Authors: Emily Evans
The interior was shaped like a cross with an altar at the far end. The marble under my feet was worn smooth with age, like a worry stone. No buildings this old existed in America, nothing of European origin anyway.
Lisette sank onto one of the few standing pews, her mouth ajar. I dropped to the seat in front of her. We were surrounded by tombs covered with effigies of long-buried knights. They lined the sidewalls and each grasped a stone sword. It was all so surreal. Shifting carefully to avoid a broken board, I raised my feet up to the bench. They throbbed and a million other aches hit me now that I’d stilled. I groaned. “I need a hot bath, adhesive bandages, and fluffy slippers. Not in that order.”
“This place is amazing,” Lisette said in a hushed voice.
“And a hot chocolate with mini marshmallows and cinnamon.” I was also ready for a day when we didn’t have to use hushed voices.
Sea air drifted inside through the cracked panes of stained glass. The salty chill was somewhat blocked by the thick walls and tempered by the sunlight filtering through the images, but the temperature was still a shock coming from Texas. I adjusted my skirt so it covered most of my legs, grateful for the overlong length.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Sean said, pacing. He glanced at the rafters and away as if one of the gargoyles would swoop down and get him.
The prosaic American in me had no fear of the ugly statues.
Austin neither. He jogged up to the pulpit. There, he clasped his hands together as if holding an imaginary sword and sliced downwards. “Was this where it happened? The story you told? Where King Mael lost his head?”
Sean stilled. “Get away from the altar. It’s holy and cursed.”
Austin ignored him. “Man, there are still real artifacts here. A tapestry, candlesticks. How come no one’s stolen this stuff?” Disbelief sounded in his voice.
“It’s forbidden to be here.” Sean’s whole body jerked. “This place is poison to my family. Cétchathachs disappear from here. Have always done.” He covered his mouth with his palm, stifling a moan.
Callum touched his shoulder but Sean flinched away and resumed pacing.
Lisette rose and stepped into the aisle, stretching her arms overhead. Numerous scratches marred her forearms and shins. The hike had been rough. I wasn’t used to the altitude, or the hilly geography. The dresses, the surroundings, and the sense of shock were increasing the out-of-body sensation.
Austin stayed at the front. He seemed fascinated by the stuff at the altar. His light eyes were intense, and he moved from one side to the other like a floating puzzle piece in a video game. My curiosity about what he’d found swatted down the pain. I moved toward him.
Callum touched a tarnished candlestick and the worn threads of what must have been an altar cloth. “I haven’t been here, not that I remember. I’ve just heard about it.”
“What’s the big deal?” Austin asked, holding up a candlestick. He jabbed it into the air.
Sean joined us, as if he couldn’t help himself. “As I said, many of our family disappeared from here. Forever.”
“People you know?” I asked. “You can name them? Or is it like an urban myth? Like waking up in Vegas without a kidney?”
Sean gave me a look of dislike. “It happened.”
Sun shined through the stained glass and circles of light played on the altar, lending the area a magical glow.
“Legend has it that if you wear the crown and ask for mercy, this place will save you,” Callum said. “But then of course you would owe a debt. Some say my long ago ancestor wasn’t beheaded here, but that King Mael disappeared from 1313.”
A chill went through me. His ancient story had taken on a spooky cast now that we were standing where it had actually happened.
Sean waved his arms and shook his head. His Irish accent deepened. “It’s the sword, not the crown.” He withdrew an old sword from grooves in a stone ledge behind the pulpit. The blade made a rusty reluctant noise as it cleared its nesting spot. The metal was tarnished and chipped, but Sean stared at the sword with such fervor that the ruined thing must have looked like Excalibur to him. “And there’s a special phrase you say and then the blood of those meant to be on the throne takes you to where you are needed.” His gaze took a far-off cast. “I was little, but I saw it. They say I didn’t, but I did.”
“Holy crap. Is that thing real? Like from a knight?” Austin put down the candlestick and reached for the ancient weapon. “Let me see.”
Sean stepped out of reach. He walked toward Callum and, without saying anything. sliced the side of the rusty blade into Callum’s arm. A red gash appeared in his sleeve and blood oozed.
