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Chronoclasmic Compulsive Personality Disorder: A chronic, compulsive desire to destroy clocks or other timekeeping devices out of a mistrust of time and/or timekeeping devices, marked by delusions, anxiety, paranoia, and outbursts.
Victor looked at his alarm clock one more time. The red, digital numbers taunted him. He sat on the edge of his bed, still in his underwear and a white t-shirt. Sunlight spilled into the musty bedroom, catching dust particles hanging suspended in midair. He grabbed his round, thin-framed glasses from next to the clock and slipped them onto his face, pressing the nose pads firmly onto the bridge of his long, slender nose. He waited for the inevitable call. A cell phone sat on the bedside table. It suddenly started vibrating, emitting a low, monotonous hum.
Fuck, Victor thought as he reached for the phone. “Hello?”
“Victor, where the hell are you? You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago!”
No shit. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon. My alarm didn’t go off.”
“I have to leave in five minutes. If I’m late this time, I’m screwed. Got it? Marissa ain’t playing anymore.”
“I got it. I’ll be there in fifteen. Just lock up before you leave.” Victor stepped into his bathroom as he held the phone to his ear. He started peeing, the phone pressed to the side of his head with his right shoulder.
“The security update will be starting in twenty minutes. If you’re late, and something happens, it ain’t my fault. Got it?”
The security update would be automatic. Happened every day at the same time. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.” He hung up and moved to the sink, where he brushed his teeth, applied copious amounts of deodorant, and tried to flatten his unkempt hair, still sticking out in odd angles. It would take him five minutes to get to the office. Another two to get through security and up the elevator. He’d pause for thirty seconds as he passed the project management cubicles to get a glimpse of Kat before shutting himself away in his office, where he’d stare at a screen for hours and answer calls from employees about how their computers weren’t working.
He pulled on a pair of skinny jeans that were too short for him, buttoned up a short-sleeve shirt to the top, and slipped on a pair of birkenstock sandals. He grabbed his satchel from the back of his lone chair at the kitchen table and darted out of his studio apartment.
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THE BUS ARRIVED EARLY. Silvie ran like an injured baby gazelle down the sidewalk, trying to keep balance while wearing high heels, waving her hand in the air to catch the bus driver’s attention. Her brown leather purse swung wildly from the nook of her arm, and drops of her mocha frappucino spilled from the top of her Starbucks cup. The driver didn’t stop. Silvie looked at her phone to make sure. It read 8:04 a.m. The 245 wasn’t supposed to arrive until 8:10. She reached the bus stop and sat on the bench next to a gray-haired, shriveled old woman. Silvie set her purse and drink on the bench next to her and quickly adjusted her bra, stuffing her enormous breasts back into the cups. She brushed back her synthetic black hair, careful to keep her long, delicate fingernails from scratching her face or ruining her makeup.
Silvie noticed the old woman watching her. “Was that really the 245?”
“Oh yes, hun.”
Damn, Silvie thought. “When’s the next bus to 131st come?”
The elderly woman pulled out a small card from her clutch. It had the bus schedules printed out on a table. “The next bus going that way from here isn’t until 8:45. You in a hurry?”
“I’m gonna be late for work,” Silvie said irritably. She thought her options through and realized the only way to get to work on time was to call an Uber. She pulled out her phone and opened the app on her phone. “That’s gonna cost me thirty-two bucks! Damn.”
“Will you make it to work on time?”
Silvie nodded her head slowly, still staring at her screen. “This guy better hurry.”
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SAM POKED HIS HEAD out of his bedroom door and listened intently for any signs of life within the house. His parents should have been gone for work, but he wanted to be careful. He strained his ears for any sounds that would indicate someone was moving around downstairs. Nothing but the normal creaks and groans from the old brownstone. He stepped out of his room and glanced down the stairs. No one. Just in case, he looked at the long table in the hall by the front door. There was a wooden bowl his mom had gotten when she and his dad went to Africa for a humanitarian trip two years ago. She now used it as a key bowl. Several keys were piled in the bowl, but—most noticeably—two sets of keys were missing: mom’s Mercedes and dad’s Audi.
Still in his boxer shorts and a dull gray hoodie, he walked downstairs and into the kitchen. It took him a second to realize he wasn’t alone. His mom sat at the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee steaming in front of her as she poured copious amounts of creamer into the Columbian brew. She looked up and smiled, the same smile Sam recognized on all of the billboards and bus stop benches across the city. Her platinum blond hair bounced stiffly whenever she moved her head. She wore a charcoal gray pantsuit, making sure to wear her gold and silver bangles on her wrists, a gaudy diamond ring on her left hand, and a pearl necklace.
“Hey Sammy. You’re up early.”
Shit, Sam thought. He opened the fridge door, hiding behind it as he pretended to look for something to eat. Early? Did she say he was up early? He pulled out his phone from the hoodie pocket and looked at the lock screen. It read 8:22 a.m. Mom and dad always left by 8:15 like clockwork. They were predictable. He glanced at the clock on the oven. It read 8:07 a.m. He groaned quietly before pulling out the orange juice and shutting the fridge.
“Got any plans for today?” Mom asked.
“Nope.”
“Well, try not to hang out on your computer all day. It isn’t good for your eyes.”
“Is Dad gone?”
“He had an early conference with some investors from Beijing. I’m leaving in just a minute. I’m showing a house up in Rochester today.”
Sam didn’t respond. He glanced at the oven clock again. 8:07. He sighed and drank his orange juice in a single gulp. “Cool. See ya.”
“Hey, while you’re on your computer, why don’t you try looking up some jobs, or maybe classes at the university?” Mom called as he climbed back up the stairs to his bedroom. Sam rolled his eyes. College couldn’t teach him anything he didn’t already know or couldn’t find on his own. He locked his bedroom door behind him and hopped into his bed. He pulled his laptop onto his lap and logged in. He was still early, but he figured it was worth a shot anyway.
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MARVIN HELD HIS BREATH and curled up in the corner of his room. His fingers plucked nervously at his eyebrows, pulling the hair out and leaving bald patches.
“You won’t have any eyebrows left, Marvin, if you keep pulling your hair like that.” A man in a tweed vest, corduroy slacks, and a pair of cracked leather loafers sat in a chair in the middle of the room. A clipboard rested in his lap. “Now, tell me what you think you heard last night.”
The thoughts in Marvin’s head were both fleeting and erratic, like lightning coursing through his brain, each vein a new thought that arrived and then disappeared just as quickly. He pulled his hands away from his eyebrows and sat on them to keep himself from tugging at his hair. “F-first, you have to get rid of it.”
The man in the chair sighed. “You mean my watch?”
Marvin nodded vehemently, his thick brown curls bouncing.
“Fine.” The doctor removed his watch and handed it to an orderly standing just outside the door.
The anxiety suddenly melted away, and Marvin’s posture changed. He looked up at the doctor, who was patiently waiting. “Today. It’ll happen.”
“What will happen, Marvin?”
“There’s no stopping it. Everything’s already in motion. I heard it. I heard them talking.”
The doctor sat forward. “Who was talking?”
Marvin retreated back into himself, curling into a ball and shivering. His fingers nervously plucked his hair at the back of his head. He mumbled unintelligibly, rocking back and forth.
“Marvin, who was talking? Did you hear someone say something?” the doctor pressed.
“The clocks. The clocks. They talk, talk, talk. The clocks are talking. Tick tock goes the clock, yes, it can talk. They plan and plot, nasty clocks. Tick. Tock. Tick tock clock.”
“Marvin, we’ve been through this. The clocks can’t talk.”
“Oh they can talk, doc. The tick tock. They talk. They plot. Mischievous. Untrustworthy time. Unreliable, inconsistent, devious. Tick tock, tick tock. Yes, they talk. Just have to listen carefully.”
“Okay, so what are they saying?”
