Liam.

“I guess I took it for granted, since I learned as a child,” Jack says, noticing, but not acknowledging, his son’s lie. “D’ye want to learn to read, an’ that?”

“’Twould be a miracle. I ain’t smart.”

“Come now, Liam, ye’re an officer. Ye’ve survived combat in the Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry wi’ brass on your shoulder. Many a smart man didn’t make it as an officer in the Thirteenth. I’m surprised your tent mates don’t know. Ye’ve managed well. Ye’ve hid it well. Ye’ve a good memory. I think ye’ll learn fast. Ye know, not as many people as ye think can read. I tried to teach General McMahon and Brigadier General Murphy long ago. McMahon can read about as well as a ten-year-old, but have ye ever seen the chicken scratchings Murphy calls a signature? He can’t spell a’ ‘tall, neither.”

“Then how’d he get that rank?”

“He’s lucky, an’ he knows how to make people do what he wants ‘em to. I also owed him a huge favor years back.”

“What d’ye mean ‘he’s lucky?’”

“I mean we win battles if he’s there.”

“Where was he when we were decimated? We’re his old unit, aren’t we?”

“Probably with a heavy artillery unit. He commands the five District Twenty heavy artillery units. He transferred over to heavy artillery an’ District Twenty when he made Colonel. He’s never turned back. They fight north o’ Crosspoint. He favors the heavy artillery because, he don’t like seein’ who he’s killin’, to be honest. While most o’ your officers have horses, ye’re not cavalry. ’Tis mos’ly jus’ so your men can see ye in battle an’ so ye can find each other. Murphy was a swordsman for years, an’ a good one, but he don’t like gettin’ too close to the enemy. Ye swordsmen an’ pistoliers also bore him to death. Handaxmen too. Don’ even ask about pistols, muskets, an’ rifles. He can’t shoot to save his life. Hell, he’s shot me twice by accident, which is more’n I can say for enemies he’s killed wi’ guns. He’s no good wi’ a rifle, an’ he’s neither a bowman nor a crossbowman. He never spent time in a light artillery unit. As for heavy infantry, they’re more suited to skull-bashing and guard duties. Halberds, bec de corbin, warhammers, pickaxe, spears, scythes, maces, an’ that…most command won’t go near ‘em. They’re a bleedin’ deathtrap if they corner ye, an’ they mo’tly fight their own kind. Murphy likes cannon. He’s fond of anythin’ that’ll throw a rock or a ball o’ lead far enough that he can kill people wi’ out seein’ ‘em. He’s also good wi’ the trébuchet, catapult, an’ pierrière, but he loves cannon more than whores.”

“John Murphy is a rather unsavory character,” says Kerrigan. “The fact that he is your father’s friend is one of his few merits.”

“That an’ he can drink most men under a table.”

“While that is not necessarily a qualifying attribute, it is true. He has never gotten the better of your father, though.”

“Speakin’ o’ the drink, Liam, what’s say we go out for a few rounds an’ leave Miss Kerrigan to rest a while?” asks Jack.

“I’d rather stay here,” says Liam, “if ye don’ mind.”

“Then look after Kerrigan. Thankee for groomin’ Spectre for me.”

“No problem. He’s a beautiful horse.”

“Thankee.”

Jack saddles his horse and rids to a tavern called The Pen and The Sword. He wants to be away from the cabin and his troubles. He wants to be away from Kerrigan’s pain and the reminders that he was too afraid to save her. He wants to be away from the reminders of how he failed his son, likely his eldest son, whom he fathered at seventeen. He wants to be away from the reminders that he is not with his wife.

The Pen and the Sword is a middle-class tavern, and anyone known to be in the army gets their first round on the house. Jack tells no one that his cast is merely hiding stitches, and the comparatively wealthy, somewhat educated patrons jump at the chance to drink with their Senator and hear old tales of valor from his revolutionary days. Thus, Jack drinks until last call without paying for a single drink except in story. On his way back, he stumbles into an opium den.

At the cottage, Kerrigan tries to teach Liam the alphabet and how to sharpen and hold a quill. He has no trouble with the pen knife, and, when she explains that the proper grip of a writing implement is a rotation of how he holds a knife, he learns the method quickly. She teaches him the alphabet, and he takes to the mechanics of writing very quickly. She also teaches him how to sign his name. He practices an elementary signature until his hand hurts. Then, once he has mastered something of a signature, he looks up at Kerrigan

“’Tisn’t hard a’ ‘tall.”

“Reading and spelling will be considerably more difficult for you, since you are not learning as a child.”

“How so?”

“Children’s brains are more open to these things. Luckily for you, you already speak two languages. Not until you make command will you need to learn to speak Vampiric, so I will not endeavor to teach you its unique alphabet at this juncture. Instead, I shall only teach you to write in English for the time being. As for Irish, I only ever use it dealing with your family, your father’s friends, and Banshees, though, as you know, it is widely spoken in District Thirteen.”