Callum jerked back and clasped a hand over the cut. “Sean.” His voice sounded low and pissed.
Lisette and I gasped.
Austin stepped toward Sean. “What’s your damage?”
Sean stared at his cousin. “Say the words, Callum. Stand by the altar and say the words.” He looked at us and swung the sword. “Move. Move down.”
“Watch it,” Austin said. He joined Lisette and me at the base of the pulpit.
Sean laid the sword on the altar and backed away.
Callum said something foul and frowned. “Stop your games.”
“Go on then.” Sean’s voice took on a fevered intensity and he moved down beside us, leaving Callum alone. “Say them.”
Callum stared at him. “Are you mental?”
I didn’t know what they were playing at, but I hoped Callum knew how to shut this down.
The thought that this was some type of idiotic game gone too far died at Sean’s next move. Sean withdrew the pilot’s gun. He retreated toward the wall, his gaze on his cousin. “Say the words,” he repeated, his voice heavy with emotion. “You know them. All Cétchathachs know the verse.”
Callum’s hands were out in a gesture of appeasement, but his eyes were angry.
Sean held the gun in one hand and wrapped his other arm around himself. “You’re not of our blood, Callum. You’re not meant for the throne. I can prove it. I know it. I know it. Say the words.” His voice ended on a high pitch. “ ‘Send me where I’m needed.’ Say it.”
Afternoon light shone in through a blue panel of stained glass, highlighting Callum’s dark brown hair with a blue light like an anime character. He extended his hands and said, “Send me where I’m needed.”
Nothing happened.
I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Now in Irish,” Sean said, his voice softer, his tone more unnerving for the new calm.
“
Sheoladh chugam nuair a Táim ag teastáil
,” Callum said.
The breeze rustled through the church, and the sea birds cawed.
Nothing happened.
“I knew it.” Sean’s expression took on an outraged self-righteousness. “You’re not to be king. Your parents proved our family’s claim with the blood of our ancestors and then thought to put
you
on the throne. You
are
the pretender. Your father knew. He knew. Now we all know.”
Callum paled.
“Okay,” Lisette said and her voice held a squeak. “Maybe we should all eat now. Have dinner.”
It was brave of her to speak, to try to ease the situation. I wanted to vomit.
Sean’s head tilted to Lisette. “You next.”
“What?” Lisette’s voice squeaked again.
Sean gestured to the sword. “Shall I do it for you?”
“She’s a girl,” Austin said as if that refuted any claim she might have to the throne. He moved a step toward Lisette. “Leave her out of this.”
“Stop this madness,” Callum said. “Sean. End this now.”
“Move.” Sean’s eyes appeared wilder and Callum shut up and took the two steps down from the altar.
“There’s no need for this,” Callum said. “You’re acting like a loon. You’re scaring them.”
Sean raised the gun and pointed it at Lisette.
I covered my mouth. Austin cursed, and Lisette wavered, not knowing what to do.
Sean pursed his lips in righteous fervor. “There’s every need to do this now. I must know the real heir.”
Lisette climbed the steps, her face pale under her tan, and walked to the sword. She knelt beside the hilt. Sean watched her every move with a narrow focus. She used two fingers and wiped the blood from a cut on her arm over the center of the blade.
“Say the words,” Sean said. He repeated the Irish phrase.
Lisette mumbled, and he made her repeat it twice in Irish and once in English.
Nothing happened.
The nut job paced. “Now you,” Sean said. His gaze flitted to me, while he kept a wary eye on Callum and Austin.
“Leave her,” Callum said. Every muscle in his body appeared tense.
“Now.” Sean’s voice pitched high. “Do it.” He paused to suck in a breath. “At the decathlon, you said you could be the princess. You said it. Prove it.”
Not a people who let things go, the Irish. I licked my dry lips and walked over to the filthy sword. Blood, rust, silver—it didn’t look like much. The hilt had a circular hole, as if a gem had resided there, and the letter
C
had been etched into the circle. I followed Lisette’s lead and pressed a gash on my leg. A sting preceded the welling of blood. I wiped the smear on my index finger, held it up to show the psycho and rubbed the blood over the letter.
With a pounding heart, I centered myself on the pulpit and said the phrase in a hushed voice, “
Sheoladh chugam nuair a Táim ag teastáil
.” The words fell flat in the afternoon air. But I thought I had the Gaelic right.