“Money. Get the money. Take the money.”
The doctor looked back at the orderly, who shrugged, just as confused as the doctor. “Is someone going to rob a bank, Marvin? Did you hear someone talking about robbing someone?”
“Not someone. No, not someone. Time. Time robs us all. Break the clocks. Break the clocks!”
The doctor sighed. “Alright, let’s give him 2 milligrams of Ativan and see if that calms him down enough so we can talk. We aren’t getting anywhere with him like this.”
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A BROKEN BIKE CHAIN lay on the sidewalk, still wrapped around the railing. Noticeably missing was his bike. It was nothing special, but Victor didn’t have many possessions, and his bike was certainly one of the more expensive and useful things he owned. He looked at his watch. He had ten minutes to get to work. He could call a Lyft, but it would take several minutes for one to arrive and then several minutes more to get him there. On top of that, it would cost him money he didn’t have. Walking was the only option.
He looked at his watch again. It was already 8:19, and the security update was scheduled to start at 8:30. It was important he made sure the security update started on time. He quickened his pace. Six blocks. That’s all it was. He could do it. If he needed, he could start jogging, though he wasn’t sure how fast he could run in birkenstocks.
Every thirty seconds, he’d look down at his watch. His pace was good. He could do this. Traffic was bustling, and every crosswalk swarmed with pedestrians. The city streets were always loud. Busses rumbled and screeched, taxis and rideshare cars zipped in and out of lanes, horns blared, engines backfired, construction crews contributed with a cacophony of drills, hammers, and cement mixers. Most everyone on the sidewalks were enmeshed in conversations on phones or rocking out to music on headphones. Little by little, Victor forced his way through throngs of distracted people. Every time he had to stop, he anxiously swayed from side to side.
Two more blocks. It was going to be tight, but he was going to make it.
Sam hadn’t been on for more than five seconds when he got a private message. It was set to delete after two minutes. It was a number. The sender line was blank. Sam looked at the time. 8:21. The message was early. He smiled and committed the number to memory. He cracked his fingers and stretched them out to warm them up. He did a few practice lines on a blank document screen, testing how fast he could enter the number.
Time moved much more slowly as he kept an eye on it. Everything moved in slow motion. Nothing was going to distract him. He waited, poised to start like a runner waiting for the gun or a horse about to launch from the gate. It was a race, and so far, Sam had never won a race. He was always just too slow. But this time, he had a good feeling. He’d woken up early, and even though his mom was still home, it worked to his benefit. He would have missed the number, and that was a surefire way to lose from the start.
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SILVIE CLAMBERED INTO the back seat of the silver Ford Focus. The driver said hello and asked if she would like a drink of water or would prefer the windows down.
“No thanks. Can you get there before 8:45?”
The driver looked at the GPS on his phone. “That depends on traffic, but I think it’s manageable.”
“Thank you.”
Before pulling away from the curb, the driver put on his blinker and patiently waited until a gap opened up in the steady current of cars. The driver was meticulous, making sure he followed every law, sticking to the speed limit, coming to a complete stop at every intersection before rolling through. Silvie’s long fingernails drummed along the armrest. The caffeine was now starting to course through her veins. Her legs bounced anxiously. She watched as car after car passed by.
“I’m sorry, but can you speed up? I’m in a real hurry here.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not allowed to go over the speed limit.”
Damn, Silvie thought. The smell of coconut came from the air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. The seats had been recently vacuumed. In the pocket at the back of the driver’s seat were pamphlets showing different things to do in the city, like museums, ferry rides, monuments to visit, and restaurants.
“Are you from out of town?” The driver asked, looking at Silvie through the rear-view mirror.
“Nope. Born and raised here.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
Silvie noticed the driver still looking at her.
“Can I ask what you do for work?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
The driver’s eyes went wide. “Really? Wow, that’s a good job.”
Silvie nodded, awkwardly avoiding looking into the rear-view mirror, where the driver’s eyes were still looking at her.
“You know, I think I need to get a lawyer.”
“Yeah?” Silvie responded half-heartedly. This always happened. It was one of the reasons she hated telling people what she did for a living.
“Oh yes. Maybe you could help me. You see, I have this cousin—”
Before the driver could go on, the car suddenly jolted, and a loud thump startled Silvie. She looked through the windshield only to see the hood dented on the front. Out of nowhere, a tall, thin man jumped up, limping on his left leg. His face was contorted in pain as he rubbed his thigh. The driver sat in shock for a moment before slowly unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the car.
This shit can’t be happening right now. Silvie got out of the car. The man that got hit looked like one those software development nerds working for Google. She was surprised he didn’t break anything. The guy looked like a twig.
“No, no, seriously, I’m alright. I really have to go.”
“Sir, please, at least let me get your name and number. I have to write a report for this,” the driver said. Silvie silently begged the driver to leave it alone so they could get going, but he was insistent. After several seconds of desperate begging, the man finally gave the driver his information before limping hurriedly away. This never would have happened if she had made it to the bus on time. She got back in the car as the driver returned. She looked at her phone. It was 8:23. She had twenty minutes and was still miles from the building.
The Ford Focus revved to life again with the driver muttering numerous apologies and explaining how that had never happened to him before. Silvie looked at the green numbers of the clock on the dashboard. It read 8:29. She checked her phone again. It read 8:23.
“Is that the right time?” Silvie asked, panic rising in her chest.
“Oh yes. Here, I have it on my phone as well.”
Silvie glanced at his phone screen. In the top corner, in tiny numbers, the time read 8:29.
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AGONIZING PAIN RAN through Victor’s entire leg, radiating from the outside of his left thigh. Pressure sent shocks of electricity through his muscle. He hobbled the last block to his office building, working through the severe pain. Security let him through and he leaned against the wall of the elevator as it climbed to the eleventh floor.
Once the doors opened, he limped as fast as he could down the hallway. He pressed his access card against the sensor and waited for the lock to click before pushing into the room filled with servers. In the middle was a single computer on a desk. Victor sank into the chair and stared at the computer. The time was 8:32. The security update started at 8:31, sixty seconds late. Victor shook his head in disbelief as he scrambled to manually sift through every data access point to make sure there weren’t any breaches. There were dozens. He combed through them, one by one.
Then he saw it. A single entry. At 8:30, sixty seconds before the security update began. One unauthorized user managed to hack the servers before the automatic renewal of security protocols could be implemented. Victor started to furiously purge the hacker, trying to kick him out of the system before too much damage could be done. Minutes passed before Victor could shut off access to the intruder. He sat back in his chair, breathing heavily, his leg throbbing. He needed to find out what the damage was. In the back of his mind, Victor knew he was fired.
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SAM STARED AT THE COMPUTER screen in disbelief.
What did I just do?
A private message popped up, sender line blank. “You win,” was all it said. It vanished after thirty seconds. He looked at the time. 8:36. His phone vibrated next to him on his bedspread. It was his dad. He answered.
“Sam? Sam? Where are you?” Dad’s voice sounded urgent, panicked.
“I’m at home. Why?”
“Did you get into our bank accounts?”
“What? No, of course not. What’s going on?”
“Don’t lie to me, son. If you needed money, you just had to ask.”
Of course the asshole wouldn’t believe me. “I didn’t take shit. I’m still in my bed. What happened?”
There was a pause on the other end. “Everything’s gone. All of it. All of our money is gone.” The line went dead. Sam stared at the phone as the weight of what his dad said started to dawn on him. He looked from the phone to the computer screen, back to his phone.
What did I just do?
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MARVIN STARED OUT HIS window over the grounds of the institute. Sprawling green lawns and a colorful garden with those little cherubic statues hiding behind rose bushes and under hedges. A handful of people were meandering the little gravel paths. His door was left ajar, but he preferred the indoors.