“Aye, but most who speak it there don’t write.”

“That is true, and that is precisely why I will not begin with it. Would you like a drink, Liam?”

“I’m always up for the odd drink or two.”

“You are just like your father. Do not touch his liquor. He will not take kindly to that. I have alcohol in the smaller of my two trunks. The larger contains the majority of my clothing, toiletries, books, and writing supplies. Mind that you do not injure yourself on the weapons. They are in the trunk with the alcohol and my undergarments. The key is on the shelf above my bed.”

“Ye trust me to touch your…frilly things?”

“They are not frilly at all. I left those at home with my husband. There is nothing frilly about dressing gowns, bloomers, corsets, and petticoats, as they are merely utilitarian garments, the same as your shirt and trousers. I keep the clean ones in there because I enjoy a nightcap. I often leave the bottle on my night table overnight, and I put it away when I dress in the morning.”

“Never thought o’ things that way.”

“You are like your father. I wonder, though, are you dependant on alcohol?”

“Not by far. Can’t afford it.”

“Do you experience Delirium Tremens?”

“Never have. Hope I never do. I hear ‘tis awful…”

“Your father does. You are not as far gone as he.”

Liam slides Kerrigan’s trunk out from underneath her bed. He unlocks it and moves her undergarments and weapons out of the way, finding a full bar as he does. “Ye keep all this wi’ ye when ye travel?”

“I do. I like the variety. That trunk usually stays packed even when I am at my home.”

“For yourself?”

“I have been known to share. The fact of the matter is, diplomats like to drink. It facilitates debates over small details and is a ceremonious way to celebrate an accord. I do not bring it to Senate meetings, as your father becomes quite impassioned in his arguments when he is intoxicated, often to the point of becoming dangerous. Put it up on the end of the bed, please.”

Liam does as he is told, and Kerrigan begins to lift individual bottles out, reading the labels and putting them back, carefully choosing which liquor or liquors might be best for the occasion. Liam does not realize the value of what is in the trunk. The bottles alone are each worth more than he earns in a month, as they are enchanted to refill themselves. Most of the liquors are either incredibly rare, were imported from other planes, or were used in very famous dealings and ceremonies. She passes over mead from Valhalla, liqueur distilled from heather flowers from the Seelie Court, scotch from the Unseelie Court, poitín from Tír na nÓg, an infusion of rose petals from Faerie, the only wine ever produced in Heaven, a very bitter absinthe from Purgatory, a bittersweet bourbon from Limbo, a sweet rum from Fiddler’s Green, a dry gin from Davy Jones’ Locker, a delectable pomegranate wine from Hades, nectar from Mount Olympus, and several bottles of Hell’s best vintage liquors.

“Ye’re an interestin’ woman, Miss Sheehan.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s forty or fifty bottles there, but ye’re lokin’ for the right one, an’ ye’re readin’ the lables careful, so ye don’ have one in mind.”

“There are forty-seven bottles. Do you drink wine?”

“Never tried it.”

“Your father hates it. I had meant to share this with him, for he likes strawberry wine. Perhaps I shall open it when he returns. I doubt that rum or gin would interest you. Sherry and cordials are not typically associated with anything but dinner parties. Do you like claret or port?”

“Never had either.”

“I do not drink beer, save the occasional porter, thus I have none. Do you like cider or brandy?”

“I like cider. Can’t afford brandy. Never tried it.”

“I would offer you whiskey, but we had best wait for your father.”

“What’ll ye drink?”

“I shall have something somewhat lighter.” She hands Liam a bottle of cider after removing the cork stopper. “I think perhaps I will have a bit of white wine while we wait.” She pours herself a glass and walks over to the top of the bed, reclining against the pillows as she gracefully sips her wine. Liam sits next to her, smelling her intoxicating perfume, eyeing her figure, watching the candlelight glisten off of her hair and jewelry, and watching her delicate, little hands gently holding her glass. The glass came from her liquor trunk, and she rarely uses glassware in Crosspoint, as it is far cheaper to use cups hewn from wood, which will not break if dropped. He wonders what the occasion is as he leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. Kerrigan eventually rises and puts away the case of liquor. She sweeps the wooden floor of the one-room cottage. A gentle rain begins outside. Liam’s outstretched hand gently drops his empty cider bottle onto the floor, and Kerrigan knows from his breathing that he is asleep. She moves the trunk, slides him further onto the bed, removes his boots and trousers, and tucks him under the covers, kissing his forehead. He smiles in his sleep. She picks up the empty bottle and puts it on the table, extinguishes all of the candles except one inside on the table and one in the lantern outside, and goes out to the stable to put a blanket on Pyro for the night. Once her chores are finished, she removes her jewelry, dress, petticoats, corset, bloomers, and socks, leaving only her dressing gown and wedding ring. She sits awake contemplating Jack and Liam, the war, the many uses of literacy, a life without literacy, Lynn, Shane, Morietur, and the almost grotesque beauty of flickering shadows and dripping wax.