Nothing happened.
“Repeat it,” Sean screamed at me.
Callum moved onto the steps, placing himself between me and Sean. “Leave her alone.”
Austin stepped forward, reached up and grabbed the hilt of the sword. “My turn.” He used his fist and rubbed the blade over one of his knuckles. Instead of taking the steps to the altar, he turned, charged Sean, and said, “We’re Americans, and we’re not putting up with your foreign superstitious crap.”
My heart pounded harder, and I bit back a warning.
Sean’s head swiveled as he tried to keep everyone in his sights. “Back, back in your spots.”
I said the phrase in a loud, clear voice, trying to draw Sean’s attention to me.
A gust of wind swept through the church and the pressure knocked me back. I said the phrase over and over, screaming now, hoping to distract Sean with his own words.
The gun swiveled toward me.
Callum ran and got in front of me, one arm outstretched, one reaching for the sword. “Stop. Sean. Stop. Now.”
I grabbed for Callum, fighting the dizziness, trying to move him so he wouldn’t end up like the guard.
Lisette screamed. “Don’t.”
Sean swiveled. The gun went off and Lisette screamed again, falling backwards, red blood blooming across her shirt.
I heard her as if I were in a bubble. “Lisette.” My hair whipped across my face, stinging my cheeks, hitting Callum. A thousand pinpricks started at my toes and waved over my body. The sensations increased as if I was riding a roller coaster and I’d reached the top upside down portion. I pressed back and dropped forward.
Callum’s image blurred, and he slipped from me.
The grey stones swirled around me.
The colors of the stained glass whirled together.
I fell.
A fierce burning on my side made me want to scream. Had I been shot too? I pressed one hand against the pain and grabbed the ledge along the pulpit with the other. Ivy crushed under my fingers, and I leaned against it to keep from falling flat out.
The voices of unfamiliar men reached me. I focused on one. For a moment, he sounded garbled. Then he came in clearly, as if I’d tuned into a radio station.
My vision sharpened and I spotted Callum, pulling himself up from the floor. I tried to speak, but couldn’t.
In front of us, a priest in robes chanted in Latin. Phrases I knew were foreign and dated but somehow I understood them. The priest said, “King Mael the Uniter. We crown you on this thirteenth day, in the year of our lord 1313.”
The priest held a gold, jeweled crown over a kneeling man dressed in dark clothes and a fur-collared cape. A group of similarly dressed men formed a semi-circle behind him. They wore swords at their sides and had jeweled swaths of material over their chests, like medieval Mr. Americas.
The pulpit was empty except for Callum and me. The pressure in my side eased, allowing me to straighten. My mind registered the physical changes in the church like flashes: unbroken pews, uncovered windows, and a multitude of tapestries. Even the air was different: colder, heavier, thick with incense and the fragrance of dried flowers.
Dizziness floated away, leaving behind a sick feeling and, despite all reason and rational thoughts to the contrary, I knew where I was. That freak Sean had shot Lisette and sent Callum and me back in time to 1313. We were seven centuries back, and we were about to see an ancient story of betrayal come to life—we were about to witness the decapitation of Callum’s ancestor, King Mael.
I had no time to freak out over the reality. My track record for speeches was terrible, but it was time for me to give the speech of all speeches, because a life depended upon my words. Adrenalin rushed through my body. I smoothed the silk of my dress into place and stepped forward, hoping the translation trick worked both ways so they could understand me as I understood them. I held out my arms. “I’m privileged to be here today to witness the uniting of Ireland under the one true high king.”
King Mael jerked but he stayed on his knees. He uttered something about age and time. The priest praised the light of God and bowed his head. The men of the semicircle stepped back with wide eyes.
The one on the end with shaggy black hair and beard stared hard at me and said in a loud voice, “Witch.” He looked at Callum. “Wizard.” As the names carried, the other lords retreated another step.
The priest made the sign of the cross in the air and then he grabbed a taper and lit the off-white altar candles in a slow ceremonial fashion. A low Latin chant accompanied his actions and as the wick heated and the wax melted down the side, a faint flowery, burning smell filtered through the church.