A commotion suddenly arose from the nurses station down the hall. Marvin poked his head out of his room to see several of the orderlies and nurses checking their phones or staring bewildered at their computers. Some looked shocked, others angry, a few were in tears. Marvin sighed and went back into his room and laid down on his bed. The Ativan was still pumping through his blood.
“Marvin? Marvin, sit up.” The doctor had come in the room and stood over Marvin.
“What is it?”
“You knew, didn’t you? You knew this was going to happen.” The doctor looked both furious and confused.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marvin said nonchalantly.
The doctor pulled out his phone and showed the screen to Marvin. On it was the doctor’s bank account, the balance reflecting zero. “I had three thousand dollars in there this morning. Now it’s just gone. And it isn’t just me. Everyone who shared this bank now have nothing in their accounts. The money just vanished.”
Marvin sat up and crossed his legs. “The money. Take the money. Get the money. Tick tock. Tick tock. That’s what they meant.”
“That’s what who meant?”
Marvin looked up at the doctor. “The clocks.”
Chronoclysm: Noun. A momentous, sometimes violent phenomenon caused by inconsistent fluctuations of time, which leads to a constellation of seemingly random events coalescing into overwhelming economic or societal upheaval and disruption.
CITIZENS OF THE ROMAN Empire flocked year-round to Aquae Sulis, a small town in the province of Britannia, to bathe in the sacred waters of the temple and plead their cases with Dea Sulis Minerva. Anyone who had been wronged could ask for revenge by writing their petitions on sheets of lead known as Curse Tablets and throwing them into the holy spring where the goddess dwelt. They did so eagerly and at their own peril.
In the centre of a parlour built of terracotta bricks and adorned with marble courses, Minerva sipped her golden wine, alone. She was used to the solitude, enjoyed it even, but for whatever reason, the silence fell heavier over the triclinium that day. Resting on a reclined couch, she glared at the mosaic walls before her, depicting the goddess and her famous victories: the judgement of Paris and the crumbling of the Trojan walls; the time when she beat her jerk of an uncle Neptune and won the city’s patronage fair and square. Alas, that was such a long time ago. She even held a different name then.
Sighing, she sat up to refill her chalice of wine, the sweet smell filling the air. She’d better start working soon—the petitions would be accumulating already—but a headache threatened to spoil her day. Perhaps she should call Bacchus later. He had the best hangover cures. She lifted the chalice to her mouth, but as the liquid touched her lips, a call came from the hall: “Salvê, I’m home!”
Minerva gasped, wine pouring from her nose.
“Love, are you here?” the voice came louder—closer.
“In here!” Minerva called, wiping her chin and her amber-stained tunic. She chugged the rest of the velvet liquid before Sulis poked her head inside the parlour.
“There you are!” Sulis beamed, arms open as if meaning to embrace the world.
Minerva accepted the hug, doing her best not to look annoyed. Old gods could be so sensitive.
“I hope you had a good trip?” Minerva asked, pouring her partner a glass of wine.
“Oh, the best! I never knew the Dream Valley could be so ... dreamy!” Sulis sat on the couch opposite Minerva, her carmine hair bouncing about her fair complexion as she recounted the details of her journey.
An hour later, Sulis was still rambling about her holiday. “... Isis showed me around the underworld, and I met Pluto there—not a jolly fellow, is he? And—”
“Things around here are good too,” Minerva interrupted.
“Oh, love, I’m sorry it took me so long to return. I hope the work was not too much?”
“No, love, not at all.”
Sulis smiled, studying their surroundings: the grand parlour and its marble pillars, the vines growing to the ceiling, the statues, the mosaics, the feast presented before them. Her eyes widened in wonder. “Oh, my! Things have changed, haven’t they? What have you been up to?”
“Not much, just caring for your site.”
“Not much? Last time I was here we were nothing more than a bubbling brook. They built a Domus for us?”
“A temple.” Minerva nodded. “And a bath.”
“That’s marvellous!” Sulis clapped excitedly. “And they’ve been worshipping us still?”
“Very much so, yes.”
“Wonderful! Giving away many blessings, have you?”
“Erm ... yes, I guess you can say that.”
“Oh, I’m glad.” Sulis hopped to her feet. “Where are they? It’s been a while, but I guess there is no better time to resume my responsibilities than now!”
“Down the hall, you’ll find the spring and the curse —” Minerva cleared her throat “ —the tablets in the water.”
Grinning, Sulis scrambled out of the parlour. Minerva shook the last bottle of wine, cursing the little amount of liquid left. She should definitely call Bacchus. Sulis’ sudden reappearance would surely worsen her headache and she’d better be prepared.
“Minerva!” Sulis’ voice resonated from the hall. She marched into the parlour and dropped dozens of sheets of lead by Minerva’s feet, her face wriggling in rage. “These are horrible!”
Minerva lifted her chalice in a mocking cheer. “Yep.”
“How—How could they?”
“Humans are horrible.” Minerva shrugged.
“No, no, no, you don’t understand! Listen.” Sulis picked a sheet from the ground and read it aloud. ‘Dea Sulis Minerva, a lifetime of itching back, on a spot they can never reach, for stealing my mantle while I was in the bath.’ Why would they pray for such an awful thing?”
“That one is kinda nice. An itching back is annoying, but at least it’s not a bloody stool.” Minerva shuddered. “That one was nasty.”
“No!” Sulis cried. “How could you let things come to this? They used to pray for good weather and healthy crops and—”
“Ceres has those covered now.”
“Oh ... well, love then, they could ask for true love!”
“That’s Cupid’s jurisdiction.”
“Beauty?”
“Venus.”
“Wealth?”
“Juno.”
Sulis threw her arms in the air. “So we are left with these petty things?”
“Yeah ... I mean, we could call it justice. It sounds better than pettiness, I think.”
“No, this is wrong, this is so wrong! How—”
“Listen, love.” Minerva took Sulis’s hands, squeezing them reassuringly. “You’ve been away for a while, so you’re not in a position to complain. You said you needed a break, and I kindly agreed to help you out, so just ... chill. Here, have some wine. It will help.”
Sulis accepted the chalice, defeat written on her face as she sank back onto the couch. She sipped the wine and picked another tablet. “This one asks for a year-round of nightmares for an insult.”
“Hum ... spiders maybe? A couple crawling on their bed every night sounds fitting.”
Sulis scowled before picking another one. “To murder the neighbour who deflowered their daughter.”
“Ooh, murderers are expensive. We’re sure to cash in big.” Minerva scratched her chin. “How about stepping in a waterhole by mistake? No, better yet, cut their finger on a rose thorn and die of sepsis!”
“Minerva!”
“What?” Minerva patted the air. “I’m just brainstorming here.”
Sulis shot to her feet, pacing around the younger goddess. “But what if the daughter wanted to be deflowered? What if the mantle kept the thief warm and safe at night? What if the insult was justified?”
“All right, I hear you,” Minerva said, putting down her chalice. “We can shake things up a bit. It’s not like we are wanting for money. How about we curse the curser instead? Make them pay for their pettiness?”
“We shouldn’t be cursing people at all!” Sulis cried. “But also, we cannot go around indulging their every desire or they will never learn to be better.”
“Ugh, you sound like Prometheus and his love for the creatures.” Minerva leaned back on her couch, nursing the headache that pierced her temples. “He lost his liver for his kindness, but humans do not deserve it. You’ve just been away too long and forgot about it.”
“Well, I’m back now. Let’s go!”
Minerva’s eyes shot open. “Go where?”
“To the Baths!”
Agnes stomped across the Temple complex, her grandmother Cassia in tow. Her light robes fluttered dramatically as she strode, her dark hair billowing in her wake. Aquae Sulis burst with activity, as citizens enjoyed the hot spring, pools, and exercise areas. Merchants cried as she passed by, offering all the goods one could ever want, but Agnes ignored them all. She had to find the spring where the goddess dwelt.
