Chapter 12-344: Auld Lang Syne

The Lady’s Cathedral was changed, but some things did not change.

There was a lot more white now, of course, and a holy air of peace and serenity that was not shot through with lies and sanctimonious men preaching about the folly of sins they indulged in shamelessly.

Still, there were pews, and there was an altar (although the ancient one he knew was not in this chapel any more) and could that be the same pipe organ after all these years?

He looked about, and approved of the changes even as he lamented the time passing. The Christ had been put into the ground, the great bright windows displayed not the stations of the cross and the old miracles, but images of peace and mercy and healing, wrought by the hands of those favored by the Divine.

As befitted the Gentle Mother. All in all, taking the best of the soft side of the old Church, and making something newer and grander out of it.

He could sense his lady’s amusement at how poorly both of them fit in here. In response, he turned to her and asked, “Ye play, do ye not?”

She lifted a high and elegant eyebrow, and without hesitation strode towards the massive organ tucked into the side of the chapel.

It took only a minute for her to figure out its workings, long enough for him to walk up to edge of the dais and take off his hat. Unlike a dirt-eater like he, she’d been expected to learn the arts of a proper noblewoman.

There was a Sound Bubble up and about, so the nuns wandering about would not be disturbed in their duties. Most of them were in the healing chapels that had replaced four of the six halls of worship in the cathedral. To the Amanans, more sites glorifying the Mother were wasted space, and the different chapels were devoted to treating the pregnant, the newborn, young children, and the elderly.

He’d read that elders from all across Ireland came to The Lady’s Cathedral to receive final rites and pass on. The Ivory Chapel, once the Jebb Chapel, was the most solemn in the cathedral, and he could feel the quiet of the spirits waiting here.

Die upon holy ground, and you are not trapped in the Shroud, was the word among the faithful... and only the faithful. If you were an unrepentant bastard like himself, well, this was as good a place as any other, is all.

When the first notes arose under Amaretta’s fingertips, he opened his mouth, and Sang the Prayer of St. Francis.

Perhaps the words were alien to his heart now, but for his mother, he’d Sing... and the Gentle Mother was perhaps a better audience then that pig of a pastor, sure enough...

“Make me a channel of your peace

Where there is hatred, let me bring your love

Where there is injury, your pardon, Lord

Where there is doubt, true faith in You...”

It had been his mother’s most beloved song, perhaps as a result of the violence that swirled so often around being Blooded... and perhaps when she’d had children of her own, hoping they’d not fall to the fate of so many Blooded.

“... in giving of ourselves that we receive

And in dying that we’re born to eternal life...”

He took a deep breath and released it as the long, low notes of the organ fell silent.

“Aye there, Mamai. I can Sing now, aye.”

“You can indeed.”

He turned his head slowly, unsurprised as the nun in white and her wimple took a single step forward. Obviously, she had stopped in for some reason, entered the Sound Bubble when she saw a stranger where they should not be, and stopped despite herself when the full force of the Heartsong hit her.

She knew enough to discern the crackling, lively magic of Minstrelry from the auld power of Bardsong, and had immediately decided that interfering with what was obviously a very private moment was unwise.

That said, anyone who could bring forth such a Song was undoubtedly a very powerful Bard, indeed, especially if they dared to dress all in white.

And had there not been a Bard all in white down the road in Shannon, just the night last?

“I have not heard that version of the song since I was child,” the nun said calmly. “We have song service for the people publicly, sir... you would be more than welcome to Sing to the Mother with us!” she offered immediately, clearly impressed.

“I was nae singing to your Mother, lassie; I were singing t’ mine, knowin’ she could finally hear me.”

She flinched despite herself when she saw his eyes go crimson, but was not worried. If he had dark intentions, he would not have been able to enter these holy grounds at all.

And she had not been called ‘lassie’ in a great many years, and so flushed despite herself. The Blooded could indeed get quite old, although she’d not met many of such years.

“May I know what Clan you come from?” she asked respectfully.

He considered her for a quiet moment, her words seeming to roll around the room. She watched the woman playing the organ shut it down, and slide gracefully out from behind it, all dark and liquid death as she glided up to the man in her dark furs and silken attire.

Another Blooded, but a different bloodline...

“I were born into the Fynnachl,” he admitted after a long moment, eyes no longer on her, but on the chapel, and what used to be there...

She gasped despite herself. “The Fynnachl have been gone for many years...” She stared at him, wondering...

“Mary, Collin O’Reilly’s daughter,” he spoke slowly, yet assured, his eyes snapping back to her, and reached up to tap his nose as she flushed. “Aye, I remember ye, squallin’ in yer mam’s arms. Ye’d not know me. I be Mickal McCallister, son o’ Seamus and Hanora McCallister, landskeepers for the Lord and Lady Fynnachl back then. This little cut o’ darkness be Amaretta Blakhamar, eldest of the Blakhamars, from that little country across the pond.”

