Dead Men (and Women) Walking (4 page)

"Begging your pardon,
Conner. So, if I may inquire, how's your health?"

I didn't even see the cane
coming around. It wasn't a hard blow, but it certainly came as a
surprise. The old man just sat there looking as innocent as a
saint. "Oh I have the good days and the bad days. When you get to
be as old as me, things can start to get a little run
down."

"And just what age would
that be?"

"Why I'm thirty just
yesterday, Liam. You should be so blessed as to live to so fine an
age as thirty."

"But, Conner, Tim was
forty-four this year."

"Are you calling me into
question, Liam?"

"Of course not, Conner. We
all know you're up for sainthood when your day comes."

He rapped his cane against
the floor, and squinted up at me. "And don't you go forgetting it.
Otherwise I'll not put in a good word for you, and you'll wind up
in hell with all the Englishmen."

That was nearly going too
far, but I didn't say anything. I still remembered when he gave me
hard candies as a lad; well, he gave me candy when he wasn't busy
threatening me with his cane.

"It was good talking to you,
Conner. You take care."

He snorted at me again as I
walked away. I suppose I really didn't have any call to take
offense; he treated all the men that way. He was far more polite to
those that came calling in a dress and with feminine endowments.
That reminded me of something as the band trotted out a jaunty
tune. Once, when they were young men, my da and Tim had worn
dresses and cheap wigs, and sneaked up to Conner when he was in his
cups. Once he figured out what was going on, George Dooly had to
convince him to put down an old pike so the lads could get out of
the tree.

Mary had brought out more
punch and porter, and people were starting to dance. I spun a few
reels with lasses I had known, and shared more stories with old
friends. The drink was bringing the sentiments out thick, and many
an eye was starting to fill with tears.

I took a turn singing with
Richard and his boys, and danced some more. I noticed Biddy O'Brian
was starting to get more than a bit maudlin, and I started to get a
bit worried. There'd been rumors some years ago; whispers saying
that she and Tim had been more than just passingly acquainted. Mary
never paid the rumors much heed; though, she would concede that her
Tim certainly had a roving eye. She never worried so long as the
rest of him always came back where it belonged.

Paddy McGee, red in his
beefy face, was shaking his fist at Biddy. They exchanged a few
harsh words. Biddy just sniffed and turned away from Paddy, but her
detractors weren't done with her. Maggie O'Conner started up, and
was just short of calling Biddy a slattern and loose
woman.

No one had ever heard Maggie
speak like that; at least, not in public. We were all shocked, none
more so, I think, than Biddy.

Shocked as we were, we were
pole axed by Biddy's reaction. She hauled back her fist, and let
Maggie have one in the jaw. Biddy was nearly half Maggie's size,
but it was a telling blow. Maggie just stood there with her mouth
working like a dying fish's, and then just tipped over.

There was nothing for a
moment ... we all held our breaths as one. It felt like there, in
Tim Finnegan's house, the world had just stopped. For a moment only
did it last, and then a ruckus like no other started up.

Mary Finnegan let Biddy have
one upside the head. Paddy jumped at Tom, and Richard and his sons
had dropped their instruments, and were taking on all comers. Frank
Riley tried to hit me with a jug, and I was forced to kick him in
the unmentionables.

Old Man Conner was singing.
His voice was a deep baritone, and it sounded like some sort of
marching song. He was also laying about him to great effect. Nary a
soul came within three feet of him that didn't feel the sting of
that old cane. Most of them stumbled away dazed, heading back into
the brawl. A few of them tried to make an issue of Conner's fun,
but found out the hard way that he really was in fine
health.

It was truly a row of epic
proportions. I don't have many clear memories of what happened in
the middle. I recall biting someone's nose, and a lot of hitting
and kicking all around. Things don't start to clear up again until
the end.

Mick Powers was sitting on
the floor, nursing a glass of porter. I'm not sure how he got
there; let alone how he managed to find an unspilled glass. I heard
someone shout his name, and saw him raise his head up. His gaze was
bleary, and he lowered his attention back to his glass almost
immediately. Good thing for him too, because someone sent a jug of
whiskey flying for his head.

The missile missed by but a
scant inch. With quite a noise, it broke against the barrel of
porter resting above poor Tim's head. Shards of glass, and runnels
of whiskey, trickled down to coat his face; until now, all reposed.
For a moment, I thought I saw the body give a slight quiver, but
shook it off as the effects of drink and perhaps one too many
punches in my face.

I blinked a few times, then
took a deep breath, trying to clear my head. Out of the corner of
my eye, I saw Old Man Conner, and what I saw made me turn to look
straight at him.

He was shaking, and his
hands were locked in a white-knuckled grip on his cane. His
expression could only be described as one of fear. The man's beard
looked like it wanted to crawl back into his face.

Without a word to anyone,
Conner started for the door. We were all still in a sort of daze,
and he used his can to prod aside anyone who wasn't moving fast
enough to suit him. I saw him muttering to himself, but don't think
anyone was able to make out the words. He fetched his coat and hat,
and then was gone into the night; leaving me wondering how a little
spilled whiskey could put the fear into a man like that.

After a minute or two, we
all started to come back to our senses. We'd set the place to a
terrible mess; broken glasses and crockery everywhere; furniture
overturned, and one chair broken; not to mention the mess we'd made
of Tim himself.

Quietly, with whispered
apologies to Mary and each other, we began to set things aright. It
was never spoken aloud, but we all knew we'd pool among our own
possessions, and what little money we had, to help replace the
things that had been damaged. With everyone working, the job was
done soon enough. We made more apologies to Mary, and collecting
our things, shamefully departed from her house.