“Will you slow down!” her grandmother called, struggling to catch up with Agnes’s purposeful steps. “My legs aren’t what they used to be.”
Agnes halted inside the hall of the Great Bath, a massive pool of hot healing water lined with forty-five sheets of lead—bigger versions of the one she clutched in her hand. The barrel-vaulted hall rose to the heavens, the largest building Agnes had ever seen, with walls painted scarlet and white, torches burning against pillars despite the natural light cascading from the high glass windows. Niches around the pool held benches and tables, where bathers ate and chatted, spying on those who chose to exercise and display their muscles and strength. Agnes took a deep breath. The hot vapours inside the hall were overwhelming. The scent of sulphur and sweat, revolting. The sheer number of people was staggering; Agnes wanted—needed—to get away.
“Ah!” Cassia said, joining her granddaughter. “Even the floor is heated! What a treat. After our sauna, we should take a bath in the caldarium and—”
“We’re not here to enjoy ourselves,” Agnes interrupted. “Now, where is the spring?”
“In the very heart of the complex, but—”
Agnes bolted away, anger rushing her steps. If nobody in this whole world would help her, Sulis Minerva would.
Minerva stifled a chuckle as Sulis marvelled at the structure built in their honour. The elder goddess gasped at every corner, praising the engineering and the beauty of their temple. She grinned in awe at the tiled mosaics depicting seahorses and dolphins, celebrated the imposing overarching roof, approved the steps leading into the water, and praised the ingenious plumbing and drainage channels toward the River Avon. Minerva had become somewhat desensitised to the place, but she found her partner’s reaction to their worship site amusing.
“Do you think she looks like me?” Sulis asked, studying their gilt bronze statue inside the cellar.
“She has your eyes,” Minerva said, “but my nose and brow. That helmet is unfortunate, though. It hides my best features.” She pulled the elder goddess away from the temple, leading her into the Great Bath.
“Oh, they are so clever!” Sulis cried as her feet touched the heated floor. “And so pretty! Look at those bodies—so flexible and healthy! And so ... diverse!”
Unaware of the goddess gauging at them, a group of young men lifted weights by the pool, naked, dark skin gleaming with sweat. Sulis traced the lines of their torsos and backs with her fingers, eyes wide and mouth agape, before running to a group of women braiding each other’s hair.
“You did a good job with these waters,” Minerva said. “The spring provides good health and stamina, so they come from all over the empire. From the North, South, East and West, we are highly ... What was that word? Ah, democratic! The temple is always crowded like this.”
“Indeed!” Sulis spun on her hills. “What else could they ever want?”
“Revenge, it seems.” Minerva shrugged, plucking a chalice from a woman’s hand. The woman carried on her conversation, oblivious to the theft.
“Right.” A flick of anger crossed Sulis’s eyes.
“So ... what’s your plan, exactly?” Minerva asked, sipping the wine. Not as good as Bacchus’s vintage, but it would do.
“Well, if I’m to curse people, I’ll get the full story first.”
“And if you disagree with the petition?”
“I’ll curse them instead, as you said.”
“Ooh, exciting!” Minerva pointed at a girl striding along the pool, an older woman in her wake. “How about her? She looks mad and ... Yep, she is definitely going for the spring.”
Agnes’s footsteps and heavy breathing were the only sounds breaking the silence in the heart of the temple. Contrasting with the other parlours, the spring gushed boiling water to an absent audience, steam and heat clinging to the marble walls. She knelt before the spring, on a circle of colourful mosaic depicting the goddess in her golden crown and spear.
Singing a prayer, Agnes swung the crumbled tablet over her head—but a calloused hand held her wrist, preventing her from throwing the curse into the water.
“Grandma!” Agnes cried.
“Shush! We’re in a sacred place, no shouting in here.”
Agnes tried to pull her hand free, but Cassia held her fast and forced her fingers open, snatching the tablet inside. Her eyes narrowed as she read the inscriptions. “Cursing him is not the answer.”
“What is, then?” Agnes cried. “Nobody will listen to me—nobody! The curator, the master, Lord Callus, they say I could never have written the poem because I lack a fucking cock!”
Cassia chuckled, joining her granddaughter on the floor. “As if cocks could write anything, eh?”
“But I did write it,” Agnes said, curling her hands into fists, eyes welling with tears. “That’s my piece! And he—he stole it, that utter prick! Claimed my words as his!”
“I know, carissima.” Cassia took her granddaughter’s hands, massaging them open. “That was unfair, and you’re right. But please, think before you do something you’ll regret.”
“I won’t regret it, grandma, I swear I’ll laugh as I watch him burn!”
Cassia sighed. “I would too if that made any difference. But even if Sulis Minerva heeds your plea—and she will, these waters are strong—what difference will that make? He’ll be immortalised in the hall of poets, and you’ll never get the recognition you deserve.”
Agnes’s chest tightened, her cheeks burning hot. She threw herself on her grandma’s lap, who stroked her hair, soothing her as she wept. The curse tablet was her last option: the last chance of getting any sense of justice back. But now, even that was lost. Grandma was right. That prick dying wouldn’t change those old farts’ minds—they knew the truth already! Her heart hammered against her chest. She would never be published. She would never become the poet she knew she could become. “I worked so hard on that piece! Nights spent awake, hunting the old libraries, carefully choosing every single word and—”
“Listen.” Cassia pushed her to a sitting position, lifting her chin so Agnes stared straight into her wrinkled eyes. “I’m not telling you to give up, just to ... be smart about it.”
“How, grandma? How can I set things right?” Agnes sniffed, cleaning her nose on her tunic.
“Here.” From her pocket, Cassia produced a brand-new sheet, gloriously blank. “We must always be mindful of what we wish for. Don’t ask for specific things. Don’t be stupid thinking you can choose the sentence to his crimes.”
Agnes took the sheet with trembling hands.
“Tell the goddess what happened,” Cassia said, “and let her weave his fate. She’s a woman like us. She’ll understand.”
Minerva stared at the two women by the spring, mesmerised. The girl’s petition ... It reminded her of past disputes against her brothers and uncles, and how even her father could be a jerk sometimes. Well, all the time, though seldom directed at her. But that was not it—not all of it. As she watched the old woman consoling the young one, shushing her sorrow away, a long-forgotten memory flared in her mind, of another desperate girl with the same dark wavy hair. Minerva had not been able to save her then—had failed to see Neptune’s scheme and malice until it was all too late. Gorgo. The memory welled inside her heart, shame straining her chest, guilt burning behind her eyes.
“She worked so hard for the poem,” Minerva breathed.
“She did.” Sulis pushed herself out of the spring, splashing hot water on the mosaic floor. “What do you think we should do? Minerva?”
“Huh?”
“What do you think we should do?” Sulis repeated, handing over the retrieved tablet.
“Ah, yes.” Minerva blinked, snapping out of her gloom. She read the inscription before crushing it in her fist. “We should burn him like she said.”
“Are you crying?” Sulis asked.
“No! Of course not!” Minerva wiped her cheeks, turning her back to the elder goddess. “It’s the steam and heat. Allergies. There’s something in my eye.”
“Aw, how sweet! Her prayer got to you, eh?”
“Stop it!” Minerva stormed out of the hall, climbing the steps back to the Great Bath. “It’s just that I know what it’s like to have your work undone by men.”
“But you heard the lady: burning him will do no good.”
“Maybe not, but I’d love to do it anyway.”
“Why don’t we burn his career and ego first?”
Minerva halted, causing Sulis to bump against her back. “What do you have in mind?”
Sulis tossed her red hair, an impish grin growing on her lips. “Oh, you’ll see.”