Jack rides to the stable behind the cottage, hangs Spectre’s saddle and bridle, and puts a blanket on the horse’s back. He then bounds up the alley and bursts into the house.

“Kerrigan, how’re ye?” he roars.

“Hush, Jack, for you will wake Liam.”

“He ain’t a child. He’ll be fine. What’d ye give him?”

“I gave him cider from the orchard at my home. If you want to speak, then let us go out of doors where we will not disturb his rest.”

“Lightweight? Me own son?”

“Look at the bottle.”

Jack looks at the bottle and finds it to be full. He cannot read the Demonic words carefully scribed onto the handmade label. “He drank nothin’?”

“Watch.” Kerrigan sips a small amount from the bottle and places it on the table. The bottle refills itself once placed upright.

“Enchanted bottle?”

“It is.”

“Your weddin’?”

“It is not that old. It is from my the anniversary when my husband finished our current estate. If you see the writing, it says, ‘Morietur and Miltaedovinatulinia.’ The next line, translated, reads, ‘May you live happily ever after in prosperity.’”

“Is that…?”

“It is one of the bottles from my basement that you have never seen.”

“No wonder he-”

“Do you think you could drink the entire bottle and stay awake?”

“No.”

“As I have told you, nobody who remembers my wedding day attended my wedding. To write it in the Annals, I had to put together the pieces that everyone remembered. I left out the fight that occurred between Ranrock and Marduk, who were, at the time, vying for Arimanthia, though she had already borne Ranrock’s child. That anniversary was much the same. Would you like a sip.”

“’Course I would. Have I ever declined free drinks?”

“This hardly tastes like alcohol a’ ‘tall.”

“It is deceptively sweet, yes. I left the poitín from my wedding stashed away. I have seen how dangerous it really is.”

“Ye know, I drank for free all night. I ain’t paid a penny.”

“You are the only rich man I know who could do such a thing.”

“It cost me many o’ me best tales. I could never do that in Bridgeton. Especially since the tales are mos’ly about Bridgeton men. The opium cost a fair bit, though.”

“Liam is a most interesting man.”

“How so?”

“You did not raise him, but he is obviously your son. He shares many of your mannerisms. He even has the same ways of casting his eyes downward when he thinks and looking upward to seek approval. He is also smart. It is not a case of him being shy or modest. He does not realize how intelligent he is.”

Jack grabs the bottle of cider and finishes it. Kerrigan assures that it is again upright and helps Jack to bed, which is a task far more difficult than usual, as he is in an exceptionally good mood, and he is continually trying to dance with Kerrigan while falling into her arms.

“Kerr, dance wi’ me, for ol’ times’ sake.”

“I will not.”

“Aww, Kerr, please.”

“No. Hush yourself and go to bed.”

“Come to bed wi’ me then.”

“I most certainly will not!”

“Ye’ll like it. I promise.”

“Jack, stop this foolishness.”

“Jus’ for a little while?”

“Do you want me to break your arm?”

“I’d rather ye suck me dick.”

Kerrigan pulls a knife from the counter and holds it dangerously close to Jack’s throat. Her eyes light up with anger, and her voice becomes as treacherous as a snake. “I said enough. Do you understand?”

“Ach! I was on’y jokin’. A man can dream, can’t he?”

Kerrigan returns the knife to the counter and sighs, “I suppose you can dream, but you must not act upon your dreams.”

“Sure, ye’re no fun a’ ‘tall.”

“You are about to collapse from drinking too much. Go to bed.”

“I amn’t!”

“You are. Do not force me to argue. Just go to bed.”

“Dance wi’ me.”

“I will do no such thing. Please do not grate upon my nerves any longer.”

“Ah, but, Kerr-”

“Enough is enough! I shall tolerate no more nonsense!” Kerrigan shouts, lunging after Jack alarmingly quickly and throwing him from his chair onto the floor with an alarming clatter. She kneels on his chest and slaps him across the face with a crack like thunder, leaving a perfect red handprint and bleeding claw marks in her wake. Her eyes burn like fire, and Jack, sobered by fear, knows that he went too far. Liam, woken by the commotion, scrambles bleary-eyed to his feet and attempts a salute out of habit. He, being drunk and exhausted, accidentally uses the wrong hand. Jack roars with laughter and makes a bed in his spare trunk for Kerrigan, who is still seething and nurses his face after ensuring Liam all is well and promising to explain the laughter in the morning.