At the funeral, we were
showing signs of the wake. I had bruises on my face, and everyone
else was showing signs of the fight. No one spoke of it, and we all
passed polite nods. I was among the men who loaded the coffin into
the wagon, and we performed our solemn duty with what dignity we
had, and in quiet contemplation.

The funeral procession was
far bigger than the wake had been. Those who knew Tim but had not
been invited, or those who had not felt comfortable with being
there, lined up behind us. Mary rode next to William McEldoo, the
undertaker, and Father John, Tim's priest.

As we set off, a gray rain
started to fall. We marched through it, trying not to see the
shabbiness of our homes and our neighbors' homes. Trying to ignore
the smoke and the soot as we walked through the roughly paved
streets. Anger warred with sadness in my heart; looking at us that
were poor, and thinking of the splendor men like Captain Kelly
lived in by comparison. I pushed such thoughts away, saving them
for another time.

It wasn't a far march to the
cemetery, but the rain kept coming down harder. Most of us were
drenched to the bone. I glanced back for a moment, making sure my
mother was taking shelter under a companion's umbrella. We paused
long enough to help get those who most needed it under the shelter
we could find; often it was no more than someone's coat held above
a head. It was a job that needed doing; we were already having a
funeral, it wouldn't do for someone to become sick and catch their
death from this.

The burial itself started
out normal enough. Father John said his words, and tears fell
freely from many an eye. Maneuvering the casket took a bit of work;
Frank slipped in the mud, and nearly fell into the open grave. When
everything was ready, we started to lower the coffin into its
resting place ... that's when things started to take a disturbing
turn.

We took a grip on the ropes
and moved the casket over the hole. It started rocking, and we took
a moment to steady ourselves and tried again. Even with the ropes
perfectly taut and still, the thing kept rocking. Then the pounding
started. Every eye in the cemetery looked on in horror.

From somewhere in the back,
I heard Conner's voice. "Hurry and drop it down! Hurry, you lazy
slugs, or we're all going to pay! It was the uisce beatha, you
never should have let it been spilled!"

I took a tighter grip on the
ropes, and turned to look at Conner. The pounding got louder, but I
tried to block it out; I wasn't very successful, but I tried
anyway.

"What are you talking about,
Old Man?"

"The uisce beatha, you
shite! It's the water of life, boy, and you let it touch the dead!
Get that unholy thing down in the ground or surely we'll all be
damned to the fires...."

As he trailed off, I could
see his eyes rolling in panic. I don't think anyone had ever seen
Conner in such a state. Even as I watched, he ran behind a tree,
only to emerge with that old pike of his. I tried to wrap my mind
around what he was saying, but my concentration was drawn to more
immediate concerns.

Richard had let his rope
slip, and we were all tugged forward before regaining control of
the coffin. I don't think anyone could blame him for his lapse. The
top of the box was splintering, and we could see the beginnings of
a hand starting to emerge. Worse than the hand, was the
voice.

"Thundering jaysus you bunch
of gobshites! What do you think I am, a corpse? If this is your
idea of funny, then by God I'll crack someone's skull."

We'd been stunned and
rendered speechless more than once since Tim died, but never like
this. There was no mistaking that voice, now raised in an angry
bellow. That was Tim Finnegan's thick brogue, sure as I'd been
hearing it since I was just a small lad.

I'm not ashamed to say that
I almost soiled my trousers. Truth is, I don't know what it is that
stopped me from it. I saw more than a few men with pants that
seemed to suddenly be a bit wetter in the front than even rain
would cause.

I didn't see what happened,
but I heard Mary. "It's a miracle! The blessed Lord's gone and sent
my Tim back to me."

She tried to rush forward,
but Richard's eldest boy James grabbed hold of her. My mother later
told me that Tom had to grab hold of Conner to keep him from
leaping upon the coffin with his pike. They were the exceptions,
though. We men tasked with lowering the box into the ground pulled
it back up; after that, we made like everyone else, and tried to
get as far away from it as possible, while still staying close
enough to watch in sick fascination.

I suppose we would have
sought advice from Father John. Too bad for us, then, that he had
fainted dead away at the sound of Tim's voice. I know I certainly
would have been comforted by a priest's advice about then.
Especially since we didn't know if we were dealing with something
from Heaven, or some horrible blackness brewed up by the
Devil.

I think it was the sight of
Tim breaking out of the coffin, and bellowing to stun a banshee
that finally did it. As his head, then his body emerged, we broke
and ran. None of us had ever seen a man come back from the dead,
and I think we had all mutually decided that Conner was right when
he called it unholy. To my credit, I did pick up my mother and
carry her as I ran in fear for my life and immortal soul. I hope
someone did the same for the likes of Father John and those other
poor sods who were unable to get fast away on their own. I was
slowed down a bit, but wasn't about to tell my mother she needed to
cut down on the tea and cake. Even if I'd been able to form the
thought and make it come out my mouth at the time, my mother,
potential legion of hell on our heels or not, would likely have
knocked me senseless.

Tim Finnegan was the first
of them, but he wasn't the last. In the days following his waking,
more men and women climbed from their graves. As near as we could
tell, Tim dug up those who died before him, and then poured the
water of life over them. With each new arrival, there were more
hands to do the work. Soon, they started visiting the recently
dead; raising them up shortly after they passed.

People were staying shut up
in their homes. Few traveled the streets, and then only when
necessary. When someone would die, often with a look of fear frozen
on their face, their relatives would try and hide the bodies the
best they could. Those who had no relatives weren't so lucky. Old
Man Conner died in his bed, and was among their ranks within
days.

I was a wreck; jumping all
the time at sounds, and flinching at every shadow. My mum's health
hadn't been grand for years, and the added strain was taking a
visible toll. I watched over her night and day; often forgetting to
attend to my own needs.