From all over the province, people flocked to the Temple, driven by an out-of-the-blue urge to bathe in the sacred waters. They marched into the Great Bath hall, some leaning shyly against the scarlet walls, some undressing boldly and diving into the pool. Everyone who was someone came to the baths that day. Everyone who might have been someone—given different circumstances—did too. Among the procession was the poet Titus and his retinue of lords and scholars.
“Ah, Lord Callus, what a great idea you had,” Titus said, patting his companion on the shoulder. He flagged a servant and demanded a table. The boy ushered a group out of a nest to accommodate the famous poet and his crew. “Wine?”
Lord Callus nodded, leaning against his seat. Steam clung to his golden hair and skin, making him shine like a bronze sculpture. “I believe it was Master Chronicler who suggested coming here today.”
“Oh, no,” said the Chronicler, a stout little man. “Master Curator told me in the morning he meant to visit the baths.”
“No, I didn’t,” said the Curator, scratching his balding head. “Titus was the one who invited me.”
“Enough wine for you, my lords!” Titus’s laugh echoed about the bath, resonating over the chattering and the splashing of water until it stopped abruptly.
Lord Callus followed his friend’s frozen gaze, a grin creeping to his lips. Agnes stood on the opposite side of the pool, eyes locked with the poet, fury written on her face.
“What is it?” the Curator asked, squinting his eyes as he scanned the place.
“An unhappy lady,” said Lord Callus. “She’s been dealt with, Titus, so relax. She cannot hurt you.”
“Lady Agnes is here?” asked the Chronicler. “Oh, poor thing. She looks most distre—”
Titus rose, bumping against the table and almost turning the chalices and jars in the process. He stood trembling for a beat of a heart before storming out of the nest. Moving oddly, as if his legs were forcing his will, he halted at the edge of the pool, staring at the lady on the opposite side.
“I ... ahem—” Titus cleared his throat. “I—” Something stuck inside his mouth, pressing against his tongue. “I—” he cried, his face red and sweaty. People noticed his odd behaviour, heads turning towards him. “I stole it!”
A heavy silence descended over the Great Bath. Lights dimmed down. From a high window, a lonely ray of sunshine washed over him. Like a play in an amphitheatre, Titus stood under the spotlight, all eyes on him. “I stole the poem Diana!” he bellowed. “Lady Agnes wrote it, but I called it mine!”
A second ray of sunshine lit Agnes as another character being introduced to the audience. She smiled, her face relaxed, eyes gleaming with pride. Beside her, another woman stepped into the light. Agnes took her hand.
“I stole Europe!” Titus cried, spit shooting from his lips. “Domitia wrote the poem, and I called it mine!”
“What are you doing, man!” Callus barked, pulling Titus by the arm.
Titus jerked his hand free, pushing Callus back. The lord fell over a table, and strong arms held him in place—strong dark arms of the young men who had been exercising by the pool.
“I stole Amatoria!” Titus cried. “Marcus wrote it, and I called it mine!”
Marcus, a young man with red curly hair, joined Agnes and Domitia. Then Albina and Mariana, as their names and poems were called, followed by Octavia, Felix, Antonia, Sirius, and Lucia. Titus’s victims stood in line, hands clasped together, as the jury and witnesses to the poet’s crimes.
“I stole from them all!” Titus’s breath came in gulps of air. He pulled against his hair, clenched his teeth, trying to stop the words flooding from his mouth. Unhinged, he stripped off his tunic. Naked, he bellowed his confession. “I tried to write! I really did, but the muses never answered my call! My poems are broken! I’m an impostor! A fraud! But these people—half of them mere women, and the men, nothing but plebeians! Ha! They can write but they cannot publish! What an irony! I can publish! I published their work as mine!”
“Shut the fuck up, Titus!” Lord Callus pleaded against the arms holding him in place.
“Callus knew!” Titus cried, pointing an accusing finger. “The Curator and the Chronicler knew! They were complicit! They helped ... they ... they—”
Light flooded the parlour as the spell broke off. The chattering of the crowd began anew, eyes glaring at the naked not-a-poet as curses flew in the air. People booed.
“Bastard!”
“Coward!”
“Cheap crook!”
An elder lady threw a ripe plum at Titus; the fruit bounced off his head, tainting his face with red juice. Cabbages followed, grapes and figs plumbing down the man. Titus ran. A servant boy flipped a jug of wine over his torso, boos and curses trailing in the wake of Lord Callus, the Curator, and the Chronicle—the crowd chasing them out.
“Well done!” Minerva lifted her chalice, saluting the elder goddess. She watched Agnes embrace her new friends, cheering with the crowd who patted their backs and shook their hands. “What now?”
“Well, see that old man by the pool?” Sulis asked. “He is in charge of the library. Due to the sheer number of witnesses—important ones, too; I summoned everyone who was someone here today, including a Tribune from Londinium—he’ll have no choice other than to give credit where credit is due. The girl and the other poets will have the recognition they deserve and that’ll set a precedent for generations to come.”
“He doesn’t look very happy,” said Minerva, eyeing the old man’s scowl. “But I’ll make sure he follows your plan.” She waved her hand at him. “A nightmare a night until he sets things right.”
Sulis chuckled. “You and your curses.”
Minerva waved at a servant. The boy refilled her chalice as if she were just another visitor and not the goddess in charge. Sulis took a chalice of her own before the boy wiggled away. Arm in arm, they bathed in the joy their curse had woven.
“Thank you,” came a voice from behind.
Sulis and Minerva turned. Before them stood Cassia, the girl’s grandmother, beaming with pride.
“She can see us?” Sulis whispered. “Like, really see us?”
“I think she can,” Minerva muttered.
Cassia kissed each of the goddesses’ hands before joining her granddaughter for a hug.
“You know what, Sulis?” Minerva said, “You were right. Getting to know these humans before we curse them was a great idea. I believe ... I’ll keep this up.”
“We’ll keep this up, love.” The goddesses clinked their chalices together. “Make sure they get what they deserve.”
“AN ARROW FROM A HORNED bow, missed the mark and shot his kinsman, one brother the other, with a bloody dart. That was an expiable killing, a wrong cruelly done.”
–Beowulf, lines 2437-2441
Belfast: December 10th, 1971
The flames in the Belfast pub’s fireplace flickered with each opening of the tavern’s door. Northern Ireland’s most decorated officers hung from portrait frames on the tattered walls while the dim lamps guarding the room’s perimeter cast their dull beams across the floorboards. Throughout the bar, cigarettes balanced on ashtray rims, their smoke billowing toward the ceiling like a dozen funeral pyres, drifting skyward before seeping into the overhead panels.
The young Irishman standing by the bar reached into his trousers to retrieve his wallet. With fingers still stiff from the cold, it took all his dexterity to pry open the folds. A disheartened expression consumed his face. No glimmering coins glowed within, no identification card declaring his name, no banknote clean or crumpled. Only a book of matches stared back from the leathery depths. Accepting that the whiskey he desired was not a feasible option, the Irishman plucked from his jacket a pouch of hand-rolled cigarettes.
His whiskey would have to wait until his brother’s arrival.
Pushing back his sleeves, the Irishman reached for an unoccupied ashtray. With the northern statesmen scowling from their frames above, he unfastened the pouch and gazed upon the finest cigarettes Peterson’s Dublin storefront could offer. They were stunningly precise. Each adhesive seal as straight as an arrow. Each tube a perfect replica of its brethren. Each cylinder aligned dutifully at attention. All save one.
One rolled cigarette faced the opposite way: the rebel cigarette, a superstition he and his brother upheld since their days lifting packs from the Dublin marts. With every pouch they rolled, they flipped a cigarette. As the years passed, his brother’s time living north of the border made him partial to the sweeter tobacco of Murray and Sons, but despite their brand preferences, the brothers always smoked the rebel cigarette last. It was more than a good luck charm. It was a reminder that someday their souls would spill skyward from their lungs and ascend to taverns unknown. His rebel cigarette would stand guard, protecting that pouch until the day he died. His brother’s would do the same.
