The Sixth Chapter

The streets of upper Belfast were strewn with ribbons and bright lamps. These were the roads where Irish flutes danced through the drawn evening from the doors of pubs to quicken the hearts of the passers by. Yet at this time all the doors were dark. The ribbons made a ghostly whispering down the brick alleys, and the lamps were lonely sentries on an abandoned thoroughfare. Through the star strewn sky the song slowly lifted from a barrel fire on the north side of town. It was an old song, a wistful song. A song from those times when Irishmen held their heads high and their children were raised under the sacred green. The singers slowly gathered around the fire, filing in from the surrounding alleys. When there were an even dozen, they began to walk up the street. A police van rounded into the road ahead of them, and sat waiting for them, its lights dimmed like a lion's crouched form. The singers turned to the right and moved east down a cross street. As they moved softly through the night their voices grew stronger. They were not shouting, but there was an ancient pride carried in their melody, and it spread itself through the walls into the surrounding apartments. Lights flicked on darkened bedrooms, windows opened, heads peeked curiously out, like so many field mice curious as to what could be cursing the owl. The braver souls joined the marchers in song as they passed.

The seagulls flying high above Belfast looked down on the most curious sight they had ever seen. From two points in the dark mass of buildings a river of light was spreading. The streams wended their way along, one southeast and the other northeast. As the streams continued there appeared several small rivulets of blue flashed, moving quickly to the head of the golden stream, but always disappointed when the stream turned away at the last minute.

The center of the city surrounding the Governor's palace was quiet and still. Down the murky streets crept three figures. One short and muscular, the other two taller. A moonbeam glinted off of a pair of glasses on a taller man. Suddenly all three stopped, and after a few hurried gestures the two taller men moved to the sides of the street.

From the doorway where he stood, Matthew Collins could see the lone figure in the roadway, silhouetted against the white background of the Governor's mansion. The Union Jack atop the white building fluttered nervously in the breeze. The silence crushed around Collins, whose heart was already beating like a galloping horse. When he'd left New York for a vacation in Ireland he had been a mild-mannered man. He abhorred violence, and the excitement of the night before had driven him to terror. Yet somewhere in that confusion he had been struck with the pounding drive to lash out. The rebel's spirit in the old songs had landed deep within his heart, rousing an emotion that he had never experienced before. Sudden knowledge of the difference between mindless fighting, and rebellion against tyranny burst to the surface of his mind, clawing with desperation against the despots all over the world, crying for the blood of the guilty. At the time, the feeling had been exhilarating, and without a second thought he sprang into the fight, yet now he was able to see the position in which he stood. Alone in a doorway, fighting against a faceless giant that had been crushing liberty and life under its foot for decades. From where he stood, Matthew Collins felt very small and alone.

The silence gently woke to the sound of a whistle, it was low and haggard, drifting up slowly from a black shadow in the street. The whistle grew in volume, and imperceptibly became words, until through the cobblestoned streets were floating the ancient tongues. Matthew stood frozen as the ethereal notes drifted upwards. The words were Gaelic, "Sinne Fianna fail, a ta fe gheall ag Eirinn." Collins recognized the Irish national anthem through the notes and filled in the words in his mind, "Soldiers are we, whose lives are pledged to Ireland."

In the Governor's compound lights began to flick on. The rush of feet to the gate pounded against the brick walls. With a rush the song stopped. A heavy eternity passed before the voice began again, this time with a new tune, one familiar from the night before. "Come out ye black and tans, come out and fight me like a man." A spotlight pinned the lone figure in his place. He was crouched, one knee almost touching the pavement, both hands palms down upon the cobblestones. His head was hung down between his shoulders, as though he were drawing strength from the foundations of Ireland.

The gates swung open and the tramp of boots materialized into the shape of a small squad. The leader of this small group drew a weapon from his hip and shouted at the figure for silence. No silence came, rather, the song grew louder. The streets on both sides of the compound were beginning to light up as those in Morpheus's grip were drawn back to earth. Again the booted leader shouted for silence, this time he added the threat of electrocution. Suddenly, Collins remembered his purpose. He drew the small camera from his pocket and punched the red button. A third time the booted leader called for silence. The veins in his forehead were beginning to bulge with anxiety. A drop of sweat burst through and rolled down the side of his face. His finger tightened upon the trigger, he was on the cusp of sending twin bolts of lightning through this offensive hooligan. The decision was made.

Had there been any passersby, they might have been able to support Matthew Collin's assertion. As it stood there were none, yet Collin's still swore that the figure tensed, and twitched as though it had a tail. The tension slowed the entire world, the windows crept up slowly, the fidgeting of the men behind their booted leader slowed, even the subtle pull of the trigger was a cautious motion. Then with a roar the world came back to full speed. The glint of two darts leapt from the muzzle, yet the figure was not in the spotlight. With a spring it was forward, not even trying to dodge the prongs, Finn McCool sprang through them. His body convulsed as his hands stretched forward towards his oppressor. His hands seized two arms that were stricken in place by terror The convulsion rocked both men as the booted leader strove in vain to let go of the trigger.

One of the men standing outside the gate swung his club at the arm holding the weapon. Under the blow it rattled to the pavement, and the convulsions lessened as both the booted leader and his assailant crumpled to the pavement. There was a pause, the world hushed as the other men present crept forward to assess the situation. The man with the club was closest, and when he glimpsed the face of young Finn McCool, he shrank back. The battered and bloody face had two darts embedded in is, purple lines running from them down towards his body where the electricity had coursed along his muscles. But the horrifying part was the grin, a wide-eyed smirk that bragged of its victory. The eyes rolled to the side, directly into those that drew away in fear. With a dash Finn was on his feet and charging the men all around. Collins did his best to capture the scene with his camera, but no mortal means were capable of following the speed of young Finn as he lashed out against the English. In a moment it was over, all the squad crumpled on the pavement, while shouts from inside beckoned more men to the gate. Rather than stay and face the onslaught, Finn leapt at the wall, and, with a quick bound, was to the top and over.