Finbar held out a little finger and the baby clutched it tight. “Hello, young Breandan.”
“Breandan?”
“In the old tongue Breandan means ‘prince.’”
“Does it indeed? Well, it’s a good enough name, I think. Breandan it is. Oh, he shall certainly be a prince in this house when all the sisters lay their eyes on his sweet little face. Hold him a moment while I prepare a bottle for him.” The sister held the baby out for Finbar to take in his huge hands, then she began shuffling around the kitchen, happily absorbed in her task. Finbar held the boy up, dripping, until they were eye to eye. He stared into the child’s face. The baby, sensing the mood of the man, became sombre and still.
“Failte, Breandan,” Finbar said softly in Gaelic and then repeated in English. “Welcome, My Prince.”
The medallion lay heavy in Finbar’s vest pocket. “It’ll be our little secret, awright?”
Out in the waste ground beyond the walls of St. Bart’s, the rain and wind flattened the tall grass. Two tiny figures scampered up to an empty oil drum that had been tipped onto its side and left to rust. A dark figure sat crosslegged on the drum, silhouetted by the lightning flashes. The rain poured down onto his bowed head, streaming from the tips of his white tresses. The small figures cowered on their knees at the foot of the oil drum, waiting on the figure to speak.
“Is it done?” The dark figure’s voice was cold, like a door flung open on a field newly rimed with frost: beautiful but cold.
“Done, Highness. Done. It’s done.”
“Completely done. No doubt.”
“Were you seen?”
“No! NO! NO!” the two little creatures squeaked insistently. “Not seen! Not seen at all.”
“Are you certain?”
“Uh…”
“YES?”
“There was one who sensed us. He didn’t see us but he felt our presence.”
The dark figure was utterly still for a moment, water dripping from his chin. Finally, he spoke. “Very well. I release you from service. Go now. Get out of my sight.”
“Gladly. Oh, gladly, Your Highness!” Squeaking, the little creatures fell over each other, darting through the grass in their eagerness to be away. Like twin comets, they leapt into the air and streaked off between the raindrops.
The figure waited until they were gone and then unfolded from its position, stepping lightly down onto the wet grass. Lightning flashed above, illuminating briefly the stark, angular lines of a male face, not quite human, with dark molten eyes of black fire.
“I have done what I could, love,” the dark figure announced to the empty field, his voice choked with grief. “He is safe for a while.” He raised one hand skyward and beckoned. In answer, a jagged finger of lightning scorched through the air toward his outstretched hand. If the human eye were capable of registering such speeds, a person watching would have marvelled to see pale fingers grasp the lightning like a rope. The lightning retreated into the sky, yanking the dark figure along with it.
^6 Saint Bartholomew lived in the first century AD. He was flayed alive in Armenia. This had an adverse effect on Armenian tourism for several centuries afterward.
^7 I know what you’re thinking: how original! A dark and stormy night! I would love to change the
^8 When I say nineteenth century, I mean the hundred years between AD 1799 and 1899, that is to say the eighteen-hundreds. It’s confusing to call the eighteen- hundreds the nineteenth century as they have 18s instead of 19s in them, but that is the way these things are done. So… get off my back.
^9 Burgher is another word for citizen, not to be confused with burger, a delicious patty of beef on a bun. I wouldn’t want you to think huge sentient hamburgers were wandering the streets of Toronto. That would be weird.
^10 There are other theories as to how Toronto got its nickname. Some say it’s because the city hogs all the resources in the country of Canada. Some say that the residents have gluttonous eating habits. Another theory is that the city was built on a mound of bacon that went bad on the journey over with the first colonists from England. I don’t subscribe to that last one… although the soil is quite salty.
^11 Red is a colour that often signifies danger. In the case of accounting, red ink is used to write records of debt, whereas black ink shows positive cash flow or profit. So, weirdly, the colour black is positive for once in its existence.
^12 Mortgage: The term originates from the French word meaning “dead pledge.” It is an agreement that stands until a payment is missed or the pledgor dies. Now it means the debt owed to a bank or other financial organization when one wishes to buy a house. Usually one does die before managing to pay off one’s mortgage, but that’s beside the point.
^13 Bog-trotter is a nickname for Irish people that started out as an insult, referring to the boggy nature of the Irish countryside. It is truly impossible to trot on a bog. You will sink into it no matter how lightly you trot. Given that Finbar is Irish, his use of bog-trotter is a good example of how a people can reclaim a word that is meant to be insulting and, in doing so, take away the bad connotation. There’s a lesson for you: if someone insults you, start using the insult as a nickname and confuse your detractor. I now call myself Iguana-face Gingerbeard Flatbottom for exactly that reason.
^14 The “paddy wagon” originated in New York City and was a nickname for an armoured police wagon employed to transport criminals. Calling the Irish “Paddies” is a play on the Irish name Patrick, so calling the police wagon a paddy wagon is a bit insulting, insinuating that all criminals were Irish. The Irish immigrants to New York did get involved in a lot of criminal activity due to the fact that they were extremely poor and had little choice if they wanted to survive. Eventually, they realized that if they drove the paddy wagon they would get a regular paycheque and medical benefits, which led to a huge influx of Irish into the police force.
^15 Beatific is a word that means heavenly or saintly. I didn’t just forget how to spell beautiful. Give me more credit than that!
^16 Changelings, according to folklore, are fairy children left in place of a human child by mischievous sprites. They notoriously end up turning into wizened, sickly, ill-tempered creatures that cause no end of trouble for their unwitting Human parents.
PART 1
Awakening
Another Note from the Narrator
Ha! What a prologue! Really whets the appetite, doesn’t it? A good prologue is the soup before the meat, don’t you agree? Maybe a salad. An appetizer? You know what I mean!
Let me caution you: the next part of the story takes place several years later, fourteen years later, in fact. The jump forward in time is a common device in storytelling that allows us to skip over some, if not dreary, certainly timeconsuming and unexciting bits. I could have detailed each of the ensuing years, days, hours, minutes, and seconds in excruciating detail but what would be the point? You’d get bored by the time the child got potty-trained and we’d never get to the really interesting parts. Besides, can you imagine the size of such a tome? 17 All of Siberia would be utterly deforested just to print the first run of the book! You don’t want to be responsible for such a vast amount of soil erosion. I knew of one narrator, a friend from the Institute, who wrote the life of Winston Churchill starting with the point where his father met his mother at a card party until the great man’s death. Every single instant was chronicled! The manuscript was so large that the writer in question ended up abandoning any hope of mailing it to an editor and lived in the huge stack of paper instead. Sadly, the book burned down one night and he was forced to move into a small pamphlet. Sad. Sad but irrelevant.
So. Fourteen years have passed. The little boy is now in that dangerous and sinister place called “high school” with all its inherent perils. We join him in the most terrifying of all predicaments-the horror known as… gym class!