Glancing around at the flags that filled the Belfast pub, with their red crosses and their red hands beneath their red crowns, the Dubliner felt not unlike that rebel cigarette.
What would the bartender do if he overheard their plans? How might those framed statesmen respond if they heard his Nationalist heart pounding beneath his sweater? Would they have him tied to a prison post?
The bells tethered to the pub door snapped the Irishman from his trance. He knew without turning who had entered. There could be no mistaking that off-key whistling of “The Foggy Dew.” A thin smile spread across the Dubliner’s face as his older brother clasped a firm hand on his shoulder and pulled back the stool alongside him.
***
JOSTLING THE CUBES of his whiskey glass, the Irishman donned his coat and glanced around the closing tavern. Like the flames from the fireplace, the lamps that lined the walls flickered and went dark. The light-haired gentleman who had assumed the nearest barstool had already flung his scarf around his neck and left through the tavern door. A stream of inky liquid trailed across the wet bar where the server must have retrieved his brother’s bill. All that remained upon the bar top were the Irishman’s gloves, a set of damp coasters, and his brother’s cigarette pouch, precious property he promised to guard while his brother finished in the bathroom.
After his final sip, the Dubliner plunged his hands into his gloves and looked toward the bathroom door for any sign of his brother. They had entered separately, and while he wished to bid his accomplice farewell, it was more important that they not be seen leaving together.
That was when he heard the oak door chime.
Like water spewing through a narrow hose, a steady stream of Guarda spilled across the tavern’s threshold. The young Irishman only had time to grab his brother’s cigarettes before the firm glove of a Northern Irish policeman seized him by the collar and flung him to the ground. With his cheek pressed against the Guinness-soaked floorboards, the last thing the Dubliner saw was a gigantic officer kicking through the door to the bar’s water closet.
Belfast: December 11th, 1971
From the sparse beams of light penetrating the cloudy window of his cell, the Irishman could not decipher the hour when he awoke. Far more tangible than the time, however, were the bruises that darkened his cheeks. His mouth tasted of iron; a bloody stream trickled from his molars, forming a sticky pool beneath his tongue. Touching his cheek, a jolt of sharp pain engulfed his face. He cringed as he remembered how the Guarda officer had thrust his jaw into the shards of his whiskey glass on the tavern floor.
Despite his pain, the Dubliner was already deciphering what had happened. Which tavern goer had overheard their conversation? Was his brother nursing wounds in an adjacent cell? Would this derail their plans? The Dubliner deemed these riddles unsolvable without the aid of cigarettes.
The clang of keys at the cell door interrupted his musings. When the iron hinges creaked open, a tall man stepped through the entrance. The Irishman kept his focus upon the concrete floor; before long, however, he allowed his gaze to travel from the man’s pristine leather shoes up his trousers to his tidy, tweed overcoat. The Irishman’s first impression was that the man seemed like a figure transported from a distant past, from some other world or history. The mysterious man tucked his wool cap under his arm and opened a manila folder.
“I suppose I should begin with an introduction.” The tall man ran a hand through his blonde hair. “Good morning, sir. My name is Louis. Detective Louis. I’m assigned to your case.”
The Irishman said nothing.
Detective Louis peered at the prisoner over the top of his folder and calmly retrieved a document before speaking again. “Before we continue, you should know that I’m not affiliated with the Northern Irish Government. Nor am I associated with the Irish Republic. I was born in Sweden.”
Still, the Irishman said nothing.
“Belfast keeps a few of us ... northerners on retainer for special cases. You and your brother represent the kind of puzzle I tend to solve. Cases of unknown identities. I believe you Irishmen would refer to them as a ‘Sean Doe,’ would you not?”
The exhausted Dubliner bit the corner of his lip to keep from smiling. Cases of unknown identities. Their names remained a mystery.
Retrieving a slip from the manila file, the detective pulled a pair of thin-framed glasses from his pocket. “Judging from your tranquility, I assume you will have no issue with me reading the transcript of your arrest from last night?”
The Irishman dropped his gaze back to the concrete floor and remained silent.
“Excellent.” Detective Louis held the parchment to the light that spilled from the cell’s window, “December 10th. Two Irish males. Approximate Age: 25. Both men had medium build and short, dark hair. Neither criminal held identification papers.” The investigator lowered the transcript. “Criminal? That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
The Dubliner was too headstrong to take the bait; nevertheless, he appreciated the detective’s empathetic tone.
“Record of arrest,” Detective Louis continued. “Belfast officer: ‘Sir, you are under arrest. Put the glass down and put your hands behind your back.’”
The detective was enjoying the charade. “Alright. Sounds reasonable. You replied with ... ‘Get your Tanny hands off me, you loyalist bastard.’ Hmm. Eloquent.”
The transcript somehow reinvigorated the wounds on the Irishman’s cheek.
“Oh, excellent, there’s more on the back!” The detective turned the page with a dramatic furl. “Belfast Officer: ‘We will use force if you act belligerently.’
“To which you responded ... ‘Eat shit, you copper prick.’” The detective smiled, “That one has a nice ring to it.”
“‘Criminal was then lowered from his barstool to the floor.’ Bit of a euphemism there...ah, yes. But here we are. The final act. The denouement.” He read on, “‘Belfast Officer: ‘Where’s your brother?’ You replied...’Get your hands off me, you throne-worshiping fuck!’ ”
“Bravo. Magnificent. A masterpiece. Paints quite the picture, doesn’t it?” Neatly tucking the paperwork into the folder, Detective Louis sat upon the untouched sheets that covered the inmate’s bed.
“Look,” the investigator said rubbing his brow thoughtfully, “I’ve been in this business a long time. As the years have passed, I’ve found myself caring less about the people and more about solving these riddles, you see? So this may come as a surprise to you—but I don’t really care about you or what flag you salute.”
The stark confession caught the Irishman’s attention like a hook ensnaring the lip of trout; the Dubliner propped his back against the wall and dabbed the wound on his cheek contemplatively.
Tapping his manila folder, the detective continued, “I don’t take every case Belfast sends my way. There needs to be something that impassions me. And what I find most intriguing about your case is the statistics. Let’s take a look ...”
Nudging his glasses up his nose, the detective plucked a fresh sheet from his folder:
“September 19th: Car bomb, Finnegan’s Pharmacy, Casualties: Zero. Injured: Zero.
- “October 5th: Car bomb, Oisin’s Tavern. Casualties: Zero. Injured: Zero.
- “November 1st: Car bomb, Donegal Street Thrift Store: Casualties: Zero. Injured: Zero.
“November 28th: Car bomb, O’Connor’s Jewelry: Casualties: Zero. Injured: Zero.
“Four explosions in the past three months. Before each explosion, the shop owners received a sprig of mistletoe in an envelope. After each explosion, dozens of witnesses reported a masked man clearing the streets prior to the blast. Each explosion completely decimated a known Loyalist business. Yet, the explosions left nobody harmed. Not one casualty. Quite impressive.”
Detective Louis snapped his glasses shut and slid them into his coat pocket. “These ‘Mistletoe Brothers’—that’s what they’ve been deemed by the Belfast papers—seem to me more like patriots than vigilantes. And were you to ask me what I thought about their casualty-free, revolutionary cause? I’d say that throughout what feels like centuries of cases, I might have found a pair of like-minded souls. I think we should be asking how we could make these brothers more comfortable,” and, after a pause, he added, “more like the heroes I believe them to be.”
When the investigator stood to his towering height, the Irishman thought the Swede must have come from a line of mythological giants. The Dubliner stood to meet the detective’s calculated stare.
After a long exhale, the detective turned to leave but stopped when he heard the Dubliner’s voice: “Cigarettes.”
“Pardon?” His position kept the prisoner from seeing the smile that spread across his face.