“Your Ladyship,” the nun bowed carefully, reading something refined about this woman that the man did not have... but he certainly had something else about him that bespoke power and control, and how to handle it.

Both of them radiated danger, held in hand like ready swords.

“An odd choice of a song to Sing, Your Lordship.” She didn’t know why she said that, as he hadn’t introduced himself to her as such, but it sprang off her tongue, and it just fit. “Forgive me if I say, but you do not seem to be a man of peace.”

His chuckle was deep, and hummed with dark, grim, and rich irony. “Nay, lassie, I be anything but. Peace I be leaving on this fine new altar ye’ve put here, for I be going now t’ sparing a lot of unctuous Mother-less bloodsuckers your future services.” A tall white hat popped into his hand, and he donned it, before offering his arm to his Lady. “By your leave, Sister Mary.”

“Of course, Your Lordship.” She stepped aside to let them pass, bowing as they did so, when a thought struck her. “Oh, Your Lordship! There is someone you may want to see.” She tensed despite herself as two pairs of intense crimson eyes turned on her. Her voice fell quietly. “There is a White who maintains the cemetery, and has since before it was the Mother’s house...”

The Mick stiffened. “Old Man Kregor be still about, be he? Well, then, let this young punk go wander over there an’ share a pint with him.” He waved off her next words. “I know the way.”

Sister Mary O’Reilly watched him go, and turned her eyes back to the altar.

Old Father Tucker had been found on the ancient altar that had once graced this room, his blood overflowing it, brutally impaled upon the candelabra normally used to hold the Advent candles.

There had been a recent note sent to the Mother Superior from the Church of Harse, conveying that the man’s death had been resolved. Reading between the lines, it appeared the man had been involved in the riots and killings that had taken place during the Fall, and someone, someone with great strength and a heart full of vengeance, had slain him upon the altar.

So profaned, there was no way that the ancient stone would be used for the Mother’s work. But... she had heard that the Church of Harse had located the old stone, and transported it to their chapel, returning the ancient thing to a place of worship.

They would not do so if that death had not been an act of justice, or if it had actually been a holy man who died atop it... although such a thing still did not belong in the Mother’s House.

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The gravekeeper’s house was not far. The tombs, mausoleum, and crypts were connected to the church, after all, and someone had to look after them.

It had a better coat of paint, and more flowers than he remembered. Indeed, the grim gray stones had a lighter air, and both of them paused outside the cemetery, looking within and feeling it.

“It is keeping them from the Shroud,” Amaretta nodded approval. “Even the old ones are finding some ease here.”

“Aye.” That was the job of a proper cemetery now. It was attached to a church, and the church maintained it as a haven for the dead. It would not work if the dead were not honored and remembered, but this was the old country, where one remembered one’s blood and ancestors... and to save them from the torment of the Shroud, what was a visit every month but setting an example for when it was your own time?

The two ignored the passers-by giving them looks, and such hurriedly dropped their eyes, as if they were intruding on something. The Mick stopped before the door of the small and simple building.

There’d been magic worked on it, to shape the stone, mend it, expand it here and there, sealing the cracks and smoothing out the wear of the years. He eyed the symbol of the scales atop the hammer on the door, and wondered...

He reached forward and rapped on the door, and the sound boomed within. “Old Man Kregor! Open up, I be sayin, afore I smear more horse apples all over yer siding!”

He heard the creek within, and stomping footsteps came to the door and tore it open to glare at him. “What flea-ridden son of a toad is bothering me mid-day nap?!” came the stiff reply, as the pale, pale eyes of the White glared at the two people before him.

His face was all crags and lines and sunken, kind of slate grey, bones prominent, and stiff hair all gone grey early, too. Just the hint of a spark of red in his eyes, if you knew what to look for, and maybe a tongue too black, but the Whites blended in with normal people fairly easily for the Tomb Clans, for all they were somewhat slow and stiff in how they moved.

He glared at the two of them for long moments, looking Amaretta up and down before dismissing her out of hand. He glared at The Mick for a mere two long breaths, before raising a bony finger and shaking it at him. “Ye owe me six apples still, young McCallister!” he declared firmly.

Amaretta raised an eyebrow at The Mick, who merely grinned.

“Ye’ll have to take them in liquid form, ye bony old relic.” He flipped up a large brown bottle and proffered it to the old White. “Methinks at least a few dozen went into this.”

“Interest!” the old White snapped, snatching it up with startling speed for his seeming build and age. He pulled off the cork with very white, very strong, and perhaps rather sharp teeth, spat it into a trashbin within, and took a sniff. “Oh, aye, some punch t’ this.” He looked them both up and down again, and then turned down the street. “Chauncel will give us some chairs, you brat.”