In a voice worn raw with clotted blood, the Irishman spoke, “You asked what could make those brothers feel more comfortable. Cigarettes. Bring the pouch of cigarettes from my jacket the night of the arrest. The Murray and Sons pouch. Give me a cigarette, and I’ll consider talking with a fellow revolutionary.”
Detective Louis gave the Irishman a nod before setting the lock and disappearing into the darkness.
Belfast: December 18th, 1971
“Come along now, I’ve visited enough this past week for you to know I would ask.”
The Irishman kept his attention in his lap. While he enjoyed the investigator’s visits, whenever Detective Louis was present, a nervous sensation overtook the Dubliner’s body.
“Look,” the investigator said as he plucked a page from his folder, “I’m more interested in solving your case than I am punishing a pair of brothers with political leanings not far from my own. Why don’t I simply tell you what I’ve deduced? Don’t say anything. Just keep puffing on that cigarette. Sound like a plan?”
The Irishman said nothing.
“Excellent.” The detective rubbed his palms together enthusiastically. “I’ll take your silence for begrudging compliance. Let’s see here, where to begin? I suppose we should start where the Belfast Guarda gave up, shouldn’t we?”
“Poor lads packed it in when your file came back empty,” the detective addressed the Irishman, but his attention remained on the file. “No ID, no residential records, no medical history. Not so much as a dentist appointment anywhere from Donegal to Cork. Nothing. But while Belfast’s finest took those absences as reason to throw away the case, I drew a different conclusion. You’re orphans.”
Not wanting his expression to reveal his shock, the Irishman scratched his chin inquisitively.
Pacing the small cell, the detective pointed with his pen to the plate of scraps by the door. “I’ve noticed that every time I visit, you leave your potatoes untouched. Strange habit for an Irishman. Until you consider how often the Republic orphanages serve potatoes. Makes sense. Abundant, simple to prepare. But I imagine a pair of teenagers growing up in Dublin group homes would have tired of the national delicacy, right?” The detective knew he was right.
“Now the fun begins. Where do these mysterious Mistletoe Brothers reside?” He continued without giving the prisoner time to respond. “Admittedly, this had me stumped. But that was before I realized I needed to consider multiple locations.”
“These” the investigator tossed the sealed pack of Peterson’s hand rolled cigarettes into the Irishman’s lap, “can only be purchased in Dublin, while these,” his brother’s Murray and Sons pouch thudded on the prison floor, “are only sold on the Belfast docks. Interesting. Our beloved Mistletoe Brothers live in different cities.”
“Which explains a lot,” Detective Louis said as he continued pacing, “because even the most-inept policemen would not let that many vehicles and that much gunpowder go unreported. Which presented the question of how you acquired the materials in the first place. For that, we turn to the docks.”
It was like watching a prodigious midfielder dribble across the pitch. Every decision was calculated. Each movement performed with precision. Every breath served a precious and secret purpose.
“If you can believe it, your gloves gave this one away.” Detective Louis tucked his folder under his arm and looked intensely at his upturned hands. “The gloves you wore the night of your arrest were torn across their palms, rubbed thin by thick docking ropes. Incredible. But that wasn’t the best part. Embedded in the wet cloth of those gloves, I found tiny, dark grains. Gunpowder.”
All the Irishman could do was stare in awe. The Detective had methodically unraveled the tangled coil he and his brother had spent years binding. Shaking his head with disbelief, the prisoner could only listen and learn how far the investigator had traveled down their carefully constructed rabbit hole.
“That was my favorite part.” The detective pretended not to see the Irishman’s incredulous expression. “Repurposed British gunpowder. Car bombs born from loyalist ingredients. You were blowing up Belfast with their own damn explosives!”
“And for your grand finale,” the detective’s voice rose triumphantly, “you used German vehicles. Fresh off the boat from Berlin. Your brother illegally parked them and had them towed from the Belfast docks. Once they went unclaimed—because, well, nobody owned them—he paid for their rescue from the junkyard. I found an expired parking slip in his trousers.
“Incredible,” the detective said, “I knew the Mistletoe Brothers would not disappoint ... but the riddle is not yet solved.”
The detective’s voice suddenly became serious. The Irishman inhaled sharply, trying not to show his nerves. In a flash, the Swede’s glare turned insatiable, its wrath piercing, his manners terrifying. The Irishman trembled.
Then Detective Louis breathed deeply and smiled at the prisoner. His ferocity vanished; his placid demeanor returned. With a snap of his reading glasses, the investigator sighed. “Well, despite all of that, three facts still elude me: the identities of these mistletoe brothers, their upcoming targets, and their method of communication. Now, I know you’ll never reveal your brother’s identity,” the detective admitted, “but if I were to guarantee your release by Christmas for providing any pertinent information, would you reconsider complying?”
The young Irishman peaked down at his brother’s pouch of rolled cigarettes on the prison floor and saw the rebel cigarette staring back. The Irishman shook his head.
“Very well then.” The investigator sported a mischievous grin. “The game persists.”
Long after Detective Louis latched the door, the Dubliner could hear the hiss of the investigator’s final word reverberating from the walls of his cell.
Belfast: December 24th, 1971
The Irishman could not tell whether it was dawn or dusk when he awoke to the sound of Swedish footfalls. Something about Detective Louis’s gait did not feel right. When the investigator entered the cell, he seemed uncharacteristically disheveled. Whatever news he had could not wait.
“Sorry for the early visit,” the detective exhaled to gain his composure, “but there’s been a development in your case.”
Sitting upright, the Dubliner rubbed his brow. The feeble rays that spilled from the foggy window indicated that the sun had not yet risen.
“I’ll get right to the point.” Another long breath. “Despite the patriotic silence you have upheld, your brother has had a change of heart. In exchange for his release, he agreed to reveal your identities.” From his folder, Detective Louis pulled a single sheet of paper.
“That’s impossible,” the Irishman’s voice croaked with skepticism. Dragging his legs to the edge of the cot, he reached for the document. Pinched between the detective’s finger and thumb was the pouch of Murray and Sons hand rolled cigarettes. The Dubliner found that his taste had changed in favor of his brother’s brand ever since his imprisonment.
“It’s true. At this moment, your brother’s meeting with the Belfast police. They are arranging the terms of his release. The document in your hand was drafted last night by the commissioner himself and initialed by your brother shortly thereafter. Look for yourself at the bottom. I believe you’ll recognize your brother’s hand.”
The detective paused. “I’m sorry to bring you such unfortunate news.” He could not look at the Irishman. A forlorn expression covered his face.
As the Dubliner examined the file, the world around him changed. The sparse rays of light from the rising sun seemed to darken and fade. The concrete walls surrounding him felt cold and thick. Somewhere beyond the muddy cell window, a crow barked and sang. The detective’s voice grew indecipherably muffled, like the words of an important sermon heard underwater. The Dubliner stared at what was undeniably his brother’s signature at the foot of the page: the letters C and D with a sword underneath raining droplets of blood from the hilt.
“As the lead investigator on this case—and an admirer of a devoted patriot—I think it best that I explain your options.” The investigator slid to the floor. The Dubliner nodded his head but said nothing. His attention remained fixed upon the initials carved like a scar upon the page.
“This file diminishes your leverage, but you can walk free if you reveal your brother’s identity along with any information pertaining to future explosions. Your brother, for whatever reason, was unable or unwilling to disclose those plans. But any deal to be offered must be made immediately. Once your brother exposes you, which that document states he will, my hands will be tied.”
The Irishman said nothing.
“Look...” The detective lowered the document the Irishman clutched. “Over these past three weeks, I have come to admire your tenacity. But more than your rebelliousness, I have come to respect your unwavering dedication to your brother. That is a love I will never know. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that if you don’t reveal his identity, they’ll have you killed. They’ll drag you down that forsaken hall, they’ll tie you to that post—right there in the courtyard—and they’ll fill your chest with enough bullets to stop your patriotic heart. I, for one, do not want to see that happen.”
“What should I do?” For the first time since he took his brother’s confession, the prisoner lifted his attention from the signature seared upon the document. His hands shook as he lowered the paper. Tears soaked the rims of his eyes.
“Ultimately, that decision is yours.” The detective rose to leave. With his hand poised on the door, he stopped. The light from the murky window illuminated a Swedish flag tattooed on his forearm. “Were you to ask me—not as a detective, but as a friend—I would suggest that you give them the information. Your brother made his choice. You can clearly see where his allegiances reside. Choose life, Dubliner, and keep that rebel heart beating. There’s no limit to what a passionate heart can do. Your brother lost sight of that. Don’t succumb to the same fate.”
“Wait.”
Detective Louis’ hand was on the latch when the prisoner spoke.
Without saying another word, the Irishman opened his brother’s pouch of rolled cigarettes. From his lap, the rebel cigarette peered back at the Dubliner proudly. Taking the delicate paper, the Irishman held the cigarette up to the dull morning light. He stared in silence.
In the years that followed, the Irishman would have trouble explaining what he was waiting for in that moment. Was he waiting for his brother’s initials to somehow un-sign that wretched sheet? Was he waiting for some acknowledgment, some confirmation, that he was making the right choice in betraying his kith and kin? If he ripped apart that paper, might it undo the damage they had done? If he held that cigarette to the light of the sunrise long enough, would the bagpipes that bellowed the bars of “Danny Boy” begin to play?
Then, like a seasoned fisherman gutting his midday catch, the Irishman sliced his thumbnail beneath the adhesive seal that bound his brother’s rebel cigarette. Tobacco spilled across the young man’s lap, dusting the prison floor. With the coiled casing writhing in his hand, the Dubliner smoothed the thin sheet against his knee. He did not need to check the paper to know what secrets that cigarette held. They were the same secrets he had written the night of their arrest. The same secrets he and his brother swore they would go to the grave protecting. The same secrets that would cost his brother his life.
His face unable to mask his astonishment, Detective Louis took the sheet from the prisoner and tilted the small page toward the window:
January 3rd, Murphy’s Provisions, 5:20 pm
February 18th, Cullen’s City Market, 9:05 am
March 15th, Derry Street Pub, 11:10 am
In the corner of the sheet, the Irishman had signed the letters B and D. Below the prisoner’s initials, the investigator could see the faded image of a bow and arrow; a stream of blood dripped from the barb.
“As orphans, we chose our own names.” With a shaking hand, the Dubliner pointed to the affidavit his brother had signed. “Claiomh. That’s Irish for sword.” Then he pointed to the unfurled cigarette. “Bougha. Irish for bow.”
“And the surname?” The detective’s voice seeped with pity and admiration.
“It’s draped across the hilt and arrowhead,” said the Dubliner on the verge of collapse. “Hanging from each is a sprig of mistletoe. Drualus. Irish for mistletoe. Bougha and Clajomh Drualus. Bo and Clay, for short.”
“Unbelievable,” whispered the detective under his breath.
“Now, please, detective, if you don’t mind giving me the cell for a moment.” Bo Drualus peered out the clouded window at the prison yard post.
“Of course, Mr. Drualus. I’ll run my report. Let’s see if I can hold up my end of the deal.”
The Irishman peered out the window.
It was not until the detective had mournfully closed the cell behind him that the Dubliner turned from his courtyard vigil. “Detective Louis?”
Footfalls returned from the hall. “Yes, Bo?”
“You’ve learned my surname, but I don’t know yours.”
A long silence from the corridor. Then, from the darkness, the detective’s answer: “Keye. Louis Keye. But those who know me well call me Lo.”
And the detective was gone.
Belfast: December 25th, 1971
The rattle of cups and plates against the iron bars of the prison hallway arose Bo Drualus from his shallow slumber. Sleep never came easily to the Dubliner; now he doubted he would ever sleep peacefully again. The shouts of the Belfast inmates grew louder with each passing moment. Evident from their labored exclamations, a set of guards appeared to be dragging a prisoner down the corridor very much against his will. Bo peered out of his cell for a closer look. It was then that he saw his brother’s face for the first time since their arrest.
“Get your fuckin’ hands off me!” Clay Drualus barked as the guards jerked the furious combatant down the hall.
“Clay! Can you hear me? Clay!” In an instant, the Irishman’s wounds of betrayal vanished. His brother needed him.
“Bo? For the love of God! Is that you?” Like a child waking from a nightmare, Clay Drualus spun in the dimly lit hallway in search of his brother. Spotting Bo’s face, Clay flung himself toward the cell with enough force to dislodge the three guards ushering him down the corridor.
When the sentinel grabbed his shoulder, Clay turned to him with fire blazing in his eyes. Venom dripped from his lips: “That man is my brother! You aren’t worthy to tie the laces of his fuckin’ shoes. If you don’t remove your bloody hands and let a condemned man talk with his brother, I swear by whatever gods you worship north of the border, I will come back as a ghost and haunt these fuckin’ halls until the day you die!”
With a begrudging groan, the guard lifted his hand and let the Mistletoe Brothers speak.
“You look like shit, Bo,” said Clay through a smile wet with crimson blood.
Bo had trouble formulating his frantic thoughts. As a result, all that spilled from his throat were questions. “Clay, what happened? What have they told you? Where are they taking you?”
Despite the circumstances, Clay had a smile on his face. “I suppose they’re bringing me to join our rebel pals at the Far Away Pub.” He added with a wink, “Don’t worry, I’ll start us a tab.”
Bo felt the muscles that lined his jaw tighten. He swallowed hard. Tears pooled beneath his eyes. “I’ll fix this, Clay. Just give me another day. I’ll talk with Detective Lo. I’ll figure it out.”
A gash on his forearm reopened when Clay tightened his grip on the iron bars. “There’s nothing else to be done, Bo. My jig is up. You pour one out for me each Christmas morning, you hear? When you’re old and fat and happy. You tell that sweet wife of yours, whenever you meet the poor lass, that your brother was the bravest of the brave. You tell those kids when you have ‘em how their Uncle Clay fought those throne-bowing pricks until the bitter end. Alright?”
“Clay, why did you do it?” Bo’s voice cracked. Tears soaked his face. “Why did you sign the sheet? If either of us was going to cave, I thought for sure it’d be me. Why, Clay? Why did you—”
“They forged it, Bo. The blonde bastard sitting alongside us at the bar. That tall fella with the Swedish flag on his forearm. He lifted my bill when I hit the loo. Probably called the alarm himself. They pulled my initials from that soggy old bar slip.” Clay chuckled. “You always told me that the drink would be my undoing. I guess you were right.”
Bo’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Clay, then it was me. I was the one—”
“I’ll hear not another word of it.” Clay lifted his brother’s drooping chin through the bars with one hand and shoved away an approaching guard with the other. “Forget it. Fuck ‘em. You get yourself out of here, do you hear me? And you forget the whole fuckin’ thing. You get out of here and you live. Don’t you ever dip your hand in a barrel of gunpowder again.” He added with a wink, “If you do, when I’m done haunting this fat pig, you’re next.”
In a blur, the guards were on him, wrestling Clay into submission and dragging him toward the door at the end of the hall. Still clutching the iron bars of the cell, Bo cried into the hollow belly of the Belfast prison. It was not a cry for help. It was not a cry of desperation. It was a lamenting cry, a defiant cry, the cry of a rebel.
“Detective Lo! How could you, Detective Lo? Detective Lo Keye!”
Clay’s howl grew softer with each step that carried him away from his brother. “Get your hands off me, you Tanny piece of shit! ‘O Danny boy! The pipes, the pipes are—’ “
The door at the end of the prison hall slammed shut.
